Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The prophecy foretold of a lamb.

It foretold of five turning to four, to three, to two, to one, then nothing. A vision of the future, where a lamb brings an apocalypse to the gods.

Killing them, bringing destruction, and creation unto this place of existence. A new age of old faith. Freeing the God of Death from his chains.

The moment his siblings saw the inkling of the future, Narinder was in their crosshairs. There was no sense in avoiding fate; the Five to Four had become true the moment they thought it best to lock him away in his domain. He wonders if they could have avoided this fate if they had never been aware of it. He wonders if they too, had this doubt.

Each lamb was slaughtered. Hunted down, one by one. Those who tried to provide refuge and hide them were killed alongside them for heresy. There was no justification given, no explanation, at least not at the beginning. Gods did not need to explain themselves when they ensured genocide. Even though clearly, they are afraid. The sacrifice of a species was a necessity, and they were gone in mere years that can be counted on a single hand.

But The One Who Waits knew. He knew, so he waited. And thus the lamb came, in chains, with a tear-streaked face and blood dripping from a closing wound on their neck.

For the lamb, there is no bright light at the end of the tunnel. But it’s everywhere. Burning, searing into their eyelids until they open.

A tall deity, with two cats beside himself, coated in chains not unlike what wrapped around their own their own wrists. Three eyes, crimson, and blood hued with slit pupils stare back from the veil. The god looks satisfied with their arrival.

“Come closer. Fear not, for even though you are already dead, I still have need of you.”

His red crown is bestowed upon his vessel.

A temporary investment.

At first, the sword sits heavy in their hand like it weighs the same as the chain that accompanied them to their death. But it becomes easier to swing, the Lamb notices, as the bodies of those who sacrificed them moments prior are cut down. Fueled by anger, by grief. Revenge becomes a pacemaker for a recently resurrected heart.

The God of Death has commanded them to start a cult in his name, to kill every bishop that keeps him chained. They will do well, they can’t disappoint him. Even when they die to a lackey’s knife before they can truly begin does the God seem encouraging. And this continues because even a lamb’s rage cannot replace much-needed experience with a blade.

“Death is of little consequence.” Says the reaper. His vessel is quiet at his end, looking up at him with wide, reflective eyes. He knows the lamb is his ticket to freedom. Small, pitiful, wooly thing. A weak thing, but it will grow and learn. He will wait for as long as he needs for them to be. “Rise once more, vessel of mine. It matters not how many times you are struck down. The Cult shall continue to grow”

And it does. Slowly, but certainly. Trial and error are expected. Another previous vessel, a rat the god can hardly remember for a time has offered his assistance. So the lamb begins to show promise again, and they begin to slash down heretics as easily as they did with focus more than how they came back powered by memories of their first death. Wild swings become precision strikes. Clumsy luck becomes well-timed dodges.

It takes a month for the lamb to reach the temple in Darkwood and face Leshy’s wrath. He can watch through the eye, a sliver of a connection to the lamb while his brother sprouts vile insults and threats. He cannot see the lamb’s face, but there is a sensation he can’t pinpoint. A sliver of fear from them, maybe. Or the shake of rage. One can imagine how it feels to come face to face with one of your killers, and killer of the rest of your species.

Regardless, they do not speak of it. They do not answer Leshy’s rhetorical questions. A bow is given, and the lamb’s sword is summoned to their palm.

They die.

They die a lot.

It takes three days of persistence for the lamb to finally carve the heart out of the God of Chao’s chest.

They are no grand warrior, no absolute weapon to be unleashed unto his betrayers. Not yet, but they’re getting there. He expects them to fail many times as well as succeed, and he will reward each death with praise. He has enough patience for the vessel to learn its required skills. It is fated of them. There is no reason to rush. He will wait, as he expects to.

What the God of Death does not expect, however, is that the vessel has the tendency to be an informal, chatty, idiot.

“What happened to your arms?”

The One Who Waits pauses. The lamb had just died by the blade of an axe, ambushed by his sibling’s followers. An often occurrence that the lamb has gotten used to, quick to recover from, and learning quicker still. They’re no longer stomach-sick after resurrecting and know to be prepared to get right back to work once they return.

This time, however, the wooly creature stands straight and points directly to the cat’s elbow. “Were you born with them like that?”

“…That is not relevant to your mission.”

“I was just wondering.”

“Make your assumptions.” Says the cat, and the lamb does. He can see the metaphorical gears turning in their head even without reading their mind. He saw the other god’s injuries. The puzzle is not hard to put together. “On with you. You have much work to do.”

The lamb is resurrected and gone with a blink. His servants, the two black cats Aym and Baal, spare a glance at each other but say nothing.

The vessel dies to Heket’s witness once. He prepares a praise for them, some advice maybe. Mortals were fickle like that. They often needed reassurance that they were doing the correct thing. He would spare such words for a means to an end.

Except they are less interested in hearing his praise when they appear and a lot more compelled to tell him about the woes and meaningless things about how things are running with the cult.

“They don’t know how to cook or clean up after themselves, and they get sick because they don’t do either of those things. They hardly have any life skills.” The lamb sighs. It was immediate. They die, appear, and start spewing words before the God of Death can even utter a word. “It’s like they don’t want to take care of themselves.”

Not quite the reassurance The One Who Waits had prepared, but he can work with this. “That bond grows your cult. It creates reliance on you.”

Baal’s eyes flicker from master to the lamb. It’s not often the master takes to talking about things that don’t immediately further his plan, not with mortals, and especially not to listen to one whine.

“It sucks.” The lamb is frowning. “It creates dissenters of yours when I can’t meet their expectations.”

“Then meet their expectations, or kill them.” He suggests. “Or else should I find a new vessel for the crown?”

“You don’t have another vessel.” The lamb says plainly. “There are no other lambs.”

The god’s mouth curls into a frown. “You try my tolerance.”

The lamb opens their mouth to respond but finds themselves suddenly at the marked stone alive. The God of Death has resurrected them for being too annoying.

Anura is a pretty place that holds too many memories. Too many heretics too, and at some point, too many bishops in the same space. The God of Death feels his fur stand up on end in rage when three gods appear before the lamb within his sight. His siblings do not recognize his presence through the crown, but they recognize the lamb. And through the lamb, he listens and waits.

Heket demands that they bow, and pleasantly they refuse. Or at least, refusal in the form of blank staring. The lamb doesn’t react all that much to the god’s demands, really. They wait as he does, hand on the sword handle, a slight shake in their form that is either from fear, rage, or anticipation. Maybe all three.

The refusal enrages her, fuels her followers, and leaves them without a single break. They die on the third passage.

“Why do you look so different from your siblings?”

The lamb’s form isn’t even fully healed yet before they spew out the question. There’s a black scorch mark on their wool and fading bruises on their legs from the most recent death, disappearing as their body mends. The fleece with ripped ends stitches itself back together. None of which they observe, rather keeping their attention on the cat.

“We are different gods.” He answers, and that’s all he has to give.

“O-kay.” It doesn’t seem to satisfy him. The lamb’s gaze drops to his two feline warriors at his side before peering back up. “Do you all come from the same parents? Or is it like, metaphorical siblings.”

“You are becoming distracted.” The One Who Waits waves his hand, and the lamb is alive again somewhere else.

After Heket’s death comes Kallamar. It’s faster this time, the crusades have become routine and the trials have become easier. He watches through the eye as his brother makes his speeches. The feeling of their battle ghosts on the end of his fingertips, barely there. It sticks and lingers, never quite disappearing even as the Lamb goes still once more to the feet of the Bishop.

“Please know, it was not my idea to cast out the Red Crown! The other Bishops, my siblings, the blame lies with them.” Kallamar pleads, and The One Who Waits remembers wailing on his ears, cartilage that ripped easily by his claw. “Please, I beg you, spare me. Kill Shamura, but do not send me to my death. Do not send me to him!”

Coward. Liar.

He will receive the same fate as the others.

The lamb looks at Kallamar with the same unreadable expression, a small movement that the crown feels, and suddenly the god realizes what the lamb has been doing to his siblings.

Curtseying. A slight dip, barely, raising the edge of their fleece before taking arms. A show of respect, or maybe pity. Sympathy for the cowering god’s fear. Perhaps he has been misunderstanding what the lamb has been doing in front of his brothers and sister all this time.

Pathetic. Mortals should not sympathize with gods. The Lamb’s expression is hardened when Kallamar swings a sword down to aim for their head. The One Who Waits awaits the arrival of his brother with curled fingers and a soured tongue.

When they die once more, he keeps his concerns to himself. “Questions again?”

Immediately he is answered. “What happens to the followers that die? I don’t see them here.”

“They are taken care of.” The God of Death reassures. “Afterlife is kind to them.”

“And those I kill in crusades?” They ask, curious. A morbid sentence spoken with such genuine heart. “Dissenters?”

“Taken care of.” Hellfire, then. Eternal hellfire.

The lamb’s speech ends there, but it hovers. The One Who Waits watches the tongue in the sheep’s mouth move as they snap their jaws shut like they need to keep whatever sentence they were about to utter locked away. He senses his family’s names on the tip of the tongue, and finds the question weighed behind them when he pries open their mind, but it remains unspoken. A better judgment on their part for once.

Over the years, the lamb chooses strange doctrines.

They do not sacrifice often, if at all. This is…displeasing. Although their subjects are often willing when they do go, often fed stories of how their contribution is a help, their worship will grant them a place in the afterlife among paradise, their work not in vain (and these are not lies. He takes good care of his domain.) and still the lamb tells one of them (many of them) not yet.

Not yet, they say, until their lives were lived fully, and the would-be sacrifices are in wrinkled, smile-lined skin and feeble bones with one foot already in the grave.

When they die by Witness Alloncer’s hand in Silk Cradle, skewered in the abdomen by a spider’s leg, the God of Death brings them to his audience again and asks why.

“I was a sacrifice.” The lamb says. The sentence is punctuated with finality, as if that’s all that needed to be said.

It is not enough. Personal discomfort should not pose a barrier to pleasing your gods. The One Who Waits frowns behind the veil. “You are too soft.”

“I’m made of wool. I’m supposed to be.”

Baal makes a noise that the god has not heard in a long time, at least for many years. Aym glances towards his brother with slightly widening eyes, before both straighten their posture and their neutral look returns. For the sake of preventing a headache, he does not acknowledge the joke. “Maybe I should take that crown back.” He says. “And your head along with it.”

“Have you ever played Knucklebones before?” The lamb asks him, plain-toned. The threat is promptly ignored. “Ratau’s been teaching me, but I’ve been wanting to get some practice outside of him. He’s an okay teacher, but I think he cheats. Did you ever play with him?” A pause. “You know, since he was your last vessel and all I figured-”

“I knew what you implied.” The cat cuts him off.

The lamb blinks up at him, and speaks in a voice that isn’t so hostile, but confused. “So answer.”

If the chains weren’t holding him back, The One Who Waits would like to take his forefinger and thumb, and flick the lamb across the afterlife.

“No.” His mouth flattens. “I do not play mortal games.”

“You should learn how to do it. It would give you something to do while you’re here.” They continue talking, and talking, and talking. A gentle gesture is made towards the cat brothers, whose gazes dart to one another briefly while the lamb smiles. “Next time I can bring it and teach you guys. Or try to teach you. ”They gesture with their hands, some movement mimicking playing with dice. “I actually don’t know if I can take the pieces with me in here. I can have Ratua write down some instructions actually-”

“Lamb.”

“Yeah?” They look up. They are smiling in the face of death, hands in a paused motion in a gesture for play.

“Why do you speak instead of action.” The god’s voice is almost a hiss. A part of his throat long since gone without use becomes sore. “What use do you expect to give me with stories of a world and games I have no freedom to do with? You forget your place. You’re wasting my time, and my patience.”

The lamb flattens a little. Their ears droop, and their eyes turn somber. It feels like a victory almost. Arrogance runs in his godly veins as much as ichor does, but the feeling does not last for long. The lamb perks up, craning their head a little higher. “I thought ‘The One Who Waits’ was supposed to be the name of someone with lots of patience.”

He glares at them.

“Okay.” Their posture does not falter. The crown shifts into a sword, and three eyes of his squint at its usage being reduced to a tool to draw shapes into the sand. “Send me back when you’re ready."

He does not for a few minutes longer, but the air does go quiet as the vessel ceases to speak, busy with their drawn-out mock of a Knucklebones setup. The One Who Waits watches as the weapon that slaughters his siblings by his decree is made to show squares and fake dice in a drawn-out playing table at his feet. Aym’s pupils track the edge of the sword as it drags through the marks. Baal watches the scribbled words in the grain.

It is crude and ugly, yet it remains there unbothered. The lamb continues their work until the sword is sheathed back into a crown, and looks upon their handiwork before the God of Death promptly sends them back to life.

He could have done that at any time, long before the drawing in the middle of the lamb’s speech, each time before the lamb even lays eyes on him. He does not know why he didn’t.

The two beneath him stick to his side, naturally. But he sees their ears shift back.

“I care not for it.” The One Who Waits speaks, and it snaps ears and eyes back to him. Not often does the God of Death speak when the lamb is not present. There is little reason for him to do so. “Do what you will.”

Baal is the first to approach the writing in the ground, Aym second. They prod at the unfamiliar writing in the sand with the ends of their weapons, pushing away the wording and inspecting the fake boxes like kits. They are older, but the quiet curiosity they have looks like they are controlled by the ghosts of their younger selves.

Shamura is in a horrific state when they cross paths.

“He waits by the rocks of the darkened sea, at the foot of the long, sudden drop. Within the maw of pointed-teeth beasts, the stutter of the heart, then stopped… He was the fifth. The fifth Bishop of the Old Faith. Our brother, The One Who Waits. Back then he was known by the name Narinder.” Shamura speaks, words in paces. The lamb’s ears perk up, and stay raised as the bishop continues. “But as millennia wore on, he grew discontent with his role. He began to question. He was gluttonous in his ambition. And in my imprudence I loved him. For it, I lost my mind. For it, he lost his freedom.”

“Can you fathom such betrayal, Lamb? Of your own turned against you? Would you like to find out? He was the fifth. The fifth Bishop of the Old Faith. Our brother, The One Who Waits.” Shamura’s words roll over in the back of their throat. All of their eyes are trained on the lamb, who is focused on them, and the sight is reminded of how an older sibling would tell the younger one stories.

Shamura, even in the face of their death, attends to those smaller than them, and repeats the detail that holds the lamb’s attention. “Back then he was known by the name Narinder.”

It stings. The lamb blinks, and their mouth moves silently to mouth something that suspiciously feels like a test of his name.

Once the story is over, and his history is given as a parting gift in some sort of a morbid fashion, Shamura tells them to bow. The lamb smiles and courtesies instead, and the God of Death hisses in between his teeth. Shamura looks down at the lamb with six eyes and silence that lingers for a few moments. “I would have thought my brother had better taste.”

The lamb looks up, as does the crown’s eye. “I think he only has a taste for fish, actually. He likes it when I leave them in the offering box.”

They laugh at the end of their own joke. Shamura’s head tilts. The One Who Waits drags his hands across his cloaks to wipe them of an uncomfortable feeling, and turns away from the sight.

Shamura dies and Narinder does not look.

The lamb is summoned before him this time, without the smell of death coating its wool.

“The time is almost here.” He offers reassurance. “I admire your ability to succeed where others have failed. Soon, the red crown will return to me, and you will fulfill your duty-”

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out?”

The lamb’s question is innocent, so innocent. This thing has killed gods, their followers, and monsters known only in nightmares in brutal manners. Died in even worse ways. Their question is informal, and it’s stance is without any semblance of worship. Their voice feels genuine. “Go fishing?”

All three eyes blink down at them. “Is this another joke? Such activities are beneath me.”

“I know of a place.” The lamb laughs. “Cats like fish, right? You always seem to like me leaving them in the offering chests.”

A crawling feeling drags up the back of the god’s neck, something that he has not felt before. It is not good nor bad, but the unfamiliarity of it makes his mouth turn downwards.  “Gather more followers. The time is almost here."

Something akin to a disgruntled pout remains on their face as they’re sent back to their life. The casualness of it all was…unnerving.

Years pass, though they really only feel like weeks. The quirks of being an immortal god, and your vessel in the same manner. Narinder sees the world built through the crown’s eye; shelters are improved and given more privacy. Walls are fortified, gates around their compound. Curtains are turned into wooden doors, some even with locks so members can have their time away. Farming has years of drought, then great harvests, and medicine improves. Some cult members find one another and start families, generations of children that begin to grow grey hairs by the time the temple is upgraded. The shrine in the center is ever-flowing with devotion.

They must feel his presence when he starts to view through the crown, because some nights when the rest of the community is asleep, and it is only the lamb doing miscellaneous chores in the dead of night, do they stop their current busy work to set the crown down in the grass, and show it how to weave a flower crown of camellias.

They still ‘die’ sometimes. They come and visit him. They try and bring the crown with them once, and it wilts the moment it enters his domain.

The One Who Waits has decided to make the passing painless for the Lamb. For others, broken bones and the willing sacrifice of agony would have given him more power, but this lamb has earned a peaceful death. When the time comes, he will kill the Lamb quickly, without delay, and let them have a little corner in the afterlife for their duty to the crown. He wouldn’t consume them, but keep them. It was only fitting. It was only right.

Never let anyone tell you that the God of Death was not a just and merciful god.

When the time comes, The Lamb arrives. “Hi, Narinder!”

He did not give them permission to use that name. He does not punish them for it.

“I relinquish you from your service to the Red Crown. Return it to me, and embrace the end that awaits. With this last sacrifice of my most devoted Follower, I will be freed.” His chains are becoming loose. The influence of his siblings has dissipated, and the devotion of his cult has garnered him strength. He could reach them if he so chose. “You will be rewarded for your role.”

The chatty, talkative lamb is silent. They take the crown into their hands, and cradle it.

“The time is now. Relinquish the crown to me and give me your life. You’ve done well.” A large, bony and ichor-stained hand comes to the top of the sheep’s head and touches their wool, something he has never been able to do before due to the chains that bound him, but no more. Immortality has seeped into their soul thanks to his influence. His touch does not end them, but a finger pats their head in a gentle manner that Death has learned only from watching through the crown, and mimicking the lamb.

The lamb is quiet. Narinder stares down the little god killer, retracts his hand and waits. It is a full minute before they speak.

“I’m sorry.” Says the lamb, settling the crown on the top of their head once more. “I can’t do that.”

…

…

...The traitor lamb draws their sword.

They die.

They die again

And again.

And again

…

…

…

Black ichor and the red hue from hell in his skin. Eyes that purge from his skull and demand repentance for betrayal. Followers of the old faith strung up in his domain. His teeth ache for the meat of a traitor. His claws find purchase in red sand and drag the white of the wool of his sacrificed vessel across hell until they find an opening, and chip away at the strength he’s gathered for over a thousand years.

Anger. Anger. Anger.

The lamb dies. Bloodied. Crushed. Mutilated.

The lamb is persistent.

They can fail as many times as they want, but they only need to beat him once.

…

…

…

Narinder wakes up on cold stone.

The world is blurry and vision has not come to him clearly. The sockets of his skull ache, and his body feels alien. Unusual. His fur feels on edge, the clothing to on his skin feels lighter than the weighted robes he used to wear, and the eye on his forehead is shut tight with pain. The strength he’s been gaining from the lamb’s actions was sapped, halved, barely strong enough to keep him upright as the mind adjusts and he takes in what is happening, but he can't. There is a pressure, a force, pressing down on his chest and making it tight, and the body he takes is forced to make an expansion of his ribcage at rapid motion.

Breathing, he thinks. He’s breathing. Something the god of death simply does not do, and not at a rapid rate like this.

He looks down to his claws and sees not chains, but fur and the edge of scars on his skin. The flesh on his wrists is raw there, covered in ichor. His blood is dark, and it drips down to the stone beneath his feet, staining it’s markings that decorate its surface.

No.

He knows this stone.

A shadow covers him. “---ider?”

Blood and ichor. Payment for betrayal.

“Narinder?”

He has been stripped of everything. He was robbed of power. He has become nothing.

Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing.

“Narinder?” The shadow hovers closer, crouches in front of him, and a soft hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Deep breaths. Inhale, exhale.” They say, and make an example of it while three eyes lift up from the grass to the being. “Breathe slowly. Hold it for a second, then let it out. Inhale, exhale.”

His usurper, the Lamb, with a face framed by soft wool is clean of blood and ichor and dawning his crown. The lamb’s hand and fleece is starting to become dirty with the ichor bleeding from the wounds on his wrists and eyes, pooling around at their feet. His traitor smiles gently and offers him a hand to stand up like he’s seen them do hundreds of times. Anger.

Narinder lunges.

“You vile, miserable thief!” Gasps come from around them as he tackles the lamb, suddenly aware of the few followers that were watching the transgression, but he has little care as they drop to the soil, hands wrapped around their neck as their eyes fly open. Narinder squeezes, teeth bared, hissing anger. “You’ve stolen from me! You’ve stolen from your god! You pathetic traitor soul will be flayed after I skin you! You’ll rot for eternity!”

Surprise coats the lamb’s face, (or, at least something akin to it) as their hands fly up to their wrists. Pain echoes when their fingers touch the bleeding scars from where the chains held place, but his grip stays locked into the lamb’s throat even as they start to pry him upwards.  “I’ll make you wish you were never born!”

Suddenly, arms and hands come around his body. Narinder is lifted, albeit only briefly. Anger surges through him as one hand leaves the lamb’s throat and comes to slash at his attack. Claws he hasn’t used in years are sharpened by fur and flesh as it shreds the chest of the ox behind him, said mortal releasing their grip and stumbling back, hands coming up to a bleeding wound.

The lamb beneath him is almost drowned out by the screams of some cult members, one hand reaching out to the ox, one lifting the remaining of Narinder’s wrist. Their yell cracks. “Wait-!”

Narinder’s free hand comes up, teeth bared, and his claws extend for the lamb’s face. It never drops; another set of arms and yelling mortals grab him by the tunic, and with a hard pull he is removed from the attack. “Vile, disgusting lamb! Putrid! Traitor! You’re nothing but a false prophet and soul bred for sacrifice!”

The mortals that hold him back are struggling, it takes several, some of them calling out for help. Narinder is weak, greatly so compared to his past form, but in a moment of rage-fueled clarity, the cat’s hands reach up to grip a mortal that has one of his shoulders and grasp them tightly. Incoherent screaming starts from behind him and rings in his ears. The fingers in his palm shake, then try and pull away, but the skin begins to corrode rapidly until the fingers pull away at the joints and fall into his grip, dropping to the ground.

Rot? Decay?

Oh, good.

It happens all in milliseconds long before the time the lamb is even able to stand back up. Narinder swivels his torso to face the rabbit that holds a grasp of his tunic, claws digging into the side of the hare’s cheek. Fingers puncture by the temple, a thumb between their eyes. The follower releases a blood-curdling scream, body paralyzed with pain as the others drop him out of fear while Narinder starts to rot and render the flesh away from their skull-

“That’s enough!”

A shadowed hand comes, wrapping around him completely, cutting him off.

The lamb is behind the power, holding Narinder in place. Long gone is the passive, calm, and collected expression they were even in the face of death, to his siblings, to him. Instead, their eyes are wide, pieces of wool dirtied by soil sticking out of place.

Trapped again, still Narinder spits. “I’ll tear your heart out from your throat! You deserve nothing but pain, to rot! Traitor! Blasphemy!” He yells. Motions move rapidly near them. Followers are speaking, voices in worried, panicked quips. The bear that lost his fingers and the rabbit that’s missing an eye are wailing and withering on the ground, their pains of agony decorating his threats.

The lamb’s power is stronger than him, but the anger of betrayal that fuels him does not care. He watches the light in their eyes flicker when he struggles, and the hold on him begins to loosen. Blood and black ichor spill from his wrists, his eyes, his mouth as he growls. Some followers start to drop to their knees, others back away as the lamb approaches the trapped cat. “Damned lamb! That crown is rightfully mine-!”

A hard, heavy hit to the back of his head. The world begins to blur.

The vile threats he had boiling out of his chest suddenly stop cold in his throat, and Narinder is once again reminded that he is, in fact, in a form more mortal than he previously was before.

The lamb’s voice echoes as darkness takes hold. “Get them to the healing bay! Don’t touch the affected areas. Go get-!”

…

…

…

Being a cult leader kinda sucks when you never asked for any of this.

It does, however, have its perks.

Everyone is your friend, or at least pretends to be. You are never lonely, at least until they die of something. And there is something very satisfying about being able to help, (or at least attempt to) everyone to live a good life, even if that said life was for the sake of being devotional cattle for a god that the lamb owed their very existence to lest they be sacrificed and the final extinction of their species.

Maybe they have a biased look at things, but for someone who’s got no one else? The followers are nice.

When they’re not being exhausting, that is.

Cooking. Cleaning. Delivering sermons. Overseeing weddings. Blessing newborns. Crusades, delivering resources, making schedules for the workers, attending to the sick, training others to do the same, teaching them life skills they were too busy trying not to die from the god’s will to develop, and teaching others throughout the years. Rituals every week, some more desirable than others. Tending to the graves and the garden surrounding them. Visiting Ratau and hoping the cult hasn’t gone up in flames for the three days they are gone. Stopping members from trying to fight each other, or forcing each other to eat disgusting things, or asking the lamb to force someone to do it, or lock someone in a prison, or killing them, and any other dark desire they have in their head to come and request only to turn their back against them when it’s blandly denied.

(No, the leader is NOT going to force your ex-lover to eat dirt and excrement. Please stop asking.)

All in all, Lambert thinks they do a very good job running the place considering the circumstances. Not to say that there aren’t a few hiccups here and there.

Dissenters aren’t uncommon, especially in the early days when the temple was freshly constructed and everyone was still sleeping on grass mats in shaded spots. But the times have changed; they have homes, markets, facilities like a real village. They ARE a real village, and something that the lamb has been working on for literal decades. One of the perks of not being able to age is that you have all the time in the world to work on your projects without ever feeling like you’re wasting your (revived) life away. They try not to linger on the downsides of immortality for too long, though. Let’s not think about it.

Dissenters though. Yes, back to them. Troublesome things. It’s either because the lamb refuses to do something ridiculous (no, they’re not going to marry you either. You just asked to feed your ex lover feces, what on earth makes them think that was an appealing trait?) or often their lack of ability to function with someone holding their hand every step of the way puts all the blame on the lamb for their sorry state. They’ve lost count of times of how many followers get sick because they ate something they really shouldn’t have, and blamed the leader for not ‘protecting them’ from such a state.

Those days are in the past now. These incidents don’t happen as often anymore.

But when they do, it’s usually for a better reason.

“It hurt us! That thing is not safe to be around. You saw what it did to Jayen and Normar!” A badger that normally tends to the fields is ranting to another in the middle of the village. This conversation was kept hushed, until something must have been said that peeved the animal. The other in said conversation, a red panda whose ears fall back against her head at the raising volume of his voice, steps back as the dissenter rants.

“I don’t know what the reasoning is, but that thing should not be here. I don’t care if it’s a ‘god’. I don’t believe that.” The badger huffs. Eyes are turning towards the pair, and feet stop walking to stop and watch. “I’m starting to think that maybe what it was spitting about the lamb might have been right.‘”

The panda speaks up, timid. “But the lamb has kept it away-”

“That’s not enough!” The badger cuts her off. “It should have been killed! But they didn’t! How can we expect them to protect us when they allow something like that to reside in our walls. If it was up to me, I would have fertilized the soil with it!” They huffed, chest puffing out. “I could take much better care of this place if I called the shots-”

“That’s very ambitious of you.” His decree is interrupted. “It’s a very stressful job.”

The conversation stills, and both badger and panda turn to the voice. The lamb stands there, smiling. They’re holding a tray of food; a thin wooden slab with a bowl of fruits and veggies in the center.

The panda’s ears flatten against her head. Other followers quickly get back to work. “My lamb-!”

“It’s okay.” A soft smile. A reassurance look. Their bell jingles slightly when they gesture the tray towards the badger. “I was actually hoping to find someone to take this to our…guest, at the end of the village. Since you’re not on the job at the moment, maybe you’d like to introduce yourself to him?” They say. The badger takes the tray more out of habit than will, though even the dissenter looks nervous at the request. So the lamb smiles. “Don’t worry. He’s not all that bad.”

The badger does not look convinced. The red panda excuses herself, and the little crowd that was forming dissipates and sneaky eyes stop following them. With the tray in tow, the lamb watches the badger turn on his heel, mumbling something about ‘false prophets’ and other similar words under his breath.

This is not the first time this badger has dissented. This is also the same badger who keeps asking for his ex-lover to be given disgusting meals, threw a tantrum when the lamb refused a marriage proposal (that they are certain was purely for a chance to hold some authority more than any actual affection for the them) and has a habit of bullying other followers into his whims.

So maybe the lamb doesn’t think too much about it when the badger enters the secluded cabin on the far end of the village, and does not return for several hours.

Lambert approaches with dinner later in the evening: a plate of cooked fish, and enters without knocking.

The place is trashed. There’s ripped curtains covering the windows and blocking out any light the sunset would have given the room. Ichor is coating stains on the floor. It’s dark, so it almost blends in and makes those spots look like small void holes in the ground. A scan around the space shows scratches on the wood; furniture that was already in here such as a dresser, an end table, a side table and the bedframe have deep etched lines in them.

They’re not done inspecting the space before three red pupils appear within the dark, and they are attacked.

A hard force knocks them to the floor, the tray clattering to the side, but this time the lamb is ready; knee pulled back, they kick Narinder off with a grunt. He rolls backward while the lamb gathers to their feet. Half a second passes as the cat crouches to attack again, but a sword is produced, holding it in between themselves and the former God of Death.

The room has no natural lighting; that’s what the candles and lanterns are for. But those aren’t lit, so all they have to go by is the red glow full of hate glowering at him, and the silhouette of black fur that blends in with the dark. Even if the lamb could barely see him, the cat’s hissing in his throat gives him away. The sword presses against his chest. His tunic, too, is ripped with holes and matching the room. probably shredded by his own doing. They imagine his fur is standing on end.

Ichor bleeds still from his wounds on his wrists, and trickles out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ve come to face death, lamb.”

“Lambert.” They correct.

“Traitor.” Narinder hisses.

A side glance to the dropped food tray. The cooked fish is forgotten on the ground. Next to it is a spilled bowl of greenery from earlier. “You haven’t eaten anything since you’ve gotten here.”

A low, guttural growl comes from Narinder’s throat. “I’ll devour your heart.”

Lambert blinks at him. “Where did Grenor go?’

The cat presses further onto the blade of the sword. “Give me the crown.”

“Grenor, the follower I sent in here. He was supposed to give you food.” Lambert’s eyes scan the cabin a little more. Their eyes adjust, and take in more detail; particularly the black stain of ash and what appears to be…cremated remains? “...Ah.”

“Your follower is no more.” The cat chuckles, maniacal smile stained black with blood. “Pity the fool to have faith in you after you commit treason.”

Cannibalistic tendencies, maybe? Well, Lambert can't say they’re surprised.

“He was a dissenter.” The sword lowers a bit, then hoists back up when the cat moves an inch. Three red eyes never leave his face, waiting for them to slip up. The lamb sighs. “He was a threat to our community. I wasn’t hoping for this, but it’s not a huge loss. I just didn’t expect you to eat him.”

“I did not-” Narinder makes a noise of disgusts. “-eat him.”

“Oh.” Another glance towards the remains. “I just assumed-”

“Give me the crown.”

The lamb stills. “I can’t do that.”

“Give me the crown, or I’ll give you a fate worse than death.”

“You already promised me that.” They keep the sword forward. A barrier, even though their arm was starting to ache from this position. “Would you please consider-”

Narinder lunges again, the sword cutting through the flesh on his as he maneuvers around the blade, but he does not care. He’s fast enough, barely, to catch the lamb in the middle of their sentence to land a hit; he aims for their neck but they dodge and his claws graze their forehead, slicing the brow and letting the weight take them both down. Hands come up to stop him from reaching their neck, and Narinder’s hands find the skin of the lamb’s arm instead, gripping tightly. “I’ll rot that tongue out from the inside of your skull!”

“Stop this!” A kick to his stomach. The cat is lurched back (oh and how he curses the mortal bodies. Organs react badly to trauma. Pitiful forms.) and he stumbles back. The lamb is back on their feet as he recollects himself. A maniacal smile to his teeth, he zeros in on them where his hands made contact.

His eyes darken when seconds pass and all that appears on the lamb’s limbs is a quick start to a bruise.

The lamb, too, glances down at their own skin.

Did he intend to…? Yes, it is the same as what he did to the others. But there is nothing there.

Did that ability disappear? No, there was a fine grain pile of a corpse in the corner for a reason.

The One Who Wait’s claws extend. He is heaving. Not used to this form, breathing does not come easy, even if he hadn’t of just been hoofed in the chest. His body shakes with uneven rhythm, rage and exhaustion. “If I cannot rot you, I will gut you.”

The lamb backs to the door. “I do not wish to fight you.”

“You LYING FILTHY-”

“Eat something.” They say as finality, and backs out of the door, shutting it behind him.

Sounds of rage emit from the other side of the wood. The lamb waits for a moment if only to see if it quiets down, and it does. Moments pass, and nothing but wind. It takes a minute for Lambert to understand that Narinder is listening to sounds for them as much as they are listening for him.

The cat does not follow, nor leave the hut when they return to the center of the village. Lambert has certainty that he will remain there. Rage-fueled as he is, Narinder is smart. The woods surrounding their home still housed heretics and his sibling’s followers who would be eager to bring death upon the now-smaller and weaker god of death that is responsible for the demise of their bishops.

A dog who’s carrying wood to the storage stops when they cross paths, and her head tilts at the sight of the leader. “My lord, your head is bleeding.”

Lambert blinks. A drop of blood in the corner of their vision they had not acknowledged blurs, but otherwise does not linger for too long. They smile. “No worries. It will not last for long.”

It does.

Their bedchamber is a nicely decorated place. A cabin with locks and larger than the rest, more divine and kept clean. It is here that Lambert hunches over their books and papers, scratching schedules and practice runes with squeezed ink does another drop of blood splatter a crimson dot across their page. They stare at it, and turn to the mirror; a body long, golden framed one that was a gift from a craftsman follower long since passed. Bags settle underneath their eyes that years of sleep cannot fix; decades of forced immortality show no age to a smooth lamb’s face.

And the cut on their forehead was still bleeding.

Eyebrows furrowing, they turn to the bedside drawer. Some linen is there. It’s not proper bandages (they’ll have to visit the healing bay for those) but it’s enough to tear a piece off and hold it up to their head to staunch the bleeding. It only does after a few minutes, and left behind is a rag soaked completely red. A pink thin scratch stretching across their upper brow. From how their skin was already stitching together, it shouldn’t be long before it disappears, never leaving a scar.

But a cut like this should have healed within seconds of receiving it.

–

They visit the cabin again, and the door is locked tight. No answer comes when they knock, and they do not force themselves in. They try again in the evening, but the results are the same.

They repeat this the next day.

And the next.

And the one after that. The lamb leaves a tray of food at the door each time.

The other followers have taken to avoiding the hut. Whispers and rumors radiate through the village and echo softly at sermons. Some express their discomfort freely to them, while others keep quiet, and some hardly care. The badger was not a favorite among the populace, so his loss wasn’t necessarily one that was mourned, but the very timing of his disappearance is irrefutable. Mixed opinions surround the cabin’s occupant. Lambert highly doubts Narinder is aware of any of it.

However, as routine continues to pass, it becomes less of a big hoopla and more like general gossip. As long as the leader lives, food is in their belly, and a place to sleep, they are content. Time passes. Faith remains.

At least, for now.

It’s when one evening as Lambert is helping pour bowls of soup does a follower, an older doe with a penchant for farming, asks about the bowl they’ve set aside. “Is that your meal? It’s on a tray. Do you not plan to eat with us?”

Lambert glances towards the setup. Beetroot soup and a slice of bread. Not a fully reinvigorating meal, but food to put in the stomach and keep the hunger pains at bay, at least. Something easy, something that would settle well on an empty stomach without making the consumer sick. Beside it sits a roll of bandages.

“No, it is our guest’s.” They continue to pour the doe’s bowl, and give her a comforting smile. “I will deliver it after everyone has their fill.”

The doe’s eyes are gentle and her smile is understanding. She’s normally a very easy-going follower, dedicated and hard-working, even as recent events seem to have put a bit of strain on the village. She was a rescue from Darkwood, and her gratitude never lightened even after many years of service. Sweet thing, aged and kind.

The wrinkles in her eyes deepen ever so slightly. “Ah, I see. Well, I do hope you be careful.”

Lambert cannot read her mind.

There is a pause when they raise the bowl to her. Her slight facial expression changes, and the underlying tone in her sentences; it’s all they have to go off of what she thinks. The thoughts that used to be so clearly read in each of their minds, although invasive, were no longer there. Instead, there was simply silence and an assumption of what could be. Or might be. Or should be.

“Of course.” The lamb keeps their smile raised, and their tone polite, handing her the bowl. “Please, enjoy.”

She departs with a small bow and goes to sit with the others, all of which Lambert stands a distance away trying to pick apart every single follower in sight through the mind. It is not only her, but the others. There is silence where thoughts used to float. There is quiet where they used to be accompanied by constant chatter.

They clean up the kitchen mess, say farewell to the villagers still awake, and bring the soup tray and bandages to the cabin at the far end of the cult grounds.

The door is closed as per usual. Lambert sets the tray to the side, and knocks on the door. “Narinder?”

No answer.

A pause. “Are you hungry? I bought beetroot soup this time.”

No answer.

The lamb’s fingers come up to touch the pink slash mark still healing on their forehead, days after receiving it, and think of pink marks that decorate the cat’s wrists. “Are you bleeding?”

Silence.

Was he even still there?

The door isn’t locked this time, so it pushes away easily to view the inside. The cabin is empty. They should have known better than to leave him alone.

Setting the bandages on the table along with the food, they scan the room. Still destroyed. Remainders of yesterday’s meal that was dropped off sit at the door, untouched, and rotten. Though that apple looks more decayed than how it should normally be, even if just left out for a few hours. A certain god might have something to do with that.

Blood still stains the floors, and there is a slight trail that leads out of the cabin, and into the woods.

Lambert follows it. Maybe they were wrong about before, something they mull over as the trail leads past the walls of the cult’s grounds and into the forest. The blood is easy to track as the grass is paler around it, the brownish of the earth coming through instead of green. The path dies where ichor stains, and it does not take long to follow the trail of dying grass and leaves to a clearing where suddenly it stops. The trail ends here. There are no more tracks for them to follow.

Lambert raises their hand to the crown, and draws arms.

A blur of black and red jumps down from the tree above them, sharpened claws barely miss them when they dodge out of the way-

-but a hand grabs their ankle and drags them back. For some reason, Lambert is slower than usual.

Out of reflex, they swing with the sword, not to slash or kill, but to push the cat off of them with the flat end of the blade. A hiss of breath as it connects with his chest lasts only a moment before his neck cranes forward past the obstruction, hands and claws trapped away. Narinder does not have his chains or his powers, but he has teeth, and sharp canines to puncture deep into the lamb’s arm.

A yell of pain. A foot against his chest. The cat is kicked away again, his ribs aching (breathing hurts, it was becoming his least favorite pastime) as he stumbles back until he’s stopped by a tree. The lamb’s blood is smeared across his mouth.

“Come here.” Narinder speaks lowly. A difference in the chaotic berserk rage when they last saw him. “Make yourself useful and die. Maybe I’ll make it quick.”

He sounds tired. Weak. He’s not as bloody, but there’s still a ring of fresh ichor that seeps out from the exposed wrist. The weakness in his form betrays the hostility emitting from the cat’s being.

Lambert’s gaze drops down to the skin on his wrist. “You’re still bleeding.”

“I have eyes, lamb. Three of them.” He hisses. “Do not state the obvious like it was not your fault I am in this state. You don’t deserve that power.”

“How-”

He scoffs. “By giving me the crown-”

“No, I mean,” Lamb rubs at the bite mark on their arm. It’s deep, but at least the bone wasn’t broken. A surge of pain makes them bite the inside of their cheek. Pain from something like this isn’t something that should phase them anymore. The One Who Waits has a grin when the grimace. “How are you doing this?”

“Do you expect me to explain?” He spits. “I reigned with precision and experience. You? You weird the crown’s power like a child with a toy, playing how you’re told to play.” He chuckles. Mania is evident in the flash of his teeth. He spits out blood, lambs mixed with his own, onto the forest floor. The grass dies in a circle where it lands. “You are not worthy of it’s ability.”

“You’re the one who gave it to me.”

“And I will be the one to sever it from your head.” Narinder attacks again.

Again, the flat blade of the sword comes to his chest but he tanks it, claws reach out and find purchase in the holes in the lamb’s arm, and drag. The lamb’s struggle is well, but the bark of a tree finds their back. Narinder has them pinned. It is difficult lately, Lambert thinks, to try and defend yourself from someone you don’t want to hurt.

The choice is made for them. Hell fire forms in the lamb’s hand (not enough to kill, just get away, get away, get away) and then…sputters out. Widened eyes with hitched breath blink at the empty palm of their hand before they pay for their distraction. The world shifts and the back of their head slams against the bark, one clawed hand bunched up in their fleece, the other reaches for the crown.

“I would have carved you out a pretty place in the afterlife before your betrayal.” Narinder hisses lowly, voice full of venom. “You would have had peace. You would have had others. Now you’ll know nothing but pain. I’ll be the last thing you see-” They struggle, one hand on the grip of their fleece, the other trying to pull away the open grasps towards the crown. “-before an eternity of suffering!”

He shifts his fists, and the lamb’s head hits the bark again. They grit their teeth, a bite in their tongue that draws blood, and summons the sword-

Yet no sword comes. Their hand remains empty.

Narinder reaches the crown, sharp points digging into the shadow. There is a spark of black lighting somewhere above them. Maniacal laughing, victory, inches from the lamb’s face. No. No!

The moment lasts for a millisecond.

Narinder’s smile drops faster than Lambert can process.

He’s still pinning them, even as the lamb breaks from their frozen shock and continues to push back does Narinder have a grip on them that’s akin to a stone corpse.  Face locked with wide eyes, black large pupils and a red slit that stares at the crown above the lamb’s brow. Their breath comes back at them when they claw at his hands, and Narinder’s form is ridged.

Then, his glare drops. His eyes level with the lambs, unblinking. “What have you done?”

It’s like a trance breaks. Lambert curses under their breath. “Get off-”

For a God of Death, prying his fingers off feels like the grasp of rigor mortis. Whatever shock has taken over the cat paralyzes him that when Lambert pushes their knee against his hips, bending his fingers back with a curse and wretching his hold from the crown out of his hands, Narinder hardly flinches. Lambert should not feel this weak. “What is wrong with you-?”

“What-” Narinder repeats, low and softly. His eyes remain wide, locked with the single eye of the crown. It shifts down to the lamb’s “-did you do to the crown?”

One hand on the crown to make sure it’s on top of their wool, another splays out and attempts to summon the sword again. This time it works. They grip it a little tighter than usual. “Just-” Lambert searches for words. “Just calm down.”

Narinder remains quiet. His fingers twitch. His eyes are blown wide open. Face locked in disbelief. Shock.

“Narinder…?” Lambert calls. A minute passes. The sun was fully set, and darkness had taken over the forest. A staunch hold on the crown is stable on the head of their wool in between their horns.

No response.

Any attempt to read his mind goes as well as it did with the others. Silence, punctuated by the forest’s cicadas.

Lamb can’t just leave him here. Well, they could. And they should. After everything this god has done to them, made them do, and almost done, they could. Leave him to be fodder for whatever heretics and remaining followers of the other bishops to find. Probably skinned or sacrificed. Where does a former death god go now that there is no one overseeing the afterlife? Would Narinder find out if they left him here?

Their inner thoughts break suddenly when from Narinder’s throat comes a strangled noise. It bubbles, starting slowly, then cackles. He is laughing, and it is not of joy or relief or any positive affliction, but a madness that coils with every low chuckle. It is a hysterical sound, one that has him fall to his knees. The ground around him starts to wither.

“Narinder?” The lamb repeats.

“Why did you spare me?” The question comes out low and panted.

Lambert hesitates. “Why…not?”

“Why not.” Narinder repeats, low. Then, he chuckles, voice coated with a sense of madness. “Why not?”

“…I don’t have an answer for you yet.”

A pause. Then he laughs low again. Claws curl into the soil and leave long marks. “You are vile and cruel. I’ve taught you well.”

The One Who Waits rises, and the Lamb raises their sword in between them just in case and tries their best to ignore the flickering of shadows that seem to haunt the blade. Narinder's gaze doesn’t even drop down to the red crown’s blade, pupils zeroed in on his usurper, face twisted with the absolute madness of knowing. Understanding. Failing. He stands there. Just…quiet. Processing, the Lamb thinks.

It’s fascinating to watch the God of Death go through several stages of grief in such a short matter of time.

“When I kill you,” Narinder starts. “I will make you understand every agony, every pain, a heart and body could ever take. Then I will do it again, and again. No one will remember you. No one will save you.” He has a tone of finality. Calm, even-toned threats of absolute certainty. “You will have a special place in my purgatory to relive the tortures I will create for you until you are erased to nothing.”

“Ah.” Lambert’s ears raise upwards, and soak in his words. “I brought you some bandages and soup back at the cabin.”

The God of Death’s stare is blank and unreadable. Then, he turns away from them, heading back towards the wall and the edge of the forest where the cabin sits. The motions are mechanical and emotionless. The Lamb watches his back disappear into the brush, further and further away until he is no longer visible.

When Narinder is gone, Lambert’s sword shifts back to the red crown. It does not raise to their head, instead cradled in their hands. They turn it over, inspecting it. The eye is wide open, plain, the pupil unmoving. Nothing is immediately visibly wrong.

Lambert’s eyes trail up to the space where Narinder disappeared, then to the ground where dead grass surrounds ichor and blood stains.

—

The cult leaves him alone.

Those who remember tell themselves it was all a dream. Those staunch on the memory that he is in fact the former god of death are ridiculed when they speak. For what God of Death would reside as a hermit in the far end of a village meant to be their cult, with a frail body, never to be seen? Maybe they think he doesn’t even exist. That wouldn’t be far from the truth; the god he once was is now reduced to the same body he would use as fodder for power. What kind of pathetic god would that be?

Speculation, of course. Narinder does not interact with the followers enough to know, or care, about what they think of him.

Adjusting is difficult, but he has been through worse. Adapting to this form is not as strenuous as the limitations those chains held him to for a thousand years. But it is still…well, limiting. Exhaustion is a new one, although it is the kind that sleep does not fix. Apparently, he has lungs, and those are the organs responsible for episodes where breathing does not feel like it comes naturally.

(The world dims at the edges when that happens. The souls of his siblings speak in haunting voices with every inhale, and his own voice is among them, berating how he got here.)

Shamura and Heket would have called him a fool. Leshy would have wondered why he hadn’t slaughtered them all yet. Kallamar maybe would have pitied him.

The lamb knocks at his door sometimes. He ignores them, and they leave after a few moments without saying a word.

Food is…bad. It tastes horrible. It’s been a long time since he’s ever decided to consume something, and the urge to do so isn’t quite there. The trays of food brought to his door twice a day are either left alone or spilled. Sometimes its followers tasked with the delivery. Sometimes it’s the lamb. Sometimes he doesn’t see who it might have been; they’re quick and gone before he can see.

That’s not to say he hasn’t tried to eat, more so out of curiosity than the need. Apparently, this form hadn’t expired from starvation yet, but before he knew its extent he wanted to try. There’s no telling what awaited him on the other side of the afterlife when there was no more reaper to guide the souls. Chaos, probably. Assuming he would even go to the afterlife, and not just fizzle out of existence the moment this body decided it could no longer reasonably house him.

One tray of food left out consisted of a type of mixed meal with veggies and morsels. It’s not fit for a god, but no peasant dish either. He supposed this would be adequate enough to try. He plucks out something white and bushy out of the mixture (cauliflower, he thinks) popping the head into his mouth-

-and spits it out onto the ground outside his door.

Rot and decay. The food is clearly fresh, the veggies are freshly cooked and still gleam with life from a recent harvest, but the taste is of putrefaction.  If one had not looked at at the food and seen its careful preparedness, its blind tasting would have given a sense of rot and mold.

Narinder spits out the rest of the taste on his tongue, clearing it with his salvia as much as possible. He leaves the uneaten food out on the tray by his door, and someone comes and collects the untouched food about an hour later.

Time passes. He cannot tell how quickly or how slow. He counts it as a full day each time the Lamb comes by and knocks on his door. Which, by this method, it has been maybe a week or two. He’s lost count.

Occasionally others will appear when the lamb does not. More often it is curious mortals who think he is simply a sick new indoctrinate. They come to the door and offer an introduction, hellos and welcomes, some wishes that he ‘feels better soon’. No one addresses his appearance or his former stature. They are unaware of who resides behind these walls. He answers none of them, and eventually, they stop coming after the first week.

The lamb leaves offerings at his door. They still knock once a day. They talk, too.

Chatty, obnoxious thing.

“I went to visit Ratau today.” They speak through the flimsy barrier that keeps Narinder separate from the rest of the world he was so previously desperate to return to. Now a prison not of his design, but of his choosing. He’d rather be in here for an eternity than to face the reality of his situation outside. “His walking stick snapped, so I helped repair it. It’s sturdier now, but he’s been leaning on it a lot more recently. I might try to convince him to let one of our woodworkers make him an actual cane instead of just using a branch he’s had for a few decades.”

Narinder could care less about an ex-vessel’s day-to-day life. The lamb should know this. If he waits long enough (and he is very, very good at waiting) then the usurper will get bored, or be called elsewhere, and he shall be left alone to ruminate.

Quiet from the other side of the wall when he does not answer. For a moment he thinks he is spared the rest of the day’s chatter, but there is no sound of footsteps retreating, and the damned lamb begins to speak again. “I failed a crusade. I had to return early last night.”

...Oh?

“Some of the abilities I normally use weren’t manifesting.” They continue to speak, and this time Narinder listens fully. The lamb’s voice is muffled from the barrier, but he rises up from his seat on the bed, ears turning towards the door. The lamb does not know that three eyes are burning holes through the cracks in the wood where Narinder can see bits of wool and fleece move beyond his doorway. “I could still summon the sword, but the other powers were...difficult.” He can see them shift a bit in the crease of the door hinges, movement that suggests they’re looking down to their hands. White bandages appear wrapped around one of them, and above that is the bandaged bite marks that refused to close quickly enough. “It’s like I’m calling for something that the crown thinks I haven’t learned.”

“So your solution is to come and whine to me about your incompetence?” Narinder mocks, and his throat aches with speaking in what is probably the first time in weeks. “I am not your diary, vessel, nor your resource. You fail because you lack the capability to handle the power you’ve stolen. Perhaps the crown knows this.” He snickers. “Cry to your masses if you so wish. Do not bother me.”

Silence on the other end of the door. Narinder waits for retreating footsteps.

They do not leave. “Do you wanna come outside?” They ask, and the tone in their voice is so innocent someone might think it is genuine. Maybe it is. He does not care. “I know a private place where you can sunbathe in the daytime if you want. The others won’t bother you there.”

Narinder hisses low, and sinks further into the dark. “You would.”

The conversation is punctuated with another period of silence, then finally the sound of the lamb turning and leaving. Keen ears listen for their retreat and find that they walk slower than usual.

He returns to his ruminating. Sitting on the bed meditating, or fidgeting. Raising a hand, shadow-colored claws still sharpened from his actions around the room: a place that hadn’t seen daylight since he figured out he could shut away the world and cover the windows with tattered curtains. They flex open and inwards. Not a sword, not even a dagger, but at the very least his natural form comes with natural weapons.

At times black lighting sparks in between his fingertips, and he tries to recreate the occurrence again for hours to find it futile. He tries it again. The tingle in his hands feels like cold sand. It dissipates, and he is without results.

Narinder goes back to staring at nothing.

—

There is a hermit on the far edge of the village that’s rumored to have a tall stature made of shadow, three crimson eyes, and a demonic stare evil enough that when you make eye contact, it’ll turn you into stone.

That last part is probably exaggerated a little bit, but there must be some reason why the leader visits every day, never to enter and always to speak through the door, leaving food and other offerings that go untouched until they or another unlucky follower comes to collect the unappreciated gifts. This leads to rumors and speculation. The leader does not speak of said hermit voluntarily, and their answers are the same each and every time they are prompted by the bolder of their populace.

“My friend is very sick.” The lamb repeats with a smile. ‘Friend’ is a different title not often heard. Not enforcer, not follower, but friend. One who never comes to sermons or feasts, or leaves their hut to work. The others look to the word ‘friend’ like it’s as if the leader calls upon a ghost. The lamb still smiles. “It’s a type of sickness that the healing bay can’t help with. He just needs to rest for a long time.”

Someone whispers with pity that maybe it’s a corpse of a lover in there, that the house smells of rot sometimes when they pass by. The lamb’s ears flicker in the whispering bug’s direction but makes no change in facial expression or scold him for their gossiping. Though, if that same follower finds himself on janitorial duty for the next week, then that just so happens to be a coincidence.

The lamb does not correct many stories that are whispered. For the most part, it keeps the followers away from the ‘hermit’. It gives them time to think about what to do next, even if some repeated questions about said cat was getting a little repetitive. The stories are harmless. Just gossip.

It’s one afternoon when there is continuous banging on the wood, noise and ruckus that interrupts his medication enough to the point where something in his mind snaps (not that it already hasn’t) does Narinder swings open his front door, body tense and shadowed in anger expecting to see standing target of wool on the other side.

The space that he stares through is empty. He blinks, and catches sight of something quivering a foot or two shorter beneath him.

A child, a fox kit that can’t be much older than ten winters, stares up at him with a wide, fearful gaze. “Y-you really do have three eyes!”

Narinder blinks.

The child blinks back.

A distance away, there is color hiding behind a large bush. Tiny tails and paws can be seen, and little eyes peeking out behind leaves in matched curiosity and fear. They duck further into themselves when Narinder’s gaze scans over them. The sound of whispering and hushes comes from the children. Either this was a dare, a punishment, or some other stupid reason this interaction was happening.

“I brought you this!” The fox kit in front of him catches his attention again, and shrinks when Narinder’s pupils flicker back to him. The boy lifts up his hands; a small bowl of berries sit in his palm. “Leader said you were sick. Not to bother you.” The berries shake a little as the boy does, and he keeps his eyes glued to the ground. “Please do not tell them I was here.”

(He looks like when Aym and Baal were small. He shakes like Kallamar used to.)

Narinder’s tongue rolls over in his mouth for a moment before he decides to speak. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I-I stole these from storage.” The child admits. Unlike adults, you often don’t need godly powers to pull confession from children. Just a really intimidating stare. “Please, do not tell them!”

Narinder grins. Their follower’s loyalty may be waning, even if this evidence is only just a child. How fortunate.

“I will not tell them.” He says, if just to make the thing stop quivering. “But I don’t eat berries.”

The fox kit looks up from the ground, brows furrowed together. “Then, what do you eat?”

His grin stretches, opening a maw of teeth and ichor that he knows should be horrifying. “I eat followers of the lamb.”

The fox kit goes stone still with a terrorized look. Children start screaming from behind the bush, and scramble to get away, kicking up dust as they retreat back into the village. They leave the fox boy frozen at Death’s doorstep. This cult has not been desensitized to these sights, for the lamb as been too soft in years, even before his dethroning. He saw it through the eye long before this current generation.

Though, to his mild surprise, the fox kit is either too stupid or too frozen to run. The bowl is still held upwards, its contents jostling as its holder shakes. “Um! I’m sure berries taste a lot better if you give it a shot!” Lamb! Lamb, please save me!

Narinder goes to scare him away, to shoo away the child, to never come here again but pauses.

Those last words were not spoken. The boy’s mouth is twisted into a nervous, scared smile, closed tight for some sense of peaceful submission, even though the child looks close to wetting himself. He did not choose this of his own volition. He wants to be rescued, but he did not call out.

Narinder read his mind.

“I-” The kid stammers. “I can go-”

The child freezes again when the cat leans down, plucking a single berry with two claws and bringing it up for inspection. It’s red and plump, so from a recent harvest. There’s nothing to indicate it would taste the same or worse than the cauliflower he tried. Not that he was particularly hungry, but the thing in front of him stops shaking when he focuses on the berry rather than the boy. It’s an old habit, he thinks, acting before thinking. To humor a kit’s whims. It’s not something he left behind in his domain.

He slides the berry in his mouth and bites down. An immediate grimace sours his face. Rot.

“Is it…better?” The fox kit stands grounded, looking up at him with caution.

Narinder refrains from spitting out into the dirt. The berry is swallowed, and a vile taste lingers in the back of his throat. “It’s the same.”

The kit lingers, and goes to speak again but another voice, a much more annoying one, cuts through. “Narinder?”

Narinder stands to his full height again, eyes dragging over to the lamb. The fox kit’s head turns suddenly, and stammers, happy to see the leader before it dawns on them what they’re holding, then suddenly trying (and feebly failing) to conceal the small bowl of berries behind their back.

The lamb approaches. They are holding something bundled in their hands. White and red. Black eyes trail down to the kit, and dart calmly between the God and the child. “Would someone like to explain why children came screaming about a monster trying to eat kids at the edge of the village?”

Narinder’s energy has already been sapped from this interaction. “And you presume that to be me?”

“Who else would it be?” Lambert refutes, and turns to the fidgeting kit. They blink. “Aren’t those some of the berries for tonight’s supper?”

“Um.” The kit is stammering. Caught red-handed. Their face flushes with embarrassment and nervousness, but not fear, Narinder notices. Something about that doesn’t sit quite right. “Um. I- I didn’t-”

“Your punishment is to help in the kitchen. Merya will teach you how to make real meals with those, and you will help her clean up after supper is done.” The lamb does not wait for a confession, although their tone is hardly scolding. Their expression is much too gentle for what is supposed to be a punishment for stealing from the community’s stores. The lamb is smiling. Narinder watches them with low lids. “You can learn how to make tastier snacks for you and your friends that way.”

The fox kit suddenly perks up. His attempts to hide the bowl are forgotten. “Yes, my lamb!”

“Go on.” Lambert nods their head in the direction of the kitchen, further into the village.

The fox kit does a curious bow to the leader, and (to Narinder’s brief surprise) turns and does the same to the cat before scuttling off. Both adults are quiet for the moment as the child runs out of earshot before Lambert’s head turns back to him. “You socialized today.”

Vile. Narinder’s mouth twists up into a wretched frown before turning his body and shutting the door behind him-

-the door stops before it can shut. A lamb’s foot is stuck in the wedge, preventing it from closing fully. Narinder sneers at it, but Lambert is not phased as they step through the entrance of the hut, forcing the (former) God of Death to take several steps backward into his dark hovel as they enter. Their hand comes to shut the door behind them, and what little light they have to illuminate the space is what trickles through the cracks in the wood and the tattered curtains, and the glow of Narinder’s pupils that never quite went away even after his defeat.

Lambert opens their mouth to speak, and it turns into a cough. “Eugh, this place is…dusty.” Coughing again, they clear their throat. He waits for the wretched sound to stop. “You know, I don’t think all this dust and dirt can be good for your health.”

“Make your statement and leave before I wash the floors with your blood.”

“…I don’t know if my blood would make very good floor cleaner.”

“Lamb.” He growls.

“I brought you something.” They gesture outwards. The thing they were holding, a bundle of white and red. Narinder’s gaze drops down to the offering but does not take it, instead three eyes darting back up to the lamb’s face in scrutiny. They must have expected him to react in such a way, because they’re already unfolding the offering for him. Cloth and cotton fabric, robes that do not match the rest of the follower’s unvarying designed attire. Judging by its cleanliness and expertise in stitching, it is new, and suspiciously looks like close in design to the robes he wore in his domain. At least, in concept. Not quite right.

His fingers curl mechanically at his sides. “Explain.”

“You’ve been wearing the same thing since you’ve arrived, and I don’t even think you’ve had a single bath.” Lambert gestures to the room’s state. “You’ve torn your clothing and your room to shreds. I thought that maybe, you know, you’d like not being in a ripped up robe with caked blood in your clothes and fur?”

Ah, right. No wonder the fox kit was scared at the sight of him. He hasn’t changed his bandages once. Black ichor stained the white of them, bleeding through. At the very least, it blended in with the rest of his fur, even though it matted and clumped knots together. Narinder hardly noticed. “I don’t want your charity.”

The clothing is gestured towards him again. “It is an offering.”

“A proper offering would be your head on a pike.”

Lambert hums, unphased. “This one has a hood sewn onto it.”

The offering is held out to him again. He has a feeling Lambert will simply keep their arms hoisted up until he takes it, so for the sake of speeding up this interaction, he snags it from their hands. It catches in his claws, but doesn’t tear. A further inspection spies faint symbols on the hood and sleeves, similar to how his old robes from decades long past used to decorate his attire. Attire that only the lamb has seen in their visits in the after life, that no random follower would have the memory to replicate them. His thumb brushes over the threading over the seams and find it carefully stitched. Narinder’s glare goes back to the lamb. “I imagine you’re not just here to bestow a gift.”

Lambert’s smile is disarming, but he knows better. “What gave you that idea?”

“If it was simply the robes, you would have left them at the door.”

“I mean, yes.” Lambert says. “Not preferably, but yes. Talking is good for the soul, you know.”

“I don’t have one.” He grumbles. He actually doesn’t know if that’s true or not, but the lamb’s nose twitches at the statement and that’s satisfactory enough. “What do you want?”

The lamb hesitates, and that makes Narinder nervous. For what could make a god killer halt in place in the face of their dethroned god?

Their eyes scan the room again, either out of a fidget, or searching for a place to sit, their weight shifts on both of their feet. Whatever it is, they are searching for the words to find it. The chatty, charismatic talking lamb does not have the sentence immediately at their disposal, and that is unlike them. They appear before him in a way that reminds him of when they too were in chains and tattered rags, many years ago in his domain.

Ironic how they’ve changed places. Tattered rags and the metaphorical chains of this form, the anguish of a different type.

“When I…defeated you,” They start slowly like an improper use of a word would set him off, which is futile to avoid since the lamb’s voice alone makes the god’s blood boil. “I don’t think you were supposed to retain any sort of power after you were turned into this form.” They adjust their fleece, inhale, exhale, and look to him with the same solid determination they’ve carried since decapitation. “The day you came here, you injured my followers when they restrained you. The rabbit and the bear. The one whose eye and fingers you rotted off.”

The One Who Waits makes a noise of acknowledgment. “Death would have been preferable.”

“They haven’t left the healing bay since then.” Lambert continues, a bit more curtly. “Whatever you did, it’s spreading. On them, I mean. Not like a disease to the others, but the rabbit’s face is halfway gone, and the bear’s arm has…decayed, all the way to the shoulder.” They pause for a moment. “We thought that amputating it might have saved him, but it’s still spreading to the rest of him. Whatever else you did must have already reached the rabbit’s brain. Whenever they talk, it’s just incoherent foam coming out.”

The God of Death looks disinterested in their fates. He half turns away, half chuckling as he walks towards the bed where he’ll meditate once the annoyance is gone. “Kill them quickly if you wish them not to suffer, then. I do not care to hear your soft-hearted concern for no followers of mine.”

“I can’t read their minds.” Lambert confesses. Narinder stops, and turns back to them. “I can’t read their thoughts anymore. My abilities stutter when I used them. They’re exhausting to use now.” They look at their hands (Bandaged. Wrapped in white linen. There’s a small, faint line of a scratch on their forehead too.) “It didn’t used to drain me like this.” Opening and closing their hands. A power they’ve gotten so accustomed to now feels like a phantom in their skin. “Do you still read minds?”

Narinder’s head tilts, quiet. The look he carries is unreadable, the mind still a closed door, that power long gone for two weeks now before the lamb could even test if it would work on its former authority. The lamb awaits for a response, an addition. It never comes.

Three crimson eyes bore holes into Lambert and they let him. Then, Narinder’s face shifts from unreadable to mild disappointment. “Not yours.”

Lambert’s ears perk up. “In particular?”

“The child’s was weak.” He hums, more so narrating his own thoughts to himself than to the other in the room. “I assume it would have to do with the constitution of one's mind. Or not. I’ve yet to stomach the company of the rest of your flock to try it.”

“But…you can do it.”

Narinder scowls at the repeated question. “Yes. Just not yours. Take whatever comfort you want from that and leave me be.”

“You could have just lied to me and said that you didn’t.”

Narinder’s throat dries with a comeback, and his tongue sits unmoving. Yes, he could have. He doesn’t know why he didn’t, or why he’s even entertaining this conversation with the lamb to this point. If this had happened weeks ago in his more shocked state, he’d be trying to tear the lamb’s intestines out with a shovel. He can’t do that. At least, not yet.

His grip around the robes tightens. “You’re trying my patience.”

“You know something I don’t.” His ex-vessel speaks. “I think I know what it is.”

The God of Death remains still, silent. The three eyes that are always half-lidded with a tired, exhausted sort of expression are widened with a curious interest, and the Lamb is the beacon of the room. One would not find the scraggly being with matted fur and torn attire to be all that threatening, and certainly not to a killer of gods and their disciples. Lamb is not afraid, but they are aware. They wonder if the worry they have for all they’ve built to be ripped out from underneath them is the same as what he felt when his siblings cast him below in chains, and the lamb revoked his size and title.

Narinder finds amusement in the paralyzing realization, and sharp teeth etch up into a smile. “You split the crown’s influence in two when you spared me. These consequences are of your own making.”

Theory confirmed, panic, surprise, anger. Lambert’s face falls, and they attempt to remain neutral. “How-?”

“I do not know.” Narinder cuts him off. He’s chuckling now. The reaction given to him is enough to make his tail swish from left to right in wide, swinging motions. The lamb’s fear is a satisfying victory. “I do not remember how you ‘spared’ me, so that detail is up your knowledge. I assume, however-” A mad look returns, the cat takes a step forward. “That this can be easily resolved-”

The sword is summoned, the flash for it brightening the room just for a moment before it’s drawn. Lambert holds it tightly, the end of the blade pointing towards Narinder’s chin. The cat’s smile does not leave, and he does not take a step back. The red from his pupils glints off the blade.

Lambert’s brows furrow. “A crown cannot sit upon two brows.”

“Agreed.” He sly, head tilting to the side. The robes clutched in his hands bunch in his closed fist, the other hand coming up to reach for the blade. “Let’s not complicate things.”

The sword is twisted. His hand is jutted away. Lamb’s grip tightens on its handle.  “Do not try anything. If this is true, we don’t know what the extent of this…issue could be. Aside from some of our abilities being…distributed, between us.”

“I don’t care.”

“This should not be possible.” Lambert’s tone carries disbelief. The lamb is starting to crack, an audible pulse racing. Good. Narinder feels something in his chest match its pace. “Explain this. What are the limits? What else has changed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.” Narinder laughs. “Though if you’d like to test it and see if your powers of self-resurrection are as ample as they should be, by all means, try it.”

“Narinder.” The lamb whispers lowly and he does not like the raised hairs that come when they do. “I don’t know what will happen if one of us dies. There’s no guarantee the power will go to the other. That thought process isn’t-”

“I don’t care.” Narinder says with a wicked grin. Lambert’s eyes widen, pupils small. “Kill me, or die. You cannot have us both existing. I won’t allow it.”

He expects the sword to plunge for him in the manner that it lingers. The blade stays at his chin, and though he might be able to dodge it in time, the lamb at the moment was a little more powerful than him. They’d be smart to keep it that way lest he remains, and one day that sword will not save them, no amount of the red crown will. It would be the smart thing to do. The godly thing to do. To ensure ounce’s survival as a deity. Not that he won’t try to take them down with him. They don’t look like they heal quickly, maybe the same rate he’s been reduced to.

And if he can’t kill them now? He can wait.

He will wait until the Lamb is weak, when their guard is down when they think he has become compliant and become just another one of their faithful followers numbered under the leader’s wool. He will wait until the Lamb no longer pays constant attention and surveillance to his every move out of caution when he switches to calling them by a friend and not by curses, when they breathe as easily around him as they do their lackeys. Narinder will wait, and then, when the Lamb’s vulnerability shows, he will strike. He’ll figure out what happens when you kill half of the crown’s authority. And he can wait for that chance for a thousand years again if he has to.

From the way the lamb’s fingers turn pale gripping the handle, Narinder may discover what happens to dethroned gods in hell. And the lamb will too, if he can help it. Maybe they’ll be wiped from existence together. It’s an insane, calm thought that echoes in his mind as the fingers on his hand splay, and the claws at the end of the tingle with shadow in anticipation.

The fight never comes. The sword is suddenly withdrawn, and Narinder finds himself with a falling face at the empty air in front of him.

The crown returns to the top of Lambert’s head, and they inhale. Exhale. Adjust their fleece and clear their throat. “I’ll bring a water bucket with soap and rags tonight. And uh, a broom too. With some new curtains…and sheets.” They ramble, looking around the room. Chatty lamb. Always so talkative. Narinder stares at them. “I don’t think you smell like rot, but your home does. I don’t see how you stomach it.” A glance towards the corner. The stain of a dissenter long since corroded is still burned into the floor. “...I can bring something for that.”

“Favoring will not save you.” He speaks. The cat’s voice is lower than it was moments prior.

“Yeah, yeah. I believe you. I really do.” Lambert looks preoccupied. The lack of reaction causes something visceral in Narinder’s chest. “You should really come to the feasts and eat something. Or at least get a plate to go. I can always bring you one, but I don’t know what you like. Outside of fish, I mean.” They walk over past him, either ignoring or unaware of the frozen feeling of the cat’s stance, and reach for a window. They promptly pull back the curtain, and it rips again a little as it moves. Sunlight enters and casts streaks across his fur.

Lambert steps back, nodding to themselves, and turn towards the door. “I have other matters I have to attend to, so we have to continue talking about this later. Maybe figure something out. I can’t run the flock without the crown’s help, so you’ll have to help me.”

The audacity of the lamb has always been…notable.

Narinder has no words, so he stares.

“I’ll be at the temple if you need anything.” Lambert smiles, halfway out of the door. “Let me know if I need to make any adjustments to the robes. I had to take a guess at the measurements.”

The door shuts behind them. Three eyes glare into the wood for some solid seconds before the air finally feels like it’s settled.

Narinder raises a clenched fist up to view. The robes are still soft and untarnished in his corrosive grip.

Chapter Text

The gateway is a quiet place. It is even quieter when Aym and Baal are not here.

A strange occurrence, considering they were sworn to never leave their master’s side. For some reason, The One Who Waits does not think about it too deeply.

To say he gets bored is an understatement. There is only so much meditation that can be done over a thousand years, but at least now he can take a peak outside of his domain. The crown and it’s shifting eye: a window into the world he was to be unleashed upon soon. But there is no pull or call to do so, and even if he tries nothing comes to fruit. This, too, is something he does not dwell upon.

Though the question of it’s lack is answered when he feels something enter his domain, and Narinder looks up from his chains to see something small, white and wooly running up to him. Not a trot, not a dignified walk. Running.

“You’ve perished again.” He says as the lamb finally skids to a stop in front of them. Sand kicks up at their feet in their hurry. “You are-”

“I brought you something.” Lambert cuts him off. A taboo that is of great offense to the gods, but they don’t seem phased as they reach inside their cloak.

An offering? He watches them rifle through their wool until their hand touches what they’re looking for, keeping the item concealed behind the drape of their fleece. With another hand, they gesture for him to lean closer. The God of Death, in all his mighty height and glory, does not kneel.

He does, however, crouch to see what the Lamb has brought him.

They have an obnoxious smile, keeping it hidden just out of sight.. “I had it in my pockets, and I didn’t realize I could take it with me bu-”

“You do not have pockets in your fleece.”

“My wool counts.”

“Hmm.” The One Who Waits looks unimpressed. “Show.”

Their hands move, their smile grows wider and reaches the creases of their eyes, pulling the item out and holding it up high for the god to view beyond his veil.

His vessel shows him a dead crab.

...A dead crab.

“Lamb.” Says the God of Death. “Why.”

“I got it while fishing, but it died in my pocket.” They start, lowering the creature if only to poke at it’s several legs still stuck up in the air. “I wasn’t planning on wasting it since it can be food, so I was holding onto it until after the crusade. But uh, I died myself.” Lambert brings it back up a little higher. It’s upside down in their palm, legs ridged like a spider. “Don’t know why it still looks dead here. I thought it’d be alive. Well, not alive alive, but...” They make a wayward gesture with their other hand. “You know.”

The God of Death’s eye twitches.

This was stupid. Childish even. Unfit behavior for a vessel in his prophecy. The lamb was trying the patience of a god who was molded around it.

(And yet.)

Blackened by ichor and stripped to bone, his arms raise. He raises a finger out towards the crab. He doesn’t touch it, not with the chains still bounding him, but the distance is enough as is his will. There is a slight twitch, a small movement in one of it’s legs, then the crab suddenly spasms.

The lamb’s arm extends as the creature flips out onto it’s palm. “Whoa!”

The little thing sputters. A puny existence. It spurs and jumps out of their hands, scuttling in wild directions until it finally picks one and starts scurrying away.

The lamb’s eyes are locked on it’s retreating form while the god ponders on the consequences of letting a crab run lose in his domain. Ah, well. He’ll have the servants hunt it down later.

“It looks so different when it’s not me being resurrected! And a lot cleaner without a ritual too.” Lambert’s voice is cooed with awe. They turn back to him, chipper. “If I bring you more dead things, can you do that again?”

“Have you forgotten your mission?” The One Who Waits interrupts. “You are to kill Kallamar soon. Not fish for crabs.”

“Hunting for squids then, o-kay!” Lambert mocks a salute. They are too joyful for a service such as this. He’s not sure if they are doing this as an act, or if they really are this deranged. As long as they serve their purpose, it does not matter.

“Off with you then.” He says, and waves a boney hand. Advice for his vessel before they leave. “Kallamar is a cowardly type, but do not underestimate him. His fear will make him more erratic, unpredictable-”

“Would you ever want to go fishing with me one day?’

Interruption again.

If the lamb were not his vessel, he would have struck them down at the first offense. Or not. He’s humored them one too many times. There is no explanation to this. He does not force himself to think of one. All that comes is exasperation that’s as heavy as the chains wrapped around him. A growl still leaves his throat. “Lamb-”

“You’d like it. Maybe if you stepped out of that cabin and into the sun, you’d stop feeling so sick.”

Narinder stills. “…What did you say?”

Their smile is still bright. A hand reaches towards his wrist, something doable now that he’s at a lower level, and lays itself across the metal of a chain link. “It’s not very difficult. I’m sure you’d get the hang of it quickly.”

-

-

One of his eyes is rotting.

Decaying into ash. Crawling up the nerves behind his eye socket like an infection rapid in it’s wake. The flesh of his face falls off onto a bed, death foaming at his teeth, spilling out of his lungs and mouth. Pain reigns when the injury seeps further upwards into his skull-

-

-

Narinder wakes up with a jolt.

A tightness in his chest causes his lungs to heave, short, quick breathes as they catch up with his consiousness. His claws dig into already shredded sheets, teeth grit and grinding into there’s a soreness in his jaw. The room begins to unblur, the sounds and smells that accompany reality break from the trance, and the wakefulness comes fully. It takes him another full minute to will his body to relax, and another to process the vision.

Gods do not dream.

They can prophesize and meditate, but they do not dream. Especially ones that build themselves off of his memory.

Unless, of course, this is a side of effect of his recent infection with partial mortality.

The cat brings his hands up and drags his palm down his face, shaking his head. Soreness stings at his wrists. His bandages need to be changed, and with awareness came the sensation of how dirty he felt. A left over gross taste sits on his tongue. He didn’t have to deal with any of this back then.

Standing from the bed drags the sheet down with him. It crumbles to the floor and he does not have the energy to pick it back up. The place looked a mess, and he mimicked that attire. Judging by the light peaking in through holed curtains, it was probably mid-day, or nearing sunset. He had been sleeping for a while now, which is an testament to how long he’s gone without such an act considering that length of time without rest would have made ill of a normal person.

As usual, there are offerings at the door.

Bath stuffs and bedding. A bucket of water with two rags draped over the sides, soap, and a pile of fabric of neatly folded fabric that looks like new bedding and curtains. For once, Narinder doesn’t ignore this one, checking around the outside for any onlookers before crouching down. The bedding is soft between his fingertips, and seems to have been a bit higher quality than what was previously situated in the cabin. Possibly from the leader’s own laundry stores.

There’s also other small things; a bundle of candles with a small matchbox, a new roll of bandages, and a light bundle of flowers. There’s a note attached to the stems, and Narinder flips it over in-between his fingers as the flowers sit in his palm.

Flowers are for the dreary look and smell. Followers kept complaining. Candles since it’s always so dark. Please don’t burn down my village. - Lambert.

There is a doodle of a camellia near the bottom of the words, either out of a mindless addition or of intent, he does not know.

The lamb is making a mockery of him.

Here he is being treated as a guest in the village of his vessel, a place that should be, and once was, in servitude to a fallen god. They probably do it out of fear, or maybe arrogance. A day will come when one shall prove to make them vulnerable. One day, he will be able to read their mind again, and he would catch their thoughts in their last seconds as he guts them alive, and relish the music as he tortures.

Unfortunately, the ‘dream’ lamb was correct. As much as he’d like to remain in here until the rest of the mortals die of old age or disease, he would need to leave to learn the lamb’s routine. Luring the lamb into his web simply will not work on these cult grounds when it was a home of their own making. Not unless Narinder got a very lucky opportunity.

A sour taste on his tongue. One Thousand years of solitary confinement and his social energy with others will not be of betrayed family, but of a traitor lamb and their amassed cluster of goons.

Narinder blinks out of his thoughts when something grainy starts to grind against his palm. Three eyes focus on his hand; the flowers have wilted, and are still decaying little by little as he holds them.

He drops them. They disintegrate to ash before they even hit the ground.

Death is him. The followers will need to be comfortable with the sight and reality of it quickly, otherwise Narinder will have no quarrels delivering a friendly handshake to the next one that comes to his door to complain about his aesthetics.

The box of stuff is pushed inside with his foot, and he stands in the mostly bare room, eyeing the space. The dark stain of a dissenter on the floor will need to be scrubbed, and the rest of the torn fabrics cant be thrown out. The new curtains, at least, will shield him from any curiosities in his windows.

It is done quickly, his fur still damp by the time the place looks more…proper. Although this prison was fixed, his tunic was still ruined. Narinder’s eyes drag over to the bed, and towards the red and white robes still laying there. It will suffice. The hood, at the very least, will shield him from the stares of followers, and hopefully make him look as unapproachable as possible.

The robes and fresh tunic slide on easily. A little loose in the midsection, but it just allows it to drape more comfortably. Perhaps the lamb is more used to their torso being bulked with wool that it did not cross their mind that others were not built that way. The hood wears like his own robes before his fall. There’s an exit for his tail, even.

What a mockery.

Opening his door to the outside feels like a punishment. He needed to acquaint himself with the surroundings, at least. Seeing the world through the red crown was one thing, but walking it was another. He had a general idea of where things are like one would read a map, but the muscle memory didn’t exist yet. From here, sounds of construction and workday sound off in the distance. He needs to pick a direction.

A phantom pain in his arm. Heaviness in his chest, lines of decay in his lungs-

Narinder’s head turns to left.

—

The healing bay is one of Lambert’s proudest accomplishments. Built now for a semblance of privacy, with few but well maintained ‘rooms’ within a single constructed building. Stone and clay walls with wooden supports, and a roof made of the same but with grass and soil on the top that grow precious camellias. A far stretch from the tents, and truly the rooms weren’t much bigger than they were, but they held a real bed, a real stash of supplies, and enough shade to keep the sickly and dying away to recovery, or at least quarantine.

Normally this place is reserved for the ill or the elderly close to their end. But for now, there is a bear in the bay, and Lambert has their hand over his own as the follower takes shallow, labored breaths. “When your time comes, I will try to bring you back. Consider it a thank you for the protection you provided to me.”

“It is okay, my lamb.” The bear, sweet and timid thing, with a penchant for stonework. He can no longer do such craft; the dominant arm is gone, and the decay on his shoulder has spread to his chest and neck. He cannot breathe without stimulates. “I do not wish for you to trouble yourself. This was my service to you.”

Lambert, ever practiced, holds a smile in the face of his follower’s demise. It is an expression they’ve kept for hundreds of times such as these, now second nature. They let go of the bear’s hand, and raise the bowl in their lap. “Would you like to proceed?”

“Soon. May I ask for my last meal?”

“Of course.” Lambert lowers the bowl, and tries not to look at the mushrooms that sit innocently inside of it. “It is a special occasion, so please feel free to ask for whatever you like. Something tasty, I hope.”

“Something magnificent.” Starts the bear, staring into the ceiling. He takes a moment to wheeze, voice becoming difficult to share as the decay takes over their chest. Still, he look relaxed. Lambert doesn’t know if it’s the bear’s devotion and belief of afterlife beyond this, or if it’s the mushrooms taking affect for the pain and delirium. “Something...great. With all bits and pieces. I’ve had it before at a wedding.”

“I’ll make you something magnificent then.” The lamb pats his hand. The back of their mind counts ingredients they have on hand in the kitchen. Their ear twitches when there’s the sound of a curtain shifting behind them. “I should prepare it for you before the time comes.”

The bear turns his head fully to answer them, but stops. Bloodshot eyes widen. “R-reaper!”

Lambert’s smile faulters. Leaning back, the lamb turns to face the doorway where a curtain should have given them privacy.

Narinder stands with an expression unreadable. Hood up, face concealed, eyes wide as he stares down the bear he’s doomed to rot alive.

The follower’s pulse begins to race underneath Lambert’s touch. Fear begins to radiate from the soul almost painfully thick.

“Excuse me.” Standing up from where they crouched, they set the bowl and it’s contents down next to the bed, making sure it’s within arms reach of the bear; just in case. Lambert turns to the cat. “I am taking this one’s last statements. Is something urgent?”

They half expect him to snap for treating him like another disrespectful cult member instead of some godly greeting they’re sure he wishes, but Narinder simply stares. His eyes shift to the lamb briefly before landing back on the bear. The poor thing was beginning to shake, and the God of Death was not showing any sympathy for it’s cowering victim.

Insensitive. Lambert’s head blocks Narinder’s line of sight as they lean over the follower, replacing awful manners with a comforting smile. They pat the bear’s hand, pressing into the fur. “I will go make your meal. Please, rest until it is time. If you begin to hurt again, take more until you no longer do. Just be mindful.” A pause. “As well as you are able to.”

A vocal confirmation is expected. A drowsy nod of the head is all they receive.

Lambert leans back, and with a final nod of the head, steps away from the bear. They do not know if had any intention to remain in the healing bay (and frankly out of all the times he could have decided to seek them out and stop being a hermit, this was one of the worst ones) but they stick an arm out across the space in front of the cat as they exit through the curtain. Luckily, the sneer they receive in return and the cat backpaddling to avoid being touched by the arm brings them both out of the room, and Lambert’s arm falls back to their side.

His footsteps are quiet, but they do not need to look behind themselves to know he is following them as they walk. The shadow in front of the lamb is consumed by the other’s taller one. “You’re out of your hut.”

Narinder ignores the statement. “They will not last but a few more hours.”

“Which is why I’m going to the kitchen now.”

They pass by the refinery. The walk to the kitchen building is not but a few moments thanks to being built so closely. It comes into sight.

It has a roof now made of arched stone with wooden support beams. Curtains hang on the three openings on the front so that enough breeze comes through, and a chimney above the fire where grill and cauldron sit so smoke can leave freely. The Lamb has made significant improvements to the community since their first years of having the crown.

A sniff and a undescribed noise is heard from behind them. “That place smelled of death.”

The healing bay? “Yeah, well.” Lambert moves the curtain aside to enter the kitchen, and inwardly sighs in relief to find the space empty. “You contributed to that. The bear is the one you inflected with wounds during your arrival.”

Narinder makes a sound akin to a scoff. “And yet you prolong their suffering by keeping them from the end? You are the cruel one here.”

Meats, fish, and veggies; beets in particular. They are a store of them in the baskets, salted and preserved. A pot of water will need to be boiled for the veggies, and a grill for the meats. Three red eyes follow them as they collect the supplies. “I’ll be resurrecting him as gratitude for his service, and as an apology for your actions.”

“Waste of power.” Narinder refutes.

His response is a sigh as the cat brings down his hood. His height doesn’t touch the ceiling, but it wouldn’t take much effort for him to raise his hand to do so. As ‘nice’ as it is to have him out of his hut, the feeling of trying to cook while under the gaze of a murderous god that’s got a foot taller than you was a bit of a distraction when you’re trying to peel the skin off of beets.

The veggies are thrown into the pot with water and fire lit. They grab a knife hanging off one of the hooks, lying tuna out on the board and start to cut it into small pieces. “Do you even know what happened to the other victim? The rabbit who’s face you attacked?”

“You’re going to tell me whether I care or not.”

Go figure. “They died horrifically. Rot spread from the hole where it’s eye was, and we think it reached the brain before we could do anything to help.” Nothing could be done to save them. “The only mercy they could be afforded was the death by the hand of someone else, or mushrooms to numb the pain and send the patient into a state of euphoria while it took place. The effectiveness of it all is…debatable.”

“You committed worse acts.” Narinder, unshockenely, looks unphased. “Relinquish the rest of the power to me, and I’ll relieve you of these tiresome duties you’re so emotionally invested in.”

“No thanks.” Lambert chops a piece off from the rest, taking a squares of fish and raising it to the cat. “Are you hungry?”

Narinder’s eye twitches. “No.”

“Okay.” They return the piece, taking the chopped up tunas and meats and scraping them off the board into the cauldron. “There’s dried fish and jerky in the baskets if you get peckish. Just don’t get caught.”

The casualness in their tone makes the God of Death’s blood boil. The implication that he is being given a higher favor than the rest of the cult members puts a sour taste on his tongue. “You are wasting your efforts. I do not starve. Any hospitable behavior you have is futile.”

Lambert looks up from the cauldron. “You don’t starve? What about sleep? Can you get sick?”

“Despite your efforts,” Narinder hisses. “I am not as mortal as you want me to be.”

The less they know the better. As if the god would ever speak of dreams to his usurper. For all he knows, they are the ones behind such an act, even though the lamb’s confusion is so blatant that it feels almost real.

“Huh.” They hum. Something visibly lighter, like relief, seems to flash across their features. Lambert puts down the knife to grab for the stirring spoon, and does not miss how Narinder’s gaze flickers down to it. “At least I don’t have to worry about you dying from the plague.”

“Kallamar’s influence doesn’t hold on me.”

“That’s good, then.”

Quiet. Settled silence between the two. Honestly, if the fallen god wanted to just stare hatefully at them in silence as they cooked the last meal for one of his victims, Lambert has sat through worse lackful conversations.

The meal is almost done. The space in the kitchen is starting to fill with the aroma of dinner fit to be a soul’s last.  They find a suitable size bowl, unhook the cauldron and bring it’s contents over to the table. “How do the robes fit?”

“I have nothing else.”

Lambert glances at him as they move everything over. “Hmm. They look like they fit okay. I didn’t know if you wanted me to add holes in the hood for the ears or not, so I just put extra fabric there that can be cut later if you prefer it that way.”

Narinder’s mouth twists into a scowl, and ignores them. “You are putting in a considerable amount of effort for a soon to be corpse that won’t do anything but fertilize the crops if you’re lucky. I warned you of this. You’ve grown soft. Your followers use you. You’re not fit for a leader.”

The meal is transfered over to the bowl, and the cauldron is placed back on it’s hook. “I believe my followers would beg to differ. Our home is proof of this.”

“You think yourself a saint for cooking a dying soul’s last meal?”

Lambert salts the beets lightly, and stirs the stew. “Considering that I’m conversing freely with his killer, no, I don’t.”

The cat scoffs. He’s taken a step closer. ‘It is your own consequence for sparing me. For betraying me.“

“I guess it is.”

Quiet again. The meal is nearly done, but the bear will need some utensils to eat it with. Considering his state, Lambert will be the one to help feed it to him. Most followers have their own, but there’s spare wooden spoons and forks around here somewhere. They start shifting through the baskets, looking under the table. “It will be made right with their resurrection. The rabbit and the bear deserve a second chance since life was taken so quickly from them.”

“You’re pathetic.” Narinder laughs. It’s low, and full of vile. “So molded weakly by sentiment. I taught you better than this. The power should be held by someone more experienced, and not so driven by emotion. Resurrection is to be used strategically, as a powerful tool. Not for ‘second chances’.”

Lambert finds the spoon, and plops it in the bowl. “And yet, here you are.”

A knife glints as it’s swung down-

Lambert grabs it, halting Narinder’s incoming attack by his wrist, held back with only notable effort. The edge of the blade digs into the surface of their neck just above the collar and beneath their jaw, drawing single bead of blood. Quick reflexes honed from many deaths and years of crusades hold the old god’s wrist as his grip tightens around the knife handle that was aimed for the lamb’s throat.

The Lamb’s head turns to blink at him with a surprised, but collected look.

Narinder looks unimpressed, three low lidded eyes with a flat frown. He relaxes his fingers. The knife falls away from his hands and clatters to the table. It was a half-hearted attempt, then.

They release his wrist and Narinder takes it back just as quickly. Bandages still wrap around the cat’s fur at the wrists. The lamb’s gaze follows the hand as it drops to his side, before coming back up again. “I’m kinda in the middle of something here.”

The cat’s head tilts. Three eyes track the drop of blood that dribbles down the lamb’s neck before it disappears behind their collar. “Not important.”

“The resurrection will take place after I’ve gathered all the right materials.” Lambert collects the bowl of food. It’s a magnificent meal indeed, they only hope the bear will forgive them for being so forgiving to his murderer. If he asked for an explanation of their actions, their leisure towards Narinder, the lamb would not be able to give one. “It will be the first resurrection ritual since your arrival. You might want to attend.”

The old god blanks at them, then laughs. “You expect me to attend to the sermon of a false prophet? Of one who betrayed me? You’ve lost yourself to madness. I’ll never worship you.”

Lambert moves past him. “I don’t ask it of you.”

A black shape juts out and they move just in time to avoid it. A tail, long and thin, one the lamb is surprised isn’t spiked at the end just out of devilish mold swishes back behind Narinder as he glowers down at them from his height. An attempt to trip Lambert and to spill the meal they’ve made for his victim. No remorse is held behind slitted eyes.

“I can pick them off, one by one. And the ones I don’t will begin to dissent. You’ll find yourself without a flock, or one full of enemies.” Narinder says. “Gods become nothing when they’re forgotten. Everyone you care about will be reduced to decay, you’ll have no one left.”

It’s a low blow considering their history, one Narinder knows only the surface of. The last of their kind, and he takes that detail with lingering anger, simmering just beneath his tongue constantly, ready to boil over at any second, but the lamb’s lack of reaction causes heat in his veins. An itch in his fingertips; claws that feel like they need sharpening. He’d like to see them beg.

Unfortunately, after a long pause does Lambert’s stare break and they give an amused, half laugh. “You know, I don’t really think that’s possible for you to do that.”

They do not elaborate, turning on their heel and promptly exiting through the kitchen’s curtains.

—

The bear, Jayen, dies in the late evening before the sun sets. Narinder is not anywhere to be found inside the village afterwards, presumably back inside his hovel, and Lambert has become busy with chores.

They haven’t been back on a crusade for a while. The walls around their village grounds is enough to provide a semblance of safety, and their stores for food and materials are well enough off that they could hold off another mission, at least until it begins to near the time for winter. Bones and other materials for the ritual are the only things lacking; a side effect of some things only able to be gathered outside in the forests, (without taking them directly from someone else, but there has been much work put it to not get to that point) and even then the lamb has not visited the grottos of Anura or Darkwood or elsewhere out of caution that something else may go array in their absence.

Particularly due to a cat. Big surprise there.

It’s meager things, some of which that aren’t even of his doing, but still count. Followers whisper of a monster in their midst, seen walking once through the village in unusual robes towards the healing bay, and that two of his victims who were recovery have died within the same hours of his visit. They whisper of three eyes (which, considering some of the other follower’s quirks, like some witness’s, should not be all that shocking) and of black fur that doesn’t seem to reflect any sort of light.

The followers aren’t stupid, of course. They know what gods are. But they also know what demons are too, and often fear takes hold where logic would. This generation, one far detached from the ones that started with the cult, do not hold some of the bone-deep knowledge that would have easily cleared the confusion. In a sense, the now-flesh bound God of Death has become a light cryptid in his own cult that worships him, whisperers unaware that the very deity they pray to is living among them, and becoming irritated at children being dared to knock-and-dash at his door.

(Lambert walks past the statue as a young devotee, in hushed voice, prays for the Lamb and God of Death to protect them from the demon at the end of village, and finds that funny in it’s own way.)

There are those who are aware, or at least think they are, some weathered enough to remember being strung up during the battle between Lamb and The One Who Waits, but those do not speak of it, or find that their mind draws a blank when asked.

Narinder said that his memory draws a blank to the battle that took place in hell, and they believe him. Their own memory is…unreliable, about the whole thing.

It’s a detail that’s more evident when they try to summon the sword in the quiet of their bedchamber, and it stutters in their palm like a flickering shadow. When it does materialize, it’s weight sits heavy in their palm like when they first summoned it so many years ago. The eye stares back at the lamb, unblinking, unmoving.

It’s almost as if the crown’s power is running on fumes.

Narinder will not answer questions or concerns when they come to his door, and the Lamb is assaulted with a barrage of threats, insults, and another possible assassination's attempt if they linger near his home for too long. On lucky days, all they will receive is silence.

They do, however, tell him about their day, regardless of whether or not they think he feels like hearing it.

“Some of the grain we had stashed away went bad in the mill. Meats we had salted in the kitchen also went up missing, but looking through everyone’s tents and huts, we couldn’t find anything. So someone either stole it all and stashed it away, or ate it all in one evening.” They start, back leaning against the door. “It won’t kill us, but it’s still bad. Two followers accused each other of the crime, but I think they just wanted to pin the blame on the other in order for them to get punished. Both of them have asked me to send the to the pillory.”

As expected, there is no commentary from the other side of the door. He’s probably meditating, droning the lamb out. No matter. Lambert continues. “There’s also been this one pair, not the one that hate each other, but another couple. They’re getting really sweet with each other. Someone came to tell me that one was slacking off her duties to go visit the other at work. Apparently, they’ve been caught embracing behind the temple at night. Elder Finor thinks they should be punished. I think it’s cute. Maybe they’ll ask me to officiate a wedding for them soon.”

Silence, again. Lambert makes themselves comfortable. “Oh! And I’m deciding to host a bonfire soon. The recent deaths have been weighing people down. I think it would do them good to dance and have some fun in their system. There will be food and drink of the wine sort. Never worked for me. The wine, I mean. No matter how much I drink it just doesn’t make me inebriated at all. I think the crown’s influence has something to do with that. Is that something that happens with you too? I know you don’t have to eat, but I didn’t know that alcohol wouldn’t work on gods either, unless that’s just a mortal plight-”

Suddenly, the solid surface on their back gives way. Lambert quickly regains balance, stepping forwards almost in a dash as the door is pulled open and then near to a close again. They swivel their torso around to a dark crack appearing from within the doorway, a line of black showing two of three eyes peeking out from inside. A dark hand leaving claw marks in the wood is right where their neck was.

“You are insufferably chatty.” Narinder’s growl echoes from the door frame.

“Good morning!” The Lamb responds. They recollect themselves, smoothing out their wool as the old god scowls at them. “Now that you’re responding to me, I wanted to ask you somethin-”

“Die.” Narinder cuts them off.

“-the cult grounds smelled ever so slightly like rot near the food stores, except there wasn’t any sign of anything having spoiled overnight.” Lambert continues. They still wear a pleasant, disarming smile, hands clasped together. They even rock on their heels. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the food that went missing, would you?”

Narinder’s answer is curt. “You said I could help myself. So I did.”

“You know I meant for you to eat, right? Not to just ruin our stores.”

“Everything tastes like rot to me. I am only sharing the experience.”

Lambert’s nose wrinkles. “Oh. Ew. Why-?”

“Leave me be, or I will visit your followers at night instead of your kitchen. You will be missing more than just grain.” The door shuts abruptly and with finality. The lamb stands there for a minute longer, adjusts their fleece, and leaves.

–

In all respects, they did not actually expect him to carry through with the threat. And maybe he hasn’t; it’s been a week or so since that morning, and every visit to his door since then has gone just about the same way. The lamb talks, mainly to silence, and maybe they’ll get a threat in response. If not just quiet, then the sigh they hear from inside the hut is enough to know Narinder can hear them. Sometimes they’ll leave early. Other days, they stay longer. An threat of a painful death and a insult on how they lead their village is better than nothing. The cat’s voice will become horse with disuse if they do not prompt it.

Invitations to come outside are ignored. The cat leaves on his own accord. Lambert can respect that. Narinder exploring on his own at night isn’t a problem, so as long as he keeps his hands off of their resources, and their followers.

Until they find him near a corpse the next week.

It is night. Everyone is asleep, and Lambert was busy with chores left over from the day. Followers have been slacking; their devotion needs time to heal, recuperate. The deaths and strain on the members is not something Lambert hasn’t faced before, it just means that they will have to pick up the slack where their followers fall short. So it’s a lonely walk back from the refinery to their bedchambers.

There’s a dark silhouette near the temple. Lambert begins to approach to kindly tell whoever it is that they should go to bed, pausing momentarily when they notice a mass of something on the ground near them.

The silhouette turns to them, their distinct robes starting to stand out even as fur blends in with the dark. Pointed ears. A long tail. Three red eyes.

“Narinder?” Lambert approaches. The cat says nothing, his face plain, though a touch of surprise at the lamb’s arrival. “You haven’t come out in days.” The lamb’s gaze travels to the ground, following his interest. “Oh.”

A body lying on it’s stomach. Judging by it’s lack of breathing or movement, it’s most likely dead. A hedgehog wearing the robes of elders.

Lambert walks past the cat, still quiet, and reaches for the corpse. Their quills are still intact, and the body warm. Colder than it should be, sure, but rigor mortis hasn’t taken hold yet. They haven’t been dead for very long, possibly croaked within the last hour or so. There’s no blood on the grass, but there’s no way to see what they look like in the front at this angle.

Narinder’s presence is still behind them. His glare burns holes into the back of their head.

Lambert rises from the crouch. “…This is the third follower of mine you’ve killed.”

“I did nothing.” He states. “I merely watched them fall.”

Black large pupils with horizontal lights dart towards him. He doesn’t react to their harsh stare. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Look with your eyes, lamb.”

Their mouth twists up in disbelief, but turn back to the corpse. With a light shove of their foot, the body flips over from stomach to back. There’s some collection of blood beginning to happen due to gravity, the skin where the fur was thin beginning to redden and swell as rigor mortis promises to come soon. No visible wounds or blood anywhere, the body looked intact. The corpse’s face wasn’t frozen in a twist of pain, and the last time Lambert checked, this particular follower wasn’t suffering any sickness, otherwise they’d be dying in the healing bay, and not out here.

No decay. Meaning they did not die of whatever power Narinder possessed.

The God of Death shortly chuckles when the lamb stares too long at the corpse. “Mortals can die when this thing called a ‘heart’ starts to wither and ache.”

“I know what a heart is.” Cuts off Lambert. One hand on their hip, the other comes up to pinch the skin between their eyes. A headache is beginning to form. “I’m just wondering why you were oh-so-conveniently nearby when the elder had a cardiac event.”

“I did nothing.” Narinder repeats.

A side eye that can rival Ratau’s to their own, but…Lambert believes him. This one died of old age. That just happens sometimes. An unfortunate reminder of something they don’t want to think too much about. A reminder that will happen again, and again, and again, to everyone around them. Those under his wing sleeping in their huts will one day look like this cooling corpse, assuming that something else doesn’t get them first.

“What a thoughtful expression.” Narinder’s head tilts. It’s comical, almost. A show of curiosity when he moves like that, wearing a Cheshire grin as crimson eyes seer into the lamb. “I’ve told you not to become attached to them. Yet another example of your unworthiness.”

Lamb ignores him. Inhale, exhale. They clap their hands together. “It’s okay! I need more bones for the resurrection ritual anyway.” They’ll inform the others at the morning sermon, share some kind words. This one’s natural death will not be without worth, for their bones will bring back another life anew, yada yada. No time to mourn now. Lambert moves to approach the body. “I just wasn’t expecting them to drop so soon-”

A dark shape swipes at them as they lean down towards the corpse, and Lamb is quick enough to lean back away from the body, a step back, one hand held out in defense, and the other locked in a reflexive phantom grip of a sword handle that only comes to be empty air.

Narinder’s hand is outstretched, claws extended. Both are retracted as he uncoils from the lunge. The wild look he carries does not dissipate, the grin he bares is still maniacal. The cat flexes his claws, and a strand of wool detaches from one and falls to the grass.

“I can reunite you with them.” His grin is sharp. “I can release you from this emotional burden.”

The Lamb’s pose remains tense, then seconds pass as they uncoil. Their hand once clutching empty air comes up to their head, puffing the wool there and stringing their fingers through the mess. “Who’s going to harrass you at your door every day then? You scare everyone else away.”

“Death should be feared, idiot lamb.”

“Okay, death.” They fix their wool, will their pulse to calm, look down to the hedgehog’s corpse, and back to the cat. “So, unless you plan on helping me pluck all their quills before I can properly butcher them, you should go back before the sun rises. I know you don’t want to socialize when the others wake up, but I really won’t complain if you want to help though.” They pipe up, smiling. “Really! It’s time consuming. And messy. You’d be surprised how many organs we have that are kinda useless. Pulling tendons apart can be a great outlet your stress though.”

Narinder’s expression dulls from malevolent to tired irritation. His claws fall back into his robes, his ears press against his head as the god turns from the lamb and corpse, and stalks off without a word.

—

They share words for the three lives gone. One is promised to return, at least, for their service to the red crown. They only have enough bones for one.

The ritual is planned for later in the evening. This morning is preparation, and Lambert is among their followers helping with woodcutting. There is much to do, constantly, and always. Among grief, there is devotion. Comfort comes to those who believe those dead find peace in the afterlife. They talk of a god that will keep them in such a domain, how they are promised salvation here. There is also sadness, and some happiness, depending on who you talk to. At the very least, there is some who are logical. Three less mouths to feed come wintertime.

Once again, Lambert is asked about the black cat in the cabin.

“What kind of sickness does he have?” An otter that’s shorter than the others, and not much older than the lamb was when they received the crown, is the one to ask the question this time. Small thing, but strong. Her arms are full of logs she’s transporting. Perhaps a trait her lover finds so endearing enough to leave her farming post for. “I’m sure we have some camellias to spare. Or maybe prayer? Isolation can’t be healthy, can it?”

“My friend does not wish to be bothered.” Not by you, at least. This rule does not apply to the Lamb. Simply because...well, because they said so. At least they had a chance of survival against the fallen god of death. Hopefully his threat of picking off the populace one by one will not come to pass if some folks begin to get a little too curious. “He is not exactly hospitable company.”

(He’s hostile company. Lambert has lost count of assassination attempts.)

“Is there a reason why you dote on him so? I did not think there to be a sickness that causes someone to attack others like that.” A dog, a golden lab with a chipper voice as bright as day speaks up. He’s a rescue from Anura. The lamb hesitates at his words, and he’s quick to addon. “Not that I question your judgement, my lamb! It’s just that you seem so…preoccupied with it. I don’t like to see you stressed.”

Lambert lowers their axe from the tree, and smiles as they step towards him. “I’m not stressed! Just busy.” They raise a hand, finding the back of the dog’s head and giving him a pat. “Thank you for your concern, but your leader is not burdened.”

The dog looks happy just to be receiving the attention. The otter puffs out her lip; something else is on her mind, though from the way she looks she shall not say it. The act of unwillingness to do so means it may be something the lamb does not want to hear, possibly doubt towards their judgement.

They will not fault her for having the free will to think. A hold of understanding is better than a hold of absolute. Though, things were much easier when Lambert could just read their minds. Worries were a lot quicker to comfort when you knew exactly what they were. No fickle conversational cues or waiting for the shoe to drop. They’re back to how it was before, using words only.

It must be worst for Narinder. The lamb has a few decades of the ability before it’s suddenly taken away, but at least they knew how to speak to others before the prophecy came to be as the vessel. The cat, however, has had no such luxury.

A thousand years of isolation can’t be good for one’s social skills. Did he have others, outside of Baal and Aym to talk to? Were souls who had passed and come into his domain conversational partners? Or were they just guided to their next destination? Did Ratau ever talk with him about other things outside of growing a cult? Narinder calls the lamb chatty…

They think they’ll ask him about it the next time they come to his door, and raise the axe to wood again.

–

The temple became full of disciples. Such an event was a grandiose thing, so those who wished to see the lamb’s work would do nothing to miss it. Not everyone attends, of course. Long has it since been the time where attendance was mandatory, so there may be workers keeping the mills running and guarding the stores (thanks to a certain incident that the lamb has yet to clarify who the perpetrator was) and tending to the sick in the healing bay. But for the most part, the temple is packed. Members are shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped together with wide eyes and looking forwards to witnessing an act of divine power.

It has been many years since the last resurrection took place. Some of the children weren’t even born the last time that it happened.

Everything was in place. The book was set upon the alter, Lambert in their place. Blood and chalk are drawn in their proper symbols on the floor in the center, some of their own and of the deceased that they were able to save and store when they died. They double checked everything; from the bones, to the devotion, to the drawings, and began to recite the chants of old language they’ve since memorized from nights in their bed chamber going over every line again and again so as to not fail the devotee that would be brought back, lest they be brought back wrong.

The blood and chalk being to glow crimson. The red on the floor begins to move. Devotees heads stay low as the lamb’s vision turns white and whispers of afterlife fill the ears and echo off of the wall.

And then it all just…flickers out.

Like a candle in the dark. A life breathing it’s last.

The ritual doesn’t work.

The resurrection fails.

Devotees begin to hesitate in their prayer, eyes lifting and hoods coming down as they realize there’s nothing coming. The lamb finds the air is clear of any magics, their sight returns to them fully, and whatever power they call upon that normally consumes them in such a process feels more like an ache in their ribs rather than the blanket that’s supposed to warm them completely. It doesn’t work the second time, or the third, or the fourth.

“My lamb?” One of the elders, Finor, speaks up. The gray hairs around the rabbit’s muzzle curl with her confusion. She is old enough to have seen resurrections many times, but not like this.

“There appears to be a communication issue.” The lamb smiles, gives a small laugh even, waving their hand. Lowered shoulders, casual posture. Appear simply inconvenienced, and they will not suspect of your panic.

“A…communication issue?” Another member pipes up as members begin to lower their hoods and glance to each other. “Whatever could be the ‘communication issue’?”

“It’s entirely possible that the deliverer of death is simply too busy to attend to us at the moment and cannot retrieve a soul.” Lambert reassures. Not a lie, just not the whole truth. “Death is a very constant and demanding job, you know. We must respect it. Jayen will return to us at a later time, I promise.”

This seems to appease them, albeit with some whispers and some visible disappointment that there will be no miracles of the lamb this evening. The followers are dismissed; their leader waving them away with a gentle affirmation of their college’s return. Dissent may grow among the less faithful, but it’s not enough to cause a problem. At least for now.

What really concerned the lamb’s mind was that their theory proved true, and their ritual did not work.

They remain as everyone else retires to their cabins and beds. The temple has gone quiet; everyone should be sleeping, save for the lamb who still lingers inside at the stand of the alter. They shift through pages in their books, skimming through their own handwriting, and Ratau’s, and symbols written by hands they’ll never meet.

They flip from cover to back and over again, re-running the same section several times and desperately searching to see if anything in the ink had changed when they blinked. The count of bones are checked, the blood of the lamb since dried but should still be good. Devotion still lingered in the red chalk. The summoning circle is still drawn on the floor with no damage to it’s boundary, and yet it sits empty as Lambet’s fingers pull at their wool in a nervous fidget.

They must be missing something. Yes, that’s it. They simply must have missed something. A femur or a finger bone. Maybe a few more drops of blood of theirs will fix this.

(Or it’s because the crown’s power is halved, and they cannot maintain the promises they made with the leftovers.)

“I can fix this.” Lambert whispers to no one. The pages of the book do not respond. Their fingers fidget. “I can…figure this out.”

A low chuckle sounds from behind them.

Their head turns just in time for metal to flash past them, the end of a sharp point slamming down onto the alter, and into the book. A hand that isn’t holding the dashes forwards, and suddenly there is a grip on their head, claws digging into their wool (reach for the crown, call for the sword, call for it now!) and Lambert’s head is slammed into the alter.

It hurts, but their wool cushions them. The end of the weapon drags past their face as their hands fly up to their attacker, one hand to the grip on their head, the other’s palm open to summon the crown.

Black eyes meet red. Narinder’s grin is manic. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix things for you.”

His arm raises again, (A farming sickle, stolen from the tool shed) and raises it far above them.

No time to wait for the sword to materialize. Lambert’s open palm gropes for the book, grips it’s hardcover and swings it upwards. The tip of the sickle catches pierces it’s pages, puncturing the leather. They kick him hard in the ribs, releasing an audible crack and a hiss from the God of Death as he stumbles back. His grip on their wool disappears, and Lambert pulls off of the alter and gives him a wide berth.

Narinder breathes haggard for a moment and Lambert fears that oh no, they’ve did too much, before the cat’s eyes focus back on them, zeroed and filled with disgust. The pain tolerance for a god of his history must be immaculate.

The crown at the very least decides to grant them a mercy. The sword forms heavy in Lamberts grip, and they use both hands to grip the handle, gritting their teeth, and addressing the cat that just tried to crack their skull on the temple alter. “I just made those robes! Please, do not force me to put tears into them-!”

Narinder lunges again.

They block him, metal sickle sparking against the black blade. Short dark lighting ticks off with every parry, and the Lamb takes a step back for every attack that seems to get a little too closer for comfort. No offense. Only defense. Defend. Do not falter. Do not mess up. Do not hurt him. Do not-

Something stings a line across the exposed flesh of their thigh the same second their thoughts become too clouded. Lambert parries him again, and almost trips when his advancement sends them back peddling down the temple’s stairs. “Stop this!”

“I’ve told you,” Narinder yells, maw wide to show sharp teeth. Sounds of their battle echo off the brick of the wall as he pushes them to the center of the summoning circle. Lambert dodges a slice for their head and inwardly hisses at the sound of air splitting next to their ear. A cackle is in the edge of the cat’s voice. “Kill me, or die! I will not allow any other option!”

The blade aims for their eyes. Lambert’s teeth grit together as Narinder takes off a strand of wool too close to their eyes. Enough!

The curve of the sickle catches on the blade, and Lambert takes the chance. A quick wrist movement, something they’ve learned after deaths to prevent such a thing, and the sickle is pushed taut. It’s blocked, spun, and the blade is knocked from the cat’s hand with a grunt, clattered several feet away to the stone with a rattling sound.

They may match in skill, and one day power. But for now, Narinder’s uncoordinated anger, like his arrogance, shall lead to his defeat.

The God of Death stills as the tip of the crown’s blade is pressed to the collarbone once more, body permanently locked with a tenseness to pounce. Lambert heaves, like how he too is panting through his teeth. Somewhere on the lamb’s body, a cut bleeds on their thigh. Their head was beginning to ache, but for the most part, they are unharmed.

Narinder wheezes slightly through gritted teeth, and Lambert’s steeled gaze softens. “Your ribs-?”

“The ritual didn’t work, did it?” He cuts them off. Wide, slitted eyes never leave their own. His hands open and close at his sides, waiting for an opportunity.

“…Did you have something to do with that?”

“The crown has been halved, and you still have the audacity to ask such a thing.” He sneers. Mad amusement layers his lowering voice, even as the adrenaline tries to calm. “Congratulations on finding your limitation. You don’t need my help to fail.”

Lambert’s brows furrow together. Their grip tightens, even as Narinder straightens his posture and adopts a cool, collected look of smug amusement. “This is not good for you either!”

“I do not share your theory. The crown’s power will return to it’s rightful authority with time, or with your death. Whatever abilities you lack, I remain to keep.”

“We do not know that!” Their voice raises. “You do not know that!”

The temple falls to quiet. Narinder does not respond in argument, rather a pointed grin simple mocks them. It is not a readable answer to take from his silence, and the lack of such starts to sting more than the forming pain on their cheek and ear. Lambert briefly acknowledge the warm wetness that starts to trail down their face and past their jaw. A few drops fall to the floor, joining the dried red of the circle below.

As if to compliment their bleeding face, Narinder’s own suddenly twists into a grimace. The cat’s head leans to the side and spits. A cough accompanies it, and a wad of ichor splatters across the stone floor. It darkens the red of the chalk of the summoning circle still drawn in the center over where the lamb’s blood left droplets, covering them completely. “Vile. Even my blood tastes like rot.”

Lambert’s raised sword immediately drops a few inches as their face faulters. “Can you breathe?”

Crimson eyes narrow at them. “…Unfortunately.”

“I…did not mean to kick you so hard.” Their eyes drop down to the center of Narinder’s robes to his chest, and the cat’s gaze narrows at them for it. “I don’t want you to have a punctured lung.”

He scoffs, and another cough of blood spills ichor over his chin. “Your concern is misplaced, vessel.”

“…I don’t want you to die, in case you haven’t noticed the obvious already.”

“You are stupider than you look.” A wheeze is barely audible when he breathes. If the god was in great pain, he was certainly taking great effort not to show it. Or maybe he’s simply unphased by the such a sensation. Regardless, Lambert’s gaze darts from the blood to the cat that wants them dead. Narinder glares back like the very action is offensive. “I should have seen your incompetence coming. A proper deity would have destroyed it’s competition by now.”

Lambert shakes their head. “I don’t see you as competition.”

“Clearly.” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. The sword lowers. Lambert does not call for it to dissipate, just in case, but they let it drop to their side. Narinder is not so much as a threat in his current state. They’re a little more concerned about how they’re going to treat a possible punctured lung on a hostile god rather than how to keep said god from tearing their head off at the first opportunity he gets.

The grimoire is scattered to the side. Three eyes trail to it, and Lambert watches as something churns behind crimson pupils of an idea. Nothing is said as Narinder turns and walks to the thrown book, now damaged from his attack with a notable puncture in the front, but still bound at the spin. His vessel’s gaze tracks him as he leans down, grabs the hardcover, and brings it up. A quick flip through the pages. He’s never once held the thing by himself, only a tool to be used by those who served him.

“No, the ritual didn’t work.” The lamb says softly from behind him. An official answer, then. “I don’t know why.”

Narinder flips through the pages and finds that all it holds is redundant information to him. “Because you are unworthy. Your flock will dissent.”

The lamb hesitates. “They are forgiving. They are understanding.”

“They are witnessing the fall of a false prophet first hand.” Narinder chuckles, letting the book close and drop to the floor with little respect.

They watch him wipe the wet blood from his chin, using the fur on his wrists instead of the white sleeve of his robe. Lambert isn’t sure if that’s a conscious decision he makes. “It’s not like you’re in an any different place than me. We’re both at this level.”

Narinder makes a noise akin to a jeer, except it comes out more hoarse. His smugness and arrogance is watered down only by the ever growing ache in the center of his chest. “You mistake yourself, vessel.”

Something in Lambert ticks. Maybe it’s the stress, maybe something else, but they allow themselves to snap at him. Just a little bit. “You know what? Why don’t you give resurrection a shot then? Yeah?” To emphasize themselves, they gesture to the markings and dried blood stains at their feet. “After all, it’s the least you can do since you’re the reason why they’re dead in the first place.”

If anything, he looks faintly amused at their irritation, and perhaps they’ve given him the reaction he’s been searching for. Narinder scoffs. “And why should I humor you?”

“Because,” The lamb starts, and pauses. Uncertain. “You…just should.”

(They never did find that crab in his domain.)

Narinder closes his eyes tight, keeps them shut for a long minute, and then opens them again with a resigned sigh. “…Your persuasiveness is appalling. The fact that you were able to convince followers to join you is a miracle of itself.”

The lamb’s face looks, dare he think it, disappointed. “Then let me focus on how I can fix this-”

“Move.”

He cuts them off, walking not to the alter but to the top of the circle just where it ends at his feet. Lambert hesitates at the action, but in realization quickly steps off the summoning circle and to the side. The sword dissipates in their hand as they move to stand besides him, arms locked under their fleece as Narinder brings his hands up. Their easiness to stow away their weapon so quickly in his presence is questionable. Eyes closed, mind clear. His palms push together, arms and elbows straight with a practiced posture.

Unlike the lamb, he does not need to recite borrowed knowledge. The old, forgotten languages converses freely from his tongue despite centuries of disuse, far more potent than his vessel would have ever learned without going mad. No grimoire needed.

Lambert’s hands busy with touching their wounds (gash on the leg, a slice on their cheek, a cut on their ear) as the God of Death’s suddenly open wide. Crimson fills them and casts glowing eerie, the symbols on the ground begin to match. The circle begins to move, it’s outer rings rotating as the ritual pulsates with whatever whispers spew from his mouth.

The temple is becoming alive with death’s power.

Blood starts to drip from The One Who Wait’s eyes and the Lamb watches with their own, hands curled into their fleece, as the ground begins to grow soft enough for a corpse to expel from it. It’s working, they think. It’s really working-!

Narinder flinches. The symbols freeze and become static on the floor. The whispers go still, and the room comes to an anti-climatic halt.

It does not process until the lack of such power itself starts to ring the silence in their ears. Lambert blinks at the sudden stillness, and finds a cold discomfort crawling into their chest at the quiet. The body next to them still has locked palms, his eyes no longer crimson alight but simple dark. They stare blankly ahead like a daze, all three of them, until broken from it’s trance, and drift to the lamb.

For once, there is no witty remark or threat or mockery. Instead; black pupils meet red ones, all three of them, in equally shared alarm.

The resurrection failed.

There isn’t even a soulless body inside the summoning circle. There’s no sign there was even any progress. The symbols are still clean and the blood that was mixed with the chalk was not absorbed. Even the mess from their battle that makes an ugly stain in a normally perfect summoning circle was untouched, and unwanted. Narinder’s fur stands on end up to it’s highest point, a pulse unfamiliar rocketing in a aching and sharp ribcage. That pain in his chest cannot just be from broken ribs.

(An attempt to show up his usurper only proved him to be just as weak as they are. The lamb will mock him. The lamb will berate him. The lamb will best him, again.)

Lambert does no such thing. Their voice is soft, and uncertain. “What...what happens when the God of Death dies? You just go back to the afterlife, right?”

Narinder is still staring at the blood.

“Narinder?” They push, and they sound just so afraid. Only a little, like when they first met. “If we can’t revive a single soul of another, what does that mean for ourselves?” No answer. They inch closer, anxious to stir one from him. “What does it mean if the embodiment of death dies? You just end up in the afterlife, right?”

“I said I’d erase you.” Narinder mumbles.

Lambert’s brows furrow together. They feel cold underneath their fleece. “What?”

Whatever trance the God of Death is in, he must have broken out of it by their outburst, because suddenly Narinder’s face scrunches together in a fit of mixed emotions. Confusion, anger, concern. It’s the most readable he’s been that’s not outright attacking them. “You must be missing something.”

“No, no-” Lambert shakes their head. “I have everything. I checked.”

“You did something different. Something is missing.” He breaks the formation, stepping forwards onto the circle to look for faults. To his displeasure, there are none. The lamb has perfected drawing his symbols over their years of servitude. Narinder’s fingers curl into fists as he searches for a fault in their handiwork. “I used to be able to resurrect by simply thinking about it, now reduced to pitiful rituals.” He hisses.

Lambert approaches him, the fool. “I have done everything correctly!”

“Something is missing!” He repeats. His eyes are starting to burn with blood. The taste in his mouth where his teeth grow sharper feels bitter. “So clearly, something isn’t correct!”

His usurper looks askance. Half of him expect for them to draw the sword again, the other half expects for them to storm out of the temple and leave him to his ruined realization of impuissance.

They make the dumber decision of reaching a hand out towards his shoulder like a semblance of comfort. “We’ll figure it out! We just need to-”

Black shadow seems to fume off of Narinder’s fur as he catches their incoming hand, claws digging into their exposed wrists. The warmth of their blood and the pulse against his fingertips makes his own blood freeze, but nothing to halt his spiral. “I will not be consoled by the very idiot who’s betrayal has put us in this state of weakness in the first place!”

The lamb does not cower like the voice in the back of his head wants them too. Their face remains steel, and their other hand comes to lock around his fingers on their skin. A red glow comes from the floor, and illuminates the anger they reflect back at him. “And I won’t be scolded for not laying down my life for a prophecy I didn’t get a say in joining!”

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t betrayed me! I would have been free! I would have fixed everything! I would have-” He almost says something else. He is so caught from the tingle their skin sends to his palm that he doesn’t. His grip burns. The ground shakes. “I would have...”

Words trail off. A surging feeling. His lungs, his blood, his heart. The lamb-

Their expression changes from creased anger to widened eyes.

Narinder’s grip around them locks tighter. Something feels off. Lambert’s cheek is no longer bleeding. “What-”

“Get off!” Lambert moves quickly, and suddenly the hold he has on them is turned into a pull as the God of Death is promptly tugged forwards, towards his usurper and off of the summoning circle in a fit of gangly limbs and dazed surprise. “Get off! Get off the summoning circle, quickly!”

The cat has no argument in him to resist. He is promptly dragged by the hand (yanked, more like it) to the side and turned to face the center of the temple.

Crimson symbols dance, just like they should have been. The ground becomes soft and a form begins to break from afterlife into this one, bones becoming encased with flesh and sacrificed blood from chalk drawing inside of it’s casing. The non-uniform splatter of their mixed blood from battle also dries and raises, fusing along with it.

A mass of flesh appears in the center of the circle and form the shape of a bear. Narinder and Lambert alike watch as it sits up, inhales deeply like a man drowning, and promptly vomits black sludge all over the stone floor as the summoning circle dissipates.

For a moment, stunned silence. Unless you count the resurrected follower’s sound of vomiting rot viciously all over the temple floor.

Then, the lamb cheers. “It worked!”

Lambert’s hand detach from Narinder’s as they rush forwards. The cat remains still as stone, claws linger in the air.

“Jayen! You are alive again!” They rush to the bear’s side, whom turn to the lamb with a look of surprise, and relief, but cannot speak due to the black phlegm that still seems to be expelling from their body. Normally, they are not this excited. They have seen the process hundreds of times, experienced it themselves for thousands. But recent events allow for such extra cheer. Lambert crouches down to their follower. “Here, bend this way. It hurts less. Yes, there you go-there. It’s okay. There, now. Almost done.”

The bear coughs up spit and black vile. His breathing becomes slower. “Where...there wasn’t-”

“You are back with us.” Lambert rubs between the bear’s shoulder blades. Their voice is soft with relief, breathy with adrenaline. Narinder’s head tilts. “Welcome back.”

Voices being to sound from outside the temple. Without prompt, the doors begin to crack open. First the eyes of a child that disappear with a small gasp. Then, another set of eyes, then two more. Rising sunrise begins to fill the inside of the temple with a orange line running across the pair. Followers begin to speak in tangent, some with voices still filled with sleep, some who call for others to wake, some who recognize the bear instantly. The day is starting.

Three red pupils zero on the lamb. The wounds on their cheek and leg and ear all look pink and fleshed over, healed to the point where it looked older. Hardly the bleeding injuries he gave them minutes prior.

Air fills his mortal-like lungs with ease. Narinder feels no pain in his chest.

“Here, I’ll help you stand.” Lambert, ever the leader, helps the bear to their feet. He will be weak, but he’s already becoming steady on his legs. Food and rest for the first day alive again, for sometimes the soul forgets what the body needs. The lamb can speak from experience. The bear is taller than them, though they have no trouble keeping his weight up. “C’mon. A quick check up at the healing bay.”

Followers come to help, to coo, and to bask in the work of the lamb. One helps take the bear onto their shoulder, and the remaining would like to follow. They usher them out, away from the circle and away from the mess. “I will join you in a moment. Please, go ahead.”

Voices talking, mummering, whispering, cheering. Lambert does not need to read minds to know that the shrine will be overflowing with devotion in the hours to come. Their smile is default and relieved, and it remains until the others are far enough away they can close the crack on the temple door a little further, and turns towards the other temple’s occupant.

Narinder stands still on the opposite side of the room. The light of sunrise does not quite reach him. The stolen sickle is clutched with tight knuckles in one hand, the other curling in and out.

Lambert’s gaze does not shy again, one hand coming to rub at the lack of sting on their cheek.

...There is a viable explanation for what just happened. But not yet.

Later. They do not have a choice. The cult needs them. Narinder looks like he was prepared to kill that follower for a second time. Or them. Probably both. A talk will need to happen. Preferably when the cult members have had their celebration, and preferably when the God of Death and Lamb can process what happened this night, and the implications of it. Preferably separately.

For now, Lambert picks up the edges of their fleece. They dip their head slightly, crown included, and curtsey to the God of Death. “Thank you. I think.”

Narinder is silent with an unmoving, wide glare. His tail swishes violently behind him.

The lamb turns away, exits through the doors and leaves the temple unlocked.

Chapter Text

The bear, after a quick check up in the healing bay and a bowl of honey-water to wash down the vile taste of death in his throat, is returned to the general populace and ready for work by the next morning.

The members are faithful, encouraged by the new sight. Jayen is slightly disoriented by his own return, and for that the Lamb does not make him pay any mind to the shrine or come to the sermon the next morning, but their followers have always been quick to bounce back. Most of the time, at least, and in this one it shows. Not just in the resurrected, but in those who witnessed the miracle.

It had been a long time since the lamb had done such a thing. Too busy, or too little bones. They preferred to bury bodies instead of recycle them. Their crusades stretched farther and fewer between. Those younger were starting to doubt the elders, but dissent dies quietly. A proper resurrection after a generation of none. Devotion fills the shrine. Whispers of the lamb’s magic turn into prideful conversations among them. Faith renewed with vigor.

Narinder is not in the temple that morning when Lambert returns, nor is he anywhere to be found in the village within afterward.

They go to his cabin in the evening and knock on the door. “Hey, can we talk about it?”

No answer, as expected.

They leave without a response, and return the next day after that when the sun is setting low. They set a bundle full of washed sheets and a small bucket of water for cleaning at the door. A glass bottle of rose oils is set alongside them. Something to help soothe skin. It worked on Lambert’s scar well enough, maybe it’ll work on this god’s scars too. And it smelled nice, to boot. They tap their knuckles on the door. “I brought you stuff. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

Silence is their conversational partner. The lamb kicks at the dirt. “Jayen is fully recovered from the resurrection. He’s returned to stonework, but he’s taking a liking to refinery, so I might have him switch over there.” They wring their hands together, massaging the sore fingers they have. “I told him you helped with the resurrection, by the way. He didn’t...really take it as well as I’d hoped, still thinks you’re scary. I mean, yeah, for a good reason. Not that it’s a good thing! But I wanted you to know just in case you thought I was taking credit for everything.”

At this point, no response is the expected response. The only thing that lets Lambert know there’s anyone in there is the feeling of something weighing heavy in their chest when they approach. Or maybe that part is all up in their head. They leave again to finish chores with the others.

The third visit is almost fruitful. Narinder’s hut is situated on a higher part of the compound, where the ground is on a slightly bigger hill than the rest, one has to walk upwards slightly to the path of his front door. From this, it’s occupant can sometimes see someone coming faster than someone could see the cabin, and it’s only when the lamb is coming up the cobblestone path quicker than normal one evening and catches a brief sight of the door shutting tightly do they know he still resides within.

The offerings from yesterday are still outside, but messed with. Lambert may have accidently interrupted his investigation to see what the lamb had brought him. They replace the old water bucket with the new one, and reposition the oils to sit somewhere where the door won’t knock it over. “I was thinking about it last night, but the temple never has anyone inside of it whenever everyone has gone to bed. No one has a moon necklace right now, so you wouldn’t be interrupted. If you wanted to go somewhere other than here just to stretch your legs. It’s not a far walk from here, too. You could meditate in there.”

Their suggestion goes unaknowledged. Somewhere inside, Lambert hears the sound of wood creaking like footsteps on floorboards. They take their leave for the night, and head towards the temple.

The next morning, they come just as a the sky is starting to blue with a new day. They come straight from the temple, arriving with a basket of candles and a few books from their library. This cabin has no bookshelf that they’re aware of, it was not a furniture item they thought to craft, but they can be easily stacked, and stacked they are next to the door.

They do not know what stories he would want to read, if any at all, but they brought all fictional ones. Lambert imagines the God of Death has seen enough of history to not care to read about redundant information to stave off boredom.

“I couldn’t use curses today.” They start off. Their hands raise to their face; still their own, yet feel alien without the power they’ve gotten used to over the last century or so. It’s jarring to return to mortal ability when one was born mortal and given something greater. It must be so much worse for someone who’s born a god. “I tried to cast more complex stuff, and it fizzled out, and I thought-oh, okay, it must be that I just needed to try the more simple curses, and it uh-” They inhale, and sigh. “It didn’t work. I tried it in the temple when everyone was asleep. I couldn’t summon anything except the sword.”

From behind the wooden locked door, Lambert feels three eyes turn heavy in their direction.

“Do you know how to write?” The lamb asks, curling their fingers. “Ratau taught me words and sentences, and you taught me symbols, but I never learned how to make stories. I think I told you this in the gateway. I brought you some that I had, though. Forneus kept them in stock sometimes.”

The wind blows in from behind them, sending stray pieces of wool to fall in front of their face, their cloak billowing towards his doorway. Lambert’s shoulders drop when they hear the floorboards creak like a footstep towards their direction, and they find it easier to turn tail and walk away from the isolated hut before they could find out the answer if one actually did arrive.

The next evening, they come when the sky is orange and red. Sunset dips over the horizon, and it shall be night soon. Followers have had a good day today; no one fell sick, no work injuries, no fights, no issues. There’s a lighter pep in their step than how they were the night prior. Lambert was a fast one to bounce back, or at least appear to do so. Maybe that’s where their following learned it.

They are empty handed this time, so the lamb just saunters up to death’s door in a brisk walk and stand rocking back and forth on their heel, eyes and mind drifting off into space. “I’m thinking about adding plumbing. You know, like, pipes and stuff. Missionaries and some of the newer recruits talk about the other places they’ve been. Some towns have whole systems underneath them! They have water basins that fill up with a turn of a knob or lever through the pipes, and you use it like how you use it for laundry or out houses or bathing, depending on the basin, and then you turn another knob and it empties through a drain.”

As per usual, the quiet is what accompanies them, but Lambert hardly notices this time in the middle of their rambles. “They said that only the wealthy had it in these villages, which is, uh, stupid. We have plenty of gold right now though, so we could outreach more and start doing trade for blue prints and village planning. Might spread our grounds more too. We’ll at least have a proper row of out houses with this function, and I’m thinking for bathing maybe a bathhouse with curtain separated rooms for a start. It’ll be a big project, and it might take a long time, but I think it would be the best in the long run. Maybe even individual rooms for it in every home in some years-“

The click of a lock unlatching and the wooden door swinging open is what breaks Lambert from their ramble. Automatically they step away from the door and any threat it might have brought to them. Said threat stands still and tired eyed in the entrance, dark fur decorated with a brush of warm hues thanks to the setting sun.

Narinder looks at lamb like they are a bug on his welcome mat. “The red crown’s power has been halved to an unknowable extent, our powers are divided, weakened or missing, and you’re focusing on plumbing.”

Lambert’s eyes perk up as they make contact with his for the first time in nearly a week. “Well, yeah? Hygiene is a vital part of healthy life and community!”

He looks haggard. They don’t know if he needs to sleep the same way others do, or if he chooses to do so to simply pass the time quicker, but eyebags that sit heavy on his face unhidden by his fur look like they’ve been developing for a while now.

Narinder looks like he’s going to close the door once again, so the lamb acts quickly. “Can we talk about what happened in the temple?”

“Only if you offer a solution to the problem you caused.”

“I mean, maybe. If we talked about it. That’s what talking does. Finds solutions. Most of the time, I mean.” Black eyes glance towards the inside of the cabin before they can think of manners. Offerings from before are settled on the side table. Some tossed to the side, more decoration than of any use, and thrown into the hut probably because he was tired of hitting it with the door every time he tried to sneakily leave. The lamb may not have omnipresence or mind reading, but followers whisper of a ‘ghost’ that haunts the edges of the cult grounds at night, and the cats robes were uniquely colored white.

A glint of an open book with ripped pages is near the bed. Narinder’s body shifts an inch to the left, and their view of the inside is blocked, gaze traveling back up to red. They smile. “I’m open to hear your ideas if you have any. May I come in?”

“I did not build this house.” A cryptic, sour sass answer is better than none. But it’s not a no.

“…Alright.” They drawl out. It’s such a strange interaction to converse with the cat. It feels like a test almost. Lambert has become well versed with social rules and etiquette since placed into their role of leader ship. These rules doesn’t apply to the God of Death, and thus Lambert moves their hands to meet at the palms, making a point arrow with their fingers and all but try to shimmy-through the thin crack between the cat and the door frame into the cabin. “S’cuse me-”

Narinder’s mouth pulls back into a disgusted sneer and steps back to avoid contact. The doorway becomes more open and Lambert casually walks inside. The place isn’t destroyed, at least. The nicer bedding and curtains were still intact. Half-melted candles had dried wax over one of the books they brought. One of which was missing a few pages with paper shredded near the foot of the bed. Not destroyed. Messy, but still intact.

It’s not until Narinder calmly walks past them does Lambert notice the glint of metal leaning against the bedside. He picks it up by the handle and holds it at his side. A farming scythe this time, still stolen from the tool shed. He holds it perfectly in his hand like muscle memory of a weapon quite similar, and turns to the lamb with a low-lidded, jaded look.

Lambert presses their lips together. “Is this the part where you try to kill me again?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” Narinder talks low, and too casual. He holds the weapon, just in case. “Speak before I make my mind.”

Walking directly into a trap, and yet the cat didn’t bother to close the cabin door. Maybe because he thinks the lamb won’t run. Probably because he’s right. “Both of our resurrection attempts failed. And then it just, worked. Our injuries healed, mostly. When we were-” They search for a word that would piss him off the least. “Connected?”

The cat’s face sours with a deepening frown. Wrong word to use. Or maybe he would have preferred not to be reminded of it.

“I had this theory that, like- the crown’s split into pieces, but maybe it’s less like shattered glass and more like puzzles?” They raise their hands, fingers splayed. Locking the digits together to emphasize their meaning. Three eyes recognize motions of a chatty lamb who likes to use their hands while they talk. “Maybe it’s…divided, sure. But we don’t know how it’s been divided. Not yet, at least. What pieces you got and what pieces stayed with me-”

“Stayed with me.” He interjects. “Do not speak as if you had lost something that was ever truly yours, thief.”

“-but maybe they can click together. Puzzle pieces don’t make sense when they’re alone but when put together they can show you more of the bigger picture,” they ignore him, using emphasizes with by locking their hands together again. The God of Death’s agitation grows at their dismissal, and Lambert continues regardless. “Is this making any sense?”

They needed to cooperate for the ritual to work. Something that’s been tearing Narinder apart for the last few days until he was mentally too exhausted to commit to being a stronger threat, at least temporarily. “You are speaking of details we already knew. Do not over-explain something to me that is vile.”

“Oh, okay.” Lambert’s hands fall to their side. “What happens when one of us dies and we cannot resurrect ourselves?”

The question is so blunt. It’s something they asked from the beginning if he remembers correctly. The importance of it must weigh on them. Narinder raises the weapon slightly. “Would you like to find out?”

The Lamb’s mouth pouts, eyes briefly darting to the floor in thought and back again. A habit when they think about something. A bitterness swells in his ribs at the realization that he’s come to recognize their stupid mortal fidgets they’ve shown since the gateway.

“We could resurrect each other.” Lambert offers, and their tone is hopeful. “Maybe? If the crown’s power is together, even if one is in death. As long as the living holder wills it, it could work.”

“Doubtful.”

“C’mon. I’ve died enough times to have at least a little bit of guessing room. It’s a solid theory.”

“And you speak to the god that created resurrection.” The cat scowls. “Doubtful.”

Lambert stares blankly at him for a long pause. “I’d resurrect you if you died.”

“I would leave you rotting.” Narinder retorts flatly.

He wishes for a flash of fear to come across their features. Unfortunately, the lamb just makes a noise of acknowledgement. “I couldn’t do a curse earlier. I’m leaving to crusade soon; we are running low on some supplies, so I was planning to go on a short run. Wanted to test my abilities before I did.” Their hands wring around themselves. Not so much in a nervous fidget, more so that the lamb was simply thinking. “Can you do curses?

Their casual question feels like a corner. He wouldn’t tell them if he could, anyway. “You’re complaining to me about this, why?”

A small shrug. “Just...figured you should know since we’re kinda in this mess together. I’ll share what I know, and you can share what you know, yeah?”

