Feel No Evil - Payasita (2024)

Chapter 1: The First Time

Chapter Text

It's a few days, or so, before the usurper seeks him out. He is exactly where they left him: holed up in the private little hut he had been assigned on his first day as a prisoner.

He hardly registers the speech they'd prepared until midway through, when they finally urge him to sit up and look at them. Gently, even though they could so easily force his compliance through intimidation or violence. Regardless, they need only a single word.

"Narinder."

He thinks he would have preferred their violence as he snaps up, tense, though the speed makes him nauseous. His reaction surprises them a little.

"Are you alright?" they have the audacity to ask. The mind games of a cult leader. Those must work wonders on the rest of their flock, he thinks, especially when paired with those big, guileless eyes. But he knows better.

"That name," he rasps, so unused to the new quiet of his voice, "Has been forsaken for centuries. You call upon a ghost."

Narinder was cast away along with all other ties to his family when he'd dared to rise above them. In his failure to supplant the bishops, he was repurposed evermore as only the one who waited below.

(Shamura had been the last to ever speak his name. It had been among their final fully coherent utterances.)

The Lamb blinks at him. They wear confusion so naturally. One could almost think it genuine.

"...What would you have me call you, then?" They tilt their head, and their bell rings a soft jingle in the hut's quiet. It sets his teeth on edge.

A small part of him concedes that it's a fair question. He had existed as something ineffable but identifiable for an immeasurably long time. But no longer. All markers of the bishop, the exile, the god, had been wiped clean. What was left was, as far as identity went, a meat suit stuffed with memories and stitched into a vaguely similar shape.

He spends a long moment thinking, allowing the vertigo to fade. He does not have an answer, but he must respond, eventually.

He simply says, "Look at me."

That uncomprehending look stays on the Lamb's face for another second while they wait for him to continue. It fades once they accept that he won't.

They offer a slight nod, and clear their throat.

"...As I was saying. Even with recruitment as our only avenue for growth, the flock is still flourishing. Creatures are leaving the Old Faith in droves. Some even have families. We're growing faster than ever," they continue on with whatever they'd come here for. Already the words bleed together into a dull buzz in his head. This horrible, jarring haze in his mind is either a symptom or side effect of whatever he is now. He imagines that losing his omniscience must feel comparable to what his siblings experienced, when he'd ripped away abilities and senses. But at least they'd still been gods. Even tearing Leshy's eye out had not been enough to truly blind him. Not like this.

And also, he's vaguely aware mortals need to eat every once in a while. His agony could also have something to do with that. Mundane problems befitting mundane creatures. The thought sickens him.

"--Listening? Hey," the Lamb raises their voice a bit, a note of frustration finally lacing it. It makes him flinch and bare his eyeteeth, like a frightened prey animal, and he hates himself profoundly.

Their gaze softens again at once, and he is abruptly reminded how much more deeply he hates them. That hatred is something a balm to his pride. This situation, this affliction, was done to him, and so all this anger could be directed outward.

They must be able to sense it. He gave them the power to do so, after all.

"I'll get to the point," the Lamb decides, collecting themself with a sigh. "I had a moment to uh-- look inside you, sort of, when you became a part of my flock. You're more like me than you are like them."

He squints a bit. His headache is coalescing into a dull star of pain behind his eyes.

"And how is that," he asks flatly. The Crown on their head is an otherworldly beacon against the dusty burlap door behind them; all that separates him from the mosquitoes.

"You're immortal, too. …Ish. We won't grow old, I mean."

"Death is now your domain alone, along with all it entails," he drones. "I am no more or less immortal than any other of your flock , should you choose it."

Their brow furrows at this, eyes flicking to the side. Considering.

"... I guess. But that isn't what I mean. Just listen," they implore, looking him in the eye again. Their gaze is determined, and even this tiny reminder of their strength makes the fur rise on his back. This body is well convinced that it is not immortal in any way that matters.

"My followers were yours, and you've had more before that. You know how to lead, and we're the only two that could do it indefinitely. I've already been benefiting from your guidance up until this point, and I still could." They speak as though running down a memorized list. His slow, maddeningly limited mortal mind struggles to reconcile any of it.

"I may be the only god left , but I'm still newly minted. And beyond that, your presence at my side is good for morale. We owe everything we've built to you," they continue with a strange, small smile. Not a threatening one, but it matches the undefinable look in their eye that pins him to the pile of hay he's been reluctantly calling a bed. Whatever this expression is, it makes them look younger, more the sweet and woolly little creature that was meant to be born and breed and die in peaceable obscurity with the rest of its sweet and woolly little herd.

"And like I said, the flock just keeps growing. I can care for it on a large scale, but it's more feasible to stay on top of things on a more, I guess… relational level if there's more than just one person at the head," they explain with a nod, seeming satisfied with themself. And oddly, it's their forthright manner here that's throwing him off guard, more than anything.

Through the Crown, he had listened in on their sermons. They were a talented preacher, sometimes fearsome and sometimes loving, always grandiose. He'd drunk deep of the devotion their fervor inspired, and of their own fidelity to the gospel in their hand, penned carefully in his name. Their own worship.

And now, they speak to him as if they're haggling with one of the vendors on the outskirts. Like that poorly disguised cannibal who sells them fish.

"So, I think it'd be a logical course of action if we just get married, and lead together," they finish, nodding again.

The bright-eyed, satisfied look on their traitorous face fades noticeably with every passing second. Because he is just glaring at them. His gut roils with sour bile, and any sense of newly installed self-preservation is swiftly forgotten.

"...There is no end, it seems, to the humiliation you deem fit to sentence me," he finally growls, swinging his legs over the side of the haystack to sit forward and face them head on.

"You have already betrayed me, supplanted me, and reduced me to one of the walking saddlebags of fealty and meat that colonize this forsaken patch of grass in your name. You wear my Crown , and yet believe some-- pathetic afterthought of a truce will in any way fool me? I know what I am, here.And yet you mean to dangle a shred of influence in front of me, with which to tempt me?"

He spits a laugh at the end, weak and bitter as it is. He briefly considers standing, but decides this whole situation isn't worth any more effort than what it takes to chastise them.

Atrophy really has no reason to expend effort, anyways.

The Lamb glances between his eyes, troubled. "I was just--"

"Listen well, traitor," he interrupts them lowly, ears pressed flat. "You've won your godhood. That is your boon for having slain the last of us, just as my kin slew all yours. In this way alone, I do not begrudge you my defeat. Your existence in kind and caste shall be an eternally singular one, and mortality is the very least of it."

The Lamb is quiet as they listen. They had always been quiet and attentive at his summons, and it is so easy to fall back into the mindset of saying his piece that he must deliberately remind himself that they are no longer in the gateway, and he no longer has anything to gain from divulging wisdom onto a vessel. There is no vessel.

"...As for me, you'll get nothing more than you would out of any other follower . You have already taken everything of use I had to offer.

"Fledgling divinity or no, heed this final suggestion and leave me in peace: You will find neither equal nor advisor within your own cult."

His words cut clear in the still air, and he becomes aware that it must be nighttime outside. Or perhaps early morning. It matters little; he sleeps through it all regardless.

The Lamb regards him silently, still with that concerned crease between their eyes. He can no longer read their mind, but their face has always been an open window into their general emotional state. This has yet to work against them. Twice now, they have wept openly in the face of their own demise. He supposes most do. But they came out more powerful on the other end every time, tears and all.

"...So that's a no, then?" they finally pipe up.

He stares, two out of three eyes wide open. Briefly estimates how quickly he'd be eviscerated if he decided to throw caution to the wind and go claws-out for their eyes. Or maybe their heart, so no one could accuse him of being repetitive.

"...No, lamb. I will not marry you," he says instead of doing that.

"That was a joke," they reply flatly.

"You have all the power here. If you want me in your harem, you need only decree it."

Their nose wrinkles. "That's not what it is, and no, I'm not gonna do that."

"Then we are finished here, O Great Leader," he sneers, then shifts to settle back onto the hay bed. He can feel the Lamb still watching him, their eyes on his back damn near tangible. His tail sweeps irritably behind him.

"...You're right about some of that, I think. Not all of it," they speak up after a second. "But thank you for the advice."

He hears the rhythmic chiming of their bell as they finally leave the hut, and disappear out into the commune. He finds himself tracking the noise until it fades, forcing him to notice the creaking and chirping of wind and insects in its absence.

Damned lamb.

Chapter 2: Neither Created Nor Destroyed

Chapter Text

"It's ridiculous!"

"Calm down, Julbie."

"This is the third person we've had to send to wait on the other side of the commune. The healing bay has been backed up for days. "

"I know, Julbie."

"I'm going to just march right up to the fields myself. It's just-- are they blind?"

"Julbie, it's fine," her wife soothes, keeping her voice down. "...I mean, it's not fine, but-- there's not really anything we can do yet."

"But we need the workers."

Anna shakes her head, large ears flopping a little with it.

"We can't make anyone do anything they don't want to. If everyone wants to farm instead of build, we don't have any power to--"

"But they do! They're back!" Julbie drops her hatchet and leaps over the mess, rabbit-quick towards the entryway gate. Anna can only swear and follow as best she can, feeling altogether far too clumsy in comparison on gangly stag legs.

"--It's just that, building orders are starting to back up, and the medbay needs to be done sooner rather than later, but we don't have enough hands to make any progress, but Merta says they need everyone on the fields even though it's been weeks since--"

" Julbie," Anna hisses in a rush, half bowing in her approach. "Umm-- Hello, Leader-- what we're trying to ask is, uh, do you think you could talk to some of the groups on other jobs? Things have gotten a little, um, uneven, and we could use some help."

The Great Leader listens, tilting their head.

"I made everyone a schedule before I left. The split should be equal," they look between the two, questioning.

"Ahh, the thing about that is--"

"Your schedule only accounted for the next week. You've been gone for two," Julbie finishes. Their leader blinks at her, surprised. Anna wonders if they had any idea time had passed at all.

"...Right," they nod after a second, gathering their thoughts, "I'll write up the next one. If we need more hands on construction, I'd best check--"

"Oh-- oh, that's the thing, actually," Julbie pipes up again. "We have plenty of volunteers to actually work on the building. But they don't have anything to work with, so they can't."

"We need some hands in the refinery," Anna translates, apologetic. The leader gets a crease between their brow, but they nod again. It looks like they're well aware of the root issue already; refinement is not a popular job around the commune. And Anna could sympathize-- really, she could. The consecration rituals make hours go by like seconds, and they are draining. The one time she'd volunteered, she'd slept for days afterwards.

"...Right," the leader says again, sighing. "I will enlist whoever I can."

"We can help with suggestions! I, um--I have a list," Anna quickly chimes in, eager to lighten the load. The leader huffs again, a quiet laugh. Then their famous smile is back, grateful and luminous, and she gets a little thrill of accomplishment.

"Wonderful! Go right ahead."

Anna clears her throat, straightening up a bit. "Well, the farms are full, and we're already on schedule for sowing. We could switch around the groundskeepers too, I think."

"Ooh, how about the hermit? He never does anything," Julbie hops in, maybe a bit louder than what's polite. But she's got a point.

"...Hermit?" the Leader frowns. "Is someone having trouble adjusting?"

"No," Julbie shrugs. "He's always been like that. Can he help, though?"

"The one living by the outskirts." Anna answers the Leader's confusion, pointing vaguely in the hut's direction. Her wife makes a circle with her paws, and holds it over her forehead.

"Yeah, the one with three eyes."

"Julbie, shush. That's just an urban legend." And a weird one, Anna thinks.

"...Nar--?"

The leader begins to say something, but cuts off and clears their throat.

"Yeah, I know him."

"No, he really has three! I saw him once when I was a kit," Julbie continues, emphatic. Anna doesn't actually know one way or another, but she's not willing to have this debate in front of the most powerful and important person in the world, probably. Especially with how troubled they look, now. Time must really be different for them , Anna thinks, if they don't even know about the hermit who's lived in the same hut for over a decade.

"Thank you both for the news," the leader speaks up. "I'll take care of it. I appreciate your dedication, truly; it will not go unrewarded."

And with that promise, and fervent thanks from the couple, the leader departs. They head straight for the overgrown hut. The groundskeepers have always been lax around it, since its occupant never ventures out to complain. Anna thinks it gives the whole area a haunted kind of vibe, and remembers how she would dutifully avoid the place as a fawn.

"Do you think he's even alive in there?" Julbie hums, leaning on the handle end of her ax. "I hope so. We could use the manpower."

Anna pats her hand, but does not disagree.

The usurper returns some time later, maybe some days or weeks. They just let themself into the hut without asking, and spend a while looking over the occupied nest of hay and blankets, perhaps waiting for a greeting. He would let them wait.

Humiliatingly, he breaks first.

"What is it?"

"They're starting to forget you, you know," the damned Lamb greets back with equal impertinence. Theirs is delivered more measuredly, and he could so easily imagine that placid little smile on their face. He does not emerge from the blankets to confirm it. Neither does he mean to dignify them with a response, but he finds that their imagined flippancy enrages him.

"I was forgotten centuries ago. The ignorance of your herd means nothing to me."

They scoff. "Sure sounds like it."

He doesn't make the mistake of humoring them a second time, and remains as still as a corpse in his little blanket lump. This time, they only wait a few seconds before speaking again.

"The first wave of recruits after you fell are already getting old. Their children are grown. They're out there right now, building the same home the elders started." The Lamb's tone is subdued in a way that takes the other a minute to identify. Centuries of entombment have long since killed off whatever capacity for sentimentality or nostalgia he may have once had, among other things.

He can't help it. "Your wistfulness makes you weak."

"Oh, it's fun watching them all grow and change," the Lamb insists, a bit more firmly. "...Just a bit sad, is all."

"Give it time," Narinder grumbles, giving up the fight and sitting up to face them. "Its passing will eventually erode all which does not serve you. This endearment you feel now, too, shall be sanded away the moment it threatens to undermine your authority."

If his words and their overall sourness affect them at all, they do not show it. They just look at him. Those large, attentive eyes full of curiosity.

"Are you speaking from experience, or talking about your siblings?"

"What do you want," he spits again, raising his voice as much as the rasp of its disuse will allow.

"Me? Oh, nothing-- I'm good, thanks," they smile brightly and trot right over to sit on the edge of their bed, either not noticing or pretending not to notice the way he recoils at their presence.

"But it's about time you made a place for yourself here," they go on. "Growth has kind of slowed down lately, but that's fine, we still need all the hands we can get to support the community that's already here. It's funny, I'd kinda hoped they could keep their own schedules, but it's already a mess-- you know Julbie? The rabbit, I actually had her on groundskeeping, but it looks like she ditched it for construction to be close to her wife. I didn't wanna call her a hypocrite for being mad about it all, 'specially since Anna's such a nice stag-- I think you'd like her, actually, she's part of this sewing group who--"

"Lamb," the once-god-turned-prisoner finally breaks. It seemed the Lamb had a talent for barraging him into surrender.

"Just give your command, and send me to toil."

They shut their mouth, and brighten at once.

"Aww, thank you for volunteering! Follow me."

The Lamb hops down, bell jingling cheerily. He foolishly hopes that they'll leave and give him a minute, but they stand right at the doorway and hold open the curtain.

He supposes he'd have had no way to lock it behind them either way. So he stretches the rust from his joints, body protesting his audacity to try and stand so quickly. It does something disorienting to his vision, for a second.

The Lamb simply waits, glancing about his sparse but with a pained sort of look. It's not a mess. He does little more than sleep in this space, and so he has no idea what they could possibly be judging.

"All this dust can't be good for you," they end up answering his unasked question. He approaches without another word, and follows them out into the searing daylight.

-

The refinery is a crude device. A hewn stone circle etched with a profane blessing, activated once by blood. It is alchemy at its most basic form: matter goes in, matter comes out, at a cost of whatever energy is chosen to power the sanctification.

For this purpose, the Lamb has their followers. The One Who Waited had empowered them with terrible knowledge; but only, he thought, the minimum of what they would need to keep their cult running long enough to make a satisfying power source for his own awakening. That they still rely on it even all this time later is just a little bit strange, if they're truly intent on expansion.

To each their own, he supposes. But the fact that he's standing on the business end of the thing is yet another creative humiliation.

They notice his expression, and humiliate him further with their spurious, saccharine sympathy.

"Aww, it's not so bad, trust me," they flash a cheerful grin, and his ears flatten in instant irritation. The Lamb picks up a bundle from the nearby pile of logs-- practically a hill of them-- and hefts it onto the transmutation sigil with a huff. They face him again, apparently satisfied with their demonstration.

"Really, it's probably the easiest labor we have available. I dunno why everyone tries so hard to avoid it. Stone mining's a more popular option than consecration," they continue, stepping back and extending an arm toward the readied structure, expectant.

"...You are surprised they avoid this method of procuring resources, when others exist?" He asks dryly, still just standing there and glaring at the thing. He has to squint under the blasted sunlight.

The Lamb stares, their arm faltering.

"Uh…they don't, actually. Exist. This is it," they look sincerely confused at the prospect. "Why shouldn't it be? This thing can make so much at once, and in so little time. Sure it needs a lot of materials in, but what it outputs is really worth it. We've never needed to maintain our buildings-- I'm not even sure if the boards can rot over time."

His laugh, weak and rough though it is, surprises the Lamb.

"Perhaps I did not give you enough credit. Even if you did not heed all I asked of you, you've at least learned from some of it." He steps past them up to the device, taking a second to size it up from this end. Crude, but hardly painful. And it could take nothing from him that he did not have in surplus.

"I always listened to you," the Lamb insists. The note of uncertainty in their voice upsets him somewhat, despite everything. "What's wrong with the refinery?"

"Nothing. It works precisely as intended."

He punctuates his point with a demonstration. Kneeling before it, an arm outstretched over the materials, some ancient curse on his tongue. His power will never again be what it was, but still, the alchemical process takes mere seconds by his hand. A lingering perk of immortality, he concludes sourly.

The Lamb hums a note behind him, impressed. Rather than the awe of a penitent vassal, their reaction hearkens more to having witnessed some runt performing a silly trick on the playground.

"You're quick," they note, so aggravatingly pleased. He glares at them, sidelong.

But it's about then that he realizes something. The way they speak of consecration as if it were labor. The active approach with which they divide it among the work expected of their followers, even now.

"Because it is work. What else would it be?" the Lamb suddenly insists. He whirls around to face them, hackles raised, and the frustration on their expression fades a touch.

The annoying thing is: he understands that frustration. Once one has gotten used to godhood, the sensation of confusion becomes uniquely foreign and discomfiting.

Still, the arrogant little bastard would do well to stay out of his head , and instead verbalize any questions they might have for him.

"Rude," the Lamb responds flatly. "You started it, you were staring."

He thinks he sees a twinge of a smile, but it's gone just as quickly, and they regain that steady leader-set to their shoulders.

"But fine. What is it that I'm missing, here?"

He glances back at the refinery, and the bundle of sturdy boards that now sits in the circle. They're still gently flaming at the edges, though the wood does not burn.

"Hmph. When I gave you the power to rule this cult in my name, I gave you only what you would need to meet my ends." And there was no longer any confusion as to what those were.

A distant laugh in the farmlands gets his vague attention. He remembers how the inside of a throat feels under his claws.

"None of this was never meant to last as long as it has," he continues. "From the placement of this little hovel you now dub a commune, right in the heart of the old lands, to the way your flock gathers and builds under your command."

"But it did," the Lamb points out, quiet but stern. Their ex-benefactor only scoffs.

"Even you have to understand that any worthwhile endeavor requires power. The wood does not bend and shape without effort. Tell me, Lamb, what you think fuels this miraculous process I've left you?"

"... Faith?" they try, failing to sound as confident as they clearly would like.

"That is what fuels you. …But that is not all that can, is it?" He hums, picking up a board and inspecting the runes. It's perfect. Of course it is.

"They can offer so much more to make you so much stronger. Their blood. Their lives. You've needed it all to get to where you are."

"Not for a while now," they defend. It's pathetic, and he will not allow them to get away with it.

"There are other ways of cutting stone and smelting gold. I wager you've lived among a stonemason or two in your short, pointless life before me. That, damned Lamb, is labor. This, like everything else they're good for, is sacrifice."

He tosses the board back onto the pile with a careless clatter, and spreads his arms wide.

"Life force. Their vitality for your resources. Hah-- for all your puerile fits of nostalgia, did you never stop to wonder why they live so briefly in the first place? Why they are perpetually barren under your care, or why they sicken so easily?" he demands.

The Lamb is silent now. They're staring at the scattered pile of consecrated boards, but he can't read their expression. They stay that way for a few short seconds, before speaking up without looking at him.

"Is there anything else like this I don't know about?"

He lowers his arms. "Pardon?"

"Anything else. What else am I making them do that's… taking from them?"

Killing them. Anodyne coward .

He supposes by their lack of reaction that they didn't read him that time.

He shrugs, growing bored with their plight. "The demon summonings can't be good for them, I suppose. All that vile parasitic fungus growing freely within your crop fields may also have something to do with it." Some of their rituals might be taxing too, if he had to guess, with the way they squeezed devotion and toil from their acolytes like sap from a tree.

The Lamb winces, having the gall to look abashed at his candor. As if they've seriously never even considered what consequences expending death-centric powers on a burgeoning populace might have upon it.

"...Thank you for telling me," they say softly, gaze still askance.

He growls in the back of his throat, arms crossed.

"It is embarrassing that anyone had to. I had hoped your thoughtlessness had been cruelty rather than ignorance."

He knows he overstepped with the straightforwardness before he's even done speaking, and winces minutely before risking a glance in their direction.

They're looking at him with that innocent smile plastered back on their face. A less experienced creature wouldn't think to fear it.

"Come to think of it, you've got life to spare, don't you? Being immortal and all, the refinery shouldn't affect how long you live, right?" they ask.

"It… shouldn't," he guesses, wary.

"Great! Then you'll make the perfect fuel for it on your own, until I figure something else out," they bleat cheerfully, gathering up the transmuted boards. "So get to it, buddy, we gotta get that new med bay up and running soon!"

He waits for them to deliver on their anger more than that. But they simply take the wood, and leave him to rejoin their flock.

He'd been certain they were going to imprison him for his disrespect. It's what he would have done, were he in their position.

Then again, he'd have been dead long ago if they'd taken his leadership style to heart. So perhaps he ought to count himself lucky.

He looks over at the looming piles of unrefined logs, and briefly disputes that thought. Today's migraine already simmers in the base of his skull. He'll barely dent the pile before having to stagger back to bed for the night.

Unfortunately, there will always be tomorrow.

-

He sort of gets the hang of it. Of course he does, it isn't as though the task itself is difficult. And the Lamb's hypothesis had been correct, as far as he can tell. A full day of transmuting materials would leave him feeling wretched, but a night of sleep was mostly enough to get him back up to a functional level. As much as he could be, in this form. He could only do so much while standing around among the blinding light and color of the place, not to mention the noise, before he started feeling as though his skull might split. He is forced to retire within a few hours every day.

Surprisingly, the rest of the cult is fairly accommodating about this. He never receives any complaints, though his output alone is their only current method of obtaining certain resources. The Lamb would not permit anyone else to use the refinery.

It is his burden, but not the only one he now had to bear. The Lamb began stopping by every few days to "check in", or deliver some news. Both interruptions were entirely uncalled for. And yet they persisted, pestering him about various details on the cult's progress. How construction on new structures was going steadily apiece, or how they'd been using their congregations to call upon smiths and weavers and woodworkers and the like, and decreeing that their knowledge be shared and put to use. Workshops starting, followers collaborating. They spoke, lately, of how their flock at large were rising earlier in the mornings, and eating with less voracity.

"Like they're not starving all the time," the Lamb emphasizes one day, leaning over the low stone fence behind the refinery. "We're not having any more exhaustion cases. The summoning stones look better as a decorative piece, anyway."

"Hmph. At the cost of your own ability to hunt in the old lands," he quips back, not looking at them.

"I can handle myself fine," He hears them shrug with a faint jingle. "Especially since the… nevermind, actually."

He looks back now, just for a second, to find them staring in the vague direction of the Gateway. They catch him, and meet his eye with a grin.

"And guess what? Now that the new healing bay's done, and bigger than the last one, even the healers are taking on apprentices. There's a lot of studying going on about what the camellia poultices and teas can do-- and some of the new recruits even have specialties! First aid, potion mixers-- I even found a midwife hiding away in Anura! " they prattle on, absolutely bubbling with optimism. He redoubles his efforts at ignoring them, attempting to heft a new pile of raw stone onto the slab. He gives up quickly, and has to pull the pieces out and pile them up manually. The damned Lamb must be watching him, but they're blessedly more focused on their own rambling reveries.

"I'm hoping, maybe, recruitment eventually won't be the only way we maintain our populace. I know some families have been trying," they hum, their bleating gone wistful.

If they have any ideas about their own spouses, and reversing their own extinction, they are-- to put it bluntly-- sh*t out of luck. The thought brings him only a split second of bitter amusem*nt at their expense, but it easily turns sour.

"Things are getting better," they insist, a touch harsher than they'd sounded a moment ago, making his ears twitch. And then they go quieter, conspiratorial. "For a lot of reasons. But also because I've stopped… accidentally siphoning the flock of all they're worth."

He rolls his eyes. He cannot understand the effort. His siblings' reach had been vast, and now that they were dead, bodies for the work were not in short supply. They must understand this, as often as they left on their crusades.

Which, even though any real enemies they may have once had are long gone, the Lamb still insists on undertaking with the same determination. They're out for days at a time; longer now that they refuse to utilize the hardy little fiends he'd so kindly put at their disposal.

He almost wonders what it is they're looking for. He pushes the thought away, certain it does not serve him. He just finishes the recitation, low under his breath, and watches the stone shape and harden under his influence.

"...So, again, I know you don't care , but thanks for your help. Eventually we'll have enough stone masons, and we can do away with the refinery entirely."

He speaks with a glance over his shoulder, before he even realizes.

"Then what am I meant--"

At the sight of their attention on him, he thinks better of it and shuts up. Just turns right back around and kneels to dig through another bag in silence. He carefully does not internally continue that line of thought.

"...You can do whatever you want," they respond to it anyway, after a moment. "That's the idea, anyway. We need whatever help we can get. The flock is only growing. Slowly, but it is."

He just keeps piling rocks, making sure the small tower doesn't topple off the side of the plinth. Given enough time, they will get bored, or be called away, and ultimately stop pestering him. He can wait. He's quite good at that.

"I mean, offer's still open to just marry me. Leading's a pretty cushy job, mostly."

He is forced to whip around and stare them down in silence. They look absolutely delighted to have pushed his buttons, ears flapping once in amusem*nt.

"No."

They shrug, carefree. "Worth a shot."

He whirls back around and inhales, pushing down the urge to pick up a rock and hurl it at their smug little face. There are too many followers watching, and the stocks don't look particularly comfortable for an overnight stay. He will finish his work. Like a good little peasant.

"...Have you thought of anything you want me to call you, by the way?" The Lamb asks.

He gets two words into the recitation before tripping over the third, and exhales harshly through his nose. The rocks vibrate dangerously. He's mildly relieved they aren't reduced to sludge. He gives the Lamb the attention they clearly demand, and they're just watching him, big brown eyes and shiny bell both reflecting the fading red glow of the ritual.

"It hardly matters what you choose to call me. No matter what, it would be so," he intones. Their word is law.

They frown at this, impatience knitting their brow.

"Right. You know, I already have your crown, and that's keeping me busy enough. So I don't really have any interest in your identity. That's still yours to sort out." The Lamb stands up straight, for what little extra height it lends them.

"Your indifference is noted," he mutters back.

"I'm serious! You've been here a while now, and look-- I know you're having a hard time adjusting--"

"And whose fault is that?" He interrupts, surprising them into silence. " You made the choice to spare me, and have me indoctrinated into your fold. You made the choice to rewrite our very beings. You made me this."

He gestures vaguely with his hands down his own body, more bone and tendon than meat, fur thin and slightly matted with grit, all hidden beneath a faded newcomer's tunic. The years have already leeched it of its color.

"And whatever this is is your own fault. I did not choose to be here. I did not choose to be unmade," he continues, rasping with the effort of speech. "There is no precedent for what became of either of us."

"That doesn't mean you can't try to find your own way from here. You're free now," they step forward, imploring. He actually growls at them on approach, and they jerk back. Not out of fear. The look on their face is one of pity.

" Freedom," he spits. "Yes, the freedom to either exist as one of your little sycophants in here, or to submit to my own annihilation by walking into the ravenous chaos my siblings left out there. And all with the knowledge that both paths would only ever lead me back to you, standing at the end of all things."

The Lamb is silent again. They definitely want to speak up, to say something in their defense. But they must know he's right.

They reign no matter what. There is no true freedom, when death need only wait. That finality was everything he had tried to rail against, and for it, he lost all influence completely.

"And you don't even know what you're doing," he hisses, teeth bared in a venomous, familiar smile.

"Neither do you," they shoot back. "Have you even washed once since you got 'unmade'? "

" You are the only true divinity in known existence, and even with all that power, you still struggle for days out there among the beasts. What can you possibly be fighting that gives you such trouble?" He avoids the question, and counts a small victory when their ears flop low.

"I'm learning," they bleat.

"How commendable," he mentally dismisses them, and kneels with his back to them to continue his work. They just trot up to his side until they're back within sight.

"Really, I am. Believe it or not, there are… people? Beings? There are others out there who've been able to help me. …I've been talking to one of them a lot."

"Lucky you. At least a handful of your countless, feeble admirers can provide you with some use."

"I think they knew you."

That actually sparks a modicum of curiosity, enough to stop him. There were strange ones out there, yes, but none so old as to remember when he reigned alongside the others.

"Many still know of me, and what I've done," he concludes.

"They gave me something, actually," the Lamb seems to recall something, and they dig around the inner lining of their cloak. "I'm not really sure what it's for. I was wondering if maybe you know what I can do with it."

They procure a necklace, and stick it close to his face.

He recognizes it. He stares at it.

Yes, there is something they can do with it. Something so easily within their power, now.

"Na--? uhh," they get his attention, and correct themselves quickly. He abruptly feels tired, and attributes it to the upcoming headache.

"Um, so, do you know what this is for?" They ask, now hesitant.

"Hm. Nothing, anymore," he waves them off, training his eyes staunchly downward. He only has a few more recitations in him before his body will give out for the day.

"Especially not for someone now so suddenly averse to their own nature of power through sacrifice," he hums as an afterthought, adjusting the stone pile.

"What's that supposed to--" they start, then stop themself with a short huff. "You know what, nevermind. Thanks for the cryptic hint. Very godlike of you."

His tail whips once behind him, and he hears the Lamb finally turn tail and walk away, no doubt annoyed. He is still not certain what they want from him, but he takes some petty solace in the fact that they very likely did not get it today.

But infuriatingly, he can concede to one thing. The One Who Waited was usurped. His siblings took everything from him, and the Lamb won what remained. But before they did, they'd won for him the very lives of the traitors who'd have erased him entirely.

It would be a final victory against their memory, perhaps, if he at least reclaimed some identity from them. Even if he had to reshape it. He could again, and newly, be Narinder.

Or at least, he could try. It was an option afforded to him that Baal would not ever have again, where he now rested with his brother. Narinder catches the Lamb stuffing his necklace into their pocket as they depart again for the old lands.

...

He picks at a knot in his fur, and scrunches his nose at the dirt that comes apart in his claws.

Alright, maybe he did need a rinse out in the river, too. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.

Chapter 3: Birth and Rebirth

Chapter Text

It'd been some years now, since the Lamb last asked for Narinder's hand.

Granted, some years had passed between the first and second time, too. They worried, sometimes, that time would become meaningless to them, but so far the present has always managed to keep them too busy for existentialism.

But it was still an easy thing to lose track of; time. This has always been true. Their first life had been a whirlwind of violence and burning and running, always running. They may have had family. Someone had to rear the last lamb, after all. The last herd. They must have been slaughtered early.

Or maybe they weren't, and the Lamb just avoided thinking about it so much that now, near a century later, they truly could not remember what happened. Who they once were.

It didn't matter anymore, of course. They were someone else, now. The meek little herd animal who'd been marched to the slab and knelt before forces it couldn't understand was long dead. They were the Lamb. The only one.

That was something they had in common. Narinder-- who they can't help but think of as such until he gives them something else to call him-- was once part of something vast and incomprehensible. A world of gods, apparently, brought down one way or another until only a small family remained, who tightened their grip on their endangered monarchy to a stranglehold. Infighting brought them down, in the end. Maybe that's what happened to all the others. They knew damned well what exactly happened to the last four.

The Lamb did to the Bishops exactly what the Bishops had done to the Lamb. Wiped out every last one of them.

But not for their own self-preservation, as the Bishops had rationalized their campaign of genocide. The Lamb had acted out of revenge. Their own violence was the culmination of a lifetime of experiencing it; their terror, their rage, their hatred driving every step and swing towards the architects of their loneliness, that the Red Crown might feast on their hearts.

Officially, they did it all for Him. That was still true. People can have multiple drives for doing important things.

When that trembling little critter knelt, weeping, to be sacrificed, He had saved them. It had woken up, confused but no longer in pain, and met yet another being so much larger and more important than itself.

But this one was different. He did not have the desperation to preserve himself that his siblings had acted on. He did not fear death. He was Death. Death was the irrevocable conclusion, and all he ever needed to do was wait. And he was waiting for them.

And he was angry. Every word he spoke, every desire he shared, was steeped in what must have been decades or centuries of terror, rage and hatred. He shared that anger with them, and made them his vessel for its application. He taught them that anger-- after so many years of helplessness, he would teach them how to wield it. He wanted the same revenge they did.

How could they have possibly declined? They had a lifetime of their own anger. He was only offering them the power to make it mean something, and the luxury of time and patience to make it succeed. He offered them his crown.

And then he wanted it back. That might have been fine, were their own body, life, and everything they'd built not just another means to an end. They still don't understand why he was surprised at their refusal. Maybe it was because the soft little thing they had once been would have cowered and knelt their head at his command.

But he himself had been the one to teach the Lamb to fight back. And so they did. They have always listened to him.

And they won, because he'd taught them how to do that, too.

Turning his own power back at him was nothing like fighting his siblings. It wasn't the brute force of one crown against another, struggling until one could devour its opponent. Everything the Lamb had done had strengthened them both. And even without his Crown, it was clear that Narinder had always been the best of his siblings. Chaos, Famine, Disease, War-- all are only parts of life, and exist in flux.

But Death is concrete. All of their domains inevitably come to His conclusion. It was no wonder his siblings feared him, especially once he started testing the natural order. The Lamb once had a lot of experience with fearing their betters.

But now, they were the best there was. The Lamb had railed against the inevitable, and dethroned Him.

Taking that much power from him left him different. It was only at that moment that they'd realized all gods must start from something. Narinder's reversal was the Lamb's own start.

They'd looked down at their final enemy, and saw a trembling, terrified, helpless little creature. They gazed upon the shell of their fallen almighty, and saw a lamb.

And still, he'd fought. This powerless little thing had looked upon something far greater than itself, acknowledged it, and turned against them with that same anger, that same fire they had seen in him so long ago. And all while still so clearly battered and scared. He'd challenged their conviction no matter what they might have chosen: they could be a coward and spare him, or murder him and be no different than him. Even with all his strength gone, with everything of note sapped from him until he was left small and mundane, so easy to snuff out, he rebelled.

And there it was, the crux of what the Lamb saw in him that was so beautiful, so worth the worship that he had immediately engendered within them at first sight. Real worship. The Bishops had only ever had their fear. And that was an important part of worship; they've been running their own cult long enough to know that. But that couldn't be all there was.

That fire, that bravery in the face of his own demise. That refusal of whatever lot others decided for him, even if it was nature itself trying to conduct him.

They respected him for it, to say the least. He had been everything they'd once wished they could be, back when they had been that matted, pointless stray who wept at their own execution.

That's part of why they didn't kill him. They'd thought about it. He'd betrayed them, though a small part of them always sort of saw it coming. A voice in their dreams gave them that warning long ago; a crown cannot sit upon two brows. It was pulled in their cards, apparently-- the last remaining gods of the land would vie for the sacrifice of their flesh, for the sake of their own reigns.

No matter how the Lamb might come to love one of them, or worship them in their own right. That was the issue they could not ignore, back there in the gateway. They left The One Who Waits an echo of what he once was, but everything important remained.

And they loved him, still.

So the Lamb gave him the same gift he had given them so long ago. They gave him the chance to be someone better. They gave him his freedom.

That was how they saw it, at least.

Narinder, or whoever he was now, seemed to consider his new state as a sort of punishment. They think he sees it as a betrayal, after all he'd done for them. The Lamb privately thinks that maybe he should consider them even, but hey, what do they know?

Speaking of. Everything they didn't know was sort of becoming a problem. About godhood, about being a leader, about their own powers. They thought they'd had the perfect solution to that in a union with Narinder.

They thought maybe, if they approached the question with enough logic and reason behind it, he'd actually see it as a good deal. The flock was… still hesitant about him, even after enough time passed that not many still living remember the day they'd usurped him. Which was probably for the best, because ensnaring and holding them all hostage to be sacrificed en masse had not, exactly, endeared them all to him.

Marriage and co-leadership would be a good way to give him some status, and make everyone a little less afraid of him. Win-win.

They'd married before, of course. Always because their flock had asked, and they couldn't think of a reason to say no. It was flattering, and most of their spouses, past and present, really did seem to genuinely care for them. The companionship provided them comfort, at times. Granted, a few of them did shoot their shot solely for… well, clout. Which was less flattering. But for their fealty, those ones had made such profitable sacrifices to the Red Crown.

Suffice it to say, the Lamb isn't used to being on this side of the question. Maybe they should have just approached him with a straight business offer. An advisor position, maybe. They'll wait a bit longer before bringing it up again.

Plus, it's not like they don't have any help. Ratau may be retired, but he and his knucklebone buddies had plenty of experience.

But, well. He's really getting on in his years, now, and the Lamb cannot avoid the knowledge that Ratau won't be a resource forever. They make a note to visit more often, and talk as much as they can.

There's also someone else. Someone less straightforward, and definitely more hands-off about guiding the Lamb with their new power than Narinder had been. It might actually be more accurate to call them a some thing , rather than a someone. They're not quite sure.

But whatever it is, it's generous with its boons. And it has made some odd implications about the fate of the Bishops that the Lamb has, honestly, really been trying not to think about. They avoid going through certain doors in Darkwood.

But it's fine. Really! They have plenty at the homestead to keep them busy.

All in all, they have a really good feeling about the future.

The cult was abuzz with the news, one afternoon, that a couple who'd been together for a near decade had successfully conceived.

The Lamb returned to the news that night, and by the time Narinder awoke the next morning, all the remaining refineries had been destroyed. Their raw resources were already being repurposed.

He means to sleep until the commotion is over-- possibly until either the parent miscarried or the child grew old enough to no longer be a novelty-- but the Lamb called an early sermon and declared a banquet. They had more than enough food, and so it would be done the manual way, with members of their flock participating in setting up the festivities. Decorating, altering their simple cloaks and tunics in an attempt at celebratory attire, gathering ingredients. And of course: cooking.

And now that Narinder was newly out of a job, the Lamb saw fit to approach him with a bright smile and a kitchen implement. They called it a spatula.

He asked instead for a butcher's knife, and was cheerily rebuffed.

-

Despite his own expectations, Narinder managed to get through the banquet without burning the commune down. He did not partake in the festivities himself, choosing to sneak away at the first opportunity. Someone left a carefully arranged bowl of fruits and greens and such at his doorstep, anyway. He'd sniffed at it, picked it apart, and spat what little he tried back onto the ground, save for a few rings of something soft and salty.

But despite his general aversion to the flock's choice of nourishment, he did a well enough job that he was asked to fill in for their regular food preparer the next day, who was left indisposed after partaking too heavily in some experimental fermented berry and menticide concoction. To everyone's surprise and grief but Narinder's own, the old frog took ill, and did not end up surviving the week.

The tragedy called for an appropriate period of mourning, infighting amongst the brewers, and a new weekly slot of work for Narinder. But in seemingly no time at all, the mood shifted back to one of boundless optimism in the cult, especially among the expectant parents and their friends.

As far as Narinder is told, of course. Because the Lamb still keeps up their habit of visiting him as he works, and filling him in on every unnecessary morsel of gossip.

He takes to getting to the kitchen before most of the commune is awake, chopping and sorting whatever needs preparation for the cooks later in the day. Ideally, he leaves before the sun gets too high up, and would only ever have to interact with whatever farmer delivers the day's stock.

But there's no getting up early enough to avoid the Lamb.

"I never took you for a morning person," they remark at one point, elbows propped up on the counter where residents would line up for their rations. He spares them a weary glance, and returns to peeling apart and cleaning cauliflower. The leaves snap apart gratifyingly in his grasp. Much like the small bones of a stubby little sheep's tail might.

"Hm. It is more tolerable than the overcrowded circus of fools that becomes of this place during the day," he responds, because he knows by now that they'll just keep talking either way.

"Aw, I wouldn't say it's crowded. Not yet, anyway. But that reminds me: we're finally caught up on building homes! We should have more than enough space for any new followers for the next while-- I hope," they prattle. "Especially since we're gonna have growing families . It's exciting, isn't it? Julbie is getting pretty far along. The healers are optimistic, but they can't tell for sure how big the litter is gonna be until it's here."

He squints in the growing light. The warm season cannot end soon enough.

"If you are going to accost me," he picks up a paring knife, and gestures with it to the Lamb's side, "Make some use of yourself and do so from ten paces to the right."

They pause, head tilting, and regard him. Rather than speak the obvious question, they decide to humor his request. They block the sun at this angle. In this way, their presence is marginally more bearable.

They realize what he was asking a half second later, and snort.

"I'll have someone attach an awning to this thing," they tease.

"For what little good it would do," he mutters, and for some reason that prompts them to search his face with their eyes. He curates his thoughts toward the task at hand just in case.

"...Does the sun really bother you so much?" They ask, sounding completely genuine.

"Does it matter?" He rebuffs flatly, and they immediately look annoyed with him.

"Yes, actually. I'm thinking maybe you could be out of your hut for more than four hours a week if you weren't so uncomfortable the whole time."

He just grunts in what they're welcome to take as acknowledgement. Blessedly, they take it as a dismissal.

"You're impossible sometimes, you know?" They tell him, in the way of a goodbye.

Once upon a time, he'd been inevitable. He supposes this new designation is the best he could hope for, relatively.

-

The Lamb visits him the next day with a parcel. Small and wrapped in wide tree fronds, tied at the end with care, deposited with a light thud right on the side of his bed. Where he'd been sleeping. Until they let themself in without a word. He continues to feign unconsciousness. Maybe they'll go away.

"Hey," they start quietly after a few seconds, and then repeat it slightly louder after another few.

"I know, " he rasps out, one eye peeking open to glare at them. The top one. "What is it now?"

"Oh, hi. Do you fake being asleep every time I'm here?"

"I wouldn't be faking if your noise didn't wake me from halfway across the commune." He resigns himself and sits up, cutting off whatever question they had next with his own. "And what is this?"

"Wha-- Oh! Open it," they pivot, once again all smiles.

He picks up the little package carefully, and tests its weight. It's light, but too big for the paltry wooden jewelry they were fond of bestowing onto their flock. Thankfully.

He tears the string away with a swipe of a claw, and it falls open. Fabric. Some sort of small garb-- a hooded cowl fastened together at the front with a short capelet, a little like what he'd worn before over his robes.

He frowns, and turns it over in his hands.

"...What is the meaning of this offering?"

The Lamb rolls their eyes.

"It's for when you're outside. It ought to help with the sun, right?"

He looks up, and they have this amused sort of quirk to their lips. He weighs the parcel in his hands, and wonders if the minute of hilarity would be worth the brutal demise he'd likely face if he tried to stuff it in their mouth.

"Hmph. The sun is only one nuisance in the mess of color and fulgor you've made of your cult," he complains, jumping at the opportunity to do so. If only to get them to stop looking at him like he entertains them.

They seem to consider him, now. Not offended, just parsing information.

"...Huh. So it all bothers you, still? Just being out there with all of the… uh, everything?"

"Perhaps your aesthetics are just intolerable," he shrugs, discomfort creeping up at the note of concern in their voice.

"Hmm." Blessedly, they don't respond any further than that. They even turn to leave.

Narinder is not sure why, but it suddenly feels imperative that he has the last word.

"Offerings are pointless to me in this state," he calls back to them. "Do not anticipate any boon for this."

They turn and face him from the doorway, holding the curtain open. The wind blows in from behind them, already letting in scattered leaves around their hooves.

"That's fine, it's not an offering."

He furrows his brow. "...Then, why bother?"

"When people just give each other things just because they feel like it, we call that a gift," they enunciate deliberately, with a gently amused smile.