“Lamb.” Narinder hisses. Sharp teeth peek out from the corner of his mouth in a sneer. “What I’ve shared with you, you’ve stolen.”

A tightness in his knuckles appear around the handle of the scythe. It appears that The One Who Wait’s patience is starting to wear thin in the minutes the lamb has been here. Fair enough. They take a step towards the open doorway with a less than enthusiastic smile. They don’t know what they expected when they wished to bring up the idea, but at the very least Lambert will not be defending themselves against an assassination attempt tonight.

“I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.” Lambert calls out over their shoulder. The feeling of eyes burning into their back pins through their fleece and wool to leave a stinging sensation on their skin. “Goodnight, Narinder!”

It’s not until they’re further down the hill do they hear the sound of a door slamming coming up from behind them. It went not well, but it wasn’t disasters. It was something. They probably won’t see him again for another week. It’s fine. They have chores to do and schedules to maintain. The time will pass anyway. Lambert must help the cook prep before they’re absent all night anyway.

Only gone for a few hours though. They’ll return quickly after retrieving the camellias when they depart tomorrow, hopefully before the God of Death decides to make well on a few threats he has made.

-

-

-

It breaks the gateway. It stands and calls their title.

“I seek the newly appointed god, successor of their victims, last of their kind. Confer with me.“

It is larger than any of the bishops, and harder to look at. A blinding light. A ringing in their ears. The air feels wet with it’s presence and the electric with it’s voice, distorted and corrupted like the lamb’s brain wasn’t sure how to comprehend what it was hearing. Whatever it was speaking, it wasn’t common spoken language, but the words translate like runes. A magic, or manipulation, that consumes them when the being speaks. It seems familiar.

“Fickle beast, do you not feel how the boundary betwixt this world and the next has began to fray? You are artless in your duties.“

It is a stranger. It is near incompressible. It seems familiar, that the lamb may have met it once before. They have no recollection of it.

“You bestow upon the bishops death, yet deny them rest. Forced are they to relive their final agonies, trapped between life and death.” It scolds them. It looks at at them with mismatched eyes. A mass of black and void and abyss that gaze back down into them when they gaze into it, cloaked in white and gold and godly attire that shifts with the glow that halos it. It looks to the crown, to the lamb, and remarks. “Bearer of the red crown, yet you have done something irreparable to it.“

For an attempt at a proper introduction, Lambert barely makes a sound. “…Hi.”

Eyes hold them in place upon what once was considered the staircase to death’s domain, the archway broken and reconstructed beyond repair. The gateways to Darkwood, Anura, Anchordeep and Silk’s Cradle are relocked and barred. There are distorted whispers that sound like thunder and sobbing and souls of the heretics they’ve slain for another’s freedom. From the doorways sounds like afterlife, without the sand and the calmness.

“As their victor in battle, the responsibility lies within, beast who has broken the crown. The God of Death has a duty to see to it that their souls move on for a final rest.” It says. The orb that makes up it’s head tilts, and gravity of the mind shifts. It sees something that they do not. “But it appears that title is not yours-”

“Hold on,” Lambert holds up hand to whatever that fucking thing is, and speaks quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

The lamb then turns on their heel, briskly walks down the stairs and back to the forest where the cult’s entrance is not far from. Several mismatched eyes and a thousand more watch as a little wooly body comically speeds back home.

Followers notice immediately something is amiss, though the lamb does not stop to address it. A few eyes turn their way when the leader suddenly reappears after saying they’d be gone on a crusade for a while, much too early and empty handed. Their expression is blank, body moving almost mechanically as they turn at the shrine and make a beeline for an isolated hut at edge of the village.

-

His prison is a very quiet place. Little do Aym and Baal speak to him, and when they do, it is not long lasting. Most discussions are short, not like how they used to be. A god runs out of conversational topics after a thousand years. Death was naturally, a very quiet concept.

Except his prison is echoed with laughter. The lamb is running circles around The One Who Waits, and he cannot keep up without twisting in his own binds.

“Are all Bishops this big? Is it a requirement to be a god?” They ask, voice echoing louder among the quiet of his domain. Amusement in their tone. The lamb ducks underneath his elbow and moves behind him. “Whoa, you actually do have a tail!”

Chains twist and constrict his movement. The One Who Waits bends uncomfortably to look at the pest that’s been running around the edge of his robes. A sour hiss escapes his throat. “Lamb, are you mocking me?”

The lamb laughs. It sounds like a bleat that drawls into something softer, quicker, and fluttering. Comical and ethereal alike. The sound winds through his domain and overtakes the whispers of the dead that are ever present here, just for the moment that they make it.

The God of Death swipes for them again, and a chain tugs on his reach just enough that the lamb shifts through his fingers undaunted.

“Do you think I could climb on those chains?” The lamb calls out. “I’m not a very good climber. I’m no goat or panther, but I think I’m decent enough. It’s not like I could die a second time if I fall down, anyway.”

“Do not dare to try it.” He warns with a hiss. A boney hand comes down to catch them, and they dart underneath his grip and are on the other side of his palm with practiced speed. A second attempt with his other hand just has them jumping in-between the gap of bone in his arm like one would vault a fence, and giggles as they scamper.  “Lamb!”

They skid in the sand and circle behind him before he can try again. A woe of being chained, and another of this vessel learning agility while under his servitude. Again, he should have sent them back to the overworld lest he suffers more of their indignation. He doesn’t. Aym and Baal in this too, are absent.

“Narinder!” The lamb speaks a forbidden name. They are running across the front of him.

Instinct comes quickly. Either it is demonic or godly, or just one of a cat, but his hand comes down and scoops up the lamb mid-run. They tumble in his hand with a yelp, almost slipping through bone thin fingers under he pinches the back of their fleece and raising them up to his eye level. His vessel has been scruffed. “Cease this foolishness! It is not befitting of a vessel of my power.”

The lamb’s legs dangle, smiling as they sway. “I do my job though, don’t I?”

They do. They succeed where other bishops have not. A witness was recently slain not too long ago, before the lamb was speared in the gut by a heretic whist on the run for mushrooms for some other connection they’ve made. The gaping wound that bled their wool red is reversed as they resurrect, like it never even happened. Time and death flowing backwards. Shamura never got to see the work Narinder put in to make it so.

The One Who Wait’s frowns. “Behave to your status-”

“I’m stressed out!” They kick their leg in the air like one would kick at imaginary dirt. “I need some downtime! I’ve been doing nothing but retrieving things from caves and woods for weeks, and I’ve been too busy to visit Ratau for longer than that! Holding bonfires and feasts even feel like a chore.” They huff, and their feet swing with reckless legs. “Let me hang out here before I have to go play leader again.”

The rambles of a mortal that does not act it’s place is a fascinating subject to watch when they speak so openly about their dismay to their god about said god’s mission for freedom. It’s almost amusing. “Do not skirt your duty to my following. Your followers need you. Your flock will fall apart without your leadership.”

“They’ll be okay for a little while.” The squirming lamb in his hands sways. “They can wait for a little longer. You can too, can’t you?”

Entitled, whiney little mortal. Pathetic and mischievous, chatty and too open hearted than a proper warrior should be. His teeth feel sharper in his mouth, his annoyance grows-

-and dissipates.

He can wait. The bishops will die soon enough, and his chains released. It is already prophesized.

It appears his vessel simply needs...maintenance.

The One Who Wait’s frown still deepens as his other hand comes underneath the lamb, and drops them into his palm. No longer hanging by their fleece, the lamb sits up contently, leaning back on their hands and up towards the eyes behind his veil. “Being a cult leader sucks. Everyone is so demanding.”

“You are adored and seen as a savior.” He refutes. “Need I remind you that besides it’s benefits, you have a duty to fulfill.”

“You’re demanding too.”

Patience.

The One Who Wait’s is known for his patience. This thing is playing with it like toy string. “I am your god. You will do as our contract states. Do not become entitled, lest I revoke the power that allows you to make many mistakes through several defeated lives.”

“Boo.” They sigh, and lie flat on their back in his palm. Arms spread out with their feet dangling. He awaits them to say something else, but the lamb just stretches again and closes their eyes. They appear to be resting.

They remain like that, unbothered, for a period of time that the God of Death does not keep track of.

The little body lying in his touch is warm and soft with wool. He entertains the thought of closing his fingers around them, tight as the iron trapping his wrists. He entertains that thought for a multitude of reasons he cannot explain. “Your rest is my continued imprisonment.”

“My rest is vital to your release.” They say with a non-chalant wave of their hand. “I don’t think it’s doing you any good though either, staying all cooped up and isolated.”

His fingers around them twitch. “You speak as if I chose this.”

“You are.” The lamb sits up, stretching their arms high above their head, opening their eyes with a more relaxed smile. “I told you already. Come with me.”

He stares at the little lamb. “You are speaking madness again.”

“Narinder.” They dangle their legs, and rest their elbows on their knees, cheeks in their palms and look at him with a grin. “You are rotting the floorboards.”

-

This time Narinder does not wake up with a jolt, but with a slow, groggy awareness that sinks nausea into the pit of his stomach until reality kicks in, and the cat suddenly snaps to full awareness, pushing himself up from the hard surface that he lays.

Inhale. Exhale. Fluid in his lungs that dissipate with every breath. A tingle in his skin, his fingers, his head. It’s fine.

He is not on the bed, but on the ground next to it. The blanket is strewn and seems to have followed him halfway down with him to the hard, uncomfortable floor. Until he starts to push himself up further and feels the wood begin to give way under his weight. Hunched over, he breathes unevenly until the memory fades, and whatever it’s alterations that dreams do to it, and will it to no longer haunt him.

When the world stops spinning and the nausea subsides, three eyes drift down to the space beneath him. The wooden floorboards are blackened with the aged appearance of when rot seeps into wet wood. Black drips down onto a puddle underneath him. Narinder brings a hand up to his face, and pulls it back. His eyes bleed. Ichor drips from his nose.

Noticeable among the blood in his palm is the brief glint of something foreign. It disappears when he blinks again, but he’s long become accustomed to the feeling of Iron to recognize how it feels against his skin.

Dully noted, then.

He moves to clean himself up. The ichor blends in with his fur, so there’s that at least. He takes the blanket and wipes the blood from his face, staunching the bleeding. It stops after a moment, and the wetness is wiped away along with the remainder on the floor. There is, however, notable shape of rotten floor near where his blood spilled that is more obvious than the rest of the room, and the blanket is now coated with smears of black. It will need to be washed or replaced. For now, it’s tossed to the side.

Dreams and memories cause this. No, dreams of memories, and not quite perfect replicas, considering there was an aspect of torture that reminds him constantly of his constant inferior state.

Nightmares, then. Narinder was having nightmares. That’s what mortals call them.

The cat moves to stand (aching bones, ache in his chest, a phantom pain) and pauses. A feeling of…something. Subtle, but undeniable now that he’s noticed it. Emptiness that lingers in his ribs since early this morning that he pays no mind to starts to wane. A subject was returning, and fast approaching death’s door-his door. There is only one idiot brave enough in the village to do such a thing. Perhaps to whine about their misfortunes.

The door swings open before Lambert’s fist can make contact with the wood to knock. Their hand hovers in the air, wide eyed and still. Narinder looks at them with ichor dotting the corners of his vision. Three eyes dart them fully, body up and down, before making eye contact and sneering. “Sword troubles?”

“There’s something out there.”

The God of Death blinks. The ichor dissipates. “What.”

“There’s something out there.” The lamb repeats. Their arm comes out from underneath their fleece and points towards the direction of the gateway, past the entrance of the cult grounds. “And I think you should know about it.”

His answer is automatic. “No.”

“I really think you should know this.” His vessel stresses the word. They look unusually alarmed. Good. Discomfort for the traitor was a pleasant sight.

Narinder cranes away. “I am not one of your missionaries.”

“It knows your siblings.” They say. “It knew their names. It knew you.”

“We are gods. Of course our names are known.” He scoffs, back turning towards him. Might as well throw the blanket at them while they’re here so it doesn’t sit in the corner. “You are just incomprehensible.”

“It said they’re still out there. It said they’re stuck in purgatory.”

Narinder’s movements pause. A tenseness takes over his form. Lambert sees shadow go ridged in the cat’s body. His expression cannot be seen at this angle.

They must have woken him up, or perhaps caught him right as he was stirring. There’s wrinkles in his clothing and a disheveled direction his fur was brushed like he had been lying down on something minutes prior. A jumping pulse in their chest, the lamb jitters in place. They left that thing waiting to go to The One Who Waits. Eyes dart in a fit of restlessness as they await something to be spoken.

The trees blow with the ends of summer’s blooms. The sunlight of the day was too bright for a moment like this. It shines a glint in the cat’s palm that Lambert’s eyes dart to. Too small to be a weapon, their eyes linger on it momentarily before Narinder’s fist close tightly like there was no mass in his hold. He says nothing about it, so the lamb recollects themselves and lets the silence deflate them. They turn away from his door and look towards the gate. “I will go and find out more-”

The front of their fleece is yanked forwards, Lambert is yanked inside the cabin. The door is slammed in the same swift movement and Lambert’s back hits the woods hard with a quick yelp. In the same motion, their palm calls forth (the crown, broken, it said. Irreparable, it said) does not bring forth a sword, but a dagger materializes and presses its blade to the neck of Narinder. Reflexes are a gift not bestowed on purpose. The lamb blinks at the sudden position change.

The God of Death is unphased by the dagger that nearly presses into his neck. Oddly enough, the lamb is lax in his grip if not just surprised. They stare back into black eyes and cross-slitted red.

The hiss from his mouth is too close to their face for comfort. “Speak.”

One swift movement could end this now, even as the dagger flickers in Lambert’s palm. They pull it away from his fur, still in between the two just in case, and wonders what weapon does the God of Death hold in his other hand that’s not currently holding onto the lamb’s fleece. “Was this really necessary?”

“Lamb.” Maw of sharp teeth. Eyes of eldritch. Something godly remains in a smaller, compact body.

“I don’t know it’s name.” They relent. The cat’s hand is shaking, but they will not point it out. “I think it’s a god, maybe. Or something worse than a god. I don’t know. It’s bigger than any of you were. Opened up some sort of portal in the gateway. Looked like stars and sky. Spoke about purgatory and the title of the ‘God of Death’. I figured you’d want to know. Maybe you’d want to hear it with your own ears.” The lamb, ever eloquent in their speech as a leader, pauses to find a sentence to feed him. “I…do not know how you feel after your siblings death, but I want to do it.”

Anger returns. Exhaustion fades with it’s boiling blood. Narinder’s grip tightens. “You spew lies.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Such promise means nothing from a traitor!”

“Swear on my life, then.” They exclaim, and the statement is almost downright offensive. He must have made a particular facial expression at their statement because the he dagger disappears out from under his chin. Another example of stupidity, Narinder thinks, as he watches the lamb clasp their hands together in front of him like in prayer. “Swear on my life-”

How dare they not taken him seriously as a threat. “Your life is already mine. You’ve nothing to swear to me!”

“And I owe you nothing!” They yell back. Face twists into an agitation that mimics his own. He feels his skin prickle. “But I offer you a swear, Narinder, to listen to me-!”

“Do not free them.” He commands. “Let them suffer entrapment for what they’ve done to me.”

Lambert’s expression switches from his mirrored anger, to a softer look. Their eyebrows furrow with confusion, then shift as realization dawns. He would like to tear the look from their face with his claws had he not found himself near frozen in his own body like this.

They do not show fear like he needs them too. They are too quick to sheathe their weapon. They are too comfortable in his grip. He wants to close his claws around him as tight as chains feel. He should have done it back then. The hold he has on their fleece is not enough-

Lambert’s voice is quieter. “You…don’t care that they’re in purgatory reliving their last death?”

“Care?” Narinder chuckles, and there’s no joy in his voice. “I’m the one who put them there.”

Their eyes become wide enough to reflect Narinder back at himself. There is the slightest, barely feelable thump of a pulse beneath his skin where his knuckles dig into their collarbone.

A sinking feeling wipes the grin off of Narinder’s face. It coils something cold inside of his stomach, and a crawling feeling wretches his hold loose from the fleece. He drops the fabric like he touched something sour, and feels the urge to wipe his hand down his clothes to remove the feeling that comes with the contact. It lingers wherever the lamb’s eyes fall on him. “…Where do you think they were sent when you killed them? There is no separate afterlife for gods, there is only my domain. My absolute.”

Discomfort remains in the lamb’s silence, even as Narinder puts distance between them. A pause passes before they speak again. “Can you…just take them out?”

His face turns away. “Not with what you’ve done to me, I cannot.”

“So it’s my fault then.” It’s spoken without doubt. God killer and lamb of the prophecy stands quietly in Narinder’s doorframe with a wrinkled fleece and eyes too much like mirrors for him to meet. “…Then I owe it to them to rescue them anyway.”

He watches them turn mechanically around to open the door, sunlight pouring into the room at it’s exit. It casts light on the lamb’s white wool and cloak, and Narinder dully notes the black blood stain his hand left at the collar of their fleece. “You owe them?” He repeats. “They trapped me for a thousand years because my ideals were too unnatural. They slaughter the lambs and sacrificed you to by our pure luck. They killed you hundreds of times.”

“You’ve killed me just as many.” Lambert’s head dips slightly as the door cracks shut behind them. They smile. “Excuse me.”

They’re gone with a swing of the door. It doesn’t close properly, bouncing on the hinges so that a crack of sunlight comes through his dark abode. Narinder’s fingers tingle. His hand closes around an invisible prey.

-

They fall back into the motions like second nature. The prep for their cult grounds beforehand, the practice before they crusade, making an announcement at the next sermon so that all are aware that the Lamb shall not be available soon as another task calls for their attention, and they must head out into the forest of Darkwood again. For this too, may take as many generations as the previous mission had. Some of the living members don’t even remember the original purpose. Lambert isn’t sure if there’s anyone alive who actually does.

They make meal plans for the cooks while they’re away, usually they only make one out for a week or so, but they do a month ahead of time just in case. The following seemed to like their idea of installing better infrastructure in the meanwhile, so there’s another tall order to sort out. Three nights are spent just mapping out the layout for underground plumbing, sourced from the rainwater reserve and a river somewhat near the compound. Building under construction are planned strategically so that the newer ones can have hookups for water, with added add-ons for homes already built. The foundation for a bathhouse is in the works. It’s a lengthy project, but it will keep them busy and occupied, too focused on their work to worry about where their leader goes.

No one is trusted enough to give sermons in their absence, but the faith never truly falls low enough to warrant someone to take the place. Still, the lamb sets aside a decent amount of coin for the communities survival that can be retrieved if something was needed while they were gone. While no longer inadept as they were generations ago, the lamb must prepare them still. They will last and live without their guidance, under the promise that they are promised to return.

If permanent death without resurrection was truly a risk, Lambert wants them to have all the means to continue living should they die.

Three days since they last spoke with the God of Death, the lamb brings water and clean sheets to his front door, and leaves the offerings to the side like always. They might be mistaken, but his bedspread was stained with ichor and a rip down the front when they peaked a few days ago. It is not something they would push about. A hand raises towards the door to knock, and they do it once, then hesitate. They let that be for now.  It was late in the evening. The sun had set, so maybe he was trying to rest.

Still, Lambert rambles. “I’m going to see Ratau. It’s actually going to be the first time visiting him since…well, you know. Your arrival. I don’t even think he knows we did battle. Last time I visited him, we celebrated Shrummy’s birthday with a few games. I wish there was a way I could talk to him more often without leaving the compound. There’s so much that keeps me busy here, you know? Maybe if we had a courier system, I could send letters. But the forests are too dangerous for a system like that.”

The wooden door is quiet with no answer, per usual. “…I went back and talked to that thing again. Kinda odd looking. You should have seen the guy. Weird dark orb as a head with uneven eyes. And it has some sort of hood...halo thing? It hoops around it’s ‘face’. I kinda wanna throw a rock to see if I can make it in the circle, but I think it’d evaporate me into non-existence if I tried.”

The wind blows leaves across their feet. Crickets start chirping somewhere in the distance, and it’s all the sound that remains. Lambert inhales deeply summer night air, and turns away from the door to leave. They stop with a foot-midair in a jolt, wide eyed.

Narinder stands behind them, now in front of them, his arms hidden in crossed sleeves. His tail swishes methodically behind him. Three crimson eyes watch the lamb with mild interest.

Lambert stares back. “How long have you been standing there?”

His ear twitches. “Would you have preferred I be on the other side of the door?”

“I didn’t think-I just thought you would still be inside your shelter. You never answer me anyway.”

“And yet, you continue to speak.” He hums. His attention flickers to the offerings settled by the door, then to the lamb’s hovering foot (that they finally put down after a lingering moment) and back to them. “Abandoning your cult so soon?”

The lamb’s mouth presses into the thin line. They point their feet towards the exit of the compound. “It’s just Ratau’s.”

“You’ve been busy.” He remarks. From here, one can see the several starts of foundations being built and marks in the ground for where stone pipes might lay one day. It wouldn’t be hard for him to make an educated guess from his window what the lamb had been planning these last few days. He could have decided to take a closer look earlier, but the lamb eyes his closed sleeves with caution. Narinder’s gaze narrows as theirs linger. “You’ve made plans to be gone longer than usual. Piled them up with busy work, guides and money.”

The lamb sighs, and walks towards the stone. They don’t expect him to follow, so it’s a casual wave over the shoulder and a dismissive answer. “I don’t plan on being gone for very long when I crusade. It’s just in case.”

“If you die?” A scoff comes from behind them. To their surprise, the cat follows. “You complain often about a job you take extra careful to do. What their fate is should be of no concern to you if you expire. They’d probably exist fine without you.”

Quite the opposite opinion from what he had back then. Probably because the cult’s numbers no longer benefits him. At least, Lambert thinks so. They have yet to ask if the devotion and prayer the followers share to the shrine in his name actually reach him, or if that’s even a possibility he would consider.

They send him a side eye, one that he reflects back with dull intent. “Do you not remember when they could hardly feed themselves?” A pause. “I mean, you’re not wrong. They would be fine without me, functionally. Now, at least. Someone would probably take my place as a leader, or they’d all depart. But the forests around the grounds are filled with your sibling’s heretics. Without protection, they’re practically fodder-”

“They are fodder.” Narinder interrupts. “I warned you not to let them take advantage of you, and you fell short.”

“Okay, Narinder.”

“It’s disgraceful.”

“I think I’m pretty graceful, actually. Have you seen me with a sword? I give some pretty great sermons. I’m basically a-”

“Vessel.” The God of Death deadpans. “Why flee to Ratau’s before your crusade?”

They walk past the stone walls that separate temple grounds to work grounds, passing the shrine and heading towards the teleportation stone. It’s quiet at this time of evening and they’re very good at not making a lot of noise, but Lambert makes a note that Narinder’s footsteps aren’t hardly noticeable. If he wasn’t talking, maybe they wouldn’t even realize he was there. “Is there a reason why you’re escorting me to the exit of the village?”

“…I am not escorting you. Answer the question.”

Lambert climbs the stairs to the stone, and turns to the God of Death as their hooves hit the chalk. “I’ll answer if you show me whats in your sleeves.”

His nose wrinkles at them. “I hold nothing.”

“I don’t think you’re used to having your arms be able to cross yet. I think you forgot that’s a thing you can actually do again, now that the chains are gone. I’ve never seen you do it up until now.” Lambert says, bringing up a hand and pointing at his sleeves for emphasis. His response is a slight scowl as they continue, and they chime with a playful smile. “Whatcha hiding in there?”

For a moment, Narinder just glares at them. They half expect him to be fed-up with the foolishness and turn tail for his isolation hut, but instead the cat shifts. His sleeves come apart as his arms separate. In one hand is the handle of light weighted axe, it’s length and blade pulled out from the other. His arms drop to the side. The hand-axe’s blade is hangs near the grass.

To be honest, Lambert is more impressed than they are intimidated. “Did you steal that from the lumber mill?”

“Yes.”

“Were you planning on axing me in the back on the way over here?”

Narinder shifts the axe in his hand. It swings slightly. “I was thinking about aiming for the neck, actually.”

Lambert’s ears raise. Their hands find their hips, waiting. “…Well?”

Agitation is clear in the cat’s body. It prickles over his skin and raises the fur on the back of his neck. The lamb watches as his fingers curl around the handle and shift; a visual of how thoughts churn. The pause is a little too long for comfort, though they resist calling forth a sword from the crown until he moves first.

Lambert can’t say that they don’t have their pulse skip a beat when Narinder’s arm suddenly moves, but it’s just to toss the axe down the stairs and into the compound’s dirt. More than likely some follower will find it and return it to it’s place by morning.

“I need a real weapon.” He grumbles under his breath, turning back to them. “Ratau.”

“Ah, right.” They perk up. “I was gonna ask him if he could give me some insight. Maybe with what happened with the crown’s power. Since he’s a previous holder, he might have some knowledge about it.”

“You ask the rat instead of it’s actual authority?” Deep offense sinks into Narinder’s tone.

“…Do you have the answer?”

Narinder glares at them.

Lambert winks. “Me neither! Ratau is as good as a shot as any.” A pause. “You’re invited to come with me if you want. He said I could bring a guests over as long as they weren’t cannibals. Never said anything about cats or gods.” They offer.

There’s the reaction of one of his ears tilting backwards, like he was listening to something else far away before it cranes back towards them. It’s brief, and it doesn’t have a verbal addon. He’s doing that thing again where he just stands in silence while they talk, and it’s become a habit that they keep going anyway. “Ratau might recognize you. The other’s won’t though. They’re nice, really. Except for Shrumy, but I think his crassness is kinda endearing. Just a bunch of old coots that gamble all day. They might not even be there at this time of night, really. I just figured it would be nice to get an outside opinion on all of this since Ratau has some experience, and I haven’t been able to visit him in-”

“Just teleport already.” Narinder cuts off. “You’re holding up the line.”

Welp, that’s as good as they’re gonna get. “Do you know the way?”

“Just go.”

“Aye, aye.” The lamb salutes comically. With a final step, their arms raised, and the motion is quick and practiced. The chalk marks turn read, the stone softens, and the lamb’s body shifts and is gone as quick in a blink.

Chatty, infuriating thing.

Something like this wouldn’t be something he would think twice about as a god, though the symbol on the floor gives him pause. Not for how it’s paint and chalk are repeatedly refreshed weekly. That too, is a skill perfected with practice. The lines are straight and the circle even. There’s just the possibility that this will end up as futile as the failed resurrection did, and that is an end result he is not sure he is willing to face.

Narinder walks to the center, palms pressed together in focus. Where as the lamb has their arms open, the God of Death locks his together in focus with eyes closed. He’s seen the lonely shack and it’s forest hundreds of times through the crown’s eye; it’s only marginally difficult to visualize. (And to be honest, a god visiting a rat that lives in what is essentially a fancied hole in the ground was hard to imagine by itself, anyway.)

Blood slows and the air feels thick. Red on the symbols glow and sputter, and black lighting crackles one, twice, thrice from his shoulders…

…aaaaand it cuts out. Stopped short suddenly like a string pulled taunt until it snaps. Narinder’s focus turns from calm and collected to a grimace. This too, appears to be a failure.

The rat’s shack is nearly a day’s walk from here, and he was just not that committed to stalking the lamb to follow them to spend the time for such a journy. Not that the thought doesn’t cross his mind, however. His own pride is a deflector. It would be quite a walk of literal shame. Narinder exhales frustration through his nose, and opens his eyes.

Lambert is there when he opens them.

Narinder blinks one. Twice just in case his vision lies.

They look to him with big black eyes that he would like to rip out one day. “You, uh, didn’t appear. So I just wanted to check on-”

“Must you harrass my every move?” He frowns. Hypocrisy, just a little bit, but he is allowed such luxury. His arms fall to the side, the show of his (failed attempt) is quietly pushed aside to ruminate on later. “Return to your rat. I no longer have an interest to spectate on your conversations.” If anything substantial came from their visit, they’ll probably just relay the information back to him later. Narinder’s body turns to leave.

The chatty lamb pipes up before he’s even two steps away. “Do you think it would work on this one, too? We could give it a shot.”

Most of Narinder wants to ignore the lamb’s talking and keep walking back to his isolation. Another part of him makes him stop and turn over his shoulder to look back at his vessel, naturally. “Give what a shot?”

“This?” Their hand extends towards him, palm facing up. An offering he glowers at. Lambert keeps it extended even as it hangs unattended in the air. “I mean, it could also be a test, just to see if last time wasn’t a fluke. Worst case scenario, it doesn’t work.” When he doesn’t take their hand, to closes into a fist and Lambert switches to hold a bent arm out instead, much like a formal servant would offer an arm for escort. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He would like to slap the offering away and leave. The same pull that made him turn back now has him quietly considering offer. Without a word, Narinder steps closer. Hand raised, it hovers in the air as the cat tries to find a space on the lamb he can grab onto that didn’t feel like a mistake. Not their upper arm like a fool who needed an escort (even though, it was starting to feel like that way) not their hand for a completely different reason.

He settles to take hold of their wrist, half wanting to barely touch the fur and skin of what he touches, the other wanting to dig his claws into the veins he feels pulsing underneath his palm. “Make it quick.”

The lamb does so, smiling as they summon power as Narinder does the same. Eyes closed, hands clenched. One at his side and the other on his vessel. It’s quicker this time; the air thickens and rushes past within seconds, and it stills with a different scent. The temperature slightly cooler here, and the circuits louder. The God of Death open his eyes.

They are in the woods just at the edge of the land that Ratau’s shack sits. Lambert is practically vibrating in place. “So it did work!”

Narinder retracts his hand like a man burned, and Lambert honestly doesn’t take offense about it. “At least there’s that, if anything else. I figured that physical touch had something to do with some spells and ritual’s effectives, but I was able to teleport alone just fine so it could be less of the divide and more that your body just isn’t used to conducting the power for it yet. Not that teleportation is exactly taxing or special, though; I’ve seen advanced traveling missionaries be able to do it without divine power so it could just be a magic that’s-”

“Save the theories for the rat.” Narinder’s fingers feel tingly. He resists the urge to wipe them on his clothing.

“Ah, Ratau!” The lamb, properly absentminded, turns on their heel and makes a beeline for the shack’s door. It is a sight to see in person. It looks smaller than how he imagined. Even the doorframe at the front was situated just for the rat’s size. Lambert would have no problem walking inside, but Narinder will have to duck slightly so his ears don’t brush up against the wood. The vessel approaches, and wracks their fist on the wood with loud enough confidence you wouldn’t think they were arriving unannounced in the late hours of the night. “Ratau! Come get me! It’s getting colder out here!”

An air of comfortable confidence within the lamb. Narinder takes his watch behind them as the door handle shifts, and opens.

His former vessel comes forth with a crack of light, the inside of his home appearing warmer than the forest outdoors. He’s an aged semi-immortal, browned fur that sags in places and an eye scar that never really lost it’s pink color even as years passed. Ratau’s single eye locks onto the lamb, and his face wrinkles with recognition in a smile. “Oh ho, my little lamb!”

“Hope you don’t mind the sudden visit.” Lambert’s smile is toothy. “Could really use some advice.”

He doesn’t seem at all bothered by their visit at such a late hour. Not that the lamb thought he would be anyway; from the way he talks and the lack of noise coming in from inside, Ratau seems to be missing any gambling partners tonight. “If it’s cooking advice again, you’ll have to win it off of me. C’mon.” His back presses against the wood, a gesture inside the shack with his stick. “Quickly. We’re letting all the warm air out.”

Lambert shuffles past him with comfortable ease. “Oh, I brought a friend with me tonight. Hope that’s okay!”

“Did you now?” Ratau muses, turning back. With the lamb no longer in front of him, the second person suddenly appears noticable. Black fur that blends in with the dark, red eyes that feel unnatural among the forest. They stare dully as the rat’s gaze falls on him, and Narinder waits for him to process. The lines in his face faulter, the gears in his head start turning and clicking as recognition starts to dawn. Ratau’s eyebrows furrow at the stranger on his doorstep. “...Did you now, lamb?”

Said lamb was nervously rocking back and forth on their heel on the inside. Ratua’s gaze briefly darts towards them in confusion, and the lamb’s hands gesture to the both of them in mutual introduction. “Ratau, this is Narinder. Narinder, this is Ratau. You knew that already but, yeah.”

The rat appears only more confused. “Sorry… I, uh, don’t recognize the name.”

A pause, and Lambert opens their mouth to correct their mistake. Narinder beats them to it. “The One Who Waits.”

The gears in Ratau’s head click into place. Over a few seconds, emotions of surprise, recognition, to a mixed cauldron of several other expressions flash over the rat’s face until it settles on something akin to cautious confusion. There is a period of long silence as the rat stares. Narinder cannot fault him for that, at least. It’s not often that the god you once served shows up to your doorstep in a considerably weaker form accompanied by his current servant, who to his memory, has not yet told the rat of their transgression of what caused such a state.

A single eye flits over his form. The clothes, the height, the swishing tail that increases with the furthering annoyance. Ratau’s eyebrows furrow deeper.

Narinder returns the glare. “If you do decide to try and start hitting me with that pathetic excuse of a walking cane, it would not end well for you.”

The rat’s tattered ear pulls back. “Stay out of my thoughts, my lord. They are one of the last few things I have left that you did not take from me.”

Lambert inwardly cringes. Eugh. Tense. “Can we all sit down? I can start making some cider.”

“You do not fear me?” The God of Death’s glare narrows, ignoring the lamb. “That paper crown suggests that you should have some sort of comprehension of my will.”

“I fear foxes and my brother’s delusions. I don’t fear you cat, not anymore.” Ratau snaps back. “Just because I follow you does not mean I am a fool.”

Narinder’s face sours even more so at the defiance. Then, he lifts up his hand in the gesture for a handshake. Ratau squints at it while Narinder grins. “Then we can come to an understanding, then?”

“OKAY! O-kaayyy, let’s not-” Lambert darts forward, hand coming over his own, and pushes the God of Death’s hand away from the rat. They wave off the tension in the air, literally gesturing with peaceful motions. “Let’s not do that. Ratau, did you know he has the power to rot things that he touches by the way? Isn’t that neat? How come I didn’t get any ability like that?”

The God of Death retracts his hand, mumbling under his breath. Said former vessel sends him the most focused side eye a single digit could provide, then looks to the fingers of the lamb who must appear much too comfortable to be presence of their former murderous master in his own opinion. To explain that there is a situation at hand that required his input was unspoken; Narinder’s presence at his doorstep is evidence enough.

A heavy pause. Then, Ratau steps back from the doorway again. “I’ll clear the board.”

“I’ll put the pot on.” Lambert moves to the table, the door left ajar for the cat left outside. He bites his cheek, ducks underneath the doorframe and lets the door shut behind him. The cieling is at an acceptable height at the very least. The lamb moves comfortably in Ratau’s house as if it were their own; they do not ask which cabinet holds the cups or the ladle. “So we have a little bit of a…situation.”

Ratau’s response is almost a cough. “ I see that part, lamby.”

“Oh, can you?”

“Hush. This eye hasn’t given out yet. Put some whiskey in my cider. I’ll need it tonight.”

Clinking glassware sounds out; the lamb pushes kitchenware aside to a larger glass bottle. “Klunko brought you more? I’m telling him not to sell you this anymore.”

“I won it! Fair and square.”

“Bah, it’s not good for you.” They push the whiskey further back into the cabinet, standing on their toes so it’s far enough that he wouldn’t be able to get it without use of his cane. “You really wanna drink whiskey from a crow that bet his literal hand? It’s probably got rat poison in it that he drinks for fun.”

The board is set. Ratau has four chairs around the table, three of which he pulls out, and shuffles to plop down in one of them. “Don’t bleat at me. Can I not enjoy retirement in peace?”

“Nah.” Lambert pulls down three wooden cups, makes eye contact with Narinder as they turn to the table, pauses, and puts the third cup back into the cupboard.

Narinder stands near the door, awkward and out of place, tracking both them with all three eyes. Outnumbered by his own vessels. This feels too comfortability familial than he can handle.

Ratau is the first to acknowledge his hesitance, looking to him as Lambert puts the cider over the fire. “Are you going to sit? Or is sitting at the same table as mortals a taboo for high and mighty gods?”

Narinder side eyes him. “Are you implying an insult?”

Ratau sets up for the next game, eyes on the table. “Not at all, my lord.”

The urge to leave is already overwhelming, but pride overtakes it. Approaching the table, he chooses the chair farthest from both of them. It’s not a set up fit for a god; there’s no elegance to it. Just a wooden splintery table with a cloth and a seat that matches. Ratau’s home is quite humble. The God of Death never really cared to see what came of his former vessel’s life after the ties were cut where needed. The interactions with the lamb as a guide were supposed to be temporary, at best.

From how the lamb plops down next to Ratau with a sense of comfort and ease, ‘temporary’ appears not to define the relationship. “So.”

“So.” Ratau echoes. He throws the dice as Lambert sets his cup in front of him. “How are you enjoying your freedom, God of Death?”

A sour taste fills his mouth. Narinder’s face curls up into a scowl.

Ratua just hums. “I figured this isn’t what was intended when you meant for your chains to be released.”

“Do you have any experience with power division? With the crown, specifically.” Lambert juts in, sipping from their own cup. It’s sudden and blunt, probably to prevent any further conversation about that particular detail. The air starts to smell warm and sweet. A feeling that aches settles in Narinder’s tongue and chest, and it’s only after a moment does he name it as envy for being able to taste something other than rot.

When Ratau’s brows furrow, the lamb sets down their cider, and thinks for a long moment on how to explain. “The crown-”

“My power has been halved. I retain some of it, the rest stolen by them.” Narinder interrupts. Ratau looks like he’s processing, and if the lamb was bothered by his interruption, they don’t show it. The room feels too bright for his liking. “Abilities are limited. Some have been distributed between us, and others simply do not work unless…cooperation.” An uncomfortable reminder.

Ratua looks like he’s processing. The attempt to probe at his mind is snapped out by the sound of dice hitting the wood board. Lambert puts a three count in their middle row. “Except the rot touch part. I didn’t have that, so it could be unrelated.”

Ratau’s hand comes up to pull at the scraggly fur on his chin. “Could be related. I suppose being immune to the touch is a power of itself. Death and decay, and immunity to it.”

It’s not a mystery they puzzled, but it makes sense when he says it. Narinder’s frown just deepens slightly, and Lambert hums as the rat throws his dice. “Makes…sense? I can’t read minds anymore. But he can. I can use the crown’s weapons, but they feel so…different? Heavier, sometimes. It’s not like I can’t fight; I can fight just fine. Just feels weird now. Can’t do curses either but don’t know if that’s because I just lost touch with it, or if it’s been distributed.”

They glance towards him at the end of their sentence. Big eyes look expectant as they peer over the wooden cup they sip from. Narinder sits in silence until the unspoken realization. A pause, left with a question at the end. An unspoken invitation to join the conversation again.

He doesn’t need their guidance. “The lamb couldn’t do a resurrection ritual. They failed miserably.”

Lambert almost chokes on the cider. “Hey! You couldn’t either-”

“Because of something you did.” He hisses. “I fell short because of your actions. So you fail twice. Stew about it.”

“Well, it worked out in the end, eventually!”

“Do not remind me.”

Ratau’s single eye drifts between the lamb and the cat slowly with all the exasperation an old rat could show. “...would either of you like to share how, exactly, did this come to be in the first place?”

An disquieting pause. Settled anger starts to revive in Narinder’s throat. Lambert swallows their cider slowly for time to think, and sets the cup down. “We’re not entirely sure about that.”

“So walk through it then.” Ratau takes the dice, throws. He adds a five to his second row. “What was the last thing that happened before the split-?”

Narinder’s chair suddenly pushes back, standing to full height. Both lamb and rat break from their board to watch as the God of Death promptly leaves the table, stomping back to the front door with a puffed, thrashing tail following behind him.

Lambert is the one to speak up. “Where are you going?”

“On a walk.” He spits vile, hand on the door handle and swinging it open. “I will not recount betrayal with and by my own vessels.”

The door slams hard enough behind him that it shakes the table, dice rattling in their spots. Ratau and Lambert stare at the door a little bit longer before the rat moves to adjust his skewered points, returning to the board. “Rageful god, isn’t he?”

Lambert’s mind stays on the door, a color not different from the cabin the cat shuts himself in, and turns back to the board. “It was worse when he first arrived. He killed two people.”

Ratau pauses in sipping his cider, then continues. “That is a lower number than I thought it would be.”

“We brought one back, if it means anything.”

“Maybe.” Ratau waits as the lamb rolls their dice, lips pressed into a line when their digits multiply and puts him into the losing score. He reaches for the next roll. “Recount to me everything then, lamb.”

-

They try. To the best of their ability, they repeat all they remember. Which isn’t much more than what they’ve already provided, considering that they don’t remember what happened after hell, and the devil didn’t either.

Arrival, a comforting touch on their head, asking for their life. Their sacrifice. Refusal, and then anger. Dying again and again and again. The pit of hell opening up and swallowing them both. Fighting, dying, a blur when it ends and waking up on the stone near a unconscious cat with no wounds compared to the bleeding mess they were prior.

They tell him of Narinder’s realization and the two followers who suffered for it. They tell of using the cabin that they originally had built for Ratau’s long term visits, before it was figured it was less taxing on the rat to have the lamb visit instead, so he can stay and play knucklebones with passerby's and friends. They speak of the isolation, the gifts and the silence. Assassination attempts that range anywhere from bloody draws to a half-hearted effort that’s become the new norm up until recently. They talk of Narinder’s appearance near corpses that he does not kill. His threats, his promises, his inability to enjoy anything from food to company.

Lambert finishes their cup of cider. They do not speak of the thing in the gateway, or how the God of Death reacted to it’s demands for his siblings final rest.

Ratau leans back, tossing another throw. “Twenty two.”

The lamb takes the dice from when he drops it into their palm, and throws. “Four. Take your matched ones.”

The rat sighs and removes the double from the board, retaking the dice and rolling a two. “This was not apart of the prophecy that was foretold.”

“Kinda figured that part.” They raise their cup again to their lips just for emptiness to greet them. Wordless, Ratua pushes his unfinished drink towards the lamb, and they take it without asking. “I think in a way, it’s always been divided, you know? Otherwise, how would he have any power by himself in the afterlife when I was out running around with the crown? Maybe he never gave it all up when all of this started, and it just split worse after our battle.”

Ratau hums. “Could be.”

“You have another theory?”

“Oh lamby, I have nothing.” He chuckles. “This isn’t something that has happened in any history since the first gods, at least not that I know. I guess that makes you two pioneers of a sort?”

Lambert is quiet for along moment, then rolls their number. “Six.”

He rolls after. “Match your twos. I’m taking them.” He snorts at their face as their winning number drops, and leans back in the chair. “Have you thought about asking him?”

They roll again. Single die, placed in the third row. It’s a futile one. Ratau wins the game. “He’s not exactly cooperative.”

“Figured that as much.” The rat picks up the dice, prepping for a new game, if not tonight then eventually one day. No bets, no winnings, just cradling the dice in his palm; he glances towards the door. “He was never really a polite god, was he?”

Fingers curled around cold cider, Lambert eyes look away and shrug as they sip. “I thought he was nice.”

Ratau’s ears are craned towards the door. “Maybe, but nice gods don’t typically eavesdrop on conversations they’ve stormed away from.”

Lambert stills, following his attention towards the door. Ears perked upwards, they listen for anything. Nothing, just stillness and the usual sounds of quiet chirping outside. They’re about to question Ratau when there’s a subtle twinge at their throat, a feeling that echoes in their chest like something pulling away. They wouldn’t have noticed it normally. A shadow of a tail moves away from underneath the door.

“Ha! Never doubt a rat’s instincts to detect a cat.” Ratau laughs haughty and prideful. “Sneaky bastard, that one. You aren’t really the stealthy type, though, are you?”

Lambert stands from the table and sighs. “I should get going soon. There’s big projects I’m working on back at the grounds, and I must prepare for crusading again.”

“Always a busy body.” He comments. Ratau stands up and walks them to the door, laying a hand on their shoulder before they go. “I’d ask if you think you could hand him, but you’ve killed gods before. You’ll be alright. Just-” He pats their shoulder. Pausing. “My door is open.”

He is no longer a vessel of the crown with any semblance of power, nor can he offer wisdom for running a community devoted to God of Death. That is something Lambert has far exceeded in from him. But there are things that Ratau can provide that the lamb cannot get anywhere else, save for maybe Narinder’s doorway. The followers would seek comfort in the lamb’s word and power would not take well if the said prophet was looking to them for comfort. One must provide, and not be provided. A savior in all sense of the word, whether they liked it or not.

The lamb does a fantastic job at not flinching at the mention of ‘god killer’, and something in the rat’s tone suggests that he’s showing more confidence in them than what he may actually believe. Something that mind reading is not needed for; the old rat’s face always wrinkles at the eyes (or well, eye) whenever he strains his sentences. It’s the support that counts. Lambert smiles. “Expect a few nightly visits then.”

“And bring me some beets the next time you pass through. I’m hankering for some stew.”

“Will do, Ratau.” They sing the rhyme, passing through his front door and letting it shut behind them with one final nod.

The warmth of the inside does not follow them out. It’s fully dark, the grounds illuminated by the lantern that hangs from Ratau’s shack and moonlight that streams through the trees. Lambert inhales deeply. It’s been a full efforted night. When the sun rises, they will sermon, wake the cook, and then leave for the crusades. Busy, busy, with far too much unknown.

They’re about to walk back through the wood to the summoning circle they’ve made for shorter communtes for nights like these when a figure catches their eye in the distance near Ratau’s shrine.  The candle that sits there illuminate dark fur and white robes.

Oh. They thought he would have started making his way back home already. Wait. Teleporting…nevermind.

The God of Death stands unmoving at the shrine. It’s a makeshift one, made of more wood than stone and little to offer aside from any devotion and prayer that the shrine can hold. A path in the grass without any crunchy leaves is found, and they start to sneak, softening their footsteps. A part of Lambert (that they know is not smart, mind you) wants to scare the God of Death for fun, but the other half just wants to see his face without his typical scowl. At this angle, it’s hard to tell. Is he disgusted? Pleased? Grieving? They inch closer.

An ear rotates in their direction. “Stop your foolishness, or I’ll make this shrine your grave.”

Lambert freezes, foot pausing mid-air. “You’d make me a grave?”

A pause. Narinder’s head turns to face them. For a split second, he looks faintly surprised. That second is gone, and returns to the glowering face the seems to be haunting his features since the day he arrived.

The lamb sighs, crossing the rest of the distance towards the shrine. Their own back at the cult whispers to them when filled with devotion, of wants and desires from their followers. This one only offers the quiet comfort. Devotion of a different sort. They pout. “I didn’t make any noise. How did you know I was coming?”

Narinder deadpans. “You wear a bell.”

“Oh, yeah.” They kinda tune out the jingle by now. They forget it even makes a sound. “Whoops.”

He lingers there, shoulders now straightened from how he was looking to the shrine before. Then, Narinder turns and walks towards the edge of the clearing, towards the direction of the stone. “What conclusions did you come to find out about our predicament?”

Lambert follows in his shadow. “Nothing.”

“Of course.” He scowls. “That failure rat is well past his expiration date. He won’t be of any help to you.”

Lambert has half a mind to hit his arm for speaking that so closely to Ratau’s front door as they pass, but didn’t feel like Narinder changing his mind to include an assassination attempt tonight. “He’s the only other vessel that I’m aware of that has any experience with the crown,” Plus, they like him. So take that, stupid cat. “So unless you’re hiding any more vessels from me-”

“I killed them all.”

The lamb’s mouth thins, their pacing slow. “Ah.”

Narinder continues walking without elaborating.

They catch up a step to his side again. “Why?”

“They failed.” He says it so simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They outlived their purpose. They were only a stall for time.”

Lambert’s nose wrinkles. “So you sent innocent vessels to their deaths to do your bidding, knowing that they weren’t prophesized to succeed? That falls on you, actually.”

The cat besides them chuckles lowkey. “Are you looking for remorse? I was in those chains for a little over a thousand years. One will take entertainment where he can get it. Mine just so happened to be watching mortals fight my sibling’s lackies.”

“…and?”

The mocking smirk that Narinder’s dawns faulters when he side eyes the company walking next to him, and find that the lamb’s face is completely serious. Wide eyed and curious. Chatty thing that asks too much. “And what?”

“That’s all there is to it? I doubt you’ve be willing to share pieces of your power, even if temporarily, just for funsies.”

They’ve got him caught there. Narinder’s eye twitches. “It stalled the other bishops.” He says. “My vessel running around and killing their following prevented their influence from growing any greater, and thus the chains ever tighter. Think of it as a cycle, if you will. My vessel kill their following, their following kill the vessels, and repeat.” The words flow more freely from his mouth than he would like to admit. “They couldn’t hunt down lambs if they’re being hunted down themselves.”

“Yeah, well.” The lamb stay paced with him as the stone comes into sight. “They found me anyway.”

“...So they did.”

The flat stone holds a little intimidation at this point. Narinder frowns at it. He didn’t really think about the return trip too much on the way over here, more so out of curiosity than anything else. Lambert is already centering themselves in the middle. “Ratau is still alive, though.” It sounds more like a statement than a question, but he knows what they’re implying.

“He bid his time. Offered his life to be a guide for the next vessel.” Narinder states. “It made things easier, so I allowed it.” Honestly? He should have killed him after he taught the lamb everything they needed to know. Loose ends and all that.

It goes unspoken, and the lamb does not press further. Perhaps they may already suspect his answer if they were to ask. Instead, their discontent wipes from their expression, replaced by one of gentle patience as their hand extends out to him. “Ready?”

Narinder’s face sours. “Think not that I would indulge you again.”

“But-”

“I’m not idiot.” He sneers. “Cling to your followers instead of me.”

Their face becomes thoughtful, pouting even. Then, Lambert gives a smile and a thumbs up (Encouragement? From his usurper, nonetheless. Shameful.) and they’re gone again; sunken into the ground with a brief red glow and disappeared.

He’d like to try again. Preferably without the lamb there to witness his coming apart if he falls short each time. Worst case scenrio, he’ll start walking. Or maybe the worst scenario is that the lamb comes back again. Neither was preferable.

He steps into the circle, locks his hands together, and focuses.

…It doesn’t even spark. The forest remains still.

Calm palms curl into clawed grips. Vile anger churns in his throat. What an embarrassment. The symbols he stands above that once were drawn in his name do nothing but hold to his mockery. Walking away is starting to look more and more like an option than standing here waiting for something better to happen, or for the dreaded lamb to appear. The path may have heretics, but it would be kind to run into one. Narinder would not mind taking out some of his stress on a poor soul who would soon be reduced to decayed remains.

This would be the perfect opportunity to go back and kill the rat.

…But then, the lamb would just be terrible to manage. They haunt him already. He does not hate himself enough to bring down the sentiment fueled revenge the lamb could bestow upon him, even if it may not be much worse than the fate he’s already found himself in. He probably should have put a stop to it back then when he watched them waste their days playing knucklebones in-between crusades.

He learned the rules of the game from how the lamb played against their opponents. They started out terrible, though it comes with inexperience that slowly melted into joy rather than a habit. They don’t bet gold often, and there’s nothing in the afterlife to mimic betting for a prize, anyway. The board they drew in the sand stayed that way for longer than he should have, allowing Aym and Baal to ‘play’ as The One Who Waits relayed the lamb’s games to them, the rules and the how-tos. Numbers dug in the sand for in place of dice, tally marks to the side for which sibling might have won. The only sounds in the gateway were the dragging of a staff in the ground, and Baal’s call out of a random number to make do instead of a dice to roll. A game in the afterlife, before it was quickly brushed away when he felt the lamb had died once more-

He’s half a step in motion to walk away from the stone when suddenly the ground gives way, and gravity with power pulls him under.

Narinder’s fall from grace was undignified. His fall from the teleportation spell was even more so.

He lands on his feet (as all cats should do) before tripping over his own tail in surprise and finds that the earth of the overworld is just as solid and grainy on the skin as he remembers it one thousand years ago. Basically; the God of Death faceplants into the dirt. “Hells-”

“Narinder!” Oh, better. Mortification in front of his enemy.

Their incoming shadow is felt before their hand reaches within inches to him. Narinder’s arm swings out, claws unsheathed, as he pushes himself up with the other. “Do not touch me!”

They listen, backing away. Standing to his full height, one can only pretend so much that he didn’t just make a fool of himself. His robes now has faint dirt stains on the front, ears flat against his skull. Power of his own, however, lingers even as the stone loses it’s color. That feels of warmth, at least.

Lambert looks like they hide a wagging tail within their cloak. “You did it on your own!”

“Of course I did. Do you think me incompetent?” He snaps at them, body quick to turn toward the direction of his hut and start walking before the lamb can berate them, and before any of their annoying following decides to take a midnight stroll. Actually, if he were to see one, he might have a mind to stake them on a pike. “This trip was fruitless. Leave me be.”

He stomps off towards isolation once more, and Lambert watches his retreating back, and to the tail that looks a little less agitated than usual.

–

Everything is in place. The cult is prepared for the lamb’s absence, at least for a little while. Many talk fondly of future changes to come. Some ask of the goal the lamb has, and they answer with a reassurance that there’s no need to worry themselves, the lamb will take care of it.

Most worry about food more than anything else, to which the lamb repeats themselves. They will gather some on their journeys, not to worry. A yellow cat that works the farms is the one that approaches them the most over the concern. They’re a pale blonde, fluffy thing, constantly covered in dirt and muck with fur that never seems to mat, and they look worried about the stores of food that seem to be dwindling as their population grows.

“No need to worry.” Says the lamb, who does in fact: worry. “We work hard, we’ll make it work. I’ll come back with spoils from the crusade as well.”

They do not explain what is happening outside the compound. No missionaries ever speak of a thing in the gateway when they leave or return; suggesting that they simply do not see it. They do not explain of Bishops of old faith being doomed to relive their final moments, or that the lamb is tasked to free them from it.  Some of their members are former converts of the old faith, or decedents of those who came before them. Heretics who found their way into the cult grounds not as an enemy, and those who were rescued when their bishop’s following needed a sacrifice, and found themselves unwilling.

They do not know of The One Who Wait’s fate. It’s best if, maybe they do not know any of them at all. They believe death to be a good thing, believing in afterlife. They need no knowledge of the existence of purgatory.

It is a detail that the lamb shares through Narinder’s door as they let him know that they’re leaving.

His response is simply a jabbed threat, per usual. “Perhaps I will wreck havoc while you are gone.”

An attempt to stall them from this journey, maybe. “Then come with me.”

Silence stills. They already know the answer. It verbalizes a second later. “You’re a fool.”

“Excuse me then.” They turn away from the door, pausing when the floorboards creak, and the sound of the door unlatching.

Narinder cracks open the door. His face is tired, and spent. “Your sentimentality for your flock is leaking over into the divinity of gods. Do not free them.”

Lambert hums. “Someone else will bring you water and soaps while I’m gone. Please don’t end them. I won’t be gone long, but you’ll have to tell them if you’re missing something.”

His eyes narrow at their avoidance. “And if you die on this crusade?”

“Then consider your problem solved?” Lambert’s head tilts, ears at an angle. “You said you’d leave me rotting, anyway.”

They don’t wait for him to respond, turning back and heading down the hill.

–

The thing awaits them in the gateway. It has said all that it needs to say, watching as the lamb approaches the door (or really, portal) into the depths of Darkwood. Though when Lambert looks up and makes eye contact with it’s mismatched set, it appears to speak more to them. “Release them from their binded agonies. Be warned their bodies, and soul be harsher than what you’ve already faced.”

Lambert just throws a thumbs up in the direction that thing and tries not to look too long at it. “Okie dokie, then.”

“Fix reality from how you’ve warped it, beast. You may find it beneficial for a being such as yourself to do so.”

The lamb’s glance is sideways as they walk by. This trot they’ve taken hundreds, if not thousands of times, even if the doorway looks a little different now. With a deep breath, they enter.

They do not meet the deity’s mismatched eyes that track them until they’re gone, and they do not see the deity’s eyes trail over to the edge of the forest, landing on where a hooded figure watches the wooly head of theirs disappear into the dark.

-

They cannot cast curses. The sword, at least, is loyal to them.

Whenever it’s summoned, which luckily decides to work. It’s still heavy, but it slices through an enemy just fine. There’s no dull of the blade; it is as sharp as it will ever be, sharpened by the blood and viscera of those who stand in the lamb’s way. Darkwood has become more chaotic since the Bishop’s of chaos’s death. Camps are strewn about in hazard locations, cloaked heretics that carry worse powers than a simple dagger and bomb. Bats with large teeth, wings and cursed to fly for their head.

Fickle things, those are. Quick and fast like flies. Haro wasn’t lying when he mentioned that the enemies of this place had grown stronger.

A red jumper worm tries to get the jump (pun not intended) on the lamb unaware that they’ve played this song and dance several hundreds of times over, and the result is the same solution. Duck underneath as it soars above them, the crown’s blade digs straight into the worm’s stomach. It lets out a scree of agony as they sink it further into bug organs as fluids collect around the entry wound, and slump on the blade.

The heaviness doesn’t deter them as a bat’s wings swing by. Two of them, one is coming for their left-

The dead worm is flung off of the sword like a projectile, and it’s corpse flies through the air and smacks into the bat. It recovers as it’s comrade drops to the dirt, but Lambert’s blade finds its spine, slashing across the back there. It is not a mortal wound, but a crippling one, as one of the wings slice off to the grass below. The bat plops undignified to the ground, and Lambert raises the sword high before plunging it into its chest.

Yeah, they may have not gone crusading in a while, but this has become second nature at this point.

The beat of wings and the screech of hate sounds off behind their head. Lambert braces for the incoming attack, yanking the sword from it’s brethern’s corpse, arm pulling back to slash at the-

The bat’s head explodes.

Well, not so much explode, as in punctured so violently and suddenly in the middle of it’s face that little remained of it’s owner, bits of skull and gore dropping to the grass as a spiked, sharp tipped end of iron and blood juts out from behind it’s head. Lambert blinks, turning slightly to the side. Inches from their ear is a chain that leads from the bat’s punctured corpse, one that pulls taut and loosens, curving as the weapon all but flicks the bat’s mutilated body off of it’s end and coiling back to the assailant.

Lambert follows it’s trail, eyes wide as they watch the weapon dissipate in milliseconds, sinking back into the black fur of his palm. “Narinder?”

White robes with the hood down, posture straight. Three crimson eyes match to black, before looking down at his flexing hand. A thoughtful look spills onto his features. It was not even a spec of power he possessed in his previous form, and the taste of chains was horrid at best. But it was something.

He expects to see the lamb raising their sword in defense, perhaps lunging at him. He shows signs of aggression, and this is not the cult grounds. No longer does he need to steal a weapon from their stores in order provide an adequate threat (though he would much prefer the handle of a scythe, but that is a problem to tackle for later.)

Instead, the lamb runs to him. Literally, runs to him. “You made a curse! Right from your hand! I remember that one, you had it in the gateway!” They look happy, teeth glinting in a big grin and bright faced as they bound up to him in a manner than makes the cat’s bones freeze with uncertainty. Three eyes widen as the lamb’s audacity, and Lambert simply awes. They are utterly deranged. “You can do your own curses!”

“These were my curses in the first place.” He hisses.

“And I’ve never seen one like that before out here. I mean, I can do poison and ice and a bunch of other stuff but what you’re doing is something that I’ve never-” Their rambles quick stop, face going from excitement to confusion. “Wait, why are you here?”

Narinder’s claws curl together. “Can you act like a sensible person for five minutes?”

“Were you aiming to hit me with it a moment ago?” They ask a bit too casually. “Because you totally look like you were focusing real hard for a second there.”

He looks at them with distain. “I missed.”

“You wouldn’t admit it if you had missed.”

They’re correct. He didn’t miss. He changed his mind last second, moving a stealthily aimed hand a few inches to the side from where he was locked onto their wool. A decision he was wondering to regret now that the lamb has found a new detail to bleat about, and there are no doors or curtains to protect him from whatever annoying arura they seem to radiate.

His silence permeates. The lamb, however, continues. “Are you here to murder me again?”

“Would you have approached me so casually if you thought I had?”

“Yeah.” They say, and do not elaborate. The sword remains summoned but unraised at their side. The fact that they do not keep it between them feels like an insult to his ability. Lambert shifts their weight from one foot to another. “Did you decide to come along?”

Narinder looks away and finds the bleeding corpses on the ground more interesting than meeting their eyes. “For my own reasons.”

“If you had told me earlier, I would have gotten you a real weapon.” Muses the lamb. They are too chipper, too comfortable. Narinder inhales to cure the tightness in his chest and finds that the air is starting to smell sweet. Lambert makes no acknowledgment they notice the same. “But I guess I don’t need to worry about you too much.”

Irritation coats the cat’s voice. “A real weapon would be preferable.”

“That’s fine. I know a guy. He might be camping around here, actually, if we’re lucky.” Lambert smiles. They hold that smile even as the unspoken linger in the air and open their mouth again after a considerable moment. “You do remember what this crusade is for, right?”

“Yes.”

“…Do you plan on stopping me?”

Narinder’s glower is heavy-hearted. Bags linger under his eyes. His fingers close into his palm when he looks at them for too long now. “Do not expect me to fight alongside you. You will do as vessels do, and commit my will. Clear the way of heretics and beasts.” He moves past them, walking further into Darkwood. “Make yourself useful.”

That is not only an avoidance of an answer, but an involuntary job of a guardian. Not that Lambert was going to complain about it. They’ll have plenty of time to push the cat for his intentions soon enough, moving to walk alongside him, and ignoring the flit of a third eye that shifts their direction as the God of Death looks forwards.

Chapter Text

Crusades are time consuming and risky. Less so because of the risk of death (at least, before now, before permanence) and more so because anything and everything can go wrong at the cult grounds back at home if the Lamb stays away for too long.

The knowledge of this does not make crusading go any faster though, not unless they wish to miss something vital, or get too distracted trying to speed through the forest that they make one too many mishaps and end up in the afterlife with little to show for their efforts.

The God of Death particularly remembers one incident where the Lamb had taken an axe to the abdomen and ended up in his domain because said vessel tried to speed through the forest’s dangers when they suddenly remembered that they had left a candle alight before they left. Not one of their finest deaths, he remembers. They said they worried about the cult grounds burning down, literally, in their absence. Not that the worry didn’t carry any weight; their members really were as incompetent as rodents until taught otherwise.

Still, if they wanted food, housing and medicine, then the lamb must crusade. For the mission of freedom, they must journey. He is no stranger to watching them cut down heretics and gather supplies through the crowns eye. All is routine. All is seen before.

Narinder knows that the crusades can be quite lengthy.

One for such a idiotic and insulting purpose as their now-mission however will not take long. He has no intention of allowing it to be.

So he gets a little (a bit more than a little) bit irritated when the Lamb stops every so often to rummage through the brush searching for anything they can tie to their side or hide within their fleece. They’ve stolen a leather bag off the side of a heretic since cut down, now filled to the brim with berries and coins, seeds and other things. Currently, they were digging through the soil in search of camellias; something they have yet to see.

The unhappy thump of his tail against a tree trunk must have broken them from their focus, because Lambert looks up from the tossed soil and keens to the cat. “Do you want to help? It’ll go by faster that way.”

His face is held with an impossible frown. “I have no interest in picking flowers with you.”

They shrug, and continue digging through another brush in another spot.

He has enough patience to wait on them to finish their task. He does not, however, have enough stimulation to acomodate his boredom. He’s had enough of that sitting chained the gateway. So he paces; moving away from the Lamb to scope out the forest they’re clearing out. Things have changed from the last he saw through the eye.

The trees are different, more like flowers than foliage. Darkwood as he remembered it was still here; large tall green leafed trees with high grass and a litter of clearings. Streams and statues of old faith long abandoned. It remained lush, but there were changes. Some bodies hang from higher branches, high above the heads, some fresh and some nothing more than bone and rags. Between the trees were giant fiolage that can only be described as unknown flowers, all dotted with eyes on petals and stems. The pupils don’t follow him as he moves, and the wind doesn’t bend them in his direction as he walks pass. Unnerving, but lifeless. Like his brother.

Or at least like his brother should be. He wonders if the corpse fertilized this domain. Does the beauty of this place still keep after Leshy’s demise? Was it a mockery? The eyes that remain on petals do not look to him because they find him despicable to watch? Or is it fear? Madness? Does the soul of his younger brother corrupt the domain here?

Narinder stops at the realization that he’s walked into a clearing. A heretic’s tent is paces away, and a campfire recently extinguished. Tracks of footsteps start and then disappear in the middle of the clearing. He sighs dully, and raises his left arm-

-and promptly sends a chained spear through the mouth of an ambushing heretic. They gurgle, raised sword dropping to the grass as the chain retracts. In one swift movement, Narinder’s fingers wrap around the chain extending from his palm and pulls, ripping it lose with all the gore and visceral with it’s victim and slashing to the opposite side where the sharp edge his weapon drags quick across the throat of another heretic, taking flesh and bits of esophagus with it.

The blood and bodies hadn’t even dropped to the ground yet before another swine tries swooping in from behind. (Dropping from the trees, are they?) and the heretic finds iron flying past it’s face, a brief moment of surprise before it swings back around; the chain wraps laps around their neck like a cobra, and Narinder’s draws his hold backwards, dodging yet another heretic coming in from the side, sending the caught prey flying forwards into the dirt with a yelp.

The lunging comrade of theirs boasts a sword of considerable length, one that he takes little effort to dodge before his opposite free hand juts out and finds the attacker’s wrists, rotates his own arm, and pushes until he hears a gasp of pain and scream with a telling sound of a breaking snap. With all the strength of a god scorned, Narinder’s twists the heretic’s wrist (screaming, agony, for their flesh is starting to burn) and drives the hold of their sword into the back of the heretic on the ground. It lodges into them before they can scramble to rise, pining them to the soil like a stake, and Narinder’s hold on the other pulls until the exposed bone from their forearm is jutting out from the flesh, and he drops them.

The heretic makes no move to attack him again. They wail, other arm clawing at the decay that crawls rapidly up their mutilated limb. They writhe into the ground in a pathetic manner loud enough that it makes his ears start to turn.

Lambert was right about one thing earlier. This was very stress reducing.

“Narinder!”

Speak of the traitor; the God of Death turns to the call of his name. Lambert is running up from the path he had taken. Their bag is even more full, and they cradle some camellias in the catch of their fleece in a manner that reminds him of children running with arms full of pebbles. They skit to a stop, gaze scanning the lifeless (or bleeding out) heretics on the forest floor. Dark eyes turn to the heretic withering in agony a few paces away, and faulter. The lamb appears to disapprove of how he’s allowing the soul to die slowly.“…Can we not split up?”

Narinder’s tail ticks off at the end. “I am not on your leash. I can handle myself.”

“I never said that you couldn’t.” They secure the camellias to a yarn string, tying the bundle around their waist. With a quick movement, the crown is summoned into a dagger. “We just don’t know what the forest holds, so a lot of this is new to me. I don’t know how Leshy’s influence lingers now that he’s dead.” They walk over to the squirming heretic, pausing only slightly. “Sort of dead. You know.”

He watches as they drive the dagger into the dying heretic’s neck. The lamb stands back up as the heretic coughs up a last gurgle, then falling still. Narinder frowns. “Do not expect me to follow your pace.”

“Take the lead if you want then,” Lambert situates themselves, and smiles. “I don’t mind.”

The God of Death glowers at them with a sour expression, and lets the offer hang in silence. When the cat doesn’t start walking forwards, the Lamb does, aware of how death follows in their footsteps like a shadow.

-

Narinder never really kept track of his sibling’s most devoted disciples, but he’s certain that the creature named Amdusias was a mortal the last time he checked, and not whatever abomination this thing was facing him was.

Whatever the matter, the moment that thing starts rushing them, it is cut down with precision and practiced swordsmanship. Narinder doesn’t life a finger, instead leaning casually by the pillars as the lamb does as what they are prophesized to do; carve the life from those who would appose the God of Death’s plans. If they had any reservations about being the only one actually fighting, they do not voice it as they split the flesh from the creature’s form and find a brain among the head lumps to pierce into.

When the creature dies, they linger at it’s fallen corpse. “They were a follower too, back when I fought them once and defeated them. All the way in the beginning.”

That’s right, wasn’t it? Back when the cult was newly born, they had allowed the transformed heretic to throw away their old faith and join the ranks, disfigured as they were. A risky bet on taking in you enemy’s most trusted one by one, a habit they formed over the years. A habit that does not seem to stop with Narinder’s own arrival.

The lamb stares down the corpse of once Amdusias, flesh already rotting off it’s unholy body to sink into the ground and feed the forest. This place will take it’s essence where it can get it, he supposes. Sacrificial flesh for Leshy’s power, even if passive.

“Their body changed when they sacrificed themselves to Leshy, but they were also a really good lumber worker.” Lambert’s sword dissipates back into the crown, still hovering over the bones. Narinder cannot see their face as they talk, crossed arms and three eyes locked onto the lamb’s back. “They liked camellias but was also allergic to pollen, so they were never the type to ask for medicine when sick. They died of illness a few decades ago.”

Narinder remembers. He was there, peering through the crown. “Even those who sacrifice their body and mind for gods are not immune to my death. They died a less than dignified one.” A traitor to the old faith, a newly born to his plan as a pawn.

The lamb does not respond, rather their eyes fall elsewhere. Something shiny glimmers in the gore of the split creature’s corpse, becoming clearer as the flesh drops to the floor.

They reach in and dig for it. With no commentary, the God of Death comes off the pillar and walks through the archway towards his sibling’s locked door. An offering chest is there, filled with gold and trinkets; something heretics still provide to a God of Chaos even it him death. The stone circle with chalked symbols prepared for transport shall lead them back to the cult grounds quickly.

Leshy’s door is golden and stone. Whispers of the damned echo from behind the walls to his ears as runes glow.

The sound of footsteps on stone lets him know the lamb has followed. “What should I do with this?”

A hand is thrusted into his line of vision, directly in front of his face blocking his brother’s door. Narinder’s face flattens, side eyeing the lamb before inspecting what they hold. In the palm of their hand is something golden, tear dropped shaped and elegant. A relic of eons past. The lamb holds god tears as if they were as mundane as flowers. “It’s kinda heavy for something so small. What do you think?”

Narinder hesitates for a moment before he turns away. “I think nothing of it.”

A small huff sounds off from besides him and they stash the tear into their wool. Black eyes trail to where crimson lingers, and the lamb looks to the door. “I never understood why I had to traverse the forest several times again and again to a place where the bishops. I was always repeating trips.”

“Its a way for the domain to protect it’s God.” He says. It’s surprising this knowledge is new to them. “Their followers fight you first. They still have control here, even if unconsciously. It’s why the forest changes every time you re-enter. A new maze. You are in another god’s land.”

The lamb hums. “Why can’t I just fight my way through once? Or break down the door?”

“They’re like portals, not physical doors.” He side eyes them like it’s such an obvious answer. “Breaking it down would only cut off any transport you’d have to their temple.”

“No easier way?” Their head tilts. “It was really time consuming.”

“Kallamar thought it was a good idea to keep the temples on lockdown. Only those trusted enough, like witnesses, or souls willing to sacrifice themselves are able to enter.” Narinder looks to his brother’s door with a faraway look. “The trusted, and the cattle.”

Lambert is still for a moment. “Which one was I in your domain?”

The cat’s nose wrinkles. They had him talking too much. “An annoyance. Stand to the stone, Lamb.”

-

Nothing disastrous happens in the commune during their absence. A bison and a giraffe find out that it’s not a good idea to try and snack on any of the discarded spoiled food stores even if they were ‘just fine not long ago’, so both were currently in the healing bay with food poisoning, and there was apparently a gaggle of children who got scolded for wandering too close to the edge of the village, but for the best part things were uneventful.

Narinder stalks off to his hut without so much as a single word the moment that they reappear on the stone, and honestly Lambert comes to expect that.

Followers welcome them back; supplies are distributed and medicine to provided to those in need. Construction seems to be going smoothly. Progress shows that most of the supporting structure was complete, though it will still take quite some time to fully implement the rest of the functions. The source of water will be large and several rain collectors stored in a reservoir, with a secondary pipe down to the river. They’ll need a filtration system, and a area designated for a water cleaning plant of some kind. More jobs and more work, but a better quality of life, hopefully. The flock appear hopeful.

It also means that the smaller tasks need to be picked up by those who don’t often work in construction, so Lambert finds themselves busy taking on the smaller chores. Camellias have a wonder of uses, and those in the healing bay in much appreciation for the anti-nausea effects the very smell the flowers can have. They’ll need light meals for a while though. It’s here in the kitchen that the leader decides that the first buildings to be plumbed would be the kitchen and healing bay.

Finor, the elder rabbit, is the one to question them bluntly when the Lamb is preparing bowls of greenery in the cooking house. “You have taken company out with you on your crusade, leader.”

The lamb looks up from the cutting board and for a moment; their mouth hands lose. The detail that followers might see Narinder at their side when they returned slipped their mind, probably because they didn’t actually expect him to accompany them in the first place, and more than likely no one saw the cat leave, or didn’t mind it when he did. He wasn’t exactly an approachable favorite among the populace.

Lambert chops the cauliflower up into little pieces and pairs them with the pumpkin mix. “Yes, I had a companion with me.”

Her eyebrows raise and wrinkles. “May I ask for a reason, leader?”

The lamb hesitates. “Ah-”

“It is not spoken in disrespect.” She adds on. Finor, dear rabbit, was a stern sort. A devoted follower, but much too in the habit of behaving like a mother to those who aren’t even her kits. It must come from bearing so many in life before losing them to heretics in the wilds. Lambert found her in the forest after her husband and family slaughtered, and she has been caring for others ever since her rescue. The Lamb was no exclusion.

They smile. “I uh, just wanted the company.”

Their hesitance makes her wrinkles deepen, but she does not question the leader, at least not out loud. From underneath her robes, she pulls out a package. “Traders came by while you were gone. I did as you asked, and paid for what they had in stock.” She hands them the package, neatly tied in brown paper. “I’m afraid they did not have any seeds this time around.”

How unfortunate. Lambert was hoping to diversify their farming. “That’s alright. I have a connection elsewhere I can get them from.” They thank her, taking the package and setting it to the side before holding up a stick of cauliflower. “Are you hungry?”

-

In the evening as the sun sets and casts an orange hue over the commune, they come to Narinder’s door and knock. “Narinder! Come out, I have something for you.”

They don’t wait for the expected silence this time before knocking again. “I’m not leaving it at the door this time! I think it’s going to rain tonight, and if it gets wet, it’s ruined. You’ll have to come take it from me.” They call out, and wait. A minute passes. “And I’m not leaving until you do!”

That should annoy him enough. They’ll just meditate here until he gets fed up enough to greet them. The lamb’s eyes don’t even get to close before the lock clicks, and the door turning has them breaking out of focus.

Narinder glowers at them. “What.”

They raise the package. Neatly tied in papyrus paper with a red ribbon to secure it. “Delivery!”

Red eyes drag down to it, and narrow. “What causes this type of persistence? You already bombard me with enough offerings.”

They shake it. “It’s a surprise.”

“Tell me.”

“Just open it.” Shake, shake. “It won’t kill you.”

A moment of hesitation, and he snags it from their hands and holds it with little care. The cat sends them one last sour look before looking to the package. He weighs it, rotating it. Something rectangular and solid is within, but there’s more attached to it. It sounds like hard when he taps a claw against the paper, next to something soft and sharp.

Another glance to the lamb (They stand with their hands behind their back and dumb smile on their face. He’s tempted to throw the package at them for such a distracting sight.) Narinder unsheathes a claw, drawing a fine tear into the paper, ripping it apart. The packaging falls away cleanly, revealing the inside.

A black, leather bound book with no markings, and a feather quill pen with a capped inkwell tied to it.

“The doctrine book is still damaged. I’ve been trying to repair it, but some words are still hard to read, and there’s some pages I can’t really salvage, so I’ve been rewriting them from memory.” They start to ramble, looking away. “And doing that, I realized that I brought you stuff to read but I never brought anything to write with. I had to bind the book, and I had someone get the ink from traders while we were gone.”

It’s not perfect. There’s a sliver of a gap in between the hardcover spine and the signatures, and the threading in-between the pages were uneven. Nothing some adhesive wax couldn’t fix, but it was still a lengthy process. The lamb could have only had the time to do this at night when their attention wasn’t divided elsewhere, confirming his suspicions that the lamb probably doesn’t sleep.

Narinder looks up. “You want me to rewrite the damaged doctrine?”

“What? No, thats-no.” Lambert’s hands raise, waving him off. “It’s for whatever purpose you want it to be.”

His tail thumps against the door frame. “Gifts will not save you from punishment when I kill you.”

Lambert hums. “That is not what I give them for.”

“Then for guilt?” He cranes, tilting his head. “Might the traitor have a semblance of a guilty conscious?”

His jab doesn’t get to them the way he wants it to. Instead, the lamb gains an amused look, and raises a brow. “I don’t think you’re the one who should be lecturing me about having a guilty conscious. So no, I just thought that uh-” They pause. “…you’d like something to do with your hands?”

“…I’ll probably rot it.”

“S’okay. It happens.” Too casual, too accepting. They turn on their heel back towards the village. Narinder’s tail was swinging steady behind him. Not quite his limit, but they know better than to push their luck. The throw the last call over their shoulder with a wave. “I leave tomorrow in the morning after the sermon and breakfast, if you plan on coming along!”

A rain droplet hits their head as they walk away. Lambert is already halfway down the hill before they hear the door shut again.

-

The meals are scheduled, the sermon is given, and Lambert waits at the stone for a few minutes before realizing they’re more likley to leave by themselves and come back not-alone rather than stand here and waste time, so they depart.

They pass the thing in the gateway once again on their way to Darkwood. It stands there, unfathomable reality behind it, and watches as the lamb passes by. It does not ask for conversation nor does it acknowledge them as they make their way, simply observing. They’ve yet to bring the tears to it. Not until they can think of a name for it. Though right before they enter the portal to Leshy’s domain does the Lamb see it’s pupils drift away from themselves and into the edge of the forest, finding interest in something else.

They shouldn’t be surprised when Narinder appears minutes later within the crusade right as Lambert is fighting off worms. They just skewered the last one on their blade, flicking it to the ground when they look up to see dark fur and observant eyes watching their killing. Narinder doesn’t try to help unless the enemies are actively inconveniencing him.

Lambert is just happy to see him out of the house, so they grin as they trot off to the next area. “You know, I’ve never really had someone to talk to while on crusades. All of it can get really tedious overtime, so it’s nice to have some company.”

Narinder sighs exasperated. The lamb is beginning to chatter. “The feeling is not mutual.”

Jumping worms appear in the distance. Lambert readies the blade, darting forward, and calling out over their shoulder. “What’s your favorite color?!”

“…Excuse me?”

“Favorite season? Favorite food?” A worm that tries to burrow into the ground is pulled out by its tail and sliced in half, another has it’s head driven clean off. Lambert ducks as a bat dives for their head, catching the wings and throwing it to the ground. “Wait, scrap that last one. Favorite smell?”

Narinder watches as they wretch the wings from the enemy, driving the sword into it’s head. “Why are you asking this?”

“Because I want to know!”

“You’ve already asked these questions in the gateway.” He reminds them. The amount of times the lamb approached him in his chains and bombarded him with a multitude useless questions is far too many for him to keep count. “My answer remains the same.”

“Your ‘answer’ was that you didn’t experience these things, so you couldn’t have one.” Lambert corrects him, and he frowns at them for it. They were right. Back then, he could experience no color other than the fogs of the afterlife. No seasons or smells or music or foods exists in the land of the dead, unless the lamb wanted to know how souls tasted, which is not something that can be described in mortal fashion. So he told them as such, and they didn’t ask again.

It appears, however, that they stashed the questions away for later. “So? Now that you’ve been here for a while, any favorites?”

He watches them puncture the head of the last jumping worm. “I will not entertain this.”

“I can go first, if it helps!” They churn their blade, and splattering brain innards fall onto the grass. They hop over the corpse as the crown returns to their head and bound up to him. “My favorite color is red!”

Narinder already knows this. He doesn’t remember when he decided to note that detail, whether he remembers it from their chatter sometime in the past, or if he had come to that conclusion some other way, but he hates that he already knew that. “For blood, I’m assuming.”

“Yeah, no.” They laugh, then pause. “I mean, sure that too. But not for the reason you think.” They do a stupid little twirl that makes their fleece swing out. “It’s just really easy to keep my fleece clean this color! I never have to worry about blood stains. The, uh, mud and ick and ichor is a lot harder to get out though. The flock kinda freak out when I come back covered in goo, so I usually just wash the fleece in streams before I head back, but it’s so time consuming to do that.” They pat down their attire, and adjust their bell. “Not with blood though. Just blends right in!”

Crimson eyes blink dully at them. “It’s why I chose the color when I bestowed it upon you.”

“It was a great idea!” They grin. “Now what’s your favorite?”

Narinder groans, coming off his lean on the tree and walking in the direction of the next camp. “I don’t have an opinion on it.”

Three heretics and a bat come into sight rather quickly. There’s a breeze of air against his fur as Lambert rushes past him, sword draw. “Boring! Pick one!”

Narinder watches they drive a blade through the spine of one. “Drop it.”

They skewer the other. “Can I try to guess? Lemme guess. It’s uh..” They twist the blade, the heretic screams out, then drops to the grass dead. “Red! Is it red?”

“No.”

The third heretic lunges for them, and they dodge. “White! Off white? Like your robes?”

“No.”

“Oh, uh.” They appear distracted. The heratic’s spear almost hits them. Perhaps those two options were certain for their answers. “Green? Yellow?”

Narinder steps over a corpse. “No.”

“Purple? Brown?” They block an incoming attack. “Blue?”

“No.”

“Pink? Magenta? Orange?” They dodge with each word. A spear comes too close to the wool of their head. “Turquoise?”

The sight is an annoyance. Iron begins to form in the center of Narinder’s palm. “This is not a game.”

“Royal blue!” They trip the heretic to the ground, and the blade find it’s mark in their neck. “Gold???”

A shadow rushes Narinder; the flying bat that’s biding it’s time. It’s quickly dispatched with a speared chain through it’s skull before it gets within feet of him. Retracting the chain back into his palm is more effort though; the spear tip gets caught in the broken bone pieces and drags the bat’s corpse closer to him until he has to lay a foot down on the body to hold it down and wretch the tip out with a sickening sqluish. His curse disappears into his hand. “Wrong again.”

All enemies defeated. Lambert stands in a grassy field of blood and sends Narinder the most pathetic pout. “What is it then? You can pick one now and just change your mind later.”

Their chipperness is poisoning. “If I give you an answer, will you shut up?”

“No promises.”

Narinder inhales deeply through his nose and wills the agitation to go away. “Fine. Give me a minute.”

That seems to silence them. Lambert stands patiently as the God of Death’s eyes scan the world. They watch as crimson scans the scene, to the green of the trees, the red of camellias and blood, blue of bat robes and yellow glint of sunlight that casts across the grass where the leaves above don’t block it, making splotches of warmth across the forest floor. Even the corrupted flowers and their eyes were vivid shades of color, large and undaunted, the light that reflects off of them gives the area a hue around their presence.

Narinder feels the tension in his shoulders loosen a little. A thousand years in the blank fog of the afterlife will really starve the mind of the memory of color. He saw these hues through the eye of the crown, sure, but to be physically present within them was a different experience entirely. There’s pebbles that are different shades of brown and grey. The petals had a darker gradient near the center of the flowers. The lamb’s wool looked glowing when the sunlight hits it.

“Find something?” Lambert asks, rocking on their heels. Impatient.

Narinder stares at them with an unreadable expression, then turns to walk to the next area. “Black.”

“…Really? I-” They sound surprised, but it shakes off rather quickly, and they’re already bounding up besides him. “You know what? I should have guessed that from the start. It’s literally the color of your fur and is associated with death.” They laugh. “It suits you.”

Narinder side eyes them, turning away when said color makes eye contact back.

-

Sometimes crusades take longer than others. This one was proving to be one of the former. It’s delved into nightfall on the second night, and Narinder has gotten into the habit of blaming the Lamb’s constant stopping to search for seeds and flowers and other goodies for their lack of progress.

Said lamb was currently on their knees shifting through the soil searching for berry bush seeds because halfway through the walk to the next area in the middle of a ramble about the future of plumbing, they realized they spent a majority of the flocks’ extra funds on the construction of said plumbing system and now lack enough money to pay for seeds. Narinder mocks them for it, of course.

They find a few, but not many. Lambert rises from their crouch and frowns at the small handful of seeds they were able to scrounge up. “Not a lot of berry bushes, or camellias. It’s like they’ve all disappearing.”

“Or something is killing them off.” Narinder inputs.

The lamb pouts. “There must be growth somewhere.”

There’s peace for the time being. No enemies left over, at least not anymore. There was a large robed heretic that ambushed them before, now lying on the ground chilling as a corpse. It made the mistake of distraction; spotting a cat who’s fur blends in with the dark of night standing nearby, quietly watching, unphased by the violence. It made them pause in surprise, enough that they don’t dodge in time from the lamb that charges at them.

“It’s the second night we’ve been fighting nonstop.” Says the lamb. Something in their tone spells of a complaint. Maybe their arms are sore, maybe their heads hurts. There’s a bloody gash on their leg that they’ve been ignoring for some time now, red trickling down grey fur and trailing past one ankle. “Wish we had a snack or something.”

Interesting. The lamb never expressed feeling hunger before, unless it was for recreationally reasons. Narinder stalks off. “Feel free to start eating the dirt.”

Lambert sends him a dull look, but pauses when they see something behind his shoulder. Narinder barely gets to turn and process before the lamb darts past him, nearly knocking him over, into the narrow edge of the forest. “Tarot time!”

Narinder steadies himself, and curses at their retreating back.

He follows, because of course he does, several feet back and lingering in the shadows. He’s seen the signs of them through the crown’s eye before, but like colors, the stars and moons that hang from the trees look different in person. They dangle and shift with the wind, but another blink tells him that they’re not really there; eternally shifting, like reality shifts the slightest in the forest when one passes them by.

The tall bird sits there, draped in red attire and giving the air of mystic. He’s bigger than how the crown’s eye showed him. What the motivations are for helping the lamb was not something he concerned himself with as long as it benefited them. Maybe gold for another card, but the bird appears to simply purpose himself by pulling at fate.

Narinder looks around the bird and his camp of graced novelties. This was definitely a pocket dimension. It would explain why the bird is able to bring his tent into every biome and was never bothered by heretics, monsters and beasts, save for the one that was currently running up to him in a flail of hooves and grins. “Clauneck!”

“Little lamb.” Clauneck nods to Lambert, and his hand hovers over a set of cards already laid out onto the carpet. “Lend yourself to the draw of the card.”

Lambert sits in front of them on their knees, smiling and eyes closed. Clauneck guidance brings forth their hand, and they let to drop to two cards. Opened eyes, they are revealed. The Lovers, and The Weeping Moon.

They can feel three eyes track their hand as they pick the Moon. “Thank you, Clauneck.”

“The cards have been drawn, the fates have spoken.” The bird muses. The card falls to Lambert’s sword and diminishes in red smoke. Moonlight glints off the blade, making the blade appear a bit sharper now. Clauneck nods as the lamb goes to stand. “Find fate, lamb.”

Lambert gives a courtsey to the bird. “Find fate.”

They walk away satisfied with their new damage boost, and Clauneck’s gaze draws to the cat standing in the shadow. The bird shows no surprise, no sort of hesitation, but a thoughtful hum at Narinder’s glare. “I see that you have.” He says to the lamb, and gestures to the cards remaining. An unspoken offer.

The cat turns away without responding, and the lamb dips their head to the bird who seems to take no offense, and follows after him.

Exiting Clauneck’s dimension, Narinder speaks first. “Poor choice.”

His critic must have been expected because Lambert just flicks up their sword and spins it by the handle in play. “Actually, a tarot card that makes me deadlier at night time when it’s dark out is a pretty lucky draw.”

“You have a bleeding wound on your leg and a forming limp.” He says matter-of-fact. “To my memory, the other card would have solved that.”

“What? It’s just cards. I can do fine with a little scratch.” They walk ahead of him as if just to make a point, marching like a soldier. All it does was have him make note of how their weight shifts unnaturally to favor one side more. Lambert makes no complaint of it. “Besides, it’s not gonna last long anyway. It’ll be healed up pretty soon.”

Lambert continues walking until they notice that the God of Death is no longer in their shadow. They turn; Narinder has stopped, eyes narrowed, hand clenched around an invisible curse. The lamb is about to ask what his deal was when the gears click back into place. “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” The cat says, picking up pace. He shifts past them. “By all means, I won’t protest if you drop dead in front of me. It would save me the effort.”

-

Three nights in. That’s three nights of walking, talking, killing, and Narinder inwardly planning where he was going to burn the lamb’s corpse every time they ask him a redundant question. That part isn’t inward, actually, he lets his thoughts be known. Lambert scolds him for considering anything other than a natural burial. He’d like to take a collection of pebbles and stuck them in their wool every time a threat goes unheeded.

Darkwood was always dangerous at night. It’s worse now with Leshy’s death. Forget the corrupted aesthetics, heretics and monsters were downright ravenous for blood when the moon was in the sky. So beyond the chatter, they are downright busy. One cannot focus on their company when a group of swordsmen emerge from the brush and make a beeline with a sharp stick.

It’s as Narinder is in the middle of dispatching an the last annoyance when the lamb makes the mistake of yawning.

His form tenses as claws close around the heretic’s face, and they scream. Agonizing, painful, dying in a gurgle as they claw to be released but unknowledge as Narinder’s head slowly turns to face the lamb with wide eyes. Any attempts the swordsman has to scramble away die as they rot underneath his fingers, and the creature’s body withers at the end of his arm while the God of Death stares at the lamb instead.

Lambert wretches the sword from the gut of a heretic, meets Narinder’s eyes for a split second, turns away, before doing a double take at the wide look that’s focused on them. “…What?”

The heretic head becomes decayed to have a headless body. The remains drop from his hand along with the corpse, and his arm drops to the side. Narinder continues staring.

“What??” The lamb asks. They check their fleece for any weird stains, then their face, hands scrambling on top of their wool and coming back when they find nothing. “What? What’s that look for?”

A slow, thin grin stretches onto the cat’s face. “Feeling tired?”

The lamb’s expression switches from confusion, realization and then a forced neutrality.

Caught.

“What a pretty noise you just made.” Narinder’s smile is mocking, manical. His head tilts. “I wonder what was it for?”

The lamb shrugs. “Not important.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He says, stepping over the continuing rotting corpse towards his vessel. “But go on. Share your information with me, like you said.”

Lambert hesitates. Like a prey backed into a corner. A liar caught red handed. Narinder cannot be blamed for relishing in this moment that he has the upper hand on them, for once in a long time. A nervous chuckle escapes them. “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Why shy now?” He feels a twinge in his claws. An emptiness. “Share, lamb. Your god commands you.”

He gets a tense look for that one. Seconds pass, and the sound of cicadas is all that accompanies the silence. Then, the lamb lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s not like it’s bad thing. I just started getting tired again sometime after our…return. I can go a week or so without sleep, but by then my body gets difficult to manage. Like the sword, it’s heavy, and hard to maneuver.” They hesitate for a moment. “Hungry too. Not all the time, but enough that I start to feel nauseous if I don’t eat for a while.”

Eating and Sleeping. Methods to keep a body going, to stay alive. Bearers of the red crown and gods like him do not require such frivolous needs. Weakness, something Narinder despises in this form, and the lamb just showed that they too have the same shackle of mortal requirement cursed upon them. So this too, is an ability divided. Not quite immune to basic needs like gods, not needing as much as mortals. Frustratingly evenly divided.

Suddenly why they were so adamant on bringing him food and giving him a place to rest with proper bedding was a little more logical than just plain hospitality, and the lamb was careful to keep this detail away from him lest he suspect they have the same needs. Interesting.

“It’s not all that bad. I actually missed it. I missed snacks and naps.” They ramble a little, switching over to their uninjured leg, coated with dry blood. A moment passes. “Do you think neglecting them would kill me?”

Narinder actually thinks for a minute. “If it was going to, I would be long dead from a lack of substance as well.”

“Oh, right, yeah.” They let out an breathe of air. “So, not deadly, just really uncomfortable. Got it.”

Narinder has nothing yet to do with this new information, but knowing that the lamb faces the same toils he does and for some reason decided to hide that fact since the entirety of their predicament is a detail he files into the back of his mind for later. “Continue killing heretics. I’m no longer interesting in this conversation.”

“Should we take a break, then?” The lamb asks. “It’s night, and we haven’t stopped crusading for three days. Maybe we’ll feel better after a few hours rest.”

Narinder steps over corpses. “Rest is for the dead. Move on.”

-

Valefur dies quicker than Asmudias, but messier. Narinder’s distance saves his robes from being bloodied with gore and dirt, but Lambert’s fleece is going to need a good wash when they return, their own wool darkened with battle. The wound on their leg has reopened during the fight, brown turning into bright red that dribbles onto the stone floor and joins the drooping enemy flesh there.

The lamb was currently digging their fingers through the creature’s corpse as the God of Death looks around the fighting ground. Smaller temples like these that housed the most fortunately favored of the bishops did not equal to the grandness of their main’s design, but attention was still provided in detail. Carvings of the old faith decorate the pillars, flags that bear their names in old language still string up tattered from the walls. Both now corrupted by the Bishop’s death. Skulls and faces can be seen within the stone.

“What do you plan to do when we face Leshy?” Lambert asks somewhere from behind him.

Narinder doesn’t look at them. “Kill him.”

“…Past that. He’s already dead. So you just want to kill him again?”

“And again, and again, until they’re all nothing but names that will eventually die off too.” Narinder’s gaze darts to them, face stoic. “Do you expect anything else?”

Lambert shifts their weight to the favored side, and thinks for a moment. “What if there was another way?”

Anger. Their opinion was not asked for. The God of Death scowls at them. “You are treading into territory you have no place in.”

“…Except I do have a place. I’m the one who carried out your will-”

“Silence.”

“Did you talk to them when they died?”

“Silence, lamb.” He hisses, voice vile and full of venom. Sharp teeth are bared in a final warning. “You will speak of no fantasies, or I shall add your bones to this pile.”

He stalks off to the room with the teleportation stone, and Lambert watches his tail flee with a look he does not turn to face.

-

They return to the village. Narinder isolates. Lambert tends to the flock’s needs. Routine settles.

Nothing unusual happens again this time. No one dies while they’re gone, and the two that were sick beforehand are better now. Finor comes to the Lamb after a morning sermon to (once again) complain about how two of the flock are shirking their duties in order to go meet up behind the statues to exchange sweet words and giggle, and are probably doing much more romantic things at night somewhere since neither could be found at their home in the late of night. Lambert only sighs, pats her on the back and tells her they’ll work on moving them into a two person hut for privacy, and the two can work throughout the day with the comfort of knowing they’ll come back home to each other.

Like routine before, Lambert comes to Narinder’s door with daily updates. They come everyday for a week. Sometimes he aknowledges they are there, most of the time he does not. Sometimes Lambert complains or tells stories, other times they just say hello, many times they ask if he’s in want of anything. Much like the gateway does the Lamb approuch with voice, and the The One Who Waits listens. Voluntary or not.

“We’re low on seeds, so I’m really hoping a trader comes in soon that carries them.” One evening, after the flock heads to rest, they come with empty hands. “Plimbo mentioned a long time ago that he goes to distant lands, so he might have some new ones, and I can always go to the beach and fish for food instead, but it’s hard to find time to do these things. Everything needs my attention when I’m here, and even more so since I’m gone on crusades.”

Mumbling is heard from inside. It sounds agitated and angry, but at least it beats the silence. The lamb leaves for the evening, and does not return until the next day.

In a bundle in their arms is a pair of scented candles, unscented ones, and a new box of matches. It’s been a long while since they brought him the first batch, he could be running low. They give the wood a single knock. “Summer is going to end soon, and it’s going to get colder. Are those blankets I gave you warm enough?” A pause. “I’m thinking about having everyone made a pair of boots and gloves before winter. Most of us have fur thick enough to stand the cold, but our extremities can still freeze. I don’t know where I’m going to get the material though, and finding a skilled tailor to make so many is going to be hard-”

A muffled interruption comes from the door. “Don’t you have wool? You won’t freeze.”

Lambert pauses, more out of surprise for a response than anything. “…well, yeah but I still have to shear every so often or I can’t move very fast. And not everyone can-”

“Mortal life is so fragile.” Comes his voice from inside. “If they freeze, it is on their own accord. Less mouths to feed, then you’ll stop complaining about it.”

Lambert stills, then sighs. Their hands bunch up the bottom of their fleece and smile exasperated to no one. “You’re so cruel, Narinder.” Leaning down, they place the papyrus wrapped candles to the side. “I brought scented candles made of honey and rose, lemon and ginger. You still haven’t told me if you have a favorite smell yet.”

They leave then, just as they always do, and do not look back up the hill when they hear the sound of a lock unlatching.

Returning the next morning, they are earlier than usual. This time, they bring only another book. This one is not fictional, but more like a plant guide, one gifted to them by a certain mushroomed friend. It talks of plants life nearby as well as stretching all across the world. The lamb does not know how far along the god’s knowledge actually extends, but they set it down by his doorstep anyway.

They don’t knock this time in case he’s sleeping, and are already turning to make their ways away when a pang in their chest halts them mid-step. Lambert freezes, eyes turning back to the door. There is a pull.

“You’re quiet.” His voice comes close on the other side of the wood.

Lambert blinks, stepping back to it. “I thought you might be sleeping.”

There’s a hesitance in the air. Silence lingers where something untold might have taken place. Narinder talks lowly and raspy when he does. “I was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you-”

“Was.” He starts again. “I don’t sleep for long. It does not benefit me.”

He sounds tired. Lambert wonders why he doesn’t just open the door if he’s made an effort to come this close at all. The pondering of that makes them almost miss that he’s actively responding to their talking, much less sharing something.

“You are here rather early, lamb. The sun has not yet risen.” He continues. Narinder’s tone carries a hint of suspicion. “You were missing last night.”

Lambert deadpans at the door. “What? But I came here last night.”

“Afterwards. You were missing from the village.”

“…How do you know that?”

Silence is their answer. The reminder dawns on the lamb that Narinder, does in fact, leave the isolated little house at the edge of the cult grounds to do his own exploring away from the eyes of the flock at night. Exactly what he does in that time, however, is completely unbeknownst to the lamb.

Lambert bites the inside of their cheek. “I just went to go see the big guy outside the village grounds. I wasn’t gone for very long.” A pause. Narinder makes no response to their ‘confession’ and thus the lamb is stuck feeling like they need to grasp at a detail that they know the cat will not elaborate on unless pushed. “Do you often know what I do after I leave your door?”

A low, sarcastic chuckle. “Spoken by someone who came to my domain-to my doorstep-as often as the sun rises and sets.” He mocks. “I have no interest in what your daily chores are, vessel, but mind you I do not stay ignorant. Take your guess.”

“A yes or no would have been a perfectly fine answer.”

A pause. “…What do you want? You always have something to bleat about.”

“Feel like opening the door?” The lamb tries. They don’t expect the request to go anywhere. “I’ll tell you more about the weird orb thing if you do.”

A scoff. “You will tell me anyway. I’m afraid I’m not in appropriate attire.”

“Boo. It’ll have to wait then.” They pipe up. “I’m leaving for a few days before the next crusade. Plimbo is sure to have a stock of food and goodies, and we have gold from the mines. I’ll be gone for three days, tops. If I see anything cool, I’ll bring it back to you.” Lambert explains, scanning the hut out of mindless busyness. One of his windows is cracked, they note. “Unless...you want to come with?”

“Do not waste the effort.” He sounds tired, still. “Your death cannot be stalled by gifts.”

“Again, not what I do it for, silly cat.” Lambert’s hooves face the other direction, and smile at the door like he could see them from the other side. “I’ll return soon to continuing working on the mission. For now, just…maybe go do something? In the village, I mean. Mingle around, go look at people work or something. Sunbathe or something. The temple is still unlocked at night, too.” When he says nothing, Lambert takes the cue to leave. “I’ll try and find a remedy for sleep! You sound awful, by the way!”

They’re gone in a minute, down the hill and away from the path.

On the other side of the door. Narinder listens to their retreating footsteps until the sound no longer reaches his ears. Ichor drips freely from his three eyes, and his mouth is filled with the taste of it. He brings his arms up, (flesh, not bone, not quite) and looks to the bedding now stained black with the remnants of his nightmares.

It’s another mess he’ll have to clean up. The cat sighs.

-

It does not have a name, or at least it does not have one that it gives. It takes.

That’s all it wants to do. Take, and perhaps sell.

The God Tears are small and elegant in the lamb’s hands, like gems. Honestly, learning about what they are, they thought they’d be bigger. Maybe powerful like a relic, or perhaps contain some sort of godly power. For what is this but nothing more than a really shiny trinket? May it contain something the lamb cannot yet fathom, for the weird orb in robes insists that they cannot. Yet there is an urge to bring them here.

“I feel the presence of a God Tear. Strength, longevity, and a mourning that stretches eternally. Found in the bellies of the foulest of beasts and villains. But seen only by those ascended to godhood.” It speaks to them. Two mismatched eyes peer down at the little beast below. “So I find it strange how you are able to do so.”

Lambert looks up to the thing with squinted eyes because the light behind it is too bright. “Uh. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I deal only with gods.” It explains. No expression, no tone to decipher, only the corrupted voice that circles their ears. “Though I suppose for one in your current...predicament, I will make an exception.”

The god tears fly from the lamb’s palm, up into the air and disappear into the being’s grasp in a motion that Lambert’s eyes cannot follow. They blink, mouth opening to ask ‘hey did you just steal that’ before another shift of reality takes place. Items, all the same number of how many tears they brought, are bestowed upon the lamb. Scrolls and doctrine stones. A necklace with the crown’s image.

It speaks again, booming. “Give unto me a name and we shall be fellows in enterprise. I have precious articles for a being such as you."

Many names come to mind. Lambert wants to call it ‘orb’ or ‘weird thing’. They also want to call it something cool like ‘giant hoop’ or something like that. It would be nicer if the thing would actually share a title rather than give that responsibility to the lamb, because the lamb already has enough responsibilities as it is, and there’s no reason why they should not screw this one up for fun.

“Are you sure you don’t have any suggestions?” They offer the thing an out, just in case. Otherwise, whatever they’re calling it next might be toilet seat head. “I don’t really know if uh, I can come up with a…majestic, super elegant name for such um…mystic seller such as yourself-”

“Mystic Seller.” The deity repeats. “And thus, our contract is struck.”

Whoops.

“Bring me the God Tears and I shall reward you in turn.“ Their voice is coated with a final farewell. A cue to carry on, it seems. ”Return when you have what I require, otherwise tend to your responsibilities. I shall remain.“

-

With the lamb’s absence, does the flock play.

Parents are busy, much too busy to pay them any mind. When the leader is gone is when they work the hardest, or not at all. Sometimes there is a big project that they want completed before the leader’s return, sometimes the workers slack off and talk, or deal with whatever disaster is occurring that they must handle themselves when the leader is not around to do it for them.

The children do not work. They may pick flowers, and help tend to the gardens. They may assist adults who may call for it, even take apprentice. But they do not work. They come to sermons, they play, they eat, they play again, and they dance around the center shrine while grown ups toil away.

But things are rather boring as of late. Places to play are roped off due to constructing some sort of ‘plumbang’, and parents are too busy focusing on securing the food stores and being mean enough to not allow snacks before dinner time. They are shooed away from whispered talks, grown up worries that honestly seem so trivial compared to all the woes of the children. No snacks and no play makes for a very upset gaggle of youngins.

So, Bremar, being a very brave fox kit he is, agrees to swing from a cliff side rope for a little bit of fun.

This little posse is made of peers. An owl with a head too big for his body. The rest of the children are similar in age. There are five of them in total. Himself, the loud owl that takes the command, a pig that always calls him names that’s not much younger than him, a stag who’s too wobbly on his legs but acts like the world is his kingdom, and little frog girl; the youngest, that’s barely old enough to be leaving her parent’s side. Hardly seven summers, he thinks.

“Don’t be a coward, Bre.” The owl boy is persistent, taking them to the edge of the village where adult eyes cannot see. “We’re all going to do it!”

There is a hole dug up under the wall that protects their cult grounds, one small enough that leaves can cover easily, and big enough that children can slip through. The stag mumbles something about demons and heretics that linger outside the walls, and the other two laugh at him. The path here is overgrown, but the owl knows the way.

His vision is greater than Bremar’s or any of the others, so he takes the lead of the group and brings them out of the forest and into a cliffside clearing. “It’s just one swing! It’s how you gotta prove yourself that you’re not a wimp! Do you think the gods want a wimp in the afterlife?” The owl, theatrical, calls out to the peers in the same open armed fashion as they learn from the lamb. “No! So swing!”

There’s a tree with a rope swing hanging at the edge of a drop. The cliffside is perhaps twenty feet down. It is not a harrowing hole in the earth that will drop them into hell if they fall, but it is not a quick rock drop either. To the children, it looks immense. Bremar pulls back from the edge. “Are we sure this is a good idea-?”

“Outta the way!” The owl comes running, jumping and grabbing the rope in a swift movement. Maybe their winged arms helped them catch it, but they have no trouble swinging out over the drop, hollering their victory, before swinging back and dropping down onto the grass again. “See? No biggie. Now it’s your turn.”

The rope is thrusted towards the pig, who in a moment of new found courage, takes a running jump towards the edge. They too, swing, laugh, and land safely back on the grass. The rope is pointed towards the stag.

“I’m not doing it!” The wobbly boy cranes back. “It looks like the tree branch it’s on is going to break!”

“You’re just a wimp. Go find a teat to suckle on, baby.” The owl huffs, before the rope is pushed in Bremar’s direction. “Go on! Take a leap!”

He kinda doesn’t want to. But the stag looks so rejected, and whatever that poor kid was feeling, Bremar did not want to carry that weight as well. The owl, pig, stag, and frog’s eyes all watch him. He has no choice but to take the running jump, and so he does.

The moment his feet leave the grass, his sweaty grip holds the rope tightly and he expects to fall down the drop he refuses to look into. But he swings, upwards and outwards, and back down again. Bremar has made the leap. A splitting, prideful grin fills his face. He’s no coward!

“Didn’t think you’d do it! Nice!” The owl rips the rope from his hands as quickly as he did to the others, and holds it to the frog who’s been watching all of them try. “Your turn. You’re a frog, so you should leap the best. Don’t freak out about it.”

She looks hesitant. The stammer that comes out of her mouth is a nervous one. Bremar is the one to speak up about it. “I don’t know if she’s old enough to do stuff like that.”

“She’s a frog. She can jump the best, she’ll swing as long as she can hold on tight, right?” The owl slides the rope into her hands. “C’mon! Get to leaping!”

If she had a protest, one is not made, and Bremar watches as the girl runs back with the rope far from the edge and take a running jump towards the edge of the cliffside.

She soars. She laughs, gripping the rope tightly. The sunlight glints in her eyes and the boys cheer-

The branch snaps. Fear widens in little eyes as gravity drops the girl downwards-

A short lived scream, and then a sickening thud.

No crying. No sobbing. No nothing. Silence permeates the air pierced only by the sharp breathes of boys far too young and born much too late to remember when the cult saw this thing nearly everyday, and just old enough to know what death means.

The owl curses first, words forbidden by elders, and takes off running back to the village.

Bremar is frozen as he watches them go. “Hey- WAIT! Wait, where are you going?” Desperation crawls into his voice, cracking when the pig and stag sprint after him. He’s torn to follow, or to remain. “W-wait! We can’t just leave her here. Wait!”

They’re gone. Disappeared in the brush. Hot tears start to well up in the fox boys eyes, and that is just enough to tell his legs to move. Not towards the village, but to the cliffside, where a little frog body lies still at the bottom. There’s blood around her upper section. The fox finds a rocky part of the cliff and starts to scale downwards, sharp points digging into his palms and feet, agile only because of his birthright as a fox. “Paazi! Paazi, I’m coming to get you! Say something!”

He makes it down after another minute and scrambles to her side. His fingers are bleeding a little from the effort but they are quick to grab the shirt she wears, holding her upwards.

She’s breathing, but that’s about it.

Her eyes are closed, her side bloody. A thin, protruding branch sticks out of her skin, pooling blood around the injury. Right through her side, it protudes through her clothing. If the knock to the head didn’t kill her, then what she landed on eventually will. Bremar’s throat is dry as tears fall freely, and he yells. “Help! Help, please, someone help!”

It is a futile call. No one will come in time. They are too far from the village grounds for anyone to hear them, and by the time the others get back (if they even decided to get help at all) she will still bleed out before then. Her breathing feels more forced by each passing moment.

No amount of shaking seems to wake the girl even as Bremar starts to cry harder. “Paazi, wake up! We have to get you to the healing bay fast!” He shakes her again. Her little limbs shift with the movement, and remain limp. Bremar cradles her head in his arms and feels wetness on his fur from her scalp. “Paazi, I can’t carry you. Please, get up, w-we have to go! We have to go!”

She’s losing a lot of blood. An injury like this wouldn’t kill an adult, but this girl is so small. It won’t even be an immediate death, but one that bleeds her out onto the grass below before. Something that could have been prevented if they never did this stupid challenge. Something that could have saved her even after the fall if they had just stayed near the village.

No one will arrive in time to help. Death comes for his little frog friend.

Bremar sobs as the color of her blood starts to blend in with the color of his shirt, and he cries in a soft prayer. “Help, please...help. Paazi…”

The sunlight disappears. A figure stands over them both, casting a shadow that breaks the fox from his blurred vision. The child looks up to a hooded figure that has silently approached them.

Dark fur. A swishing tail. Three crimson eyes zeroed in on the bleeding children.

There’s snot dripping down his nose as Bremar’s blood soaked hand reaches for the white of the demon’s robes. “Please…”

-

Lambert is gone for three days tops.

Plimbo, fortunately, did have a selection of seeds and goodies available for purchase. The sailor was keen enough to mention about more eyes of witnesses that could be found for a decent trade, and lamb has long since learned not to question how Plimbo gets his information about these things or why he cares about them so much. He gives them a discount on all things he has in surplus, anyway, so they were able to acquire a few more things as well. Seeds, trinkets, anything that could fit into their bag or wool, and the rest of any heavy items would be delivered by ant carriage soon enough.

It’s a rather fine haul. It won’t fix all the problems they have back at home, but the farming hands will at least rest easy knowing there’s more seed to grow before autumn harvest. The trip back home is mundane, no enemies try to ambush them (unless you count the tree root that popped out of nowhere and tripped the lamb, spilling all their bag’s contents and dooming them to sit there for an hour picking up all the seeds that spilled out from their packets.) and it’s actually quite nice. The weather is perfect, there’s no constant demands of followers, no fighting. Walks like these are rare and appreciated.

So it’s just their luck that they see not one, not two, but several flock members running in Lambert’s direction the moment they’re spotted dropping off their haul at the community chest for sorters to take out later.

Lambert sighs before they reach them, and turns to the approaching flock with a smile. “Hello, friends. Is everything okay-”

“The demon! It…it tried to kill a child!” A bison exclaims with a flailing panic.

Lambert blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You dolt! He didn’t try to kill her, you idiot, use your eyes!” A second follower, an elder owl that wasn’t fast enough to make it here first, punches the arm of the bison and ignores her whimpered look as he turns to the lamb. “My leader. There was…an incident while you were gone. It happened about half an hour or so ago. You’ve come just in time.”

Their pulse starts to quicken. So much for relaxation. “What do you mean incident-?”

“He brought her in all covered in bloody and unconscious!” A third animal, a duck with a high pitched voice, practically grabs the lambs arm and starts to drag their shocked statue in the direction of the healing bay. “And the boy! He was sobbing, little dearie, chased after that speedy cat the whole way apologizing and crying and bawling and what not! Cat didn’t say anything! Not till someone tried to take her from his arms and he said that he’d kill them if they touched him-!”

Lambert’s trance breaks as the realization sets in. “Where?”

The bison barely gets out the words ‘healing bay’ before they break into a run. A full sprint, past the construction and past the shrine. The healing bay is not far from the garden where they grow the camellias, which isn’t far from the kitchen, which isn’t far from the temple, which isn’t far from where they were standing at the front of the exit-and oh for fucks sake, they were gone for three days. Three days! And the universe allowed nothing to go wrong until just before they arrived where they weren’t close enough to do anything about it!

Lambert almost crashes into a dog carrying wood and nearly trips over the cat working in the gardens as they. No time to say apologies now. They are used to elders dying in their absence, even some may get sick and pass while they leave. Dissenters happen most often when their back is turned, but this? With Narinder here? Was not expected, and not something they’ve prepared for.

Please don’t be anything horrific-

Lambert skids to a stop kicking up dirt as they come to the healing bay’s entrance. There’s several rooms of the building now, but only one has the curtains closed, and it’s that one that they push the fabric aside and bolt inside of. “What happened?!”

All conscious eyes turn to the lamb in the room. A cow nurse is tending to a little green body on the bed, wrapped in layers of red and white. A fox kit boy stands to the side of them, eyes red and puffy with past tears and hands welled up in littles fists as his body shakes and sniff.

Narinder stands to the side of the room, silent and staring wide eyed at the lamb’s sudden entrance. He is missing his robes, attire only of the long red tunic underneath.

“My leader.” The cow breathes a sigh of relief. Lambert reads her immediately. Not her mind, as much as they wish they had that power still, but her body language. She appears calm, not panicked. Her face and hands posed like she was in the middle of working, and her relieved expression snaps back from the relief to see them back to the focus of treating the patient. “I…I’ve stopped the bleeding, but I do not yet know if the damage done is far too great. I need help to sterilize it before the bandage.”

Lambert’s breath catches up with them, heavy pants turning even. Narinder’s expression has fallen back into stoic observation. Why he remains here is not something they expected, and not something they can ask right now. They move forwards towards the bed and supplies. “Right. I’ll hold her properly, grab the disinfectant.”

They move the fabric back, and only realize that it’s not a blanket that she’s wrapped in, but clothing. Narinder’s robes. Gears turn and click rapidly as pieces fit together: The girl was wrapped in them, just so carefully that his skin does not touch hers and risk decay.

The lamb spares a glance towards the cat in the corner. He remains watching the bloody child.

With a shuttering breath, Lambert recollects themselves. Weakness is not to be shown in a place like this, leadership is required. They shift the fabric away and to the wound that appears to be closed. A puncture wound is there. thin and completely through. Although small, it’s deep, though it’s location is lucky. They know enough about what vital organs are needed to pierce to know that none of them are in that specific spot, or this girl would have been dead long before now. “You apply the cream and medicine, I’ll keep her up. Here,” They work quickly, no time to ask how such a wound happened. “Wrap now.”

The cow is dutiful in her work. A long wind of bandages are applied after the proper medicines, and the process needs to be repeated a second time for the injury on her head. Nearby does the fox boy whimper. His hands are stained with blood and scratches that will need to be disinfected and bandaged as well lest they face infection. He stands on the side of the bed where Narinder does. The fidget in his hands spell that he might want a hand to hold on to. His lack of attempting for the cat’s dangling one either says that he’s too afraid, or the cat has already told him not to.

“We were just playing. We didn’t-” The boy hiccups. “We didn’t do it on purpose.”

“It’s okay, Bremar.” The lamb sends him a comforting smile as the cow ties the knot on the first bandage. They keep their tone even and soothe, not allowing any worry to seep into their voice, even as they lift the smaller body’s head for tending. “Why don’t you go find your mother? She should still be at the shrine today. Go ask her to come help you with your hands.”

“Okay.” The boy hiccups. He doesn’t look like he wants to walk out alone, but Lambert doesn’t want him to see this if Paazi doesn’t make it. He’s already seen enough, and lamb has worked hard, very hard, for the newer generations to see as little traumatic events as possible. Death is a peaceful release, yes, though the more violent images of it’s wake stay in your mind for the rest of your life.

The newer generations should not have to see what the lambs saw.

The fox boy bows his head deeply before darting out past the healing bay’s curtains. Narinder’s tail moves away from him as he does, and swishes low on the ground. Eyes locked onto the girl. He’s said nothing this whole time. Not even his expression is readable, blank faced. Observant.

It’s only after the boy is several paces gone from here does his gaze trail to the cow nurse, and Narinder’s face downturns into an annoyed frown. The sudden expression is confusion until Lambert remembers that Narinder does in fact have the ability read weaker minds.

“You should really help, you know.” The cow mutters. (yep, there it is.) Her own gaze flits to the cat in the corner. “Instead of just standing there like a statue.”

His mouth curls up into a razor sharp scowl. Lambert can feel the seering rage that comes off the cat in waves at the show of disrespect. Still, he does not speak, and he does not move to leave. Narinder, by all means, has turned into an unmoving, silent pillar with clenched fists and cold air surrounding him.

He remains standing here for something. He appears to be...waiting?

“Leave him be. We must focus on her.” The lamb redirects her attention. The cow sighs. The frog girl is bandaged and dressed, laid back down. There is no blanket right now, so Lambert takes the edge of Narinder’s robes and covers her back up, holding her hands to provide any warmth. She’s cold and she’s lost a lot of blood, but her heart beats still. “What happened here?”

The cow leans back, wiping her hands a nearby cloth. “The boy was inconsolable, but I think I understood what he said; him and his friends went out past the village walls and off to go cliff-swinging, of all things.” She pinches the space in between her snout and eyes, and Lambert feels for her incoming headache. “She took part and ended up falling. Landed on something that went right through her. I don’t know how far she fell. This is all what I’ve heard from Bremar. Wasn’t told anything by Mr.-” She makes a general, agitated gesture towards Narinder. “Tall, dark and creepy over here.”

“Be quiet.” He growls lowly.

“Oh, so the cat talks!”

“Please, you two.” Lambert smiles, strained. “Now really isn’t the time. Are the others okay?”

“As far as I’m aware, yes. Though I think you’ll need to give them a stern talking to, my leader, if I may so suggest.” She’s an overworked nurse, one often seeing the worst side of things. Lambert does not fault her for unsolicited advice that comes from a place of concern.

Inhale, exhale. Lambert looks to the frog. A small thing. No parents, but adopted by a couple in the village when she was found as tadpole in Anura. Almost every flock member has a story like this little one, and the potential to be saved, to live a normal life. Lambert is already putting together a funeral speech in their head for Paazi, as practice demands they do.

They bite their tongue and speak with practiced calmness. “If she makes it through the night, she’ll need a surplus of Camellias to prevent infection. We can use whatever we have left for now, but I’ll need to make another trip into Darkwood.” They rub the robes wrapped around her with their finger and thumb, thinking. “Warmer blankets. I can go around and ask those who have finer ones to donate them. As for recovery, she’ll probably be bedridden at least for a long while, so around the clock care. If not her survival, I’ll need to discuss with her parents what their preferred method of burial is-”

In the corner of Lambert’s vision, something flips like a switch behind Narinder’s eyes. The cat promptly relaxes, moves the curtain aside and leaves swiftly without a word.

Both Lamb and cow blink at the sudden departure.

“…what their preferred method of burial is.” Lambert trails back into their sentence. Weird. They’ll bring it up when they confront him about it later. For the sake of appearances, they must remain professional. “I’d ask that if she does pass to try and keep the body preserved as much as possible before the ceremony. I know she’ll be in your care until the time comes, so I greatly appreciate your sacrifice.”

The cow sighs heavy with stress. “Of course, my leader. I will do my very best.”

“Please do not beat yourself up if she passes on.” The Lamb softens their voice. Comfort, reassurance, they have learned to apply it to those who cannot give the same to them. “The afterlife is kind. The God of Death is kinder. If her time comes, she will-”

Sudden movement within the lamb’s palm cuts them off. They look down to a twitching set of tiny fingers curling in their hand, and to the face of the frog that seems to be twisting with awakening. Both of them watch stunned as Paazi’s eyes blink open with filling tears, nose already snotty, and fill the healing bay’s corridor with cries.

-

Lambert spends the entire evening in the healing bay, save for an hour or so in their own bedchamber with a waster basin and cleaner. Their hands are red and nearly raw with how much they scrubbed, but the stains come out of the robes luckily enough. One’s wool being white and often finding themselves covered in blood would give one enough knowledge on how to get such a color out of white, even if it’s a bit of a difficult process.

His door is locked when they approach it under the stars. It’s pitch black, for there are no lanterns lit near his house. No one save for them come over here anyway. Creatures like death can slink in and out unnoticed.

The neatly folded robes are still a little damp in their hold, but they don’t think he’ll mind it. They won’t set it on the ground though, too much of a risk of it becoming dirty, so they’ll convince him to take it from their hands. Or at least try.

They don’t knock on the door this time. Simply speaking once they reach his step. “She woke up. Bedridden until further notice, but she’s stable. Poor girl is in a lot of pain, and there’s only so much we can do for it outside of giving her medicine to sleep; mushrooms aren’t safe for someone her age, especially not when she could have a possible concussion, but she’s alive. We’ll have to hunt for more camellias to prevent infection.” They update him. Night wind brushes through the air, the sound of tree leaves rustling and falling. “…I imagine you’d want to know that she made it alive.”

The voice that comes from the other end of the door is closer than they thought he’d be. “I know already.”

Lambert’s mouth presses into a thin line. “How did you know where to find them?”

A pause. “Children are impossibly loud.”

“They said they were on the other side of the forest, all the way to the rocky cliffs.” Lambert refutes. “That’s way too far for you to hear, not from this distance.”

The door creaks like he’s leaning on it. “I did nothing.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Their conversation falls quiet. Lambert thumbs the robes in their hands. “I washed your robes for you. I got the stains out. Smart idea, by the way. Using it so you didn’t actually touch her.” A grumble comes from the other side that they cannot decipher. “You have some parents that really want to thank you.”

Narinder makes his voice known this time. “Keep them away from my door, or I’ll give you a real reason to worry about a dwindling population.”

“Don’t worry, I told them that you still weren’t up for talking, and that I’d pass the message.” They thump their knuckles against the knob. “Open the door so I can give you this. C’mon. Five seconds of your time. I’ll be out of your fur by then.”

A dejected sigh. There’s no sound of a latch unlocking, only the handle turning. Lambert blinks at the concept of Narinder’s door having been unlocked, but thinks nothing more as the wood swings open and a figure stands before them. The lack of light on a cloudy night such as this does little for visuals even when the lamb has darkly adjusted sight. Red eyes peer back into their own.

Narinder looks down to the robes and grabs the other end of it to take it, halting only when Lambert tightens their grip and pulls it back. “You can sense when people are just about to die, can’t you?”

His teeth immediately bare, flashing white razor sharp in the moonlight. “Lamb-”

“They were no where near here. You couldn’t hear them. The boys that came back wouldn’t have gotten here in time for help and had someone return fast enough to save her life. Running back here, alerting someone, then having them go out to her and running back again would have taken too long. You cut that time in half.” Lambert presses, unflinching. Determined. “You sense it the moment it begins. The start of dying, I mean.”

(A rush of air, a thud against his back, something sharp piercing through his side while his head snaps against the ground. His skull begins to throb with wetness flowing from an invisible wound on his forehead and pooling somewhere near his mid-section, real enough that Narinder sits up in bed and presses a hand to his side expected to see black ichor stemming from his robes just to see his hand pull back clean.)

Narinder rips the robes from their grasp. “And I’ll relish every moment of yours when I finally drive a blade down your neck.”

Lambert lets him take it. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He hisses, “Unless you mean your future death, because in that case, I will ensure that it does.”

The lamb does not cower or snap back. Rather they take one step backwards, crane their head down, and bow. “Thank you, Narinder.”

His tongue feels thick in his mouth. His claws itch. Anger. Disgust, Repulsion… Something else he won’t give a name to.

Lambert raises their head and gives him the stupid look of content satisfaction. “I’m leaving early in the morning into Darkwood to go Camelia hunting, so I won’t be fighting anything if I can help it. Quick trip, then I’m back here to help with farming. I got more seeds from Plimbo, and he even gave me new ones. Like apple seeds, and orange trees.”

He scowls. “You have a habit to consistently ramble and fill the silence with your bleating.”

“Yeah, sometimes I’ll do it alone too.”

“I’m aware. I heard it through the crown.”

And he’s just as good as talking back as he was as a crown as well, but that’s not a snap back Lambert is willing to entertain the consequences of tonight. The lamb steps back from the agitated cat, hands curled in front of them. Their heel turns towards the temple. “I washed the robes with rose oil to help mask the smell of the cleaner until it fades away. I hope that’s okay. Goodnight!”

Glowing red tracks them as they depart, and Lambert only exhales their nervousness when they think they’re too far away for cat ears to hear them.

Chapter Text

“Someone died again today.” Announces his vessal. They are so small, enveloped by his shadow. Their wool nearly matches the white of the afterlife around them. “They found her dead in her hut this morning.”

This time, they do not run around him or jump through his chains and pester him. Instead, they arrived, sat with their legs crossed on his symbolized circle, and stare blankly into the sand. “She was born into the cult, so she didn’t grow up knowing about the other Bishops until much later. She was kind of a bully as a kid, but very strong. I expected her to take to mining, but she grew to like cooking instead. Grew up and married one of the refinery workers. Had a kid with him. She got old. Died in the night.”

The One Who Waits listens to the lamb’s story and does not interrupt despite already knowing its details. “I know this. Her soul came here hours prior to your arrival.”

The lamb is quiet. It is an odd change; to see their presence and yet the gateway is as silent as if they aren’t here. They’ve made a habit of filling his domain with insistent noise and racket and chatter.

But this time, they are quiet. “I’m so tired of them dying.”

It makes no sense. They’ve seen hundreds die, and more by their own hand. The One Who Wait’s frowns. “You insult my work?”

“No, Narinder.”

It’s not enough. “You seem ungrateful for death’s gift. A cult leader for a God of Death should not speak heresy.”

“Of course not.”

Why are they still sad? It is only logical. It cannot change. This is how Shamura made things right. “It is the natural order of things. It is the absolute. Everyone will die, except you.”

The lamb stares at the sand. The light does not reflect in their eyes. “I know, Narinder.”

Their voice is monotone, and it brings an uncomfortable strain on the God of Death that cannot be attributed to the chains. His tongue sits heavy in his mouth. Perhaps scolding will not produce the desired reaction. He should not have to comfort them; this was their prophesized duty. He owns their life. Their servitude must come without question and without resistance. None of his other vessels required this much maintenance.

(None of his other vessels received this much patience, either. Even to his namesake, they push it.)

This is all for his own goal to obtain his freedom more easily. Comfort is not a strong suit of his. “…Why are you melancholy?”

They’re drawing figures in the sand. Faces of followers lost to time. To the side is a small doodle of lambs, though their faces are cruder, more obscured. The memory of them decays faster than those recently departed. They draw lambs like all they have to base them off of is their own image, rather than a diverse recollection of what once was. “I’ve lost count of them, I think.”

“Do not become attached.” He repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. Something like pity wells up for the lamb; they cannot help being pathetically mortal. “Mortals like you are suitable to weakness of the heart. Do not linger on them. The afterlife treats those who are faithful to me very well.”

They look up at him. Their eyes look different. “Do you grieve them too?”

“I do not grieve what is within my realm.”

“Your siblings.” The lamb adds on. He blinks, and the veil must be tricking them. Their eyes shine white. “Do you grieve them, too?”

A cold, coiled feeling strings in his chest. “My siblings dying would simply put them within my grasp.”

“They are not dead, but they are dead to you, are they not?” They continue. “Do you grieve-?”

“Lamb.” He threatens. His voice echoes in the empty space. The very small sliver of softness in his voice tightens with the chains that coil around his skin. “Be silent now.”

They blink, and their eyes darken. The vessel’s head drops and their hooved fingers dig into the sand. They are quiet again.

The One Who Waits is terrible at comfort. No matter. This was purely professional. There was no need for his vessel to be comfortable or ‘happy’ in this mission. “Rise for your resurrection, lamb. You must face a god’s witness soon.”

They are still drawing figures in the sand, until they stop. Their gaze does not look up. They simply stare forward. Waiting, like he does, for the reversal of death. The One Who Waits eyes the wooly mortal on his symbol, and finds it unnerving how they do not move or squirm.

Oh, hells.

“…Your wool is shorter.”

Lambert’s head raises. They blink at him.

The One Who Waits blinks back almost in a stupor. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a wet tingly feeling crawling up the flesh of his arms-

Flesh of his arms? He looks down. His arms are definitely still blackened bone.

“Oh. Oh!” They perk up, hands coming to the sides of their head as if to fluff said wool, like they forgot it was ever attached to them. “Yeah! I sheared it some. It was getting too long. I actually had to tie a good bit of it back one crusade because it was getting in the way, but the weight started throwing me off balance so I just ended up cutting most of it off with the sword and then sheared the rest of my body when I got back. I feel so much lighter! But I also get colder now, so I probably should have waited until next summer. I think I might try and style it one day when it grows out again.”

“I’m going to pretend I did not hear you say you used the crown’s sword for cutting your wool.” The One Who Waits scolds.

The lamb makes a short laugh as the guilty party. It’s not as joyous as normal, but the afterlife still echoes it. “Not in a weird way. It was a last resort. My wool was almost covering my eyes.”

He makes a noise of agreement. “That is not suitable for combat.’

“Yeah.” They pull a curl out from their head. It strings out and bounces back into shape for show. Lambert’s expression is still sullen, but their face now holds a half-smile. “I guess I have all the time in the world to figure out what to do with it, huh?”

The God of Death lowers slightly. “Do not shirk your duties for the sake of vain appearance.”

They twirl a coil around their finger and look up at him with shiny eyes. “What do you think I should do then?”

“…For?”

“My wool. How should your vessel look like?”

Like a lamb. Preferably this one. This one is fine. Maybe cloaked in his insignia. “I do not have an opinion of it.

“You noticed.”

The tingly feeling has crawled down to his fingertips now. “That does not mean I care.”

“What if I let my wool grow out and then shaped it to look like the red crown?” They fluff up the air around their head, hands poised around the crown like they were shaping an invisible lump of fluff to match its shape. A puff of wool in the form of what was supposed to be a great conduit of power. “Then instead of the red crown, it would be called the ‘wool crown.”

There they are. “What a ridiculous idea.”

“I think it’d be pretty funny.” They laugh. The afterlife echoes it once more. It rings off of the chains like clinking jewelry. “Imagine that’s what I walk into battle with.”

‘Your enemies would be stunned by your foolishness. That is the only bonus to it. Rise for resurrection, Lamb.“ Says The One Who Waits, who could have done that an hour and a half ago. ”I tire of your whining.“

“I’m going, I’m going.” They dust themselves off, patting down their fleece like it meant something for how they would return. “I think you’re nicer to me in your head than you want to be, you know?”

Another one of their whims. The God of Death raises his hand to send them back. “Think you know not my mind, vessel. Your powers of mind reading do not work on he who gave them to you.”

“You like the memories of them.” They say. His hand pauses above their head when their eyes shine the same color as their wool and the teeth they flash in a grin. “I think that’s telling enough.”

-

Narinder wakes this time without a jolt, on the mattress, and probably in the most normal, un-bloody position he’s ever awoken in since his arrival to this hellish plane and in this mortal form.

It doesn’t mean that his chest and head don’t ache and swarm with unfiltered emotion, but at least the bedsheets don’t need an immediate wash.

The cat sits up straight and is surprised to find the blanket still lying on him. Usually, it’s tossed away at this point. A quick raise to his eyes tells him that there’s no blood coming from them this time, all three of them, and his teeth did not make the mistake of tearing into his cheek or biting down on his tongue. For once, he has woken up normally, and he has no idea why.

A heavy sigh escapes him. The air feels good in lungs that aren’t heaving the moment he wakes up. It is a luxury that almost offsets the conflicted anger he feels that can do nothing but swirl images and memories around in a skull that he has half a mind to bash against the bedframe. Narinder inhales, exhales, and raises a hand to drag down the length of his face. The feeling of bony sharp claws drag through his fur-

He immediately pulls his hand back. His palm is flesh on bone. Mortal form. Black with fur, not ichor. He flexes his fingers and feels the joints in his hands move and shift as muscles in his wrist and arm turn with all the proper movements.

…Right. The raised arm reaches over to the bedside table to the book he keeps there, throwing it in his lap and reaching back for the ink and pen. Running a little low. An accidental mark gets on the bedsheet, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the same color as his blood. The lamb doesn’t ask questions when he tosses his bloody sheets at him, anyway. His own handiwork greets him when he flips open the book, and finds the nearest blank page.

At this rate, he’ll need to kill the lamb before they kill him in his sleep.

-

In one of the three lumbermills does a follower strike an axe at a tree, and curses at the same time. “Someone needs to put that cat in the ground or it’s gonna kill all of us in our sleep.”

His fellow members look up from their work, absentminded conversation halted at his comment. It’s only the four of them today; The pig who speaks his mind very plainly, the red panda who’s recently switched to this mill, an eagle who’s been here much longer than he has and the bear who mindlessly reaches up to clutch at his shoulder at the mention of the strange, isolated cat at the end of the village.

The pig makes no note of the silence, and keeps talking in rhythm with every axe swing. “I mean, c’mon. You saw what he’s done. Guy is a freak.”

The red panda is the first to talk. “You’re pretty agitated today.”

“Am I wrong?” The pig grunts. “How come he never comes outta that hut? If the cat has nothing to hide, why hide? He never works, and our food stores have magically halved. None of the crops are growing right, the lamb is always busy and absent on some new journey, a little girl got skewered, and that thing-” Another axe swing, harder, stuck in the bark that he wretches out with a grunt. “-hasn’t earned it’s keep. It’s a mooch, and a curse.”

In the back of the mill, the eagle frowns, and the panda moves to deescalate. “You say that about elders, too.”

“At least elders don’t kill folk.” He sneers. “Guy killed two of us two months ago and suddenly everything is forgotten. Not long before he starts moving onto everybody else.”

The bear, Jayen, visibly deflates. He was only here to take wood from the storage to the refinery, but the topic at hand has drawn eyes to the bear. His arm raises to scratch at his shoulder. “…The Lamb said it was an accident, and that he helped resurrect me-”

“Accident?” The pig scoffs, hoisting the axe onto his shoulder. “You were THERE! You had your arm rotted off! That freak went ballistic and was given more leeway than any other follower I’ve seen for a crime like that. All that cat wants is death and the Lamb is playing favorites.” He steps back from the working lumber, and turns towards the other, voice growing louder. “Wasn’t there a badger that went to his hut and never came back out?”

“No one misses that guy.” The red panda says sharply. She crosses her arms. “He was an asshole. I’m glad he’s gone.”

“So because you don’t like the guy means it’s normal for him to just magically disappear like that? Not even a body to bury?” The pig argues. The panda’s face remains steel, so the pig drops the axe to spark off the stone floor, irritated. “That’s weird shit. The cat probably ate him.”

The eagle, an older bird with a voice of hard gravel, sighs. “Look. He saved my kid. I’m in no place to judge a guy who saved my daughter’s life.”

The pig sneers. “He’s probably the reason why she’s in that state.”

The eagle's feathers ruffle, raised in irritation as the bear looks away. There’s almost a satisfaction on the pig’s face before the red panda cuts him off. “It’s not like we’re all saints either. Didn’t you get exiled from your village before coming here?”

The snout on the pig wrinkles as his form tenses, and the axe raises, blade pointed towards the panda. “Now you listen here-”

“I think it would be best to save this conversation topic for a night with mulled wine, and not when we’re upset and holding sharp objects, don’t you think?”

All eyes turn to the figure standing in the entryway of the lumberhouse. The lamb stands there, smiling politely, the light of the outside framing their wool and the crown that sits gently atop of it. They appear saintly as ever, save for the white bandage that’s wrapped around one of their legs.

The eagle and panda straighten and then bow their heads, Jayen gives a shy wave, and the pig simply stiffens. Black eyes switch from each member before landing on the pig, who oh-so-subtly lowers the axe from the threatening position he had seconds prior.

They may not have the ability to read minds anymore, but Lambert has seen many devolve into dissension enough times they recognize the patterns beforehand, and the pig was in fact, squealing a little loudly from the lumber house. The others scan them. The Lamb does not look offended or upset, but instead holds a constant ever-lasting smile. “I hear you have some reservations?”

There is a moment of pause before the pig speaks. “I mean no disrespect,” Though it’s clear he does, “But I fail to see the reasoning behind keeping something so unpredictably dangerous here. He doesn’t work, and has not contributed.”

“He takes no food from our stores and occupies a small, previously unused space at the edge of the village out of the way. He is no burden, an he is simply not one for talking.” They say as they walk forward, knowing full well their words will decide how their opinions form. “He is my friend, and he is not perfect, but no one who came here ever was. Several have many of the other god’s witnesses and followers joined our community, despite their crimes or state.” Lambert’s hand rests on his shoulder. “You too, Grekimar, have killed under the God of Famine’s name and sacrificed souls to her before you came here. Past sins are not to be dwelled upon. We teach forgiveness here.”

It is a hypocrisy of a sort. Forgiveness is the only thing the Lamb can offer of their own violation when this cult was built off of the revenge of the God of Death, and a Lamb once scorned.