Whatever his face does in response makes them laugh and depart, while a retort still struggles in his throat.

He notices his grip on the cowl is feather-light, like he might somehow damage it if he applied pressure. He deliberately wads it up in his claws, letting them leave tiny pinpricks in the fabric.

Damned Lamb.

-

A week later, he wears the hood up for his next shift. Blocking his periphery and keeping the sun out of his eyes makes the mundane task of cleaning and de-stemming a pile of beetroot somewhat less miserable. Right up until the Lamb shows up, and smiles like a damned beacon at the sight of him. At least now it's easier to avoid looking at them.

"So you like it?" They embarrass him further by asking.

"It is useful," he corrects, and they take the compliment with a huff of laughter.

"Then, I'm glad I still remember how to be useful to you."

He abruptly tears his attention away from the cutting board to stare at them, but they're already walking away. Towards the temple to prepare for whatever morning business they'll be getting to.

And he's… glad to be left alone so easily, today. He is. Of course. He's always going out of his way to avoid everyone, of course it's good that they're gone.

He shakes his head once, as if jostling something back into place, and resumes his labor.

Metty likes working delivery for the farms. The cart can get kind of heavy, but he's glad not to be working in the hot midday sun. Walking the path through the pretty meadowlands to the main square before proper dawn is a peaceful experience, and getting to sleep through the hottest part of the day definitely suits him. Sometimes the fireflies are out. He hopes to keep this slot, especially once the pumpkin harvest grows in. Now those things are heavy.

The kitchen helpers he leaves the stock with are mostly pretty nice, too. They're sometimes a bit too sleepy to chat, but Greta's always got something to dish. He looks forward to seeing her a few times a week.

She's not here today. It's the weird helper, the one with the hood, who never offers so much as a greeting. So he unpacks the stock on his own in silence, around the corner in the designated spot.

But even the weird guy being here has an upside. That means the leader is gonna come around, too. They always come to talk to him, and it always leaves Metty with good fuel for the rumor mill.

He doesn't mean to eavesdrop. …He hadn't meant to eavesdrop the first time, anyway. It had been exciting to see them; most people never really get to outside of their sermons anymore, unless it was really important. Metty had been sort of shocked to see how small they were when not up behind the podium. He guesses gods can come in all shapes and sizes. If you believe in that kind of thing.

So hood-guy must be some sort of special case. The leader almost never has anything important to say to him. They just chat. Or, the leader chats, and the other guy listens, or grunts, or occasionally offers something to the conversation. Sometimes the leader jokes around with him, and they clearly find his reactions really funny. Metty has never heard their serene spiritual leader tease someone like that. No one ever believes him when he talks about it.

At first he thinks the guy must be a new spouse. They have two that he knows of; the ones in the fancier robes generally kept in charge of records and reports. But this guy definitely doesn't fit that description. He's something even more special.

Or just freakier. Because sometimes, very rarely, they talk about things Metty doesn't understand. Kinda esoteric sounding things. It spooks him a bit.

Sure enough, the leader shows up while he's unpacking, conveniently unseen behind the wall in the storage area. He hears them greet the guy, friendly as ever, and the cat gives a curt one-word response. They don't immediately launch into a one-sided conversation, this time. All Metty can hear is the rhythmic scrape of something getting peeled.

He kind of zones out in his own work, thinking about his newest hobby. Fermenting berries and whatnot was proving to be a fun way to exercise his creativity. He has a few buddies who get crazier with it, and he's falling behind. Maybe there's a way to cook down the mushrooms first so they're not so potent. They tasted pretty good, which was unfortunate, because it's generally not a great idea to eat them straight. Depending on who you ask. Metty personally likes not having fungus growing in his skull, but hey, live and let live. And some people will trade good stuff for a potent brew.

The weirdo's voice breaks him from his reverie. It's a low, quiet rasp that at first had Metty thinking he was recovering from some illness. But he's since learned that's just what the guy sounds like.

"Do you truly have nothing better to do beyond loitering?" He asks flatly. Definitely something special. No one else would have the spine to talk to their Great Leader like that. Maybe they keep coming around because they find it funny, on account of how they could probably vaporize him with a thought, or something.

"This isn't a bad use of my time. We all need to relax sometimes, hmm? The quiet and the wind are so nice," they answer, soft and mellow.

"Mm."

"Come on, take a minute. You wanna sit with me?"

"I am busy."

The short tinkle of a bell. Maybe they shrugged.

"Your loss. It really is beautiful here."

There's more quiet for a bit. Again, it's the other guy that breaks the silence.

"You are displeased with something."

A snort. "Is that you asking if I'm alright?"

"It is me stating a fact."

A beat.

"...I'm not displeased with anything. Just… conflicted."

Metty pauses in his work. He's suddenly pretty sure it's in his best interest to be as silent as possible.

"And?" The guy demands.

"Aww, I was waiting for you to ask. Knew you cared."

"I-- you-- I don't--"

"I never want to sacrifice any of my flock again, now that there's no point. That's why I haven't. Not since before you came to be here, I mean."

"... No point," the guy repeats in disbelief. "Feeding the crown is hardly a pointless endeavor. You would not have had the strength to become what you are if you did not take what was freely available."

"I know."

"It will always feast upon what you deign to give it."

"I have enough power," they assert, voice raised a little.

"So you say now. But the lot you cast is not one that stays satiated for long. Nor is the faith of your cult ever immovably secured. A show of strength shall one day be necessary."

"I don't believe that."

"And yet, you are already considering it."

"I--"

Metty's ears strain against their leader's silence.

"Hmph. I thought as much."

"It's not what you think. It's-- let's just say there's something really important on the other side. And I think I know how to get it back. But I can't… do it on my own."

"Naturally."

"But death is my whole property. Shouldn't I be able to do what I want in and out of it?"

"Hah. You could try," the guy hums, "But it is your domain that owns you. Death does not tolerate leniency. If you want something from it, it will demand you put something back."

"I've brought back followers before-- way back in the day."

"A special case. Your flock is comprised of creatures that have sworn their fealty and their bodies to your cause. They already belong to it."

"...Is that why they'd all begged to be sacrificed, after being alive again long enough?"

"Of course. None can resist the call of that which claims ownership over their very soul."

A quiet sigh.

"I guess you would know best about pushing the limits, huh."

"By all means, fling yourself into the roiling oblivion and grasp around a bit. It'd be good for a laugh."

"Ha ha. You wanna volunteer for the circle? Be my guest," they joke.

"If you want me dead, you'll have to finish the job yourself." He doesn't sound like he's joking. They chuckle anyway.

"Fair 'nuff. This may be important to me, but I at least want someone willing for it."

"Tch. Cowar--"

"Shh!"

"--! You dare--"

"Hear that?"

"...What?"

"I'll be right back," the leader promises, and Metty hears hooves race off on the grass.

He peeks over the side of the wall, and stretches out to get a look at where they're headed. He catches a flash of red in the direction of the neighborhood.

He can't make anything out of what that must have been about.

But he's heard stories of the bloodier rituals they used to do, just a generation or two ago. Metty has never seen a sacrifice. It sounds like the kind of thing the priests would be honored to do. They definitely have some real devout members of the community here, seeing how their god lives in the same land and directly gives out their blessings. He bets it'll be a heck of a conversation topic at the farms, when he brings it up.

Which, yeah, he will. It'll be nice to have the most interesting news before Greta, for once.

He doesn't notice the weird cat looking at him for a second, and he startles. He swears he glimpsed three round creepy eyes ogling him, but he blinks and there's only two.

"Uhh-- morning," he tries.

The guy squints at him, obviously suspicious. But he dismisses Metty just as quickly, continuing what he's doing.

"Berries in the ice box this time," the guy tells him, pointing in its direction with the butt of his knife. It's a good seven words more than he's ever said to Metty so far, and so he feels a little emboldened to sate his curiosity. After grabbing the bin with the berries in it, of course.

"So, um. Were you like, one of the old beasts? Like a Witness?" He tries to ask as casually as possible. There's an elder or two living somewhere on the commune who were once "Witnesses of the Old Faith", whatever that means. But they're generally very respected. And very, very scary looking.

"...Excuse me?" The guy rasps. Or, more accurately, hisses.

"What? Nothing, nevermind!" Metty deflects at once, and rushes to pack faster. The cat is still glaring at him. Those eyes are really red.

"It's just --!" He scrambles to save face, in case Witnesses have some f*cked up face-melting powers or something, "The leader really seems to like you, so I-- uh, we kinda figure you're, um. Something else?"

"You and the rest of your mindless herd would do well to keep me out of your gossip, little badger," hood-guy growls lowly, and Metty has half a mind to just leave the cart and scamper.

…But then again, he could see the leader was coming back fast, and they'd probably jail the guy if he actually tried anything with that knife. Maybe. Ah, sh*t.

"...So… does that mean you're not? A Witness?" He blurts anyway.

Turns out the guy does have three eyes. And they're all open all the way. Metty nearly pisses himself.

"... No, I am n--"

Maybe Metty was wrong about the leader discouraging a brawl, because they sprint back and tackle the cat right in front of him.

That's what he'd thought was happening, but instead of being thrown into the ground, the guy is lifted up and spun once in what looks like a crushing hug. He screeches in shock, but the leader is all smiles and bleating laughter.

"We have a litter!" they cry out happily, "We got kits! The flock's first children! "

"Get-- unhand me--!"

They continue in that vein, the leader hugging onto the freak, and him scrabbling at their cloak and wool in an aggressive attempt to free himself before he gives up the fight and just clings to their shoulders for dear life.

Metty, for his part, drops the berry bin and sprints back towards the fields with the news. Call it crass, but he and some of the other farmers had a betting pool on Julbie's delivery.

Man, Greta was gonna love this.

Of course there was another gods-damned feast. Narinder did not attend. The Lamb must have presided, though he personally found that unseemly. Life was not their domain.

But it all kept them busy enough that neither they nor the flock at large noticed when he decided to sleep through his next shift, and then through the next year or so.

Which, debatably, turned out to be a mistake. By the time the Lamb did notice he hadn't been given a slot in "such a long time, are you serious?" , the place was downright infested with babbling progeny. That litter of rabbits had opened the veritable floodgates.

The Lamb put him directly on serving duty in the kitchen, just to get back at him for slacking. They apparently determined the best punishment for his solitude was to force him to interact with the entire f*cking flock.

"Not a punishment," the Lamb chides, as he ladles another mound of berries and greens into a bowl, "I want you to see our progress! ….And also, uh, maybe grab a meal for yourself. You're looking thin."

"How generous," he mutters, handing the ration out without bothering to look at its recipient.

"I mean, okay, I guess it's sort of my fault for not keeping on top of the schedule again, but things have been really busy. …And uh, I guess I sort of haven't been around much either," they giggle awkwardly. "Old lands. Training. You know how it is."

"Hmph. Hypocrite," he chastises them right back, and sets another bowl of colorful slop onto the counter.

The next person in line doesn't immediately take it, and he eyes them silently from under his hood. A stag, with a nervous expression on their face and a toddler on their hip. A rabbit kit.

"Um, hi," they greet him, still not taking what they're here for.

"Hello, Anna. Are you doing well?" the Lamb pipes up next to him. That answers one question he did not intend on asking. Anna dips in a short bow to them, and the kit crinkles a bundle of paper in its chubby hands.

"Yes! Thank you. …Um, sorry if this is strange, but you-- um, the leader says you did something to help make this possible," Anna stumbles through her sentence, incomprehensibly addressing Narinder.

"...Make what possible?" he asks dumbly.

"Oh! Sorry. I mean… Fen, here," she bounces the toddler once, and it squeaks, "Him and all his siblings. My wife and I, um-- we wanted to thank you-- Here, Fenny, can you give it, like we talked about?"

She coos at the child, and it stares at him with big, inquisitive eyes. It seems to comprehend the message enough to stretch out its tiny arm toward him, the paper wavering in its grip.

With the Lamb and the mother watching, and some in the line behind her getting curious, he can do nothing other than take the hand and get this done with. It isn't terribly well wrapped, just covered.

It looks like a tangle of hair, at first. But upon closer inspection, it's lace, woven into a band.

A veil.

"--sew, so leader gave me the idea, they even brought the silk back from the deep wilds, and I would have left it at your home, but I didn't know what name to address it, and, um--"

He registers that she's started blathering again halfway through it all, and it's starting to feel like the entire cult is watching him. He nudges the bowl forward again, tail swishing erratically behind him.

"Thank you for the… gift," he remembers the right word, in the context of what they are. "Please take your food."

"Oh! You're welcome, thanks -- um, really, thank you. If you ever need anything-- stop by, okay? You'll always be a friend of the family," she bows again, and the motion makes the child giggle. Her tone wavers less towards the end, softening in her sincerity. And thankfully, she takes her food and scurries off.

He is horrified at the prospect of seeing the Lamb's face right now. The line continues. The next hungry patron sidles awkwardly in dawning confusion when he does not move to serve them, the veil still loose in his hand.

"Uh… can I, um--?"

"Hey Greta, you mind taking over here for a bit?" The Lamb cuts off the hog in line, gesturing for another kitchen worker to come over. Narinder blinks, but takes the hint quickly. He drops the ladle carelessly into the pot and exits the kitchen, the Lamb following in step beside him. He has no destination in mind. Just keeps walking, relaxing by degrees as the clamor of mealtime fades behind them. The grass is hot under his paws.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" The Lamb bleats after a few seconds, doing a poor job of pretending they're not watching his expression.

"Mm."

"Thanks for being polite, at least. Or uh, for trying."

He hisses at them for their impertinence. They don't react, their countenance unwaveringly sunny in his direction.

Silk. That was a rarity in the cradle, even before Shamura could only let it fall to apocalypse. No one else left living would survive an expedition to find any.

They, the Lamb, are the only one here with any power to make anything happen. They are the only one whose actions are worth anything, anymore. The mortals, as ever, are feeble and delusional in their understanding of how anything works.

He wraps the veil once around his hand, and the material slides smoothly against his fur.

"...Hmph. What have you been telling your herd?" Nariner demands. The Lamb shrugs.

"Nothing but the truth. For as much as you say you don't want anything to do with all of us, you really do help me out a lot," they lower their voice a bit, a layer of unmistakable gratitude coloring their tone.

"I insult you," he reminds them, feeling for some reason urged to do so. "I despise everything about your style of leadership, and think you a pusillanimous fraud. "

"Sometimes it's nice to have another perspective," they hum, once again blithe as ever.

"I have not forgotten your betrayal, and you have not forgotten my violence. Had I gotten my way, every one of your precious flock would be devoured," he growls through his fangs, seething with an agitation he cannot name. He speaks quite without thinking, in a way that feels like firing a random barrage to hit some target he can't even see.

"You didn't, though," they remind him gently.

"No one here knows what should have become of them. That crown sits on the brow of a false idol, and had I the slightest opportunity, I would cut your head from your shoulders a second time and take it back rightfully. Had I the means, wretched Lamb, I would kill you."

The Lamb only stops walking when he does, and regards him with a distant, melancholy little grin in the face of his wrath. His face twists with it, claws digging divots in his palms. The mesh of the veil leaves it unharmed.

"Do you understand?" He rasps it as a threat, but it feels like a plea in his throat. They have to understand. One of them must. One of them has to understand. They cannot both be lost.

The Lamb stares right into him. He'd once looked upon them in the same way, back when their ire had been essential to him. He had seen right into them, and beheld the depths of their soul. The soul of a thing fated to be nothing but divine cattle, fated to die, and was forced to survive. They survive compulsively, now, as is their endless burden. It is what makes them so compatible with the domain they now hold. The last creature of their kind, perfect in their inseparability with the very concept of annihilation. They are extinction, made holy. By their touch, his own kin and caste are now made extinct.

They, like he, are doomed to walk eternity alone. There is some irony to be found, he thinks vaguely, in the obvious possibility that they will one day be the only two beings remaining to see the stars fall from the sky, one by one, bidding all that's left to slumber in peaceful, painless oblivion. In that grandest scope, at least, he knows everything is going to be alright.

"Marry me," they plead quietly, bringing his train of thought to a skidding halt.

Then the Lamb's eyes go wide, and they let out a surprised laugh at themself. They shake their head, and their ears flick oddly up and down.

"Sorry. Bad time, didn't mean to-- I just--"

They just huff, giving up. They snicker when they look at him again, strange and breathless.

"Gods, your face."

Narinder's brain has been misfiring with alarming frequency, today. He trains the gaping-fish look off himself and reacquaints with the spiteful, hateful sneer meant for them. Them and their mockery.

"Cur," he spits, and then turns tail to walk away from them faster. He's earned at least another year of undisturbed sleep, he thinks.

"Yep, that's a no again, got it. No problem," they shout over their distance, childishly, trotting to catch up. "Wait! Anna was right, do you at least have a name I can tell them if I'm asked again?"

"No," he picks up the pace, and they slow down once his hut is in sight until they're standing ten paces away from it, and he is at its entrance and ripping open the curtain.

"But you, " he calls imperiously over his shoulder, "will call me Narinder. Anyone else who would like to know me will be my business."

He shoves the curtain back down, and briefly considers menticide to wipe away the memory of that stupid look of delighted surprise he'd seen blossoming on their face for the split second before he'd effectively slammed his door in it.

He stuffs the veil in his pocket, and vainly attempts to get comfortable in the hay. His face and ears are noticeably warm when he touches them.

This place must be making him ill.

Chapter 4: Deadhead to Seed

Chapter Text

Being married to the leader was more work than people tended to expect.

Long ago, one of their spouses decided to keep records. It became a real job, and then sort of a tradition. The young romantic in Pangreon had thought of the idea like keeping a royal diary.

But really, there's a lot of history for such a relatively short-lived cult. A lot of spouses. He has so many predecessors.

Now, it's just him and Neah, who he considered a dear friend. He had been there when she had proposed, maybe two decades ago now. He'd watched their companionship, their affection, their strength in trust that brought so much good cheer and silly chatter to the flock.

He saw it fade, with time. When the leader would leave for days at a time, and she would wait.

And then weeks. A month, once. She learned to stop waiting. They did such important work, and it was best to hold down the fort and be a pillar for the community while they were gone. And she was great at it, always running around and helping out with whatever task needed the most attention.

Pangreon had been here first, though. Long ago, the Lamb had offered him a necklace to extend his life and youth far beyond what had been normal, especially at the time. He was a priest, then, and remains a respected leader in the church now.

He was surprised to see Neah show up to the temple one morning, stone faced and asking for advice. Advice about faith, about love, and loyalty.

He'd told her what he knew to say. He'd extolled the glory of the Red Crown, the mercy of its wielder, and the beauty of their lands.

She had stopped him, and told him that was not what she was asking about. The conversation degraded from there.

Not all love, she insisted, was the same as faith. Devotion was important to both. But not in the same way.

They concluded, in the end, some key differences between each other in how they loved the Lamb. Both loved their god. But Neah found that love incompatible with how she wanted to love, and be loved, by a partner.

The marriage was dissolved within the week. Neah was not left alone; she had the support of other partners, and grew closer with them through her time of mourning. Her life was so different from his own.

She was going white around the snout now, and had deep laugh lines. He still looked the same as he did the day the Great Leader had fastened bone and crystal around his neck.

He remembers they'd been off crusading most of the time while Neah moved her things. They're off crusading most of the time now, as well. If he has not changed much since then, they have not changed at all.

Pangreon has been doing a lot of thinking. About his role in the endless life of his divine beloved. About their ability to love and understand those around them, ever-aware of the context of their incomprehensible power.

About the long, long life he's lived. The close friends and family he's seen pass, and feels constantly in the lingering promise of peace the church's connection with death finds him meditating on every day. He has personally been at the head of every funeral, has advised every mourner.

He thinks about the records left by his predecessors, and the fact that every single one of them had been the one to ask for the marriage.

He thinks about the Lamb, and the way they speak with such compassion about the benefactor they themself had usurped. The way they seek out his company, and revel in some nameless understanding that they could only ever find with him; the only other creature left alive who had once known the power to destroy the world.The way they look at him.

In truth, Pangreon had made his decision many years ago. But now, finally, he felt it was the right time to act on it.

Especially since he'd asked about the pair of strange, black and white necklaces they kept safely stored away. The Lamb never lied to him.

They looked hurt once they realized what he was getting at. They insisted he had no need. They could find another way, another priest.

He argued that it was his own life, and thanked them for giving him the opportunity to hoard so much of it. But in the end, he was ready to trade one necklace for another. They needed only to set up the time and the materials.

They'd kissed him, once more out of countless other times. It was nice.

The hot season was over, and Narinder was to join the farmers for the harvest.

It was largely solitary work, which suited him well.

What did not suit him, he's finding, is the intensity of the labor required. He'd once had strength unknowable to any mortal, claws and teeth honed deadly and with enough force behind them to rip apart pieces of fellow gods.

Now he could barely haul a ripe pumpkin onto a wheelbarrow. He's taken to simply rolling them.

The worst of the heat was over and done with for the season, but it was still too much to leave his hood up. The veil provided relief in its stead, and somehow, seemed to keep his migraines at bay. Magic, or a solution to some defect of the flesh that he did not care to understand fully. So long as his eyes and head didn't hurt, it hardly mattered.

He was going home truly exhausted, with a bone-deep ache in his legs and back that he had never before experienced. It was agony, novel and throbbing and rendering his sleeping hours deep and dreamless.

He did not report it, and kept going back. Once a week, and then twice if his body could handle it. The strain had some sort of soporific effect on the tumult in his thoughts, making time pass even more quickly. His mind was a dull buzz, lately. Especially when it was hot. He might sway in a step, and then have to sit down in the field until the world was still again.

He looked up from his lap to check during one of those spells, and found a container shoved into his face.

"Hey, you okay? You look like you could use some water."

He blinks, and the being comes into sharper focus. Some mule, holding out a canteen.

In a more lucid state, he might refuse their pity. But he takes the canteen and has a sip, which somehow turns into him just downing the whole thing.

"Hey, that's actually m-- oh, uh, okay," the mule takes it when he hands it back empty.

That… did help. He needs to remember to do that more. When was the last time he'd had water? The moisture in the scant few berries he'd tried to choke down yesterday ought to count.

"Uh-- that's fine, I guess," the creature stores the container away into his bag, and surveys Narinder's progress.

"Uh. Is that all you were able to do?" They ask, with a note of concern.

"Yeah, the pumpkins are the worst, huh," one of the other farmers joins them and laughs, sounding far less bothered. "Maybe one day someone will build some sort of-- machine, or something, that can lift them out and take 'em away for us. That'd be nice. "

This one, he sort of recognizes. The delivery badger who had to stop in while he'd been in the kitchen. Narinder only remembers him on account of him having seen that… incident with the Lamb, the morning the flock welcomed its first descendants. He still remembers the grassy stink of wool crushed up against his face. How soft it'd been, when the force of their onslaught otherwise might have threatened to snap his spine. Soft and warm. He longs for a nap.

"Hey--! Seriously, you look like sh*t," the mule gets his attention again, snapping him out of some foggy thought he's already forgotten, and he stands to continue his work.

He stumbles. That normally doesn't happen this early in the day. Someone puts hands around his arm, and he swipes at them with a hiss entirely on impulse, and they flinch back with a squeaked apology. The other one snickers.

The two farmers then exchange some words he doesn't hear. But he does catch: "Should we take him to the healers? Or the leader--?"

"No," he snarls. "Not them."

"Uhh-- no, seriously, dude, we probably should. You look like you're about to keel over--"

"Hey, guy says he doesn't want help, he doesn't help," the badger waves them off, and Narinder musters just enough wherewithal to be grateful. "You got this, right buddy?"

"I can finish on my own," Narinder growls.

"See? He's got this. Shove off, Bartie, we got our own jobs to do," the badger insists, doing a better job at downplaying the situation than Narinder could. Perhaps not all of the Lamb's flock is comprised of simpering cattle.

Narinder does not see whatever transpires between the two, too focused on his task. All he cares about is the fact that they leave him alone after that. He ought to sleep well this week.

The badger returns after some minutes, and tosses a flask to the ground next to Narinder while he's kneeling and struggling with the cart.

"You can have this. Little something to help you get through the rest of the day, eh?" He snickers, and is off again.

Narinder has enough pride to wait until he's out of sight to uncap the thing and chug it.

He ends up almost instantly gagging on it, and spits it onto the ground. Not water. Something vile. He does his best to rub the taste off on his sleeve. The smell of old fruit and filthy Anura mudwater already clings to his tunic, and he resolves to burn it.

The badger had a rash on his neck. Narinder mentally recategorizes it as a budding shelf of mushrooms, and takes back any benefit of the doubt he might have had for these people.

The Lamb's entire society was full of imbeciles.

It'll take two. Two sacrifices.

Their husband, their longest lasting companion by far, offered himself as the first. This doesn't surprise the Lamb as much as they wish it did. Narinder helped him make sense of the obvious. Of course their most loyal, trustworthy confidants would naturally seek death, after spending their lives thinking so well of it.

The second would probably be another priest. But the Lamb revealed their desires in a public sermon, allowing anyone to volunteer or prepare to witness the ritual when it would come to pass later in the week. It had been at least a generation since they had done a proper sacrifice.

So the reception was… mixed. Moreso than they remember. The days where the living sacrifices were popular were long gone. Now people murmured about it after the sermon was dismissed, and whispered to each other in the plaza. Reading their minds revealed to them a fairly equal chance of acceptance, curiosity, indignity, or horror. The Lamb could not glean any majority sentiment.

It was starting to make them uneasy. But they sure as hell couldn't show that.

The important thing was that they still believed they had to do this. They wanted to. And they were in charge, here. It's their decision. Theirs alone.

Everyone would adjust, like they always have.

The farms were full of workers, but somehow everyone seemed to know each other. Everyone was always talking. The most popular way of receiving news appeared to be simple word of mouth, and so any one event of note could have dozens of versions of "the truth" floating around. Narinder cares for approximately none of it. He could tell there was something going on, just by the sheer volume of the chatter. But he was not, thankfully, a participant for any of it. In fact, he could often go days without having to say a word to anyone, if he just did his labor and went home.

He overexerts himself one day in a way he cannot ignore, and finds himself seeking refuge. His legs and back scream at him to sit, and he is tired of being caught doing so in the fields. So he drags his worthless carcass into a large shed, essentially a barn, where the crops would be treated for long term storage. He tucks himself into a corner, hidden away by stacks of pickling barrels, and lets himself collapse to the ground.

He hated noticing his own breathing. Drawing breath at all was anathema to everything he had once been. Keeping up an air intake in the right tempo all day, every day, for an entire life, seemed to him the most pitiful display of mortal struggle. The body must do so much and work so hard in order to stave off the day it would cease all movement entirely. Lungs pulsing and writhing in their own fluid like fat, overstimulated earthworms.

Having an earthly form was disgusting. He had that thought frequently, but he meant it every single time. He sweated, he ached, his vision tunneled randomly, his fur picked up every speck of muck and every tiny burr in the grass, and he could not find within him the energy to deal with any of it. He could take water, but the flock's food stores only ever make him ill.

His ears pricked at a whisper in the dark. Something clinking, and a quick laugh. He was not alone in here.

He sat up, though his entire spine protested, and could hear much more easily now that he was paying attention. It came from above, up in the hayloft.

"-- awful. What kind of sick reason could they have for that?"

"Listen, I think it's to keep us scared, right? Keep us in line."

"You think? Yeah, maybe."

"I keep saying, we should go and start our own. I think I'd do so much better at running a town."

"You totally would. Now quit hogging the-- sh*t! "

Narinder nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of ceramic shattering just a few feet away from him. He peeks over the side of the bale, and notes the splatter of dark liquid seeping out into the floorboards.

" sh*t! I dropped the whole--"

" That's bad, that's bad, the whole farm must have heard that."

"The whole commune! Do you think they know? Oh, sh*t, they know everything-- I bet they know everything!"

"Shut up, shut up and move, we gotta run, act natural," is a frenzied whisper accompanied by heavy rummaging. Narinder presses back into the shadows, but from here, he can see a sliver of the ladder over a packed wall of barrels and drying racks. He's surprised to see a whole gaggle of four or five all hurrying down, and he hears them break into a stumbling run towards the exit.

He waits a minute or two, and confirms he is alone again. The stink of fermentation and fungus now poisons the air here, and he mourns the loss of passably comfortable shelter.

Still, though. How interesting.

That damned Lamb has never shown a full understanding, or inclination to understand, the properties of menticide. They've placed restrictions on how much can be cultivated and where, but that still gave the farmers all but unrestricted access. Unsupervised groups imbibing it together in any form would naturally create an echo chamber of susceptibility and paranoia. It cannot possibly end well.

He huffs through his nose, amused. Perhaps the consequences would be entertaining.

For now, though, he's left to wait on the putrid barn floor until his legs will cooperate with him again.

He's left waiting for some hours. The sun goes down, at some point.

He breaks his two week record of not speaking to anyone when someone rounds a corner with another pickling barrel and screams at the sight of him, and he has to convince them that no, the Leader does not need to be called, and no, he is not a drunk. It is nothing so dire as that. He just can't move his spine.

"Just try it," the Lamb urges, the bowl sloshing suspiciously in their hands. "It's just broth."

"Stop that. I do not need your handouts."

"Bud, everyone here gets handouts. Food is free. Just eat the broth."

Narinder stays right where he is: sitting as far back against the wall of his hut as he can get, and eyeing the Lamb and their offering with open disdain.

They are kneeling before him. This would have been an adequate manner for them to interact with him, had they not been doing so to meet his eye level while he sits on the floor.

"Come on. I've heard all the reports of you shambling around the fields like a zombie. You have to take care of your body," they urge, their eyes and tone set serious and unwavering. He meets it with a petulance he hates ascribing to himself, but cannot deny.

"You could also very easily be trying to poison me," he deadpans.

That earns him the slightest break in their demeanor. They let out an exasperated huff of laughter.

"I could kill you in tons of ways. Especially right now," they give him a once over, and the weight of their attention stirs an antsy discomfort in him, raising his fur. The way they sort of slouch in worry doesn't help.

"...Please," they say lowly, a murmur in the night's quiet. "I don't know how else to help."

They sound pathetic.

They look pathetic. He so clearly remembers their tears, and finds he can imagine them so easily now in those big imploring eyes. The idea is ridiculous, now. This is a being that could tear his limbs from his body without ever even having to touch him.

His hands brush over theirs, a consequence of accepting the bowl while they still hold it. He no longer has any desire to meet their gaze, and rips his own away to some random point in the hut.

"Fine."

They press it into his hands, and are slow to remove their own. So bafflingly gentle.

"Thank you."

"Hm."

It's not awful when he tries a sip. Not flavorful, but it'll stay down. It is something.

The Lamb shifts off their knees to instead sit beside him with a sigh, seeming to deflate against the wall.

"...I should know better than to expect you to leave me in peace," he grumbles, taking a slow drink.

"Yeah, you should."

Their humor is muted tonight. He watches them sidelong, aiming to be surreptitious. Their head leans heavy into the wall behind them, tipping the crown forward somewhat. Their cloak is perfect as ever, but the pristine, vibrant red is lost to the dark of night. It's tugged around their arms like a blanket.

They look tired.

"You're one to judge," they mutter, meeting his eye. There was no being sneaky with them. His lip curls, and he returns his attention to the bowl.

"For how much you tout your own benevolence, you are surprisingly nonchalant with the minds of others."

"...Right. My bad. It's sort of like having another sense now, you know? Another social tool." They shift a bit, restless, before continuing.

"Like looking at someone's face, or hearing their tone. Reading their thoughts. I forget to turn it off," they admit, sounding abashed.

"Hmph. I suppose I cannot begrudge you that," he swishes the remainder of the liquid in the bowl, thinking back. "It is jarring to lose or suppress an innate ability. Awaking without my omniscience felt almost as though I had gone blind. It matters not that no one else could ever relate to the experience."

"...I know you're trying to make me feel guilty, but that does actually make me feel a little better."

"It is still intrusive," he levels them with a flat look. They obviously have to bite down a grin at it.

"That's great, coming from you. Intruding was the point of the gift in the first place, right?"

"I certainly never intended for you to turn it on me."

"Well, now you're here. And godhood really makes the rules different, huh."

He furrows his brow, searching their face. The words themselves are defensive, but they're not delivered with the arrogance he's come to expect. They sound distant.

The Lamb breaks eye contact, suddenly fidgety. Their ears flick once, and he swears he sees them darken.

"Anyone ever tell you that you stare a lot?" They bumble to change the subject.

"No, but most others tend to know better," he fires back easily. They roll their eyes, all long-suffering, but he somehow feels something relax in the line of his own shoulders.

There's still some tension in the way the Lamb holds themself. He taps at the bowl with a claw, and braces himself for more chatter.

"...Did you ever, um…" they start. There it is. He is silent for them to continue.

"Did you have a family, before you ascended? A birth one, I mean."

Not at all what he was expecting. He can no longer peer into their head to know what on earth is going on in there, but he doubts he'd understand anyway.

At any rate, it's an easier subject than his actual family.

"Hah, no. There was no me before ascension," he takes another slurp, and wipes away the small excess streaming down his face. The Lamb double takes.

"...What? Wait. Weren't you… like this, before?" they inquire, gesturing vaguely at his entire body.

"There was no before," he repeats. "Just me."

They stare at him, expectant. He does not continue. Just thinks idly of the weather outside. It's a temperate night.

"...Okay, well?" They give in and demand. "How'd it happen, then? I thought all gods started off mortal."

He grins, relishing the small victory.

"Yours is, as usual, a unique case. Your godhood is stolen. Mine was… hm. Imbued is not the right word," he thinks on it, swishing the scant liquid around in the bowl.

"Perhaps there was a mindless little creature stalking the world some eons ago. Perhaps it had a particular affinity with death. It may have caused much of it, or died spectacularly. I do not know. But it and the formless, twisting miasma of ending would have been compatible enough to merge into synonymy. And the end result: was me. You are the end result of an established being, ascended. I was an apotheosis."

They squint. "...That doesn't actually sound all that different."

" Pay attention. I consider neither the creature nor the domain 'me, before', in the same way the random concoction of fluid and proteins that once gestated in your mother's womb was not yet you," he argues, his crassness making them snort.

"That's one way to look at it, I guess."

"It is as I say. Through my actions I did gain esteem elsewise. But before I was only Waiting Below, I had always been Narinder," he sets the bowl down, and cannot help but notice his own hands. It is still strange to see skin and fur stretched over the bone. "...And the way it all played out, that is all I will ever be again."

"Tch. You're lots of things," the Lamb cuts in. He means to ignore them, but they continue, regarding him sidelong with a quirk to their mouth.

"You're rude, for one thing. You're contrary for the sake of it."

"I am not," he says to the contrary.

"Yeah, you're kind of an ass," they laugh. He wonders if this is genuinely their idea of how to console him.

"...But you're also clever. You're proud, and you're brave," they go on, all that giggling having settled into a real, sincere smile. "You don't let anything stand in the way of what you want. I've always admired that."

"Why did you ask, anyway?" He redirects, a touch sharper than he meant to. As a former deity he's certainly accustomed to a type of praise, but something about whatever the Lamb is doing is making him jittery.

"Can't I just be curious?"

"I suppose. And what end does that curiosity serve?"

"So suspicious."

They have this soft, searching look on their face, and he gets the sense they do have something to say. But they just sigh.

"Was just on my mind, is all." It seems they've decided against it.

Likely for the better. The rest, the quiet, the dark-- and yes, perhaps the broth-- have him in a state of clarity and something approaching comfort that he hadn't enjoyed in… however long, now.

Even so, he's tired. The Lamb has this tendency to come to him when they want something. Answers to questions, or the companionship of something approaching an equal. He's rapidly losing the energy to deal with either.

Especially if they do something obnoxious, like joke about marrying him again. That would be the worst case scenario.

Their business done, though, they finally stand and stretch out a bit. Rather abruptly, even, as if they're suddenly in a hurry. Whatever it is they get up to when they skulk away from the cult at night, he truly does not care.

"You're welcome for getting some nutrients in you, by the way," they pipe up, smoothing down their cloak. He makes a derisive noise through his teeth.

"I did not ask for your charity."

"And I didn't ask for you to save me, but I'm still grateful," they retort at once. And there they go again, twisting history for their own benefit. To their credit, that can be considered a cornerstone of divinity.

"Hmph. You were not kept from death for your sake."

"Still worked out really well for me, so hey, thanks anyway," they smirk back down at him. The Lamb is incapable of going a single interaction without being deliberately obtuse. He doesn't know why he'd expect any different.

"By the way," they bleat, remembering something, "I'm presiding over a ritual tomorrow. I'll expect you in attendance at the temple by dusk."

Narinder blinks up, properly caught off guard.

"...Why?"

"I don't need a reason." They grin, and he catches a glimpse of fangs that should have no business in the mouth of cattle. "I rule this place, and it's my decree that you go. And so you will."

It's a display of arrogance meant to annoy him. It works, of course, but not enough for him to fall for it entirely.

He alone is exempt, to the bafflement of the flock, from attending any of their preachings or rites. He may be imprisoned here, toiling in their name as nothing but a prize won in their holy war, but he is not one of their mindless acolytes. His high esteem of their domain itself remains, yes, but that does not translate to devotion. Not to them. To be perfectly straightforward, his presence would ultimately confer no benefit unto the Lamb. They are aware of this.

"You have a motive beyond that," he asserts.

"Believe whatever you want. S'not my problem. See you at dusk."

Their words and gait share a carefree air as they walk away, leaving him to his quiet night and empty bowl.

The turnout is good. All their priests, and as many followers as would fit in the temple with all its furniture temporarily removed. Nearly all of them are in attendance, save for those whose work is too important to forfeit for the day. The population was at the point where they'd needed to spearhead the construction and operation of a creche, and the little ones were being cared for by parents and daycare workers on rotation. The community at large was working together to raise its young, and the Lamb couldn't be prouder.

The circle was drawn, and the curiosity of the crowd in attendance was palpable.

The Lamb had half expected Narinder not to come. They're less surprised to see him on the sidelines, observing rather than participating in the chatter. He likes to toe the line of acceptability, and they've gleaned it's partially for his own curiosity. He sort of wants to know what it would take to get them to finally kill him for his insolence, and finds that a much more agreeable way to die than some alternatives.

Like them getting bored with him sometime down the line, for instance. And then unceremoniously deciding to just leave him to the beasts or render him a gory smear across the ground without a thought.

They don't know what to do about that. About how little he believes they think of him.

But, selfishly, that's one of the reasons they're doing this today. Not the main reason, but not… not a reason. They also want to test their power, and how their control over it has grown. They want to better understand and work with that place beyond death, where a soul rejoins the energy that once molded it together in its purest form. All that fuels them could be better understood. This is a start.

And also, they're sort of just… sorry. They feel bad. Not for what they had to do, but that it had to happen. Narinder and the Lamb shouldn't be the only two who get another shot out of this whole holy war mess.

They meet Narinder's eye, and he's looking dour as ever. They toss him a little wave and a wink, and he gives them this stricken look like they just spat in his face, before looking away entirely. Their light skim at the forefront of his mind just barrages them with a lot of curses in some antediluvian language that would probably make their eyes bleed if spoken.

It's really funny. And sort of cute, in the way a newborn pup baring their teeth to threaten a rhino was cute. But that's far from the only reason he delights them; the Lamb has grown to like the general attention their position provides them, but his attention is something special. They sort of want to step off the stage and go bother him for a minute before they have to start.

But the last light of the sun has passed under the treeline. It's time to begin the ritual.

They straighten up a little at the podium, and clear their throat. At once all is hushed. They open the book in front of them, but do not read from its passages just yet.

"My friends. My Flock. We now enjoy an era of unprecedented prosperity under the true divinity of the Red Crown. Through its power we are protected, and under its approval we thrive while the lands beyond writhe in their blasphemy."

Everyone is rapt, of course. This is the easy part. The preaching, the reverence ascribed to the words that they speak from nowhere but within their own heart. Ratau had called them a talented preacher. They weren't sure about that at first, but they have always fully believed what they tell their flock of the Red Crown's salvific glory. They have known it firsthand.

"Our peace was hard won, and our virtue earned through the toil and sacrifice of our forebears. Safety is not free, nor is the good favor of that which deals it out. For this reason we offer our selves-- and all of our selves-- to it at its command."

They flip through the book now, and read out the evocation. Bidding their realm to give form to its hunger, and send an emissary of itself to sate it. The priests begin chanting, and the Lamb must shake the flames out of their eyes. The circle hums.

"It is time. Today in offering we bring my most devoted: my consort. He may step forward."

Pangreon steps off the stage and into the circle, head bowed. Even in the bloody ambiance of the room lit only by red stained glass behind them, He is the picture of tranquil piety. They're going to miss him.

"I beseech one more willing soul join him, and take their place in the exaltation of Our Glorious Ending."

There's a long second of silence. The Lamb anticipated some hesitation. They scan through their minds, and find themself awash in a rolling wave of discordant thoughts and fears.

-- guess the elders weren't exaggerating about --

-- bet it'll be gory, can't wait to see--

-- could never, the kids need me--

-- really thought it was some kind of metaphor --

-- their own spouse. Their family. Why--

The Lamb blinks away the tide before it can send them too far adrift. Anticipation or anxiety thrums behind their ribs, they can't tell, but they stand straight and still, ever the pillar to them all. They sweep their gaze over their attending priests, waiting for one to get brave.

No one does. They all look between each other, waiting for someone else to step forward.

The Lamb realizes they have a few options in terms of how to handle this. But picking someone at random and commanding them to lay down their life felt antithetical to their goals, today. Pangreon offers himself willingly. The idea of sending their husband away anchored to a sobbing wreck feels… kind of in bad taste.

The ritual itself is always striking, and the sliver of what lies beyond tends to shock and terrify its witnesses. This is generally good for faith. The people will have the privilege of seeing the connection between the Lamb and their domain firsthand. But they glance around again, and note how few of these congregants they recognize since the last time they'd performed the evocation, and how old even those are. It really has been at least a generation.

Things are different now. They are no longer beholden to The One Who Waits and his regicidal campaign. They could try a different approach. No one needs to be afraid.

"...Fear in the face of death is natural," they speak up after a few seconds. "But you all have to remember: death lies at the center of everything we do. Our way of life was built upon it. What I'm asking for today will honor those who have now passed, who gave their lives in my name, for your future."

The crowd begins to murmur amongst itself. The Lamb casts a quick glance to the sidelines for a certain someone's reaction.

His face betrays some curiosity. They aren't able to dig any deeper than that before they’re interrupted.

"Why now?" A voice cuts through, and it's one they recognize. The crowd does too, by the way they part around her.

Neah. They haven't seen much of her since she asked to separate. She's older now than they would have guessed. Her face is stern, and her voice clear, giving her that commanding air of the spiritual leader she'd once been.

"We've been focused on growth and renovation for so long, and finally we have progress. Why bring back the sacrifices now, while we're so newly established?" she implores them. And they have to admit, they question catches them off guard. They hadn't really considered it from, well, an economic lens. They just have both necklaces now.

"... This is a special circ*mstance, Neah. All the materials are in place for this, and I am here to preside. The time is right for it. We need only someone else willing."

"And what if no one is willing, either right now or the next time?" She presses, unafraid. "We're still getting a handle on our stability. Do you have plans to account for any more of these ‘special circ*mstances’, should they arise?"

The Lamb blinks, trying to remember the last time anyone mortal had questioned them so directly. Either way, they can’t let the silence drag on for more than a moment.

"...And if they do, we will simply do whatever we must, just like now. Our prosperity will continue, but there is no higher purpose than serving the doctrine. Surely, someone --" they insist, but the murmurs grow to chatter.

"-- I can't go. We don't have another potter, I need to train an apprentice--"

"-- Honey, shh, no, we have a fawn on the way, I need you here-- "

"--Too young, I know we're all dying anyway, but I still have a lot I wanna do--"

"--Why should we? If they 'love us' so much, why can't they just bring back some heretic from the wild?"

That last voice rings a touch too loud, and hushes those around it. The badger in question freezes, immediately regretting the attention.

But then the whispers return. People agreeing.

They clearly embolden him, and he puts on a brave face, scratching at his neck. The Lamb notes a rash there, or some sort of growth.

"Well… yeah! You're always out doing no-one-knows-what, and we're all here building our home without a leader. Everyone's got some kind of story about the crazy cultists out there-- why don't you just kill them?"

Murmurs of agreement, the chatter growing to a ruckus. The Lamb raises a hand to quiet them, clutching the book close.

"My people, please--"

"--It's awful out there, they burned down my entire settlement, they should be the ones to --"

"--I don't want to die yet. And we're good people --"

"And it's their own spouse! Who are they gonna take next, an elder? A kit? Who's safe?" The badger gesticulates in a fervor to one of his buddies, who glances back up at their leader in fear. In suspicion.

The Lamb looks to Pangreon, finding him and some of the priests calling for quiet over the growing clamor. It's not working.

They look wordlessly to Neah. Something like guilt passes over her face. And she looks away. A short brush against her mind tells them that she's beginning to fear a mob. But she's waiting, still, unsure whether it'd be better to escape the temple before it formed, or safer to join its throngs.

She does not disagree with all of this dissent.

And after all they'd done.

In the confusion, they glimpse a flicker of moving shadow further back towards the wall. They lock eyes with Narinder, his hood down, veil still in place. His fur renders him a dark shape against the stained glass, matching it with bright red eyes.

He wears a familiar smile, fanged and-- damn them for the pun right now -- catlike. Three eyes observing their every move in the chaos. He waits.

They reach for his mind, and his thoughts speak directly to them.

It is as I said: a show of force would one day be necessary. That day is today, wayward Lamb. You've become their servant.

The Lamb's grip on the book falters some, and whatever confusion or anxiety shows on their face makes him laugh, inaudible over the crowd.

Well? Are you content to always be a tool, and a coward? Remind them that THEY exist to serve YOU.

The crowd begins to move, some of them drawing close, some pushing each other to make for the doors. One shoves another, and shouting erupts. Someone must have brought their baby, because a shrill cry pierces the air. The badger who started it all is whispering to a small group, looking agitated, while they all listen and nod amongst each other.

Narinder pulls his hood back up, eyes gleaming under it.

Go on then, my vessel, and do what you do best.

Except they aren't his vessel anymore. The divine rage that pools the blood behind their eyes until it leaks is entirely their own.

Whatever comes out of their mouth doesn't have any comprehensible translation, but it calls upon all the watching things that roil and gnash their teeth just under the permeable membrane surface of reality. They drain away not only light but color, the walls made no more than shadow-pane screens for straining eyes and leaking madness.

"Enough!"

They shout and feel more than hear the undercurrent of uncounted hoards in their voice, lost souls and dead gods. The book’s pages flip wildly of their own accord, and it floats in the unholy red glimmers of Beyond spilling forth and thickening the air.

"You've all forgotten the exchange here. I am not your chieftain to be debated and deposed-- I am your God, and it is by my strength that we live and prosper and breed and grow old, shielded from the scavenged corpseflesh my predecessors left of these lands that they now rot with." they bleat, and with the swipe of a blackened claw what is left of the veil between is torn open at their hooves. The circle bleeds and cracks the wood, and the writhing mass of ever-starving cosmic deformity bubbles at the seams and awaits their command. At once, their priests and the most devout of the flock fall to their knees in prayer.

Something frightening that boils beneath their skin drives their speech, and it doesn't feel like them at all. But it is.

" Love shall beget love. But even without it, I will have your praise. If you so thirst for the blood of a heretic, then that is what I will give you. Bear witness, my Flock, to the price of dissent."

The tendrils, so little as a grasping fingertip of the realm-given-will they alone preside over, explode out from the circle. They sway once, and strike with spider-quick violence at the first dissenter unlucky enough to keep their attention. He screams in its grasp before it becomes too tight for any noise at all, cut off abruptly by the sudden strangulation of a white necklace clasping itself around his neck.

There is a sickening crunch. And there, before their best and largest generation, the tendrils plunge him into the void in pieces.

The Lamb closes the book with a resounding thump, and everything dissipates back into the fragile facade of materiality. The temple is quiet, as is the night outside. No bugs buzz or chirp beyond the windows. They'd be back in an hour or two.

"Have I made myself clear?" They call out. Their priests remain on their knees, and by the looks of things, nearly all the others had followed suit. Whether out of awe or out of terror. They won't concern themself with discerning which is the majority.

A presence at their side surprises them, warm and tall, placing a hand on their shoulder.

Pangreon. They stare at him for a second. He wears the crescent necklace where the skull once sat at his collarbone, gifted back in the days where sacrifices and ascensions and stockades were commonplace with all the violence and uncertainty in their war with the Bishops. He had seen Heket's famine. He had once personally taken ill in Kallamar's plague.

He reaches forward and wipes the blood from their cheek. A display of soft reverence in full view of the traumatized masses.

"We remain loyal, my love," he says, standing pillar straight. "For there is no higher calling than the love of the Flock."

They look at him, truly, probably for the first time since those olden days. He and Neah and all the rest have firsthand known a unique cruelty they only now fully understand, here atop the only pedestal left in the world.

They take his hand. But when they speak, it's the crowd they address.

"...My power will always be absolute, and my word is gospel. But remember the cataclysm in the wilds. Remember the horrors you and your loved ones have witnessed at the behest of dead gods. Remember the Old Faith. You have to. For here within my cult, your children shall never know that hunger, exile, or devastation as you once did.

Here the wicked are punished, and the faithful rewarded unto eternity."

The Lamb opens the book again. They bestow onto Pangreon a final blessing and a kiss, and he accepts them with quiet piety. He is a good follower.

They release their husband's hand, and he pulls up the hood of his robe and takes his place in the circle.

A final skim of his mind reveals to them only acceptance, soaked through with a calm, weary suffusion of warm devotion. A skim of the others floods their own with a cacophony of whispers, all sorts of emotions and understandings and differing levels of loyalty. So many, so small seeming. So accessible to them, from their own perpetually unreachable distance.

--Praise be--

--wonder how much power--

--better him than me--

--glorious--

--Oh, we're in a cult cult, huh.--

Narinder watches the nameless horrors rise again, and that fluffy little monkey is gone in an instant. His end is swift and merciful in comparison to the brewer's.

The circle booms, nearly blowing back the chanting crowd. Whipping tendrils violently burst out again a final time, gripping and whipping around two angry, confused, flailing young felines.

His own control of the Lamb's domain had been more refined than their's, and his acolytes better trained. They do not choke on the remains of death, and fall to the ground in their full holy regalia. Even their weapons make it though unmarred, clutched tight in their claws and swinging around at the chaos around them.

They drop to the ground sputtering and shouting, no doubt disoriented by all the cheering and chanting and bodies and colors.

The flock now circle them in concern or curiosity. Narinder does not bother staying and watching someone get skewered, amusing though it might be.

With nothing else to do, he goes back to bed.

-

They find him eventually, both of them together. He's been kicked out of the farms for slowing production, and the Lamb has been too preoccupied with their reforms to notice and give him another slot. The sermons are daily now; short morning affairs of worship sustainable by the Lamb's appointment of two or three trusted priests to act as preachers of their word, and occasionally take confession. He still doesn't attend, of course.

So Aym and Baal have to seek him out directly by finding out which hut he slept in. He would like to think that the fact that he didn't hear them approach was owed to their finely honed skill, rather than the demoralizing limits of his own diminished body.

Which they take notice of. Immediately.

"Master, what has become of you?" Baal frets, and Narinder can't justify the hot wash of anger or shame that strikes him. Baal is right to be horrified.

Narinder glances between them. From his place sat along the edge of the hay bed, the two of them look so tall. It isn't right.

"...Surely they have explained the circ*mstances of this place, and my condemnation," he answers.

"A bit," Baal admits, "But this place is-- I never imagined the world this way."

"If the little traitor keeps you here to torment you, I'll cut them down right here in their homestead," Aym cuts in, scythe in hand. He likely hasn't put it down once since he got here.

"I owe that false idol so much pain! Master, just say the word and I will enact the vengeance they deserve on your behalf."

"You did not have the ability to do so when they fought with siphoned power only. They would slay both of you without effort, now," Narinder refutes him. Aym's snarl falls into a look of chastised shock, but returns full force.

"But the Crown--!"

"Is their prize for a successful coup," Narinder interrupts, silencing him. "Corrupted though they may be, they won my domain the same way they conquered the old lands. I was merely the final god remaining in their campaign of slaughter."

"Then-- why are we back?" Baal inquires. Narinder shrugs, and the motion feels wrong in plain view of his former acolytes.

"I am not privy to their motives for anything. But I have come to understand they have a fondness for trophies. " Replicas of the other crowns sit on stone pedestals in their manicured meadow. Narinder generally sits on his bed.

The twins share a look of affront and outrage between themselves.

"So they do keep you prisoner?! It was not enough for them to take everything from us in death, they now keep us here to waste away in squalor as you do?"

Narinder matches Aym's glare with a flat one. But once again, the assertion isn't wrong.

"...What my brother means to say, Master, is that you look horrible," Baal attempts to smooth over any offense, poorly. "Do they starve you? Are you confined in this decrepit shed by force?"

"Their entire cult is a nest of vermin and sacrilege. If we can't kill them, we can burn it all to the ground," Aym suggests. Baal nods in agreement, his hands clasped.

"We can escape, all of us. The world is so much bigger than I ever dreamed, Master, we can all go and find--"

"Enough." Even now, a single word from Narinder stills the warriors and brings them to attention. That rotting feeling in his abdomen only twists.

"Mark me now: I am no master of yours. The One Who Waits has been vanquished. Your service to him ended with your deaths, and you owe no allegiance to the desecrated remains of a fallen icon."

The twins are silent as they listen. They wait a moment before attempting to protest in unison.

" But--!"

"Welcome, now, to the unchained exigencies of life amongst the living. Your time here will be tumultuous, unrestricted, and ultimately brief. What you do with it is no business of mine," he dismisses them.

Baal looks shocked. Aym looks bewildered. Both are hurt.

Narinder has no reason to care. The two of them were attendants to an exiled Bishop. Removed from that context, they have no relation. They are not his kin. They are not his.

"What are we meant to do?"

"What about you?" Again, their protests overlap. He's tired.

"Has your ascent from oblivion dulled your senses? Figure it out. Now, leave me."

The boys exchange a look. Infuriatingly, they bow once before obeying and leaving noiselessly. Their stealth ought to make them good hunters out there. He pushes the thought from his mind, as it does not concern him how they will fare out in the world.

There is nothing at all for him in it.

The Lamb finds him some hours later, and they are frustrated. After their display at the altar, it should be discomfiting to have their anger directed at him. It is, for a short moment of animal adrenaline.

Then he remembers their utter embarrassment right after that. How they'd allowed a groveling little plaything to clean the blood from their cheek. That forlorn look in their eyes as they stared into his, and sent him off to his fate with a tender kiss.

It was repugnant to witness. They were a disgrace to the Crown. That blatantly affectionate display had annoyed him with unexpected intensity in the moment, and even now in memory it vexes him still. That feeling easily drowns any self-preserving fear when they come to scold him.

"You're just going to ignore them? They look up to you so much, and you just pretend they don't exist?" they bleat, and he watches them impassively. "What's the point? Why'd you even take them in the first place?"

"Hmf. Aym and Baal?" he clarifies, because they'd hardly come in with a hello, much less any context.

"I did not take them. They were given. Intended as keepers, perhaps, but they were young and in need of guidance. Must I be blamed for my influence?"

The Lamb balks. His irritation with them grows, and he elects to hurry and dismiss them. The sooner they're too far for him to hear their bell, the sooner he can get back to sleep.

"Salvaged from the void, they are yours now. Do what you wish, scornful god. I care not for them."

"You--" they start. Whatever insult they mean to throw, they can't seem to find it. Maybe they should try a demonic language.

They just huff, and scrub a cloven hand up their face, disheveling wool.

"Whatever. Forget it. I'm going out."

Their dismissal surprises him. He observes them as they turn tail and walk away, the hem of their cloak spinning after the movement. They look back once after ripping open the curtain door. There are darker bags under their eyes than one would expect on a being who will never need to sleep again.

"Go help in the kitchen again or something, you corpse. It's noon."

They walk out and drop the curtain behind them without waiting for an answer.

Hm.

The Lamb finds themself taking the scenic route to the lonely shack on the outskirts of their territory. The walk might do more to clear their head than teleporting. Flexing their omnipresence was painful as a mortal, but these days, they can't tell if the pain is gone or if they've just learned to ignore it.

And as antsy as they are to talk to someone, guilt makes them drag their feet anyway. They're well aware they don't visit Ratau as often as they should. He probably wouldn't chide them for it, but it still feels ungracious. He taught them everything they needed to know about being a leader at the start, and the least they could do is join in on a dice game or two. Especially if they wanted more advice. It'd be rude to just show up whenever they wanted something. Even though that's sort of exactly what they're doing.

But also, they're the god here. They can do whatever they want, whenever they want. No one could tell them no, or stay their hand, or bring them down. No one was on their level. Nor would they ever be again.

There would always be a power imbalance. No matter what, forever.

They take a deep breath. The overgrown shrubbery hides the alcove, but most of it parts easily for them. The crown sits heavy in their hand as the hilt of a sword for more stubborn greenery.

The shack is there, peaceful as ever. Berry bushes and young camellias have sprung up around it, popping red in the patches of dappled sunlight that struggles through the trees. The Lamb lets themself in.

"Ratau--? Oh," they stop, surprised. Last time they were here, the place was rowdy. Filled with laughter and swearing and the warm light of a roaring hearth fire.

Right now, it's just Shrumy. They bid him hello.

"...Hmf. It's you," is his greeting in return.

"I'm, uh, just here for a visit," they start, because this is the guy who's way too into Knucklebones to be any fun, so they want that out of the way quick . "Is Ratau around?"

The old tortoise stares at the Lamb with open disdain. Something cold clenches at their heart.

"Um. Is he outside? I can just--"

"Tell me, how long's it been since you bothered to come down here, away from all your glory and whatnot?"

"I don't know?" They don't. "Where is everyone?"

"Hah. Death's your whole schtick now, kid. You tell me."

He shuffles forward and pats a hand around the table's surface, until it comes back up with a book of matches.

"Guess it doesn't bode well for me eventually if you don't know where they've gone next. Hah."

The Lamb watches him take a few tries to flick a match to life with somewhat trembling hands. The tinder in the fireplace doesn't immediately light, and he grumbles at it.

"You. Make yourself useful and hand me the bellows," he instructs, waving a hand at a shelf next to them. The bellows are on the edge. The rest of the surface is taken up by all sorts of little mementos. A tattered red kerchief, an equally banged up scarf that was probably purple under all the dust. Scale shed and feathers.

A folded paper crown, yellowed with age. They take the bellows.

"How long ago," they hear themself ask as they pass it over. Shrumy hums for a second, slowly fanning air into the embers until they properly set alight. It only occurs to the Lamb then that they could have just lit it for him magically.

"Hard to say. Bop went first, and 'ol Klunko wasn't the same after that. His heart gave out pretty soon afterward-- maybe a decade ago? Ratau went next. Flinky just a few months ago, after he went and got this kink in his spine--"

They'd all been alive the last time the Lamb was here. So it's been at least over a decade. They try to remember. Narinder had already been indoctrinated, they think. Was it before or after Neah left?

"And Ratau?"

"Hm?"

"How many years."

"Ah, hm. Two or three, give or take?"

Anna's oldest son would be turning three, soon.

The Lamb had forgotten to give him the news about the kits.

"Went in his sleep. Probably had a little too much fun the night before, I reckon. Heh. He never did slow down all the way."

So recent. They've had Baal's necklace longer than that.

"You want a game? No? Get out of here if you're just gonna stand there, you're letting the heat out."

They turn to do just that, mind buzzing.

"Wait, wait," Shrumy grunts, hefting himself back up. "Letters. One in the drawer for you. Might as well get it where he wanted it."

A letter for them, from a dead man. Something about it feels fitting. They are an observer in their own body when their hand rummages through the dresser to procure it and stuff it in their cloak.

They'll read it later, out in the wilds. After a bit of time alone, a bit of time checking up on a few more old friends, and even more time sitting silently on the broken foundation of a long-destroyed stone statue in Darkwood.

It hurts, of course. On top of the things they regretted already, there was now something they didn't even know was there to be grieved. Tears flow freely out here, sticky and red and terribly inconvenient to wipe clean from their wool when they can finally stand again after some hours.

There is nothing to be done. Ratau wanted for nothing but his peace around good company, and that’s exactly what he got. They can't take that all away. They'd caused enough suffering for one week.

But they can do more for someone else.

The Lamb returns home only momentarily to invite Aym and Baal out on their crusade. It takes some convincing, but in the end neither of them can pass up the promise of information they offer. Narinder is not the only being in their lives who's been waiting a long time.

Narinder, still apparently on the Lamb's sh*t-list, has been stuck working daily with the groundskeepers since they left. Landscaping is lighter work than farming, and he is not finding it difficult to intimidate the more spineless of them into doing the less sanitary work necessary to keep the commune clean. But it still finds him out in the sun all day, walking around until he's dizzy.

And then there's the children. The little pests have begun talking.

Depending on the species, many of the same age develop at different rates. Some of them are curious about him.

He made the mistake of trying to frighten them off. It worked for a good few. But to others, baring his third eye was a sort of grotesque novelty, and now they follow and pester him to show the younger ones, quote: "How you do the thing!"

He pushes one away with his broom, gently enough that no one will yell at him for it, and picks up the pace until the little horrors cannot keep up.

This is the uncomfortable pointlessness his life has come to. Burning in the sun, head pounding and still ringing with shrill voices, mouth dry and stomach occasionally twisting with sharp pains. He often sees spots in his vision. Without harsher labors to pain him, he cannot easily distract himself from the nausea.

In his escape, he finds himself in the garden. More a meadow than anything, only with its flowers deliberately cultivated for their beauty. It's hardly the most functional use for the space, but its existence isn't for immediate purpose.

The garden is where the cult buries its dead.

Grave sites are necessary, of course, but the Lamb's insistence on such a lively, colorful aesthetic to it confounds him. But there's no accounting for taste, with them. It is an easy spot to tend to, and quiet even with visitors. He moves through it in mindless drudgery, caring little for actually getting anything done. It’s too hot.

He's caught off guard by the statues. He knew they were there, but in his sun-blind stupor he'd nearly crashed into one of the stone pedestals and trips over himself to stop.

A painted stone crown meets his eye, staring back at him with its judging purple crescent.

"...I suppose you must find this fitting," he tells it. They are all arranged in a line, quietly gathering moss in this obscure edge of the cemetery. He wonders why the Lamb chose to put them so far away.

"I made a mess of things, and now I am left to clean up after myself. As if the impetus for all of our destruction was on me alone," he throws the broom down, and it clacks against the stone foundation. The crowns surveil his tantrum with soulless, familial indifference.

"As if in all of your wisdom you had not claimed to love me, and taught me, and then betrayed me; in the process giving me every tool I would ever need to bring about your blasted prophecy," he spits, even though nowadays it's hit or miss whether or not Shamura will truly grasp what is said to them.

"One thousand years in motionless detention. It took the four of you combined to contain me, and yet truly you believed you could stall your destruction for all time? I am destruction. And you made it your ambition to leave me to steep in my hatred for you. And I do hate you," he sneers. "It was inevitable that I would one day devour you."

Temperamental Leshy and calamitous Heket would flail in their rage, with sniveling Kalamar hiding himself behind them.

Shamura, as ever, listens. With wisdom came patience, and Narinder was once convinced they possessed an endless well of both. He was wrong.

"Was it worth it?" he asks them. "Were those thousand years without me good? Prosperous? Did you reign without conflict, without fear? Or was what I took from you all sufficient to leave you paranoid and bleeding?

"Five had already become four, you fools, our downfall had been in motion the moment you bound me in shackles. Death was not the predicted fate of the Bishops. It was removal. Five became four when you forsook me!"

His voice cracks with the effort it takes to hiss and spit at his siblings, his first jailers, and the intensity of his grief threatens to shake apart the fragile little shoulders of this tiny, worthless form that holds him prisoner now.

"Four, three, two, one, nothing. Just like that. Immutable destiny puppeteering the great masters of this world to destroy themselves. Once there were hundreds of us, and you know what I've learned? We only ever existed to kill each other."

Narinder stands there for some long moments, fists clenched painfully, and just labors to breathe.

"...I suppose in that sense, I've won," he murmurs, and bends to pick up the broom with trembling hands. It's heavier than it had been just a minute ago.

"Death is the absolute. All that there ever was belongs now to the Red Crown."

He rights himself, shakily supporting himself on the broom handle for a second before he walks back to the plaza.

He makes it about ten steps before he collapses.

When they first impressed it, it had prompted the Lamb for a name. The Lamb named it Fate.

It was sort of a joke on their end. Not a great one. Fate would see them on their journey to understanding and refining their godhood, just as fate had led them to winning it in the first place.

That was one way they could spin it, but the truth was, the Lamb had seen altogether too much destruction to actually believe in fate as a concept. Even before they were the one causing most of that destruction.

Still, they found it fitting. The idea of fate in this world of incompetent gods and vicious cruelty was scary and distressing.

Fate the being was also scary and distressing, a lot of the time. So it worked.

(They still sort of wanted to try and fight it. But something tells them they really don't want to do that until they're really settled in, here.)

"How does someone usually ascend like me? Can it happen again?" They ask it at the gateway, and brace themself for a cryptic non-answer.

"Once this land existed in optimal conditions to sprout divinity. That era has passed, and soil demands proper decomposition to ever again be fertile." Fate looms, unblinking, and as always they can't really tell whether it's actually looking at them.

"...So, not any time soon?" they puzzle out.

"Infant god, the improbable springs forth from even a barren world, and cares not for time nor superfluity."

Them damn it, it's worse than Narinder.

"Alright," they decide, because it might as well be.

"Dost thou grow bereft?" it asks. "A society of gods once could barter amongst themselves, after their dealings with me were concluded. Thou hast no such community."

Hit the nail on the head there, actually.

"...I have a community," they remind it, or themself. Pride was already out the window today. "But is that why I feel so alone, regardless?"

"Fickle creature, thy discontent comes not from your godhood, but is a symptom of character. The sheep were a simple, cooperative lot, and t'was this fault that made them so effortless for the upstart ones to herd together and cull."

The Lamb feels the blood rise from the small veins in their eyes. They shake off the anger.

"So it's my fault I'm unhappy to be the last of two populations," they shoot back.

"What god is ever content with all that is? You offer me the tears of the ancients, as their grief is the most powerful aspect of them to persist. Mourning appears to be an inclination shared between all divinity and mundanity without discrimination."

"How do you know for sure they're tears of mourning?" They ask, pulling their latest one from their crown. It shines with unearthly substance, drifting about with no regard for gravity.

"For what else could they be, that a god might be moved to weep?"

The Lamb thinks back. They suppose even they have only ever cried in some kind of mourning. For themself, for their cult. For their losses.

"...Some people cry for joy. Or fear." The latter, too, they were acquainted with.

"T'would have to be pleasures unimaginable to the world below, such that they might be enough to overflow a god with joy."

"Maybe," the Lamb remarks absently. They offer the tear up, and it floats from their grasp to dissolve into the gateway. They kind of wonder what Fate does with these.

"Tears of the first gods… for what were they mourning?"

"Each other, if I had to guess. There were a lot of them. The Bishops can't have been the only family unit."

"This may be so. It may also be that your lot as endling eternal colors your perception. But none can ever know, anymore."

"I think it's likely enough," they ruminate, voice gone soft. "Shamura had proof that there was love among gods."

"Is that so?"

"They remembered how they loved Narinder," the Lamb quietly recalls. "They loved their family. And Narinder loved them too once, I think. Or else what they did wouldn't have hurt him so badly."

"In truth, it does not take something so dramatic to drive a god to slaughter. Indifference and impulsive anger have been at the core of many a divine atrocity," Fate argues. The Lamb would probably be pleased to have enough of its interest to get it to converse with them, under any other circ*mstance.

"...That sounds plausible," they admit, feeling sort of drained. Empty might be the right word, maybe. They certainly didn't expect consolation from Fate, of all beings, but some juvenile part of them still craves it.

They want to talk to Narinder. Despite the prickly demeanor, he was actually not terrible at making them feel better. They felt less alone around him. His was a perspective they could usually empathize with, even if they disagreed. And it was fun to rile him up for a laugh.

His thoughts on death, and entropy, were not bleak and clinical. His experience with eternity made it seem so much less frightening. It even made them hopeful.

But they'd gone and f*cked all that up, and left him to wither.

"...What was Narinder like, when he ascended?" They ask, insatiably curious once the question hits them.

"I recall him. Thy predecessor took to his powers prodigiously, owed much to his inquisitive nature," it explains. That sounds about right so far.

"He bargained much, hungry for whatever opportunity he could grasp. For being a harbinger of death, he had much ambition for life and its mysteries. Though most simply worshiped him for fear of what he ruled.”

They try to imagine that. Narinder being the greenhorn, like the situation they find themself in now. It squeezes at their heart.

"He had his siblings to help him out, though. Must have been a little easier to get his bearings," they think aloud.

"He had Shamura. Their influence was grounding enough, before it led to his corruption."

The Lamb is silent for a second.

"...I don't think just wanting to know more made him corrupt."

"Then thou hast less understanding of the nature of thy domain than thou shouldst. For it was growth and malleability that made the One Below incompatible with it." Fate looms over them, strange in how inescapably visible it is. The gateway behind it shines in the dark, but it does not.

"Shamura said something similar. But they're dead, and he's back in my cult, lying in his own filth and too depressed to move."

"Then thou must rejoice in thy holy monopoly."

The Lamb takes a breath, and then two. Fate watches them with an uncaring eye. They're tired.

"I'll see you later."

"Well met, infant god," Fate dismisses them as they turn. "I suspect we shall not meet again for some time."

They pause. "... Why's that?"

"Chaos and upheaval will follow the grief of one with so much power. And thou soaks thyself within it. Perhaps thine own tears may one day be of such value."

"That's terrifying, thank you." The last thing they need right now is another deranged beast threatening to make relics from their parts.

"Upheaval as a force is neutral, until its consequences are fully known. Though perhaps, they too may be directed on divine will," Fate finishes, and then melts back into their realm.

They get the feeling that was supposed to be encouraging. But that's probably just wishful thinking.

They're never entirely sure what state to expect their cult in when they return after a long outing, but they tread carefully this time. Coming home always requires a lot of energy, but once everything's taken care of, they can always, finally, relax.

Hopefully more now that they've given their most devout some extra duties. That exhausting sacrifice day made them all too aware that they'd grown lax on fostering worship, ever since they became so powerful they stopped noticing when it declined. But they can't ever let it falter completely. They don't even know what would happen to them. But there was a reason the Bishops were so insistent about forcing total allegiance, at the tail ends of their lives.

In any case, they need the rest. The week left them drained, physically and in all other ways. They would have to conduct a funeral rite for Ratau, even if his body does not lie in their garden. He just deserves one.

A few minutes of patrolling in silence shakes them from their reverie. They never go this long without anyone barreling up to them with an issue.

They scan around, and notice whispers. People realize when they look and hurry on with what they're doing, and avoid eye contact.

The Lamb doesn't have the emotional bandwidth for this.

"You," they snap, frightening a mule so hard they jump. Quick read. Bartie, masculine presentation, likes the color green, currently full of dread. "Bartie. Is something going on here?"

"Uhh," Bartie falters, open mouthed. "Well, er, that's --"

Had they really scared their flock so much last time? Granted, that had been the point, but abject terror can't be the default reaction to them. Narinder's old advice about well-placed kindness had served them well.

They take a deep breath, and push everything back to put on "leader face". Friendly and ever attentive, no matter how small the problem.

"Everything is fine, go ahead. I wouldn't be angry with you for just giving me news," they promise, trying for the guileless smile that always gets a follower on their side.

It seems to work a bit. The dread downgrades to look like, of all things, awkwardness.

"Um. So...you know your favorite?" He tentatively starts.

They blink. "My favorite what?"

"Er-- you know. Your favorite. The creepy hermit who lives in the hut covered in weeds. Uh, no offense."

No, yeah, no offense on their part. All of that is right.

…Wait.

Favorite?

That's how the cult saw him? Has the Lamb just been that obvious forever?

Did Narinder know that's how they all saw him? The thought derails their composure completely. They can feel their ears twitch.

"Um--" they clear their throat, trying to regroup. "Narinder. I-- yes."

"Well… about him, um--"

Bartie’s hesitance abruptly reminds them what they were talking about. The warmth in their cheeks drains fast.

"What about him? Is something wrong?" they press, stepping forward, and the follower panics.

"No!! Uh. I mean. Yes? He's alive!" he brays in a rush, and that takes a weight off their chest that they don't notice until it's gone. It's stupid. He's immortal.

But it's been kind of a long week of loss already.

"What, then?" They break their promise, that leaderly calm draining out of them in a burnt out rush and making them snap. "Tell me what's wrong, now. "

"Sorry! He's in the healing center! The new one! Sorry! He's alive!" Bartie repeats, panicked. The Lamb can admit they can see why no one wanted to be the one to tell them.

Eight days. They were gone for eight lamb-damned days.

Color swims behind Narinder's eyes. He's had some truly ghastly naps since his undoing, but this one was easily the worst. He doesn't even know where he is. He feels like he's been dragged several miles through Kallamar's hideous crystal patches.

He awakes blearily, and only about halfway. His body shifts against a smoother material than the straw at home. Leaves. Perhaps he should gather leaves for his bed instead.

Eventually. He's not getting out of this one anytime soon, if he can help it.

A voice prods at the back of his awareness, working its way forward. Words spoken to him. Gentle, steady, and inquiring. A hand brazen enough to brush his cheek, testing, but not waking him with any aggression.

"--mura?" is all he can croak out of an uncooperative jaw. The middle ones wouldn't bother waking him unless they wanted something, and certainly not so kindly. Leshy would just bite him.

"--Shh, it's okay, don't push. Just relax," the voice soothes, and he's perfectly fine with that. Why wake at all? It's not his turn on the Lamb's farms this season.

Something struggles to reconcile through the slog of his consciousness. It feels important. But he's tired, and it should damn well be able to wait for him. He's got all eternity for important things.

He noses into something heavenly soft and smelling of warm grass and old blood, and slips back into oblivion.

"Okay," the Lamb tries again, summoning every ounce of patience they can for the irreplaceably important member of their community. Healers were not easy to come by. They needed to be alive to train more. "Run that by me again."

She clears her throat, reading through her notes again. "As I said, I've only ever seen starvation this advanced in refugees from Anura--"

"The other thing," they prompt, so the guilt doesn't eat them alive. "The one about the blood."

"Right. Well, in treating so many different beasts with different preferences, we've noticed that there's a certain type of starvation that mimics the symptoms of blood loss. We've narrowed it down to something missing from a patient's diet."

"Right. But he doesn't really eat anything. That doesn't narrow it down for him. "

"I agree. And all of that compounded with the heat exhaustion-- in all honesty, anyone else in his condition would have already been dead on arrival.” She taps at her notepad, scanning through it with interest.

"You're not helping," the Lamb grits out with forced cheer, sounding near manic even to their own ears.

The healer sighs. They've been exceedingly liberal with intruding on her mind for this entire thing, (Pasha, feminine but not strictly, two partners, hates beetroot,) and they can't help but be a little offended at the way she recalls strategies for dealing with difficult visitors.

"It'll be okay, leader," she soothes, and it's the fact that her thoughts confirm that she believes what she's saying that gets them to calm down a bit.

"By the sound of things, your favorite isn't… predisposed to death the way the rest of us are. So we can take our time nailing down what his body needs to intake to be healthy, and he should recover steadily," the healer continues, and the Lamb can't help but feel a bit like a humored child. They'd all but forgotten what shame like this felt like.

It must show on their face, because she pats their hand.

"It's perfectly normal to be worried. And to be frank, it makes you about a league less terrifying," she laughs good naturedly. They can appreciate the attempt to alleviate some tension.

"Thank you, Pasha. Go and tend to the others. I'll… be here a while."

"...Ahem. Visiting hours actually e-- yep, alright," she pivots when their teeth and horns visibly sharpen, hand flying away from theirs. Note taken, holy sh*t, she thinks.

"Be at ease, leader. Take care," she takes her notes and departs the tent with a pitying smile.

The Lamb sits there in silence, situated on the edge of Narinder's sickbed. There'd been a moment when he'd woken, and in his delirium, reached out for them. Seeking warmth or solace in their wool. It broke their heart several times over. Moreso when they had to break apart from him for the healer to check his vital signs. His heartbeat was "barely there".

They knew he'd had an issue with food. But it's one they severely underestimated, and clearly, so had he. He never thought about eating. He hardly ever thought about hygiene or even water until the issue made him so uncomfortable he remembered his body had needs.

He thought often about sleep. Its adjacency to death seemed to comfort him.

They'd failed him so completely. This was the freedom they'd rushed him into. It was no wonder he resented it. The Lamb isn't the only one who can use help with their new state-- Narinder doesn't have the slightest clue how to be alive.

"I'm gonna do better by you," they promise, quiet enough not to wake him. They reason that if he didn't wake for the whole conversation with the doctor, he wouldn't now. But still.

"We've both done each other enough harm, haven't we?"

"Debatable," he rasps back at them, and they jump up a whole two feet in the air with a freaky demonic swear word they'd learned from him.

"You're!! You're up," they pant, their shock rushing into a difficult whirlpool of relief and annoyance.

He laughs, sort of. It's more of an amused creaking.

"Your accent is terrible."

"At least it doesn't make me spew ichor anymore," they argue, dusting themself off to hide the budding glee. He's awake, and feeling well enough to be a pain in their ass.

He watches them, still looking a little bleary. At least his eyes focus on them. On reflex, they reach for his mind.

But it seizes the guilt in their stomach when they do, and they stop. They don't want to have that over him right now.

"...Can I sit?" they ask instead.

"You can do anything," he remarks, because it's true. They roll their eyes.

"Will it bother you if I sit with you?"

He gets this little crease over his nose as he watches them, and they can practically see the gears turning in his head. A little twitch of the ear.

He curls inward a bit, breaking eye contact.

"...It won't," he eventually decides.

They sit. The bed is for one, and the furthest they can get from him is just barely enough to not touch him.

The healing center isn't ever fully silent. It's a wing of the commune full of partitioned tents and bustling healers and their apprentices. There's always some coughing, or talking, or infant crying. There's not any of that very close by, and the Lamb can more easily focus on slowing their own heartbeat.

"Your 'favorite', then?" Narinder speaks up again, and their progress on that front is out the window.

"You know how the cult likes to talk," they play it off with a shrug. "...I mean, it's true, but I wish they wouldn't say it like that."

Narinder doesn't answer. They have to glance down to check if he's fallen asleep again. He didn't, but his eyes are still fixed on some distant point far away. Probably something not so much in the tent, and more in his mind. They don't check.

"Aym and Baal. What became of them?" he eventually asks.

They pause, and break into a smile. It's a welcome reprieve to remember the one solid victory over the past few days.

"I found their mother," they all but whisper. "She recognized them instantly. They remembered her."

He's silent again. The tendons in the back of his hand flex a bit.

"Aym cried," they continue, gunning for a readable reaction.

"That is not surprising."

"... Really? Huh. Baal did, too."

" Baal wept?" He finally looks up, disbelieving.

The Lamb snickers. "You guys are so weird."

He furrows his brow, clearly not understanding their reaction. They don't fully, either. They've had a long week. They barely feel here at all. His eyes almost glow like the Crown's.

"Ratau is dead," they inform him, unthinkingly.

He blinks once. The third eye cracks open to watch them, too.

"Two or three years now, apparently," they elaborate.

"I see." They weren't truly expecting a reaction any more dramatic than that. Especially not with the state he's in.

"I expect your crusade was successful, beyond that," Narinder mumbles.

The Lamb makes a harsh noise, unbidden. They think it was meant to be a derisive snort.

"The rest of Ratau's cult is mostly long dead too, by the way. I can't find his brother, either. Let's see-- there's a patch of mushrooms where Sozo's body was, so I guess they never bothered to bury him. Fate is indifferent as ever, and there's a new lighthouse keeper who doesn't know who I am," they report mindlessly as they stare ahead, playing back the last few days of crusading between the many twisted beasts and heretics, all dead or escaped. Narinder's just giving them this blank look, having very little context for any of it.

"...I see," he lies.

"My husband asked me to kill him."

"I know."

“I still don’t know who I killed with him.”

"Mm.”

"I don't remember my family. I can never make my own."

"Lamb."

"How did you deal with it, all that time?" They rip their gaze away from nothing to implore him, wide eyed struggling to stall the blood that wants to flow from their face.

"A thousand years, right? Alone for most of it. The world going by you so fast and not stopping. So-- so angry, all the time."

They feel wet trails down both cheeks, and realize they're not successful. Their voice wavers and pitches like they're one of the sobbing toddlers in the creche who can't regulate their breathing.

"How did you cope with it?" they plead, brokenly.

Narinder doesn't answer right away. He looks a bit shocked at first, but it fades into something less obvious. He always looks so severe by default.

He puts some weight on his elbow to lift himself up a few inches. They twitch forward on reflex, hands hovering uselessly, and he scooches up a bit.

Just enough so that he can rest his head on their lap, facing away from them. They stop moving completely, hardly breathing.

"I did not," he tells them simply, and closes his eyes.

They let out a weak, watery laugh, closer to a gasp than anything mirthful. There is no more talking as they finish their crying at their own pace, here in this strange circ*mstance somewhere between privacy and consolation. That's what they gather they're being offered, anyway. They won't confirm it the regular way.

They scrub an arm over their face to wipe away the blood. To their surprise, their wool comes away wet, but not stained. No red to worry about washing off before it gets sticky.

They can't remember the last time they've felt this drained. As the sniffling fades, they find all they want to do now is lay down where with him, single leaf bed be damned. They think, not seriously, of following him home, led by the hand, and sleeping the year away with him.

Alas, he needed to recover, and there's too much to do, anyway. Mourning periods were for their followers.

They focus on steadying their breathing until they are quiet, and until their shoulders stop shaking so much. The tears are more stubborn.

"... Nari?" they prompt eventually. He shifts, and they think he must be caught off guard by the diminutive.

"I am awake."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Neither of us have done anything of value."

The Lamb snorts. That response shouldn't surprise them.

"I can't agree with that."

"Of course you can't."

They pause. They clear their throat in an attempt to make themself sound less wobbly.

"...How are you feeling?"

"You ought to know already."

They shake their head. "I won't read your mind anymore."

That gets something of a reaction out of him. An ear twitching to the side, and an uncomprehending frown. His eyes stay fixed on the wall away from them.

"...Why? I gave you that power. It is yours to exploit."

"Just don't want to anymore. Not on you." By nature, they must exploit their acolytes. Narinder doesn't fall into that caste. They don't think they want him to.

"Hmf."

"I mean it. You can have your secrets. I only want what you'll tell me."

He finally tilts his head back to look at them. He's searching their face for something. It takes a lot of willpower not to squirm like a nervous pup.

"Swear it to me, then. Whatever your vow to 'do better by me' will entail, you may begin now."

Their ears get twitchy. Of course he heard that.

"...I promise."

"Hm."

That seems to satisfy him. He shifts comfortably in their lap, facing away again, but pressed back just the slightest bit more into their wool.

It's sort of unbelievable, seeing him like this. Willingly finding comfort in their touch, when the last they'd shared had been with the intent to kill each other. He must be exhausted. He looks it. Thin and mussed, and his back bent like his only protection from the world is to curl up and hide away from it.

Or maybe they're just projecting. The Lamb doesn't remember much about their first life. But they will always remember fear, uncertainty, and isolation. It's why they'd taken so easily to a life of leading, of caretaking.

It probably wouldn't go over well right now if they'd expressed how willing they'd be to take care of him, too.

They immediately regret their promise for a lot of reasons. An impulse comes to them, and they don't know how well it'll be received if they go through with it. But they keep their word, and also stay their hand.

"...You didn't answer me. How are you feeling?"

They expect him to jump at the opportunity to complain. He instead takes some time to think.

"Awful," he finally lands on. It absolutely shouldn’t be so f*cking endearing.

"Yeah. Mind if I stay with you?"

Another moment to think.

"...Do as you please."

"...You sure?"

He just growls lowly in response. They chuckle at it.

"Right, right. You're not to be questioned." They really ought to know better.

The Lamb gives in to that previous impulse, then, but they move slowly. Their hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He stills, but when they're not rejected, they indulge in the soothing motions of smoothing the fur down his arm, and then up again. If he minds, he at least doesn't yell at them for it.

He's kind of cold. The healer mentioned something about symptoms and cooling extremities. It was all rather technical, even with the immortality wild card at play here forcing her to spitball a bit. He warms up quickly enough under their touch.

Sleep takes him again soon after that. They're pretty sure. This is for the better, given his weakness.

"Nari?" They try again, quieter this time. No reaction. They suppose he could be faking it again, but the effort strikes them as redundant. It doesn't take them long to think of a new way to test it.

The hand on his arm moves up to cup his cheek, exceedingly gentle. They don't feel any notable reaction. He's unfairly soft. They're careful around his whiskers.

"Right," they whisper, hit hard with a surge of fondness.

They just sit with him, making an effort to keep all their sniffling as inaudible as they can. It's been a while since they've cried like that. It won't fix anything. But it's still sort of nice that there's someone whose faith they don't have to worry about losing by showing weakness in front of him. A few tears won't make either of them forget how they'd been the one to overpower five gods.

They wonder how long it's been since he has cried. He must have, in the beginning of it all. Does he remember how it feels, even?

It's cruel to hope that he will, one day soon. But they do, because if anything could move him to cry, it would have to mean he truly cares about something.

They really are cruel. It's something they're going to have to get used to.

"...It's gonna be hard to get good enough at life to enjoy it. Took me long enough, after the first time," they admit, voice kept at a low drone. They've had this weight in their chest that'd been present since their whole existential epiphany, but speaking to him tends to lessen it. Even asleep, Narinder is something kindred. It helps.

"...Weird thought to have about someone who tried to kill me once," they continue their train of thought aloud, "But I feel safer around you. I dunno. I want to do the same for you. It's nice to have a friend here. I promise."

They thumb lightly at his jaw, marveling at the ease of his breathing. They have to ask him if he ever dreamt, at some point.

And then, because they're all but certain he can't hear them now, they tell him: "I'll help you find some happiness here, okay? And who knows, one day you might even come to love me back. Or at least tolerate me enough to let me marry you in the garden. Hah. Don’t judge me for dreaming."

They move their gentle ministrations to a spot at the back of his neck, and can feel a soft rumble start up under their hand.

The Lamb had left some point after he'd actually fallen asleep in their lap. He now lies on his back, face up, staring at the cursed tent ceiling as if any answers could be found there.

All while he was very aggressively trying not to ask any of the pertinent questions, as they may force him to come to terms with whatever the hell happened as reality.

He could not discern exactly when he'd lost his senses. He remembers shouting, and rage that brought him near to the point of tears. He dreamt of the Bishops, glaring him down with uncaring stone faces. He woke up here, with the Lamb all but threatening their prized healer for him.

For themself, he corrects. That made more sense. Narinder was just an added stressor while they were already apparently at their breaking point.

And when they hit that point in front of him, weeping like they had on the chopping block, something in his afflicted delirium possessed him to act.

…

What the hell had they done to him? It felt too good to lie with them like that. It must be some sort of curse. The memory of an incomprehensibly careful touch along his face made it feel hot, and buzzed at all the empty space in his stomach. He'd been lulled to comfort so easily, as if he were little more than one of the Lamb's obedient thralls. His tail lashes once behind him.

Let me marry you in the garden.

He covers his face and lets out a snarl. Something is wrong with him.

"--hey, you can't go in there this late--!" someone cries somewhere outside his tent, and it's his only warning before the door is ripped open. Literally. Aym shreds the fabric in his haste, and Baal follows suit, shouting, "Master!"

He yelps and scrambles upright, already struggling to process what's happening. He must truly be going mad.

"...Why are you here?" he sputters.

"Master, we've seen so little of the world out there, but-- it is amazing! There is so much to see! And the people-- I'd never imagined such varieties of creatures existed. It is endless!" Baal launches into an excited ramble, more passionate than Narinder had ever seen him. Aym picks bits of fabric out of his claws behind him, looking offended at the door for inconveniencing him with its destruction.

"We met our mother," Baal goes on. "She hasn't truly the need for it, but we hunt for her now when we can-- she has already taught us so much of where we come from in our short visits. Master, did you know our people are-- ah, Aym, what was the term she used?"

Aym pulls a dagger from his hip, and skewers something from within his satchel. He thrusts the dagger into the nearest surface, a wooden box the healers used as a supply shelf.

There’s a soft hunk of fresh meat impaled on the blade. Cured as to not be bleeding, but still pink. Narinder stares between it and the twins, vaguely noticing the horrified gaggle of healers peering into his tent, too intimidated to interrupt.

"'Obligate carnivores'," Aym supplies, grinning victoriously at his work.

The commune ran on a doctrine of grasses and whatever vegetation grew to feed it, a holdover tradition from leaner times. It was fine for most, and others would simply ask the leader to bring back fish if they had a preference. Narinder never gave it a second thought.

He'll blame his lack of conscientiousness on the malnutrition.