The pig’s gaze turns away from them even as they remove their hand, though the agitated tension in the air fades to awkwardness. Eager are those to forget their own misdeeds when confronted by the crimes of others. Still, Grekimar raises the axe back up on his shoulder and looks to the lumber. “Of course, my leader. My concern was only for the sake of you and our cult.”

“No worries.” The Lamb reassures.

-

Sandwiches are a little hard to make when the variety of your meals tend to be whatever produce was in abundance that harvest season or traders happen to have on hand, but now armed with the knowledge that the God of Death is aware they need to eat, Lambert makes themselves something edible (mashed berries between two slices of bread, honestly) and park themselves outside of Narinder’s door for their daily debrief.

They walk up, sit at his front doorstep with the back hitting the wood, and take a big bite of their meal before talking with a mouthful. “H-aey.”

A pause of silence. A shift of floorboards creaking, a shadow underneath the door, and a voice that sounds like it’s at the same level. “…why do you sound like that?”

“M’ eatin’ a sammich.”

They can practically see his face twist up into disgust. “Your lack of manners is appalling.”

“You should really introduce yourself to the rest of the flock.” They swallow their bite, and feel the weight of the cat sitting on the opposite side of the wood. “They’re wondering about you. Making up all sorts of theories, too.”

Narinder answers dully. “I don’t care.”

“Hmm.” They take another bite, chew really loudly, and swallow before speaking again. “Some of them don’t mind you, some of them think you’re the devil-”

“I am-”

“And some of them think I’m being way too forgiving.” Lambert takes another bite, so their next sentence comes out muffled in chewing. “I unno. I ink- at th’ ones wh-”

“Swallow, lamb.” Narinder’s frown is evident in his tone. “Or choke.”

Lambert does, and talks just as quickly. “Pretty sure they’re quick to blame you for everything that goes wrong now since you got here. Not that you didn’t do anything wrong, I mean. Like, you killed two people. Brought one back, yeah, but it was still in front of everyone. Also the thing with Paazi; that was scary to them. Some of them vouch for you though, Bremar does. I think the others are just scared, which doesn’t make sense because we’ve always accepted those ‘less than savory’ here. A lot of your sibling’s witnesses and former followers are in our numbers, so it’s kinda a double standard if you ask me.” They bite into the sandwich and continue rambling in the same breath. “S’thot iet wa k-”

Narinder growls. “Lamb.”

“S’rry.” They swallow, settle the half-eaten sandwich in their lap and think for a minute. “Was it mean to bring my lunch here when you can’t eat? I kinda, uh, forgot until I was already halfway here. Is that mean? I can stop.”

There’s a thump against the wood. The shadow underneath the door looks like a tail is swishing close to the gap. “I do not care.”

An impulse takes over the Lamb’s mind. Their fingers dart to poke through the door gap. “Whattya up to anyway-?”

The tail darts away from their touch and a hiss resounds from the wood. “Get your filthy hands away from me.”

He’s talkative today. Best not to push it. That’s a sensible logic that’s going to stay in the Lambert’s brain until they see the tail move under the doorframe again and some impulse is going to force their hand to make a swipe at it. A bite of the sandwich will suffice instead, and this time they make sure to swallow before speaking. “I was thinking about after the plumbing changes, we can build another addition to your home. You know, so you can have a sink and stuff. No more having to get well buckets for bathing. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two, and I can schedule it to be done while we’re out crusading so you won’t have to deal with any of the workers-”

“Keep your flock away from me.”

“I’m thinking about planning a feast if we bounce back from the food shortage. It would raise everyone’s spirits. Take some stress off of people’s minds, you know?” Even now, there’s a guilt for eating this food in their hands. At least back then, the lamb wasn’t themselves another mouth to feed. Their next bite hesitates, and the sandwich lowers to the lap again. “…Do you think you’d come to the feast?”

The answer is immediate. “No.”

“You don’t have to eat anything.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Lambert hums. The sensible logic that tells them to stop pushing is gone already. “Why-”

The hiss on the other end is sour. “I cannot eat food. I will not socialize with your idiot of a flock who don’t even realize who’s name this cult was made for, and I will not indulge the whims of a traitorous lamb of whom I want dead and erased from existence itself.” Narinder’s tone is low and coiled. “So unless this ceremony ends with your sacrificial corpse being lit afire on the alter, I do not care for it.”

“Hmm.” Lambert doesn’t answer for at least a full minute. Mainly because they’re scarfing down the last of their sandwich, swallowing the last bite with an audible gulp and brushing the crumbs off of their fleece when finished. “What if lambchops were being served?”

There is a painfully long pause on the other end of the door.

When Narinder answers, it’s almost a deadpan. “I prefer my lamb raw and tenderized to a pulp, but sliced is fine.”

“Did…did you just make a joke?” They snort. The lamb laughs something small, and there’s a shift on the other end of the door. “You’re really setting yourself up to be called a cannibal if that’s the kind of jokes you’re making!”

A near grumble is his tone. “I am not the one who jested about being cooked and eaten, so no.”

The crumbs are getting stuck into their wool, but they seemed to have gotten the most off of their cape. “Cannibalism is not welcome here, mind you. It’s just a joke. You sound like you’re used to it, though.”

“I am death. I’ve seen many die of many things. Eaten alive is one of them.”

“Oh, eugh.” The lamb shudders, and suddenly the lunch they just scarfed down was sitting very uncomfortably in their stomach. “Alive? That’s gotta be one of the worst ways to die.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

The lamb clicks their tongue. “Oh yeah, that reminds me; we need to take some meat out to the mushroom grotto the next time we come back from the crusade. You haven’t been there yet in person, have you?”

The voice on the other end has gone quiet, which means he is either uninterested, confused, waiting for the lamb to continue. Or maybe he’s had his fill of the lamb’s insistent ramblings for the day and has decided not to waste any more of his own voice responding to them. The lamb  continues anyway. “There’s this fox there that needs something to eat. That guy is a real cannibal, I think.” They pause. “Kinda strange. Gave me a talisman piece. I started repairing those things for fun, you know, and it turns out they imbue some power into my fleeces when I weave them. Kinda nice to have different ones to choose from. The pieces are kinda hard to get, though. He gave me one when I traded him a fish-”

“I remember. I saw through the crown.” Narinder interjects.

“Then, yeah! That guy! I let him have a fish, and I saw him at the grotto sometime later after I was…” They trail off, only momentary. “I was visiting a friend. Yeah. He asked for one of my followers.” They pause again, waiting to see if that too was a memory that he shared. If he does, he does not acknowledge it, and Lambert continues after the quiet settles in the air. “I didn’t give him one.”

Silence echoes from the other end of the door. It appears that Narinder has had his fill for talking. The lamb kicks their feet in the air, mindlessly. The bandage on their leg has a red splotch, but it’s since dried. The flesh beneath it still aches. “Yeah. Didn’t really like that. Was gonna see if he wanted any meat instead. Some of the abandoned villages and campsites I come across have salted foods in them, and I could always hunt squirrels while we’re out. Can’t really spare any food from here, so it’ll have to be something we find out in Darkwood. What do you think?”

The shadow of a tail is swishing under the door again. “Invite him to a candlelit dinner for all I care. You come here and whine about your own incompetence to separate yourself from fodder.”

Lambert picks some bread crumbs out of their wool. “There are places outside of your siblings domains that I think you might like, you know, outside of here. There’s a cave full of gold somewhere, and a field of flowers where other colors than camellia red blooms. I used to go there a lot actually, before the crown.”

Their fingers pause in pulling at their own wool. The other voice is quiet, waiting. Lambert stands up from their seat, brushes the wrinkles out of their fleece and turns to the village. “I leave for the crusade in the morning tomorrow. You don’t have to come.”

They leave quickly this time, not turning back to the shadow of the tail that moves under the door.

-

They wait at the stone at the exit of the village for minutes before turning heel to leave, and walk up the steps of what was once the gateway, now a greeting arch for the weird thing that likes to hover at the top of the stairs. Or ‘Mystic Seller’. Yeah, that’s what it’s name was.

God tears are held up high to the being, and they float away from the lamb’s palm, disappear beneath the deity’s cloak and out come stone for doctrines, necklaces that are hardly explained but have quite the interesting demonic look to them, and talisman pieces. They disappear in a blink before arriving to the lamb, though they know they are merely going to the offering chest near the exit gate of the village. The Mystic Seller sees them ready to depart. Less trips, then.

“Tears of the first gods…” The Mystic Seller muses out loud. “For what were they mourning?”

Lambert blinks up at it. “Gods used to cry little magic tear-shaped gems with gold in them? Really?”

The Mystic Seller pauses to their question. The One Who Waits would have been used to that sort of behavior by now, but it appears that this deity has yet to face the full face of a lamb’s bluntness. “...Godly emotions are powerful enough to transmute even the most mundane of concepts. I imagine that this form is not literal, but comes with eons of grief that linger.”

“Weird.” Says Lambert, promptly turning their heel down the stairs, and walks into Darkwood.

Narinder will not accompany them on this crusade. Perhaps he is tired of their presence, and what little tolerance he had for them was strained thinned by travel together. The cat seemed to have a social battery that Lambert could not do anything other than to guess what it’s current state was. They could understand the feeling; the crusades were their pause from being hounded by followers and their demands and needs for attention. The hut that Narinder isolates himself in will provide the same comfort. May he find peace in privacy. They will face this next crusade alone, as they’ve always have before his arrival.

It’s better this way, they think. Not that their feelings agree with them, but logic whirs in their mind as heretics are cut down quickly and without strain. They don’t talk as much when he’s not here (or even at all, considering there was no more presence to the crown that they could hear was listening, that presence sits back in the village now) and all focus can be pointed towards slicing through enemies. As they have hundreds-no, countless times.

It’s when a spear grazes the bandage on their leg just before they drive the sword’s blade through an enemy’s throat does Lambert break from the trace and briefly wonder what would happen to their body if they perished out here like they have not hundreds, but countless times, too.

Surely there would be a body. Their soul? Purgatory sounded absolutely horrific for the Bishops and therefore if Lambert was doomed to the same fate, they’d reasonably believe they’d be trapped there for the rest of eternity reliving however pathetic way they died. But probably not purgatory, considering the circumstances. Full erasure is what looked like what remained. The consumption of theirs is what was required for The One Who Wait’s release in full power; it would make sense if that same logic would apply. Maybe Narinder would even get all of his power back without having to wait. Or in this case, wait again.

Whatever the case, there wouldn’t be anymore resurrections. The cat says so. But there would be a body. Just lying there, in whatever twisted death that would prove to be their final. Lambert highly doubts any heretic would try to bury them. They’d probably end up strung up like the many corpses hanging from the trees; a feast of fertilizer for the flowers who’s eyes seem to trail their every move-

A hard thump of something hitting the ground sounds off from behind them. Lambert yanks the crown-turned-dagger out from the heretic’s ribcage that they were currently fighting, and lets the corpse fall to the grass as their head swivels to face the commotion.

Another heretic, this time with an axe still white-knuckle clenched in their hand as their lifeless body deflates with a final breath. There’s a gaping hole in the back of their hood; bloodied spattered along the fabric that’s decorated with a few small pieces of brain tissue and skull. There is no weapon nor another combatant to be found. Maybe they already speared this guy in the head and didn’t realize it in the midst of their own thoughts. Maybe one of the flower stalks pierced him.

Either way, Lambert steps back from the corpses and continues the crusade. Their teeth bite their tongue for the next few minutes so the pain keeps them focused. Day dreaming or lack of focus has permanent deathly consequences now.

They keep these tatics as they slice through every changing maze of this forest until the grass beneath their feet hardens into stone. The trees shift into stone walls and pillars with delicate carvings, stained colored glass that casts colored lines of light across the room, and a music box that seems to play faintly in the air. Lambert stops mid-walk and scans the new ‘room’ Darkwood has presented to them. This feels like a pocket dimension, and it smells like iron and bird.

And rotting meat. Eugh. There are several ‘scarecrows’ of questionably made materials strung up in a circle along the edges of the room, all bringing attention to the podium in the center. The colored light that casts on it makes it look important.

It’s a fleshy, tentacle-looking thing, probably no bigger than their hand, and it floats inches off of the surface of its stand. Lambert approaches the item with interest, hand outstretched-

“Curiosity will kill you, Lamb”

Their open hand is suddenly filled with the sword’s handle and the blade swung in a blur to the new voice behind them, Lambert poised for battle, their blade up to the enemy’s neck.

It stops a hair length away. Narinder’s eyes drag down to the blade that seems to flicker slightly in his presence, before meeting the lamb’s gaze back with an unimpressed glare. The cat looks deadpan, though the slightest flick of an ear suggest he’s satisfied with the lamb’s sudden reaction. “I will not bring you back from the dead if whatever that is becomes your end.”

The sword’s handle feels like it’s losing power in their palm, but that doesn’t matter because it’s dropped and dissipated immediately back into the crown that flies atop their wool. Lambert blanches at him. “You-you ambushed me! You snuck up on me again. I could have killed you!”

Narinder simply tilts his head to the side in a slow manner, observant and non-responsive. The quick burst of adrenaline in Lambert’s veins slows as their pulse evens out. They frown. “How did you find me? I’m not anywhere near the start of the forest.”

The cat is quiet for another moment. “You’re loud.”

“…Really?”

“The bell.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and simultaneously something he just now remembered. “And the corpses you leave behind create quite a trail.”

He’s got a point there. The last of the tension leaves Lambert’s shoulders as they relax again, pulse slowing. There’s no enemy here, it’s only Narinder. Even if his eyes narrow at how quickly they resume a lax position in his presence. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

Again, he does not grace them with a reply. The God of Death simply stands there with eyebags heavy under his eyes. A drop of black ichor strings from his closed fist at his side like a curse ready to unleash. The cat’s jaw is locked tightly. He looks tired. He looks tormented. His gaze drops briefly to the stained bandage around the lamb’s calf before raising again.

Lambert would pry, but there are more pressing matters currently. Their vision strays away and rescans the room. “What do you think of all this? Looks like the same kind of pocket domains the birds have. I’ve never been in here before, though. Maybe it’s a byproduct of Leshy’s passing?”

He scans the room again as well with a solid frown, and it’s a solid moment before the cat decides to partake in real conversation. “The birds have a specialty and knack for traveling spaces like this, invading the bishop’s domain going unnoticed. I wonder who taught them that sort of power.”

Lambert’s gaze falls back to the ‘scarecrows’ that they’re pretty sure is just corpses with potato sack faces drawn on the front. “This doesn’t look like any of Clauneck or Kudaai’s work.” Circling back on their heel, they look to the podium. “I mean, it does. There are similarities in it, but I don’t feel like they’d be this deranged. What do you think?”

Narinder’s mouth curls into a deeper frown. “I could only see what is shown through the crown.”

So if it was new to the lamb, then it was new to him too. Narinder’s gaze darts from the meat sacks, to the glass, to the feathers that accumulate in a pile in one corner, and the sound of chains clinking in an all too familiar sound somewhere before his eyes land on the severed tentacle sitting (floating) on the pedestal right as the lamb goes to grab for it. “Lamb-”

They grab it, and nothing happens. They even toss it a little. “Huh. Weird little tentacle. It’s a little wet.”

Narinder grimaces. “So you put your hands on it?”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve done.” Lambert flips it around in their grip, giving it a little squeeze. “It’s kinda-”

They’re cut off as the ground beneath their feet suddenly cracks and splits, and a larger, sharper tentacle spews from the ground. Reflexes have the lamb jump back and the cat tense as the sudden arrival shoots out dark magic like black lightning. Then it simply wiggles. Both stare at the appendage expelled from the floor as the sudden jumpscare dissipates.

Narinder furrows his brows. Lambert pumps their fist. “Oh, that’s pretty cool! It’s kinda like the curses I used to do, but more!”

“My curses.” The God of Death corrects, sending the thing an overlook. The tentacle didn’t look like the one in the lamb’s hand, but rather black with red accented eyes. Its appearance may have to do with who summoned it instead of where the item came from, or who made it. His frown deepens. “Odd.”

“It’s not going down, so I wonder if I can-” Lambert’s hand reaches out to it, and immediately draws it back when a spark and an audible snap like a rubber band hits their hand. “Ow.”

“Your first thought is to touch it?” The cat sends them a scolding look. “Actually, that doesn’t surprise me. You’ve died too many times in too many stupid ways for me to keep count.”

“I didn’t know it would hurt me! Your tentacles never hurt me before.”

“…Never say that sentence again.”

“So it’s like some sort of curse magic, but stronger?” Lambert continues to fiddle with the thing, tossing it between each hand and giving it another squeeze. Nothing happens when they do, in fact the item looks rather deflated now. “Maybe it’s like a power-up or something? That’s kinda how Clauneck’s tarot cards work.” The lamb turns and promptly tosses the tentacle in Narinder’s direction. “Heads up.”

He catches it without thinking and immediately regrets it. It’s warm, wet, and squishy. “You soil my hands with this.”

“Meh. What do you think?”

His nose wrinkles, but inspects the item closer. Just a tiny tentacle, its cut-off end severed from some creature. “Whatever this came off is something presumably very powerful for such a small piece of its former occupant to summon a strong reaction to magic and manifest.” He tries not to touch it too much, holding it by his claw ends and thinks for a moment. “…Possibly godly.”

Lambert watches as Narinder simply drops it, raises his hand, and skewers the tentacle on a long chained spear that manifests from the center of his palm. The larger tentacle flinches in pain, straightening before squirming and flailing, then sinking. The ground of hell it comes from drops back down, and it withers. The remains of it die as Narinder destroys the smaller one into a mess of goo and rubble.

They blink as the chain retracts, and all that remains is a messy spot on the stone. “Did you really have to destroy it? It could have been useful.”

Yes. Maybe. Narinder is not at full power, though it will come to him eventually, but the minor strength that seeps up his chain and sinks into the skin of his palm is better than nothing. It is hardly anything, like a grain of salt in the vast soil of earth compared to his previous power, but he’ll be parasitic to it regardless. “Do not question me, lamb.”

“Suit yourself.” His vessel looks a little disappointed, but it’s fleeting expression as they return to scan the room. “Who do you think made it? Or any of this, really?”

Considering that was a piece of a former god, probably no one good. “Someone who doesn’t care to meet us.”

Or him, specifically. He has a feeling they would have no issue with the Lamb. His own reputation is quite undeniable.

The lamb looks a little awkward, kicking their feet against the ground, before turning to look at the exit. It’s just a tunnel that juts out from the other end of the room. Through there do they see the start of leaves and grass in the distance, the mist of the pocket dimension ending at some point. “Are you coming with me for the rest of the crusade?”

Narinder looks dully at them.

“I’m just asking.” They have a specific way they pout when they do. Red eyes narrow at it. “I figured you’d rather be at the village.”

“Just go already.”

Easy answer. The lamb salutes, the crown shifts to a sword before their hand lowers, and they turn to the exit with another shadow in their footsteps.

-

Heretics are perfect test subjects for theories when the experiments require bloodshed. Narinder thinks about using whatever mortal was nearby purely for convenience, but the lamb’s constant metaphorical gaze over his shoulder proves that method less than easy. Heretics, however, will be delivered his death regardless of how it’s carried out.

So he kills one slowly.

It’s one of the larger ones, hooded with an axe that’s about half as tall as he is. They rush at him, spewing things in a garble that’s either supposed to be a threat or a war cry or a prayer, none of which matter, because iron clasps of his chains find a leg and pull out their weight from underneath them and sending them tumbling into the dirt.

Their axe is held tight even as they lose their balance, but the chain wraps around their wrist. He finds the iron easy to manipulate, as if an extension of his own mind, his own blood, to knock and yank the weapon out from the heretic’s sweaty palm and to hand uselessly in the air as it’s owner is dragged to the dirt with one limb tied up and stretched out, and screaming as the opposite side of the leg is promptly skewered in the thigh. Gore and bone snap as the spear juts all the way through and takes pieces of the femur out with it on the other end.

The heretic howls in pain, and Narinder lets his hand drop to his side with the chain still attached as they writhe and wail into the grass, face pushing into the soil as they pray to a brother and god that’s long since been abandoned.

Nothing.

He narrows his eyes, and they drag over to the axe with its handle still suspended with chain. Walking two steps, Narinder calmly grabs the end of the handle, walks over to the heretic, lifts the axe and drives the blade into the hooded figure’s stomach. Their scream cuts off short with a sharp intake of breath, and a cracking agonizing cry.

Narinder’s ears lay flat against his skull. The shrill sound is not pleasant. He raises the axe again, his elbow higher, and the sound is silenced as the attacker’s head is cleaved from his shoulders.

There’s a small thunk of it and its body hitting the grass, and another as he drops the axe to the side. Heavy weighted thing, fashioned with stone and wood. He preferred more refined weapons.

Lambert’s voice calls out from across the space. “Did you really have to draw it out like that?”

He turns to them. They’re prying a ridged frozen hand off of their fleece from an enemy who died clutching onto them. The fingers crack as they have to pull the dead man’s hands away without it pulling too hard at the fabric, but their eyes are watching him with a frown. “I mean, I know we’re going to kill them anyway. It’s self-defense. But I think that bordered on torture.”

Crimson eyes seer into them for a minute before he replies. “I’m practicing for when I kill you.”

Right. He put his own siblings in purgatory. The cat was not one for subtle revenge or whoever stood in the way of it. The lamb hums. “Okie dokie, then.”

They return to the fresh corpses to loot them for what little coin they might have carried, and Narinder turns back to the heretic he just decapitated.

He cannot feel them die.

Back then, The One Who Waits would relay information that might be vital to the cult’s care and growth in the beginning, if only through a small sense in the crown. The lamb had no personal way of knowing, but the God of Death knows when death crawls near. One follower is sick, another starved. An elder passes away while they crusade. All these things like footnotes on a page as the lamb continues, listening to updates through the crown. Never in words, but The One Who Waits told them anyway. That is no longer possible in this form. But alas.

There’s never any pain when he starts to feel someone die, but he can feel how they die. Something contradictory, something real, if only for a brief second before he blocks it out. He feels the shuddering last breathe an elder takes before their heart gives away, the rotting lungs and blood of an innocent stoneworker, or the pierced abdomen of a child much too far away from home.

But not here. Not in this form. Not when he’s actively watching them expire from grievous wounds he’s given to them. All he’s felt came from followers, each of them in a different way. But the heretics out here have been nothing more than flies and wet spots on the front of his cloak.

A theory built of devotion then, and to who. In this form, he might only feel the death of those who pray to death itself. Funny.

“Watcha thinking about?” Lambert’s sudden voice would have startled him if he hadn’t been casually listening to them riffle through heretic’s robes for the last five minutes before tip toeing in a futile attempt to sneak up on him. Once again, they seem to forget they are wearing a bell.

“I can only feel those who die that pray in the cult of death.” He mummers. “Another limitation from my full self before you betrayed me.”

Lambert joins him in staring mindlessly at the decapitated heretic, hands clasped around their back and thinking. If it would mean anything, Narinder has the urge to bat the crown off their head if just to spite them for being silent, though they’re probably just surprised he even gave them an answer. Honest information, even if it was delivered with sour attitude.

“I guess that makes sense. I feel like we still have a lot to figure out.” The lamb eventually looks away from the head, eyes drifting to the cat. “But it doesn’t hurt you, right?”

Narinder meets their gaze. “No.”

“Oh, good.” They smile at him, and it makes his teeth feel trapped in his mouth. “I was worried.”

It’s a farce and an insult. The cool wetness pooling in his hand drips with ichor as anger sparks slightly. He’s about to say something back, when a pained moan echoes from across the field. The lamb’s eyes turn away from him (and Narinder feels the anger die, if only slightly) and look to a ‘corpse’ that seems to be shifting something out of it’s grip. “Oh, I think we missed one.”

“And you call me tortuous.” Narinder snarks, and the lamb’s response is a sharp look back. He looks to the ‘corpse’ with sudden interest.

The lamb sighs. The crown shifts to a dagger in hand, and they turn towards the remaining enemy. “One sec.”

They don’t make it to the other side before the ground cracks besides them in a jagged line, iron chains and spears jutting up in rhythm across the space before it reaches the body on the other side. One shoots up underneath the heretic and pierces them in the abdomen, raising them up as their throat gurgles blood and their torso slides down the chain slightly until it comes to a stop, skewering them. They twitch once, and fall limply dead.

Lambert watches with wide eyes and jaw dropped as the chains sink back into the ground, disappearing and trail back to the summoner: Narinder’s arm stays outstretched, only pulling the hand back to mull quietly a the success. His fingers remain crooked and claws splayed out. A hint of a grin stretches on his face.

It freezes when Lambert breaks out into a yell. “That was so cool! I think you killed me like that before once!”

Narinder’s eyes go from his hand to the lamb, and stares ridiculously. The lamb has pumped fists and stars in their eyes. Deranged thing. “You sound happy at the memory.”

“I’m not! It really hurt!” They’re still yelling, but looking to his hands with a mixture of awe and envy. “But you got another power and that’s a really cool one! How come I never got to do anything like that?!”

Logically, his enemy should be unhappy with his progression of power. In many times, such as this, a display of this nature is a threat. Their inability to follow expected norm makes the God of Death pause as his vessel almost circles him with the ease of a fish that willingly swims into the shark’s mouth. He stills when they turn to the side and throw out an arm. “…What are you doing.”

They swing their arm out again, then a third time, and fourth. Palm splayed, face twisted into a scrunch of unattractive concentration. It’s actually kinda funny. “I’m trying to do a curse.”

“…In particular?”

“They used to be so easy-”

“They were never yours.” He repeats himself. The feeling to display the threat again rises, though he knows the reaction won’t be fear. “Every curse you’ve been able to cast during your time was mine. Every power was borrowed from me. Through me. They were never yours, and what little you keep is stolen. Remember that.”

Their face of determination turns into a frown. He’s right. Every blast, every tentacle, every poison; it was all borrowed power. Something that no longer courses through their veins since his possession of their body seems to be severed since his chains broke. The best they can do is morph the crown into the proper weapon a situation calls for, and even then it still weighs heavy in their hand and flicker at times. It’s not right, but it feels unfair at this point. “I want my own.”

Narinder’s face has turned into a scowl. “Do not think yourself worthy of any, thief.”

Lambert huffs. They walk towards the exit for the area, onwards to the next battle. “I’ve killed gods before.”

“With my power.” He emphasizes the word this time.

“Yeah, well.” They don’t sound all that serious. “I did most of the work, you know.”

Annoying. Narinder raises a hand and hardly flicks his fingers. A series of smaller chains jut up from the ground and rush towards the lamb at a fast speed, one that their reflexes are quick enough to dodge just in time. They sputter at him. “Hey, that’s not-!” He does it again, slightly to the left, and keeps the chains close enough to skim them with each time they jump and dart out of the way until Lambert is practically dance-running away from the constant attacks. “HEY!”

Narinder’s mouth curls into an amused grin; he allows a chuckle to escape him. Watching them flail gives him a good feeling.

He only pauses when the Lamb trips over a heretic’s corpse in their escape from his attacks only to gracefully recover by turning the fall into a back bend, hands on the ground and promptly backpaddling on the hands. Their fleece falls down onto their head and crown in a funny fashion. Their legs swing when they walk. The bandage on their calf is no longer blocked by fleece, and the darkening stain on the fabric now matches the blood spilled on the grass.

There’s that, at least. The curses and dark godly abilities did not belong to them, but to him. The swordsmanship, agility, and reflexes, however, were a skill crafted on their own. Lambert’s head looks up from its position and sends him a sharp glare. “You took a cheap shot at me!”

He looks down. They’re walking menacingly at him on their hands. “Stop your foolishness. The crusade must continue.”

“Hold on, I’m rating your assassination attempt.” They’ve scuttered up to him. “I give it a four.”

Narinder rolls his eyes. “Get up. I don’t speak to imbeciles upside down.”

“Well, I do. Hi, Narinder.”

His leg pulls back like he’s going to kick them in the face, and Lambert rights themselves with an agile flip. Their normally perfect form is flawed by a little stumble when the raise back up. “Whoa. Blood rush to my head, I think.”

The God of Death is already walking away when the blurriness clears, and Lambert follows close behind.

-

It is the second or third night when it happens. Narinder hardly cared or noticed the day passing, only dully noting the passage of time with how tired his body was becoming the longer he stayed away from the safe confines of that village hut, and how often the Lamb muttered something about something going potentially wrong back in village while their precious leader was away.

Much of their rambling, if not some other annoying topic, is the woes and concerns for the flock. He would be pleased if he were still trapped in the afterlife confined to his chains, but no more does their care for the flock serve him, and Narinder is getting really tired of hearing the same relist of what every follower is allergic to, who’s banned from cooking, and how many pairs of winter boots they’ll need to accumulate before winter snow sets in despite it being at least a season and a half away.

But it is nighttime (the second or the third, he doesn’t remember) when the lamb trips.

He feels it before he sees or hears it, and his head turns back to face them right as they tilt toward the ground.

Lambert catches themselves into a stumble, face hanging towards the ground and inhaling sharply. “Hold on for just a moment.”

He says nothing and simply watches. They bring themselves to a tree and slide down the trunk, moving their fleece aside to reveal their leg entirely. For the first time, Lambert acknowledges the bandage wrapped around their calf in the form of pulling the wrappings away with their fingers in gentle, circular motions. The motion is silent and neither speaks, even as the wound is revealed.

A deep gash from the last crusade, one that the God of Death in particular remembers them ignoring even then. Except now instead of a clean line, the skin around the opening was swollen and discolored, fresh blood appearing to seep out. A wound like this would have been healed ages ago, now reopened from exertion, and festering.

Injuries like this had never phased the lamb before. They had been in much more dire states and survived, conquering and defeating beasts. Now this was just mortally pathetic. There’s an uncomfortableness Narinder has witnessing it.

The discomfort leaves a strange taste in his mouth as Lambert digs camellias out from their fleece, and begins to lay them over the infected wound. “I just need a moment, then I’m good to go.”

Their response is no response, not like the cat had been talking at all for the past couple of hours or so. Red eyes find red blood pooling around the lamb’s ankle, and Narinder’s mouth curls unamused. Agitated by battle and moving around, it still should have stitched up before they had even left the village. If the lamb had been taking proper care of it, that is. From the way they’ve been acting, it went ignored entirely. “Lamb.”

“Yeah?”

“You forget you can die permanently.”

They pause in applying the camellias to the wound (not a paste, not an oil, but it’s all they have out here for now) before continuing. “Force of habit. Guess that’s good for you then, right?”

“I can ease it for you, if you like.” He speaks lowly. It is a half-hearted threat. He is too tired to make one witty enough. “A quick death by my hand will surely be better than slowly dying of infection.”

“Uh huh. And what’s gonna happen after?” Lambert refutes. Narinder simply glares at them. They return to their leg. “I think I’ll stick to the flowers, thanks.”

He mumbles something under his breathe that they do not catch, and turns away to scope the area. The trees here are tall and provide coverage, and there aren’t any heretics hiding in the branches that he can see or hear, otherwise they would have lunged already. Any nearby heretics have been destroyed, and reinforcements, if any, would have a hard time trying to find them. The lamb left behind a trail of bloodshed and bones wherever they went, but Narinder can turn his defeated foes into literal nothing. Decayed any trail they might have left behind. No bodies to follow, and no corpses to fertilize his brother’s soiled forest.

Lambert presses the petals against the wound, rewraps the used bandage against the leg to keep them there, and sighs. “I need a long moment. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Narinder’s face wrinkles. They probably bandaged it once and haven’t changed it at all. He’s seen mortals die quickly of such an error. The lamb’s healing factor, even reduced, is probably why they were even able to last this long.

“Or go on without me.” They give a short, casual laugh when he doesn’t answer. “I can’t stop you. I can just catch up eventually.”

The cat makes no sound to acknowledge or respond to them, and the lamb shifts to lean against the tree more comfortably. They close their eyes for a moment, inhaling deep, exhale, and open them to find that the space in front of them is empty; no sign of God of Death to be found. Well, there’s that answer then.

Lambert lets themselves sink further with gravity and closes their eyes. They’ll only need a few minutes maybe. Focusing all their effort on healing is a taxing and attention-splitting task, but they’ll do enough to make it through this crusade and heal fully back at the village. It’s times like these that they wish they decided to wear the Fleece of Hearts. Neat little fashion item, that thing. The talisman allowed that item to use magic reserved of for curses to heal.

Actually, now that they think of it, Lambert can’t even do curses. They don’t even know if they still held any of the fervour reserves in order to do so. Would the fleece’s power still work? Has it been reduced to nothing more than a pretty cape now that they lack the ability to use it properly? Or is it still functional, but its function no longer available to them? Maybe Narinder could use it; he could use curses, so clearly that power draws from somewhere.

The lamb giggles at the mental image of the God of Death wearing a cape with a clasp of hearts and imagines his reaction would be akin to how other cat followers react when something sticky or tape gets on their fur. There’s a brief moment where the feeling of being watched prevails through their thoughts, and Lambert opens their eyes to scan the area. Nothing. They close them again.

Fickle cat. He’s probably off killing heretics somewhere. The faster they get to Barbatos’s door, the faster they can strike them down, teleport back to the village so Narinder can isolate and the Lamb can tend to their flock, and eventually set out again to make it to Leshy’s door for a second time, but what feels like a eon since it happened in the first. They wonder if that battle will be the same as it was the last time. According to the Mystic Seller, it is hinted that it will not be. The Bishop’s power, and their state, will be unknown. There is no crown to whisper and guide them this time, for there’s no scorned brother to warn them of his siblings tatics. At least, not like this. This too, is something new to him.

They wonder how Narinder will react to Leshy’s presence, or all the other siblings for that matter. He seemed so callous, so distant in the afterlife. Satisfied in their defeat, mentioning more about their flaws in character than how their deaths weakened the chains wrapped around him. Now, here, with nothing else binding him than a mortal form that has trouble holding the godly power he still possess until it adapts, the God of Death will face his family once more. This time not through the eye of the crown, but in person.

Maybe he’ll slaughter them just like the first time. Maybe he’ll hesitate. The lamb hopes he’ll hesitate. They know he will not.

A tiny bonk on their head breaks them from their trance and the lamb’s head snaps up from the position it was falling into. Sleep was not something they achieved often, and like their traveling partner, had a way of stealthily sneaking up on them. It’s jostled away as the minor pain spreads from their forehead. Lambert blinks at the acorn rolling away from them. “Ow?”

“Do not sleep.” Narinder’s voice comes from somewhere. “Save your exhaustion for the healing bay, or die here. Whatever the case, do not cause me inconvenience any longer.”

It comes from above them, and Lambert’s eyes trail upwards to another tree nearby.

Narinder sits on a tree branch with his back against the trunk, arms crossed and waiting. High enough among the strewn bodies that the moonlight that dots along the grass floor is blocked by tree foliage, so it just looks like a dark silhouette with three glowing red eyes glowering down at them. It would be a little spooky, even alarm the lamb of a similar nature that heretics like to use before they ambush their prey, if it wasn’t for the God of Death’s voice and an extra eye that tells its him.

Narinder watches them when a stoic expression, head tilted at an angle as he bores into the lamb. His attention on them makes it clear that he was probably trying to read their mind the entire time. The slight frown on his face makes it known that he was unsuccessful.

Lambert smiles at him. His expression narrows. He ambushed them in a tree once before, didn’t he? Must be a cat thing. “Of course, Narinder. Thanks for waiting.”

They try to stand, using the tree as leverage, and find that putting weight on one leg (though still worse than the other) is easier than before. The swelling has gone down, and the fresh blood flow has stopped and dried. A peak under the bandage shows that the injury once red is now turning to a pink color, and the skin is starting to stitch. Surface level, it looks like a few days worth of healing done in a few minutes. Within a few days or so, the wound itself will be completely gone without so much as a scar to leave behind.

Lambert looks rather proud of themselves. “Good as new! Okay, I’m good to go.”

In the middle of their declaration does Narinder’s form hop down from the tree and land on his feet with all feline elegance. Back turned towards the lamb, a small head turn has one eye trailing to the injury. The look on his face spells that he does not agree with their definition of ‘good as new’, but turns away uncaring or uninterested enough to bother arguing it. “Crusade, lamb.”

They match his pace when he starts walking away, crown already shifting into a ready sword. “I’m kinda surprised you didn’t leave me there.”

Narinder doesn’t look at them. “I have no intention of fighting my sibling’s witnesses when there is a vessel who’s purpose is to clear them for me. Your incompetence to take care of yourself will not stand in the way of doing your job. Now crusade, lamb.”

Their response is a thumbs up, and a rush towards the next area with sword blazing.

-

It turns into the fourth day. Somewhere in the back of Narinder’s mind, someone has fallen gravely ill at the campsite during the lamb’s absence, and returned from the brink of death in the same hour. Their preparations of their flock has made them nearly self-sufficient, at least enough for them to take this long in a crusade before something irreversibly needs their attention. They keep stopping to shove camellias, berries and bones into their pockets, fleece, and the infinite void that the crown can sometimes provide if they can get it to stop flickering enough to channel the thing. The actions are not urgent, though. They take their time.

It’s good reason to believe that they enjoy this time away from their flock, as much as they adore the pathetic mortals anyway. Or perhaps they’re taking longer on purpose purely to get on Narinder’s nerves.

This theory is supported by yet another foolish act of theirs. Barbato’s room makes itself known by how the grass turns to carved stone in one path, and the way is clear. The time for that witness is to die.

The lamb, however, nods at the cleared pathway as they pull the crown’s sword from the spine of a worm, and starts marching off in the opposite direction. “Wait! We have to do something first.”

If Narinder had the energy and wasn’t currently running on fumes, he would have tossed a rock at their head and hoped it gets caught in their wool. “What.”

Lambert is already scuttling off, gesturing for him to follow. “Really quick! It won’t take long!”

And they’re off. Back through the way they came, passing by abandoned camps and demolished rock walls and loads of corpses and spots where some have been decayed into ash on the ground being blown away in the wind. This maze of Darkwood has been cleared, leaving the final enemy in that stone room, but Lambert remembers seeing swords and weapons hanging from the trees instead of bodies at some point, and searches the branches for them.

Just like his brother, Kudaai had a knack for pocket dimensions. They find it easily enough, walking it with a pep in their step and a bright smile. It’s been a while since they last met with the golden bird. “I saw the swords hanging earlier, but I didn’t want to stop our stride yet. I thought I’d save the visit for last so we can linger for a little longer, you know?” No response is heard from behind them, even the world shifts and they enter the space just before Kudaai is sitting.

Lambert doesn’t turn around. They do, however, arch their back and crane their neck to look backwards why they walk forward in an awkward, almost childish way. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Their favorite shadow glares back at them, walking silently as they thought. He raises a brow at them.

“Just wait and see. He might be able to help us.” The lamb’s straightens their posture and skips forward.

The room’s flooring is stone brick, for this area is hardier than his brothers. Barrels of material and weapon, spare steel and recycled armor decorate the floor. There are symbols carved on some of them, some that are forgotten to the waste of time, and some Lambert recognizes. Those barrels empty and fill, the boxes rearranged every time they come in here to find the bird and his furnace, sitting calmly on a rug like his brother in usual deep concentration. They theorize he does not mold the weapons by hand, but by mind, and the power imbued into them are stronger that way.

Kudaai’s closed eyes and open beak turn to meet them as Lambert all but struts in like they own the place. “Promised Liberator. My brother told me you were journeying on a new set of crusades.”

Lambert situates themselves in front of the bird, much larger in height and size than their own, and bows. “Good morning, Kudaai!”

“It is.” The bird is slightly more talkative than Clauneck, though just as mysterious. His gaze lingers on the lamb in a form of recognition and affection, like a distant friend. Allies in places like these are hard to find, and harder to keep. The birds do not explain why they help the lamb, not like it matters in the long run. They ask nothing in return.

It is still cornering, however, to feel the bird draped in golden feathers to turn his head towards the black cat in the corner of the room, and to address him directly. “You are not alone.”

“Ah, yeah. That’s um-” The lamb may have been excited enough for the introduction that they may have not actually planned what to say. “Narinder. He’s traveling with me. He’ll need a weapon. I was wondering if maybe, just maybe, if the best weapon smith in the universe could help me fashion a weapon up to his standard? Please?”

Their hands clasped together, ignoring the three weapons already floating in front of the bird and looking up to the being as if they were about to ask for a huge favor and it was going to take several bouts of charm and eye-lash fluttering to convince the bird to do so. None of it will be necessary. Narinder has seen the birds do more for less.

Said golden bird was currently staring him down in from his spot in the shadows with him matching the eye contact with equal intensity. Didn’t feel hostile. Simply curious. The lamb does not introduce him as the God of Death, and he will not make the effort to correct the mishap. This bird should look to him as if he were any other unsuspecting follower.

Keyword: should. Instead, Kudaai scans him like he resembles the length of a jagged, sharpened blade, and speaks to the lamb while his eyes remain on the cat. “I see you have found fate.”

The birds have a secondary sense, it seems. Or maybe Clauneck just told him. They probably gossip.

“Fate has been a little...tricky to work with, as of late.” Lambert laughs, waving a hand. Clearly they want to keep the topic light hearted. A discussion on the the events that led up to the current here and now and why they were being accompanied by the God of Death in mortal form would be unlocking a box of wasps, and there was a favor they were trying to ask here. “He needs a weapon. Something permanent, you know? One that won’t dissipate after we leave the Bishop’s domain.”

Kudaai’s head tilts. “That is a tall order to manifest something new like that.”

“Which is why I come to the best of the best.”

“You do.”

Narinder is already both simultaneously bored and annoyed. He has better things to do with his time than to watch a lamb compliment a owl. He would gladly wait until this blasted interaction is over and leave empty handed, let the lamb do their charm and chatter and leave him out of it, until Lambert turns shoulder and beams a bright smile at him. “What kind of weapon do you want?”

Both lamb and owl are staring at him now. Damn it. “I don’t care.”

Lambert almost pouts. “C’mon. You said you needed an actual weapon! Kudaai is the best at making them. He can make you something really cool. He made me a sword that shot out fireballs once.”

“I do not care.” Narinder repeats, voice lower and almost a scowl. Exhaustion creeps irritation into his attitude, not like he isn’t always this curt with those beneath him. “I doubt anything made by mortal hands is going to be of any worth to me.”

To this, a flash of offense for their friend’s behalf comes across his vessel’s face, but it is Kudaai who beats them to speaking. “Come forward, God of Death. Step from the shadows. Allow me to regard you wholly.”

(His voice has the same gentle demand as Shamura once spoke. Narinder’s shoulders tense with disgust. His palm aches with iron.)

Lambert gestures towards them. “Humor me?” They try, and do not flinch when three red eyes dart to stare at them with hate instead. “It might just be the weapon you kill me with someday?”

Kudaai does not bat an eye at the odd statement, Narinder feels like the promise of isolation is forever staying out of his reach the longer he stalls this pitiful conversation, and Lambert just looks like…well. That. He would like to take one of these hammers out of the barrels and whack the face away from his sight.

“Fine.” He relents, low and tired. The cat joins the lamb to stand before the bird, and promptly ignores the way Lambert’s ears fly upwards pleased that he does. “Make your attempt, owl. I’ve seen the extent of your work through the crown. Nothing you create can equal to the weapons we gods held, but if you wish to burn off all your feathers in an attempt, by all means, do so.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lambert looks like they want to elbow him. “What he means is ‘try your best’.”

Kudaai is unaffected by the cat’s violent tendencies. “So be it.”

In one swift movement, the door to the forge swings open as if yanked by a ghost. Lamb and cat both nearly jolt at the sudden force, and Kudaai hardly blinks as his arm shifts out from underneath golden feathers and sticks his hand (his bare hand, mind you) into the flames of the furnace. Fire dances along the fingers of the bird’s hand, up his arm, and the owl makes no sound of pain or grimace as he pulls away what appears to be a clump of molten iron and steel. The forge doors shut as his hand leaves, and a glowing ball of lava and iron sits floating in the palm of the owl’s hand.

Lambert’s eyes are wide with awe and interest, completely entranced. Narinder side eyes the forge. “Your forge is fueled by the flames of hell, isn’t it?”

There is a quiet, overtaken sound of the lamb going ‘wait, really?’ as Kudaai gives a short nod. “Observant beast.”

“Hardly.” Narinder responds, and is promptly ignoring how the lamb is suddenly looking to the side of his face for entertainment. “I know what the fires in my own domain smell like. That one has been burning for a long time if it’s been trapped here.”

“The fires of my forge I have kept alight since the first dawn. Only the final setting of the sun will see it doused.” Kudaai’s hands shift rapidly; the glowing white ball of molten and magic form into something longer, though still unrecognizable as a weapon. The weapons crafted, or summoned, to offer to the lamb are never done in person. Such skill to be witnessed brings stars to the vessel’s eyes and makes the cat’s own squint. Many of his weapons have been new, but many replicas. The skill was unnerving.

Kudaai’s hands pause, the shape still undefined, and he holds the silver and grey glob over to the pair. “It will need some of your blood.”

What a joke. Narinder scoffs. “Do you think me an idiot?”

The bird is unphased. “It will not work without it.”

“Then your skill is useless.”

Lambert does elbow him this time. Or tries to, at least. Narinder’s quick reflex is an awkward bent torso away from their incoming arm, and hissing with his ears pinned back to his skull while the lamb turns back to the owl. “Would some of my blood help instead?”

“His blood is needed in particular. To have a weapon of permanence, immortal blood is needed, and its bearer must be donor. Only then will it be able to be summoned, and used, by who’s flesh helped mold it.“ Kudaai explains.

Narinder’s nose wrinkles. Aggression still lingers in his form. “Interesting trick. Where did you learn such a method?”

“My sibling.” Says the owl. His hands jut forward the blob again. “A single drop will do.”

Lambert’s mouth presses into a thin line as their mind delves into thoughts. Narinder stares at the blob likes it’s personally offensive. “What manner of creation is this?”

“Consider it a revival of one once lost.” Kudaai offers. “Something I’m sure you’re well acquainted with, God of Death.”

(The loss, or the revival?)

He will entertain this to his benefit. Having a weapon at his side will prove useful; curse magic can only do so much, and swinging something down onto an enemy holds a different satisfaction to it than just piecing them with chained spears or touching their skin until they become nothing more than a rotted, decaying corpse.

Narinder raises one hand, claws outstretched, and presses one sharp tip to the end of another finger. He presses hard enough that a few beads of black blood appear, ichor glistening in the fire’s light against dark fur, and turns his hand over. The blood drips into the unto the undefined creation, and the drop sinks deeply into it’s mass. The color shifts, darkening. Piece of it jut out in sharp spikes, flailing and withering like worms; it contracts and expands rapidly like two chemicals having a violent reaction.

Lambert’s head cranes closer, almost bumping into the cat as he puts down his hand. He sneers. “Watch it-”

“It’s doing something!” They point at it like it’s not clearly obvious.

“Yes. I can see that.”

Kudaai simply holds it as the mass takes shape. It lengthens into a handle, straight and balanced, blackened with a silver sheen, engraving of old faith begin to appear along it’s shaft that glow red against the forge’s light. Eyes not unlike the crowns, or his own, form at the edge where the head piece forms into dark iron. A single chain wraps around it’s header as the blade expands in dark steel; a black blade that glints red in it’s shine.

It is a scythe, and it looks exactly how Narinder remembers his to be, give or take minor details.

Narinder just stares at it, unmoving. Lambert looks like they’re vibrating in place out of amazement. Kudaai lets the sword float down to where the cat can grab it. “From the Old Faith, to anew. May you never find yourself chained again, God of Death.”

The scythe settles in his open hand, his fingers close around the handle. It turns easy with a twist of his wrist; light and right at home against his skin. The blade cuts through the air as he spins it slowly, letting it stop. Narinder feels his tongue lie heavy. It’s as perfect as he remembers it. “You will not receive a thank you.”

“You are accepting the weapon.” Says Kudaai, who sounds more proud than bothered at all. “That alone is appreciation for my work. My skill unmatched, still. You blade will provide the destruction you so desire for. Wield it. Let it be your tool to secure the life you wanted, Death.”

At this angle, his reflection casts back out. Another twist, and Lambert’s face is reflected from the blade. They are making a considerable effort to keep their mouth shut, but the expression they wear tells that there will only be a bombardment of questions once this conversation is finished. They’re practically shaking.

There’s a coiled feeling in his ribcage that does not carry a name. The cat steps back, the scythe held tightly in his palm, and turns away. “I’m done here. You’ve made your use to me.”

Lambert watches as the cat simply walks off to the direction of the exit. “Narinder, wait-” They’re about to follow, stop, turn to Kudaai and deeply bow their head. “That was amazing! Do not mind him. That’s his way of saying ‘thank you-”

Narinder’s voice distantly interrupts. “No, it was not.”

“Thank you very much for your help, Kudaai!” The lamb interrupts that interruption and straightens to give the bird a wide smile. “What do I owe you for this?”

The bird, ever with patience that would rival The One Who Waits, simply nods his head once. “None. Take my finest work. Put it to use. That alone is enough.”

“You’re incredible as ever.” The lamb bows once more, quickly, hands placed together. “Find Fate.”

Kudaai gives them the same farewell, and Lambert practically kicks up dirt to catch back up to the cat.

Narinder is already halfway onto the other side of Darkwood’s maze and heading straight for the Barbato’s room that the lamb realizes that there were no more enemies to fell in this crusade. They would miss out on seeing the scythe in action, if the cat even decided to grace them with the sight. Not that they’re not going to bug him for details about it anyway; they’ve mastered the art of charm, and if that didn’t work? Then being obnoxious.

Narinder must expect their questions, because the poor cat’s ears rotate fully once they skid up behind him and his shoulders drop in what can only be considered an exasperated sigh. He’s given plenty of warning time by the sound of their bell to know that the Lamb is about to dive bomb him, or really, the weapon, and raises his arm the last second.

The lamb all but flies underneath his elbow and tumbles into the dirt. They clearly don’t have any shame, because they’re scrambling to their feet in miliseconds. “Lemme see it!”

“Don’t touch me. Or this.” He growls, warning. “Or I will use it to cleave your head from your shoulders.”

“It’s so cool! I’ve never seen him make one of the weapons before, and nothing new like this!” His threat is unnoticed or ignore, and the lamb is now currently circling him and the new toy like a hawk, and making a grab for it. “He’s made me all sorts of weapons, and I got axes before. Not scythes, but it’s the closest thing, and there are so many different kinds-like, poison and fire. The crown always took the form of the weapon he showed me, but it’s never needed my blood or anything. Just mimicked it! I don’t know how it works, Kudaai doesn’t really explain it, but it’s so cool. And it looks just like the crown’s weapons! How come the crown doesn’t turn into one of those-?”

Narinder, exhausted, raises the scythe high above the lamb’s head and keeps it horizontal and out of their reach. “It did.”

Lambert pauses in their hopping (on their good leg, he noticed.) “What.”

With a careful maneuver, Narinder steps back and spins the handle so that the blunt end of the scythe pokes into the lamb’s forehead. It’s not an attack; he does, however, slowly push the lamb away as they give him a very dejected look.

“It used to. The crown would turn into a scythe in my hands. Many imageries in historical texts depict me with it. Statues, and pictures in books. It’s appearance has been recorded through history.” He spins the blade as he walks; it slices through the air cleanly, a small gust of air that comes when it comes down. Narinder brings it closer, and squints at it. “It looked exactly like this.”

Suspiciously so. Almost an identical replica. If the crown wasn’t currently sitting on top of the lamb’s head, he would have thought it came from there.

Lambert hums in thought. “Kudaai and Clauneck have been around since the first gods. They have been there when everyone saw you with it. Maybe he wanted to give you something familiar. Something that you’d already know how to use?”

Perhaps. It fits perfectly into his grip. It will do nicely for his goals.

The lamb is still too obviously interested in what he holds to an annoying degree. Their hands clasp underneath their fleece and out of sight, though. A prevention to half their own curiosity. They touched a random tentacle, after all. “So…how come you get a scythe but I get a sword?” A pause. “And other weapons. But it’s mostly just a sword.”

Narinder has to think about it for a moment. “The crown fits to it’s bearer. I’m assuming by default, a sword simply ‘suited you’ better, and shaped it’s default form to your need.”

He must have had a sour facial expression at the reminder of any memory of bestowing them the crown, because the lamb’s ears that have been raised droop only in the slightest. They are quickly picked back up. “I’ve never really heard much about the Bishops having weapons except for Kallamar.”

“We all had them. Some of us preferred it more than others.” He steps over a corpse they killed hours ago, one he grabbed by the neck not long ago. It’s body is not just the bottom half of some legs; his decay spreads quickly. “Leshy and Heket preferred their more physical abilities and brute strength. Kallamar has a multitude of weapons, so he collected them. Shamura preferred a more mental warfare.”

Lambert keeps pace with him. “And you?”

“Didn’t matter. All succumb to death eventually to the end. I had to do very little except wait.” He coils his claws around the scythe’s handle with nostalgia. “A weapon certainly speeds up the process, though.”

The lamb laughs. It’s short and cut off with a snort, but genuine. “I though you were supposed to be patient. Did you guys ever spar with each other?”

Narinder’s ears are deliberately rotated back to face the front and away from where he did not give them permission to listen. “I-”

He stops. A coldness settles in the air, sharpened by a breeze that breaks the silence with rustling leaves and bothering the eyes of flowers that watch them. Lambert comes to a half as well, unaware, as the God of Death recollects himself. They are only a pace or so back, and do not flinch when his head turns, eyes wide and red with newly reminded anger.

The comfort of his blade in hand loosened his lips more than what he would have normally allowed. A momentary lapse, but the sting is permanent. The lamb is as good as a listener as they are a talker.

The God of Death has, once again, gone silent with rage.

Even so, Lambert’s hand comes inching out from their fleece. “Can I hold it?”

The scythe dissipates into nothing before they can touch it. The hiss that comes out from his throat is low. “Be of use and kill the witness. I have suffered in your presence long enough.”

-

Barbatos dies quickly. Narinder does not help, just like he always does.

God tears are collected from the corpse before the flesh even goes cold and sinks into the stone. Narinder is already halfway out of the room by the time Lambert is driving the killing blow into the head-mouth-opening thing on the worm, and the lamb barely has enough time to remember what the follower form of this guy looked like long after his passing many generations ago before a weird tug on their throat feels like Narinder is trying to teleport back to the village early.

Touching was never allowed, but luckily standing on the same stone was enough to secure teleportation worked on the first try.

It’s night by the time they arrive back. There is no one to greet them, or witness them, so Narinder already has his back turned and is stalking off in the direction of his cabin before anyone can bother him.

Clearly the lamb does not take hints, and if they did, they do not care. “Wait.”

At least they have have the better half of a mind not to reach out for him. They still skid around his front and stand in front of him like a courier, and it still annoys him. Lambert can tell. They do not need to look to his face or feel the bristle of his fur to know they were dancing on the edge of an already stretched patience, like the state of his tail thrashing wouldn’t tell them.

But they like it here, standing right at the edge of where he waits and where he snaps. He listens when they do. Lambert captures the cat’s attention. “It’ll be a few days before the next crusade into Darkwood. It might be the last one into Darkwood.” They speak. A pause. No response from the god that stares them down. “Meaning Leshy-”

“I am well aware.” His tone is a rumble. Tired. Tormented. “Fix that unsightly mess before the trip lest you let it be the weakness that feeds you to my brother, or I’ll cut you both down myself.”

He storms past them. If he wasn’t adverse to touch, they think he would have clipped their shoulder just for the hell of it.

Looking down, Lambert inspects the frayed bandage. Fresh blood is starting to leak out from the stained fabric. They sigh, and turn towards the healing bay.

Chapter Text

The forest is quiet at night. The pathway is clear of followers who are asleep in their homes. The doors of his siblings echo with whispers of a purgatory he once reigned. Heket’s Anura is the closest one to remain closed, though the way it pulls for a lifeforce is not dissimilar to how his own gate once worked. Kallamar’s and Shamura’s domains are too far to hear, though he imagines they are the same. Leshy’s Darkwood is the only one open, and there’s a dirt pathway forming at the entrance from repeated entry.

All of the doorways (portals, they are) to the god’s domain sit neatly in this space; the cult grounds were once a place of congregation before his imprisonment. Followers of different faiths to collect and celebrate and mingle. That was over a thousand years ago; the party grounds were grown over with foliage; paths weeded over. A gift of convenience for his later vessels to attempt to create a cult. A success for one.

The lamb is in the temple in their own room, possibly sleeping. Narinder checked.

The deity standing in his gateway looks down at him, and the God of Death sinks his teeth into his own tongue.

“You are different than how I last saw you.” Says the deity. ‘Mystic Seller’, the lamb called it.

Narinder frowns from underneath his hood. “It is an inferior body. My godhood remains.”

Most of it, anyway.

Eyes of a dimension unknown stare down at him. It has no expression, no telling of emotion, save for the way that it’s voice occasionally drawls or lingers or cuts short. The Mystic Seller is as unreadable as he is; it is a mockery that this thing stand in his doorway where he once called souls to worship. The gateway was destroyed and replaced with a portal to it’s dimension. There was no way back to the afterlife.

Not that he wanted to go back, not quite. He spent over a thousand and a half years in that hell. But still not being able to have the choice irked him.

“That is not what I mean.” The Mystic Seller corrects itself. “For you have changed in many ways, yes, but I do not speak of your physical appearance.” A pause. “You seek power to restore your former self.”

Of course he does. What else is this thing any use for? Eyes of unknown linger on him, and searching for a point of interest that makes his chest feel tight. There is no need for such formality or mysticism. A business transaction is required.

Something must have caught the deity’s interest, because the eyes never leave him, seeing something Narinder cannot.

“Tell me, God of Death.” The Mystic Seller sounds curious. “Of whom is the pet? That who clings to it’s other, or the one that wags it’s tail when they do?”

-

Lambert realized sometime after the arrival of Death and their current shared predicament that they lost an hour of productivity in the morning. Or two, depending on the day.

Not in literal time, no, but it turns out when you need to sleep and eat somewhat regularly again comes the woes of it. Turns out eating certain things after a long time of going without can be quite upsetting for the stomach, there’s more of a ‘live-in’ mess in their room than just books and ink and their fleeces since now they actually have to make the bed and dust the cobwebs since they’re in here a lot more often, and it turns out that they typically wake up with a wicked bedhead.

Most of the time after waking up is spent combing their wool to a more presentable shape. The leader of such a glorious flock must look as ‘perfect’ as a chosen prophet can get. Which basically means that they just look decent enough, and it takes more time and more hurry to get it done before the morning sermon than they would like to admit.

The morning sermon goes by quickly in routine. The lamb counts those in attendance; Many regulars, missing those who are sick, or injured, per usual. Paazi’s parents seem to whisper to each other. Lambert does not need mind reading to know that they still worry for their daughter. A stag is picking his nose when he thinks no one is watching. A crow is praying a little harder than usual. Finor is silent; her voice is long since strained from repeated chants. The pig, Grekimar, is staring at the ground quiet as well. Lambert would continue their inspection of the flock if their gaze was not met by the eyes of a dog follower who seems to be starry eyed at their sermon, and quickly gives him a smile of a blessing to play off the mishap. Best not to look suspicious. An uncertain lamb is a cornered lamb.

Paazi’s room is the first errand for today. Lambert arrives with a smile, a basket of camellias, and a piece of candy hidden in their cloak. The curtain to her room at the healing bay is moved aside to show her sitting up in bed with a sad pout, but alive. One of her parents; a bat with bad vision, is sitting at her bedside. Her other father must be at the shrine; they sit with Paazi in shifts, and Lambert will not allow anyone to heckle them for it.

The bat turns their head to the leader when they enter, and their sudden smile crinkles their eyes. “Oh, my leader!”

“Good morning.” Lambert greets. They send Paazi a smile as they set the basket upon the foot of her bed, and her response is a childish sniffle. “The nurse told me you were recovering well, but you were complaining about some lingering pain.” They gesture to them, and the bat takes them into their arms as the lamb continues. “Tea made with those will help with that.”

“As caring as ever, my lamb.” The bat nods gratefully, head turning to the girl. “You would like to say thank you, don’t you?” The frog girl’s face is scrunched up like she just got done crying. She turns away, and the bat gives a short, half-laugh. “She’s ah, cranky. Haven’t been able to sleep, my dear. For obvious reasons.”

Lambert’s face would fall itself if they weren’t purposely performing the role of grand, unbothered leader at all times. “Hey,” Their hand extends from their cloak, pulling out a piece of honey candy. Hardened honey with sugar. A treat not common throughout the year. “I know those flowers don’t taste very good, but this might make things a little sweeter, yeah?”

Her face instantly brightens. The child’s head perks up and her arms dart out, chubby, stubby fingers grab the candy from their hands like a precious treasure. Lambert laughs. “I thought so. Is there anything else you might need?”

The girl stares at them, and her head droops. Shy thing.

“You can tell them, it’s okay.” The bat says to the side. When the lamb looks, they seem to be patting their daughter’s knee affectionately.

The coaxing from the parent must have worked, because the girl’s mumble is quiet as she fumbles with the round candy in her palm. “I wanna see the cat. ” She says. “Bremar said there was a cat.”

“Oh.” Lambert’s ears crane back, and their smile feels a little forced. “He’s not…very talkative. Would you like me to pass him a message?”

The girl suddenly takes on the expression like she was just told she was going to be denied playing toys or treats ever again. Such is the emotions of a child in the presence of who she perceives as important via her parent’s reactions to the lamb, and who just went through a rather traumatizing experience. Lambert wishes they could do more.

The bat turns to them with a knowing look. “Please just pass our regards. We are sorry for any trouble or rumors this has caused him. We owe him a great deal.”

“Of course. I’ll be sure to deliver it to him.” Lambert’s posture straightens, returning that same smile. Reassurance of a leader. Formally distant and yet always a comfort to others. With a simple farewell and blessing to be healed, the lamb bows in the doorway, and departs to the next errand for the day.

The farmlands are vast compared to the days of old.

The toiled soil here has seen work through many generations, and Lambert often lends their own hands on days with free time. There are several farm houses, mills and barns. It is acres of land that will provide harvest of a different food each season, though some produce year-round if done correctly. The agriculture of the village is one of the feats that lamb is most proud of, not including the housing, or the shrine, or the library, or the market, or the festivals, or the bath house, or the soon-to-be plumbing, or everything else for that matter, actually.

They’ve worked really hard to get things as good as to where they are now. Centuries spent in advancing this cult. They still use some production from the outhouses as fertilizer sometimes, though.

“Good morning, Joon!” Lambert calls out to the first farmer they come across.

Said ‘Joon’, is the pale yellow cat currently on their knees digging small holes into the soil for sewing seeds. The spade they’re supposed to use is somewhere forgotten in the grass as they prefer to use their claws instead. Lambert has half a mind to ask if it’s because they’re a cat purely to wonder if Narinder would ever do something similar. Actually, Nevermind. There’s no way he’d dig his claws into dirt willingly. He’d probably prefer to dig them into the lamb’s organs.

There’s a joke in there somewhere that they can file away for later in their mind as the yellow cat’s head perks up with upturned ears. “Oh, Good morning great leader!’

“Hello, Joon.” Lambert smiles, gaze briefly darting over to the weaved bag of plants and harvests the cat lugs around. “Did the courier give you the packages Plimbo sent? I was told they’d be in by yesterday, but I was to busy to come by and check.”

“Already on it. Took it upon myself to go ahead and start sowing. Hope that’s alright.” Without prompt, Joon’s hand darts into the backpack and digs out a small brown package. It’s thrusted towards the leader with dirt, soiled coated claws and a toothy grin. “Here’s your quality check! Real excited to see what kinda foods these things grow. Thinking about doing a farming ritual to speed things along?”

“Perhaps once all the seeds are sown, yes. I think that would be a good idea.” Lambert takes the package, holds it simply in their hands, and resists the urge to open it right then and there out of curiosity. They tuck it underneath their arm. “We’ll have a much more varied food palate if all of this goes well. Thank you for all your hard work, I trust that you’ll keep up with their growth until then.”

Joon takes off their straw hat and lays it over their chest in a form of a salute. Lambert accepts it instead of a bow-all of the flock have their own little manners- and bids them adieu.

The lamb isn’t even fully out of the wheat fields when another follower approaches with a handful of logs to tell them that the structural pillars holding up the construction for the bathhouse needed to be checked, another follower was caught stealing some extra food from the storehouse, some child puked in the temple, a trader was waiting at the gate waiting to be processed, and there was a fight happening behind some of the houses over the insult of someone’s hair.

Lambert thanks them for the information, and only sighs when the follower has turned away. The woes of being a leader was tiring, extensive, and time consuming.

It is the late-afternoon before they can catch a break from tending to the flock. A break that consists of shoveling a handful of berries into their mouth as they trot towards the cabin near the edge of the village. It is right after lunch break, and everyone has returned to their chores and their work, so there’s no one to see them have a little more pep in their step than what is considered appropriate.

To the flock, the Lamb must appear as perfect and unbothered as possible. To Narinder, Lambert can be freely obnoxious.

The door to his home is shut tight as always. Lambert runs up to it, rapping their knuckles on the door in quick succession of tiny, little knocks. “Hey! Guess what! Plimbo’s shipment came in today and now we’re going to have tons of new food to try soon! Fruits that we’ve never had before! Veggies other than just pumpkin!” They pop one of the last few berries they were carrying in their fleece in their mouth, and chew while they talk. “S’gonna be great! I think everyone is getting sick and tired of all the same foods all the time. Pumpkin bread is really tasty but you can only have it so many times before you get sick, and no one wants to eat cauliflower every day all year.”

There’s a small tug in their ribs and a shuffle coming from inside the hut. No acknowledgement to their rambling. Lambert digs out the package of seeds tucked in their fleece and starts to unravel the wrappings, delighted to see each seed package properly labeled and a few sheets of parchment neatly folded with their name addressed to them. “I think Plimbo left instructions on how to properly care for the crops, so I’ll have to go back and give this to the lead farmer. But there’s so many of them! I just have a small part, of course. The rest are actually already being planted. I was thinking about doing a harvest ritual to speed things up once all the seeds are sown since it we could really use the extra harvest, so I’ll have to harvest bones next time we’re in Darkwood-”

The door swings open. Lambert blinks as the space before them now stands Narinder; slightly disheavlied, tired, and glowering down at them. “If you are going to bleat at my door like a confessional, you might as well come in.”

Oh!

Well…okay, then!

His back turns on them, walking back inside the cabin and leaving the door ajar. Lambert hesitates in the doorway before stepping inside.

The room isn’t a mess, at least not in the way that means shredded curtains and blood splattered walls, but it certainly looks occupied. Oils and parchment paper sit on his dresser along with some of the books the lamb has brought him at some point, some of them clearly rifled through, while an empty bathing bucket sits to the corner. Candles are burnt down halfway, which is surprising considering he keeps the curtains closed all the time. At least the bed is made.

Disorganized, but not messy. Just a little lived in, they can’t say their room is any better. Lambert watches as Narinder lights the candle near his bedside table. The book they’ve crafted for him not long ago sits there with a near-empty inkwell. “…I should really get you some oil lanterns. It’s not good to have candles burning all the time in the day.” They muse.

The cat says nothing, tired half-lidded eyes facing them just to stare. His gaze drop slightly, and narrows.

Lambert’s eyes avoid the red and roam instead. There’s a suspicious looking dark spot on the floor near the end of his bed. The wood spot appears rotted slightly. “What happened to your floorboards-?”

“Are you wearing make-up?”

Their question is taken over by his own. Lambert looks up from the dark spot to the cat, who’s eyes seemed to be locked onto their mouth with furrowed brows. A shifty feeling from underneath their fleece. The lamb brings up a hand and wipes it across their mouth, the back of their hand coming back a reddish-pink. “Oh, no. It’s just berry juice.”

Narinder blinks at them as they wipe the stain away with the red of their cloak. They probably wouldn’t have noticed if this conversation was still behind the door, so him pointing them out will save face in front of the flock. When they look back up to him, his eyes have dropped lower, to the leg and the package they’re holding, before the gaze meets theirs and stays there. The cat is particularly uncaring about being caught today.

“Right! I was talking about seeds!” The reminder of what they came here to show him comes back like a hitting brick. Lambert fumbles with the package and pinching several little bags between hooved fingers and trying to unravel several pages at once. “We’re going to have so many new foods. No idea what kind of meals to make with them yet, but Plimbo said his wife would write down some recipes for us. I think this package is brussel sprouts.” They shift through the little packs of seeds, each with a little doodle and name underneath the flap. “This one is blackberries, this one is melons, and this one is eggplant. I think this one is peaches, tomatoes, and cherries and apples-those apparently come from trees, so we’ll need a new section of farmland for them. Oh, and this one is strawberries, blue berries, pommy-graneet-”

“Pomegranate.” Narinder corrects their pronunciation.

“Pomegranate, yeah, yeah. Plimbo said you eat the seeds of that one.” Their sentence stops abrupt at the end with the realization, and Lambert hurries to open the package labeled as such. Their eagerness is dampened with the realization that the inside is coated red and wet. “Aw, I squished them.” A pause, they look to him. “You ever had one before?”

Narinder’s eyes are lingering lower than their fleece, but he still answers. “Many of such fruits were used as dyes to decorate the banners and cloths of my temple.”

“Dyes?” Lambert’s ears perk up. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that! We’re going to have so many more colors!”

“Lamb.”

“Yeah?”

“You have not fixed that mess.”

He makes no move to gesture to what he means, so the lamb must follow his gaze lower. It falls on their leg; unbandaged. The skin there is still a bit gnarly, a jagged scar that runs it’s length across the calf that shrinks with every given day. The lamb would give it more focus and concentration to heal if their attention wasn’t always being divided among other cult responsibilities, but a good night’s rest or two has seem it improve vastly.

They stick their leg out and give it a kick. “It’s pretty much all healed now. There’s a scar, sure, but that’ll be gone in a day or two. If I didn’t have some other responsibilities to take care of, I’d be ready for Darkwood again by tonight.” They shift the leg back under them, and ignore the self conscious feeling of eyes trailing the limb. “…I figured that’s what you’re waiting on, huh? To get it all out of the way.”

“What’s to come will happen regardless.” Narinder mulls. His attention is still brief beneath their cloak. “I’m surprised you did not ask me to help heal it.”

Oh, was that it? The lamb laughs. It is short, and awkward. “I think that would be asking too much of you. I know you prefer not to touch me.”

Narinder bites his tongue between sharp teeth. The lamb sees nothing but the twitch in his hand that hides to his robes. “Correct.”

“I know you said that you weren’t interested in meeting them, but Paazi’s parents wanted me to pass along their thanks again. It would be nice if they got to meet you. It would be nice if you got to meet anyone, actually.” The lamb starts, and immediately they can see Narinder tire of their presence. “…Would a veil help somehow?”

Narinder’s face morphs a sneer. His claws extend in the manner of a threat, the promise of decay on his fingertips. “And gloves, unless you prefer me to dwindle your number of flock.”

“I can do that!” Lambert looks chipper still. “I still have some silk left over from Silk’s Cradle. It might take me a while to make both, and I can get someone to help me craft them, but I think I can make both. The gloves might take longer though, and I’ll have to take your hand measurements. But I can guess size with the veil.”

His tone isn’t mean when he says it, but Narinder looks a touch in thought. The lamb’s eagerness is still surprising. It is not trustful. “That was sarcasm, lamb.”

“Ah, so just the veil then?” They don’t look all that disheartened. Their gaze flickers to the floor while their hands try to repackage all the seed packets back into the parchment, albeit badly, and pause only glance at a crudely written paper. “I think this is an apple pie recipe! Looks like there’s instructions on how to make vegetable oil and peanut oil too, and how to make blackberry wine.”

“Must you bother me with these.” He dulls. The cat sits on his bed, tail swishing behind him. Lambert wishes they could see what he does exactly when he’s cooped up in here, but it appears that as long as they are in his room, his attention remains on them. Meaning: they can’t scope out his space and get an idea of what he does too much without it being blantidly obvious. “It has no benefit. I cannot eat any of what you speak. You cannot enjoy some of those, either.”

“Just because we can’t doesn’t mean some people won’t like it.” They tease. The package is redone and stuffed back up under their arm. “You should tell me what fruits and berries you used to make certain dyes. I could totally get you a nice colored rug to cover up that weird rotted spot on the floor you’ve got going on there.”

His tail flicks. “I don’t care about it. I do not know enough about the dye making process to even be able to explain it to you.”

“What did your temple even look like anyways?” It is a question they have asked several times in the past and possibly several times more in the future, from the first days in the afterlife after their revival as a vessel, to standing awkwardly in single-person hut that Narinder isolates himself in. He never gives them a proper, detailed answer, so they chip away and let their imagination fill in the gaps. Lambert’s hands raise in the air, fingers splayed and envisioning something grandiose. “You know, since you said it’s so grand and majestic, you could at least brag about it.”

His ears crane back. “It matters not anymore. I have not seen it in over a thousand years.”

The lamb does not take the hint. “Your sibling’s domains and temples looked so…in-character for them. So, did you just have bones and corpses and blood decorating yours? It would explain why you don’t know how to make things.”

“Of course not.” He hisses. “I have taste, and I do not make the décor, but I am a god. I ordered it to be done. My siblings were more proficient in such talents. You ask the wrong bishop.”

“Oh? Like what?”

He leans back on his hands. “Kallamar was to make jewelry; he made ornaments for our domains. Shamura could weave whatever banner or shawl or any decorative cloth was needed for the occasion-”

The cat cuts himself off short. The low-lidded look he’s been carrying suddenly widens for a second, then drops. Flared irritation heats in his face.

The lamb smiles at him regardless. “You still haven’t told me why your floorboards look like that.”

“It’s what will happen to you if you do not make yourself scarce.”

Ah, so he’s hit his social limit, then. “Tired of me already?”

“I’m tired.” He speaks lowly, and it sounds genuine. “More tired than you can fathom. Leave me so I can get some proper rest.”

Very well. The lamb has many chores and responsibilities to attend to afterwards anyway. With a tilted head, their horns and crown are bowed an inch in farewell to the cat. His nose wrinkles up in distaste. The irony of the crown bowing to himself remains. “Thanks for letting me in for a bit.”

“Get out already.” He lingers near the bedside table. His tail thumps against the edge.

Lambert raises with a smile, turns towards the exit and shuts the door behind them.

-

They do not go to his door that night, or the next morning, or the afternoon after that.

Well, they try to, but it’s a bit difficult when you think at that you might have a few minutes to spare to go bother him do they get caught up into some other follower mischief or problem. Twice in one hour did the lamb turn to start heading to his door just to be caught by a flock member coming to them with some sort of problem.

They’re running low on stone, so the carving of bathtubs are delayed. Someone got smacked in the head by a support beam that wasn’t properly nailed down in the construction site of the new bathrooms. The first test of plumbing went great, until kids through some toys down the new toilets to see what would happen. A new job will need to be created for someone to be in charge of boiling heated water, and another to keep the house clean. The bath house itself was nearly built but the architects were arguing over having stained glass in ceilings for natural lighting or to use lanterns for the lighting instead, arguing over a strain on resource of oil vs the availability of colored glass and how long the process will take to fire it. The lamb tells them to do both; the glass windows on the ceiling will provide light during the day and the lanterns are to be only used at night. There. Now everyone is happy.

It is straining, time-consuming, and frustrating. But at least their plumbing project was coming along great.

It is night again before they can have any peace to themselves, and Lambert goes to Narinder’s door and knocks. “Narinder?”

Silence.

“I’m going out.” Lambert continues anyway. “I’m leaving the common grounds for a little while. Do you want to come?”

Silence again. The permission he gave them does not extend to every single night, but Lambert cannot stop themselves from pressing their knuckles against the wood gently, and pushing the door open.

It is not locked, surprisingly, but there is no cat inside to glare at them. The bed is made, and the books are stacked neatly. Black liquid is dried near the bedside table that is either ink or ichor, but it doesn’t look like enough that they should be worried. The book they made is sitting there too, and although the urge to read it is strong, they refrain. Lambert already invaded the privacy of many by reading minds before they lost that power, and many times have they bothered and annoyed Narinder in his domain, but that was a peace offering, of a sort. He’s probably just writing about how many ways he could eviscerate them in there.

Narinder is not here. Wherever he might be, he is off to do his own thing. Lambert shuts the door without going inside, and walks back down the hill.

Everyone is asleep, so there’s no one to bother them or try to get their attention on the walk to the kitchen. Swinging the curtain back, they find that the cook has left out the ingredients and equipment as instructed prior in the day. Water is not needed for this meal, but the coals under the fire alight with a match; a grill is used instead of a cauldron this time. On the counter are salted meats, some fresher than others, cuts from wild squirrels and other wildlife fit for consumption. Some fish is also set aside for such an occasion. The kitchen smells of meat.

Lambert blows air out from their nose as the meat cooks, gathering the finished pieces into a wooden bowl and replacing the strips on the grill. It is not a pleasant smell to them, even with the spices and herbs used to season the meal. Maybe it’s because they are a lamb, but it’s probably because they’ve smelled burning flesh and meat several times over years of fireballs being reflected back at heretics until their clothes catch fire and they burn alive. Maybe it’s also because Lambert has died to fire magic once or two or hundreds of times before as well. Probably that one.

At the very least, some of the carnivore followers really like this particular dish, so it’s needed for the night. The steak slab is laid across the counter and the kitchen knife grabbed in hand, and Lambert tries not to imagine themselves laid across an alter as the blade slices several cuts of meat from the piece-

The curtain of the kitchen’s entrance shifts in a manner that the wind does not permit, a threatening presence consumes the room where shadows lay heaviest in the corners where the fire doesn’t touch, and Lambert’s first instinct is to throw it in the direction of the movement before their head even fully looks up at it.

The knife lodges into the wooden doorframe a few inches deep. They’re frozen, hand still in the air, body poised for a fight as they stare at the curtain. Everyone should be asleep, no one should be awake; no one has a moon necklace. It has been a year or two since the last time a heretic or dissenter snuck around at night in order to infiltrate and assassinate them, but Lambert honed their reflexes to react quicker after the first time long ago. That was a death unneeded. A knife to the doorframe was not missed, it is a warning.

Except there is no one there.

The feeling of being watched. Lambert’s mouth curls into a frown as their eyes narrow, and open their palm to summon the sword.

Shadows flicker from it. The crown refuses to be called.

“I thought lambs were supposed to have a wide peripheral vision.”

His voice disarms them quicker than the realization does. Ears perked up, shoulders dropping the tension before they’re even fully turned to face him, Lambert’s head swivels around to the cat in their shadow. “Ah, it’s you.”

His eye twitches when they do that. Maybe they should have faked being scared or something.

“I do have good vision, actually. It’s how I noticed you come in.” Good vision. Distant attention span, though. Lambert walks over to the doorframe, and fails to pull out the knife from the wood in the first try. “I didn’t see you move behind me though.”

Narinder clicks his tongue. “I’ve been here for a few minutes.”

“Oh.” They don’t look at him in the guise of yanking the knife out from the wood. “…Well, if you were a normal follower, you’d be dead by now.”

Pinprick pupils follow them as they walk back to the counter, and Narinder mulls. “Speak heresy again and I shall rip your horns from your head.”

“No thank you, I like them there.” It is a light hearted jest, and they see his ear twitch out of the corner of their eye.

He seems to enjoy watching them in stealth; probably something to do with his assassination's plan of his, though disappointed that they do not react when they realize he was here. Well, they did react, (even if a bit late) and not the way he would have preferred. Lambert has long gotten used to Narinder’s presence so easily through the red crown that him slipping back into their bubble was as natural and smooth as the breeze.

The reflexes and nerves honed to keep them safe from assassination, including his own attempts, do not trigger when their mind knows it is him.

They wipe the knife on their cloak, position it over the meat and continue to slice it into even pieces. “You reminded me of that time a dissenter snuck up on me when the cult first started. You know? The one with the clipped ears and the bob tail.”

Narinder stands still while they work. “I do not memorize the fodder.”

Lambert thinks for a minute. “The one that stabbed me to death after the morning sermon.”

That seems to have the gears turn in his head for a moment. A flicker of recognition behind his eyes. A memory of a beetle, (or maybe it was a deer? They had things upon their head, but that’s all he recalls) angry with the Lamb’s performance. This was near the start of their journey, dying many times in Darkwood to heretics, still learning how to tend to their follower’s needs. The dissenter later took a blade to the lamb’s gullet when they failed to return with more berries. “…I remember. He thought you were weak.”

“Yeah.” Lambert smiles like it’s a fond memory. It’s not, and the death was just as painful as all the others. The company was nice, though. “He stopped dissenting after you resurrected me. I guess it would be a little intimidating if the person you just murdered stood up after a few minutes lying in a blood puddle, huh?”

“I was witness to it.” His mouth is coiled into a frown. “His soul was fit for sacrifice and still you did not provide.”

“He begged for forgiveness.”

“And it shall kill you again.”

A quiet pause. The soft chops of the knife slicing through the meat is all that sits in the air. The lamb sighs. “He ended up dissenting again and taking off with some resources under the guise of a missionary trip. That was probably over a century ago, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t. The follower died being torn apart by monsters, his soul sent to death’s domain where The One Who Waits tortured the traitor for his crime before sending him to some far fetched corner of hell to be forgotten about. But that happened maybe a century or two ago, and the lamb never asked about him nor did Narinder ever plan to tell them, so it doesn’t matter.

The pause is long enough that Narinder notices the soft tapping of a hooved foot against wooden floorboards. Lambert making repetitive motions as they stay focused, background noise in the lull of conversation.

His eyes dart briefly to the mostly-finished meal, and says nothing.

Lambert feels the sudden urge to explain. “It’s not for me.”

“I know that.”

“I’m actually making it for-huh?”

“You don’t eat meat.” He says it plain and deadpan like it’s the most obvious thing in the word.

Most of their following don’t remember that. Well then. Lambert looks down to dish and back up to the cat. “Do you…want some?”

Narinder glares at them.

“Right, right. The whole rot thing.” They move quick to wrap slivers of cooked fish around steak, and lay them in the bowl. Their hands are starting to feel a little grimy from it all. “I wonder if there’s something we can do to fix that.”

Their shadow walks around the edge of the kitchen, away from the cauldron to where the fire from the grill pit dances soft light against his face. The God of Death’s expression has turned into one of mockery. “If this is not for you, then,” He starts, head tilting to the side. “Inviting someone special out to a late night dinner? A late night rendezvous?”

“I’m just bringing it to him, actually.” They continue to finish the bowl, wiping their hands on their cloak and searching for a basin of water when that doesn’t remove the icky feeling. “You didn’t answer at your door.”

They find the small bucket of water left near the cauldron for putting out fires that smells untainted and clean enough for them to stick their hands into. Lambert shakes their hands dry, wiping them down on their cloak again. The cat is silent behind them; they cannot see his expression with his silence.

He responds only when they turn back again. His grin is replaced with the usual frown. “I had a headache.”

They immediately list how much camellia is in stock in their head. “Do you need medicine?”

“No. It is caused by your presence.”

“Hmm.” Approaching him, Lambert’s (damp) hand juts out and they raise it in front of Narinder’s face. His neck cranes back almost comically enough to double his chin. Lambert would laugh if they weren’t trying to be completely serious at the moment. “Headache begone.”

Narinder’s wide eyes narrow into slits. His pupils bore at them from between their fingers.

Lambert drops their hand to the side. “Works on followers sometimes.”

“Your blessings do not work on me. I am the one who gave you such a power.” He scowls. Pauses, then speaks almost with awkwardness. “…and they don’t have a catchphrase.”

“I added the catchphrase when I do them. It makes the flock feel better.” They return to the counter. The dish is ready, magnificent and proper. Slices of steak and fish seasoned and cooked. The lamb retrieves the water bucket and puts out the fire, waving away the smoke. “Soo…whatyya doing outside your house?”

His response is expected. “That is not your concern.”

“Can I take a guess?”

“No.” He says quickly after. “Fresh air. Leave it at that.”

The fire is put out and the smoke dispersed. The kitchen smells of cooked meat; something Lambert can carefully forget, but a pang of guilt aches in their chest when they glance at Narinder. “Does the smell bother you at all? I know you haven’t complained about any hunger pains, but I know smelling food you can’t eat can be very unpleasant.”

His nose wrinkles. “It smells of lamb in here.”

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

He watches them pick up the meal and drop it into the crown’s abyss of a pocket dimension. He looks like he’s going to say something about using the crown as a mule bag but nothing. The lamb cleans up after their mess, and turns to the curtains before looking back to the cat still standing in the corner. “I am to visit the fox. Do you want to come? It’s to a place I wanted to show you before; the cave of gold and trinkets.”

Narinder, for some reason, looks less amused than how he usually does. In fact, he looks rather sour.

He does not answer and makes no expression of willing to indulge them. The lamb shrugs, turns their back on the cat and exits through the curtain.

They’re a few steps away from the kitchen and heading in a straight line towards the teleportation stone when his voice makes itself audible in the way his footsteps do not. “That is for the fox?”

“Yep!” Oh, he’s definitely following them.

“…When I suggested you have him for a candlelit dinner, I did not mean it literally.”

“It’s not like that.” Lambert looks over their shoulder with an amused grin. The expression Narinder carries is furrowed brows and cautious interest. “He wants to eat one of my followers, right? I’m hoping this will appease him instead. He has a talisman piece that could be useful. I figured we’ll need all the power we can get our hands on considering our situation.” The teleportation stone comes into view. Lambert runs up the steps in almost a skip, chipper in their step, and spins back to face the cat as they stand in the middle. “So it’s like a trade! Kinda like how I left offerings in the chest for you for gold.”

Narinder’s ears are craning back ever so slowly. “Do not compare us.”

“Okay.” He seems to be uncomfortable about it. Best to honor that request, then, lest he runs off. It would be nice for him to go to other places outside the flock grounds, preferably when they’re not fighting to the death in the Bishop’s domain. The only place the cat has been to (at least, to the Lamb’s knowledge) was Ratau’s shack, and no offense to the rat, but his forest doesn’t hold a lot of wonders. “The fox is going to be in Mida’s cave tonight. You know, the one with all the creepy gold statues? I’d prefer to get this done tonight before he moves locations.”

Narinder has made no move to join them on the stone. Perhaps he will let the lamb go off alone again after all. “Why tonight in particular?”

“Mida’s cave is pretty!” They laugh. Narinder’s mouth presses into a thin line. The wind blows his robes towards the chatty lamb. “Also, I don’t really feel like going to the other spots he goes to. Smugglers sanctuary can get too crowded with traders, anyway. I only go there to do business or seeing Plimbo, and the Mushroom Grotto is-” A pause. “…Stuffy this time of year.”

Narinder stares at them. His head tilts to the side. A habit he does, they’ve noticed, when something is particularly interesting to him. A cat’s attention is a very analytic thing.

Lambert’s throat is starting to feel uncomfortably dry. “Well, goodnight.”

“Move aside.” He’s approaching before they teleport, and takes the spot next to them. Before the offer can even be made, Narinder’s hand comes from the fabric of his sleeve and finds grip the lamb’s wrist. “Make this quick.”

Lambert blinks at the black claws that rest harmlessly against their skin. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to-”

“Lamb.” Narinder strains.

“Got it.” They teleport; gravity sinks them into the ground and the world around them shifts.

Mida’s golden cave is a beautiful place, especially at night.

Aside from all the statues with golden faces of animals and persons too lively in their expressions of pain and horror, it was a pretty place. The ground is littered with piles of gold, shiny and reflecting light. Jewelry and trinkets hang from the ceiling and sometimes drop down from their place onto the floor like rain, building up this place of wealth and prosperity/ Amber, silver, and copper are abundant here as well, though gold was the favorite of the gods, and the favorite is plastered everywhere from the shops that demand it’s bars to the well that takes its dues. The cave’s high ceiling with it’s gap allows the moonlight to shine in where the lanterns do not, and cast the nightly hue over the sea of wealth.

The teleportation stone is directly at the entrance where the cat and lamb can take in the sights the moment they appear. Viewing this through the red crown did not do the sight justice; a reoccurrence that seems to be happening more with every living world inch he seems to traverse.

Lambert’s the first to take steps forwards into the cave, and Narinder is reminded to drop his grip before the lamb tries to take him with them. “I always thought this place was pretty. The statues kinda weird me out, and Mida’s is kind of an asshole, but he’s not here tonight I don’t think.” They’ve sauntered over to one of the gold piles, pointedly avoiding the statue’s gazes and scoop up a handful. Gem, gold and jewelry rain from their palm and back down below. “Red is still my favorite color, but I like how the light looks when it reflects off shiny things.”

The light does reflect and bounce back against their face and their wool. Narinder looks away to shield himself from it. “Your greed is showing, Lamb.”

“It’s not about the money, just the aesthetic.” They walk further into the cave; Narinder following. A music box plays somewhere in the distance, echoing off of the walls. “Pretty, but I don’t know if I want the flock to look anything like this. Too much and it’s kinda gaudy.” A pause. “And the followers might go a little mad with greed, I think.”

A noise of impatience comes from behind them. “Are we here to made a trade, are do you just want to ogle at the Gods of Wealth’s treasury for an hour?”

Lambert’s response is a short snort. “I’m trying to show you pretty things, Narinder.”

“I’ve seen many wonders vastly more impressive than a cave full of golden corpses.” He scoffs. He has the urge to knock over one of these statues just for kicks. “This pitiful hole in the dirty holds nothing to my temple or the temples of the bishops. At the very least, we were organized. Kallamar’ s treasury was greater than this.”

The lamb stops their fidgeting with a necklace they found on the ground, and turns back to blink at him. “Kallamar had a treasury?”

Narinder’s swishing tail goes still for a moment, then continues, like he realized he had just said a private thought out loud. Perhaps he did. “…We all do. We keep more gold and treasures of a different sort in them.” His voice has taken on an undertone of low hostility. It’s only punctuated when the scythe is summoned into his grip, using it as a tool to shove over a nearby statue. It falls to the side with it’s limbs still up in the air with a solid thunk. His skin itches with irritation still. “It’s pathways are only visible to us gods. No thieves that way.”

Through the reflection of the scythe’s blade, he can see the lamb’s eyes twinkle at the sight of it, attention lost from the gold to him instead. “Oh! Can I see the treasury?”

“What part of ‘no thieves’ do you not understand?” He snaps. Narinder’s attitude has taken a vile turn. “Find the fox. Make your trade and be done with it. I tire of this place already.”

With all the obedience of a vessel learned, the lamb straightens their posture and salutes with an upbeat smile. He doesn’t know if they’re doing that out of mockery, reflex, or simply a playful manner of communication, but it makes his tail bristle all the same. Lambert struts off in one direction he stalks them in, to the edge of the cave where the stone drops off into darkness. The chipperness in their movements tells that they believe their plan will work, or at the very least they’re quite hopeful about it.

The air is heavy here where they stop. The symbol of a crescent moon burned into the stone, temporary and yet unchanging. Narinder watches from a few paces behind as the lamb leans down and touches it, their fingers rising as shadow accumulates to the front of them. It is unusual to see a lamb so willingly to summon a fox that shows it’s teeth ready to devour.

(Then again, the lamb comes to Narinder’s doorstep every day.)

“Little Lamb, we meet again.” A voice, low and echoing, reverbs from the shadows as a face and his cloak makes itself known. The muzzle and teeth of the Fox are the first to form, then it’s eyes that find purchase on Lambert’s expression, upturning into a sly grin as the rest of his body materializes. “A beautiful night, is it not? Does your Cult flourish? Are they devoted? Are they strong?”

The lamb’s head bows slightly. They are smiling in greeting. “Good evening, Fox. They are doing well.”

The manners of a leader once more. The Fox is fully formed now, eyes crimson and the same color as his fur, a stark contrast to the dark and the gold that surrounds them. “Our meeting is not accidental. I feel as though you have thought about my offer and brought me an offering in return, then? For if it was refusal, you would not have graced me with your company.” He chuckles, delighted. “Your followers are well, then how about our deal then? I’m afraid the hunting tonight is quite sparse-”

The Fox’s sentence finishes abruptly, his eyes trail to the lamb’s shadow, merely a pace or so behind them. “Ah. You are not alone, little lamb.”

Lambert straightens their posture and preps for introduction. “Fox, this is Nar-”

“The One Who Waits.” Narinder’s voice cuts them off.

Black eyes turn to the black cat momentarily. Narinder’s gaze does not travel to meet theirs, rather his stoic expression is kept to the Fox in the dark. He looks to the entity with a mixture of boredom and distaste. He hasn’t unsummoned his scythe yet.

“Ah.” Says the Fox. “I figured. I had always sensed a presence within your crown, Lamb. I never imagined it would stand before me.” The Fox then tips his muzzle slightly, though his eyes never drop low, grin still inching up on his face like splitting bark. “Welcome, God of Death. If I had known I would be in the presence of the divine this evening, I would have brushed my fur.”

Narinder makes no attempt to respond.

The Fox’s grin grows even more manical. “Not one for talking, are we?”

“I brought you something to eat?” Lambert interjects. It’s a bit awkward standing between them; the God of Death perhaps has no good view of a creature wanting to consume the followers that were supposed to generate devotion for said god. An attempt at thievery of resources, perhaps. The lamb summons the crown’s pockets and pulls out the bowl of meats and fish and lobster they prepared, all still perfectly organized into an appealing dish, and holds it out.

“To your taste, I hope.” They smile. “I offer you something more varied than just what the flesh of one of my followers could give you.”

Crimson eyes draw down to the offering, and the Fox’s face turns softer in a manner of mockery and pleasant surprise. “Oh, little lamb. How thoughtful of you. Though, I’m afraid I prefer a fresher plate. One that still bleeds from a pulse as I consume them.”

If there were any doubts about the Fox’s cannibalistic qualities, they were tossed into the darkness of where he resides. Lambert tries again and summons all the charm of a cult leader they might possess. “Grilled and seasoned meat is vastly superior than something of the flesh that you don’t know where it’s been.” They offer the bowl again, ears pointed upwards. “Give it a try? I cooked it myself.”

“I would gladly accept meat from you, little lamb.” The Fox keens. His tongue catches in-between his teeth when he chuckles, and his gaze only briefly drops down to the healing wound scarred on their leg. “But I cannot trade the talisman for it.”

There is a long moment of hopeful pause broken only by the sound of a blade dragging slightly against the floor behind them, then Lambert sighs. The bowl of meat is lowered. Their pose of professional leader drops at the disappointment. “Alright then.”

“Finding a meal in the living has been difficult. Too many predators, not enough prey.” The Fox’s gaze briefly glances behind them. A hand inches out from his cloak, clawed fingers hooked to shake. “If you give me one of your loyal followers, I will give you the talisman in return. Do you agree? It is only a single one of your number. Surely there is someone you would rather not deal with?”

“No, Fox.” Lambert repeats. They dip their head, cueing a farewell. “I’ll be back…I don’t know when. Sometime I guess. I’ll find another way.”

“Very well.” The Fox’s hand retracts, and as he does the darkness around him seems to seep into his cloak and fade him back into black. He gives the lamb one last farewell before the shadows disperse him. “You know where to find me, little lamb. I’ll be waiting.”

The Fox is gone. The darkness swallowing him turns into nothing more than nightly fog, and the shine of the gold around them is all that remains.

Lambert’s heel turns away from the edge and lets their expression draw into a pout. All that work just to be refused. They almost bump into Narinder’s shoulder as they past, and look up to still see him glaring somewhere into the darkness. A flick of his ear, and his head turns to face them, mouth drawn into an equally unpleasant expression.

Narinder takes them in. “…What?”

“It’s just wasteful.” They start their trek back to the teleportation stone. The weight in their chest from knowing their efforts were useless in the end is not a good feeling, especially when there’s so much to be done back at the camp grounds. The bowl of meat sits awkwardly in their hands now. “I’m not gonna eat it, and I don’t think anyone is gonna be awake in time before it goes cold or stale.”

Narinder seems to break from whatever stance he was in, and takes steps in the direction of the stone. “The effort for the creature was wasted. Take your loss.”

Lambert’s ears are low. They swing with gravity as they walk. “Bah. It’s not like you offered any help. You looked pretty intense back there.”

“I want that talisman.” Narinder speaks plainly. The lamb is surprised to hear the direct honesty, though their ears are starting to keen back to the scythe that’s currently being dragged against the stone floor like a dejected tail. “And the rest of whatever we find, relics included. We should have killed him instead of bartering like lowly traders.”

Lambert hums, eyes shining down to the black blade that reflects the gold of the room. “Is that why you pulled your weapon out? What, did you think we were going to attack him?”

His tail twitches. The scythe is unsummoned, and disappears like black liquid to the skin of his wrist. “No.”

Another sigh. He can be so difficult to read sometimes. The bowl of salted and seasoned meats sits in their hands even as the lamb pauses and looks to it with a look of exasperation. “I thought since we’re recovering from a food shortage that it would be fine, but now this just feels wasteful.” They look to him with big, shiny eyes. “Are you sure you can’t eat it?”

Narinder almost hisses at them. “You are insistent with it.”

“Your other powers seemed to have ‘progressed’. I was kinda hoping your ability to turn things to rot would have uh…adapted, too.”

Their interest in his powers developing is something he cannot pinpoint the motive for; though something tells him its less out of the same motive of wanting to learn and gain more power, and more akin to the several hundreds of questions the lamb would give him in his domain. Simply to Know, and to learn, and bother him. The lack of control over his own abilities is a constant reminder of their betrayal.

The memory must have shown on his face, because the lamb’s reaction goes from hopeful to something that dampens at the sight of him. The meat bowl lowers. “Sorry.”

“Quiet.” It is spoken lowly, but the malice he intended to put into the word simply does not manifest. Narinder’s claw darts out and punctures a small sliver of meat from the bowl, raising it up. The lamb looks surprised when he does but makes no move to stop him from inspecting the slice.

It doesn’t rot to his touch. Purposely, he tries to keep it that way. It smells more enticing up close, one that a starved follower would start to salivate if they caught wind. But Narinder has self-control, and restraint, to conduct such a test. He forces himself to think of nothing, no good nor evil, even as the lamb’s attention lingers on him as he pops it in his mouth.

It taste…like nothing. Bland. Like water or air. The texture is there, sure, but there’s no taste that comes with the smell-

“Maybe I should give it to the Fox.” Lambert sighs again when Narinder makes no immediate positive reaction. “At least that way it doesn’t go to waste.”

The food on his tongue immediately turns to rot and sour decay. Bile threatens to crawl up Narinder’s throat as he turns to the side, spits out the food and it lands as a brown and black splatter against the golden decorated floor. His tongue tingles with wet death, tense in a disgusted grimace. “Putrid.”

“No good, huh?” Lambert muses while Narinder is busy wiping the remnants of his failed test with the sleeve of his robes. “I was hoping it was a side effect that would go away. I’m sorry it’s hard to touch anything organic, or have live flowers, or eat taste anything good. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something.”

Narinder would like to scrape his tongue from the vile taste and sharpen his teeth on something, alright. Particularly something that bleats useless apologies. “Is my affliction a game to you? A puzzle you can solve?” He sneers, teeth bared. “This lack of control is a consequence of your own betrayal. It’s hard to enjoy anything because of your actions. You cursed me to be this way.”

A light suddenly appears in their eyes. “Actually! I had a question about that.” They pipe up. Narinder does a double take at their lack of reaction to his insults, instead hurriedly moving to stash the rest of the meal into the crown’s pocket dimension. “But it can wait until later.”

“…You realize how infuriating it is when you do that, right?”

“Short on time. I’ll bother you about it later, but can you do me a big favor?” Crown secured to their head, Lambert promptly bends down and starts shoveling handfuls of gold into their fleece. “Can you be the lookout? I think Midas is using those statues as spies.”

Narinder blinks down with wide eyes and ridiculousness. “…Never deny me when I call you a thief again.”

They are continuing to bunch pockets of gold into the drape of their fleece. Jewelry is quickly hung around their neck and horns and any other part of them that can potentially hold stolen treasures. “Shhh! I’m hurrying!”

Narinder glances to the wishing well in the center of the room. “The Gods of Wealth will have your head for this!”

“The gods have already taken my head once, and we saw how that ended up!” Lambert stands up suddenly, shovels a load of gold, jewelry and other trinkets from their arms onto Narinder (necklaces loop around his neck, his ears, clinking against his nose) and the cat is too stunned to do anything about as they crouch down to gather more. “Hold onto that!”

He fumbles with them, alarmed. “Lamb-?!”

Suddenly, the sound of creaking stone comes from the direction of the well. Bodies frozen, both cat and lamb turn slowly to face the rest of the room; all golden statues have turned to face them, face twisted in wails and screams, their corpses shaking, rattling like marble. A presence emits from the shaking well in the middle of the room. Something is crawling out from the inside. Skittering legs and heavy concrete.

Narinder’s first instinct is to resummons the scythe in his free hand. Except he doesn’t get to do that, because Lambert grabs it tightly in their own and he’s yanked towards the exit. They’re laughing as they yell. “Run!”

Golden coins drop from them both as Lambert pulls him towards the teleportation symbol. They make a clattering sound against the stone that does not take over the creaking and scratching as something furiously climbs up the well. It takes considerable effort not to trip over their un-synced movement as the lamb laughs, Narinder curses something demonic under his breathe and lost to the fumble of limbs, steps and tails as both reach the symbol and the world shifts downwards before anything can catch them.

It is not a graceful arrival, still moving in momentum that they had ran to, and they trip over each other. Narinder’s vision tilts and his behind takes the brunt of the impact as a solid ‘oomf’ of something wooly crashes down on top of him.

The trees and stone pillars of the gate of the compound are still unblurring with magic as Lambert pushes themselves off, leaning back on their hands and legs still in his lap. They string their arms out, decorated in chains of gold. Bands and necklaces are looped around their horns and ears and neck. They jingle the gold that escaped with their fleece, dropping down to the stone. “HA! It’s been a long time since I’ve done that! I’ve never been able to pocket this much before!”

All three of Narinder’s eyes are wide, staring into space, and he is processing. “You just robbed the Gods of Wealth.”

The lamb bats at his shoulder in adrenaline fueled laughter. “We robbed the Gods of Wealth!”

Every muscles in Narinder’s body feels like it’s being pulled taught with tension. He stares down at the lap where hooves and knees have made themselves comfortable; golden chains hang down from his ears and neck to blur in his vision.

“This is more than enough to keep the cult afloat! I can put in a big shipment order from Plimbo! I can put in an order for preserved foods, and resources, and décor! We could pawn these off for lumbar and stonework! We don’t even have to wait for the harvest or do a ritual if we can afford goods from somewhere else!” The lamb is rambling off in their own world, scooping up the fallen golden and shifting so that it’s collected into the fabric of their fleece. They turn back to the cat to continue their excitement, but feel their face fall slack at the stillness his body holds, and realization dawns quickly.

Lambert removes their legs from him and gives him a wide berth. “Sorry! Sorry.”

Narinder is silent. His gaze still locked downwards. To his side, his fingers curl into his palm, and his tail is ridged still.

Guilt crawls up Lambert’s chest and inwardly they scold themselves for getting too carried away. Nothing to be done about it now, only to bask in the quiet of a cat that has yet to react to their shenanigan. They gather the rest of the gold into their fleece, at least the pieces that Narinder is not currently touching. “I can also put in an order for anything you want, too. There’s different colored inks, you know. Might be nice to use?”

“You’re insane.” Narinder suddenly speaks. HIs sentence is a chuckle, coated with his ever growing madness. “The Gods hold grudges.”

They might, but Lambert isn’t too intimidated by titles or power. “Well, it’s not like I can’t take them. I’m not exactly unexperienced with dealing with gods.”

A sharp grin is stretching across Narinder’s face that cannot be read as from lunacy or the woe of realization. His shoulders shake a little with high-pitched sounds emitting from his throat. A hissing laughter. Madness again. “I am no stranger to your insanities. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a traitorous lamb whos’ dedicated themselves to being the biggest splinter to the divine. I’ll be sure to savor the sight for when God’s of Wealth come pour molten gold down your throat and transform you into another one of their vases.”

Lambert only hums, still picking up coins. “Would you keep me if I turned into a golden statue?”

Narinder almost cackles. “Sure. You would become the ugliest thing in my temple.”

“Hey.”

Slowly, as the mind processes and now that the madness that trickles up his throat is spoken, Narinder pulls the chains and necklaces from his person and lets them drop to the stone, rising to stand. Lambert scoops them up without a word, and he mulls briefly over the undignified sight they must have been. Well, him in particular. This was an insult and a farce to his stature. The lamb, however, looks right at place beneath him on their knees.

Which is why it’s strange his hand feels empty when they try to rise and lower themselves again when some coins fall back to the ground, and Lambert scoops them up quickly. Narinder does not offer them a hand to rise up, and steps back for distance as Lambert stands to their full height. Their face is glowing with content. Although their trade did not go as planned, their heist was a success.

“I’m going to go put these in the temple box and make the necessary arrangements.” They struggle to hold everything, but do not ask for his help. “The flock awakens soon, you might want to head back home before the sun rises.” With that, they turn, and begin to make the slow, calculated walk back to the temple in a wobbly attempt to prevent everything from falling in a manner that’s comical. “Bye! I’ll come get you tomorrow!”

Narinder remains as they go. They walk without limp, and crimson eyes flit to beneath their cloak. The injury to their leg is gone completely; replaced perfectly with grey fur he had watched take place.

-

They remember many details of their flock; the names, ages, favorite colors and seasons, allergies, whom they hate, whom they love, what they usually request for, ect. It all comes with being a leader, and even the removal of the their mind-reading abilities does not dampen the ability to sneak in a question or comment in a conversation to provide them with the answer they need, or the confidence to simply ask. Sometimes the followers like it when the lamb asks them outright. It shows interest; makes them feel special. Lambert wants them to feel special.

This does not mean, however, that Lambert is without flaw in remembering everything.

Sure, learning the preferred diets of their flock was a given, but some were harder than others. Some eat meat, some strictly vegetarian, while some omnivores did both or perhaps swore off one for the other (but often could change their mind) and sometimes one insect follower could stomach a certain plant but it would poison another insect follower of the same animal group, (because apparently butterflies and beetles can eat many similar things, but not always) and some followers had a habit of suddenly deciding they no longer wish to partake in a certain food. Jayen switched strictly to honey and meat slivers after a night of too much fish made him sick enough to spend the night in the healing bay.

So, to play it safe (and to not bring attention that the lamb made this meal in a rather wasteful manner) they seek out a dog after the morning sermon and call him over. “Tyren?”

The dog, who was halfway out of the temple doors stops in place. His ears flap as his head turns quickly to their voice. “Yes, my lamb?”

Sweet, excitable dog. Friendly and agreeable. Always a little nervous in the lamb’s presence though, and without the ability to read minds, it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly why he started acting that way. They hope they’re not as intimidating as the crusades in the bishop’s lands make them out to be; at least not to the flock. The crown shifts to allow them to reach into the pocket dimension, and they give him a reassuring smile. “I have something for you.”

They pull the bowl of meat out. The salt preserved it long enough, and though it had gone cold, they heated it up an hour or so earlier to refresh it. It doesn’t smell as nice (or pungent) as it did before, but it was still enjoyable at least. The dog’s eyes widen at the sight, and the lamb presents it to him with a smile. “Here, friend. You’ve been working really hard. I noticed you were up super early for the mines! Please, take this for your trouble.”

“Oh, leader!” His ears perk up, his voice chipper. “I cannot possibly accept this!”

“It will go to waste if you do not.” Lambert urges. They also really want it out of their crown’s pocket. “I only made one. Feel free to share with a friend, but please do take it.”

Tyren’s tail wags, all hesitation gone as his hands take the meal. “Of course, my lamb.”

He bows his head and accepts this blessing as such, and Lambert allows him the cue to leave. The dog exits the temple with a  wagging tail and a smile bright enough to overtake the sun. He was a fine worker, providing much of the needed stone for all of their construction projects faster than the others. Hopefully such a meal will keep him strong and healthy. Lambert inhales deeply, runs a mental list of today’s chores through their head and steps forward to exit the temple-

The temple door shuts in front of them. Lambert blinks at the wood, and finds a dark hand the one to shut it closed. It drops to it’s owner’s side; three red eyes seemingly making themselves known from the shadow.

He’s really good at making himself unnoticeable. They should ask him how he does it, it could be useful. The lamb’s smile does not diminish in the slightest. “You snuck in during the sermon?” It’s more of a statement than a question, a lighthearted one. Their tone drops when their eyes adjust to the lines in his features. “Oh.”

Narinder looks haggard. Absolutely exhausted. There are eyebags threatening to spill over, his fur disbelieved even though it looks like he tried to brush it down, and there’s even a slight delay for when he moves. Whatever happened to him last night must have been something terrible.

He looks at them like they’re personally responsible for his current state. Narinder glances briefly back towards the doors. “That dog thinks you made it specifically for him.”

Ah, the mind reading again. They wonder if he’s been here long enough to try it out on all of their flock during the sermon. The lamb still pauses. “Well, I guess that’s not a bad thing. I bet it’s nice to feel special every once and a while. Keeps their spirits up.”

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes and lacks the energy to do so.

“Are you okay?” The question escapes Lambert before they can stop it. “You look...bad.”

Narinder looks like he wants to explode them with his mind. “You misplace your concern. Finish your duties here so the crusade continues.”

There’s actually not much that the lamb can do at the moment. At least, not until the flock finishes some of the other tasks they’ve given. They’ve done a very good job at making schedules to keep the flock busy, and aside from appointing someone to be in charge of any mishaps while they’re gone. Lambert shifts in their fleece. “Alright. I’ll need to put Finor in charge of anything going wrong while we’re out. I think we’ll be gone a bit longer this time since the door is unlocked.” They send a rather knowing look. “I think it would be best to rest up before we leave.”

He takes the hint, and he doesn’t take it well. “I do not require sleep like mortals do.”

“You look like you need a cat-nap.” They say. “Like, a little one. Just a bit.”

The response to their light teasing is something horrid; his teeth pull back into a snarl and his ears press against the flat of his skull. “Unless you want your tongue torn from your mouth and your blood spilled in this temple, I highly recommend you keep your concerns to yourself.”

Lambert blinks. “Did I do something to make you particularly homicidal this morning?”

“You exist. Crusade in the evening, or I will leave without you.” He turns from them then, the temple doors opening wide enough for him to slip through, and disappears.

Chapter Text

He is standing at the gates when the moon rises. The moment the lamb is running towards him, hooves clacking against the stairs does the cat turns his back and starts walking into the gates without a word. He looks a little bit better, they notice, but they can’t tell if it’s because he was able to get some rest or he just groomed himself to look more appropriate. He’s still giving them the silent treatment, but he’s at the very least present instead of in the shadows.

The Mystic Seller stands as present as ever in his gateway. Narinder ignores it completely, while the lamb bows their head in passing greeting. “We’re off!”

The being’s eyes trail from them to the cat, and Lambert realizes with a slight pause in their step. They’ve never actually seen Narinder interact with it before. They’d stop for introductions, but the cat has already marched into Darkwood, and the Mystic Seller makes no comment about the dark company that they passed by with.

“Sorry. That was my friend.” They wave to the god (creature, deity, entity, thing) before heading off into the Darkwood’s domain. “He’s not one for talking.”

If they had lingered a little bit longer before following the cat’s tail, they might have seen something akin to amusement within its several eyes.

Leshy’s realm has become chaotic. Pun not intended.

Their actions have changed here; the enemies are more brutal and deadlier. Those who grieve the fall of their god now wield weapons sharper and thrust with anger. Villages caught within the domain are often pillaged and set ablaze, leaving nothing but ash and corpse remnants behind. The bones of the dead are picked up and stashed in their stores for rituals, and the corpses that have yet to rot and let their flesh sink into the ground are left alone. There is no burial for them; no god to receive their funeral. The God of Death pays the deceased hardly any attention as he walks through the brush, and the lamb that trails him keeps their eyes on the white of his robes.

Monsters of worms and spikes, heretics with axes that spew curses are what greet them in a clearing. Narinder summons his scythe to his hand and lets it hang there in his grip. He does not need to look to the lamb to hear them summon the sword (it flickers for a moment, then it’s solid. It sits heavy, but they don’t complain) as the cat looks to the approaching enemy with boredom.

Narinder would not filthy his hands with the dirty work, per usual. “Vessel.”

“On it.” Whereas the God of Death waits in the dark, his lamb rushes headfirst into battle, sword blazing.

It is the first day of crusading, and Lambert pointedly pretends not to notice Narinder rubbing at his eyes as they cut down a heretic, just as he will ignore how a yawn builds in his throat and manifests itself into a curse under his breath when blood splatters at the end of his cloak. The God of Death has not slept properly in weeks. Months, perhaps, since his transformation into this pitiful form. The definition of ‘exhaustion’ is truly met.

Perhaps it is less of sleep and more of something else. This is the path before they face the God of Chaos. Lambert does not know what will entail when they get to his door.

All those who fell before to the sword’s blade, to the God of Death’s touch will contribute to the second death of a sibling, that this time; Narinder was to see first hand.

It is silent between them. There is nothing to say, and it remains as such. (They worry. Oh, how they worry. And he denies them any look into his mind lest they infect it more than already how they’ve plagued it.)

An altar makes itself known in the clearing.

A creature in dark robes surrounded by its brethren holds a dagger over a hedgehog, bound by the hands, feet and gagged as they chant. “God of Chaos, Bishop of Darkwood, we sacrifice this soul to you so that you might return. May its life blood sate your thirst, our devotion its cup. May its flesh give you strength, our faith the fork. A gift to you upon all others do we slay this heart so that it might be of use to you-”

“Hi.”

All who are present turn to the voice. Dark robes see two figures; a lamb with a sword drawn with an unreadable expression, and cat who looks both bored and like he really doesn’t want to be here leaning up against a nearby tree. The scythe the cat holds is hung loosely while he busies himself with picking at his own claws, uninterested. The lamb is covered in blood, some of which is starting to dry into their wool and the red of their cloak, and raises the sword towards the believers.

“Don’t worry.” The lamb speaks, and it becomes apparent that they do not speak to them, but to the hedgehog sobbing silently on the altar. “I’ll save you.”

Their blood spills rather quickly. Their numbers increase, summoned from trees and darkness and from whatever magic these heretics seem to learn and share among themselves in the time when the gods have fallen. The lamb tries to make it quick. The sacrifice sitting in frozen terror on the stone should not have to witness more bloodshed than they’ve already been subjected to. There’s only so much that can be done when an enemy gurgles; dying from a cut throat, but still trying to scream.

The hedgehog starts to hyperventilate against their gag when a splatter of blood splashes across their legs. Lambert forgoes trying to silence the enemies when they’re all dead or bleeding out in moaned pains in the grass and instead attends to them. There is no more threat, and a new friend was in need of a savior.

They cut the robes from the hedgehog’s wrists and removes their gag (Appearing male, late teens to early 20s perhaps, missing a few quills from possible stress) and run the repeated speech of how they’ll take care of them in their head. It’s a bit difficult to do when there is pained groaning coming from behind them.

The moment the gag is removed, the hedgehog’s voice overtakes the sound. Desperate and wracked with sobs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” They shake and shiver, wet eyes looking up to the lamb. “I-”

A sickening crunch of bone breaking and the pained groans stopped abruptly. The hedgehog’s eyes dart behind the lamb. The black cat looks down at the corpse he just sunk his scythe into the head of. Three red eyes drift up in their direction, and suddenly everything is cold. He looks bored. He looks bothered. He looks at them like they’re standing in his way, an obstacle to a goal. They were not meant to be saved.

The lamb’s head juts in mid-way and blocks off the view, smiling. “We have a community nearby that’s always accepting newcomers. It’s safe there. Magic walls protect the place, so no one can come in and hurt anyone. Would you like to join?” Their wool is stained with the blood of the damned. There’s a small splatter on their face, but the smile they show is warm and disarming. A hand on the hedgehog’s wrist pats lightly. “We can escort you back home if not. Do you have a village nearby that’s safe?”

There's sound of the cat scoffing, and a chain ripping from a corpse whose haggard breathing was filling the air. It rips from the ribs of silenced lungs, snapping bones as it extracts. The lamb makes no response to their companion's actions, still bright.

The hedgehog shakes. “I-I have no home. They’ve destroyed everything. My house, my mother, my sister…” Their voice is wracked with grief, with fear. “Please get me out of here.”

This seems to sate the lamb, and they take their hand. “I’ll teleport you there now. Someone will tend to you until I get back, okay?” They are gentle in their voice, different from how they slayed all who stood before them. “This might be disorientating. Hold your breath.”

The hedgehog is teleported in a circle of red, disappearing into the color below. The red blood on the grass remains even as the new follower is gone.

“You have a recovering food shortage and a shaky faith, and you’re still taking on new mouths to feed and not willing to sacrifice any of them.” Narinder criticizes as the forest goes quiet. He has cleaned up after their massacre and silenced all the pained living with a final death. The noises annoyed him. “You’re a fool. Your worries are a consequence of your own making.”

The lamb straightens from their crouch. “…You were kind to me when I first showed up in your domain.”

He scowls. “A necessary manner for a vessel that was supposed to serve me beyond death. Every kindness was to my own benefit. Do not think so highly of yourself.”

The lamb’s form lingers there, eyes locked on the space where the hedgehog teleported back. Narinder stops and waits, gaze locked onto the back of the lamb’s head. He waits for them to move. To react. His tail swishes.

Lambert turns to him after a pause with shining eyes. They don’t look like they believe him at all. “Even that time in the gateway when you let me underneath your veil-?”

“Quiet.” He cuts them off before they can even finish. There’s a dryness in his throat. “Return to slaughter. Save your chatting for the flock.”

There’s a moment where they just blink at him. Then, Lambert salutes like a soldier responding to a sergeant (a mock of their position; former of current) and the sword returns to their hand, marching forwards deeper into Darkwood with three crimson eyes glaring daggers into their wool.

-

Two days into the crusade. Heretics die. They fight. They kill. Sometimes Narinder will lift a finger, but mostly he won’t, not unless it’s something particularly annoying. He watches the lamb do most of the work; as is their purpose.

They battle. They wet the grass with blood. They pry the dry bones from corpses for rituals and stuff berries in their pocket for jams. The lamb asks him what kind of music he likes and Narinder responds by shooting a chain at their head that conveniently misses and strikes a nearby heretic instead, and they snort at his aim until the chain comes back around, wrapping around their ankle and sending them faceplanting into the dirt.

They do guessing games. ‘They’ being the lamb. Narinder almost drives his head into the tree bark because of it. They pester him to pass the time. Piano? Singing? Stringed instruments? Flutes? Drums?

“I don’t like music.” He finally says, and it’s probably a lie. “I dislike noise.”

“Do you like wind chimes?” Lambert asks him anyway, yanking the sword from the corpse of a heretic; the final enemy of this area. “You seem like the type to, uh, I don’t know. Like things that go ‘ting’ or any other sort of soft, high sound.”

They bound up to him in a run, and Narinder's ears automatically tune into the sound of their jingling bell. One ear twitches outwards. “What gave you that assumption?”

“Just a guess?” They seem genuine. “The other cats in the flock like wind chimes, so…”

Narinder deadpans. “Do not loop me in with your flock.”

“M’kay.” They’re in a bush again. He doesn’t need to crane his neck to look to know that they’re currently shoving all sorts of berries and bones and flowers into their pockets. He’s pretty sure they just shoved a snail in there too. “Aren’t you going to ask what my favorite is?”

“No.”

“Bah. You’re no fun.”

(They like singing and softness. They hum a melody in his domain that Baal started to hum himself. Aym made fun of him for it. They did it constantly when he listened through the crown. He hasn’t heard it since his arrival.)

Narinder’s tongue gets caught between his teeth, and he turns to walk to the next area. The lamb follows him momentarily. The sword is summoned at the sight of the enemies. They fight. They kill.

-

A statue in the shape of his brother is shaded by Darkwood’s trees.

It’s large and magnificent, so the typical size his siblings would have preferred for their grace. Not that Narinder was any different; he too, liked grand display of his likeness, his imagery in cloak and dyes, his symbol etched in stone, blood and bone. There might have been a statue of his own somewhere, perhaps back at his own temple. A temple he has not seen in over a thousand years, who’s priests have long since decayed, physically and soul-wise, consumed by the hells or the afterlife and it’s fossilized sands. The Gods are everlasting. The stone statues (although they stand the test to time) are not so much. There are cracks. Imperfections.

It is Leshy’s image. He should be shorter than Narinder. Not as stone, and not while the God of Death is cursed to this form. This stone sight of him should be broken for it’s offense.

“Narinder?”

In the back of his mind, the lamb’s voice echoes. His ear swivels to face them, but red eyes stay locked onto the stone. It is of a newer design. Leshy’s bandage is carved into the stone like an accessory rather than the eyes he once had; the ones Narinder can still feel on the edge of his claw. It was stringy when he tore them out. Wet and mossy and sticky was the gore of his attack. He only remembers the feeling of it and not the visualization; his eyes saw red that day. It is literally a blur.

“Narinder.” His name is repeated, and he almost snaps at them for it. They don’t have the proper permission to use that name. He never told them his name. The utterance of it reminds him of them. Leshy used to mispronounce it all the time.

The lamb’s voice is an anchor. “Do you want to keep going?”

He blinks the fuzz from his eyes. The mind comes back from memory, and Narinder looks to the lamb. The crown sits atop their head, eyeing him as much as they are. There’s a blood stain across their cheek. He wishes they would wipe it off already. “Are you alright?”

His tongue feels like cotton. “Move on. There is nothing of importance here.”

They don’t look like they believe him. They turn away anyway, and they march to the edge of the clearing.

The statue shakes just as they’re a few paces away from it. “Little Lamb.”

Leshy’s voice. Coated heavy with death and agony and pain and memory and sin and hatred-

Lambert freezes just as he does. Their head swivels around on their shoulders to stare back at the speaking statue. Narinder does not look. He cannot look. He stares into nothing.

“I feel you there…Darkwood has not forgotten me yet.…”

The voice of a brother punished. His little brother that was a worm in his arms eons ago. He was the first to chain him. He spewed vile insults as Narinder was pulled under. And he was cocky, he who laughed with his sister as Shamura scolded him for his ideals. He bled and wailed and cursed.  He who Narinder watched as he sent the Lamb to carve out his heart, and he who he doomed to relive the last moments of his consequence for a thousand years. Just as they did to him.

They deserve it. He deserves it. They all do. Traitors, all of them.

He was the first to die.

Narinder looks back.

"I can still... Find you... In my woods..." The head of the statue bleeds black from underneath the bandage. “Brother.”

Black ichor spills from the statue and from there creatures emerge. Their bones, bodies, monsters and heretics alike crane from the dark and brandish weapons and teeth and claw. They come when their god calls.

The lamb rushes first; sword drawn and cutting them down before they could even come close to him. Worms are decapitated and heretics are reduced to lifeless flesh and bone. Corpses start to pile up near the statue, until Darkwood saps the essence from them with every wave. It drains into the ground; into the statue, and they disappear. It is a solid five minutes of massacre until the Lambert drives their blade into the throat of one last worm, pining it to the grass, and ripping out it’s insides until it stops wiggling.

It is a gruesome, panicked battle. They are covered in blood that’s not there's. Somewhere on a injury on their shoulder, their own blood starts to mix with heretics. Lambert looks back. “Everything okay?”

Narinder, too, is surrounded by corpses. They’re rotting at a rapid pace near his feet. There’s no scythe in his hand, nor iron chain. A thousand-yard stare is settled on his face.

Lambert ignores the burning sensation of poison starting to seer into their skin as they approach him. “Hey,” They ask, and their voice feels too loud in the silence for once. “You’re quiet.”

For the first time in a few minutes, he looks at them. Actually looks at them, not just staring off into their general direction, and Lambert notes how the deadpan lines in his features that seem to always be present are missing.

His face shifts. His eyes go half-lidded. Tired. Exhausted. He turns away without a word, and walks further into Darkwood. The lamb follows.

-

He doesn’t talk for a few hours after that. It’s dawning morning of the third day of the crusade when he does.

“Stop.”

Lambert almost doesn’t. Everything had been running on autopilot for the last few hours; heretics are slain, monsters killed, their enemies destroyed, all the routine kinda stuff. So when Narinder speaks and breaks the drawl of crickets, screams of agony and the sound of sword puncturing flesh, they almost trip over it.

They skid to a stop mid-rid, dirt flying up at their feet and landing in an awkward angle with one foot in the air. Lambert rotates (literally, rotates, the rest of their body frozen in that pose) around to the cat. “What is it?”

He’s not looking at them, but somewhere off to the side. Narinder stands still among the freshly made corpses, head turned towards a grove of trees with no discernable path through them. The brush and the bark is too thick for them to go through easily, so it’s not a way the maze of Darkwood would have allowed them to pass through. It’s just trees with hanging bodies and stems with eyeball flowers. There’s nothing usual in the space. Still, he stares.

Lambert looks back at him. Narinder’s brows have furrowed. “Something wrong?”

He glances at them briefly before looking back to the space. Then, Narinder walks towards the wall of brush and flower stems. The scythe in his hand no longer drags in the grass but is picked up, held steady as he approaches. Whatever he noticed, it piqued his interest enough to take him out of that quiet trance.

Lambert blanks when Narinder’s form suddenly just disappears. “Narinder?”

Nothing calls back out to them. Not that they expect him to, but there’s no trace of the cat. No tail, no fur, no side glare. Just nothing. The crown returns to their head. “Hey, is this your ‘curse of invisibility’ or something? Or do I need to be worried about some otherworldly dimension kidnapping you?” They run to the space where he once was.

The ground is empty, the air unshifted. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except for the fact that their cat was suddenly fucking gone. The lamb is now spinning in a panicked circle. “Hey, Narinder! This is not what I meant by showing me how you sneak around!”

Two black ears and a rather agitated expression pop out of literal nowhere. “Must you bleat like a crybaby who’s lost sight of its mother?”

“You’re the one acting immature and I’m just-” Lambert’s vision spins, and they cut themselves off. “You’re just a head!”

He certainly looks like one at this angle. Narinder frowns at them, the fingers of his hand pulling back something beneath him. Reality shifts around him like draping fabric and flowing water. He looks like he’s poking his head through an invisible curtain. “You cannot see through the veil?”

“Veil? What is this? Some sort of pocket dimension?” Panic adverted. Their hands jut out to the spaces where his shoulders would be and find nothing but air. The space around Narinder, and besides him, is all empty. There is no invisible door or curtain, and Lambert’s gesturing around the cat’s ‘figure’ was just making him more annoyed, especially when they move behind him and gasp at the lack of tail. “Whatever you’re doing, I want to do it too.”

A smug, almost victorious grin inches across his face. “A pity.”

He promptly disappears again.

“Hey! Wait!” Their hands swish around the space where his face was. Nothing. Just air. Running around in place and circling where they last saw him does not summon him nor does it give them any indication of where he’s went. “You can’t just leave me here! What am I supposed to do? Just stand here and wait? Do you expect me to go and fight Leshy alone? Again?!”

No response.

“Not that I don’t mind doing that but can I please see what you’re doing? Please?”

Another pause.

“…Pretty please?” They’re practically running in place. “Could you at least tell me what’s going on in there?”

To no one’s surprise, they’re left hanging. The lamb pouts, leg kicking dirt. Looks like they’re just stuck to stand here until the God of Death requires his vessel once more-

Their ears raise to the sky when reality shifts and Narinder appears again, fully present and body mostly visible. A line is drawn where his form blurs into somewhere else. The lamb stands to attention. “…Hi?”

He still looks as tired as he was when he came in, but there’s a softness sunken into the lines of his face. He looks like he’s trying to be rid of it when he faces them. They can’t tell if he’s amused or conflicted at their plight. “…You sound pathetic when you beg. It wasn’t even good. Work on it.”

His arm lifts. Reality moves like water, and suddenly there is an opening underneath his arm. They can see it against Darkwood’s trees; how reality trails like liquid over his sleeve and drapes to the side like a curtain. The sight of stone, gold and banners is shown through the ‘space’ beneath his elbow. A pocket dimension, just like the bird’s hidden in plain sight and revealed only by a god with secret sight.

Narinder clicks his tongue when the lamb is looking a little too starry-eyed.

“You don’t touch anything.” He commands. “Put your filthy, thieving, traitorous fingers on anything and I’ll allow you the choice of me either breaking them or lopping them off.”  Narinder moves so that there’s enough room for them to dart underneath his arm, perhaps the only way they could enter, and gestures his head. “Come-”

He stumbles because Lambert ducks under his arm so fast that they almost smack their forehead into the crook of his elbow. “Lamb-!”

They’re already off running deeper within, hooves clacking loudly on stone flooring, and Narinder is already feeling regret.

It is a single room, large and rounded, and it is grand.

The trees are chiseled like stone with patterns in the bark that look so elegant and natural at the same time. Green and golden leaves of spring and autumn dip down and drape to the flow to the floor, strings of dangling emerald and amber dangling between them There is no hanging bodies, no bloodies corpses, or eyes in the plants, but untamed chaos of the forest coiling to make space in the center where chests lie. Even the stone floors were carved with delicate designs, though they show age and cracks of grass and flowers creaking through. Banners with Leshy’s symbol, tattered with wear, hang down from the branches and sway in a breeze that comes from no direction.

Larger flowers, lightly colored, hang downwards like tulips. They bloom as the lamb walks in; their petals open wide and the insides glow. It is the only light in this place. A soft, warm, natural one. Fireflies flutter in between them.

It’s pretty in here. A small little oasis in a forest who’s thirst is quenched by blood.

There are chests in the center of the room. Some of which are opened and empty. Some still closed. They’re dark wood with golden accents, their contents protected as the chests appear not to decay with time despite probably being here for hundreds of years. There’s a considerable layer of dust sitting on top of them, but it brushes away easily with a swipe of their cloak.

To say that Lambert was in awe was an understatement. “I’ve been to Darkwood hundreds of times, but I’ve never come across this before.”

Narinder has joined them. He keeps a distance away, looking to the flower lights. “That is because the ability to see the doorway was only granted to me and my siblings.”

They turn to him, one hand hovering over the latch on one of the chests. “A secret room?”

“This is Leshy’s treasury.” Narinder explains after a moment where they just stare at him with eyes big enough to have an orbit. He leans down and flips open one of the chests; the inside is bare save for some cloth. “Or at least what remains of it. He looks like he might have taken out most of what he owned here.”

Their ears have been pointed up this entire time and haven’t gone down for a second. “I’m in a bishop’s treasury? Nice.”

Narinder hears the sound of locks unclasping and hands rummaging through items. He looks over to see Lambert elbow deep in their finds: clothes that belong to the old faith (priests, worshippers, workers, witnesses) that get pushed aside for the shinier items. Trinkets of gold and silver, plates and forks that the divine can use to dine with. Cups with intricate designs around the edges and gems molded around their edge. There are dolls, this time worn down to near threads, though with some careful inspection Lambert thinks they might have been replicas of Leshy himself. Small wooden carvings of the Bishop are in here too, along with pages of written notes, gold, and necklaces.

Lambert pulls one out for inspection. A flower necklace; it’s petals open eternally. Enchanted to always be in bloom, this one always inspired whoever in their flock received it to pray more often. Such a minor magic to awe them. They find interest in a little life’s immortality, even if it’s just a plant. They pocket it within the crown’s abyss.

“What use of a vessel are you if you cannot even follow simple instructions?”

Lambert’s attention changes from chest to cat. Narinder seems to have rummaged through some as well, though he looks to the lamb now. He holds cloth in his hands; dark fabric with golden lettering. Robes of the Old Faith. He doesn’t look in the slightest bit surprised at their actions, actually. “I told you not to touch anything. It went in through one ear and out the other.”

Guilty as charged. Lambert’s ears lower, and they grin sheepish. “I got too excited.”

“You tend to do that.” His words go unheeded as he watches the lamb continues to stash whatever was in the chests into the crown’s storage. They mutter about ‘waste not want not’ as they go, and Narinder honestly doesn’t know what he expected. He sighs. He’s too tired for this. “You grave rob the gods.”

“With all due respect, they took so much from me.” They start, though it’s said with so much plainness that it sounds weird for them to speak without hate. “I cannot pass up the opportunity to help the flock. It’s expensive to feed a cult.”

“Thief wherever you go.” He scoffs, sour. “What? Might you harvest my organs next?”

They finish up their looting and dust off their hands, standing back up and turning to him like they didn’t just pilfer through his brother’s wares. “I dunno. Got anything of worth? Can I have it?” Their response is a deadpan look. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Narinder drops the cloth he holds. It’s moth bitten and old. The touch of it brings bad memories. “Perhaps I’ve spoiled you as a vessel if you are this bold.”

Lambert’s mouth opens, then there’s a pause and they shut their mouth closed with a tight smile. Clearly, they’ve decided against speaking whatever their thoughts were so as to not provoke him. It only makes Narinder’s annoyance grow.

They find another question to start with. “Why did your siblings all have different treasuries? Why not just have one big one?”

“Make your assumptions.”

Lambert walks with their hands clasped to their front as they saunter around the room. A firefly lands on their horn, and they don’t notice, or care. “I’m guessing that when people place offerings at the shrines, this is where they go.” A pause. “And I guess there’s separate treasuries because you guys just didn’t want each other messing with your own stuff.”

Narinder only hums in acknowledgement. It would appear their assumption is correct. Typical siblings.

The place is very themed of Darkwood, all the best parts of it. There’s no smell of death or war in here at all. It’s chaotic, overgrown and disorganized, but free from the woes of the outside. Lambert’s hand raises to touch one of the glowing flower’s center. Their hand comes back wet and sticky with glowing nectar. There’s an abundance of bugs in here they didn’t notice the first time they scanned it. Butterflies flutter far above their heads. Cocoons hang from leaves. Worms inch across the branches that dip low enough for them to reach.

“Do all the gods have rooms themed just like this?” They lean down to one; a small worm that’s no enemy nor god, but simply a small creature enveloped by the lamb’s shadow. They help it cross the gap from one leaf to another by letting it bridge with their finger. “This room is very…Leshy.”

He hardly makes a noise of acknowledgement. Lambert turns back. Narinder is staring dully into them.

“You seem more okay with going through your brother’s treasury than I’d thought you’d be.” They are so blunt about it.

He’s not, actually. Not in the way where honor was involved. He doesn’t care if the forest or his sibling’s temples are ruined and pilfered. He is simply plagued by memories. The lamb must have pieced that together from his face alone, because their questioning look turns into one of realization, then pity, and Narinder feels his attitude sour. “They owe me more than their lives for what they’ve done. If I find the other’s treasures, I will sift through theirs as well.” He looks out to the chests. “Though I doubt there’s much remaining left.”

He had a point. Faith in the Bishops waned during their hunt, and after their defeat. Less offerings are made that way. Any food or organic offerings would have long since wasted away by now, and even the small wooden statues were hardened and wet with rot. A consequence of their fight; even if they did not see it for many, many years. Lambert brushes the dust off of the lid of one of the open chests. “I guess it’s yours to lay claim to now.”

“You will in my place if I do not.” He scowls.

“I was surprised you even actually let me in here.” They approach him. The firefly is still on their horn. “Why show me this if you knew I was just gonna make a mess of it anyway?”

A black tail swishes as he turns away from them, walking towards the exit. “We’re leaving.”

They don’t really want to leave; it’s a pretty cool place, and it’s clearly safe enough for a rest, but any protest they have is shot down as Narinder’s arm raises the veil of reality again to allow them passage back into Darkwood. He does not have a expression fit for argument. There will be no negotiation.

Lambert ducks underneath his arm to exit, careful that they don’t accidentally touch his sleeve or body on the way through. It’s a quick passing. Narinder steps back, letting his arm drop and the doorway disappears. It’s still there in a way: now that it’s pointed out, they can see where reality has a ever-so-slightly notable seam. Some static power that only lets Gods see the doorway; and in particular; only the few who made it work in the first place.

Lambert is the first to speak. “We still have a long way until we reach Leshy’s door. Maybe we should have taken a break in there?”

Narinder, for once, is quick to respond. “No.”

“But it’s safe and hidden.” And he looks exhausted still, but they don’t say that part outloud.

“I can barely stand my brother’s domain, much less his personal treasury.” He says. “And I don’t have the energy to watch you pick and prod at every crack in the wall for entertainment.”

He’s kinda got them there. Plus, there was another side to this. The longer they took out here in the crusade, the longer it will be before the lamb could return to their leader duties, and there’s a pretty good chance that if someone had a work accident, fell ill, or simply died back at the flock, Narinder might not tell them. He hasn’t updated them on anything yet, anyways. Back to work, then.

Straightening their posture, the lamb turns to him and holds both hands out, palms facing upwards. “Here.”

The God of Death squints at them in confusion. “What?”

“Break them.”

“…What?”

“You said I’d get a choice in whether you break them or chop them off. I choose for you to break them.” They’re still smiling, hands out like they’re ready to be cuffed. “I can’t hold a sword without fingers, but I’ve fought with broken ones before. Kinda sucks, but it’s not going to kill me.”

Narinder stares at them with a bewilderment that spells he cannot tell if they’re being series or simply mocking him.

He does a lot of that. Lambert wonders why he doesn’t blink all that much. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had one more eye than the average person. “Was it one finger or all of them?”

His gaze trails upwards. The staff of the scythe rotates in his hand. They expect the blunt end to push away their hands and some side-remark to not touch him. Instead the handle edge shifts slightly somewhere above their vision, and Lambert sees a firefly being shooed away. “For the sake of the crusade, you are allowed your fingers. I’ll think of a different punishment.”

The offered fingers linger, then lower. “Like what?”

“Your tongue.” He deadpans. “For talking too much.”

“Hmm. I need that for sermons.”

“Your ears.”

“That’s a bit repetitive, isn’t it?”

Narinder’s brow raises. “…Your horns?”

Lambert thinks for a moment. “Only one?”

“…Why am I even allowing you to bargain this. Lamb. Just-” He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the skin there. “You are lucky I am too tired for real anger right now. Return to the crusade before I change my mind.”

None of it felt like it held any weight in the first place, but Lambert doesn’t say that out loud. The crown is summoned to a sword in their hand, the march continues.

-

It is the fourth day of the crusade, and Lambert is beginning to yawn.

Even with the long passage of time and the centuries do they remember what it was like before the crown took ahold of their mortal body. Aches and pains, the woes of fatigue and weakness. Their shoulder strains when they raise their blade to cut down an enemy. The eye lids take a little bit more effort to raise if they let them rest for too long. They stopped picking out the bits of dried blood out of their wool just to save themselves the energy. A quick splash in the running streams will wake them up.

For as dramatic as it happened the first time, Narinder does not comment each time the lamb yawns. He side glances them, sure. But he does not remark about it, at least.

Perhaps it is to avoid the topic. If Lambert was tired already, then there’s no telling just how bad Narinder was.

There’s an audible delight on their face when the next area has a running stream making it’s way through. It is plagued with bagworm monsters and a single large axe wielding heretic that makes a run for them, but they’re easily dispatched. Lambert skewers the worms bigger than their entire body as cleanly as all the times they did before (making a point to do it away from the water so they don’t poison the stream) and Narinder’s scythe clashes the heretic’s axe and holds it in place. The blades lock together, and it would have made for a decent standoff if Narinder didn’t just simply shoot out his hand towards the hooded figure’s throat.

His fingers close around the flesh and it’s already starting to decay before the claws can even properly sink in. There’s no scream (which was preferable considering a migraine was threatening to form in his head) and the heretic’s throat turns black and brown with rot. Lines of death crawl up it’s skin, the eyes of the face sinking in as they roll back. The point of contact makes the flesh weak, and it takes very little effort to rend the head from it’s body with a hard pull. The body and the axe drop to the ground. Narinder drops the rapidly decaying head to the grass without a second glance.

He looks away from the corpse. The sword was currently a few paces in front of him, lodged into the dirt, a bagworm monster shishkabobed on it’s blade. It’s user was currently a few paces away at the end of the water stream with their hands dipped into the flowing water. They have a cut on their face that’s slowly healing to form a scratch and a rather sizable bruise forming on their upper arm, but they don’t look like they notice. Somewhere in his own body, there’s something bleeding that will stop within the next few minutes. It’s location is not important. His arms aching is the only real pain he gives any note to.

They don’t turn their head when he approaches them from the side. “Trying to wash the blood off your hands? Unable to handle the weight of your own sins?”

“Shhh.” The lamb hushes him, and it makes his skin prickle with irritation. They don’t turn away from the water, but one hand comes out and gestures for him to move forward. “Come closer. Look. Baby fish.”

He’s frowning about it, but he does. He’s close enough now to follow their gaze as their hand reenters the water. Tiny, small fish barely the size of his claw wiggle against the gentle current. A whole school of them. Some river species that Darkwood possesses. They could be dangerous as adults, growing up to have sharp teeth and a knack for consuming whatever falls into their waters. Kallamar gifted Leshy some for his domain many years ago as the worm was just starting to become a true god.

The God of Death’s brows furrow at the sight of them.

But these were newborns. Too small to be caught for food, barely big enough to be swimming on their own. The lamb’s hands brush against those that wiggle past them, and they swim into their palm and nibble painlessly at their fingertips.

“Come here. Put your hand in the water.” Lambert gestures again for him to come closer. “They’re not old enough to do any damage. It feels funny.”

“I can’t.”

They try again. “Not even for just a second? Or is it because cats don’t like water?”

“I cannot touch them.” Narinder says. “They will die if I do.”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s a pause of thought. Lambert pulls one hand from the water and holds it up to him. Their skin is wet, and their palm open. “Let me see your fingers.”

Narinder sneers at them from above like he’s looking at a carpet stain. “I don’t willingly touch vermin.”

“Alright.” They don’t take offense to it. The smile they have doesn’t falters. The hand returns to their lap, the other still being doted on by little fish.

(A small wooly body resting in the palm of his hand. The softest thing he’s felt since they put chains around his wrists.)

Something moves in the corner of Lambert’s vision. They turn back to see Narinder holding out his hand, palm upwards, with an unreadable expression.

The lamb, still on their knees, smiles wider as they take a damp hand and hover it over his own, beginning to dot over the surface of his fingers in a small, gentle and quick fluttering. “They feel like this. Sort of. Some of them are trying to bite but they don’t have sharp enough teeth yet to do any harm. So it’s like a lot of tiny little slimey kisses. Imagine this but way slimier.”

This is a stupid thing. It’s childish and not fitting the demeanor of a cult leader or a usurper of gods. They look pathetic below him, hands wet with river water and entertained by the smallest of useless things.

And yet Narinder’s hand lingers within their reach.

Lambert pulls away before his fingers can close around them. There’s a strain in his hand, and the arm falls tense to his side.

They stand up, wiping the wetness on their cloak and holding out an arm. The crown’s sword rends from the corpse it was imbedded in and flies across the space until their grip closes around the handle. “Alright, I’m a little more awake now.” They shake themselves a little. Tiredness is starting to radiate off of them in a fraction of how it comes off of Narinder in droves. “Let’s go. I worry we might get ambushed if we wait too long.”

He says nothing and they do not expect him to. The lamb moves casually to the next area, and their shadow follows.

-

Night falls on the fifth day, and Narinder almost collapses against a tree.

Lambert feels something like a weight against one side of their ribcage. It’s familiar, an echo, and it lingers until they’ve silenced the last of the enemy in this space to look back. The cat is standing still, back turned to them. He has a hand on the tree bark to lean against it. His tail droops low to the ground, lifeless, and his ears and shoulders droop. Two corpses lay dead at his feet. The cat breathes sluggish and slow.

This was the last space before Leshy’s doorway. There should not be anymore disturbances for the rest of this Darkwood’s maze, at least not in this crusade. They’re going to have to be assertive about it. “We’re taking a break. There’s a heretic camp nearby we can stop at.”

One ear twitches, and he turns to glare over his shoulder. It doesn’t hold as much heat as it should in his state. “No.”

“You look awful, Narinder.” It’s not negotiable. They can refuse him again. “There’s a camp nearby we can stay at. There’s no more enemies before the doorway, so it’s not like we’re going to get ambushed.”

He takes offense to it, because of course he does. “Do you think me incompetent?”

“I’m tired too. I want to rest.” Lambert pressures, and it’s not a lie. Their body aches and there’s darkness creeping in at the edge of their vision if they stand still for a little too long. Though, the cat looks ten times worse than they do, and he’s currently cursing something demonic under his breath about the limitations of such a mortal body. It’s words Lambert do not know well enough to translate, but whatever they are, it’s vile.

The sword returns to be a crown on their head. “We’re stopping for the night. I don’t want exhaustion to be the fault that kills us.”

He leans back from the tree, sneering. “I would not make such a grievous slip-up. You might doze off in battle but I’ve had eons more experience than you.”

And yet, the lamb defeated him in the gateway. He knows how to swing a scythe, drive a iron chained spear through a spine and rot everything he touches, but brutal attacks cannot make up for a weak defense. His exhaustion might not kill him, but his pride might.

Lambert needs to figure out a way to convey that while also not irritating him further. “I think you’re grumpy and tired and that you’ll feel better after a nap.”

Narinder’s scowl just gets bigger. Yep. They did a poor job of that.

“I’m tired.” Lambert tries again. He seemed to relent back when their leg was injured and needed a break, though it appears he does not like it when the tables are turned. Perhaps if they emphasize their own exhaustion, he will not feel too cornered about his own. “And I’m not going to fight the Bishop unless I can get some rest, too.”

A standoff perhaps. He prefers them to do all the work simply out of a self-inflated ego, but it might be a bit different when the enemy is more personal. They half expect him to leave them there and go off to fight his undead brother all on his own. But Narinder’s face shifts, and there’s a pause where he appears to think for a long moment. His grip on the scythe handle turns his knuckles white.

“Fine.” He mutters. “A few hours.”

He turns away from them at the perfect moment not to see the lamb’s ears wiggle in a small celebration of victory.

The heretic’s camps are not grand by any means, but they usually had a tent, some boxes of storage, and a campfire with a cooking spit. The closest one had a tent that was mangled from being crashed into during battle, boxes of storage that were partially burnt and it’s contents unsalvageable, and a series of corpses still cooling on the campgrounds, but the firepit is still intact. So it will have to do for the night.

The bodies are a problem, sure, but one touch of Narinder’s finger and they decay much faster until the only remnants are the dead grey grass they leave behind. The smell of rot is quickly gone with wind and replaced with the smell of campfire smoke. Lambert pulls the cloth used for the tent, ripped and mangled now, and bundles it up into a ball. It will work as a cushion for the time being. They keep a canteen of water in the crown’s pocket storage, which is used more for cleaning themselves of blood until they are presentable moreso than drinking. Lambert takes a swig finally, holds the water out to Narinder, and brings it back when he cranes away from it.

The wood from the debris is good kindling for the fire. Narinder is the first to settle down near it, unsummoning his scythe and crossing his legs, arms locked together in his sleeves. Lambert either doesn’t get a hint or doesn’t care for distance because they sit next to him. Not close enough to bother, but close enough that he can get a full view of them. They found a pouch of berries among the storage’s wreckage, along with what looks like to be small slices of cheese. Not a full meal, but they snack on it greedily.

The night is cool and the air was blue and calm. The fire is warm. It’s crackle is the only sound for a while. A final night in this horrific domain.

Lambert talks after a few minutes of berry snacking. “I think you actually need to sleep.”

He was trying to stare into the flames to ignore them. “Be quiet.”

“We’re not going to be ambushed. There’s no one left.” They pop another berry in their mouth. “Besides, even if there was, I can kill them for you. I wouldn’t let anything bother you.”

It’s so ridiculous that a low cackle escapes him. It carries no joy in his tone. “And so the traitor tells it’s master to sleep safely in their presence. Might I need you to find me a knife for you to dig into my back as well? Would you like me to turn around? I’m sure there was a dagger somewhere on one of those corpses if you don’t wish to dirty the crown’s sword.”

He hopes to see hurt or something negative in their reaction. They just pop another berry into their mouth and chew like a chipmunk. “Suit yourself.”

What a horrible creature they are. Narinder closes his eyes to be rid of them. He will meditate. He will only meditate.

“So-” The chatty lamb is trying to talk again. Of course they are. “You said that you would have had a ‘pretty place in the afterlife’ carved out for me.”

Narinder’s eyes fly open.

He did let that slip, didn’t he?

They look to him with curiosity, and yawn in-between bites. They don’t look like they’re interrogating him, or cornering him for an answer. Perhaps it is his own mind playing tricks on him as the cost of exhaustion. Narinder keeps his face neutral. “Think nothing of it.”

Lambert nibbles on a slice of cheese. With a free hand they come up and adjust the band of their collar. They can’t get a finger in between their skin and the leather, something he squints at. When it’s adjusted, Narinder looks away. Lambert tosses another berry into their mouth. “What were you going to do after you had taken my sacrifice, if I had laid my head for you?”

They are far too casual when they ask it. The God of Death inhales, and exhales with fatigue. “I wouldn’t have consumed you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

He knows he fucked up when the sound of chewing pauses. “…I meant about what you had planned after you became free from the chains, not with me. But now I’m curious.”

Damn it all. His exhaustion is loosening his filter. “It is not privy to you.”

“Um, it kinda is?” To his inward mortification, they’ve scooted an inch or two closer. Wide eyes are locked onto him now. “You were asking for my life. Permanently. I always thought you were just going to, you know-” They make a wild gesture with their hand. “Eat my soul or something. The same thing I saw the other bishops do before they transform. What were you going to do with me after if I had sacrificed myself to you?”

The fire was starting to feel a little too warm. Narinder bites his tongue. “That is knowledge you forfeited once you betrayed me.”

“…Okay. What will it take in exchange for that knowledge?”

“Your death.” His tone is a low hiss. “Then you might find out.”

“My death right now would result in my soul being erased, I think.”

“Then I guess you’ll never know.”

That seems to dampen them a little bit. Lambert sniffs, leaning back and popping the rest of the pouch’s berries into their mouth and chewing rather loudly. He does not look at them for the sake of staring into the fire. This crusade has already been filled with wretched memories that churn his stomach and plunge his mind into a convoluted visions. The reminder of what could have been makes his throat dry and his teeth ache with anger.

Lambert hums something in absentmindedness, completely unaware to his toil. “Well, I don’t think you’d just leave me be in the afterlife like normal if you were talking about having a specific plan for me. If you weren’t going to consume my soul, and assuming you weren’t just going to resurrect me, then…purgatory?”

He shouldn’t answer them. He should just agree. He is so tired.

“No.” Narinder closes his eyes. “Not quite.”

A pause. Then a shuffle of a cloak and a very present feeling that there was something directly in front of his face. He cracks open one eye to find the lamb inches from him, face casting a shadow on his own from the fire, and very invested in his words. “Then?”

Narinder cranes away from them so quickly he almost falls over. “Then nothing.”

Lambert follows his direction. “You can’t just leave me on that! This was my sacrifice we’re talking about here!”

“Be silent before I kick you into the fire.”

“Narinder!”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He speaks with a heightened finally, locking his eyes closed again and swearing not to open them no matter what the deranged little freak in front of him does. “I’m going to sleep. Do not bother me any longer.”

He does not see them, but he can visualize their mouth frozen open at the standoff of what they wanted more; an answer or his rest. Their mouth clacks shut and the feeling of a presence in front of him moves away. The sound of the makeshift cushion is poofed up as they sit on it. “I’m gonna meditate. Just rest for a while.”

Narinder tunes out the sound of their breathing. He’s just going to meditate as well. He’s just resting. His eyelids feel weighted. HIs shoulders ache. He’s just resting. The air has gone quiet. Grass blows in the wind, and the fire crackles. He’s just resting.

-

-

The afterlife feels warmer than usual.

“Na-rin-der.…Na-rin-der.” The lamb rolls his name over their tongue, pronouncing every syllable to get it perfectly. “Narinder.”

Shamura dies tomorrow. Soon the last of his traitorous siblings will fall and these chains will finally snap with the last of their applicants dead. There is a special place in hell for them, some place where they can suffer 1000 years just as he has, and Death will sweep through their domains.

The lamb must lie in sacrifice for that return to happen. They have some more work to do in the overworld, though. He does not mind the delay. It will only take a mere decade or few (or many) to gainer enough devotion to raise him, and it gives him more time to prepare.

“You never told me your name was Narinder.” Says the lamb.

That name died long ago with the god, the person, he used to be, and yet the lamb’s tongue and voice feels like a resurrection of it. “It was never important, lamb.”

“My name is Lambert, by the way. Not ‘lamb’. I mean that’s fine too, I guess. But I prefer Lambert.”

The chains around him feel a little slacker when he sighs. “I already knew that, lamb. I knew from the beginning.”

“Lambert.” They repeat, hands on their hips. This noisy, bratty thing stands before him and bleats with overconfidence. “I know it’s a silly name for a cult leader, but c’mon. How would you feel if I just called you ‘cat’ all the time?”

His mouth thins. “Stay focused, lamb. The end of our mission is close by. We must discuss what you shall do after the last of the Bishops has fallen-”

In a mockery of a huff, they turn away from him. It’s almost comical; facing outwards into the afterlife’s horizon like something caught their attention, though the only thing there is him. The God of Death is taken aback when his prophesized vessel ignores him. “Lamb.”

They do not respond to him.

“Lamb.” He tries again. Being ignored was a grave offense. How dare they. He would have them crushed for such behavior had he not favored them. “Vessel.”

They turn back with a hum, faking surprise. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize you were calling for me. Couldn’t tell if you were calling for some other lamb or something.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting foolish.”

“I’m not the one who can’t say a single word correctly. It’s Lambert.” They point a finger up at him. “Say the ‘bert’. Say it.”

The One Who Waits cannot describe the feeling of being scolded by a talkative little mortal with a mouth bigger than it’s tail. “I should punish you for this.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. What are ya gonna do? Kill me?” They scoff, arms gesturing outwards and wearing a smug look. “We’re already in the land of the dead!”

The cat deadpans. With his forefinger and his thumb, the God of Death oh so eloquently flicks sand into the lamb’s eyes.

They sputter, cough and flail and release what is probably the funniest panicked bleat he’s ever heard. “Hey-baAH. It stings! Oh, oughh ITS IN MY WOOL-”

A forgotten feeling in his chest rises and comes out as a low chuckle. He laughs, a genuine one, and watches as the vessal shakes the grain from their eyes. Lambert sticks their tongue out (Did it get into their mouth too? Oh, even better.) and spits and groans as they wipe their face and shake their head as their god takes amusement in their cursing.

They probably got the most of it out after a minute of just blurred shaking. “And you call ME childish! You’re the one who won’t even say my name properly!”

“Your name is…very mortal.” There’s still amusement in his voice. “But I suppose it’s fitting for someone of your…demeanor.”

The lamb sneezes twice in a row. “Did you just call me goofy?”

“Hmm. I said no such thing. You came to that conclusion on your own.”

“...same thing.”

“Why do you do this?” There’s still a little bit of sand on the front of their cloak. His fingers feel the need to move forwards before they notice it and brush it off themselves. “You come into my domain and you linger as such with these…behaviors.”

The lamb looks at him like he’s stupid. “It’s called playing. Spending time together. You do that with your friends.”

“We are not friends.”

“How come I’ve never seen you without a veil?” They ignore his statement completely, and he’s honestly used to that sort of switch up. “I’ve never seen what your face looks like behind there.”

“It is not important to your mission.”

“My mission is almost over, and I still have yet to see you without the veil.”

There’s a twitch in his fingers. A tingle in his arms. “What does it matter to you?”

The lamb’s eyes are starry. “Just wondering.”

“You speak like that when you want something.” He notes, and raises a brow when all they do is snort at him. “Do you think you might receive a reward when all is done?”

“Maybe.” Their arms raise, high up to him like they reach for the stars. There’s nothing to grab onto, they simply pretend he’s close enough for them to touch. “I know it’s hard to reach high enough with the chains. Would you show me when your arms are free? I can wait until then.”

The One Who Waits hums. “Your fidgeting says otherwise.”

Lambert says nothing. Their smile taunts him.

It’s automatic enough that it’s almost shameful how the God of Death lowers his hand to the ground, and the lamb hops into his palm with no hesitation. His arms ache with the effort, but it’s easier now. The chains do not pull on him as harshly as they did before. They still straighten as he raises the lamb up to his face; the closest they’ve ever gotten to him. He peers at them beyond the veil. “Are you happy now?”

“Nah.” His vessel grins. They crawl to the edge of his palm and he tilts his hand slightly only so they do not fall off of it. The lamb’s hands reach out. “Come closer. I still want to see you.”

The God of Death makes a noise of discontent, but he brings them closer to his face. Lambert waits until the veil is just within reach, grabs a fistful of the fabric and throws it up. The sheer fabric goes over their head and horns, lying on their back and housing them within it.

Three wide crimson eyes blink down at them. Lambert smiles in their reflection. “Hi, Narinder.”

Ah.

…

…Well.

…That…

…That’s weird. His chest shouldn’t feel like this. He has no need for air like mortals do.

“…Hello.” Is all he can say back to them. His body feels ridged. The God of Death feels frozen. “Is this what you wanted?”

They look content. Their smile reaches their eyes. He doesn’t know why he almost flinches when their hand comes out and touches the fur above his nose. He doesn’t know why he’s allowing them to do so. They do not answer him.

His chest still feels strange. It feels tight, and uncomfortably so. The cat grimaces visibly. This is not how the memory went. “Lamb-”

“Is this what you wanted?” They repeat his words back to him, and suddenly their smile feels colder. Their fingers dig deeper into his fur. “What do you want, death?”

They are…they are not in the afterlife anymore.

Not his prison, at least. They are somewhere deeper. The floor is covered in blood. His chest feels like something is stabbing him, dragging knives somewhere deep inside of his ribcage. The blood is up to his ankles. He’s in hell. Literal hell. He knows because he made it so.

The One Who Waits’s face and hands are split apart and clawed. His eyes want to expel from their sockets. He is eldritch and yet he is not. He is large and small. He is mortal but he is the most powerful god in creation. His chest hurts. “What?!”

“Narinder.”

The lamb stands there with eyes of white. Often in ritual do they shine with devotion, and they do. They shine, they glow, they seer into him-

“What is this?!” He hisses. His arms are like lead. “What do you want?!”

“What do you want?” They laugh. They approach him. The lamb is pristine clean, smiling, a white splotch against the dark red hellscape behind them. All except for the bleeding center of their chest. They speak, and it’s gentle. His name is called somewhere in their voice. “Face your fate as it finds you, God of Death. For your regrets and desires have become unchained.”

Gore and blood cover him. This memory is clawing at him. There is something he cannot remember. He hunches over in pain. Agony. Anger. The lamb does not wear a crown. “Don’t-”

Their hands cup the sides of his face, and Lambert speaks softly to him. “Rise for resurrection, Narinder. Your vessel summons you.”

-

Narinder wakes up choking on his own blood.

His entire body jolts. Somewhere there is a call of his name, but everything is too painful to process the source of it. Eyes fly wide open and he lurches forward as he gasps, and blood flows freely down his chin and neck. Everything is too bright, too much. Something warm and heavy laid across his shoulders is thrown off, ripped apart as it touches his skin, and he barely registers that it’s the fabric of an old tent used as a blanket before he’s shredding it and kicking it away from him.

He being flayed from the inside out. There is something wrong with his lungs that makes breathing difficult. Inhale, exhale. Fail. Try again, and fail. He’s failing. He’s dying. His eyes are clouded with black ichor and his wrists ache with the weight of iron chains. The grass beneath him rots to brown and grey. His mouth tastes of decay and sickly ichor. A hand comes to reach for his shoulders-

Narinder grabs Lambert’s wrist before their fingers ever touch him, and slams them shoulder down into the ground. “You wish to grant my siblings rest yet you deny me mine!”

Their face is blurry, but their expression is one of shock. “You were mumbling, I thought-!”

His hand on their shoulder digs claws into their flesh. He snarls, face splitting apart at the seams. Rows of teeth emerge from the meat of his gums. “Stay out of my head! Whatever magic you’re using, I’ll strangle you with it!”

Black coils of magic and lighting spark from him and show in the reflection of the lamb’s wide eyes. “What are you talking about?! I cannot read minds!”

Their hand comes up to grip his own and it just digs into them further. His grip tightens; his other hand poised ready to rip them apart. The crown on their head stares up at him in mockery. Still a crown, not a sword. They have not summoned it against him. Anger. Anger. Anger. “Every night you torture me and for what reason?! Haven’t you cursed me enough?!”

Lambert makes no move out from underneath him. They stare at him with confusion and fear, but it is not for their own life. They look so confused.

Narinder can feel his face involuntarily soften before the nausea forces him to release them, turn to the side, and cough up black sludge into the grass.

He’s still spewing ichor and turning the forest black with his blood as movement moves besides him. The ichor that spells from his throat has the consistency of phlegm, thin and expelling from his lungs. It’s only after a few moments of this does it feel like he can suddenly breathe, and oh how his lungs demand he learn how to breathe properly lest it burn him from the inside out.

Lambert’s voice is hesitant. “…Bad dream?”

Narinder is too weak and too cornered to speak or to lie.

“It’s okay.” A hand hovers like they want to touch him. It falls away from him instead. “I get those too.”

His tongue feels swollen. He wants to open his mouth to speak. (I don’t care. I didn’t ask. Tell me about them. Are we the same? Do you dream of me? This is your fault. Don’t touch me. Come closer. I still have need of you.) But it comes out as a sputter and cough that spills black through his fingers and stains the front of his robes. They’ll need to be cleaned again.

The lamb sounds uncertain when they talk. “Maybe we should go back. You’re sick.”

“No.” He’s trembling. Shaking, still. His hands and fingers won’t stay still. They look like bone when he blinks. “I am not sick.”

His sentence ends with a low shudder. The space next to him shifts and suddenly they’re not there anymore. The sound of cloth and stems being snapped is heard. He cannot see what they are doing, but they’re rummaging through something.

His breathing is starting to even out because he forces it to. His clean hand comes up to his face; the lines are gone. Flesh is stitched back together into seamless fur. His ears no longer feel torn. He is not in eldritch form.

He does not know what eldritch form would entail in a size like this, and never before has a transformation start without his prompt, much less undone without his say-so. That too, is something he cannot control; steered by the reigns of his own emotions. He’s lost control over that. Everything, actually. His crown, his powers, his body, his mind-

A bundle of camellias is pushed into his face.

Narinder flinches back, and sneers as Lambert just pushes them closer. “I did not ask for these, damned lamb! Everything I taste is rotten-”

They keep pushing. “It’s for the smell! The smell helps with nausea!”

He opens his mouth to protest, and finds that he has none when his next breath brings a little more calmness to his lungs. His fingers still shake slightly, his mind still spins. “They will rot.”

“Then I will hold them for you so that they don’t.”

He can’t protest anymore. It hurts to talk.

They sit like this for a while. He would count the seconds turning into minutes if it meant something to a god. It doesn’t, but it gives his mind something to work with until the feeling passes. Five seconds. Twenty seconds. The fire has been put out and looks like it’s been out for a while. Thirty seconds. It’s daytime, sometime in the early morning. The birds in the trees are starting to wake up. A minute. Two minutes. Three. The lamb has dirt in their wool from him throwing them to the ground.

His hands curl into fists. Five minutes. His chest feels normal again. The blood on his chin and face is starting to dry if it hasn’t already. The ground around him is dead, flowers lie wilted and the grass is stiff and decayed. He killed this part of the forest. Six minutes. Inhale. Exhale.

“I can go take care of Leshy alone if you want.” The lamb’s voice is quieter than normal. “I don’t mind being your vessel even now.”

“You do not decide that.” He recollects himself. The lamb thinks him bothered by the killing of his brother. Of course he’s bothered, but he’s had over a thousand years to think skewering his siblings and what they’ve done to him. Gods don’t have dreams like mortals do, but the imagination is still rampant. Even more so now that he sleeps. The subject of his nightmares is in the dark, and they will remain that way. He’s had plenty of time to prepare for now. He’s already had him killed once.

Still, Narinder stares at the dead grass of his brother’s domain.

The flowers move slightly so the lamb can look at his face. With a free hand, they procure something. Simple cloth. It’s cut from the heretic’s tent, or really, they picked up a piece he had shredded. “Here. For the blood.”

He doesn’t want to take it, but he does. He wipes the ichor from his face before it can stick to his fur. It will blend in with the color, so he does not have to worry about his own blood staining him, but he still smells of blood and ichor all the same. The cloth is dropped to the ground, and Narinder straightens his posture.

The lamb’s hand extends to help him up but he cranes away from it. The usual mantra of not to touch him is muttered under his breathe, and the God of Death rises once more.

He stands there still for a second. “Leshy’s temple is open.”

Lambert is standing too. He doesn’t meet their face. “I don’t think-”

“Return to the crusade, vessel.” He won’t look at them. His tone is low. “Finish what we started.”

In a circle of death, they stare into his back. The sword summons to their palm. They turn towards the direction of the door.

It is a silent departure to the final battle.

Lambert doesn’t realize they’re still holding the bundle of camellias until they’re at the Bishop’s door.

The walls of the temple before they enter have faces carved into the stone, though it looks like they’re all screaming. A morbid sight before Leshy’s second defeat. Narinder walks in silently behind them and takes the lead in front of them. He’s inches from the portal, now open and bright with magic, and the lamb thinks he’s going to walk right through without them.

He doesn’t. Nor does he turn to look at them or command them either. He just waits. The God of Death is done talking.

They set the flowers to the side of the door. “This is the closest thing to a grave we’re going to get, I think.” He makes no acknowledgement of it. Lambert approaches the door. “If we end up dying, that’s it. For me at least. I’ll resurrect you if you die.” They pause. “I’ll try to. I still don’t know how it works with the power being split. I won’t let them trap you in the afterlife...or let you be erased, if I can help it.”

He does not respond to them. Every part of him is still and ridged. Anticipation radiates from him. His ears don’t move to their voice and his tail doesn’t twitch. He’s as still as the dead.

“Okay.” Lambert’s own voice is soft in their throat. “Let’s go.”

Lambert enters first. Narinder follows close behind.

The God of Chaos’s temple is just as they remember it to be.

Which makes sense, since this place was purgatory and supposed to be the exact time and place of death as the owner remembers it so they might relive it for the rest of eternity, but it’s still a little jarring.

The walk down the hallway is a somber one. They see the cultists first; all mirrors of their original selves, though their eyes hold no life in them. Blood filled mouths and pooling from their noses are these souls cursed to relive their own deaths of sacrificing themselves to their Bishop over and over again. They’re like dolls, mechanic in the way they move, posed more like mannequins than living beings. They don’t have a soul. Theirs was consumed long ago. They’re just there for show.

Then they see Leshy. The worm looks horrific.

The Bishop of Chaos is missing a chunk of his head, skin and raw flesh where green should be. His bandage black with blood stains still oozing from a fresh wound that will never close. A partial eldritch transformation already done with the teeth that sticks out from it. His hands shake at the front of his robes. His voice cracks in mummers.

Lambert glances to Narinder.

Narinder’s eyes are wide, his pupils small. He is still. He is frozen.

To commit a sin was one thing. To face it was another.

The God of Chaos notices them. “Little lamb......Brother.…”

Lambert readies the sword.

"Time to put an end to this... frivolous masquerade... time to put an end..." Leshy’s voice cracks. He sounds broken and mad. His skin shifts and the sound of bones crack. Cultist raise their daggers like zombies and sacrifice a soul they no longer have. He grows. He wails. "End... this..."

-

-

-

They fight. They kill. Leshy almost kills them again.

But Lambert knows his moves from deaths before, and Narinder must have known his moves from long ago because as sneaky as that cat is he sure is quick.

The enemies that Leshy summons from who-knows-where can’t catch up to him; he’s darting past them faster than the eye could blink, leaving a long chain of iron flying behind him like a ribbon and spraying blood of every neck it comes across. They may not be alive, but their ghosts still bleed like the living.

Lambert dodges every spiked ground shot their way. It is a hazardous task, and minions appear just as they’re running in their path. There is not enough time to calculate or to make the kills clean; the difference between hacking off heads or shoving the point of their sword through their eyes was something not important when you have a giant eldritch worm god trying to crush you and you’re down to your last life.

Out of the corner of their eye do they see a black hand drag claws against the God of Chaos’s skin and briefly wonder why Narinder isn’t using his weapon. It is not until the cat leaps back and stares expectantly at the minor scratch he makes, and his face turns from stoic anger into something of hatred that the lamb realizes he was trying to rot Leshy.

His siblings, like the lamb, may too be immune to his powers of decay. There is no time to question why.

The lamb dodges a smaller bagworm’s lunge in their direction and another flay or earth shooting up at them. A momentary distraction might have cost them when something pierces through the skin on the back of their shoulder. A thin, hardened branch from the forest puncturing them in the back. It doesn’t go all the way through, but the distraction is causes does more damage than the wound itself.

Leshy’s several rows of teeth and bulbous head of eldritch form is heading straight for them-

The worm suddenly lurches back with a pained, grievous roar that reverbs off the walls and shakes the floor. Lambert does several things at once; pulls the wooden stake out from their shoulder and tosses it away, rolls somewhere where the minions and the worm can’t immediately squash them and scans the room for Narinder.

He’s there at the base of the worm, scythe summoned with it’s blade plunged into the God’s stomach. There’s a sliver of madness that glints in his eyes as Narinder takes his free hand, places it on the back head of the weapon, and pushes the blade deeper into his brother’s stomach. Leshy wails; his body convulses and squirms. Gore and ichor pools out from the wound.

Narinder is darting away as the god slams down on the spot where he once was, and Lambert returns to the slaughter.

-

-

The waves of spikes are the worst ones. They can be dodged if one moves fast enough most of the time.

Most of the time.

The injury on their shoulder is still bleeding down to their sword handle but it’s not something they can focus on. Leshy is enraged; bits of flesh falling down from the god’s head as he spews poison and vile spikes across the room in waves. They’ve worn him down quite a bit; his health was slipping. The floor of his temple was becoming slick with it’s god’s ichor.

With a roar does he summon the earth to shoot up around him in a circle and lash it out like a wave. Lambert has died to that many times before, so it’s considered a miracle they’re quick enough to roll through the slightest opening before the spikes tear them to shreds.

In the corner of their eyes is a dark blur, and they barely get their sights on Narinder before the wave knocks him over, and there’s an audible snap of something breaking heard from across the room.

By reflex Lambert turns away for half a second to skewer a jumping worm that was aiming for their neck, and turns back to see the cat hunched over, sleeve pulled up on one arm and the other twisting it’s weight. His non-dominant arm is bent at an unnatural angle. Narinder’s fangs grit together, ichor dripping from the side of his mouth.

At the same moment a worm comes up from the side, and Lambert’s hand moves on their own. Their aim is only good from learning how to aim curses, but learning how to throw a sword is the same technic. It flies, pierces the worm as it make a putrid squeal the same second the cat forces the bone back into place. Narinder looks back just to see the corpse fall.

They don’t see his reaction. The sword returns to their hand and their attention back on the fight. They dodge the second wave of spikes.

-

-

They fight, and they kill.

The creature his brother has become roars and wails in pain.

They’re panting, bleeding. Dying, maybe a little. But not enough to drop dead. The are no second chances; the very problem that Narinder had intended to solve, locked away for, sought revenge, and now his brother bleeds. They fight. They kill.

-

-

Lambert is the one to drive the killing blow, they think.

It’s not for certain. You don’t really keep track of who does what injury when you’re fighting for your life. But the god is worn down; his flesh is rendered useless and his movements sluggish until he is nearly zombified. He is covered in wounds that shift and look open enough that if they grew teeth they might as well be mouths. He is getting slower. His roars turn to whines.

Between all the moving around and the fighting and the blood spatter, it’s hard to tell when it finally happens, but it happens. The worm hisses something deep as an entire shudder wracks it’s body, and collapses. It moves slightly a little, staining itself with the ichor that’s puddled on the floor, then goes still.

Lambert pulls the sword from the flesh of his side and it returns as the crown to their head. Some paces away Narinder has the scythe sticking out of the god’s back. He stares down at the creature with wide, unmoving eyes. Perhaps to check if this was real, or if he was really dead, and it’s a solid thirty seconds before his hand slowly tightens around the shaft of the weapon and pulls it from the corpse. It exits with a sickening squilch of meat, gore and tendons stringing from the blade until he flicks it away. Narinder just stands there.

Leshy has been defeated for a second time. The flesh on his corpse is already starting to melt back into the earth.

The doorway that leads them to the teleportation stone is unblocked and ready for use. The bones of a god seem out of place sitting in the middle of his temple like this. The God of Death stands over it with a stoic expression. They cannot read what he’s thinking. Before, The One Who Waits congratulated them on their success on killing Leshy the first time. The second time he is still and silent. Lambert does not know where the dead Bishop goes after purgatory. They don’t know if Narinder knows either.

He doesn’t look at them when they approach. “Narinder?”

His tail swishes to their voice.

“Let’s go home.” Is all they can think to say. “We’re both hurt.”

The scythe remains unsummoned like he forgets to do so, and the cat turns towards the doorway. It is a quiet walk to the exit as they leave all of this behind. A sigh escapes Lambert. There will be no true break when they return. The flock has been without a leader for nearly a week and there is doubt something that has gone amiss in their absence. That, and they had a rather standoffish cat returning to the village after a trip that’s been more than mentally straining, and they were worried.

They follow him with low shoulders, glancing back to the corpse with a finality-

-and freezes.

“Narinder?”

The cat keeps walking. His weapon drags against the stone flooring with a grating noise.

Lambert’s voice heightens with panic. “Narinder.”

Something in their tone must have snapped him out of his trance because his movements stop, and the God of Death turns his head over the shoulder to the lamb staring at something wide-eyed, and dully follows their gaze. His blood goes cold.

The bones of the God of Chaos is shifting, shrinking, and it’s flesh is morphing into something different. Before their very eyes does the corpse of the Bishop transform into something smaller, a sight that looks too familiar to be comfortable, until before them sits a creature on it’s knees, shaking. But very much alive.

It’s head is green with a bandage wrapped around it’s center, a mouth with sharp teeth that hangs open like it’s learning how to pant. Ichor drips from it’s covered eye and from the several gashes on it’s body, though they’re healing rapidly as the flesh of the larger form is absorbed into it until there is nothing left. Antlers, or whatever those things are, stem from it’s head. It’s fingers are claws, pointed and pawing at the fabric wrapped around it’s body; a dark robe meant for Bishops of the Old Faith, but it’s much too big for him now.

Lambert’s vision darts between the brothers. Narinder’s face is frozen with shock. Leshy is shaking from the cold.

“Wha- Little Lamb! I know you’re there! I can smell you!” His voice quivers when he yells, angry and confused. His hands claw at the empty ground. “Brother! I...What…what have you done to me?!”

Well.

This was not good.

They expected this journey to be hard, of course. Both physically and emotionally. But it seems that purgatory wasn’t kidding when it promised pain.

But the lamb must be adaptable, and they must adapt now, quickly.

“L-Leshy.” It comes out as a stammer because they’re still trying to process the scene before running up, reaching hand for the Bishop of Chaos. “Here. Stand up.”

(Worm who slaughter them, saw fit to kill their brethren, their kind. Last of their race against the four of their vengeance, served twice now. Now smaller. Now weaker. Forgive. Forgive. Forgive.)

Leshy’s arm swings out in their direction when they reach for him, and the movement sways him. He looks horrifically disoriented. The crown is missing from his head. “Get away from me! Die, lamb, die!”

Lambert’s hand pulls back. “I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You have been fighting me! You have been killing me!” His voice cracks. His body wracks with panic. The Bishop of Chaos is in the dark in a body he does not know how to pivot. “You have been a tool of my brother! You spew lies!”

Right. Because they killed him before, and now they’ve killed him again, and he’s been reduced to a mortal body. There’s a pattern here that was not working in their favor. “I know, but-”

A shadow overtakes them both, and Lambert looks to it’s owner right as the glint of a scythe comes down-

It is blocked with the crown’s sword. The force is heavy enough that their grip on the handle shakes, and their blade flickers, but it stays locked into place. Their eyes narrow on Narinder. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Narinder’s face is emotionless. His wrist twists and juts the sword out of the way, side stepping to raise it again. They block him again and feel the burn of pupils dragging from the Bishop to them. Red bores into them.

Behind them, the blind can only hear the clash of steel. “I’ll kill you both! I’ll kill you! I’ll end you both!“

They make the mistake of looking back at him. “Leshy, go-” Something painful twists their arm, and the sword is knocked from their grip by the scythe’s force. It doesn’t clatter or return to their palm like usual but instead flickers from existence the moment it leaves their touch, little specs of black that make up the crown stagger in the air, trying to find the lamb’s head. Panic rises. “Wait!“

Narinder raises his weapon.

His brother before him almost turns to face him before suddenly the ground is red, bloody with his own symbols. The creature sinks through the soil like nothing, and Leshy is teleported like all the followers to the cult grounds.

The blade of the scythe hits the stone and sinks into the ground milliseconds where his brother’s head used to be. Narinder stares blankly at the empty space, slowly turning to the sitting lamb.

His face darkens. His voice coils like a snake. “What have you done.”

Lambert moves to stand. The blood that filled their eyes is still blurring their vision from the summoning circle, and they’re moving to wipe it away. “I didn’t mean for this to happen-”

He lunges for them.

The sharp point of the scythe almost takes off an ear but it takes off strands of wool instead. The lamb dodges a second blow, a third, backpaddling while their hand opens and calls for the crown to have some mercy and reappear back into their palm. “Narinder-!”

He aims for their neck. “This was a family matter! It did not concern you!”

They duck again, movements quick. A normal person would be in shreds by now. “It very much did the moment you made me your vessel to assassinate your own kin!”

He growls something incomprehensible as he dives for him. His swings are wild, uncoordinated. Anger has returned to reign in his veins and they do not care if he bleeds from the arms because of it. “You think you’re in the position to make such decisions, lamb?! You do not hold the title! I am finishing the job that you could not! I am doing my part as death-!

“You saw him! There is no more need for this! He is no longer a threat!” The crown sputters like it’s witnessing everything and still hesitant to help. Lambert curses as a scythe blow is dodged but Narinder swings the shaft back and hard, and they’re cut off as the length drives into their stomach hard enough that bile raises up into the back of their throat. They needed an escape route, quick.

“I should have killed you in that fucking hut. I should have let every near death take you, and if you didn’t erase I’d leave your soul in that putrid corpse so you could feel yourself rot.” He’s herding them to a wall with every strike.

Perhaps it is the pain from his broken arm and every other injury he still housed that saves him as the scythe barely misses them. There is the feeling of something solid finally within their hands, and Lambert can feel the back of their head snap against the wall to avoid the next blow. The scythe comes down again, it’s handle sparking against the sword of the red crown. To slides down to the hilt and rattles as shadow and black magic spew from it’s blade. Ichor drips down to their feet and blends in with the rest of the blood they’re already coated with.

Lambert grits their teeth as his force threatens to crush them. “Narinder, don’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I shouldn’t have even asked for you to lay down your life for me. I should have slaughtered you from the start.” His fangs bare with hatred. His eyes bleed. The cat they call friend twists the scythe so that the blade is angled directly at Lambert’s neck. “The birds were right, lamb. Your only fate is Death.”

The ground beneath their feet is glow as red as their eyes do in the split second it takes for Narinder to grip the scythe and slice through the space where the lamb is crushed.

Except the lamb is no longer there. There’s a heavy gash in the stone wall, but no vessel. Narinder grits his teeth in rage at the empty space.

They’ve teleported back to the cult grounds without him.

It is a magic they’ve used hundreds, probably thousands of times over the last years, but never before have they been this haywire at the end of it when the stone spits them back out at the front of the campgrounds. They’re not even fully formed yet before one hoof hits the ground running.

Narinder has trouble teleporting by himself still, but that doesn’t mean he won’t figure it out eventually. They had very little time.

The stone where the new arrivals are sent has seen better days, more pathway than stone, but Leshy is there when they arrive. The Bishop of Chaos is still reeling. They see him shivering before they’re even close enough for him to hear them run. “Leshy-”

He flinches back the other way. “Damned lamb! I can still smell you! I can hear you! Where is this!?”

“Up with you, quickly.” No time for pleasantries or small talk; they grab a hold of his arm forcibly and ignore the attempts to pry them off of him. Having your commander of genocide as well as your killer (including the vice versa) now revived and putting their hands on you was surely not a pleasant experience, but it surely can’t be worse than purgatory. At the very least his head doesn’t look like it’s falling apart. He looks more like the Bishop of Chaos when they first met rather than what the afterlife did to him.

Where were they going to hide him? There was no spare house! Hell, the one Narinder was in was originally Rataus’s when he came to visit, and the temple surely isn’t an option. It’s not like there was any time to just magically ritual another one ready. And it’s not like they can just kick him out!

It’s the middle of the night. No one is awake. Don’t panic.

They raise him up as much as they can, and find it a little difficult because his weight is completely off balance. He’s shorter than Narinder, but still taller than the lamb, and he slumps. Lambert pushes him back up. “Leshy! Can you dig a hole into the ground and hide? I’ve seen you do it! Can you?”

The worm shudders and weakly cranes away from their grip. Black sludge leaks from the bandage, and his gurgle is filled with wet ichor. “End this...end this nightmare...”

Okay, no. He was in no shape for this. Short term solution failed. Try again.

They start walking him away from the follower’s stone. It would be the first place Narinder checks. They have half a mind to drop him off at the healing bay and hiding him there, but that would be the second place he would check. Not to mention stashing him in someone’s house isn’t exactly smart. If Narinder’s arrival to the cult killing two people didn’t warn them enough then who knows what the God of Chaos would do to their flock if he kept the same partial abilities. How would they know to warn others? They don’t know how any of this works.

The temple and healing bay is not a solution. The construction sites seems chaotic enough but if they leave him alone in there, he could get hurt, or worse. Their followers can’t be subjected to a random god being thrust into their apartments at night and even if they did there’s no telling that it would even stop the God of Death from tearing into them as fodder. The crypts or the morgue might mask his smell and confused whatever deathly sense the cat has, though it would defile the graves of those who rest there. The farmhouse…

The farmhouse was closest and with the widest range of soft soil around it. Acres of it. Lambert turns the loopy worm with a hard shove on the back and all but guides him in the direction of their farms. The land was tilled and ready for planting, meaning it was probably easier to burrow there than it would be anywhere else. Even in his current state, Leshy would be able to make a quick get-away if the cat found him.

“Where do you take me?!” Leshy’s voice chops and slurs. He is going in and out of focus. “I’m going…I’m going to crush you. I’m going to make you fertilizer for my forest!”

The lamb must take care of everyone who joins the flock. Apparently, this was going to include their killers.

Well. They’ve already got a headstart with one in particular.

“In here.” They shove open the barn doors with one hand and pull him inside with the other. “You’ll have to be quiet. Burrow into the ground or the hay if someone comes in here-”

There’s a sudden noise from the rafters. Bits of hay and fur rain down from the top of the barn, and a nervous voice calls out like they were just caught napping in a place they weren’t supposed to. In probability, they were. “L-Leader?!”

Lambert cringes and Leshy shrinks back at the yell. There was someone here.

A yellow mass tumbles from the loft. It’s a farmer that lives close to the field, napping here because they were too tired to make the march back home. They land perfectly on their feet, staring tranced for a second before straightening their posturing and trying to look like they didn’t just get caught somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. Their fur stands on end. “My leader! I was just...are you bleeding?”

As if on cue, there’s a tug on their chest in the direction of the teleportation stone. No time.

“Hi, Joon!” With a rather hard shove, Lambert forces Leshy forward and pushes him into a sit in the middle of the barn. Shoving a nearly catatonic ex-God of Chaos into one of their follower’s care was definitely not the plan, but there’s no other option right now. “Please watch him for a bit! He’s a newcomer, and he’s just been…rescued from Darkwood. Don’t touch him. Just watch him for me, okay? I’ll be back!”

Joon looks relieved for not being scolded, but blinks down at the ‘newcomer’ in shock. “Whoa! He’s got a weird bush head!”

Leshy breaks from his trance just to have his voice crack in a yell. “WHO SAID THAT?!”

“I’m really sorry about this!” Their ribs were starting to ache. They rush to the barn doors; a glance behind them shows a confused cat and an even more confused worm. “Both of you stay quiet, I’ll be back!”

The door slams, and Lambert takes off running towards the teleportation stone. They can only hope to hell and back that Leshy will not do anything catastrophic to Joon as what Narinder did to their followers before. Maybe they will get lucky and he’ll just stay in shock for the rest of the evening.

The teleportation stone is empty. Lambert’s throat goes dry. They’ll check his hut.

That too, before they even approach his door, they know is empty. It hangs open on it’s hinges. He’s been here already.

He is here somewhere.

There’s no screams. There’s no one crying from the village about a demon attacking them in the night. From a vantage point they can tell no one has entered the barn. If he was searching for Leshy, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it. Though the subject of his anger wasn’t currently the worm but the lamb; his goal may not be to find him first. The cat is a god at stealth as much as he is death, and Lambert does not have omnipresence the way they used to, but even mortals can tell when they’re being watched.

He is waiting for them. Lying a trap out that he knows the lamb shall willingly walk into.

Their gaze turns to the temple and it’s door ajar. Somewhere they will not be bothered. The sword is summoned to their palm; this time it does not flicker, though it’s weight in their hands feels heavy as much as their heart does. It’s a drumming thing, quick in it’s pace. It’s pulse rises as they hesitantly walk inside the temple doors and move forwards until they stand to the summoning circle.

Just as they thought, the door slams behind them. The latch of a lock clicks. “Little lamb.”

Automatically they throw their arm behind them, sword posed, and there’s steel against steel sparking in the dark of the temple as the scythe comes within inches of their face. Lambert can see their own reflection in the red of the blade. “Narinder…”

“I thought I’d let your corpse hang here so your flock could witness how a false prophet dies.” He hisses, eyes blacked and red with rage. Ichor pools from his eyes the way blood starts to well up in their own. He presses the blade further against the sword. “You’d be my finest work yet.”

He drags the blade down and Lambert dodges it. They dodge again, and again. Teeth grit with every blow narrowly avoided because they’re trying to figure out how to subdue him without hurting him, and all of this feels like everything went back to square one. “Calm down-!”

“Calm? You call for calm?!” His own voice wavers in his yell, raising the staff-end of his weapon high above his head and bringing it down. “Why am I the one seen as unreasonable here?! They chained me for a thousand years! Over a thousand years! They took everything from me!” The blade doesn’t dull when he aims for their legs. A slice appears on their knees, but the rest of the damage is given to the podium they duck behind. “They took my temple, they took my worship, they took my freedom and you wish to give my imprisoners a second chance!?”

Lambert deflects a blow from the side, and inwardly cringes when they can hear the crunch of bone on bone grinding against each other from Narinder’s arm when they push him back. If he was in any pain, it was overwhelmed by the rage. “It’s that the whole point of resurrection?” They dodge again. The scythe hits the podium and cleaves it nearly in half. “To give another chance?!”

“And I was CHAINED for it!” Narinder’s free hand almost snags them by the wool, but the claws just rake across their shoulder through their cloak. He yells, vile voice reverbing off the walls. Darkness creeps in from the corners. The temple is absorbing whatever hellish power he’s radiating and poisoning the air. “I was to make existence better! To reverse the absolute! I was supposed to help my worshippers, and they fucking chained me for it! You want to spare them from the same punishment given to me so you can give them your own sick, twisted idea of an life?!”

They kick him back, hooves on his chest that send him stumbling a few feet away. Lambert positions the sword in-between them, panting. Distance was needed. “I think…I think all can be saved-”

“You think that insufferable form would be saving him?! To be trapped in mortal body?!” He yells, teeth sharp as he lunges again. “Killing him would be a mercy!”

This can’t go on for any longer. It takes considerable effort just as it did before, but a shadowed hand envelopes their own and jumps across the space between them. Narinder is caught short as it overtakes him like many months before, and he hisses and scream and growls.

Lambert heaves for air. “I did not plan this! I did not plan for any of this-”

A chain shoots from the shadow. It disperses it like ink, and a seering hot pain shoots through their hand and up their wrist. They flinch with a yelp, the shadow draws back into their body involuntarily, hand shaking. A sharp, deep cut into their palm bleeds red down their arm.

They hardly get time to inspect it before the chain wraps around their neck and swings them back. Narinder clutches the chain hard like a leash, and yanks them towards him. “You did something…You did something to me.”

Their legs drag against the floor until he’s within reach, then they kick at him. It’s a miss he dodges, but it’s a distraction so he doesn’t notice their hands trailing up the iron length and grabbing hold. Narinder is the one pulled forwards by his own weapon with a pained noise when they drive an elbow into his stomach, hard enough to send him back. The chain loosens slightly from around the lamb’s neck and they slip out before it can constrict them again.

It grows taunt, lashing forward, but the crown’s sword clangs against it. They threaten to wretch it from their slick, bloody hands.

Narinder has iron coils wrapped around his hand, spitting blood out onto the temple floor.

“Vessal.” He growls low. His tone is coated with pain. He pants, just as they do. “Do what I revived you to do, or I shall do it for you.”

The chains around their weapon snap away and fade back into his palm when Lambert flings them off. They raise to their full posture, heaving, and point the blade at his chest. “Do not make me do this, Narinder. Because I will drive this through your heart and then raise you up from the depths of hell myself!”

It is a lie. They don’t know if they can.

“Go on.” He steps closer. The edge of the sword pushes into the front of his robes, and he moves uncaring. Black blood beads at the tip of their sword; fresh stains on his robes where some already were. “Prove to me that this is what defeated the God of Death. Make good on your promise.”

It would be a very quick death. Even with godly power his body is still limited, and Lambert cannot think of any creature that can survive a sword through the heart. They are stronger than him still. He knows this. He watches their teeth grit and their hands shake.

This feels oddly familiar. The lamb hesitates too long, and the sword flickers to non-existence. “I…Wait-”

A flash of black lighting and a blur, the scythe returns to the his hand in the same movement his pushes the blade aside. It cuts him somewhere on his arm but he makes no acknowledgement of it as the God of Death closes in. Lambert’s wool is grabbed with one hand, slammed against the altar as he hovers over them, his other hand holds the weapon near the head, and Narinder forces Lambert’s head to crane upwards to expose their neck as he presses the scythe’s blade to the skin above their bell.

“You have turned me to nothing.” He whispers through razor teeth. Madness. Ichor drips down onto their face. “I will erase you into nothing-”

Their hands find the wrist that holds their wool, the other scrambles, it shakes in panic, and darts up to his face. “Wait-”

Stillness.

The blade has stopped pushing into their skin. They can feel their pulse beat against the steel, the slightest line of blood decorating the blade. Wide, black eyes reflect the cat pining them. They shine wet with something other than blood.

Their own reflection casts back at them through wide, crimson eyes. The cat is still. Their fingers touch the side of his face, and they feel the warmth of the skin beneath his fur and whiskers that blend in with it. They can feel where the softness begins and where the dried ichor starts. They can tell he’s not breathing.

The crown is somewhere else and they do not call it. The dark handle of Narinder’s scythe is beginning to melt back into his hand, and the cat is still frozen. There is something like recollection behind his eyes.

“Narin-” A crack in their voice when their heart feels like it skipped a few beats. He flinches at it, pupils shrinking, and lamb curls their fingers into his fur. “Narinder, I-”

This is familiar.

He drops them. The hand on their wool lets go as quick as if their very touch burns him. Lambert gasps for a breath as the weight of a blade disappears from their neck. Sitting up causes pain to shoot through their body, but they cough for control of their lungs, their heart, and will the tremble to stop in their fingers. Their back slides against the front of the altar until they have the sense to use it as a crutch to keep themselves upright.

Somewhere in their vision they can see his figure backpaddling further away from them. When their eyes focus, he’s standing in the center of a damaged temple. There’s no more ichor trailing from his face. His shoulders are loose and straight, like he was standing witness to something horrific instead of the hunt he was partaking in moments prior. They scythe is gripped losly in his hand like he simply forgot he was holding it. He is still and he is staring at them.

He looks…afraid. Confused. Narinder takes in every inch of the lamb from the blood on their face to the gash on their knee, to the black eyes he lingers on.

Then, he turns to the door.

Lambert is quick to rise up. The crown has returned to their head without their calling and they’re not even going to think about how the sword nearly failed them again and a theory as to why that keeps happening, moving in a near limp to cross the threshold of the temple when he stops at the doorway.

“Don’t.” Narinder’s voice is nearly a whisper. “Do not follow me.”

He shambles through the exit like the undead, scythe dragging across the ground behind him. Lambert watches the space where he exited like he might reappear. The setting moonlight casts a line of blue through the temple, illuminating spilled blood and heavy gashes.

It is a full minute before they can bring themselves to peer outside the temple doors. There is no sign of him, save for the line of dead grass leading out of the cult grounds and into the forests.

Chapter Text

They sit there for a long time before they remember that there is, in fact, a more pressing matter housed within the flock than their own emotions.

Their entire body hurts. Their shoulder hurts, their knee hurts, even their head from where it smacked on the altar hurts. The cut on their hand bleeds even when they close it into a fist. They are absolutely caked with blood and riddled with pain. There’s a choking lump in their throat that they thought was something they’ve long since learned how to manage a century ago. It swallows into the pit of their stomach and churns with nausea. They rise with the sword, and walk away from dead grass.

They will need to clean themselves up before morning light lest the flock worry, or worse; doubt.

But for now; Lambert approaches the barn with the sword still drawn.

They don’t know what they expect to see when they push the door open, but nothing looks destroyed. Everything looks the same as it was when they left for a hurry. The moonlight shining in through an open hole through the roof is the only light, and it shines down on the yellow cat, a lumpy pile of hay in the middle of the floor.

There is no sign of the worm. Lambert’s grip on the sword tightens.

Joon is half-way throwing another handful of hay onto the mound when the shadow of Lambert comes over them and they look up. “Leader! I was just-” They pause. “…My leader, are you okay?”

“I’m okay. It’s not my blood. It’s from the crusade.” They lie to them with a gentle smile. There’s the taste of blood on their tongue, and Lambert dully notes that the ichor that dropped on their cheek as trailed down to their mouth. “Where is the newcomer?”

The cat (who looks anxious, but unharmed at least) looks down to the pile they’ve been steadily building. “Uh. He was...well, he looked cold! He was shaking! I don’t have any blankets here and you told me not to touch him, so-” They grab another fistful of hay, gently lay it atop the brush. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Black eyes trail to the pile. It’s moving slightly now that they see it, though it’s a rather short pile; no where big enough for a normal person to hide in, not even a child. Lambert raises the sword and carefully, gently shifts the hay to the side in the middle.

A splotch of green and black antlers start to poke out. The figure is shaking. He shrinks back at the sudden sensation of openness and burrows deeper into the soil.

“He snapped at him a little. Tried to bite me.” Joon says suddenly. When Lambert glances over, they do a double-check to make sure the golden cat is unharmed. They are, but their brows are furrowed into deep lines on their face. “He just kinda sunk into the ground after that. Hasn’t moved since. Won’t talk to me. Whatever you rescued him from must have really done a number on him.”

The death they gave to him under the orders of his deathly brother. Repeated hundreds, maybe thousands of times. For the name of The One Who Waits. For the revenge of their near extinct race.

(Forgive. Forgive. Forgive.)

(You are not them.)

Lambert wills the sword to return to the top of their head. The figure in the ground groans something softly, in pain or confusion is uncertain, and Joon looks sympathetically at him. It was not planned to have a flock aware of the Bishop’s arrival, but then again, it was not planned to have another one of the gods who tried to kill them (or succeeded in doing so) to fall under their care.

They’re not doing a very good job at it. One of them just stalked off into the woods injured and with a scythe.

“You did well, Joon. Thank you for watching him.” Lambert straightens their posture and smiles. “But I fear I might need your help for a little while longer.”

-

There is no sermon the next morning.

A parchment is scribbled in the night with black ink and plastered to the front of the temple, and they catch people at their doors wondering why the doors are locked when Lambert forgets in the stress of the moment that not everyone in the flock has the ability to read.

The temple is under ‘reconstruction’, they tell them. They’re adding new banners and stone benches against the walls for people to sit for sermons instead of resting on the floors. Lantern based lighting instead of candles, and a basin for running water to go along with the plumbing project. If the temple was damaged during the fight, they might as well use the cover-up story to get some actual work done in the progress. The flock seems excited to hear it, and no one bats an eyelash at the bandages they’re currently covered in when the crown’s storage provides riches, trinkets, cloth and other goodies from Leshy’s treasury.

It was simply a taxing but rewarding crusade. Praise the Lamb, for they have provided. As they always have.

Still. The risk of dissent runs rampant.

It’s not until the afternoon of the next day does Lambert find two followers near the kitchen as lunch break is being served. “Finor. Tyren. Might I speak with two of you in private?”

The elder rabbit looks up with salad sticking out of her mouth, and the dog appears to be frozen solid at their request, almost dropping the spatula. Lambert hopes they do not intimidate them, but neither argues when as they bow their heads momentarily before following the leader away from the eating area, and forward to the temple. The lamb’s crown shifts under the door, and it unlatches from the inside before returning to their head. It is opened quickly, the three of them ushered inside, and the lamb shuts it behind them.

The place is a mess. Tyren’s tail stops wagging and simply stares at the damaged flooring and walls. Even Finor, a stoic rabbit herself, raises eyebrows at the state of the place. The podium sliced in half was in crumble at the top of the stairs. Marks from weapons and chains are evident. The place wasn’t destroyed, but it was indecent, for sure. Ironically, the only spot that didn’t have blood on it was the altar.

“I need you both to keep this quiet. I’m coming to you both because I trust you.” Lambert tells them, and watches their faces for any sort of tell what they’re thinking. The mind-reading ability would be so useful right about now. “I don’t want the rest of the flock to know that their place of worship was damaged.”

Tyren is the first to question them. “Might I ask what happened? The blood looks fresh and…” His eyes trail not too indiscreetly over the lamb’s body, and lingers on the bandages. “You look injured, my lamb.”

“I was communing with our god.” Lambert reassures. They smile, confident and bright in their expression. Everything that they put out is just confidence. “It is messy work, but I will make sure our flock flourishes. Don’t let this sight of the temple or me discourage you. I’ll take care of you all.”

Divert the conversation. Tyren doesn’t look like he needs anymore convincing and Finor doesn’t look like she needs to be convinced at all. The rabbit stuffs a beet slice into her mouth (the elder has brought her food into the temple with her, it seems) and looks quizzically to the wooden pieces that was once the podium. “What are you in need of us for, then?”

“Finor, if you could procure the supplies needed to repair the temple in one night before the real construction workers come to take place without letting the workers know what it is for, it would be greatly appreciated.” Lambert nods to the rabbit. An elder is often ignored since they no longer work. Surely, they will not notice a rabbit slipping in and out to ‘check in’ on everyone. They turn to the dog. “Tyren, you’re one of my best stone workers. If you could fix the impairments in the flooring and the walls once I’m done with the blood, I would be in your favor.”

The dog’s ears perk up. “Might I receive a reward, then?”

Finor side eyes him. The lamb just hums, and raises their hand to his head and gives him two pats. “Of course. I’ll make you something. A necklace, perhaps.”  His tail wags with presumed appreciation. Lambert lets their hand fall, and turns to the other. “Finor? Any requests?”

“I have no need for another, my leader.” Finor taps on the trinket hidden underneath her robes. She speaks with warmth, and yet she’s a bit snappy when she speaks next. “Though I might ask that you let a certain otter and shrew know that kissing behind the shrine does not hide that sight from everyone else.”

“Of course.” Lambert agrees. “I shall work with you both until the evening, then.”

-

The temple is repaired rather quickly. Construction of any added amenities take less than a day. Lambert hides their injuries under a fleece that is washed clean and wool combed presentable. No one know suspects a thing. No one notices the house at the end of the village is empty. No one knows the God of Chaos lay within their ranks.

They will lie severely. Leshy will remain hidden for a little while, at least until the lamb can be certain he won’t rampage like his brother and cause some unneeded casualty. A new home will have to be built when he is known publicly. He will be known only as a rescue from Darkwood. Simply a refugee from his own realm. There is no one left alive or old in the cult who remembers exactly what the God of Chaos looks like. The statues of him portray an older image, and if anyone asked, he was too small, and too weak to be such a Bishop. If they think he looks funny, the lamb will remind them of transformed cultists and the altered who used to, or still do, reside in their flock. Followers of monstrous appearance aren’t common, but all are welcome under the red crown’s rule.

Joon will have to watch Leshy while the lamb’s attention is elsewhere. Lambert does not trust Leshy to be left alone, and the yellow cat was sworn to secrecy. They tell them it’s so Leshy can have more time to ‘adapt’. Though, it is more out of an abundance of caution for the flock than the Bishop itself. At least, physically. Narinder had shown quite the stress symptoms with his arrival, and Leshy had been trapped in purgatory for a long, long time.

So now there were two unstable and possibly homicidal Gods of Death and Chaos in their community. Great.

“If he does anything weird, you have permission to wack him with a stick. Just not too hard. You will need to tell me if he does anything unusual.” It’s all they can suggest to Joon when they visit them again in the morning at their house. The farmhouse could not remain a safe place forever; the other workers would trip over the worm’s dirt mound and Lambert was not willing to hear about someone’s leg being caught and being dragged down into a dirt hell. “Seriously. Tell me if he does anything strange, like if he touches something and it explodes.”

Joon’s house was an apartment meant for three, but they’ve been living here alone for a while. Their former roommates was a certain rabbit that died to rot months ago, and an elder found dead of a heart attack not long after, so it was conveniently empty enough to house a worm in private.

Joon sits on their bed. Across the room, Leshy also sits on a bed. He’s still in the oversized fabric of his Bishop robes, covered in dirt and blood. The worm’s head twitches like how it used to do when he speaks, but he says nothing. The third bed in the room is broken in half and crushed with a hole in the center, blankets and pillow strewn about. The lamb does not ask particularly about it; from the visual alone they can tell that Leshy was probably sitting there at some point and tried to dive into the ground, and failed.

In their hand is a red cultist tunic, and a one of the robes of the old faith they found in Leshy’s treasury. He looks cold, still. The lamb does not want him to freeze. “I brought you clothing. I had to guess your size. I think these will work for you, but I need you to tell me if they do not fit.”

The worm groans something incompressible. His head cranes forwards like he’s sick.

“He was cursing so much last night. I don’t think he got any sleep at all.” Joon speaks up, and they too sound like they’re a bit tired. A touch of guilt echoes in Lambert’s chest. “He kept cursing your name, leader. You and some ‘brother’.” The yellow cat trails off. They look to the lamb with a raised brow. “Are we sure this is one to join our ranks? It sounds like he hates you.”

Lambert does not blame him. They’re not exactly sure how to feel about this either. But their own personal feelings are not a factor when it comes to the well being of the flock; former god included. “He is in need and we have capable helping hands, and a shelter to provide. He’s been through something traumatic. Please, do not think too harshly of him.”

Leshy hisses something and it comes out guttural. He mummers about weakness and ‘not needing the pity of a mortal’. Joon huffs at it. “He’s weird. He’s also a little gross.”

For the first time, Leshy makes a coherent sentence. “You...I am in the room, sniveling thing. I can hear you!”

Joon continues. “He asked me if I was a cat last night and then told me he hates cats.”

The beginning of a headache is starting to form. Lambert shoots the cat a chipper smile. “Joon, would you please fetch some food, water and medicine for the newcomer? Enough water to drink and bathe as well. The nurse will give you some crushed camellia. If she asks, tell her I sent you.”

Joon’s ears raise upwards and forwards. “Of course, leader! I’ll be back in just a moment.”

They shift through the curtain, hurrying with positive urgency. They will return with a handful, hopefully. The lamb should look into improving their living quarters in appreciation of what they were about to be subjected to.

As soon as they are outside of ear-shot, Lambert turns back to Leshy, and makes their voice firm. “If you hurt them or anyone in my flock, I will kill you in worse ways than anything you’ve ever experienced in purgatory. You will not be given a system for mistakes; any single slip up that draws blood or brings harm to my cult and I will personally bury your corpse in the soil of Darkwood after I send your soul back to the afterlife.”

Leshy is still. There’s a creak in his neck as his head tilts towards them. A heavy silence settles over the room; he does not show any sign of being intimidated, or anger. Lambert does not doubt that he holds rage. He is simply listening. A reason to keep their voice steady. They are glad he cannot see, because the hands beneath the cloth they hold are trembling slightly.

Their fingers dig into the cloth after a moment of no response. “I brought you clothes. The nights are going to get very cold soon.”

His head twitches. The antlers shift. “You wish harm not to befall your flowering and yet you keep death residing within it. You are a hypocritical, lamb! I’ll take your head for a second time!”

“Lower your voice.” They scold. “It was not my plan for this.”

“You think I care if this was your ‘plan’? Vessels don’t have plans, little lamb, they do as they’re told.” Leshy holds no malice back. “You know nothing…You are merely a puppet trying to write it’s stage script from the strings.”

“Everyone here adheres to my rules under my care. All will be housed, fed, cared for, and you will be provided the same mercy if you can simply exist without spilling more blood to your hands than what you’ve already drawn.” The lamb speaks lowly. “I believe that it is rather generous considering your history.”

“Your opinion of generous is skewered” He scoffs, and the bristles in his leaves (fur? hair? bush?) shake. “Look at me for I cannot look at myself, stupid lamb. This form is not a mercy.”

Lambert is quite for a long moment. “I guess that’s one thing you and Narinder agree on.”

The way that Leshy’s head snaps up is almost violent. “What did you just say-?”

“He wants you dead, you know. Or at least, wanted you dead. Again. For a second time.” They’re going to ignore how it feels like the worm is trying to glare daggers at them despite not possessing any eyes. “I was able to prevent it this time, but I don’t know if he’ll try again.”

Leshy is still. “My brother, where is he?”

Lambert’s hands fidget under the cloth. “He’s out.”

“Is he alive?”

“I think so.” There’s a heavy weight on their shoulders. “I hope.”

“You hope.” Leshy draws out the words like an analyzation. His head tilts at an angle, and Lambert briefly wonders if thats a habit he picked up from a certain older brother. “You hope?”

Quiet settles in the cabin. There’s not much else to say or repeat. Lambert reaches the end of the bed and sits the clothes near him. “I brought you a red tunic and black robes with symbols of the old faith on the trim. I took them from your treasury in Darkwood. I imagine these belonged to priests of your faith?”

The worm looks lost in thought. “My treasury…How did you get into my treasury?”

Lambert ignores him. “Joon will be here in a moment with food, water and medicine. Is there anything I can get for you?”

He sneers at them. Lambert can see a mouth full of several layers of razor teeth  peaking out from the greenery. “Die.”

Wow. He sounds so alike his brother. Maybe the two of them can bond over how much they both want the lamb dead.

Leshy looks like he’s about to spit something else, but the curtain shifts and Joon comes in. Their arms are full with supplies. They set the buckle of water down and are careful to balance a bowl of berry gruel and a bundle of camellias on their hip as they shift. “Okay! I think I got everything! Though, leader, we should really start looking into building more transportation wagons. Everyone saw me wobble, I think.”

Lambert smiles. “Thank you Joon. I’m sorry to ask this of you so close to planting season, but I ask that you might focus on our newcomer instead of the crops. He will need around the clock supervision.”

Leshy immediately straightens his posture. “I need not-”

“He is not to be left alone. You will come find me if he takes off, but for the time being he is in need of a caretaker.” Lambert continues. Leshy, threatening as he might be, still seems to be in shock. The lamb has learned their lesson with Narinder the first time. “Please see to his needs. I will provide extra supplies and make the necessary arrangements. I’ll also need updates on any strange behaviors or...powers, he might show. Are you okay with that?”

Leshy is cursing something demonic under his breath but makes no move from the bed. Joon side glances the worm, and Lambert doesn’t need mind-reading powers to tell them that the yellow cat is a bit nervous, but they perk up anyway. “Of course, my leader!” They turn to the worm. “Look’s like you and I will be good friends, bush boy.”

Leshy growls. Not sputters, not mummers, but literally growls. “Do not call me that, servant. Know your place.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Joon laughs nervously. Their ears crane back a little.

“Thank you again, Joon.” Lambert hopes they did not just doom them. “I’ll be going.”

With a final nod to the cat, and a side glance to the worm that he won’t see, the lamb moves through the curtain and makes their leave.

-

It’s been two days, and Narinder is still missing.

He’s not at his isolation hut, and there’s no sign that he ever stopped by the place either. The door was still open when they arrived with no offering outside of wary caution, and the inside of the house is just as how he had presumably left it before embarking on their crusade.

The door swings open a little when their knuckles touch it. Lambert makes a dull note in the back of their head about how the inside was just as chilly as the outside was becoming. They’ll need to find a small stove heater or better blankets to keep this place warm; maybe double check all the windows and seal any gaps. The construction workers could be given another job of putting small fireplaces in each hut to keep them warm as autumn sets fully in, and it would be an extra day or two of construction, but at least their flock would be warm. At least Narinder would be warm.

Assuming he ever even came back, that is.

It’s lived in. There were signs of life here once. The bed is unmade, and there are books strewn about the room. The weird spot of old, decayed wood is still there at the side of the bed, and there’s what looks to be several matches burnt lying in a bundle on the dresser. While it’s not as messy as their own is, Lambert walks in and feels the urge to tidy the place. It would keep their hands busy, and potentially help with any eyesore or comfort of a cat. But there’s a feeling of wrongness of standing in the empty room without his presence. It is not something easily defined.

The book they made him is sitting on the end table still. It feels like it’s glaring at them when they shut the door behind them, and walk back down to the village. They walk right past the temple, past the gateway entrance, and out of the cult grounds.

The Mystic Seller is there, as always. It’s not until the lamb is at the top of the steps do they realize they never acquired any god tears from the second defeat of Leshy. The end of the battle never produced any. It only produced a very shocked, upset worm.

“Did you know this would happen?” The question leaves them before they could think on the idea of whether they should even ask the guy. “We defeated Leshy, but he’s in mortal form now. He’s sitting in one of my farmer’s huts bossing them around.”

"I recall Leshy. Worm of Darkwood. Quite the potential in his name.“ The Mystic Seller almost speaks in poetry. “Prior to yourself, he was the last to bargain with me. Adept as he was, he rose quickly to the challenges of Godhood, aided by his siblings. Many were drawn to his chaotic ways.”

Lambert’s expression is firm. Their neck hurts a little looking up at the deity. “Did you know about what would happen?”

The Mystic Seller’s head rotates. It says nothing.

“What does any of this mean to you?” Their hands curl into a fist at their side. Their fingers dig into the bandaged cut in their palm, and threaten to bleed it again. “I have lost my friend. I do not know if he is okay or if he’s even still alive, and now I have another god within my flock to take care of. I am being blamed for the end result not being the end.”

The thing’s eyes bore into them. “I require and ask only of god tears, lamb. I know not of why you have a habit of altering godhood, but I am simply an audience to your trials. Finish what you started.”

Their ears feel hot. “This is not what I was told would be happening when all of this began-!”

“No, it is not.” The Mystic Seller’s voice grows a touch louder, and it reverbs through the space like a scolding echo. “As far as I’m aware, you were supposed to be consumed in a sacrifice for the God of Death, or usurp him to take his place. This did not occur. And yet you see the God tears, and yet I still converse with you.”

Lambert visibly deflates.

“I wonder.” The Mystic Seller looks curiously down to them. “What changed in the course of events for a result like this?”

They are tired. They have anxiety. They need to leave soon to go find someone else to take care of leading the charge for farming this season or the lamb is going to be in the soil themselves. “Look. I’m not really in the mood for all the crypticness. Can I just have some straightforward answers?”

“Anura’s door will require a sacrifice of your faith before you can find the Goddess Heket. I advise you to seek there. Your duty is not done.” The Mystic Seller’s voice sounds final. It’s not what they were asking about, but they don’t have the energy to press the thing any further. Just more bad news after the next.

It feels like there is so much weight pressing down onto their shoulders. Lambert sighs, and it comes out heavy. They glance in the direction of Anura’s door; the portal remains shut. The symbols around it tell of a mouth waiting for a sacrifice. “So we have to do it all over again.”

There is something unusual in the Mystic Seller’s gaze that strangely feels like pity. It lowers it’s height just slightly. “Worry not, little lamb. Death clings to you. You’ll find it waiting at your beck and call. Seize victory. Bring me god tears and I shall have treasures for you in return. ”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. They stalk off, waving a hand over their shoulder and walking in the direction of the cult grounds. “Bye, cryptic thing.”

They’ll go find someone to take charge in the planting, then go back to the transportation stone for the night. Sleep was enticing, sure, but their head was too clouded and the cult grounds were starting to give them the feeling of several hundred eyes on their back. (Or maybe that’s just the Mystic Seller, who knows) but they deserved a break. And also some cider. They’re going to Ratau’s for a few hours for a few games and a cup.

The lamb is halfway across the space when the Mystic Seller speaks again. “A peculiar situation, this one. Many have I seen the results of ascension, though I have not seen any like this before. A transformism of godhood by something originally fleshed by mortality.” Mismatched eyes trail to the treeline, and then back to the fleeting wool. “What wonder.”

They ignore it, and disappear to tend to their flock.

-

Killing prey is easy. Capturing prey live is a new difficulty entirely.

Not that it was in terms of danger, no. The axes and the magic do not falter him. He’s killed armies alone, slaughtered hundreds long before the lapse in time where he had his brutality done by the hands of another. But you never really forget how to kill things. How to keep something alive, though, takes considerably more effort than what he was willing to give. Even if temporarily.

He messes up several times because his rot spreads uncontrollably, so grabbing them bare-handed was quickly becoming not the answer. The heretics are dead before they could even make it five paces from the continued decay. They scream while it consumes them and it grates on his ears, fueling the already throbbing migraine that’s been in his skull for days. He ends up killing them for the sake of his headache and stands there sullen because it was an attempt once again failed.

So he tries again.

He cuts off their legs. Takes off their hands. Slices their neck. It takes a few tries to get it just right. Slash too deep and they die too fast. Too thin, and they can still make just enough noise. Rage cannot be allowed to be the force that draws the blade, but it’s still the reason why his concentration is finely tuned enough to make the cut perfect.

(The memory of his sister. A yell turned into a croak, then a cry. Another sibling yells at him. The chains on him bind tighter as he moves on to the next.)

He might be repeating, but at least he’s perfected the technic. The heretic is captured alive and bound in chains that stem from his palm, dragging it’s wiggling form towards a cavern. Any screaming they could have done is silenced by a cut throat.

-

Their dreams are interrupted by the gentle shake of their shoulder, and Ratau’s voice. “Come now, Lamby. Rise and shine.”

Lambert’s head snaps up, but their eyes still blur and remain unfocused half-shut. There’s a wetness on their chin and the feeling of red marks against their cheek. A soft weight is around them. Blinking the sleep from their eyes, the world comes into focus, and the first thing they see in the small pool of drool they’ve left on Ratau’s table. “Eugh. Wh..what time is it?”

“The sun is rising. I figured you’d want to return and be ready before your followers wake.” Ratua’s voice is gentle. His hand leaves their shoulder as he hobbles over to the counter. The cups from last night’s cider are placed to be washed later, and he pulls open a cabinet to look for something.

The world is still waking up as Lambert yawns. “How long was I out?”

“You fell asleep by the fourth game.” Ratau shifts through his storage, using his walking stick that practically never leaves his hand to push back the higher things and loop into the handle of a wicker basket. “You seemed tired, so I didn’t want to wake you. I don’t have anything here to fix your wool, though.”

Lambert stretches, feels the bones in their back pop, and sniffs as they feel the wool around their head. It’s flattered slightly on one side. “Oh, yeah.”

“Don’t hurry off just yet. You still have time.” He seems to have found what he was looking for. He pulls the basket down and rifles through it, scooping up several dark red, dried spheres into his hand and dumping them into a second bowl. Said bowl is then promptly walked over and placed in front of the lamb. “Here. Breakfast.”

Dried cherries. The bowl isn’t even fully on the table before their hand darts out and they start shoveling a few pieces into their mouth. Ratau snorts as he sits in the chair beside them. “Goodness, lamb.”

“The red fruits and berries always taste better.” Their sentence is muffled with food. The cherries are dry, but they are sweet. This is the sort of thing they missed when they couldn’t eat before. “M’ sorry for falling asleep. I didn’t mean to interrupt your story.”

Ratau smiles. It reaches his eyes and wrinkles the skin there. “There will be plenty of time for other stories. Besides,” He busies himself with cleaning up the board, dice and score sheets from last night still laid out. “I was more interested in what you were saying, anyways.”

They pause, cherry halfway to their mouth, and then bite down on it with a rather hard exhale through the nose. “It’s all just so…weird and frustrating.”

Ratau nods. “Such as how dealing with gods are.”

“I think I’m pretty good at dealing with gods. I deal with gods all the time. Killed them, I mean. Four of them. Maybe five. I don’t know. I don’t remember that part.” They pop another cherry in their mouth and inwardly tries to lick out the one that’s getting stuck in-between their teeth. Treats were a comfort, and the rat probably knows that. “And then they got brought back somehow.”

“Yes, well.” Ratau searches for words, possibly an explanation, though Lambert knows that he doesn’t have one. “…For what has been placed upon your plate, I think you are handling it all as well as you can be. You have certainly succeeded where as I have not.”

“It sucks, Ratau. It’s so stressful.”

“You are the caretaker for an entire civilization. I imagine it is.”

“And now two gods.”

“Yes.” He hums, amused when they eat a cherry so quickly they almost choke on it. “You have a habit of attracting strays to the cult. How are the gods any different?”

The cherries are all gone. Lambert pouts at the empty bowl and regrets eating it so quickly they might have savored the taste for a little longer. “One of them was.”

Ratau must have followed their eyes, because the chair is pushing back and he’s moving towards the counter again. “The One Who Waits, then?”

“He’s still missing. He hasn’t come home in a few days. Three days now, I think, counting today.”

Ratau scoops more cherries out from the wicker basket bowl, pauses, then dumps them back in and picks up the entire basket to take to the table. “What will you do now if he does not return?”

He sets the bowl in front of them, but they do not move towards it. Ratau stops and looks to the Lamb; a dull look takes over their face. The flock shall not see this expression, and certainly shall not see them with their bedhead or the wet spot on the side of their chin that’s now a mixture of sleep’s drool and cherry bits, but the lamb is quiet. They stare down at the cherries with furrowed brows.

Ratau visibly softens. “Would it not be a good thing? He is out of your care, thus not your current problem. There is much at the cult you must attend to. You said yourself that his company isn’t exactly hospitable.”

The lamb’s shoulders drop. Their mouth presses into a thin line.

“Hey, now.” Ratau’s hand comes to lay on their back. He pats them twice, and letting the weight of his hand give warmth past the blanket he laid over their shoulders. “Chin up, Lamby. I may not agree with you keeping the younger brother alive or serving the God of Death past his defeat, but clearly you have your reasons. The cat cannot fault you for that.”

Lambert inhales, and exhales slowly. “He thinks I have betrayed for a second time.”

“Betrayal is matter of perspective.” He squeezes their shoulder. “You have taken care of others for centuries. You are no longer bound to vessalhood in the way you were before. You cannot betray yourself for the sake of them, no longer.”

Lambert is still for a long moment. Then, with both hands they scoop dried cherries into their palms and dump the entire thing into their mouth.

Ratau chuckles when they have to chew rather loudly. “Feasting before you return to your flock?”

“S’not like I’m going to get any time to do so later.” They swallow the sweetness, push the chair back and stand up. One hand goes to puff out the flat part of the wool to look presentable and the other goes to smooth out the wrinkles in their fleece. “I need to get back before anyone wakes up and starts looking for me. I haven’t done a sermon in two days, so I’ll have to give a really long one. Sorry for eating all your cherries.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be using those beets you brought me to make a fine stew tonight.”

He watches them rise and attempt to straighten their shoulders to look more professional, turning towards the doorway. They stop halfway and turn back to the rat, giving him a quick side-hug (It jostles the poor rat, and he grumbles something about messing up his fur, but his free hand comes to wrap around them anyway) before moving back to the door. “Will you come to visit if I host a bonfire and feast? I plan to have one if the harvest ritual works.” A pause. “I would have you sleep in the temple, though. Maybe in my room.”

He waves them off. “Sure, lamb. Send me a letter.”

They have him off, and shut the door behind him. The air is cooler than it has been today than in the last few weeks, and it saps the warmth from them the moment they leave his home. The teleportation stone is not far from here, and so the lamb walk quickly to it.

The sun is starting to peak over the horizon when they teleport back. It streams orange light through the trees and promises to heat up the chill a little bit. No one is working when they arrive, though the lights in a few hut windows seem to brighten a little. The new day was starting soon. They’ll need to go up to their room and make themselves look properly presentable before the morning sermon.

A tension unfolding in their body aches them as they go through the doors. The place looks nice, at least. All the work was done and it was properly cleaned. The new candles will need to be lit and there’s a few things and papers that they’ll need to bring down for the speech before it can begin-

Their foot hits something squishy and they almost trip over it. They don’t stumble, rather hop over it instinctively and raise their leg to look down.

Somehow, lost in their own thoughts, Lambert completely missed the bloody, cloth wrapped package sitting at the temple doorsteps.

They blink at it. Stepping back, a quick glance around them once again tells that no one is awake yet, at least no one that they can tell. Looking back down to the package; it’s bloody and visibly wet. It didn’t squash when they partially stepped on it, so whatever was inside was at least somewhat hardy, maybe a bit rubbery. The cloth it’s wrapped in looks torn to be something, like a banner or robes. Whatever it came from, it didn’t appear to come from anything inside the campgrounds.

The slight skid of blood near the spot where it lays looks as if whoever placed it there likely tossed it or dropped it. It wasn’t exactly placed with gentleness, but it was wrapped securely and it sat at the very center of the temple doorway, almost purposeful.

The sword comes when summoned and Lambert uses the very edge of it to (almost comically) poke the item until it starts rolling inside of the temple, and shuts the doors behind them. If this thing ended up being a poison bomb or something, they’d prefer it be encased within the temple where only the lamb shall suffer it’s effects, and not spread through the flock grounds with the wind.

They have half a mind to stab it right then and there, but curiosity hold them back. It hasn’t moved, so if it’s something that bleeds, then it’s probably dead. It doesn’t smell like decay, though. So whatever it was, it might be fresh. Their flock has gifted them offerings before, but not in such a manner like this. They can’t imagine anyone who might want to catch a squirrel or fish and wrap it in heretic’s cloth and leave it at the temple doorstep in plain sight. A threat, maybe?

With the edge of the sword, Lambert moves a piece of the cloth away. It brushes aside and shows some of the innards, some of which begin to look very familiar. It’s another second before they forgo the safe option and drop to a crouch, fingers pulling the cloth aside and scooping out what was inside.

Inside the cloth is an Eye of the Witness, fresh with the sinew still attached

-

The Fox is surprised to see him, and possibly even more surprised to see him alone. “You are without the lamb?”

He stands to the edge of darkness with a scythe drawn in one hand, and his chains extended on the other. It’s a stark sight around him; the gold and glistening cavern of wealth that seem to whisper about the blood that’s staining his clothing. There’s so much gore that has gone unwashed that the robes are nearly all red at the bottom. The sleeves near the wrists are stained dark with crimson and black.

The heretic trapped in his chains bleeds and squirms on the ground. He pulls the iron more into his palm until the chain tightens and the wiggling stops. They make a noise of pain. He looks to the fox dully.

The Fox hums. “I see. I suppose you’ll need this.” With a stretch of his claws, the shadow accumulates and collects in his hand. The talisman appears. It hovers there. “Now. My order, please.”

With a tug of chain, the body is dragged forwards. The heretic gets a few seconds of freedom as the iron disappears and sinks back into his hand, though they get no time to even fathom escape as the cat’s foot plants on their back and kicks the body into the dark.

It doesn’t even reach the shadows; instead it just floats to the Fox. The muffled, gargled screaming increases as the Fox’s hand wraps around it’s already mutilated neck and sinks it’s claws in. His mouth widens and unhinges, locks around the heretics’ head and bites down. Teeth sting with gore and lines of blood and tissue as it pulls away. He’s already taking another bite before he finishes his first, this time taking most of the upper torso. Sinew and intestines hang from his mouth. The fresh blood of the living blend in with his muzzle’s fur.

The Fox seems to mull on the taste. The corpse is held in his claws like wine glass. “Hmm. It appears to lack taste. Perhaps faith. But the pulse was fresh, so I’ll give you that. I recommend it. It’s quite the delight. Two more of these would be well enough to last me.”

The cat just stares uninterested. He seems to have no interest in watching this thing disembowel it’s meal.

“You’ve made a wise choice, cat.” The Fox grins with blood stained teeth. “I think this may be the start of a very beneficial partnership. In fact, I feel a sort of kinship with you.”

The cat’s frown just deepens.

“I sense a hunger in you, God of Death.” The Fox’s ever-present grin seems to stretch somehow, and he chuckles. It sounds like a haunting, ghastly wheeze. “Pardon me for asking, but do you plan on sharing your meal? You won’t mind, right?” His voice seems to echo even as his teeth remain sunken into the corpse. “Lamb is surely delightful, aren’t they? Sweet, brave thing. They are a rather rare treat to find, nowadays.”

He is not graced with an answer. The cat’s hand splays out. Stoic. Emotionless.

“Not talkative, are we?” The Fox mulls. The talisman raises and floats to the cat’s hand. It’s grabbed and stashed into the pockets of his robes, and he turns away from the dark, dragging a gore-covered scythe behind him. The Fox has amusement in his voice when he watches him walk away.

“Betrayal is a powerful thing, isn’t it? As powerful as devotion. Think of my offer, cat.” The Fox laughs. “You wish for power and revenge. You might find that the subject of your revenge may be willing.”

The scythe’s head picks up on the ground momentarily. There is only a split-second pause in the cat’s footsteps, and the golden statues in the room turn to stare at his back like they expect him to stalk back to the fox.

His knuckles grip white on the handle, and he leaves.

He finds another sacrifice within the forest lands and removes the lower limbs before removing the throat. This one he will have to allow to speak first. Scream, at least. And may he falsify mercy as the heretic’s mind shifts with doubt and fear and horror. He has seen many lives die in horrific ways. He can repeat them.

He shall read the minds of the weak until their constitution snaps and they swear to him, and then provide.

Chapter Text

Darkwood is empty.

Absolutely empty when they go inside.

Perhaps it is the current maze that the forest is allowing them, but there is no heretics. There are no bagworm monsters. There are no creatures of the Darkwood crawling out from the depths of hell and the greenery to ambush them while they walk through the grounds in shock. It is eerily quiet, like even the birds and the bugs did not wish to disturb the silence that has been thrust upon the land. The forest has been robbed of it’s occupants, and Lambert has no idea where they could have gone.

There are no bodies either. When they walk into clearings that usually would have at least a few enemies, there aren’t even corpses to wait there for them. There’s blood everywhere though. A lot of it, enough that even though it doesn’t look fresh, it still stands out on the morning dew grass and decorates the trees and flowers with too many eyes. Their pupils are small and they turn away from the lamb when they walk by, and the lamb briefly wonders what did they witness to behave in such a way. A massacre? Or the death of a Bishop once more?

It is night currently, and they only were meant to be gone for a few hours. ‘To retrieve more camellias’ they said. They have plenty already.

It takes merely a few hours to walk through trees unbothered than it would for a normal crusade before the lamb reaches what is supposed to be a sacred temple room. There’s not a soul alive in the maze. Until Darkwood shifts again and brings forth new enemies, the forest has been completely slaughtered.

The temple room is also empty, save for the bones of a witness they remember killing ages ago. But not this one. They didn’t kill this one. It’s eye sits on their desk back at home.

“Narinder?” Lambert calls out to Darkwood, and nothing echoes back. “Are you there?”

There is no response. There is no sign of the cat. It is as if they speak to ghosts. They linger there until time passes long enough to remind them of a flock that they left hanging and Lambert has no choice but to collect the bones into the crown’s pocket dimension and teleport back to the flock.

Instead of going inside the cult grounds, however, the lamb turns on their heel and heads right back out into the forest. The Mystic Seller is standing where it always stands, and eyes watch them as they bound up the staircase. “I looked for your god tears in Darkwood. I received none in the defeat of Leshy…and there was no other creature there that might have had them when I searched again.”

They do not mention that they found it’s corpse and the god tears it was supposedly had to have had missing, but the Mystic Seller hums in thought anyway. “No matter. Your dues have been paid already. Seek what you look for in Anura.”

The lamb furrows their brows. “I’ve brought nothing to you.”

“And I deal with many gods.” Says the deity.

Cryptic thing. Part of them wants to step past their billowing cloak and peer into the dimension behind it, but the eyes shift into something hostile the moment their gaze trail past their form and to the beyond within. It’s something they cannot fathom, at least not yet. And the Mystic Seller’s unchanging gaze was feeling hotter like a seering sun in the middle of the night.

Lambert’s shoulders fall. A yawn builds in their throat. They were tired, more so than usual. They have not slept since their return from the crusade, and the last time they got to rest was back when they allowed themselves to nap in the heretic’s camp before Narinder’s mummering and fidgeting turned to nightmares that woke them. “I will…figure out something with the door. I need more time.”

“You don’t.” Mystic Seller’s voice is curious. “For Anura’s door is already open.”

It’s voice is so casual one might be off-put by the sudden stillness it brings to the lamb. Lambert’s head turns slowly to the side, feet moving on their own to the edge of the staircase where the view of the portal is clearer. They did not see it when they teleported back, and it certainly wasn’t like that when they had left hours prior. It was shut merely a few hours ago; blocking the way to their next crusade.

Now, the doorway pulsates with magic. The edge of it shifts to show Anura within. The door is open.

“What you seek is in Anura.” The Mystic Seller repeats.

To say that they run back is an falsity. They do not run back to the cult grounds and leave the deity hanging, no. But they are certainty uncaring if the thing seers holes into their wool as they quickly return with numb limbs and a mind running miles a minute.

A headcount of everyone, then. They will need to count everyone.

Who is missing?

Normally politeness and manners dictate that they do not peek into their follower’s private lives lest they lose their trust and possibly incite anger, but the logic of that disappears with the panic that’s barely held back by years of professionalism. If one were to look at the Lamb now, it would appear that they were simply busy; speedwalking through the cult grounds and focused on something. If one were to read their mind, they might have heard screaming.

Most follower’s homes have had their curtains replaced with real doors, though some preferred the breeze the opening of the cloth gave. Those are the houses that Lambert can easily lift the fabric to check the inside. They count the heads of all those in their homes while they sleep; whether beyond the sheet, or in the windows. A little weird, but it’s not a matter of concern.

The children are accounted for. The Elders are accounted for. The stone workers were all in the same house, passed out around a game of knucklebones on their coffee table. A refinary worker was awake and too invested in his book to notice the cult leader peeking in through his curtain for a split second. Tyren is housed with Jayen and the former was using the other’s extra blankets. The Otter was sleeping in the same bed as a Shrew and Lambert inwardly apologizes for the intrusion despite that they’ll never know they were even there. They almost panic when they can’t find an eagle only to find him in the healing bay sleeping next to his frog daughter.

Lambert gets to the farmer’s houses and forgets momentarily that there’s a high chance of someone being awake when they push open the curtain.

Leshy’s head perks up towards the sound from his place on the bed. Joon was fast asleep in their own in an awkward position. In Leshy’s hands holds something soft that looks like yarn; a gift Joon received many years ago. Surprisingly, his voice is a whisper. “What do you want-?”

“Just checking.” Lambert lets the curtain drop, and moves onto the next.

They’re all here. Every single one of them. It takes time, but all the heads are counted and everyone is alive. Which makes no sense because they’re very certain that a sacrifice of their faith was needed to open that door.

Everyone was here except Narinder.

The Mystic Seller looks amused when they return. They have half a mind to yell at it and ask if it finds it funny that they scramble like that. “...Who opened the door? And how?”

“What you seek is in Anura.” It repeats. Lambert feels their blood pressure rise. It either doesn’t care about their predicament or does not notice, because it simply shifts to gaze down at the portal. “Go.”

It feels like kind encouragement. It also feels like a demand. The door to Anura is open. Lambert comes to the edge of where Heket’s domain begins, and steps forwards.

If autumn was finalizing in the flock, it was eternal in here.

The trees are larger than how they remember, and the bark looks paler. Some are hollowed out for lit candles that reside within them, and some have faces and bone that protrude from the trees like paintings. The tall orange and yellow grass existed in patches around walked paths, and that much is the only similarities to the clearings the lamb finds themselves in. Stone walls and bones and mushrooms and color are the heretic’s of Anura’s calling. Where as Darkwood held color of greens and browns, Anura was orange, yellows, reds and all the many shades of sunsets and dying leaves.

Just like Darkwood, it’s the death that sticks to the treeline that they notice first. Leshy’s domain had flowers of eyes and corpses inside trees. Heket’s has bones of monsters, presumably frogs and toads and lizards and other creatures they cannot decipher sitting forgotten half buried in the ground. There are mushrooms as tall as the trees with growths even more so at the top of them. The sight of them makes Lambert’s chest feel tight, but they continue onwards.

They have not drawn the sword. There have been no sign of heretics. No sign of danger yet.

They walk in quiet for a few minutes. It’s nice, almost. Tranquil. Something has removed the threats of this place and allowed silence to take it’s place. It smelled nice. It was pretty here. At least, until the portal shifts and the maze rearranges, this too was an empty space. But it wouldn’t be too much. The portal was closed only a few hours ago. It has only been open for as long as they had been looking in Darkwood. Whatever opened it might still be within.

Lambert’s heart drums in quick beats, breathes in deep and exhales, coming to a stop. Moonlight makes Anura look colder, and the wind is blowing their cloak away from their skin and pieces of wool away from their face in a calm breeze. It smells of mushrooms. It smells like blood.

A sharp blade presses to the back of their neck, but does not cut them. By reflex the lamb calls for the sword, but it flickers, and refuses, and that means something.

They turn around and feel the brush of steel against their cheek.

Narinder looks to them with wide, mad eyes like a man possessed, and an expression unreadable in the dark. He is absolutely covered in blood and gore.

Lambert’s core is too flooded with relief to care. “Narinder!”

The pupils locked on them shift. The tight grip on his weapon’s handle shakes.

“You’re okay!...I…No, you’re…I wasn’t sure if-I didn’t know when you were going to come back.” The lambs word stammer and they don’t even care. “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if you decided not to. Not that I want you to do that. But you’re also not obligated to stay. I didn’t mess with anything at your hut, either.”

The cat is still. He does not speak. The wind blows through his cloak and it’s like watching a stiff scarecrow’s clothes move with the breeze.

“Can we go home?” The hollowness in their chest feels like it’s filling as weight seems to lift from them all at once. The tension in the air cannot get past the thick relief that coats their throat. Either they choose to ignore it. The nervousness is less a worry for their safety, and more for how cold he must be in such wet, bloody clothes like that. “I can help you get the blood out of your robes. I know how.”

The scythe’s blade adjusts so its pressed to the pulse in their throat. The handle is dripping with ichor around his hand. The blade of his blood is hot touching their skin like it melts against it. The lamb waits. Narinder is probably going to kill them, and right now Lambert probably deserves it.

Another moment passes. Somewhere, a frog croaks.

Then, the scythe dissipates into the shadow in his palm, and Narinder falls forward promptly collapses.

Lambert is so frozen over processing the last thirty seconds that they don’t see the blur of his body hitting the dirt until they blink and he’s no longer upright in front of them. The call of his name, repeated hundreds of times, this time comes out as a squeak. “Narinder?!”

They are to his side in seconds, hands hovering over him. Any aversion he has to them touching him did not matter for a lamb who’s nerves have been frayed longer than what should be considered enough for a lifetime, so their fingers grip the cloth on his shoulders and shake. “Hey, did you just pass out or should I be freaking out right now?” They’re already freaking out. Their voice is cracking a bit. He’s not face down at least, and his head is turned to the side, so Lambert bends and twists so their face is level with his. “Narinder?”

His eyes are still wide open. It’s uncanny. They stare into almost nothing, off center and in a trance. It’s only when Lambert sits up and rest one hand on the cat’s face does his eyes flinch, and pupils flit to their face. Tiny dots against bloody sclera. They track every movement in the lamb’s expression.

He’s immobile, but conscious. Mortal body completely given out. He’s almost a breathing corpse.

Exhaustion or injury; whatever it is, the lamb knows that touching him might heal him. They search for his hands.

There’s a slightest bit of movement in him when they reach for his arms. “Don’t.”

“You’re hurt.” They pinch the edge of his sleeve and don’t care if blood transfers to their fingers. “You look like you’re about to become one of the dead-oh.”

His fingers are skeletal. Sharp, thin, and blackened with ichor. The lamb’s hand’s hesitate before pulling up the rest of the sleeve. Black bone. Just like how he had in the afterlife. They’re ridged and sharp and frayed with death. The only thing missing was the iron clasps of chains.

Lambert swallows back something thick in their throat. “I’m going to help you up, okay?”

His voice is ghastly weak. “Don’t...”

“I…I have to. I’m sorry.” They’re careful in maneuvering their hands. They’ve helped many up in their time, so the practice comes naturally. They can’t grab him by the arms to hoist him up, especially now since they can see a notable break in one of them that must have been there for days. The cat is pushed up instead; an arm is slid over his back with his arm swung over their shoulders. Their other hand comes in-between him and the ground, planting on his chest to push him back so the grip on his side can safely lift him.

It takes considerable effort. Not that he’s very heavy or the lamb is weak, but because all his weight is deadweight. He’s not even trying to stand. Lambert’s is glad their own injuries have healed enough that they’re just temporary scars, or otherwise this would be a lot worse. The lamb avoids his face as they strain to bring him up to lean on them. “C’mon. I’m not leaving you here to rot away.”

Something low and incompressible is mumbled through bloodstained fangs. His voice comes out low. Blood trickles out of his mouth. His head lulls back-

They shift him so that his head drops forwards instead. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but with him being taller than them, they cannot support him like this without him at least slightly on top of them. Lambert’s arm around him tightens so that he stops risking falling forward to the dirt again. “I can carry you bridal style if that helps?”

The slightest tug away from them just to lose balance. It results in him only leaning forwards from the momentum. Still acting like himself even in this state of horrific health. That, at least, is a relief and a good sign. The lamb has to press their hand against his chest to get him steady, and lets a smile grow on their lips. “Okay, that’s a no then-”

They pause.

Narinder stares into nothing. He is unresponsive when the lamb’s hand dips quickly under the shawl of his robes, and past the wrap in the front, sliding their fingers through the gap. Their fingers glide against the fur of his chest.

“I can’t feel your pulse.” Lambert speaks in an almost whisper, almost like it’s only to themselves, and panic is starting to grow in their voice as their palm shifts against his chest and find him far too cold. “Narinder, you’re alive, right?” No response. Their own heartbeat races. “Narinder-”

He falls forwards onto them with all of his weight. Narinder’s head lulls besides the lamb’s ear. They can hear the sound of shaky, inhaling breathe like a man relearning how to breathe. The back of the lamb’s hand is touching their own chest as the distance closes.

“Lambert.” He echoes their name against their neck. “Shut up.”

The faintest, brief beat of a pulse against the lamb’s fingertips.

Their own lungs allow them to breathe, and slide their palm out from his robes. Nervous laughter in their voice. “You scared me for a second there. Didn’t know if I was seeing a ghost. I couldn’t tell if you had a heart or not.”

His words come out heavy and slurred. “I don’t.”

“Sure, Narinder.” They adjust so he’s leaning on them properly. For a cat who said not to touch them, he’s now openly putting all of his weight onto the lamb. “Let’s get you home.”

It’s a quick teleportation back. They’re not even going to bother with trying to hobble him out of Anura when they could be back to safety in a blink, though it must have been disorientating when he groans and drapes more on them. He probably hates the physical contact, but it seems to be working enough to get him to respond a little bit more. They will have to apologize later, but for now, they help him walk towards his hut-

-and stop. A demonic curse stems from him as the lamb looks up. Some flock members are seen in the distance. They have awakened to start the day. Not many, but the early-risers are already starting to move. No one has spotted them yet, but they certainly would if they were to drag him to his own cabin. He doesn’t need to be entirely coherent for the lamb to know that he would be mortified and angry if any mortals saw him in this state.

That, and Narinder was currently still covered in horrific amounts of gore. Most of his white cloak is stained red with blood, black with ichor, and his face had seams where it threatened to split apart into an eldritch horror. Yeah. That would not be a sight that would help the flock nor Narinder get used to each other.

So they turn slightly and head in the direction of the temple. It’s closer and they move a bit more quickly. They’ll just have to host a nightly sermon instead of a morning one, today.

It’s a full minute of trying to swing open one of the large doors while still allowing the cat to use them as a crutch does some sort of consciousness seem to return to him, and Narinder actually processes what’s happening. “Where…are you taking me?”

“Here, to the temple.” It’s difficult to keep one arm on the cat and another to shove the heavy door closed, but they manage. The flip the latch to lock as Narinder’s half-slung arm draps over their shoulders is what keeps him from falling.

That arm draws tighter around them. Claws start to dig weak divets into their shoulder. “…I am in no need for a blessing.”

“We’re going to my room.” Lambert whispers. He stops sqirming then, face drooped low to where they cannot see through the shadow. “I figured you didn’t want the flock to watch you meander back to your hut like this.”

Whatever contact they are making must be slowly perking him back up, because he has just enough energy to raise his head to glare at them as they move him across the temple. “I will stain your room with your blood, lamb.”

“I think you’ll stain it just by walking in there.” They’ve brought him up the stairs and past the podium. With one swoop, the large banner on the back end is moved to the side; a door stands there hidden, and lambert is quick to bring out a hand. The crown transforms into a key, placed into the lock, and opened.

Ichor drips from his mouth as Narinder watches this. “Locked by the crown?“

They bring him forwards past the door and shut it behind them. There’s another small set of stairs leading upwards in a spiral. “So the flock can’t get in. Sometimes I don't want to be bothered.”

Narinder mumbles something that sounds like the word ‘hypocrite’, but his voice dies into a wince as some steps jolt pain, and the lamb is quick to bring him up.

Lambert’s bedroom is above the temple, as large as the temple itself, with a sloped roof and one single rounded window. An ‘attic’ room, pretty moderate but very nicely decorated and furnished compared to his own hut. Narinder has little time to process what the inner of their private bedroom looks like before the world starts to spin, and he brings the lamb down with him.

They call his name in a yelp. “Wait, wait…just, hold on. C’mere.” They bring him over a few paces. His feet drag against the rug until he’s promptly sat against something soft. He sets his hands besides him on the mattress to hold him steady, and cranes over. Eyes glue to the ground as he waits for the world to stop spinning and blurring at the edges.

The lamb is still touching him. There’s the feeling of his sleeves being pushed up. “What did you do out there?”

Crimson eyes drag slowly from the rug (the stains on the floor, the blood and ichor from the door, trail from his robes, to him. He’s staining their bedsheets with death.) and draw over to the lamb that was inspecting the break in his arm.

They bite their tongue at the glare. “Okay, Nevermind. I have bandages around here.”

Their hands disappear. The lamb stands up, walking to the oversized trunk on against one of the walls of the room. The spot where their touch was feels cold. Nausea is starting to rebuild in his stomach.

Lambert is shuffling through it’s contents, focused and tossing out anything that isn’t what they’re looking for. A few fleeces find their way to the floor. Some trinkets are shoved aside.

Something tossed out lands a few feet away that looks like a bundle of dark, sheer fabric looks suspiciously like a veil he used to wear in the afterlife. He looks away from them to inspect the new surroundings.

A large mattress probably stuffed with what is probably wool or cotton or a mixture of both. Red blankets with golden stitching. There’s a bookshelf filled to the brim with novels and writing equipment, probably for entertainment as much as it is for record keeping, and besides it is a desk that’s surface is covered in parchment paper. The rug on the ground was older he could tell, but clean like it’s hardly walked on. Streamers of stars and moons hang from the ceiling, and he briefly wonders if they took them from Clauneck’s dimension.

Unlit, half melted candles decorate the space along with scattered books in places. There is a single, circular window above the bed. The one of stained glass that can be seen from outside the temple. It cast an array of colors across his face as the sunrise shines through it, and Narinder winces. He hardly saw this place through the crown. The lamb did not have much of a reason to stay in a room back then.

Narinder raises his arms into his vision as the blurriness subsides. Skeletal hands. Dark and dripping with ichor. They ache.

“Found it.” Lambert’s voice breaks him from staring too long, and he looks up to see them pulling out a roll of linen bandages. “It won’t magically make all your injuries go away, but it can at least cover them until your healing kicks back up…and hide the bones a little better until the flesh comes back.” They pause. “If the flesh comes back.”

His voice throat is a still a little raw. “It should.”

“That’s good.” They approach him, and ignore the side glance they receive when they plop down on the bed besides him. The cat must not have the energy nor the logic to bat them away, because the lamb can easily take his wrist (ignoring the sick feeling they get when it’s thin and light in their grip) and unravel enough wrapping to start from the palm up. They start around his hand, leaving the fingers out and planning to wrap up to his elbow. “How do you feel?”

The God of Death stares at the blood stained floor. “Take a guess.”

Lambert tries not to look him in the face while they work. He was allowing them to touch him, even if reluctantly. That itself was a miracle. “…I’m surprised you’re even able to talk right now.”

“So am I.”

“You looked dead back there.” The linen wraps around his palm, and his arm hovers for them to start pulling the wrap upwards. “…I thought for a second I really was going to have to pull you back from the depths of hell.”

He sneers, though he can’t put his full force of anger into it. “I am the God of Death. It will take much more than this to end me.”

They’re not going to point out how he’s already been defeated once. Or they think he has, at least. Maybe. “…This body isn’t really doing you any favors, huh?”

He scoffs. “You think?”

“I think.” They say, and under the cat’s breathe does he mummer something about limitations and mortal bodies being a prison for a reason. His breathing has evened out a bit more. He doesn’t look like he’s fighting his own lungs. There’s still a sluggishness in how he speaks and moves. The lamb focuses on the bandaging. “I wish I knew more. I don’t know what this means for you, or your brother, or if your states are even the same.”

It is an uncomfortable reminder, one that Lambert regrets immediately as they speak because Narinder’s eyes narrow and his fangs bare. “Do not compare me to them. It took all four of them to seal me away and I still maimed them for it. They needed the blood of their following to face you in eldritch form. I simply need to feel like it.”

That choice of words is chosen carefully, because Narinder isn’t exactly in control of his own emotions at the moment, and therefore his ability for the eldritch that could potentially rip this body apart was out of his hands. But it’s not like he lied.

Lambert wraps slowly. He’s not sure if they’re being extra careful, or drawing the process out. “…What happens when death dies?”

Narinder would roll his eyes, but he’s too exhausted to try. “Death cannot die. Not in the way you will.”

They pause briefly, then continue their work. “I met a bird long ago. His name was Haro. He told me stories during my travels, then just flies away. I always thought he was a little weird. Do you remember ever seeing him through the crown?”

“I was constantly present through the crown’s eye, lamb.” He scowls. “Watching you crusade, yes. But your conversations with mortals bore me. Did you think I stayed present for every time a cultist asks you to prank another with indignity? Or to watch you play board games for hours on end?”

The think for a minute. “You watched me learn how to make flower crowns.”

“I watched none of it.” He lies.

“Okay.” The lamb says, and he cannot tell apart their true feelings with a neutral tone and their gaze locked onto their working hands. Whether the lamb believed him or was just masking their own embarrassment was a mystery. “I can reshow you how.”

His eye twitches. “…I do not have the hands for it, lamb. Not now.”

They make a noise of acknowledgement, thoughts far off. It’s another moment before they continue the main subject. “Haro told me that death cannot be killed back then.” They search for the proper words. “But that was before…whatever happened.”

He exhales. “Back when you betrayed me.”

They have reached his elbow. There’s flesh on his upper arms in a weird way that it turns to bone down at his forearm. There was no cutoff where the body ends and the skeleton begins; it was a persona of death, and his hands became the visual omen of it. They work carefully to secure the bandage and pull back their hands. “I remember the battle starting with you. I fought your diciples, then you dragged me to hell.”

Narinder’s mouth thins at the mention of them. The memory still feels fresh, at least from what they can recall. “I remember my followers strung up, and you were…” They bring their hands up, fingers bending around their face to mimic the shape of what can only be described as a crude way to describe the The One Who Wait’s eldritch form. “Well...bigger?”

Narinder deadpans. “Get to the point.”

“I remember fighting you. I do not remember defeating you. I assume I did, considering our state, but...I do not remember how that battle ended. Just fighting, and then it gets hazy somewhere in the middle. Then-” They make a poof motion with their hands. “Here. I woke up first on the stone with you.”

Rage boils in his rot tainted blood. “It’s insulting how you don’t even remember how you’ve dethroned me, and still call yourself the victor.”

“I-” Lambert starts, then stops. Visually, they swallow down nervousness. “I don’t know if I actually did.”

There is a long moment of pause. Then a low chuckle. It is weak and short, but it rumbles from Narinder’s chest in a joyless mirth. “That’s golden. Do you expect forgiveness? Understanding?”

“I just want to know if you’ve remembered anything yet.” They ask. “You look like you might have-”

“Nothing.” He hisses. “I remember nothing, save for that I was fighting to make you dead as dead could possibly be, and suddenly I’m stuck in this form with my godhood dampened by some false prophet with a penchant for making my existence miserable.”

“Maybe there was some sort of draw?” The lamb wonders out loud, and Narinder grits his teeth. “I don’t know how it would work, but it’s possible.”

“…Do not ignore me when I threaten you, lamb.”

They unravel more linen. “May I have your other arm, please?”

The God of Death’s face looks like he’s so entirely done with the situation. Lambert expects them to have to move to the other side, but the cat shifts. He moves to face them fully. The robes stain their bedsheets a little bit more. A skeletal arm is raised to them, wrist upwards and claws curled into his palm in a what can only be assumed to be a will to hold back his irritation.

They hear him inhale sharply when they place their hand over his, using their own fingers to splay out their own to properly start bandaging the palm, but the cat says nothing. Lambert is gentle. “You never answered me on what happens if death dies.”

“Erasure.” Narinder says plainly. His gaze trails up to their face, then down to their neck, and his eyebrows furrow. He says nothing past that.

“…Well, you never explained what that entails, either.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, watching them weave linen around his arms. The lamb wonders if he can feel sensation through his bones, and if not then perhaps that’s why he’s okay with them touching him like this. He does not offer to explain if he does. “…When a soul is consumed, It’s transformed into something else. It’s simply food and fuel.”

Lambert notes three eyes are back on their neck again. “Consumption isn’t the same as erasure, though.”

His nose wrinkles up at their attitude. His claws twitch with agitation, and find themselves still underneath the lamb’s hand that still holds them. “…Think of my sibling’s doors. Before they only required devotion. Now they require the consumption of devoted souls, just like how my freedom would have required yours.”

The hesitation in the lamb is only brief, but it’s long enough that he notices. “What’s the difference?”

“No resurrection.” He continues, a little curtly again because the lamb is showing impatience. “Their soul is transformed into fuel and fevour. It’s what fueled your curses in crusades.”

It makes sense. The cultists that sacrificed themselves and turned into monsters for the bishops didn’t return to their previous state after their defeat either. “But your siblings weren’t consumed.” The lamb interjects. “You sent them to purgatory. Famine, disease, war and chaos all still existed even after their deaths.”

“Because they still existed, even in death.” He has half a mind to thwack them on the forehead to make them piece together the information he’s trying to share, or at least wait until he’s done. “Imagine apocalypses as null had I consumed their souls instead.”

“…Huh.” Lamb is quiet for a moment. “Well. Not a lot of people would die if the things killing them didn’t exist anymore. I think you’d be out of a job.”

Narinder glares at them. The skeletal fingers find a grip in their forearm.

“The way you talk like that makes it sound like it’s not the same for you.”

“It’s not.” He’s gotten some life back in him, but his expression is still lined with exhaustion. “Death is what war, famine, disease and chaos leads to. Death is the absolute end. There is no second death for it. If death dies, it’s simply ceased.”

The lamb’s visual processing is so evident that one could imagine the literal gears turning in their head. “…But people will still get sick. They’ll still starve. They can still get stabbed, and torn apart.”

“Yes.”

Lambert finishes the second arm, and lets their hands pull back. The one held by his claws stop when they start to drag into their skin leaving thin, harmless scratches at the surface, and they pause. Narinder makes no move to remove his grip, and Lambert doesn't’ push him off “But they won’t die from it? Even if they’re ripped in half or burned alive? Eaten alive?”

He sighs hard enough that he regrets it; a pained grimace comes over him. “Yes, lamb.”

“Oh.” Their fingers drum absently on his skin. The implications of such a fate did not spell good things. Perhaps this explained why the Mystic Seller behaved so strangely to them. It’s so much to think about they don’t notice skeletal fingers threatening to dig into the flesh of their wrist while their own combats some rather violent thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting a an existence crisis to be the result of your defeat.”

“…It wouldn’t if my position as death was properly replaced.” He says with words with venom, riddled with exhaustion. Three eyes have not left them once. “However, it hasn’t.”

(Translation: whatever happened has possibly put the entire concept of life and death in danger and I’m blaming you for it.)

Lambert takes him in. His arms are bandages now, but even now the ichor is starting to seep through the linen. Narinder’s form is coiled and tight with tension. He must be feeling at least somewhat better, enough that he can properly insult them and send them death glares, but the cat makes no move to stalk off to his hut now that he can properly talk and (possibly) walk again. They doubt it’s because he doesn’t want to scare anyone with his blood stained robes.

This is all so much. He’s putting up such a good front of seemingly being fine when his life force was currently draining from his body and leaving splotches on their rug and covers.

He still has hatred finely lined in his face. Even tired, exhausted and spent as a god prisoned in a mortal body could be; that’s the one thing he’s good at.

“Don’t think this will make me forget your betrayal.” As if reading their thoughts (and they wonder if he’s trying) Narinder scowls at them. The grip on them feels purposeful now. No escape. “Show me where my brother is so I can finish what you couldn’t.”

Lambert doesn’t want to go down that road again, so they’ll try to change the topic. “I need to clean your robes. You’re covered in blood.”

“You speak as if it doesn’t coat your neck. Wipe it off before I take a blade to it.” He hisses, and only addons when the lamb blinks at him in blatant confusion. “My ichor is on you.”

Their free hand raises to their neck immediately. When Narinder used them as a crutch, the blood from his mouth left a now dried stain on their jawline. It’s a mistake to try and wipe it off; the blood on their fingers just make it worse. They’re not bothered by blood by any means, but something in Narinder’s expression makes them feel particularly self conscious about it. “I can clean up later. Can I have your robes?’

He seers into them. Claws threaten to break their skin. “Where is Leshy?”

“I need to clean them. I can have them soak while we talk.” They move away from the bed, and Narinder finds his vision blurred at the edges as they move. It’s too quick to pull them back, even if it left red lines in their arm. The lamb is clear as crystal while the room pulsates. His body irritates him. His mind threatens to punish him for speaking. There’s a bucket of water near the chest that looks half full that he can only assume is for cleaning their fleece, and a bottle settled near it.

“You’re lucky I did laundry last night. I still have water remaining.” They shift through their chest a little more. A bottle is pulled out with a faded label. “Forneus had this cleaning recipe. It’s like magic. She’s the best.”

Narinder leans forwards on the bed like he thinks about lunging at them, and Lambert thinks he might fall out of it before he corrects his balance. His scowl deepens. He does not fall for their trick. “You will show me him, or I shall hunt him down. Your presence is not needed for our confrontation.”

‘I will not attack you this moment if you tell me where he is’ seems to be the unspoken deal. Not that Lambert thinks he could do any damage in his current state. Or maybe he could. He’s rampaged through Darkwood until there was nothing left. He pushed himself to kill will a broken arm and several near grievous injuries. He hasn’t said anything about why Anura’s door is open.

They wet a spare rag to help with his skin. Lambert pour a little bit of cleaner into the water, looks back at the blood covered cat and just dumps the rest of the bottle inside. “I don’t want you to kill him.”

A horrid hiss comes from behind them. “You seem keen to keep your murderers alive.”

Lambert stands, drags the bucket over to the bed, and sits back down onto their previous spot. “Robes, please.”

He makes no move to remove them, fangs bared. His arms lay useless in his lap, clawed into the fabric of his legs. “You see yourself as a savior yet deny me the right to bring down my tormentor.”

“One that has already been brought down twice, and not just with death, but with pride considering how you both despise mortal bodies so much.” The rag is wrung out and brought up to him. “Here. You’ll need to disrobe from the top up, I think. I can leave.”

He doesn’t tell them to, but glares at the offering like it’s poison and cranes his head away far enough that they worry he’s going to topple over. “You think your punishment is enough. It’s not. You do me no favors by not allowing me to rend his head from his corpse, lamb. They’ve taken everything from me.”

The lamb’s hands stay out, and their face falls sullen. “It was my kind that was slaughtered out of fear for your return.”

Narinder is quiet for a moment. “I did not call for it.”

“I know.” Their voice has gone soft. There is a moment where silence takes the room over and their eyes stay locked onto the rug. Then, Lambert lets the rag drop into Narinder’s hand. “You are covered in ichor, still.”

He grumbles something incoherent, but his fingers grasp around it. There’s not a lot of strength in his grip when it raises and he wipes the blood from his face. The color blends in with his coat, so really the only sign of it is how slick it makes his fur feel. The lamb sinks a little when the white rag comes back nearly completely black by the time he’s done. At least the fur around his face and neck look a little bit more bearable now.

He lets it drop to the floor when finished and they don’t fault him for it. “How are you feeling?”

He looks like he might pass out again. Narinder’s shoulders tense. “My vengeance is being denied and this body is failing. How do you think?”

They gesture for him once again to remove his robes, and still when the cat still hesitates. Lambert can feel anxiety crawling up the length of their spine. Their hands remain frozen. “I have always followed other’s orders. By killing him, you take away my choice to forgive. You take away what little choice I’m given to make that is truly my own.”

He’s quite for a moment, then curses something low. Bandaged hands and skeletal fingers rise to the ties that keep his robes together and fiddle with the strings. It is difficult. There’s weakness in his fingers and a clear shake in his movement; he cannot slip his claw into the tie properly to undo it. He considers snapping it off. “You don’t get a choice.”

The lamb watches him struggle and speaks with a discouraged tone. “It is unfair.”

“Existence is unfair.” He hisses, and curses when his fingers slip again. “You think it was fair for me to be chained away? I didn’t get a choice either, lamb. Fate does not allow it to us.”

Hands enter his vision. It does not intrude, but they linger. The lamb’s silently offers to do the work for him, and Narinder stops in his attempt to glare at them for it. They don’t react to it, eyes still held low. The God of Death’s teeth feel trapped in his mouth. Dampened anger has his claws curl and him almost snarl at them for it. Something else that settles in his ribs when he looks at their sadness is what lets his hands drop, and allows the lamb to reach the strings.

Lambert works slowly, eyes down to the strings. They do not meet his ongoing stare as they undo the first tie of his shawl. “Please just take your hatred out on me instead.”

“No.” His voice sounds like gravel. It’s weighted with anger, exhaustion, and something that sounds almost tender. “I have a special hatred for you already.”

The tie falls away, the shawl slips slightly off of his shoulders, and the lamb shrinks into themselves. “You will break my heart, Narinder. Please.”

They expect to see rage and disgust when they look up at him. There is something else that bores down on them when they do. Narinder is still, quiet for a long moment. His tail is the only thing moving behind him with a wild thrash. He does not respond immediately, and that itself is unusual. He’s been staring at them weirdly for a few moments. Perhaps debating on attacking them. Perhaps reveling in their desperation.

Lambert’s hands linger near his robes. The lines in his scowl have softened. His claws feel empty.

He inhales and closes his eyes. It’s tired and heavy. They imagine steam coming from his nose in anger. He stays like that long enough that they count the seconds; eyes shut where the lamb could not look into them. A shield maybe. They watch his hands curl into tight fists and open again with release.

Narinder exhales, his eyes open and they find rest on the lamb. “You ask too much of me. Your begging still needs work.” He says, and Lambert visibly deflates until he speaks again. “You will at least allow my conversation with him to be private.”

It’s so fascinating, he thinks, to see how they literally brighten in front of him. Their ears slowly raise, and eyes widen. “You won’t…?”

Narinder thinks there’s something deeply wrong with him. “I won’t kill him.”

The quickness in how they grab his hand with both of their own startle him. His ears are pin straight up as the lamb curls their fingers around his skeletal ones, cradling his hand almost to their chin. “Thank you!” They’re voice is coated with relief, with trust, and it’s strange to see how easily they take his word for it, and how glued now to that word he feels. “Thank you. I know that it’s hard-”

“Must you bleat? You don’t have to be sentimental about it.” Narinder cuts off, body and ears craning back. His hand, however, stays within their grasp, and he’s going to pretend it’s the healing factor that they give him that makes his skin feel warm. “You seem happy to prolong my torture. This does not spare you from your future death.”

“Narinder.” They sigh, and goodness does it look like the little freak is happy. “I will owe you.”

His lungs feel full and his blood rushing. “You already owe me everything, lamb.”

“Yes, I know.” They lower their hands, and his along with it. “I can start with your robes, I suppose.”

Right. He sighs and extracts his arm from them. The ties are undone, so he just needs to slip them off, which is harder said than done. His body aches and bends in a way that sends spikes of agony up every muscles and a hiss through clenched teeth as Narinder moves to pull the robes from off his shoulders. All the injuries he’s been sustaining and ignoring for the last week and a half, crusade and disappearance included, now come full force. Rage is no longer a good buffer or pain killer, and sits quietly in the back of his mind covered like a blanket by a completely different emotion.

The lamb helps him without asking this time. “Here.” Their hands come around to the back, pulling at the fabric he’s already shrugged off, and with their force can pull the robes from his form as the cat hisses. It’s removed from him, and dropped plainly into the water. Red, soapy bubbles start to foam after a few seconds, and the water looks like it’s boiling though no heat is produced from it. “There. It should only take half an hour or so to soak, and I can scrub out anything remaining.”

Narinder is clad only in the red tunic he had underneath. It is clean for the most part, most of the gore got sprayed onto the robes. Without the warmth of them, the air feels notably chillier. It pushes coolness against healing scars. “Whatever.”

Lambert glances back at the rest of the bed. “You can sleep here if you want.”

His nose twitches. “I have little interest in resting in a room that reeks of you.”

“I can take you back to your house then?” They offer. Offended by it, Narinder mumbles something and rises to stand. It’s an attempt that lasts half a second and half of a footstep before the cat does a hard flinch, a pained cut-off grunt comes from him, and he tilts back. The lamb catches his fall with one hand, and gently lets gravity take the cat to lay his back on the bed, face twisted with agony and regret. “Actually, maybe that’s a bad idea.”

The bed is soft and trapping the warmth he’s producing against his skin. He’s half a mind to bully them into getting him something similar to this in his own cabin, but that would mean admitting that he was comfortable here. “I did say I would stain your room with blood.”

“I’m really good at getting blood out.” Lambert looks down at him, and they’re still smiling. Wool pieces trail around their face. Narinder tries to keep his eyes on the ceiling. He counts the strung stars and moons when they poke him in the side. “I had another question.”

He grumbles. “What now? Are you going to ask me to shave myself for your sake, too?”

Lambert speaks gentle, but firm. “The door to Anura is open. It needed a sacrifice of our faith in order to do so.”

The question is rather clear, and they don’t even ask if he was the one who did it when that too is obvious. Narinder inhales. It smells like lamb, rose oil, and whatever is in that magic cleaner. “I used a heretic from the old lands. I did not use your pathetic flock.”

Their brows furrow. “I don’t think that would work. The Mystic Seller said-”

“Pain can change the minds of mortals rather quickly.” He hums. “And death is something everyone fears. You’d bleat and whine if I stole one of your flock, so I found an alternative.”

The implications of this were both morally questionable and surprising. Not that any of this is new from the God of Death himself, but he speaks of torture so casually while laying like this. The sunlight from the window above the bed has found it’s shape right over him, and Lambert thinks that maybe he’s enjoying the impromptu sunbathing. “Oh. Alright. Cool.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you-” Their glance quickly over to bundle on the desk, and back again. “Did you leave an Eye of Witness on the cult’s doorstep?”

He answers like it’s obvious. “I want that talisman from the fish. You shall give it to me.”

“But you could have taken it to Plimbo yourself?”

“That creature does not know me in this form. He might not deal with me.” A pause. “And I do not know how to get there.”

Right. In the crown, Narinder has seen the places that the lamb has been, but not set foot there himself. One could not teleport or even walk to a location if they were not shown how. Ratau’s home and Mida’s cave have been the only places they’ve shown him yet, and there was so much more they had planned. Still, it’s a little funny how quaint he sounded when he realized it.

Lambert’s head moves to lean over the space where Narinder was staring holes at the ceiling. Red eyes flick to them, then shut tight to block them out. They sniff at it. “Are you going to tell me what you did while you were gone?”

“Killed things.” His answer is short and curt.

“I’ve been working on stuff while you were out.” They start, and run a list through their head. “Some stuff in the temple got redone, kinda because of our fight. I ended up assigning the head farmer to your brother as a caretaker so I had to find someone else to handle planting plans this season. I, uh, went into Darkwood and got bones that you left behind. There was a lot. We have enough for the harvest ritual and probably another one if we really needed. I’ve promised Tyren I’d make him a necklace, so I’ve gotta finish that.” They trail off, and blink at the unmoving cat. “Narinder?”

His ears twitch, brows furrowed. Eyes still closed. “I can hear you.”

“I think we can start working on putting sinks and stuff in houses. The bathhouse is basically done. We’re all going to have hot water by tomorrow. People can bathe there or take it home. You should really give it a go; you smell like dirt.” There’s an amused grin in their voice. The sunlight hue he lays in lightens his fur almost to a deep brown. Their hand raises to a whisker that looks silver in the light. “We could make improvements to your house. Maybe even make it bigger if you wanted.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t snap or twitch they lay a finger under the whisper. He’s probably aware of it, but the cat appears too out of it to care.

“Leshy is currently housed with that farmer.” They continue, soft. “I don’t know what I’m going to do to introduce him to the rest of the flock. Not really anyone remembers what you look like since over a thousand years have passed, but he is much more recent. Not that he hasn’t been alive for at least a few centuries, but his statues and imagery in books might have still been around. I don’t know. Maybe the flock will be okay with it; we’ve taken in many of their strange looking disciples before and it was fine. But you’re both actively weird. Some of the flock are near dissention, or whisper about it, I think. There’s some people who don’t really approve of you being here, but I think it’s hypocritical because it’s not like they haven’t committed any terrible sins either. Paazi’s parents really want to meet you though, still. They ask me about you sometimes. I just tell them that you’re tired and you don’t want to talk, and-oh!”

They move off the bed as gentle as they can be in order to not shift him to much, walk over to the mess they’ve created near their cloth chest and scoop up something they tossed out onto the floor. They move back, careful not to have their weight shift him so much. If it did, he makes no acknowledgement of it. “I made this with the left over silk I had left. It’s not perfect, and it’s a tied one instead of band, but I didn’t know what size to make it. I was supposed to give it to you after the crusade, but uh…Yeah. I figure you might want something if you’re going to be socializing to shield your face. Ratau said it might be a good idea too, and…”

The lamb trails off. They blink down at the cat, and lean over his face. It’s no longer holding lines of any scowl or irritation or annoyance, but instead relaxed. His chest was rising and falling in an even rhythm, and his hands lay skeletal but un-tense over his mid-section. His ears twitch a little to their voice, but he does not answer them.

“Narinder?” They whisper. Their finger goes to poke at a whisker. “Nari?”

He does not move. His warm breathe brushes up against their hand, and he looks peaceful.

Narinder is sleeping.

…Finally, they think. They don’t like seeing him so horrifically exhausted. They can only hope that this time, the sleep is fruitful.

They leave the veil on his chest, and shimmy off of the bed. A spare blanket too thin for autmn is pulled from the chest and placed over his half, but it is better than nothing. Careful not to make too much of a splash, they dip their hands in the bucket and check on his robes. The blood was melting off and turning the water a gruesome dark, blackened red, but the fabric was becoming paler rather quickly. It also smells of cleaner, so maybe they didn’t need to use the entire bottle like they thought. It’s wrung out, and placed on one of the strung lights near the window to dry.

They push the bucket away from the bed so he won’t trip if he gets up near it, and exits the bedroom. There is much to do, and he will need the quiet. They will wait to do a sermon until late tonight; the noise might be too loud.

Lambert scratches at the dry blood on their neck and hands. Perhaps they will take a trip to the bathhouse for a quick wash, first.

-

The farmer placed in charge of planting the crops does a rather quick job of the matter, though it’s in a completely different pattern than how Joon would have done it. If they saw the current job, they’d curse about some plants having roots too close to each other or that the taller ones would sap the sunlight from the more ground-related crops below. But none of it should matter in the long run; the harvest ritual will provide, and the food shortage will be no more.

A new follower, a hedgehog that had yet to speak to them, gives them his name and a little of their story as the lamb comes to tell him about the sermon change, and the where he would be working. The rescue from Darkwood expressed no desire to be around plants (probably because Darkwood was full of carnivores ones) and instead was grateful to be shown the refinery. Its there where they talk and he tells them of his past life. He used to be a tailor in his village; skills that lamb takes interest in.

“Winter is next season, and there are many in the flock who cannot grow warm coats on their own. They will need covering.” Lambert smiles. The hedgehog follows every word they say. He looks eager to prove his usefulness. The lamb hopes he understands he’s still welcome here even if he isn’t. “You will be provided the supplies, dyes and measurements. Focus on children, the elderly, and animals with cold blood. Do not worry about making them look perfect; they must be warm, not pretty.”

“Of course, my leader.” The hedgehog looks happy, brightly relieved compared to how he looked on the altar. This expression is wiped clean off his face as his ears pull back and his quills start to suddenly rise. “I-…May I be excused, my leader? My stomach is…unwell.”

Lambert blinks. “Of course, go ahead.”

He dips his head quickly, and Lambert sees his eyes dart briefly behind them before the animal scurries off. They wait until he’s out of the refinery doorway, and with everyone else out on lunch break, Lambert turns to the other presence in the room. “Ah. Figured it was you.”

Narinder stands behind them, now in front. He looks more awake than they’ve seen him in weeks. He wears his robes again, the fabric clean and dry though they can smell the faint whiff of the cleaner when the breeze brushes through him. His eyes track the hedgehog, possibly reading his mind, before falling back to the lamb.

“You look better.” They glance down to his arms. His fingers are still skeletal, but the cat was walking on his own and didn’t look like he was going to fall over at any point. The veil they left behind is clutched in his right hand. “How do you feel?”

Narinder’s face remains neutral. His answer is a quick hum, hardly anything telling. He looks lost in thought. Lambert cannot read him.

“Vessel.” He says, and his tone is painstakingly even. His hand rises with the veil. The strings are frayed a bit at the end where it’s supposed to connect, like he was struggling to do it himself. “Tie this.”

No insults. No snapping. No death threats. Just a very simple command. Lambert fully expected that he had come back over here to toss the veil back in their face. They hesitate long enough that Narinder’s brows furrow, and snap out of it when he starts to look awkward himself. “Oh, okay. Your fingers still giving you trouble? Any idea how long until they’re healed enough?”

His eyebrows are downturned. His tail shifts with something akin to uncertainty. It is a strange sight. If he was done talking, it was nice while it lasted.

The lamb raises their hands. “Lean closer, I need to reach around you.”

His tail twitches. An expression that can only be defined as something akin to caution flashes across his face before they think he masks it. They expect him to sneer at them for such a request. He leans down instead, and keeps his eyes on their bell as their arms move around to the back of his head.

Lambert ties the veil properly so that it looks just as how it did in the afterlife. It’s a little jarring to see, but there’s a slight change in the cat when it’s on. Like a safety blanket. Just like their collar. “It’s so weird to see you wear it now. I think I liked seeing your face better.”

His mouth thins. His face is even harder to read now behind the veil. “It is for public appearances.”

The lamb’s hands pause near his ears before they pull back. “Does this mean you will socialize?”

A still moment. Narinder still looks to them with distaste, but he forgets to straighten his posture until the lamb’s hands return to their sides. “Where is Leshy?”

Right. They had promised him that. Lambert inhales for their own nerves, and then steps towards the exit. “I’ll lead you. Come.”

The barn and the farmer’s house have become the spots where Lambert can find them with certainty. Joon liked the outdoors, and even being tied to a newcomer would not stop them from trying to run around a bit. That, and they were certain that Leshy might try to influence them to step away from the safety of the cabin and out into the flock where he could potentially try to loosen his ‘leash’ and unleash chaos. Smaller as he might be, he was still a former god. Or current. They were not certain. Any case, he had experience of influencing those he saw as lesser. So Lambert keeps an eye on his caretaker with every visit for any sign of dissention.

They doubt it though. Joon has never shown doubt and never will. In fact, they look at Leshy more like he’s a weird feral creature dropped off at their doorstep more so than something they should potentially command them. It’s evident when they arrive to the barn, and the yellow cat is yelling at the worm to stop damaging farming equipment. “Stop that! Quit it! What is the lamb going to think when they find all of our wagons without wheels?! How are we going to transport the next harvest!?”

Joon was yelling up at the worm who’s sunken back down into the ground, reappeared full back to another wagon, and promptly rips the wheel out from it’s axis. That is something that takes a considerable amount of strength considering it was made from solid iron and wood, but the supports just splinter as the wagon crashes lop-sided to the ground he grips the wheel in his hand.

Lambert blinks. Well. He certainly seemed to be doing better, too. A quick glance to Narinder shows that not only was he completely stoic at the sight of his long-dead brother now revived, but his lack of surprise means that this behavior might have been pretty much normal for them.

Leshy must not have been lying about his superior hearing or smell, though, because suddenly his head whips around to face the Lamb dead-on. He growls, pulls his arm back, and throws the wheel hard directly at their head-

It crashes against the barn wall several feet away from where they’re standing. Lambert didn’t even have to duck. “Um.”