Chapter 5: Entropy and Enthalpy

Chapter Text

The cult saw a lot of rapid change in the coming weeks. The Lamb's decision to hand sermon preachings and confessional duties off to their clergy freed them up to supervise the overhaul of their agricultural system. They oversaw the creation of new labor sectors; hunting and fishing. The change was generally well received, and some of their followers already had enough experience to lead parties and impart their skills right at the start. Fishing excursions saw far more volunteers than hunting, and the Lamb allegedly led all of the first hunting parties themself, for safety. They'd apparently set upon map-making to draw clear boundaries within the lands of the Old Faith that the hunters were not to cross, under any circ*mstances. For what little good it'd do.

In another move that Narinder did not understand, Aym and Baal were evidently set loose. They were not subject to the Lamb's rule at all. They were travelers and outsiders, yet retained the freedom to enter and leave the commune as they pleased. Apparently, the Lamb had explained them to the cult as powerful acolytes of Death itself, who had a long history of service in their realm. That information is not wrong, so much as it is outdated. Nonetheless, their followers now hold the two brothers in high esteem.

Neither of them seem to care much, either way, but they do still come and go. Sometimes for supplies. But mostly, they come with gifts.

Once a week or so, Narinder would be intruded upon in his confinement ("sick leave", the Lamb called it) and brought spoils from their excursions. As he suspected, the twins' talents were well suited to a nomadic lifestyle, and they had no trouble defending and sustaining themselves. They slew any manner of monster, often just for the challenge, and would take care to learn the best way to carve it.

Narinder knew all this because the two would tell him. They always came with both food and stories of the world beyond. And sometimes news from the cult, if they could not avoid conversation before reaching him. Baal is still largely unused to socialization, especially around so many people. Aym is largely unused to being discouraged from brutalizing those who annoyed him. Existence is something of a learning curve for the both of them.

And diminished as he is, Narinder is unwilling to be a drain on their supplies for no good reason. He had tried to refuse the food outright, the first time. The twins had simply left it at his doorstep anyway.

So their visits became transactional: an offering for a boon. This was familiar enough to be acceptable to everyone. His millennia of worldly knowledge quickly proved useful to two nomadic warriors who were new to the world at large, and so that became his trade to ply. He would tell them what trees or fungi to avoid, lest they be ensnared and parasitized by Anura itself. His expertise in runes and rituals was available to them with just a few shards of bone and the blood of their prey, offering them protection and power out in the wild. Pointlessly, he even had some gold lying around-- universally accepted wages for past work paid out to those who, like him, could not be bothered to barter. He would send them away with some coins and a word on haggling with others on the road, rather than robbing or killing them outright unless it proved necessary or cathartic. Some merchants could be more useful to them in the future alive than dead. Especially those who are easily intimidated.

The twins always left with a bow, and showed him all the same respect he had once been worthy of. It annoyed him, and tended to leave him with a pang of discomfort in his gut he could no longer attribute to starvation. They owed him nothing. He humored them for the now transactional nature of their relationship, because that alone is what serves the both of them. He does not truly care if they heed his words and come back alive.

At some point he decided to sleep through a week or two, and found a parcel of dried monster skins at his doorstep. The twins must have been by, and he must have missed them.

It happened to be convenient that he then felt his energy returned enough, and so was no longer inclined to sleep through his days. A few hours every night would more than suffice.

-

It was only a matter of time, of course.

The Lamb had a follower charged to deliver daily rations to those who could not visit the kitchen on their own-- usually those too old or infirm or otherwise unable. Narinder was apparently temporarily considered among that lot, after his run-in with the healers. It was convenient for a while, (especially since the courier only ever left the food outside his door after the first time, when he'd hardly bared his fangs and yet frightened them so badly they'd soiled themself) leaving him time to note the gradual new experiences and sensations that came with his body recovering. Sitting and standing too quickly no longer made him dizzy. So many pains he'd gotten used to were simply gone, now glaringly obvious in their absence.

He found himself shifting and squirming about in his bed more. Suddenly, there was an invisible limit he could hit with sleep. He could now lay down for too long, and it became uncomfortable.

This feeling was almost familiar. It reminded him of the shackles. He was restless, physically and mentally. He of all people certainly had experience with having too much time to ruminate, and with health came the creeping annoyance of his body twitching and mind wandering. It wandered often to the twins, and how they must be faring. It wandered, also often, to the past. To the small ecosystems which the rotting corpses of the Bishops must be feeding, somewhere far away.

It wandered to the Lamb, and whatever their insulting interpretation of love must be. That memory he quashes, as it can only have been the product of feverish delirium. Nothing he remembers of that entire day at the healer's tent can be trusted as reality. So he forcefully turns his imagination elsewhere when it plagues him with it.

The healers had given him an estimate of time before he "should be well enough to go about normal life again". He ignores it, and finally ventures out again out of boredom alone.

The meat prepared in the kitchen is not as good as the twins' butchered offerings. But it is still better fresh.

The cult is busy. The cult is always busy. But the cult is busy.

The Lamb is, officially, at the head of the effort to reform the commune's whole situation with food production. Unofficially, they're leaving the actual plots and practices of putting together fishing parties and creating tools and strategies to a select few followers who have experience with this sort of thing. Namely: living in settlements where gathering enough meat to feed everyone is something people do. The Lamb is a leader, and they're really good at killing things, but f*ck if they know anything about how to craft a longbow or build a fishing boat.

But they do still have to sign everything off, and they're definitely not taking a hands-off approach here. They personally lead the small hunting parties, for now. No one knows the wilds like they do, and they feel it's the safest option until they can map out a designated hunting zone to stop anyone from going too deep into enemy territory. They're keeping everyone contained to a small section of Darkwood for now, too close to the cult for any heretic to dare treading after so many years of the Lamb's loud, bloody crusades.

Even so, the monsters and heretics are more violent than ever, and Fate makes them suspect that this might partially be the Lamb's fault.

(They can't feel bad about it. It'd be silly to take on blame for every unpleasant consequence of the Bishops' reigns.)

(No matter what Fate says about what their clumsy grasp of godhood has led the four of them to become.)

(But why should that be their problem, anyway?)

At any rate, the trips are extremely short-- just a few days away from the cult at a time. They would have made it a week, but the followers that come with them get antsy and hungry so much faster than they expected. The realization that the Lamb cannot remember hunger is just another distraction to ignore.

They don't get much of a break back at the commune. Once the parties return, they have to check in with their newly appointed preachers and approve pre-written sermons. They'd tried to write their own down for use, but found the task beyond them. They're like a beast possessed behind that podium-- maybe literally-- and trying to put down all those thoughts and feelings that spill from them in the moment into a neat little stack of flashcards beforehand is... Less than fruitful. Their notes come out vague and scattered, and honestly, seeing all that word vomit scrawled out was absolutely not good for their confidence in their own speeches. So they scrapped the idea, and stuck to inspiring their preachers to "allow your faith to guide your creativity" or something. (They can't be over-analyzing themself on the dais in front of all their followers, now can they? Especially not now.)

They'd also tried to just have one of their more studious priests translate a few sections from the book of gospel Narinder had given them way back when, so the preachers could work off that directly. But that effort had resulted in, to put it gently, some not-insubstantial facial hemorrhaging on the side of that poor scribe. So that was another thing the Lamb had to find time to do on their own, and it's a lucky break that they could spend their nights working instead of sleeping with absolutely no repercussions whatsoever.

So it was all absolutely fine. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter if the work was unending. Because so are they. The Lamb literally has all the time in the world to do everything forever.

Hallelujah.

They don't really know how long this goes on. The days blur together, and they can't truly complain about it when the fruits of their labor are so tangible in the cult's progress. It's nice to have only that on their mind, if they can help it. It's second nature, at this point, to just put on a smile and be the leader. They were born for this.

Maybe literally, if Clauneck was to be believed. And doesn't that just make them want to smash the old bird's skull in, sometimes?

There is a funeral today.

As Death given voice and agenda, it's the Lamb's responsibility to preside and provide a sense of peace to the community. They stand straight at the podium and read the final rites, their voice unwavering through the written eulogy, those words worn soft and familiar after so much practice over the decades.

About halfway through, they notice someone standing by the doorway who they're particularly surprised to see. They redouble their focus and don't falter-- they owe the deceased that much, at least.

But once their part is done, they depart ahead of the crowd. He's just outside of the temple, standing against the wall and away from the throngs of people going home or off to the gravesite. He doesn't look too surprised to see them join him.

"You're outside," the Lamb blurts without thinking.

"Well observed," Narinder says.

"You're supposed to be resting. The healers said you'd need at least a few weeks--"

"Which have already elapsed, and then some," he interrupts.

They grimace, and aren't quick enough to hide it.

"...I'll take your word for it."

Narinder makes a noncommittal sound, and watches groups of followers exit the temple and head off in different directions. An ear twitches once, and they have to sort of do the mental equivalent of slap their own hand away before it can reach for his mind.

"Hm. So you observe their passing from this world to the next, as a ship to sea. Interesting," he offers, unprompted.

"Is it really? I didn't think this sort of thing would be your style."

"I have seen countless rites afforded to any number of pathetic creatures who have perished from this world. I did not say that I necessarily agree with yours."

Yeah, that was less surprising.

"... What would be your style, then, if you got to choose for them?"

"Do you truly need to ask? I saw no reason to contain death," he glances at them, sidelong. "And you, with no one to stand in your way-- I might have expected you to share that sentiment."

"I did, back when there was more work to be done." They step away from the wall and gesture forward with a tilt of their head.

He blinks, thrown for a second, but they can practically see the moment curiosity wins out on his face. He pushes off the temple facade and follows, falling into step beside them.

"...So you're sure you're feeling better? No more fainting into the flowers like a consumptive old grandpa?" The Lamb breaks the silence.

He scowls. "Relative to my experiences being chained, beaten, diminished, and then starved? Yes, Lamb, I actually do feel quite well, thank you."

They try to drum up a smile, but it comes up thin and watery.

"Good to hear it."

It's a short walk, and they get the sense that he doesn't notice where he's being taken until they're both well into the garden, stepping past small groups of followers who've become inspired by the sermon to visit their loved ones. The chatter around them is muted, but not particularly sorrowful. Camellias are dropped at graves in big, toppling bundles, almost competitive in size and setup. Parents hold up their children to headstones to show off how big they've gotten. Friends whisper conspiratorially around well-tended graves, as if catching the deceased up on the latest news. Someone sets up a picnic, and a nearby neighbor scrambles to help them get the blanket down before the wind takes it.

The Lamb takes a second to breathe it all in, and with a final few long strides, leads an increasingly bemused Narinder to Ratau's grave.

They see him read the slab out of the corner of their eye, and watch the comprehension settle in.

"Ah. ...Just now?" he asks.

"I've been busy." It's no excuse.

He stands in silence, looking it over while he chews on a thought.

"...His passing distressed you."

They snort. "Present tense, bud. Losing people you care about will do that."

He glares at them as if they've just insulted him.

"Yeah, I guess you'd know after having this job for as long as you did," they relent, meeting his eye. "But that means you have to understand why I give rites the way I do?"

"Less so," he searches their face, voice low. "You have every opportunity to bring him back."

"No, I don't. It's not even a question."

His brow furrows. "...Aym and Baal--"

"Never got to live at all before I slaughtered them," the Lamb interrupts. "But Ratau had everything he wanted by the time he left. If I brought him back, he'd have nothing."

His stare weighs heavy on them. They allow themself a moment to hate not immediately knowing whether or not he understands.

"Look around for a second," they bid, sweeping a hand back in a vague motion. He obliges them, and wrinkles his nose at the sound of a child sneezing. A few feet away, an old woman hums a tune, pushing a younger relative in a wheelchair while they argue with a friend about the semantics of a headstone versus a tombstone. The pair at the picnic blanket have begun an impromptu game of knucklebones.

"...I see nothing but life, here. I wager that must be your point?" Narinder guesses.

"That's part of it. Out there in the old lands, no one gets to have anything like this."

He pauses, considering. The wind is steady today, keeping his veil aflutter over his eyes. The flicker effect reminds them of candlelight.

"...There certainly are countless graves out there," he finally muses.

"There are. But so many are lost, or destroyed. Or just... abandoned in escape," they say gently, turning their head to watch the picnickers bicker good-naturedly over their game. "No one has to worry about that, here."

"...No one can forget, this way," Narinder surmises. They give him a tired smile.

"Yeah, you got it."

They glance back down at the grave.

"...I don't actually have his body anyway," they admit. "So the rites are really all I've got."

"Ah." A beat. "...Why all the flowers, everywhere? Is the meadow meant to honor your fallen, in some way?"

The Lamb pauses. They lean in to Narinder's space, and drop their voice to a whisper. "That's what I go with when my followers ask. But, um. They sort of just... happen. I don't know how to control it," they laugh, fully abashed. It's kind of nice to admit it.

He double-takes. They prepare to be berated for their clumsy hold on "his" Crown. But then he kind of chuckles, and they can't tell if it's surprise or derision.

"Of course. As ever, your domain still owns you."

They shove him a bit, but they can't find it in themself to be all that annoyed. He really does look better than when they saw him last. Less gaunt, and without that ever-present weight of fatigue dampening every word. His reaction time is much better when he hisses back at them now, all clear-eyed indignity. Even his coat is noticeably sleeker than it'd been.

"...Hey. Since you're really doing so much better, how do you wanna use your time?" they ask, since it's on their mind, and he straightens. "The farms aren't all that busy for the cold season, but even you have got to be bored of being cooped up in bed all day."

They don't know what reaction to expect out of that. But it's interesting to see him actually consider the question.

He mutters something next about the fragility of mortal life, and how long he'd been stuck at the nexus between being and not. They hear the question he doesn't want to ask underneath it, and know how to answer when they notice the pent-up energy in the line of his back-- in the twitch of his claws.

They nod. "I'll have the smith forge a hunting knife for you."

"...My thanks, Lamb."

Narinder is a little annoyed that he isn't allowed to keep the knife outside of his excursions to the old lands. But he gets plenty of use out of it, even on short trips.

He's forced to be with a team-- safety in numbers, according to the Lamb. He disagrees. The capture of a lone hunter would be a more acceptable loss of resources than if a whole group of them were snatched up. And that team never splits, still unsure and unused to exploring without their overlord to herd them about.

It's pathetic, but for once not in any way that reflects badly on the Lamb. This is exactly what these creatures are for. Their dependance is the Crown's strength.

At any rate, he knows these lands. Even if he has not been free to roam them for a thousand years, he had seen every danger they had to offer through the eyes of every past wearer of his Crown. Including the Lamb. Darkwood especially is the most temperate and tame of the biomes surrounding the cult (ironic, given the definitively untamed predilections of its former master. Had he not been so young, perhaps this place would have been the absolute worst of them).

He struggles with a chaser worm thrashing under his claws, held down by the neck so its teeth can't reach his hands. Not trusting it to tire before he does, he slips the dagger from his hip and slits the creature down the middle, promptly disemboweling it.

And then he stabs it, just for good measure. And again. And again. And again.

It convulses, and goes limp. He sits back on his knees with a sigh, and wipes the blade off on his tunic, sourly noting that the Lamb would have even less reason to hover over their hunters if the party was better equipped.

His ears perk at the sound of approaching footfalls. They found him quickly, this time.

"Uhh-- there you are," the young falcon sighs, agitated. She's drawn the short straw to seek him out more than once. "What's your name again? No one knows how to call out for you."

Narinder considers testing his aim with the knife between the squawking thing's eyes, but another one comes skidding in from around a tree, calling out excitedly.

"Tulip you gotta-- oh hey, you too! You guys come quick!" The little canine yips and darts back towards the group, and the falcon runs to catch up immediately. Narinder stays kneeling over his kill for another second, summoning a shred of patience, before he hauls it into a bag and over his shoulder to catch up. Curiosity won out only barely.

He expects some sort of emergency when he rejoins the group in a thick glade, but the pup's urgency appears to have been excitement alone. There the four of them are, ogling stupidly up at the towering cursed flora. The passing daylight has angled the sun in such a way that the flower heads are catching most of it, shading the forest beneath them in behemoth petal and leaf shapes.

"Woah," a dusty fennec breathes. "Are those eyes? Can these things see us?"

"Plants can't see," the lizard at her side huffs. "I bet those are from other critters. Big ones."

"Then how'd they get all the way up there, genius?"

"Maybe something's nesting up there."

"Oooor those are its eyes, and these things are made of meat," the pup pipes up between them, tail wagging. The fennec gags.

"Ew, Cal, that's nasty."

"Meat's not nasty! Veggies are nasty."

"Veggies with bones in 'em are f*ckin' nasty," the lizard snaps.

"We don't know that it's got bones, Shaw. Just. Uh. Organs," the fennec scrunches her nose. The lizard rolls her eyes.

"Then cut the stem and see."

"Ew! No! Make Cal do it."

"I'll do it!"

"No?" The falcon yanks the pup back. "No one's doing it. It could be dangerous. We don't know how alive those things are. The leader never mentioned--"

"Roshambo for it," the pup declares.

"The hand game? Or the one where I kick you in th--"

There is a great, low, rumbling creak from the glade around them at large, shutting the group up and freezing them in their fear.

"Uh?"

"What's happening what's moving--"

"Obviously," Narinder finally chimes in, and the group whirls around to look at him. The sack of mangled worm is slung carelessly over his shoulder, and he is positively spattered in its blood. "The leviathans begin to wake."

Something small falls out of the sack with a squelch. He levels the creatures and their impotent, uncomprehending terror with a bored look.

"I suggest you run," he finishes, pointing a claw over his shoulder. The fennec doesn't waste another breath before screaming and speeding past him, with the dog swearing and following close behind. The falcon grabs the lizard by the arm and sprints them both in the same direction. None of them look back to see if Narinder follows.

The unholy noise eventually stops, and the massive plants complete their slow, barely noticeable few inches of daily growth cycle, tilting ever so slightly more towards the sun. A few sets of eyes on the nearest titanic daisy roll senselessly around before settling down to point in his general direction. He huffs, letting a slight grin break through.

"Far be it from me to deny you an easy meal," he says to the forest around him, as a whole, "But it was more amusing to frighten them myself."

The bagworm will be the only kill they take home that trip, but at least flowers don't give him any grief for his joke.

Translating their scripture is a meditative process, when the Lamb doesn't get too caught up in the scrabbling miasma of madness that wafts up from the book when they aren't paying attention. It's probably a good thing they're keeping the book away from the priests. A mortal could only leak so much blood from the face before they'd run out.

But at least it was quiet. Nighttime was its own particular blessing when one could experience it fully in whatever way they wanted. Even if that just meant being shut in the temple penning gospel, tonight. The quill in their hand blinks up-- winks? They aren't sure. Winking felt more distinct, like there should be some kind of... they don't know, intent when someone does it. But can they call it blinking if there's just the one eye?

"Can you think?" they ask it, resigned to the moment of distraction. "Do you like changing shape so often? Even though it means I gotta dip you in ink sometimes?"

"You may as well-- stop that, it's me," Narinder cuts himself off when the Lamb shrieks leaps back with their sword in hand, "You may as well be asking your own hand if it enjoys forming a fist."

The Lamb crawls back off their chair, swearing. It's so dark that even now that they're looking at him, he still just looks like a set of round eyes floating in the Temple's shadows.

"f*ck's sake, you should be the one wearing a bell."

"Do you often speak to the Crown?" Narinder steps closer, made at least somewhat more distinct by the moonlight filtering through the stained glass behind them. His robes help. "I don't know which of us that ought to embarrass more."

"People talk to objects all the time. I've seen you yell at cookware when you burn yourself."

"The Crown is neither living nor an object. Either state would have made it far easier to tear back from your thieving little hooves."

"Yeah, yeah. So it's more like-- what, a limb, then?" They ask, smoothing their cloak out. Narinder's head tilts, a fraction.

"In a sense."

"But it's not attached to me."

"Is it not? Are you consciously aware of the placement of all your fingers at every moment? And do you notice when the Crown returns to your head at rest every time?"

They glance up. Point taken.

"...Huh." They take the Crown off, and pass it between their hands. It goes a little fluid in the air between them. "But I can move it."

"And yet it is still 'attached'. Its placement and shape should have little bearing on the sensory information it provides you."

They focus for a second. It has been exactly nine thousand, five hundred and thirty-six days since they began their cult.

"Yeah, fair." They grimace, unwillingly following the logical thread that thinking of it like a limb leads them on. "...But you gave it to me."

"I lent it to you," he corrects sharply, "And I had once been a being who could rain violence upon you with little more than my own detached eyeballs. The self is not so static when one embodies so much more than flesh."

"Still kind of gross." Still, it was heartening to know that he couldn't just swipe it from them. Knowing that he would have had to sacrifice them to sever it from them made his immediate choice to do so back then sting a bit less.

Okay, it didn't, but they're well aware that they would have done the same. This just sort of confirmed it further.

"...Limbs can be severed. Can that happen with the crown, or would I just die first?"

"I suppose one could survive dismemberment to the extent of losing a sensory organ," he clips sourly. "I did."

He did, didn't he? The Bishops had all died with their crowns. Maybe his life and the Red Crown's continued extancy still had some connection. There's a lot to wonder about. The Lamb has an ever-expanding list of questions at odds with his lack of patience for them, so they just pick their most pressing one next.

"Can you teach me how to do the eyeball thing?"

"No."

Aw.

"Jerk." They decide to leave the Crown talk, for now. "What are you doing up, anyway?"

"Not, 'What am I doing here'?"

"You sought me out, so obviously you want something, but I'm more surprised by the fact that you're voluntarily awake while you don't actually have to be."

"...Hmf. There are few opportunities for quiet in this garish circus of yours. I'd be remiss not to take one."

"Sure, whatever you say," they hum, making a token effort not to sound too pleased about that. "What do you need, then?"

"Armor."

"...Huh?"

"Your hunters are fearful, uneducated, and dependent. If we are to bring back more than a single carcass every day, they need something to bolster them enough that they won't flinch at the sight of a bagworm."

The Lamb frowns. "They're not that bad."

"They're hardly warriors."

A rhythmic tapping of their fingers against the desk. Potentially another errand to fit into tomorrow. They don't even know where to start with this one.

"...Oh, they're definitely not. But... you trained Aym and Baal yourself, and I'd say they're pretty good at killing," they smile up at him, hopefully. "Can't you just--?"

"I will not be a mentor for your pathetic flock of dancers and gardeners," Narinder hisses, "Nor would they have me even if I agreed."

They open their mouth to protest. But, damningly, have to close it.

"...Armor," they repeat.

"There may be some recruits from elsewhere who already know how to tan leather," he suggests. "And we already bring back plenty of bats for their meat. Your little village is hardly in a place where you should be condoning waste."

"That's..." Not actually a terrible idea. Some of their followers are hungry for trades to call their own beyond digging dirt and rocks. "Hmm. If I brought back some more spider silk, maybe the weavers could definitely make a strong enough thread to put it all together? Ooh! We still need to find a use for that whole wing where the refineries were, maybe that'd be a good place to--"

They think out loud with growing enthusiasm, which they only notice when Narinder regards them smugly. They clear their throat and square their shoulders.

"Request approved," they say primly.

His tail curls out in a slow, satisfied flick. "I thought it might be."

They snort. "Yeah, yeah. Go to bed."

"Hmf. What a hypocritical command," Narinder hums, glancing around the empty temple. "But I suppose that aligns well enough with your style of leadership."

"But I am the leader," they snipe back, the mirth plastered on their face twisting into something a little more barbed than they intend. "And I make the commands."

He eyes them, brows quirking, but remains unruffled beyond that.

"... You've certainly ensured yourself to be the beating heart of this community," he remarks, and turns to leave after that. And even an hour of mulling it over later they have no idea whether it was praise, or a warning.

Fyla is indecisive.

She doesn't like it, but her mom says it often enough that it was starting to catch on. First with her mom's healers, who of course know everything about everyone, so now even Fyla's hunting groups would tease her about it. It's a dumb thing to be mad about, but it's so easy to be mad at anything when you hear it a lot. Flaky, flaky Fyla.

So she makes sure that she's really, really sure about it when she marches right up to the leader on their way to the gates, looks them in the eye, and asks them really really nicely if they could pretty please pick up some camellias from the woods for her.

They shake their head apologetically, and her heart sinks.

"I'm just not going down that way today," they explain gently, gleaming sword resting over their shoulder. Its hilt looks like it's judging her. "But the healers might have some spares for you?"

"I guess," she smiles thinly. The healers keep them dry. She needs fresh flowers. "Thanks anyway."

She bows politely, and they send her off with a quick blessing before melting into ichor through the gateway rune.

Great.

She could wait until her next hunting excursion, but that'd be two weeks from now. She'd have had one sooner, but traded that shift to Tulip in exchange for her own shift with the weavers. Fyla wasn't a fan of weaving either, but it was a lot less abjectly terrifying than hunting was.

Mother doesn't know about the work trading either. But it's easier to hide things when the old fennec spends most of her time stuck in the healing tents. It's a small, guilty relief.

But the roster gave Fyla an idea of what to do now. But that too was dashed when she actually took a look at the schedule pinned to the wall of the Missionary Base. She didn't really know anyone on today's roster. And Cal was on tomorrow's.

And she sure couldn't ask them to get the flowers for her! The thought is stupid enough to make her cringe. It'd be too big of a risk to ask anyone on their team tomorrow in case Cal asked questions. Which they probably wouldn't, but what if they did?

She stands there long enough waffling about the merits of asking one of these random neighbors to do her a favor, which one would be less embarrassing, or who might be at risk of blabbing about it, that today's hunting party starts setting up behind her. One walks right past her, and she shuts the nerves up long enough to rush up to them outside the base and call: "Excuse me--!"

The hunter turns with shocked, glaring red eyes. This is easily the second worst case scenario. The fear spikes into terror, and she almost shouts "Nevermind!"

But no. No being flaky, she is committing to this.

It's not that bad. She knows him from the scriptures. And beyond that, she's even hunted with him. He hasn't hurt anyone before, has he? The Leader would surely do something about him if he did. He's allowed to wander and live a normal life for a reason.

And also, she abruptly remembers that he doesn't talk to anyone. And therefore, doesn't gossip. This makes him too good of an opportunity to pass up, despite the terror.

"Um... you're hunting today, right?" She berates herself mentally for stammering a bit. He stares at her like she's some sort of talking fungal growth.

"...I am," Narinder says.

"Great! Could I... I'm sorry, this is weird, but could I ask for a favor?"

"...What?" He already looks weirded out, and she hasn't even asked yet.

"It's just-- I need some camellias. From Darkwood. It doesn't have to be a lot, I swear, just enough for a bouquet? Please? I'll pay you back--"

He glowers. "I am not a courier."

"Then, I'll trade you! ...I can pick up some shifts if you don't want to hunt next week," she offers with a grimace.

"Go and ask your leader. They're always happy to oblige their herd whatever paltry desire comes to mind."

"...I already did, and they can't."

"The other hunters, then," he's already walking away, and Fyla hurries to catch up.

"Please, Narinder? I-- eep!"

Fyla freezes when he stops in his tracks and stares at her again, with all his eyes. He really does have three.

"...How," he says slowly, "do you know my name?"

She blinks, big ears twitching straight up.

"Um. A-a lot of us know you," she laughs nervously. "You live here."

"...Right."

"...And from the gospels," Fyla presses, sensing some sort of leeway that was not present a moment ago. His confusion makes her hunch feel right, so she keeps going.

"It's history, anyone can read it. You're an elder being," she hazards, but quickly remembers the right term from her studies.

"Um-- 'The One Who Waited', right?" she parrots. "Was that you?"

"Not another word," he holds a hand up, a fang visible from under a curled lip. "Rejoice, kit, for it appears you do have something I want."

She looks past the weird foreboding way he said that long enough to rejoice for a second.

-

It's not hard to find the scrolls and books with both older and updated history, especially since Fyla herself spent so much time reading here as a kit. The cult's history was the closest thing to fairy tales her mother could read her back when they were first indoctrinated, and as she grew, deeper appreciation formed for their place in her life. All of it is readily accessible in the Great Leader's temple, even to debate and edit, with oversight from the clergy.

"Here, see, there were five gods before our Leader."

Narinder scrunches his nose, looking unsatisfied with that. The exciting realization that he lived through all of this history and more hits her way later than it really should, and she's definitely gonna keep that in mind after this. Maybe he'll actually let her ask questions. There's an elder Witness in the priesthood, but no one's ever outright interviewed a being who was actually around for the Lamb's holy war.

"Is that wrong?" she asks.

"...It is correct as far as it is relevant."

"Um. Okay," Fyla clears her throat to continue, "One of the five revived our Leader when they were murdered by the other four, and made them his prophet."

"Is that the word they use," he intones.

"There's... other words in earlier writings. 'Prophet, messiah'... um... 'chosen warrior, vessel'."

"Continue."

"The One Who Waited gave our leader power greater than anything else in the world, and they went off on a vengeful crusade to slay the false idols," she summarizes from a few different texts, remembering the gallant and exciting way her mother used to tell the story. Fyla's own version feels dry and boring in comparison. She keeps going, and tries to get a little more into it.

"Uh, so the leader went to each realm crusading, to smite every dissenter in their path with the Red Crown's holy wrath," she picks up, "And eventually struck down all four of the lesser gods in every land and cleansed everything of sin."

Narinder grumbles something in a language Fyla doesn't know, but suddenly she has a really bad sinus headache. She pinches her snout and asks him to wait a second, and he rudely urges her to keep going.

"Okay, okay! So, the Great Leader approaches the god of life and death who gave them his powers, but, um... fearing their strength, he betrayed them," she continues awkwardly, unsure whether it'd be more rude-or-blasphemous to sugarcoat the scripture when one of its main players is right next to her, "And tried to destroy all of our founders and the Leader's entire religion. So they had to cut him down, too. And now they're the only true god left to rule over everything."

Narinder is quiet for a few seconds. Then his shoulders shake, but the sound is far from what she'd recognize as good humor.

"Hah! So that is how I exist in your books then, is it?" He stands from where he was sitting in front of her, carelessly knocking a scroll away as he moved. Fyla flinches to catch it.

"The Lamb's final adversary? The root of evil against their righteous word?" He speaks with bitter amusem*nt, not really sounding surprised.

"Well, actually," Fyla stands too, the little clutter of literature overflowing in her arms, "There's, um, a lot of debate about your role in the Leader's rise. I mean like, from like a scholastic point."

He's just staring at her again, so she keeps going. None of her friends ever give her the opportunity to get deep into this stuff.

"So the generally accepted stance is that your life exemplified the Leader's mercy as a core tenant of our faith, but some in the priesthood think of you more like an antagonist, like you said. The thought there is that an ex-god has to be around to provide us with proof that our god is all-powerful, as an example of the inherent weakness of other potentially opposing faiths," Fyla prattles off, carefully pushing the scrolls back into their wall slots before moving into the books.

"But there's smaller schools of thought that get argued about a lot. Like that little section of our devout that don't actually believe you exist at all."

Narinder blinks at her. "...But I--"

"You're right here, yeah," Fyla giggles. "You'd be surprised how that's not enough for some people! There's even conspiracies about you just being a surface-converted heretic trying to sow discourse."

"Ah."

"Yeah, I don't believe it either," Fyla turns and sees the utterly baffled look on his face, and remembers she's not just talking to another enthusiastic apprentice. "...Um. I mean, is it true?"

"..."

"Uh! But, on the other side, there's storybook versions that people tell their kits. Like... You survived because you and the Leader made a deal. The deal changes depending on the version; sharing power, or your fealty for your life. Stuff like that."

She goes to put away the final book, but pauses, the worn, warm leather cover in her hands pinging something nostalgic in her brain.

"... There's a really popular version where the Leader spared you because they worshiped you first," she remembers. "Because the One Below was waiting forever for them, and he saved them, and they devoted their whole soul to his cause. Even now." Fyla likes that version. Because a lot of times, it's a love story. A champion, falling at first sight for the gleaming being that saved their life and gave them purpose. She won't bring that part up and make it awkward for him.

"They did everything for their own god. That changes the rest of the story too much for some people, I think. Like, why would the fifth god ask someone else to kill the other four, and then turn around and kill them too?

"But yeah, some people think the Leader spared you because even the betrayal wasn't enough to make them stop loving you. Um, like we love them, y'know? It's a really sweet allegory for devotion, I think. True devotion." Fyla puts away the book, and turns back to him with a shrug, suddenly feeling exceedingly awkward for having gotten way too into it in front of "The Adversary", if that's how he sees himself.

"So, um, yeah, that's all we have about you in our history." She really, really wants to ask which version was true, but that could be a later thing. After she knows it's not going to jeopardize the deal she wants to make now.

Narinder is looking straight ahead at the bookshelf, clearly lost in thought. She waits a few seconds before getting antsy.

"...So um... I like the last version a lot. Love and devotion are um, core tenants of our faith, and I think they're really important."

"The flowers," Narinder says suddenly. She winces.

"Um! Yes," she fidgets with her hands, feeling her face growing dark. "Love is exactly why I want the--"

"No, I don't care," Narinder stops her. "My end of the bargain. You've upheld yours, by giving me information. So I will retrieve your flowers."

"...Oh! Great! Thanks!" Fyla is pretty sure she's going to drop dead right then and there.

"I am surprised, I admit," he says, putting his hood back up in preparation to go outside. "I was under the impression that the majority of the cult knew even less than this when it came to its history."

"Oh. Um, that's actually pretty fair. The Lamb brings some of it up in services, but not everyone reads." There are initiatives to teach the little kits stuff like this while they're in the creche all day. They definitely involve literacy and religious studies, but that's as far as Fyla knows. "I, um... I just want to join the priesthood, some day. I think."

He actually looks at her with those hellfire eyes. She sort of prefers his dismissal.

"Good. You are an abysmal hunter."

She's pretty sure she's supposed to be offended. But the accusation brings only relief. She just laughs uncomfortably, and quietly tables the hope that having an actual religious icon vouch for her to the clergy might be enough to get her an in, one day.

"...If I ever do join, could I maybe ask you about everything that happened back then for our books? Um, everyone says the Leader is actually kind of hard to reach for interviews," she asks cautiously.

Narinder thinks for a while, gaze drifting back to that book on the shelf. His ears kind of twitch in time with the gears working in his head, and it almost makes him feel less... scary. Like if she forgot everything else for a second, he's just a cat. He's got the swishy tail and little black nose and everything. He's a neighbor.

"...Hmf. If this is the state of your records, then I suppose someone ought to," he concedes, though Fyla gets the sense that he's not really agreeing in any meaningful way. His mind is somewhere else entirely. She'll see how it goes, but she'll remember.

For now, she's gonna get those flowers, and finally, maybe, actually, talk to Cal.

A few weeks down the line, and not much changes. But through careful planning and scheduling, the Lamb has just enough time to themself to get their thoughts together after a crusade.

And then they get home go a colorful hubbub in the plaza, and figure that's absolutely out the window.

The commune is decked out in dyed candles and colorful paper strewn about between structures, all tied together by bright ribbons draping down the shrine that flutter festively in the afternoon breeze. They don't bother to ask themself whether it was truly this time of year already, and in fact shove the question down hard in favor of being present in the celebrations. The family of honor is quick to ask their help preparing the feast, and so the Lamb sets about delivering the necessary hoard of ingredients to the volunteer chef, who then asks the Lamb if they could bring in some firewood for the stove, but then they're stopped by the reserves to help find a logger's kids and end up running around the commune looking for whoever was in charge of the creche that day, but in preparation for a party it seems no one can quite remember who was tasked with what--

Then they catch sight of someone else just outside of the plaza, observing the clamor without participating. They march right over to him and dump the armful of firewood into his arms before he can protest.

"What--?"

"Hey, could you take that to the kitchen real quick? I'm looking for Bassot's cubs. They're the ones who like starting fires, so we want them accounted for before the party's started. Great, thanks."

"Lamb--!"

They zip off into the less developed woody area just south of the farmlands-- kids love getting lost around there-- and find the cubs they're looking for along with about half a dozen others playing some game where they pretend to sacrifice the smallest one. They herd the little acolytes back into the plaza with the Crown's obliging aid, by way of morphing it into a net they can drag behind them. The kids screech and fight with vicious delight in there, so they don't feel too bad about it. They do feel a little bad setting the lot of them loose all at once while their families are still setting everything up.

They only get a second to take a breath before their ear twitches at the sound of conflict on the wind. Two of the prep cooks in the kitchen area appear to be having an argument.

In front of it stands Narinder, firewood in hand, looking about three seconds away from just chucking logs at the both of them.

The Lamb swoops in, and whatever the fight was about was apparently minor enough that the kitchen workers both quiet down and plaster on smiles in the face of their leader.

"Everything going alright here?" They ask, and don't wait for an answer. "Wonderful. Hey, Nar--"

Narinder drops the firewood with a careless clatter over the countertop. The Lamb can see a vein pop in Greta's forehead, so they quickly lead him off by the elbow with an over-cheery "Thank you all keep up the good work" and a blessing rushed in a single breath.

"Thanks for that," they grumble to Narinder out of earshot, and he yanks his arm out of their grasp.

"I did not start this chaos," he hisses back, picking up the pace. "What ridiculous manner of ritual have you arranged this time?"

"Oh, this one's not me. Remember a few years back when I called a feast to celebrate the first births?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Vaguely."

"Well, I did that a few more times. Y'know, whenever I had the chance. But I couldn't be here for every family, and so a lot of them just started throwing their own smaller feasts when their kits were born, with all the dancing and decorating and everything. Just so no one felt left out, I guess," they recall. Narinder rounds a corner around someone's living hut, and the Lamb notes with some slight concern that they just missed one of the parents putting the party together, struggling with a heap of streamers.

"Hmph. More whelps, then?" he asks.

"Not this time. See, everyone liked the idea of celebrating the cult's young so much that it's a yearly tradition now. Almost all the families do it for their kids, now!

"I didn't even have a hand in it," they add, bouncing a bit on their hooves. "Our followers have just decided that celebrating their children makes everyone happy. Or maybe it's a good-luck thing." They don't particularly care why this tradition caught on, but they love it all the same. The children certainly do, too. And also, it's really nice to witness a cooperative event that they don't have to organize themself.

"This is a big one, too," they observe. "A few litters were born close enough that they're just doing one big party for a couple of families. That's gonna be the norm, I think-- Spring, you know?"

They don't even know when Narinder managed this, but the two of them are standing in the shade of some leafy decorations outside the temple, likely just out of sight of everything. They look around, and try to mentally walk back and figure out how long they've been standing still. Narinder, meanwhile, mulls over all the new information.

"...Hm. Interesting," he says. The Lamb's ears flick.

"Really?"

"Mortal life is fleeting. To observe it year by year should serve as a potent reminder of how soon it ends," he points out. "Such a ritual ought to strengthen their piety, as their individual years dwindle."

"...Not how I usually think about it, but I guess that's a good thing too," they consider, tilting their head an inch. "I like to think of it as a celebration of life. And it's not blasphemy if I'm the one saying it."

Narinder tisks, somehow looking both bored and annoyed with them all at once. He's so full of sh*t.

"You should join in," the Lamb suggests with their brightest grin. "I'm going to light a bonfire later and everything, it's a lot of fun."

"I believe I will pass."

"Aww, you sure?" They hold a hand out towards him and stand in a playful half bow, "Even if I offer to let you dance with me?"

That gets the scrunched smelled-something-foul sort of facial reaction out of him that they were expecting, and they don't hide their mirth.

"Such foolishness is beneath me. And it ought to be beneath you, considering everything of actual import you could be doing instead," he accuses.

Their smile fades, and they're not quick enough to stick it back on. They think he notices, but he's being an ass on purpose, so damn them if they're gonna let him be right.

"No, actually, this is really important too," they tell him, tracking down the struggling parent off in the crowd again and squaring their shoulders. "You're seeing how bad it is out there, right?"

"Hardly," he mutters. They shrug.

"Well, I think these people can use a little 'foolishness' in here, where they can get it. S'good for 'em."

"If that is how you wish to see it," he leans against the wall, no doubt ready to resume all his watching instead of actually helping. "I suppose all these little rituals will do well enough to keep them complacent, to your benefit."

"That's not what I'm doing, but sure." It's a plus, for sure. But hey, extremely long term manipulation is definitively part of the job. The unimpressed look Narinder gives them tells them that he knows that, too, and so he thinks they're the one that's full of sh*t. Don't need to read his mind for that one.

"I'm serious. Quality of life isn't just about eating every day and having somewhere to sleep. Even if it's really short. They need to be able to slow down and... well, play."

"...Play," Narinder deadpans.

"Yeah actually, you big bore," they double down and step out of the shade with just a single glance back. "And I think you do too, if that's not obvious."

That stare of his is somewhere between befuddlement and offense, and the Lamb hurries off toward the plaza before he can argue. The struggling parent drops the armload of streamers before the Lamb can get to them, sending bright colored paper and strings flying in every direction, shouts and laughter riding the air on their tails.

Narinder returns one day with an injury. Nothing serious, and nothing that wasn't his fault. The Lamb has a policy in place that demands any hunter or missionary return straight to the healing tents with a report in the event of any injury. He reckons it's meant to give the healers more to train with, but it's still an annoyance.

Moreso when the Lamb themself catches him on the way out, and then goes all wide-eyed at the bandaging over his face.

"What happened?" They demand, scampering over.

He bristles. "Occupational hazard. Darkwood can take one by surprise."

This does not stop them from fretting, because of course it doesn't. They nearly reach out to touch the bandaging, but think better of it when it activates his instinct to hiss.

"So it was a monster? You guys didn't run into any of the big ones, did you?"

"No." He leaves it at that. They frown. He sees their fingers twitch, but they do not raise their hand again.

"Is it bad? Still got that eye under there?"

"I do, and it will heal." It was hardly worth note even if it was serious; the Lamb would doubtless drag him back to the living world by the scruff.

"I'll have to assign someone else to take your next slot out there. Good thing I caught you before I--"

"Lamb. Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "You think me so weak? With my bare hands alone, I have laid the gods low."

"Oh, don't even pretend like that's the same thing. You weren't a head shorter than me oranemic when you did that."

His hackles raise fully. "I am neither, you snivelling--"

"You're not going this week. End of discussion," they say, silencing him with a palm down. He has just enough self control to refrain from cursing them out, and they walk away content for having won the argument.

He lets them have it, because the next day he'll be back to work in Darkwood before they even notice he's gone. No matter how much they'd like to supervise, they're stretched too thin to genuinely have any say in where anyone goes, these days. And that's the victory he walks away with in turn.

The Lamb really doesn't get enough credit.

Sometimes in general, but more specifically, it's Narinder's frankly baffling choice to underestimate them today. For Lamb's sake-- They'd already usurped the guy.

And yet here he is, out in Darkwood, crouched a few feet away from a large, unsuspecting gamefowl. Still bandaged up, and infuriatingly, separated from the group.

They dip past the physical limits of their solid body to melt straight down into the ground, and teleport to a sudden rise in front of him. They hear the bird squawk and fly away behind them over Narinder's shocked yowl.

"Lamb--!"

"Hi." They wave, and their crusader's axe obligingly flits back into the crown atop their head.

"...You followed me," he sneers, standing from where he'd scrambled back into the brush.

"Just had a hunch," they drone. "Where are the others?"

"They found an alcove full of berries and decided to rest for a picnic," he explains, clearly annoyed. The Lamb suppresses an irritated sigh, not wanting to agree with him, but also this is absolutely not the place for a picnic.

"Okay," they bleat pleasantly, "And why didn't you stay with them?"

"Believe it or not, they were not exactly keen on inviting me to sit there and watch them eat. At least someoneought to be making themselves useful, anyway."His ears perk and twitch at something, and he glances around.

The Lamb crosses their arms, and regards him.

"You're trying to piss me off."

"Godhood has granted you its arrogance, I see," he hums, unsheathing his hunting knife. "I am trying to do my job."

"You're not supposed to be--"

"Hush."

"Eck-f*cking-scuze me--?"

The knife zips past their face, a scant inch away from clipping their ear, and hits something with a wet crunch.

The Lamb turns, and watches an Old Faith archer slump forward, gagging. The blade juts from their neck.

Okay, fine. That was impressive. And judging by the smug look on his face, he very much knows that. But the fact that there's hidden heretics around means there's suddenly something much more important to focus on.

"The party," they draw their axe, "Where are they?"

"They've camped due east."

The Lamb squints. Narinder sighs, a growl on the tail end of it, and just points. They start in that direction at once.

"Stay here."

He sputters. "No?"

The Lamb pauses in their run, whirling around on him.

"Narinder, I'm serious."

"As am I," he trudges to catch up. "The heretics may have us surrounded, and I will not be fodder."

They glare, feeling their teeth sharpen. They can't argue with that, and they hate that, but there shouldn't be any argument. He's already tried their patience once today. In the end, they decide they can't afford to waste time on this.