Joon almost jumps so hard that all their fur visibly bristles. “My leader! I was just-He said he felt cooped up in that hut, so I brought him here. I did not know he would make a mess of things, and uh-” Their nervous laughter and smile draw to a blank as they look to the lamb’s companion. Joon looks unsure. No one really would know how to interact with a (killer) cat that hasn’t spoken to really anyone since his arrival months ago. “Oh, uh. Hi?”

Narinder doesn’t even look at them. He stares dully ahead, and the lamb is the one who brings up a comforting smile. The mask is back on. They must not show their nervousness. “Hello, Joon. You’re not in trouble, don’t worry.” They turn towards the worm. “Leshy.”

Leshy grumbles something incoherent. He knocks the wagon down and rips out a secondary support. Farming equipment seems to be his current target for sabotage. “Begone from me, lamb, or I shall have your head again.”

Narinder stiffens at his voice. Lambert’s hand moves on their own to the back of his elbow. They do it without thinking, and Narinder’s glare transfers from worm to them in a sign of distaste before moving back. But for once, the cat does not shove them off.

They let their hand drop. “Joon, could you help me with something? My friend wishes to speak with the newcomer alone.”

The farmer must be eager for a break, because they’re enthusiastic when they nod. “Of course, leader!”

“We’ll take a quick trip to the farms nearby, then.” They smile. It is also a warning to the others in the room. They will only be a short distance away. Lambert turns to the cat. “Narinder, you have ten minutes.”

Leshy goes still from across the room. His neck creaks as it turns, and body tense.

Lambert keeps their demeanor pleasant as they lead the yellow cat out, striking up a conversation of the harvest ritual, what winter clothing the flock will have soon, and other things as they leave from the barn.

The God of Death and the God of Chaos are left alone.

It is a solid, wasted minute until one of them speaks first. Leshy’s voice is low. “Brother.”

“Leshy.” Narinder matches it. “Congratulations. The lamb has bargained for your continued existence.”

Even through the greenery and the bandage does he see the worm’s facial features wrinkle. “Bargained for what. In exchange for what?”

“They do not know. I have not told them.” Narinder dulls. “I have not decided what I shall take from them, yet.”

The antlers around the worm twitch. He’s always had that fidget. A rapid, sudden movement of the head. He does it when he’s focused on something. Narinder wonders if he’s picked it up from him. The similarities they share were blaring when trying to ignore them.

Leshy scoffs after a moment. “You’ve always had a habit of playing with prey, brother.”

Narinder takes no offense. “How does it feel to be on a leash?”

“I don’t know, how does it feel?” Leshy spits, and the cat feels his rage start to boil. “At least my servant does what their told. At least mine isn’t the one who killed us.”

His teeth grit hard enough that it threatens to grind. Skeletal fingers curl into a fist and dig into his palm. If he had flesh there, it might have been bleeding. Perhaps the worm is lucky that way. There is no blood to summon his weapon easily. His brother wouldn’t even see it coming.

Leshy twitches, and angers, and growls. He’s cloaked in dark robes of the old faith; meaning the lamb must have given him his own attire much like they did with him. The barn is a mess. Chaos broke out here, but even then it’s not enough. Chaos does not need to be his concept to know that he craves more. Briefly, Narinder wonders why his younger brother isn’t seething and rampaging like how he was when he first arrived.

It is the worm who speaks next. “What color are the flowers here?”

It takes the God of Death from his thoughts. Inside the wagon were new growths. Camellias from the farms, mostly with the roots and soil still attached with their stems. They’ve spilled out onto the ground now in an uncoordinated mess. “They are red. They come from your woods.”

“Ah.” Says Leshy. He searches on the ground for them, dropping to his knees and planting his fingers into the pile of dirt and flowers. “Camellias.”

His claws sink into it. His greenery seems to spread. Earth moves beneath his fingers, shifting and changing. There’s an audible sound of something beneath the earth’s crust as the worm’s hands grow sharper, digging deeper, burrowing into the soil and spreading his will like roots.

Vines and leaves break from the ground and rise. They crawl over ever surface they can touch; the wagon is consumed, wood breaking apart as the vine crushes it. They crawl up the side of the barn up to it’s loft and roof with buds start to form on the stems; flowers of eyes and teeth and other nasty things bloom in an array of colors. The room becomes overgrown with weeds, puncturing the hay and snapping spirals around the support beams.

A power like this can tear the building apart, but it stops when Leshy flinches. Some of the vines shrink back and wilt. The rest of them still and remain. A show of power complete. He plans to sabotage the lamb the same way Narinder did back at the food storage, albeit in his own way.

Narinder watches it wild mild, dull interest. The lamb might have a hard time explaining this one. “You seem to have accepted this fate rather quickly.”

Leshy still growls. “This existence is pitiful, but your torture was not preferable.”

“Noted.” The cat speaks dryly. “I plan on killing the lamb when all of this is over.”

Leshy merely hmphs, unaltered by the declaration. “Oh good. I want them buried in my soil. In my woods. I can make chaos with their remnants. Maybe I could reignite my crown’s eye.” He raises his hand and the soil traverses down from it. The worm stands. “I want revenge on the lamb.”

Narinder scowls. “Their soul is spoken for.”

“I said I wanted it. I never said I was going to get it.” The worm turns to face him at an angle. He cannot see the cat, though Narinder is certain the worm listens for every movement he makes. “Though, mind your vessel, brother, lest I steal the vengeance from you like how you stole my sight.”

Narinder’s arms itch for something to scratch out. “Might I remind you who put you in purgatory?”

“Quiet.” The worm spits. “I can live here like this. I am worthy of praise, of use. I am chaos, youngest of the Old Faith. Newest of the Old Faith. I give the lives of mortals substance and meaning. I give them memories to be made. I can influence them. You’re just something that happens when a weakling trips over themselves.”

He promised not to kill him, but Narinder briefly considers if maiming him fell under a loophole. “And yet you are playing in the dirt in a barn, and I’m still slaughtering your followers.”

A low, guttural noise comes from the worm. “The lamb. None of this would have happened if they had killed and erased you once you had been defeated. Their own decision began the downfall. I’m surprised you haven’t ripped them apart them yet.”

He agrees; the lamb was to blame. But the reality of not being certain there ever was true defeat was not something Narinder was going to share. “They continue to breathe until I can figure out how to unlink myself from them. I won’t risk my power being erased along with them. Do not mistake me sparing them as kindness.”

That seems to pipe the worm up. “The crown sits on two brows? That should not be possible.”

“It’s not.”

“Then how-”

“If I knew, I would not be in this form.”

A pause. Leshy barks a short, high pitched laugh. “HA! Your deceit and manipulation has remained sharp, brother. I almost mistook your behavior for complacency.” A grin can be seen beneath the bush’s bandage, and it faulters for a second. “We spoke without you. The lamb and I.”

Narinder is tired of this conversation already. He looks to the exit of the barn and wonders briefly if the lamb would yell at him for trapping the worm inside simply to be of nuisance. “Of course you did. I couldn’t exactly conversate from the crown.”

“It was before your release from chains. Before the rest of us fell.”

His tail stops thrashing. Narinder narrows his vision. “That’s impossible. I saw all through the eye.”

“You only see what you want to perceive, brother. This was a private conversation.” Leshy ridicules him, mockery in his tone. “That lamb is strange.”

“…And what did you discuss?”

“That is my secret.”

“You are lying, then.”

“Ask them.”

“Die.”

Leshy scoffs and sniffs. There’s dirt on his robes and heaviness in his shoulders. It’s hard not to relate to the feeling of a god torn down to this form, Narinder realizes, and finds that detail makes him a little sick to his stomach. He would like to leave.

“Brother.” Leshy beings, and his antlers shift. “My eye remains in Darkwood. The one you clawed from my sockets. Bring it to me. Make up for what you’ve done.”

The audacity of it all would have made him lash out before, but nothing has made sense his arrival. So Narinder can simply choke a laugh. “What I’ve done? What I’VE done?” He hisses through fangs. “Take it up with the lamb or your servant. I take no requests from traitors. You still have a place beneath me yet.”

The worm goes silent. There is plenty more that could be said, but Narinder has had quite enough of his fill for a ‘reunion’. The lamb and servant will be somewhere in the farms nearby, and that time frame for their absence was starting to end. He won’t care to announce his departure when the worm listens for his footsteps as Narinder makes his leave.

Leshy speaks lowly as he’s almost out. “They call you Narinder, and you did not correct their behavior. Not once.”

The God of Death hesitates for hardly a second, long enough for the worm to notice, and exits.

Chapter Text

It takes time to gather the materials properly, and more time in the day to assemble everyone needed, but the ritual was ready to be done.

Long gone are the days where Lambert needed everyone in the cult to be present for the temple’s rituals. A mere twenty or so followers shall generate enough devotion for a strong one, and they’ve worked with far less. The society is a full one, practically a small kingdom. If some were sick or busy working, the duty of their prayer shall pass onto the next. Many were eager to offer the time out of their day to come to the temple for something that shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Convenient, and convincing.

Having many followers was useful. It was also means a lot of mouths to feed, which is why the harvest ritual so desperately needs to work, especially if the lamb and their flock was going to survive a repeated journey into Anura.

All of the new seeds have been sewn, watered and fertilized. Salts have been prepared for the drying processes and jars crafted to make preserves. Winter will come after Fall, but the autumn harvest might save their flock yet. Every inch of farmland is prepped, and the equipment reserved for larger harvests brought out in anticipation.

Some are damaged beyond repair, and a barn used for wheat and hay was unstable with overgrowth and vines that stretched up to the ceiling. They pluck the camellias from the flowers themselves, ignoring the thorns, and wipe the blood that it pricks onto their fleece. The equipment is scrapped for resources, the barn is repaired, and the lamb lies and says that the overgrowth is a sign from the gods that they shall receive a hearty harvest.

Which is why Lambert’s fear of the ritual failing coming to reality is much, much more difficult to explain the second time around.

They had done everything properly. The materials were right. They felt the power too. The devotion was strong enough, and they practiced the night before on their own. The symbols glowed and the window breezed through the temple windows with chilled air to carry the follower’s chants. It was going perfectly fine until it just...wasn’t.

The power dies. The symbols fade. There are no visions of crops growing no matter how much they will it. The blood pooling in their eyes blink back to unblurred vision as the world shifts back to how reality is supposed to look, and the harvest ritual fails.

They had prepared for this. They had expected this might happen, and yet Lambert still hesitates at the podium as followers start to lower their hoods and glance to each other in uncertainty.

The otter is the first to question it. “Did…did it work?”

Another voice joins her. “I don’t think so? Someone go outside and check.”

“But we did everything right, didn’t we?”

“Does this mean we are being punished?”

Grekimar’s voice overtakes the former; the pig’s tone is upset. “How are we supposed to eat? Must we start rationing what little we already have? We’ll starve before everything is grown!”

Some mummers start to agree with him. A few start to reassure the others and disagree. The lamb does not need to read minds to know that doubt is spreading amongst their following. Multiple voices turn from conversation from whispers that grow louder, and the temple is filled with worry.

“But what of the sick? If we cannot grow medicine, how will they be treated?”

“My children have allergies! They can only eat certain things!”

“I’m sure it will be fine. If the worst comes, we could just consume those who pass-”

A few audible gasps come from the crowd. “What is WRONG with you? We would do death dishonor to not give them proper burial! We are not cannibals-!”

“I came from a village that was like that. A lot of people got diseases doing that.”

“I think if we just pray harder-”

“Why isn’t the lamb just fixing this?”

Tyren barks for the first time. “Shut up! If you’re hungry just go to the outhouse and make yourself a meal if you’re so inclined-!”

“There’s always grass? We could harvest grass before winter comes and kills it all-”

“Oh god. We’re going to starve-”

“Hear me, for I speak and you shall listen.” The lamb’s voice is loud and firm, and it silences every worried mummer in the temple as all eyes shift back over to the prophet standing above the crowd. Their hand is raised, and their face is stern. “There will be no speak of heresy. Do not allow doubt to seep into your minds lest you fall victim to a life’s trial and lose Death’s favor. There will be no talk of eating one’s neighbor, nor will we fight one another in what is clearly supposed to be a time of cooperation. I had thought you were all smarter than that.”

It is a tone of voice they do not take often, and for it many of the cult member’s shoulders drop and their eyes look downwards. Some still look up to them for guidance, and a few have furrowed brows. Grekimar’s lip curls back to show a pointed tooth in a doubt. “What might happen then? And why didn’t it work?”

“We hunt as we always have, and our crops will grow with time regardless of if it’s immediate or not provided that we work hard to earn a good harvest instead of lounging about. We have faced many famines before, and survived. This shall be no different.” The lamb is unphased, voice taking on a more softer, reassuring tone as they speak. “I will take this as a sign that we are being tested, and I have full faith in your abilities that it is a trial we shall pass together. Death wants capable followers, and there is honor in hard work and perseverance. My journeys into the other domains shall provide also.”

The otter has her ears pinned back. She is not the type to dissent, but the lamb’s heart still aches when she laughs nervously. “I do not doubt your abilities my leader, but…there are so many of us.”

“And I shall take care of all of you.” The lamb smiles. “I always will.”

-

In the evening when the fields are fertilized, the chores are scheduled for the next week and the flock is readying themselves for bed, Lambert approaches the house at the end of the village with small iron heater lugged under one arm, and a basket of bandages in the other.

The air is getting colder by the day. Their wool and fleece will keep them warm, at least until winter, and they’ve reason to believe that outside of being a sheep that perhaps the crown’s abilities may have made them more resilient to the weather, but the same does not go for their flock. Narinder has made no mention of ever being bothered by the cold; it perhaps doesn’t harm him in the same manner as not being able to eat does. That does not mean that it’s comfortable, though. Besides, he lingers in the sunlight when he thinks the lamb isn’t looking anyway, whether he realizes he’s doing it or not.

For as much time as he spends in the dreadful place, they at least want to make sure winter isn’t downright miserable when it comes. Lambert arrives to the door, and taps it lightly with their foot. “Narinder! I’ve brought you some stuff.”

No response. So, the usual response. They raise their foot to kick at the door again a little harder, and almost stumble when the wood juts back a little further than how a latched door should. Weird. They look to the handle. With their arms full, it’ll be a little difficult, but they can get a finger looped around the handle, and push lightly against the wood. It cracks open an inch. His door is unlocked.

...Well. He did say that if they were coming to bleat, they might as well come in.

The door is lightly kicked open. “Hey! I got you a change of bandages and-”

Lambert trails off. Narinder is not immediately visible in the room when they enter, as the room is dark and shadowed. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to scan it; across the books, the unlit candles, the empty inkwell across the floor, to the lump of blankets that’s pulled down off the bed and settled across a dark mass. He’s there, partially covered and lying on the floor board. He’s clad only in his red tunic with a blanket draped across his midsection; the white robes are crumpled on the bed. Droplets of black blood seep through his bandages.

Lambert’s first feeling is panic, and then that subsides when they see his ear twitch to the sound they’ve made breaking in. He’s sleeping. Weirdly, but he’s fine.

There’s a guilt of waking him even in a state such as this; he’s complained about exhaustion too many times. Lambert shuts the door as quietly as they can with their foot so the cold doesn’t seep in, and moves to the corner of the room. The iron stove is set up quietly; a simple stand where one or two pieces of twine or wood can burn with a pipe to let smoke out of the window. It takes them only a minute to set it up, stuffing torn curtains around the seal so that it’s properly insulated. Not a lot of houses have the little heaters like these. Rudimentary and usually reserved for the elderly, but no one will notice if the one that was in the lamb’s bedroom has suddenly moved locations.

The sun is setting outside, and it’s making it a little harder to see with what little light is provided through the windows. They find matches on the dresser and light the nearest candle, picking it up and using it as a guide as they come besides him. Narinder is still fast asleep. The firelight illuminates wet ichor on his features. They move the candle to look at his arms, and sigh when they see the bandages coated in shades of black and grey. “Hey, I need to change your bandages.”

He does not stir, though his ear twitches again. The rise and fall of his chest is an even, slow pace, though his brows are furrowed. His fingers twitch in pace with movement behind his eyelids. They’re tempted to leave so he might continue to sleep, but fresh ichor was a bit worrying, and at this distance they can see a bead of it starting to accumulate on the third eye. Attempting to touch him to change the bandages while he was sleeping just felt wrong and would piss him off anyway. “Narinder.”

Again, he sleeps. It appears their voice does not break through whatever dream he’s experiencing. They set the candle down to the side next to the basket, and reach out a hand to his shoulder and hope he’ll forgive him for the instance. “Nari-”

A skeletal hand darts up and closes around their own tightly, crushing their fingers as the cat suddenly sits straight up like the raised dead. The lamb hisses at the sudden pain, insticitly pulling back but their fingers are trapped within a sharp grip as Narinder’s form seems to lean forwards in a slumped sit.

There is no threat or curse. His eyes stare low-lidded and blankly forwards. There’s a glaze across them. Lambert tugs at their wrist. “Sorry, I just-” Their hand does not come free. The cat makes no response to their mini-struggle. His hand is closing in though, and it’s threatening to break fingers as the lamb winces. “Nari, you’re crushing me.”

Like a dull drawl, his head perks up an inch, and slowly turns to face them. His eyes don’t appear focused. His gaze groggy, as if unaware. “Hm?”

Lambert pulls at his grip again, and this time Narinder seems to react to it. Slow eyes turn to where he has them captured, and the grip loosens. It does not let go.

They’re about to shake him again when his grip suddenly shifts. His changes to hold it; thumb brushing over the back of their hand while their palm rests in his own. It is a gentle, mundane touch, and it is repeated across their skin. He says nothing, weighing them in his palm with an expression of calm interest.

It’s really weird. Lambert lets him have their fingers, even though now they ache. “Uh.”

He doesn’t seem to respond or even acknowledge their bewilderment. The lamb sits stone-still as he rotates their hand to the opposite side where a scar sits across their palm; an injury they sustained during the temple battle when he shot his speared-chain to break out from a shadowed grip. It’s mostly healed now, though a pink jagged line remains. Narinder’s brows furrow at lithe scar like he’s confused to see it. He moves a skeletal thumb over the scar, once, twice. It wipes away to healed skin, and the ache disappears.

Lambert blinks. “…Thank you?”

His ear twitches as low-lidded eyes drag dully to their face, then pause. They linger for a second before widening. The grip on their hand drops like he realized he was holding something toxic. His fur is starting to raise on the back of his neck in ripples.

If Narinder was still half-asleep before, he certainly looked awake now.

Maybe it’s something to do with the state of his physically form still adapting to rapidly progressing powers. The lamb’s own progression was slow, they imagine it’s a bit more difficult when it’s quicker. Lambert lets their hand fall back to the the basket, bringing it forwards and focusing on setting out supplies. “I set up a heater in the corner. It’s a little stove one that you just throw some kindling in. It’ll keep you warm for winter, but I’ll still need to get you blankets.” They start unraveling roll of linen and wait expectantly. “I just need to change your bandages and you can go back to sleep-”

“Don’t wake me like that again.” He cuts them off, voice sharp and low. The softness that was in his body and expression has turned razor sharp. “If I am asleep, you leave me be.”

Guilt makes their shoulders drop. “But you are on the floor?”

“It does not matter.” He sneers.

Geeze. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this evening. Or floor. Whatever. Lambert’s face scrunches up at the obvious distaste but sighs. “Okay, I won’t. Let me switch these out and I’ll be out of your way.” A pause. “Unless you are able to do it yourself.”

Narinder opens his mouth probably to state that he needs no help, but hesitates. His jaw locks tightly, and his eyes trail off to another direction. He does not have a pleasant expression as the arm closest to the lamb raises and holds out in their way, and Lambert is quick to start working. He will not admit it, but they can take a hint. It’s difficult to tie things, veil and bandage alike, if one’s movements were pained and the fingers didn’t quite move exactly as the mind tells them too. Judging by his earlier grip, and the thickness of dark flesh that starts to coat the bone as they reveal whats underneath the bandage, he seems to have improved a bit, at least.

Lambert pulls the blackened bandage away from his arm, sets it in the basket, and begins to wrap the fresher one starting at his palm when Narinder breaks the silence. “And what else?”

They don’t stop, but glance briefly upwards. “What else…what?”

“You’re not here just for a ‘wellness check’.” He’s still looking away. “You’ve come to rant.”

“…How do you know that?”

“I know you. You’re not exactly subtle with me. I don’t need to be able to read your mind to read your face.” He huffs through his nose. There’s a slump in his shoulders still. The other free hand comes up and wipes away the bead of ichor from the third eye, and Lambert glances up briefly to see the pupil trailing them before focusing again. “Might as well speak now and save me the bleating later.”

He’s got them figured out. Lambert’s lips press together into a thin line. “The harvest ritual failed.”

Narinder makes a low noise of acknowledgement. “Of course it did.”

Jerk. “We’ll be fine. We’ve survived food shortages before. Faith is still good because the plumbing systems are all finished, though. We have a finished bathhouse everyone can use, and we’ll eventually add washrooms to every house. Yours included. I’ll have them work on it when you’re not occupying it, though.” Narinder rolls his eyes, but the lamb continues. “There is a curfew to use it, though. It won’t apply to you, just don’t let anyone see you. I’m already being accused of favoritism.”

They’re halfway up to his elbow when his arm shifts slightly. Narinder tries to keep his arm steady as he moves to sit crossed legged and facing them. “Favoritism for the God this cult was built for? Your mortals are morons.”

“Be nice to them. They worked hard on everything.”

“Intimidation would have had them work harder.” He frowns. “Your ‘plumbing project’ would have taken a week instead of a few months.”

Lambert reaches the elbow, careful to tie the knot with a hanging piece so that he may easily pinch it and pull apart the bandage instead of possibly struggling with it later. “I find that community holds together the strongest when we are actually nice to each other.”

He scoffs, and his claws flex inwards and outwards as he inspects the new wrappings. “And you wonder why you’re so disheartened when they die. Perhaps your heartbreak wouldn’t be so prevalent if you took my advice.”

The lamb just hums, and unrolls another bandage. “You can repeat it as many times as you like. I’m not letting myself become like that.”

“Then suffer.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” The grumpiness seems to coat his voice like venom. Even allowing proximity like this does not mean Narinder is against taking shots against a vessel who’s tending of his wounds would not forgive them of their transgressions. “You whine. Frequently. Even in the gateway did I have to hear about you complain about dead cattle and loneliness.”

The lamb shoots him a look, and a grin threatens to pull up the corners of his mouth. For whatever his behavior was earlier, he appears to be making up for it in low-jabs. Lambert just sighs. “I mean, yeah? They die, and even when they’re alive, they don’t quiet understand what it’s like to…be around afterwards. Forever, I think.” They pause for a moment. Something else might be said, but the somberness that was starting to trickle into their tone just dissipates as they perk right back up. “It’s fine. I have Ratau, and I had an easy fix back then anyway. ”

Narinder scoffs, deadpan. “What? A string of easy lovers you keep hidden from the crown?”

Lambert looks up plainly, and waits expectantly for his other arm. “I came to you in the gateway.”

Narinder falls quiet. He stares at them in an unreadable expression and Lambert finds it takes notable effort to keep their own face neutral. If he could not read their mind, he could try and read their face instead. Their eyes look away to the curtains, the heater, and to the books in a natural sort of fidget. “I guess I never really broke the habit.” They jest, giving a short laugh. “It’s just that you’re in a hut instead of the land of the dead now.”

They do not meet his face. They do not scope what he’s thinking. It’s a long minute before there’s a shuffle of his other arm moving to the front of them, and he grumbles a low acknowledgement. “It is a prison, nonetheless.”

Something to work with their hands is gladly accepted. They pinch at the blackened bandage and start unwrapping it. “Doesn’t have to be. You’re free to go wherever you please.”

“However.”

“…However?”

“There’s always a catch.” He squints at them.

It’s almost comical. Lambert just smiles, as they pull away soiled bandage and set it in the basket. “There’s no catch. You’re free to do as you please. There’s nothing keeping you chained here.”

Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, because Narinder’s expression suddenly becomes the opposite of what Lambert was hoping for. Instead of calm or reassured relief, his ears crane back and fangs peek out from a snarl. “You are an idiot if you think I’m simply going to leave without the rest of my power. Crown or not. Your flock eats from your hand, lamb, but I am not so gullible. I’ll leave when I’ve properly mounted your skull on a pike.”

He took that completely differently than how they wanted. Lambert sighs. “Well, I’m glad you’re staying here then, because you’re not coming with me on this next crusade.”

Narinder’s surprise quickly turns to anger. “What.”

“You’re still injured.” They addon. “You went on a week long crusade in Darkwood, fought a purged god, then rampaged across Darkwood for three days nonstop. All of which you did without break until you literally collapsed. Look at you. You’re not exactly fit for fighting.”

“It has been two weeks since then. You concern yourself wrongly.” He argues. To make his point, his arm pulls away as the last of the bandages fall to the floor. It’s held out as an example. “I am fine.”

Black eyes glance between his face and the limb. The lamb’s eyebrows raise and Narinder scoffs at it. He looks like he’s going to continue before they cut in. “Can I touch it?”

He deadpans. “You have been.”

They shake their head. “I mean, actually touch it.”

One ear rotates backwards like it’s focusing on something outside the hut before swiveling back to the lamb. Narinder’s glare doesn’t soften, but his arm is raised for better access. “If you must be convinced.”

They actually expected him to refuse them, so it’s a little awkward for the lamb to raise their hands and let his bone settle in their palm. They’ve seen hundreds of a lot more horrifying sights than a mutilated arm and bone. Still, this feels like a test.

The limb is warm; a strange feeling since there’s still a gap in his forearm, but it’s thickened with dry black flesh and muscle. Even his innards are black with ichor, it seems. Their fingers press slightly against it and find that the muscle gives slight leeway like normal flesh does until they feel the inner bone. The very sight and concept is quite morbid, but it’s a fascinating thing too. “Wow. You’re healing rather quickly for someone that had stick arms a weak ago.”

It might have something to do with a former vessel coming to change his bandages everyday, but Narinder does not allow the obvious fact to show on his face. “Do not mistake my state for weakness. I can kill you and anyone else if I so desired.”

The lamb hums. “Does it still hurt?”

“No.” Narinder answers immediately, and they know he’s lying because the third eye winces when their thumb presses against his wrist. There’s no pulse or flesh to feel one through, but the claws in their grip twitch towards their own skin when the lamb lets him go and picks up the bandage.

He didn’t move away and didn’t attack them for it. As disgruntled as he seemed this was…new. His tolerance for touch seems to have risen. It’s at this point does Lambert wonder if it’s appropriate to ask if Narinder does not like touch, or if the concept is simply alien to him. They work quickly, wrapping the fresh bandage around his palm and making the motions go upwards. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but you’re still not coming with me on the crusade.”

If they weren’t currently keeping the limb immobile, they think Narinder has half a mind to attack them with it. He snarls. “You do not get to decide what I do.”

“I do most of the killing anyway. It won’t be any different than back then, in a sort of way.” They explain. Their hands work quickly and they’ve gotten the practice down; the bandage is wrapped up to his elbow and they work on securing the knot all while Narinder glares daggers into their wool. “I’ll only be gone for a few days. I don’t like leaving you here considering…past events, but I would prefer not to risk a worst case scenario.”

He snaps his limb back as soon as the knot is tied. “You forget I am Death.”

Lambert lets their hands drop to their lap. “And you forget I am your friend, also.”

Narinder’s frown has long since dropped into a disagreeing snarl. He opens his mouth, possibly to argue or curse them, but instead he pauses. His jaw closes and an ear swivels back to listen outside the hut again. Lambert raises a brow as the cat clears his throat, and his head turns in a random direction like a predator following a hunt. He’s quiet for a moment.

Then, Narinder clicks his tongue, bored. “One of your followers is choking on something. Near the kitchen.”

Death is happening somewhere in the village. Lambert stands up at the speed of light, nearly knocking the candle over into the basket as they do a quick, half-bow. “Excuse me.” The farewell is barely muttered coherently as they speed towards the door, opening it widely and shutting it behind him. The sound of hooves running quickly away.

Narinder feels his fur bristle at the wave of cold air that comes from the door swinging open and closed, and looks down at the blackened, bloody bandages they’ve left behind.

-

After a chicken follower is saved with a hard smack on the back, scolded for their impatience and punished for trying to steal another ration in the night, the lamb sets out to Anura the next morning.

They’re already departed by the time Narinder wakes up, and he can tell of their absence simply from the hollowness that echoes in his ribs long before he even leaves the hut. Not that it isn’t confirmed by simply reading the lesser minds of their followers from the shadows, but still. It irks him. He’s half a mind to follow their trail regardless; his injuries won’t keep him from killing, and he’s certainly no stranger to pain well enough that he could power through it should the strain on the pitiful body he’s been forced into.

He will not, however. Not because they told him to, but because the cat is currently left unsupervised within a cult of everything they cherish, and that’s the perfect opportunity to do just about anything.

The followers have gotten used to him at this point, though that does not mean that a few glances aren’t spared his way as he crosses the threshold of the shrine-grounds one evening cloaked in white and red robes with a hood and veil hiding his face from them. It is a dark fabric, they see nothing but the red glow of eyes that they shrink away from should they glance in their direction, and the hood does well enough to hide most of his facial features otherwise.

Narinder is also very, very good at moving unnoticed if he so desires; death could be a very quiet thing, you see. Many do not realize it’s presence until it’s’ already upon them.

So he goes unnoticed for the most part. Those who do notice him quickly pretend they didn’t, and Narinder finds his way through the village in the dimming light of the sunset and finds his targets sitting at wooden tables in the eating area near the kitchen. It’s past dinner time. Most of the flock are either retiring to their homes, or working a late shift at the mines and lumber yards. Some have taken advantage of the bathhouse’s hot water before the curfew sets in. The feeding grounds are empty, save for two figures. A yellow cat, and his horrific little brother.

He does not make himself known, half concealed by shadow and pillar. Narinder watches as the cat pushes a bowl of grass gruel towards Leshy, and the worm scoops it up and downs it back rather quickly. The Bishop of Darkwood doesn’t appear to dislike grass meals in the slightest, and judging by the two empty bowls stacked next to them, he was currently having more than just his usual fill. Regaining his strength, perhaps. His brother makes a grumbling, growling noise as he downs the meal.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever met that actually likes the grass gruel meals, you know?” The yellow cat laughs nervously, and Narinder pries into their mind: That’s good, though. Grass bowls might be what we’re stuck with for a few months if we can’t get the crops to grow.

Leshy slams down the bowl, half finished, and shakes his head rapidly to dislodge any bits of food stuck to his brush. It’s a feral behaviorism. “It is adequate, servant. You will bring more. I will require finer dishes than this soon enough.”

Theory correct, then. The weakness of being transformed to such a form must be of a similar state to his own experience. It took weeks for his wrists and arms to stop bleeding from where the chains had cut into them, and unlike his brother, Narinder could not rest nor eat anything to gather his strength faster. To say that it felt unfair was an understatement.

The yellow cat (Joon, he thinks) furrows their brows and keens away. “I think…I think that’s enough. I’m kinda already risking it. We need to have enough for everyone else.” They try to explain, and Leshy’s leaves bristle at being denied. Good. He’s always been a spoiled brat. Joon’s ears pin back when Leshy grumbles something low in demonic language they can’t possibly understand, but they make no move to honor his demand. “It’s just for today! You eat like you’re dying, boss.”

“Wait until you meet my sister.” Leshy sticks a claw into the bowl, wraps grass around it like a utensil, sticks the bite in his mouth and chews. Joon looks a little off-put by the several rows of sharp teeth, and Narinder watches dully as Leshy intimidates the poor follower with reckless shows of bad manners. “She would devour everything here. Once your food is gone, she’ll move onto your corpses. I doubt any of you sate her hunger.”

He speaks of Heket. The God of Death feels his face sour. His eyes drag to the bandage across his brother’s face and seers holes into the symbol there, and Narinder attempts to read his brother’s mind.

Leshy just chews another mouthful of gruel with bits sticking out. There is nothing but the sound of him making a mess. It’s a few seconds of concentration that ends up fruitless; and Narinder allows the expected disappointment to settle as frown on his face. Like the lamb, he cannot read his brother’s mind. Quite possibly any of his siblings if this pattern was to continue. Unfortunate.

Joon just hums. The lamb did say that this guy was a little…traumatized, I think. Weirdo. “...Is your sister, like, a cannibal?”

Leshy’s head jerks up. “No, you insolent little twit! She is divine! I am! And you-”

Leshy cuts himself off sharply. The yellow cat doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, just nodding like they were listening to a mad man ramble. They do, however, pipe up when the worm’s head twitches abruptly, and turns harsh to the direction that Narinder stands in. Joon follows, and startles at the sudden figure while Leshy hisses something vile. “Stupid cat!”

His claws curl around the bowl, winds his arm back and throws the bowl in the direction of Narinder. He does not dodge, standing stoic, and it almost clips his ear if he didn’t just simply pin it back in that second and listen as the gruel clatters against the cobblestone behind him, the rest of the meal wasted.

Joon stammers. “Oh! H-hello, Lamb’s friend-!”

“Do you wish to ambush me? I shall skin you! I shall skin you and that lamb and make coats of your furs!” Leshy yells, standing up from the table. His cloak gets caught on the seat, and he almost stumbles. Strong, but not coordinated. His voice only lowers when Narinder says nothing, and Joon moves to Leshy’s side. Their hands come to rest on his shoulders, and the worm stills. Narinder sees his claws twitch in a manner similar to his own, but they curl into the worm’s palm. So the anger is there then, but the willingness is not.

Leshy shoves the cat off and grumbles something low, and Joon just steps back and wrings their hands together. Narinder watches with mute interest. He would have expected Leshy to slaughter them for such an act in any circumstance. His reluctance suggests the follower is either of use to him, or that the lamb might have threatened his new ‘life’ should he cause harm to any of their flock. Knowing Lambert, it was probably the former.

“I only smell death.” Leshy speaks lowly. “The lamb is not with you. I imagine you’ll make use of that.”

Narinder briefly considers tripping him. “To my discretion.”

The worm’s mouth curls back into a sneer. “Make progress for my eye. I tire of waiting.”

Narinder would roll his eyes if he was sure the worm would see it. There is no more use standing here, and he was tired of interacting with them. Saying nothing, he turns on his heel and walks in the direction of his hut. Somewhere behind him he hears his brother scoff, and the cat quietly ask what his problem was with the ‘local hermit’.

Narinder slinks back to his hut, locks the door, and debates on sleeping for half the night before succumbing from boredom.

-

The enemies in Anura are just as deadly and harrowing as the ones that sought revenge in Darkwood. They are stronger, faster, and hellbent on taking down the lamb at first sight. Villages are already ransacked when the maze of the domain allows them to cross one, and corpses are sometimes still warm when they arrive. The heretics that promise slaughter do not leave anyone alive save for their own number, and the lamb will reduce that number to zero.

It’s a full day of fighting day and night that the opening of a pocket dimension comes from the clearing. Lambert is covered in blood, and their shoulder aches from when an axe-bearing heretic slammed them into a tree with the blunt of their weapon, but that animal lost their head like all the rest. The swords and daggers that hang in the air already gives comfort as they run through the entrance, the mushroom trees around them shifting into something thicker, more concealed.

Kuudai looks like he had been expecting them when they arrive, and nods his head to the lamb’s smile. “Lamb.”

“Pardon my appearance. I have yet to find a stream.” Lambert jokes. They track a little bit of blood into his domain, but it will seep into the ground soon enough. To the front of the owl are several items across a blanket; some weapons completed, holographic and hovering like memories. Some are pieces yet to be constructed. The owl does not look like he was busy with them though, his hands holding not a tool, but a plain wooden cup. “Taking a break, Kuudai?”

“The fires of my forge are very hot, and my feathers tire.” The owl sips with a long, black beak into the cup. It’s a little comical, but elegant also. He wordlessly gestures to the weapons available, and like routine the lamb reaches out to select one. The memory of a dagger coated with poison shifts to their hand, and the red crown’s sword melds into it’s likeness within their grip. Kuudai only nods his head as the lamb bows in thanks, and seems to pull out another cup from the confines of his robes. “I offer tea, as well.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.” Lambert plops down right in front of him, accepting the cup. They watch with faint amusement when the owl’s hand moves to the furnace, opening the iron door and retrieving a kettle inside. “You’re using the fires of hell to boil your tea?”

Kuudai hums, pouring into their outstretched cup. “It adds flavor.”

He retracts his kettle, and the lamb blows at the steam before giving it a sip. The liquid burns their tongue from the temperature. It makes them wince slightly, but the taste is notable. They expected it to be bitter. Instead it is sweet, and tastes like fond memories. “I like it!”

The owl puts the kettle aside, sips at his own, and hums with acknowledgement.

“Narinder likes the scythe you made him, by the way. He’s got too much of a stick up his ass to say it himself.” Lambert speaks in-between sips. Eventually after enough times of burning their tongue, they forgoes their impatience and just work on blowing the heat from the cup before they try again. “I wish he would let me hold it. It’s super cool looking. He’s super cool fighting with it, too. He just-” They make a chopping, swishing movement with their free hand. “You know? I should learn how to do that.”

They know Kuudai is not the type to emote, nor does the owl need any sort of validation for his work since he is well aware that his skill as a smith is undeniable. Still, the praise is left to linger in the air as the bird refills his tea. “You are alone this time.”

“Yeah. He has an injury, so I made him stay home.” They blow onto their tea, and watch as the steam makes the shape of faces and skulls before dissipating. “…A lot has happened since we last spoke, actually.”

Kuudai sips his tea, and Lambert notes how he does not seemed hurt by the boiling hell water’s temperature. “It will take time for your cup to cool.”

An offering for reprieve. Lambert’s grin softens, and makes themselves comfortable.

-

The ink has run out. He has nothing to write with, the remaining ink not used properly due to his own inability to properly wield it. Not that it mattered in the moment anyway, because the quill in his fingers does not make the proper letters or imagery he wills it to. The bandages on his arm are fresh again, although not as perfectly wrapped. He managed that on his own, but writing and drawing are more difficult than usual. It is still an improvement from a week ago where he could not coordinate a proper line into a letter, or a stroke into a circle. The symbols he writes are hardly legible and the drawings are cruder than normal, but at least it’s substantial enough where it’s recorded.

Still, there is a ink blotch of what is supposed to be the lamb in the middle of the page. Narinder holds it at an angle so that it doesn't touch the pages behind it, presses his thumb to the drawing and rots a hole in the center of the paper. The lamb’s form is decayed, the book is harshly shut, and tossed to the bedside table.

His lack of finer mobility in his fingers has made a mess of spilled ink in his bedsheets, not that it wouldn’t just blend in with the ichor anyway, but the dried feeling is uncomfortable, so Narinder gets up, shoves the bedding off, and moves to the water bucket to clean himself up.

Spying on his brother is a pass time he will keep for the few days while the lamb is gone. If it weren’t for his current state, however, Narinder would be in Darkwood to retrieve said brother’s eye. Oh, how satisfying it would be to find it’s remains and bring it to him like an olive branch, just to crush it within his palm. A sick revenge, maybe. If Narinder cannot keep his siblings dead, he could at least torment them, albeit in a way an older brother usually does. But for now, his fingers don’t respond the way he wants them to, there’s numbness in his arms and his curses don’t respond when he summons them. Or at least, one of them did, but the chained spear just clunks to the ground pitfully without hovering or shooting through the air, so it was useless until he heals.

It’s mid-day when he finds Leshy and the yellow cat in the fields.

Again, he goes unnoticed, even in the broad daylight. The few followers he passed on the way over here quickly hurried out of his way. As they should. Their fear is refreshing.

The fields are primed and freshly sewn with new seeds. The slightest bit of saplings are starting to poke through the soil, but for the most part the farms were tilled, brown, and a bit muddy. The flock is right to worry about the harvest before winter; the crops may die before they ever produce anything edible. Narinder is careful to walk in the driest spots lest he get fertilizer and mud on his robes.

This time, Leshy is laying on his side partially buried in the dirt, and his ‘servant’ is couched over him with concerned look. The worm does not shift when Narinder enters the area, and the yellow cat does not notice. They prod at him, poking his face. The God of Death grumbles something at the touch but does not make any move to stop them from doing it. It would appear that today is a low day for the worm. The lamb mentioned something in the weeks of their returning visits to bandage his arms that Leshy had good days and bad days; even though ‘good days’ consisted of him tearing apart their equipment and causing general chaos in the cult grounds.

That too is something Narinder can relate to, unfortunately. Though his ‘bad’ days usually mean he’s killing something. Which makes the time span between now and the last time he was able to rip apart a heretic all the more irritating.

As if his thoughts are audible, Leshy head jolts in his direction. Then, the worm promptly dives back into the ground. It’s soft enough that he buries himself completely, leaving not a mound but a rather sizable hole as he kicks up dirt and wiggles into the soil so quickly one wouldn’t think a creature of his size would be able to do it. Mud splatters on the front of Joon’s tunic as they crane away from the mess. They don’t appear surprised by this ability, but they do lean forwards when he’s done and peer downwards into his hiding place when he’s finished. “…We can go to my house, if you want?”

Narinder has no interest in watching a follower try to comfort his poor sap of a brother. Without a word, he turns to exit the farming grounds. His usual target for harassments consisted of the lamb, but in their absence, he finds that he is left little other choice. He moves through the field, passing the barn and entering the common grounds. A panda carrying wood scurries out of his way as he walks. He could go self-isolate and meditate. There is little to do here during the day, and he must wait until night if he was going to do anything else-

“Why are you wearing a veil?”

It’s a voice of a child, and it’s directed at him. Narinder pauses and finds it’s source.

Four children. The fox boy, Bremar, is holding the handle of a wagon dragged along behind him and looking up to him with curiosity. Inside that wagon is the frog girl from before (Penny, or Parley or something) sitting on her haunches with a bandage sticking out from underneath her tunic, but she looks bright eyed and happy to see him. Two other children trail behind them; a pig child and a deer boy. They look at him like he’s some rumored cryptid they’ve gotten lucky to spot in the wild; the hooded, veiled killer at the edge of the village that speaks to no one.

Great. He’s attracted the attention of some of the local runts.

Baring all teeth and fangs while putting a little bit of eldritch into his threat, Narinder hisses at them.

It creates a horrific sight. As desired, the pig and the deer startle, turning tail, kicking up dirt as they scramble off with one of them whining. Bremar’s ears fall flat back against his skull and flinches, but stays in place. The frog girl just blinks at him.

His teeth fall back into a solid frown, and the God of Death wrinkles his nose. The boy is far too comfortable in Narinder’s presence. He should do something to make the fox kit fear him again.

The fox’s eyes trail down to the cat’s arms, and his hand comes up timidly to point to the bandage peaking out from underneath his sleeve. “What happened to your arms?”

He momentarily remembers a certain lamb asking him the same question ages ago. Narinder turns his back on the fox and walks into the direction of his hut. “I broke them.”

He’s hoping that answer would suffice. It does not. The sound of wheels turning and tiny footsteps tells him that the fox is trailing after him, and bringing the chipper frog girl with him. “You broke them? How? I never ever see you working.” The boy questions. He makes an effort to stay pace with the cat. “Like, in a fight?”

“Yes.” Narinder keeps walking. “In a fight.”

“Oh.” Blue eyes linger on the bandages, and blink dumbly at him. “They look…not-broken.”

“I heal fast.”

“I got into a fight once. It was pretty intense. I didn’t break my arms though.” The kit is continuing to trail and talk. They’re passing by the shrine now, and Narinder promptly ignores the weird look a flock member gives him as the kit seemed to keep close to his tail. “I was fighting Umar. You know the owl kid? Yeah, he’s mean. He took my lunch, so I hit him and I,” The boy trails off for a moment. “I didn’t win.”

The child is rambling. He sounds just as pathetic as when Baal was a kit and lost a sparring match to his brother. Narinder imagines this fox isn’t much older than how he started training them. The memory makes his step hesitate for half a second before his frown deepens. “Use a knife next time.”

The frog girl sniffs. Bremar shrinks a little. “Won’t that kill them?”

“If you do it properly.”

The boy’s face twists a little in fear, but he still keeps up with the God of Death even as they near the hill. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Spineless little twerp. Well, maybe not if he’s still here. He’s still preferable to the other fox, though. Narinder looks for an escape route. “Not my problem.”

“Paazi got better. Look.” The boy calls for his attention, and against his better judgement, Narinder looks back over his shoulder. Bremar points a thumb back to the girl, Paazi, and the girl raises her arm from her good shoulder and gives him a big wave, overly enthusiastic wave for someone who is two yards away. “Nurse said she’s not allowed to move around a lot yet, so I got this wagon. Sometimes I can carry her because I’m strong like that.”

“Papa wants to say hi to you.” Paazi beams at him, smiling with a mouth that’s missing the front tooth. “Papa says you’re an angel.”

Bremar sniffs. “My mom calls you the ‘grim reaper’...and so do a lot of other adults.”

Narinder did not sign up for this today. He walks a little bit quicker. “I don’t care.”

If the fox kit took the hint, he does not acknowledge it. Instead the wagon wheels jostle a little bit as he walks faster to keep pace with the cat. “Did you and the lamb get into a fight? They looked sad a while ago.” Bremar continues to keep up with them, only hitting a pause when the wagon gets caught on the edge of the cobblestone path and the pathway turning to dirt. Narinder thinks he might escape early when a quick glance over his shoulder shows the fox boy simply pluck the frog from the wagon, set her on his hip and trot up behind in a hurried waddle. “They look sad, and they keep coming over here. I think they feel bad about your arms being broken. We don’t have a ritual to fix that. We can’t do a ritual right now because mom says the lamb is too sad and we have to pray harder.” A pause. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

“I don’t care.” His interest is piqued, actually, but that’s to confront the lamb about later. “Go home kit, or I may prove your reaper accusations correct.”

“O-oh.” He can hear the boy’s steps faulters as Narinder checks his mind. Scary…Why is he being scary now?

Good. Save one life, and suddenly they want to do nothing but pester him. It reminds him of a certain lamb. They’ve reached his door, and Narinder is quick to open it, swinging it open and ready to lock himself away when the frog girl is the one to speak up again. “Are you coming to the feast?”

The God of Death pauses in the doorway, looking dully back over to the children. Bremar’s brows are furrowed, but he stands his ground in the face of death, and Paazi is none the wiser. She sits on his hip with one arm around the boy’s shoulders, and a thumb partially stuck in her mouth.

Narinder’s voice is deadpan. “There will be no feast. The ritual failed.”

“Oh-kay.” Paazi drawls, and like a child, does not quite comprehend his tone. “You comin’ when we do it again? We’re gonna have a lot to eat.”

(Two young gods; a brother with a thrashing tail and a frog on his hip. He’d carry his sister around the temple to the offering tables where he was tall enough to sneak her meats. Shamura grounded them both for eating before ceremony, and Narinder kept bread in his robe’s pockets for when Heket’s stomach growled.)

“Sure.” He says flatly, if just to the children and the memories to stop haunting him. “I’ll attend, but I’m not eating.”

He shuts the door in front of them. There’s a pause before there’s a huff and the waddling footsteps of the fox boy walking away, and even more distinctly comes the creak of wagon wheels soon after. Narinder waits until the sound dissipates, and repeats the motions for his lungs to stop aching. Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

-

Lambert has traveled Anura alone hundreds of times. There’s more emphasizes on the ‘alone’ aspect when before the crown, or really; The One Who Waits had offered small talk and advice, battle strategy and updates on the cult happenings while they were busy crusading. Talking out lout to themselves was never really just speaking to themselves only; the crown was a window of sorts, and instant courier to the devil below. The lamb would speak, dance, or do anything really, and The One Who Waits would give his input if such was asked for, and sometimes even if it wasn’t. Even then he was present in every aspect, though not always looking through the crown for privacy reasons, or boredom, or simply because he tires of watching the same batch of heretics get slaughtered again and again.

And even afterwards, Narinder is not one for conversation. Or at the very least he doesn’t talk much. Lambert knows they ramble. They know they are chatty, and the God of Death is a very good listener, even if he doesn’t realize it.

So it’s a little awkward when they come up to entrance of the main disciple’s hallway, and Lambert speaks out loud to no one. “I knew Gusion as a follower, you know? He was kind of an asshole. Always said he could predict the future, but I think he ended up scamming a few of my flock for gold. Died of old age, I think.”

No one responds to them. The crown is quiet as the sword in their hands, and Lambert sighs.

Walking into the temple is a repeated notion. The disciple is waiting there, as they always are, and this one is transformed just as the ones in Darkwood were. Purgatory does horrific things to the domains, and no one was spared. Not even this giant bulbous frog. Poor Gusion is missing all of the green fuzz he had in life, instead replaced with a skinned, raw version of himself with bleeding, pulsing eyes and watering teeth. The creature spots the lamb and shrieks something horrific, spitting goo and ichor from it’s tongue as it prepares to attack.

They shall end his misery and collect the god tears quickly so they can return home. The sword is drawn, and Lambert rushes the frog.

-

It is night again when Narinder decides to go back out, this time with a specific goal in mind.

The lamb has not returned, but knowing their combat habits and how quickly they can slice through a domain within a few days, they could return to the flock as early as tomorrow or within a day or so. He’s known them long enough that they’d dally, either to pick up supplies or to take a break with the owls, and he finds the absence irritating for some reason. If he wasn’t so certain that their crusade was nearing completion, he’d walk out of the cult grounds, track them down, and continue the killing just so he can dig his claws into something. The lamb or the heretics, either is fine.

There’s also the possibility that they’re dead, but he doubts it. Even if that did happen, he’d find their rotting corpse, resurrect their body and then kill them again just to be able to say that he did. Well, assuming he even could raise them. Killing and erasing the lamb might be the end goal, sure, but if someone beat him to it, he’s going to be a quite unhappy about it.

He chooses the hour where everyone has had their dinner and most are retiring to their beds. There’s not a soul near the temple when he slinks in, and he doesn’t bother latching the door lock because he highly doubts anyone would have any business coming in here late at night. He won’t be here long, and he won’t be downstairs to get caught if he can help it. The lamb’s bedroom door is known to him now.

The large banner is pushed to the side, and it slides away like a curtain to show the door. He didn’t get much look at it while he was injured, bleeding and near delirious from blood loss, but it’s a rather simple thing. It’s thick wood, only a few shades off from the brick of the walls and looks aged with an even older lock. There’s nothing inherently magical about the lock that he can detect, but the lack of scuffs around around it’s entrance suggests that there’s no actual physical key to it. The lamb keeps their crown as the only thing that can unlock the staircase up into their bedroom.

Smart of them. However, Narinder is a cat, and claws can work just as good as lockpicking tools if one knew how to do it correctly, and skeletal fingers make it even easier.

The claw on the end of his thumb will work fine. He slips in in the keyhole with his ears keened towards the wood, and feels the inner mechanisms click. They’re barely audible, each tiny click making his ear twitch, and Narinder’s brows furrow when his thumb moves wrongly before he can be certain he got it right. He rights a different claw just to have the same problem: his fingers don’t move as finely as he wills them. They’re locking up still, coiling at the joints and too stiff for him to lock pick perfectly.

Pulling back, he considers simply breaking it as he grips the handle; just to grit his teeth in exasperation as the hand that wraps around the knob won’t bend fully at the wrist. Adding a second hand just makes flare pain up into his arms and shoot up past his elbow. The knob jiggles, threatening to snap off when he can’t measure the amount of force he’s putting into the now-dented doorknob. Somewhere behind him, the temple door opens and closes, but Narinder is too frustrated to care. His fingers lock up tightly and his wrists hurt to swivel. His hands don’t do what he tells them to.

The God of Death steps back from the door, summons the scythe in hand, and ignores the tingle the pain that bleeds into his arm as he does. The wooden door looked thick, but it didn’t look impenetrable. He could break it down if needed.

An elderly voice echoes in the temple in a sarcastic tone. “I did not take you as a thief.”

Curse this night. Narinder huffs hot air through his nose, and turns dully to glare at the newcomer in the room.

It is a grey, elderly rabbit holding a wicker basket with tunics and cloths. Dull eyes drag from the door to the cat, and Narinder clenches the weapon handle to make sure his fingers do not fail him as he glares back with a low lidded heat. Whoever they are, they are a nuisance. He doesn’t really feel like committing murder at the moment, but if this witness was going to be a problem, he could kill them and blame the elder’s age for it if he did it carefully.

The rabbit’s nose twitches. “That’s quite rude of you. Our leader has granted you hospitality, and you thank them by sneaking about.”

There’s something familiar about this flock member in particular, is unfortunate considering he recognizes her as one of the lamb’s most trusted; meaning he can’t kill her unless he wanted to deal with a very, very upset vessel. “Be gone with you, rabbit.”

“I have brought the lamb their laundry.” She ignores his demand completely, and brings the wicker basket over to the side to set up against the wall by the door. “Their night tunics were bloodied and tossed about the other day. It’s not easy getting red stains out of light fabrics, but I believe you know that trouble already.”

“Leave, follower.” He bares his teeth. “You try my patience.”

The elder does not flinch when the glint of his scythe shines back on her. It takes Narinder a moment to search his own memory: countless number of followers have joined and died in the cult over the centuries, but this rabbit is older than many of them. The lamb had found her in Darkwood already an elder long ago, and she has remained as such far longer than the mortal lifespan should have allowed.

She does not smell of death at all, and she doesn’t seem to fear it when it hisses at her. The rabbit locks her hands together so her sleeves connect, and straightens her posture as well as an animal her age with a hunch could manage. “If you are going up, do try not to track blood over the rugs. That was very difficult to clean up.”

Narinder is almost insulted by the casual speak. “You don’t seem worried of my presence with a weapon. I’d think that the lamb’s most loyal would have a bit more worry for them.”

The elder rabbit looks him up and down in a rather non-discreet manner. “I believe I have little to be concerned about. Please excuse me.” She turns and walks down the stairs, heads to the temple doors and stops only to face the now rather-perplexed cat as she gives a slight bow. Respectful, though it still holds a touch of sarcasm. “Goodnight, my lord.”

The temple doors shut behind her, and Narinder’s brows furrow.

-

It happens the next morning when Narinder decides to ‘check in’ on his little brother sometimes after the commune’s breakfast.

Leshy and Joon are not in near the farms nor are they staying home, but are a moving target. With hood up and veil over his eyes, Narinder finds them, though he doesn’t have to stick too closely. One can see most of the village from near the shrine and the temple, and he has no interest in walking behind them like a lost tag when he can simply plant himself in one spot for a minute or so and observe from a distance. Which is exactly what he does. The worshippers don’t seem to notice him as they pray, or if they didn’t they didn’t show it on their faces. A quick pry into their minds tells Narinder that a few did in-fact notice his presence and are quite unnerved by it, but are very, very intent on appearing as if they did not.

Less interaction for him then, good. Red eyes trail past the veil and find the worm and yellow cat across the village.

Leshy’s shoulders are hunched and he walks slowly while the yellow cat has one hand barely hovering over his back. Their mouth is moving, and Narinder is too far to hear what is being said, but judging by the how the two pause for something at a landmark, whether it be a house, or a sign, or the lumbermill nearby, it’s safe to assume that Joon is helping Leshy map out the village. The worm doesn’t look entirely too happy, and his head twitches to the side when a nearby follower just so happens to walk past them. His sense of smell or hearing might be overloaded, and he’s probably thinking all sorts of violent thoughts about how he’d tear apart the lamb’s flock. The fact that he’s still not doing it is surprising. Perhaps whatever the lamb threatened him with was something substantial if he was this hesitant.

They continue this for a minute, and Narinder realizes it’s all they’ll be doing. There’s no need for him to stand here like a sore spot. He might as well head back home and do whatever. He moves to leave.

Then pauses. The cat looks to the shrine. It overflows with devotion, but the smell of it is stale. Fires are lit at the base and the worshippers lay their heads low under the shadow of the mock of the lamb. It’s size has grown over the centuries, and it’s image demanding. Devotion is not a visible, tangible thing to be seen, at least not to mortals. But here Narinder can see the faint wisps of faith pool from the eyes of the statue. The lamb has stolen devotion from the statues of his siblings many times before; this would be no different if the mortal body was capable of doing so.

Still, the eyes of the lamb statue glow white like a sight he sees almost every night. Narinder’s eyes narrow, mouth pulled back into a thin line, and reaches a hand out like he’s seen the lamb do hundreds of times before.

“Hey, cat.”

The voice is gruff and agitated. The God of Death feels annoyance seep into his skin and tense his jaw, pulling his hand back and curling his claws into his palm. He turns to the speaker with a flat look.

It’s a pig this time, a large creature that reeked of gruel and lumber. Tusks poke out from his curled lip with a snarl, and an wood-chopping axe hangs low in his hand. His attire suggests he’s a lumberjack, and from the state of his mind and glare, he didn’t care for Narinder too much. “Finally left that shithole to kill some one else? Looking for your next target?”

It takes a notable effort to pry into his mind. It is not as weak-or perhaps devoted-as the others, but Narinder succeeds regardless.

This freak is up to something. The pig’s mind is as volatile as his attitude. The lumberjack’s snout turns upward at him. “You’re not welcome among the flock, cat. Go sulk. The lamb might favor you but some of us are not as forgiving.”

The pig has barely been here for ten seconds and he’s already acting like a nuisance. The pig isn’t even fully trying to tell him off; from the way the pig grips his axe, it’s almost as if he prefers a fight rather to be rid of him. Narinder makes a note to add this to the list of reasons why he’d prefer not to socialize with the lamb’s followers, and turns away to walk back towards his hut. “I’ll be sure to let the lamb know that one of their number dissented when they return. Leave me, pig.”

A out-swung axe comes in front of him, and Narinder’s eyes flash darkly in the reflection of the blade.

A few of the worshipper’s heads pull up quietly, and some flock members who were passing by pause to watch with armfuls of wood and other supplies. The pig’s expression is an angry, horrid one, and his thoughts match the face. “I am no dissenter, I am simply not a fool. There’s no need for killers amongst us unless it’s people like me putting you in the ground.” He huffs, grip tight on the axe that Narinder briefly considers slicing off his hand for. “The lamb bleats forgiveness and lets strays wander about without a leash. I see who you are behind the veil, demon. The lamb would thank me for breaking them of your charm.”

If Narinder was sure they’d see his eyes roll behind the veil, he would make it obvious. He promised not to kill Leshy, and taking out their flock would only make the lamb harder to deal with. However, if a follower attacked first, then Narinder would gladly take that as permission to stab into something repeatedly until he left nothing but a pile of gore. Or preferably, rot them slowly and leave them to a slow, agonizing death as their body decays inch by inch. The urge to cleave his belly open lingers in his claws. All he would need to do is wait.

Except…the lamb is going to be upset, and three eyes trail over the gathering crowd of followers and lands on a gaggle of shorter heads; a beetle girl, an owl boy, the deer child and a fox with a frog on his hip all staring with wide collective eyes, and Narinder frowns.

The pig huffs something prideful when the cat doesn’t respond. “Not even going to defend yourself? Do you see now?” The pig laughs, and addresses the growing mummers and eyes. “It’s guilty! It’s out here stalking for it’s next meal!”

A few mummer dully, and somewhere in the midst of the voices, a red panda speaks out. “Leave it be, Grekimar. The lamb said-”

“Damn what the lamb said! They can’t even keep us fed, much less keep us from a murderer they house in our village!” The pig snarls. A few low gasps come from the handful of flock that’s circled them. Narinder looks dully for an exit, and the pig just keeps spewing nonsense. “This thing is a curse on our village! We’ve had nothing but bad luck since it arrived, and it has the lamb in a some sort of mind controlled servitude-!”

The pig cuts himself off when the black cat simply walks past the axe, onwards home, completely disinterested. “Ha! Coward! Running with your tail between your legs?!”

Narinder would like to sever the pig’s head from his shoulders, but there are children watching. “I don’t speak with swine.”

“Then bleed!”

In the corner of his eye does an axe glint as it swings down, and Narinder’s hand flickers with black lightning and shadow as the scythe summons-

A clash of steel stings through the air. The clack of iron sliding against another blade and hilting at the handle.

Lambert stands in front of Narinder, blocking the pig’s axe with the dark sword with eyes burning.

A few followers gasp, and some depart immediately, some bow their heads. The pig’s expression switches from anger to tense fear. His shoulders fall, and shock freezes his whole form. “My leader-”

“I believe you have made a critical mistake, Grekimar.” The lamb speaks low, voice calm and even. “I think it would be wise for you to correct it.”

They twist the handle of the sword and it wrenches the axe from his grip, sending it toppling to the grass. The pig takes a few steps back for distance. The crowd is starting to disperse on it’s own, with the brave and the curious remaining. Parents are starting to rush away the children, and worshippers dip their head low back down to the shrine’s shadow. Those who remain to watch do so with wide eyes as Grekimar stands tense. “My leader, he is a killer. He threatened us. He-”

“So you’ve decided to play the role of the judge and executioner. Might you need to be judged for your sins as well? For I know of yours plenty.” Lambert’s sword does not dissipate, merely lowering. The red on their wool and fleece from the crusade being to match the red pooling at the bottom of their eyes. Blood threatens to drip until the lamb blinks it back. “I tire of the hypocrisy.”

With a quick flick of their head, Lambert directs two followers who have remained behind. “Take him to the pillory for a day, and then the cell for the next two week. You shall take this time to reconsider and repent for your actions. We will discuss your continued punishment after your release.”

Grekimar blanches. “My leader-”

“Silence.” The lamb cuts him off. “You stand guilty of attempted assault. You have forgone the privilege to speak.”

They gesture again, and the frozen followers snap back to reality. They emerge and come to the pig, who shoves off the attempts to grab him with shock and anger etched in his face. His eyes dart nervously, surrounded and judged, but says nothing further. That look remains even as he drags his feet in the other’s guidance to the opposite end of the village.

Few of the original crowd remains, though some still stand confused with arms full of logs or laundry. The lamb is quick to acknowledge the concerned faces. “Continue your work. I will address any concerns at tomorrows sermons, but for now, let me remind you that we are kind here, until kindness is no longer received. Go on.”

That seems enough to get the more lingering eyes off of them. Lambert waits a moment out of caution before allowing the sword to dissipate back to the crown on their head, and turning to the God of Death. “It’s starting to feel that every time I leave you here in the cult something bad happens. I wasn’t expecting the the first thing I see teleporting back was someone brandishing an axe at your back.”

Narinder stands stoic, quiet, with his head titled and ears keened at an angle. The crimson eyes look the lamb completely up and down behind the veil, pupils zeroed. Analyzing them.

Lambert is suddenly slightly more aware of themselves. “…You’ve been socializing.”

“Two weeks is rather light.” He mulls. “You should have let me string that pig up by his intestines as a warning.”

They really hope the worshippers didn’t hear that. “Speak to me in private, please. Your place or mine?”

Narinder pauses for a minute, before turning in the opposite direction. “Mine.”

It’s a short walk where they trail behind him. He says nothing on the walk up to the hill, and Lambert tries not to walk so close that the agitated thrashing of his tail doesn’t hit them in their legs. They stare at the back of the white hood he has pulled up, the veil shielding the rest of him. No wonder their flock smelled of fear and uncertainty. Considering his history, he fits all the book telling of what the reaper looks like. (Which, now that Lambert thinks about it, might have just been depictions of Narinder in the first place.) The followers probably would have gone into a fit if he managed to summon his scythe in front of them. The veil must be what makes him comfortable enough to walk among the mortals. They wonder if he did this before his imprisonment, too.

He looks all cool and mysterious in it, but they miss seeing the fur of his face though, and he was even harder to read than how he was before. “How are you feeling?”

His answer is curt. “Better.”

“Your hands still look a little skeletal. They look thicker though. Shouldn’t be too much longer before they’re finished healing.” The lamb is starting to be chatty like routine. It is oddly a noise that fits nicely into Narinder’s background as he approaches his door, swings it open, and steps inside. He’s about to shut it when he realizes the lamb did not follow him inside, and instead lingers in the doorway. “Yeah, so. I wasn’t-”

“You’re letting the cold air in.”

Lambert blinks at how he holds the door open. They cross the threshold, letting the inside shake the continues chill they felt in their limbs where the fleece does not cover as the cat shuts the door behind them. “Hey, your bedsheets are messed up again.”

There’s a click of a lock latching behind them. Narinder double checks the lock plainly; it very well was the only barrier he had against the comfort of solitude and the harassments he received from the flock and it’s children as of late. He pulls down his hood and pulls the tie to unknot the veil, pulling it off, and ignores the lamb’s stare as he does. “I did not need your rescue.”

Lambert has comfortably paced around his space and is now currently poking at that one weird spot of rotted wood flooring with their foot. “I wasn’t worried about you, but if I had not intervened, you would have killed him.”

“Yes.” The cat scoffs. “The pig would have deserved it.”

The lamb inspects his space as they always do. He’s tidied up a bit. Books are rearranged, but none of the pages are bent. They’ll need to offer him some new reading material if he’s already gone through it all. “I’m trying to get my flock to like you, you know? Without knowing your status, murder is a sure quick way to become disliked.” They move to the other side of the bed, bending down and peering underneath the frame. Their hands grab the wicker basket underneath and slid it out. The rolls of bandages within look untouched since their departure. “Alrighty-then. Sit down, Nari. I can work quickly if that helps.”

No response. Lambert pauses in pulling out a length from the roll to meet the God of Death’s stare, which is still and perplexed.

“Am I not changing your bandages?” That is why they’re here, right? It’s why he made them come inside for conversation, is it not? “…Unless you are able to do it yourself now?”

In reality, he probably could at this point, and he does not have an excuse for the lamb or himself as to why they’re standing here, but Narinder’s mind is frozen on the nickname that left his usurper’s mouth instead. They’ve said that a few times actually. His nose twitches, and Lambert is looking at him with eyes too big. “…My brother demands we find his eye in Darkwood.”

He can almost see the gears switch and their attention divert, and decides that was the best choice he could have made. Confusion flits across their face, but they return their hands to unravel the bandages. “His eye? Really?”

“Apparently.”

“…Ok-ay.” They sigh. “I guess that’s doable. Darkwood is already pretty much dead. At least for now. You pretty much killed it’s wave of heretics and it’s witness is dead. If all I have to do is find it, it would only take me a few hours of searching at best. Maybe less if I’m lucky.”

“So be it.” At least something good will come from his rampage, it seems. Narinder hums, and moves to the bed to sit. He does so because the room lacks a chair, not out of exhaustion, and briefly wonders if the floor would have been a better choice when the lamb does not ask permission to sit besides him. If ‘sit’ meant they jumped up and landed their behind directly next to him causing the bed to shift and Narinder to be slightly more conscious of the distance. He sneers. “That was not an invitation.”

“Shh Lemme see your arms. I want to try something before I refresh the wrappings.” They do not grab him outright, at the very least, but Lambert makes grabby hands with a goofy look. “Let me hold your hand for a second.”

Narinder does not allow them the satisfaction, leaning away and hissing. “Vile lamb. I’ll kick you.”

“Just humor me!”

“My old ones aren’t even off, and you are loud.” Narinder sneers. The wicker basket is grabbed out from under their arm and promptly chucked at their forehead. The lamb makes a sharp ‘bah’ noise as their head snaps back and the basket tumbles to the floor somewhere. They rub at the soft spot on their head with a mild pout. Narinder just huffs. “If this is a mockery of my state, perhaps I’ll test my grip by strangling you with my bare hands.”

The lamb snorts, which makes Narinder’s snarl flatten and his eyebrows raise as they thwack the bell on their collar. “Ooooh. Scary. I just wanted to see if I can help speed up the healing process. I could tell you didn’t like being left here.”

His face wrinkles into a comical scrunch. He leans back far enough that he creates lines on his neck and puffiness in his face “I’ve suffered and fought with far worse. I am too bored of simply waiting for my vessel’s return; I did plenty of that in the gateway. Not to mention your flock is difficult to exist amongst. ” He dulls, not looking down to his arms as he brings a sharp thumb up and catches it in the fabric. The lamb would unravel it slowly, but Narinder finds it easier to simply tear a rip through the wrapping and pull it off all at once. Which he does, and promptly tosses them to the side to focus on the next arm. “You are a hypocrite, anyway.”

Lambert looks only a touch offended. “What? Why am I a hypocrite for making you stay when you have injuries that clearly make you unsuitable for combat? You’re the one suddenly positive about going on crusades with me, originally you didn’t even want to!”

Narinder pulls the some-what clean bandage from his other arm, and lets it drop to the floor. “I did not leave you while your leg injury made you unfit for fighting.”

Lambert opens their mouth, halts, and shuts their jaw as realization dawns. Their ears fall back low. “Oh.”

The God of Death says nothing more. He just shifts the rest of the old bandage off, and stares expectantly with tired eyes.

“Well.” Lambert clears their throat, and holds out both hands cupped together, palm upwards. “I missed having you out on the crusade anyway. It feels weird without your presence in the crown, or otherwise. Can I try my idea now?”

Narinder’s side eye is a new expression entirely. “I despise every moment I have to touch you.”

“I think you hate being injured more.” The lamb smiles. His tolerance for their shenanigans such as this has increased since their talk. They can tell.

As if to prove the theory, Narinder’s sour look does not lessen, but he relents. The arm is once again placed within their reach and settled in their palms as per routine for the last two weeks, and Lambert is careful their fingers don’t brush or press up against any joints that might cause him pain.

He’s improved since they last saw him; the gap between the bone was no longer present, and to the naked eye it would appear as if he just had some really sickly, skinny arms without any fur. The flesh is soft and gives way easily like blackened muscle, and Lambert hums as they take his hand. They’re carefully turning it over. The pads on his skin raise slightly as they heal, though at first glance it appears as if it’s all just sharp edges and knuckles. The claws could cut their hand if they’re not careful as they press their fingers into his own, but the hand they hold has gone ridged, and the owner has gone completely still.

If there was fur on the arm, it would have been raised. The ones on the back of Narinder’s neck still do along with his ears. The memory of small wooly thing in his palm returns, now riddled with the sensation of that same wooly creature pressing their skin against his fingertips, and the shock that comes with realizing he was not numb to it. They are warm and moving. The joints in his fingers scream to clasp down.

Lambert simply does not notice. “Does it always hurt you? It took weeks for them to stop bleeding when you first got here, and it just…looks strange.” They bend his fingers back gently, like an inspection, and Narinder stays as still as a statue. “I notice you don’t do certain things; like how you move your elbows when you close your sleeves together, or how you use the scythe.”

He understands their question just fine, but it currently feels like Narinder’s head is starting to fill with cotton, and ribcage with an ache. It takes him a moment to articulate a sentence. “I will always have issues with it. It is a consequence of my sibling’s choice to chain me, such as I hope my mutilations will haunt them.” Lambert glances briefly up at his statement, but they look quickly back down when his scowl meets them. “I am still more godly than you will ever be even with such injury.”

They pay no heed to his insult. “Hmm. Overexertion.” They muse. They asked about things like this in the gateway, and he wonders how long have they had these curiosities. “Is this helping at all?”

"…What exactly are you trying to do, lamb?“

“Whatever you did to my scar a few days ago.” They press their palm against his own, flushed fully now. The dark hand does not react to their movements, so the lamb can simply glide their hands over his own plainly, in a mock-up of a massage, or inspection. “You know? It’s that one I got when we fought in the temple. I tried grabbing you with shadows, and you nearly speared me through the hand for it. It left a mark, but you got rid of it.”

The fingers they’re so focused on twitch, and Lambert blinks when the skin beings to shift. Shadow flickers, ever so slightly it’s almost invisible, but the sharpness around Narinder’s joints are beginning to smooth. A giddy feeling starts to bubble when their index finger moves over his own, and it feels soft and fuzzy. “I think…I’m doing it right? I’m trying to focus. How exactly were you able to do it?”

No response.

After a few seconds, Lambert looks up. “Narinder?”

The God of Death is tense. His expression is forced neutral, and unreadable, but the tail sits to the side bristled.

The cat suddenly wrenches his hands away from the lamb, hiding his arms back under his sleeves and glaring crimson at them. “You misplace your focus, vessel. You have purgatories to suffer through, and I have more important things to focus on than to let a traitor experiment on me.” He hisses, and this time it is cruel and vile and angry, fangs bared like the lamb just threatened him somehow. “You’ve tried my patience enough. Finish here and then go bottle feed the flock you let walk all over you.”

Geeze.

So he still has a limit on touch. Figured that. It was nice while it lasted.

Lambert’s smile dims, but does not disappear as their hands settle into their lap. “I probably won’t stay for long. I’ll need to set out for Anura again soon; the food I brought back will only help us for the next week or so, so I’ll need to stock up as much as possible before the traders come by.” They sigh, look down to the greyed bandages forgotten on the floor, and to the unused rolls on the bed. It seems they will go unneeded. “I will also need to visit the smugglers sanctuary. We still have plenty of gold from Mida’s cave. I could get some supplies from the trading ships there…and you can give the Witness’s eye to Plimbo.”

Narinder looks stoic for a moment. He grumbles something low. “Have you defeated the disciple in Anura?”

“And I’ve already brought the god tears to the Mystic Seller.” They confirm.

“Then we go to Darkwood first, get the eye, and cease my brother’s whining. The sanctuary afterwards, and the crusade from there. Tend to your flock on your own time in-between, but we shall adhere to this order.” The God of Death states it not as a suggestion, but as a command.

The lamb doesn’t seem to mind his shift in tone. They grin, one hand picking up the fabric of their fleece before the other splays their hand over their heart in a loyal gesture, and he squints like it’s a mockery. “Of course. Is there anything else? Want me to wash your robes? Fetch you hot water? Bring you the head of an enemy priest? Fight off any followers you fear might throw mud at your house?”

Ah, it was definitely mockery.

A vein might pop on his head. “Lamb.”

“Yes?

“Get out.”

They giggle at his reaction in a manner that sounds like they tried to hold it back and then failed. Lambert stands up straight, marching straight legged to the door before turning on their heel and standing at a soldier’s attention with a salute. They seem to be having fun with the whole bit. “I am but your knight in wooly armor, Narinder. Just say the word!”

“Die.”

“Not that one.”

They’re in better spirits now than they were when they initially arrived. His own might be as well. He’ll attribute it to the promise of leaving the cult grounds soon enough. “Knock it off. Go take a bath. You smell of heretic blood.”

They hum, briefly looking down at themselves to pick at a dried blood splotch on their wool before turning back up to the cat. Lambert, with a smile still on their face, picks up the fleece of their fabric with one hand and puts their hand over their heart with the other, and bows. “Thank you for not killing anyone while I was gone.”

Narinder leans forward and reaches for the wicker basket.

The lamb moves quickly, opening and shutting his door faster than he can throw it (though they experience a split second panic because they forgot he locked the damn thing, so that’s a precious second wasted for escape.) The basket thumps pathetically against the closed door and lands somewhere in the room that he does not keep up with.

It’s only when the sound of their footsteps disappear does Narinder inhale deeply, let the air sit in his lungs and exhale with shaking breath.

He pulls his sleeve up to the elbow.

The flesh had molded back rapidly on the limb. Not quite perfect, but fast enough that there’s a seering pain that’s echoing through his skin now that sensation has fully returned, and the limb was healing at a pace quicker than what the mortal nerves should be used to. He had felt sensation when the lamb held his limb, though he had not felt pain. The result still appears to be the same even in their absence. The touch of them lingers on his palm. His fingers have already returned to near-normal.

A quick glance to the other arm spells the same fate, even if not as quick. It is something he’ll have to note in the journal. When the pain subsides, of course. Maybe then he’ll be able to write a more coherent sentence then. But for now; the God of Death sits with a bristled tail, and the feeling of the walls of this hut having witnessed too much.

The book sits on his end table, and Narinder realizes he has forgotten to demand more ink.

…His ichor might have to do in it’s place. He has a feeling the nightmares and memories tonight will be crueler than usual.

Chapter Text

Darkwood is dead.

Like, mostly dead.

Surely, there’s surviving heretics out there and villages left untouched until the domain’s maze decides to reveal them, but it doesn’t appear to have reset since the last time Narinder has been here. Lambert is hardly twenty minutes walking into the woods when they realize that not a single soul has tried to attack them. It is eerily quiet. If it wasn’t for the wind blowing and the occasional bird chirping, it would be so silent their ears would start ringing. One would think that all the inhabitants of this Darkwood phase would have mysteriously gone missing if there wasn’t patches of dead grass where corpses would have been.

Lambert comes across skeletons. Many of them. It’s a good thing their deaths happened weeks ago otherwise the air would be pungent with rot. The fact that the bones still remained hinted that Narinder got tried of decaying them and preferred to use his weapons and curses instead if the puncture marks and broken skulls were of any indication. Still, waste not want not. The lamb gathers a few intact bones that they can from the corpses and throws them into the crown’s infinite storage. They’ll need to re-try the harvest ritual, and having the time to get the materials was a little difficult when you’re speed running through domains, and trying to keep a hungry society from falling apart.

Narinder was sleeping when they went to come wake them in time for the crusade, and well…he did say not to wake him if he was, so the lamb left without him. He’ll catch up if he wants to. Eventually. Even if the lamb still worries over his injuries.

‘Eventually’ comes sooner rather than later, Lambert realizes, as they’re pulling a femur from a skeleton and dropping it into the crown’s storage do they pause when the unmistakable feeling of being watched washes over them. Their ears raise, tilted towards the dense woods, and they raise their palm to summon the sword-

-before deciding against it. Their hand drops, and the crown remains on their head. There have been no heratics, and the crown may not have even compliant anyway. "Narinder? I know you're there!"

Silence. They raise from their crouch and walk to the wall of trees where the forest enters into the thickest. Nothing answers them but the whistle of cold wind when they call out again. The shadows are empty. "Nari-"

They expect him to be there. They do not expect, however, for something to hook into the back of their collar and rattle with iron as the Lamb is promptly yanked upwards: "HEY-"

Two seconds; they are pulled up to a branch, and a dark hand clasps firmly around their mouth. "Silence, lamb. Or do you want to get ambushed?"

Hands and behind sitting on the bark of the branch, Lambert does not think of the consequences of gravity, and bites him.

Narinder's hand yanks itself back as he hisses the same second that Lambert starts to tilt towards the ground, before suddenly being jolted upright by the chain still hooked into the gap of their collar. He has pulled them up into the trees, crouched low like a panther with the lamb on a literal leash, and curses.

Lambert spits out the taste of fur and almost kicks him. "Ambush? Ambush from who?! Everyone is DEAD! The only thing ambushing anyone is you!"

Narinder shakes the teeth marks and saliva from his palm with a sneer. "Vile lamb."

They open their mouth to yell at him some more, but pause. The taste in their mouth was definitely fur and flesh, not bone. Lambert looks to the hand that Narinder rubs onto his cloak, and their ears raise. "Your hands are better!" Leaning forwards, they press one of his sleeves upwards. Save for the scars from iron clamps, the arms are unbandaged and appear undamaged. "Huh, it looks like--"

He pulls the arm away with a deadpan look. "Might I remind you who's keeping you from falling."

The lamb's mouth thins. His other hand still has a chain wrapped around it leading up to their neck. Lambert raises their own to feel for the spear that has perfectly hooked under their collar. The iron presses gently into their fleece. "Yeah, well, this wasn't my idea." They scoff. Their leg bounces from where it hangs off the branch. "I'm a sheep, I can climb mountains well but I can't exactly claw my way up trees whenever I feel like it."

Narinder sends them a look. "Are you afraid of heights?"

They wrinkle their nose at him. "I've killed gods. I'm not afraid of anything."

"Your fidgeting says otherwise."

He watches them immediately stop doing so: the leg stills, the hand that feels for the chain halts, and the lamb's expression because a forced neutrality. "You're silly. I'm just wondering why you're the one stalking around in the forest."

Deflection at its finest. Narinder glances down to the ground. It was a pretty decent length down, high enough that one would probably break something should they fall, but he had no intention of allowing the lamb to do so. Not that it wasn't amusing to watch them squirm a bit. "Stealth is sometimes the better way to go about things, and you are very easy to sneak up on."

"Um. Yeah. Most of my enemies just rush me." The spear has not disappeared from their collar. The hook that catches the leather is starting to press up against their neck. "...Were you just hunting me for the sake of it?"

Narinder shifts, crouched to jump down and does not miss the alertness that flashes across the lamb's features. "You are chatty when I am visible."

"...Stay home then, damn."

"No." He snacks. "I don’t particularly care for this new found 'mission' of yours to save my siblings from their deserved punishment, but if I am ‘free’ as you've said to go where I please, know that your shadow is one of such places."

It's supposed to be a threat; one to unnerve them, but Lambert just blinks at him. "You could have just met me for departure this morning."

A pause. Narinder raises a hand, and plants it firmly on Lambert's opposite shoulder, and pushes them off the branch as he jumps down.

-

There are no further interruptions before they find the pocket dimension, and it looks just the way that it appeared when they last saw it.

Stained glass windows cast color out onto the stone floor. There’s moss there peaking through the cracks in the stone flooring, cracks in the molding of each pillar they cross. The forest fades into the temple-like surroundings easily as it does the bird’s dimensions. Sack-veiled corpses line the walls hoisted up like scarecrows. The room reeks of meat and feathers, just as they remember it. A pedestal sits in the center, something glowing sat on top of it.

Lambert enters the room first with Narinder following in their footsteps, although the cat is doomed to stay a good, solid ten feet behind them to the lamb’s insistence.

(Yes, he pushed them off a tree. Yes, the chain he had hooked to their collar only made them drop far enough before it stopped a few inches above the ground, and yes, Lambert was still mad about it. It left a soreness in their neck even as Narinder lowered them gently, a split sharp grin on his face and a low chuckle as he turned away.)

(Asshole cat.)

He probably doesn’t mind the distance itself, but Lambert does not miss the annoyed scrunch of his nose when they walk a little bit faster ahead of him. Better to go ahead and get this over with before he decides his revenge for leaving him in the cult camp was to fling them back up a tree and leave them there this time.

This time, it’s a tooth sitting on the pedestal.

There’s nothing unseemly about it, except for the fact that is was a rather large tooth without it’s owner in sight. It’s a lightly colored and shaped like a fang with square carvings at the base where it floats. Nothing is guarding it, and no one awaits them as they come closer to it. The temple here is as empty as the first time they’ve come across it. Nothing seems to have changed save for the new item on display, and the fact that the corpses encircling the center were clearly fresher than the last time they were here.

Lambert saunters up to the tooth with their hands on their hips and takes a deep breath, and instantly regrets it. “…Smells like bird.”

Narinder has hung back, only slightly, in the space where the ‘doorway’ began. The vessel shall take care of any obstructions should there be any before he comes to claim the relic, and from what it looks like, there was still no one in sight. Still, Lambert sees the hair on his neck raise a little, and his ears slightly twitch. Narinder says nothing of it, but he’s more alert than usual. “Don’t waste our time here. Fetch me the item, and we’ll leave. I don’t wish to spend more time looking for my brother’s eye than what’s necessary.”

Lambert lingers near the pedestal. “Are you going to talk to him about everything?”

“…Loaded question. Give me the tooth.”

He’s half a mind to confront them now about what Leshy said of the two of them having a ‘private conversation’ without his knowledge, but that can be saved for a more delicate moment. The lamb turns back to the item (Long, about the size of their forearm. Whoever this fang belonged to must have been a large god.) and ponders it. “I kinda wanna see what it does before you destroy it.”

Narinder rolls his eyes. He raises his arm to spear it from across the room, but Lambert snatches it from the pedestal quicker than how he can summon the chains. “I mean it! The last one spewed a tentacle! What if this one spews like, a bunch of mouths or something?”

He drops his arm, and dulls. “If you spawn hundreds of mouths, I’m pushing you into one.”

Lambert huffs, rotating the tooth within their hands. It’s hardy and bone-life, a weight to it that they can’t describe. It anchors on the air just as much as it floats on it. The power within is packed tightly. “Just give me a second. It won’t kill you to let me-”

The walls begin to shake, and something coos loudly. “AH! AH! Red crown!”

They have seem many monsters of all shapes and sizes in their time, but it’s still a little jarring when a giant owl swoops down from the darkness of the ceiling that has no limit, followed by the sound of rattling iron and the wind breaking against feathers. The sword doesn’t summon, not because Lambert doesn’t try, but their hands are suddenly captured, the tooth falls from their grip and clatterers to the floor (Not starting any fires or explosions, thankfully), and the lamb finds themselves hoisted upwards for a second time today as they hang from the grip of something that squawks.

It’s an owl. A rather big, blue one at that, with off-focus eyes and feathers that ruffle as it, or she, coos. “And you, beast…Godly.”

Lambert’s ears raise high. They cannot see behind them where Narinder stands, but they’re pretty sure they just heard a hiss somewhere among all the feathers falling. “Um-”

“Come! I have tools to give, yes? Crafted by Chemach. Crafted for beasts!” The owl jumps, chains jingling as she does. Yes, those are chains. Hooked and wrapping around her, not unlike how they’ve witnessed The One Who Waits before. Their ends travel upwards somewhere the eye cannot follow. The owl jostles them. “My brothers, they might have pretty things, but mine? Power. Powerful things.”

She swings them a bit as she talks, enthusiastic. Too jumpy. She holds no calmness that Clauneck or Kuudai  possesses. The lamb bites their tongue. “I-”

“And you will use them, yes?” Chemach coos. “Will you look? Will you take What will you give in turn? Your flesh? Your bone? Your crown-?”

An iron blur shoots through the air; Chemach suddenly flings up higher, dodging it as she drops the lamb. Lambert is dropped to the floor with an ‘oof’ as the owl flails, flapping wings and sending feathers flying throughout the room. “You ATTACK Chemach?! You KILL Chemach?!”

The lamb whips their head around: Narinder’s arm is outstretched, a chain jutting from his palm. They see his other hand shift with his fingers splaying to summon the scythe, and lunge for the chain tensed besides them. “Wait-!”

It grabs his attention for a split second, but Narinder’s glare darts back to the screeching owl. “Ah! Ah! I jest, I joke! I won’t take anything! Nothing for Chemach!” The owl squawks as the spear almost clips her wing. “Cat! Cat! CAT! CAT! CAT!!!”

It takes considerable effort considering the chains don’t adhere to normal gravity and instead to the user’s will, but Narinder’s focus breaks for a second time as the lamb presses them down and pushes them to retract. “Hold on! We don’t want to fight-”

“LIES. LIES. YOU LIE TO CHEMACH.” She’s still flailing. “JAIL! JAIL FOR 1000 YEARS!”

Narinder’s curse has sunk back into his skin, and his blood starts to form a weapon within his grasp. “Make use of the sword, vessal.”

Lambert is between them quickly, and practically bats the ichor from forming in a rather tepid fashion. “Make use of your title and wait! This is owl is my friends sister!”

“Ah!” The owl suddenly stops flailing. It’s jerky until she lowers enough to float above them on her chains. Feathers are still slow-falling to the floor when she speaks. “When did this cat get here? Godly beast? You have friend? You have friend, I see!”

Narinder’s eye twitches. Lambert silently pushes his hand lower, and he rips it away from them and lets it drop to his side, eyes narrowed.

Lambert looks back with all the sense of a cult leader with professionalism, and forgives the poor introduction. “Hello,” They sound friendly, if not cautious, and gesture with their head to the tooth stull lying (floating, actually) on the ground. “These things…they are yours?”

This acknowledgement seems to please her. “The relics, yes! The relics! Chemach crafts them. Chemach is a very good crafter, you see. Learned from brothers. Taught to brothers.”

In the back of their mind, Lambert recalls the comment Kuudai made when fashioning Narinder’s scythe. The God’s blood was used to craft such a weapon, and the owl mentioned he had learned the technic from a sibling, though he failed to mention which one. From the looks of it, using the body parts or flesh of gods to craft items seemed to be a family skillset. “I’ve met your brothers. They are my friends.” The lamb tests the waters. Narinder’s body straightens next to them, but they can still sense tension from his form. “…So, your relics-”

"Ah! Ah! My pretty creations! Holy pieces of revered beings...They hunger, yes? Crave the power that was once theirs, yes? Godly power. Godly power“ Chemach is erratic, a ripple in her voice in every word she speaks. She plucks the relic up from the floor and rather thrusts it into the lambs palm, who is open handed, but still feels the punch of a piece of bone being pushed into their gullet. ”Feed them, yes? They are hungry, hungry for miscreant flesh...let them feast..."

She speaks as if the relic is her pride and child, and yet she is insistent that they take it. An eagerness to prove their worth, maybe. Kuudai and Clauneck has the same praise, but neither were so adamant about it. At the very least, Lambert doesn’t have to worry about any left over anger from them taking the tentacle relic from before.

Lambert glances to Narinder whom eyes the relic with interest. He would want this. They stretch their smile and face the owl. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

"Ah. Yes! Better than silly card, better than pointy sword, Chemach is better.“ She sings, rejoicing around. “Little God will come again! Chemach will give Relic. Chemach will make Relic. Chemach will make Relic out of you one day-“ She pauses. Then, the owl swoops down again. Her face comes so close that her bulging eyes and beak feel like they’re only inches from the lambs face.

Lambert stays quite still, and allows the owl to scan them. Their eyes lock with the several of Chemach’s crown; black and mismatched. It is not unlike the Mystic Seller’s own appearance.

Narinder, at least, has the sense to stand quietly, though his brows furrow as Chemach’s pupils slowly drag from the lamb to the cat as if she were following a line. “Ah! Of course, of course…“

The God of Death interrupts. “We are looking for an eye.”

“An eye?” The owl perks up. “Chemach has two of them. Several of them. On my head? Under my feathers.”

“A godly eye.” He repeats. “One of a worm.”

“Ah, worm. Worm, yes, a worm.” The giant owl swings back from them, her arms diving underneath her feathers as she starts pulling out a multitude of items. A hammer weapon. A book with tongues. A corpse that’s only visible for a second before she stuffs it into a sack that she pulls out with her other wing and promptly sticks on a lone stake in the ground in the corner. “Chemach will give you eye. Chemach has many eyes. I have bones, teeth, nails, toes, tails, tongues-AHA!” She plucks something out from her feathers; something small, round and glassy, and neither cat nor lamb have the time to inspect it before she tosses it towards him. “Here! Here!”

He catches it in his palms. It’s not slimey or wet like flesh like he expects, but glassy. The red shine of his brother’s eye glimmers in his hand. It was a color that they shared, though green still hints through the pupil.

…Well.

That was easy.

Narinder turns his back. He’s halfway out of the walkway to exit the pocket dimension by the time Lambert processes the last five seconds. They turn to the owl, who’s watching intently. She doesn’t seem bothered by the cat’s sudden departure. Lambert dips into a slight bow. “Thank you very much. I’ll let your brothers know you are…well.”

“My brothers. My brothers, yes.” She coos. The owl starts to slowly drift upwards. “Little Lamb will come back. Little lamb will come get Chemach’s relics.”

They watch her float higher as they step towards the exit. “Of course. Thank you, Chemach.”

With that departure, they’re gone. Narinder hasn’t gotten far; stopped only outside where the pocket dimension fades back into the forest. Waiting for the lamb, it seems, with no more patience for the owl that resided inside. He’s rolling the eye in his palm when they run up to him. It’s not as big as the tooth, and it’s nothing horrific, outside of being what’s clearly a disembodied eyeball, but it must be unnerving, they think, to hold the consiquence of your anger over a thousand years ago.

Narinder must be keeping his face neutral on purpose, because he says nothing as the eye rolls between his fingers. It finally rests in his palms, fingers outstretched like a cage. They see his claws twitch to close.

“So, the relics really are made of godly body parts.” Lambert speaks up if only to break the cat from his thoughts before he can start spiraling. It’s not super effective; he does not turn to face them, but three pupils drag to where the lamb stands and takes them in fully. Lambert shifts on their feet. “I didn’t know that the brothers had a sister who had a knack for turning parts of godly corpses into tools and vessels for power.”

Narinder hums. “You keep company of birds who cage hellfire and trap magic in tarot cards, and you’re surprised by this?”

“Not really. I just didn’t expect her to be not as calm as her brothers.” A pause. “Well, we can’t fault her for that. You did try to shoot her.”

He side eyes them. “You were being dangled like a doll.”

“…And? You literally pushed me out of a tree earlier. I would have defended myself if needed.” They’re not gonna point out their surprise that it was their safety being the reason for his actions, and not just his annoyance or homicidal tendencies. The lamb rolls the tooth within their grasp, and gives is a long inspection. No telling what power this thing actually held. They don’t know how teleporting could affect the relic’s power, or if it was safe to do so while holding it. “I guess we should destory this before we teleport back, yeah?”

Narinder’s gaze drops to the tooth, and Lambert notes the change from somber to hunger in his eyes. His hand comes to pluck the relic out from their grasp.

Lambert pulls it out of his reach. “Wait. I want to see what it does first!”

The cat is not amused, and he swipes for it again. “Give me the relic, vessel.”

“Hold on, will you?” They crane away, one arm outstretched with the tooth and the other bent at the elbow and beating back a rather impatient cat of a patient title. Narinder hisses a curse at them when he realizes he cannot reach the relic without possibly touching them. Lambert bends. “C’mon, don’t you want to see too? Maybe it’ll summon a huge demon and we can-”

They accidentally squeeze it, and the clearing they’re in lights up.

Not in fire, but bolts of lighting rain down from the sky and strike with loud, thunderous booms around them. It fries the grass and starts micro-fires as Lambert jumps with each flash; the crown is shifted reflexively between dagger, sword, hammer, in their hands as the lightning continues.

Then it just stops. The crown is half-formed into a hammer and is stagnant in the air. Lambert stands poised ready for combat for a enemy that came from the sky. It’s a solid five seconds before they realize. “Oh, ho ho that was so cool! LIGHTING! That would have completely fried any heretics! Nari!”

Narinder’s fur is raised and his eyes wide and tense, his tail bushed and straight as a rod. If it wasn’t for them being in a clearing, Lambert thinks he might have jumped into another tree.

Lambert’s attempt to stifle their mirth instead turns to a buildup and outburst of laughter. “Aw, Nari-”

“Silence, lamb.” He’s pissed. Teeth grit and fur still on pointed edge. The God of Death snatches the tooth from the lamb’s grip and crushes it in his fist. It cracks and shatters in a way bone becomes pulverized, and the remnants turn to grey goo before bits even hit the ground. It blackens, and sinks into the flesh of his arm. He glares at them all the while. “Keep your amusements to yourself or you shall end up as such as this.”

They watch the relic absorb into the God of Death. Chemach never said anything about returning the crafts she provided, so they hope that wasn’t an expectation she carried or otherwise Narinder may have put them in a bit of a pickle. The crown returns to their wool as they recollect themselves. “The old gods really did consume each other, didn’t they? It’s why there’s none left.”

“I remain.” Narinder allows the relic to absorb completely. Power surges through the his wrist. Again, it is only a miniscule amount to what he possessed prior in his previous form, but waste not want not. “Devour, or be devoured. You are not excluded from this, Lamb. Know your place.”

Lambert whistles. “Harsh.”

Narinder raises his other hand, a glassy eye still clutched within his grip, and goes still. “The same would go for my siblings.”

Oh, no he doesn’t. Lambert’s hand splays out. “Let me carry it. I’ll take it to your brother.”

The look the cat sends them is downright hostile. “You cross a line.”

“In our best interest.” They flap their hand expectantly, words firm but face looking like they’re in a demanding pout. Narinder would like to throw dirt at it. “Hand it over, kitty. I don’t trust you not to absorb your brother’s eye.”

His tail sways in irritation. A thin grin stretches across his face. They have him figured out. “You think so little of me?”

“Highly of you.” Lambert deadpans. “I don’t want you pissing off another God in my flock who apparently still retains some of his previous power if the barn had anything to speak for it.” That was a sight to behold and a strange one to explain. It made Leshy tired, at least. Lambert swipes for the eye and huffs when Narinder pulls it away; the roles reversed. “Let me see it!”

“He is not deserving of it.” Narinder spews. His hand threatens to crush it. He doesn’t. Hesitance is not questioned. He’ll just do it in front of him for a final laugh, after all. Leverage. Revenge, still. The cat hisses when the lamb swipes for it again. “You do not understand-”

He squeezes a little too harshly, and suddenly it spews.

Two eyes summon as the presence in his hand splits in half. They raise and float, orbiting around them. One flies near the lamb and their surprised face, and the other drives by Narinder’s frozen stance. They reflect them. A mockery of his brother’s eyes.

Narinder and Lambert share a glance of realization.

-

“Someone turned it into a relic.” The Lamb cradles the eye, now singular, in their palms and presents it to the bishop. “We found it like this.”

Leshy was in the fields when they returned. His hands were sunken deep into the soil as they approached, without Narinder, with eye in hand. The worm must have smelled something was off as they arrived, speaking briefly to Joon to allow them a few minutes of privacy since he hasn’t uttered a word since they’ve sat in the dirty to join him. The yellow cat excused themselves. They had been planting camellias, it seems. The caretaker must not be too off-put by the bishop’s power considering quite a few littered the space where he was threatening to sink into the ground. Lambert wonders if they’re safe to use. They wonder if

Rocks were digging into the lamb’s knees and dirtying their fleece. The worm is silent as Lambert drops the eye into his hands. It rolls against green branches and dark fingers. The Bishop’s head tilts to the side.

It is a long moment before Leshy speaks. “Of course he would send his vessel to do the dirty work for him, and of course you would obey.”

Lambert’s polite smile is evident even if he cannot see it. “Be nice. He thought about absorbing it.”

“It is shocking he didn’t.” His claws coil in and out of the space around the eye. It’s unfitting in his palm, held like an alien artifact. They wonder if it even still feels like a part of him anymore, or if Leshy was thinking the relic was nothing more than a little trinket with a history attached to it.

They sit like that for a moment. Lambert wishes they could read minds. They’re glad they can’t anymore. Maybe even if they could, the mind of a God would be too impenetrable to try. There is a processing that is too private, and too heavy for them to witness. They delivered the eye because the cat wouldn’t.

“Hold it.” Leshy speaks up again, lacking all sarcasm or threats. His tone is firm as he doesn’t wait for the lamb to react, finding their hand pushing the eye back into their palm before retracting. “Something is yet to be done. You are to store it safety, away from your flock, away from your own use, and away from my miserable brother. You owe me this, Lamb.”

He sounds so mellow. How long did the worm wait for his eye, only to feel detached to the piece of himself he lost over a thousand years ago?

“Do as I command.” Leshy speaks lowly. He doesn’t growl, he doesn’t spit, he just sounds firm and even. “Misplace or mistreat it, and I shall rend your head from your neck for a second time, and force my brother to witness it.”

They doubt Narinder would care. He’s probably enjoy it. Still, the lamb stands from the dirt, eye in one hand and the other going to their fleece. It lifts as they dip into a courtsey, and the branches that stem from Leshy’s head tells them that he notices. “Okay, Leshy.”

It is a mockery. It is a kindness. There is either trust or a trap here, and Lambert doubts the worm would find aligning with them would prove any benefit unless it was to spite the older brother. They will still provide. They will still forgive.

Leshy’s claws curl deeper into the soil. “Fetch me my servant, Lamb. I tire of you.”

Lambert dusts off the dirt from their fleece and plucks their foot from the vine that was curling dangerously around their ankle, an unconscious threat. “Stop calling them your ‘servant.’ They are your caretaker and your ward, they are not beneath you.”

“Bring me the cat, and return to your own.” Leshy spits. “I will not listen to a creature that is fated to slaughter any longer.”

-

The afterlife is rather lush in this sleep, and Narinder feels small.

Except this is not his domain, but another’s. It does not resemble how he saw it not long ago; there are no trees with screaming faces embedded in the bark, nor are there giant flowers with eyes decorating the petals. There is no smell, and there is no wind. Grass here is lively, coated red with blood of the dead and dying. Corpses litter the space, all showing various states of decay taking them over until their bones seep back into the ground. Some of them have been cleaved in half. A lot of them are missing limbs.

Narinder’s fingers feel grimy. He can still feel how his touch rotted the life from them.

It takes him a minute for all three eyes to open and focus on the world. It takes him another to see them.

The lamb stands a few feet from him, smiling just as they did hours ago. Dark, big eyes that mirror like midnight lakes and take up all his attention. They reflect the color back out onto the world. The sunlight splays dotted lights across their face and his own, a warmth he is still getting accustomed to. Stray pieces have stuck out from being jostled by the owl. There’s ash on their knees from digging in skeletons earlier. Their mouth curls up into a perfect smile, and their ears look like petals.

“You think of them so poetically.” The lamb says.

He blinks. Their eyes are white and void.

This is not a memory. His dreams aren’t even trying to lure him in with the pleasant ones anymore.

They usually torture him with visions of before in the afterlife, but it appears tonight will skip straight to the part where he comes back to himself, and sneers at them. “Get out of my head.”

They ignore him, instead finding a tree stump where his mind seems to materialize one. Darkwood looks like how it did before Leshy’s death; and the corpses here are a mix of his kills, and the lambs. They still sink into the ground until bones start to snap at the pressure. The lamb does not appear distracted by it all as they get comfortable. “It’s nice here. You’re nice to me.”

He should kill them. He should walk over and rip out their teeth for speaking such a way. One of these bones are sharp enough to use as a weapon at the end, and he’ll use it to drive a stake through their gullet. The cat does not move. “Vile, lamb. Your presence here is a misery-”

“Big brothers tend to hover. You’ve yet to break that habit even a thousand years later.” They interrupt him. Their tone is so calm, gentle. A stark contrast to the anger that’s building in his own. It starts to boil in his throat as their hand raises, and like a magician pulling a trick of the sleeve, his brother’s eye appears in their palm. “Perhaps acquiring the worm and his caretaker’s schedule from the leader might alleviate some of the work for spying on them. Though, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, Nari.” The eye rolls like a toy across their fingers the same way someone would roll a quill. “Unless it’s me you’re worried of killing expectations for, and not the siblings you helped raise.”

Something coils in his throat like a snake. A growl or a hiss. Narinder’s arms feel locked as his teeth bare in a snarl. “You speak of nothing you know about-”

“Chaotic brother who’s too wild for his own sake. Even the Bishop of Chaos is not immune to death.” The lamb’s tone is too lighthearted and mirthful for a subject such as this. They look at him brightly, even as he wills them to die. “So you kept an eye on his following, striking down dissenters before they could get too foolhardy. Shamura might have been right, you know. Leshy did not know consequence. Now look at him. He’s spoiled.”

The space feels wrong. The air is choking. Narinder grinds his teeth and feels heaviness sit in his chest like an anchor. “I never told them any of that.”

“Yes.” The lamb hums. “You haven’t told me.”

Disgusting creature. Putrid, horrible little lamb that’s too chatty and does not know when to shut up. It speaks constantly. It spews betrayal. It bleats, and it bleast, and it runs it’s voice through Narinder’s ears and grate at the inside of his mind until the scars it leaves behind trail on him into the next day. The next night it comes, it reopens them, and it finds a new memory. It finds old ones, of family, of them. He cannot read the mind of the lamb past eyes that lack all color. He did not grant them that power just to make it useless.

The lamb leans back on their hands. “I’m not reading your mind, Nari. You’ve just lost it.”

He wants so desperately to rip out their tongue. “You are not the lamb.”

“I am your lamb.” They smile, and it answers nothing for him.

Not the real one. Not whatever that is. Lambert is a pathetic betrayer with running mouth and a morbid curiosity, but they would not torture him like this.

“That’s right!” They bleat with an almost excited tone. Their fingers puncture the eye. It does not absorb into their flesh nor does it turn to power that can be reused, but instead it makes the same wet, sickening sound of damage that he remembers casting so many years ago as he tore it from the worm’s socket. They drop it to the forest floor, where not even the grass wants to take it. Their smile and eyes grow sharper. “But you would.”

This dream is more direct than the others. It won’t even allow him the ease of remembering the lamb as his vessel before now. Narinder is able to move, slowly but surely, stepping towards the lamb that seems so bright in a dream of greys and blood. Their bell doesn’t even shimmer. They watch him expectantly, and do not flinch when he thinks of slaughtering them. Maybe with his bare hands. Maybe he can drive their head into a tree until they stop talking. Maybe he’ll twist the neck sharply enough there’ll be a snap that fixes this problem.

The lamb snorts at him. His hands shake. He cannot breathe. Narinder thinks he’s going mad.

“Of a sort, yes.” Their eyes are upturned and sweet. “There’s a name for this type of madness, though.”

This must be a purgatory or hell of his own. He doesn’t know which one would inflict this kind of torture.

The lamb coos. “Is it really torture if it’s self-inflicted?”

“Damned lamb!” He lunges for them with outstretched claws and fangs. Nothing is there when he meets them, the space empty. Narinder pants. (Inhale, exhale, the lungs burn. He did not need air in a form before now. Why here? Why for them? He cannot breathe.) “Vile, pathetic little beast, face me! If you want to haunt me, you will let me turn your apparition into a corpse!” He claws at the space. The forest is disappearing. Corpses have sunk into the earth. The sky is black. The wind is still. The chains are weighing him down. The iron clasps on his wrists and lock against his skin. They irritate and reopen the scars and bleed down his sleeves. They cross into his robes and lay burning across his ribs. They sting from inside-

“Lamb!” He wishes for his canines to have poison so he can tear them apart and rot them from the inside out once he gets his teeth on them. “How dare you behave like this-!”

A soft body presses up against him from behind. Wool and fleece. The feeling of a bell presses gently into his back while their voice trails over his shoulder. “This is your mind, Narinder. I cannot think or act in ways you would not imagine yourself.” Hands come around from the front. He can do nothing to stop them from splaying across his chest, fingers with grey fur sliding against black. One hand finds his face and caress the jaw. The other starts to sink into the confines of his ribcage.

Narinder feels his fangs puncture his own tongue as the lamb’s hand sinks deep within his ribcage, drawing ichor and diving further until it settles…and suddenly he can breathe easier.

“You know this.” There’s warmth where their presence sits that used to be only cold and stillness before. The lamb’s smile presses against him. It is torture. It is warm. “The subconscious is incapable of denial.”

-

The pillory used to be the only method of detaining prisoners. It’s wood rotten with disuse and grass overgrown near it’s stakes from lack of foot traffic. There’s only one in the whole cult grounds, in the same spot near the far end of the village next to the graveyard. The location placement wasn’t intended to be intimidating, but if it worked in that favor than so be it. In the early days of the cult, dissenters would be dragged here for a few hours, or at most a day or so depending on their crime. Which more often than not, the lamb was lenient. Stealing food from another deserved an hour, while attempted murder would have someone locked up for days.

Its...not the best method to rehabilitate a dissenter. Turns out; people hold grudges if they’re stuck in a wooden trap for anyone to mock, and in a place where there’s no protection from the elements and are denied the basic mobility to do simple things like eat on their own. Fear and pain work to keep faith, yes. But devotion is strongest when kindness is it’s fuel.

So the lamb had a prison built out of stone near the pillory for criminals and dissenters, and they find that it works much better.

It’s a stone building with six iron barred cells, three on each side, but they’ve never had to use more than two at a time. The flooring is just packed dirt, but each cell has a sleeping mat and an opening in the bars for food and supplies to be passed in. The locks are only opened by a key shaped by the red crown, so there’s no worry about any break outs. They’ve assigned a warden to sit stations outside for the evening; an axolotl who’s happy to read her book sitting in a chair instead of working the mines. It’s job that’s not often needed, but the jail house has a single prisoner for the first time in a few years.

Grekimar says nothing when the lamb arrived a moments ago, though he tenses when they enter and slip a rolled blanket into the bars. “I’m told it doesn’t get too cold in here at night, but just in case.”

The pig’s nose scrunches up. He’s a gruff, burley type. He sits on the mat beyond the bars and stares at them in a manner that the lamb cannot read as either fear, anger, or uncertainty. “…Thanks.”

“Have you thought about what we discussed?” Lambert asks. It has been weeks since his imprisonment. The shock has worn off, and he’s had time to repent. The pig is reluctant to speak to them, however. Dodging questions. Dissenters usually do. “If you wish to speak your concerns over your faith or your fellow members, feel free to do so. This may not be the confessional, but it is my role to listen to you.”

Grekimar tone is low. “You mistake me, my lamb. My faith is not shaken. It is…only my belief in your judgement. For the sake of the cult.”

He’s lying. Just a little bit. They don’t need mind reading to be able to see that.

“Understand my judgement. Though you cannot see my reasoning, it was my reasoning in the first place that allowed you among our number. I would have hoped you understood that.” Holding one’s past over his head is a low move, but it was relevant. The hypocrisy he carries was allowed to build up to a point where he brandished an axe to another’s back in broad daylight. That fault, Lambert knows, is from their own inaction. They should have solved this sooner.

“I think only of the cult’s future!” The pig starts. “We are growing hungry! Sick! Winter is coming and you have not provided. Instead, you go and play with some murderer that contributes nothing and struts around the village like he owns the place!”

“If you would have any solutions for our famine and leads on how to run a functional society, by all means, share your wisdom.” Lambert speaks evenly. Grekimar’s mouth thins into a line and his snout wrinkles, but he says nothing after a long pause. “I figured. Complaining is easy. Blaming one another for our troubles is easy. Working towards solutions are harder. If you care for the cult as deeply as you say, you can continue chopping firewood for heating our homes and cooking our food. That work helps us. Not pointing axes at others and blaming them for a curse.”

The pig looks like he wants to say more. He doesn’t. He sits there grumpy. He is not happy in the slightest, but at least his arguments have strung out.

Lambert nods to the pig. “Have you repented?”

The pig grunts something incomprehensible.

“Someone will come by shortly to bring you dinner. It will be something warm. Goodnight.” They take their leave then, and exit from the prison, nodding quietly to the axolotl on their way out.

Dealing with dissenters was never pleasant. Sometimes they curse at them, yell and scream. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they find the nearest weapon and lunge at the lamb, and only a few times did they actually land a hit. Lambert learns after a few dead followers later that it’s not in the cult’s best interest to defend themselves too much if attacked since they can simply revive and try again. They usually stop dissenting after, though. Grekimar will need to be released before the snow starts falling, preferably without trying to incite another mob murder.

They will retire early tonight. The sun set hours ago and people were eating the last of their dinners before heading off to bed in a few minutes. The warmth of the temple is inviting, and it’s a mundane walk across the village (save for the giraffe that comes up and asks for the lamb to bless her aching joints away, to which Lambert makes a note to procure more medicine before the deep cold settles in.) There’s a notable tension that leaves their shoulders as the doors shut and lock behind them, sighing and making their way to the back banner.

They’ll bother Narinder in the morning after a nap. He mentioned something about going to Smugglers Sanctuary before pushing them off to give his brother his own eye.

Their hand goes to move the banner back automatically, barely registering that it’s already a bit misshapen as the crown morphs into a key and Lambert goes to insert it into the lock on autopilot-

The key clacks against the inside mechanisms uselessly and the door creaks open a few inches from the force. Lambert blinks. Their bedroom door was unlocked and open.

The crown summons into a sword into their palm, and quietly, Lambert ascends the stairs, shutting the door behind them.

They walk slowly so that the stairs don’t creak underneath them. Ears crane to listen for any noise, and they hear something. Shuffling, like fabric. Footsteps against wood and rug alike. There was someone inside of their room and whoever it was, they were making themselves at home rummaging through their belongings. A thief? A dissenter they missed trying to hide for an attempted assassination's? Finor dropping off their night tunics? Nope, can’t be her. She hates walking up the stairs.

The footsteps stop, and silence is all that echoes. The entryway into the bedroom provides them just enough coverage to hide behind the doorframe. Weapon ready, poised for battle, Lambert peeks over the edge.

Three crimson eyes glare dully at them, already aware of their presence and not alarmed in the slightest.

Lambert blinks dumbly. The sword fizzled into smoke and returns to being a crown. “...Narinder?”

He’s in front of their storage chest; cloth and trinkets and books are strewn about around it. In one hand he has the pink hearted fleece clutched plainly like he was preparing to throw it. They watch as he does, right over his shoulder and onto a pile forming on the floor as the God of Death returns to rummaging through the lamb’s things. “For the last time, stealth is not your strong suit. If you want to sneak up on someone, the very least you could do is put a hand over your bell so that it does not produce noise.”

Oh, yeah. They forgot about that again. They clear their throat awkwardly as they step fully into the room, taking in the mess that’s decorating the floor and spilling out from the storage. A glance towards their desk tells them that the drawers have been rifled through as well, though not as intensely. The God of Death pays no heed to them as he pulls something else out of the chest-a Lamb doll that’s missing stitches-before giving it a sour look and tossing it over his shoulder. It bounces against the edge of the bed and rolls back to his feet.

If Narinder had any shame about being caught, it doesn’t show.

(For a second when they walked in, those eyes were hateful, and they briefly wonder if this walk-in burglary was about to turn into another attempted homicide.)

Lambert is the one who’s usually invading his bubble, so this is a new experience entirely. “…What are you doing?”

He doesn’t look at them, instead pulling out yet another fleece, frowning at it, and tossing it over his shoulder. It hits the lamb’s legs and crumples to the ground. “Where do you keep the necklaces? I need a moon.”

“How did you get in here? You can’t get in without using the crown as a key.” They scan elsewhere in the room. The window is closed and unbroken, there’s no magical portal that they can see and the last time they checked, Narinder can’t magically materialize across spaces or teleport distances on his own very well. They do, recall, however, that cats possess certain abilities by default that cannot be attributed to simply being a God of Death. “…Did you pick the lock?”

“Moon necklace.” He repeats. A comb is tossed out from the chest and it lands perfectly in the lamb’s head of wool without them flinching. “Tell me where one is.”

He’s pretty adamant on it. There’s no urgency in his movements, but determination. Whatever his need for it, he must think it important. Which makes Lambert feel a tad bit guilty that they cannot provide him with something he’s got the sense to ask them for. “I don’t have any. I haven’t found any on a crusade in a long time.” They look down to the mess, and back up to the cat that’s turned away from the chest to squint at them. “I, uh…I have some nature necklaces if you need those?”

“Damn it all.” It’s a curse muttered under his breath. Narinder pulls back from the chest and frowns at it like it offended him personally, before turning to the pile he’s created. He starts picking around at that just in case he missed something. Lambert’s laundry is being rifled through. “Do any of your followers have them?”

“No, again, I haven’t found any-HEY! Do you mind staying out of that?!” They come forwards to pull the fleeces out from his hands. They’re all crumpled now. Lambert ignores his glare as they pull the fabric to the side and starts folding them properly again, putting them back inside the chest. “What’s your deal? You never cared about the necklaces before.”

They both sit on the rug at this point sending each other a sour look. Narinder frowns. “You have the insomnia necklaces somewhere. I’ve seen you give them to others.”

Lambert folds a white fleece with ruffled layers carefully, then sets it inside the chest. “The followers I gave them to died a long time ago! Besides, I wouldn’t give them out anymore anyway. It’s considered torture not to be able to sleep.”

They’ve folded and put away the second fleece by the time they recognize the pause in conversation and turn back to him. Narinder’s glare is nearly hostile. There’s dark circles underneath his eyes and a heavy weight on his shoulders. Lambert bites their tongue. Perhaps not the right choice of words.

Narinder’s exhaustion lays within his tone. “Where are they?”

Lambert puts away the third fleece, but keeps their eyes on him. “Buried with them.”

The God of Death moves to stand. The motion is sluggish, so it’s easy for the lamb’s hand to dart out and grab the end of his sleeve and forcing him to crumple back to the rug whistle sending them the most disapproving sneer. “I really hope you’re not thinking about desiccating a grave for some jewelry.”

“Grave robbing is the least serious of my sins.” He pulls his arm away. Their grip does not falter, and his robe now sits uncomfortable pulled at that one shoulder.

“I’m not going to let you dig up dead bodies of my flock.” They insist. “We’ll find one eventually.”

He scorns them. “Useless lamb.”

“What do you need one for anyway? We already don’t sleep as much as normal people do! Are they nightmares that bad?” The question slips out before they can stop it. They catch themselves not fast enough to filter it, but just enough to watch the cat’s expression turn to stone. Uncomfortable vines feel like it’s curling within their chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He’s firm. Oddly so. It was almost a snap. “You will not speak of them.”

Lambert is quiet for a moment before releasing him. He doesn’t move to leave anymore, but he still has a sour expression when they sigh. “Did you really have to make a mess of my room?”

“It was already a mess. Your huts and your hideaway holds nothing to the grandness that was once my temple.”

They huff at him. “What the hell did that look like anyway?”

“Better than anything you can imagine.” He snarks, and for the first time in the evening he grins, raising a hand to to sway an imaginary vision. “I had the finest silks. The softest of comforts. Bones of heretics strung up on the walls fashioned in symbols and art pieces for décor and faith. Embroidered tapestries with my faith’s crest. Monumental sculptures.” He’s haughty in his praise. “All you have is some scrap dyed fabric and a skull as a candle holder.”

“Sounds too fancy.” His usurper blows out a raspberry. “That doesn’t sound homey at all.”

“It’s better than the hut I currently reside in. You have the God of Chaos residing in the same quarters as a farmer now.” He pauses. “My brother’s eye sits on your desk.”

They glance back over to it. Their papers look to be shuffled, and their inkwell is missing, but the eye sits on a cloth untouched. “Leshy said to hold onto it...and that you’re not allowed near it.”

Narinder looks like he would roll his eyes if he had the energy. “I don’t suppose you know how to craft moon necklaces.”

“If I knew how, I still wouldn’t.” They pick up the last of the fleeces and put them inside, the few on top not as properly folded as the rest. The trinkets he’s thrown about they just gather up one by one and toss inside, save for the lamb doll that has found it’s way into Narinder’s absentminded grip as he pulls at the seams. “They’re no good. It removed the need for sleep, but you feel every effect of sleep deprivation all the same. I had followers lose their minds.” They pout when the night tunics appear wrinkled beyond saving, but toss them in anyway. “It doesn’t help that they don’t come off unless the wearer dies. What makes you ask if I can craft one, anyway?”

“No reason.” One hand pulling at the plush of the lamb doll until he flicks off pieces of wool, Narinder’s other hand reaches into his robes. He pulls out a necklace, a cord with two colors attached to a glazed mockery of the crown’s image. “Unless you’ve taken a hobby to making and enchanting jewelry of my crown for fun.”

The lamb gawks at him. “That was a gift from the Mystic Seller!” They make a swipe for it, and making a bleat of disgruntlement when Narinder uses the lamb doll to bat away their hand. “Mystic Seller gave me the materials for it! I only fashioned it to look like the crown…because it helps with faith? It looks cool? Give me that.” They swipe again and this time he lets them take it. The corner of Narinder’s mouth curls upwards as they place it in the storage chest with their ears low. “Did you rummage through everything of mine?”

The God of Death hums. “Not everything yet.”

“Narinder.”

“You have a strange taste in books.”

“Nari.”

“I didn’t find a single pair of shearing scissors.” His hand raises and for a moment the lamb thinks that he might try to grab the necklace. Instead, Narinder’s fingers go to their wool, plucks the comb out from their hair and pulls it back, letting it drop to the rug. “Are you using the red crown to cut your wool every time?”

That’s it. “Okay, you know what-just, Out! Get out!” He’s probably still adverse to some touch, so they use it to their advantage to shoo him off the rug with outstretched hands and pretending like they’re going to throw themselves on him if he doesn’t budge. It works to an extent. Narinder’s ears pin back against his head, his grin disappears and he moves out of their bubble the second the lamb starts acting like they’re going to hug him. “Out! Out! You know, most people ask permission to come inside their friend’s rooms before they wreck everything!”

It is comical to ‘chase’ the God of Death to the door as his fur raises and a hiss builds in the back of his throat. “You waltz into my space leaving trinkets and offerings but throw a tantrum if I do the same?”

“Unless you’ve come to give me a good nap, out with you!” They shoo their hands at him and he fluffs his tail in defiance. If Lambert had a way to spray water at him, they might have just for the fun of it. “I need to sleep before we head out to Anura, and so do you. Go try and get some rest again. No moon necklaces.”

He frowns as he avoids them, mumbles something about shredding their curtains before turning and all-but stomping out of the room. He’s tense again, the playfulness gone. Exhaustion haunts him constantly but for the time being: his footsteps are heavy down the staircase into the temple, and the door shuts downstairs.

Lambert sighs, and looks around the room. Aside from making a mess of things, nothing else seems out of the ordinary. It’ll only take a few minutes to tidy up before they can properly lay down. It’s only then as they count their belongings do they note the lamb doll is missing.

-

It’s a few days more of seeing to chores and responsibilities before the lamb can set off to Anura again. Schedules are made for the cultists while they will be gone. They avoid packing a lunch so there’s just a bit more for the others since it won’t kill them. A request is made for white bark for Jayen’s oils, and lamb is approached a few times by some of the more bolder ones for requests of mushrooms for ‘scientific reasons’ (No, the lamb is not going to let you eat mushrooms without good reason. Those things can kill you if you have too much, you know.)

Someone trusted has to be put in charge of overseeing the rations until they return. So Tyren meets them near the gate in the early morning of the day of departure. His pickaxe is temporarily exchanged for an apron, and his tail wags when he’s offered the position. He accepts, of course, not that anyone would ever really deny the leader, but the lamb thanks him for the short notice anyway.

“For my loyal follower.” Lambert smiles when they present the necklace, the one fashioned to mimic the crown. His face lights up and he leans down expectant. Oh. He wants them to put it on him. Sure. They loop it over his head, careful not to catch his ears in the loop and lets it fall on his chest.

He pipes back up as they step back. “Thank you so much, my lamb. I will cherish it.”

“Of course. For all the work you’ve done recently. You’ve been a big help.” Standard appreciation. They’ve lost count of how many times they’ve said the exact same sentence. They hope it never loses it’s luster or else their followers won’t think that they mean it. “I should return from Anura in a few days. I trust that you’ll be able to handle overseeing the kitchen’s stores while I’m gone?”

“Yes, leader.” Tyren bows slightly, but there’s a slight hesitance when he rises again. Lambert pauses only because it looks like he has something more to say, and watches as the dog’s blue eyes trail slightly to the left, over their shoulder. “You are…leaving with the cat again, my lamb?”

Lambert blinks, glancing to the gate. Narinder waits there with a face shielded by a veil, and a swaying tail. He’s probably irritated they’re taking so long. “Yes. He’s my companion for my crusades. He’s very helpful.”

“I see.” The dog muses. His gaze lingers behind them for a second longer, and Lambert cannot look back to see if the cat noticed. Tyren appears happy though. “Well, I suppose I owe him a thanks for making sure that our beloved leader returns safely to our graces. Not that I doubt your own abilities, of course.” He gives them a charming smile. “Your safe return is my highest concern, though your ‘soonest’ would be my second.”

Lambert gives a laugh, chipper and short, and the dog’s ears seem to keen in their direction. “I’ll keep that in mind while I’m knee-deep in mud gathering bones. Thank you, Tyren. Please excuse me.”

Tyren gives a short bow for a final time as the lamb turns towards the gate. The dog walks off towards the kitchen, and Lambert walks up the steps to the exit of the cult, and the waiting cat on the symbol. Narinder’s face cannot be read clearly beyond the veil, but Lambert can feel three red slits glare into them as his tail lashes. They raise a brow. “What’s that look for?”

Narinder’s answer is quicker than what they expected. “You give the dog a necklace offering, but refuse me mine.”

Oh. He’s still upset about not receiving a moon necklace. The cat already complains of nightmares enough, Lambert can’t imagine that the deprivation of sleep would make his condition any better, or otherwise they’d use it to solve their own. “I promised him hone after he helped me repair the temple that you destroyed.”

The cat turns away from them, walking off, and they enter the outer grounds before the doors together. “Your favoritism shows. Do you expect him to make you a necklace as well? Perhaps then you’d match.”

Lambert’s attention is too focused on watching the Mystic Seller as it watches them, that they miss the side eye the God of Death sends them after a moment of pause. “What? No, no.” They make a show of adjusting own neckwear, shifting the leather. “I’m already wearing the collar you gave me. I don’t want to replace it.”

Silence comes from the cat as they walk even as red eyes watch their fingers fiddle with the collar in something akin to mild discomfort. Lambert says nothing to or about the Mystic Seller or it’s watchful gaze as they cross the threshold, but squint at the deity as it’s eyes swirl and seem to watch the pair with a mixture of interest and amusement. Weird, watchful thing.

Anura’s heretics remain as dangerous as ever. The Lamb, however, is worse.

The first ambush is one not far from where they enter. Hooded figures wielding axes, daggers and spears. Frogs and bats are among their number, grotesque creatures that lunge with teeth and vile claw. Among the orange grass the lamb finds them hiding in the moss, stalking until their blade pierces their bodies and leaves them as a corpse. Sometimes they reappear as the faces trapped within the tree-like mushrooms that infest the domain.

They walk into a clearing and it’s almost as if every single enemy of Anura was eagerly awaiting their arrival since they seemed to have spawned everywhere.

Narinder stays back as the lamb goes in for the kills. They are an expert as they move; the bats have proved themselves annoying by dive bombing then flying away, clipping at their wool and horns to the point where there’s a bleeding line on the back of their ear they probably haven’t noticed yet. Curses or no curse, the Lamb has good aim, and in the midst of a battle do they turn to the cat that’s taken a pause to scrape rotten flesh out from underneath one of his claws from the freshly decaying corpse he just dropped. “Hey, Nari, check this out!”

He looks up from his claws. The lamb waits for his attention, pulls back their elbow and throws the sword.

It curves like a boomerang, decapitates a bat and guts a jumping frog before moving onto the next. Several creatures-heretic, frog, enemies-are all cut down in a curved line as the weapon slices through the air in a U-like formation. Several bodies drop at once, blood spewing from necks and open wounds. The sword flies back into the lamb’s hand as they turn with a small spin, and winks at him. “Pretty cool, right?”

Narinder’s brows raise as he gives them an unimpressed look. Several more heretics are spilling in from the trees, a few of them pausing at the carnage that greets them, but they start to rush the pair regardless. Bows and axes aim for them. The God of Death raises his hand, summons ichor to form his scythe within his palm, and rends his arm backwards. “Duck.”

“What? No, I’m a sheep-OH!” Lambert ducks just in time for the scythe to fly over their head, the sound of it cutting through bone and viscera evident before they can turn to watch it. The scythe cuts through several heretics, not just through the meat of their bodies but straight through the shields some of them carry, snapping through the handles of iron weapons and crested chest plates. Cries of agony, gurgles of pain and squeals of the dying echo for a moment as the weapon cuts through it’s victims before finally dives into a belly of a large, heavy wielding heretic.

The heretic’s grip on their axe drops, howling in pain. The scythe is embedded in it’s stomach, not quite making it’s way through the body completely as it lost it’s momentum. Before they could think to wretch it from their stomach, Narinder’s outstretch hand twists, and the scythe reacts. It becomes ichor and black shadow, dissolving deeper into the wound itself and upwards into the body. Lambert is confused for a moment, until the heretic’s pained groan turns into a scream, and his head explodes into a barrage of chained spears.

It’s horrifically gruesome. Small blades jut out pieces of skull and brain matter. The body falls to the ground with a thud, and the sharp points turn dark and dissolve back into the scythe and re-manifest back into Narinder’s grip.

The God of Death does not mean to glance back to the lamb so obviously, but he does, and the Lamb is staring wide, starry eyed and bright faced. “Whoa.”

“I spent thousands of years honing skill. Despite the centuries, you are still a novice in comparison to the power I wield.” He lets the scythe unsummon. There are no more enemies, at least for now. The ground is littered with corpses and the soil was becoming muddy with blood. “Think again before you can try to impress me with your little ‘tricks’.”

Lambert looks like they didn’t process a single word he just said. “Teach me how to do that.”

Yep. Not a single word. “…No.”

-

One and a half days into the crusade in the middle of the night, with the lamb’s fleece and the crown’s storage filled with pumpkins, seeds, lumbar and anything else they could pry out from Anura’s domain, Narinder stops.

The lamb is too busy killing something to notice it at first. The heretic they’re facing is one of the healers, and unfortunately the last of it’s group. It’s white robes are stained with blood from a wound somewhere, but it teleports too quickly out of their reach to know if it’s fatal. Throwing the sword doesn’t work since this one can dodge simply by materializes somewhere else. Too weak to fight back, too quick for the lamb to catch up. The heretics will die eventually, but it’s annoying moments like these that make Lambert really miss their ability to cast curses. “C’mon, you…”

Another dive of the sword, and there’s just empty space where the heretics was before. Lambert yanks the blade out of the soil from where they’ve plunged it and scans the clearing for the enemy-

There. Paces away and forming up from the ground like white smoke. It form behind Narinder, who seems to staring off into space for some unknown forsaken reason. The heretic procures a dagger from their robes, raised high and aimed for the back of the cat’s neck.

The dagger never hits. In one single moment; the cat’s arm darts up and grabs the heretic’s wrist. It decays from the touch. He doesn’t even blink at the movement. Lambert is a blur, there before the heretic can even feel enough pain to scream and driving the sword through their back. The bloodied end of the crown’s sword juts out from their ribcage. It stains the white robes with blood, causing their rotting agony to turn into a choke, and the enemy falls...without an arm.

Lambert inspects the corpse for a half-second before looking to the God of Death. Narinder doesn’t appear bothered, per usual. He drops the disembodied arm to the ground, and the limb begins to rot rapidly into the moss. The lamb’s sword returns to the top of their wool, and raise an eyebrow to the cat that blinks dully at reality. “You seem distracted.”

He’s not day dreaming, at least. He seems present enough for that. But distracted. Thin pupils look down to the lamb’s face and lingers there. Narinder looks as though he may be debating on whether or not to tell them something. Whatever inner debate he has doesn’t last long, because he eventually opens his mouth and speaks casually. “Someone in the cult just died.”

There’s something about how their confusion melting into a blank expression that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Oh.”

On second though, perhaps it would have been better for Narinder to have kept that detail to himself. Though, they would have found out regardless on their return, and would have questioned why he didn’t tell them in the first place. Or not. They can come to a conclusion on their own. Their misplaced grief will only make the crusade more difficult to tolerate. Pathetic lamb. Overly-attached lamb.

“Okay.” They are even in their tone of voice. They’ve seen death hundreds, thousands of times. This is no different. “How?”

“Age or sickness. I did not sense any violence or wound.” Narinder explains. He steps over the corpse of the healer, and moves to walk to the next area. The lamb follows him silently. “Faded away. I began to feel a pulse suddenly, then numbness. I believe it was an elder.”

Lambert is a little more curt than usual. “How do you know that’s just not your own pulse having palpations or something?”

Narinder says nothing.

“Sorry.” They follow him into the next part of the maze; the ruins of a small village, perhaps with three or four houses. They’re rubble now, but a garden still has food stemming from it’s leaves. Lambert comes to it, collecting what’s salvageable into the crown’s storage automatically. “I suppose I’ll have to prepare for a funeral on my return, then.”

He doesn’t know why he adds on the next part. “They died in their sleep. I didn’t sense any pain.”

The garden provides some pumpkins, beetroots, and carrots. A lot of whats left behind is rotten or dead from the changing weather, but a good bit is stored inside the crown, and Lambert will take small victories where they can get them. They rise, and return the sword to their hand. Their face is a bit…lacking. “That’s good to know.”

Something about their melancholy angers him, and that’s strange. The strange part being that he’s pretty sure they’re the ones he’s supposed to be angry with showing dissatisfaction with death, but he finds that the unpleasant feeling doesn’t quite fit in the puzzle piece he’s trying to place it into. “If you’re going to be pathetic for the rest of the crusade because of a single mortal death, no wonder you’ve let the cult run into the ground as you’ve let it. It’s unworthy.” He sneers. “Focus on the crusade, lamb. The next time, I’ll let you stay ignorant.”

He turns away from where he was waiting on them then. Narinder does not look behind him to see if they follow, but the sound of footsteps come closer in the seconds, and his vessel moves to the front of him.

Lambert looks just the slightest bit offended. Just a little. “Just because I care for my followers doesn’t mean I am useless when they die, ass cat.”

Oh, that’s a new insult. “’Care’ is a rather strong word to use for something that’s supposed to be cattle.”

The lamb keeps pace with him as he walks, and he watches them open their mouth, pause for a second, then snap it closed. “…Baah. Let’s change the subject.”

“…Speak your mind, lamb, for I cannot read it. Or are you a coward?”

“I was going to say something mean that I don’t actually mean, so no, I won’t.” They’re very blunt about that part, at least. They should be upset. They smile at him. “Coward, then?”

How irritating. “You are insufferable. Return to the slaughter, already.”

-

It’s on the third night does Lambert actually ask him the question he’s been expecting them to ask for a few weeks, if not more. “Can you help me with the harvest ritual?”

Narinder’s scythe is half-buried into the tree he’s swung it into. There’s also a newly cleaved corpse in-between the blade and the bark, and the mushroom tree just-so-happened to be behind the monster when he attacked them, so now it’s taking more effort than wanted to pull it out. He manages, and it comes lose. The top half of the body flops to the ground with a thud and it’s tongue rolling, and the second falls to the knees before toppling over. Yet again the last of this area’s enemies. The lamb had a knack for waiting to speak until his attention was no longer preoccupied with something else. “What?”

“The harvest ritual.” They repeat, dawning a big smile and a hopeful look like it was going to change his answer somehow. “I mean. The resurrection ritual worked with both of us involved, the harvest one can’t be much different, right? I’ll only need to borrow you for a few minutes. Maybe we won’t even need the cultists if you don’t want to be seen in front of anyone. It would increase faith too, you know, since everyone would witness the power and be fed and all. I could finally throw that feast I’ve been talking about! The one with a big bonfire! And we can make it a joint-gig since I was asked to officiate a wedding, too. Well, it’s technically three things, but the cult is so big that I think it could be a great pick-me-up, and we could really use the food-”

“No.” Narinder states plainly.

Lambert is not as deflated as he thought they would be. “Oh, c’mon!”

“Why should I? What makes you think I would have any interest in helping out my traitor?” He snarks. The scythe is flicked so that the fresh blood of his kills are splattered to the grass. This weapon along with the crown’s will never truly need to be cleaned or have any fear of rust, but it’s still a little off-putting when the blood is so caked over your blade that the black coloring is completely concealed in red. “I make no benefit from it. You decided to keep your large number of followers, so feed them on your own. Lay in the bed you made, lamb. Or let them eat each other if you get so desperate.”

“Or-and hear me out-you could help me with the harvest ritual,” Lambert skips to the front of him as he walks, hands splayed likes a salesman trying to make their buck. “-and you can take your due credit. The flock would love you! Er, at least like you more. Half of them really don’t like you. This would fix that. Maybe.”

He bypasses them. “I don’t care.”

They step up to him again. “You’d get some devotion out of it!”

“Your wool is blocking my sunlight.”

“What? What if I begged? You like the begging right? Please? Pretty please?” They clasps their hands together, and it’s not serious at all.

Narinder’s frown is down right comical at their display of mockery. His hand raises into a thumbs up, turns it over and slowly gives them a disappointing thumbs down.

Lambert blanches at him. “C’mon! Lives are kinda at stake here? Or at least the faith!” They try to think of reasoning. “It would make me super happy?”

“Ah. Then I have a specific reason not to do it, then.”

“You’re horrible.” Lambert’s nose wrinkles into distaste. It’s the exact answer they expected, so they can’t say that they’re devastated by it, but still; there was always that small chance of a maybe. “We are facing a famine while facing the domain of famine, and soon enough it’s Goddess. These are lives I’m talking about here. Sure, they might all survive with proper rationing and hard work, but they’re unhappy. Forget whatever gossip there is about you, do you know how humiliating it is to be reduced to one meal a day that’s either a broth soup of cabbage and grass? The carnivores are eating bugs. Which I don’t know how that’s any different than them eating squirrel or cattle meat, but some of them say they hate it.”

“Again, I fail to see how any of this is my problem.” Narinder says. There’s monsters and heretics somewhere in the path ahead of them, scouring up trees and into bushes in hopes to ambush them as they come along, so he stops. The lamb stops to, and he makes a mental note of how easily their footsteps fall into pace with his own. “A famine won’t kill you, and it won’t kill your following. You’ve faced harsh realities and worse circumstances before. You did not require a helping hand in all the centuries you’ve built your flock up to now. It’s not like you’ve forgone the crown’s power to handle things on your own before.” He waves them off. “You’ll figure it out. You usually do.”

Lambert stares at him for a little too long.

For some unknown reason, alarm bells start ringing in the back of Narinder’s mind. “What?”

“Nothing.” They swallow whatever they were about to say back down their throat, and give him a grin. It’s lopsided. “I’ll just…redo the ritual myself, then. Maybe sometimes after our trip to Smuggler’s Sanctuary. We’ll need to make that trip sooner than later if we want to get ahold of Plimbo for that talisman, and hopefully bring back some supplies from the traders.” They move ahead of him, shoulders squared and ready for battle. They’re a little more chipper. “How do you feel about leaving one or two days after our return? It will give me enough time to make sure things are running fine, and for us to rest.”

A weird lump feels like it’s sitting at the bottom of his throat as he watches them. “Fine.”

They switch the sword to a dagger, and gesture for his signal. “The pier at the docks is also a place where the Fox likes to frequent…I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see if he’s rethought about my offer, or if he’s got another idea for trade to hand over that talisman.”

The God of Death is quiet, and the lamb thinks nothing of it as they run straight into the fray.