The Lamb makes a noise they didn't know they were capable of, half snarl, and puts their hands together as if in prayer. This is something they'd been wanting to try, anyway.

Narinder steps back, eyeing them, sensibly wary.

"What are you doing?"

"Shush, I'm giving you something."

It's sort of like the resurrection ritual, in that feeling of plucking something from somewhere that they cannot see, but deeply know. Like sticking their hand in a familiar basket and being able to feel around for what they want without looking inside.

Narinder glances back, looking ready to run. But the curse is presented to him, and he recognizes it with wide eyes that reflect its unholy flames. It dances in their hands, burning them from the inside. They endure it, and hold the half-tangible shard of magic out to him.

He takes it. The force of it makes him wince, makes his eyes roll back and burn bloody as it courses its way in, but he recovers in hardly a moment. He opens his palm, and marvels quietly at the fire under his control.

"Hah!" the Lamb claps, "Super glad I didn't accidentally just shoot you."

Narinder double takes, lip curling. The fire goes out in a curl of embers as he drops his arm.

"...Indeed. I need not your pity, Lamb, given enough time I could summon my own--"

"No time," feeling forced to, the Lamb grabs him by the wrist and starts running towards where Narinder pointed them.

And then, in the direction of the screaming.

There's maybe a half dozen heretics when they get there, all armed in spears. The party is cornered, with the bravest of their number holding her hunting knife out and shielding her fellow hunters behind a wing.

Before the Lamb can say anything, Narinder fires a blast at the nearest aggressor, reducing them to smoldering chaff. The rest target the pair at once, and the Lamb charges in.

Narinder stays back, targeting those furthest away that the Lamb isn't currently busy cutting to ribbons. He's got great aim. He actually manages to light someone's entire head on fire, and the Lamb dashes forward to liberate it from their shoulders with a wide swing of their axe.

They laugh. Some parts of this job can actually be easy.

The ground rumbles under their feet, and that thought is quickly extinguished.

A massive bagworm, heavily spiked and very well fed, lunges up from the dirt. The good news is, it sends two of the heretics flying with it.

The bad news is, it aims to land right on top of the little group of hunters. The Lamb shouts something, and they scramble. The thing cracks against the gnarled roots of the tree they were huddled in front of, bare inches away.

"Everyone, run!" the Lamb yells again, and gets the wood handle of a spear broken across their face for their distraction. Dazed and angry, they tear open their soul and release the flaming hounds that simmer within it.

The hounds make short work of the last of the heretics, roaring and tearing through metal and flesh at the speed of wildfire. Flame rips a path down the lush forest grass, turning the clearing into a hellscape of black fire and viscera. Someone screams.

There is still the issue of the worm. The fire terrifies it, sending it into erratic thrashing that scores the ground and trees with its spikes. Narinder blasts it from the safety of a tree branch, and his aim is good, but the thing just won't stop moving long enough to give him a clear shot at its head.

He notices the Lamb just standing, and swears at them. "What are you waiting for? Get--"

They're dashing for it before he can finish berating them. The worm leaps for them, clearing right over their head. Axe in hand, they swing up hard enough to sever its midsection, disemboweling it.

The top half of the worm lands, gnashing rows and rows of teeth, directly into one of the little hunters frozen in terror. Again, someone screams. The pup in question makes no sound as they're shredded in the worm's thrashing maw. The Lamb feels it when the life is snuffed out of them painfully, but quickly.

The worm dies too quickly to toss them away or eat them, and what's left of the body remains stuck in its teeth, silently riding the worm's twitching death throes.

Narinder hops down from his perch behind them. He approaches the Lamb, and surveys the carnage around them with a critical eye. The fires have died down with the Lambs rage, and have left little more of the heretics than blackened ash and clean bones.

"Such unchecked destruction," he remarks, idly watching the other hunters approach the body of their fallen friend, some panicked and nauseated, and one inconsolable. "You fight like a tidal wave, still."

The Lamb silently watches their followers grieve. They remember to move in once one of them shouts for their leader, begging for help with what to do next about Cal's body.

"A funeral," Narinder explains from a far enough distance that they can see the crowd gathered in the garden, but can hear no eulogy. The wind carries only the smell of wildflowers. "The Lamb has chosen to observe the passing of their dead through burial rites."

"...Not the most creative route," Aym murmurs. Baal jabs him with an elbow. "Ow! What? It surprised me. I just thought they may have-- I don't know, invented something."

"...They do tend to go their own way with things, don't they?" Baal concedes the point, after a moment. Narinder hums, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"The usurper was once as mortal as anyone. Burials are a practice as old as mourning," he reminds them.

"Do you think maybe it was a ritual their own people once held?" Baal muses.

"Who knows," his brother shrugs.

Narinder supposes the Lamb would have been born too late to know. He doesn't bother bringing that up. Baal speaks up again after watching the the proceedings a bit longer.

"What killed it?"

"They were a hunter. But for want of any skill, they travelled in fear," Narinder explains pointedly. "It was only a matter of time before one of them fell to the wilds."

Aym snorts. It's not a noise Narinder has heard out of him, and his glance appears to leave the warrior a little abashed about it.

"...Hunters, intheir fluffy little cult of weaklings," Aym puffs himself up. "Death should be a common outcome, then."

"They have to get meat somehow," Baal offers. "There is always so much food here, we can smell it on the wind."

"...Right about now, usually," Aym finishes.

The three are silent. When the twins were his sentinels, he'd taken great care to instill within them patience as a skill. And as such, he can nearly feel it when that patience wanes between them. Baal's hands folding. Aym's claws drumming on the hilt of his glaive. As ever, he will outwait them.

"...I suppose the ritual would have interrupted... other daily proceedings?" Baal eventually breaks first.

"Like supper," Aym breaks less subtly. Baal shoots him a dirty look.

"...I wager that cadaver over there was not the only one unsuccessful with his prey," Narinder hazards tonelessly.

"We were successful! The forest has plenty of game this time of year," Baal defends quickly, procuring some folded parchment from his satchel. It still bleeds a little.

"Then?"

More silence.

"...It smells better when they cook it here," Aym grumbles.

Narinder sighs through his nose. He turns, and the twins straighten to attention. He walks past them, towards the kitchens.

"Come, then." He supposes no one will bother them until after the funeral is over. There will be no better time to instruct the two warriors on the concept of coal grilling.

-

As expected, the kitchen is empty. Also as expected, his acolytes haven't the first idea how anything in it works. They take their guesses and waffle around, sniffing at cookware and treating the stove as if it's some sort of ornery creature likely to bite them, until Narinder silently takes the flanks of meat from them and takes matters into his own hands. He shows them how to light it. All at once the two are silent and staring round-eyed at the meat over the other side of the counter, watching it cook.

"...Why does it always smell so different coming from this place?" Aym inquires.

"The fire is not the same," Baal guesses. Aym squints at him.

"What? Fire is fire."

"Then you are just an awful cook," Baal grins, and is predictably growled at.

"It is better raw, anyway!"

"Wonderful, so you won't mind if I have your share."

"If you touch my food I will bite clean through your wrist, I swear--"

"It is the seasoning." Narinder glances between them, and they both know well enough when his patience is at its end. They quiet themselves.

The two spend some time waiting. This part of the village will yet be quiet for some time. All the better, then. No one will notice if he were to send the twins away with a few pouches of ground herbs. Even if they do not end up using them, spices can fetch a hefty price on the road. If they are clever about it, the two could gouge any travelling merchant for all they're worth.

"...Your mother," Narinder speaks when the curiosity bubbles up, "How does she fare?"

The two perk up in unison. They exchange a quick look, and it is Baal who answers.

"She is well. Our mother has experience with the world so unlike our own," he reports with a gentle smile.

"...She is a little odd," Aym mutters, staring with forced patience at the meat. "But... no more than everything else in this blasted world is. She is something of a... poet."

"Our mother simply sees the world in ways we'd have never considered. She always counsels joy, even for even the smallest of daily wonders. They are such strange philosophies, master, I wish you could hear how she speaks--" Baal muses, but cuts himself off as if he's misstepped. The two of them exchange another quick look, and watch him quietly.

His brow furrows. He turns the steaks over with a knife.

"...I sense there is something you wish me to remain ignorant of," he guesses flatly.

"Not at all! Ah," Baal defends quickly, and seems to chew on some thought. "...It is only... We have been informed of some... some things," he finishes lamely.

"Things," Narinder repeats.

"That is, our circ*mstances," Baal says. "Mother told us how we were sent away to you."

He stills, and listens.

"Master-- did you know her, before us?" Baal presses on. Narinder tries to remember her face, as seen by the Lamb through the Crown. Not even her name had rung any bells.

"I did not," he admits, and sees the moment the two are emboldened when they know their curiosity will be indulged. Aym steps forward.

"She says we were taken as gifts to you, back then. But she did not want to part with us, and you were already long since trapped," he explains. Narinder does not hide his surprise.

Gifts. He'd always assumed they were intended as wardens, or something of the like. But keepers forgotten by their sender, and so left to grow with no influence but his own.

In hindsight, the truth makes a little more sense.

Except-- "From whom?"

The two look between each other again, hesitant, and it tries his nerves.

"Answer me."

They answer together, "Shamura," and from there their words devolve into cacophony.

"They did not-- she says they worried for your isolation, how it might have been affecting your mind, or--"

"And so long after they had been the one to put you down there in the first place, I do not know what sort of gesture--"

Narinder skewers the steaks and pins them to the counter beside the grill with a decisive thud, and the boys heed the signal for silence.

He gives them both a long look through his veil. They watch, simply waiting to see what he will do. He suppresses a sigh, and tilts his chin up in the direction of their food.

"Eat, then," he reminds them. "Before the crowd arrives." He'll not be caught here, and mistaken for a cook.

The two blink, but move to serve themselves. He does not expect they'll be returning the plates. Those living nomadic lifestyles ought to be opportunistic about their supplies. He digs around a nearby storage box for cloth, now that he's thinking about it.

"... You are looking better these days, Master," Baal carefully changes the subject. Narinder does not acknowledge it. But when Baal is not chastised, he continues.

"It has been... difficult to adjust, at times. Neither of us remember being born here. And life is so--" he struggles with the word.

"Loud?" Aym supplies through a large mouthful of meat.

"Revolting?" Narinder offers, levelling Aym with a pointed look until he properly swallows his food.

"So much," Baal decides on, over a soft laugh. "It is overwhelming. But I cannot help but be grateful for it, anyway."

Narinder ties a good portion of some ground minerals and herbs into small satchets, and does not think of his unchaining, or his unmaking. He does not think of falling ill surrounded by the dead of a cult he had intended to devour, who now revere him as mythos, or of dreaming the sensation of being cradled in wool. He does not think of two newborn kittens held in scarred spider claws.

"I suppose that is just as well. It will only continue to overwhelm." he hums, and tosses the satchets over the counter. Baal catches them with wide, inquisitive eyes, and his brother leans over to sniff at them. The two can figure out what to do with those. Or they won't. He has no reason to care.
He instructs them when they ask.

Boom, boom.

If the Lamb ever slept these days, the noise definitely would have woken them. The living quarters aren't situated anywhere near the entrance to the gateway, and so they can sense no one awake when they go outside to check. They can't see anything happening from here, but for a bleary second they wonder if Fate has suddenly decided it'd be a fun new twist on their partnership if it was to start trying to beat the sh*t out of the Lamb on the regular. At least until they eventually won. They just think: Thismight as well happen, and head out to investigate.

The gateway is closed when they get there, and there is no sign of Fate. But the Lamb only needs to make it as far as Narinder's shrine to see what's going on. Narinder himself stands in front of it, shrouded in his hood and veil, clutching something flat in one hand.

The other hand outstretches, and the ground cracks open in front of the Lamb's feet. A pike shoots up from it, and the Lamb has to leap back to avoid being impaled.

They swear. They can't see his face, but he definitely sees them.

"Woah! Watch it, you almost killed me," they shout over the space, mildly offended. He hums, noncommittal, flipping through what they now see is a loose book.

"Pity. It appears this form has impaired my aim, somewhat."

The Lamb dusts themself off and steps forward, squinting into the new moon dark. They recognize that attack-- of course they do. They'd had to evade it by the dozens when they'd gone up against his sentinels, and then by the hundreds against him. It actually stings a bit that they nearly got skewered with only one, just now.

"How'd you do that? Without... Y'know," they gesture vaguely at the top of their head with a free hand, vaguely hoping to avoid a potential sore spot while he's feeling stabby.

"Divinity is a benefit to magic. But it is not the only avenue for it. You stole my Crown, but you cannot take the knowledge of centuries from me." he explains, curtly. They get close enough to see the book in his hands-- nothing more than a few loose sheafs of paper sewn haphazardly together with twine-- but stop there.

"I actually thought you left me with everything in that grimoire," they say. "But I guess that'd be silly to hope for, now that I know you were just planning to kill me."

They're not trying to make him uncomfortable, not really. Some regret would be nice, sure, but they're certainly not gonna hope for it.

"...Hmf. I left you with most of it. Withholding power from previous vessels led to the swiftest downfalls. But the power to create, and unmake, is yours to learn." Narinder spits it, surprising them with his vitriol.

"That is what you should be doing with your time," he continues, "Instead of aimlessly wandering the old lands and moping over lost souls."

"I'm trying," they growl, but offer him no excuse beyond that. But they feel that they have plenty. Purgatory has not been good to them, and the cult needs them. And they have to be so careful where they wander in the overworld now, or else they could open some doors that have no business even existing.

He just stands there with his little book, like a specter before his own fountain. A wraith, maybe. He doesn't even look like he breathes.

Narinder says, "You are struggling."

"No sh*t," the Lamb snaps. "And if you're not going to help, get to bed already so you can come back out here, bright and early, and fill up all these new holes in the ground tomorrow."

They still can't see his face, but they know he's watching them. His attention has never been easily ignored; not back when he was the creeping chill of Death down their spine, and not now that they can see a glimmer of deep crimson in his eyes when they tilt their blade to catch what little light the stars share into them.

The Lamb looks down with a slight start. They hadn't even noticed they'd summoned their sword.

They look at him again, and dissipate it. They think they see his notebook lower, like his shoulders relax a fraction, but it's too easily imagined for them to trust it.

"...I can provide you a starting point. A boon for a boon," Narinder speaks up. For a second, the Lamb doesn't quite process what he's offering them.

"... You'll help me?"

"Your strength is there. It lacks wisdom. If I do not, I wager you would eventually incite some sort of apocalypse by attempting anything noteworthy on your own." Narinder pushes down his hood, and they note he's not wearing his veil. They suppose it tracks that he'd only need it when the sun's out.

The defensive "It wouldn't be that bad" sits at the tip of their tongue, but the Lamb is unwilling to jeopardize whatever olive branch Narinder is extending here.

So instead they ask, "What do you want in return?"

"Have someone fix your records of our war," he demands at once. "It is in the nature of gods and conquerors to rewrite history as it suits them. But conquered though I might be, I'll not abide such degradation while I yet live."

The Lamb smiles, sort of baffled. It's not what they were expecting. Their reaction pulls Narinder's face into a scowl.

"Hah. Alright, then," they nod. "So, what would 'providing me a start' entail?"

"You bring me on your crusades. I show you how to properly channel your fervor, that you may use it to bend reality as you please."

At this, the Lamb wavers. If he'd just offered a few years sooner--

"Will that be a problem?" He asks crisply, breaking them from their conflict.

"... Do we have to crusade, for you to teach me--? I mean, isn't there anything you could show me out here?" Narinder opens his mouth to argue, so they quickly add, "Just at first. Just until I can-- until things are a bit less hectic."

Narinder searches their face, wearing a contemplative frown. They put on their best, most guileless leader-smile. It disgusts him, and he shuts the book in his hand and pockets it.

"Fine, then," he waves them off. "Be here tomorrow night."

"How about morning?" they bleat, cheery. "I can do morning."

"Donot test my generosity."

"I was kidding. You're scheduled on a hunt, anyway," the Lamb gestures vaguely around the ruined landscape. "Y'know, after the hole-fixing."

Narinder squints at them, in the way he does when he definitely can't tell whether they're joking.

"...If we are to do anything of substance out here, that would be a waste of effort."

They perk up. "Are you gonna teach me how to blow things up better?"

Narinder just moves past them, barely grazing their mantle with the edge of his robes. The Lamb turns to follow him back to the commune.

"Not on purpose, I suspect," he answers.

They laugh, and try not to think about their abysmal progress with Purgatory. They force themself to instead focus on the win, and on trying to remember what the cult's written history must look like nowadays that would bother him enough to actually work with them.

-

The Lamb falls into a new routine, for a while. Sermons in the morning, on the days they can stay home. There hasn't been such a young death in recent memory, and it's shaken up the faith in how the hunters and gatherers (no longer falling under the umbrella of just "missionaries", for clarity) go about their expeditions. They're being sent out in larger groups, now, and that leaves little reason for the Lamb to go gathering resources themself. This frees them up a bit to focus on expanding and maintaining the cult again. Faith in them is actually at a peak; springtime brings with it holidays and bounty. Their followers are happy. Or at least, they're too busy to cause any trouble.

And now every day, there's a lesson. Or, training. Narinder doesn't seem too bothered about what they call it.

They're short affairs, taking place by the fountain just outside the gateway. Curiously, it's only ever empty when he's already out there. They wonder if Fate just doesn't bother showing itself to anyone who isn't a god. They're glad they never brought it up, if only to spare Narinder's ego.

For the most part, Narinder shows them runes and whatnot. The first session was essentially just meditation. They were really expecting... more, they suppose, and teasingly accused him of just wanting to spend more time with them.

He had responded by cracking open his third eye to glare at them, and violently impaling them on a series of spectral spikes. It happened so fast that it hadn't actually hurt.

But it was still incredibly rude, and they told him so about a minute later as soon as they warped back over, wringing the ichor out of their cloak and wearing a big, false, saccharine smile.

"Hey, so, what the f*ck?"

Narinder did not move from where he sat, still only peeking at them with the topmost eye.

"Those had been waiting in formation under you this entire time. The fact that you cannot even sense impending death in yourself or others is exactly the sort of failing you must rectify."

"Bullsh*t. You just wanted to murder me."

"And you," he stood, "Failed to stop me."

They got the sense that, had he been able to, he would have dismissed them back to the cult right then like he had in the gateway. But he wasn't the one in charge here anymore, and they stood their ground and glared at him.

"... Try it again," they demanded. "I wasn't ready."

They could swear he almost smiled under that veil. The Lamb had to do their best to try to hate the swell of pride that bubbled up at the thought.

So, the two meet sporadically. Either Narinder seeks them out and informs them it's time to go ("Not now, can't it wait?" "It is now, or tomorrow." "I'm kind of in the middle of something here." "Your dissenter will still be in the pillory when you return." "I'm not dissenting! I just took a little from the collection bowl, I said I was sorry!' "Quiet, you"), or the Lamb will be caught by an unexpected free moment in their day, and they'll take advantage of it by finding Narinder and bodily pulling him away from whatever chore he's scheduled on. He gets annoyed when they teleport in front of him on a hunt. So they do that often. It's worth almost taking a dagger to the face, once in a while.

A little more than once in a while. Maybe it's all his new energy, now that he's eating right and more or less actively participating in life, but Narinder is sort of insufferable. He's argumentative, he's picky, and he speaks with a cruel streak that off-puts everyone around him.

And gods help them, the Lamb missed this. Even though it is, technically, a new development. He's been alive for a while now, but he hasn't been properly lively since before he descended. It's almost a relief to see him capable of getting angry enough to threaten them with knives and spells, despite knowing how quickly the Lamb could eviscerate him with a single thought.

Maybe they're crazy. But knowing that doesn't stop them from showing up late to one of their meetings, wearing a lovely crown of brightly colored flowers woven around their horns. Narinder sneers at them as if they'd shown up covered in mud and sh*t.

"I take it you are not even late for a good reason."

"I had a great reason! Everything's in bloom," they bleat happily, plopping down to take a seat on the grass next to him. His ears go flat. "It's just such a nice day, I had to give everyone a holiday. There's a whole circle of people making these near the plaza. Aww, don't give me that face-- I got you one, too."

Narinder sneezes. "Get that away from me."

The Lamb grins wide. That was the cutest little noise to come out of a murderous ambush predator. They file that information away for later.

"Hah. What, hay fever? You never complained about that before."

"If your cult was so choked in pollen before, I had not been awake for it."

Something in them softens a little, despite themself.

"Well, I'm glad you are, now."

Narinder scowls, clearly uncomfortable. He rubs at his nose, and looks away from them.

"Throw that away before I set both it and you aflame."

"Show me how, and I'll do it myself."

-

The Lamb goes out crusading often enough, but not anywhere accessible to anyone still bound to the mortal coil. They don't bring it up. They try to keep their attempts through Purgatory around the evening, so they know they can rest up once they return. They're still not used to how time screws with them, out there. It never feels like they're gone for any less than a few hours, and sometimes it's days. And then they come home, and a concerned follower furrows their brow at them and informs them "No, leader, we do not have any updates on construction. It's only been a few minutes."

This is fine. A little meditation in the temple, and they're always good as new and ready to take on the next inevitable challenge. The next plan for the next plot of land, or the next resource crisis, or the next food spoilage emergency, or the next needy creature begging them for silly things found in needlessly dangerous places. The next everything.

They think Narinder stares at them sometimes, when they return from these longer trips. They can never catch him in the act. They swear he turns away whenever they look at him.

They're gone for a week that is not a week, the next time, when they feel a presence sneaking up on them on their walk to the temple. They nearly jump out of their skin, and rear around at it with a dagger in hand.

Narinder stands stock-still, mid motion to tap at their shoulder. Their dagger is poised at his throat.

"...It is me," he says, eyes wide.

The Lamb blanches, embarrassed. The dagger melts in their hand and returns to their head, and they straighten.

"f*ck, Nari, have I mentioned that you ought to be the one wearing a bell?" They swear, he doesn't make any noise when he walks.

He blinks. And then his lip curls, and he looks utterly disgusted.

"'Nari'?"

Someone shouts something in the plaza. Another voice joins it, and neither of them sound all too happy. The Lamb turns toward the ruckus-- two followers, ones they only vaguely recognize, embroiled in some sort of public spat. Others who were returning to their homes for the evening either pick up the pace, or stop at a surreptitious distance to stare. Great.

"Oh, hells, what now?" they complain, not really meaning to do so out loud.

"They still quarrel over the same problem you 'handled' this morning," Narinder tisks.

"...Right. Uh, remind me what that was again?"

Narinder stares at them. He very overtly searches between their eyes for something. Their cheeks go warm, and it's upsetting.

"I'll handle it," they blurt, unnervingly certain that was the same exact thing they said last week, and trot to approach the conflict.

"--Never told you to expect a miracle, you can't blame me for--"

"You're a snake and a heretic, and his death is gonna be on your hands!"

"Woah, okay," the Lamb steps in front of them, and happily, they both freeze for a second at the sight of them. Good. Good sign. "What has happened?"

"Leader, this-- wretch refuses to pay her debt to me! She's lying her way out of it--" the frog-- Rogden, gatherer, no family except for a brother, intrusively coprophobic-- immediately points a finger. His other hand clutches an empty bottle.

"I gave him what I promised! He's just being unreasonable because it didn't work out like he wanted--" Haffie, brewer's apprentice, third generation on her father's side, going through an awkward breakup, doesn't know how to tell her mother she hates the family cauliflower roast recipe-- she's a mouse, and she's yelling.

"One at a time. Rogden," the Lamb gestures to let the angrier one speak first, hoping it'll cool him down a little. They vaguely remember mediating some sort of money issue between them, but neither were being very specific when they had. They figured it must not have been a big deal.

"Leader, you know my brother fell ill some weeks ago. He hasn't improved, he only grows weaker, and this-- chemist sold me a potion that was supposed to help him!" Rogden speaks almost in one breath, holding up the empty bottle. There's no writing or labeling on it, or anything.

The Lamb frowns. "That ... Sounds as though it's something you should have gone to the healers with."

"They can't help! And she swore she could, so long as I paid--"

"I said it might be able to help with the pain. I never promised a cure!" Haffie interrupts. The Lamb holds their hands up to quiet them both.

"Peace. Haffie, what were the terms as you remember them?"

"It's the truth!" she squeaks in a rush, "And he came to me! I told him I could make something that might help it hurt less, so long as he grabbed the ingredients."

"And my gold," Rogden spits.

"Yeah, payment. Because I made what I said I would, and you took it. How is that not fair?" She implores them both, looking to the Lamb for help. All it takes is a sift through her surface thoughts to confirm what she says is the truth, as she believes it. Rogden is being unreasonable, and is clearly trying to take his anger and frustration out on her.

Rogden, unfortunately, also seems to believe he's telling the truth. Haffie is a liar by omission, and she clearly used his grief to con him.

The Lamb suppresses a sigh. Honestly, these things would be so much simpler if someone would just lie out their ass every once in a while. No one's ever trying to be the villain.

"Liar! I paid you for a cure-- the amount reflected that! Those were my wages for the entire month."

Haffie throws her hands up, and steps a little behind the Lamb. "How was I supposed to know? It's what you offered!"

"Stop playing stupid, you heathenous little rodent! You ought to be the one fighting to breathe--"

"Hey! None of that," the Lamb shouts over them both. Rogden's holding that bottle too much like a weapon for their liking, and they're not the only one to notice. A crowd has gathered by now, some trying to step in with their own feedback, most staying back and watching and whispering. Someone rushes in to get their hand on it, and another on his shoulder.

"Hey, woah, Rogden, calm down, she's just a cub--" Bassot, lumberjack, plays cards with Rogden, already late to dinner-- that follower speaks up.

"Cub my foot, she's old enough to brew that poison, she's old enough to be held accountable for it!" Rogden shrugs away his friend's hands, as an older mouse bustles through the crowd at the ruckus.

"Haffie?" Edalie, retired, mother of five, respected in her sewing circle, secret kleptomaniac tendencies-- "What in Lamb's name is going on?"

"Mom," Haffie holds her hands out, panic rising, "It's okay, keep back, I'm handling this--"

"Your daughter's a sinner, Eda, did you know that?"

"Rogden!" --Wagbert, priest, poor vision, sweet tooth, gambling habit-- "That is enough, brother."

"Don't you 'brother' me right now, preacher man, when my only brother's dying in a healer's cot--"

"Everyone, calm down," the Lamb holds up their hand. Rogden backs off a bit, but the voices in the crowd overlap in whispers.

"What's going on over there? Is that Haffie?" --Rickit, paint mixer, learning to read, compulsively picks her skin, left handed--

"Oh, Lamb, what now?" --Laszla gatherer bad knees lute-enthusiast nut allergy adulterer-- "Wasn't she already in trouble this morning?"

"I didn't do anything wrong," Haffie (scared angry cheated wondering where her sisters are) tries again, pleading with the Lamb. They try to remember how much information they're supposed to have at this moment.

"Perhaps we can compromise. Can you return half of what he paid you?"

"...Um, the gold, maybe, but--"

"I brought her a pound of menticide," Rogden (angry hurting exhausted cheated disgusted) declares, and a new chorus of whispers rumble out. "She had me gather a whole shelf of the wild ones. All for her and her degenerate friends, no doubt--"

Edalie makes an outraged noise and startles the crowd when she moves forward, looking entirely ready to go at Rogden with her cane. Her daughter lunges to hold her back by the arm while scrambling to explain over her mother's swearing.

"--You web-toed runt of a man, how dare--!"

"Mom--! It's-- it's gone, I swear, it wasn't for me! I needed it for the brew! it was an experiment, so I had to have extra of everything so I could get the final batch right--"

"Oh, young one," --Tilly, brewer, teeth, expecting second child, lungs, "You've gone and played with fire."

"Hang on, hang on, menticide actually has some anaesthetic applications-- it's not very well studied, but--" --Pasha, healer, hates beetroot, heart, spine, sinew--

"Experiment?" --Antreon, priest, fur, nerves, fat, lungs, "On a sick man? Lamb have mercy!"

Rogden-- skin, nerves, teeth, heart-- yells over the din, gesturing to the crowd at large."See? You all see what I mean! This girl is a peddler is a heretic, and needs to be slain over the altar to atone for it!"

"Do it, then." --Familiar.

The Lamb is not the only one to snap to attention at the sound of Narinder's voice. Some of the crowd actually sidles and skitters back on his approach. It's a fair reaction-- he's regarded as a menacing presence at the best of times.

Even more so, at this exact moment. He pulls a large hunting dagger from his sleeve, and wraps a steady claw around the blade to offer the hilt to Rogden. The bewildered frog just stares between it and Narinder's veiled expression, not looking particularly comfortable with either.

"Well?" Narinder continues. "You are so certain of what is good for your brethren, and even the will of your almighty. So why not fully go above them, and carry it out yourself?"

His hand is firm around the blade's edge. If Rogden does try to take it, he might slice right through Narinder's skin if he isn't careful. Narinder just gives the knife a little shake, encouraging.

"Go on, then. You openly advocate for the girl's death." He sounds bored. "So kill her."

Edalie pulls her daughter close, protective. Rogden looks horrified, but it's a bit too late for him to save face. The crowd starts to shift and murmur uncomfortably. The Lamb takes the moment's opportunity to sort of mentally recalibrate what senses are fully theirs, and what the Crown is filtering through them.

They step forward, clearing their throat.

"As lively as an extrajudicial execution would be, I do not think that's where we want our night to go, mm?" They smile softly, feeling new fangs stretch their jaw. Rogden pales.

"N... No, leader. I, I did not actually mean--"

"You should be with your brother. Pasha, would you mind--? Thank you. And Tilly, I believe you and your apprentice ought to have a conversation--" the Lamb redirects the crowd, seamless and serene, and hears Narinder sheathe the blade behind them with a quiet scoff.

-

The Lamb lays flat on their back in front of the fountain, staring numbly into the stars. There are more clouds out tonight than anything, but it's about the principle of the thing. That humming, buzzy chest feeling of their nerves coming down had finally abated as they followed Narinder back to the fountain, and with them went the rest of their energy for the night. Whatever the brewer girl's mother did to her was probably going to be punishment enough without the Lamb having to do anything. Which was fine, because they could, quite simply, not be assed to do any more things tonight. It has been a long, long week.

"Purgatory, then?" Narinder surmises.

"Purgatory," they grumble.

"Given the amount of filth and wool growth you have been managing to accumulate in sporadic spans of minutes, I'd suspected as much."

The Lamb scrubs a palm down their face, cheeks burning.

"...Yeah. I, um. Spend a lot of time there."

Narinder idly inspects his hands. They wonder if he actually did cut himself back there.

"Mm. I had been wondering what became of my realm, after you."

The Lamb squints up at the sky. Something about the emptiness between the stars sort of makes them want to squirm.

"...Is that all there is, now?"

"It is all you can reach, I imagine," Narinder hums. "...For now."

They let out a weak chuckle, pressing the heels of their palms into their eyes. They didn't think gods could get headaches.

"...You will see consequences if you continue to lose time beyond the veil that way," Narinder supplies after a second. They already do, but they're not about to admit that. Humiliatingly, they suspect they don't have to.

"It's hard to stop once I've started," they admit instead, bleating a quiet sigh. "Maybe I shouldn't do it so often."

Narinder remains standing, hands folded in the sleeves of his robes. They can't make out whether he's looking up too, or towards the entrance to the compound.

"...You have an endless amount of time to do with what you will," he muses. It doesn't make them feel better. They redirect.

"Thanks for helping me out back there."

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Yes, you did," they grin up at him, catching an upside down scowl from their angle, "You did something nice."

"I earnestly encouraged your followers to start slaughtering each other," he deadpans.

They try not to laugh. Rogden genuinely looked like he was going to sh*t the floor back there.

"You knew what you were doing." The Lamb stretches out, languid. "You always do."

He ogles them, all three eyes reflecting harsher red than whatever streams through the fountain, and the Lamb decides they like how he looks when he clearly has no godsdamned clue what to make of them.

"Hey, Nari?"

He bristles. "Stop calling me that."

"Give me back the knife," they bleat pleasantly. "You're supposed to turn those in."

He stills, and for a moment it looks like he's going to try and play innocent. They hold out a hand, placid and expectant.

"Come on, Nari," they coo, just to piss him off more. And they know well enough to immediately roll out of the way to avoid taking that knife between the eyes. Good thing, too; he'd chucked it so hard that half the blade embeds into the dirt.

The Lamb leads Narinder out into Anura, early in the morning when the light has broken, but the air is still chilled. As far as he is aware, this is the first overworld crusade they've been on in quite some time. He wonders if they're trying to kill him.

If they were going to, they probably wouldn't lead him out into the woods to dispatch him in secret like some unwanted pet. He can't quite say why he thinks that. He concludes they'd likely be either too sentimental, or too much of a show-off to go about it that way.

Still. "Do you plan on killing me out here?" Nothing to be lost for sating his curiosity while he waves away the jungle flies.

The Lamb, rather predictably, rolls their eyes at him.

"No." A pause. "Maybe. ... I'm kidding. Look, you said you wanted to tag along out here as part of our deal, right?"

Narinder's first instinct is to bristle.

"It would be practical." He never said want.

The Lamb hops clean over a large toadstool. "Right. So, speaking of practical. With this in mind, and since you're out here often enough already and all-- We should pay a friend of mine a visit."

"...A friend," Nadinder parrots dubiously, simply walking around the same toadstool.

"What? I have friends!"

"I have seen your interactions. You have worshipers, allies, and suppliers."

They pout, but then brighten with a spark of mischief. Their face makes him miss his knife.

"Mm. So, which one does that make you?"

Narinder scowls, and refuses to answer. He won't bother with them again until they reach their destination.

There's hardly any call for it, anyway. Anura, at least this far in, is quieter than it was ever supposed to be. Years of grandstanding and violence have apparently made their mark on the land. There isn't a true heretic in sight. There are signs of them; gnarled trunks of ancient tree-like mushrooms bear nicks and scorch marks, and blackened branch systems that were once bushes litter the battlefields like claws jutting from the earth. There are the occasional bones, but no fresh blood. Narinder can see where that blood once soaked into the soil by the patterning of opportunistic fungus, where it is young and thriving. The jungle floor is absolutely infested with it.

A particularly brave hopper tries to accost them, at one point. The Lamb is so fast to brutally dispatch it that Narinder almost doesn't register it. They yank their sword from out between its eyes, and peer back at him with an expectant grin.

He says nothing. Their days of so easily earning his praise for their violence died with his godhood.

They scoff, disappointed, and trek onwards. He allows his mouth to quirk once they're not looking. There is some small satisfaction to be had in how they clearly still seek some validation from him, no matter how their dynamic has changed. He has no intention of giving it.

The brush stretches ever deeper, but soon enough, there is a path. Created only by trodden over grass, and easy to miss. But the Lamb leads him down it, and towards the emergent stench of hot iron choking the air.

He knows the being sitting by their forge. The Lamb knows them too, and greets Kuudai with a quick bow.

"Ahh. This place has grown quiet, and I wondered if perhaps I'd seen the last of you, too. Perhaps it may be time to take my forge elsewhere," says the blacksmith.

"You already have and already will," the Lamb points out amiably.

Kuudai regards Narinder. Narinder stares back. After a second, he offers a short, perfunctory bow in greeting. The Lamb double-takes, which he believes implies some rude assumptions about his manners.

"Blacksmith," he says simply.

"Hmm. You are changed, but less so than you look. Smaller, yes, but with the weight of wisdom beyond centuries bearing down on you. I imagine you two have found some kinship in that," Kuudai muses.

"Perhaps not in wisdom," Narinder does not hesitate to correct. The Lamb balks.

"You two already know each other?"

Kuudai croaks out a chuckle. "Of course. My steel has sent an uncountable number of souls directly to the One Below. You participated in much of that, yourself."

Narinder ignores the Lamb's gawking, and just nods.

"It did. And I would be remiss not to recognize the being by whose instruments the Old Faith was ended."

"It seems we all had roles to play in your prophesied holy war, at the end of it all. Tell me-- do you consider me a participant, for simply having followed my nature?"

Narinder thinks on this. "No more or less than I was, if our consent to participate hinged only on one 'following one's own nature'."

"Oh? Having sown so many seeds of that destruction yourself, I would have imagined you with a different perspective."

"Whatever I had sown has only recently been reaped by my enemies and champion," Narinder defends, a bit curtly. "But I and mine had already reaped destruction fivefold, now a millennium ago."

Kuudai hums. "Is that how you see it? Violence forever begets violence, I suppose. An aspect of nature which we share. A blade forged for benign purposes may still be picked up to deal vengeance and death."

Narinder tilts his head. "To deal death is my purpose."

"I suppose it was, once," Kuudai finishes, and the sting of it shows in how Narinder's ears flatten dangerously.

The Lamb pokes their head in between them, piping up.

"So anyway! I know this isn't normally how we do things, but I have a request."

Kuudai's attention shifts squarely onto the Lamb, as does Narinder's. They fluff up their fleece, and hold their hands apart in a vague measuring gesture.

"I'd like a blade. Something good sized-- versatile, I guess. And permanent."

"That is not within my power. Yours eventually consumes anything forged for you in its bloodlust."

"It isn't for me." They gesture to Narinder, allowing him the indignity of a double take this time. He says nothing.

Kuudai looks between them, letting out a low, trilling noise in thought.

"... Interesting. Steel for hands that have dealt unfathomable death, but never so personally."

"I'll pay whatever you'd like," The Lamb offers at once.

"Give me some time, and I will have something suitable."

The Lamb blinks, then smiles brightly with another bow.

"Thank you. Oh, Clauneck says hi, by the way."

"...That is certainly not true."

"Yeah, but I told them you did, too," they shrug. "Just figured it might be nice to know you're all doing well."

Kuudai does not respond. Narinder thinks he sees some humor in the click of their beak.

He follows the Lamb out in silence, back into the brush. He nearly loses them when they skip several feet ahead, searching for something. They're looking for a clearing, it turns out. Somewhere safe enough to sit a while.

And then they turn the Crown into a basket. They reach in, and pull out two smallish boxes, setting them on the ground. They open them, humming a bit, and reveal two packed meals from the kitchen. One vegetarian, one fully carnivorous.

The Crown blips back between their horns, and they glance up at Narinder with a patient smile.

"... Are you just gonna stand there gawking, or?"

Narinder stands there, gawking.

"Why did you do that?" he demands. Their smile twists a bit in bemusem*nt.

"... Because I figured we'd get hungry? I mean, I don't, but I still like food, and it'd be dumb and kind of rude to just pack for myself--"

"You intend to arm me," Narinder clarifies.

"Oh. Yeah?" They confirm as though it's obvious, munching on a fibrous leaf of something. "Better'f you can defend yourself out here."

"I can defend myself perfectly well."

"...So you don'f wan' th'sword."

"I did not say that. Stop talking with your mouth full."

Gulp. "You could just say 'thank you'."

"Should I? You said it yourself, it is better this way. I am out here for your benefit."

"Confradic'try baftard."

"Swallow your food."

"Why don't you get over here and eat yours?"

Narinder squints at them. They squint back. They deliberately take another massive, disgusting bite out of a full beetroot.

Against all better judgement, Narinder joins them on the grass. He has gotten a bit better attuned to the noises and squirming his stomach makes when he neglects it for more than a day or two, and wagers he's likely due for a meal. It's one of those silly maintenance things about this body that's hard to keep track of.

The box sits in front of him. He doesn't make a move toward it until he feels the Lamb watching him in their periphery. The red meat isn't fresh, but the fish ought to be. The fishing yields have proven more reliable this season than the hunting parties, for the simple fact of more volunteers. The cult does what it can to preserve and ration its bounty, though the majority of space still is allocated to saving crops. He prefers raw over pickled, and so does what he can to steal a bit from the hunters'-- his, usually-- kills. Larceny is an offense that would send him to the pillory, but the others are hardly observant enough to notice, always too busy jumping at shadows.

Narinder is deeply uncomfortable knowing all of this. Settling into life here, like a fish slowly choking in a bowl. It is a betrayal of everything he has ever been, and bodes humiliatingly for whatever he is now.

But 'whatever he is now' must eat. And so he does.

And while he does, he eyes the Lamb. Carefree, confident Lamb, placidly munching away at grasses packed from their homestead. Sweet and utterly unbothered, if one is inclined to believe the way they carry themself. Narinder is not. To trust the outward facade of a cult leader was to invite their influence; and the Lamb's has served them well.

But it has been slipping, somewhat. Perhaps not in a way anyone else can see. Their followers are well conditioned, too blinded by faith and distracted by life to notice the acts and intents of their friendly but mysterious leader.

They seem tired.

That'd been his running theory. But he considers the food, and thinks of the primordial entity forging him a blade, and grows suspicious in a different direction.

"It's still rude to stare, y'know," the Lamb says casually, eyes still down and focused on their meal. "I mean, I know you're not gonna ever stop, but I do want you to know it's rude."

"...You know you will not be receiving anything in return for this. Our agreement was made."

"What, the meal? I didn't even make it."

He grinds his teeth. They are absolutely-- to use their diction-- f*cking with him.

"All of it," he grits out. They huff, and again he's hit with that faint note of exhaustion. Though he could very well just be imagining it.

"Again with the transactional stuff. I'm in charge, so I can just give you whatever I want, alright? I can give anyone anything and they'd just have to take it and thank me," they inform him, just a touch haughty. "I could even make someone eat sh*t, if I wanted. Just by asking."

Narinder continues to watch them, shoulders hunched and wary. The Lamb finally looks at him again, just a sidelong glance.

"...But to be honest, I kind of don't mind you being twitchy about it. Is that mean?" They huff a soft laugh. "It's just that it's something different, I guess. Not that I would mind some thanks. Or, y'know, any positive emotion from you whatsoever."

Narinder squints, unconvinced.

"...This is not another proposal, is it," he warns. The Lamb pauses.

"...Would you say yes this time if it was?"

He glares. "Read my mind and find out exactly what my reaction will be." He's not sure if cursing them out in demon's tongue aloud as much as he would like to would melt his own skin in this form, but it is a non-zero chance.

"No. I already promised not to do that."

There's a beat of silence between them. During which, the Lamb's expression fades into inscrutability.

"... Either you didn't believe me back there in the healing center, or you just don't remember. And I'm not gonna know which one until you tell me. For, y'know, obvious reasons."

Narinder takes great care to keep his expression equally neutral, unwilling to give anything away either.

"...You will not know, then," he tells them warily, unsure of its veracity, and stands.

Their ears flip up. "Um--?"

"The blade should be finished," he explains, already heading back.

"Already--? It hasn't even been an hour."

"And? It is sensible that you and the primordial forge would have conflicting perceptions of time."

"...Is it?"

"Move."

"I'm not done eating."

"Eat while you walk, then."

"Oho, someone's excited. That's cute, Nari."

The first thing Narinder will do with his new weapon, he decides, is skewer the Lamb with it.

-

Narinder does not know what he's expecting when he inspects his new weapon. But it is not the long, thin handle in his hands, edged at the top with a short, curved blade. Wickedly shaped and impossibly sharp-- no doubt the tip could puncture flesh and the length of it could dismember cleanly with a quick wrench of the arm -- but so very familiar looking from his time spent in the Lamb's cauliflower fields.

"This," Narinder intones, eyes locked on Kuudai, "Is a farming tool."

"That is not its purpose," Kuudai croaks, idly preening. "But if you are so inclined, you may now reap whatever you choose."

The Lamb does a poor job of concealing their mirth. Narinder thinks of beheading them, daydreaming that the attempt might actually stick this time.

Chapter 6: Degradation and Rampancy

Chapter Text

Spring goes on. The Lamb gets something of a rhythm going, again. They don't bother overmuch with purgatory, though it weighs at the back of their mind. But they don't learn nearly as much from it as they do from its... let's say, previous owner.

Narinder teaches them how to make up curses, with varying success. They're still far better at the ones he'd gifted them with, but it's really nice to get a handle on their magic beyond combat and ritual working. Everything that goes on in the temple is practically instinct and muscle memory; the Crown has always taken their fervor and ran with it in order to glut itself on the faith of their cult. But fine-tuning their teleportation and pyromancy with tangible results is just plain satisfying. Even their blessings seem to have a little more oomph to them.

Not all of it is easy, because of course it isn't. The old gods were ancient and esoteric. The Lamb's godhood is, as Fate so liked to remind them, very much in its infancy. They like to think themself talented-- because it's true-- but it's nevertheless frustrating when something doesn't click.

And also, as far as mentors go, Narinder is not exactly a soft touch. He's strict, demanding, and somewhat demeaning. He hasn't managed to murder them again, at least.

Well, they have died a few more times, but most of times those were as frustrating to Narinder as they were to the Lamb. Turns out, he's even less graceful about it when faced with failure than they are.