-

Eligos as a follower was mutated creature with a fondness for history books, an allergy to beetroot, and a rather bad track record of leaving messes in the outhouse that some other poor soul was going to have to clean up. The Eligos in purgatory dies rather quickly. Turns out bat-frogs can’t really fight very well once both of their wings are sliced off and the flies in their belly are skewered.

The second disciple of Anura lies dead, and within it’s corpse are God Tears that the lamb finds by sinking their fingers deep within the carcass, and pulling out several hundreds piles of maggots and fly eggs out from the monster’s ribcage before presenting it to Narinder with open palms as some sort of morbid show-n-tell.

Narinder tells them that they look like maggots. Lambert throws frog goo at his feet. His response is not touching them anywhere near their hands during the teleportation sequence back, and Lambert now has to deal with the slight embarrassment of having the cat pinch the skin of one of their ears and ‘holding’ it like that until they both materialize back on the stone. He says it’s because he dislikes touching them. They did not miss the slight smirk on his mouth when they complained of the indignity.

“I’ll go ahead and take these to the Mystic Seller. If anything, I’ll get something I can pawn off at the traders if the gold isn’t enough.” They’ve wiped the goo off onto their fleece and made their hands as clean as possible, though a trip to the bathhouse or at least a bucket might be in order for later. They know there’s a body that needs to be prepared for burial at the morgue, and food in their crown’s pocket that must be put away, but that can wait until the morning since no one knows they’ve returned yet.

Lambert looks to the God of Death, that seems to be awaiting his cue to leave. That part is a little new, considering they’re usually used to him already walking away by this point. “It’s pretty there in the sanctuary. Kinda smells like fish though. You might like it.”

“You said the same for the golden cave.” Red eyes flit to the God Tears, as gore covered as they are. “As long as it does not waste my time.”

Lambert is not deterred by his attitude. “Try to get some rest. I’ll let you know when we can run off.” They turn, hands still cupped together and march their way off the stone and in the direction of the Mystic Seller. “Goodnight, Narinder!”

Narinder’s gaze follows them until they disappear, and sighs.

Chapter Text

Smuggler’s Sanctuary has grown vastly since it’s years as a mere few-shop dock.

What was once a small, easily hidden pier in a grove off the far side of the island where only Plimbo, his fishboat and perhaps a lucky one or two other sailors could fit have transformed into a rather decently sized trading hub. Still hidden, of course, if you count ‘hidden’ as the location is only shared by word of mouth and not marked on any map outside of the Lamb’s and the traders that come here. The docks are big enough now to hold a few house boats, sails or small cargo ships. Not a lot of the imports here are legal. Then again, the land is riddled with dodgy laws and uncertain rulership since Gods are dying left and right and there’s not a proper governing body, so who’s to say anything was ‘legal’ or ‘illegal’ anyway? Not Plimbo. Plimbo doesn’t care for any ‘laws.’

The traders bring cool things though; like different crops and materials and trinkets. And food. Lots of them bring food and fish sometimes. Hopefully one of such traders will be there today.

It’s not until late afternoon that they visit the Sanctuary, and immediately upon teleportation the smell of algae, grove water and fish hits their nose. “Let me know if you see anything cool at any of the side shops. We’ve got tons of gold leftover.”

Narinder lets go of their wrist and adjusts the hood to shield his face from all side angles. Not that it was needed, really. He wears the veil along with it, and in the low-light it hides his face near-completely. “We are here for the talisman, not to window shop.”

“You’re here for the talisman. I’m here to buy stuff.”

They can practically see him frowning behind the veil. The lamb snorts at him, steps off the teleportation sigil, and walks further into the docks.

It’s busy here. Well, as busy as the Sanctuary normally gets.

No where near as populated as the cult grounds are, there’s still a number of patrons and traders alike. The docks have been expanded to account for several ships and several pop-up shops for sailors to sell off their wares. Animals of all shapes and sizes and species speak to one another in the small market; some sitting at an open-tavern drinking and chatting. The wares vary anywhere from bags of necessities and supplies, luxuries and novelties, to other services like workers for hire and so forth. Even some mushroom folk had set up shop in one of the dock’s corners; offering tonics and bags of crushed substances that look suspiciously like the same type of mushroom they wear on the top of their heads.

Lambert stops at the sight of those in particular and frowns. Narinder notes the slightest of somberness cross their expression before it flits back to their usual chipper-ness. They keep walking, and he follows behind as they comment. “Do you wanna know what one of my worsts deaths were?”

Well. At least their choice of conversation is something he’s experienced with. “Decapitation.”

They hesitate for a moment. “Well, yeah, but I mean another one.’

“I’ve witnessed you die and be revived a countless number of times.” A few of the shop’s owners call out to them in undecipherable advertisement until they realize the lamb and cat have no will to look over, and turn their attention to the more willing patrons. Narinder frowns at a booth that looks to be selling ‘genuine’ blood of the gods. The shopkeeper promotes drinking it will provide good health and fortune, but the liquid is the wrong color for ichor and looks nearly translucent. A fraud. “Unless you asking for a favorite death, no. I did not keep track of what were considered the more gruesome.”

The lamb blows a raspberry. “It wasn’t gruesome, it was just…slow. And painful.”

Ah. No, wait. They bring it up now because it happened here. “I remember.”

Black eyes dart to him. “You do?

“Of course I do. You came to my domain soaked. You stunk of wet wool.” They had been covered in algae. A lily pad stem was still wrapped around their foot before it rotted away in the Land of the Dead. They coughed up not black sludge or blood, but murky water until their lungs expelled it all. There was no wound for him to heal. No alleviating of the pain he could provide until the process passed. He could simply just stare as the lamb shivered before him.

Lambert cringes. “Not my most dignified death.”

“Yes. Falling in trying to pet a fish-boat.” He scoffs. It’s amusing now, at least. Back then it was just off-putting. “So no, not your most ‘dignified’ death. All these years, and you still don’t know how to swim.”

Their head spins so quickly and whisper-shouts loud enough that a nearby patron jolts and steps out of their walk-way. “I know how to swim!”

“What I witnessed did not look like swimming.”

“My wool gets really heavy when it’s wet! And I got caught on something.” They huff. Some drunken patron walks a wobbly line up the dock that threatens to bump into Narinder’s shoulder, and the lamb merely side-steps so the animal bumps into their own instead. The animal fumbles a few steps before muttering an apology and moving on, and Narinder dully notes they have no idea how close to rotting they came to. Lambert stands huffy, though. “Do you know how to swim? You were locked away for over a thousand years. I didn’t see any water in that domain, huh?”

He gives them a side-eye through the veil. “If you think about getting me in water, I’m drowning you with my bare hands.”

Much to his displeasure, Lambert walks towards the nearest dock side that doesn’t have a shop or ship along the side of it. “C’mon. Is it true that all cats hate water? Or is that an individual thing?”

His eyes narrow at their back. Lambert reaches the edge, where they drop down to sit with their hands resting besides them. They look ready to push themselves off, peering down at the water. Fish start to come up at their presence. He’s seen them feed the wildlife here occasionally through the crown. He’s also seen that look in their eye before; the one they get before they’re about to do something stupid. “Lamb.”

“My wool’s not as heavy as it was back then. Besides, there’s lily pads I can grab onto if I needed. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good dip anyway.” Their legs don’t reach the water, but swing above it instead. It’s murky, spots of light reflecting back at them from where the shop keeper’s lanterns and streetlamps ripple on the water. “You ever catch fish with your bare hands before? I have to use a rod at the beach, but here I can just grab them if I’m quick enough.”

Lambert’s reflection is notable most by the wool of their head, and it disappears into a blurry image as the white robes of Narinder come up behind them. “Get up. We’re wasting time. We are here for business, not for you to start splashing in muck.”

They send him a sour look. “I mean, I wasn’t going to actually do it, but now I want to since you’re being an asshole about it.”

“And I would be perfectly fine letting you choke to death if you weren’t necessary for a particular trade.” He sneers. “Get away from the water.”

They don’t listen to him. Annoyance builds up as they look over the water and the cat sighs. The nearby shops are scanned in the moments of following silence. Pocket mirrors and colorful robes. Soaps and oils and fake religious charms. A mild noise of chatter plays in the background of their scenery. Not as busy as the flock nor as loud by any means, but Narinder does not willingly subject himself to their presence either. Too much talking and too many people moving around, even from a distance, was starting to get irritating. This is common life for mortals, he knowns. The concept of ‘society’ existing still overwhelms a god whos seen hardly any of it in person for over a thousand years.

No one really pays them any mind. That’s one bonus, he supposes, for the flock always tend to let their gaze travel to the lamb. The patrons here mind their own for the most part. Someone is getting swindled for expensive potions down the dock. Someone at the open tavern is arguing loudly about her wife’s honor. Someone is vomiting over the side and into the water. Another is currently trying to sell that person a remedy for their inebriation. Oh, the wonders of mortal society. He didn’t miss much.

“Do you think the Fox would reconsider my offer if I brought him live cattle?” Lambert asks, and the question is so out of place that Narinder’s veil almost tangles with how quickly his head turns. “I could probably catch a lot of birds and squirrels and other morsel creatures. They’d have to be living since he wants them…fresh, so I’d probably have to get them all in a cage. How many critters do you think we need to make up for a cultist or two?” They kick their feet, talk mindlessly into the murkiness of the water. “I’m thinking like, five. Or seven.”

Narinder is quiet behind. Lambert doesn’t turn to look behind them. They wouldn’t be able to scope his expression while he wears the veil anyway.

It’s a minute longer before he responds. “Why bring this up now?”

“The symbol.” They scoot over a few inches and lift their hand on one side. Narinder looks below; a blue crescent shape sits on the dock. They lean forwards slightly, tilting further towards the water. “He’ll be here tonight. Figured since we know where he’ll be, might as well ask while we’re here. We could get you two talisman in one trip.”

There is the sudden feeling of something hard wrapping around them, quick and snake like. The lamb’s reflexes are to roll away and call the sword, but it dulls as a chain tightens around their midsection. Not tight enough to cause damage or hurt, but the iron was snugly wrapped around them twice. Lambert looks down at the harness that seems to have materialized in a blink. “Ah.”

When they turn back to him, Narinder looks at them like they’re the ones acting ridiculous. The cat’s face is hidden, but there’s distaste evident in his tone. “Stop wasting my time. We are to find the trader and give him the eye, and nothing else. You are getting distracted, vessel.” The scrunch that Lambert makes in their expression is comical, especially when a few patron’s eyes start to drift into their direction as Narinder starts to walk away, and the lamb allows themselves to be dragged away from the water’s edge. “Drown after you’ve made your use to me. I will not be soiling my hands ripping a heart from a bloated, water sodden corpse.”

Their response is a sudden tug, and Lambert is all but pulling towards the water. “C’mon! What, are you scared of a little water? Why don’t we hop right in and see if it takes us to the same place wherever the Fox goes? Maybe there’s a whole mermaid kingdom we don’t know about-”

The chain shifts and their leg comes out from underneath them. For being all-mighty god killer, Lambert faceplants into the dock rather pathetically. Someone at a nearby shop mumbles something about ‘drunk hooligans’ before returning to their customer.

Narinder looks down at the horizontal lamb. “I have half a mind to use you as fishing bait like this.”

They lift themselves with a bleat. “I was just messing with you. M’not going actually jump in.” They straighten their posture and reclaim their dignity. Well, about as well someone could while ‘leashed’. For someone who takes great care to make sure their flock views them as professionally as possible, the lamb does not hold that same standard in the presence of Narinder and many nameless, temporarily sailors who don’t know who they are. For now, at least. The word of the red crown will continue to spread far and beyond this space. A thousand years of no word can really kill a reputation for a faith.

Lambert shakes off their fleece, and it creates a jingling sound from the chains. “If you wanted me to stick close, we could have just held hands instead of…leashing me. Geeze.”

Narinder acts like he’s going to gag. “Horrible suggestion. We are here for a single goal, it should not take us long to achieve it.”

For a split second they look annoyed. Then it’s gone, and replaced with something akin to pleasant resignation. “You know what? I’ll take it. C’mon. Plimbo’s not far from here.” They turn on their heel and start walking off in another direction. They do not hold any care to go slow nor to wait for him, and show now effort in tugging against the line that connects them. Narinder is taken by surprise to find that he’s the one being pulled by the chains now. “Plimbo and I kinda have this agreement. He keeps certain stuff on hold just in case I need it, and if I don’t ask for it, then he sells it at the end of the month. He keeps the best products for me, and I keep the waters clear for his ship by keeping the witnesses and heretics back. It’s how we’ve been able to pull through some hard times, and why the cult has a lot of nifty new stuff we can’t make ourselves.”

The cat doesn’t respond; his attention drifts to the shops again. They were passing by many booths, some un-attended, that held several miscellaneous items. None of the patrons seemed concerned with them or even notice their odd arrangement. There’s a fight happening nearby that’s drawing a crowd, an argument turned physical over a bet-gone-wrong judging by the shouting. The docks are as full of weirdos and oddities as they were appearing to be. Good. No one will notice if Narinder reaches out and slips something from a passing booth into his robes.

The lamb doesn’t see him do it or otherwise they might have scolded him for it. Or not. They did in fact steal all of the gold they were about to trade off.

Lambert comes up to a tent he recognizes. Plimbo had one set up many decades ago for more private dealings. They don’t bother to pull out their arms, simply turning to the cat and sending him a look. “Be nice.”

Narinder deadpans. “I am tolerating you. That’s me being nice.”

The lamb just shrugs, ducking underneath the curtain with their head and horns, bringing Narinder inside along with them. The grasshopper is there along with another animal, both who look to the newcomer with brief surprise.

Plimbo is the first to greet them. “Oh, ho! Long time no see, Mutton Chop!” The grasshopper looks delighted to see them. He looks down to the chain wrapped around the lamb, gaze darting between the cat and the usurper, before hooting. “What’s this? Got hitched? And you didn’t invite me to your wedding, did you? I’m hurt, lamb!”

Lambert speaks first completely unserious. “I’m actually being held captive and this cat here is asking for a ransom.”

They do their very best to keep their face neutral as Narinder slowly turns to glare at them at a pace that would make stone grind.

“Aye, is that so?” Plimbo hums, dismissing the other patron with a quick flit of his hand. If he was at all concerned for the lamb’s well being, he doesn’t show it. “What’s ye price then, vermin? Me stock? Me hat? What about me mustache? Don’t think it would look good on a fella like yerself.”

Narinder can only handle one idiot at a time. “The Talisman.”

“Steep price, cat.” The grasshopper pretends to fan himself as if the very mention of said item was enough to make him overheat. He glances to the lamb. “A bit much for a lamb, isn’t it? What, are you rare or something?”

“Last of my kind, actually.” Lambert grins. “Throw in an Eye of Witness for the Talisman and a heap of gold for as much food you can spare. What do you say?”

“HA! I think that’s a fine deal. Don’t think I’ll give ye any discounts, though. Eye for a treasure and gold for some stock I can do. Can’t tell you I have much left, though. Ye cleared out my cargo the last time.” Bouncy, chipper grasshopper. He juts out his hand for a handshake towards Narinder. “I’ll pay ye ransom, beast. That suit you?”

The cat just glares at it.

Plimbo retracts his hand redirecting it to the front of the lamb. “Hard arse, that one. Hand me the eye, mutton chop.”

“Here-wait, one second.” Lambert shuffles, and almost effortlessly the chains go taunt then slack. One arm digs into their fleece for a cloth wrapped eye while the other casually holds the chains as if they were as limp as a scarf they wrap around themselves. Narinder blinks. (He didn’t do that. Have they been able to escape this entire time? What the hell.) The lamb brings out the eye, plops it into the grasshopper’s palm and nods. “There we go!“

Plimbo lifts his hat, tucks it underneath there and tilts it. “Pleasure doing business with ye.” He starts to pack his own coat, supposedly he keeps the talisman on hand. “Now, if you’ll just give me a minute to get situated-”

“Actually, can you give it to my friend? I have to run and grab something real quick.“ As quick as they can move, the chains are dropped to the ground as if they never held any weight, and Lambert is patting down their fleece as they duck underneath the curtain. A finger juts out towards Narinder before he can even process the last five seconds. ”Stay here! I’ll be right back.“

They exit, the curtain flapping behind them. The sound of hooves running off comes from outside. Plimbo’s dotty eyes make contact with three narrowed cat ones. Awkward.

“So!“ The sea-man starts off. ”Yer the first companion I’ve seen the lamb take out on a date! How’s it faring?“

Narinder’s chains draw back into his hand in a wispy ichor trail. He wastes no energy to converse with the smuggler.

“I’m only messing with you, cat. Don’t even have the manners to tell Plimbo yer name, do ya?” The grasshopper scoffs. He digs around in his coat a little more, pulling out bags and trinkets he tosses to the side while he searches. “S’alright. My darlin’ isn’t much of a conversationalist either. It’s the Mother-In-Law that yaps her head off, HA HA HA HA! Beast will sooner talk your ears raw!“

The God of Death lifts the corner of the curtain and peers out into the market. Lambert is at a nearby booth. Their fleece blocks his line of sight as to what they’re buying, but whatever it is, it’s dropped into the crown’s storage quickly. He drops the curtain before they can turn back around.

Plimbo is waiting for his attention when he does, arm outstretched with the talisman and wearing a rather intrigued look. The God of Death does not know how the smuggler has managed to keep himself and his spouse alive for several centuries at this point. Judging by his connections and his collection of Witness Eyes, however, one could make their own assumptions as to what the fish does with them. The possibility of the lamb interfering is not entirely impossible either. Prolonged lifespans are not uncommon when one has proper connections, and having immortal friends comes up useful.

He pays no mind to the old creature’s smirk. Narinder uses the fabric of his sleeve to pinch the talisman out of the grasshopper’s grip and putting it within his robes. Lambert would be entirely too irritating to deal with had he withered their favorite criminal.

“You look a bit familiar.” Plimbo drawls. He twirls his mustache. “Have I seen you before?”

Narinder really does not feel like explaining the entire predicament of being the God of Death trapped in mortal form following his usurper around while they do common Dailey errands in a long-effort plan to eventually kill them to regain back his ultimate power, so it’s perfect timing when the curtain shifts and Lambert returns. “Sorry, I saw something I needed to buy on the way over here.” In the same swift motion, the crown summons a hefty bag of gold. It makes a loud jingle as it plops into the lamb’s hand. “How’s about that stock, then?”

Plimbo pipes up, stepping to the side where a few cargo boxes are places to act as tables and chairs. “Help yourself! So long as you let me help me-self to the gold you’ve got for me!”

“Oh, good.” They toss the gold to him, the grasshopper catching it and stuffing it underneath his hat as the lamb inspects the boxes. “I’ll take these first, and then we’ll see about the rest of what you’ve got on the ship-”

“Oh no, mutton chop.” Plimbo’s tone is suddenly apologetic. “I meant it what I said. You cleared me out last time. This is all Plimbo has left.”

Lambert looks down to the cargo: labeled ration boxes of dried fruit and grain, barely enough for the cult to sustain itself on for maybe a week, and deflates. “Ah.”

-

The flock is surviving. They are stressed, overworked, and down to eating one meal every one to two days, but surviving. The Lamb does not eat with them at dinner time, nor do they eat anything when no one is watching. It won’t kill them.

The otter and the shrew are told that their wedding celebration will have to wait until the famine passes. They’re are disheartened, of course, but Lambert seems to alleviate their worries by making the arrangements made for them to live together alone rather than with their assigned housemates. No need to wait until the wedding to move in; might as well bother the roommates with moving a few items around for the benefit of no longer walking into the kitchen or lumberhouse and finding a couple smacking faces in broad daylight.The Lamb promises them a large wedding, fully fit with a feast and a bonfire as an all-day event. It keeps their morale up having something to look forward to.

Grekimar is let out of his cell. There’s too much need for workers to let him sit useless while he repents, so his hands are needed again. He is fed the same rations as anyone else and not punished with any more working hours than the others (The lamb wants him to repent, not to die of exhaustion before he does.) Though another flock member is to be his shadow for the next couple of weeks so he doesn’t spew or start off any bad ideas. When Tyren volunteers, the Lamb is quick to grant him the request. The dog is loyal and strong; he’ll be immune to any of the pig’s dissention or penchant for violence.

Lambert finds Leshy in the gardens in the evening. Narinder went home as soon as they returned, and the sun has not yet set after all their chores had been done. The Bishop may be useful against the famine, assuming he had even an inkling of sympathy. “Hi, Leshy.”

The worm is half-buried in the mud. The corner of the field is full of sharp vines and camellia peeking out from the soil. The rest of the farms are brown and dead. Leshy’s green head is easy to spot amongst the decayed crops; the lively color sticks out like a sore thumb. He sneers at them. “Get away from me.”

“We’ll be retrieving your sister, soon, I think.” The lamb starts off. They have a few minutes until Joon returns from the break they’ve been given.

The worm’s face is hard to read under the brush and the bandages, but the venom in his tone is obvious. “And you dare assign her to a fate such as this?”

He means the mortal form.. A curse of purgatory, or of the lamb, that they still do not understand. “If it happens again.”

Leshy sinks further into the mud. Sharp teeth emerge from a hidden maw. “She will slaughter you. She will rip you asunder, and have your cult starve.”

“We’re already doing that without her help, actually.”

“Your corpse will be as useful as a toothpick. I hope she uses my brother’s as well.” Leshy is not having a good day today it seems. Sometimes he’s vile. Other days he’s quiet. Sometimes he yells and destroys things and causes chaos to his namesake, and other times he talks hardly at all. The Lamb knows this, because Joon comes to them in worry. They’ve never had a scratch on them though, and Lambert is not sure if that’s due to their own threat, or because the worm needs at least one stable anchor that isn’t in the ground.

“Can you grow food? Or is it only flowers?” Lambert ignores the threat. Their own pride does not matter in the face of their flock’s misery. “Would you be willing to help some of the crops grow-?”

A thorny, spiked vine juts out from the ground and makes a dive for their ankle. It’s only a quick step backwards to avoid it, but it sinks deep into the mud where they once stood. The crown on their wool thrums for battle. Leshy growls at them from the soil. “Pathetic little Lamb! Begging for help?! You are a joke among the Gods! A false prophet! Kallamar will plague you until you are festering infection that can do nothing but vomit and crawl! Shamura will devour you alive!”

So that’s a ‘No’ then. Lambert will not push the worm further, at least not now. “Don’t stay in the mud for too long. You’ll get sick.”

Leshy spits something demonic at them as they walk away.

-

Most nights, Lambert sleeps like the dead. Pun not intended.

It’s a simple routine; washing their face and combing out their wool from any blood or dirty they might have accumulated throughout the day, hanging up their fleece on the line of stars and moons so it’s not wrinkled the next morning, throwing on a simple off-white short tunic, and plunging face-first into bed. It’s one of luxury their flock often does not possess, and their blankets are of the softest silks as well. All laundered with oils and detergents that leave a soothing scent into the fabrics they get to press their nose into as they bury themselves into the warmth.

Pleasant comforts. They do nothing to help the nightmares, but at least it’s nice to wake up in something soft when sleep becomes something no longer kind.

Lambert sits up with eyes still shut closed and hands rubbing down their face. Their skull aches and their chest heavy. They are not fully-awake yet, but this has happened enough times that this routine, too, is memorized. The lamb inhales, exhales, and wills their heartbeat to calm down. They groan as they pinch the space between their eyebrows. Sleep will not happen this night without the price of their sanity.

Whatever. There’s probably some chores that need doing. Blinking beeriness from their vision, one arm moves to switch on the oil lamp on the bed side table-

-and stop dead cold. A glint of something sharp moves in front of them in the darkness. Red blurs glower at them from their bed side.

The crown shifts into a dagger instantly.

Narinder sounds plain in the dark. “You bleat in your sleep.”

The heart skips, then slows. It calms quickly. Their vision clears. Darkness remains, but the red blurs define into three red eyes. There’s a fourth along the glint of metal. The dagger is but a mere fog in their hand as it wisps back up to their head. Lambert blinks dumbly at the cat who’s fur blends in with the darkness of their room. “…Hi?”

Narinder’s figure says nothing. A few more blinks, and the silhouette of his scythe becomes clearer in the low light.

Black eyes trail down to it, and but to the three crimson beacons that have locked onto them. “Uh. Is this another time where you’re trying to kill me?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“…Is the thought still there?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of silence where he just stands there, and they bunch their sheets up in their fists. Nothing happens. Lambert moves to turn on the lantern. It flicks to life. The room is cast in a warm, soft glow. Narinder squints a bit at the light, but he doesn’t flinch. The lamb throws their legs over the side of the bed. “At least let me get my fleece on first.”

Completely bypassing the cat who’s broke in here at some point and was shamelessly trespassing, (and with a suspicions amount of fresh blood stains at the end of his robes) Lambert brushes past him and heads for the trunk. Their sleeping clothes aren’t used enough to put in the dirty laundry, so might as well put it away for tomorrow night. No collar or bell sit on their neck, and they scratch at the exposed scar as they yawn. Something the followers will never see.

Three eyes track them, gaze lingering on their neck, seering into that scar. Something burns there until they start to pull up the tunic over their head, and Narinder promptly turns to face the other direction.

Lambert pauses when their shirt is halfway up, and squints at him. “I’m not freshly sheared.”

He still does not face them, though his ear swivels in their direction.

Huh. Pulling the rest of the tunic upwards, they let it drop into the trunk. He hears their footsteps approaching, and they see his posture straighten just a touch as they try to side-step into his field of vision, and raise eyebrows when all eyes he posses seem to look to the ceiling. “Hey. I’m covered in wool. I kinda grow my own clothes here. You can’t see anything unless I make it so, anyway.” They’re insistent about it. They stand on their tallest to try and make eye contact.

The proximity between them is far too little. Narinder mutters a warning. “Lamb.”

“Nari, c’mon. Look at me.” Obnoxious, annoying thing. They raise their arms and bleat. Their voice is still wracked with sleep. “If you’re gonna kill me, might as well kill me naked.”

They see the twitch his eye at that comment. The grip on the scythe is tight, and the third eye trails slowly downwards until Narinder has enough sense to fully turn his head away from the lamb so that it would not betray him. The scythe is shifted, and Lambert is pushed away with the handle. “Get dressed.”

He hears them snort as they walk away back to the trunk. “You’re such a weirdo.”

(It’s less of a dignity thing, and more like he fears what his sleep will hold for him if he entertains him. He’s probably not saved either way.)

The shuffle of clothing is what he listens for. The smallest rotation of his head has the third eye catch them in his peripheral vision; the fleece is being tied on, and they reach for their collar. He only turns to face them fully at the jingle of the bell as it clasps around their neck. They fiddle with the leather like it causes them mild discomfort. They can only get a pinkie in-between the band and the skin, but they secure it so it sits how it usually does. Narinder adds that to the steadily increasing counter of how many times he’s seem them doing so in his head.

Lambert finishes up, and stands awkwardly as they do. “So...is killing me the only reason why you’re here, or?”

The cat deadpans. “The Fox.”

They pause. “What about him?”

“I have appeased him last time. He requests your presence.” Narinder says, and there’s no mistaking the slight sourness in his sentence. “He will not deal with me unless you are there, the idiot.”

The sight of the lamb has gone ridged. Their shoulders tense, and their eyes grow wide. “You didn’t-”

“I did not feed him one of your followers.” He adds on. He should have started off with that in the first place now that he realizes it. The lamb’s small shock has brought them out of their sleepiness, if only marginally. “I fed him a heretic.”

“Oh.” They stare at him for a moment. “I guess that’s fine. We kill them anyway.” Another pause. “…When did you do that?”

“Does not matter.” Narinder passes them, heading towards the door. From the way he lingers near the doorway with a steeled look, he expects them to follow. “Keep up. I want this over with.”

-

The docks once filled with busy market stalls and traders is silent and still. Not a single soul lingers among the alleys, and the space is empty when they arrive. Many ships are no longer there, having sailed off. The few that were empty, their sailors sleeping in a tavern or too far from the edge of the docks. Plimbo’s own ship has a light on in the window when they pass, but aside from that, the signs of life that decorated the place now held silence. What remained was the old wood of the dock’s walkway, and the long stretch away from the populace where the moon symbol sits.

Lambert yawns wide enough for Narinder to see herbivore teeth. They can still call upon the crown’s power sometimes for a more pointed mouth and sharp horns alike, but in the moonlight with a bedhead of uncombed wool and a sleep-entranced face, they look too uncomfortably mortal. “I miss Plimbo’s fish. She was a sweetie. She ate food right out of my hand.”

How mortal he must look, too, since they’ve dragged each other down. Their voice is softer than usual. He finds his ears have to swivel to hear them. “Wake up, lamb. I can hear you drifting.”

Their response is a twisted pout and a tired side-eye shot at him, but the lamb’s attention is quickly grabbed by a dark mass piling at the edge of the dock where the moon symbol sits. Corpses. Two of them at first glance. They wear heretic robes, and appear to be missing limbs. The blood at the end of his robes was starting to make sense. “Lemme guess. Your doing?”

Narinder doesn’t even look at them as he takes the flat end of the scythe, and promptly push the bodies into the water. They fall with a dull splash, and sink below the surface. “Ignore it. Summon The Fox, vessel.”

The lamb scrunches their nose at him, but relents. There’s blood on the symbol from where the corpses lay, but they brush it away with the end of their fleece. It’s best not to ask about why the corpses were there in the first place, assuming that they were offerings that ended up rejected. If Narinder stated the Fox accepted a heretic prior, then what’s better than two? And if nothing’s better than two? Then the Fox’s rejection was concerning.

Their fingertips touch the moon, and Lambert summons The Fox.

The shadows collide with each other, shifting and morphing into something solid. The surrounding area of water and docks and ships and lilypads fade into darkness as the world darkens with night. A figure shapes itself over the water. Too far to touch. Just close enough to see the fine hairs of his muzzle. Red, crimson fur and a gleaming razor smile grins at them from within the black.

The Fox’s smile is not blood stained, clean and polite. “Little Lamb! Your kind are not usually so fond of the dark, but you are such unlike the rest. How do you fare?”

They step back, yawning again as they straighten, and ignore how the Fox’s pupils shrink at the action. “Tired. Hello, Fox.”

The Fox’s grin thins, his ears tilting forwards. Shadows seem to curl towards in and out like breathing lungs. “Most sensible folks are sleeping at this time of hour. I am graced that you would take the time, the both of you.” Red slits drag from white wool to black fur, and the Fox’s tone sounds amused. “One of you have already visited me. How endearing.”

Lambert glances to Narinder. The God of Death’s expression is flat and distasteful. So, just about his usual outlook towards everything. Narinder speaks before they can ask, though he turns away from The Fox and looks directly to the lamb, ignoring the other party. “He holds a Talisman. I want it.”

Greedy cat. Lambert feels exhaustion behind their eyelids. “Didn’t we just get you one today already?”

The Fox interjects before the cat can reason. “Ambition is something to be admired, little Lamb. You have such quality yourself. The Divine are known for such.” He chuckles. Every sentence has a deep sense of amusement embedded in his words. The shadows crackle when he does. “Tell me, how does another deal sound? I promise to make it worth your while. No matter how hard you look, you will not find this item again.”

Lambert would like to doubt it. Many of their connections had come across these Talismans in their travels, from grasshoppers to stars to mushroomed ants. They’re not sure how, exactly, they come across them, but clearly the holders know the worth to haggle them as such. They’re probably plenty out there. They bet they could make some themselves if given the power and time to learn the skill, however many years that takes. The relics were probably worth more.

Still, Narinder waits expectantly, and judging by the irritation on his face, it was best not to leave The One Who Waits waiting for much longer. He looks like he didn’t want to be here. Probably just as tired as they are. Lambert sighs. “All those pieces ever did was help me infuse power into the fleeces. They’re not exactly…useful compared to everything else we have. Are you sure you want them?” They ask the cat. He says nothing, and they’ll come to that conclusion on their own. The lamb turns back to The Fox. “Very well. What’s your price this time, Fox?”

His smile stretches unnaturally. “All I want in return is two measly followers. Just as I have told our friend here. A simple choice, is it not?”

Lambert’s unease might have shown on their face, because the Fox narrows at it. “I thought you were satisfied with a heretic?”

“I enjoyed my last meal, but it lacked…faith.” The Fox’s hands come out from his robes, casual as he gestures. He speaks of cannibalisms as if it were as nonchalant as wine tasting. “They are always tastier when their hearts are so filled with hope. Their devotion makes their souls thick with power. Something delightful. Filling. One’s loyalty and faith can make them a finer dish. I believe you understand the sentiment, do you not, God of Death?”

The lamb glances to him from the corner of their eye. Narinder remains stoic.

(Sacrifice of the most devoted, and one shall find power most immense.)

“The pig and the dog.” He cuts in suddenly.

Lambert is now suddenly quite awake. “What? Are you-no. No sacrificing my followers. We don’t do as such unless they ask and are elderly, and we just had one pass-”

“I was not asking.” The cat’s stoicism breaks slightly as he sneers. “They’re annoyances. They will suffice.”

“Annoyances?! They are my flock.“ The lamb snaps back with equal agitation. ”I can…understand Grekimar, but he is a work in progress. I can suffer the loss of him if we weren’t in too much of a need for workers otherwise, not to mention he is not elderly, and the rest of my cult will think badly-“ Narinder rolls his eyes visibly as they talk, and it only makes Lambert raise their voice. ”-and Tyren is one of my most loyal! He’s one of the last I would consider for such a thing. He is not an annoyance-“

“The dog is an annoyance to me.” The cat’s voice is raising to their own. “And that pig dared to raise to axe to me and yet you show nothing except that you are yet bendable to mortal whims under the guise of forgiveness. You are speak of loyalty as if you did not commit treason against your god-”

“You were trying to kill me!” The lamb argues. “You won’t even tell me why! Just…for some power hungry grab for devotion!”

Narinder’s anger grows. His ears pin back against his head, and his voice low. “You do not know what of you speak-”

“Because you’re being cryptic! And you want me to listen to you about killing my flock?”

“They’re both nothing but trouble and extra mouths to feed, you would be doing yourself a favor. Sacrifice them.”

“I’m not sacrificing anyone!“

“You’d do well not to make the same mistake as Ratau, Traitor.”

“Oh my.” The Fox chuckles, and it breaks them from their focus. He watches them with a tilted head, claws hooked together. “Might we be in a standoff? Are we uncertain? Uneased?” He gathers their attention once more, and the demon’s tone is smooth, calming. “Might I offer an alternative?”

“Silence, Fox.” Narinder cuts, and Lambert thinks it’s the first time they’ve ever heard him speak to the Fox directly. The grip on his weapon shifts, held at an angle to make the threat obvious. “You refused the heretics.”

Lambert ignores him, and steps ahead to block the view. If Narinder is pissed at them for doing so, they will not turn to face his anger directly. The sooner this is sorted and they can rest, the better. “What’s the alternative?”

The Fox’s grin stretches thinly, words coming out a scythe from a razor sharp mouth. “How about…some heart from the Leader themselves?”

The lamb stares confused. The cat behind them makes no noise, but the shadow grows.

“A fair equivalent, I think.” The Fox continues. “A great leader must make sacrifices. Two pathetic little followers, or a small bit of your own flesh? It is only a piece. It will hardly affect a being such as you.” He sounds like he’s salivating. The Fox’s claws drum together, restless. The darkness’s tendrils float closer. “Surely, that will suffice.”

He might be right. As weakened as they are, (the both of them, cat and lamb alike, given the circumstances) a small piece of their heart probably won’t kill them. It will be an added challenge in combat, and they must not exert themselves as they usually do, but it was livable. Assuming it was only just a piece. Lambert has sacrificed worse. Their hands shift and grab at their fleece in thought. It was doable. Surely. Perhaps not even permanent if they could heal over time...maybe.

There is a shift of movement besides them; Narinder steps forward to stand besides them again where they stood close to the edge; taking his free hand and pulling the ear to rotate their head to face him. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t for the seriousness that haunts the cat’s features.

“Vessel.” He speaks lowly. Narinder addresses them only. He does not even so much as acknowledge the Fox, or his ever-increasing stare. “Give him the pig and the dog. This is an order.”

Bossy, bossy cat. Lambert takes one hand and flicks the cat’s claws away. They ignore his ambient spike of aggression when they do. “They’re not yours to give away, but I am. Maybe if you’d just listen for a second you’d actually get what you wanted.”

They must have said something off, because the God of Death goes quietly still.

Lambert faces the Fox once more. “It would not kill me?”

“It will weaken you slightly. But such is the way of seeking power. Hearts tend to do that.” The Fox answers. He’s closer now. The shadows close in as his hand extends from his sleeve, and his palm faces them upwards. Expectant. His mouth remains open in a smile even as his voice reverbs through the space. “Come, Lamb. Your heart. I promise to savor it.”

They wonder if it will hurt. It probably will. Lambert sighs, bowing towards the edge, and reaching out to grasp the Fox’s hand. “Very well. You may have a piece of my heart-”

There is movement. Red and black steel shifts in front of their eyes, and Lambert blinks at the blade of the scythe in front of them. The weapon is held outwards, a physical barrier between where the Lamb and the Fox’s hand would meet, and it draws backwards against them. The red eye on the handle casts warmth on their hand.

“Deal’s off.” Narinder’s voice is coated with venom, and finality.

“I did not take you to be so disagreeable about it.” The Fox’s hand does not retract. If anything, his pupils shrink, excitement growing. “I am not a greedy creature, such as you. There will be enough left over for the both of us.”

Lambert goes to correct him. (Narinder has stated, many times, that he is not a cannibal. They hope their teasing wasn’t that badly taken.) “Actually-”

“Waste of my time.” Narinder spits. The join where the scythe’s blade and handle meet is suddenly pressed up against the lamb’s front, and they automatically back up from the edge of the pier, away from the water, as Narinder pulls his arm back. He makes no move to answer them, even as they send him an incredulously confused look. “Cower in the dark where you belong. I’ll rip that talisman from your corpse if you get brave enough to step free from your corner.”

The Fox’s head swivels, and his mouth extends. It does not close when he speaks, his voice comes as the teeth bare. “Touchy, touchy, cat. My deal is with The Lamb, Not with you. Let them loose.”

The God of Death says nothing, but the scythe does turn, and Lambert is well aware they’re practically getting dragged away. “Wait-”

The scythe’s handle presses uncomfortably against their side. “We’re leaving.”

Lambert pushes it off. It is undignified, and confusion swirls in their mind. “You wake me up in the middle of the night to come all the way out here for something you want, and he offers it without risking any of the flock’s lives, but we’re just going to leave empty handed?!”

Narinder’s hand raises sharply. He grips the back of their collar, and in a manner, ‘scruffs’ them to keep pace. “Keep. Walking.”

Lambert is too baffled to do anything other than allow themselves to be dragged off like a soggy napkin.

The Fox laughs manically, amused at the sight. “Perhaps if you change your mind, you know where to find me! Though, I recommend you lose your shackles before our next dealing.”

It’s a low jab, one that he may not even know the scope of it’s meaning, but the lamb has no time to respond because Narinder has already pulled them so far back towards them back the teleportation symbol.

For a minute, they just walk along with his pace with his hand secured to the back of their neck. It takes way too long for the god killer to realize they could, in fact, stop this nonsense if they willed it. Part of them doesn’t mind the man-handling so much (It’s not the first time the God of Death has picked them up, though he used to be much…bigger.) though the other half is just so confused that they make it three fourth of a way across the dock before Lambert kindly ducks out of the cat’s grip “What…What was the point-?”

“We’re done here.” The God of Death continues onwards. “Don’t dwell on it.”

He continues walking briskly, and the lamb follows close behind. “You woke me up for nothing, then!” They’re shout whispering. They don’t know why they are, since there’s not a soul around to disturb, but they still do. “What’s with the sudden change of heart? It wouldn’t have killed me-”

“Do not think I objected for you.” Narinder snaps. A half-lie. The Fox is selfish, but so is he.

The lamb does not join him on the stone immediately as they come to it. “I didn’t. But I figured you were worried about it affecting our whole…situation with the crown’s power, or whatever it is. Pretty sure as long as I’m alive, you’re not going to lose that portion of it.”

“Lamb.” He warns. His hand extends towards them. “I said not to dwell on it.”

He’s unreadable, outside of the usual miffed look he always carries. He’s sending mixed signals. One second he wants them dead, the next he’s literally pulling them away from the Teeth in the Darkness. The God of Death is a finicky creature, it seems. He does not like to share his resources with other beings that might prove a threat to his status, as dethroned as it might be.

They cannot complain; they signed up for this sort of thing by wishing him to stick around. Lambert feels exhaustion weigh heavy on them, and sighs. They stand to the symbol and take his hand. “Alright.”

The teleportation back to the cult grounds is quick. It’s still late in the night, and no flock member is awake, so the walk back to the temple is steady and quiet. Lambert reaches the temple doors and pushes them open. Their shadow stands behind them, and they’re too tired to acknowledge the oddity that is Narinder walking with them back to the temple’s entrance, and not just leaving them at the stone and making his way directly to the hut. He is silent in the short walk; his fur appears to be bristled slightly. His tail has been lashing behind him for a few minutes now.

“Let’s leave for Anura a little after noon. I’ll need to rest for a while longer.” Because he woke them up. Unspoken, but the reason is there. Lambert turns to the cat in the crack of the door. Moonlight makes his fur look almost blue. “Do you need anything else from me before I go back to sleep?” They pause. “Or do you just want to bother me for a bit? I don’t mind.”

Narinder stands there. The scythe is unsummoned, his hand now curled into a fist at his side. The cat looks at them and through them at the same time; lost in thought. He will not allow the lamb an inkling of what the thoughts might be. If Narinder had followed them to say something else, he was having second thoughts about it now. “…Go to bed, lamb.”

“M’kay. Goodnight.” They say, and he’s already turned away from them and slinking back towards his hut.

-

The dream laughs at him.

Narinder purposely imagines them being pushed into the sanctuary’s water. He wants them to drown horrifically. He recalls it the first time; wet wool weighing them down; lungs filling up with murky water and brown sludge; a lily pad stem wrapped around their foot. They should be kicking and flailing. They should be giving muffled screams as their throat and nose burns and their chest tightens. They should be feeling the fear of a slow, agonizing death, and the pain of one that’s emphasized by the crown’s healing ability; it takes much longer for them to die of drowning. They breathe in water for thirty minutes when it should have taken three.

It should be burning. They should be inconsolable.

The lamb drifts comfortably on their back in the water, their red cloak billowing out around them like wings of blood. “The Fox is an unsavory type, but at the very least he knows what he wants.”

Narinder sits at the edge of the pier, legs over the water. He does not touch it. It’s black like ichor. His reflection is casted back from it like a mirror. The lamb does not have one even as they float among the ripples. They need to stop talking. If the image of that demon is manifested in his dream somehow, he’s going to claw our his metaphorical-dream eyes so he’s not forced to witness much else.

“I’ve always wanted to take you fishing. Said so myself, many times. In the gateway, and now.” The lamb hums. They continue to speak even when Narinder does not. He glares at them from the dock. He wishes the ichor would swallow them whole.

It won’t. The lamb shifts in the water, and white eyes gleam up at him. Their hand extends up from the surface, and black drips from their fingers. “Fish me out, Narinder.”

Narinder sneers at them.

“Beginners will have to start somewhere.” They grin. It is coy. “You need only to cast your line, and I will bite.”

He cannot move from this spot. Surely he should be able to, but there is an anchor within him. There is no danger here. This is a dream. This is not reality. And yet Narinder can see the surface of the water rising inch by inch, and finds himself unable to move away, or towards, it’s approach. The God of Death does not answer his vessel, and glares as the water starts to raise above their shoulders, making it up to their neck.

“Would you not save me from this, Narinder?” The lamb asks. They’ve swam closer. They don’t touch him, but their smile feels too personal as their hand remains untaken. “You would not take hold of your lamb?”

Narinder grits his teeth. “You intend to drag me under.”

Their smile becomes manical. Wordlessly, the lamb drops beneath the surface of the ichor as it starts to stain the ends of his robes black.

-

Anura is chilled with a forever Autumn’s wind. The air smells of mushrooms and blood, probably because they’ve been killing every heretic and monster they’ve come across.

Well, ‘they’ being used lightly; Narinder does not partake unless he feels bored or feels like needing a bit of stress relief. They pass a few clearings taking out heretics on their own before the cat decides to summon the scythe and join in on the fighting, and ‘join in’ meaning that he suddenly appears, steals the lamb’s kills, and then takes off to mutilate and murder on his own accord. The vessel is the one that rushes ahead most of the time, but in moments like these, Narinder will move ahead. There might not be bodies left by the time he’s finished.

It’s the first day into the crusade, and so far, it’s been routine. Lambert is the one to bring it up. “What do you think he does with those offerings? Aside from, you know, eat them.”

Narinder is in the middle of wrenching his chained spear from the jaw of a freshly deceased enemy. It makes a cracking, squishing noise as it breaks free, loud enough that he almost doesn’t hear them at first. “The Fox?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t care.” The chain retreats back into his hand. The enemies in this clearing are dead. Onto the next.

Lambert moves past him, quickly mummers a ‘wait’ and starts to extract the bones from the rapidly decaying corpse he just dropped. Narinder sighs like they’re a hindrence, but stands patiently as they work. The lamb’s hands move quickly. “Power, I’m assuming.” They start. “I think hunger is a big part of it. He eats the offerings and all. But it’s mostly power. That’s what sacrifices give to the benefactors. The devotion a follower would have would empower them.”

Narinder watches their hands get bloody over their shoulder. “It would explain why he said the heretic lacked ‘flavor’.”

Bones are ripped free from the meat and dropped into the crown’s storage. The spine is stuck, though. One hand on the spine, and the other in the flesh try to rip it free, but it snags. “Fox doesn’t have any followers of his own, so I’m guessing it’s why he wants ours.”

Narinder will pointedly ignore the last word of their sentence. The bladed end of the scythe is moved to the side of the lamb, and they blink at it confused. It bumps their hand gently, and Lambert moves their fingers out of the way as Narinder cuts into the meat of the corpse, using the weapon to hold the flaps of skin and meat up so they could get to the good parts. His vessel works quickly after, yanking the spine out like one would a snake from it’s burial. It’s tossed into the crown’s storage with a quick ‘thanks’.

“I guess that’s why he asked for a piece of my heart, too.” Lambert stands up. They wipe their hands on their fleece just enough to get the slick off of their palm, and resummons the sword. “I’ve killed gods. I’ve…dethroned you? So uh, he probably thinks it will grant him power if he were to consume it.”

The reminder makes a deep rumble build up in the back of his throat. His tail lashes twice behind him. “Or to satisfy his perversion.”

“Yeah, sure. Satisfy his perversion. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.” The lamb walks onwards, merely a step ahead of them as they move forward. “He’s got a thing for prey animal meat, I guess.”

Part of it, perhaps. But the details are no longer important. What’s important is that The Fox has deemed itself a threat in more ways than one, and Narinder was going to skin him alive for a rug.

There are only bats in the next clearing, and they are easily dispatched. Narinder sits back for this one, mummering something about not wasting his efforts while the lamb is already in the midst of battle before he can even finish the sentence.

“Do you think he’s trying to become a god by using the sacrifice of other’s devotion, or is it just purely a cannibal thing?” They talk casually while they fight. The sword is thrust through the eyes of the flying pests, and they are shishkabobed one after the other until there’s a collection of corpses along the blade of the crown’s weapon. “I can’t tell if he’s got a goal or if he’s just weird.”

Lambert takes a second to fling the bodies off so their weapon is useable again, and hears a high-pitched scream that’s cut off a few paces behind their head. They turn to see a chain jutting up from the ground; another bat speared through the body at it’s end. The spear and chain slink back into ichor and fade. The corpse drops to the grass with small bounce. The lamb looks up to the cat.

Narinder has a dull look of disapproval, probably for missing an enemy. He says nothing about it. “Regardless, your standards for sacrifice are too lenient. My sibling’s doors will need a sacrifice to open them, and you’ve shown no sign that you’re worthy to procure one. It’s weak minded.”

The lamb huffs. “It’s not that I’m weak, I just would prefer not to sacrifice anyone that I cannot bring back, or against their will.”

Narinder’s retort is almost comically drawled. “Weak.”

“Hush.” The lamb shoots him a quick look, but they’re smiling. They are used to his attitude for centuries now. One of the bats they’ve skewered has twitching legs and starts to wiggle in agony on the ground. “Resurrection is not possible if they are fed to the door, so it calls for a special sacrifice. I do not know what to do about it now, but I will…figure it out. I will have to find someone willing.”

The God of Death grumbles. “Flip a coin.”

Lambert laughs. It’s short, but it makes his ears raise. “You’re so cruel, Narinder.”

“And you’re too attached.” He saunters over to one of the bodies lying in the grass, and juts the end of the scythe into it. The wiggling does not stop, instead of killing it faster the bat just makes a pained noise and twitch more rapidly. Narinder frowns, and leans down. He grasp the bat by it’s throat, rises, and begins to squeeze. “Had you not become a tool of your own flock, you would not have issue using them as they are intended. Take my advice lamb, as my vessel. Attachment will be your downfall.”

Lambert watches him dig his claws deeper into the bat as it begins to rot and decay. They sigh, and work to wipe their blade and hands on the grass. A slippery weapon is a less-than-par one. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

His posture suddenly straightens, thumb sinking into the bat’s eye sockets. Narinder looks from his hand to them, and there’s a long moment of silence as the creature’s corpse disintegrating in his grip.

The blade is mostly clear and their hands slightly drier again, Lambert rises and turns to see three crimson eyes baring down at them. It takes a moment of standstill silence for it to dawn on them what his tension must be about. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories with your family.”

The ash from his fingers drops and dispels to the ground. Narinder’s glare is hot, and he bores into the lamb.

Yep. They totally said something that made him upset. It’s best to change the subject, then. Lambert searches for a topic. “Did you ever find that crab in your domain? The one you resurrected.”

He blinks, and the anger wipes from his face with bafflement. Success, the lamb thinks. He looks at them ridiculously. “…No.”

“Do you think it’s immortal now? Since you resurrected it and all, but you did it in the Land of the Dead, so it’s not like it can die again and just reappear.” The chipperness is back in their tone. Narinder can feel whiplash by watching the lamb turn on their heel, marching off into the next clearing and speaking over their shoulder as he followers. “Imagine that; the little guy has been scuttling around your domain for this many years. Unless you ate him or something.”

Narinder deadpans. “I don’t like crab.”

“How do you know? Have you ever tasted crab? When was the last time you tasted crab?”

“Lamb, focus on killing things.”

“Looks like you’re getting a little bit…crabby.”

The handle of the scythe juts out, and he trips them to faceplant into the dirt.

-

The second night is when Narinder finds it.

The lamb has stopped to heat up their hands on a campfire the heretics created and rummage through their stores. Normally, they are unbothered by the wind chill for as long as they are un-sheared as well as the fleece provides protections from the elements, but apparently discomfort from the chill was one of the less than godly attributes returned to them. They ask Narinder if he too was getting colder, and the cat replies that it does not bother him. So they shrug, and continue to shift through the boxes and bags the heretics left behind while Narinder non-chalantly stands near the fire himself, and Lambert will pretend not to notice him turning up his hood when the wind picks up.

They had more resistant to the elements than the average mortal, it seems. Still didn’t mean that the cold wasn’t getting bothersome.

There’s not much in rations save for some dried jerky and raisins, but they’ll take what they can get. Lambert stands up from the boxes, dusts off their hands and turns back towards the fire. “Alright, I think that’s about everything.”

Narinder is not there.

The lamb stares at the spot where the cat was standing moments prior. There’s no sign of the God of Death, nor are there any tracks leading off elsewhere that would suggest he decided to venture forth on his own. Automatically, they look up to the trees and scan the branches. No sign of him. “Narinder?”

No response. Great, they’ve lost him again. Lambert walks over to the space where he once stood and scans the clearing again. “If this is another one of your pranks where you try to sneak up on me again-”

Wait. There’s...a tail.

There is a tail seemingly jutting out from nothing.

It’s black and swaying. Lambert blinks at it. The tail moves unbothered as if it being cut off close to it’s mid-base wasn’t a problem for it, the air around where it disappears looks like it’s shifted slightly, distorted. The grass and trees from behind it seem to warp a little like a bent mirror. They walk around it, in front and behind, and it continues to sway. Weird. Both hands on their hips, the lamb stands in front of the oddity. One of those veiled doorways, perhaps?

Lambert reaches out and wraps a hand around the tail. “Hey, Nari?”

The tail immediately stiffens, wretches from their grip, and Narinder’s disembodied head comes out sneering and hissing from the curtained veil. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

They just smile at him. “I thought it was you! You disappeared on me, but I remember the last doorway so I thought-” They’re cut off when Narinder tosses something from beyond the veil. A small goblet of silver bonks them directly on the forehead and clunks to the ground. “…Ow.”

“Remind me to take your tail as a trophy when the day comes that I will kill you.” Narinder scowls. He’s sour-faced and clearly unhappy, though it doesn’t hold as much weight as they think it would considering it’s a little bit funny he’s a floating head at the moment. Lambert imagines his tail is lashing behind him in the pocket dimension. The cat’s nose scrunches up. “I had planned to allow you entrance, but your lack of manners has forbidden you from such honor. Sit here and weep, lamb.”

“I can sit and weep inside the treasury.” The lamb tries not to smile, and it does not work. “I won’t mess with anything unwarranted!”

“…You intend to rifle through their chests.”

“Yep, very much so.”

“I don’t know what else I would expect from someone as disrespectful as you.” He deadpans. There’s a long moment where he seems to consider it; and Lambert wonders if he’s going to threaten them again, or perhaps retract the offer made, but Narinder’s head forms back into his full body as he steps forward from the veil, and his arm lifts up again, spilling out the reality around the magic and showing the inside of the treasury from underneath his elbow. At first glance, Lambert sees gold and white silver. Mushrooms and warm lights await within.

“You will leave behind anything I tell you to. Do not touch the shrines or imagery.” Narinder’s voice is firm. He gestures with his head for the lamb to duck underneath. “Disobey me, and I will punish you.”

The lamb is too quick to dart underneath his arm and into the treasury. “Gonna break my fingers?”

Narinder’s arm drops behind them. “I have worse things in mind.”

Like Leshy’s treasury, Heket’s is a single room, large and grand.

It is designed like a banquet hall, the walls are chiseled stone and mushroom stalks with carved symbols of the old faith decorating their bases, candles hanging from their stems with old dripping wax. The ceiling is the underside of the mushroom trees, strings of ruby and amber embedded in it to cast light through them like colored glass. Sunlight filters through the pores of the mushrooms and lights up the room, casting warmth. Banners with Heket’s symbol hang tattered with age across the walls, dyed reds and browns in the colors of Anura. The flooring here was natural wood with a quilted rug that  stretched out among the space. Lambert can see patches of mushrooms, gold, symbols of the old faith, and even imagery of food and drink and bones within it’s stitching. A little bit of dust comes up on their feet as they walk over the edge of it. No one has been here in a very long time.

Unlike the God of Chaos’s treasury, there was a semblance of organization here; there’s a large table in the center of the room, already set with old plates and fine silverware and goblets (though now one appears to be missing from it’s place) while the chairs were stone and large, perhaps to accommodate the size of the Bishops themselves. There were smaller chairs too, though not many, and no where near as grand as the ones used for the Gods. Perhaps for the witnesses? They all seemed squished close together compared to the space given for the larger seating, though there was a single mortal chair next to the one at the head of the tablet at the right hand side.

Chests line the walls with dark wood and golden accents. Some of them look to be opened already, and others closed tight. Lambert makes a beeline for them, dusts off top with the edge of their cloak and sticks their fingers underneath the edge. “This place looks like it would be great for feasts!”

Narinder’s tone holds sarcasm when he speaks. “Yes. What a surprise for the Bishop of Famine to have such a spot.”

Lambert sends a look over their shoulder, but their attention is quickly diverted to the chest’s contents when they pop it open. The lid swings upwards, and they peer inside with a bright look. It wipes off their face immediately. “Oh. Ew.”

Footsteps echo behind them, and Narinder’s shadow falls over them. He clicks his tongue. “It has been hundreds of years. Offerings she had received were mostly food related, and they magic she used would keep them fresh.” A pause. “Until it wears off, or her death. Do not act so surprised, lamb.”

Rotten food, or the remains of it. Wrappings of bread that had mold growing new ecosystems inside or jars of unknown substances that are probably unrecognizable from what the contents originally were. The smell that wafts up from the inside of the chest was putrid, smelling of rot and decay. It poisons their senses and makes the lamb shrink back, one hand coming up to cover their nose and the other slamming the lid back down, shutting the chest again. They gag a little. “Eugh. Are all of the offerings like that?”

Narinder has moved back to the tables. He takes no interest in the chests, rather gazing apon the table’s set up in a thoughtful manner. “Find out. I don’t care.”

Welp, looks like they’re going to have to sift through each one. Lambert moves onto the next, finds that the wood almost falls away at their touch, and barely gets the top open before their senses of plagued with the smell of rot and old food wasting away. The lid shuts tight and they scuttle onto the next. They might be here for a minute.

The God of Death moves around the table methodically. Heket’s chair is dusty, as do all of their seating. The symbols of the old faith are still carved into the sides, imagery of their crowns on the back of each chair to signify who sits where at the feast. Leshy and Kallamar’s chairs were to the left, while Shamura and his own were on the right. Heket sat at the head of the table of course; the host of one’s domain always would. Stone as they might be, and not as decayed as the wooden chairs that seem to be rotting on the far end of the banquet hall, there are cracks within them now. Mushrooms and moss have begun to grow within the carvings of each one.

He briefly looks to the lamb. They’re on the fourth chest, pulling out what looks like robes of the old faith once more. The lamb looks at them only for a short second before tossing them into the crown’s storage without a second thought. Vile thief. Narinder turns back to the chairs.

His own appeared to be in more disuse than the rest. It was chipped, a chunk of it missing off of the top. The eye of the crown has been scratched out, and an even thicker layer of dust sits on it more so than the rest. Narinder frowns. Bad memories haunt it, though it is not surprising it’s maintience has gone under, what is surprising was that it was still there. Either Heket was too lazy, too uncaring, or simply too busy to have his chair removed from the table after his imprisonment. He highly doubts it’s because of any remaining sentiment his siblings might have had left for him after they chained him down under.

A bitter taste starts to build up in the back of his throat. Narinder would have his own chair knocked over had it not been too heavy of stone.

As if one cue, the lamb seems to speak. “So…did you and your family have dinner in here, or was it more like a occasional thing?”

They’re currently on their sixth chest, using the crown in dagger form to pick at a lock that seems to be secured around a particularly big chest. They look up from their work when no response is heard from the cat, and is unsurprised to see him glaring hatred into their wool from across the room. “Nevermind. I just thought I’d ask.”

“You pry enough.” He frowns. The lock snaps, and he watches as the lamb flies open the lid and appears pleased to finally find something that probably isn’t rot.

They do not announce their findings right away. Narinder pauses in his ruminating if only for a moment to watch them stick their hands inside before pulling out a bottle. It’s contents are dark and smooth, and it swishes around the glass like trails of smoke. They flip the bottle upside down, sideways, shaking it a little. There’s no label on it, no indication of what it might be. Only a cork keeps it from spilling out. “What do you think it is? Poison? Ritual stuff?” They bring their nose to the cork and sniff. Their lack of reaction tells him they smell nothing at all. “...Dye?”

They turn back to face the cat. Narinder’s brows are furrowed at the bottle, but he says nothing.

Lambert holds it out to him. “Have any memory as to what this could be? The chest is full of bottles of the stuff.”

He hesitates for a moment, then walks forwards. The God of Death plucks the bottle from the lamb’s hand and holds it steady for a moment. He seems to inspect the liquid; his reflection casts back at him from the glass and it’s dark contents.

Lambert gawks when the God of Death removes the cork from the bottle, and tips the unknown liquid back into his mouth. “Um-”

“Ambrosia.” Narinder swallows the sip, and recorks the bottle. He drops it back into the sitting lamb’s lap. “Liquor of the Gods.”

Lambert blinks at it, raising to smell it again. It smells like nothing. “What does it taste like?”

“Like ambrosia.” Narinder starts, walking back towards the table. He might as well scratch out his siblings symbolism while he’s here for his own sake. “It will taste differently to every person that drinks it. Only gods can consume it, though. Mortals will die if they do. Keep that in mind if you plan on hording any for your…flock.” The lamb is already shovelings every bottle into the crown’s storage. Go figure. “...Do you intend on drinking all of that?”

“Are you kidding me? Mortal wine doesn’t work on me since you’ve given me the crown, and I’ve never been able to get drunk in my life!“ The way they’re throwing bottles into the crowns storage so quickly is almost comical. Narinder is starting to wonder if telling them about the truth of the ambrosia was a good idea. ”I’m gonna get plastered when I get the chance.“

Yep. Probably not a good idea then. Lambert stops at the last bottle and offers it out to him. “If it tastes like not-rot to you, do you want one?” They shake it a little, tempting. “It’s been at least a thousand years since you’ve been able to indulge in it, right?”

Narinder sneers a bit. “If you’re insisting I actually drink while on a crusade, you’ve lost your mind.”

“I’m only asking since it seemed like you were able to sip it without it tasting like decay.” They shrug, tossing the bottle into the crown’s storage and allowing it to fly back onto their head. “I’ll save it for the celebration! You and I can actually partake in the festivities in the fun way without all the professional mumbo jumbo. It wouldn’t hurt to loosen up a bit.“

He huffs something low. “You have no food for a feast or celebration. Even if you did, you’re a fool to think I would attend.”

“Hmm.” The lamb does not face him, elbows deep in the chest still, but he does not like the coyness of their tone. “A certain frog told me otherwise when I went to bring her medicine the other day. Seemed really certain that you had promised otherwise.”

Narinder regrets ever humoring either of them. “I owe you or your flock nothing. If I attend, it will be to kill your patrons and poison your drink. Make note of that.”

The lamb makes an uncommittable noise. “Would you attend just to say hi?”

“No. I hope you choke.”

“Mean.”

He briefly entertains the idea of throwing another goblet at their head, but Lambert’s attention is focused solely on something they’ve pulled out from the chest again, and Narinder returns to the memories haunting the table.

Fireflies do not rest here in this season, where they were prominent in Darkwood, it was just a touch too cold here. His hand comes to a rest on top of the table. It is stone, and does not react to his touch in the manner he would like it to. Mushrooms, however, were always evident. They’re starting to grow through the cracks in the table. Everything will decay and erode over time, even stone. Even immortal memories. Narinder cannot remember the last time they had a family feast even before his siblings betrayed him and locked him away for a millennia. His fingers leave an imprint in the dust when he removes them, and it looks wrong when he does, so his sleeve brushes away the trace behind he could have left.

One of the wooden chairs is nearby, and Narinder lets his hand settle on the back of it. It’s already rickety, but he decays it further. The wood cracks and splinters, it’s white birch turning grey and sickly. It becomes weak, rotting and folding in on itself as the remains of it crumble to ash and join the layers of that decorate everything else in the room. It becomes nothing but some grain already lost in the furs of the floor rug. He’d do that to everything in here if he could. He would make his sibling’s treasuries and domains as barren and lifeless as the prison they trapped him in was. It would be what they deserved.

The joints in his fingers ache. Narinder’s claws curl in and out with bad memories.

“Hey, Nari.” The lamb shuffles cloth somewhere to the side of him. “Look at this!”

His head is already turning before he can criticize himself for listening to their whim, and the God of Death freezes.

Lambert picks at the fabric they’ve thrown over themselves. There are creases from it having been folded for so long, but it looks well taken care of. White with red and gold accents, robes of several silk and sheer layers. The bottom of the robes are lines with an intricate delicate lace, and the sleeves are fashioned in the same way. Pieces with symbols of the old faith hang from the shawl pieces and downwards. An easy, light moving robe that fits them a little too big. It is elegant, and soft looking, and matches the lamb’s wool.

“Look at this fancy robe. Did this belong to one of the witnesses?” Lambert sway in it. The fabric trails at their feet, and their bell jingles as they shift. They look back up to him. “It seems really well made.”

Narinder is staring at them.

Maybe he doesn’t remember. They continue to pick at the fabric. It bunches up in a few places, and some of the tassels probably weren’t put on right. They could be wearing it backwards for all they know. There are strings that come around to the back that make for easy removal, though the shawl piece had gotten caught on their bell when they threw it over. It was far too complicated for a regular cultist to wear. The lamb thinks for a minute. “Maybe it’s for an important cultist? There’s only one, so maybe it’s just for a particular ritual.”

Narinder speaks evenly, and it sounds forced. “That is a wedding garb of the old faith.”

Oh, well then. Lambert pinches the fabric of the sleeves in-between their fingers and feels the perfect stitching there. “Why does Heket have a wedding garb in her treasury? This looks like it fits mortals, not the Bishops. Was it for her cultists?”

He is silent again.

“We don’t have any official wedding garbs for our cult. I just allow the couple to wear whatever they please, though they usually ask for a specific head piece or necklace rather than a new set of robes.” They’re chatty again now that their interested has been piqued. The personal lives of the gods and their inner workings were all but given to them in books and texts that were written by souls long since passed, and here they were seeing evidence of something they had not read before. “I have to officiate a wedding soon, maybe this could-”

“Take it off.” Narinder cuts them off abruptly.

Lambert looks to the God of Death. He is still and tense. Even his tail is ridged. Something about the robes have made him deeply uncomfortable.

Welp. Nothing to help with that, then. They were being disrespectful as it was anyway. Lambert pinches the garb from the top and pulls it off, folding it into a neat square and dropping it into the crown’s storage. The God of Death says nothing about their blazon display of theft, but the lines in his face deepen a bit. They cannot tell if it’s because the robes in particular had a bad memory attached to them or if it was the lamb’s actions that made him annoyed. Probably both.

Still, they are curious. “Was Heket proposed for marriage by a follower? I get those sometimes.”

If there was any way Narinder’s mood could have worsened, that was the sentence to make it so. The cat visibly sours.

The lamb doesn’t take the hint. “Or was Heket the one that proposed?”

Red eyes glare with heat that spells that they might have tip-toed too close to the edge this time. Trying to get any inkling of his family’s history from the cat’s mouth was walking on shells; one wrong misspoken sentence or perhaps a question too bold and the God of Death shuts down. Lambert half expects him to do just that before the cat turns to face the other direction, and grumbles something. “You’ve dug enough. We are finished here.”

There’s nothing else in the chest worth of note, so Lambert shuts it. It was the last one against the wall. Heket’s treasury proved to be full of rotten food, drink, and a pristinely kept wedding garb.

The God of Death is already stalking back to the exit before the lamb is finished, and they trot to catch up with him. The veil is pulled back with one arm, and he stands to the side to allow the usurper to exit. He looks freshly irritated. Lambert wonders why he bothers coming inside the treasury at all if it only holds nothing but pain for him.

Nostalgia, maybe, is a slow working poison.

They would pet him for the sake of stress relief if the lamb wasn’t so sure he’d cut off their hand in an attempt to do so. “Would you ever show me your treasury, if we find it?

Narinder’s frown twitches downwards. “Move, lamb.”

He’s crabby again. They’ll push him ever so slowly, but for now, Lambert ducks underneath the God of Death’s arm and back into Anura once more. He follows soon after, letting the veil fall back into place. The reality around the curtain shifts back into an unwarped vision, and it was like the doorway was never there. One day if they’re lucky, they’ll ask him how he’s able to see them and maybe teach them a trick in order to do so.

The scythe is summoned back into his grip in a flash of black lightning and ichor. His patience has waned and they can tell. Black fur bristles and eyes burn. Narinder is itching to kill something.

A breeze shifts through the air, and Narinder pulls the hood up all the way this time. It blocks his face from the lamb, and he moves ahead of them. “If your curiosity is sated enough, return to the crusade and make use of yourself.”

The lamb salutes. The sword is summoned into their hand, and they follow close behind.

-

The third monster of Anura is a rather intense fight considering all previous ones. He turns into a corpse like all the rest, though the lamb does not miss how the eyes had been gorged out, or the growths on the frog’s head had seemed to rupture.

“Did I ever tell you about Zepar?” Lambert is already digging through the gore of the body, pulling the God Tear out from the flesh of it’s holder. The heart has sunken into the stone, and bones are starting to bleach clean as Anura re-absorbs Zepar into itself again. “He was murdered by a jealous lover who got upset his girlfriend was taken by another frog. I...can’t say we really missed him. He was a really shoddy tool maker.”

The God of Death watches as the Lamb sits on their knees trying to clean the blood off of the Tear with their fleece. The scythe is still coated with gore, and it drips into a red trail along the ground as Narinder lets it drag behind him, approaching the lamb. They look up to see his hand outstretched, palm facing upwards. “Give that to me.”

The lamb looks up at him. “This?” They hold up the God Tear. For a solid moment, they think he might crouch down and rip it from them. But he appears stoic, waiting patiently for them to drop it into his palm. They tut. “You’ve been so greedy lately.”

“I’ve allowed you to pilfer through my siblings treasuries, and you failed to provide the talisman from The Fox.” Narinder’s tone is firm, though at this angle, his face looks a little funny. Their amusement might have shown on their face, because his frown turns into a sneer. “Hand it to me, vessel.”

“Alright, alright.” They laugh softly, amused. No resistance, no arguing. The lamb is smiling even as they plop it into his palm, and it still confuses him. “Whatever you want, Narinder.”

(What do you want, Death?)

His fingertips start to feel numb as they close around it. The lamb does not comment on his silence as they stand up and pat down their fleece, nor do they notice how his eyes advert from them as they step over the corpse, and make their way to the teleportation room. “Not sure what you’d want it for. The Mystic Seller doesn’t really give me anything super useful anymore for them. All it gives me is necklaces and junk that I don’t hardly use.” A pause. “Unless you plan on absorbing it. You’re gonna absorb it, aren’t you?”

The God Tear rolls around between his fingers. He slips it into a pocket of his robes, and the scythe unsummons. The gore that was on it’s blade drops cleanly to make a puddle on the ground. Narinder says nothing. He no longer has the energy for speaking.

The teleportation back is quick and clean. It has become routine for them now, even as Narinder drops the lamb’s wrist from his grasp do they notice he no longer grips it hard rather than simply hold it. They wonder if he’s gained enough power to teleport back on his own without problem now, or if that too was something that needed some work on. The cat has progressed much, but he was still lacking in many areas where the lamb was not. A fraction of power compared to before. It’s what he’s so keen on fixing, it seems.

It is mid-day when they re-appear on the stone, and immediately a follower is running up to greet them. A red panda, an assertive, loyal creature, though normally with a steeled attitude. The fact that she hurries to the stone immediately puts the lamb on edge.

“Leader, it’s good to see you return.” She bows formally, and Narinder can clearly see how she’s trying her best to ignore his presence in the lamb’s shadow. “The missionaries are back from the hunt. We’ll have enough meat for everyone for at least a weak or so, given that we can preserve it well enough.”

The lamb’s ears perk up, but they do not allow themselves to put their guard down. “Good to hear. But you would not tell me this right away unless something is of upmost urgency?”

The panda’s ears flatten, and though her voice is neutral, they already know where this is going. “One of them, Jayen, has returned...injured. Very injured.”

The bear who died a little under six months ago, rotted away by the cat’s arrival. His newly revive life has barely started. They do not glance to the side to see if Narinder holds any recognition, and Lambert’s mask is plain, as ever. “Where is he now?”

“The healing bay. We’ve stabilized him the best we can.”

“I’ll go there now. Thank you. Please, return to your duties.” The lamb allows her leave, and the red panda simply bows in thanks before turning away. There is a slight glance towards the cat that lingers behind them, but once meet of the eyes and Narinder finds that the panda walks a little bit quicker. He expects it’s less out of fear, and more out of distaste.

He expects them to take off towards the village. Instead, Lambert spins to him and almost snaps. “You didn’t tell me someone was dying-”

“He’s not.” He cuts off their outburst with a flat one of his own. “I don’t sense it.”

He’s telling the truth. Whatever injury the bear must have isn’t fatal. The followers had a habit of putting more stress on the leader than they should out of their own fear of mortality. If the lamb’s lifespan could be shortened from stress, it would have given out ages ago. He watches them visibly de-tense. “Oh, okay.”

In the distance, the villagers are hard at work, bustling throughout daily chores. The woes and responsibilities of a cult leader lay beyond here. They will be busy for a while.

Narinder thumbs the God Tear in his robes, and sighs. “Calm yourself, lamb. See to your flock. You will come to my door in the evening.”

It’s not an invitation. They’ll do it anyway. They usually do.

Heket is their next enemy to face in the crusade. They will come to speak to him for that alone.

Regardless, their ears still rise higher in the air than he’s seen them do in the morning. The worry that dotted their expression is washed with a pleasant smile. “I’ll try not to be too late in the night, just so as long no one keeps me for too long.” They’re already heading down the steps, waving him off over their shoulder. He doesn’t know what’s more mind-pulling; their ability to switch so quickly from one relief to another, or that the promise of getting to bleat in his hut at night about their daily woes like the old days in the gateway was enough to make their face so obnoxiously bright. “See you later!”

Very obnoxious. The lamb is quick to merge in with the masses of the flock, and he watches as their demeanor changes from the lamb he knows to one of professional, perfectly curated cult leader as they meet their line of cultists on the way to the healing bay.

He’ll have to cross the flock in daylight later when he wants to self-isolate, but for now, he’ll head in the opposite direction. The veil is pulled out from his robes, tied securely as the hood comes up to hide it’s strings and obscure the rest of it. The God Tear glints pretty in his claws when he pulls it out. He almost considers absorbing it. It is probably what the lamb expects him to do. It’s more useful as a currency, at least for now.

Narinder steps away from the teleportation stone, away from the flock, and to the line of doors where the Mystic Seller awaits.

Chapter Text

Narinder meditates in his home. There is not much else to do until the time comes to face another one of his siblings.

Lamb comes in the late hours of the evening to speak of the injured follower and his sibling. The bear, Jayen, became frightened while sent out on missionary trip suited for a hunting party. His party members brought back some meat, but the bear was too soft-hearted to shoot an arrow at a critter a quarter of his size, and ended up cowering to the ground when the critter squeals something horrific when a campmate goes in for the kill. Which made the worry of the flock mates that surrounded him all the more confusing. Narinder had not sensed that the bear or anyone else for that matter to be dying, so he chalked it up to over-reaction from the flock and their inability to handle or process hardly anything without whining at the slightest off-putting event.

It’s a reasonable explanation, until the lamb enters his hut with the pre-given permission, sits at the end of his bed without his permission, and sighs. “They thought he was injured because he was having a hard time breathing, and wouldn’t talk. They thought he had fallen or maybe had some sort of injury to his heart or lungs,” They trail off for a minute. Their knees are drawn up to their chest. “Panic attack. He was having severe panic attacks.”

Narinder sits with his legs crossed near the top of the bed, the farthest away from the lamb while still remaining on the furniture. His eyes are closed. He was meditating. Keyword; was, until a certain lamb made themselves comfortable on his covers. Still, his brows furrow. “I thought they said they stabilized him.”

“They tried to give him a mixture of mushrooms to help with the ‘pain’ in his chest. They thought it would help.” The lamb sighs. “It made him worse. Which made them worry more, and give him even more. It started having…affects on him. Physically, more so.” A pause. “I made him throw it all up. He got…better, somewhat. I’ve assigned him a bed in the healing hut until further notice.”

“You’re down another worker.” The God of Death mulls. In the room, there is a single candle lit for lighting, and it’s not bright enough to cause any sort of shadows to shift behind closed eyelids. “I would think your flock would be hardier than to be sent into a fit over a simple hunting party.”

“He died painfully, and then was resurrected painfully.” Lambert answers plainly. “Dying and reviving is a traumatic experience.”

He wills not to look at them out of exhaustion, but one eye cracks open a sliver to stare at them. The lamb is wringing their fingers out in front of them; a fearsome cult leader looks thoughtful at the foot of his bed. Narinder thinks it almost funny. “You never complained about it. The bear is just weak.”

They pick at his bed covers. Black miniscule hairs he’s shed are plucked between their fingers and thoughtlessly tossed to the floor. “You took care of me, so it wasn’t a bad thing. Most of the time. Death isn’t so scary when you know where you’re going after you die, and the nausea after resurrecting went away after a while anyway.”

Narinder remains quiet.

The lamb shifts their weight at the end of his mattress too comfortably. He wonders briefly if given the permission, how long would they stay there if he would not tell them to leave.

“Heket…” Lambert starts, and it comes out unfinished. “…Is the subject of our next crusade. I think we’ll be gone a little longer this time, too. I’ll have to make some preparations before we leave. Need to put someone in charge of the rations again, and finish up some tailoring for clothes for animals who can’t grow winter coats. It might take me another few days.” They pick at their fur on their legs. Their eyes don’t watch him, and he knows this only because his third one has cracked open to look himself. “I’ll put Tyren in charge again since he can be trusted to handle the more sensitive stuff. Finor will take care of the tailoring. I’ve made plans for several houses to have fireplaces put in them, but that requires stone to be refined and some of our mining teams got sick with dust-lung.”

Narinder hardly makes a hum. He makes no further acknowledgment than that. They’re rambling.

The weight at the end of his bed shifts. Lambert stands up from the bed, brushes down their cloak, and turn back to the cat. There’s a moment of pause where they look like they might say something serious, but it’s replaced with polite, casual farewell. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll bring you candles.”

They leave, shutting the door quietly behind them so as to not ‘disturb’ the cat from his meditation. Narinder only opens his eyes fully when they’re gone, and stares dully at the wood. The lamb wishes to discuss his frog sister. Their hesitation spells that they might ask something of him, and he knows what it is. A foolish request, and one that asks too much.

They come to him the next morning with candles, and only stay for a short time.

“They’re supposed to smell like citrus. You still haven’t told me what your favorite smells are, so I’m just going to give you different things until you tell me which ones you hate, and I can figure it out by process of elimination.” They’re smiling, joking this early in the hour while the sun is still trying to rise. Narinder greeted them at the door with ruffled fur and eyes thick with sleep. He did not get none, as per usual, but exhaustion still haunts his vision as he squints in the bright light that comes to his door in the shape of a lamb. They snort at his appearance, and hold out their offering. They make no move to enter his home. “I’ll do the same again when we figure out how you can eat without it turning into rotten gunk.”

Narinder makes no move to accept the gift, which doesn’t mean anything because the lamb casually picks up his hand, plops the candles into his palm, and retracts themselves before the cat can come to their senses to claw at them. His claws accidentally curl around them as he yanks his hand back, and the lamb doesn’t look bothered at all by his morning rejection.

“Your flock is starving and on the brink of dissention, and you worry about my candle preference.” He sneers. Narinder is not a morning person.

Lambert hums. There’s a tangle in their wool, a small one on the right side of their head that must have come from sleep. His claws itch to reach for it. Maybe give them a good scratch while he’s at it. “For a god, you sound oddly displeased that you’re being attended to.”

“I have no interest in being attended by traitors.” He grumbles. “I’m pointing out your lack of priority.”

They half-turn from him, poised ready to leave. They don’t point out how he met them at the door. “Let me have this. I’m going to be very busy the next few days. We’ll leave for Anura when I’m ready.”

They turn their back and make their way down the hill, and Narinder briefly entertains the idea of tossing the candle at the back of their head as they go. He doesn’t, and the door shuts, and it’s sat on the bedside dresser to replace all the ones he’s burned down when using them for light for late-night, or early morning, writings.

The lamb does not come to his door the next day, and that day is spent in darkness. Quiet, mundane, soft darkness. It’s bright outside when he wakes up on the floor the next morning.

Ichor pools from the corner of his mouth and there’s a wet splotch on his forehead from where the third eye bleeds and smears into his fur. He did not mean to fall asleep, but this happens often when he does. Meditation can only get you so far to pass the time. Still, Narinder’s routine continues, and he uses the side of the bed sheets to wipe the ichor from his face and clears his throat of any lingering bile that threatens to crawl up with sour memories. The fur on his arms are standing on end still. Feelings of sinew and gore tingle at the edge of his fingertips. It would be welcoming if it was real. He would not pass up the opportunity for some stress relief at the expense of a few heretic lives at the moment, but their hooded faces might turn into something else if he were to go now, so it’s better if he waits and savors it when they leave.

The sigh that comes from him is almost wet with blood, and he has to swallow it back. Somewhere in the cult there is a worm of a brother who did not suffer enough for what he’s done, in Anura’s purgatory, there is a sister who received better forgiveness from their elder siblings than he did when they both disobeyed. In Anchordeep there is a brother he hope is being torn to shreds by the image of the lamb over and over again, and Silk’s Cradle he hopes Shamura is coherent enough to remember what they did to him.

They should remain in purgatory, where as Narinder is now trapped here within the world above, they have switched places and stayed below. They deserve every punishment. They deserve it. They deserve it.

Narinder hunches over and pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers digging into the temples and pressure points in his head. A headache accompanies him. The nightmares and the bloodloss do little to help, and knowing that the lamb will soon ask him to spare another undeserving sibling makes it worse. He should slaughter his siblings again once they rescued, and take the lamb out with them. They can all go into purgatory together for all he cares. They can all be erased, preferably.

Or maybe he’ll keep them alive, shells of what they once were when he strips them of every ounce of power they once possessed. How demeaning, he thinks, to serve under The One Who Waits after dedicating hundreds to over a thousand years to lock him away. He’d keep them existing then, reduced to nothing but mortal fodder, and servants to his will, and every torture he’s known will make use of itself as he gives out due punishment.

It is all hopeful, burrowing thoughts in his mind. Wishful thinking that would not seem so far-fetched if he wasn’t currently sitting on the floor of a cultist hut with his own blood trickling back down his throat while Narinder remanences tearing out his sister’s, or the other parts of his family.

The headache is throbbing against his skull and drumming behind his eyes. It stings when he opens them and lines of light break through the curtains and shine back. Narinder drags a hand down his face and presses against the skin there. Fleshy body, far too mailable. When you spend over a thousand years in the land of the dead with little for sensory enrichment, often dreaming of such a place again, the new assaults of the world above can be too much at times. Even now, as he wakes from his nightmares, the lights are too bright, the air is too dry, and it smells like old wood, blood, rot and now a faint citrus scent because the sun light oh-so-perfectly landed on his bedside table and melted the candle a bit-

…Rot?

Narinder looks down at himself, the floorboards, and pats the space around him. The wood doesn’t give way when he presses his hand against it, and appears to be the same dark-brown color. The fibers of his tunic look intact and there’s no body part of his that looks to be decaying. The ichor he wiped away stains the sheets, but that only smells of blood. He hasn’t rotted anything.

Not to mention that this smell was faint and rather old. Whatever it is, it wasn’t fresh. Narinder’s nose twitches. He stands, gives another scan of the room (Everything looks to be in order; or really, as ‘orderly’ as the mess he left it to be) and turns towards the door. A small breeze comes from underneath it, and with it comes the smell.

The God of Death approaches his front door and swings it inwards.

There is a bowl of…something on his doorstep, with a tiny ripped piece of parchment left to the side of it.

It’s a typical bowl made of wood and grass, but it’s contents are dark red and lumpy. There’s a more pungent scent coming from it now that it’s directly in front of him. The cat bends down with narrowed eyes. It’s food of some sort, of fashioned to look like food at the very least. Doesn’t look like anything he’s ever seen the lamb make, and it certainly doesn’t look appetizing in the slightest.

Narinder looks up from it; it’s early in the morning. Not many villagers were awake, and the few that were are already getting ready to work. He looks back down to the ‘meal’ and picks it up with one hand, the other finding the note left to the side of it. The contents jostle when he stands with it, and Narinder’s face scrunches back when the goop shifts enough in order to reveal a little bit more of-oh.

This was gore. Literal, chopped up pieces of gore. Body parts grinded up and partially cooked, sloshed with who-knows-what-else and blended to make a completely vile concoction, slopped into a bowl and left at his doorstep. It couldn’t have been regular hunting meat either; not with the pieces of hair and what looks to be pieces of bone poorly mixed into this abomination. By the smell of it, the ‘meat’ was at least a few days old from it’s owner’s death. The contents are horrific. A regular follower consuming this would quickly become sick and no doubt die.

Narinder’s face pulls into a grimace, and his eyes track to the note. It unfolds in his other hand:

Breakfast. Tried something new. - The Lamb.

No, that’s wrong. The Lamb did not write this note.

Lambert is very aware Narinder cannot eat. They’ve only pointed that detail out maybe a hundred times or so. The flock, however, does not.

…Not to mention the handwriting is all wrong. He’s seen the lamb write doctrines and scribble in their book for hundreds of years through the crown; their writing was horrific when they first started, only marginally getting better as the centuries passed and even then it’s penmanship is still scribbly and improper for a cult leader. No matter how well-read the lamb became over the years, Narinder still remembers they write too big for their lines, and every note they’ve left him since his arrival, and even before then, had a crude doodle in the corner whether it be camellias or fish or little images of the red crown.

(And even if Narinder didn’t remember the minor details of his usurper’s penmanship and even if he could eat, he knows them well enough that they are too soft-hearted to send mutilated gore to his doorstep even as a prank.)

Someone in the flock thinks him an fool.

The ‘meal’ and the bowl it resides in all appear to be completely organic at least, so it’s little effort for him to channel enough power through the palm of his hand and decay the entirety of it. It rots rapidly. Whatever-or whoever-remains in the bowls and stunk of corpse is rotted even quicker until it’s nothing but dark red and grey ash that Narinder tips his hand over to let fall to the ground. The front of his hut will smell like the remnants of it until the wind carries it away. If he’s lucky, it will keep any more stragglers away from his place of rest.

The parchment is crumpled in his hand. Narinder looks out to the village.

-

Jayen is a rather large bear, big enough that he takes up the biggest bed in the healing bay they have available. It is, fortunately, not the same bed that he died in months ago, but at the very least he was sitting here with an upset stomach and shaking hands instead of missing one limb and slowly rotting from the cut-off wound and upwards.

His fingers shake as he works the wooden spoon into the sludge. Boiled cabbage and beetroot soup. Lumps of veggies mashed together. A delicacy in this time of famine, and the Lamb was kind enough to bring it to him in person directly from the kitchen. They look at him with pity in his eyes, and it makes him shrink. He’s four times their size and yet the bear still feels so entirely small as the leader lays a gentle hand over his own, as if to calm the shaking so he might eat properly.

“It will pass. Some time away from work will do you some good.” The Lamb is smiling. A wooden cup of water is brought up with their other, and the leader kindly gesture for Jayen to drink. “There are others who have been in your place, only a few, but sharing grievances with them and me might help. The confessional is also open longer, so as long as you’re not afraid. Writing your thoughts down will help that process along as well.”

He is afraid. Constantly. It plagues him. Anxiety isn’t so much as something that haunts him as it has become him. Jayen has little to offer to the cult otherwise. The bear’s head hangs down in shame. “I cannot help you, leader…the cult, I-” The bear’s voice is deep, and it stammers. “I cannot hunt. The squeals of the critters are too much for me.”

The Lamb nods once, still smiling, and they know. Jayen has never been a good worker, not that he doesn’t try, but he is useless. His job at the refinery was subpar when everything he made wasted half the material in order to produce something worth while. He jumps at the noise a pickaxe makes as it mines stone, and the bear was far too uncoordinated with an axe in order to lumberjack without consequence. Every meal he’s cooked in the kitchen has ended up burnt or tasting of something sour, and his stomach is far too queasy to handle the janitorial duties of the cult. Worship and record keeping sounds like good jobs until Jayen gets to the part where he needs to memorize the mantras and draws up a blank. He would give farming another go, but after stepping on too many pumpkins did the farm leader ban him from the fields.

The bear is not useful. He eats too much of their resources, whines too loudly, and provides nothing. He wonders if there was a point at all for the lamb to bring him back from the dead.

“Hey, now.” The Lamb’s hand brings him back from his thoughts. Their hand pats his own. His face must have shown his spiral. “We will find something for you to do. You’re strong. The lumberjacks could use someone to carry wood back and forth from the mill to the construction sites.” The leader is ever-comforting. “But for now, you should rest. I will not have my faithful work while they are sick.”

Sick with a different sort of illness other than physical, but it plagues him still. Jayen tries to smile back, and sips from the water. For the moment, it will be okay.

Until the curtain suddenly sways open, a hooded figure wearing a veil steps in, and three crimson eyes scan the room, glossing over him for a brief second before looking away with disinterest and finding the lamb. “Get up. I need to speak with you.”

Every fiber in the bear’s body goes cold, hairs raised on his end, limbs frozen. The Reaper! It came to kill him again!

The cat’s face is hidden behind the silk veil, but one of his ears twitch as if he could hear the bear’s thoughts directly. The Lamb must not have been expecting his presence either, because they blink at Jayen, and their head slowly turns to the other in the room with a look of concealed confusion. “Oh. You’re out of your hut for once.” Spoken out loud as if to confirm it themselves. “…I can speak to you in a minute. I’m taking care of something right now.”

“Do not put me in a queue with the rest of your flock.” The cat’s hands twitch at his sides like he might drag the leader out with him. He does not, but the lack of does not stop Jayen’s mind from running miles a minute. Will he attack them again? Attack him, maybe? Will Jayen die once more defending the leader from this thing? But the leader is behaving so kindly to him. They’ve extended such hospitality to a murderer…then why is he here, now? If he was not in isolation? What purpose? To kill him again?

Or maybe the lamb has had enough of him. Maybe the lamb is rightfully annoyed with his lack of progress, and his usefulness has proven null. The harvest ritual failed, they said, and there are so many mouths to feed. Sacrifice has not been done for many years, and times were hard, and this cat is staring at him. Oh, he is here to kill him! He is to become a sacrifice. That will make use of Jayen finally. The only thing he is good for, and the reaper has come to decay him for a second time-

“Bear.” The Reaper hisses, low and agitated. His tail swishes annoyed behind him, and there is a feeling of cold that comes with his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. Stop sniveling.”

Jayen shrinks further into himself.

He thinks he might start to tear up was the Lamb suddenly moves in-between line-of-sight between him and the cat, plants a hand firmly against the Reaper’s chest (Solid and flat-palmed, far too casually intimate for their leader to handle a killer, it’s unusual) and all but push the cat towards the tent’s exit curtain. The Bear watches in stunned silence as the Reaper, even with his height over them and increasing in anger at the touch, seems to move backwards along with it.

“Quit it. You are NOT helping.” The Lamb’s voice is almost a whisper to the cat, and Jayen doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be looking at. “Can’t you wait for just a minute?”

The Reaper hisses something vile and demonic, recognizes as such because the bear’s ears burn for a second as the grumble leaves his teeth before he shoves the lamb’s hands off of him and stomps out of the tent.

The Leader sighs, and when they turn back to the bear, they’re wearing their ever-present smile once more. “I apologize for that. My friend can be rather impatient at time, ironically enough.”

He doesn’t know what they mean by that. Jayen sits as still as possible as his nerves fray even as the Lamb sets his food on the bedside table, pulls a book out from their crown’s storage, and lets it settle on his lap. When he doesn’t respond to it, they place his hands over the cover. “This is a story from my library I believe you might relate to. I know you can read. You may borrow it for the time being. I have others for you to read while you recover, should you finish this quickly.” They talk a little bit quicker than they were before. Something tells Jayen that they are leaving a little sooner than they planned, but they’re polite as they do.

The Lamb stands up, pleasantly bidding him farewell. “Worry not. Take this time to settle. I’ll take care of you, and the rest of the flock.”

They exit through the curtain, and there’s a quick sound of whispering with a curt hiss that fades away with retreating footsteps. Jayen doesn’t know what just happened.

Outside of the healing bay, Lambert has ‘chased’ the cat away from earshot of the tents (if by ‘chased’, one meant to approach Narinder openly until his avoidance of touch and his dislike of being within close proximity works as a deterrent to steer him off in another direction) and only stops when they’re somewhere in-between the fields and the graveyards, and shoots him a look. “You’ve gotta stop accidentally traumatizing my flock. I want them to like you.”

Narinder ignores them. “Someone left something outside my door.”

Their face switches, and brightens. “Oh, that’s sweet! Looks like I’m not the only one leaving you offerings-”

“It was poisoned food.”

A pause. “Ah.”

He pulls the note from his robes, crumpled with wrinkles now but readable still, and holds it out. The lamb’s gaze flits between him and it before they take it, unfolding it and giving it a quick scan. They don’t take long to speak. “I didn’t write this.”

“I know.”

Their brows furrow, squinting at the handwriting. It’s too plain to be recognizable. “What exactly did they leave you?”

Narinder’s ear twitches when the sound of construction in the distance gets a little louder. He’d prefer to be in hut than standing here. “Rotten meat, mixed with other vile things.”

They think for a minute, their face locked in confusion. “We don’t have any left over meat to go rotten. What we get from hunts or missionary trips is used rather quickly, so there’s not enough to spare for a sort of meal like that.” Their head lifts up from the note. “Maybe one of the kitchen staff saw something.”

“It was not regular meat.” Narinder states.

Lambert turns back to him, and for a moment, he watches the realization click behind their eyes. “Show me the bowl.”

He answers curt. “I decayed it.”

“You-what? Why?” Waste of a good bowl aside, they have half a mind to ask if that’s his first response to seeing anything that displeases him. “That makes it a little bit more difficult for us to investigate if you got rid of the evidence.”

“Because it’s stench was offensive, lamb. Despite my tolerances, I don’t care to hold onto rotting carcasses.” He snaps, then pauses. “And you would deteriorate if you saw one of your flock chopped up into pieces. I have done you a favor. Take my word for it.”

Lambert stares at him for a minute longer than what he’s comfortable with. There’s a mixture of concern, confusion, and thoughtfulness across their features. “That’s…oddly considerate of you. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

He would like for them to shut up now. Narinder’s mouth curls into a thin line, and looks away from the lamb to the graveyard. “It is not for your benefit. I’d start counting your cultists if I were you.”

“No need. Everyone was already accounted for during morning sermon and during work check-ins.” They follow his gaze to the graveyard, a place where he only meant to rest his eyes, but the realization was starting to dawn on them both. “…Everyone alive, that is.”

Without prompt, the lamb walks past the entrance of the graveyard and further into it. The cat follows out of curiosity, only because there seems to be a purposeful direction in where the lamb goes. They stop in front of a freshly dug grave, one with a wooden marker in the ground, too fresh that a stone has not been carved for it yet.

“The elder that passed away while we were on a crusade was buried here. They were the most recent of the flock to die.” The crown is shifted into a dagger, flying to the lamb’s hand. It flickers in their palm for a second, but they pay no mind to it, shoving it into the soil. It’s loose. Dirt grains away like sand. It’s not as compact as it should be; graves were tended to almost personally. The ground here would have been flat and packed enough so it’s occupant would not be disturbed. The dirt looks to have been shifted, and put back after displacement. Their face scrunches together. “Someone has been digging here.”

“So one of your flock harvest a dead body.” Narinder scoffs from behind them as Lambert stands. “Congrats. You will mourn no new fodder’s death today.”

It’s concerning. They don’t doubt Narinder is telling the truth about body parts in a bowl, but there’s no reason why someone would go that far to make a prank to the local hermit. “Maybe someone wanted to scare you, or just pull a really awful prank. I cannot think of anyone in the cult who would have the guts to do such a thing.” They step back from the grave. Already desiccated, they’ll try not to hurt it ay further. “There are some questionable morale among some members, but they’re still not exactly the type to get their hands dirty. They’re not as…hard stomached, as previous generations were.”

Narinder clicks his tongue. “No thanks to your sheltering.”

“Hush.” The lamb shushes him, and the cat thinks he might see red for them daring to do such to a god. The anger dissipates too quickly, however, when his vessel turns back to him with lines of worry in their expression. “Whatever it is, I cannot bring it up to the flock. It might cause panic. May it be a dissenter or someone’s sick idea of scouting you out…” They think for a moment as the crown returns to their head. “You don’t exactly have favorable rumors about you. People would think you were the one doing it.”

Narinder looks at them dull. “I don’t care what your flock thinks of me.”

“I think some still think you’re a cannibal that dissenters get fed to.” They straighten their posture, their tone turning almost light-hearted. “I…may be at fault for that. I did send one your way at the start. People still think you ate him.”

His ear flicks. “You used my anger as a way to take out the trash.”

“In my defense, I didn’t expect for you to kill him.”

“So you’re just dumb, then.”

Lambert fakes offense. “Nari.”

“What part of God of Death do you not understand?”

“The part where he thinks he’s allergic to fun and friendship.” They’re more relaxed now, too much so for the new information.

It irks him a bit. “I should have made you eat that dreadful dish and had your flock use your corpse to cook another.”

“Yeah? Another lambchop joke?” They snort, and it comes out high pitched. “If it was made of me, would you eat that one?”

Narinder opens his mouth, stills, then shuts it closed with an audible snap.

That’s hilarious. Lambert laughs. Stress still in their face, but their smile reaches their eyes. The God of Death can only stand there awkwardly because his vessel is taking his insults and threats as playing, and he’s…not…not that upset about it.

How undignified. He should push them or something.

The lamb collects themselves, clearing their throat before he can think of something properly threatening. “Promise me you won’t eat any poison dishes, and I’ll be ready to leave to Anura tonight with you. We can figure out with mystery later.” With a quick rip, the note is torn into pieces and left to fly away in the wind. Lambert’s tone drops slightly. “I think we’ll have enough to be concerned about fighting your sister. You just worry about one problem at a time, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Ever the diligent cult leader. The anger and hate in Narinder’s dormant attitude boil up at the mention of his family, and all energy he had for talking is immediately sapped from him. The hooded cat turns, grumbling something under his breathe about rot and fodder. “I leave at sundown. Come or don’t, lamb. I will not wait for your chores any longer.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” The lamb salutes somewhere behind him, and they watch his tail sway back and forth as the cat stalks off.

When Narinder is far enough away, the salute falls and the smile drops. Lambert looks back to the graveyard and the disturbed soil, and frowns.

The God of Death is going to be increasingly emotional  soon. That by itself is going to be something he, and them, are going to toil with. They can push aside their feelings about the resurrection of Bishops so long as they can distract themselves with the flock’s wellbeing, and keeping their cat happy (well, about as happy as Narinder can get) The last thing they need is something, or someone, in the flock to test their luck, or Narinder’s generosity with their flock might come to a sudden end. The less stress on the cat, the better.

Yet another problem for the cult leader’s roster. Lambert inhales deeply, straightens their posture, and walks towards the kitchens.

-

They meet him at the exit stone past sundown notably late, and for some unknown forsaken reason, they’re holding a handful of dirt and an empty satchel. “Sorry! I had to grab something, but I’m ready to go now.”

From what he can see, its just a fistful of normal soil being shoved inside the smaller bag, then promptly dropped into the crown’s storage. He watches as the lamb dusts off their hands. “Should I even ask?”

“I wanted to experiment with something tonight, but since we’re leaving a bit early than I planned, I’ll just do it when we have a break.” They use their fleece to wipe off any remainders from their palms. It will not matter if it dirties it considering it will be stained with blood soon enough. “I think I might try something that will help with the famine. Since the harvest ritual will probably fail again, and Leshy or you won’t help, I’ll just have to grow things on my own.”

He scoffs. “You lack the power, even with the full crown.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“On your own? Not even before the split could you achieve such a thing. Rituals require your follower’s devotion for a reason.”

Lambert shrugs. “I’ll use my own devotion. Don’t I count?”

There’s something underlying there that he does not have the energy to unpack. Narinder turns away and heads out of the compound. “You’re insufferable. I’ll gladly watch you fail, though.”

-

For all the power that Narinder possess, the Lamb still has their own. He has the advantage now of curses and a scythe summoned to his will with the touch of death at his fingertips. The Lamb has no curses anymore, and their healing factor has reduced, but they still rush in headfirst without fear of death. Lack of fear makes one foolhardy, and even if every sap of power were to be drained from them they would still possess the combat knowledge and skills they developed on their own after centuries of crusading.

Where as the God of Death can be as swift as he is brutal, the Lamb is ten times worse with a hammer.

It’s a nice change from the sword, they think. A little messy (blades can draw blood, but blunt objects splatters it across the trees and grass and all over the front of their wool along with brain matter and shattered bone) and gives their arms a good workout too. They can’t be as fast as usual, and Narinder is a blur in comparison in battle. Hard to dodge too, but Lambert’s got good aim, and they don’t have to dodge when all of the enemies turn into mush with one swing.

So far, their favorite move is the ‘twister’. Or the ‘whirlwind’. Or maybe they’ll call it the ‘spinning really fast with the hammer out and obliterating anything that gets in their way’ move. They’re still working on the name.

The God of Death watches from afar as his vessel spins in a moving circle with the hammer out, thus knocking the teeth and brain out from nearby heretics when they try approaching and their fleece flying out behind them like a trail. “It’s kinda like dancing if you give it a go! Just gotta get a really good speed when you start spinning!” They yell out over the sound of crushed bones.

A few heretics have lost their nerve at watching their comrades get obliterates. Narinder stands in the shadows and looks on dully as they forgoes their spears and swords and reach for the bows and arrows tied to their backs.

“Can’t do it for long, though, but you eventually get enough speed to do-” They plant their foot firmly in the ground, stop spinning, and allow the momentum to throw the hammer across the clearing directly towards the remaining heretics. “This!”

It slams into the first heretic hard enough that ribs and organs pulverize on impact, knocking them into the heretic behind them and throwing both back into the trunk of the tree where there’s a sicking snap of spines breaking and the low gasp and cough of final breathes being pushes out from crushed lungs. The bodies go limp and slump to the ground leaving a trail of blood sliding down the trunk. The hammer falls with it, and it’s resting spot is the caved-in torso of the first heretic it hit who’s insides have no doubt turned into soup. This area is clear.

Lambert, however, is still locked in a slow spin. “It’s cool, but it- it uh, makes me-” They’re wobbly, feet misplaced, and their spin slows into a disoriented dance. “Makes me kinda dizzy-oof.”

They fall onto their back with a thud. Face towards the sky, arms and legs splayed out around them with their fleece as red wings, Lambert waits for the world to stop spinning. “So, uh. Yeah. I can’t do it a lot. Pretty sure I died once because I made myself too dizzy.”

Footsteps. Narinder approaches with scythe in hand. Dark fur stands in complete contrast to the light orange and yellow leaves and mushrooms in Anura. His head blocks the sunlight perfectly to shield their eyes, and Lambert has half a mind to joke about a halo behind him. The cat looks unimpressed. “You did. It was one of your many lackluster deaths.”

Lambert blows stray strands of wool of their eyes. It falls right back in their vision, and they try again twice before giving up and letting their eyes shut closed. The ground was cold, but they’ll rest here a little while longer. “Not my worst, though.”

The cat above them grunts. “Still an unorthodox way to take out your enemies in a timely manner.”

They blow a raspberry. “Crusading can get a little tedious after a hundred years or so. I gotta find ways to keep it light hearted or I’ll go nuts.”

“So you decided to dance with them...if one would even call any of that dancing.” He says. “I’m surprised you aren’t still singing.”

Lambert’s eyes fly open, and immediately squint one of them when a piece of wool touches their eyeball and makes it burn. They blow it away again and the breeze pushes it right back. “…What do you mean?”

The light casting a shadow across his face obscures it just enough they cannot see the fine lines of his expression, but hesitance wavers in Narinder’s voice. “…You used to sing. You hummed during your crusades. I heard you through the crown. You have not done so since my arrival.”

Ah. Well. That’s embarrassing. “Oh, yeah.” Lambert clears their throat, and looks away towards the clouds, the trees, or anywhere that wasn’t in the direction of the cat’s face. “I forgot you could tune in whenever you wanted, back then.”

“I had to survey your progress.” There is a pause that lasts for a few heartbeats, before Narinder continues with a casual tone. “It was not songs I had heard in my time before my imprisonment.”

It is such an open statement, (well, at least open for him) to invite continued conversation that Lambert begins to answer before they can dwell on it. “Dunno if I would call them songs. It’s just stuff my dad would hum when I was a kid. Think it’s all made up, anyways-”

They stop. Their teeth dive into their tongue and their jaw locks tight. The lamb’s eyes dart to his face quick and wide, and watch the cat’s figure.

His expression is unreadable, but crimson stares down at them. Analytical. Observant. The light behind his head only made his fur look darker.

Narinder’s head tilts.

“Speaking of music, some of the flock know how to play instruments. We have lutes and flutes and drums now, and some of our own members can hold a tune well enough to sing.” Lambert smiles. (The ground is not soft enough anymore; it will not sink further to put any distance between them and him.) “You’ll have to listen in. You’ve yet to tell me your favorite sort of music, either. It’s not like you can rot the concept of sound, right? We’d have plenty of music for when we have the wedding feast. Assuming we ever get to that, you know.”

(Their chest feels tight. Their throat is starting to dry.)

“It would really help if you were willing to partake in the harvest ritual.” They go back to that. They’re still smiling. The wool is stinging their eyes. “I bet everyone would love you for it; I sure would.” Their legs and hands feel glues to the grass. They do not look, but a shift in Narinder’s grip suggests it tightens around the scythe, and his hand moves in the corner of their vision. “I mean, I know you’re not going to. And I’m not going to force you. You’re going to hear a lot of people complain about eating grass gruel for a long time, though-”

“Your bell.” Narinder states.

The lamb looks up at him with cornered eyes. Their shadowed figure lays still, even as Narinder’s arm raises slightly, and the scythe’s blade comes slowly towards them. “What?”

“I prefer things that do not grate against my ears.” The scythe’s blade comes right up to their face, up to their eyes. He says nothing about them not moving to avoid it, gazing right back up to him, even as the edge of the blade is used to carefully push back the tuft of wool against the lamb’s forehead. He holds it steady there. “Your bell would be an example, among other things.”

It made sense. He doesn’t like it when heretics scream for too long lest he gain a headache, even if he was actively torturing them. His fur was raised on end when the relic called down lightening and thunder. He spends his hours in quiet meditation when the lamb is not bleating at his door. A god trapped for a thousand years in a land of deathly silence was still not yet used to all the new sorts of noise.

“Oh!“ Lambert perks up. His transparency is surprising, but welcome. Their hand comes up to jingle the bell, and say nothing of the weapon still holding back their wool. ”Is that why you gave me a bell? I didn’t know if there was ever a meaning to it, or if you just did it for aesthetic purposes. Never figured it was for a sound thing.“

His ear flicks. “That is not the reason why I gave you that.”

“I like it anyway.” The sentence ends, and silence fills the air. It needs to be replaced with talking or Lambert’s nerves will increase. “Do you purr?”

Even shadowed, crimson eyes widen and stare dumbfounded for a second. The question is so out of the blue that Narinder appears to go as still as a statue. “Excuse me?”

They’ve diverted further away from the original topic. Good. “I know cats purr, I think. Held a kit once a century after she was born; heard it a little bit there, but I’ve never really heard what it sounds like past that. Or why you guys do it. Is it just for family? Or is it something you guys can’t do on command?” They ramble, arms stretching to the side to wane their muslces in their shoulders. The blade keeps their wool from their eyes and gives them a clear view of the cat above who seems all the more increasingly stunned by their questions. “I know it’s supposed to be like...growling? But not in a bad way. I’ve been told it’s like, rumbly.” A pause. “I think…didn’t you do that in the gateway? Or was that growling?”

Narinder blinks. “…We only do it when we’re happy.”

“Oh, okay.” That does not answer their question, but they’ll push with another. “So...”

“So, what.”

“Do you purr?”

“No.”

“Ah.” They move their hand up to their face. Their knuckles brush the blade. “Because you’re not…happy?”

His nose wrinkles with distaste, and his tone drips heavy with sarcasm. “My power is split and stolen, my revenge ruined, my imprisoners receiving a second chance at life while mine is squandered into this form, and I have a pathetic, bleating traitorous little lamb as my vessel. Take a guess as to why I’m not happy.”

The scythe shifts slightly. It does not cut into them, the edge piece moving slightly so that the eye on the handle can glower down at them from upside down. Lambert’s eyes meet the scythe’s, and find that they have all the warmth that the God of Death’s does. “Ah.” They blink at it. They don’t know why they expected it to blink back. “What would make you happy then?” A quick pause before they add on. “That doesn’t include killing me, your siblings, or any of my flock.”

They look back to him, and Narinder is staring.

Lambert continues. “Or torturing or maiming anyone.”

He doesn’t respond. His tail flicks behind him once.

Lambert hums. “You stare a lot. Do you know that you do that?”

Suddenly, the scythe is removed and his arm pulls back and upwards. Sunlight glints off the blade in the air-

Lambert rolls to the side just in time before the blade sinks into the ground where their neck was seconds prior. The soil is damp and cold, so it punctures halfway up the blade; the eye’s pupil following their movement even as they flip back up to their feet. There’s no other attack past that. His decapitation attempt was slow enough they could have probably caught it with their hands.

Narinder yanks the blade out from the soil with a blank expression, and Lambert dusts the dirt off their fleece and wool, and blow air out from their nose. “I give that assassination attempt a solid two.”

“The number shall increase should you irritate me further.” His posture straightens, and Narinder looks away to view into the path that they must take to continue onwards instead. The scythe’s pupil is still offset from it’s center, watching them. Lambert sticks their tongue out at it. It’s glare feels a little warmer.

With a cast of their hand, palm outwards, they call the crown. Sitting patiently at the edge of the clearing in hammer form, it does not fly back into their grip but instead ‘rolls’ towards them (by that, it means it flips bouncing across the ground with heavy thud, thud, thud until the handle flies up and pushes itself into their hand.) and they let it hang at their side. “Alright, breaks over. Let’s go.”

-

They run into her on the second night.

The lamb’s cloak is stained fresh with blood, not that it really shows because of it’s color. The God of Death’s is stained at the edges only, having stayed back and letting his vessel take care of most of the combat. Lambert says nothing of this, and never will, for they expected as much. Narinder shall ruminate on the very near future as facing his sister seems to approach closer and closer. He spends more time in thought than usual, though they recognize this expression. It’s one he held back before Leshy’s arrival; hesitance and hatred and silence. His lack of conversation does not prevent him from taking a blade to the frog monsters that come upon them on his own accord, though, so thus the end of his robes are stained red.

When the world starts to shift slightly at the edges as they walk down the path, Lambert stops mid-walk and starts to pat out all the winkles, dirt, and twigs from their wool and fleece. The hammer is transformed back into a crown on top of their head as they work to pull any debris out from their wool. They are not clean by any means, not that they mean to hide what their crusades do; the woman they approach knows full and well how many lives they have taken. Still. She was a sweet one, and Lambert combs out their wool with their fingers so as to not make her worry.

Narinder stops when they do, and one brow is arches in unspoken confusion.

Lambert finishes, looks to the cat (he’s not as misshapen as they were, but he’s not exactly the friendliest looking creature either) and reaches over to brush off a leaf from his back shoulder. “Do you have your veil with you?”

A fang pops out in annoyance at their hand touching him, but he does not move from it. He merely glares as their hand drops. “Why?”

“We are about to meet someone.” Their ears point upwards.

The unspoken hint is taken. Narinder grumbles something about wasted time under his breath as the scythe dissipates, his hood is pulled up and one hand goes under his shawl, past the first layer of robes on his chest and pulls out a veil. When he ties it on, the veil paired with the low light of the night obscures his face completely. Even the eyes are hidden behind a sheet of black, completely unviewable. They would prefer it not to be, but knowing the cat, he would like some warning before hand so he can choose to wear it.

“Forneus is a sweet, old soul.” Lambert tells him. Their certain he already knows this from looking through the crown. They reassure him anyway. “I won’t take long to look at her wares, we’ll be in and out in no time.”

Narinder says nothing. There is no expression to scope behind the veil, and his body language is as unreadable as ever. Lambert presses on.

The clearing lights up softly with the low lights she keeps near her carriage. Storage boxes she’s put to the side to make room for her tables and set ups are placed at random, chairs and blankets and bottles of potions. She’s a large cat, always decked in plaid one pieces and overalls that she always seem to have several different colors of the same style for. A crown not unlike Ratau’s own sits upon her brow, though it’s shape and make are questionable. The lamb is not surprised to see her sitting behind her wares, her shop not quite set up, busying her hands with something in her carriage’s storage.

The lamb bounds up in gleeful greeting. “Hello, Forneus!”

The cat jumps slightly, but spins around with all her due joy. “Ah, Lamb! O’ Generous fortune to this day, so that we meet!”

Poetic soul, lovely type. Her voice is smooth and comes well within her throat. Comfort radiates off of this shopkeeper, and as Lambert has come to know her; their friend. “How’s the store going?”

As if to emphasize, the cat pulls out brown paper packages wrapped in twine, plopping them onto the table and putting her hands on her hips. “Thou does not remember? My wares! Books and pretties and gems all but taken by thee, and left me with a little to sell. Little to complain, though, for my pockets were full o’ coin.” She laughs, and it is a hearty sound. “The birds have bought what thy has not, and I have only just recovered such trinkets. Gifts for thy, as well!”

“As do I.” The lamb beams. The crown’s storage opens up and out comes something soft, wooly and warm. “I had the tailor make you some mittens for winter. They are of my own wool. You complained about the cold hurting your joints in your fingers last season.”

Forneus accepts it as such, face crinkling up in delight. She slips one on and wiggles her her fingers. Her tail curls with happiness, and her ears perk up. “O’ blessed lamb! You are one to fill my heart!” She tests them out, cooing and doting over the mittens. With them, she grabs one of the packages, neatly labled with the word ‘lamb’ on the front in black ink. “I am not so unprepared, for I hope this fills thee as much as thy warm me.”

“Did you bake something nice for me?” Lambert smiles. She likes them. Good. It is the very least they could do for her after everything she’s done for them. A friend like her is not often to come across over centuries, and certainly not one that lives as long as she does. They fear to ask her of her supposed immortality or lengthen lifespan, as if it might disappear should they bring it up. It would not be the first friend they would lose.

It’s too quiet behind them. Lambert looks over their shoulder, and spies the God of Death a few paces away. He has said nothing, and moved none during the entire interaction. They wonder if Forneus has noticed him at all, or if he was trying to appear unnoticeable on purpose.

If he was, they mess him up, because Forneus looks up from her mittens and follows the lamb’s gaze. She perks up. “Oh! You bring another with you!”

Narinder stiffens.

Forneus looks down to the brown package and ponders for a moment. “Oh, I hope this is enough to share, then. Fear I did not have enough sugar for sweetness.”

“Whatever you make for me is always a treat, Forneus. It will be enjoyed.” They smile. Footsteps come from behind them. Lambert has turned back to larger cat, but they feel the God of Death calmly, quietly walk up to the space behind them. Not quite standing besides them, but he lingers in the lamb’s shadow. His face veiled, even against her lanterns. They try not to turn around to face him, instead keeping eyes forwards, and hands outstretched. “Such treats will fuel me in my crusade. I cannot thank you enough.”

“O’ Crusader, thy shan’t forget to spoil thyself. You work too hard.” She hums, letting the gift drop into their hands. It’s weighs little, and what’s inside seems to give way to their fingers when they grasp it.

In a moment that seems to freeze the cold air to ice around them, Forneus looks from Lamb to cat. “Might I meet thee, cat? It is not common I see another black cat such as I, though the years have taken their toil I promise thy I am still as fuzzy as the rest of my kin!”

She does not recognize him at all.

Narinder says nothing. That part was expected. Lambert’s posture straightens and takes the role of the mediator. “This is my friend, The o-”

In frame of time that last for barely a second and a half, they feel a claw dig into their back. Narinder’s hand is pressing into the curve of their lower spine, through their fleece, and discreetly digging his fingers past the fabric and into their wool.

It does not feel like a threat.

Don’t.

“My companion.” Says the lamb, and they think of something differently quickly. “He is fairly new to the cult. Some might choose to change their names when they join. He is still deciding who he is.”

It’s the most solid story they could come up with, and it seems to suffice when Forneus nods in chipper understanding. The claws stop digging into their wool. The hand lingers before it drops.

Forneus, the sweet, does not notice or take care that the silent, faceless cat appears that he wants to leave. If anything, she appears happier with the information. “Ah, a guardian for the lamb, then! Often I would fear for loneliness to befall you, that I had never seen you bring another on your journey. I scorn myself foolish for such a thing, but-” She turns from Lambert, to veiled cat with upturned whiskers. “-I worry no longer! For such a handsome young man has thy employed to thy side!”

Lambert’s face heats up slightly. The cold is getting to them, maybe. “He helps me with the crusades. He fights well.”

If Narinder had any qualms of them speaking of him while he was standing right there, he does not care to, or have the courage, to say thing about it.

“Please pardon my manner!” She laughs, and bright eyes turn to the cat once more. “Hark now, friend of the lamb who is deciding himself. Take advice; one can be certain of nothing but the heart’s affections, be as it may to fighting, or baking, or speaking, or another. To find oneself is a perilous journey, one might have to lose thyself in order to complete it.” She offers him a gentle smile, her mitten covered hands pressing together as if prayer. “You need only to listen to your heart, for there lie your truest desires.”

The God of Death’s hood shifts slightly. His shoulders remain tense, and his voice none.

“Thank you.” Lambert bends in a bow to the larger cat, who dips her head in the same respect. “We’ll leave you to your sorting. Don’t let winter freeze you out. Who am I going to get all my good reading material from?”

“I shall try to procure more!” Forneus waves them off as they start walking past her store. Lambert waves back, and Narinder is already several paces in front of them. The larger cat coos. “Good luck to both!”

The clearing shifts. They have reentered the maze once more. While the cat did not posses the magic to make pocket dimensions wherever she went, she possesses something of the sort to protect her place of shop from heretics and to welcome only travelers in her midst, whatever magic that might be. To makes leaving her a little less jarring as once reenters the domain of the Bishops, though enemies await just beyond her space.

They have not yet reached an opening yet, no doubt where heretics might be hiding, when Lambert brings it up. “Aym and Baal have her eyes.”

A clawed hand lunges for them, grabbing the front of their fleece and yanking them inches forwards. It is a violent, sudden action fueled by frayed nerves. Through the veil, they can’t see his face. His knuckles are stretching with how tight he grips them. A threatening action.

Still, Narinder is silent behind the veil. He cannot find the words to speak.

Ah. So the disciples are a trigger point then. They figured as much.

He does not hold them hanging off the ground, but their on the tip of their hooves. Lambert is unphased, and they stare back at death with a neutral expression. “She talked about them sometimes. I put the pieces together after the first century or so, and I know you heard it through the crown as well. Shamura was the one to take them, and bestow them upon you.” Their hand raises upwards, and hovers over his own. “Black kits, taken from the gods, to the send to the one below as a gift.”

His ears are pinned flat back against his head. If the silk had not concealed him, they think he would be snarling. “Silence, lamb.”

“I haven’t asked about it. I was hoping you would bring it up on your own.” Their hand rests on his own, not to pull it away, but they find that his fingers shake when they do. “…Should I expect to wait longer before you bring them up?”

This time, he does growl. “You will know your place, and stop talking.”

“Are they still there? In the Land of the Dead, I mean.” They’re pushing it. Seriously pushing it. The hairs on his arm and neck are bristled and they can feel hate wavering off his claws that are oh-so too close to their neck, but they push anyway. “I remember...when I would die at the start, they always returned even if I defeated them. Until you turned eldritch. I think that means they resurrect, don’t they? They don’t die, or didn’t die, not in anyway that matters-”

“Lamb.” He sneers.

The lamb presses their mouth into a thin line. The crown flickers on top their head as if waiting to be called to defend. They relax it. His grip does not hurt them, and they do not struggle. But they do stare. Plainly and expectant. They’re the closest thing to an anchor he has, in the moment.

“Do not speak of them. They are not of your concern.” He draws them a tad closer as if that is to make his demand any more weighted. “You entangle yourself with my sibling’s betrayal enough. I will not have a traitorous thief speak of my disciples as if you know of them.”

Lambert almost grins at him. They could bite into his hand if they so choose. They don’t. “I don’t know them. But I could, if you talked about it.”

His claws dig a bit into the skin under their collar, and it’s only then does the lamb need to be hyper aware. Narinder growls. “What does it matter to you?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I like learning about you?” Their almost-grin turns into a real one. “I’m your friend. Friends tell each other things. We share heartache. I have gifted you plenty enough to speak of.”

(’They are not friends’ is what they expect him to say.)

He does not. Narinder holds them there, ears craned back, with his other free hand opening and closing like he’s imagining something else.

If he thinks he scares the lamb in the slightest, he would be wrong. They can feel his fingers shake. His hand remains because they allow it. He might know that.

Lambert’s other hand raises, and they pinch the bottom of the veil. Their gaze intensifies to match his own.

He drops them. Merely lets them fall the few inches he had over them until the lamb is flat on their feet again. The veil slips out of their fingers as Narinder takes a step back, shoulders turned away. Lambert watches him in a way that makes him feel small. The warmth from his hand is gone. There is an emptiness at the distance, and Lambert frowns. It would have been preferable to have been held.

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” The scythe is summoned to his hand. The veil has yet to be removed. The blade drops, dragging behind him on the grass. “Not…right now. Move on.”

The God of Death’s nerves fray worse and worse the closer they get to Heket’s temple.

Chapter Text

A stature in the shape of his sister is overgrown with mushrooms and moss.

Large and grand, or at least once was, for his siblings. Many such as these have been erected across Anura from the centuries of his sister’s rule, though this one must have been after his imprisonment, for her bandages have also been memorialized in stone. She might have embraced it’s sight to her grandness, temperamental sister she, who boasts that she will survive and defeat all that oppose her. Once in her temple did she make grand displays of famine’s Bishop the staple, making sure the artisans captured the sharpness of her teeth perfectly as with the curve of her claws. She would have had the stone painted red with the blood of the sacrificed. Her statue’s skin would have matched her mirror image perfectly. It does again, now, with a crack running through the center of her head down to where her throat might have been. Mushrooms spew from the sliver.

Heket would have been enraged to see her statue in such disarray. Narinder would have told her that it matched her more perfectly now. Dirty, moss covered and abandoned.

There is a hand hovering over his back, hesitant to touch him. “Narinder. Come on.”

Their voice is softer than last time. He thinks they remember. Red eyes analyze the statue for all it’s worth; and its not much. The crack that runs down it’s throat looks too thin for something he would have left behind. The feeling still lingers on his claws; stringy gore as he tore out something wet and solid. His claws punctured slimy skin and ripped out something slimier. He could feel the vibrations of Heket’s scream on his palm before he yanks and it cuts off with a wet squelch. It was all very red, then.

“Come.” The lamb’s hand finally does come to rest on his back, and it makes every fiber in his person tense with unwanted presence. He straightens, and flinches away. When he turns back to glare at them, they don’t appear offended. “...Unless you want to stay for a moment.”

He does not. The ground is pulling him under, though. Moss and mushroom stalks and screaming trail up his legs and spike through his spine. There is nothing holding him in place when he looks down. Narinder blinks the blurry corners that threaten his vision. “No. We’re not dwelling here. Move on.”

He turns before they do, scythe dragging behind him, and lets the sound of their following footsteps anchor him to the present.

A voice, deep and coated with anger and hatred. “...Foul beast...You dare trap thus?”

Little sister who croaks and stole food from his plate at ceremonies. Older frog who’s heart became hardened and temperamental with time. The second to chain him. The loudest to yell about it, laughing in vile victory as their eldest read him his last rites and bestowed upon him the title of dishonor. She who Narinder watched as he sent the Lamb to kill her, and kill her they did, and he relished in her death and the look on her face right before he sent her to suffer a repeat of her gruesome fate for a thousand years. Such a fate payed back.

They deserve it. She laughed at him as the chains locked around his wrists.

He used to keep bread in his pockets for when she got hungry.

“They’re using the statues as conduits.” The lamb speaks their own conclusion outload, hammer readying.

Narinder froze last time. This time; his teeth bare with viscous loathing, and let his sister’s hatred fuel his own.

“Brother. Vile Lamb!” The statue does not do her voice justice, it lacks the deep rumble that comes with growling threats. “If you insist I suffer, so shall you!”

Like clockwork, black trails of ichor spill from the statue’s mouth and where the bandage is carved. From the ground is rises from the puddles, forming bodies and monsters. The loyal come when their god calls, and they come baring weapons of teeth, steel and bone.

The lamb is already rushing first, but Narinder is faster.

He’s a blur past them, scythe swinging like a fine line in the air and several are decapitated before their weapon hands are even raised. Lambert does not take the time to witness it, hammer swinging down. In moments several of the heretics are reduced to squashed piles of gore and splatters across the stone. Bone snaps and innards are sprung from their corpses. Anura feeds from their battle, bodies sinking into the domain until there is little left but the bone pieces that aren’t pulverized by the crown’s hammer, or Narinder’s own viciousness.

Lambert crushes the skull of a heretic. Somewhere on their body, they feel their own wet blood trickle down their side and a stinging sensation burning on their right. It is nothing fatal, so they do not pay attention to it, instead turning to their companion.

He has the last heretic, a large foe who’s bravado has diminished greatly upon seeing it’s comrades fall. It has little time to regret or repent for it’s offense as Narinder’s scythe knocks the dagger from the creature’s hands, blade sinking deep within it’s stomach and cutting off it’s deathly scream as it falls to the ground. He lets go of the handle, and the scythe falls with it. Blood spews from the open wound as it’s belly splits open.

Then, Narinder picks up the heretic’s lost dagger, hunches over, pulls his arm all the way back and drives it into their neck.

Then he stabs it again, and then again. And again. And again.

The hammer is hung plainly at Lambert’s side as they watch. They stand there silently while he gets it out of his system, and says nothing until the heretic is long past dead, and there is no more gore to stab into as Anura takes it’s corpse for it’s fuel. “Hey.”

Narinder drives the dagger back into the same spot. It goes past the fine layer of corpse still sinking into the ground, and gets stuck in the soil. His chest heaves. It aches. Anger. Anger. Anger.

Grief, maybe.

“C’mon, Nari.” Quiet voice. Soft spoken. It does not grate on his ears like how the statue did, and it causes his ears to swivel. The footsteps behind him make him realize how starving for air his lungs feel, and he pants lowly. Exhausted. The lamb hovers behind him. They bump the edge of the hammer to the handle of the scythe, a little push to pick it up. They’d grab it themselves had they the permission for it. They do not. Narinder stands up slowly, draws the scythe’s ichor back into his palm, and breathes.

“It’s getting really cold. We should find a camp for the night.” Lambert says. “And maybe a way to wash all of that off of you.”

Narinder blinks. He looks down. The shawl of his robes is absolutely covered in blood. The front that was dyed red seemed to have spread to cover the front of him. It is still wet, fresh. Some have gotten onto his fur. If it dries, it will make the fabric harder and crusted.

The statue of Heket is coated red with blood as well. Her skin has been painted.

“I-” He swallows thickly. “I do not care if I am stained.”

“It’s in your fur, too.” Their eyes trail along his face, along his cheeks and his brow. He cannot feel the blood on his face. He is far too cold, too numb. “C’mon. If we are quick, we might find a heretic camp to take.”

A shuddering breath comes through his teeth, and he’s surprised to see it leaves behind a cloud. The cat turns to walk away from the statue. The Lamb follows.

-

They find one as the sun sets on that third night, only a few clearings away from his sister’s temple.

The camp isn’t a large one, but it will have to do. Some heretics that were staying up as guards were quickly dispatched with a chained spear, and those that were sleeping awoke at the screams, though they woke and reached for their weapons only to see the blunt side of a hammer. A regretful decision, however, as their bodies splatter blood across the inside of the tents they had planned to steal, and so the Lamb sheepishly apologizes for getting too carried away. They’ll just tear the tents apart and use the clean parts to make a overhead tarp to protect them from the wind, and the rest of the unsalvageable material can be thrown into the campfire to keep it roaring.

Lambert is the one in charge of setting up; the firewood, the tarp, and rummaging through their stores for any snack items they can find. There is none, so those are broken down and tossed into the fire as well up until it mimics a near-bonfire they’d host back at the cult. Narinder is in charge of the bodies. While corpses don’t bother them, it’s still generally unpleasant to have rotting bodies near where one sleeps, so the cat forgoes his weapons and chains and lays bare hands on the heretics until they’ve rotted away quicker than what Anura would have done, and tosses the bones into a pile that the lamb will no doubt pick through once they have spare time.

With spare wood and a tarp ripped from a tent, Lambert fashions a lean-to shelter good enough for the night. The slanted wooden side faces the wind, and the tarp opens up to the fire from the front. It’s shabby, and hardly big enough for two people. They snort when Narinder crouches underneath it as soon as it’s put up, and duck their head underneath the curtain. “Is the cold getting to you?”

He hisses at them as he sits, and he has to hunch slightly to prevent his head from hitting the top. “I need to meditate. Leave me be.”

“Here.” From the crown’s storage, they pull out a small corked bottle. A piece of the tarp that was overlapping the ground is ripped off, bundled up, and both items are pushed towards him. “Wet this and use it to clean the blood off.” They drop it into his hands, and smile when the cat looks at the liquid with suspicion. “It’s just soapy water. There’s nothing magical about it, unfortunately. Better to do it in front of the fire so the wetness doesn’t freeze you out.”

He grumbles something incoherent, and Lambert drops the curtain to return to their scavenging.

He left them a nice pile of bones to pick through at the edge of the clearing. He didn’t have to do that, but Lambert spends the next few minutes sifting through the pile for the intact, best pieces with a little grin anyway. The nicest ones are plucked and plopped into the crown’s storage. The rituals, working or not, will still require bones for their attempts. They wonder if they used more than usual, or if they drew their own blood into the mix, would it have a better chance of succeeding even without the other half of the crown’s power?

By the time they’re finished, a brisk wind cuts through the air and the lamb is scrambling back towards the shelter. They bust in, all knees and wool and limbs and calmly acknowledges the hissing, flitting cat that has scooted to the other far side of where they’ve seated as they entered. Their teeth chatter for a minute before the warmth of the fire dispels the chill. “Winter is only a week or so away, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if it starts snowing soon.” Pulling their cloak around themselves, they try to take up as little space as possible. “Have you ever made a snowman before? You should give it a shot.”

Narinder glares at them. His veil was gone and upper torso is disrobed, revealing the tunic beneath. The fabric bunches at his waist, half-gripped in one hand as the wetted rag is in the other. His face is clean now, at least. He appears to have been trying to scrape out the blood from his shawl. “No.”

“Hmm. What about a snow angel?”

“Do you think me a kit?”

The lamb hums. “I just think it’ll be your first snow since you’ve been locked away.”

“I fail to see how that makes it a special occasion.” He returns to his scraping. Dried flakes of blood come off of the fabric and fly away.

Lambert busies their own hands with pulling red out of their wool. “Is your hut warm?”

“Warm enough.” He answers. He does not feel the cold the same way as mortals do; it poses no threat to his form, fortunately. Though that does not mean it makes it any less uncomfortable. The heater that they’ve placed in his hut does well enough to keep it warm. “The cold will not kill me, regardless. It is the same as hunger. A discomfort, but nothing more.”

“Same as me, then.” The lamb pulls a few strands of blood covered wool out from their torso and flicks it into the fire. “Can I see that?”

They’re motioning for the rag. Narinder looks down at his shawl (He’s gotten most of the blood out, but there’s still a faint hint of red in the white that makes it a discolored shade. It’ll need real cleaning when they return.) before dropping the rag into their palm. They grab the bottle from the side, dump the rest on the rag and work the crustier parts of the dried blood out of their wool and from the creases in their fingers. Narinder re-robes himself, tying it back proper as the lamb finishes cleaning up as good as they can get, and tosses blood soiled rag into the fire. It is a few minutes of domestic calmness.

The crowns storage opens once more, and Lambert sticks their arm inside and pulls out the package from Forneus. “You know, my room is kept pretty warm in the winter time if your hut ever gets too cold.” They unwrap the paper; decorated cookies are revealed. “Ratau’s hut too, if you feel like getting away from the cult. I have…a meadow somewhere you could camp out in, if you don’t feel like staying in the cult grounds. It’s not very grand, and the flowers don’t bloom in the winter, but it’s away from everything.”

They stuff a cookie in their mouths and resist the urge to scarf them all down immediately. Hunger plagues them, having gone long enough without food so there are more resources for the flock, and Anura’s domain had a passive power to drain one’s energy over time. Their stomach grumbles as they swallow the cookie half-chewed (soft and chewy, Forneus was the best baker in the Lands of the Old Faith, they’re sure) and they shovel another two down the hole before they turn to Narinder in his silence.

He’s squinting at them. Unsurprising. “Explain your rambling.”

Their voice comes out muffled with food, and they talk even when Narinder’s face deadpans at their manners. “Your brother is at the cult now, and you already spend way too much time in that hut to be healthy. I don’t think it’s good for you. I think it’s messing with your head.” Another bite, they chew for a moment before swallowing, and keep their eyes on the fire. “It’s the same thing I told you when you arrived. You should have somewhere you can go to that isn’t a dingy old hut where no one can bother you-”

“You would bother me.” He cuts them off.

“Maybe.” They bite down on another cookie. They’re already halfway through the pack. “But I figured I’d ask, you know, for your sake.” A pause. The cookie they held to their lips halts in hesitation. “…Especially when more of your siblings arrive.”

Narinder is quiet for a long time. Lambert looks to the flames.

He speaks low. “You think that Heket will go into mortal form once defeated.”

It is phrased as a question, though his tone does not believe it so. The lamb’s hands still, the remaining cookies sit in their hands, and they try very hard not to turn their head. “-And Kallamar, and Shamura.” They say, and inhale as the air next to them tenses. A tightness in their chest twinges, slightly. “I think it’s possible. I don’t know why, but considering how you entered this form, and now your brother...I think it will continue to happen, and if it does, I will have to provide to them the same mercy.”

There is analytical harshness in his tone. “They slaughtered you.”

Lambert’s fingertips feel numb. “I am trying to forgive them.”

“I slaughtered you.” He repeats. Then, he barks a single laugh once; sarcastic. He is used to their ridiculousness. And yet, he sounds off-taken. “They had all of your kind slaughtered.”

Lambert does not respond. The winds cuts through the tent slightly, and a shiver crawls up his fur. The lamb, his vessel, stares blankly into the fire.

“I know.” They whisper.

(“Why are you melancholy?” The One Who Waits had asked. Figures in the sand of the afterlife. Drawn crudely, obscured. Decayed memory. His vessel sits on their knees on the symbol with a blank expression, and draws images of lambs in the sand with their finger. None of them have clear faces.)

(Those drawings remained in there even after he had resurrected them.)

(Aym and Baal asked him what they were supposed to be. The former tried to draw his own with the handle of his staff.)

The air is cold in Narinder’s lungs, and it is far too silent. Something like a weight presses against his ribs. Lambert is no longer eating. The cookies sit untouched in their lap.

“Aym and Baal are-were-my disciples and servants.” Narinder inhales, deep, and hopes the oxygen will steel the crawling unsettled snake that’s coiling around his stomach and up his spine. “They helped me attend to the dead.”

Lambert blinks, once, twice. Their head turns slowly to face him, and he does not look.

“They were-” He cuts off, swallowing a lump in his throat. It is dry. “They would guide souls through the afterlife in times where I could not. They would seek ones that would go astray, or comfort those with difficulty processing their passing. All would remain, but they kept it running smoothly. They were free to roam the Land of the Dead, in all it’s corners.”

He does not look at them, not even as they stare into the side of his face in almost shock. There is a heartbeat of time, perhaps, before Lambert speaks. Their voice is quiet, gentle, like his retelling is a creature they might accidently scare away. “Is that why I didn’t see them sometimes when I came to you in the gateway?”

“Yes.” Inhale, exhale. Keep going. “They were wanderers as much as they were warriors. They would have my domain mapped out by memory alone.”

(And they might be stuck there, still.)

Against his will, his eyes flit to them. The lamb looks like they would like to ask something again. To his relief, they do not.

A pause, then they rummage the package once more. A cookie is bitten and chewed and swallowed, and the lamb is eating again. There’s a hint of a smile with crumbs on their face. “Thanks, Narinder.”

He says nothing. Narinder picks at the dried heretic blood he missed underneath his claws.

“Heket.” They start, because the conversation cannot wait any longer. “You promise not to kill her?”

That is the expected conversation. That is what he knows will bring forth bad memories, and with them; his revenge. It calms him, he thinks, falling back into hatred. It is the closest thing he knows to comfort. “I did no such thing.”

“You promised-”

“That was for my brother, nothing else.” He snaps. “And I have little need for honor when I am dealing with traitors such as you. Do not make me regret it.”

Lambert’s glare is hardening again. Good. It’s easier when they reflect that same anger back onto him as well. If this was to turn into a fight later on, then so be it. They are lucky enough now that he’s allowed them as close as they’ve gotten. He’d like to push them into the fire. Perhaps slit their throat in the night and leave them bleeding into Anura’s soil while he kills his sister by himself. Heket will die tomorrow, whether the lamb likes it or not. He will let them have Leshy’s survival, and even that was on borrowed time. He’ll kill his sister, he’ll murder his brother, and then he’ll erase this damned lamb at the end of it all once all his siblings have been slaughtered in his name. Let them snack on cookies until then.

Silence settles between them. Narinder puts his hands together in his sleeves, dips his head low and closes his eyes. Meditation. Sleep will not take him, not this time. He’ll dig his claws into his palms to prevent it if need be, drawing drops of blood where the lamb cannot see. Another breeze breaks through the tent and he briefly wonders if their wool would be warmer than the campfire’s flames.

It is a while of quiet. Anura bristles. The two of them rest.

His focus is broken by a soft gasp. “Nari, look!”

Brows bunch together, and Narinder stirs from his meditation (Stirs? Was he on the verge of sleep? That wasn’t good.) and lifts his head back up, eyes still shut tight. Firelight dances behind his eyelids. “Quiet, lamb. I was-”

A hand grabs onto his sleeve, and he feels himself get jostled. “Look!”

That snaps his eyes open. He’s about to snarl at them, shove them off, but he stops. Instead, the lamb has thrusted a handful of dirt into his vision. Not from Anura, the soil was too rich. A small satchel on the ground tells him it’s the same bit of soil the lamb brought with them on their crusade. There is the smallest hint of green peaking out from the soil.

The God of Death cranes far back enough that the shelter will allow causing unflattering wrinkles in his chin. The lamb snorts at it. Narinder frowns. “You disturbed me to show me dirt?”

Their eyes are shining bright, teeth white in a wide grin. “I can grow it.”

Satisficed now that they have his attention, the lamb’s shoulders squares. Then, they focus.

Black eyes fill with blood and glow red with power, dripping like tears. The crown’s eye widens, black lightening and fire sparking in it’s helm, and Lambert hears whispers, feels them, channeling down through their hands and up their fingers where it seeps into the soil and finds the roots of the sapling. It grows larger, inch by inch, taller like time is speeding up in their very palm. Puny green leaves spout from the stem, and the center blooms red like blood.

Their head snaps back forwards, and they blink the blood from their eyes, wiping it on their shoulder. In their palm sits a perfectly healthy camellia flower. They laugh victorious. “And you said I couldn’t do it!“

The God of Death stares at it. Well, he’s completely awake now.

The lamb is haughty in their success, boasting the flower like it’s a trophy. “Get proven wrong, cat boy. I can do it without a ritual, and without your help. I have my own godly abilities that I’ll develop on my own!” A pause. “Sort of. By the way, this is the part where I say ‘I told you so’ and you apologize and admit that I was right.”

Narinder shakes from his surprise, and deadpans. “Die.”

The lamb wrinkles their nose at him, and it is not at all mean. It is playful. “I may not have your curses anymore, or the full power you shared…and the Mystic Seller said I’m not quite a god, but it still talks to me. So that must mean I’m something.” They’re grinning as they shake off the soil to the side, cleaning off the flower so it’s roots are showing. A fresh green and red camellia. They hold it out to him, the petals almost hitting his nose. “Here, for you. The first show of my ascension as a gift.”

Narinder’s eye twitches. The pollen might give him allergies. “Is this a threat?”

“Its the opposite of a threat.”

They’re too goofy at this house for too serious of a time. Narinder raises a hand, fingers pinching the stem right above where they hold it. The flower seems to shift then, perking up, and the leaves seem to rise and sprout new budding from the stem-

He pulls away his hand with the flower in tow. It wilts immediately.

The lamb gawks at it, and makes a grab. “Give it back!”

By reflex, he’s holding it out from their reach. He relishes when they groan at the sight of the flower decaying further, and Narinder cannot help but to bark a laugh. “Back, lamb! You said it was a gift!”

“Give it here, you mangy cat-!” They nearly crawl over him, and in that Narinder goes still enough that they’re able to swipe it from his claws and sit back on their haunches. Black eyes widen at the flower limp in their fingers. Rot is spreading through it’s leaves, turning sickly yellow and brown. “Aw. You killed it.”

“I honestly don’t know what you expected.” Narinder brushes down the front of his robes, and non-discreetly shakes off the feeling of the lamb from his fingers. The surprise wears off and a smug grin shows on his face. “I’ll do that to everything. Including you, in due time.”

The lamb sighs, lifting one finger up to one of the petals. It’s wet and thin against their fingertip, and it falls off the center when they pull back.

Narinder’s grin no longer feels good for some damn reason. It drops into his usual frown. “It’s just a flower.”

“I know, I know.” They huff. “Was it impressive at least?”

“…You have killed gods, and you are asking me if growing a single flower is impressive.”

“Yep.” They end that word with a pop.

What a ridiculous vessel. He hopes they eat dirt. “Sure. For godhood in it’s infancy. A shame I’ll be ripping that hope and power from you soon enough.”

“This is why everyone doesn’t like you except for me.” They thrust the wilted flower in his face, a playful gesture. The cat almost chokes on a hiss craning back from it until the lamb snorts and pulls it away. It’s tossed into the fire. The camellia is burned up in seconds. “…Did you get any sleep?”

Narinder’s nose itches. Yep. He’s going to have allergies. “None. I will not be sleeping.”

“Oh.” They shift. The smile they had softened into something that looks tired. In the low light of the night and flames, there’s a crease of exhaustion under there eyes, deeper now than what he remembered a few hours ago. “Well, I’m going to try. Do me a favor and don’t kill me.”

“No promises.” He narrows his eyes as the lamb shifts so their back is facing him, curled up on the ground with their legs tucked in and their fleece curling around them like a blanket. They hardly stir a few seconds after lying down, a little odd considering the ground is hardly comfortable. “You expended all your energy to grow that flower, didn’t you?”

The lamb hesitates, and sounds too high pitched. “Nighty night.”

Narinder glares at their back a little while longer. Eventually he locks his arms in his sleeves, turns back to the flames, and meditates. He counts the seconds, for no other reason than just because he can, and within two minutes he hears a light snore. Yeah. They used up the rest of their energy for that little display of power.

It was all too light-hearted given the circumstances. Heket will be slaughtered tomorrow.

The lamb was probably trying to take his mind of it. For a few minutes, it had worked. Stupid thing.

He stares into the spot where the flower burned in the fire, closes his eyes, and meditates.

-

...Ichor stains his claws, spilling from his sister’s throat as bile begins to build up in his own.

Narinder jolts himself from the brink of sleep.

Unpleasant memories bang at the door of his mind. A vision with white eyes and a grin far too thin to be anything other than malicious threatens to let them in. He is not safe even as the night is quiet, and he is away from the cult. Anura’s domain might be seeping into his mind somehow, or perhaps it is his own madness that plagues him.

In any matter, there is a taste of bitter ichor on his teeth that his tongue licks away as he wakes. He’s still in the same position he was sitting in several hours prior; arms locked and posture straight. No ichor stems from any of his eyes. He did not fall victim to the dreams yet, but they wait for when he can no longer go without rest. He expects as such on their return; especially with this crusade’s reminder. At the very least, Narinder will be provided the privilege to go mad in the privacy of his own hut. To wake up in such a state next to the lamb again would be…undignified.

The fire has lessened, but it still crackles. The only warmth provided as autumn slowly morphs into winter.

Heket’s death awaits in hours.

What will he tell Leshy? What will the lamb tell him?

(I spared you for the sake of allowing the request of my greatest enemy, but our sister I have put to the blade. You will not even have a body to bury.)

Leshy will probably try to spear him with a vine. Actually, the worm already wants to do so. Nothing will change. He’ll relish the sight of his siblings demise fully, completely, for what they’ve done.

“Na…rinder.”

A small noise from the other side of the shelter, which isn’t that far considering it was inches from where his legs might touch the lamb. He has tried not to, even if his tail is too cramped behind him. He sighs. The vessel has awoken, and will probably bleat before he can gather his barring. “What.”

Silence.

Unlike them to not start chatting with his attention. His head turns, eyes narrowed at the body turned away. Carefully, Narinder leans his torso slightly over to peer at their face. “What, vessel?”

Their eyes are shut tight, fists curled up near their cheeks with a look of…wrongness. He cannot read it well. Normally bounced ears are pinned flat against their head. A tension lies underneath their skin, and it strains in their shoulders all the way up their neck and in the furrow of their brows. Their mouth is open slightly, downwards in a frown.

Lambert is sleeping.

A whisper comes from their lips he cannot make out. It sounds pained.

(In the dark of their bedroom he saw something similar. A scythe weighed in his hands as the lamb stirs. They bleat in their sleep. Soft and quiet, voice wavering. Narinder’s grip around the weapon’s handle slacks when the lamb makes a noise that sounds like a whimper-)

A breathy, pathetic sound escapes from the back of their throat. They’re coiling into themselves.

“Lamb.” His call comes out gentler than he means for it to. His hand comes up and lays itself across their arm. “Lambert.”

They tense for a second, then…go limp.

Their brows are still slightly furrowed, but the frown eases back into a neutral line. The tension leaves their body like smoke. Whispers are murmured; incoherent sentences he cannot decipher as their breathing falls into a steady rhythm that rises and falls with their chest.

His own matches it. A calm, tranquil feeling enters his ribcage.

He removes his hand before he lets it consume him. His fingers are shaking when he pulls them back. The soothing drum in his veins is replaced by emptiness that fills back to the boiling tension he had minutes prior.

…Okay.

He will…sit here. Sit here and wait until they wake up. He is perfect at waiting, and he will do so. Quietly. Narinder holds his fingers down with his other hand, and crushes them tight enough like he might break them.

The lamb does not stir again.

-

He is awake still when the Lamb finally does, and they roll over to see him with bags under his eyes and a shadow in every fur line.

The lamb tells him good morning. He does not respond when they do, and that’s when they know that his time for talking is over.

They leave the camp behind, the fire all but snuffed out. The cookies have been consumed and the last of the bones picked through. He follows in silence as they make their way through only a few clearings more before the doorway is found. It looks just the way they remember it; save for the skulls and bones carved and embedded into the stone pillars. The entryway glows. Inches from it, the lamb is the one to take the lead, the God of Death behind them. For once, he lingers behind. His tail thrashes behind him.

Black sparks off Narinder’s fur in silent anxiety. The Lamb says nothing of their own nerves, but he sees them ready the hammer with both hands, and their knuckles grip it hard enough to go pale. “Are you ready?”

They expect silence from him. They settle for it until seconds pass, and Narinder speaks low. “I want this over with.”

The threat of erasure. The threat of being trapped back down in the Land of the Dead, after everything. The harrowing sight of seeing a sister.

The scythe is summoned, and ichor drips from his closed fist as chains wait to be unleashed. The lamb wishes they could touch him in a way that was comforting, and one that he would not take as a pity. “Don’t worry too much about the ‘what-ifs’.” They smile, and it is thin. The uncertainty must have showed on his face. “I’ll get stronger so you don’t have to worry about things like that anymore.”

He does not turn to look at them, not until they’ve entered the portal and he’s staring at the back of their wool.

The God of Famine’s temple smells of mushrooms and moss.

Purgatory has captured this place frozen in time, but the warped reality still exists. Cultists are the first sight they come upon after the long hallway, and they are as lifeless as expected. Puppets with no strings, bodies steered by the will of purgatory to make the moments in death as accurate as possible. Each one carries a dagger to plunge into themselves. They show no recognition, nor emotion, upon their arrival.

Heket looks gruesome.

The Bishop of Famine’s eyes have always bulged from her sockets, but now they glistened with death, ichor seeping from all four. The skin below her mouth is raw with exposed muscle, and the cut of black stained gore around her mouth travels down her neck and to her gullet. Innards, intestines and eldritch unknowns spill from her. Limbs with open exposed bone crack as she shifts. Her voice rumbles in low mummer. She speaks the same words, again and again like her voice may not return should she stop.

Narinder’s shoulders tense. He lowers with the scythe, readying. The lamb does the same.

(He feels their hands grip the sleeve of his robes briefly before they fall away.)

The God of Famine’s neck cracks as she turns to face them. “Vile, sniveling puppet…I will destroy you again…and again…” Her voice gurgles on ichor and pain. Cultists raise daggers and point the tip to their chest. She spews gore from her mouth, and it splatters across the temple flooring. She withers. She roars. “…and again…and again…and again…”

-

-

-

They fight, and they kill.

Heket is barely staying together; she is a bouncing, jumping corpse.

The enemies that are summoned from her gore have less intelligence than the usual heretics they face, but they are still deadly in number. The hammer is used to slam them into each other, and chains are used to group them all in a bouquet of victims before a blade comes to decapitate them all in one feral swoop. Their bodies disappear before the heads hit the ground. More start popping up from the blood splatter on the stone. They are frogs, all minions of famine.

Heket spits her tongue across the temple barbed with hate and malice. The eldritch beast jumps and shakes the room with every landing; the stone cracks underneath her weight. The tile has cracks spreading through the battleground that blood seeps into, soaking back into Anura.

The hammer may not have been the best weapon of choice for this fight. It’s impact is devastating, and Lambert is well versed with how to crush their enemies efficiently. But it’s slow, and it takes far too long of a second to pull the damned thing back for a strike that leaves them open. When the room is a flurry of activity, blood and battle, the half-second it takes to coordinate where your weaponry will land feels like years. There is no time to waste, not when there’s a giant frog currently trying to squish you and eat you alive.

In a black blur, the God of Death is fast where the Lamb is slow.

He is quick, scythe whipping through the air and cutting through skin and bone and frog and heretic alike. Heket’s bulbous tongue spews from her mouth and slams down at him where he dodges by inches. Narinder raises the scythe, full intention to cut her tongue from her head (another attempt to silence an temper, one learned from who other than an older god) before it lurches back and his weapon’s blade clacks steel against stone.

They’re sight of him spikes red when something punctures the back of their leg; teeth and bone crushing maw latched on by a minion frog. The lamb yelps.

The injury isn’t bad; it hit nothing vital, they can tell. The frog is kicked off instantly. But they still regret the loss of focus, not for the sake of the fight, but for the consequence of pain. The vital mistake was not the injury, but their short-lived scream.

Narinder looks at them.

Only briefly. Only for a second. The cat’s ears swivel, three eyes and a his head move fast to face the direction of their voice. It is an automatic, involuntary action. The instant he registers the lamb is moving again with little more than a bite mark on the back of their calf does he curse himself. He doesn’t get a chance to growl at the failure before a frog lunges for his head. It’s too close for him to duck. His arm raises, palm facing the frog, spear forming-

A blur of black and red. The hammer slams into the little beast. It’s momentum skids it’s innards and corpse across the temple floor. The legs are still twitching as the hammer suddenly floats and flies back to it’s owner.

Narinder does not look in the direction that it goes to. He darts left, and aims his scythe for one of Heket’s legs. Focus.

-

Heket speaks while the battle goes on.

It is incoherent sentences, growls and gurgles vibrating deep from a mutilated throat. Some of it is demonic words that burn their ears and turn their vision red. All of it is ignored for the time being. They cannot afford to listen when they are fighting for their lives.

She keeps moving. For a large frog, she was surprisingly quick. The hammer is starting to weigh heavy in their hands. Lambert is not a stranger to long fights, but this one was stretching on longer than what they’re used to. When killing the Bishops in the past, fights cut short were due to their death, and eventual return. Again and again until the Bishop was worn down enough, and the lamb improved to carve out their heart. They were allowed to make mistakes back then. They were allowed to die.

Not anymore.

The bleeding bite mark on the back of their leg stings and aches with every movement. Knees threaten to buckle with overuse. The lamb raises the hammer over their head to squash a frog. Their muscles scream, their ears are ringing from Heket’s voice.

A large shadow above them grows darker-

Cold, iron chains wrap around their mid-section, and Lambert is yanked backwards.

They don’t have a graceful landing. Thrown to the ground, skidding for a moment before rolling with the momentum and flipping back up to their feet. Heket roars something miserable that reverbs in the temple, poised in the spot they were a second prior. When she moves again, there’s a crater beneath her belly.

The chains have unwrapped from their wool and driven back across the room. They see it disappear from the corner of their eye and into a flurry of white, black and red. By the time Lambert finds his face, he is facing the frog. Teeth bared and sweat on his brow.

No time to think. They pull the hammer back and run at the Bishop.

-

-

-

Her gurgles are pained and agonizing. Eldritch echoes and demonic layer in every syllable she speaks. “You ruined us! You ruined all of us!”

Temperamental Heket. Grieving Sister.

One leg has gone numb and bruises will decorate the lamb’s body soon enough. Narinder has a bleeding shoulder that trails all the way down right arm. Enough blood and ichor coat the temple flooring that it splashes against their feet.

Heket screams. “You will suffer…for everything, you will suffer!”

-

She dies roaring.

They don’t expect anything different.

The flesh of her has worn down. Pieces of her that were already hanging by a sliver of gore had fallen to the stone and started to sink into the domain long before the beast had stopped. Flesh is rendered useless, movements slow, until the frog is nearly a skeleton. All her organs exposed on the inside, some that look familiar while others are coated in black tendrils, eldritch material beyond comprehension. None of it is good enough to keep her together.

There’s no telling who issued the final blow or if it was just the exhaustion that did her in, but the both of them are panting as she drops. Lambert drags the hammer back up as they straighten their posture, and find their lungs are heaving too hard. The God of Death’s weapon is stuck inside of a fleshy party of the corpse as it melts away, and yanking it out sends far too much force through him than what he was prepared for. He goes back stumbling until he rights himself.

Silence, save for labored breathing.

The hammer returns to being a crown on top of the lamb’s wool. They stare the melting body.

Heket has been defeated for a second time. Now they have naught to do but wait.

The first time, Narinder was already trying to leave. The doorway that leads to the teleportation stone is unblocked now, but he makes no move for it. He stands as shaken as the lamb does, catching his breath. A momentary glance, faces twisted with too much exhaustion to gauge the other person’s feelings. Lambert notes he has yet to unsummon the scythe.

“…Do you think-?” They start, and their voice almost turns into a cough.

Narinder remains quiet. He focuses on willing his body to calm.

The bones start to shift.

Shrinking, morphing into something mortal. The Bishop of Famine’s corpse sinks into itself, exposed innards rolling over each other and wrapping around in a mess of unorganized muscle and sinew. It shapes into something smaller, a body that has teeth, claws, legs and hands. A bandage is poorly wrapped around her throat, her hands coming up from the gunk to form and clutch at it. The creature’s form materializes to sit on it’s knees. It convulses once, a moaning sound coming from it. The corpse brings new life.

Heket has revived, just as the Lamb thought she would.

“Okay.” Lambert swallows. Steel the nerves. Lower their heartrate. They prepared for this. “Okay. She’s... Hello, Heket.”

The frog is hunched over. Soft gurgles start up as she opens her eyes. Unlick Leshy, she does not seem to spew hatred upon her revival. Her lips move like she no longer knows how to form a word, and a sound comes from her that is low and pained. “...l-lamb....…br…”

Narinder has not moved. Crimson eyes are stuck wide, pupil small, and his body frozen. His grip around the scythe tightens, but he has not moved to kill her at least.

“Heket.” Lambert approaches, gently so as the frog will not lash out. (Frog so vile and so mortal now she looks not of the God that helped send their kind to near-extinction. Last of their kind, vengeance comes with their death, their revival. She’s bleeding like they do. Forgive. Forgive and remain alive.) They reach a hand out to her shoulder and prepare for her to strike. “Can you stand up-?”

The frog suddenly lurches. Both hands cover her throat as black ichor spills from her mouth and vomits a splatter all over the floor and to the lamb’s hands. Four golden eyes are wide in panic, pupils shaking in pain as the God of Famine collapses to the side. Lambert sucks in a sharp inhale as the frog convulses, hands scrambling around her throat. Pain. Mortal pain. She wretches something from her voice and it is drowning in blood.

She’s bleeding out.

“Shit.” They scramble to their knees, taking place beside her. The Bishop of Famine lies flat on her back as a slow pooling puddle of ichor wets her robes. Lambert’s hands fly to her throat, ignoring her claws that dig into their hand in a mindless panic. Golden Iris dart wildly. The ceiling, to the lamb, to Narinder.

They press on the wound through the bandage and find that it sinks inwards. The frog’s throat is mutilated. It’s a wonder how she’s alive at all. “She’s bleeding out. She’ll die if we don’t stop it. I can-” Lambert cuts off when Heket screams (or at least tries to) and her maw is wide open. She bites at the lamb’s hands. She thrashes. She claws. They ignore the marks starting to trail down their wrists and push their palm over the bleeding gash. “I think…I think I can heal the wound enough but I need another pair of hands! I can’t-I can’t focus!”

Narinder has not moved an inch.

Something fleshy and torn touches their fingers. Heket’s voice vibrates against their touch as she curses, and it burns. Lambert looks up to him. “Nari, I need you to help me.”

(His throat aches)

“Narinder.” They try again, and their own voice is straining. “I know you won’t help me revive her if she dies, you will at least help me keep her alive this once. Help me.”

(His throat aches)

Their hands are now covered in ichor. For a brief second, Heket’s eyes roll to the back of her head before she snaps back to reality. Horrid, grating noises come from her. Words. Attempts at words. Threats and panic sound the same.

Heket is losing life, and like all torturous pains of being a god, she dies slowly. Lambert’s desperation grows. “Narinder, please help me!”

The scythe drags an inch across the stone.

Heket’s pupils flit to his shadow and chokes. Black eyes follow her gaze, and widen at the reflection in the blade.

His voice is caught in his throat, where it burns and bleeds on the inside. There is an emptiness where he means to answer. There is blood where he means to breathe. Nothing stains the front of his chin.

He can feel his sister dying.

Lambert stares at him like a mirror, and begs. “Please.”

(This will change things.)

Heket’s voice is weak and wet with blood. “...bro…ther…”

The scythe drops from his grip. It dissipates before it clatters against the floor, and Narinder moves to crouch besides them. “Move your hands.”

There’s a moment of genuine surprise, and perhaps distrust from the lamb as his hands come over their own. His fingers shift theirs to hover properly over the wound without pressing it. Ichor transfers from their hands to his, and it blends in with the dark of his fur perfectly. The God of Death holds the Lamb’s hands over Heket’s wounds, and presses.

Crimson eyes with slitted pupils stare at nothing. His jaw is locked tight. This cooperation is not guaranteed to last. Lambert will need to work quickly.

Small, black sparks of lighting and shadow emanate as they focus. Red pulsates in their vision; power stretches from their chest and travels down to their fingers (Fueled by which, Narinder’s? Heket’s? Or their own?) and the gore inside the throat seems to shift beneath their palm. It moves on it’s own, stitching back together in a stringy formation one would see like pulling dough apart. It is raw and messy. There is no feeling of the frog skin texture one would expect. Her throat is scarring together in a horrific, jagged picture not unlike what lies beneath their own collar.

Heket inhales a real breath of air and they feel it in her windpipe.

Then, the body below goes limp. Lambert blinks back the blood dripping from their eyes. Their fingers are numb

Narinder’s hands retract away from them.

“Did it work?” They lift their own and scan the mess. It’s too bloody to make out where her robes begin and where her wound should be. “…Is she dead?”

The cat says nothing and they don’t look at him for they fear what expression he holds. The frog isn’t moving, and her eyes are closed. Pupils shift behind sunken eyelids as the Bishop of Famine lies. The amount of blood she’s lost is notable, a mortal wouldn't have survived it. They lay a hand over her chest and feel for a pulse. Faint, but present.

A shuddering breath of relief. Heket is unconscious, but alive. She’ll need to get to a healing bay as soon as possible.

They glance at Narinder. He’s staring blankly at his sister, face shadowed. He must have sensed the lamb’s gaze, because red pupils drag slowly upwards until they land on them, and it suddenly feels like the room is much colder.

“C’mon.” They can’t stay here, and Heket could get hurt from a lone teleportation. Lambert slides an arm underneath Heket’s shoulder and lifts her up. It takes some maneuvering and she’s hard to get a grip on when the frog is notably larger, but they’re strong from decades of crusades. The adjust so that the frog is carried on their back. “Let’s go.”

The God of Death says nothing. He has returned to silence. His tail thrashes behind him.

He doesn’t touch them when they reach the teleportation stone, and that causes the world to flicker a little slower but they eventually return. It’s night when they arrived, and they’ll take that as luck, for no one is awake to see the leader trudge across the compound carrying the Bishop of Famine on their back all the way to the healing bay. They’re still covered in blood and ichor. They don’t look or speak to the cat that hangs in their shadow.

Everything aches. Their body from the fight. Their heart from whats to come. Now that Heket’s survival was ensured, they’ll have to prepare her living amongst the flock. Even Leshy still isn’t fully suited to a mortal life; not that he’s any hardly mortal more than what they are. If the worm maintained some godly power even after the defeat, it’s not hard to think the frog wouldn’t either. Narinder being a special case, though they wonder had the crown now split, would he still retain his own abilities he developed outside of what the crown would have given?

Three gods in their flock now. One of a volatile worm, one of a temperamental frog, and a cat in their shadow that might strike them down should they push him too far.

There’s movement at the healing bay as they get closer; the nurse shuffles her way out of Jayen’s tent, one hand holding an empty dinner bowl and another going over her mouth to cover a yawn. It stifles the moment the cow lays eyes on the lamb. “Oh, gods-!”

“Hello, Mooma.” The lamb tries to appear friendly. Difficult when you’re covered in gore, and you’re carrying a mutilated frog. They keep their voice even. Professional. “I’m sorry for the late night visit. You’re going to have another patient.”

The cow’s form has gone ridged, and her face scrunches up in a mixture of fear, concern and confusion. Her eyes briefly dart over the lamb’s shoulders before her face hardens. “…There is a free tent for the injured here, to the left.”

It’s a space at the far side of the healing bay. Heket is deposited on a bed and the sheets pulled up to her shoulders. Her eyes are shut tight, face twisted in pain. Blood stains the sheets immediately, but it is old. They do not bother with removing the robes; they’ll have to bring some new ones later. Lambert steps back and keeps their posture straight. “Blood loss. She had a traumatic injury.” They poindity ignore how the cow looks over the bite on the back of their leg, and pulls their fleece over it to appear more stoic. “She won’t die, but I fear she’ll be weak. I do not know when she’ll awaken, but when she does, she might be...upset.”

Mooma is already in work-mode. There’s exhaustion in the followers eyes, but the nurse is hardworking as her hands move like routine. Camelia paste is retrieved from the nearby basket, and clean rags are wet from the tent bucket to start cleaning off the dried blood. Her eyes narrow at the jagged scar that seeps to seep ichor through the frog’s pores around her neck. There’s caution in her brow, but she says nothing of the color. “The wound looks freshly scarred, at least. What did you rescue her from?”

“Anura.” They answer, and all answers such must be chosen carefully.

The cow’s gaze flickers briefly to the lamb’s shadow before it darts back down to the frog. “…That…cat is back here.”

Lambert does not look behind them. Both theirs and Narinder’s hands and sleeves are coated with Heket’s blood. They imagine how they must be justified in the follower’s mind, but to the God of Death, she might see an excuse. “He helped me save her.”

There is a horrible, horrific feeling of their chest being twisted the moment the last word leaves their mouth. A phantom feeling that makes a sharp inhale spike through their lungs, and the lamb looks back. Narinder stands there, face stoic. He looks not at the nurse nor Heket, but to the lamb.

He looks at them with Hatred. His claws are extended to his side. Thinking. Deciding.

...

Lambert blinks, and he’s gone. The curtain sways a little in the wind with his absence.

The cow sat witness to the sighting, and Lambert is only grateful that he did not decide to take out his complicated emotions while one of their flock sat here tending to his sister. Mooma says nothing about what transpires between the two, focusing only on her work. The blood is rubbed away from the frog’s skin, and Mooma only makes her motions gentler when the frog winces at the touch.

The cow does stays focused on her task. “May I speak freely, my leader?”

Their fingers are numb. It is an automatic motion, they think, as they reach for a clean rag to start cleaning their hands so that they might help. “You may.”

“I do not like him.” The cow starts, and already they can hear the ‘but’ in her tone of voice. “…but that is because of his lack of manners. I don’t care for the attitude he brings, but he has saved not one, but two frogs now. I cannot imagine he is as terrible as…some believe. Despite his initial arrival...and murders.” Mooma, too, chooses her words carefully it seems. “Though I wonder when we will learn his name.”

“That is not for me to reveal.” Lambert answers, and it is spoken in a tone that makes the conversation final. Heket does not stir as Mooma works, and they doubt she will for a long time. Their hands are as clean as they can get. “I will remain here and work with you. Where have you put fresh bandages?”

-

They stay the rest of the night and work on Heket together. The nurse does not bring up the cat again.

Heket does not wake, just as they thought. The tension in her face eases a bit as camellia paste is applied to the scar, and her breathing evens out, but the frog is as limp as ever. Mooma does not question the frog’s identity, and Lambert will see that as a blessing. It’s been several generations past since Heket’s original death. The cow, however, does furrow her brows as she disrobes the frog from her blood stained clothing and eyes the ragged symbols of the old faith that was nearly blacked out by ichor, but that cloth is taken away to be burned, and Lambert returns with a tunic and fresher robes sporting the same symbols. She says nothing of that, either. The frog is dressed in a tunic, and is cleaned of any remaining blood, any visible wounds are patched up.

She wraps a clean bandage around the bite mark on their leg as well. The nurse is exhausted by the time they finish, and so the lamb allows her to go back to her home with the promise that they’ll watch the patient until she returns. That was several hours ago. Sunlight is starting to peak through the curtain’s line, and Lambert has been sitting on a wooden chair next to the God of Famine’s bedside twiddling their thumbs and losing themselves in thought.

There’s a small yelp somewhere in the healing bad. Stomping footsteps. The sound of fabric being thrown aside. A sound like...growling? Again, and this time Jayen makes a startled noise a few tents over before a curse is spewed and footsteps approach the tent in which Heket and Lambert reside. They stand from their chair, shoulders straightened. Someone is probably looking for them for an request or another urgency, or perhaps they had a question of something mundane. They will need to tell whoever is searching that they’re preoccupied-

The curtain throws open, and Leshy stands at the entrance of the room.

Lambert just stands there.

He sniffs the air, and sharp teeth turn downwards into an awful snarl. “You.”

Somewhere behind him, they can hear the sound of rushing steps and an apologetic voice calling back out to the other healing bay’s patients before catching up to the worm. Joon’s head pops out somewhere behind his shoulder. “You can’t just barge into the bay like that-!”

“Hush.” He shushes them. The yellow cat makes a gawked face behind him and tugs on the back of his robes in argument. The worm does not budge, but he doesn’t throw them off. His head faces the lamb. “Heket. Where is she?”

Ah. They did tell him they were going to retrieve her just before they left, didn’t they? Arms beneath their fleece, Lambert backs up to the wall, and makes room. “Here. She’s in the bed. She’s unconscious.”

For a moment, Leshy just stands there. Then, he crosses the room.

It’s careful and slow. His hands outstretch towards the figure in the bed, and his palm lands on her stomach. He has to hunch over to reach the lying body, and his hands raise upwards to Heket’s face. Fingers touch the bandages around her throat and linger there as if he was surprised to feel them dry rather than wet with blood. It moves upwards, and he feels for her eyes. It is a gentle, familiar motions. He moves with a purpose. He cannot see his sister, but he will confirm it is her, and Lambert watches as Leshy counts all four of his sisters eyes, and feels the air coming from her nostrils. His hands lower to her own.

Silence. All that is heard is birds chirping outside. Joon stands awkwardly at the entrance, hands clasped together. They must have little to no knowledge of the significance of what was happening, not unless the worm has told them. Lambert wonders if he has.

Leshy’s voice is surprisingly calm when he asks. “My brother did not try to kill her?”

“…She nearly died of the…previous injury.” Current company in the room in mind, they are vague on purpose. “He helped heal her.”

The worm’s head snaps upwards almost violently. “You lie.”

They remain firm. “I’m not.”

His leaves bristle. The claws clutching his unmoving sister’s hands tremble slightly, and grip tight around her wrist to steel themselves. “Get out.”

Lambert frowns. “I cannot leave her here unattended-”

“Do you think I was asking it of you, lamb? I said LEAVE!” His voice raises, a maw of sharp teeth roaring as the worm’s bristles. Two rooms over there’s the sound of Jayen whimpering. Joon’s ears fall flat against their skull, but they don’t shrink back. Lambert stands their ground. The worm growls at them. “Get out! Get out of my presence. You and that brother have done far enough damage, I will not have you surveillance my sister’s unconscious body thinking she will do harm when you have put her in such a state!” Vines grow from the floor. They coil around the bed’s wooden legs and threaten to splinter them. “Get out!”

The lamb’s ear flicks. They do not react in the face or body to the threats, even as the packed ground beneath their feet threaten to sink into itself. Lambert turns to the yellow cat in the room. Joon looks down at the ground. “Would you need to go so as to give them privacy?” They’re giving them an out, perhaps.

Joon barely meets their eyes. “I’d like to stay, if possible.”

Leshy says nothing about it. He’s still snarling in the lamb’s direction. Perhaps there is a friendship beyond what the lamb had assigned there to be. Good. It would do gods good to have friends outside of each other’s broken families.

They excuse themselves, cutting through the curtain. “Come and retrieve me if she awakens.”

Leshy hisses something demonic under his breath and Joon smiles and gives them a small bow. They nod back, and exit.

The walk to Narinder’s hut is automatic. They do not remember doing it.

The door is shut when they arrived. Morning light is coming over the village. Exhaustion fuels them to his front step, and lays a hand over his door handle.

It is locked. He has shut them out.

Saying nothing. Their hands hover over it for a little while longer. They leave without knocking. There is much to be done.

-

Breakfast is served, and it is grass gruel for nearly everyone.

Everyone accepts it, though some have a hard time concealing their distaste in their facial expressions when handed a bowl of little more than what barely gets them by. Lambert has chosen to help in the kitchen today, both due to the sheer amount of servings that need to be made as well as supervising the rations that are put out. There is only so much that can be spared, and the last trip into Anura yielded more mushrooms and bones rather than crops for eating. Plimbo’s stores had enough medicine and food that can be preserved for a little while longer, but even the morsels were grimy and poor cut of the game. The carnivores were eating grass with their morsels, and the herbivores were lucky to get bits of cauliflower in their bowls.

Tyren is one of the helpers today, and he’s quick with a knife to chop all of the bundles of grass into even pieces. Lambert can feel eyes on them as they traverse the kitchen, brushing past the other followers until they get their own bowls and make off with what they can. He is the last of them to make himself a meal, and it is nothing more than a few stringy pieces of meat mixed in with a darkish green and orange blades of edible grass from Darkwood and Anura alike. He still accepts it with a smile. “You seem stressed, my lamb. Might I inquire as to why?”

Lambert blinks. They were dumping the old cooking water out into the stove fire. All other cooks have left to go eat, and Tyren was lingering back with a piece of meat hanging from his mouth. He looks to them expectant, one ear titled. That’s not good. The stress should not be showing on them enough that their flock asks about it. “It is nothing. I am simply thinking of future plans for our farms. I think perhaps we should build an indoor greenhouse so as the weather won’t affect the crops so much.”

Surface level problems, and it’s not a lie either. Transparency will be a tool used to prevent panic in the flock, or doubt to spread when the lamb’s sanity runs thin.

The dog’s demeanor remains, leaning against the counter as the lamb busies their hands with cleanup. It took several minutes to convince him to eat instead of help beforehand. “I believe it is more than just the crops, if I might be so bold.”

The water is dumped out. Lambert hands the pot on it’s hook, and turns back to the dog with a friendly, practiced expression. “It would be bold. Do you have any concerns for me to address?”

“None and never of my own, my lamb” He chuckles. “Despite some current whispered dissention, you will at least never have to worry of me. I am always in your corner.”

Of course he is. Sweet, loyal Tyren. He’s probably enjoy a job as a worshipper at the shrine instead of working at the kitchens or in the mines. “Thank you, Tyren.”

“I would not mind if you had need of someone to dispel the dissention. I could fulfil that role.” He offers. He takes a bite in-between speaking, and uses his wooden fork to gesture when he does. “A loyalty enforcer, if you will. At the very least, I could alert you to any dangers among our flock should one arise.”

“I am not in need of one at the moment, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.” They keep their tone professional. “Though if you do happen to know of any I am not aware of, I ask that you alert me regardless of a fancy title. I trust you would do as much.”

“Of course.” He smiles when he talks. “Though I fear I would have to put the three-eyed cat on my list.”

They pause at that. Only for a spit-second, but it’s a split second too long. Lambert matches his smile. “You fear for nothing. He is my friend.”

Tyren’s smile doesn’t disappear. The wooden fork clacks against the side of his bowl as if in thought. “But is he a good one?”

“Yes.” They are surprised on their own, even, on how certain they sound. “He is good to me.”

(Even if he doesn’t mean to be. Even if he is not aware he’s doing it.)

The dog is quiet for a heartbeat. Lambert reaches for the cooking tools left out on the counter and starts to hang them up on the wall.

“Very well. I trust your judgement.” He twists the fork around in the grass and it accumulates like noodles. Casually, he offers the bite out to the lamb. “So as long as you do not stretch yourself thin. Many do not see it, but I can see how you are drained at times. I wish only for you not to waste your divinity on the unworthy.”

They have not eaten in days. Still, they raise their hand in refusal and smile back. “Worry not of me. I am well kept in the hands of Death, as we all are. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

Tyren hums in acknowledgement, kindly smiling still, and sticks the bite of food into his mouth.

-

By the afternoon, they have alerted most of the flock of oncoming changes that will come in the next few weeks.

The otter and shrew who begged for a wedding ceremony have been informed it will be put off until the famine is over. There is disappointment in their eyes, but the lamb reassures them by adjusting sleeping arrangements so that the pair can finally sleep together regardless of their martial status. This caused the women to break into excited, hushed whispers and with ideas and sweet nothings. They ask for a honeymoon period to love each other fully, which delved into a full conversation about the food, the drink, and other festivities planned, which also brought in several other members of the flock into the conversation to sprout their own ideas because the lamb thought it a good idea to break the news at their wooden table during lunch hour.

Someone suggests something like a ‘honeymoon’ shelter where couples can go to consummate. Someone else asks if they could have a ritual where they run around nude. Another person threw gruel at him for it and called him gross. Someone else suggested the idea might not be so far fetched considering many of the shelters had shared roommates, and it was rather difficult to…engage with a lover when you weren’t exactly given the same privacy as a few other flock members might have been given. They’re pretty sure that flock member was making a jab at how a certain cat was in a spacious hut with no roommates, but a quick glance from the lamb shuts them down rather quickly.

Lambert isn’t even going to complain about the rather ambitious request; it got their minds off of the famine, at least.

(And they’re pretty sure everyone is getting sick and tired of seeing the otter and shrew make out in broad daylight.)

(They were currently kissing at the table in front of everyone’s grass gruel. Someone just threw up in the background. Yep. They’re sick of it.)

They’ll add that to the list of things to do: make a place for the couples. Build more houses so that people don’t need to have roommates. Build bathrooms in all of theses houses so the outhouses and bathhouses don’t need to be cleaned every evening by some unfortunate set of workers. Build a better, more weather-proof storage for their food and grain supply. Check on Narinder. Having someone repave the walkways on the most commons paths so it’s easier to walk over and transport materials. See how much silk, wool and cotton is needed at the tailors and see his progress on making clothing and winter’s gear. Build a proper school house since the old one had a busted leak from a bad storm last season and it hasn’t been fixed since. Check on Narinder. Seal the prison cells so that any dissenters who are housed there in the winter months don’t freeze to death. Go down to the ocean docks and see if the fisherman has any spare catch he’s willing to sell. Find Rakshasa and see if he is willing to do a payment plan of gold for feeding nearly a kingdom of cultists. Check on Narinder.

They’re at his door when the sun is high in the sky. Their hand lies on the doorknob, and twists. It’s locked.

They don’t knock. Lambert turns heel, and heads back down the hill.

-

The sun is setting, and Lambert is in the wheat field trying to grow the crops.

It does not work like how it did in Anura, no matter how deep they focus. They think of their training, their practice; of good things and of godly scripture to no avail. They don’t know what they’re doing different. They don’t know what they’re doing wrong. The wheat fields are a brownish yellow, and will remain that way.

Heket still hasn’t woken up. She did, however, drink every bit of the broth the nurse tried to feed her in her sleep, so that’s good. The last of the cabbage they had left in the stores was used to boil it. Mooma makes a comment about needing something stronger if the frog is to regain her strength. Lambert wonders briefly how much Heket will actually need as the fallen God of Famine. They don’t have to wonder to know that they do not have the resources to provide for it.

They bid all the other workers goodnight as they retire. Some bow their heads and other wish them luck, believing the lamb is merely inspecting and weeding what was there. It’s better not to get their hopes up should they fail. They drop to their knees with hands in the dirt; they have seen Leshy do the same. They’ve done it themselves now. Their devotion is still there, and they channel it. Inhale, exhale. They are a godly, divine thing or at least something close enough to it. Close enough that they heal wounds and raise flowers on their own. Enough that they kill gods and purge hell.

The wheat does not react to their devotion for a fourth time in the hour. A pull in their chest feels like it bruises their ribs. Lambert cradles the dying wheat in their hands. “We’re going to run out of food before winter. We have nothing in the stores, and there’s nothing growing fast enough for us to save. Hunting won’t feed everyone, and people are starting to get sick, physically and mentally.”

The wind blows and rustles the high grass. The crown weighs heavy on their head in the silence.

Narinder’s voice is low and even. “Are you looking for someone to blame?”

They let the wheat fall to the ground. It’s almost as brown as the soil. “I’m just talking out loud.”

Silence.

They brush their fingers off on their fleece until their hands are clean. “Heket is healing. She’s not awake yet, but she’s showing good signs. Leshy sat with her all day today.”

Silence, again.

Their ears raise to hear anything above the wind without looking to him directly. They don’t know why they can’t look at him. “Do you want to go see her?”

“Its dangerous.” Narinder starts. “To expect gods you’ve overthrown to live peacefully with you, or with each other.”

They know. He tries to kill them every so often. It’s nice if it gets him out of the hut. They don’t bring it up sometimes in case he forgets to do so, and enjoys living instead. Lambert stares at the dying wheat, and ignores the stinging sensation from sitting on the back of their bitten leg for too long. “I don’t expect them to be happy about it.”

“You can be erased from existence, and yet you’ll put your biggest threats in your backyard.” He clicks his tongue. He has taken the form of mockery. “Your continued stupidity would be amusing if it wasn’t already a sick form of revenge.”

“I’ve told you. It’s not.”

“Why not?” He scoffs. “Are you so dedicated to being the role of a savior you would rescue tormentors? Do you think yourself a saint?” He lets his hand drag itself across the tall wheat wearing a sharp, purposeful smile. There’s no joy in it. He rips a tuft up from it’s blades. The wheat stays limp in his hands; he won’t bother rotting it, it’s already dying. A clear example of their failure. “Your ‘kindness’ only shows how selfish you really are. You are searching for something that isn’t there.”

(He’s saying this because he’s angry. His imprisoners revived and living amongst him. His betrayer wears the symbol of his stolen divinity.)

(They have betrayed him again, and again. They made him betray himself.)

Their heart feels heavy in their chest, and it burns. “It is not your decision on who I shall forgive and for what.”

(They would fall asleep in the crease of Death’s collar when he didn’t want to hold up his hand, and listen to the thunder in his chest when The One Who Waits thought they were asleep.)

“Forgiveness won’t bring the lambs back. Kindness won’t wash the blood from your hands.” He speaks through his teeth. “By now, you have killed far many lives as the one you claim to miss.”

Lambert slowly raises from the ground.

Narinder scoffs as they walk closer. “Naïve lamb-”

“I didn’t ask for this.” They stop less than a foot away, maybe inches from him chest-to-chest, and glare at him with the same intensity he gives back. “I asked for none of this.”

Narinder’s smile falls, but his face remains collected. His tail flicks behind him. “Lamb-”

“I never asked to be your cult leader, your vessel, or a pawn of prophecy.” Something is snapping. Their teeth grit, and their words sharpen. “I never had a choice in anything! Not in my kind’s extinction, not in my execution, not in my life. Not even in the bishops-your siblings- revival. Narinder, keeping you around is the only one I’ve made that’s really mine!”

His widen slightly, then they’re masked again. Lips curl back like the lamb’s anger was something he was seeking, like a fuel to be absorbed. “You make horrible choices.”

The look that befalls them is something that cannot be described, and the feeling of satisfaction he was searching for does not come when he sees it.

Then, they shift. Narinder freezes, every muscle tense. Lambert’s hand is on the front of his chest. The fingers play there, pressing slightly into the front of his robes. The palm presses to him. Lambert is staring blankly where their hands sit. His pulse might be racing. It’s the first time he’s aware of it. Was he acting so heartless, the lamb needed to check?

“Sometimes, I try to hate you.” Their voice is a whisper now, and it shakes at the end. “I can’t.”

His fists curl together tight enough that the wheat crunches in his palm, and his own claws prod into his skin. He can see shadows underneath their eyes. The light that’s usually in them wavers.

“I like being around you. I liked dying to visit you. I like it even now, when you’re angry I’ve betrayed you.” They swallow a lump in their throat, and find their words spill like water. “I’m not sorry I didn’t sacrifice myself. I’m not…sorry you’re here, either. I know it’s selfish. I thought I could take you fishing once you got out. I thought-” Lambert bites their tongue. They’ve rambled. Their eyes sting. Their heart aches. Slowly, they look up at his face.

“If our places were switched, would you have kept me too?” They speak so soft. “Do you actually hate me?”

Narinder’s pupils are wide with a thin red slit that bores into them. He is quiet. He moves not an inch. His eyes flit, the third one glows red back onto their face. His hand burns. The ‘anger’ in his pulse goes by a different name.

Their hand retracts in his silence. “Nevermind.” They take two steps back. Then another. Then a fourth. They don’t look him in the eye, and they’re starting to look so small. “…I have to do work in the temple.”

They turn from him, and walk off. A few steps from that and their pace quickens. He sees their shoulders raise up as the lamb moves through the wheat field through the cut path and disappears as the tall crops conceal their retreating figure. He breathes a cloud in front of his face. The God of Death stands there for a moment where the space the lamb last was, until the wind blows chill through his robes and snaps him from a daze he didn’t realize he was falling into.

There’s something tickling where his claws pierced through his palm, and he raises his hand.

Wheat, once wilted with brown sickness, now thick in the stem and firm, the ends bright yellow with health. The crispy bundle of crop he was holding wasn’t rotten in his palm any longer, but leafy and saturated. His fingers curl around them to decay them again. The thoughts in his mind do not allow it.

Without ritual, fueled by-

Narinder drops the wheat from his hand. The wind blows with the scent of the lamb.

Chapter Text

Heket wakes up, and she wakes up angry.

Cursing and screams was heard across the cult grounds signaling the awakening of the God of Famine, or a Frog of Anura, to the flock who do not know any better other than that the stranger was grievously injured and pissed. The nurse retreats herself from the tent quickly, and all who have come to gawk at the growling that seems to stem from it’s entrance keep at a proper distance until the shadow of the lamb approaches. They are calm in their walk, as they must be, lest panic fill their members. The leader gives all a kind smile and a slight nod as they casually walk past the small crowd that has gathered near the healing bay and off-handily commenting that they should return to work.

“Don’t concern yourself. Most rescues come back traumatized, this is no different.” The Lamb addresses the few stragglers that have stayed behind before they depart, each still sharing glances of uncertainty. The leader speaks with confident reassurance, despite the guttural throaty sounds coming from within the curtains. They stand at the entrance, hand poised to pull back the drape. “I will handle this.”

A wooden cup flies out from the opening of the curtain and smacks them directly in one of the horns. It sends their head to tilt at a slight angle, still holding the neutral smile, as the cup drops to the grass. Growling comes from the frog within the tent. The follower’s brows furrow together.

“Return to work.” The Lamb repeats, oddly chipper. “Please provide our newcomer with some privacy.”

They start to disperse only then, and they ignore the whispers as the leader turns their back and heads inside.

The bed is shaken and the sheets are tousled. Tools and bandages set on the end table were skewed across the room and there were claw marks shredded into the top blanket. There is still a frog in the bed, a paler shade of red than what should be considered healthy but with a burning glare all the same. The way she heaves air is a wheeze through her nostrils, the bloodloss and weakness still evident. But she’s awake, and she’s volatile. She’s smaller than she once was; as are her brothers, but her head is still held high with godhood and undaunted rage. Her arms shake slightly like throwing that cup took most of her strength. If it were not for her current state of health, Lambert is sure she would have lunged across the room to attack them.

Heket’s mouth opens to bare fangs and four rows of sharp teeth. Eldritch anger threatens to break from her skin, ichor staining the corners of her mouth. Her claws are tense, lines of muscles pulled taught in the skin of her hands and in the veins of her neck. As expected, she is angry.

Heket was the first to speak at the Lamb’s execution. Lambert will be the first to speak to her after her own revival. “Hello, Heket.”

They expect a curse back. She just glares. The God of Famine makes a sound from her throat that feels horrid.

Right. She cannot speak.

The crown comes from their head and opens their storage whilst not breaking eye contact. The lamb’s hand dives inside, and they search. They have an extra roll of paper somewhere, one they pull out along with a charcoal stick. It’s no proper ink and quill, but it will do in a pinch. The crown closes, returning to the top of their wool as Lambert steps forwards and holds the items out to Heket-

She slaps it out of their hands, sneering. They tumble to the ground.

Lambert hands linger in the empty space for a moment with a frown. “It’s not to demean you.” They say as they bend down to pick them up. “You no longer have a crown to speak through. It’s just for now.” Once again, they hold out the items. “Here.”

Amber eyes glare daggers at them. They think she’s going to smack it out of their hands again, but instead claws dart forwards and snag the paper and charcoal fast enough like it was a grievous insult for her fingers to get close to them. The paper crumples in her hands as she lays it flat on her legs, scribbling quick. Her handwriting is bold and pressed. She writes a single word, and thrusts the paper back at the lamb. ‘Where’

Lambert has to think for a minute what she means. “You’re in the cult grounds. The healing bay, specifically. This healing tent is your own. The cow that was tending to you was the nurse that worked here, so she’ll be coming back later.”

She’s already writing over it before they finish talking. ‘Brother.’

“Leshy visited you already. He’s probably getting some rest or food. I can go tell him that you’re awake if you’d like.” They answer. “He’s volatile as ever, but he’s fine.” Mentally? Probably not, but none of the gods were. Physically though, the worm has healed from the agonizing ordeal of godly entity compressed into a mortal form.

Heket snarls and a sound comes from her that feels like an attempt at a growl. It’s guttural, and she winces at the pain. She underlines the word. ‘Brother.’

Oh. “Narinder is also here. He’s...okay.”

Heket’s hand stops. Four eyes glare fire into them.

Lambert starts to feel their skin start to prickle. There is nothing much else to say except to lay down the ground rules, now. “Your brothers have been extended the same mercy you will receive, given you behave. Harm the nurse, or any of my followers and I will promise that I would deliver onto you a worse punishment than purgatory, or the humiliations of mortal life. Given what you’ve done, accept this mercy and you’ll live normally.” They pause. “…As normally as I can make it…considering I did not make you this purposefully. You will be given the same respects, regardless.”

Lines of anger are spreading deep into her features as they talk, and Heket’s hand moves quickly across the paper smearing it in black charcoal. The side of her hand smears the writing, along with her attitude showing through; the words are becoming incomprehensible. Though, the lamb is certain she is currently cussing them out in demonic and common language alike.

The paper is eventually black with coal, and Heket growls and rips it apart to shreds. It floats down as little pieces as the frog heaves.

“I brought you clothes. You’ll receive new bandages every two days, and new bedding every three. The nurse will bring you a wash bucket for bathing.” They continue speaking, even as the frog heaves, because what else are they to do as the God of Famine processes what is essentially the biggest spit in the face a god could receive? Lambert keeps their back straight. “You are allowed no visitors, but Leshy has been given explicit permission to come here. He has a caretaker that supervises him. You are to leave them be as well.”

The frog’s teeth is grit together in pain or anger, they cannot tell. Ichor dribbles from the corner of her mouth.

It is satisfying, almost, to see their murderer and one of many responsible for the near-extinction of their species be weakened in such a state. Though, the familiarity of knowing what it’s like to be killed, revived, and thrown into a new life against one’s will is something the lamb recognizes well.

“I need to tell your brother that you’re awake. I’m sure he would be relieved to hear it.” They only mention one, and Lambert themselves wonder if they intend to seek out Leshy first, or to have an excuse to find the second. They turn towards the curtain. “I’ll be back-”

“…feed…me…”

Lambert stops, and blinks back towards the frog. “What?”

“Feed...me…” Heket’s voice strains. It is demanding, and still so weak. The hatred in her face betrays the injury of her throat. She looks completely drained. Her skin was clammy and her eyes glazed a bit. Even through the rage, they can see the exhaustion. Her throat (or lack thereof) moves as she gulps down what they think is a glob of ichor that pools in her mouth. Black dribbles spill slightly through sharp teeth.

They wonder if she’ll go catatonic like Leshy did. Her injury and bloodloss is the only reason why she isn’t raging like how Narinder had. Siblings behave so alike, and yet so different.

“I’ll bring you some food.” They start. “We don’t have much…but I’ll make sure you eat.”

Heket snarls at them.

“A nurse will tend to you. Her name is Mooma, and she will be the one bringing you meals when I’m not around. Do not eat or harm her. If you eat her, if will be your last meal.” Their arm raises up one side of the curtain, an obvious sign of departure. “I have a flock to take care of. I’ll figure out what to do with you later, but for now, the healing bay is your home.” They linger for a moment. “Try to get some rest. You lost a lot of blood.”

Her nostrils flare and she opens her maw in what might be an attempt to curse at them or cast something vile. It comes out as broken agitation that reverbs from inside the tent. At least she’s lively. Lambert doesn’t know what they would do if she had somehow died from her injuries.

With another spare glance to the Frog, Lambert calmly dips their head a few inches lower in farewell, and ignores the hissing as they turn and leave.

-

The Lamb is avoiding him.

It has been five days since he last spoke to them directly in the field, and it has been five days since Narinder has left his isolated hut at the edge of the village. The isolation itself is not unwelcome or even out of the ordinary. It is quite routine for him by now to shut himself away when not scouring the village for them for one reason or another or out on crusades. His isolation is to be expected. The lamb’s lack of bothering, however, is new.

It was welcome for the first night, at least. Narinder stared into the floorboards for a long time.

(A really long time.)

His claws curl in and out. His blankets are far too soft and send his senses into overload. His fur stands on end and his throat feels like wetness threatens to creep up and spill through sharp teeth. His eyes burn because he gets so lost in mindfulness that he forgets to blink, and spots dance in his vision when he shuts them. His tongue taste of ichor, and the room smells of it too.

By the time he comes out of whatever this is-dissociation his mind mixed with a twinge of godly power to taint swirling thoughts-it’s been two days, and there has been no knock on his door. He doesn’t care. Good for him. He’s spared of their pestering and bleats. He’s finally able to relax. The fur on the back of his neck refuses to settle. A chain half-materialized before sinking back into his skin. A tendril of black and red coiled around his fingers and up his arms until he blinks it out of blurry vision. His bones are colder than they were before. He’s fine.

He continues to think. There is more of that being done than the actual ‘meditation’.

When the third day rolls around, he’s coherent enough to grab for the dream journal on the bedside table. Still no ink, but blood works fine, and he makes plenty of it. He does not write in it tonight. Flipping through the pages, he searches for an entry of a dream, of anything, that would forewarn him. The words he’s written do not help, and the images he’s drawn provide no relief either. There might be poetry in how his vessel is being drawn with his own godly ichor. He takes the tip of his claw, pricks his thumb and uses the blood to smear across the memory and bury the lamb’s image in blackness.

The page rips. He dug his claw in too deep. There’s a gash on the lamb where he only meant to block them out.

The book is thrown to the floor in mindless motion. He picks it up a minute later, and finds that one of the stitches on the spine from their shoddy binding work has come undone. He sets it back on the bedside table, crosses his legs on the center of his bed, and thinks.

On day four, Narinder is still sitting silently in that same spot, rolling two necklaces between his fingers.

That night, his dreams glower at him

The lamb in this night is odd. Their eyes are glassy and dim. He expects them to laugh at him. Perhaps mockery. Instead they just stare. Smiling blankly. He’s not sure if he prefers this version of the illusion or not. They are quiet.

“Why are you silent?” Narinder asks the not-lamb. “Speak your mind.”

What they speak will be of his own mind. It is a redundant demand. Still, the lamb says nothing. They sit in the corner of his dream with their face resting in their hands and sitting comfortably in the nook of his memory. When he blinks, they’re gone. He’s in the afterlife again, as small as he is in mortal form with chains wrapped around his wrists, his robes, and his mind, and he is here alone.

He wakes with a mouthful of ichor that he spits out. It splatters across the sheets and rots the edge of the bedside table that it sprayed on. Narinder reaches for his journal again, before staying his hand and deciding against it. He does not sleep the rest of the night.

On day five, there are footsteps.

He knows immediately it is not the lamb, for whoever it is lacks their jingling bell. His ribcage stays silent.

Still, his ears swivel in the direction of whoever is approaching (Slow, even footsteps. Fabric drags against the ground like the long tail of a robe. Too light to be a larger animal, too heavy to be a child.) and Narinder’s attention pivots completely to the first soul that dare approach his hut with such casualness while he’s currently in the middle of something. Thinking. His body moves on his own anyway, and he’s out of the bed and cracking the door opening and glaring through the slit it makes. The sunlight burns his eyes on contact, and the narrowing he does of them is now less of a threat and more out of necessity.

The elder rabbit, plain faced and hunched stands before him. She holds a wicker basket of clean bedsheets and other small items he cannot pick out from underneath the fabric. What mild surprise she had at him opening the door is quickly faded. “Good morning.”

Red slits glare at her.

She is unphased by it. “Did you think I was someone else?”

It is a mockery, and one he does not take kindly. He would slam the door in her face had he not been keeping a tightening grip on the handle instead. “Where is the lamb?”

He didn’t mean to say that. He means to ask what she was doing there. He means to threaten her. The rabbit’s eyebrow raises slightly and Narinder feels his skin prickle. “Busy.” Says the elder. “They are running an entire community on their own. Their time is sparse, and they do not have the free time to attend to you.” She gestures the basket forward rather boldly. “Blankets, bathing cloth, and matches. Your offerings. I will not bend to drop them.”

His nose wrinkles. He does not take the basket, much to the rabbit’s growing dismay. He speaks dully. “Free time is not an issue. The lamb bothers me regardless.”

“There is much that requires their time, and they must divide it to the most important needs.” She drops the basket directly from where it’s held. It softly thuds to the front of her. Had it been a few inches further, it would have landed on Narinder’s foot. “Perhaps ‘regardless’ may no longer apply to you.”

His thin frown turns into a sneer. “Watch your mouth, mortal.”

“Of course, my lord.” There’s professionalism and sarcasm in her tone. She sounds like the lamb themselves. He wonders if this is where they’ve kept their attitude from, because Ratau was still a coward in the early days of their reign. The rabbit dips her head an inch, but it is hardly a bow. It would have been less insulting not to do it at all. “The frog has awoken.”

Narinder is still for a moment. “...The lamb sent you here to tell me?”

It is information that the lamb would normally deliver themselves. The whole situation was too fragile. Too personal, for a simple follower to be involved in any sort of way. It feels detached hearing it. His sister is alive, and possible aware of him and Leshy. Narinder is a full older brother once more.

“No.” The rabbit’s plain toned, and yet all too old. Too knowing. “They have yet to find the heart. I came on my own.”

He knows not what scenario is more likely; that Lambert told this follower enough or everything to provide the information, or that perhaps members of the flock may be starting to put the pieces together just enough to know that the newcomers and himself are connected. It benefits her nothing to be here, and yet she stands here before him looking annoyed, without orders, and yet without patience.

“I have work to return to.” She says. He must have been quiet long enough because the elder is turning away. “Good morning. May you find fate again, lest you lose yours.” She turns, one rabbit ear craning like a wave in the wind before walking promptly back down the hill.

She’s already too far out before he realizes he could have just read her mind to know her intentions. Narinder looks down to the wicker basket: all items the lamb would have brought themselves. He leaves it out there, shutting the door and making sure all the curtains are drawn shut on the windows. Isolated again.

-

Leshy is there in the morning when Lambert arrives to bring breakfast. They bring three bowls this time, all of grass gruel, but little bits of berries are mashed inside for flavor and substance; its the best they can work with. Not everyone is awake yet, so hardly anyone spots them walking across the grounds with all three bowls balanced on their arms like a waiter. The Bishop of Famine’s tent has not been empty since her arrival, and the Bishop of Chaos and his caretaker were not in their hut during morning checks. Lambert knows where they are.

They’re quiet when shuffling open the curtain, and to their relief, all seem to be asleep.

Heket is sitting up against the pillows, but all of her eyes are closed and she is (for once) still. Leshy’s head is lying at the foot of his sister’s bed, knees on the ground and arms tucked into his robes. Joon is asleep on the single chair, arms crossed and head looped to the side. They snore a bit, and it covers up the sound of clinking when Lambert sets the bowls down on the bedside table. No need to wake them now. The less conflict the better. They make their departure quiet, halfway through the curtain-

“…Lamb…”

Lambert stops. The curtain falls closed and they look back to the bed. All four eyes on the frog are open and they glare daggers at the leader.

Heket’s voice is too weak to wake the others, and yet still holds gruffness in her tone. “Told...of eye.…”

Their gaze flits down to Leshy for a brief moment. The worm’s cradles himself as he sleeps. They wonder if he’s chosen that spot willingly; if he prefers to sit on the packed dirt floor or did he allow Joon to sleep on the chair for another reason. His antler branches force him to angle his head in a way that might creak his neck.

How different do they look now, as mortal in appearance as the Lamb is, as weakened as they have started. They wonder if it’s too much to bring him a pillow.

Lambert looks back and finds Heket’s stare has not diminished. They keep their voice low and soft. “Yes, I did retrieve his eye for him.”

Her hand curls into fists at her side. The scratches she had made on their own hands and arms has since healed, as did every other injury or death she’s given them. The back of their leg still bares a scabbing pink bite mark from one of her minions. She glares at them like they’re a stain on her finest table cloth, face wrinkled with distaste. Distrust.

“Anura...hides.…what I…lost.” She speaks, and even with a mutilated voice it sounds like she’s gritting her teeth. “…yours...for now…”

Her throat. Heket is asking (demanding) for her throat.

“Alright.” Lambert nods. “I’ll look for your throat.”

She glares, because that’s really all she can do at the moment. If she had the energy to strain herself further, she probably would have told them to leave. The frog’s nasal cavities twitch and her head shifts slightly to the bowls sat on the bedside table. Lambert does not miss the wince in her body as she lifts her arm to try and reach for one.

Wordlessly, Lambert walks to the table stepping over Leshy’s legs, grabs a bowl and sets it plainly onto the frog’s lap, and walks back and exits through the curtain before the frog can spit something vile at them.

-

It is less than an hour before a figure comes to the healing bay, and it is not the Lamb that arrives when they do.

Narinder stands at the entrance of his sisters tent, stoic and unmoving. It is an anti-climatic setting for gods such as they. A reunion of traitors would have been more story like in temples or battlegrounds, but so far they are only allowed the dingy dim light of a barn, or the healing tent with a low ceiling that would touch his ears were he to raise a few inches. He has yet to enter. He has yet to think of what to say. He’s had nearly a week to think of it. Now outnumbered by his siblings in his own cult, faced with the consequences of his own making.

His claws itch. His teeth feel sharp in his mouth. His sister should have bled out on the temple floor. He can have her bleed out now, too, and undo the decision that seems to have started an unwanted change.

Narinder must have been standing there a little too long quiet and menacingly, because the sound of footsteps approach and stop, silent for a few seconds before a throat clears. “Ah, hello Lamb’s friend! Are you waiting for your turn to visit? I don’t think there’s a limit as to how many people are allowed inside.”

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, but he does anyway. The yellow cat is wearing a smile, stiffening slightly when the black cat turns to look at them. Narinder doesn’t know what facial expression he’s wearing at the moment, but he knows it’s probably not a friendly pleasant one. This creature was his brother’s shadow, meaning wherever they were, Leshy was probably not far off. The cat probably just ran to the outhouse and back.

The inside of their mind is telling. ‘I’ll stay out here…I don’t want to get involved in whatever is about to happen...He looks sad and mad at the same time.’

Smart mortal. Narinder will ignore that last part for the sake of his own sanity. He turns from them wordless and enters the tent.

He was correct; Leshy is inside, along with Heket.

The worm pauses at the sound of him entering. Heket tenses immediately, and he expects rage or hatred to come across her features. It does for a brief second, then is watered down by something else. For a long moment there is just staring. Amber eyes to crimson, perhaps in disbelief that they are standing there. Alive, in person, now in mortal forms greatly dishonored to the mass of power they each once held. Narinder would lay and flay souls of the dead, Heket would have entire civilizations under her thumb with the power of famine and harvest and Leshy would have chaos reign in every corner of his domain and whatever part of the world he could reach his claws to.

Now the God of Death stands with his fur bristled, the God of Famine is lying weak in a hospital bed and the God of Chaos has a wooden spoonful of grass gruel frozen in the air upon noticing his brother’s presence.

Narinder’s claws strain and itch and curl deep into his palm where they dig divots into his skin.

Leshy’s head twitches in his direction, and his mouth bares teeth. “What do you want?”

“Silence, worm.” Narinder does not tear his eyes away from his sister, who returns the glare with the same intensity. She, too, looks like she’s struggling to keep her composure. “I am not here to converse with you.”

“You might as well, seeing as how much ‘conversing’ shall only be done with me. You are to blame for that.” Leshy snaps. He drops the spoon back into the bowl and turns his head to face the direction where Narinder stands. Heket’s gaze drops briefly to the food, but she quickly returns back to the cat. The bandages around her throat look like they’ve been regularly changed. There’s ichor, but it doesn’t look like it bled as horrifically as his own wounds did when he first arrived. The healing he’s done might have solved that. Narinder does not look at it, and Leshy continues. “Speak your peace or leave. I imagine you didn’t come here with a ‘get well soon’ card or flowers.”

What a joke. The God of Death’s head is held high. “I imagine you didn’t expect to come here and play nurse? Get lost.”

Leshy sneers. “Putrid beast, I’ll have your skin-!”

“Leshy.” Heket speaks, vocal cords strained. Both men go silent. The frog has an expression he cannot read, though it is not a positive one by any means and about as tense as the room feels, the anger he expects from her is tainted with something else. “...healed me.”

Leshy’s mouth shuts into a tight line and his fists curl into balls. Narinder feels the fabric walls of the tent start to close in.

The God of Famine turns from worm to cat. “…Why?”

“To suffer.” He answers, and it is an answer he’s had prepared for days. “Do not think it was out of kindness or for any benevolent reason. The lamb begged for your life, and just like you-” A quick glance to a tense worm. “-every breath the both of you draw puts them indebted to me, more so than what they already owe. The two of you are to become my own fodder and bargening tools against my vessel. It’s all you’re good for.”

(What, exactly, Narinder was bargaining for, he wasn’t sure anymore.)

Heket snarls, but the sound is overtaken by a grumbling stomach. His ears automatically crane back. Leshy’s face also shifts, and he picks up the food again. “Your lamb is a fool and an idiot if they think we are to be as manipulated as their flock.”

The God of Dead huffs. “I care little of you being manipulated and so as long as you know your place.”

The worm almost barks. “I’ll flay you in front of them.”

“Brothers.” Heket’s voice strains louder, annoyance evident in her tone.

The younger sibling ignores her. “Be gone with you, disgrace. This family reunion does not include you-”

The worm cuts himself off. He does not wince, and he does not shrink, but the entirety of his body goes still as the claws of his sister dig slightly into his arm. Though the worm cannot see it, Heket glares volcanic heat onto the bandages upon her brother’s face as if he can, and burns that gaze as if he would feel it alone. The claws retract from the worm’s limb, and she turns to Narinder with the same look. He is reminded, briefly, of how she would do the same to wayward followers and priests, or brothers that fought too loudly in the night while she was trying to sleep.

The God of Famine demands silence, and she demands attention. For though her throat may be stolen, they will not dare to speak over her, or for her.

Leshy goes silent. Narinder’s fingers tap against his side through his robes.

Heket wipes the slight dribble of ichor that comes from the corner of her mouth. “Why...are…you here…?”

There is rage. There is also confliction. He prefers the former. Narinder’s tail catches the fabric of the curtain behind him as it lashes. “I merely felt like seeing the results of my handiwork.”

In one shaky movement, Heket grabs the edge of the bowl from Leshy’s grip and flings it forward. Half of it lands on the lower end of the bed in a trail and the other half hits him in the shoulder, splattering a darkish green stain across white fabric. It coats a spot on his arm and slips down his sleeve until it plops to the floor, leaving a sickly looking plant color on his clothes. Narinder does not dodge, but he inspects the stain with mild disinterest. That will be annoying to remove, but so is blood, and he’s learned a few tricks by now.

“Prideful...rotting cat.…know this…” She struggles to speak, the edges of her words are wet as more ichor starts to pool in the corner of her mouth and coat her teeth. “…thousand years...you...are still...annoying…”

Narinder almost rolls his eyes. Typical.

“But...” She starts. “You...are not...what once was...” Brows tightly furrowed, she says every word with careful meaning. Leshy perks up, and he too begins to listen to his sister with the same attention as the elder sibling does. “…Why?”

He scoffs at her. “You locked me in the afterlife for a thousand years, chained and alone. Take a guess.”

Her teeth, fangs hidden in her upper lip, grow sharp with irritation. “…Crown…you spare...the lamb...?”

Ah. So that’s what she’s asking. “My power was split, the crown’s abilities have been divided. It’s had an...adverse effect on the concept of death.” He searches for the correct words, though it’s an explanation he’s already told once. Leshy’s antlers twitch, and his frown deepens. “Their continued living is a temporary solution until I can take back my power, then they’ll be exterminated.” He mindfully leaves out the part of the threat of erasure, lest his siblings get any ideas. “Worry not. I’ll return you to purgatory as soon as my status is whole again.”

Leshy almost barks a laugh. “Pitiful. I have already told her all of this.”

“The elders are having a conversation. Sit there and play nurse-”

“SILENCE!” Heket yells, actually yells. It is loud, broken, and her mutilated voice reverbs from the tent. Footsteps outside tell him that the yellow cat is spooked enough to retreat. She coughs as soon as the command ends; ichor starts to spill down her chin in streams. Leshy’s previous mockery halts as he grabs for the surface of the blanket, holding it up so she can take it and dab away the wetness and stains the sheets even more so with blood among food. Narinder simply stands there, stoic.

She breathes unevenly. Her throat is torn, but her lungs work fine. “...The lamb.…spoke to me…”

Narinder finds the stain on his shoulder easier to look at than his sister. “I figured by now.”

“Without you…before death...” Heket continues. “…Before…purgatory.…”

Narinder’s running mind stops, and his head tilts to think. In a manner shared only by siblings, Leshy too, tilts his antlers in the same semblance of confusion. Realization dawns.

(“We spoke without you, the lamb and I. Before your release from chains. Before the rest of us fell. A private conversation.“)

“They spoke to you as well?” Leshy is questioning her now.

The frog opens her mouth to answer. Her maw just gapes as the noise that comes out is a cough. Claws clutch her throat, eyes shut tight in a wince. The pain passes and she opens her eyes, though she no longer speaks. The look she shares with him is telling enough. The frog and worm share a look that Narinder cannot decipher, and it dawns on him immediately that his two younger siblings, weakened as they are, share a knowledge over him that neither would be willing to give. Only between themselves, and possibly the lamb.

…Hmm.

He’ll push it. “What conversation?”

Heket does not even attempt to speak. She merely side eyes him. Her voice for the day might be overspent.

Leshy reaches towards the bedside table where another bowl resides, gropes until he feels the edge of it against his fingers and brings it forward. It’s grass gruel again, this one still full, and he takes the wooden spoon and starts to pick it apart as he settlings in front of his sister once more. “Ask your lamb. You’ve tired us already. Leave.”

On a regular occurrence, he might have confronted the lamb instead of dealing with his family. Except he’s certain they are avoiding him, and he’s doesn’t have a clue as to where they might be. “Just tell me. You’re being a pain.”

“Find your answers elsewhere.” Heket coughs again and from her mouth comes a low gurgle, wet and strained. Leshy’s hands are becoming stained with ichor as well, but the worm does not appear to care. He does not look towards the curtain when he speaks lowly. “We are done with this. If you have lost your keeper, check the morgue. Perhaps you’ll get lucky.”

Heket grasps for the food and shovels the spoonful into her mouth. It is a desperate motion that not even her pride will prevent her from revealing. That grass gruel is no where enough to sustain her.

He’ll face his family another time. He can only handle his past in doses.

They watch him, but neither stop him. Narinder reaches back, pulls his hood back up around his face and exits through the curtains.

-

Lambert may or may not be getting hunted.

They’re not entirely sure; nothing has been too out of the ordinary, as ‘ordinary’ is now becoming. No followers act strangely in their presence and everything seems to be keeping to routine...as routine as it should be, anyway. It has been nearly a week since they’ve spoken to Narinder, and they know eventually they will need to discuss with him. But for now, there are chores that need doing and schedules to be planned, and that’s their excuse for the absence. Let the cat stew in the pot he’s stirred. The anxiety must come from that, of course. Even if it’s more prominent today, trailing wherever they might go.

It’s half-familiar. The One Who Waits would be a constant surveillance through the crown, but Narinder has been here for months, and the feeling does not come from a space one cannot reach without bleeding.

It starts in the afternoon. The tailor, the rescued hedgehog who they’ve come to know as ‘Pointy’ has proven to be quite useful. Winter coats and boots were mostly finished for the animals who could not grow their own, and he has started to craft more blankets for new comers and those who might need them. The hedgehog seems chipper when they deliver him his food during the work hours and even holds up a pleasant conversation. He doesn’t seem at all uneased, even as it feels like there is something crawling into the wool on their back and slinking underneath the leather of their collar.

It follows them throughout the hour, notably when the time comes for the first shift of workers and worshippers to break for lunch. One of the children throws up behind the kitchen house because, unfortunately, not everyone can stomach the taste of grass gruel just yet. Lambert comforts the teary eyed boy, directing another follower to find him something a little lighter on the stomach as they shoo the rest of them away so they can clean up the mess without anyone else becoming sick.

The feeling is there too as they finish tidying up. Lambert’s head picks up and scans the area (Followers eating a distance away, more are still working, idle chatter, combined voiced, no eyes on them. Scan the temple. The tables. The forest. The trees. The shadows-) until the sound of more vomiting breaks them from their focus. Another child has puked, and the beetle girl next to him goes green in the face and hurls to the side as well. The deer boy she held onto starts to make noises of choking back bile. There’s an entire gaggle of children puking up nasty food.

They clean all that up too, excuse themselves to a spot behind stone walls where no one can see them, and allow the crown to shift into a dagger into their palm.

The red eye stares back blankly at them. They look for uncertainty in it. It does not flicker, and shadows wisp around their palm. The crown doesn’t seem to believe there’s any danger, at least. It morphs back into a crown as quickly as a smile morphs onto their face when a bright-eyed follower rounds the corner with a request.

It’s just nerves. Prey instincts that linger in a godly tainted body that’s killed more lives than they can count. The usurper of Death, bearer of the Red Crown and Leader of the Flock has no fear. The lamb in them, however, last of their kind, remembers what it feels like to be hunted.

The feeling follows them when they go to the bathhouse to check on the boiler. It follows when they go to collect wood from the lumberyard to distribute for indoor heating. It follows as they help pull up the last of what crops survived the end of autumn with the other farmers and instructs them to preserve as much as they can before accepting that the rest of the field’s plants were simply not healthy enough for safe consumption.

It follows them, even, into the confessional booth at the end of the day as dinner is starting to wrap up, and what time remains is after three or four followers took their chance to confess their sins while the lamb absolves them of sin and reassures their faith.

“I confess, my lamb. I broke my friend’s prized possession.” A soft timid voice says, and she lowers her head in shame. “I have yet to tell them. I know they will be angry.”

“I confess, my lamb. I have stolen the belongings of my former lover.” One deeper voice says, and he begins to tear up. “It’s the closest thing I can do to have her in my arms again.”

“I confess, my lamb. I’m having thoughts of eating another.” Another voice says, low and slightly nervous. “Consumption of the flesh can be holy, can it not?”

“I confess, my lamb. I wish to be sacrificed.” A gruff older one, calm and even. “I’ve devoted all of myself except my life. I’m ready to give myself to Death.”

Each a different confession. Each requires a different answer; a different comfort. (Honesty will make kindness or break it, but it will not damn you to try. Return their favors, or put forth the effort to earn hers back. Stay your teeth from the flesh of another, and put your hands to work to provide, for there is glory in toil. Hold onto life; Death is patient. The lamb will make use of you when the time comes, there is no rush.) The farewell to them is all the same: “I absolve you from your sins. Go in peace, and with a lighter heart.”

The last one leaves slowly, hobbling out of the booth with what is assumed old bones and movements impeded by age. Lambert expects an elder shall request a sacrificial death soon, and wonders briefly if it is the hard times that brought up such an idea. They always seem to ask more frequently when they believed themselves to be a burden.

They’ll sit here for a moment and enjoy the rest. It will be the last moment of peace they get to have before returning to the chaos. Crickets and wind are the only sounds outside of the booth. It’s a welcome relief from the constant chatter and noise. The sun is low in the sky, it’s settling starting to cast the clouds in a painting of oranges and warm hues. Lambert breathes in deeply, and lays one hand over the roundness of their bell.

They will need to talk to him eventually even if the sight of his damnable face would make them shrivel right about now. Even if just grumbles something about death or power or family or this and that and whatever he complains about. Even if he looks unhappy when they walk within his presence.

Lambert’s hand falls from the bell down to their cloak where something hard resides behind the fabric. They need to present their…’offering’. A solution. One that will sting.

Inhale, exhale. The air that fills their lungs provides no relief to the heartache that pulses dully in their chest. Their fingers drag to the front of their wool to press at the skin beneath there. Damn thing has been aching for a week. They only have themselves to blame. Nerves and anxiety.…among other miseries.

A shadow flits beyond the curtain and reality reminds them they have a flock to attend to. Lambert straightens their posture, fixes their expression, and prepares to address the new comer. Strange; they did not hear any footsteps. There’s no silhouette that comes to the other side of the grate. Perhaps someone merely got curious. They move to exit, shifting forward through curtain. “Apologies, but the confessional is closed for the night-”

A dark hand grasps their shoulder and they are pushed-almost shoved-back into the booth’s confines. The crown reacts to their reflex, shifting to a dagger once more. It flickers; hardly forming a blade before the black wisped back into a snaky trail that shoots back up their fingers and into their wool like the lamb wasn’t currently being pined to the back wall. “What-?!”

It’s quick; in the same second as their wool squished against the wood, the hand not on their shoulder moves behind the figure himself. A blur of dark fur; sliding the closing panel over the partition effectively blocking out the confessor’s side. The curtains drawn shut, casting the booth in shadow. What light that comes inside is the skylight in the ceiling, a lattice patterned shadow of sunset hues casting across the small space and it’s occupants.

Lambert would have pummeled the shit out of whoever had the audacity to do such a move if it weren’t for a familiar set of three red slits making them pause. “…Narinder?”

Narinder says nothing, but his grip on their shoulder tightens. Claws threaten to dig past the fleece and into their skin.

Well. This explains the feeling of unease the last couple of hours. The cat has stalked them through crusades, their cult grounds, and in their own dreams. They honestly should have expected it.

He had been waiting for them to get alone before pouncing. Really living up to the namesake.

The confines of the confessional booth are now far too tight, especially now that the cat was blocking the exit with the entirety of his body. He’s taller than them, shadowing over them, and far too at ease with backing them into a corner. Lambert could push him over if they needed, but that might cause a fight, and that might cause a scene, and their flock was unaware of the happenings of inside of the tiny box. They could possibly excuse themselves by saying they have a chore, and manage through-

Their attempt fails when his shoulder shifts and cuts them off. The woodgrain of the walls press into their back.

Narinder’s tail lashes behind him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

This is not ideal. Maybe it is, but certainly not under this circumstance. They’re still mad. Lambert frowns. “I’ve been busy. Excuse me-”

When they shift an inch towards the curtain, his other arm casually raises and rests on the wooden wall there, blocking them off. They blink at the cat box they’ve found themselves in and Narinder looks to them expectantly. “Try again.”

They don’t deal with this sort of arrogance from followers, and certainly not in this manner. Lambert actually has to think about what their next move will be. “I’m giving you space to adjust.”

“I’ve plenty of space to ‘adjust’.”

“Oh, good.” Sarcasm fills into the lamb’s tone. “I was certain you’d take off and murder an entire domain again.”

The curl of a claw on their shoulder hints that perhaps he would like to. Were it anyone else, Lambert would have lopped their hand off or imprisoned them by now. The cat takes too many seconds in-between responding. “My siblings speak of a private conversation with you without my knowledge.” He speaks low. “They say it was centuries ago during your original crusades. Explain this.”

The tension in their brow lightens for a second. “You spoke to your siblings?”

“Of course I have-”

“I meant to tell you that your sister was awake.” They speak quickly, head craning back subconsciously away from him. “I…did get busy. She seems to have healed quite well with your help.”

In the low light, Narinder’s face twitches. “Answer me.”

The irritation returns a bit, and Lambert feels just a touch of the bitterness they’ve kept down seep into their voice. “It’s a private conversation. Am I really not allowed that? I don’t need to tell you everything.”

“You do.” His eyes narrow. “You do tell me everything.”

“...Nah, no I don’t.”

“Please. As if you don’t get your fix bleating in my doorway or on my symbol since the day I revived you.” He scoffs, and they can hear the lowness of a grumble at the end of it. As stealthy as he’s been, he’s keeping his voice quiet enough for only the lamb to hear him with upturned ears. No one outside the booth should even notice. Narinder’s jeer fades suddenly, and his mouth looks to force itself into a neutral line. “…You have not visited me in a week.”

Ah. So this was going to turn into that sort of conversation. The lamb had prepared for this in their mind. It does not steady the slight churn of their stomach when eye contact makes their throat dry and they raise their eyes to his craned ears for some mental berth. They will hint at an out, perhaps. “Maybe you can consider it a gift or an offering. You can be free of me for a while, at least until you want to find me saving the rest of your siblings.”

Somewhere behind him, the lashing tail pauses. Something like confusion furrows in his brows, though they cannot imagine it is for lack of understanding. Lambert lets their head rest against the wood, hands and arms planted firm to their sides. It’s about as comfortable as they’re going to get. “Is there something else you need of me?”

The grip on their shoulder has softened. He could have dropped his hand by now. “Just…bleat your usual.”

Lambert blinks. “What?”

“Your usual.” He repeats, as if saying it a second time explains anything or makes it any more believable to be coming out of his mouth. “Whatever your worries or thoughts are, lamb. My mind reading ability does not extend to you.” There’s an ‘unfortunately’ murmured in there, but he continues. “So talk.”

Both of their ears are raised high enough in what can only be assumed as surprise. “…Are you asking about my day? My worries? You?”

The God of Death both simultaneously looks intimidating and awkward at the same time. He looks like he wishes to threaten them. He also looks like he’s made himself as cornered as the lamb currently felt.

“Back then, in the field.” Narinder starts, and he trails off. Red pupils break away from their face. “Get it out of your system so you’re useful again.”

(Maintience for a tool, he tells himself. That’s all this is. Just like how it was in the gateway. Just like now.)

When you corner a rabid animal, it will either do two things: eventually snap at it’s pursuer or it will cower and await death. When fleeing is not an option, fight or freeze. The lamb does neither. Narinder has them cornered and they do not smell of fear, nor do they snap, but they are staring. Metaphorical gears turn behind black eyes. How uncomfortable he must be with this proximity they think; god who hates them, despises them and every time he must touch him, and how strange it is to make himself uncomfortable as the price to make the lamb still.

They don’t mean to, but they inhale deeply before they speak, and Narinder smells like himself and the laundry detergent his robes are washed in. “I meant what I said back there. I never wanted to be a cult leader. I wouldn’t give it up now, though. The flock needs me, and I need them just as much.” Their fingers curl into the fabric of their fleece. “Not even so much for a devotional output as for a purpose. It worked out in the end.”

Narinder’s ears have craned forward, eyes still lightly narrowed. He says nothing. They wish he would.

“I did not choose for things to end up like this, but I think-.” They start, and they choose their words carefully. “I…hope you will like this life, mortal body or not. With or without me, since, you know,” A light shrug, a casual movement too lifted when it feels like the air is thick with tension. “Since you didn’t plan on keeping me, not willingly anyways.”

Something in his expression twists. “You have a habit of digging your mind into holes.”

Lambert’s face hardens a bit at the sass. “But if you didn’t consume my soul, or send me to purgatory, what then? What would you have done after my sacrifice to you-?”

“I told you months ago, lamb, my answer is not changed.” He speaks low and with lingering bitterness they’ve come to recognize behind his words. “You do not get to know. Your betrayal solidified that.”

“And what of the cult?” Their voices have reached a whisper. Somewhere outside the booth, there is a single set of footsteps that scuttle past. They speak again only when it fades. “You will not tell me what you would have done with me, but what of my flock? What would have happened with them?”

Narinder goes quiet for a heartbeat. “They would have been fine.”

Their face drops slightly, and they try not to let it show in their shoulders. It does so in their voice, dead and sour. “…A replacement cult leader then. Figures.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say, because Narinder’s fur suddenly prickles high enough with irritation that they can feel it. The corner of the confessional feels like teeth closing in on them with every second. “Do not make assumptions of what I would have done with you, little lamb.”

Claws have dug comfortably into the shoulder again. For a god who despises touching them, he sure is getting touchy.

Lambert can feel their own irritation start to mirror back. “I wouldn’t need to make assumptions if you would stop being so cryptic about it.”

“Am I not allowed privacy? Am I not allowed the comfort of knowing something you don’t, since clearly-” Narinder hisses, sharp fangs and bristled fur. “-we are keeping things from each other, you far longer than I.”

Damnable, horrible, miserable cat. They can feel their own face scrunch up and teeth grit. Low, whispered yells. The confessional booth is starting to darken with power. “Says the god who planned on sacrificing me, killing me, betraying me from the start-!”

“Betray you?” Narinder laughs, short and curt. It takes them by surprise as a grin, only a touch mad, spreads across his face. “You are nothing but a wrong hypocrite-”

“For choices I could not make alone? For choosing to keep death around after I chose to stay alive?” Their voice is raising, blood rushing. “I will not give you my death, but I will give you my life, and still I do not know how to satisfy you when you are so incredibly difficult.”

He looks like he wants to kill them. “You ruined everything. I would have wanted for nothing, you would have wanted for nothing if I had my way-!”

“What do you want from me, Narinder?!” There is desperation now, they think. “What do you want?!”

The sound of something thudding a distance away sends a sharp, cold feeling through the booth. Footsteps and conversation as workers pass the confessional booth. The small space as darkened, shadows wisped at the corners and darkening the patterned light that spills over the both of them. Lambert locks up and goes ridged. Narinder’s form is tense, and his tail bristled. This remains until the followers walk away, and wind blows through the curtains and pushes stray pieces of their wool and the fabric Narinder’s sleeves.

This conversation went about as well as they expected it to go.

“Excuse me.” In a swift movement, Lambert grabs the God of Death’s wrist and prys it from their shoulder. It must have snapped him back to reality, because his claws catch against their fleece and pull a thread away when they force it away and practically shoulder-check him to move towards the exit.

The arm closes to them catches them around their waist, and Lambert practically jolts because Narinder has never done that.

“Wait.” They’re running away again, and it sounds like he knows it. “Lamb-”

They need to leave. They need to think. They need air. The talisman presses hard into their pocket. Lambert digs their fingers into where his sleeve and their front connect and pushes him away in an almost poorly concealed panic. “I have better things to do than deal with your cryptic behavior-”

A voice outside the confessional booth cuts them off. “I don’t know, really. When was the last time we had that kind of ritual?”

Lambert freezes, as does the body behind them. The voices, two of them, grow closer. Wide eyes and all tense limbs move on their own; Lambert takes one step back, back into the corner where Narinder had herded them and the cat lets them, his own ears and eyes focused on the curtain. Walking out now would normally not be a problem had they kept their composure, and the Lamb is not keen on having to explain or reassure why their fingers are shaking, or there’s the feeling of blood pooling into the cheeks and skin beneath their eyelids. They’re lucky it’s not quite enough for their eyes to bleed.

Maybe they could just brush past, say some excuse about meditation-

“I know it takes a while for them to get the right materials and prepare…but we used to have one maybe once a month? It’s been, uh…a couple. Yeah. Last one was when that bear got resurrected.”

Footsteps grow closer to the confessional. Whispers, hushed and low and yet in a casual tone. “Okay, but…you’ve got to admit that bringing someone back from the dead is pretty impressive.”

“They’re not feeding us though. Are they just gonna bring us back after we all die of starvation?”

“Maybe they’ll bring some folks back for us to eat. It’s not like they’ve got any more time in this life anyways.”

Lambert’s current Runnings of several escape plans come to a halt, and their face dulls. Dissention sews into the mind of their flock. Great. They’ll have to think of a speech before the next sermon to address some of those ongoing concerns. At least eavesdropping has some of the same benefits of mind reading.

It’s be useful to have see-through vision to know who’s on the other side. Instead they remain trapped. A few more beats of steady breathing and they could very well just march out there and inturrupt them as composed and perfect as leaders should be.

Lambert would give anything to have see-through vision to know whats exactly on the other side of the wood, or at the very least get their mind-reading back so they can investigate easily who the culprits are later. Instead, they’re trapped. A part of them knows they could very well just march out there and interrupt them. Their status as leader would promote it as such. That is, if it wasn’t for the God of Death an entire head taller than them currently pressing them into a corner and glaring daggers at the fabric of the curtain.

The footsteps come a bit closer, and they feel Narinder’s body tense. They don’t know why he hasn’t left yet.

Shuffling. Fabric being unwrapped. “Here, slipped the courier a few coins on their way out last week. Did you know these weren’t always prohibited?” More shuffling, then the clinking of coin. “Hundred years ago or so, everyone was allowed to do whatever. Then they regulated the stuff, just like, outta nowhere. Probably keeping it all to themselves.”

Oh, that’s smuggling. Someone’s totally going to prison for the night.

“Must be nice.” The other voice echoes. There’s further conversation, muffled with what sounds like chewing. “We can probably give the courier some more. Get the disciple in on this.”

The footsteps fade. The arm around their waist drops, and Lambert can hear their own heartbeat again.

The confessional booth is quiet for a long second. Narinder glares at the curtain a little longer like it was personally responsible for interrupting before turning back to the lamb. They expect him to say something. He does not. His mouth is flattened into thin line with furrowed brows.

“…Looks like I have another problem to add to my list.” The lamb sighs (Lavender detergent and dark fur, faint ichor that smells fresh like he bled this morning) “I have dissention, famine, a grave robber making meals out of corpses and now smuggling to worry about. You should understand I’m busy.” Their hand hesitates, then digs into their fleece for something hard. “…I also need to retrieve your sister’s throat from Anura tomorrow. Here.”

Narinder ignores the item they pull out, instead glowering. “We leave in the morning?”

“No. You’re not coming with me.”

Annoyance. “We’ve had this discussion, Lamb.”

“I don’t want you to come with me.” Their tone is firm, their expression plain and neutral. A mask. They fall into plainness, the same as they do with every follower, and become as wooden faced as they’ve carved their leader persona out to be. “I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t…want you around me tomorrow. Do not follow me.”

They need air. They need to run. Cold chill seeps along their skin like death crawls in their veins. Once a familiar comfort, but that comfort is too quiet, and that comfort is staring at them with wide red pupils.

“Here.” They repeat, and push the talisman into his lingering hand. “If you hate me so much, you are free to leave. I will rescue your siblings regardless. I blessed this myself; it will protect you wherever you go.”

He’s still staring.

“I know you don’t need the protection. I know it’s not the moon necklace you asked for.” They let the talisman drop in his hand. It’s carefully crafted, blue with the red crown’s symbol etched at the top with a thick cord. It sits in his hand limply, and Lambert looks away from it. Their racing pulse betrays them. “I meant to give it to you earlier, I-” A pause. “I got busy.”

All the anger is gone from his face. Now he’s just…staring. Lambert does not read into the lines of his expression, they do not wish to meet it.

When Narinder speaks, it is quieter than they expected. “Are you telling me to leave?”

“Whatever you want.” Is their answer. “You’re not chained to me, my lord. I don’t want you to feel trapped like that ever again, even if I come to hate you so we’ll be even. There’s no need to spend eternity with creatures you despise.”

He says nothing. The tail behind him is still, and his ears are pointed towards the ceiling. Narinder is a statue, and it does nothing to calm their nerves. No arguments, no witty comeback, nothing. Lambert feels their heart sink, and the air turn sour. They shift, moving past him and dipping their head lower in farewell as they do. “I have to prepare for the crusade and the harvest ritual-”

“My name is Narinder.”

Lambert pauses, half a foot out of the curtains. They make the mistake of looking over their shoulder. He stands there, the last of sunset’s lights casting patterns across a unreadable expression. They know they don’t look nearly as divine as the other; bags under their eyes and exhaustion seeping into their voice. “I…know?”

“You have not called me ‘lord’ in over a century.”

“Oh.” The Lamb hesitates. “I never asked if I could use it. You can take that back too if you want.”

(Out of everything they’ve stolen from him, it’ll be the one they miss the most.)

“Excuse me.” They grab the edges of their fleece, give a short curtsey, and leave before their ribs ache any worse.

-

They didn’t mean it.

They really didn’t mean it.

Maybe it’s the fault of the nightmare and the beast that resides within it. Maybe it’s the nerves. Maybe it’s the fear they’ve kept at bay for hundreds of years, a loneliness that followers and fodder cannot fix. It could be a number of things, none of them pleasant, ranging from the horrific imagination that plagues them or the literal physical feeling of their chest tightening with a sickness that they assume can only be attributed to the crown’s power being split and divided over such a long distance. They’ll blame that, surely, because they’re better than this.

Blood stems from their eyes and their nose as the lamb sits up in bed, hands shaking near their face. The crown hovers nearby. Blank and stoic, and there is no godly being behind it’s eye anymore but they still feel the weight of their sins crawling on their back. Narinder was right; they make terrible choices.

It is a few hours into the night, the time where the sky is a lighter blue and the sun has not yet broken over the horizon as the lamb redresses themselves in their fleece and marches down the stairs and out of the temple. The walk it automatically: they’ve made the trek to his hut more times than they can count that they could do it blind folded, and with turning off their eyes comes the chance for the thoughts to run. (I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I don’t want you to leave forever.)

His hut is empty when they knock and don’t wait for an answer. A basket of clean laundry and unused trinkets sit un-used by the front door.

The lamb stands alone for a few minutes.

They turn, walk past the gate, and traverse numbly into Anura.

-

Ratau’s shack has seen some improvements over the centuries. What used to be a rather humble abode was still humble at the core, but the lamb likes for their friends to live comfortably, so some adjustments have been made. His garden is a little bit bigger, and his house has been expanded to fit more in that single room abode of his.

The small shrine at the edge remains untouched. Narinder stands before it for a moment longer until a crisp wind breezes through his robes and down his neck, as if pressing him to get on with it. With one final glance, he leaves the statue of the crown, devotion taken, and walks towards the rat’s door.

The dirt patches near the door show of often foot traffic, but a quick listen tells him there shouldn’t be anyone but the rat inside himself. Good. Narinder does not have the patience to deal with any of the former-vessel’s knucklebones partners. The God of Death’s hand lifts and curls to knock on the door, and he hesitates.

His pride will sting for this.

Oh, it will sting greatly for this.

Damned Lamb.

He knocks twice, casually at a calculated volume. Every part of him is carefully articulated. Shoulders straight and head held high like he wasn’t about to just do something that would have his siblings mock and jeer at the state of him. If his past self from years ago-no, months ago saw him now, he would have speared himself to save what godly dignity he had left.

Shuffling from inside, but no sounds of movement towards the door. Right. The rat was a little deaf in one ear. Narinder’s frown deepens and he half-considers walking away and pretending this was never a considered route before his hand moves on it’s own and knocks again, this time a little louder. This time, he hears the call of the rat react to the sound. “Ah-I’ll be just a moment, there!”

This was stupid. He should kill him. Rot the rat alive the moment he opens the door just so Narinder can have some stress relief. That’s also a stupid idea. The lamb would lose their mind and all decorum and politeness would be thrown to the wind as they flay the cat with their own stolen power. He’d probably deserve it…

His fingers twitch and ears crane back against his skull. Narinder raises a fist and bangs harder on the door, shoulders tensing and fur raising to a feeling that cannot be attributed to the cold.

Damned Lamb.

The sound of a chair being pushed back and wood thrown onto a fire. The clack of his walking stick against wooden floors, then the handle turns and the door swings open. Ratau greets the new face with a eased smile and familiarity one would show their own child. “Alright, Lambi, quit you’re bangin’. What brings you to my shack today-” The rat cuts himself off, eye widening at the figure taller than he is, shadowed in the doorway. “Oh.”

Narinder reads his mind before he can decide whether or not it’s even a good decision to do so. ‘…Stray god.…oh, bullocks…’

“My lord?” Ratau speaks first, and it’s when he does that Narinder realizes he has approaches the home of his former vessel for assistance without actually thinking of a proper speech to give. The rat keeps the door cracked, almost defensively, and his single eye narrows at the silent cat. He thinks he sees the slightest bit of panic behind that gaze. “…Is the lamb not with you?”

If his ears could go back any further, they would. Red eyes divert away from the rat, (A creature beneath him, a former vessel too. How demeaning.) and instead Narinder resists the urge to shrink back into the hood of his robes.

He can hear the question in Ratau’s voice before he even finished the sentence. “Is the lamb alright?”

No. Yes. Mentally, no. He’s seen that part of them, at least, pieces that followers and even the rat cannot view. Perhaps not for much longer. Physically? They’re alive. “They’re fine.”

“I see, then.” Ratau lingers, his tone growing suspicious. The fact that the rat took the God of Death on his word alone is surprising, but the elder is closing the door before Narinder can dwell on it. “Well, if there’s nothing you need me for-”

“Hold on.” His foot juts out and it pauses the door. Ratau shrinks back from it, wary. He’d reach his arm out and brush past inside if he was sure he wouldn’t accidentally rot the rat, so Narinder is forced to make his plea at the rat’s doorstep like some sniveling, pathetic, peasant. His ears raise up, posture perfect. Pride and elegance and godly demands. “I have need of you, rat.”

“Pardon, but I’m not your vessel anymore.” The rat strains the door closed a little further.

“It concerns the lamb, you morsel.” Narinder deadpans, and Ratau’s closing pauses. “It is a particularly...delicate situation.”

“What would The One Who Waits have need of me?” The elder questions. Ratau is tense, as expected, and Narinder imagines years of servitude and becoming the lamb’s confident and mentor gave him a more biased opinion of the god’s relationship with the lamb. He’s also holding that walking stick like he’s prepared to wack the cat with it at any second. “I have no more power to give and hardly anything for you to take. Unless you’ve come for poor gambling advice, my lord, you’ve come here to walk away empty handed.”

“I ask only for conversation.”

Ratau’s brows draw together, analyzing him. “What is it then?”

“How do-” His tongue catches on his teeth, and Narinder grits them. Fists curl in his sleeves as his ears fall back against his skull. “How do you…apologize properly?”

Pathetic.

Sniveling, miserable and pathetic, how dare they reduce him to such a state-

Ratau blinks once. There is a long moment where silence sits in between them and Narinder wishes the ground would swallow them whole. Then, Ratau’s imaginary barrier drops. Still with a look of disbelief and confusion, the rat allows the door to swing open fully and steps to the side. “Okay…You will tell me what ya did to the lamb.”

The inside of the shack is the same as when Narinder last visited with the lamb, though the fire is kept roaring to keep the place notably warm. It makes the air feel stuffy and smell of citrus. He recognizes the smell; Lambert gives him those same candles. They liked giving things, he knows. Too much perhaps.

Ratau shuts the door behind him with the end of the walking cane as Narinder stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “I’ve got two rules under this roof while ya reside. Number one:” He taps the legs of a table chair as he walks past to the cabinet, an unspoken command. “No threats on my life. Number two: no slipping dice in or out of pockets. I deal with enough sore losers on a regular basis.” The rat moves a wicker basket aside and reaches for a half full bottle, pouring it’s contents into a small wooden cup. From here, Narinder can smell the whiskey. “Sit. Tell me what damage you’ve done.”

It’s an insult to be talked to like this. Narinder sits down anyways, hands on the table and facing forwards because he’s not quite sure what else to do with himself. “You need not know the details. I won’t have you slander that it’s my fault.” He says, and ignores how Ratau raises a brow as he settles in the chair across from him. “The lamb is being…” Narinder thinks for a minute, gesture with his hand for a moment. It falls palm flat against the table when he can not think of proper words. “…They’re upset.”

Ratau takes a sip of the drink, inhaling deeply and shaking off the first swig of alcohol that goes down his throat. He coughs once, clearing his throat. “Yes-ahck. That’s, ahem, usually how people feel when you are cruel to them.”

He scoffs at this part. “Of course I am cruel to them. They’re traitorous scum. I’m supposed to hate them.”

“…Supposed to?”

Narinder’s face hardens.

Ratau’s fingers tap against his cup, waiting.

He would love to flip the table and send this creature in the depths of hell for being the closest living thing near him while he’s currently having a crisis-scratch that, Narinder was having ‘a moment’ and his subordinate has the audacity to look to him with the same sort of knowing the former-vessel gives to the lamb. Were this any other time, and any moment prior, he would have had Ratau’s head on a pike charged with the criminal offense of being useless and annoying.

The talisman that sits in his robe’s pocket is a heavy reminder of what might await him back home. Silence settles for a moment, then Narinder reaches inside the fabric and pulls the necklace out, sliding it across the table.

“There was an argument.” He says. Calm, even. His hands fold in front of him and he sits straight in his chair. “Concerning a little bit of everything.”

Ratau looks at the necklace. He says nothing particular about it, but he does reach over to hold it in one hand, rotating it for inspection. There’s recognition in his eyes; he knows what this is and what’s it’s for, and with it comes the unspoken information of what might have happened. “So they sent you out on a missionary quest?”

“No.” The God of Death answers. Ratau pauses, then hums and sets the necklace down. Nothing else needs to be said.

“They speak highly of you now, as they did when you were in chains, my lord.” The rat bends down with a grunt, pulling out something clunky and wooden. A game-box, smaller than the table on the back wall used for a group night, but rather the kind saved for two-person matches between himself and the lamb. He sets it on the center, and takes another swig. “I can’t say I agree with their decisions, but I cannot imagine much would change their opinion of you…trust me, I’ve insisted.”

Narinder glares dully at the knucklebones box. There’s the sound of wood scratching, somewhere. “Good to know. Traitors and heretics, the both of you.”

“Strange friendship you two have.” Ratau snaps open the lock, one eye meeting his own. “Ah, but ya don’t really think them a friend, do you? Gods and vessals and what not.”

The rat is baiting for something, Narinder knows that. He’ll need to choose his words carefully. Perhaps being honest won’t bite him in the long run. “They were…preferable.”

“Pardon?”

“The lamb was…” The cat bites the inside of his cheek, and regrets it immediately when it stings. “…welcome, regardless of the nature of their visit. They visited often. They died often.” That feels like too much. “It was a change from the dull prison I was engaged to. At worst, a vessel who yaps and can’t listen. At best, entertainment.”

The scratching sound continues. The rat’s ear twitches. “Hmm.”

They died on purpose, sometimes. A slight misstep off of a cliff that they definitely saw beforehand. Their weapon lowering slightly to give a heretic a better opening to drive a spear through their chest. They frowned if they immediately revived and were teleported back to the stone. He finds that they no longer do when he drags them to his prison first, and before long every death has them appearing before him despite the lack of need.

They were annoying for that. He continued to allow it anyway.

He might have promoted a bad habit

Something grainy feels like it’s under his claw, and Narinder looks down. He had been scratching a jagged line into the wooden table in a nervous fidget. Tension has not left him the entire week. It crushes and drags at him on body, mind and cold un-beating heart if he even still had one. Death was not made for this...uncertainty. He was supposed to be absolute.

Ratau does not push the information out of him, and for that by itself, he is grateful. “They tell me much, I’m sure you know.”

“I’m aware.”

The rat’s tail sways behind him. “And I highly doubt you can apologize for much of what you’ve done.”

“I-” Narinder starts, and cuts himself off when his teeth grit hard enough to make his jaw hurt. “I am not…apologizing for the prophecy. I will not apologize for my freedom, or taking power that is mine by divine right, damned rat.”

Ratau simply stares at him, unimpressed. His fingers drum alongside the cup. “If not for everything, your constant attitude or your betrayal-”

“My betrayal?” Narinder snarls, and his voice raise. “My betrayal?!”

‘What do you hope to achieve from this?“ The rat sits unphased by the cat’s outburst. Long ago, he would have cowered at the sight of the riled god. Now Narinder feels as though he may need to be on the offense before Ratau puts him on defense. The former vessel speaks too calmly. ”Had I think you wished to manipulate them, you would not have approached me so earnestly on doing something that benefits you none. This is...unusual for one such as you.“

The God of Death’s frown deepens. “You overestimate your lamb’s importance to me. It is all but a means to an end.”

“Then don’t apologize.” Ratau leans forwards and unclasps the latch on the wooden box. The game board flips open. “Take their avoidance as a blessing, since you despise them so much. They might even stop rambling to you, you would never worry about them accompanying you again. Maybe they’ll grow to hate you as much as you do to them.”

Three crimson eyes stare down into the wood of the table. The cat’s jaw is locked tight.

Ratau places the dice to the side, and gives a low chuckle. “Ah. That’s what I thought.”

He might have made a mistake gluing himself to this chair. His first mistake was healing his sister. No, the first was not slaughtering his brother despite his vessel’s wishes. Maybe further than that. He should have killed and erased the lamb ages ago. Less complications that way.

The talisman is painful to look at. It should have been a blessing of freedom.

“My lamb has quite enough on their plate. I know aside from myself, you too used to relieve that burden, until you became one.” Ratau speaks plainly, rudely almost. Lambert would never say such a thing and would even argue against it, and Narinder has to sit there and repeat to himself that they still would, now. It is not a convincing mantra.

They give so much of themselves, as they should in their role of the vessel, and Narinder continues to take, take, take...to make up for what they’ve stolen.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Ratau has readied the board, and he gestures openly. An invitation. “How about a quick game of knucklebones? We’ll discuss the terms later.”

Reading the rat’s mind already reveals the information to him, and still Narinder says nothing. Like all the times he’s watched the lamb in the crown before, the God of Death picks up the dice and rolls.

-

They had only meant to be gone for a few hours.

Heket’s throat was sitting in a pocket dimension alone, pedestalled like a treasure in a room of stone pillars and painted glass. Mannequins of corpses circled the room for décor, and the smell was pungent enough to let the lamb know that they had been there for a long while. It does not mask the smell of feathers. Chemach’s mark is written all over this place, and just like the Eye of the Worm, the Frog’s throat, too was transformed into something different.

The moment their fingers touch the mutilated organ, power surges briefly, just enough that makes their horns sharper and limbs stronger. It’s a short, ten seconds of such a feeling before it dissipates. They don’t know what to make of it. They don’t have any commentary on it. There’s no desire to try and use it again, or show it to the crown or to a traveling partner that is not there to scold them for their misbehavior and recklessness while they convince him not to absorb said relic for his own power. The throat is dropped into the crown’s storage with little more than a fore-thought of ‘task complete’, and the lamb treks onwards.

They should return to the cult by now. A harvest ritual is scheduled at noon, and they had left in the early hours of the morning. They’ll be cutting it close. Not like it would work anyways, but basic decorum demands they at least be present for their own hosted party.

Lambert is driving a sword through the skull of a heretic when the blade punctures all the way through, and clangs against a stone pillar on the other side hidden by foliage and years of grime. It echoes as the corpse slides off the blade. There is a red line, a three spiked crown that glows horrific as it directs their eyes to somewhere in the treeline. There, among the brush is a wavering line of reality. A place hidden from view. The red crown’s sword burns against the skin of their palm.

“Hey.” Lambert talks to no one, and thinks to themselves how incredibly foolish they might look. “Is that one of your sibling’s treasuries? I thought we already visited Heket’s.”

Anura does not respond to them. There is the sickening slop of flesh melting into the ground from the fresh corpses they just slayed, and the wind whislting through the trees. There’s no figure in the shadows. There’s no one to get mad, or stop them when they come to the edge of the clearing and shift inside.

Their perception of the world shifts, like hidden places aught to do to it, and the space is dimmer. The air is thicker. It is pungent with sadness and grief and smells of blood and stonework. Perhaps that grief is their own. Something incomprehensible is in front of them. They’ll stand it front of it, centered between statues on dark stained floor.

The Mystic Seller’s voice has followed them here. “I await one who values truth over all else.”

Blood is demanded. Knowledge is oft gained through sacrifice.

Narinder would not have allowed them to give such an extent to The Fox. He wouldn’t have liked this either, maybe. Here it asks for blood. They can heal. They can lose more. It matters not what he thinks. He is not here to stop them. They get to decide.

Lambert draws the sword upwards.

-

The temple is full of willing devotees, all who share the same hopeful faces. Those who could not put up such a front declined to attend.

Everything is ready. The bones are in place and the devotion gathered is more than ample enough. Lambert stands at the podium with a straightened posture and a smile on their face that could rival the sun. It does, in way, for the sunlight that shines through the temple windows cast a brighter spotlight on them than how the adoring (burning) eyes of the faithful made them feel. They are all expectant. The lamb wishes their hopes are fulfilled. Alone, all they can do is cushion their disappointment.

The members are shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped together with wide eyes. The book upon the altar still has a hole through the cover from their fight half a year ago but it matters not for they have memorized the mantra for this ritual on their own. Blood and chalk are drawn in place on the floor, some of their own and some of the willing. Soil is sprinkled amongst the temple floor, a temporary mess though it is to soak up the divinity that (hopefully) still lingers strong enough in what life force they’ve given.

Blood begins to spill over the edge of their eyes, and Lambert closes them. Ancient symbols scratched in red behind their eyelids linger and shake.

Whispers spill over the cultists before the ritual begins, and even as they speak a sermon in routine fashion do long lamb ears keen to it: Doubt. Fears. The sound of paws on stone, someone stepping on the back end of someone else’s robe. An elder coughs and clears his throat. The temple doors crack open in the wind. A small inhale that’s cut off with a sharp hiss. Mummers of exhaustion and excitement. Someone complains about their cramped tail.

“And as we devote and pray, know that the trials we face are given because we are Death’s chosen.” Lambert is nearing the end of the sermon, and thus the ritual begins. They do well to keep masking hope in their voice. Words slip from their tongue as they summon what power they still can, and keep their gaze shut so they do not have to see the faces of their flock.

They wait for the power to spark, then die.

It does not. The spark rages.

It grows immense, and there is the feeling of liveliness over taking the temple. The ground shakes and the shadows whisper, crackling like soft lightening against their ears. All in seconds, the crown is absorbing devotion, their blood is rushing (Their eyelids flash crimson, gold, black, bones and divinity surging through in a steady, strong pulse) whispers echo off the walls, the inner caverns of their skull (chittering pincers, torn fabric, clacking iron) while the taste of blood starts to taint their tongue (shorn wool and wet sands of the afterlife, ichor black bones and rotting minds, rotting words, fertilize and bring anew-)

Lambert’s eyes snap open, feet dropping the few inches back to the floor so hard that they have to unclasps their hands from prayer for one to grab a hold of the podium. They blink, and blood filters out from their vision as they do. It comes away from their face as they wipe instinctively with the sleeve of their fleece, noting the taste of it in the back of their throat is new. The fabric pulls back from their face and they blink down at the smallest wet stain that does not blend into the color of their cloak. A single dark droplet that made its way out of their mouth wiped away and sits smeared on the wrist of their sleeve.

A light voice called out, and the lamb is reminded that oh yeah, they’re standing in front of their followers. They collect themselves, head perking up.

A white robe and dark veil blurs in the back of the room. Lambert barely catches a a black tail slip quickly out of cracked temple doors.

“My leader!” The same voice, but it does not sound like it comes from within the room. Everyone is deathly quiet, eyes wide. The soil on the symbol is gone. All who remain are still and glancing to one another; waiting. The voice comes again, closer now and skids to a stop at the doorway, pushing themselves halfway through.

“It’s the crops!” It’s Joon. From the sound of their voice, one might think they’d be calling attention to a fire. They’re panting, well spent, and wearing the biggest smile and dumbfounded look Lambert knows cannot possibly be faked. “The field…it-it just popped up! All of it! Green and healthy, like it’s not even cold! It looks like spring out here!”

…What.

Lambert doesn’t even get time to process, because all followers break into a frenzy out the door.

“No way!”

“It actually worked?”

“Praise the Lamb! Praise be the Lamb!”

Loud, repeating voices crash over each other. Joon has already taken off and by the time Lambert has even come to, half of the cultist are already out of the temple. Reason shakes them back to reality. “Please, do not trample each other! Be mindful-hey! Will someone please prop the doors open?”

To say that the flock is excited would be a insanely gross understatement. They are rabid with awe.

Most of the village was here at the fields, and those who weren’t had probably ran off to tell those who were not present or close enough nearby to see acres of what was once muddy grey and brown crops overgrow with life. Every squared meter was ripe with not just what was planted, but ten times more than what should have been. Fruits are brightly colored and prime. Flattened stems and wheat are towering over children and some spots high enough it overtakes the adults completely, cut off only by fields of greenery of mixed foliage. Every seed deemed a loss had sprouted and stretches and overgrew the confines of the farmland.

Camellias decorated the field scattered and plentiful. Followers pluck them from their stems and throw the petals into the air like rain, laughing. Some are crying with joy even. Lambert stands in the middle of it all, still as they all run past and fall flat back into the high grass. The farmland is a lush. This place on earth, for at least this very moment, is another domain entirely.

This should not be possible. The lamb has done harvest rituals before, but they had never been this overgrown.

The fact that it even worked at all was alarming.

Cold fear sinks and grips into them with talons. They cannot do rituals on their own. Not even with their own devotion, not like this. Not like this.

Either he’s dead...or...

Or maybe...

A hooded figure stands in the corner of the field, away from the rest of the celebrating populace. The white of his robes do a terrible job blending him in with the color that was now surrounding him like a painting, hands tucked into himself so as to not touch the organic life around him. Lambert sees the entirety of his form go ridged when black pupils zero in on three, wide, red ones.

The second it takes to process is the second he turns around like he’s going to escape.

Lambert starts running.

The bell saves him, he thinks. Damn thing is loud enough over their footsteps on soft ground that it grows closer at a quickening rate than he can think of how to handle, and Narinder turns around just in the neck of the time for a sheep with far too much ramming power to jump him. “Narinder!”

“Don’t-!” The momentum slams him back hard, arms wrapped around his neck in a projectile hug that destroys his balance. His feet backpaddle with the added weight as they spin from the force “LAMB!”

Both gods drop to the ground with a heavy thud. Narinder feels the air forcefully ejected from his lungs and his ribs bruise him for it. Grass flies up around them on impact. They are of no help, face dug into his neck and arms squeezed around his neck, laughing. Even the red crown has floated above the scene, pupil unmoving like it’s just as focused.

Weight on his torso, close and pressed tightly. They’ve latched on like a vice. “Lamb! Your flock-!“

“I don’t care!“ Delight in their voice, relief flooding it. Lambert’s shoulders shake against his chest, wool brushes against the side of his face as they crane their head back to give him a wide, toothy smile. ”Narinder, I could kiss you right now!“

The God of Death freezes, face locked in a comically stunned expression with clenched fangs and blown open eyes. An uncomfortable skip between his ribs makes his fur bristle.

If the lamb noticed, (they did not) they say nothing, hands planted besides the God of Death’s head on the grass and catching their breath. They speak between joyous pants of air. “I thought you had-I just thought-” A cut off laugh, it sounds like pleasant disbelief. “And now this! I think I’m going crazy!”

A black furred palm places itself on their forehead. “You’re utterly insane, now get off of me!”

He shoves them away, practically snapping their flinging their entire body to the ground besides him but they’re laughing anyway, arms coming up to grasp at the wrist of the hand that holds their head. His claws catch on their wool and snag as he sits up. The back of his robes are stained with dirt and grass and some berries they fell on. The lamb’s appearance isn’t any better; soil clings to the fleece and their legs now dirty from where he’s pushed them into the dirt, small blades of grass stick out from their wool that he accidently pulls some out of when he yanks his hand back. “Vile lamb! Look at what mess you’ve made of us!”

“Everything is so lush! It’s amazing, I haven’t seen any god do this much-” They ignore the insult, cooing, and he’s reminded of when they first arrived to his afterlife; starry eyed and easy to impress. They still are; a god killer and usurper of death and they’re burning like fire and gripping his captured hand like he might float away if they let go. “There’s enough food here for everyone for months! The amount of medicine we could make with all these flowers would have us building a new storage unit! If we preserved everything correctly; years! Maybe one or two! I don’t know!” Rambling do they go, ears up to the sky. “And the flock.…”

They look back out to the farmland. Those who remain have lost themselves to the grass as much as they have. Some are shovelings raw vegetables into their mouths. Children are sprinting and screaming and playing. In the distance, Lambert is pretty sure they see blurry shapes of a cat and worm, the former diving directly into the earth and emerging near the pumpkins. Leshy doesn’t bother with tearing the pumpkin open first, smashing it in with his face and scarfing down the contents. Joon is just spinning in a circle until they fall down.

It’s madness, and it’s also wonderful. “I can feel their devotion raising rapidly.”

Narinder flicks a leaf off of his ear, quiet. The last he saw them; there was a haunting in their features.

Lambert turns back to him. “We could make all sorts of new things now. All the dyes and inks we wanted to try! The new recipes! That wedding and feast that’s been planned for months! No one is gonna die of starvation!” They laugh. “I give it three days before they start complaining about the cold! We’ll have to come up with a ritual to make the seasons change!”

There they are.

His tail flicks high. He watches them gush, until the vessel’s face faulters slightly. Their attention re-focuses back on him completely. Their smile is still there, but it lowers in the corners. “This...isn’t a farewell gift, is it?”

“Do not mistake it as a gift. What makes you think I would ever help you?” Narinder scoffs, then pauses. “I mean, I did.“

They blink at him.

“I will.” Narinder starts. Two eyes look off into the field, and the third stays on the lamb. “With the rituals. Help you with them…Until my power is fully returned to me, you can borrow the other half, at my discretion.” His claws sink into the dirt, leaving lines in their wake. “Until I kill you.” He adds that part on for good measure.

The silence between them is broken by the scream of a child celebrating their victory of doing their very first cartwheel.

“You mean it?” Lambert asks.

“I’ll kill you in the most agonizing, gruesome way I can come up with, and give you a fate worse than purgatory when I rend that head from your neck.” He starts. The God of Death shifts uncomfortably when they don’t react. “Along with other thing also.”

Wind blows the lamb’s cloak towards him. “Why?”

“For my own benefit.” He scans for the flock. The devoted are praying in the sunlight. The exhausted are resting on their backs. “My reasons are my own.”

“What benefit?”

“Stop talking to me.” They’re interrogating again. “That is not privy to you.”

“Was it me or Heket?”

His face snaps back to them, and they’re still giving him big eyes that he’s half a mind to rip out just to spare him the nerves. “What?”

“Me, or Heket?” They repeat like it makes any sense at all. Their grin is goofy. Their face is pushable. “Did you do this for me, or did you do this so your sister wouldn’t starve? I will gladly take either one.”

He pushes them indeed. The lamb makes no noise but a coo as Narinder shoves them away from his hand and yanks his wrist back to himself. “You forget yourself, traitor. Don’t put yourself in my good graces.” He threatens. “I’ll still have you erased when your usefulness ends.”

“I forgive you.” They snort. It is ugly sounding and familiar. It used to reign in his domain, and his ears swivel forward to hear it.

“Lamb.”

They’re digging their hands into the flowers. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t say anything immediately. When they look up from the camellias, there is no hostility in his expression, no threat and no jeering. The look he carries is uncharacteristically soft.

If Narinder was going to say something specific, he decides against it, and turns his head away. “Be done with your festivities quickly.”

Lambert blinks. “Okay.”

There’s something. They don’t know what to call it, but it’s more than what they had before. No answers from him, but the stray came back not once, but twice now. They won’t talk about the rest of it. Not right now. Not when the God of Death was starting to give.

They pull the petals and let them drop from their palm. “I got your sister’s throat. I think now that can give me some time to harvest and preserve all of this for winter. We’ll have enough for it without hunting. We’ll have to open Kallamar’s door but…” They trail off. “At the very least, we can throw a really big party before rescuing the God of Pestilence. You don’t have to come when it’s going.”

The mood drops, and it’s notable in how the grassy flooring he was resting a hand on to sit up right starts to wither and decay. His hand pulls back into his sleeve and he deadpans at them. “You want me to go.”

Their tail is wagging. “Yep”

“What other suffering do you wish me to go through?”

The lamb’s answer is cut short by the sound of their stomach growling. Narinder would take that as his cue to leave if the sheep didn’t jut an arm out, grab a fist full of green tall grass and berry stems and shovel it directly into their mouth. Right. They hadn’t eaten in almost two weeks.

“I’m leaving.” Escape attempt number two: Narinder stands up from his spot on the dirt and doesn’t bother brushing the dirt or grass from his clothes; it’ll all have to be rewashed anyway. He’s not so sure he got that projectile gruel stain out from yesterday. “Don’t involve me in your acts of filth.”

“Wha-hey!” They scramble to follow him, tailing behind as the God of Death flips up his hood and tries to shuffle his way out of the farmland without touching anything organic through his robes. “I have literally seen you eat raw fish. Raw! Fish!”

“Quiet down unless you want one of you aquatic followers to hear you.”

“I’m coming to your house.” They ignore him again, and Narinder looks over his shoulder to see the lamb ripping grass up by the bulk, along with several fruits that are close enough to quickly grab and stash inside of the crown. “I want to try all the new fruits and veggies we have, especially all the red ones. Tomatoes are supposed to be juicy, but not in the same way cherries are. Pomegranates aren’t really the kind you bite into but you cut it open and eat the seeds. These things-” They hold up a red veggie of a particular shape, small but curved. “They’re the size of berries, but they’re shaped weird. Plimbo called them peppers. He said I should eat a handful of them at once to really taste the flavor.”

Narinder side eyes their increasing bundle of items. “He’s right. You should.”

“Working on it. You should help me come up with ideas for a speech. They’re all going to want one by the end of this.” New treasures in tow, they almost side check him with an armful of harvested good. It’s plenty, but it doesn’t even look like to have made any sort of difference or dent in the lush spot of crop they had taken from. “We should have a sleep over.”

The God of Death frowns. “You’re pushing it. I barely want you bleating in my home.”

They walk too closely to him. “But you do want me there?”

“As a blood stain, sure.” He steps over an overgrown root and hopes they’re too busy to notice it and trip over it themselves.

There’s a small satisfaction when the lamb stumbles and bleats somewhere behind him. That satisfaction is short lived when it’s his tail they automatically grab for on the fall down.

Chapter Text

The lamb’s statement was correct. The flock’s devotion was rapidly gaining in a sense that even Narinder could feel it from the confines of his own hut, away from the populace and their shrines.

The preparations for celebration were immediately put into place. Many of the flock had already begun to collect the necessary resources before the lamb could even direct them to do so, which was only a problem when the leader does remind them that they are not only preparing for a wedding and a feast, but for the start of winter. The happy couple themselves are elated. Both women practically screeched at the news, and there was a heartfelt scene of another mock proposal in front of the kitchens, which led to a vigorous make-out session that the lamb had to break up lest things start to get a little bit too much for the onlookers. Lambert thinks Finor might have had a heart attack should it been allowed to continue.

Drinks are planned and attire is made. Two wedding dresses are tailored, décor is being brought out and there is a steady line of hands going between the farmlands, the storehouses and the kitchen prepping for feeding an entire village of animals who probably haven’t had a proper meal in three months, much less a feast of this grand style. The cult is alive with life and eagerness, so it takes little for the lamb to hype anyone to rise from their beds to start the work day; people were practically skipping. It’s only a temporary happiness, they know. But it’s still relief. It will take two or three days to set up  everything, which gives the lamb enough time to turn their attention towards the bishops.

Leshy seems to be enjoying the harvest quite well. The worm is found almost always in the fields if he is not at his sister’s bedside, his caretaker not far off. The both of them have lost themselves to the wheat and the vegetables. Lambert sees them in the field when they do a morning check sometimes; Joon is usually sitting in the grass talking to a dirt mound that may or may not poke a bushy head out to talk back. Sometimes they are laying on their back. Sometimes they are rolling. Other times, they are stuffing their faces with whatever berries or fruit is nearby. The lamb allows it; the amount of food the harvest ritual produced was still a ridiculously impossible amount. Better to let the flock enjoy the best parts while it’s fresh, and the rest preserved.

Heket is growing stronger by the day.

They give her the throat while her brother is preoccupied. She’s gained strength in the time she’s been here, near ready to leave the healing bay. An injury that would have had a mortal dead and rotted or at the very least bedridden for weeks to months is now recovered enough in the week she’s been here that the frog is standing and walking on her own. She’s also eating copious amounts of food on the daily basis (though not even making a dent in the food stores they now house) so that might have something to do with it. The Bishop of Famine had an hellish appetite. Lambert learns she prefers meat dishes.

“You don’t need to remain in the healing bay any longer for your health, but you’ll have to stay here until I can make accommodations for where you’ll live.” They tell her, offering the throat wrapped in linen and presented with black and red stains. The frog nearly rips it from their hands. Her teeth grit while she cradles it, and Lambert steps back to allow her to process it. “What arrangement I have for Leshy is not an option for you currently. I have workers building a house further away from the village, big enough to support you and the rest of your siblings. I’ve made it a high priority, so it should be finished in a few days. You’ll have a place to sleep in privacy, and you can decorate it as you like-”

A tongue, barbed and thick like a whip shoots out for their head like an arrow. Lambert tilts their head at an awkward angle, and the attack flies right over their shoulder. It lands smacks into one of the wooden support pillars of the healing tent and snaps it on impact, leaving an indent behind. She’s killed them with such a move as an eldritch god before. Typical Frog. Lambert glances at the pillar, and makes a note to have someone repair that later. Heket’s tongue flies back into her mouth, and she spits and coughs and hacks.

A normal person would take the hint to leave, but Lambert is quite used to casual attempts on their life. “Might I remind you of what’s to happen should you show that sort of hostility to anyone else?”

Heket’s teeth bare. “My…siblings...” Her voice is slightly stronger, yet still weak. “The…rest....of…them.”

Lambert has to think for a moment. “They will be rescued from purgatory.”

Heket is staring. It’s hard to tell if she’s trying to burn them alive with her gaze alone, or if she’s simply thinking. Her fingers curl and unfurl from the wrapped throat. Then, with hesitance, it is thrusted into the direction of the lamb. Her command is a single word. “Hold.”

They say nothing but let her drop the throat into their outstretched palms. Heket does not look at the lamb directly and Lambert does not speak up to ask why. She has the same request as her brother; to keep this piece safe. They wonder why they are being trusted with something so important. They wonder if it’s important to her any longer, the thousand years she’s gone without it. They’ll keep it with Leshy’s eye.

“…The celebration planning will take much of my time. Is there anything specific you need of me?” They ask. She does not turn to look back at them, still glaring into the space in front of her with a frown and a expression locked deep in thought. The lamb gives her a few more seconds to answer before backing up to the exit. “I’ll bring you some reading material. Think of what subjects might entertain you before I come back.”

They leave quietly, and return to the preparations.

_

There has been a change.

His mind called it back then, back in Anura’s temple. Aside from the obligation Narinder has no given himself of allowing the Lamb to ‘borrow’ his power, much has returned back to normal routine. Well, about as ‘normal’ as the two could be given the particular circumstance.

Lambert knocks once, twice, and then walks straight into his hut now. He already gave them permission step within these walls, but he still notes they’re a little quicker to barge in. His face is locked into a perpetual frown the moment he hears their bell approach his door, and it’s the first thing that greets them when they arrive with a smile. They also don’t stand there anymore. They no longer ask permission to sit at the end of his bed. He’s gotten into the habit of keeping his legs away from their ‘side’ lest they take that as an invitation to crawl all over his knees. Not that they’ve done it yet, but he wouldn’t put it against them.

“She’s healing, well enough that one glance and you can’t tell anything wrongs with her save for the scarf. But she’s constantly hungry still.” Tonight, they have sauntered in with a handful of berries and made a spot for themselves at the end of his covers. They eat each berry one by one instead of shoveling handfuls in their mouth (Perhaps a byproduct of the result of shoveling peppers by the handful until they coughed and hacked and cursed with eyes watering. Narinder had cackled at them. They threw a pepper at his head.) “I’ve given her splendid veggie dishes several times daily, and while we’re plentiful on crops now, I don’t know if this is a viable solution for a year or so from now.”

Narinder’s eyes are closed, knees crossed and hands planted in meditation. He does not need to see them to hear the sound of their obnoxious chewing. “She will always be hungry. It is not often she is sated.”

It’s a partial truth. Being knocked down a peg from total godhood should have reduced her appetite, but alike him and Leshy, some traits still remain. This information is unspoken. By the sound of the lamb’s hum, they agree. “What would sate her?”

“You will not like the answer.” He starts. “And the answer itself is obvious, dumb lamb.”

“Boo. Tell me anyway.”

His brows downturn slightly, but the cat does not open his eyes. “The harvest ritual supplies you with edible crops, but it does not supply you with meat. Frogs are carnivores, Lamb. Only tadpoles prefer non-meat diets.”

Ah, right. Even the carnivores in the flock who mainly survived on meat meals were still given some nutrients through plant based dishes when meat was short. A God of Famine who probably only ever recieved whatever food she desired and faced no hardship with it would not be used to such a dietary change. The veggies and fruits would be enough to feed her, but she’ll still be missing a vital part needed for her health, especially at the rate she consumes everything.

Lambert frowns. “With our hunting parties busy and winter arriving, we currently only have enough to feed the flock’s carnivores. I cannot ignore everyone else to ration it all for her. She might have to make do.” Narinder says nothing, but one eye does crack open momentarily to glare at them before shutting again, which usually means he has something to argue. “…What? What is it?”

“Heket’s following believed in cannibalism.” He says plainly. “Waste not, want not.”

The third eye peaks open to see Lambert’s face sour, hand paused with a berry frozen mid-air.

Narinder’s eyes open fully, and he rolls them. “Typical lamb.”

The discomfort is obvious in them, but at they pop the berry in their mouth and chew on the thought for a second. When they swallow, Lambert presses their mouth into a thin line. Hesitant. “So as long as it’s not my flock, we could…obtain some on the crusades. The domains are filled with heretics, and we already take their bones for rituals.”

“Oh? The savior will allow indulgence of the consumption of flesh?” Narinder raises a brow, faking surprise. Satisfaction comes when the discomfort on the lamb’s face grows, and he feels his mouth curl up into a smug grin. “You are showing hypocrisy again. No reaction to feeding the Fox heretics nor letting them be consumed by my sibling’s doors, but you whine if someone digs up an already deceased corpse of your following to leave a putrid dish at my door.”

“Shut it, I do what’s gotta be done. The flock should not have to witness the horrors I have.” They huff, grabbing a handful of berries and finishing off the bowl in one big bite. They talk and chew at the same time. “Hell, Narinder, I kept you around after you murdered two-no, three of my followers! I’m doing my best with what I’ve been dealt with, here.” Their sentence is muffled by berries and Narinder’s ears crane back at the sound of it. Which is all perfectly fine, because they are trying to annoy him on purpose. Lambert raises a brow. “Have you ever cannibalized before?”

Narinder looks unamused. “Are you offering?”

They’d throw a berry at him if they still had one. “Stop that.”

“No.”

“I’m gonna make a tally sheet of how many times you’ve threatened or joked to eat me and use it against you. I think thats like…five times now. Maybe.”

“I don’t care. You’d taste like traitor.” Meditation broken, Narinder diverts his attention to pick at his claws. They’ll need to be sharpened soon. “Speaking of consumption; I’m taking care of the door.”

Lambert pauses from using their fleece to wipe berry juice from their mouth. “Huh.”

“Kallamar’s door still requires a sacrifice, and you’ve yet to procure one. The doors need a faithful to open.” If he didn’t rot most of what he touches then he’s use a heretic for a scratching post in the meanwhile too. His claws are longer and deadlier than the average cat’s, and Narinder catches the lamb’s curious eye following when he lowers them. “I’ll have the door open by tomorrow evening.”

One of the lamb’s ear raise. Curiosity. That was a very openly ‘helpful’ thing he just offered to do. “The same way you opened Anura’s?”

“Yes.” He deadpans. “Unless you wish you have one to offer up on your own-”

“Nope.”

“Typical.” He huffs, but the agitation in his tone delves back into familiar tiredness. There are bags under his eyes again and a ruffle to his fur that suggests he’s too exhausted to groom it properly at the end of the day.

The lamb leans forwards on the bed a bit. “Do you want me to come with?”

He unsheathes the claws again (a warning) and gives them a flat look. “I have no need for you to do so. Make your own choice.”

In other words; ‘I don’t care but if you get in my way or distract me, I’m killing you.“ Lambert thinks they’ve gotten pretty good at reading in between the lines. Most of the time, anyway. The lamb leans back on their hands, and sighs. ”I guess you’re expecting a thank you, aren’t ya?“

The God of Death glares at them for a second. “I have a headache. Go away now.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to go into Anchordeep before the festivities, at least for one crusade.” The lamb thinks outload, one hand coming up to pull at their wool absent mindlessly. “…Maybe they’d like crystals for décor. I used the last of what I had to let the smith make them both rings. Usually couples are fine with wooden rings or ones made of punched out gold coins, but since this was a special occasion, I allowed it. Maybe not the smartest idea since now everyone is going to want fancier attire for events, but it’s not like we’re poor currently so maybe it’s doable? There’s that wedding garb I took from Heket’s treasury, but I thought it would have been bad taste to lend it out. I should have offered some of the trinkets we stole from Mida’s cave. We should go back there and see if there’s anything else worth taking. What do you think?”

Narinder has closed his eyes and entered meditation again. Lambert blows a raspberry at him for it.

-

The cult grounds are slowly becoming overrun with décor and inane amounts of whimsy.

Although the task is normally left up to those appointed by the leader themselves, it appears as if everyone has taken a liking to applying celebration where they see fit. Wreaths are being weaved in spare time and hung on doors, flowers from the harvest fields are woven and worn around the flock grounds by several who seems to not-care if they were accessorized two days earlier than the party. The shrine is gathering offerings at the bottom and it’s fuel never seems to run out, and it’s hard to tell if it’s because of the new found devotion coursing through the flock or that the fires keep the worshippers warm in the evening.

A make-shift drink bar is being built near the kitchen, barrels upon barrels of wine and booze that was locked away in storage now wheelbarrowed out into the daylights. What drink they were lacking in was currently being made in surplus; Lambert thinks some followers have already been experimenting with different drink mixtures after finding a few befuddled behind the shrine walls. Their experiments were pretty, at least, save for one that was suspiciously...smelly. They made them pour that one out.

With the amount of food now available and the feast soon to come, the kitchen is overflowing with helpers. Several followers, at least twenty and then some, prep meals for a celebration in two days while a handful focus on feeding the cult in the meantime with regulated meals. It’s chaotic and busy, and one would think it foolish to prepare dishes days prior to it’s consumption, but they find that the cold weather outside has a use. One can leave a bucket of water out overnight and then crush the ice that it forms in the morning, filling up a iron cauldron with it and setting it somewhere cold and dry. More than a few of these are needed, but it preserves the food well enough. Currently only a trick that can be done in the new winter season, but it makes preparing meals for nearly three hundred followers so much easier in the long run.

The festivities will be an all day event. With the ceremony in the morning to noon, the couple shall exchange their vows and the first dance taken, then the feast and music and drinking shall begin and carry forth into the starry night. A banquet with flowing wine and food and more. Followers who have skill in music shall take shifts, strumming on lutes and singing, bongos and flutes, whatever instruments they might have on hand to keep the air full of music. The Lamb themselves is expected to partake, which is unfortunate since the four hundred and plus years they’ve been running the place, they neglected to ever learn an instrument. They’ll just play bongos for a bit. Surely they can’t mess up that up.

It’s noon, the sun high in the sky, and Lambert is helping the tailor hand out clothing when a brisk wind bites through their cloak. It stings at their legs and arms, but their wool keeps them decently warm enough. The hedgehog, Pointy, shrinks a little into his collar and a few other helpers who had volunteered follow suit. Those who are already wearing freshly made scarves or cloaks manage a little better, and some animals with thick coats blink at their fellow flock’s discomfort. Winter is fully here. Snow might not be too far behind.

They smile as they hand a scarf to a giraffe (Her neck was way too long, they hope the scarf has enough fabric to wrap around it entirely like a pole.) and briefly wonder if a certain cat needed an extra shawl.