He follows them back into the commune after one such death-filled session, still berating them even once they're inside the grounds. The Lamb checks themself for any blood stains they might have missed.

"That was abysmal."

"It wasn't that bad. And you weren't exactly clear when you were explaining it."

"What is there to explain? You were to sit there, and simply feel around for the furthest end of your realm your essence could reach."

"Again, that's not an explanation. That kind of isn't anything."

"How was I meant to know you could not handle simple meditation?" Narinder raises his voice in his frustration, just a touch, while they walk. The Lamb notes a pair of farmers walking past that double-take at their argument.

"I did fine," they insist, lowering their own voice in turn.

"You communed with the space below for eight seconds, went catatonic for five minutes, and then spontaneously inverted your organs."

"It was more than eight seconds." And their whole skeleton actually went inside out too, but that's neither here nor there. Narinder is unimpressed either way.

"It was unacceptable. A fish would have better precision than what you have shown." He trails behind them, but doesn't follow their lead in volume. More followers slow to stare at them now, some stopping entirely. The Lamb can hear whispering.

They peer back at him, tense. "Stop berating me. It's rude."

"I would not be berating you, if you had shown me you have an ounce of competence in that dense, woolly little skull of-- hgck!"

The Lamb doesn't need to do more than flick their wrist to wrench Narinder's whole body off the ground, and pin him to the temple's outer wall. He scrabbles at his throat, but there's nothing occupying the pressure there that he can claw away.

They step closer, and spare a second to watch him struggle, tilting their head to the side.

"Your help has been valuable, and I appreciate it. But blaspheme at me in front of my worshipers again, and everyone will get good example of my 'precision' when you're just a smear across my shrine," they clench their hand. "Got it?"

Narinder just chokes at them.

Their lips quirk, and they release him. He falls to the grass in a gasping heap.

"Good," they bleat. And with a sidelong look, the curious followers disperse like frightened vermin. The Crown quaffs their terror-- their renewed fealty at this display of power refreshing it nicely. It's not their preferred way to harvest devotion. But they can't deny it works.

Narinder coughs, a bit shaky on all fours as he recovers. He rubs at his neck, no doubt still feeling the phantom tingle of strangulation. The Lamb feels a pang of worry, and they force it back. They know damn well by now exactly how much force it would have taken to actually asphyxiate him, and how much more to break his neck.

They also make it a point to remember what he would have done to them, had he gotten the Crown back. They stand there, impassive, and watch him catch his breath.

When he looks up at them again, it's with a weak, rasping, slightly manic laugh.

"...So you have learned something, after all," he chuckles, low and strained. Something grim and familiar shines in his eyes.

They frown and avert their gaze for a second, ears warm and twitching.

"Sure, whatever." And then, just to be contradictory, they offer him a hand up.

He flinches at it. Apprehension turns to bemusem*nt when no more punishment comes, and he looks between the proffered hand and their face.

But he takes their hand. They haul him up, and they throw themself them off a bit by overestimating his weight. He used to be so big.

Once standing, Narinder dusts himself off. He eyes the Lamb, appraising.

"We try again tomorrow, Lamb," he says, breezing past them. "I will expect your success."

"Go do your chores," the Lamb calls after him, pretending they're not still a little fluttery in the gut from the sight of that vicious smile. Even now, years after the fact, they can't forget the feeling of deep satisfaction at the prospect of earning their patron god's pride.

He still pretends he doesn't hear them, of course.

Narinder... does not hate the scythe.

Smelted in the primordial forge, the blade is pristine, tempered to a point and hardness unmatched by any earthly skill. The hilt slots into his hand so naturally that he hardly realizes he's holding it half the time, and it took hardly an hour of attunement for him to be able to tap into the metal's arcane properties. He can summon it at will now, though it is less effort to diminish it to fit into his old dagger's scabbard than it is to discorporate it every time. A reminder that it is not a part of him-- not like the Crown.

No, the Crown has left a phantom ache in the frayed hemline of his soul that he holds onto, lest he forget how it felt before it was severed from him.

But as he cleanly and noiselessly bisects a swollen Anuran bat down the middle, he concedes that the scythe makes for a nearly acceptable prosthetic.

"Hey. That's cool and all, but I can't gather as many bones if you keep doing that," the Lamb says, prodding at a wriggling half on the ground with their hoof. "I wanted that skull."

He wipes the blade on the end of his sleeve with a shrug. The material has already been worn light and sun-bleached where it isn't stiff with today's stains.

"Be quicker about your kills, then." he hums, and they roll their eyes and kneel to pick what they can anyway. "You ought to know well enough by now that victory out here is reserved for the creature most fit."

The Lamb barks a mean laugh. "You think you're more fit than me? I bet I could pick you up and throw you into that tree without even using the Crown."

"Fit as in befitting the land, you brute," he spits. "Strength alone does not guarantee survival. Especially not if your environment is one that rewards speed just as well. It is the being that has adapted better than its rivals that wins its meals."

"Yeah, yeah," they wave him off. "I think having weapons and curses adapts us pretty well to a lot of situations."

He sniffs. "Your life of indulgence and privilege in that compound of yours has already made you complacent."

"Honestly, sometimes I think you only talk just to be contradictory. We're not mindless beasts, Narinder. We're civilized," The Lamb rebuffs pointedly, as they sloppily wrench a whole rib from some particularly tricky muscle fiber with a wet tearing sound.

"Maybe so. But perhaps you might be better equipped to use those weapons if you familiarize yourself with how your prey directs its talents," Narinder goes on, keeping lookout. "Notice how few of them flee when confronted. How they do not hesitate, and refrain from exploring changes to their environment with anything but tooth and claw. The creatures here evolved for cruelty, and that is how they survive."

"...Well, have fun copying them and playing monster, then," they snicker, and he's not entirely sure why. "I'm not interested in cruelty."

Narinder scowls. "That would be a first, for you."

"Is not," they toss more of their harvest into their bag, and then use the rib to gesture at him with a grin, "I am a benevolent leader. We counsel love and forgiveness in my cult."

"You are desecrating a skeleton as we speak," he intones.

"It's not like he needs it anymore. And you even made sure he died quickly," they wipe the rib off on their cloak and toss it into their satchel. "It's not cruel to take what I need so it doesn't go to waste."

"Hmf. You are still a hypocrite." He begins pacing, always restless when left standing too long. "It is 'love and forgiveness' until someone needs to be made an example of, or sacrificed."

"And? I don't do any of that unless I have to," they argue, shaking their head and evidently deciding it's best to just keep focused on what they're doing. "Order needs to be kept. I'm not out here killing things or scaring people for fun. I didn't like the sacrifices."

A lie by omission. He remembers their rise to prominence. They disliked the concept, yes-- but the influx of power after each sacrifice? That was another story.

"Cruelty does not require sadism. You confuse the two. Actions are what they are, regardless of intention."

"Fine, whatever, I can be cruel," they huff, running their knife along the cap of fat along the back of the creature to easily free it of its spine. They're lucky enough that Narinder's cut missed most of it.

He watches. "But you do not believe that you are."

"I don't." They don't snap at him, but he thinks it's a near thing. "I don't think this guy was, either. We were both just living in a world that made us lash out whenever we could if we wanted to stay alive in it. I don't think we're the cruel ones." They are a bit more careful with the creature's bones now, he notes, no longer just tossing them into inventory.

He scowls, pacing around them in a slow circle that might have once set their instincts on edge, when they'd been a mortal herd animal. One of their ears flicks when he hums, and he wonders if they retain those instincts, still.

"The Bishops, then. If intent matters so much to you." He slows in front of them, and they meet his eye from under their wool.

"What about them?" they intone, "The whole reason I'm still alive is because you wanted me to kill them."

"I did," he relents, coming to a stop in front of them and idly running a thumb across his blade, "Just as I wanted you to start a cult in my name, and perform those sacrifices for my power."

They watch him warily from their place knelt in front of an open corpse, face still downcast towards it. Feeling compelled, Narinder moves the scythe down under their chin, tilting it up on the flat of the blade so they're looking at him properly.

"I made you do all of that. But I could not make you enjoy it." He feels a grin spread, unbidden, "And yet you did, didn't you?"

The Lamb wrenches their head away from the blade with a scoff. They believe themself defiant, but still they face him as he wanted. They glare.

"...That was different."

"Was it?" he feigns innocence, and brings the blade back up to stand with him. "Remember, your mind was once open to me. You killed them because you had to, but you relished every second of it."

He remembers, vividly. Their ferocity in battle, their fervor. It had surprised and delighted him. When first they fought Leshy, and tore through him with tidal force until he was flailing in his desperation like an exposed worm, he knew he'd chosen his vessel correctly.

(For a generous definition of the word "choice". With nothing to lose, Narinder had simply, finally, ceded his actions to the prophecy. And it did not fail him.)

"You tore their still-beating hearts from their rotting chests with your bare claws, and you felt every pulse and pop of snapping veins and bursting blood. You watched," he recalls, his glee only growing with their discomfort. Their hands lie folded on their lap, now. They are not touching the bat corpse anymore.

"Back then, I'd even thought you a vessel not only for my power, but my own rage," he finishes, inflecting it almost like a question.

"Don't be arrogant," they spit lowly. "You're not the only one who lost everything to those four."

"You don't deny it, then?"

"Of course not. I hate them," they move to sling the bag over their shoulder, but do not break eye contact. "If revenge makes me cruel, I don't care. It's nothing compared to what they've done-- and actually, look who's talking!"

"I have never denied my own cruelty," Narinder reminds them. They had not yet chained him before he left them broken for their intentions to, and even that violence had not been enough for him. "I enjoyed watching you slaughter them."

They stand, shifting the shoulder strap to fit more comfortably. "And how do you feel now?"

Narinder balks, a bit.

"Me? In the thousand-year war between myself and all my siblings, I won," he sneers after a beat. "How do you think I feel?"

"Like me, I think," the Lamb shrugs. "A little empty. Still pretty mad that everything that led to the war happened at all."

He stares at them in earnest now, wildly caught off guard. They grace him with a small, melancholy smile.

"I won too, you know," they finish, and turn to continue down the path.

Narinder eventually remembers to follow after them, once he can brush away whatever irrelevant tangent tries to latch onto the cobwebs in his mind and pull him away from the present, no doubt seeded by the Lamb's nonsense. They have bones to harvest.

But of course that is not the end of it. He knows that by the shape of the Lamb's silence as they walk together. Thoughtful. Preoccupied. He notices the trunk of a massive fungal growth coming up at the edge of their path, misshapen with squirming lumps beneath its trunk that were once unwary beasts or travelers. He briefly mulls over the merits of not pointing it out to the Lamb, just to see what would happen if they stepped in it.

The Lamb finally speaks up again before he can make a choice. They ask, "What did you do with the Bishops, once I sent them to you?"

His thoughts derailed, he hesitates. But not for long before he boils over with an old frustration.

"Hmph. Nothing."

They blink up at him and wrinkle their nose. "...Nothing?"

"As I was, there was little to be done," he explains, sighing as he yanks the Lamb's cloak to make them stumble away from the mushroom as they pass. "You had my Crown, and were siphoning too much of my power. By consuming their cores, you helped me sequester them away until I could be whole again. We would have had our confrontation then."

The Lamb bleats their surprise at his handling, stopping to glance back over their shoulder. They are momentarily stunned, but swiftly remember themself and jog to catch up with him again.

"So-- you left them in Purgatory?" they ask. He furrows his brow at their emphasis.

"If semantics concern you, I suppose we both did."

They open their mouth, about to speak, but shut it again. Their ichthyic gaping tries his patience.

"What?" he demands.

They hesitate, floundering a little more. "I just-- um. Do you know what h-- might have happened to them, after me?"

Narinder considers them for a second longer than he needs to. He sees no harm in sharing his theories. (But he will not admit to already having thought about it. Not ever.)

"...Hm. If I were to guess, I would assume some form of erasure." He looks ahead, because one of them has to stay vigilant out here. "Much was taken from them, and a soul so mangled cannot remain leaking in any one space forever. And even if they were whole enough to persevere, entropy must set in."

"...They should be gone, then," the Lamb picks up.

"Everything forgotten by the gods is destined to fade, dispersed so finely to be as if it had never existed," he grins, aware that it does not reach his eyes. "And the gods are all dead."

"...The Bishops aren't forgotten," the Lamb says.

Narinder shrugs. "Even dead gods will continue to have their following, for a short while. But the heretics too will forget. The extinction of the Old Faith is inevitable, now."

"I'm a god," the Lamb says, strangely toneless. "And I'm alive."

Narinder regards them, curious, and their unreadable expression unsettles him. They are looking directly into his eyes. Living. Full of memory. The two of them stop walking.

The Lamb says, "They're still here."

"...And you already found them," Narinder infers, equally toneless.

The Crown stares forward unblinking upon their head. The eye glows softly, pulsing with the filtration of something its host's mind would not be able to metabolize on its own.

The Lamb huffs. "I can't stop finding them. I know Purgatory is a place, but it's a place the way a body is a place, right? Like-- holding things inside it, but not stuck in any one location, really. Changing. Growing, maybe, I dunno. Maybe it's a lot of bodies," they shrug. "I keep finding their doors."

"...Their doors," Narinder inquires, keeping his voice low and carefully neutral. "Do you mean, to the Bishops' temples?"

"They are temple doors, but they're almost never attached to the actual temples anymore. Probably because I'm not seeking those out. I used to be able to go exploring so far out here, but now I know I've reached the end of my trip when the only way forward is through a heavy stone door. I don't think that's supposed to happen."

Narinder knows that is not supposed to happen. He holds his tongue.

"...Do you know what lies beyond them? Have you checked?" he asks instead. They are looking more through him than at him, now. Their voice is measured, and the Crown grows new spines.

"No, but I don't need to check. They're back there, I can feel it. It feels like death, but not in the right way-- like a chord just looping over and over again way beyond where the song was supposed to end naturally. You can't ignore it.

"They're back there like that, replaying themselves like an echo. Again and again going through the motions of consuming empty souls and twisting themselves into the forms they're supposed to take when Death comes for them. They're waiting for it."

"They are waiting for you," Narinder surmises.

"They're waiting for me, and they're suffering," the Lamb blinks, lips spreading in a pale ghost of a smile. "And you know what? I still won't open the doors. It won't get my people back, but I won't open them. I think you're right that I'm cruel."

Narinder cannot understand where-- after all the bloodshed they've seen and caused to get to this point, and all the death baked into every corner of their being-- they got the idea that cruelty should be anything but an asset. They speak as though it is a failing. It is not.

Moreover, Narinder knows what it means to hate the Bishops. He knows what it is to hate.

The Lamb continues, sounding caught between a dream and a waking nightmare as they speak.

"The sheep were forgotten by the gods a long time ago. They're all beyond me now," a tear breaks through, more blood than saline, and they wipe it away quickly with a watery chuckle. "And I don't even feel better. Leaving them to suffer isn't doing me any good anymore, no matter how much I hate them. It's just... happening, like everything else."

At this, he feels his tail lash. He can't help showing his disapproval.

"...Do you truly believe yourself helpless, after toppling the entire world order by your own hand? After destroying me?" he demands, crossing his arms. "If your hatred does nothing for you, your defeatism makes for a piss-poor substitution."

The Lamb starts, and for the first time in a good few minutes, he can tell their attention is fully on him. The Crown above them shrinks to its proper scope, blinking unremarkably.

"... Hey, rude," they tell him, with a slight furrow between their eyes. "I'm not--"

They appear to struggle with their words. Narinder stands there with a pointed stare, arms folded, and waits. His judgement irritates them.

"I just don't know what to do, alright?" they snap, scrubbing a hand up their face and mussing up wool. "I'm not saying I can't do anything."

That's hardly a satisfactory response. "What is it that you want, then?"

They inhale. They stop.

"If you keep doing that, the hoppers are liable to mistake you for some sort of fish," Narinder deadpans. The Lamb's ears flip up, all flustered indignation.

"It's not-- it isn't that easy, okay?"

"Is it not? For a being of limitless power, I would hope the task of picking between two options would not be so paralyzing." And it truly is two. Leave them, or don't.

"Okay, I-- gods!" They take a moment with the top of their snout pinched between their fingers. Narinder continues to wait, as he is wont to do.

"...I think," the Lamb starts quietly, looking a little embarrassed, "I actually do know what I have to do."

"Of course you do." He doesn't care why. Whether for their closure or the Bishops', Narinder has only ever wanted their deaths. He will not discourage this.

"... Yeah. I do. Not now, but-- but soon." They breathe in, and their attention on him softens. "Right. Um. Thank you, for talking me through that. It kind of-- made it real for me, I think."

Their fumbling sincerity throws him off, and he abruptly decides he's had enough looking at their face. He turns, tisking through his teeth.

"Indecision is a dangerous trait for a god to have. Inaction does not free you from the consequences of what comes to pass."

He can feel their eyes on him. He quickens his pace.

"...Hmm. Hey, for what it's worth?" The Lamb catches up easily, and pokes around his shoulder to force their insufferable eye contact on him again, startling him, "I do feel bad about denying you your confrontation. But, on the odds we have one more chance-- What were you going to say to them?"

Narinder growls, and does not waver. "I had nothing left to say to them."

(He'd imagined every combination of words that could have been said between them all, when they finally would have knelt before him. None were ever satisfactory. Killing them was the only revenge that could ever come remotely close enough.)

The Lamb considers him with round, searching eyes. They step away to walk ahead, silent but for the gentle clinking of their bell as they pass him.

"Alright, then. They won't have my forgiveness. But if they want to beg, I'll make sure they know to beg yours, too."

Narinder watches as they glance back at him, smile sweetly, and then continue walking forward into the jungle. He remembers to start walking after them again once he notices this unfamiliar fluttering, scrabbling feeling in his gut that doesn't immediately go away. He is ashamed to realize his mouth was open, gaping like a fish.

"Just try it," Narinder urges. The Lamb is pretty sure he's making fun of them.

They scrunch their nose up at the hearty bowl of mostly half-cooked chunks of meat. They wonder if it's even seasoned.

"Nah," they repeat, taking another pointed bite out of a beet. Narinder rolls his eyes, but doesn't push the subject.

"Coward," he hums, ripping a hunk of steak off a cross section of bone with his teeth. They very deliberately stop looking at it.

"The rest of my champions before you all took advantage of their godly constitutions right away," he goes on after he finishes the bite.

"S'that so?"

"Most were cannibals," he hums. "All did what they needed to do to survive."

Day nineteen. Rapid growth, a little over a dozen followers. Darkwood could not supplement the cult's resources faster than they would use them. One follower had already been on the brink of death when they found him. The Lamb remembers consulting their gospel, and being presented with a decision.

"So did I," they defend.

"I suppose demanding your followers subsist on grass did end up ensuring your own survival," he scoffs. "Though, clearly much of that fell to luck, now didn't it?"

They try to remember if that first death had been a carnivore. They truly have no goddamn clue whether or not hedgehogs are meat-eaters.

"Look, I already said I'm sorry," they tell him.

"You have not."

"Oh. Ah well," they shrug, finishing off the beet. "How was I supposed to know you only do meat? I barely know anything about my own biology." Less so, now. They still don't know where all the eye-blood comes from, or what happens to their body while they teleport.

"Then how do you know you can only..." He waves a hand around vaguely, "'Do' vegetation, as you put it?"

They give him a look, and he silently holds out the bowl again. A challenge.

They glance over their shoulder at the compound gates. The kitchen began packing up for the evening as soon as they were served, and the plaza was empty so late into the evening. Even if it weren't, no one has ever gone to search for the Lamb outside the grounds if they needed something.

With no one watching-- not that it'd matter if anyone did, really-- they pluck a piece of something that doesn't look too red from his bowl and pop it into their mouth before they can really smell it.

They chew once. It is probably the worst texture that anything with the gall to call itself food could possibly have. Why is it so rubbery?

They spit it out, and Narinder calls them something rude. Some silly imaginary tally of disease and hearts ticks up in their head.

"What the f*ck," they declare.

"Of course it was terrible. You took a piece that was pure gristle."

"And you didn't warn me?"

"It seems the option slipped my mind."

"Bastard." They spit into the grass.

Narinder snickers, swallows the sound, and shifts back to lean against the fountain. "You have survived worse than poorly butchered gamefowl."

"And I've killed people for less inconvenience than that. I ought to have a talk with our butcher."

At that, he laughs. It's low and contained, little more than a chuckle, but the sound and rarity of it destroys any lingering displeasure and replaces it with that pleasant buzzing feeling they get when he smiles at them.

Once again, they do what they can to mentally stomp it down into the dirt. Things are better with him, now. Better than they ever should have realistically imagined.

But until they can fully let go of what they want, all they're gonna do is make themself feel worse.

(It's their right as a god to be greedy, isn't it? Envy and gluttony are luxuries they'd earned by striking him down. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out to that mean-spirited little smile and give him a scritch under the chin.)

Those impulses are stomped away, too. "Fine, fine. Sorry about starving you, I guess." They do mean it sincerely, but correctly assume the apology would be better received under a veneer of irony.

Narinder scoffs. "Is that all you are 'sorry' for? If you truly mean to apologize to me, I can think of better places you may start."

"...Are you implying there's a chance in hell for me to earn your forgiveness?" they say teasingly, again trying very hard not to sound too genuine. "Is there any way I can win your favor back, Nari?"

Maybe they go a bit too far with it. Narinder's ears flatten, and he avoids looking them in the face. It's kind of fun making him squirm.

"Tch. No, never. Unless you mean to return my Crown to me, I will continue to hate you for the rest of time."

The Lamb does a good job not outwardly deflating at that, their famous smile never faltering.

Though, they sort of suspect he's exaggerating. They know what his hatred looks like. And it sure as hell doesn't look like him sharing his food.

"...You still have to show me how you do the face thing," they bring up.

Narinder frowns in thought. "...Face?"

"Yeah! You know, when you--" they hold their hands up in front of their own face, palms together, and then open them and wiggle their fingers with a mock exploding sound. "--You know?"

Narinder stares at them. They do not need to read his thoughts. The "You are the stupidest creature alive" reads clear enough on his expression alone.

"...Once again. Return my Crown, and perhaps I would not be so limited in what this form can do," he deadpans.

They wrinkle their nose at him, but then they pause to think. The Bishops would, on occasion, do something to hinder them that comes to mind now.

(Especially while they're still thinking about forgiveness. But that's not something they're gonna seriously hope for. They're not actually stupid.)

"Yeah, I'm not doing that," they bleat, "But on that note, there's something else I wanna try."

"How foreboding," Narinder says, but doesn't move when they stand up. He still has his food, and they know better by now than to try and rush him through it to resume their training. That's fine, this one should be easy.

"Remember the Witnesses?" The Lamb asks. "So, it's possible to share a little of the Crown's power, right?"

Now he pauses, eyeing them.

"... Indeed," he confirms slowly.

"How did the Bishops do that? Was it a ritual?"

Narinder taps the bowl in thought.

"...Nothing so complex. Blessings, accepted eagerly by vessels willing to give their bodies and souls away to a higher power," he explains, tilting his head slightly. "It is not meant to be reversible."

"I remember, yeah." Even when they'd beaten and stolen all that life away, the critters themselves came back different. But appearances never upset the cult; they'd taken the indoctrination of an enemy as validation of their faith. The Lamb is pretty sure Eligos had once just been a toad.

"If it's just a blessing, can I make it work differently? Without all the alterations?"

"...Meaning?"

"Just what I said. A blessing. Sharing a little power." Without anyone exploding into pus and eyeballs, ideally.

Narinder looks painfully skeptical. He's not touching his food anymore.

"...Why?"

"I mean, you'd be able to teach me better if you had the power to back up all that know-how. It's practical," they chirp, pleased that it was so easy to come up with a plausible answer on the fly like that. "And if I want to try a real blessing, I'm kind of limited on options. Unless you think it's a good idea to have some random follower running around who can shoot fireballs from their mouth."

Narinder scoffs, a little tension loosened.

"...As I said, it is only a blessing. You need only your intentions, your wish for your will to be done, and..." he's picking at his food again, now, maybe just for something else to look at. "...And a willing vessel."

They call upon the book, and it obligingly forms in their open palm in a sizzle of black flame. They flip through it, and wonder if they have to speak out loud for their intentions to affect the world. They're god. Maybe it's just enough to silently want it. It seemed to work out for the Bishops.

Narinder startles, and the Lamb makes the conscious effort to rein back their enthusiasm. They clear their throat.

"Ah-- So, if, say, we made another agreement-- you'd have to promise not to break anything in my cult or kill any of my flock." They square their shoulders.

He's meeting their eye again, but it's with veiled mistrust.

"...Had I been inclined, I could have done those things at any point already."

They have sort of a staring contest. No one wins. It's unfair anyway, when he has fifty percent more eyes than they do.

"... Still. Don't," they tell him.

"I do not need your pity," Narinder growls suddenly, and that's exactly what they were trying to avoid.

"Good, because I don't have any to spare," they bleat, unimpressed, "Just another offer that benefits me. We're okay making those, right?" Otherwise, neither of them would be here right now. And Narinder's smart enough to hear the unspoken truth of that.

He glares hard, but it almost doesn't feel genuine. Maybe it's the way he's fidgeting with his utensil like a child. Maybe it's the flicking ear.

"...Make your offer." It's a command, but he's still fidgeting.

The Lamb holds their hand out, their book held close, and can't help a slight grin.

"Ha. I offer you a blessing, then, that you might be able to more efficiently carry out my will," they enunciate over the book like they're performing a sermon, and then crack an eye open at him. "...If you'll have it."

His tail starts a slow metronome behind him. He's gripping onto his bowl, shoulders hunched, like he's ready to throw it straight at them. They don't waver. They just wait for him, as long as it takes.

Finally, he mutters, "...I accept."

The Lamb places a hand on top of his head, between perked ears. They make it a point not to get distracted by how soft he is. He's warm, too, almost feverish. But they don't sense any sickness. Maybe cats just run hot. They'd just expected the opposite from him, specifically.

"Just a blessing," they repeat softly, already feeling the scratching of multitudinous voices trying to push at the back of their throat.

"I am not one of your craven fools needing reassurance," he hisses, but it's quiet. They think his indignation settles his nerves, and they're glad for that. He is stock-still below them, save for the erratic thumping of an anxious tail.

They huff, and close their eyes when they feel the blood begin to pool back there. "How many times do I need to tell you? Everything I do is because I want to do it."

"...Damned Lamb," he mumbles, obligatorily. There are no more words.

Their will rushes out into him like a running river. Not too much or too harsh; they're very much not looking to do to him what had been done to the Witnesses.

All they bid is to share a tiny slice of power with their favored soul. They're very glad they don't have to actually speak their intentions. They wonder what he feels, as they focus on the memory of their own devotion and use that as a conduit. Love pours from them with every blessing they've ever given, and this one is no different, save for how this love twists within their chest just a little bit. It's a little more forlorn. They have to hold so much of it back-- they have loved him for so long that the weight of it is honestly kind of embarrassing, whenever they notice it.

But it's only a second of contact, and it's done. They shake away the blood from their eyes, and remove their hand. Narinder looks no different below them, but he's staring at his hands.

"Well?" They press, putting the book away somewhere unseen, "Feel any different? I mean, I know what I can do; no need to trade away the whole Crown just to move around a little of all that unlimited power, right? It's not like I'm hurting for any of it."

They ramble on, for some reason feeling the need to play up their confidence. The tension never left Narinder's shoulders that entire time. Their heart still pounds in their chest, overworked with nerves, and it's stupid and not useful.

Narinder finally looks up at them, eyes bright and glimmering scarlet beneath the veil.

There is a horrible noise like seams tearing, and Narinder roars at them with layers of demonic undertones as the skin on his face bursts open in bloody flaps. His eyes bulge and slit in the muscle fibers undulating rows of teeth and sinew behind them.

It's good that these lessons take place away from the cult for a lot of reasons. No one is around to see this and start screaming, or foaming at the mouth, or going comatose. But most importantly, no one is around to see the Lamb bleat loudly in surprise and buck back with a dagger already summoned in hand.

Narinder laughs-- it's an unnatural, textured noise coming straight from his exposed throat-- and seals his head back up quickly and cleanly with a wet zip. The only evidence that anything was ever amiss is the veil now flipped up over his ears, and the toothy, catlike grin cut sharp across his face.

"Is that what you wanted to see?" he asks innocently, voice just a little hoarse from the effort.

"No-- well, yes. Gods, you're--" they pitch the dagger away with an eldritch swear, and the Crown boomerangs back around to sit on their head, "-- Suck!"

"Eloquent," Narinder chuckles, and relaxes back against the fountain a bit to continue eating his food. The Lamb notes the odd conflict with the smug satisfaction on his face, and the way his tail still twitches with unrest behind him. They squint, and slowly take their seat to finish up lunch beside him.

Narinder glances at them from his periphery.

"...I would not have done that, in your place," he mutters, strangely quiet. "You hold all the power here. Not many would be so quick to bestow it.

"The Bishops did," they point out around a cauliflower floret.

"The Bishops acted out of desperation. They saw their ending approach, and spread themselves thin over the centuries to delay it."

"Well, I'm not desperate," the Lamb shrugs. "I just wanted to. What's the harm in that?"

"'What's the--'" Narinder balks, staring at them in disbelief. "We have attempted to kill each other."

"No, you tried to kill me," they clarify, pointing between them with another floret. He sputters.

"Yes, exactly. Your continued displays of-- of incaution toward me are baffling."

"You can just call it trust. That's what it is."

He stares. Three big, round eyes.

"Lamb. I have already told you. Had I the means, were our situations different, I would kill you."

They look around. The clearing by the fountain has gotten pretty pockmarked lately. There's more dirt than grass.

"Yeah, I know. You already have. Like, three times in the last week."

"We were mortal enemies." His anger bubbles over into exasperation, and the Lamb snatches the opportunity to mess with him.

They grin. "You said 'were'. That means we're friends, now."

He balks again, and this time they're pretty sure he is going to throw his bowl at them.

"I am your prisoner."

"You're my mentor. We shook on it."

"We did not."

"Well, we still agreed on it."

"I am not your friend."

"I guess it's kind of a silly word to use for our whole... everything," they wiggle their fingers at him, vaguely. "We can come up with something new, if you want."

"No."

"We kill things together. How about murder-buddies? Dead-god support club? The divine orphan team? --Ow, ew," they stop teasing him when he hucks a gross, wet piece of something from his bowl.

"Stop that," he snaps. "Your puerility aside, there is no name for what you have made yourself, or for what I have been reduced to. We, as beings, are unprecedented." The Lamb holds up their hands, placating.

"I know that. But the point of still being here is that we can make our own definitions," they hum, wiping the meat-juice off their cheek. "We're the precedents now, dummy."

Narinder apparently tires of them, and sets the empty bowl down. He stands.

"...Hmf. Enough for today." He affixes his veil. "Define whatever you like, so long as you do not burden me with your infantilizing nonsense. Be here again tomorrow."

The Lamb smiles. "Friends" it is, then.

Narinder is falling ill, again.

That is the only explanation for the abnormalities he has noticed in his body, more and more. The impulses. He is restless in his own hut, no matter how he arranges or fortifies it. He feels as though something is missing, and it makes him tetchy.

It is easy enough to distract himself when he notices these things, now that he has taken on a new responsibility. Coincidentally, and without fail, he will remember he must make good on his deal with the Lamb. And so hewill seek them out.

They always smile brightly on his approach, and he will be forced to notice how his irritatingly functional heart spasms in his chest, or how his stomach writhes as ifpervaded by grave worms.

But the rest of his nerves subside. And he decides that is the worst part.

It may have something to do with their blessing. He has never been on this side of one, and has no context for how having godly power shunted into him from another source is supposed to feel. To his surprise, it was mostly just familiar. The Crown was once his, and he knows intimately how its influence spreads and alights every vein and synapse with a molten coursing that is not warmth. It is different now that he does not wear it, and now that this body is too full of earthly meat and solid bones and stuffy organs to fully embrace the power without pushing against it, just a little. He feels full. It is not unpleasant.

Perhaps his restlessness is a side effect. After murdering them a few more times than necessary one evening ("No, wait, go again, I wasn't ready." "You say that every time." "You keep changing your patterns!" "It is a barrage of flame. There are only so many unique angles at which I can burn you"), he leaves them to return to his hut. And the annoying jittering in his core returns, almost clawing at him. It is worse than it had been before he sought out his distraction.

He grabs a pillow and snarls into it, aggressively rubbing it against his cheek. He doesn't know why this helps. He throws it.

There is still a bit of sunlight left. The day isn't entirely over. Narinder leaves the hut, resolving to find something else to do with himself. He decides the most effective use of his time would be to check on the Lamb's progress on their end of the deal. He doubts they've begun, with how much they still complain of being, quote: "So busy all the time I just want to bite someone." And that is in addition to their new priority (he certainly believes it should be) to finish what they started out in the wilds.

But he may as well check.

The temple should be empty this time of day. It isn't. The Lamb must have forgotten to hold their sermon in the morning, because they're presiding over an evening mass. Either that, or they conduct some ritual or another in there.

Narinder will not go in to check. The singular entity he once was rankles at the idea of attending service for another. He will live here as he must, and participate in the cult as it benefits him. But he will not submit to their doctrine.

He waits hidden outside, meditating so he does not pace, until the doors swing open and the flock begins to trickle out. They are hurried when morning chores await them, but now they all exit the temple at a leisurely pace, chatting amongst each other. Some make plans to pass the night with games. Others coordinate to visit the kitchen, just to sit together and have a drink by the plaza. Children whine about their bedtimes. He sees the Lamb walk out, chattering away with some sycophant priest. They leave the doors open. He does not see the creature he is looking for.

Once they in particular are out of sight, Narinder slips inside. He stills in surprise at the unfamiliar decor. He had only physically been inside while in total darkness, so far. By the light of day, it appears the temple is no longer the empty wooden floor he remembers seeing through the Crown.

Pews line the open space, and the walkways are adorned in deep red carpet. Plain red tapestries hang on the walls, hemmed with gilded thread. The lectern where the Lamb stands is a touch more ornate; the area at the back of the temple remodeled into a floral dais where camellias grow along the baseboard. In the morning, sunlight must shine crimson shapes down from the large stained glass window behind it all. He can imagine the Lamb there so easily, delivering their gospel, in their royal regalia adorned with wildflowers.

He shakes away the thought, finding it obnoxiously distracting, and walks the aisles, glancing about at the few followers who've stayed behind. Perhaps they stay out of some sense of peace they find in their faith, or they simply do not have anywhere pressing to be. The sight of him clearly startles those who notice them. They all pretend to ignore him.

Someone goes into a coughing fit, and Narinder finds the kit he's looking for when he turns toward the sound. The fennec huntress sits with an older one-- a parent, mother presumably, whose hacking rattles in her throat.

He has so little vision now compared to what he once held, and only a scant bit more was returned to him. But what scarce little sensation he has hints at him that the older one is not long for this life.

And she catches him staring, meeting his eye with appalled revulsion. The younger one sees him too, looking up from her lap with red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh," she says. "It's you."

"Fyla, don't talk to it," the mother hisses urgently, pulling her close.

Narinder approaches. He honestly does not know what will happen if the dying creature tries to accost him, and he considers the possible consequences with vague curiosity. The Lamb did not technically secure a promise from him that he would not harm their flock.

But it doesn't happen. The younger one says, "It's fine," and wipes her eyes to face him. It's a strangely muted reaction to him.

"Um, hi," she greets him with a sniff. "If you're looking for the leader, they just left."

"...I am aware," he says. "The stories you read. Has anything been done to amend them?"

The kit's brow furrows. "...I... don't know?"

"No? I thought you were to be a priest." Something about his statement makes her eyes go wide, and her mother speak up.

"My kit is a huntress, demon. And she's been through enough. Leave her be."

He tilts his head. The vitriol from one of the little ones surprises him. The flock still milling around the pews pretend not to pay attention.

"I merely had a question," he says mildly. "Does your Lamb not preach community?"

"I haven't heard anything," the kit repeats, actually raising her voice. The anger doesn't stay. "I'm sorry, it's just-- we'd just like to grieve."

He looks around. The temple has no trappings of a funeral, nor does he remember anyone dying today. Narinder finds himself curious.

"For whom?"

The kit shoots him a blank look. It darkens gradually.

"Cal," she says.

He blinks.

"Still?" Surely it's been some time, now.

"It was last week," the girl finishes in a choke, and her mother stands, bracing herself on the back of the pew.

"Begone! Leave us-- shoo!"

"You cannot-- ack!" Narinder is cut off from his threat when the old woman splashes him with water from a crown-emblazoned flask. He hisses.

"By the power of the Lamb, begone!"

"Mom!" the kit squeaks.

"Stop that." Narinder holds his hand out to shield his face. He hates being wet.

"Leave us!" the woman continues splashing him. It only takes a second for his bafflement to tip over into annoyance, and he's just another second away from snapping and making that everyone else's problem.

Then the woman begins coughing again, and her kit pulls her back down to sit. She fights it to remain standing.

"Mom, please," the girl begs.

"Don't you--" and she is again interrupted by rattling and wheezing. Narinder, angry and damp, watches the painful process the woman takes to relent and sit down again.

"Listen to your kin, unless it is your desire to bestow upon her yet more grief even sooner than you must," he hisses, and turns to leave. This trip was a waste of time.

"Don't you threaten me," he hears rasped behind him. "This is a holy house."

"Then do try not to expire within it," he intones, wringing out his veil over the carpet as he leaves.

In the temple's ensuing silence, he can hear the girl begin crying again on the way out. That, finally, redirects her mother's attention onto her, and has her cooing and apologizing for the awful demon that frightened her so.

What ridiculous creatures. And now he needs to change his robes.

Two of them pass him halfway to his hut, chatting. He recognizes them. A mouse who'd caused some commotion a little while back, and her friend. He recalls her having been with a parent, as well.

She meets his passing glance with fear, and both pretend not to see him. Again possessed by curiosity, he stops.

"...You," he calls, and the creatures freeze in mortal panic. The mouse recovers first.

"Umm... Can I help you?"

"What is the traditional mourning period, here? Does the Lamb have one assigned?"

The two look at each other, confused, and then back at him.

"Umm... No? Uh. When someone dies, we just kind of... get through it, I guess?"

"Uh-- the Leader gives us some time off of chores if it's someone close," the other one supplies. He frowns.

"...A week, then?"

"To... be off work? It--"

"To grieve," he clarifies, insistent. "A neighbor, a sibling, a parent. Anything of that nature, until one is finished."

"...O-- oh. Um. That's, those are all really different-- are you asking me if I'd be over it if my mom or sister died in just a week?"

"...How long would it take, then?"

"Never!" The mouse squeaks, horrified. Her friend pulls her by the arm, stumbling a rushed, "We have to go," and the two of them scurry on ahead.

He moves on too, and hears one of them ask "Why was he wet?" as he thinks on their report. Never.

"Never" is an inconceivably long time for such short-lived, feeble-minded things. It is absurd to believe that true.

Narinder was alone for one thousand years. He knows better than they ever could; given enough time, all sorrow erodes and hardens.

...Alone for most of it, he supposes. The twins arrived late, and were with him for a short chunk of lifetime.

And after so many pointless visits, he cannot deny that they seem to care for him. The train of thought leads him to wonder how long they would grieve him, were the Lamb to decide he was no longer worth the trouble of immortality.

...He is immortal. He supposes it is not as likely that he will grow old and leave them, as it is that--

Now, why is that such an unpleasant thought? Death is a fact. He railed against the finality of it once, and he succeeded, but he is not what he was. He is no longer its incarnation, but he is certainly not one of those sniveling, melodramatic little flock animals who believe their petty sorrows to be the biggest forces in the world.

Everyone here will die, one day. Even those who serve Death so faithfully as the twins once had. The twins will die one day.

And that, as Shamura might have once said, is simply how things are.

"Someone robbed the temple."

The small array of priests, the most likely members of the flock to spend time in the temple while the Lamb is out, all trade shocked looks and uncomfortable fidgeting. The Lamb squares their shoulders, hands outstretched and downturned.

"I am not angry," they say levelly, "I just want to know if anyone might have any idea who did it."

Antreon steps forward. "...Can we ask what was taken, leader?"

"Several treasures from the reliquary. Be on the lookout for anyone wearing a golden necklace," they explain. They don't mind giving that much away, because a quick sweep of everyone's minds lets them know that the priests are all innocent. But it'll be good to have more people paying attention.

"Oh-- like those skulls worn by the wandering acolytes?" Someone pipes up.

"...Yes," they reply, carefully not changing their expression, "Like those."

They don't say anymore on that, because apparently everyone here is pretty sure Aym and Baal have always had necklaces, right? Most of them have never gotten close enough to notice, and the Great Leader has already made so many exceptions for those two-- it couldn't possibly have anything to do with this. They're all just sort of assuming based on the general vibe of the room.

The Lamb dismisses them all with a blessing, and turns tail directly towards Narinder's hut. And then to some of his favorite haunts when he isn't there. He's not scheduled for any work today, that they know of.

Unfortunately, the slippery little bastard moves like a shadow when he wants to, and no one would stop him from outright leaving the commune without telling anyone if he felt like it. They resort to asking random followers if they've seen him around.

Tilly says "No," and thinks "Who, the creep?" Anna says "Not recently," and thinks "What a shame, I hope he's alright." Shaw says "Not today," and thinks "Good riddance." Edalie says "I'm sorry, but no," and thinks "Evil thing, I hope he's gone for good."

Eventually they find Tulip hauling logs, and she says, "Oh, I think I saw him heading to the boneyard earlier." She thinks, "I hope he isn't doing anything f*cked up in there." The Lamb thanks her, and heads off to search the Garden.

Now, they're aware that Narinder isn't exactly beloved amongst their flock. And they can't even really blame anyone. He's ornery, blunt, and has what they're going to call a mythologically understood mean streak.

But he still lives here. They can't help but worry. For all the many generations of folks the Lamb has seen live and die, it's always the ones who never figure out how to cultivate good-will and community who never learn how to thrive here. To be frank, they're not expecting a miracle in his case, and certainly not any time soon. He has literally forever to try and find the value in being friendly with mortals, but with public opinion about him as low as it is, they'd mostly just like to avoid a mob setting up on him. Especially if it happens while they're not here to protect him.

Maybe they're worrying too much. But is it so bad to hope that after everything, he might ever be capable of loving someone again? Even if it'll never be-- ow.

The Lamb rubs at the spot on their head where something hit them. There's an acorn on the ground. They're not walking under a tree.

They whirl around, and finally spot a shape up in the branches behind them, obscured by the leaves. They catch a flash of red in the sunlight. Unbelievable.

"... Hi. Just. Why?"

"You really ought to be more observant," Narinder says, but climbs down a bit to sit in the divot where the trunk spreads. At least now he's visible.

"Is this what you're doing now?" The Lamb chides. "Hanging out in trees like a wild animal?"

"It is not my fault that there are few other decently quiet spots to rest. Fewer still where I am unlikely to be bothered."

The Lamb silently notes that he was the one that got their attention. They don't bring it up.

"Uh-huh. ...What's wrong with just napping in your hut?"

He grimaces, tail swishing against the bark.

"...There is something wrong with it."

"Wrong? What-- mold? Something chewed through the wood?"

He waves them off. "It is structurally adequate. Forget it, it is nothing relevant."

They cross their arms. He doesn't say anything more, so they drop it for now, but they won't forget. The rains will be coming soon, and the Lamb has already had a few complaints about holes and weathering in the living quarters. With so many growing families, they'll have to have the construction crews start fortifying homes.

They shake off the distraction. "Right. So, I think your "acolytes" robbed me."

Narinder frowns. "Aym and Baal?"

"Uh, yeah." Who else?

The conversation catches enough of his interest that he deigns to hop down from his tree.

"I doubt that. They are more than capable of providing themselves with whatever they need."

"That's cool. So why'd they steal immortal jewellery from my reliquary?"

Recognition alights on his face, and he visibly relaxes.

"Ah. They did not."

"...How do you know--"

"I took them."

The Lamb halts. He just stands there, like he's the one waiting on them for an explanation.

"...As... gifts?" they guess. He rolls his eyes, and for a second they wonder if they're actually the crazy one.

"As payment. They brought-- offerings from the outside," he explains.

They suppose that checks out. They would run into the twins out there sometimes, and they'd often have some pretty familiar goods that the Lamb would swear are rather rare outside of the compound. Such as ground herbs in red satchels, or purses full of coins tied in the same way as the cult's wages, or extra torches fashioned in the same style as their cult's artisans. Or, one time, straight up just a scarf made of their own sheared wool. The guy in the sewing circle who'd had the honor of making it was really upset to find that missing once it started getting cold out.

They were willing to excuse petty larceny for a pair of very nice, very forgiving boys. But the evidence is pointing squarely towards the notion that they had never been the ones doing any thieving.

"...Three were missing," the Lamb says slowly, gears still turning.

Narinder holds their gaze for half a second more. And then he abruptly drops it, one ear twitching.

"...They would not accept them unless I could spare one for their mother. ...Why are you smiling at me like that?! Cease at once."

They absolutely don't cease. "No reason, no reason."

Well, it was nice to have one concern assuaged. Looks like they didn't need to worry as much as they did about Narinder's capacity to love again.

Still. There is the minor matter of the stolen holy artifacts.

"Sooo, you know theft to this degree is grounds to put you in the pillory?" they bleat casually.

"...Indeed." Narinder already looks coiled to run.

"It's a few days depending on the value of the item stolen-- and you took holy property. Thrice over!"

"You do not have to sound so cheerful about it."

"I don't know what you mean." They hum, tapping their chin and making a big show of considering him. "Tell you what-- I think I can be convinced to commute your sentence."

"...Is that so." Pure skepticism.

"Sure. I mean, I'm a benevolent leader, and you did put the necklaces to good use. And for such a sweet reason."

"I did n-- get to the point."

Normally, these things can be settled more easily when the robbed party gets their things back. The Lamb doesn't see that happening, and they're not going to ask.

"Well, since it was my stuff you took, how about this: I'm willing to settle for an apology."

They open their arms with a flourish. Narinder stands there and looks dead inside.

"That's all," they chirp. "Just say you're sorry." His tail lashes so hard it thuds on the ground.

"You know I am not."

They shrug. "I don't mind. Just don't let that stop you from making it sound convincing."

Narinder fully bristles, now at a loss for words. They don't think they've seen him this mad at them in a long while. They just hit him with a brilliant smile in return.

Strangely, a bit of that fight seems to leave him.

"...You mean to humiliate me no matter what, then?"

"Yep!" They bleat, playing up the cheer, "But hey, you get to choose! Will it be a public humiliation at the pillory? Or just one little apology, right here, just for us? No one would ever know."

"We would know," he hisses. He's got to know that's the point, hasn't he?

The Lamb waits with a serene, placid little grin. Narinder stares them down as if there's any chance they're gonna be the one to break first.

Again, he relents faster than they expect. He grits out a slow, spiteful, "I... apologize."

They scoff. "Aww, you can do better than that. And you're really gonna have to narrow it down."

"Lamb," he warns through clenched teeth.

"Hey now, don't give me that look. This is supposed to be a nice moment," they coo. "I mean, who just takes something from someone like that, and doesn't even apologize for it? Come on, Nari."

There we go, that finally did it. They expect him to summon his weapon. Instead, he skips right to pouncing and going claws-out for their face. They get a good head-start anyway, and kick flowers out behind them in their sprint.

He gets a week of latrine duty.

Tomorrow the Lamb will trek into Darkwood, and face Leshy's remains.

Today, there is another birthday party.

Technically, it is just one party to celebrate the small crop of births that'd taken place within the last week or two. The cult practically holds a festival just to acknowledge a few litters. Not just the ones that were already born, either. Congratulations are liberal and plentiful for newly expectant parents, and young children born years ago are given gifts and adorned with flowers, and left to run amok while their elders imbibe barrelfuls of berry ciders and wine. It seems as though this place is destined to utterly drown in screeching progeny sometime soon. The plaza is heavily decorated in colorful ribbons and petal crafts. Tables overflow with candles, food, and drink. Especially the drink. The day bears every symptom of a nascent holiday, and Narinder is confident that is exactly what he is witnessing. He wonders if the Lamb is at all aware of that.

Narinder cares little for any of it. But the Lamb, for their part, decided that they had a goal in mind for the day. They sought him out in the morning to request a reprieve from any lessons for the day, and informed him of their goal in succinct, straightforward terms:

They said, "I'm gonna try to get hammered," and then disappeared into the mess of party setup.

Narinder has not seen them since, but he has taken the "holiday" as an opportunity to shut himself away in his hut without being bothered. That chaos out there is not for him. But it does make the quiet indoors feel more like a reprieve, and less like--

He does not continue that line of thought, lest he lose his appreciation for the quiet. He is not one to pace, but the fact that he can makes the idea somewhat appealing.

So, he has his own private holiday. He reads the latest heavy text Aym brought to him from a passing caravan. He cares for his weapon, honing it obsessively until the point can pierce parchment with no pressure at all. Hygiene is practiced. He meditates. He sleeps. He wakes up in the evening.

He itches. Deep in the bones of his hands, as the restlessness sets in. He flips his right claw in front of him a few times, back and forth, and flexes it so the knuckle bones pop visibly under fur and skin.

...Perhaps he can spare a moment to go outside.

Almost the very instant he has that thought, he hears shouting. Something whooshes, loudly, and light flares into his window in an orange flash.

He freezes.

The shouting fades into cheering and clapping.

He is a little disappointed.

Narinder exits to find the exact source of the mayhem within a clear line of sight in front of him. A crowd has parted in the plaza to witness what he first assumes is the lighting of tonight's bonfire. It spirals up into the sky from a fixed in front of a banquet table, with a crowd of revelers gaping and cheering at it.

That fixed point happens to be the Lamb. The flame dies down. They take a deep swig of something, inhale, and blow another massive breath of hellfire up into the air for the delight of the party around them.

Narinder, simultaneously unsurprised and exhausted, contemplates shutting his door and going back to bed again.

The Lamb finishes their display of clownery with a cheer. Their surrounding flock immediately falls into cheering and fawning around them, much to their extremely apparent pleasure. They indulge their fondness for attention while lacking that thin facade of noblesse he remembers from their sermons, and happily take a particularly bold flatterer under their arm. He can see the wretched thing swoon even from here.

Something about this display enrages him. They have always taken ridiculous liberties with their mastery over the Crown. Mastery he has been so generous as to cultivate, wasted upon childish games and foolish showboating. He has already made the decision to shut himself up in the hut for the rest of the night and plug his ears when he consciously realizes he's already stalking towards the Lamb.

The crowd around the bonfire parts at his descent when they notice him. The Lamb notices him, too. But they break into a dazzling smile, and shoot their free arm up to wave erratically at him on his approach. The movement agitates their bell to a chiming clamor.

"Nari! Hey--! Hey Nari!" They're shouting. As if he isn't already walking towards them. The eyes of everything with a pulse around them draw squarely onto him, and the crowd parts further. Some out of fear, some just in momentum.

Narinder was once accustomed to the feeling of hundreds of eyes on him-- of being beheld in adulation or awe-stricken terror. On a whole, this is neither. He snarls in response to the unpleasant prickling sensation down his spine, and takes some unexpected solace in the false protection offered by his hood and the veil.

He locks eyes with the rabbit under the Lamb's arm. They stare back, mortified. A hand rests on their leader's arm with the uncertain grip of one unsure whether to remove it, or hang on tighter.

"Nari!" the Lamb steps forward, hand outstretched as if to grab him, too. Narinder stops short of their reach, and quells the impulse to yank their arm in front of a potential mob.

Barring that, he finds himself unprepared with anything to say. The Lamb spares him from having to find anything, already chattering away at him.

"Hey-hey, you made it! I know this isn't really your-- you don't like big loud stuff, yeah?" They gesticulate widely at the festivities around them, and the sensation of all the eyes on his back continues to weigh unpleasantly. They don't notice, but he notices their over-familiar pattern of speech, and fixates on that instead. But he can't quite put his finger on why that gets his attention. They've always been in the habit of speaking too casually with him.

The rabbit glances between them, eyes wide and nose twitching, looking uncomfortable. The Lamb remains oblivious, and continues.

"But I'm glad you're here! Let's go dance!" In one movement, they release the follower and fall forward into step, grabbing his wrist along the way. Narinder flinches, but they're already jogging out of the crowd with him in tow, bleating, "Come on, everyone-- fire's lit, get out there! Go! Be joyous 'n merry and all that sh-- 'n all those things!"

The flock acquiesces happily enough. The crowd disperses into units of friends and families, partners and hopeful lovers, each coming together in the general shape of an uncoordinated circle taking up the whole area. At its edge, the sober ones feast and joke while watching children play with bells and ribbons and chase each other. The bonfire acts as a vague, fixed middle point for all the chaos. It is a far cry from that small, sacred affair of looping and chanting the Lamb had first mandated long ago when faith was shaky, and the flock needed constant reminders of their unity through ritualistic practice.

Now, the Lamb weaves without a care through the disorganized throngs of residents dancing and running and laughing.

They stop close to the center, where the heat of the bonfire negates any nighttime chill. A pair of followers nearby play together on a stringed instrument and something percussive, and the Lamb is exuberant as they join in on the communal flailing.

Narinder is forced to stumble to a stop when they finally release him-- or, when he finally manages to wrench his arm away. They work the inertia into a wobbly spin, giggling like a child.

"You are going to fall into the bonfire," he tells them, standing still in the middle of all the pandemonium. They wave him off.

"Thas'fine. Burning to death isn't as bad as it looks. S'not great, but it's not the worst one," they ramble on with a dreamy smile, approaching Narinder again to try and take him by the sleeves and tug him into the revelry. "Come onnn, dance with me! Do something fun, you big grumpy... uh, grump."

He frowns. "What is wrong with you?"

"You know, with all my weird new powers, I thought I couldn't get drunk. I can! S'just a whole lot harder, I think," they laugh, not letting go of him. They seem to resolve to try and dance this way anyway, just sort of swinging his limp arms around while they sway about.

"...How much have you ingested?"

"Four."

"... Bottles?"

"Barrels!" They snicker, falling forward into his chest. Narinder goes rigid, once again deeply aware of all the eyes on his back. He grips the back of their mantle and yanks them off him.

"Your hedonism has made you-- touchy," he spits, ears burning.

"M'always touchy," they lean in again, still grinning up at him, "Well, I was, when I was married and my partners weren't scared to touch me. That was nice. Sometimes they'd even pet me! I'm told I'm real soft."

Narinder, for once, severely regrets his life choices. He can't make anything of the situation, other than the fact that he'd like very much to escape it. The Lamb still clutches his sleeves, and nudges in their clumsy movements to rest their head on his shoulder. They genuinely seem to believe they're being subtle.

They stink. A little bit of wine, but mostly of rabbit. He hates it. His tail sweeps a jagged arc behind him.

"Stop that."

They frown, but they actually do pull away. But only one hand drops him.

"You're mean," they pout. "And I'm killing your brother again and everything tomorrow. Thought you'd be happy."

"You might, if your actions tonight do not render you incapacitated," he retorts, thoroughly displeased.

"Naaah, I'll be fine. I'm having fun. And I might even sleep tonight! I haven't done that in forever either," they hum airily, trying to dance again without letting go of him. "You should, too."

"Sleep?" He intones. He'd certainly prefer to be.

"Have fun! Y'know, I feel like-- like you're always holed up or you're try'na kill something. Just those two."

"You are certainly not the being to judge me." In hindsight, he isn't sure why he's surprised at their behavior tonight. He supposes the Lamb has never done anything by halves, be it burden or revelry.

"Yes I am. I'm the judge, jury, and executor."

"Executioner."

"That one too. 'Cept you look more like one than me. I'm cute. You looked like you were about to tear Rickit limb from limb back there."

"Who--? Ah." The rabbit.

They snicker. "You still look pissed. What'd they even do to you?"

"They did not-- You are the one who is trying my patience."

They hum. When they sway off-beat into him again, this time it is an accident. "Well, be nice, then. They were thinking about asking me to spend the night, 'n I need somewhere to sleep this off."

His hackles raise. He pushes them off of him again, but keeps his hold on their shoulders-- to support them.

"That -- Do you not have your own living quarters in the temple?"

"No?" They snort. "Temple's for work."

He scowls. They watch him with a lopsided grin.

"...That is a horrible idea, in your state."

They shrug. "S'fine."

"Your control over all your power is tenuous even when you have your faculties intact."

"M'not gonna melt anyone, probably. Unless they ask," they titter, "Been having trouble saying no to people today, hah. More than usual, y'know? Usually I can be nice about it when I gotta, but then the Crown doesn't eat as much love all of a sudden, and I used to worry that'd kill it? That's how it works, right?"

He pinches his brow. "Yes, Lamb, that is correct." It is probably not, but he can't be assed to decode it.

"Cool. Er-- no, not cool. Anyway, 'was Rogden's idea to see more fire, 'n I was still kinda pissed at him so I wasn't gonna, but then I did. 'N then I burned my throat," they giggle, "But everyone wanted to see it again, so I did it again. I didn't know I have fire in me, s'that new?"

He opens his mouth to berate them, but their ramblings spark something in his memory. Of the cult's brewers, and their particular history."

"...Lamb," he tilts their chin back to look at him when their gaze wanders, and searches their suddenly wide eyes, "Do you know what is in the wine?"

They blink, mouth agape, and begin stuttering.

"Uh-- um. I. I dunno. Old berries?"

"Have you been keeping up with the cult's restrictions?" he presses. "Specifically with their substances?"

They think for a moment, looking away to some random point on the ground. "Nnnot recently? I'm busy with other stuff. We're clearing land for more farming space, construction's almost done with the creche--"

Without thinking, Narinder grabs their face with both hands and angles it so they're looking at him again. They cut themself off with a little gasp of surprise. Their stare is glassy, but beyond that, he can't actually glean much from their eyes when he searches. Their face is looking a bit red in the firelight, and is hot under his hands.

He hears a few gasps behind him, and releases the Lamb, furiously ignoring the heat creeping into his own. The Lamb nearly falls into him again.

"Um-- Nari--?"

"Bleat," he commands.

They do so. Loudly. The music stops. Their hands fly up to their mouth in shock.

"Mf--?!"

Narinder snorts in aborted laughter. He allows himself satisfaction in their mortification for a moment, and then the gravity of their situation sets in.

They stare at him from behind their hands, and under the fog in their eyes, Narinder recognizes the uncomprehending horror of caught prey.

His hackles raise. The cult will not cease their ogling.

"You. What are you doing? Keep playing," he snarls at the musicians. They flinch, and nearly fall over themselves to do as told. He turns outward to the crowd, and hardly needs to say a word before they go ahead and do a very poor job of pretending to get back to their festivities.

"Carry on, all of you," he tells them anyway, assuming the command will take for many of them.

And then he turns his attention back to the Lamb. They watch him warily, gaze flicking between all of his eyes. He does not give them a chance to speak before gesturing forward, and walking towards his hut.

"Come," he says simply. They trail after him at once, their bell chiming under the din.The walk is short and silent, and likely goes unobserved through all the chaos.

He stops to raise the door curtain for them. They do not enter immediately, and stare at him sidelong.

He glowers, and does not speak. There is movement under their fleece, like they're wrapping their arms around themself, and they go in.

"...Oh. It's actually nice in here," they speak up, stopping so abruptly in front of the doorway he almost crashes into them.

"Hmf. Your low expectations are noted." He drops the curtain.

"No, no-- you just said your place had a problem. But it's so... cozy in here." Their trepidation seems to leave them entirely, and they instantly take the opportunity to go poking around at his room on wobbly hooves.

"Cozy," Narinder repeats with distaste. "Must you use the most juvenile descriptor for my cage, here?"

"But it is!" they exclaim, nosing around a stack of half-spent candles. As ever, he's unsure of what in the world they're talking about.

The space is small, and sparsely decorated with his collection of items procured through trade. Mostly with the twins. Sometimes with the flock. A mass of fabrics to cover the softened hay that made up his bed to his comfort, fitfully rearranged over and over again when that comfort stopped coming. Scrolls and loose sheaves of paper held in place under miniature stone sculptures or carved crystals. A small chest containing miscellaneous hygiene implements (the twins found a vendor who sold soaps and cleansing salts, and for a while were very insistent on offering him those) with a sharpening stone weighing down the top. A variety of candles strewn about, of course-- he does have an oil lantern sitting off to the side, but he also has his preferences.

The Lamb picks up a small crystal skull. "I just didn't expect it. You're-- I dunno, I sort of figured you'd, like, sleep in a coffin or something if you had the choice. But you put-- you put time into your room. I remember when it was empty."

Narinder wants to argue the point further. But they utter a quick "Sorry," after almost stepping on a comb and set it aside, and he looks around his own space again with renewed surprise. How had he not noticed how easy it was to amass clutter, after so long with nothing around him at all?

"...Hmf. I suppose some time after it became clear I could not sleep myself to death, I'd somehow managed to accumulate things," he muses, tucking his hands away in his sleeves. Their rifling has made him oddly conscious of everything left out.

The Lamb pauses and looks at him with a quiet, awkward laugh. "...You weren't actually trying to do that, right?"

Narinder just takes the skull, avoiding their big, sad eyes. "Stop touching my things."

Another little laugh, and they wrap their fleece further around them, as if for protection. Something about the sight sets him on edge.

"...I don't feel very good," they mutter, swaying a bit. "Can I sit down?"

Narinder hesitates, but says, "You may," in the interest of keeping them from vomiting in his hut.

They brush past him, and flop forward onto his bed. He balks.

"...That is-- not sitting."

They mumble something into the fabric before turning over onto their back. Narinder forlornly suspects they will continue to find ways to surprise him with their utter audacity.

"Mushrooms," the Lamb mutters, an arm thrown over their eyes. "'Course it's mushrooms. I love my cult. But they're so-- they're so f*cking stupid, Nari. They're dumb as hell."

"I am aware."

"...I should pro'lly toss this out, then," the Crown stretches enough for them to shove their hand in it, and it comes back out holding a large, unlabelled bottle of something.

Narinder finds himself wishing he himself had a god he could pray to for patience. Unfortunately, he can't recall any of that domain that did not die horrifically.

"...Give me that."

They grumble something in displeasure, and stretch the bottle out toward him. He snatches it from them before they can make any more stupid decisions for the night.

"...G'nna have to start... Inspecting the food n' drinks or something. Don't have the tiiiime," they whine, rolling over to curl into the fabric.

"Then delegate the task. Appoint an inspector. A farmer, or a medical apprentice, perhaps," Narinder grouses, looking over the bottle in his hands. Something blood-dark swishes around inside, and there is no writing or labelling to signify what it might be. It is sealed poorly with a cork, to the point where he can pop it off with his hand. He does.

"...Would have to make sure no one bribes 'em."

"If you find them taking bribes, kill them," he explains patiently.

"M'kay."

Narinder gives the contents of the bottle a sniff. He is surprised when it isn't rancid moonshine-- this is wine. And if it is laced, they've distilled or hidden the menticide skillfully enough. He supposes a burgeoning society is bound to progress quickly in the fields that pique its interest.

He contemplates the bottle.

He looks down at the Lamb, curled up in his bed, cloak askew and bunching haphazardly over the rest of the fabric. They crack open a bleary eye, and meet his.

He sees their tail give two short wags when their gazes lock.

Narinder looks back down at the wine, abruptly feeling too large for the space. He supposes impulse will rule them both, tonight.

He takes a swig, and hears a big, exaggerated gasp coming from the bed.

"Nari--!" They practically squeal, sitting up on their elbows.

"Hush," he snaps, and moves to sit in front of the bed with his back facing it. "If you are to burden me for the night, I may as well not suffer the handicap of sobriety."

The Lamb giggles, low and hushed. "Never thought I'd see you drink somethin' the cult made. Or, drink something period. Don't worry, it's kinda fun--"

"I was a god, Lamb, I am familiar with libations."

"Mm," he hears them lie down again, "'Kay, but those were just offerings."

"...They were. Though they were uncommon in my temple," he admits, taking another gulp. The taste is... unrefined, but not unfamiliar.

"...Excess of this sort was more commonly set out to Heket. Leshy too, at times," he remembers. Kallamar would see these tributes too, but he'd demand them outright.

They have a minute of welcome silence, wherein the Lamb is likely either trying to stay awake, or simply keep their head above the nausea. He nurses the bottle, and finds he has little sympathy for them.

At one point, he notices how strangely it moves in his hands. Edges warp and melt into each other, and colors shift if he focuses too hard on them.

"...You drank barrels of this," Narinder says slowly, "Without noticing the menticide."

"...Yeah?"

"The hallucinations did not strike you as odd."

"That's not just what drunk is?"

"...Lamb."

"I don't know! How would I know!" He hears the dull thud of a palm slapping the fabric. "I've never been drunk! You don't do that when you're tryn'a run forever and stay alive! You do that when you're too tired to run anymore n' you don't want the end to hurt."

Narinder goes quiet. He takes another sip. As vile as the active ingredient is, it must only be a trace amount if the flock can be so liberal with it without burning down the commune.

"Don'think I like it," they mumble behind him. "Not doing it again."

"That is probably for the best."

"Was fun for a bit. Cult's fun. Everyone's so happy, n'we got music. Nari, all these kids're gonna grow up with music. Music, other people-- and food," they whisper in drunken awe, "All the time! Can you even imagine?"

Narinder tries to recall if they've ever spoken about their life before him, even implicitly. Discomfort prickles in his stomach that he will attribute to the drink.

"... Perhaps you should consider sleeping." He's careful about wording that. They bleat out a reluctant groan.

"I don't sleep. Too much to do."

"I doubt anything more will need your attention, tonight."

"Sure it will. Always does. 'Leader, we don't have enough quartz to finish the windows.' 'Leader, please cure me of my malaise.' 'Leader, someone took a sh*t in my camellias. Let's feed 'em to the horrors.' Grow up."

Narinder snorts, then tries to confirm whether that undignified noise actually came from him. He is aware that his senses may not be the most trustworthy at the moment.

He clears his throat. "Even so. You have more important work in the morning."

More silence, broken after a few seconds by rustling.

"... S'that it, then?"

He glances back. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothin'." They are not looking at him. And then, quieter, "...Can you stay?"

Narinder becomes aware of the clenching heart in his chest, and he misses when it did not beat. The wine must already be making him ill.

"...I live here," he says.

"Okay."

They sigh quietly behind him. He expected a little bit more of an argument, but he supposes all the stress and poison had to catch up to them eventually.

He remains there, sitting on his floor, and leans back against the side of the bed. His options for a halfway pleasant night were already limited before the Lamb came charging right through them. There is nothing but raucous nonsense all over the grounds outside of the hut. And inside the hut, he has the nonsense of an incomparably powerful fledgling god, lying intoxicated on his furniture, to contend with. He can feel their presence behind him, like the creeping sensation of impending death over one's shoulder.

There will be no peace tonight either, it seems.

He contemplates the bottle-- it is still mostly full-- and decides he may as well take what reprieve he has available from all the annoyance.

A quiet night with wine is not, on its own, inherently pathetic. But ideally, one is likely at some sort of table, or altar, or at any setting more dignified than "nursing the bottle directly while seated on the floor". One is also not furiously ignoring the only other presence in the room while experiencing mild hallucinations. Again, ideally.

He is well aware of the ridiculous nature of their situation. This is his space. Granted, they have a holy right to the commune and everything in it-- but if he is going to have a pittance of privacy, he ought to be able to defend it.

And here they are, making it even smaller and more uncomfortable than it already had been. They reek. And the longer he drinks, the more he notices it. It permeates his space, and worse, his bed. After what feels like decades-- and he would know-- he corks the bottle and rises to his feet.

Perhaps a bit too quickly. He's certain his skeleton is supposed to feel much much heavier than it currently does, and it is throwing off his balance. He shakes off the feeling, and looms over his intruder.

They're on their back, limbs splayed, expression peaceful. Their mantle spills out behind them, its pristine red the brightest hue against the other fabric. They lie in it like a pool of fresh blood. The Lamb sleeps like roadkill.

He has to brace himself with his arms on either side of them in order to get close enough to confirm the stench. It definitely comes from them, but it is not them. They smell like every manner of filthy, fluffy follower that they'd spent the day cozying up against. They stink of practically their entire cult.

And again, what cuts through is rabbit.

Impulse wins out before he's even aware of the fight. He's already leaned in and, much without cognitive input, rubbed up against the thick wool and fuzz under their ear. It's impossibly soft against his cheek.

For all that the action feels divorced from his will-- it settles him, deep in some rattling hollow in the space between his ribs. Some threat he is not aware of has been neutralized, here in the warm quiet of his dark little cave.

"... Nari," he hears the Lamb's monotone by his ear.

Narinder goes so still so fast he believes his heart stops.

"...Lamb," he responds.

An agonizing five seconds of silence. He can feel their breath on his neck.

"...You were asleep," he says, because perhaps he could make it true if he insists enough.

"Nuh uh. Meditating."

"...It is not meditating if you lie down with your eyes closed."

"Oh."

Another second of silence wherein Narinder contemplates killing them both, but the thought is interrupted by their soft shifting against his neck. Nuzzling. The hair rises in a line down his back.

"...Can we skip the next part of the dream?" they mumble into his fur. He should probably snap their neck. His joints appear to be locked in place. He only half registers their words.

"...What would be the... 'next part'?" he asks stiffly.

"I kill you. Or you kill me." Even so close, they're almost too quiet to hear, voice muddled with exhaustion. "Someone always strikes."

He doesn't answer. If fate is kind, they will lose consciousness again in a matter of seconds.

He feels a hand come to rest on his back. Fate has never been kind.

"Let's skip it. Hate fighting."

His brow furrows. He had once known their mind, and that had undoubtedly not been true. But that was then.

Now, he wonders if he knows anything about them at all. The thought somehow compels him to speak.

"...Our natures are violence, Lamb." He nearly slips over his words. His tongue has gone heavy and clumsy in his mouth.

"Nuh-uh."

"...'Nuh-uh'," he repeats. "That is all you have to say."

"Uh-huh."

"You've killed thousands."

"So?" They muffle it into his neck. The safest course of action right now, Narinder decides, is to be angry at them.

He snorts. "All this time, and you still fear death. Pathetic."

"Nuh-- no I don't," they pull back slightly to speak. "Dying doesn't hurt."

Narinder needs more time to think about that than he really should. Eons pass. Mountains crumble. He remembers the Lamb is full of sh*t.

"...I can say with certainty that being killed is painful," he finally argues.

"'Killed' is different. Depends on the guy. Doesn't really hurt when you do it," their hand briefly tightens in his hood, "You're quick-- you just focus on the 'dead' part. Dying doesn't hurt."

Narinder is deeply uncomfortable with everything. In general. About all this. And he cannot even do so much as squirm about it, as that would make their contact harder to ignore. Awkward stiffness is the best he can do. He regrets thinking the words "awkward stiffness" at once, and considers just throwing them across the room and running. They would probably both vomit. It is an option. The Lamb is talking again.

"Lots of times it hurts on the way. Poison's bad. Stabbing's hit're miss. Haha." Both their arms loosely wrap around him now. Narinder is fairly convinced he will die here. "...Bishops were the worst. They wanted it to hurt. They want me to suffer."

Narinder does not so much as breathe.

"I hate them," the Lamb says.

He answers, "I know."

"They hate me. But at least now they have a reason," the Lamb clutches onto his robes, now. "They made it hurt just to talk to them. They'd-- they could pull me up by my soul, and I could feel it choking."

"...You fear them," he realizes.

The Lamb doesn't answer him.

They have always feared the Bishops, haven't they? Even before him. Before everything.

Carefully, and slow enough to handle a live bomb, Narinder finally settles his body down on top of theirs. They waste no time burying themself in the crook of his neck. They are not going to let him go.

"You could--" he starts, but aborts. Because where could he possibly go with that? They have a mission. They owe him the deaths still left to be doled out.

It does not matter if they are afraid. It means nothing.

They sniff. He dreads the prospect of tears and snot in his robes. But no weeping comes.

Instead he hears a small, dull, "Do you hate me, too?"

The answer is obvious. They betrayed him. They ruined him, made him lesser, and subjugated him.Every day in this form, this life, is a new humiliation. A new painful, overstimulating, terrible humiliation. His response, the only one he could have, sits caged at the back of his throat.

It does not escape. He finds he cannot free it.

"Please tell me," the Lamb mumbles into his fur. "I can't just know."

He says, "You can."

"No, because knowing things changes'em. Every day I change things just by being here. Fate told me. 'Said that itself."

Alright. "Enough. You need rest."

"I'm already not awake."

"Hush, then."

They wriggle under him. Instinct takes over again, in the form of an odd rumble that starts in his throat and seems to drone evenly throughout his body. The Lamb's movements falter, then cease.

"...No way," they whisper, a hint of their normal brightness coloring their tone.

He growls over the noise, feeling wired. "Silence."

Gently, reverently, a hand reaches up to cup the back of his head. They shift, nuzzling over to the other side of his neck, and sigh deeply. He feels the rise and fall of it under the weight of his entire body.

His heart clenches. It hurts. He can feel it beating, and it is an abomination of every turn of fate and power that ripped him away from what he should have been forever.

And yet he cannot fathom how much worse it would feel to let go of them, at this moment.

A minute later, he realizes his mistake. His voice rasps out from him alongside the other noise.

"...You may speak, if you wish." He already regrets the lenience.

"You're really soft," they mutter. "I don't think you're really this soft."

Somehow he feels like he ought to be offended by that. Mostly he just feels like his body is trying to melt.

"...Things would be so much easier if you still feared me," he laments aloud.

The Lamb stirs a little in his arms, and speaks over a yawn.

"You never scared me, Narinder. You were everything."

"..."

They pull back just enough to look at him, blinking up with gentle, bleary affection.

"Death didn't hurt. It was just you. The best thing that ever happened to me."

He wants so viciously to tell them he hates them.Whatever they're doing to him-- this pounding in his ribcage, this roiling pit tearing itself open in his stomach with an intensity so uncomfortably close to shame-- it has to be hate. Divine hate. Righteous, fixated hate. Overwhelming, terrifying, yearning hate.

He leans in.

"... Go to sleep," he commands, stopping a bare inch away from taking an action he does not fully understand.

They blink slowly, and proceed to tuck themself right under his chin. His breath catches.

"M'kay," they sigh. One of their horns juts uncomfortably into his jaw, and he forces himself to focus on that sensation above any other. His face has gone hot.

The worst of it is over. Their breathing will even out within seconds, and he will be able to slip away unnoticed.

"Nar'?" they slur, "You c'n kiss me if you marry me."

Their breathing evens out. Narinder spends some minutes lying there, petting wool and silently going through the worst of it.

-

The Lamb wakes up in a cozy hut with a gross taste in their mouth. Their stomach roils, and things are spotty.

Memories return. Two realities stand out.

They are alone, and they still have the Crown.

Through the haze, they feared one, and hoped against hope for the other. But they have no idea what to make of these facts together. So they just continue to lie there until the Crown metabolizes as much of their nausea as it will.

A glance at the window reveals it's still dark. But the Lamb must have slept a while, given that they slept at all. They conclude it's too early to go out and tend the flock. All the better; the idea of chores right now only makes them want to sink further into the soft nest of fabrics. It would almost be nice to do so-- might even assuage the guilt of sloth-- if they had something a little warmer to cling onto.

But they are alone, and they do have something to do.

With no other option, they exit the bed, and melt down into the aether. From there, they materialize before the cracked pathway behind a long-destroyed gate.

They walk into it, and begin their journey into the Darkwood depths.

It is nothing but a short trek to that desecrated temple, at this point. Anything that still stands in their way falls to their sword like loose chaff. The blood left dripping from the Crown sanctifies the profane seal which still locks Leshy away behind a heavy, stone door. And that, too, falls before them.

They open it, and walk through.

The unravelling carcass rattles and wheezes at them through exposed sinew and broken teeth.

He moves. He fights. He is wrong. He pleads for death.

They make an old mistake at the sight of him: they hesitate. The wide-eyed lamb frozen at the site of slaughter.

He kills them.

Chapter 7: Colloid Suspension: Part 1

Chapter Text

Julbie has no idea why she's cleaning up after the party. If you ask her, she and her wife should be exempt from this part. Their kids are the reason the cult got this big, fun party at all! They ought to be canonized, if you ask her. Anna's got a more humble perspective.

But Anna wasn't the one who carried the litter, so she can act as humble as she wants. Julbie was happy to just hang back and accept all the gifts and wine.

And hey, at least the kits are finally old enough to help out. Sort of. Well, they're playing in the leftover streamers, but at least they're gathering everything together into one big pile as a consequence, which had been the initial goal here.

"Oop-- careful there," Tilly catches an empty bottle that nearly falls out of her trash sack while she's distracted, chuckling.

"Ah. Thank you," she rights the sack with a tired smile.

"Hah. Too much fun last night?" The old tabby winks, wiggling the bottle between his fingers. He's one to talk. Oh, she should tell him that.

"You're one to talk," she tells him that, lightly smacking his shoulder. "You drink like it's the end of the world."

He barks a laugh. Julbie's always liked the guy. Most neighbors have some invisible threshold for honesty that can be confusing to decipher, but Tilly is one of those people who she can just talk to normally. Like Anna, or Kip, or her friends in construction.

"Fair 'nough. And hey, if anyone gets to, it's the honored parents, right?" He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, "Y'know, if you ask me, we ought'a be able to sleep through the cleanup duty."

"That's exactly what I said! We really should be a lot more selective with these things. There's other stuff I could be doing right now."

He winces a bit, his ears folding down. "'Bit loud, sister. Maybe I did go a li'l heavy on the cider, heh."

"Sorry. Oh, so-- is your wife still pregnant?"

"That she is," he sighs fondly, clearing the feast table. "She's naming the next one-- guess she... didn't like..."

Tilly trails off, looking somewhere over her shoulder. Julbie's ears swivel at the sound of hoofbeats, and she glances over just in time to see the Leader walking past, looking distracted by all the mess. Tired, too. They must be at least as hungover as Tilly is, from what Julbie remembers about last night. They were the life of the party, for a little while.

"Good morning, Leader," Julbie calls. They stop and turn with a surprised look. She guesses they didn't notice anyone here. But once she has their attention, there's a smile on their face in an instant.

"Good morning. Thank you all for your help today," they nod graciously. Tilly takes a second to respond, blinking.

"Err-- of course, Leader," he nods in a short bow.

They move on, passing greetings and blessings to other neighbors. They stop again to help out the guys clearing out the bonfire pit-- Julbie supposes there's worse things she could be cleaning right now. She's pretty sure someone puked over there last night.

Anna passes the Leader by on the way back over with more empty sacks, and waves. She drops them on the banquet table, and stretches out her back.

"The Leader sure has a lot of energy," she laughs, "I really don't how they do it, after a night like that and a morning out."

"They went to bed pretty early compared to the rest of us," Julbie notes, taking another sack. Tilly had been staring off at the fire pit, but now he looks between them.

"...S'that so?"

Anna tilts her head. "Coin for your thoughts?"

"...Hm. Might be nothin', but I could swear I got a heavy whiff of someo-- er, something on them, just now."

"Oh, Tilly, I can't imagine anyone's come away from last night smelling like wildflowers. Not even them, I guess," Anna hums.

Julbie thinks. "No, I don't think Narinder keeps flowers in his room. He doesn't look like the type."

Both look over at her.

"...Who's 'Narinder'?" Tilly asks. Julbie hooks a thumb over her shoulder in the hut's direction.

"The demon guy. Black cat. Yeah, the Leader went home with him last night. You guys didn't see?"

Anna cups a hand over her mouth, ears perking in delight, and then clears her throat.

"Ah-- are you sure? Like-- they stayed? Overnight?"

Julbie shrugs. "I dunno about 'stayed', but a lot of people saw them go."

Tilly stares, and then breaks into a wide grin, leaning in.

"Oh, I got a feeling. Listen-- you girls aren't gonna believe this."

Julbie learns a neat new thing about cats and scent glands. Anna gets that look on her face about it that usually means everyone in her sewing circle will also be learning this neat new thing.

The Lamb finishes up helping out where they can with the cleanup. At a certain point it's clear that the others have probably got it covered, but they'll feel much more comfortable when the place doesn't look like a tornado went through it.

Or a siege.

They inspect a half-empty barrel for cracks over sticky grass, rubbing their eyes. Then rapid, tiny footsteps speed right past them-- a toddler clutching a large leaf and absolutely making a break for it. A parent or caretaker jogs after their cub, imploring "Honey-- sweetie no," with loud exasperation. Their neighbors giggle.

The Lamb sighs, letting a small, grateful smile break through. Looking around just little closer makes it easier to breathe.

They stand straight, and decide to head for the temple. A few minutes of meditation should allow everyone to finish up out here, and then they can call the morning sermon. The Crown already dealt with the worst of their headache, but they're still gonna feel a little bad about the prospect of ringing the bell for everyone else's sake.

A hooded figure waits outside, shielded by the surrounding brush. The Lamb freezes at the sight of him.

For the first time in recent memory, they have absolutely no idea what to say. Where would one even start? Are you alright? Are you gonna ask me if I'm alright? Did I say anything weird? You could have hurt me. Why did you leave? I dreamt about you. We should talk.

Narinder waits. So they just say, "Leshy killed me."

His lip curls. He looks them up and down, appraising. And then, he walks into the temple.

"Come, then."

"Uh--" they raise a hand to speak, but he's already inside. They only falter for another second before going in after him.

There are a few priests near the front, all standing before a chalk circle lined with sparse candles. The Lamb pauses. Narinder just stands there in the middle of the aisle, and lets them catch up. He doesn't bother looking at them, but he holds a hand out in their direction.

"The book," he demands. They look between him and the priests.

"... What's all this?" they ask, procuring their holy text. Narinder takes it, and flips near the end to scratch something into the margins.

"Your assignment for today." They peer over, and note he's got familiar runes circled with some annotations. "There."

He hands it back, and instructs them where to draw along the circle. A little blood from each priest should suffice, along with their prayers. The Lamb needs only to stand in the middle, and reach out into the dark. He tells them they'll be "greeted" on the other side if they do it right.

The Lamb is a little skeptical. But they're not sure how well received a joke or argument would be right now, especially in front of the priests. Who, they bet, don't know exactly what this thing will do any better than they will. Regardless, one of them steps forward, glancing sidelong at Narinder.

"...We were told this ritual would be of great help to you, Leader. Is that true?"

The Lamb stares back over at Narinder. They can make absolutely nothing from his expression. He only meets their eye long enough to nod.

They step forward with an encouraging smile, meeting their priests.

"If that is what you believe, then it will," the Lamb soothes. "We have faith in those who've proven trustworthy."

No matter their own conflict, their words quell some mortal nerves. The Lamb can't hear any reaction behind them.

The priests are then instructed, each offering a palmful of blood for the circle. They use it to draw the remaining sigils along the edge while the Lamb stands in the middle, hands clasped and head bowed. Prayer echoes in the open temple air, while the morning light streams a crimson spotlight in random-hued shards over their form, glowing softly over their fleece.

And then everything is red, and then everything is gone.

The Lamb opens their eyes to a white void. Broken wood pillars and chains litter the ground for an eternity out into the fog.

"...The Gateway?" they ask aloud.

"Not quite, fledgeling! I wager this place is just what you expect to see whenever you cross over."

They whirl around.

Ratau looks the same, almost. His laugh lines are deeper set around his snout, especially where his eyes pinch mostly shut through his smile.

The Lamb nearly knocks him over right there in the ensuing hug. They certainly knock the breath out of him, and his arms fly up, surprised, to hover around them.

But slowly, he returns their embrace. And with almost as much strength.

"How?" they croak, "I thought-- since you're not one of mine, I didn't think I could reach you."

"Eh? Where did you get that idea? I've shared your goals since back when we had the same benefactor." Ratau laughs. He does not pull away until they let go and allow him to glance about the empty space in earnest. "So, this is what you've made of it all?"

"I'm... Still working on it."

He tuts, gnarled cane tapping a deliberate rhythm into the ground. "What work? Nothing more difficult than rearranging the furniture."

It feels a bit silly to be awed by the way the world changes around them, at this point. But it doesn't stop the Lamb from gaping, a little, at the way the fog clears in a windy swirl with Ratau at its epicenter. It leaves an old, wooden table in its wake, gently scratched with age and use under a set of dull ivory dice.

"There we are. Now! Why don't we catch up over a game? Unless you're still too busy building your empire down there?" Ratau's eyes glimmer back at them. They can't help but smile.

"...I think I can stay for a round."

The two of them sit like that, in the space beyond life, playing a game Knucklebones that would not have been possible ten seconds ago. The circ*mstances are so close to dreamlike that it doesn't take the Lamb long to start worrying, even as the game progresses in Ratau's favor.

"...How are we talking, right now?" They eventually ask.

Ratau huffs, like they'd kept him waiting, "I suppose we could say: A mutual contact knew how to get in touch with me."

"... Narinder found you."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose I had to have been somewhere," he chuckles, after an idle moment of thought. "So, you've kept your predecessor around."

The Lamb doesn't grimace, a little proud of their control. "It's a long story."

"Hah! It would be, at that. The final god of these lands, shepherded into the embrace of your own flock. Well done."

"Thank you. ...Except, that implies he actually listens to me."

"Hah. Well, you must have said something he heard. He had to have called me again to you for a reason, don't you think?"

"..."

He shakes the dice in a fist. Their rattle echoes here.

"Ahh. Something tells me the reason is the same as the first time."

"...The same?"

"If the great god in front of me won't mind the assumption-- I wonder if perhaps I've been charged yet again with an upstart fledgling in need of guidance." Ratau grins.

"Big words from an old man losing at dice."

"Hey, now!"

Ratau does lose that round, and clears the board. Best two out of three is a given for them.

Halfway through the next, the Lamb asks, "What's being dead like?"

"Hmm... You know, I hadn't thought on it. I suppose it's quieter. Less going on, for certain."

The Lamb looks around. The wooden table juts out against the dead white here like a bruise.

"...You know, maybe I can do something about that, while I'm here."

They have no idea how long they spend in that pocket of beyond-everything, as it slowly became more. Molded and pushed around into shapes more familiar to the soul-- and then souls-- that remember existence being brighter, warmer, more angled and messier.

It was sort of like fishing, in an incredibly vague and cosmic sense. And also, sort of, not like fishing at all whatsoever.

But Flinky's soul was reeled up pretty easily once they knew it was somewhere to be hooked. And then Klunko surfaced quickly, once they found Bop. Every soul that came to occupy the space would stain it with memory, until that cobbled-together little pocket of theirs became exactly as the Lamb remembered Ratau's shack from years ago.

And his friends are no less ornery, competitive, and raucous, trading stories and musing on the strangeness of existence in tandem with oblivion.

"Did'e ever apologisssse?"

"Hah! Not in that world. But maybe in this one, we'll have a thing or two thought up to say to Berith, eh? I know, I know."

"Well, here's hoping he crosses over at some point. If my brother keeps replacing his heart when it pleases him, perhaps he may never have to bother paying us a visit!"

Laughter, games, and drink flow like the rivers so far below them all, heedless of their own insubstantiality. The Lamb doesn't want to leave. They say as much, at some point, and they're waved off in the amused cacophony of it all. Ratau barks with laughter, the sound bouncing off the ramshackle wall loud and warm as life itself.

"Nonsense, you have your flock to tend! I don't know if this place will be here when you leave-- but I have a feeling it will be here when you come back."

The Lamb looks between the three souls. The Crown lets them truly feel the thrumming potential of them all under their hands. Latent power, useful in a pinch, still molded behind the personalities that once drove them in life. Ratau's grin is deeper-set than they remember, and his hand shakes the staff in an idle back-and-forth of thoughtless motion. It could be an energetic post-victory tic just as easily as it could be an age-bound tremor. The Lamb can't tell which it is. They'd like to be able to, some day.

"...It will be," the Lamb decides.

Ratau pats their shoulder. The pride on his face is unmistakable. They're sad to say goodbye, but he ushers them out like a cub all the same.

Behind him, Klunko croaks: "And tell old Shrumy to hurry it up down there, for hell's sake! I still need to win my hand back."

The Lamb drops back down a few inches, hooves hitting waxed wood. Their vision spins back into place-- they find they can liken the feeling to a drunken head rush, now.

The priests cheer at their return, as if they ever physically left. Narinder is gone.

"...How long was I away?" They ask their nearest disciple.

"Oh-- only some moments, Leader. Ah, the veiled one told us to tell you that it, 'Should be easier to get there on your own, now that you've been'," that soft-eyed bovine recalls. "Shall we call for morning service?"

They barely hear Antreon, too busy staring out the temple doors. If they ran out there right this second, they might still catch him.

But instead they nod, and step up to the dais for the morning sermon. Because they have a flock to tend.

Antreon has been lucky to meet with the leader so much.

He has his experience in the sewing circle to thank for it. He's always had an interest in the textile arts, owed to the old family loom inherited from his father. It is his good luck that the Leader will have such important use for it.

So he's right there in the forefront-- with Elder Allocer, no less!-- of the first clerical group to study under the Leader themself. Daily sermons are supplemented with these private sessions for the clergy, where they are to learn and record the history of their religion from the leader's very own recollections, along with those of elders Focalor and Vephar. The last Witnesses of the Old Faith, and the divine being that built their way of life with their own hands. Antreon considers himself blessed for the opportunity to learn so much.

But he sort of wishes it didn't involve so much arguing. Or, "scholarly debate", as the other priests insist on calling it. New information leads to new questions about the faith, and they are questions that the Leader answers with patience and grace as they come.

Yet, not all questions are asked directly. Antreon knows some of his brethren fear that their curiosity may tread into heresy. But the Leader would understand, wouldn't they? Their stories of the Old Faith particularly invoke a theme of tragedy around the punishment of curiosity.

Surely they would not speak on the dangers of mistrust, and then repeat that cycle with their own teachings, would they?

...Antreon will not be the one to ask. Because frankly, he does not need to. He accepts what is taught, and does not see any sort of discrepancy between the old stories and the Flock's current way of life. The missionaries and hunters travel further with each day. The brewers develop a subset of inquisitive researchers-- they call themselves chemists--and the temple finds itself wanting of space for an archive. Things are moving rapidly under the watchful bounty of the Lamb.

Antreon's tapestry is only a concept, messy sketches shared between other priests, but the Leader encourages its progress with boundless enthusiasm. He will not disappoint them.

Once, they bring in a quiet, hooded neighbor to look over the concept. He stares at it for a moment, and then curls his lip, baring a single fang.

Antreon is told to start over from a different angle. He bows his head, and rubs the charcoal away from his latest sketch, determined to only express quiet dignity about it.

This used to be much easier.

Before, the Lamb could meditate on the world as it moved and turned around them. All the scuttling workers and shifting colors of dusk to night to dawnbreak. It was a tool to let them manage their time better, so it never felt wasted.

But that's not that they're doing here. Narinder explicitly instructs them not to look outward. They are to sit here with him in front of the fountain, be silent, and actively ignore the world outright.

It's boring. That's all there is to it. That whole "clear mind" nonsense probably works a lot better for someone who doesn't have a couple hundred souls under their care, and all the minutiae of keeping a society from collapsing in on itself to worry about. Not to mention Purgatory, which they've been slacking on, and their failure in Darkwood to eventually correct.

Strangely, Narinder has not brought that up. They sincerely thought he'd be the one pressuring them to finish what they started.

Instead he sits a few feet away, and he tells them to meditate. And they are, quote: "Not to stand again until you are successful."

And what does successful meditation even look like? Who can say. Some vague end goal of connecting with something deeper in themself, apparently. Communing with the wriggling parts inside that have melded together with the fathomless darkness and incognizable terrors under their command.

But the Lamb knows how to reach the other side. That's what the rituals are for. Hell, they could just fling themself from the nearest cliff if they need to get up close and personal with death in a pinch.

This is a waste of time, is what they're getting at.

But Narinder won't hear it. And he won't move on to anything more tangible (or explosive) until they achieve whatever it is he wants done, here.

Or until they both have to get up and go do some actual work in the compound. Whatever comes first. They can outwait him, right?

...

They crack an eye open to check if he's doing anything. He's just sitting there, like them.

His third eye pops open abruptly to glare at them, and they startle. It's too late to pretend they weren't looking, but they shut their eyes and try anyway.

"Pay attention," he reprimands.

"To what? I thought you said I can't think about anything."

"I said not to mind the world around you. This one is not to be of your concern, for now."

Easier said than done. "Sooo. Is something supposed to happen if I do it 'right'?" They physically mime the scare quotes, and hear a light thud to their side that's for sure an agitated cat tail hitting the ground.

"You will not know, if you do not wait."

...They know what they thought about outwaiting him, but on second thought:

"If you're asking me to be able to wait as long as you can, that's just not fair."

They peek at him again and catch his whiskers twinging. Like he's fighting against a smile.

He says, "Be silent, and concentrate."

They take the victory and mentally squirrel it away, deciding not to dwell on how easy those have been getting. Even with a dearth of anything more interesting to think about, they really don't want to focus on that right now.

...

But a mind left idle for too long does wander, no matter what they want. And to be honest, that's at least partially why they don't mind all their work. They decided a long time ago that it's nice to always be doing something. The alternative idleness mixed in with their new immortality would probably be a whole lot worse. When they have a goal, they can hone in on it. It's good to look to the future.

The past is less useful. It likes to intrude, even though it's over and done with. They've gone this long not knowing anything about themself, their family, or everything that was taken from them, and they're just fine! There's no need to dwell.

Still, sometimes, they can't help it. When it's too quiet. They think on useless things.

Like: if they were somehow able to look back far enough, whether they might find some sort of legacy attached to them. Did they come from farmers, artists, healers, inventors? They'll never know. There is nothing left. Not even a name. They must have had one-- everyone has a name-- but is that really such a big deal when you've clawed your way so far out of being someone that you're always going to be closer to a something? Identity broadened instead of shrunk, bloated so wide as to encompass a whole species of someones they will never get to meet, while yet being their last representative? What the Lamb is now is so important. And under the absolute scope of influence their position entails, sometimes being the last remaining lamb feels like the least of it.

(And yet the last lamb must have had a mother, who must have named her child.)

(Or at least, she may have wanted to name them. Maybe she never got to. Maybe there was no point.

[Did she want to? Did she want for them, despite it all? Despite the terror, the hopelessness, the extinction-- could she have possibly wanted them?])

The Lamb decides that they hate meditation, that it's a huge waste of time, and that Narinder must be f*cking with them again.

Honestly, if he really wants to help them get in touch with the more eldritch parts of themself, he could help them make up more curses. More ichor stuff, maybe-- or ice. Ice would be useful. If it weren't so volatile, maybe they could make a whole mountain of it that the flock could chip away at to help preserve food. Unless putting food in proximity with cursed ice would have some kind of side effect, which sounds plausible to the Lamb. The last thing they need is their stores of frozen fish making people's tongues fall off, or something. Narinder would probably find that funny.

They like making him laugh. Maybe not to the point of mutilating their followers. But somewhere embarrassingly close to that.

...They don't truly believe he's messing with them. Not about this.

Narinder likes to screw around more than he'd ever admit, but he's never lied to them. Even when they served him. He didn't tell them outright that he intended to take their life when he conscripted them, but they'd have been dumb to ignore the signs. They'd felt the a tinge of his intentions even in his very first words: Though you are already dead, I still have need of you. They knew from the get-go that, to him, they would only ever be a means to an end.

Was that still true? They thought it was, at first. That he tolerated his life here as a simple means of stubborn survival.

It took them a little while to understand why he really accepted his defeat so quickly. All those centuries of waiting, and then coming so close to his freedom-- only to be dealt a finishing blow that there was truly no coming back from, and with his own power. And then when he woke up, everything was so much. How could they expect him to defy them when suddenly even sunlight was too much for him to handle?

The Lamb shifts in their seat, and tries to get comfortable. They're sure the movement caught his attention, but he doesn't chastise them. They wait a few seconds until they're sure he's not watching to peer at him while he meditates.

He's very still. Not in any way that pings them as uncanny, though these days they don't have the most trustworthy radar for that kind of thing. But he is breathing. His hands are drawn together, and they note the hem of one sleeve is fraying. Cool morning sunlight highlights the edges of his fur in a way that shows off little patches of dust in places, maybe from running around Darkwood. He's got a nail-sized bit of fur missing from his ear where a scrape is healing.

He looks so mortal. They make themself close their eyes again when their heart skips a beat, and just try to count their breathing, or something.

...They could have broken him. They know that. If they truly wanted his fealty, wanted a trophy like he believes, they could have made that from him with relative ease. Body and mind. A conquering god can command reality in every single way that matters, and they really could be taking so much more from everyone and everything around them.

And after everything they've been through, they aren't going to kid themself: Going mad with power was not, strictly, an unattractive option. And what'd be a more poetic way to start than by subjugating the last living titan who thought he could decide their fate?

(Soft fur under their hands. Solid weight over their own body, holding them together while the lights and colors swam and melted into painful nonsense in front of their eyes. A rasped thanks, given at their promise to let him see how the world beyond had changed. Stubborn, self-inflated irritation at the prospect of having to wait around for an injury to heal like some sort of regular person. Strange, sort of scary, sort of pretty crimson staring right into them, always finding something to be inquisitive about.

Steady, unwavering conviction in the power and beauty to be found in the terrifying prospect of eternity. Kindred.)

They remember some things, and are glad he's still whole.

"Get up."

The Lamb is on their back, staring up at the disappointed form standing above them. He looks bigger from down here.

"...I did try," the Lamb defends themself at once.

Narinder merely tilts his head at them, regarding them with those three round, uncanny red eyes.

"Fear not, for you are my chosen vessel and death cannot halt you. I shall not allow it, for I still have need of you." He extends a withered, skeletal hand for them to take. They hesitate, but not for more than a second.

Nothing happens for a few beats. He doesn't lift them up. So with nothing else to do, they pull him down with them.

He looks surprised. He lands hard, but they're lucky enough not to offend him. He considers their new position, and then settles into their woolly chest, watching them with cruel anticipation. They'll spill blood for him, soon.

He purrs, "When you are ready, I will send you back."

"I want to stay," but that's not quite right, "I want you to stay."

Narinder smiles wide, flashing them a deadly row of dagger-sharp teeth. His chains dig into their side, a little.

"So the sacrifice yet offers prayer. How pious," he hums, and inches further down their body. They close their eyes with a sigh, and offer it to him.

They wake up for real this time. They think. All they know is it's much brighter out than it was when they closed their eyes, and they shoot up with a swear and the startled panic that they're late for something.

Narinder has moved somewhere behind them to rest in the shade of a tree, and barely looks up from his notebook when they whirl around on him.

"I fell asleep." They spit it like an accusation. He doesn't look bothered.

"You did."

"...And, why didn't you wake me?"

"By the time I noticed, I had already been assuming you'd simply made actual headway in your assignment," he drones. "Since that clearly was not the case, I could only hope that perhaps at least your dreams might offer some sort of epiphany."

They squint.

"Bullsh*t. You're just procrastinating chores."

He smirks at them without remorse from under his hood, flashing a hint of deadly, dagger-sharp teeth.

"...Did you have any kind of breakthrough, at least?"

They cross their arms, and beat back the lingering visuals with a mental cudgel and replace them with literally anything else. Ritual dismemberments. Night fishing. Cleaning up scat. Anything but their own irresponsible and irreparably screwed-up attractions.

"...Nothing I didn't already know," they admit.

He shrugs. "We will try again tomorrow."

"Do we have to? Isn't there anything else we can work on?"

"No, Lamb." He's oddly serious when he speaks, though he continues on with his notes. "Not until you accustom yourself to the patience required of an immortal."

They balk, and then pout.

"...I mean, I have forever to learn patience, right?"

"You do," he hums. "Though, if you'd like to consult with another who cared not to foster their strength and sanctity of mind, perhaps we may seek out the relic-maker."

The Lamb has nothing to say to that. Him and his stupid, smug god-wisdom.

Still. His priorities strike them as odd, somehow. In light of everything.

"...You're sure there's nothing else I ought to focus on?" they press.

He gives them a bored side eye. "Such as?"

"... Seriously?"

That level stare doesn't break.

"The Bishops," they spell it out for him, a bit harsh. "I failed the last time."

All he says is, "You failed many times. A necessary expense for your eventual success."

They blink. "...You don't think I should hurry up and kill them?"

"Would rushing you provide better results?"

"..."

"Hmf. It is the same situation as last time," Narinder breaks eye contact, and continues scribbling around in his notebook. "You will complete your task when you are ready, and you will ready yourself as you did before."

"...The same way," they prompt dubiously.

"Hone your skills. Grow your cult. The rest will fall into place when you learn how to prioritize your own fortitude and holy acumen."

"...Right." Huh.

He glances up again, "And that includes listening to me when I am instructing you."

"Fine, fine," the Lamb plops down on the grass again. "Let's try again."

"Tomorrow," Narinder scolds, "We will not get anywhere if you cannot be patient."

They glare at each other. The Lamb realizes it's a losing battle. What a rarity.

"... You're still working late tonight," they huff.

Narinder stretches, unhurried to stand.

"I prefer an evening hunt, anyway."

They watch him from their periphery. Patience. That tracks, they suppose, but his attitude towards it here makes them curious. They can't quite put their finger on why. Maybe a little while ago, they would have let it go.

But that strange night from a week ago still lingers piecemeal in their mind. His offerings. Warm weight, quiet sanctuary. And then, Ratau. It's all just a little too confusing. It has to mean something.

They think, for a moment, that they talked about fear to him while sick off wine and vulnerability. But they dismiss the idea outright. They would never show a fault so fatal-- not ever again. And Narinder still seems to respect them, to whatever little degree he does. So they couldn't have.

"...So, you wouldn't mind it, then," they tread carefully, "If I took... longer. To face Leshy again?"

Their faltering tone earns his attention, and they think, his disapproval. He only regards them for a moment before he averts his eyes again, pretending to organize his things in a satchel.

"If that is what is needed," is all he says.

Huh.

Okay. Patience. They can do patience.

Part of them thinks it sounds a lot like procrastinating again, but this time with permission. But that can't be right. Maybe Narinder's just so used to waiting that it's just what he defaults to.

He's slow and idle while he messes with his things, clearly lost in thought. They wait for him, hoping he'll speak any of it.

"...You ought to take advantage of Darkwood and its spoils, in the meantime," he finally says, looking distant. "Leshy was a being of chaos. The unordered beauty of his realm... I wonder if the flowers will grow, after he is truly gone."

The Lamb doesn't realize they're staring until Narinder does. He stands abruptly, and gives them a wide berth as he passes toward the gate.

"Tomorrow," he dismisses them with a wave, walking fast.

They let him go without another word, determined to see him sooner than that. They turn tail right into the woods, and the freedom to ignore a heavy stone door at its heart lifts a weight off their shoulders that they won't admit to.

They're back soon, of course. In fact, they're quick enough that they're the one waiting on Narinder. He returns from the hunt with his group, and predictably, splits from them as fast as he possibly can.

This makes it easy for the Lamb to ambush him, their bouquet of camellias overflowing in their loose leaf wrapping. He freezes, wide-eyed, and barely has time to react and lift his arms when they push the flowers into him.

"Here you go," they chirp. "Like you said."

He needs another second for his brain to start up again. They don't know how they manage not to laugh at the uncomprehending shock on his face with all the flowers spilling out of his grip.

Both their ears twitch as the whispers start around them. A glance over Narinder's shoulder reveals his hunting party all gawking. He remembers to bristle, baring his teeth.

"I asked not for these! You think me a soft fool?!" He spits, petals crushing under his hands. They think they hear someone giggle. "Damned Lamb."

The Lamb is beaming. They can't help it. "No? But you made a really good point, back there. We don't know what will happen, and they're so useful."

He pushes the bouquet out toward them, scowling. "Then take them to someone who can use them."

"What? You can't?" They feign disappointment. "That's a shame. If you were able to figure out how to make your own poultices, I might not have to send you to the healers for slicing yourself during the hunt again."

His ears fold back. "I... It does not warrant the inconvenience."

They blink. "Really? Oh, wow, I was just guessing. Where'd you get yourself this time?"

"I will 'figure out' the poultice on my own," Narinder evades, adjusting the rapidly overflowing pile in his arms. Again, he takes a wide path around them in his escape.

They almost call out to ask if he needs help one more time, just to screw with him. But a glance to the side makes the followers scramble to look like they weren't blatantly watching the whole exchange.

They can spare his pride a little bit. They're cruel, but not heartless.

The Lamb alone gets to decide what it means for something to be a virtue. They think patience has some good potential, and file the idea away for future sermons.

Summer

The hot season rolls on to a gentle crawl, and the rains hit their little village with the same sleepy non-commitment, in starts and stops. It gave Pasha hope for a late frost. That was her first mistake.

Now, the healing bay is absolutely flooded with sniffling toddlers and their unfortunate parents all spreading their seasonal colds. The Leader has already been cycling her through so many assistants, as her regular helpers naturally got sick pretty much at the get go.

It's a little annoying, but there are some upsides. Sometimes the new people who wouldn't usually work here end up finding a knack for it. Like the brewer girl. She has a skilled bedside manner, and picked up a sense for handing out the proper camellia root dosages almost immediately. She just got sneezed on by Jigbert's cub for the fifth time, but it doesn't break her stride.

"I'm gonna be honest, Haffie, it's incredible that you haven't gotten sick yet," Pasha tells her when she goes to clean her hands. She doesn't even have to remind her to do that.

"Oh, I got sick as soon as possible," Haffie shrugs. "Yeah, I mean, we were all gonna get sick anyway, so when the bug started going around I just volunteered at the creche a lot to get it over with."

"...Huh. That's certainly one way to go about it."

"I mean, have you ever noticed that once you get better, you're not likely to catch the same thing again?" Haffie hums, prepping the room for the next incoming patient. "I wish there was some way to weaponize that. You know, without putting people in danger of getting really sick."

"That would be something," Pasha agrees. "Immunity is something we've been researching here, actually." Not that she's had a lot of downtime to put into that. Haffie's ears perk.

"Ooh! Any good discoveries?"

"Nothing groundbreaking. You're welcome to help out whenever you can," Pasha offers again. She's made it very clear by now that she thinks Haffie's talents are wasted at the brewery. Intelligent young people should go where they'd do the most good.

Haffie smiles, and says she'd love to.

The next patient that comes in with a nasty bite mark blessedly does not change her mind. Even if he's ornery about it.

"Lamb's sake, Lonny, who'd you piss off to manage this?" Haffie even gives him sh*t for it, and Pasha can't muster the will to say something about professionalism. Hey, she wants to know, too.

"Piss off, heretic. You know how Ylfre gets when she's hammered. ...Hey, uh, you don't happen to have anything back here for a hangover?" he asks hopefully, rubbing at one of his eyes. Haffie rolls her eyes at the nickname, but doesn't bring it up.

"We got water and beds, but I'm afraid we're fresh out of better life choices," She quips back, applying the disinfectant only a little slower than someone with Pasha's training could. "Please don't tell me you were drinking your homemade crap again."

"It's getting better! Latest batch didn't taste like dishwater."

"You guys are gonna get yourselves killed," Haffie deadpans.

"What're you, a healer?"

"You guys are going to get yourselves killed," Pasha repeats.

Haffie smirks, and Lonny has the good graces to look abashed. He tries to laugh it off and is quick to stand when Haffie ties off his bandages.

"Thanks," he waves them off, and speedwalks out. Pasha doesn't even have time to call after him and remind him to drink water.

Haffie is quiet for a second, and turns to Pasha.

"...I think I saw a shelf," she mutters after a second. It takes Pasha a moment to realize what she means, and then she has to take care not to visibly deflate.

"Are you sure? It could have been a rash."

"i'm pretty sure."

They're both quiet, then. Pasha is used to comforting friends and family. But here, where she wants to consider Haffie a colleague, it feels disingenuous.

"I'm sorry," she says anyway. Just so it's something.

Haffie doesn't look at her. She re-rolls her strip of gauze, keeping her eyes down on it in absent thought.

"...I want to be able to study it more. I think if we knew how it worked, we could figure a better way to treat it. Or even use it for good," Haffie says, still locked down on the gauze in her hands. "The menticide."

Pasha almost forgets to answer her. The clergy would have come down hard and fast with some argument or another. But just arguing about real, ongoing problems has, in her experience, done little to actually change them.

"I think that's a sensible idea," Pasha tells her.

Haffie looks up, eyes bright with surprise. Pasha smiles at her.

"It's a move forward from where we are. We don't know much about the mushrooms here-- you and your brewer friends might actually know more about their complexities than any healer we've got on hand." It's true. Distilling the fungus to a point where it was pleasant to ingest for different tolerances instead of outright dangerous for all of them was a generations-long process that Pasha can't help but see the merit in. Wisdom is wisdom. Even if that wisdom is meant to be guzzled down at a party.

"...You really think so?"

Pasha puts down her pestle, stands, and makes a proposition.

"Ha! Vile things, still they persist. As vile things are wont to do."

The cat's voice is a low, seething laugh in the small temple atrium. Pasha's glad to hear it. He's always sounded a little dry, but his timbre is stronger now. Less quavery, more confident. She supposes avoiding starvation will do that to a person.

He's holding a little basket of mushrooms at arm's length. Like he wants nothing to do with them, while the Leader stands across from him with their arms folded.

"What're you gonna do with them?" they ask.

The cat's smirk twists into a pinched snarl, like he's smelled something gross. "Me? I am not keeping these."

"Well, I took the time to pick them because of you," the Leader sniffs. "I don't want 'em either."

"You--"

"If neither of you are going to use those," Pasha speaks up after clearing her throat. The Leader and the cat swivel their heads towards here in tandem with uncanny speed. It's creepy how both their pupils shine red like that.

She glances over at Haffie, and coughs again. If she's going to be a proper mentor, she ought to keep her nerve.

"I have a convenient proposition, actually," Pasha smiles, gesturing at Haffie for her notebook. It's already thick with concepts from long before any of this, and she finds herself oddly proud of the little mouse. "It'd need funding-- but the compound could use a research lab."

Autumn:

"So this is all that remains of Kallamar's temple. It was a thing of beauty, once," Narinder admits, holding the crystal up to the dim evening light. The Lamb watches him compare it side by side to the colorful plate of prisms spinning atop the lighthouse.

"I can only imagine. Anchordeep is full of those," they hum, tilting their head at the structure. "How far does that light go, do you think? I've been toying with the idea of sending fishing parties further out."

"Who can say? The light is meant to announce safe harbor. But perhaps its keepers only mean to promise safety to those who already know to come near enough to look for it."

The Lamb finds that a touch cynical, but they can't actually remember any strange ships landing on these shores in their lifetime. He could be right. Maybe it doesn't actually go that far out.

The alternative, however far fetched, is that there's just no one else out there. They stop thinking about that as soon as they start.

"Whatever, that's not what I wanted to show you," they sidle past him, waving him over to the pier.

"...No?" he asks, giving the crystal in his hand another look before pocketing it. He follows them to the edge of the pier. They just take a second to stand there and breathe the air. The Lamb doesn't spend a lot of time out here, and they're glad for that. Not because it isn't nice-- kind of the opposite. They don't want to get sick of the rumble of waves or the smell of brine.

Narinder humors them for a few moments longer than they actually expect him to. But his curiosity eventually wins out over his patience, and he asks the question.

"What, then?"

They grin, and the Crown blinks down from their head and is in their hands in an instant. The fishing pole is a sleek, comfortable weight.

Narinder glares at them. He does not say anything.

"Y'see, this is a tool for 'fishing'. Fishing is when--"

"Stop mocking me. I know what a blasted rod is."

"Great! If you know all about it, then you can show me what you've got," they bleat, practically shoving the crown at him. They catch they way his gaze flicks down to the eye set in the pommel before he blinks back at them. "Come on. You need a hobby."

He bristles. So fluffy. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, Nar, it wouldn't hurt to enjoy something that isn't, you know, exclusively murder and gratuitous bloodshed."

He doesn't take the pole, and in fact crosses his arms just to be a pain in the ass. "Hmf. ...And as an alternative, you are asking me to pierce the jaw of a living creature and wrest it by its wound onto hostile land, where no fate can await it but a slow, suffocating death at the feet of monsters it cannot comprehend?" he speaks with a sneer.

The Lamb lets him finish, waits a second, and then shoves the pole at him again.

"They're fish, Nari. Quit stalling."

He grabs it on reflex, nearly dropping it. But once he's got his bearings, he's stock still for a second, just looking down at it.

It only just now occurs to the Lamb that this is the first time he's touched the crown since he first lent it to them, near a century ago now.

They twitch despite themself, but are interrupted before they can say anything by Narinder using way too much force to cast the hook back in a wide, unpracticed arc, and they have to duck it with an undignified bleat.

"Woah woah-- hey! Look behind yourself before you do that."

"You never did."

"...Yeah, well, I never had anyone with me. Look-- try again. Less violent."

He rolls his eyes, but at least doesn't fling the hook backwards when he reels back to cast it. It drops a good few feet forward into the water with an inaudible splash beneath the noise of the waves. Narinder does not look displeased with himself.

"...Now, what."

"Just wait. I thought you were all about patience."

"If you are implying I earned my title willingly, you--"

And because it's the Crown, the lure gets a tug almost at once. Narinder clearly doesn't expect the force of it, and scrambles to hold onto the rod.

"Oh!! Reel it in!"

"What?"

"The--" they mime the motion, "The crank thing! You gotta-- aw."

They deflate as the line goes slack. Narinder blinks at it.

"It got away," the Lamb supplies helpfully.

"I can see that."

"Well, no harm no foul. You'll probably get something else in a few seconds-- look, you gotta pull back while you turn this part, see?"

"Yes, I've seen you do it," he mutters back. "The amount of time you spent here provided me with every example I could need."

They scoff. "Then do it right next time. And I resent the idea that I spent so much time fishing here for fun." Those were frightening times, in fact; when the crops struggled and even grass was scarce. The Crown's natural draw made it a lifesaving lure. If they'd had anything they could use as bait, the flock would sooner have eaten it.

Narinder makes a dubious noise through his teeth. "Not enough bloodshed to be fun for you."

"Fishing's boring. So I figured it might be a good match for you." The Lamb shrugs, and flashes a smile.

"You ingrate-- ack!"

Again, he's cut off by a tug. A big one, from the looks of it. The line goes taut, and he stumbles forward with it, but this time regains his bearings and starts reeling.

Whatever's at the other end of the line is strong. Enough that Narinder has to step back, and is nearly hurled into the sea with a tug.

The Lamb rushes in on impulse, wrapping their arms around his torso to anchor him. The thing nearly knocks them both over, and they dig their hooves in.

"By the o-- keep at it!"

"What do you think I am doing?" From here, they can see the hair raise down the back of his neck. Neat.

Narinder jerks back, fighting the line's resistance as best as he can. He jolts forward with a sudden tug, nearly sending them both careening off the pier-- and then the Lamb sees the glimmer of scales and sea spray over his shoulder as something pops out on the hook.

And flies right towards them. They release him, and hit the floor. Narinder is not savvy enough to know to avoid the twenty-odd pounds of flailing marlin as the line's inertia sends it slamming into his face. Both he and it hit the floor. Him with a deeply upsetting hissy noise that probably would have summoned a demon if they'd had a circle nearby, and the fish with a wet slap and a lot of desperate wriggling.

They whoop, "You did it!"

Narinder sits up and scrambles back, swearing in that same overlapping eldritch tone. He clutches the rod to his chest without realizing, and lets out a shout when the fish follows him from the end of the line. He tosses the rod at it in panic.

The Lamb laughs so hard they just end up freaking him out more. Narinder is too busy staring at the fish to realize he ought to be offended.

Before he can come to his senses enough to lay into them, he looks down at his hands.

"What?" the Lamb wheezes. "You got him! Good job."

"...I just threw the Crown," Narinder intones. "At a large fish."

The Lamb can manage only another two seconds of silence, before they bust out laughing again. Narinder makes this odd, aborted jerking motion. His hands go over his mouth, and he sits there trembling, barely restrained in his mirth.

The marlin gives a final shudder, and then it is still. The Lamb thinks they hear a snort, and their heart swells unfairly.

After weeks of trailing, the heretic encampment is finally found.

These sorts of things are not normally worth the effort. The blasphemers keep more to themselves these days, now that their ways no longer promise power without the gods to back them up. But this group has gotten bold as of late; statues are rebuilt. Travelers go missing.

But there are two factors far more important than either of those. One: Forneus has decided to bring the caravan around the Silk Cradle, while the weather is warm and bright. That is dangerous enough on its own, though she remains bafflingly unworried.

And two: these heretics worship the dead War. All in all, their presence here cannot be abided by anyone Baal cares about.

So he and his brother plan their ambush together. It would have been a simple affair just for the two of them.

But they reported the plan to their master-- Aym's idea-- and he insisted on joining.

Baal has some guilt over his mixed feelings about this. Especially since Aym shows only excitement at the prospect of fighting by Narinder's side again. But they both witnessed how this world had withered him so.

He keeps his worries to himself, for fear that his concern may be considered a failure of fidelity.

(It is difficult not to be concerned, really-- someone must, Baal reasons, and it certainly won't be his bloodthirsty brother or spiritually liberated mother. Nor, of course, the fallen lord himself, who always rankles at the very implication that he may now be fallible.)

But those worries are somewhat assuaged when the three of them meet again, and their master wields that hooked weapon not dissimilar from the twins' own. Aym steps forward, his glaive clutched and tail sweeping in anticipation.

"Allow me to go first this time, Master. I will make a bloodbath of those blasphemers!"

Aym, with his back turned, does not see Narinder roll his eyes. Baal only catches it from his periphery.

"I suspect it will be a bloodbath no matter what," their master says. "Go, then."

He does, and it is. Baal follows suit, and the two of them relish this chance to flex their skills in such a suitable environment. The heretics are armed with spear and arrow and magic, all volleyed at the twins while they make short work of the wielders. Aym cuts through them without mercy, assessing their strongest front and crippling it. Limbs are cut, ribs are split. Blood sprays their profane altar, currently inert without anyone given space to preside in prayer. Baal sets his focus on their leader.

The one that seems to be in charge is a sorcerer. A large, lumbering creature who fights on the frontlines while the rest of their cult fires from behind. Baal keeps his attention, allowing his brother the space and opportunity he needs to down the archers. They fight in perfect synchrony, as they were taught, and the camp is halved in a matter of short minutes.

Or so Baal thought. There are more in the trees, and he has milliseconds to dodge the new volley before it is already upon them.

By the time he can shout, Aym is not so lucky. He takes an arrow through his middle. His snarl cuts clear through the battleground.

The barren forest darkens. It is sudden, and the abrupt cold makes the enemy stumble in confusion.

It is their only warning before the metal shrieks out from the ground; a flurry of sharp pikes fired from earthbound chains. All at once, the field is a cacophony of crunching skulls and impaled bodies, all of them dying airborne and either falling to the ground or staying aloft like limp flags.

It is Narinder himself, pouncing with his blade held high, who liberates the leader's head from their shoulders.

Baal rushes to his brother, and assesses the damage. He is in pain, but conscious enough to let loose a string of swears and clutch the arrow shaft in his hands. The tip did not exit his body, and Baal has only a split second of relief at that. Something important could still be punctured, or the arrowhead poisoned.

"Can you stand?" Baal asks, but does not wait for an answer. He attempts to haul Aym up from around the shoulders, and both struggle with the awkward angle trying to avoid the wound.

Another hand helps heft him up under an arm. Baal looks up, and in the dark can only see a silhouette of black surrounding three scarlet eyes.

Baal implores, "What do we do?"

It is Aym who answers through gritted fangs. "Get me to the caravan! We have supplies there."

Baal nods, moving quickly. "Right-- mother has not gone far."

Narinder blinks between them, inscrutable, and helps them along.

They were right about the caravan being close. Aym is swiftly deposited inside, and subjected to the immediate and unrelenting care of their mother. She quickly assures them the arrow did not hit anything vital, and Baal is, once again, in awe of the knowledge that a lifetime of travel has bestowed her. He must remember to learn something of healing from her. It will definitely come in useful in their future.

He and Narinder linger outside. They hear an indignant yowl, an exasperated call to hush, and his master squints at him when he grins.

"...You find this amusing."

"Not my little brother's pain," Baal insists serenely. "Only how our fearsome warrior tantrums like a kit."

Narinder tilts his head. "...'Little' brother for certain, is it?"

"Mother confirmed it," Baal grins. "I am a little over two seconds older."

Narinder fights back a tired grin. Baal knows he'd always suspected.

A second of silence passes, wherein Narinder looks increasingly discomfited. Baal recognizes the way he gets restless. He does not know how to ask about it, but he does know that he will not need to.

"...You have the situation under control, then," Narinder eventually says. "I will be on my way."

Baal straightens. "So soon?"

That confuses them both. His master is unused to being questioned, and Baal is unused to questioning.

But they are mutually unused to so much of their new lives. What is one more novelty?

"Would you-- mother would insist you at least stay for supper," Baal fumbles, a bit.

Narinder stares, thrown. Baal worries he's overstepped, but only for a moment before his features soften near imperceptibly. That has been happening more often, as of late.

He does stay. Baal is grateful for another opportunity to experiment with the spice pouches. He has learned, through experience, how much is too much. It's something he and Aym disagree on, but Aym is not in any state to take over the campfire tonight. This does not stop him from trying once he exits the caravan and sees it going, and the two bat each other over the roasting spit for a minute before Narinder loses his patience.

He says, "Cease--" at the same time their mother says "Boys," and Baal is not sure which one halted them. It does not actually matter.

They all look over as she exits the caravan with an amused smile in their direction, Baal and Aym frozen mid-shove.

"Mayhap you two could fetch the dinnerware for us?" she bids. Aym glares at him, and Baal identifies his intention to beat him to the caravan before he can move fast enough to do so.

Baal says, "Allow me," and beats him up the stairs. Aym scrambles to catch up, and Baal does feel a little bad about it.

"Don't aggravate the wound, Aym."

"I am not aggravating anything."

"You are aggravating, full stop." Baal is shoved for his joke, and the two scrap their way through the side door. The ruckus shuts it behind them, and Baal can hear their mother laugh on the outside.

"Move," Aym growls, and Baal holds his hands up peaceably while his brother stalks around.

Baal moves to help out, but the continued sound of voices makes him prick an ear back. He turns, considering.

"Where are the plates," Aym grumbles.

"Shh-- Wait, I believe they're..." Baal squints, "Speaking to each other."

Aym gives up the search at once to press an ear to the door. They catch the muffled glee of their mother's chirruping laughter.

"--energy of youth! Ahh, dearest of delights."

Narinder mutters something too quiet to hear. Baal presses his own ear to the door, too.

"Trouble? There is surely none to be had! Not 'fore the blessed patriarch that saved my kits once, and then time and again," Forneus hums, a kindly trilling sound, "And 'I would insist' upon your stay, so I have heard."

Aym jabs at Baal with an elbow. Baal slaps it away, going a bit red. Narinder speaks again, only barely loud enough to hear. His voice is more rumble than pitch.

"Hah. ...In truth, they needed little from me, this time. I contented myself to wait upon them. They are... they have proven quite capable under pressure."

"O, but nurture was their salvation! That one lives in care allows fragile youth blossom into strengthened heart. I am only grateful that my kits were raised with such devotion as I might have given."

A beat of silence.

"Ahh? Do you, perhaps, deny that credit due?"

"I did... guide them," Narinder answers, and the twins both have to strain to hear him. "...But know that it was not my choice to take them."

Another short stretch of quiet, and then Baal can hear the gentle smile in his mother's voice.

"Fret not, o reaper; a choice made is substantial beyond intention. And yours was made as it must be. Are we not all of us only at the mercy of those who love us?"

From the groove between the door and its hinge, Baal can just barely make out the sight of his mother cradling a soft paw over the golden pendant around her neck. He cannot see his master. And try as he might, he can only imagine the shadow of a veil over a face further obscured by fog and height.

"...I suppose I envy your conviction."

"One can be certain of nothing but the heart's affections!" Forneus chuckles, as if at a secret joke.

Baal catches her glancing at the door, and becomes aware that it should not take this long to find the dinnerware. He scrambles back as quietly as he can, causing Aym to swear and stumble into him anyway.

They exit the caravan with plates and such, and are met with the mirthful grin and unimpressed glare of two older beings who are well aware they were being spied on.

Baal shares a silent look with his brother, who by a predictable miracle, has the same idea. Aym abruptly clutches at his wound, and plays up a sudden flare of pain. Baal makes a show of helping him down the stairs.

"Ah-- forgive our delay, mother, I think Aym still bleeds."

"It is-- it is nothing I can't handle," Aym supplies bravely and believably. The amusem*nt does not leave Forneus' face, now augmented with raised brows.

Narinder's brow furrows in genuine concern. Baal feels terrible about it for the split second before his master notices their mother's reaction, and the pity drains from his expression and settles into disdain.

"Sit down and eat," he demands stonily.

The twins do that. Baal passes the plates, avoiding eye contact.

"Pray tell-- how fares the Lamb and their endeavors?" Forneus speaks up.

Narinder's face immediately darkens. The twins share another look: Here we go.

"Hmf. I wager they are unchanged since you last crossed paths. Their stubbornness will transcend centuries, I am sure of it."

"Oh? What a lucky life lived, to be so sure where one's joy lies!" Baal does not know whether his mother does not understand the sharp tone he takes as a dismissal, or if she is simply too unconcerned to address it. Both register to him as bravery beyond comprehension.

Narinder bares his teeth, looking ready to aggressively dispute that. For the sake of cordiality, he refrains, and bites hard into the leg shank on bis plate.

Glad to not be the point of attention, Baal supplies his view: "They certainly do seem happy, living as they are. Even with all the responsibility of a leader exalted."

Aym must share the sentiment, adding, "Bah! What responsibility? They have their pathetic followers to do all their bidding. They wouldn't know what to do with themself on their own."

"And lucky failings to have, as well! Good company is a blessing, my love, and devotion a virtue," their mother objects, brushing a bit of dirt from Aym's cowl. He subdues, as if chastised.

"Your son speaks half the truth," Narinder says from across the fire. "They enjoy the fruits of their cult, yet somehow rule as if enslaved to it. Devotion has bred dependency on both sides. Their efforts are a spectacle of redundancy."

The master's tirade is predictable, but welcome at the moment. He will always, without fail, have some new gripe with the Lamb that inspires a barrage of complaints and hypothetical solutions to whatever new issue the cult faces, no matter how insignificant. Aym has wondered aloud before why Narinder does not simply kill them until they leave him alone. Baal has offered that leaving outright would be a simpler solution.

Neither bring their ideas up to Narinder directly. His fervor, in this case, neither requires not seeks rectification.

Forneus hums, warm and purring. "And still they speak with such gratitude, and dance with such cheer. They are one who finds truth in their love; a kindred soul!"

Narinder blinks at her. Baal bites his cheek to keep from smiling. Aym hadn't known what to do with her particular breed of patience at first, either.

"... What a... generous depiction of a creature who stumbles through godhood on ignorant heartstrings," Narinder responds, unable to keep the dubiousness out of his tone entirely.

"Indeed! You need only listen to your own heart, for there lie your truest desires," Forneus returns, happily pulling apart soft roast meat between her claws. "Do you know what lies within your own, o reaper?

It could be the firelight, or the relative dark playing tricks on him, but Baal's eyes are too sharp for him to doubt for long. Color suffuses Narinder's face, betrayed by the thin fur along his inner ears and twitching nose.

He is certain, by the way his mother's eyes shine over at Narinder, that she sees it too.

"I--" Narinder clears his throat, and speaks with almost aggressive certitude. "I want for little more than the power once stolen from me."

Forneus just nods, peacefully enjoying her dinner. "If that is the truth it tells you. A heart unheeded is ne'er so easily filled with tales."

Narinder looks away. He is blushing. Aym and Baal share a surreptitiously confounded look.

Forneus, for her part, appears to simply enjoy a short dinner warmer by the fire with her family and guest, after that.

To no one's surprise, Narinder is quick to leave once that's over and done with. No one bats an eye when he stands, rucksack already gathered and accounted for.

"...My thanks, for your... hospitality," he tries, and he does sound sincere, with some effort.

"Ahh, but the call of one's home is a sweet song indeed. You are always welcome around our little hearth, such that it is," Forneus laughs, and then nudges Baal. He perks, and bows his head.

"Thank you for lending your aid." He hopes that is enough. He knows for Narinder, it would be.

But his mother still looks at him, expectant, and he can't help the wash of embarrassment. Aym cracks a grin, as if he will be spared the same fate.

Never the coward, Baal stands, and approaches his old almighty. He does not waver at Narinder's dawning bewilderment, though every fiber in his being would like to. He instead offers a small, awkward smile and a whispered explanation.

"Erm-- sorry, master, it is custom."

And then he leans in to bunt the sides of their jaws together, just quick enough to be polite. But it is still vastly more tactile than he would ever have dared in the days before his mother. Narinder just blinks at him. He hears Aym snicker, before he is ushered up too, playing up his injury the entire way until it is clear he will not be getting out of it. He hobbles over and does not look either of them in the eye when he gives their old master an equally swift brush goodbye.

Narinder stares at them both. All his eyes are wide and read to Baal as somewhere between appall and utter incomprehension. Some old instinct in Baal braces for divine retribution, or perhaps a lecture.

But all he says after an eternal moment is, "...That is... a send off, then," he asks. It's not intoned like a question, but his bafflement is clear enough. Forneus chuckles warmly behind them.

"Our people are a sociable sort. And what is more easily understood than the touch and scent of one's clan, for the care and safety therein?"

Narinder's ears twitch back sporadically. In a foe, Baal would assume defensive or violent intent. But here, he can only suspect that they have deeply embarrassed him.

Aym comes to the same conclusion at the same time, and they both offer him a quick bow in unison and escape back to their seats to focus heavily on their food. A brief glance at their mother confirms a puckish grin on her part.

"Such well-mannered boys, aren't they?" She presses, for her own amusem*nt.

"...Of course," Narinder responds, somewhat distantly. Baal can't read him at a glance.

Narinder then offers the rest of the family a silent bow of his own. Short but not rushed, and a bit deeper than a simple incline. It is not something the twins have ever seen him do. The One Who Waits did not bow to anyone or anything, even while bound and bleeding.

Forneus' eyes soften at the display. It may not be her own custom, but she is familiar enough with the gods to understand it.

Winter:

The frosts come early, sweeping the lands up into its unforgiving chill and leaving the base camp cradled in snow. Many homes by now have been expanded for their growing families, and were better insulated for the chill. But even for them, the tailors worked tirelessly with constantly depleting supplies of silk and cotton, and the small, precious store of wool. Those who still lived in the older huts tended to make due one way or another, either by diligent nesting, or simply being better adapted for the cold by some physical virtue. The Lamb supervised the labor factions to ensure they accounted for everyone who had to hibernate.

And speaking of hibernation, there was someone the Lamb was particularly quick to check on the morning after the land's first snow. Some weight in their chest lightened when they found Narinder already awake and glaring out of his heavily curtained window. He saw them coming, so they just let themself in.

"Good morning!'

"Is it."

"It is, yes," they quip, and he frowns at them from under a heavy blanket worn around him like a shawl. He clutches it to keep it closed around his shoulders.

"You look like an elder," the Lamb adds cheerily.

"It is cold."

"Yeah." They point at the window. "It snowed."

He just glares at them. The Lamb can be patient when they need to be. The chill wears at them both, but it chips at Narinder more easily. Maybe it's the lack of wool.

"Can I help you."

They don their serene, unflappable smile. "It's time to start the day."

He watches them for further explanation. They give none. He squints at them, probably trying to glean a motive.

They gesture to the curtain. "Don't you want to spend a little time out there before all the bustle starts?'

"...Why would I want to do that."

"You've never been out in the snow in this form, right? I thought you'd be curious."

He blinks, and looks to actually consider it for a second. The disdain returns easily at the next gust of wind.

"Not enough to mitigate the inconvenience. Consider that there might perhaps be a reason I tend to sleep through it."

The Lamb watches him, unwavering, until it finally clicks for him. There's a crease in his brow that strikes them as remarkably close to despair.

"...You will not allow that any longer, will you."

They smile again, sweet as can be, and hold open the curtain.

"Come on. It's not that bad," they try to assure him. His face is then reduced to three red pinpricks beneath the blanket.

They sigh, playing it up.

"Fine, whatever, you little coward," the Lamb relents airily, and walks out through the curtain.

They only take a few steps out of the way, and wait. With some surprise, they figure it didn't work when they're not blasted after ten seconds, but a glance around the corner shows Narinder stood at the curtain, holding it open at his side.

He's just standing there, staring out at the horizon. The snowfall is fresh and untouched in this wing of the compound, and the heavy cloud cover blankets the sky in endless white. It's near silent out here.

The Lamb won't pretend they know how to read him, especially without access to his mind, but their time together has allowed them to learn a little more. His face will never give them much. They look for clues elsewhere, in his pinned-back ears and rigor-mortis fist clutching into the fabric.

Their body moves faster than their brain. These reflexes, honed over centuries, have saved them literally countless times. When their brain catches up to what they've done this time, arm outstretched in the aftermath of a ballplayer's pitch and Narinder reeling from taking a wad of snow to the face, they think this time they might have signed their own death warrant again.

And just to seal the deal, they bust out laughing. They can't help it. He's covered in snow, staring at them with eyes wide and unblinking like the rage and confusion together have overloaded his brain and now have it stuck processing.

When he recovers, he skips right past words and balls together a massive sum of snow between both hands.

They swear in a language only the two of them can comprehend, and kick off in a run. They hear the faint scrabbling of him cursing in kind and taking off after them.

That's twice now, he's given chase. There's a sort of miracle that they will not name in the fact that, here and here alone, they don't mind running.

They do screech like the damned and load up the blunderbuss with snow when he pelts them, but no one can ever accuse a god of playing fair.

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