Their thoughts are broken by Pointy’s commentary. “Wow! The flocks spirits are really lifted. I would have thought seasonal depression would have over ran the members by now…” He chuckles. The hedgehog’s voice is high pitched and a little nasally, but friendly enough. He seems to have adjusted well into this life so far since his rescue from Darkwood. “I imagine recent events are keeping you busy, my leader?”

They almost forget to answer before the mask falls back on. “Certainly. I am always busy, though this sort of busy comes with certain joy to it.” They smile, handing a cloak to the next animal in line before stepping back from the counter and the remaining crate of clothing leftover. “Speaking of which, I have another matter to attend to. Those requiring better coats will come to collect theirs later today, you will handle things from here, I presume?”

The hedgehog nods, and Lambert tips their head in farewell and walks away. Several flock members wave and greet them as they pass. Woodworkers carrying logs on shoulders for a soon-to-be bonfire. Farmers taking baskets of produce to the kitchens. Children running amok without a care in the world. Their skipping is not much different from their adult counterparts; everyone is in a good mood. Lambert keeps their pace even and posture straight as they walk through the grounds, bidding hellos and ‘good afternoons’ until they reach the gate. They walk through it, pace becoming a bit more steady.

The Mystic Seller, or really the place where the Mystic Seller is supposed to be, is a distorted blur as they walk out of the cult grounds. Lambert blinks, and it’s there again, clear as day. “Hi, weird thing.”

Mismatched eyes glower down at them as Lambert pauses in the space between Darkwood and Anura. The Mystic Seller’s pupils slowly drift towards it’s right.

Thanks for the hint. Lambert struts right past it and into Darkwood. “Bye, weird thing.”

It doesn’t respond and they don’t expect it to, not waiting around for a greeting back. Darkwood transforms around them into it’s usual pigmentation of colors; eye plants, hanging corpses, bones in the trees and the camellias. Winter might have arrived, but it still looks like spring here, even if the air is bone chilling cold. Lambert wonders if Darkwood has ever seen snow. No heretics ambush from the trees nor are there any corpses sinking back into the earth. There’s a few bones leftover scattered in the wind. The wind smells slightly of wet moss and rot. It shouldn’t take long to find him.

They do so in five minutes. Dark pointed ears and a white robe stand out from the greenery in the distance, with a number of masses lying on the ground around him. Lambert picks up pace and calls out-

Whatever greeting they had prepared is overtaken by an agonizing scream. They pause.

The masses on the ground are bodies, all half-rotten with some limbs removed and decaying at a rapid pace. His back is facing them, a chained heretic down in front on their knees with blood spilling from their mouth. The hand that does not control the chains holds his scythe, blade bloodied with it’s blunt end crushing into the heretic’s exposed fingers. Narinder pushes the handle further, and there’s a sickening snap of finger bones breaking and the heretic whimpering into the wind.

They’re lucky the wind is blowing to the side lest they get a nose full of decay and Narinder possibly senses them. They’ll keep shut for now, careful not to step on any stray leaf or pebble when they step forward-

The bell jingles as they crouch into sneaking position. One of Narinder’s ear swivels backwards. His head turns an inch towards them.

Damn. They really needed to stuff this thing with cotton. Lambert straightens their posture. “So, this is how you opened-?”

“Do not interrupt me.” The God of Death commands. His tone is solid, and carrying an unspoken rule not to say anything revealing. “I’m busy.”

The lamb would say something witty back if his tone wasn’t so solid. There’s a unspoken hint in there not to reveal anything else. At this angle, only the third eye can see them, but they raise a hand and twist an imaginary key to their mouth before tossing it away.

They think the third eye would have rolled had Narinder’s attention turn back to the heretic fully: a bulky, bloody thing. They look and sound gruff, aged with lines around wide eyes. Some of it’s fingers are missing. Blood stems from nearly every orifice in it’s face, but it’s not rotting anywhere. Narinder has done a good job of not touching them directly lest he lose all the progress he makes. Decaying corpses around them suggest it took more than a few tries.

The heretic’s hatred darts from the cat to the lamb. “I know you…I know you, false idol!”

Lambert raises a brow.

“Bringer of apocalypse, you and this heretic false god.” The animal spits blood through it’s teeth, their canines stained red. “My family has been loyal. Faithful! Faithful to the God of Chaos for generations! My grandfather’s grandfather aided the worm in the annihilation of your kind. You know not of who you are messing with-!”

The handle of the scythe rotates, blade rushing down onto the creature’s bound wrists. The blade makes contact, the heretic’s scream catches in their throat, and Narinder presses it down until it slides in-between the joints and cuts. The lopped limb hangs at an odd angle, past the sliced bone and hanging by what little leftover muscle is left. It is an act too sloppy to be anything other than on purpose, with the intent for lingering pain.

“You keep your tongue merely because you cannot pray without it.” Narinder yanks them back by the scruff of the hood, and has to raise his voice over the creature’s agonized breathing. “Your god has fallen. Praise Death, for it’s all that remains for you now.”

“My god would never forsake me!” Screams the heretic with cracking, wet sobs. “He would never! Never!”

“He’s dead.” Narinder drops them, and the thing shakes against the chains. The God of Death pulls his cursed hand back and watches as those chains tighten. Lambert cannot see his expression, but his tail flicks with a certain satisfaction. He speaks calmly, steadily, like a sermon. “Your god was slaughtered. Delivered to the absolute end that waits for you all. You will die. Everyone you know will die. Everything on this plane of existence will eventually die. There is nothing but death in the end, and it will wait for you no matter how long you run from it or deny it. Nothing can save you from me, no matter what god you pray to. You might as well pray to the one that might show you mercy in the absolute.”

The heretic’s hood faces the ground. It pants, and it shakes. “I…I will not...not b-be shaken...”

Narinder’s tail flicks once. The end of the scythe is turned upside down, and the blade is promptly stabbed an inch deep into the heretic’s stomach, and dragged upward. It’s not enough gut them, not deep enough to spill the organs out, but the heretic wails as the blade crosses them slowly, blood spilling out from the front of their robes as skin splits open as easily as fabric rips. It is not enough to kill them immediately. Blood must be filling their lungs, dribbling out in the corners of their mouth in awful, wet babbles.

“Salvation is granted to those who accept their death, for there is no other beginning than the end itself.” Narinder stops the blade’s ascent and tightens the chains once more. “Pray.”

It is a full minute of incoherent babbling. Pained, agonized mumbling from the heretic who has lost it’s senses (and possibly it’s mind) in the torture. Desperate whispers are interrupted by heavy breathing and the moans of a creature that’s slowly losing it’s lifeforce to the grass of Darkwood that does not care for the devotion of a creature so dedicated to it’s owner. The ground is already absorbing the heretic’s blood like it’s taking the corpses of it’s comrades around it. Surrounded by Death.

In the midst of the heretic’s quiet uttering, Narinder’s posture suddenly stiffens slightly. Then, he returns to normal. “Good enough.”

The blade is extracted from the dying heretic and Narinder turns, chains from his hand dragging the creature along with him. Lambert blinks at the entire scene, and now the expression they can see of the cat clearly: he looks little more than someone who’s satisfied with a mediocre task well done, maybe even a little bored. The heretic must have been converted and Narinder convinced of it, they think. How would he know the creature isn’t just pretending-?

The heretic winces and curls in on itself as an organ starts to peak through it’s stomach, and Narinder’s ears flick backwards in slight discomfort, but continues walking.

Oh, right. He can feel when those in his faith are dying. Smart trick.

Narinder says nothing about the lamb following in his footsteps, silent and with their hands clasped behind them, a simple spectator. The walk out of Darkwood is nothing more than the five minutes it took for them to find him in the first place, and that’s probably a good thing. The heretic is still sniveling and whining the entire time, and from the trail of blood it leaves behind, the creature was not long for this world anyway.

The Mystic Seller, as expected, has no strange reaction a cat dragging a near-corpse behind him out of Darkwood and taking a sharp right to Anchordeep’ s closed door with a lamb trotting behind them.

The door’s once carved stone and decorated appearance looked now almost monstrous in it’s own right. Anura’s had been too along with Silk Cradle’s, and just like the others this door (or gateway, really) displayed glowing symbols that seem to light up upon the God of Death’s approach. It’s tear-dropped shaped center housing the shake of Kallamar’s crown suddenly sinks back into the grain, a mouth opening with razor teeth and innards of yellow. Whatever magic this held was something non-sentient, but it was hungry regardless.

The heretic doesn’t even seem to register that they’ve been dragged out of Darkwood before the chains dissipate, Narinder grabs the back of their hood and hoists the captive directly into the mouth of the gateway.

The teeth latch onto the heretic immediately, and there is a raising scream from the creature cut short as fangs dive deep into their gullet, and the door almost seems to chew them as much as it does absorb them. There is one final cut-off of the heretic’s eyes red and nearly bulging from their sockets as their body disappears. The stone door glows a little more, then dims to nothing. Grating stone sounds out as it’s entrance lowers into the. Anchordeep is now open.

Narinder flicks the blood off the scythe’s blade out of habit before it dissipates. He turns back to the lamb.

Lambert’s face is squinted with a thin line for a mouth. They look like they just ate something sour. Or at the very least, judging him a little bit.

He frowns. “I have done you the service of opening the way to Anchordeep and you thank me with an ugly expression. Fix your face.”

They remain quiet, though their eyebrows raise a little in some sort of Look.

“Speak your mind. I cannot read it.” Narinder says, albeit only slightly annoyed. “Untie that mouth before I rip it open.”

Their expression turns almost comical with how they presume their lips, mouth locked tight. Lambert’s hands fold in front of themselves, waiting patiently.

There’s a brief moment where they think he won’t humor them. It’s long enough that he probably considered it, but they know they win when he rolls his eyes. Fashioning his fingers like how one would turn a lock, Narinder points it in the direction of the lamb and ‘unlocks’ the air in front of him.

They ask the question immediately. “So that’s how you opened up Anura’s door last time?” They sound normal enough, eyes tracking the blood trail stretching from Darkwood’s entrance. “Usually once someone has pledged themselves to me, you or our faith, they immediately fall under my protection as a part of my flock. So this was…”

“That is exactly why you have the resource problems that you do.” Narinder turns half-way to start walking into the gateway. Lambert scrunches their nose at him, but he quickly adds on. “I said I’d help you, so stop with the face. I did my part.”

“Well, I’ll at least say it’s effective. Your methods are very…brutal.” They look up to see his back already walking into the depths of Anchordeep, and follow automatically suit. The cult was busy with preparations, they’d be fine for a few hours on their own if it came down to it. “I mean, it did the job, but kindness usually softens the heart of the new ones anyways. It makes for a good community.”

The scenery around them begins to shift and change. A blue hue starts to overtake them, and the air becomes moist and ground damp. Narinder glances over his shoulder. “You accept murderers as much as you bring in the innocent.”

“I never said it makes for good people, just good community. Everyone gets a second chance, until they don’t.” Water raises on the ground as they walk further in, going up an inch or so. It wets the trail of their cloak and the edges of Narinder’s robes. “I give them a choice where as no one else gives them one, and they choose the flock.” A pause. “Well, a ‘choice’ as much as I can give them. Not a lot of choice to be had if you’re stolen to be sacrificed with nothing left, caught by a cannibalistic spider or otherwise, but I like to think that my winning smile charms them over!”

A short, mocking scoff comes from Narinder ahead of them, cut short when the water of the domain sloshes around his ankles. They don’t really mind it, having walked through such a space many times before. A little water never hurt anyone. The cat, on the other hand, paused briefly to glare at the ground and the ripples his footsteps made like it was a personal offense. His tail accidently skims the surface of the water on one particular swish and Lambert watches as it curls back upwards in discomfort. Narinder huffs. “Believe what you like.”

“Hey,” Lambert moves ahead of him, sporting said smile and now walking in line with the cat as they traverse further. “How would you concert me to being your vessel, if say…I never had my head chopped off? What if you had to put actual effort into it?”

The God of Death keeps his gaze ahead. Anchordeep’s surroundings is less of a ‘forest’ and more of a mimic of a deep, vast ocean fit with sunken ships and the bones of monsterious sea creatures. Kallamar never explained how he got it to look like this. “I’ve be able to convert you.”

“Without using threats or brute force?” The lamb asks, tone light. “You’re not good at much else.”

“I-Repeat that?” Narinder head turns sharply to glare at them, and the lamb comically leans back, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m the God of Death! And you were nothing but a simple minded tool. I could convert you with promises of riches, safety or power; whatever mortal whim you would have had at the moment. My kind is not unfamiliar with making deals for such.”

The lamb’s ears raise. “And if I had none?”

“Then I would have just killed you. Repeatedly.” He adds on that last part for good measure.

“That’s back to the violence part, so it doesn’t count.”

“Lamb.”

“C’mon! Humor me.” They move around to the front of him, making the cat sneer a little as Lambert brings them both to a halt. He’s half a mind to ignore and walk past them. He doesn’t, and the lamb stands confidently with their arms out in theatrics in his shadow. “What speech or otherwise grand gesture would you do to get your vessel to work with you? Pretend I’m a heretic, even. Right now. No threats! No violence! No promises of power or gold or anything else. Nothing but words. Go on, give me your best shot.”

They appear amused with the riddle they’ve bestowed upon him, smug look growing as the silence stretches on. Narinder stares at them in silence. They almost call it a victory until he speaks. “I’d say ‘please’.”

Narinder’s mouth curls like he tasted poison when he said it, but he doesn’t add anything else. Lambert blinks at him. “…Really?”

He speaks evenly. “You have a knack for giving yourself to help others in need even after I explicitly told you not to let such fodder take advantage of you in such a manner. You wring yourself out on the woes of mortals with a fraction of our lifespans, with appreciation valued like dirt. You almost gave a Fox a piece of your heart so your enemy could have a talisman-”

They interject. “Not my enemy, you’re my friend-”

“You would have permanently given away a piece of your lifeforce had I not stopped you, for the benefit of me, that serves you nothing. And you repeat this process as I’ve seen for hundreds of years.” A thin, sharp grin stretches across Narinder’s face. “Your sense to save others would be weaponized, and you’d take pity on the god locked away in chains. So as long as I played the part, I would have had you manipulated easily.” He speaks sly. “For all your complaints about your lack of choice, at least I am honest about it in regards to our friendship.”

Lambert is quiet. They stare at him unmoving just as much as the crown’s eye does.

(And it dawns on Narinder that perhaps he has fallen right back into the habit that caused the lamb to pull away from him in the first place, and the grin on his face suddenly feels numb.)

Lambert snorts. It sounds genuine. There’s a certain light to their eyes.

“What?” Narinder’s brows furrow. There’s slight goosebumps on his skin that he’ll attribute to the cold water and wind, and certainly not nerves as the lamb’s smile reaches their eyes and his own drops in confusion. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing.”

His ear twitches. “Vessel.”

“It’s nothing!” They laugh. “I’m just thinking about stuff. You’re so weird about somethings, you know? In a good way.”

They start to walk backwards into Anchordeep, and Narinder unconsciously follows in the footsteps whilst sending them a look that Lambert just grins at. They complain of his cryptic and vague nature and then do the same. Hypocrite forever, it seems. He raises a hand and gestures a motion for them to move off. “Draw the sword and kill things. I’m tired of conversing with an idiot.”

They pipe up. “Crusade? Right now?” They look off to the side; they were in the domain fully now. It looks different from how they first encountered it, but their interest is dampened with worry. “But the festivities are still being planned. If I’m gone for too long-”

“Then I suppose you better hurry up then.” He snaps. “I said I’d open the door, and I have. Your work starts now.”

Welp. They did mention they could use more crystal. The crown morphs down their cheek, to their arm and into their palm. It flickers a little, per usual, and settles as an axe that slings heavy over their shoulder. Narinder’s scythe does not make a reappearance nor does he call upon chained spears. It would appear that the God of Death has no intention of helping speed things up. They sigh; at least followers saw them leave through the gate when they did. The disciples will handle anything minor that might appear in their absence. They can rampage through Anchordeep and clear out it’s maze in a single day or two if they’re fast enough.

“Alright, speed running Kallamar’s domain.” They hoist the axe at their side. “I can do that no problem.”

-

They take a break three hours in because they got hungry.

No one can hardly blame them, really. When you go from not eating a meal in weeks to suddenly having a surplus of food, the hunger pains one manages to ignore are suddenly quite more calling than they were before. Lambert’s axe was halfway through an archer’s body and cleaving them into two when the sound of a growling stomach overtook the sound of death gurgles, and Narinder got to watch as the lamb quickly dispatched the rest of the heretic’s in the clearing, hop right on top of a stone boulder, and start digging into the crown’s storage. They’re elbow deep rummaging around. “Hold on a second, I packed a lunch this morning. Planned on just scarfing it down before evening roll call but it’s a good thing I did.”

It’s nearing dinner time judging by how the sun sets in the sky but that doesn’t really matter. What warm hues the sunset would have given don’t apply here, this domain forever a canvas of blues, sea greens and soft ocean colors. Anchordeep was a mimic of the sea, Narinder knows. Kallamar never felt far from his original home, for he took imagery of it and repainted it here. Meaning it was constantly wet. The air always feels less like air and more like breathable water, thick with rain. He knows it’s air because they’d both be drowning without it, but jellyfish creatures that like to explode still float like how they would do among waves.

Bones of sea monsters are as abundant more than trees would have been in Darkwood and Anura. Shipwrecks and sand pillars, stone structures and seaweed stretching up like waving grass. There are several lamp posts that illuminate the maze despite their surroundings, and they cast off a green light rather than something warmer. Even the soil here wasn’t quite right; more like the sand you’d find at the bottom of the ocean. Packed tightly enough with gravel and easy to walk on, but like the other domains it consumes the corpses of the fallen heretics all the same. Blood that spills from them join the flooded ground and spread out like infection in the water, and the bodies bring forth more enemies like sharks.

There’s no explanation for these. It was not a magic Narinder was interested in how Kallamar made such things possible, back then.

“Here we go!“ Lambert pulls out something small, a parchment paper package and rips it open. It looks to be bread and some sort of mix of greenery. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was just grass. “Gimmie a second. It’ll only be a short break.” They immediately take a bite that’s at least one fourth of the sandwich and nearly choke because of it, attempting to chew the entire thing down before they make a fool of themselves. They already have, but Narinder will ignore the sight of unseemly manners for the sake of his approaching headache. His discomfort must be evident, because Lambert speaks up with a mouthful. “It’s the water, isn’t it? Cats don’t like to get wet, right?”

Sure, that’s one explanation for it. His ears have been pinned back against his head for the last hour. “It is not a favorite element of mine.”

“Explains why you were always shut in when it rained. I thought you’d like the rain, honestly.” The lamb takes another bite, this time smaller so they don’t risk choking. “You know, since you didn’t really get to experience weather changing in the afterlife. I thought, I don’t know, it would be…nice?”

“You thought getting wet and soggy would be ‘nice’?”

“It can be relaxing?” They start.

“It’s winter. We are crusading in the start of winter in a domain that is mainly wet. Water turns to ice when it gets cold. It will be a nightmare to crusade here once if it starts to snow.” He talks deadpan, one brow raised in mockery. “Should I have to explain anything else or do you understand why I am in discomfort?”

Lambert takes no offense to his usual rudeness. “We could always wait until spring if you want. Take a break from all the crusades and just live for a little while.”

“No. I want this over this.”

“Figured.” They grin. A piece of grass sticks out of the corner of their mouth that they slurp back up. Narinder shifts uncomfortable on his feet. The edges of his robes were dark with saturation. Uncomfortable the temperature might be, but at the very least godhood protected him from frostbite. When he looks up, the lamb is watching him. “Do you want me to make you another shawl or scarf? There’s still some material left. I could have the tailor make you some gloves so you could touch some things without risk of rot, too.”

“Just eat your food.” Narinder finds a particularly stable pillar to lean against not far from the lamb. He situates himself against it, arms crossed. Lambert finds that he chooses not to observe the surroundings or keep an eye out for enemies, but instead lock three eyes on them instead. “If you want out of here quickly, stop yapping.”

He’s got a point. They’ll say nothing back in exchange for taking another bite. Narinder stares while they do with half-lidded eyes and quietly watches as they eat. It’s a mundane, quiet moment. A break from the fighting or the bickering and the snark. There’s no feeling of unease, funny enough, because they know that even as laid back as he appears to be, there’s a small inkling of iron in one of his closed fists. The start of a chain ready to deploy. He’d attack first should an ambush appear. Lambert will pretend not to notice him on guard.

Though, he’s still just staring while they eat. He did that in the gateway, too. His chains would shift and he’d pull at them at times, crouching or standing tall, but his eyes would hardly ever leave the lamb beyond the veil. The God of Death was a natural in watching and waiting. They wonder if it comes with being given many eyes.

Lambert stares back, swallows their bite, and wonders if they can get him to blink in some weird experiment of social mirroring.

They blink twice. No reaction from him. They do it again. Same result, still as a statue. They blink their right eye first and their left eye second before opening at the same time. They close their eyes and hold them for a few seconds before opening again. They practically flutter their eye lashes. The cat’s gaze is no longer half-lidded and bored but now staring at them like they’ve grown a second head.

Lambert blinks slowly this time, eyes shut for a second before opening again.

That one seems to work. He finally does blink after a long moment. The eyes blink out of synch with each other, one by one. He does that sometimes. They’re not sure if he realizes he’s doing it. Lambert barely has a second to enjoy their success before he questions them. “What are you doing?”

“Eating.” Their word comes muffled a bit with the sandwich, and it dawns on them that it’s probably not their shenanigans but something else they’ve forgotten to remember that makes the cat want them to hurry up. Narinder cannot eat still, and it was probably a little rude. “I uh, can turn around if you need me to.”

“Your face.” Narinder cuts off. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Oh. Lambert takes another bite. “I was gonna see if I can get you to blink since you stare a lot.”

Narinder glowers at them.

“Yeah, like that.”

His mouth grows tight with usual annoyance. The third eye blinks. Lambert blinks back. Hi, weird eye thing.

“Eat your food.” Narinder commands harsher this time. “You’re wasting time acting like a fool.”

“Oh, I have an idea! Come here, just for a second!” Leaning forwards towards him and jutting out an open hand, the lamb beckons him. The sandwich is two-bites away from non-existence, and that too is held out to him. Three red eyes dart between Lambert’s face and their summoning hands. “Our powers work differently when we’re touching, right? Maybe the rot thing doesn’t work if you’re touching me. Maybe you could eat something then?” Their fingers wiggle. “Come on, let’s give it a shot!”

Narinder cranes away. “I hate touching you.”

“…More than you hate not tasting things?” They will say nothing of the confessional booth. Not yet.

There’s a pause where he honestly debates on slapping their hand and the sandwich away, maybe even pushing them off the boulder and into the water. Lambert’s arms are getting tired enough holding them out that they’re a second away from being pulled back before the God of Death leans off the pillar and approaches them. With a look of distaste, two claws pinch one of their fingers like how a child would dramatically hold something smelly. Lambert tries not to laugh at it, and they’ll keep their mouth shut as he plucks the sandwich remnants from their hand.

The food doesn’t rot, at least. Just like how it did with The Fox’s offering. That itself is a show of his own growing control of power. Narinder raises the sandwich to his mouth-

-Pauses, then drops it to the sand. It lands with a wet plop. Lambert immediately deflates. “Hey-”

“I have no intention of sharing anything you’ve put your mouth on.” He drops their hand with a renewed disgust. “And that is a grass sandwich, Lamb.”

“What’s wrong with a grass...actually. Nevermind.” They sigh, hopping down from the boulder and summoning the crown’s weapon once more. The axe glints in the blue light, merging with the red glow to cast a purplish hue. It only flickers once. The cat watches as shadows stammer. A few of it’s wisps seem to catch in his direction.

“Alright, break’s over.” The axe drags behind them as they start, and Lambert rushes ahead into Anchordeep.

-

Saleos as a follower was an intelligent creature with a penchant for writing and preferred dishes with cauliflower. Saleos as an enemy rushes towards the lamb like an arrow, tentacles in the place of teeth and crosses and scythes pitching from his back as the monstrous creature spews vile hatred until the lamb rushes underneath it’s belly and splits the monster’s organs out onto the stone floor of the temple room. He dies with a high pitched screech, with green and red blood spewing out from the open wound as intestines and eldritch-morphed guts slam into the ground with his corpse with a gross wet squish.

It’s a rather lackluster fight given previous experience, and Lambert finds it easy to find the God Tear within the creature’s gullet and wash their hands of the blood with one of the waterfalls spilling out from the walls. “He wasn’t much for talking, but when he did speak, he was really well articulated. He knew how to read and write, and took it upon himself to teach others in the flock when there was free time.” They scrub the gore from their hands as they speak fondly of the one it belongs to. The monster may not remember them in this state, but Lambert remembers them still. “He helped with some record keeping back in the day, back before we have proper books and only used scrolls. He never got sick or dissented, but one day he went out on a missionary and never came back. Another missionary told me he was eaten.”

Narinder’s scythe dissipates into shadow. He helped, only briefly, to cut out the eyes of the creature when the lamb had him herded towards the God of Death. “A shame he did not teach you how to have better handwriting during his time in the flock.”

“He was useful and kind.” They ignore his insult completely, clean hands now pressed together. Lambert bows their head an inch towards the corpse of a once-follower, pockets the God Tear, and promptly walks towards the exit. “If my handwriting is so bad, you could always teach me to have better penmanship.”

They hear the slosh of footsteps behind him as they walk. The water on the ground at least prevents him from sneaking so easily. Narinder scoffs.“I’ve taught you many things. Whether or not you retain it is your own fault.”

Lambert looks over their shoulder to wit back, but pauses. Narinder is pulling at the front of his robes. The domain has made them damp and uncomfortable, and there’s a slight glisten to his fur where it weighs it down. Whiskers that usually blend in with the color of his face are slightly shined. He frowns as the front of his robes start to stick to his chest, lifting one layer there. Their own wool and cloak are as damp as he is, but it’s less of what’s coating them both that Lambert is focused on, but the lack of something underneath the cat’s collar.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“What happened to the talisman necklace I gave you? You’re not wearing it.” They come to a stop on the teleportation stone, eyes following him as he comes to stand next to them. “I didn’t see it in your hut last night either. Is it in your pocket?”

Narinder doesn’t look up from his cloak. He looks to be growing increasingly more frustrated with the state of his fur. “Lost it.”

“…You lost it?”

“In a bet.”

“That you honored?” Both brows raise to their hairline. “You lost a bet and you weren’t a sore loser about it? Bet with who? Over what-?”

“Not your concern.” He fumbles a bit more with his robes until it becomes increasingly clear that no amount of shifting is going to make the fabric lay on him any more comfortably. It was overstimulating, cold, and frankly made him look completely improper. He can see his fur sticking out at odd angles now through the reflection of a crystal growing along the stone walls. Narinder drops his hands and ears in defeat. “It was more of a trade, anyways. Teleport us back. I need to be rid of these clothes.”

“Yeah, same here.” They’ll have to sport another fleece for a day while this one hangs on the drying line. Narinder on the other hand will be confined to his hut until his clothes are properly dried. An idea pops in their brain, not the smartest one, but their leg pulls back for a second. “You know, it’s kinda rude to give away things that were gifted to you.”

“That was an insult, not a gift.” The God of Death sighs. “You would know if-”

They kick the water at just the perfect angle, and a splash hits him. The water only goes up high enough to his waist, but it’s enough to turn damp clothes to absolutely sodden, and Narinder goes frozen still as cold shoots through him. Wide shocked eyes burn into the lamb’s face, and the shit-eating grin they now sport.

They teleport before Narinder can lunge at them (To throw them into the water, to drown them, to cut them open or claw out their eyes, none of these punishments he has decided yet save for he just needed to get his hands on them) and the world disorients the moment he makes contact. They feel claws almost dig into their wool and miss them by centimeters when the world corrects itself and the cult grounds come into their peripheral vision. There’s an angered hiss and a blur of black that cuts across where their neck was two milliseconds ago. It almost hits their bell. His voice spits an insult in demonic curse that won’t translate nicely.

“Putrid Lamb!” Narinder hisses. It’s night time, so no one is awake to hear his bellowing. Convenient since it would be quiet a scene to see a sopping wet cat take cheap shots at the leader in the middle of the front gates. “You think we are playing some sort of game?!”

Lambert dodges when he aims for their neck, voice in a half-laugh. “I have to go prepare a speech for the wedding, so-!” They duck as claws drag the down the space besides their head. They don’t bother calling the crown, even when Narinder’s irritation grows as they grin. He bares his teeth, but he doesn’t even summon the scythe. They backpaddle down the stairs with the cat following them. “-I’ll bring you some towels later! And a new comb!”

“I don’t want your gifts!” Oh grief, now he’s actually chasing them. The lamb dodges another attack as the cat runs them towards the temple doors. “I only want your blood spilled!”

The temple is not far from the gates, so it’s easy enough for Lambert to beat him there. They’re not faster than him entirely, but he’s uncoordinated enough in his tantrum that they dodge him easily enough, slipping through the temple doors and slamming them shut behind them. They lock it, panting, and cackle in hilarity when they feel the thud of a cat nearly crashing into the wood. The iron lock creaks slightly, possibly even bending as there's a push from the other side. It snaps back into place with the sound of muffled growling. Scratching sounds can be heard as if Narinder is actively trying to stick his claws into the crack and pry open the doors by sheer irritation alone.

A minute of scratching and cursing fades into quiet. Lambert counts to ten, then turns around, unlocks the doors and opens it an inch.

It’s dark outside. Three red eyes glare through the tiny opening. Even with how his fur almost blends into the night, they can see his tail lashing behind him.

“I rate it a five.” Lambert says. “Wait, no. Six. Yeah. I give that assassination attempt a solid six. You get bonus points for chasing.”

One of his fangs poke out from his lip. “Let me in. I need to tear out your eyes.”

“I really do need to finish writing a speech for the wedding, and possibly another one for acknowledging all the dissent and other concerns the flock might have. I promised Ratau I would give him a list of go-to responses if any of the members have him cornered.” They smile through the crack. He looks like he might reach in and tear off their nose if they poke it through any further. “I can come visit you in the morning if you like. Gives you enough time for a nap and your clothes to dry. You can tear out my eyes then.”

The sopping wet cat on their doorstep sneers at them. Then, with a miserably unhappy look, Narinder turns towards the direction of his home.

Lambert chuckles through the door. “Goodnight, Nari.”

His hand moves in the dark as quickly as his tail does, and they cannot see what gesture he makes in the dark, but they’re pretty sure they just got flipped off.

-

The afterlife is not a comfortable place to sleep. Not that The One Who Waits would ever truly know what it’s like, what with chains bound to him, wrist and neck and body completely.

The Lamb in his palm sleeps soundly, though.

They’ve teleported here, arriving on his symbol in this same limp, curled position. The same way they died in their sleep in life. Shamura’s enemies have a new tatics against the prophesized killer. Poison from Silk Cradle’s domain has seeped into their blood stream and lingered, not quite killing them thanks to the crown’s healing ability, but it slows them. Tires them. Weakens them like disease. Unaware their exhaustion was due to an infection of the several mandible bite wounds on their body that just wasn’t quite healing right, they’ve rested their head against a tree for just a moment, lulled to sleep, and died minutes later.

They do not wake when they arrive on his symbol. The One Who Waits glides one hand underneath their body, and the other to close over them to pick them off the ground.

“Aren't you going to wake them, Master?” Baal asks. His brother sends him a questionable look. The One Who Waits does not scold him for speaking out of turn. He hardly does.

“In due time.” He holds the lamb downwards to the kit. In the back of his mind, it’s much like how a child would show off their favorite pebble, a blacksmith would show his finest blade, or something even gentler. Careful. Observant. Prideful. They are nothing more than a tool, but he’s careful the clinking of his chains aren’t too loud to wake them. “See how they sleep? It is a mimic of death. It is not eternal rest, but it does provide some to mortals.”

Aym and Baal look over into the skeletal palm. Their eyes squint at the wooly mass that lies there, but crane heads to see how the lamb’s chest rises and falls with every breath. Something neither brothers know how to do, and something that their Master could not teach them, for he himself doesn’t know how.

None of them sleep. Not in the afterlife. The One Who Waits briefly remembers what it was like before his imprisonment. He remembers fascination with it as a kit, a conversation with Shamura of dreams and their application (Gods do not dream.) Whispers to a crown, visions and imagery undecipherable to a young ascended mind (Gods do not have dreams, Narinder.) The sound of mandibles chittering, a hand upon their head and he feels words of memory slip past his tongue. An image of himself casting a shadow that consumed all else, cold and alone. (They are called something else.)

“So that’s where the phrase comes from…to ‘sleep like the dead’?” Aym’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Strange.”

The lamb stirs. Baal straightens his posture and Aym reassumes his position. The One Who Wait’s curls his fingers over their body until their dreams break, and he scolds them for dying again.

-

They arrive on his symbol with a near-decapitation wound only halfway through to the bone.

A heretic landed a lucky swing. The blade of an axe got halfway through the lamb’s neck before they drove a sword through their gullet. He watched them panic; instead of waiting for the crown to steadily heal the wound, they yanked out the axe and bled out almost instantly across Anchordeep’s stone.

The One Who Waits frowns at their failure. “You made a mistake out of panic. You let yourself become lost to fear and pain. You would have survive had you kept calm.”

They sit on their knees, staring at the ground with wide eyes. Both hands are clasped around their neck, palms underneath the collar and pressing up against the skin. Their mind is elsewhere, pupils staring into nothing. Fingers rub at the permanent scar he could not heal.

The One Who Waits grows impatient ironically enough. “Lamb.”

“Does yours hurt?” They ask. His vessel’s voice is quieter than normal. They stay locked onto the sand. “The chains around your wrists…sometimes, it looks like your neck bleeds too.” A pause. “Did they take your hands from you? Your head? So you could do no evil to them-”

“Vessel.” He warns.

They do not remove their hands even as the wound closes up and leaves it undamaged again, save for the jagged line that forever stays. The lamb’s ears are raised. Their eyes do too, expectantly. Undeterred.

Odd thing.

“Yes.” He does not lie. He’s not sure why he’s willing to answer. “It does hurt.”

They seem to absorb his answer. Fingers scratch at the scar, then remove themselves. Carefully, the lamb reaches behind their head to where the collar’s latch is and redoes the clasp, tightening the leather around their neck. It can’t be in a way that sits comfortably, for the surface of it will always rub up against the scar. They seem satisfied when it’s secure, though. He wonders why they don’t just take it off if it bothers them.

“Send me back.” They say, and the God of Death hardly raises a finger to have them return.

When they find the same heretic again in a second crusade, the lamb rips the axe from his hands, foregoes the sword, and strangles the creature with their bare hands.

-

“Do you want to see something cool I can do?” The lamb speaks to him through the crown, and their voice carries with them a playful grin. They hold it in front of their face as they walk, and nearly trip over a fresh corpse as they do. “I’ve been practicing, but I think I can dodge more efficiently now. I’m basically flying all over the place. No one ever sees me coming.”

It is an eager over-exaggeration. He does not answer through the crown, and it’s singular red eye stares back emotionless at them.

“Check it out.” They let their hands drop, and the crown just floats around them like a specter as they poise themselves. The lamb rolls and tumbles and moves in a way that might have been comical had they not been slightly blooded from their current crusade. The come to a cliffside in Anura’s domain; not a deep one, but it has a considerable enough drop to be worrying. Large bounders, and sharpened bones lay at the bottom in a place where sunlight cannot reach, pointed roots belonging to mushroom trees grow up the side in the shade. The lamb readies themselves a few feet from the edge. “Watch this.”

They take a running start, and the crown watches as the lamb jumps and clears the entire gap in a single fall. They laugh victoriously even as they land into a roll on the other side. The One Who Waits briefly recalls that sheep tend to like jumping and climbing things.

“I’m way stronger now, I could probably clear higher jumps than this!” They exclaim. They ready themselves to jump back to the other side where the crown awaits them, and take a running start. “I’m better than a frog would ever dream-!”

Their reality check comes quickly. The final step before they leap lands on the edge of the cliff, the rock beneath their hoof giving way and slipping under. Lambert’s world turns as the sudden gravity knocks them off balance, and they don’t jump, but stumble into the pit. “Ah-”

The fall is probably three seconds long and ends with a audible crack at the bottom. It was one of their most unnecessary deaths.

The crown just floats down the cliff to find them, and he pauses a few feet from where their corpse lay. Cats tend to land on their feet. Sheep tend to get stuck on their backs, he hears. This one landed on theirs.

They’re upside down, blood dripping out of the corner of their mouth and nose trailing upwards on their face because of the gravity that holds it. Their arms dangle towards the ground along with the edges of their cloak, the red fabric blending in with the quickly spreading blood that seeps out from where their body made impact with the boulder. There is no exit wound, but the amount of bloodloss suggests that this rock had a partially sharp enough point to impale them at least partially. Even if the fall hadn’t broken their spine, the puncture wound would have trapped them to have a slower death. A red splotch near the back of their head on the rock promises a quicker one. Gravity was merciful in that, at least.

Narinder feels his tongue go numb, and looks down. He is not looking through the crown, but a body entirely too real.

The lamb’s eyes are dead, glassy and rolled into the back of their head. He glares at them in waiting.

Their eyes turn white, zeroing in on him. They are smiling at him as an upside down corpse. “Hi, Nari.”

Damn nightmares.

“You saw how nervous they were when you yanked them up that tree. Heights didn’t always use to bother them, though. You remember.” They speak as if there wasn’t rock stabbing them through the back. They talk casually, like how one would greet a friend. “Maybe a few more abductions into the branches will fix them. Give me something to hold onto. I’m sure that will work.”

Narinder is exhausted already in a way that cannot be saved. Sleep is never restful. He wonders if this dream of his can be harmed. He wonders if tearing out their throat will cease their harassments.

“Repetitive.” The lamb says, and their head tilts slightly with a crack in their neck. Their hand raises upwards, and like a magic trick, an organ appears in their palm like they’ve been holding it all along. “But you do have your signature ways to harm.”

In their grip is a mutilated throat. Not his own, but Narinder feels it difficult to swallow regardless. He feels his teeth bite into his cheek. Vile thing.

“Temperamental sister who’s iron fist weighs her down too heavily. You slaughtered souls before their time just to see her fed.” White eyes burn through him. Their lips don’t move when they speak, smile unchanging. “Leshy too young. Kallamar too fragile. Shamura too busy. A time when the two of you swept through mortal lives with competitive fevour, and she would always call four because you’d always win. Famine is an effective killer, but you take the spoils and allow her the leftovers. She learned the rules well, but Death always wins in the end.” The not-lamb laughs as the organ bleeds in their palm. “You lost the game when you healed her.”

His ears pin back. The domain around them darkens into nothing more than shifting illusions. “Quiet.”

“Heket’s temper was not something grown overnight. Always a troublesome tadpole. You were no help for that.” A bone snaps somewhere on their body as they shift. The slight pinches of their spine cracking as they move. They do not remove themselves from the boulder, but their legs swing playfully from where they hang, and their head lulls from side to side. Too comfortable for a corpse. “She seems conflicted now, though. As are you. One would think she would have been horrible as you are with hate and anger upon being shoved into such an inferior body.” Their fingers sink into the organ like a squishy toy. Blood drops down their arm from it. “Mercy made you hesitate. You are mimicking me.”

“Do not mistake this as misplaced care.” He sneers, taking a step closer. “A true mercy would have been to let her die. She’ll be exterminated with the rest of my siblings when the lamb makes their final use to me.”

“You cannot kill me.” His subconscious grins, and it’s coy and knowing. Narinder is not sure if it means of the lamb themselves, or a part of him that he would like to rip out.

Narinder feels his jaw tighten. “Quiet.”

“You cannot kill me.” The lamb repeats. The throat in their grasp decays, and falls away as their arm slumps again. “Not in the way you wish.”

He’s a step away from them when he lashes out. Claws catch them by the face like he’s going to tear apart the very image of them that haunts his mind. They dig deep into their cheeks, his knuckles bent and fingers tense. “I’ve had enough of your lies-”

There is no blood splatter or tearing of flesh. Between his fingers, the black pupil of the lamb looks surprised.

Narinder blinks; his grip loosens.

The eyes are white again, and he feels a smile against their palm. Trickster, vile, horrible manipulative thing-

They cackle as he tears his touch away from them, mirroring a laugh he heard no long prior to now. It’s a sound that haunts him perfectly in a mimic, resounds through the space and slips into his ears even as he cranes them back. Narinder curls his claws back into his fist. Three eyes stay glaring to the lamb’s upside down face as they look back up to him. For the one who’s talking to a corpse; Narinder feels too oddly compromised. His arms sting. Flesh in his sleeves feel like they’re melting away to bone. He has to feel for his wrists to make sure that they’re not.

“How mean.” It speaks using their voice. He wishes for them to choke on their own blood. He stays in place here, locked as they coo. “You’re kinder to them in your mind, and it’s starting to bleed out-”

“Manipulation.” Narinder says plainly. “Every act of kindness is one I do reluctantly. Any foolish ideas of friendship are misguided, and I’ll use it to my advantage. My assistance to them is a required sacrifice to be made if I want my crown back.”

The not-lamb hums. “That is not how you felt in the afterlife.”

Narinder is quiet for a moment, and they let him be. “It is how I feel now.”

“Do you remember this death?” They ask. Blood pools more at the corner of their mouth and dribbles down to their eye like a tear. The lamb’s hand raises, gentle, towards his face. “It was one of our favorites.” Their palm reaches him, fingers gliding through the fur, and their skin is cold like death which is wrong because they’re supposed to be warmer than that- “You prayed for it everyday.”

(Speared bellies. Cut Necks. Poisoned veins. He stopped healing them through the crown once an injury had gone too far and the lamb never complained. Whispers from the afterlife to their ear; it was easier to die and be resurrected than it was to wait for a broken limb to heal. It was easier to accept death and start again on a crusade gone wrong. You’re lost in Darkwood, it’s faster to die and be resurrected at the stone. Come visit. I will not scold you. Come, Death beckons. Come.)

He not only promoted a bad habit, he was the origin of it.

“It doesn’t matter now. They ruined everything.” Curse them, and curse the empty feeling in his ribcage that pulls him apart at the memories. “I still desire them dead. You cannot argue that.”

His subconscious grins up at him with white slitted eyes and a sliced smile. They say nothing, because he knows himself. The lamb will die.

He’ll take back everything they’ve stolen from him. He’ll erase them. Nothing has changed. When the time comes, and there is no more use for their continued existence, he will kill them.

“Of course. After all, nothing is ever truly yours unless it’s dead.” The lamb’s fingers fall from his face, sliding down his chin and neck until their hand places itself over his chest. The world around them is a decayed field, and Narinder’s teeth draw the taste of ichor on his tongue. “You want to keep them in the only way you know how.”

-

The day before the festival, everything is nearly ready and almost perfect.

The speech has been written and vetted by the brides, as well as the two going over their own vows. Ratau’s arrival has been anticipated and sleeping quarters set up so he can have somewhere to retire for the night after all have laid to rest (someone had to graciously volunteer their shelter and reside with friends for the night, a sacrifice that Lambert thanks them for considering the house that the rat would have stayed at has become Narinder’s permanent abode.) The workers are in high spirits, productivity rates are even higher.

The cult grounds have had a massive make over in a span of a few days. It will be a pain to clean up, and it will more than likely take at least a weak of collective effort to do so. But at the very least, it’s going to be one hell of a party.

Lambert finds Leshy and Joon on their best behavior, if by ‘best behavior’ it meant that Leshy wasn’t currently destroying anything. He’s currently on the ceiling of a barn hanging upside down while Joon threw things up at him to try and coax him down, but he wasn’t destroying anything, so it counts.

“Do you need me to go find a ladder?” The yellow cat sounds anxious and annoyed at the same time. “I turned my back for two seconds! If you can get up there yourself, can’t you get down on your own?!“

“I am in need of no spectator, stupid cat, leave me!“ Leshy spits. There are claw marks on the wood where he’s inched up the wall to that spot. Lambert wonders if his ability to climb came from the influence of his cat brother, his spider sibling, or simply an innate ability the worm has learned on his own. ”I will call upon your servitude when it is needed!“

“I have to keep up with you! I don’t want to get in trouble-!“

“...Hi.” Lambert starts, and Joon nearly jumps in their skin while Leshy curses something demonic above them. “I just wanted to give you two an update on the festivities. Pardon if I’m interrupting something?”

Joon nearly jumps out of their skin, spinning on their heel and ducking their head low in a bow. “My leader! Please excuse him, he’s…upset I would not allow him to burrow through some of the flower décor we had picked out for the wedding. I promise I did not allow him to eat them! I even used a stick like you told me to!” A pause. “But only once! And I didn’t hit very hard…”

Leshy wiggles and spits and growls like a rabid animal somewhere above them.

Great. They’re acting normal. The worm just had his feelings hurt. “With the festivities happening tomorrow taking place over the entirety of the cult, I’ll be declaring it a holy day. I understand that with your current situation, it would be rather difficult to enjoy the party while also keeping an eye on him, and given the rarity of the event, I know it is something that you will probably not want to miss, is that correct?” Lambert stays professionally toned, and smiles kindly when Joon gives a curious nod. They speak loud enough so that the worm shall hear them, even though they’re sure his enhanced skill would do so. “Considering the situation, I will allow the both of you to attend the parties tomorrow-”

The God of Chaos sneers. “I don’t care for your frivolous celebration, Lamb-!”

“There will be drink, food, dancing and music. It will be a very lively party. The both of you are invited to partake, but not required.” Lambert tilts their head up just a bit to make eye contact with the bandage that’s dangling above them. “I know one of you, at least, will not be reaping the benefits of the drink, however. But I encourage you both to have a good time nonetheless.”

Leshy just scoffs at them. Joon looks none the wiser. He is no different from Lambert or Narinder themselves; mortal wine and drink will have no effect on him. Honestly, that works out in their favor. They cannot imagine a worse scenario than a drunken God of Chaos, and there’s no way that they’re going to let it slip that they have ambrosia to share.

At least Joon looks excited. “Thank you, my lamb! I’ve been waiting for this all year.” They don’t say it out loud, and Lambert no longer has the mind reading to be able to confirm it, but they can tell a relief floods through their system. They worried duty as Leshy’s caretaker was going to get in the way of personal enjoyment and festivities. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. Lambert doesn’t know if there’s another flock member they trust with the Bishop, nor would they have the patience for his...quirks. The cat has not questioned if the worm was or is a god yet. That too, is a mysterious blessing on itself.

“I expect the both of you to behave.” They emphasize that last word entirely for the worm. “Any mishaps tomorrow and there will be consequences, Leshy.”

“Go to hell!” The worm pops off the sealing, dives straight for the ground, and instead of bouncing or slamming like a normal person would, dives straight into the packed soil and disappears into the earth beneath.

Joon looks confused, but happy he’s at least not dangling anymore. Lambert watches as the cat crouches down next to the dirt mound, sending a smile up towards the leader. “I’ll stick with him in the party so you won’t have to worry. It would be nice to drink with my friend, anyway.” The farmer turns back to the ground, and speaks to seemingly no one. “You’ll keep me company, won’t you boss? The flock works real hard on it’s music setup, you might like it.” They pat the dirt. Growling comes from the hole. “Yeah, I think there’s gonna be beetroot pies there too.”

Weird. But Lamberts not going to complain. That’s an entirely different thing to unpack for another day. They dip their head in farewell “I’ll leave you both now. I hope to see you both at the party.” They exit with a final wave, and see to the other tasks that need doing.

The brides of the whole event are, for very obvious reasons, the most excited for everything.

The wedding ceremony has been built with a long path made out from the doors of the temple out to the altar outside. It’s there that the lamb meets the couple-to-be for rehearsal, though they have to meet at dinner time where everyone else is mainly too busy eating to eavesdrop on the practiced vows. Decorated by the lamb themselves with the choice of the bride’s preferences, it sports an array of flowers, red and white camellias and greenery, golden bells tied with red ribbons. The lamb stands at the front with the doctrine in hand, the women holding each other’s as they go over each line. The shrew’s excitement is visible enough to make the air vibrate. They think if she wasn’t currently crushing the otter’s hand, she would have fainted by now.

It’s a nice refresh. The devotion coming off of both of them, for faith and for each other, is quite wholesome. Lambert nods. “Alright, once more.”

The otter starts. “I take thee to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer or poorer, and in sickness and in health.” She pulls her closer, fingers curling over her lover’s with light eyes. “To love and to cherish, until death-” Her eyes flit to the side, and her voice drops in confidence. “..Un…until death does us…part.”

Lambert doesn’t even have to turn around to know what’s happening. “Ignore him. Carry on.”

The otter looks nervously to her lover, who swallows and tries to face ahead. “I wed you, and pledge my love now and forever, and…” She faulters. “And, um…”

Welp. That was going really sweet for a while there. Lambert shuts the doctrine closed with an audible thud that makes nearly both followers jump. “How about a break? The two of you haven’t eaten yet, right? Go on, get something to feast on. There’s plenty to chose from now.” They usher them with the book gently, nodding in encouragement. “We have plenty of time to continue this later when you’re both filled and replenished. I’ll come fetch the two of you. Go on, now.”

With hurried movements, both animals dip their heads in respects before turning and almost speed walking away from the altar, hand in hand.

Lambert waits until they’re both out of earshot before slowly turning to the cat behind them. “You know, you could really wait until I’m fin...oh.”

Narinder looks like he wants to kill them.

Scratch that. Narinder looks like he wants to tear them open and paint the wedding altar red with their innards and use their decapitated head as a decorative center piece. He’s wearing his hood up despite the low light of the sky, and his veil does a wonderful job of concealing his facial features. It would conceal it behind a curtain of black completely had the glow of red now pierced through and cut into them like a molten blade. His tail is low and swaying behind him. His body is still in the manner he usually gets when he’s hunting something.

Lambert’s ears pin back against their head in concern. “Are you still mad about me splashing you? You can dump some cold water on me if you want to make it even.”

The God of Death does not respond. His eyes narrow to slits.

“…Bad sleep, then? Nightmares?” They ask, and decide that must be the answer when something glints in his eye like a threat. Geeze. Must have been a bad one if he’s moody like this. “Are you here for something specifically, or did you just seek me out to glare at me until your hate is satisfied?”

They probably already know the answer to that one, but it’s polite to ask. Since it’s a bad night already, they don’t expect him to answer back. But he’s here and in the meantime, they had meant to find him later anyways. Lambert drops the doctrine book into the crown’s storage before digging through it’s contents. They’ll have to search a bit; the package in particular was something they stored a long while ago, so it might be buried underneath all the bones and grass and who-knows-what-else they’ve thrown in here-

“Vessel.” Narinder speaks low.

Lambert looks up from their task, but doesn’t stop their search. “Yeah?”

His claws furl into his fist. Wind barely brushes the veil.

“My room is covered in ichor.” He finally says. “You’ll fix it.”

There is anger in that voice that they can hear, coated in conflict. Low, constrained, but there. They wonder if he dreamed of being usurped once more. Maybe it was something to do with his siblings. He’s not attacking them though and he hasn’t threatened them. Lambert wonders if they try to praise him for it if that result in the cat trying to take off one of their horns. “Finor won’t be happy about that, but I’ll swing by tonight and see what I can do. Are you still bleeding?”

He talks like it’s almost physically painful to do so. “No.”

“I’ll bring you some bandages anyway.” They sneak a glance at his sleeves and his collar. There’s nothing around his wrists, but there’s a slight trace of a stain on the front of his hood before the veil conceals it. Their hand hits something in the storage space, grasp around it and yank it from the crown’s abyss. “Ha, here we go.” They hold out the package to him; a small thinly wrapped one. “I’m glad you’re here to glare at me, it saves me a trip. I meant to give these to you ages ago.”

Slit pupils drag from their face down to the package. He doesn’t take it, but he drags a claw down the parchment paper until it rips and unravels to reveal whats inside:

Ink pots. Several of them, all with varying labels and colors.

“I bought them way back when we visited Plimbo. Snagged them when I left you with him for a moment. There’s different colors but there’s plenty of black ink too, and another quill at the bottom if you’ve torn yours up. It’s hopefully enough for a few months. I hadn’t seen any ink in your house when I visited, but you didn’t ask for any more so I wasn’t sure if you were even using the book I had made for you and that there was even a need for it, so I didn’t hand it over. Then I got really busy, and you were-” They cut their rambling off. Narinder watches as Lambert recollects themselves with a smile. “Anyway, just take em’ even if you don’t need them.”

He does need them. He would have kept bleeding to draw them in his pages otherwise.

Wordlessly he allows them to plop the package into his hands. They are not heavy in his palm. Another gift in a line of many, and it will not be the last. They give away everything; literally and metaphorically. He gives them nothing in return unless it is to benefit him. Surely, nothing.

“I was also hoping,” The lamb starts, casually adjusting their fleece against the wind and looking off to the side. “-that this would perhaps soften you just a bit that you’d have the heart to come and join the festivities tomorrow.”

His answer is immediate. “No.”

“The wedding will go on until midday, but the party will start at sunset and go on through the night. Ratau will be here to celebrate and be another authority to help things run smoothly, so he can take charge if something goes wrong and I’m not available. Your brother will be attending too, but he’s been given his warning well enough.” They continue without missing a beat. Honestly, it’s probably best to ask him when he’s in a better mood and not reminded of the crimes they’ve committed against him, but might as well now. “I’ll be partaking as well. Regular alcohol doesn’t work on us,...but I still have that ambrosia, and I didn’t want to drink alone. I’d prefer to drink with my friend.”

The bells on the altar start to chime a little as the winter wind blows. It sways his veil a little. “You have an entire flock.”

“…Rephrase. I am asking you to share drinks with me, Nari.” They gesture offhand to the side. “We can toast to our friendship and your freedom.” He glares at them.“-or you eventually killing me. Or godhood or something. I don’t know. We can pick something.”

They have become far too bold in asking things of him. The only thing they should be requesting is mercy. Not drinks.

“You wouldn’t have to stay for long. Just swing by, come say hi. Be sociable. There’s been a lot of work and planning put into this.” The lamb’s cloak sways along with the light bells, their own along with it. Raising one hand, they pinch the bottom of his veil (the claws around the ink vials almost crack the porcelain, and hatred starts to boil in his veins) and lifts it up a bit, ducking their head a few inches downwards to peer underneath. “I know it wasn’t a part of the deal of helping me around the cult, but…”

Narinder glares down at them with a reminded hatred that seems to suffocate the air around him. Not that the lamb notices. Or if they did, they’re floating in it.

“Please, Nari?” They ask. “Consider it? You could make fun of my dancing.”

His habit is going to repeat, isn’t it?

Narinder blinks at them, out of sync. He tries to imagine their head on a pike. The image that comes forth in mind is vastly different.

“I’ll take your death glare as a ‘maybe’.”  They drop his veil, and the cat’s face is shrouded in black once again. Lambert steps back from his personal space, a boundary he didn’t even realized they had crossed, and fidgets with the ends of their cloak suggests they didn’t either. “See if you can get the worst of the ichor out yourself before it starts slowly rotting the house, and Finor will come by with bandages and blankets later. I have to go collect the brides for their practice.” A pause. “I’m going to need the altar to be clear when I come back, don’t wait up, okay?”

They turn from him then as they walk towards the kitchens. Narinder watches their cloak disappear, rolling a black inkwell in his palm.

Chapter Text

A bell is ringing.

It echoes in this place. The room has no exits; no door nor window, and looks as messy as he once left it. Fleeces, trinkets and other miscellaneous items are strewn about the room in disorganized chaos, all stemming from the storage chest he once rummaged through without care. Books and knocked over candles litter the floor, banners with torn fabric hang from the ceiling. The desk is toppled over with spilled black ink and paper. The only thing untouched were the lights; strings of stars and moons that made the brown of the walls look like a red stained color.

It’s a noise his ears are trained to seek out amongst the flood of static. He finds the owner on their knees in the middle of the Lamb’s Room, sitting casually on the frayed rug.

They tap the bell again, and white eyes gleam at him as his ears swivel. “Interesting choice.”

He sits feet away from him in his own place. The air is heavy, thick with the smell of blood, ichor and damp wool. There are claw marks on the walls and on their bed spread that don’t look like they have come from the lamb. Narinder’s claws curl into fists that rest on his knee. “If you’re going to complain about my choice of attire for you, I don’t care.”

They are wearing a smile, per usual, and tap the bell again. Ring ring. “You know that’s not what I was referencing.”

Miserable thing. He sneers at them, and their response is to scoot closer. Their raised hand shifts as they do, and there’s the sound of a latch coming undone as the buckle is unclasped. The collar doesn’t fall away just yet, not quite. But white burns into him when Narinder looks down to skin peaking out from behind the leather; pink and jagged. A mark he could not heal. His fingers twitch at the sight of it. He has no weapon, and he cannot summon one here, but should they get close enough; he’ll strangle them.

“The living fears death, of live burial. Often they would attach a bell mechanism to buried corpses so that if the deceased revives, they might ring it to be dug up. A grave keeper would be tasked for listening for it’s ring, so that they might exhume the buried before Death takes them first.” Their fingers glide alongside the halted collar. “How often do you listen. How constant.”

Narinder’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Your poetry is meaningless. The bell is suited for a Shepard to lead a flock.”

“The sound summons the reaper, regardless.” They move closer. “The lamb’s collar irritates them sometimes. You’ve noticed.”

He has. For weeks months centuries, they’ve adjusted it when it rubs too harshly against the scar. He says nothing about it and they do not complain. It was not he who had the collar tightened in the first place. His fingers tap in a nervous fidget on his knee. He seemingly cannot stand from this spot. The cat can simply sit as the lamb crawls closer, and he imagines spilling their lifeblood across the rug. The imagination does not answer his will, and instead grins wider as they come within a foot’s distance. His ears crane back. “If you do not allow me a peaceful’ s night rest, the lamb will have more to be concerned about than an irritated wound-”

His threat falls into nothing. The lamb has descended, like an enveloping shadow, and Narinder goes ridged as they are far too close.

“A collar can be just as binding as ring.” Their raised hand pulls the collar away from their neck, exposing the skin. The collar is dropped mindlessly to the side with a curt jingle. The other hand slips past the front of his robes and sinks fingers into the fur of his chest. “But you have opted for a far less removable method.”

Their touch is like knives, stinging, warm and soft. His skin chills in ripples and his teeth hiss in cold air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You speak insanity.”

“You are so ill with madness, you imagine it spilling from their tongue.” Their voice a whisper, and it burns. The walls have darkened with a bloody hue. The string lights start to lose their light. The Lamb leans forwards into him, near crawling over him. Inches from his face are the stray pieces of white wool and eyes of the same color. They inch almost into his lap, and Narinder feels hatred in his clenched teeth, and immobile limbs.

The lamb’s freehand takes up his own, and brings his palm to wrap around their bare neck. “You’ve traded chains of iron for chains of wool, God of Death.”

“Putrid betrayer. I’ll serve you death if that’s what you seek.” He spits. His body answers when he tenses, and the claws wrap tightly around their throat. He feels, or imagines, where the wool ends and where the scar begins under his palm, tight enough to make the average mortal choke. Claws puncture and dig into the lamb’s skin, and warm blood trickles down the edge of his fingertips. Narinder’s anger searches for a pulse to kill-

He does not find one. There is no heartbeat underneath his palm. His brows unfurrow, shoulders slacken slightly, and the lamb watches with knowing amusement.

“Knowledge is oft gained through sacrifice.” There is a sharp, hot pierce, and suddenly warmth as their fingers split open his chest. Ichor crawls up his throat as Narinder’s eyes shoot wide open, for the Lamb is digging and burrowing into his ribcage like it was a special made coffin for them alone. The entire body still, tense until they’ve nestled their hands deep within, crawling further into the cats lap until they’re chest to chest with nothing but ichor-soaked wrists and robes brushing and staining white fur. Narinder’s hands shake hovering over their shoulders, and the lamb’s forehead rests against his collarbone. “But you have chosen to forget yours.”

-

At the break of dawn, the Lamb declares a holy day.

All are to enjoy a break from their daily toil to celebrate the union of two lovers forever until Death reunites them, and thus the entire compound of a couple hundred followers are free to whatever they so please in party so as long as they are not working a ultimately essential service like janitorial, food serving, or childcare, and even those jobs have been organized with shifts. Today will host a beautiful wedding, a bonfire to celebrate the good harvest and the cult’s health and future, and a flock-wide party fit with booze and music for all to enjoy. It will do wonders for morale.

The followers can relax, dress up and leisure their time away. The Lamb, however, is very very busy.

All of last night was spent making sure the final preparations were ready. Kitchen staff is woken at early dawn to finish the banquet with the lamb helping them separate the servings. Wooden tables are brought out from houses and storage to make for the buffet tables near the lunch area, with old tapestries used as coverings to look more prim. Flowers and crystals are positioned aesthetically through out the cult grounds; the entire flock has been decorated from bottom to top. It will be a pain to clean up, but it was certainly a sight to behold. The temple will be the center of all attention, at least for the wedding piece of the day. An archway with bells and flowers is a walk’s away from the entrance; there is where the bride shall emerge from inside to meet her lover, and so will begin the ceremony.

Everything is hectic and yet calm at the same time. There are followers running around to help with any last minute imperfections and to give a aid where they can as much as there are folks simply lying down on teh grass in the sun. A few with growling stomachs must be herded away from the food tables until it is time for the feasting to begin. Before long, many who were specified to have front row seats are seated inside of the temple as the sun begins to dawn high in the sky, and Lambert allows Finor to hush the populace and keep the guests handled while they tend to the bride just outside the doors. The otter waits her lover on the inside by the podium. The players of flutes and lutes test their harmony for the short music that shall play as one bride walks down the isle.

It is late afternoon by the time the wedding ceremony begins, with the sky turning lovely hues of blue, yellow and orange. A bit later than what was planned, but it works out.

Their cloak is freshly laundered and wrinkle-free, their wool is brushed through, soft and clean that it shines white with a polished bell. Nothing fancy, just a spruced up look from their usual attire. If they had really wanted it so, the lamb would have dawned their more flashier fleeces. Perhaps the Golden, or the Pink with hearts for such an occasion. The brides insist they wear flowers of some sort on their person, and what good is a leader who cannot oblige their flock on a special day; so the lamb allows two or three camellias to be stuck into their head of wool, above ears and horns.

(Part of them wished to ask Narinder his opinion on the get-up, but there was very little time to wait around, and the cat did not open his door when they knocked. So they left him a basket of fresh sheets, a bundle of flowers and a bottle of ambrosia hidden underneath the fabric.)

(They doubt he will come to enjoy the festivities, but they can at least make sure he gets to enjoy the wine.)

The shrew is jittery. Her wedding dress is perfectly tailored for this occasion, matching the suit of her fiancé’s, with combed fur and makeup made of berry stain and charcoal smudge. In all her beauty, none of it can hide the anxiety haunting her features or the shake in her hands that grip the dress. “My leader, I…I am simply frozen.”

“You will be fine, Merya.” They reassure her, holding the bride’s hand in one and tilting her chin up in the other. They have seen over many weddings over the centuries; this is not the first time they’ve had to comfort a anxious fiancé. “The flock has been waiting for your happy day as much as you have been. You could trip and fall on your dress and it would still become a perfect memory to bring laughter. Have mirth, friend. It’s your wedding day!”

The shrew perks up slightly, but her ears are still pinned back. “Yes, but…what if she does not love me like she says? What if…what if she realizes I am not right for her?”

Ah, the woeful fears of love. Irrational, without merit, and simply untrue. Lambert smiles softly. “Her mind says otherwise, and I do remember her many requests for flowers and gifts to bestow upon you was given to me with great insistence.” They reassure. The mind-reading is only half-true; they no longer posses the ability, but it would be foolish to assume otherwise for the pair. The whispers behind the temple doors hush, and the music begins to faintly play. The shrew straightens her posture, shakes the nerves off and readies at the door.

Lambert adjusts the trail of her dress and the bouquet of flowers in hand, and pointedly ignores the sudden unmistakable feeling of being watched that cannot be attributed to the wedding guests. They straighten out her dress and instruct her to take deep breathes. “I’ll go forth first for introductions. Come when ready, she waits for you.” She looks like she might faint, either out of anxiety or happiness they’re not sure, but Lambert leaves her to enter through the temple doors.

All who are seated in the temple turn to the lamb at the entrance, who bows in greeting with all bowing their heads back. The doctrine book is expelled from the crown’s storage with pages fluttering, a page stuffed inside for their speech, and they have it hover over their palm as they walk down the isle, one hand tucked behind their back. “Good evening and Happy Holy day, for it is a happy day indeed! We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two souls in holy matrimony , to bare witness to their devotion to each other.”

Small coos and adoration come from the crowd. Lambert reaches the podium and situates themselves behind the stand, sending the otter a checked glance. She’s wearing a smile that reaches her eyes and nearly looks ready to explode from joy herself. They feel the shrew’s worries will be quickly squandered. They position themselves for the ready. “Thank you all. Please, rise for the bride.”

On cue, the music begins to play, and the temple doors open more so that the bride herself is revealed. There is still nervousness on her face as she begins to step down the isle, but it is quickly overwritten by a certain happiness. There are tears in her eyes with a few guests shedding them as well. Lambert scans the crowd of them in the minute she walks; The shrew’s parents are in the front row, children are seated quietly to the side. Friends and other family are evenly split. An elder is stealthily sleeping with his arms crossed and eyes shut. A ferret is holding the hand of his own lover, who looks less than thrilled to be here. Narinder is standing in the corner of the room nearly concealed by shadow. An axolotl is trying to straighten out her fins-

Lambert’s gaze snaps back to the corner, or more specifically to the cat standing in it.

Narinder is here. Hood up, veil concealing his expression completely, arms crossed and leaning against the back wall like a ghost. It’s behind all of the seated guests, and judging by their lack of reaction to his presence, they hadn’t even noticed him there either, possibly far too focused on the brides. Narinder is here for some reason.

They must have been too focused on the task at hand that they didn’t notice him while walking down the isle. Expression happy-neutral, they’ll swallow the questions for the later. The shrew has reached her otter, and the two join hands and both look far too excited to be here; the lamb must stay focused. They clear their throat. “Dear flock and dearly devoted, we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Merya and Lilly. In the years they have been together, their love has grown and flourished, becoming known to many-” Some guests laugh, a few sigh. “-Becoming the people you see before you. Now they are ready to spend the rest of their lives together as wives, devoted to each other and to our God, o’ Death, until such death does them part and reunites them in the afterlife, bonded for eternity.”

In the back of the room, they think they see Narinder’s head tilt slowly at an angle.

“Please, join hands.” They say, though the pair is already locked together. The Lamb holds themselves high, smiling. “Now, please share your vows.”

-

They end up kissing at the altar for a solid two minutes until someone in the audience coughs awkwardly about it.

Narinder chooses to leave then, as the music starts up again and right before the newly weds walk down the isle does he slip out the temple doors. No one notices him leave the same way no one noticed him enter, though he does catch the final end of the Lamb’s speech right as he moves out of earshot. A celebratory cheer, a congratulations. They speak ‘let the festivities begin!’ and the temple erupts into noise. The compound is already bustling with music and mirth even beyond the wedding. There’s a trove of followers now making their way to the kitchen area where he saw the banquet set up. The amount of animals moving about would be overwhelming (still is, in a way) had their eyes fallen on him, but their attention is much too divided on filling their stomachs and being the first in line at the drink house.

He is not noticed, and for those that do notice him, he is well avoided. Good.

Narinder finds the area around the shrine uncannily empty. A holy day, meaning no work to worship, and the lamb would be far too busy managing hundreds of their flock to seek him out. The statue and it’s stored devotion is kept woefully supervised. Large, golden thing in the image of his usurper. A traitor’s face on the statue. It doesn’t even look like them. Lambert has a much rounder face than the statue makes them out to be.

The God of Death comes to a stop at the base of it and promptly pulls up his sleeves.

Black, ichor stained skeletal fingers. The dream’s doing, he thinks. It’s the only explanation he can think of; waking up in a puddle of his own ichor was not something that is new to him at this point, but the aftereffects seem to be getting worse. The pain that echoes in his joints is a constant after he wakes, from claws down to his scarred wrists. He didn’t notice his hands were in such a state until he went to write in the journal only to find that he could no longer properly hold a quill. The arm, however, is spared. There’s still meat and fur there. He’ll note that information later.

He gives the statue a solid, long look of distain, then reaches out to touch it. The edge of his claw barely touches the statue before there is a sharp shock, and Narinder pulls it back.

Devotion is not visible, not to the naked eye, but it something certainly felt. It ripples through that hand; not much since he only touched it for a millisecond, but Narinder flexes it regardless. That specific finger has feeling to it now; he tests it by pressing a claw to the tip. Healed slightly, just enough to bring feeling back to a single digit. Not enough to actually fix anything. He lays his palm on the statue and allows the rest of it to flow through.

It doesn’t take long to steal the devotion; the statue is drained in seconds. When he pulls back and looks down, both hands have feeling and a bit better mobility, and the slightest bit of a thin layer of skin trying to coat the back of his hand and in-between the joints, but they still look how they used to be back when he was in chains.

It was not enough. Narinder’s claws flex inwards and outwards on an invisible prey, and looks back up to the white eyes of the lamb. It mocks him, maybe. Vile Lamb.

A familiar voice approaches from his side, nasally and ripe with age. “Stealing from the Lamb is a crime punishable by a week in the prisons, possibly more.”

Narinder does not look up from the inspection of his claws. “It is not stealing if the worship was meant for me in the first place, rat.”

Ratau laughs; short with a puff of air coming from his nose. “Ha! I suppose not. I don’t think they would have a problem with you doing so, either.” He tuts. “They let you get away with far too much.”

The God of Death frowns at the state of his hands before slipping them back into the sleeves, arms crossed, and looking to the former-vessal. Ratau is dressed as he always is, though his tunic and scarf are clean and his whiskers appear to be combed, there’s still that ratty look in his single eye that cannot be concealed, not when he was currently looking to Narinder with a certain smugness about him. He’s holding a wooden plate of mixed greenery and shishkabobed, already half-eaten.

Narinder’s brows furrow. “…You are here within the cult?”

“Aye. Promised Lamby I would come if there was a feast, and so I have.” The rat grins. “Yet to find them though, so went ahead and helped myself to the refinements. They’ve stocked all my favorites. Plenty of red foods there, too.” He lifts a stick of red, chopped meats and holds it out to the cat, pulling it back when Narinder simply frowns at the offering. “Let me guess; you’re planning to sabotage the festivities? Do you intend to rot the wedding cake? The buffet table? Set fire to the flower décor, perhaps?”

The rat is more friendly with him than he was once prior, bolder even. Their last conversation might have humbled Narinder down a few pegs in the eyes of the rat. It is a realization he dislikes. Narinder frowns. “It is not worth the effort.”

Ratau hums. “You could always find the instruments and adjust them to where all of it plays slightly off-tune. That would annoy them, certainly.

Narinder’s nose wrinkles. He won’t find amusement in the idea of that. That would mean admitting the rat had suggested something funny. “Is there a reason why you have strayed from the party to come bother me? Or did you simply go on a walk throughout the compound for nostalgic reasons?” He smiles lowly. “Need a reminder of the role that you failed?

“Not at all. I simply wished to check up on my lord to see how his…predicament was going.” Ratau bites the meat off the stick, and at least has the manners to finish chewing before he speaks. “It seems like it went well.”

In the inside of his sleeves, Narinder scratches against the skin of his arm in a fidget. “What gives you that idea?”

Ratau looks almost pleased he asked. “I received a rather excited letter from our lamb pertaining to how well a harvest ritual went, that would have been a failure had it not been for our benefactor, The One Who Waits.” The teasing has become very evident in his tone now, and Narinder regrets letting the rat get so comfortably bold enough to do that to a God. “Their invitation sang of high praise, and here you are not even willing to attend the party you’ve help bring to fruition. It also gave me the excuse to test out this!” He reaches beneath his scarf, pulling the missionary necklace out from the fabric. “Useful little piece this is. Our Lamb must have worked hard to bless it. There was not a danger or inconvenience my entire trip!”

Narinder deadpans at him. When he goes to pry and read into the rat’s mind, Ratau’s thoughts match the smugness in his words.

“Would you like a rematch sometime?” Ratau takes another bite of his food. “Perhaps over a bottle of ambrosia?”

“I’ve none to wager.” Narinder lies, because there’s a single one tucked into the pockets of his robes. “And I’m not partaking in the mingling of mortals regardless.”

“A shame. I’ve been banned from the drink house on Lambert’s orders. Something about my age. Was hoping for a work-around.” He chuckles. “But I’ll help myself to the feasts and favors all the same. You may not mingle, my lord, but this ole’ rat still has some charm and charisma from my days of being a cult leader.”

The cat’s nose wrinkles up from behind the veil, and turns away. “I’m leaving before I vomit. Have your fun. Choke on your food.”

The rat chortles something behind him he purposefully decides not to listen to. The walk to his hut is an automatic one. He’s found the lamb, observed them, stolen the devotion at least for what it’s worth and now was to isolate himself away from the sensory destruction that would be that party. The wandering populace have enough sense to steer clear of him as he moves through, and the space around his home is as empty as usual. All who are celebrating are kept away.

It’s quieter when he shuts the door behind him. Narinder pulls down his hood and takes in the room untouched from how he left it.

Ichor stains the room, per usual. Except now there were holes the ceiling and gashes in the furniture from speared chains and spikes uncontrollably let loose whilst the dreams take hold. The end table was still knocked over, with a scattered assortment of candles, books and other items the Lamb has been adding into his stock for months tossed over the floor. The covers hang off the bed, black bedding now for convivence, but rot decorates the floor in spots where the ichor has spattered and no amount of peeling or scraping will save it. His hut looks as dilapidated as his temple does.

At least it’s quiet. At least the Lamb is preoccupied for the rest of the evening. He only meant to lay eyes on them at the wedding ceremony to make sure they were, in fact, still in existence, and still busy. That’s all he’ll require for the day.

Skeletal fingers slide into his robe pockets, and tap against the glass of the ambrosia bottle.

-

It takes two hours for someone to get drunk enough that they start streaking naked through the cult grounds. An hour and forty minutes, more like it, he thinks, because that’s how long it takes before he leaves he gives up on his attempted isolation and reenters the festival grounds only for a stag with his unmentionables swinging wildly about to rush past, hooting and hollering, until he trips and gets one of his antlers stuck in the dirt.

Narinder frowns with disgust as two fellow drunken animals try to pry their friend out from the ground before he turns and walks quickly in the other direction.

The Damned Lamb better be happy about this.

What was he even doing this for? Maintience for a vessel? A threat to let them know he was always watching? To stake out their weaknesses? None of those held any grasp. There’s no other explanation for this outside of simple fulfillment of their wish. The thought makes him want to bash his skull in on the nearest totem. He briefly considers doing so when he passes one that’s been vandalized and half-destroyed. At the very least, he’ll use his interest in watching the flock cause destruction as a possible get-out. Lambert will probably see right through it. Someone kill him now.

Outside the temple, the party has grown from pleasant celebration to outright wildness. There are several groups who are chugging drinks like it’s their lifeblood. There’s a fight going on over something having to do with the outhouse chores. Someone has gorged themselves on food so much they’ve passed out onto the table, and several inebriated animals stumbling about who’s eyes suggest it’s more than just drink that they’ve been consuming but perhaps substances as well. The music is still playing, but it’s more ruckus than actual rhythm.

There’s a bonfire outside that’s about as tall as two huts and wide as three. Better to have the larger one outside than held inside like centuries before. Someone might trip and set the whole building ablaze. Not to say  there wasn’t a risk of a drunkard falling into the flames now, but Narinder doesn’t smell burning flesh and doesn’t feel the sting of being cooked alive, so no one has died in that fashion yet. With how his luck goes, someone will die of alcohol poising by the end of the night and he’ll be reaping the effects of it.

The inside of the temple is no different; the doors are left wide open for easy coming and going. It smells of booze and sweat, and it’s loud with bodies dancing too close to one another. Someone exiting the temple spots him enter and spits out their beer into the grass before scampering off. White robes, black veil and a scowl is enough to make him stand out just enough that he’s avoided, animals stepping back as the cat enters, but Narinder still has to actively be aware of how close other beings are to him.

A blur of green catches his eye, and Narinder stops at the sight of his brother.

Leshy, of all people, appears to be in the midst of things, though the worm doesn’t look to be any happier than he is. One would think the Bishop of Chaos might enjoy a hectic, loud and horrific party such as this one, but instead the worm is clutching a bottle of berry-wine half-empty with an expression of disappointment. The yellow cat that tails him is merely a few feet away, dancing as one of the many voices in the drunken yelling and clearly already wasted while their charge stands dejected. He watches as Joon bumps an elbow into the worm’s shoulder, offering him a drink from their own booze, to which the worm just deflates with poorly concealed irritation.

Ha. Gods cannot get drunk off of mortal wine. How disappointing for the worm; to be stuck attending the party of the vessel that dethroned him and without the relief of intoxication to get him through it. Too bad he’s woefully unaware of the ambrosia Narinder carries-

His entire body goes ridged when a insect follower accidentally bumps into his elbow, stumbles forwards before drunkenly apologizing to ‘whoever’ they nearly just tripped into and carrying on. Narinder double checks that all of his exposed skin on his hands and body are covered by the fabric of his robes. The God of Death sinks backwards as a couple swing wildly into his personal space until his back hits the wall, shoulders raised and tense. His teeth grit and his grip on the ambrosia threatens to crack it.

One wrong move and there might be an accidental rotting of one of these drunken idiots, and if Narinder continues to get over whelmed, it won’t be ‘accidental’.

“Damn it, Lamb.” Narinder curses lowly behind the veil. He’ll have his lamb see him here, wack them on the head for putting him through such trouble, and then leave the moment his usurper is satisfied. Maybe curse them and insult them on the way out. He’ll mock their dancing. That’ll do it.

There, in the center of the room with nearly all the attention on them, is the Lamb.

They are dancing with one of the brides; the otter he thinks, twirling them around with a grin and laughter he cannot hear over the sound of the flock’s cheers. Lambert spins the otter gracefully, pulling her in and out again all while the follower laughs in equal mirth. In the same swift motion, their opposite hand comes and grabs the other bride from the side. The shrew is gleeful as she’s danced around the circle until the lamb raises both of their hands, crosses their arms and bringing forth the couple together, removing themselves from the dance with a graceful bow. The lovers embrace, and their dance encircles each other as the leader moves and takes the arm of another, one arm linking with a rat’s (Ah, so that’s where Ratau went to after all.) and joining in with a skipping rhythm.

The followers clap to the beat of the music. The Lamb and Ratau are laughing, flailing. Many are joyful. Their wool is glowing from the firelight.

Narinder sinks back further against the wall until he can feel the uneven wood through his robes.

They dance like an idiot. It makes it hard for him to look anywhere else.

“It’s you!”

The snapback to reality hits him hard enough that he actually jolts. Narinder blinks, and turns to face the unfamiliar voice. An eagle on the verge of his elderly years is staring wide eyed at him. He has no drink in hand nor food, but only an expressed of shock and a raised finger to point at the cat. Said cat double checks that it’s him the eagle is referring to, and much to his charigin, the follower confirms it. “You! I know you!”

Narinder’s ears pin back against his head. Great. Now he’s going to get harassed by another one of the lamb’s do-gooding followers-

“You…You saved my daughter, Paazi. Back when she fell off the cliffside! I remember you.” The eagle’s shock quickly turns into delight and relief. “She said a cat with three eyes had come to save her! You, I know it’s you. Oh, how I had asked the Lamb to pass along our message but I never thought I would be able to thank you in person!“ His voice is rising quickly with excitement and Narinder is still processing the memory (Paazi…the little frog girl he felt fall to her near-death. She was doing well now, wasn’t she? That fox boy had said so-) His thoughts are interrupted by the eagle’s reaching forward to grasp his hand. “Thank you! Thank you so much!-“

“Don’t touch me!“ Narinder hisses, venom in the back of his throat that comes out almost a snarl, and rips his hand away from the eagle’s reach.

As soon as he does it, he bites his tongue. A few heads move to face their direction but the flock quickly loses interest as the someone in the dancing crowd begins to do acrobatic moves that seem a bit too unnatural for a chicken.

The eagle pauses, but only momentarily, and his wide smile never leaves. “O-of course. In any case, we are grateful. My partner and I are indebted to you. Words cannot express our gratitude. We owe you our happiness, this I am certain!” The eagle bows his head, low as any worshipper would to a shrine; deep sign of respect. The cat just stares at him. It has been a long time since a follower has done such a thing, outside of the Lamb. “If there is anything you have need for, please do not hesitate. We are in your corner, friend!”

A few stray eyes turn towards them again. He hears one or two sets of exchanged whispers overtaken by the sound of cheering.

“It’s fine.” He says. “Enjoy the party.” And leave me alone.

“Of course, you do as well. Praise the Lamb!” The eagle nods, bids him a farewell with a final look of gratitude, and waves him off as he disappears back into the crowd.

Three eyes snap back to the place where he last saw the lamb, only to the find the spot taken by hooligans attempting to do dance moves that will either break fingers or break necks. A few of the older members try to calm the dancers down, to be a bit more careful-oh, no. Nevermind. There’s an elder doing the worm with perfect accuracy.

Whatever the case, he’s lost sight of his vessel, but it means they’re away from the dancing circle. He could corner them now if he can get a hold of them. Narinder pulls himself off of the backwall, and moves down a path of people where the space is the largest-

A shape moves in front of him right as he goes to walk there, and he moves back, only to sneer when the path is blocked off in front of him from behind. He barely registers the animal in front of him saying something over his own irritated nerves. Damned crowd. He should tell the lamb to cull the population somehow. Everyone who dances bad should die or something. He’ll try to move diagonally, tucked into himself so as to not touch-

“Excuse me!” Something grates his ears. The animal in front of him raised their volume to catch his attention, stepping closer. “I said hello, did you not hear me?”

Eugh. Someone is trying to talk to him. Narinder ignores them, and scans the sea of animals for a red crown. “Leave me. I’m not here for conversation.”

“Why come to a party if you’re not here to socialize?” The creature bats eyelashes at him and Narinder thinks he might vomit if they do it again.

He’s here for one person only, and it’s certainly not for this creature. He turns away, scanning the room. The lamb is unfortunately shorter, but the crown and wool usually stick out like a sore thumb, all he had to do was catch a glimpse of something wooly and bleating and he’d lock onto his target. Narinder barely registers the follower making some sort of noise at him as he spies his usurper across the room, currently occupying themselves in conversation with Ratau. He moves towards them-

-and feels an immense irritation spike when the same follower steps in front of his path. They’re lucky he stopped in place. He’s half a mind to ‘bump their shoulder’ accidentally with his hand and turn them to a pile of remains on the floor for the dancers to step on.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you. I’m trying to be nice.” They say, and Narinder hardly notices because his eyes have drifted above their head and to the lamb against the wall. “The lamb said to be kind to you…so, do you have any experience dancing-?”

“Leave me alone.” He shifts to the side, and bares fangs when the creature (-Pangolin? Skunk? Crab? Don’t know, don’t care.) tries to get in his way.

Their frown is ugly. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“Drag a dagger across your own neck. That’s all the acquaintance you’ll have with me. Move.” Narinder hisses.

The mammal’s eyes widen. They step back slowly, before their head ducks into the crowd and they hurry away. If he’s lucky, they’ll spread the word and he’ll be left at peace. Maybe he should have killed them as an example.

Narinder looks up over the crowd to see the Lamb missing again. Just his luck.

With little choice with the ever increasing risk of turning unsuspecting dancers into ash, and to save his own sanity from having his personal bubble invaded twice in the same minute, Narinder finds a path back to the wall, settles against the wood and slinks back ever so dejected. At the very least, he’s not the only wall flower in the temple. There were others, some watching the events quietly while others were in pairs, whispering sweet nothings. Someone else was vomiting to the side before promptly tossing back another drink and rejoining the fray. He hates it here.

A quick glance towards his brother tells him that the worm (The actual one, NOT the dance move) was now having a drink shoved into his hands not of his own, but Joon’s. The yellow cat pushes their drinks into the Bishop’s of Chao’s chest with all the force of a agitated charge to their servant, rolling up their sleeves and pointing something accusatory towards another animal. He cannot see from here, not between the bodies moving rapidly between each other, but it appears Joon is picking a fight. Leshy’s face splits into a grin. Well. At least he gets the chaos he desires.

The ambrosia swishes in the bottle as he sways it. Skeletal fingers barely concealed by the ends of his sleeves drum against the glass in a fidget, and Narinder looks down to observe the cork. The plan was to wait until Lambert laid eyes on him so their request could be done for...but…

With the claw of his thumb, he pops off the cork and tilts the bottle back into his mouth before it can spew over the edge. The ambrosia tastes just like how he remembers it would. He swallows a large gulp for the first swig, perhaps a little too generous, to save his own sanity.

An elderly, calm voice sounds off close to his side. “I take it that you are not used to parties of this excitement?”

For fucks sake- He can’t even take one drink in peace before another one of their wide-eyed followers seeks him out for conversation. Narinder finished his swig and exhales as the ambrosia burns down his throat. It’s smooth and bitter in the same way it’s sweet. It tastes like something instead of just decay, and for that he resists the urge to down the entire bottle to appease that neglected sense of his. “Leave me. I don’t wish to speak to anyone.”

The shadow moves closer regardless, but stands an arm’s length away as she leans against the wall with him. “It would benefit you if you were seen doing some. Some are whispering that you are here seeking a new target for murder, and many just saw you run off a follower in fearful tears.”

He looks up with a scrunched scowl, and pauses. It is the rabbit, the elderly one he recognizes, who has situated herself besides him with a small drink of her own. A thin fruit filled glass with a straw she sips from. The rabbit looks out to the crowd with a low-lidded look.

The God of Death follows her gaze and frowns. A few eyes shy away when he looks out. If his presence here was noted, and many think unkindly of him already, his behavior will affect his reputation. The rabbit had a point; it would be best to provide them all a false sense of security lest he end up killing one of the Lamb’s devoted. They’ve done much to secure his status here as it is, but even the Lamb could not talk down an angry mob should he become known as the cat that murdered half of a wedding party, accidentally or not. At least the rabbit has the sense not to invade his personal bubble. “Fine.”

A moment of silence between them. He feels the rabbit watch him as red eyes scan the heads of the flock. “You are tracking the lamb. Are you in need of conversation with them?”

Narinder sips the ambrosia. The burning sensation goes away after a while. It’s easier to indulge in taste. “They wanted me here. They should see me present so I can finally leave.”

The rabbit hums. “I did not take you for someone who wanted to do what the lamb wants.”

He side eyes her through the veil. “We are all cultists under the lamb’s rule, are we not?”

Her ears bend forwards a bit as she sips on her drink. “No, not in present company.”

Interesting.

His attention glances back across the room. He spots them finally near the band. Lambert’s wool is hard to miss among the flock, and Ratau appears to be talking their head off (Pun not intended) as the lamb laughs and non-discreetly slips a bottle out from the rat’s grip and replaces it with a bowl of bread and beetroot stew. “The lamb told you?”

“No, they did not.” She answers with a mouthful of bread herself. Reading her mind was difficult before, but he tries again, and she just looks dully at him when he does it. The attempt is static and fruitless, like searching down a dark well; knowing there is something there but still unable to comprehend it. Narinder’s brows furrow, but the rabbit simply continues. “We’ve met before, though it was mostly through scripture and history books. You were depicted differently then. You’re shorter now.”

Well, at least she speaks her mind. Narinder sips at the wind again, and notes how it sits on his tongue like stagnant air. “Those texts are over a thousand years old.”

“The lamb likes to preserve history, and I often organize their shelves.”

“I doubt that is your reasoning for remembering me.”

“Your doubt would be correct, my lord.”

If his suspicions are correct, and they hardly ever aren’t, the rabbit is fully aware of who he is. Which makes her demeanor much more confusing. Narinder tilts back the bottle once more. “I was the tallest of my siblings. Of course I seem shorter now.”

She plucks a fruit piece out from her drink and snacks on it. “Your height seems to have transferred over relatively into a mortal form. How is your adjustment?”

“Disorientating.” He watches her carefully. “But progressing.”

“Hmm. Camellia tea helps with nausea. But we may have to find another treatment for those episodes of yours. Flowers and medicine can only do so much to alleviate the mind, and frankly, I’m sick of washing your laundry.” She sips her drink and eats the fruit casually like she wasn’t just scolding a known god for giving her more household chores. Narinder stares from behind the silk veil, quiet. Silence falls between the two, and music plays to fill it. Despite her attitude, this is perhaps the most normal conversation he’s had with a follower since his arrival.

Narinder hesitates before drinking again. “…You are one of the Lamb’s trusted disciples.”

She adjusts her straw. “In title, yes.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

The rabbit drags her eyes from the crowd, and Narinder sees a glint in elder eyes as she calmly bows her head in a casual gesture of greeting. “I am Finor, first follower of the Lamb.”

“…The first follower?” The cat’s head tilts. “You are hundreds of years old.”

“Technically, yes. Older than the Lamb.” She returns to leaning against the wall, and both watch briefly as a fight starts to break out somewhere near the podium until Lambert rushes forth and breaks it apart. “I would dare say it was I who they perfected the resurrected ritual on, back when such a service was still needed for me.”

“Perfected.” Narinder scoffs. “It was my invention. And I don’t remember your face amongst the many the Lamb had resurrected in our years, not in the last two centuries at least. You’ve been here a long time, but not since the beginning. I would have remembered their first follower.”

Finor watches him take a swig again, nearly half the bottle gone by this point. “Can you?”

The ambrosia stops in his throat. Narinder pulls the drink down, and frowns with furrowed brows. Red pupils narrow to the quiet rabbit.

“It is intentional,” Finor says, raising her hand to go beneath her collar. “That Death cannot remember me well.”

Narinder eyes the necklace and it’s golden sheen. Hidden beneath the rabbit’s clothing, she allows him to take it in fully before dropping it back underneath her collar, and sipping from her drink like she didn’t just flash something of incredible worth and power to the God of Death. “…The lamb gave you that?”

“I’ve always worn a skull around my neck, my lord. But the golden one is more recent, and special.” Finor looks plainly out to the crowd. “Instead of shielding me from death, it hides me from it.”

Some things are suddenly starting to click. “That explains why I cannot properly read your mind.”

“Quite the effective deterrent, isn’t it?” The rabbit’s gaze travels across the room where his own follows.

The Lamb has left Ratau to mingle it seems, and is conversing with followers along the wall. Each bow their head with praise and adoration. He doesn’t need to hear them to know the compliments they receive on their dancing, or whatever ego-stoking kiss-up they might give that will fly in through one ear and right out the other’s. Narinder watches a passing bartender give a drink to the leader, who tips the entire drink back in one fell swoop and downs the entire thing. The lamb chugs the entire beer, foam and all, while onlookers cheer and egg them on until the glass is empty. The crowd around them breaks into hollars as Lamb raises the glass with a triumphant shout. Mortal wine doesn’t work on them, but that doesn’t mean they can’t use those details as a fun party trick.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Finor’s voice brings Narinder back to attention, and when he looks back to her, she’s been observing his own attention on the lamb. It irritates him for some reason. The look on her face gives him the same feeling as to when Ratau was teasing him earlier. The rabbit comes off the wall, dips her head, and waves him off. “I’ll be retiring for the night. I trust you will make sure the Lamb retires safely as well.”

Narinder shifts to take her spot on the wall. “I’ll have their head on a pike by morning.”

His threat is either ignores or unheard, because the rabbit hardly pays him any mind as she disappears off into the direction of the exit.

Lambert is still in the same place he last spotted them, another drink in hand, and wrangling familiar faces.

Pros and cons of being a cult leader meant that not only at times were you the life of the party, but also the life-line for it. Meaning; knowing when to cut off those who over-indulge to the point of foolishness. By all means, drink and dance until you’re sickly and sore, but be warned that the Lamb does not have nearly enough bones (and a rather complicated relationship with their powers and the bearer of half of it) in order to do a resurrection ritual any time soon. It is why they are so quick to end fights; some might just damage the ego or give a black eye, but it is not entirely out of the question that it would escalate to something worse.

(And for the love of the Lamb, if you feel like you need to vomit or really need to throw punches with the guy who insulted that stain on your shirt, please take it outside of the temple.)

Outside of that, the party is going fantastically well. Devotion is practically flooding the air.

Lambert steps away from the musical band and their instruments, a mere check-up on their needs. Many who are in dance and celebration catch them as they pass by and sing praise and glory to them, and the Lamb laughs as they always do in mirth. It is both practiced and genuine, for a leader must always be keen to their follower’s needs as well as to appear as carefree as they feel. It is working. Despite the mess, the stress feels like it’s melting from their shoulders.

A giraffe beckons them to rejoin the dance and Lambert politely declines with a smile, falling back against the wall. Impedded only by their height, they scan the flock. Ratau was keeping to his promise of helping manage the party; he’s joyfully in conversation with one follower. A glance towards the drink bar is covered by moving bodies, but Leshy appears to be watching something they cannot see, and Joon’s tail is swishing about nearby. The brides are embracing by the firelight. A rooster is singing loudly off-key to the music and others are joining in. A badger is trying to roast food on the bonfire while a perfectly good buffet table stands behind them. A black cat is staring at them from across the room-

They pause. From this distance, his eyes are not visible, but they’d recognize that veil and the posture of the unsocialized, aloof cat anywhere. The Lamb’s ears raise high up on their head quick enough that it makes Narinder’s own tilt, and push themselves off the wall with quicker speed than they intend to. “Narinder!”

They get several steps in before another figure swings to the front of them, and blocks their pack. “My Lamb! Oh whom my devotion sways to; have you had a drink yet?”

It’s Tyren, all smiley eyed and hoisting a well nursed drink. The Lamb perks up, but finds they cannot see past the dog’s shoulders. “Tyren! Of course, what leader would I be if not to indulge with my flock?” They put up their own smile, hands clasped together, and try not to make their impatience too obvious. “I hope you have been enjoying yourself so far.”

Unprompted; the dog slings an arm around the Lamb’s neck, and they can smell the alcohol from the distance before they hear it slur in his voice. “I have! All are enjoying the fruits of your labor, my lamb. Pun not intended.” He winks.

How sweet. It wasn’t just their labor, though, and there’s a particular cat in the room they’d like to remind that of as soon as possible. Behind a polite smile, Lambert plucks the hand off of their shoulders and steers the tipsy diciple into the direction of the buffet table. It’s a bit closer to their preferred cat, and they feel eyes glowing into the back of their head (Most certainly waiting on them to stop their ‘mingling’ no doubt) and they were not going to disagree. “Then please, enjoy what’s been cooked for everyone. You should really have something to eat. Booze on an empty stomach shall ruin the fun for you later.”

The dog walks fine on his own, and turns to face them cleanly. They might have misjudged how drunk he is. “But the fun of the night’s just begun! And I have yet to experience all the joys this night has to offer.”

The table contains foods of all sorts, but there are platters with greens and grains to sober one up quickly should the need arise. It’s to these dishes does the lamb gesture to with a wide smile. “There is already much to feast here, so please indulge!”

“Oh, I will indulge.” The cultist tilts towards them, a little too diagonally for a sober person to do, or at least too bold. “Might you join me?”

Lambert is too busy trying to look over his shoulder that they do not process his request fully. Narinder has broken his glaring and instead has the bottle tilted back into a long drink. They’ll have to apologize for keeping him waiting for so long. The lamb side steps the dog, giving a curt nod of the head in farewell prepared to wave him off. “Ah, I have something to attend to. But please, do try to take it easy for the rest of the night-”

Their hand is caught. The lamb halts, face fallen neutral to the dog that has reached to them. Tyren looks hopeful. “Perhaps you’ll accompany after the party, then? I may not be divine, but I could use a special blessing to stave off a sickness of mine.” Nevermind, he must be drunker than they originally thought.

“Sorry.” Lambert plucks their hand back, smile polite and professional, and splays their hand over their heart. “But I’m saving myself for my God.”

(Somewhere behind them, Narinder chokes on his drink.)

Tyren’s face shifts from surprise, to disappointment, then to a shift of understanding. “Oh! Of course, my apologies my Lamb!”

It is not the first time they’ve turned down an advance and will certainly not be the last. The last time they did such a thing, the cultist became a dissenter. Lambert feels like they just avoided a terrible outcome thanks to the power of picking the perfect conversational options. “It’s alright. Please, excuse me.”

They depart then, turning there back and making a bee-line (or really, attempting to with dodging a few moving bodies on the way) straight to the cat. Said cat was wiping off the ambrosia from his chin and glaring at the spit on the floor for it. The God of Death is debating his escape from the party when two hands wrap around his upper arm, and the full body of the lamb almost crashes into his side, pushing him right back into his spot.

“Narinder! You came! I honestly didn’t think you would!” There’s a laugh in their voice, joyful and in delight. “I was really planning to come bother you at your house later, actually, if you didn’t-…are you okay? I heard you choke.”

The cat is still coughing, clearing his throat from a mixture of the drink and the surprise it takes him by as he cranes away from their touch. The arm is not ripped from them, and his eyes flit from the lamb to the stain on the floor. He swirls the remainder in the bottle and frowns.“…Waste of a good wine.”

“Gimmie that.” Lambert plucks the bottle from his hand, leaving it hanging in the air. There’s barely anything left at the bottom, made more evident as the lamb tilts the bottle back and drinks the very last of it. It’s hardly a taste; their very first drink of ambrosia is nothing more than a sip. Narinder is staring at them wide-eyed when they bring the bottle down. “Drat. You started drinking it without me? We were gonna start together!”

He puts his tongue in his cheek. “You have me in a place of deep distress. I needed to survive somehow.”

The crown hops off their head, and without looking at it they dive their arm into its storage to rummage around. “You’ve drank an entire bottle and you don’t sound drunk at all. Is the stuff even strong?”

“My tolerance is superior than yours would be.” It’s a half-lie. Sure, he’s had ambrosia before, but he’s also had a thousand dry years. It will hit him hard at some point and Narinder can only hope he won’t have to fake sobriety for his life.

“Good thing there’s plenty more.” They produce another bottle of ambrosia from the crown, then a second, and he sees them debate on pulling out a third or a fourth before resigning to only carrying the two, closing the crown and shoving one of the bottles into his chest. “Cheers!”

Narinder barely gets a hold of the damn thing before the lamb pops the cork off of their own, tips the bottle back and starts chugging. It’s a solid five seconds of them just draining the black liquid without any spillage with obnoxious music and dancing in the background does the reality of the situation dawn on him, and he makes a move to grab for it. “Moron! This drink is not your typical-!”

They dodge him, snorting with drink spilling from the corner of their mouth in a laugh. “Bah, it’s fine! It’s fine! I’m a god at downing these things anyway! I mean, I’ve never gotten drunk before, but the fact that it still goes into my system means I’ve got some tolerance at least, right?” They take another gulp. Over half the bottle is downed already, and they pull it back with a satisfied sigh. “There! Off to a good start to get completely wasted.”

Narinder’s frown is just a saggy line. He uncorks his own wine, and tips a sip back. If anything, the drink will keep his threatening headache at bay. “Your funeral.”

“I really wasn’t expecting you to show up.” They situate themselves next to him in the same way the rabbit did except with much more familiarity. The lamb is not touching him, but their shoulders are close enough that if one or the other were to take one step they’d crash into the other. Perhaps the smartest decision, given the lack of space from the dancing populace. “To be honest, after I saw you at the wedding, I thought ‘oh, that’s the extent of his socialness for the day’, so I was thinking about crashing at your house after the party.”

“Good to know you have had my harassments planned from the start. I would have locked you outside.” Narinder falls back against the wall, and joins them in looking out over the crowd. “…The original plan was to remain in my hut. I changed my mind.”

Their eyes sparkle as they pull back from another drink. “Oh? For what reason?”

Think quickly. “One bottle of wine is not enough for a God.”

They snort. “I would have brought you more. Have you at least had fun?”

“No.” He answers and it comes out a low growl. It’s loud, it smells, and the amount of people in such a space is starting to make his skin itch.

Lambert makes a noise of acknowledgement before pulling back from the wall just a bit. They hold out their free hand to him, drink swirling in the other. “Do you want to dance? It could lift your spirits up a bit?”

Three eyes glower at them from behind the veil, and he scoffs. “I’d rather slaughter you in front of your flock.”

“Worth a shot.” Their hand pulls back, and the lamb resettles themselves against the wall. A couple of wallflowers they have become, not that Narinder was anything different, but the vessel appears to at least appreciate the break from the bustle of being the spotlight in the party.

It’s a moment of pause where they nurse their drinks does Lambert scan their flock. The party is still as lively as when it started, perhaps even more so as the night goes on and it’s inhabitants become more and more intoxicated. There will be many hangovers come the next morning, they’re sure. But for now at least, devotion was flowing as freely as the wine was.

The brides are no longer dancing, missing from the crowd and Lambert wouldn’t be surprised if the couple had slipped away to the honeymoon tent to continue their own celebration. A few followers are trickling out of the temple now, some moaning about their own inebriation and making their way home while others simply wished to move the party outside where they could run around more freely.

They look to the last place they saw Leshy; and raise an eyebrow at the sight of the worm lying prone on the ground. It would be concerning if they didn’t see him move slightly, but the Bishop of Chaos seems to be resting. Or at least, they hope he’s just resting. There’s also a fight sounding off nearby the worm, though they’re less focused on breaking it up as Ratau seems to already be heading in that direction. Alarm starts to crawl up their shoulders. “Hey, is Leshy dying?”

Narinder’s gaze follows their own. “He’s knocked out.”

“Oh.” Worry averted. Lambert slumps again. “I thought your brother would be more of a party animal, being the Bishop of Chaos and all. I mean, I didn’t give him any ambrosia just in case he turned out to be a menance while drunk. Didn’t want to take any risks, but I at least thought that he’d be dancing by now.” They sip again, head falling back against the wall. “…Have you ever danced before? At a party, I mean.”

They’re sure they know the answer; they asked many questions such as this back in the afterlife, though the God of Death never really expanded much past surface level. So it’s perhaps the drink that loosens his tongue when he answers. “At least once.”

The interest that snaps them to attention is enough to make them almost clack their teeth against the tip of the bottle. “Oh?”

“We had…banquets.” The drink is bittersweet on his tongue, and the memory he speaks is starting to taste the same way. “Between our faiths, followers would congregate to our common place for parties. The devotional output would have been ten times more so than this one; they were grand, both with it’s drunkards and it’s formalities. It was not uncommon for Bishops to dance with their most loyal at such events.” He tilts the bottle back and finds it’s contents are depleting faster than usual. A misjudgment on how quickly he was consuming. “I had to teach Heket how to dance.”

The lamb is staring at him, he knows. If he were to turn his head, he fears he might find firelight reflecting in their eyes. “You taught Heket how to dance?” They chuckle. “I didn’t really take her for someone who had a liking for that sort of stuff.”

“She had a favorite follower.” Such an innocent word, he thinks. Unfitting for how it ends, but the memory must explain itself how he processes it. “‘Young love,’ Shamura called it. They disapproved, and Kallamar was obsessed with giving her pointers. We were ‘new’ gods back then. The old faith wasn’t so old yet.”

The drink must be making him talk so much. He does not revisit these memories so fondly. A glance to the lamb is a full wave of their attention onto him, and they sip at their wine with all the same cues as a child eating snacks at story time. “And Leshy?”

He scoffs. “He was so engrossed in causing mayhem. I highly doubt he even remembers it.”

“So Heket had a favorite,” The details flow back; her treasury, the extra chair at the table, the wedding dress found in the frog’s chest. “…Or a fiancé? And you taught her to dance because of it?”

He hums to confirm their suspicion. “She wanted to woo them at a party. She needed to learn how to dance. No one else would teach her, so I did.”

It’s sweet. Lambert can imagine it now; a crown-bearing Narinder with no bags under his eyes and all the lifted spirits of a fresh god trying to show his younger sister the proper footwork so she could woo a mortal. The  visual brings a smile to their face, though it falls at the edges when three crimson eyes narrow in their direction. “Don’t give me that look. I think it’s cute that you helped her.”

“Don’t. I find it offensive.” His nose wrinkles, drink pausing just to sneer.

“Why help her, then?”

“She was my sister.” Narinder says, and there is nothing else added.

(One sibling’s humors another’s ideals, and the other chains him for the same reason.)

It is a blessing perhaps that the lamb does not push it any further. As much as they like to, but they are smart enough to put the pieces together. None of the texts ever spoke of a spouse for a Bishop of Famine, anyway.

Still, Lambert straightens their posture and finds that they almost miss their mouth when they bring the drink back again. “Well! I guess you weren’t that good of a teacher if you’re too shy to show me how it works.”

He would like to rip those flowers out from their wool and make them eat them. Even his hand twitches towards their head. “You would be as terrible as a student as you are a vessel. You’re ability to obey orders is lacking.”

They blow a raspberry at him, stand back up from the all (the world shifts slightly as they do, the lights of the fire cast shifting shadows against the wall that makes their eyes blur, but it corrects itself) and situates themselves in front of Narinder. The cat cocks a brow as the Lamb tips the rest of their bottle back down their throat, sets the empty glass on the floor and doesn’t wait to extend their hand, instead blantidly grabbing his own.

The God of Death sinks into his hood, and Lambert has his fingers in a death-grip, and he wonders if it’s the dim lighting or their own inattention that prevents them from noticing that his fingers are little more than skin covered bone. “C’mon! It’s a party, for hell’s sake, Nari! The first one since your release!” They at him, and its stunning that his back actually raises a few inches off the wall. Not that he looks too happy about it, but the sheep is cooing too much to care. “Just a twirl! I’ll even let you lead.”

“Of course I’d lead. I’m not one of your followers.” He intends to snarl at him. The sentence comes out a bit muter than he meant it to be, and the lamb’s fingers are intertwining with between in own. Were he completely sober, he would have clawed them by now. The drink is to blame for a slowly creeping heat under his fur. He could shove them over or rip away from their hold. He doesn’t. “Release me, lamb. I don’t care for you or your whims.”

“Such a wet rag.” They give a short laugh, and it doesn’t sound dejected at all. The lamb stops pulling him backwards and instead shifts their weight that their leaning towards him now, and the other hand of theirs hovers over the ambrosia bottle. The cat goes still as they wrap their fingers around the upper portion of the bottle, and with Narinder’s hand practically holding it for them, the Lamb drinks from his wine, coughing slightly when it burns going down. “I guess I’ll be the only one of us wasted in the end. Are all gods this mopey when you’re drinking?”

The God of Death blinks at them. “What.”

Lambert feels something sting the back of their hand. His claws drive ever so slightly into the skin of their knuckles, and they realize with widened eyes and raised ears that they might have gotten a touch too carried away with their interest in the drink. “Sorry! Sorry, should be nursing my own bottle shouldn’t I?” An awkward, high-pitched laugh that comes with the embarrassment warming their ears. What makes it worse is that Narinder is completely stone as they step back, removing themselves. Terrible friend they are; thieving everything he has from his powers down to his drink. Getting far too comfortable in his space when he clearly despises it. How sad.

They’re about to pull away when they stop when the tug on their hand feels odd. Lambert looks down for a second time at where they meet, and finally processes the sight of skeletal fingers in the low light. Rapidly healing, judging by how much thicker his fingers were starting to feel, but still skeletal enough for them to finally notice. “Hey, wait…what happened to your hands-?”

They are cut off by the loud, booming sound of creaking vine breaking through wood and brick.

First comes the initial blast echoing, and it’s over as quickly as it starts the same second screams and shouts of surprise overtake the hall. Music comes to a halt, replaced by shocked gasps as the large, unsightly growth rumbles, rubble and pieces of debris hanging off it’s damage as it destroys a pillar. Lambert’s reflexes react immediately, the crown’s a dagger in their hands before their head even swivels to see the noise. Narinder’s is just as quick, and eyes flit to the chaos among dancing partners scrambling to back away from the scene.

There is a gaping hole in the side of the temple with large, thorny vines and growths spewing from the ground, jutting out of the exit wound of the wall and lying as new growth outside. The night sky can be seen through it’s damage, curious and shocked eyes of followers from outside peaking into the temple. All attention is on a pig sitting with wide eyed expression, with heaving breathes and sweat dripping down his brow. They recognize him as Grekimar, a possible target for the attack, and follow his attention down to the other end of the vine.

Leshy’s stands where the vines began, face shadowed with ichor dripping slightly from his bandage. Joon is sporting a busted lip and a wide eyed expression right behind him.

The silence is defeaning. A piece of wood falls from the hole and clatters against the floor. Then, an owl in the crowd raises his drink and hollers. “They put mushrooms in this shit!!! Praise the Lamb!”

The crowd immediately loses all sense of logic. Cheering is twice as rambunctious as before. There’s chanting and singling both of the religious enthusiastic sort and the incompressible gibberish that comes from being in a mob of drunken animals. Several members start to chug their drinks with more fever than before, others foregoes theirs and either drop them or pour them out. The music starts back up louder. A few animals are trying to climb the vine. Lambert’s decent into inebriation is temporarily halted by sheer shock alone.

“That did not just fucking happen.” Their whisper sounds like a lit fuse.

Narinder looks between Lambert, to Leshy, to the lamb again, and then with a sigh of utter defeat, tips back the rest of the bottle as the vessel breaks away. (What did he say again? He had no intention of ‘sharing anything they put their mouth on?’ Desperate times calls for desperate measures.)

“You.” Vile venom seeps from their their tone as they approach him. Flock members who see them coming move out of the way; and anyone else is promptly shoved. Lambert cuts through the temple drunken, completely-unaware-of-their-leader’s-anger populace straight towards the Bishop of Chaos who’s wiping ichor from his face. They’re eternally grateful Leshy’s hearing is ten times better than the average creature’s so they’re certain he can hear their anger over the celebration. “You attacked one of my flock-”

“I missed.” Leshy growls. He doesn’t look regretful in the slightest.

“Your horrific aim is what saves your life this night, worm, though I had warned you of the consequences.” They sneer. The crown is no longer a dagger but a shadowed hand covering their own, and in one swift motion it finds the back of the worms robes, bunching up the fabric and lifting him from the ground. Immediately, Leshy spits something vile, curses, and shouts. A few onlookers who haven’t lost themselves to partying start ‘oohing’ and laughing at the drama, but they do not care. “Out. Get out! You’ve earned your place in the prisons until I’m sober enough to deal with you!”

“PUTRID LAMB! RELEASE ME!” He spits, maw of sharp teeth and claws. Thorns are growing on his hands where he tries to reach behind himself to pry their grip away. “I’LL SLAY YOU. I’LL HAVE YOUR BONE MARROW FOR FERTALIZER!”

The worm’s antics are seen as nothing more than theatrics for the amusement of those invested. Coos and calls shout in praise as the Lamb drags him towards the exit. Joon seems to snap out of whatever shocked daze they were in, and scramble to catch up. A near-trip over their own tail suggests their own intoxication. “W-wait! My Lamb, please wait! It’s not what you think! I can explain!”

There are several hoots that follow them out the doors until the lamb, worm and yellow cat disappear from the temple view. Narinder watches the flock return to their festivities like they didn’t just witness an act of divine power (Well, most of them. A good portion of the animals appear to have nervous enjoyment. Not quite understanding what they’re seeing. They find comfort in the safety of their mob.) and all break to sing praises of the lamb. Funny how the mortal mind works; one could only imagine what questions will arise now once everyone’s intoxication has worn off, and there’s still a gaping hole in the side of the building come morning light.

Whatever the case, it’s not his problem. Narinder leaves the bottle, pushes himself off of the wall to leave and instantly regrets it when the world seems to flip.

He blinks down at the ground. It shifts a little. His balance is not yet compromised, but the gravity that weighs on him feels more lopsided than usual. To anyone else, he walks perfectly normal as he adjusts his hood and exits through the temple doors. There’s no risk of bumping into anyone and rotting them away; the animals have split in-between their continued partying to finding interest in the vines and flowers now embedded into a destroyed part of the temple.

The outside of the grounds are a little less populated than how it was when he first arrived, but still lively. The air smells like smoke, burnt food and booze. More people are on the ground, passed out. Some are still dancing, a few of them notably streaking with friends either joining in or desperately trying to chase them with clothes in hand. It’s a good thing children have been put to bed early; there’s no eloquence in this party at all.

The buffet table looks picked over, but there are several remaining foods still untouched. Narinder turns on his heel and stalks towards it. There’s eating utensils and plates provided, so it’s easy to use a sleeve covered hand to hold one plate and a silver fork to stab and collect the food onto it. Whatever’s left is stacked onto it, though he tries to mainly take meats. Breads rolls. Some sort of sandwich. Fruits in an odd shape. The plate is getting heavier with a mismatched set of items.

A couple of pieces knock off when something bumps into his back from behind, and Narinder almost stabs the assailant with a fork as he whips around. “Get away from me.”

The ‘attacker’s’ head wobbles back as they sloppily dodge the fork. The Lamb’s face is comically sagged with a frown and a dead look. They sniff. “I uh… I had to put your brother in prison.”

The cat sends them a slow, disinterested look over his shoulder.

“Unharmed. Not in the pillory.” They sound disorganized. Perhaps the statement of not willing to deal with the worm until morning was less of an image for their following, and more so that the drink was starting to kick in. “The uh…Caretaker. Joon. They’re real mad with him, but defended him...” Their face scrunches together in inner debate. “…Said he was protecting them from a fight. Changes things.”

In other words; his brother will be fine. Humbled, and possibly not in the Lamb’s good graces for a long time, but he’s fine. “Good. Fix your face.”

He returns to forking up all the dropped pieces and sends a scrunched look to Lambert when their hand darts out, grabs a bread roll off his place and shovels it into their mouth. “I thou’ you couln’ ea food.” They talk with a mouth full, raising one hand and summoning the crown’s storage once more. A third bottle is plucked from it’s space as they look to his actions with interest and slight teasing. “Watcha doing that for? Is it for me?”

He tries to balance the last bits of food on the plate. A few fall off, but he can’t fit much more so he just gives up. “I’d give you poison if I did, but you’re adamant on doing that to yourself.” He side eyes the bottle as they go to uncork it, and snags it from them. “Give that here.”

The lamb’s protest is immediate. “HEY-”

He’s walking away already, arm held high enough that their arms cannot reach it. “Trip me and I’ll have you eat this food from the dirt.”

“I eat grass! That doesn’t scare me!” They try to grab for it once, twice, before nearly tripping their own hooves and settling for the crown to open once more for yet another bottle. “Ha! Since you want to be greedy. Hey, wait...Where are we going?

Lambert has followed him walking away from the table, past the passed out followers and the shrine, all the way towards the healing bay. His tail is swishing and he thinks it just smacked them in the stomach, to which they had no reaction to it. “Somewhere.”

“Can I come?”

“You are.”

Oh, sweet. Lambert pulls the cork out with their teeth and starts on bottle number two…three? What they drank from Narinder’s doesn’t count. They weren’t feeling much of the effects anyway. No way. They down a big gulp, sighs and jostles the ambrosia out to the walking cat. “Scared I’ll out drink ya?”

He has to raise his elbow so the lamb does not accidentally bump the balancing plate, and it takes a considerable effort not to tip it. “No. I’ll drown you.”

The healing bay appears before them faster than the register it, and curtains seem to materialize before them before Lambert can take another swig. Narinder swings it open with the elbow; the one room that was off-limits to all other followers, walks stoically inside and drops the plate at the foot of the hospital bed. It’s contents are jostled. A potato and some jam fall off onto the blanket, but stays within reach.

Red eyes narrow at the frog who startles awake at the racket. Narinder sneers at his sister. “Eat.”

Heket was half-asleep. Awareness seems to trickle into her eyes, though as the smell of food wafts upwards. Four amber eyes glare harshly, confused, to the cat at the foot of her bed.

Narinder tosses the bottle of ambrosia at her face, and the frog is just aware enough to catch it before it smacks her. “I didn’t come here to talk, not like you could anyway. You’ve nothing worthy to say. Eat.”

She sends him a glare that could rival the sun. It is only momentary, however, as she looks back down to the plate.

His turn towards the exit has a hint of a tilt to it, and Narinder feels his balance fail only in the slightest when he shoulder checks the lamb on his way out. The tension is broken by their rather loud, inappropriate bleat. “Heket! Hey, Heket...” Their sentence trails off from a rather light-hearted greeting, down to confusion as they look at the plate. “Oh! Didn’t the nurse already bring you your dinner?”

“It’s not enough.” Claws come back in through the curtains, hook around the back of their collar and yank them out. “She’s always hungry. Glutton.”

Lambert chokes for a split second until they’re released, spinning on their heel (and the world spins with them) back to face him until Narinder drops his hand like they burned him. The cat is already walking away with a swishing tail by the time they recollect themselves. “O-kay. What’s next? Wanna make a plate for Leshy too?” They’re grinning with a flushed face, one he does not look towards. The Lamb barks laughter at his retreating back as they follow him further and further away from the medical area. “Wait, wait I have an idea. We make us a plate, and then we’ll try and see if you can anything without it rotting. Do you think you can ferment stuff with your power? Is it like, just rot and decay or is it some sort of…time-speeds up sorta thing? Could you make more wine?”

“For you to stuff inside of your stash? Not for you.” He scoffs, and pauses walking just to watch the Lamb tilt the bottle back and down a fourth of it. “Greedy lamb. I hope it kills you.”

“HA! You’re just embarrassed I’m out drinking you! We haven’t even picked anything to toast to yet and you’re already calling it quits. I thought gods were supposed to have such a high tolerance.” Their provoking works, they think, when the cat’s ears swivel back and Narinder’s glare turns like he’s taking on a challenge. They snort as a skeletal hand darts out and snags the bottle, and the God of Death downs yet another bout of ambrosia. “Aha, do you think this amount would have killed a mortal by now.”

“The first-” Cough. He clears his throat as the bottle comes down. “The first sip would have. It’s…ambrosia. I told you it’s Liquor of the gods. Stupid Lamb.”

“Love it.” They make grabby hands for it. “Should’ve gotten this stuff ages ago. Now I know how the followers feel.”

“Your flock is a bumbling mass of idiots.” He raises the bottle high enough again for their swipe to miss, and then konks them on the head with the butt of it. It knocks a flower out of their wool and makes them huff, but the bottle is grabbed and his vessel is taking their drinking turn again. The alcohol is coursing through his own veins, and he seeks out somewhere quiet. “Grand power displayed in front of them and the lot of them think it’s a trick. Praying to a God unware I am among them.” His feet move on his own towards the fields, and he just huffs when the lamb circles around him so they can be in front of him, walking backwards. “There’s too many in your follower to be so bold with you. Such is your failure as a leader; you do not express your authority as firmly as you should.”

One is too many, he thinks, but the Lamb just stops in place, which makes him stop in place. Their bring up their hand and making ‘talking’ motions with it. “Yap yap yap, vessel this, leader that, at least I know when to let them have fun.” They shake the bottle at him for good measure. Red eyes reflect back out from black liquid, and Lambert grins as Narinder’s face scrunches back in disapproval so much he looks squished like a pancake. “Better than all the other cults of…Chaos, Famine…Disease. War. This is the cult of fun. Livin’ life and all that. Death, too. Death is fun.” They’re close enough to poke at his chest with every word. “You’re fun. You used to be. Still are. You know, when you’re like…you.”

Behind the veil, Narinder blinks the haziness from his vision. “I’m killing you in my head.”

They take another sip. “Wouldn’t be able to tell. Can’t mind read anything anymore. How do you even see through that thing? Lemme try it on.” He ignores their question, and they can see his nose wrinkle up. They feel his finger briefly touch their wool before they pull away, and Lambert watches as the camellias that were in their wool are crushed in his hands and dropped to float to the ground. For whatever reason he did that, it only makes his brows furrow deeper, unsatisfied with whatever problem he was hoping to solve. “What? Do I smell?” A pause. “Leave the crown alone. Gimmie your veil.”

“You reek of your followers.” Narinder’s words slur ever so slightly at the end.

Yoink. Lambert has reached up and snatched the veil from his face. There’s tussled fur on his ears from where the string came off. The cat doesn’t react at all. “Aha! I’m revoking your veil privilege. It’s better to see your fa-“

Narinder moves quicker than their mind processes it. One hand grabs a hold of one their horns, the other onto their shoulder, and Lambert finds their head forcefully tilted to the side. It’s a jarring, sudden movement as it makes their head swim, and more so as the God of Death’s head lowers until they’re cheek to cheek. It’s not quick nor slow, but thorough. Warm, black fur and the whiskers hidden in it glide along the touch of their cheek, back to the hairline of their wool, down their jawline, neck and back up again until he pulls away. It is only a few moments, but the skin feels flushed.

Lambert’s eyes are almost staring off in two different directions before reality slaps back into them. “Did you…just try to headbutt me?”

Narinder blinks out of synch. The grip on their shoulder and horn go tense before they’re let go, and the cat leans back from them as ridged as a statue, fur standing up on his ends.

That’s what he gets for trying to bonk a sheep without any horns, doofus. “That was weak! You completely missed!” They bellow laughter, and it bubbles up their throat and ends up as a snort that they drown out with with a swig of ambrosia. “Aha, ha. I’d show you how it’s really done, but I don’t wanna hurt you. You don’t even have any horns!”

The bottle is snatched before they can take another. Lambert is still coming down from the giggles as Narinder tips it back. It goes down a lot smoother, perhaps too smoothly, as he no longer tastes the bitterness. When it comes down again, he’s avoiding facing their direction. “Go to hell.”

They blow a raspberry, except its sloppy and uncoordinated so it just sounds like a half-attempt at a spit anyways. “Aw, don’t feel bad. Not everyone’s born with a hard head. Here, look, here see? I’ll show ya!” The faces the field, or more important; one of the fences lining where the crops are separated from the path. A part of the temple is damaged and there’s an entire drunken flock making a mess of their surroundings, meaning a terrible cleanup for the next few days, maybe a week. What more is a single fence? “Watch. No hands, no weapons. I’ll break that fence in half!”

They kick their feet like a bull, and Narinder’s glad he’s already out of the way by the time they start charging because the wind-whip from their sprint almost spins him like a top-toy. “Lamb-”

Thunk.

Their cloak is still billowing in the wind behind them when they make contact, and do not break the fence in half.

There’s a minute of dead silence as Narinder stares at the back end of the sheep; head lodged into the gap between the upper and bottom panels of the fence. Their feet kick and make track marks in the dirt to press forwards, probably making the situation worse before their brain catches up with their actions, instinctively tries to pull back their head through the opening only for their horns to get caught, and Lambert’s limbs go limp. “Uh...”

His vessel has gotten their head stuck in a fence.

Forget the initial mortification that plagued him two seconds ago; this was hysterical.

“You are an idiot!” Narinder cackles, a full laugh that comes from his chest, and walks around to other side of the lamb. Stumbles, just once, but his hand comes to rest at the end of the post for support, and it gives him perfect view of Lambert’s absolutely mortified expression and the panic slowly growing in their face. Even the crown was off their head, floating just above the fence and looking down in what might be read as something akin to exasperation in it’s pupil. “Look at you! In a pillory of your own making! My, what a ‘hard head’-!”

“Shut it!” Lambert scrambles to free themselves. Their legs kick up plumes of dirt and their horns make bonking sounds that only make the cat laugh harder in their attempts. They’re strong, certainly able to break out of something as simple as a fence, aren’t they? “I made…I made a miscalculation-”

“What a sight you are.” His laughter has lowered to chuckling, a smile so sharp it cuts through his face. Narinder sips from the ambrosia with a smugness that suggests he’s highly enjoying the show. Slow and sluggish to drink, the cat plops down crisscrossed right in front of their face, one hand swirling the dark liquid, the other resting his face into his palm. “I think the world put this in my favor, for you are in the perfect position for a blade. I think your flock might find interest to see their leader in such a state-“

“Narinder!“ They bleat, and Lambert cannot stop the embarrassment from showing in their voice. ”Help me already, you mangy cat!“

“Help you?” Red eyes look blown, pupils swelling at the sight of them. “Oh, no. I think I’ll take up all those ‘punishments’ you’re due for that you’ve certainly seemed to have forgotten about.” Sly, manical with a cheshire smile, skeletal fingers tap happily alongside the glass bottle as he seems to drink in their state, and Lambert was starting to feel small. There’s malice in his words even if they slur with drunken delight. “What did we agree on last time? I’ll take one of your horns? Your ears? Your eyes? Break your fingers? Cut out your tongue?”

Their bare their own teeth in defiance. “Nari, do not let my followers see me like this-!”

“Shh.” His wrist cracks as his claws extend, and Narinder’s face is manical as the shadow of his hand falls over them. “I’m going to give you the worst torture known to the lands of the old faith.”

Lambert braces for it; the options running through their mind go anywhere from spitting at him, biting him, kicking at him, but all are befuddled and their options turn to mush the moment his palm makes contact with their forehead. They wait for the ‘worst torture known to the lands of the old faith to come’, but it really just feels like he’s feeling their wool. “Whattya doin’?”

“Give me a second.” Narinder’s thoughts are also clouded, it seems. “I have to think of something.”

He tips the bottle back (It’s contents are reaching one third of the bottle, now) and Lambert makes for it. “Can I have some?”

Automatically, he holds it out. They take it in their hand, having to near tilt the bottle at an awkward angle since they can’t tilt their head back, but manages to get a good gulp down before Narinder almost makes them spit it back out. “Bleat for me.”

Lambert chokes. Makes a ridiculous face at him, takes another sip, and then goes back to staring. “Huh?”

Narinder is non-chalant leaning back on his hands, seemingly proud of himself. “Bleat. ‘Bah’, if you will. Make the noise…thing. Bleat, vessel.”

The noise that comes from Lambert’s throat is less than ideal. “Well, now that you’re tellin’ me to, I can’t. Can I make the uh,…cat sounds instead? You guys have a sound, right?”

He raises a brow. “Pardon?”

“M-”

“Don’t-”

“Meow-”

A clawed hand smacks them on mouth, except it’s less of a smack and more like a low-effect plop in an attempt to silence them. Lambert is giggling against his palm before he yanks it away and sends them the most disgruntled look as he struggles to stand. The world shifts greatly as he recollects his balance, and somewhere in the back of his head he knows that this might be his limit. (Far past that, actually.) He snatches back the bottle anyway.

“Miserable, disrespectful thing.” He grumbles low. Narinder places one hand on the wooden board above the lamb’s head. The piece begins to darken and decay on contact, weakening. Lambert yanks their head out as soon as it softens enough for their horns to break through. The pieces of the fence fall left behind fall to the dirt, and he watches them brush the bits out of their wool. “There. You owe me your life.”

The ignore him completely and stand straight up with their hands on their hips. Or about as straight as their balance will allow. “Anyway! That’s how you headbutt someone for real. You know. With horns. I should start ambushing enemies with my head. Smash em’ to bits.”

They make a motion for him to hand over the bottle, and Narinder drains it empty in front of their eyes for show of ‘fuck you’, tosses the empty bottle to the side, and ignores Lambert’s immediate under breathe comment on the woes of littering. “Ambushes require stealth. You are…the opposite of stealth.”

“Wrong! I am very stealthy. I’m shadows and dark magic and shit. I’m stealthy.” The volume of their voice says otherwise. They point at him. “Close your eyes.”

Without question, he closes them.

“…ALL of your eyes.”

Narinder’s frown makes ugly wrinkles in his face, but the third eye snaps shut. “This better not be another one of your games.”

“You have five minutes to find me.” It is definitely another one of their games. “Starting…now.”

They take off then, sprinting off in the other direction (which they almost regret instantly when the cloak oh-so-perfectly trips them and they flail in the air for moment before their balance corrects itself) with enough speed that they can hear Narinder sigh through his nose for just a second before he’s out of ear shot. They might have even kicked up a plume of dusk on the way out. If this is what their followers meant by doing ‘drunken side adventures’, then they’re totally starting to see the appeal.

They skid to a half near the shrine. They’ll need somewhere to hide, and quickly. Among the crowd of followers? No, it’s become thinner, their wool is a dead giveaway and Narinder might even accidentally rot someone trying to get to them. (The reality of that possibly happening earlier dawns is a concern for about two seconds before the gunk their mind decides it’s not currently important.) The Kitchens? No, they’ll be tempted to eat everything when they’re there. In their room? Too easy. Narinder’s home? That’s probably one of the first places he’d check. Maybe they could run to the Mystic Seller in time, see if they can dart back in that weird dimension behind it…

Their foot catches on something, and this time their balance doesn’t correct itself. The lamb faceplants with a ‘oompf’ and is only brings their head back up when they hear a short cough and a distant laugh. A few followers were walking to their huts, some hunched over in early hangover and others yawning. Some had linked arms and tired but bright smiles. Others look completely spent. The party is still ongoing, they can hear. Music and sounds of commotion can still be heard from the temple’s distance, but it’s a bit muted now. The hole in it’s wall is a eye sore, but the stars above at least balance it out. Lambert lets themselves lay there for a moment. When did it become so late?

Five minutes is up. An alarm rings in the back of their mind, and with slight drunken panic, Lambert scrambles directly into whatever they’ve tripped over: The Offerings Box.

It’s a little difficult at first, but they manage. It’s not entirely uncomfortable. They fit when they curl into themselves, sinking as deep into the chest as they will allow. Kinda feels like a nest. Like a really rectangular nest, but with nothing soft and there’s cobwebs in the corners they have to sweep away as they climb in. Actually, this is the perfect spot! It’s sat unused since Narinder’s arrival, and he’s never really...wait, why were they doing this again? Would he even come looking for them? They’ve pushed him far already, would he humor them any longer? Maybe he’s just gone home. They’ve proved themselves to be obnoxious again. Not like that they don’t try to be on purpose, but why is it such a sad thing now?

They hiccup, and it tastes like alcohol. Lambert decides that they Do Not Like The Box. Or at least, they do not like the box alone. They can’t pull out another drink in such a small space anyways. They go to pry the lid open-

-And pause. There in the crack, white robes with familiar red markings pass by. A black tail swishes behind him, back turns towards the opening. Narinder is just standing there. There’s a slight curl of his lip in confusion as he looks between the temple, to the kitchens, to the fields and back again. Ears are pointed high on his head, and the swivel with no avail. He grumbles something under his breathe before stepping towards the direction of his own hut.

The lamb is able to restrain their laugh. The bell of their collar jingles slightly as they go to shut the lid.

Narinder’s head whips around with break-neck speed. Three pinpricks of red burn into their little hidey hole.

A curse turns into a hiccup and the lamb can only snivel into their cloak as the footsteps approach, claws peak out from the slit of the opening, and the lid is thrown upwards. He deadpans at them; fur tussled and appearing flushed.

Their grin is toothy and lopsided. “That didn’t count.”

“Not stealthy.” He repeats, and it’s about as eloquent as he can manage. The lamb is already attempting to stand up properly from being crumpled in on themselves, wobbling and jutting out a hand for support. It grabs onto the front of his robes somewhere and he’s far too befuddled to care about it outside of focusing that his own posture stays upright. “Get out of my chest.”

“S’my chest. I built it.”

“My offerings chest.” He jabs a claw to the old, age-weathered sign post above it. ‘Offerings to The One Who Waits’.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so… territorial about stuff. Like uh…like. I dunno.” Lambert picks their legs out of the box, ignores the stray look a passing follower gives them, and promptly summons the crown’s storage once more and shovels their hand inside. They’ve yet to let go of the front of his robes, so Narinder’s just glaring down at their hand with his head tilted so low it gives him several chins by the time they feel a bottle knock against their hand, and yanks it out. “We’re on bottle number five, baby! ...I think.”

It’s uncorked and tipped back in seconds, though their movements are sloppy enough that dribbles are spilling down their chin. The cat clears his throat and it sounds almost like a hair ball. “Are you that’s wise?”

Lambert’s two gulps down and holds it out. “Yeahaha. Yes. You wanna fight the Mystic Seller with me?”

“Sure.” He says, hand outstretched for the bottle before he actually thinks about it. “Wait, what? No.”

The Lamb snatches it back out of his reach, and uses both hands to down another sip back while they turn to walk towards the exit. “Lame! I think, listen, hear me out. I think I’m figuring it out. It’s like, it’s a deity that sees everything, right? It’s super cryptid. Something something needed to ‘rescue the gods’ from purgatory, which was your fault, by the way but noooo it’s giving me that mission. I mean probably for good reason but still. How come everyone always think they can tell me what to do?” Their rambling while walking straight towards the cult’s gateway. Narinder is not far behind, and it doesn’t take much effort to pluck the bottle from their hands and take his own drinking without the lamb realizing their hand is empty. “I mean, if it’s such a powerful and holier than thou all-seeing being, then why doesn’t it free the bishops. Why do we have to do it?”

The drink in his head is swirling is judgement. “Punishment.” He drawls. “For me. For you, I am uncertain.”

“I’ll still do it! I’m really good at defeating gods, even dead gods. But I didn’t sign up for-” They make a wild gesture with their hand in the air. “Babysitting a bunch of my former murderers, even if they are short and weak and mortal shaped and-”

The Lamb halts mid-step, which mean Narinder near-crashes into their back and sends him into a two-second fit of hissing and snarling like it was them who suddenly put this ball of wool and and floppy ears right in front of his face until he recollects himself like nothing happened. “…What?”

“That’s it!” They are suddenly walking very, very quickly past the gateway fast enough Narinder is almost left in the dust. “It has to be all of it’s doing! I accused it before but it’s acts all mysterious and mystical and just weird, but maybe that’s because it’s the master mind of everything! Or most of the things! I don’t know!” They reach behind them, snag the bottle, down almost half of it one single drink and then slap it back into Narinder’s chest. “I’ve gotta fight the Mystic Seller.”

He scrambles to catch it and fails. The bottle smashes to the ground, glass shattering and ambrosia creating a dark splotch in the grass. Narinder can’t stop to mourn the wasted wine as the Lamb has already crossed the initial clearing past the gate and the unknown being was within sights. “Hold on-”

They ignore him. The Lamb is marching straight towards the light, and they shout when mismatched eyes meet bare down on them. “Hey! Mystic Seller! I’ve got issue with you, you cryptid, glowey creep. How come you’re always watching and never doing?! What makes you think you’re any better than us?”

Footsteps quicken in pace behind them. “Lamb-”

Lambert dodges the hand that tries to grab for the back of their cloak, but it sends into an awkward stumble forwards that breaks their whole-intimidation factor they were going for. “Talking bout’ ‘Oh I don’t converse with anyone who’s not a god’ and then tell me that I’m not? What am I then?! SOME EXPERIMENT?!”

They come to the top of the stairs where the light is enough to blind them and brandishes their sword up at the Mystic Seller. Except they’re not holding a sword anymore; it’s flickered out of existence and returned to the top of the lamb’s head, and Lambert was holding up an imaginary weapon to a giant, interdimensional multi-eyed and incomprehensible being. “I don’t care if you only speak to gods, start talking!”

The Mystic Seller is just staring at them. If the being had eyebrows, they would be raised

Even the crown’s eye slowly slides to the side as two black arms wrap securely around Lambert’s torso, promptly lifts them off the steps and starts carrying them backwards as the sheep begins to spit and curse and flail.

“Excuse us-”

Lambert is trying to knaw on his arm. “LET ME GO-”

“They are inebriated, ignore them.” It takes considerable effort to make sure his own words don’t slur.

The Mystic Seller says nothing and shows no change in expression (Not that there’s anything to actually change; not when your head is an orb of unknown darkness and your eyes were floating somewhere in that void.) but it does watch them closely. A bit too uncomfortably close, he thinks, as he drags the kicking vessel back from the steps and towards the entrance of the cult grounds. Narinder grits his teeth and growls, actually growls, when the Lamb’s flailing sends their head back and almost catches his nose with one of their horns. “Your intoxication is not an excuse for insanity-!”

“Like you’re any better!” They could knock him out with a solid well placed kick or headbutt, surely. The lamb is not weak; and they’re not against biting and fighting dirty when enclosed. But their kicking and complaints dampen a bit when the ambrosia in their veins reminds them that it’s actually kinda warm. His robes are soft, too. There’s breath on the back of their neck that smells as punctuated with booze as their own. “I could’ve handled it. I’ve killed gods. I’ve defeated you-”

He drops them, and they catch themselves before they face plant again. Narinder’s shoulders hunch from the effort and the headache. The expression he wears has turned sour. “Remind me to kill you in your sleep.”

“We should spar.” Lambert picks themselves up, facing him fully. They point to him in challenge. “We should fight each other. Like, really fight. Get it all out of our system, and I’d still win for a second time!”

The switch is so sudden it takes a few seconds for the provocation to properly process in Narinder’s brain, so he’s just staring at them with out-of-focused pupils for a moment. The next moment is just rage. “How dare you.”

Their ears lower slightly in something akin to disappointment, but only for a second. “’C’mon! All that talk of killing me and assassination but you don’t want to spar-?”

“I’m sick of your games. My killing of you is not a drunken adventure to think fondly of, I want you slaughtered, not sparred.” The hiss comes deep from within the back of his throat, and even with his words blurring into each other does he make sure to show fangs. The pleasantries from minutes ago are quickly depleting. “You’ve made yourself a fool already, traitor, what is your instance of continuing these..these-” He fumbles for the word. “Ideas of ‘fun’?”

The Lamb, too, is starting to reflect back his irritation. “Because I like it? You think I invited you to drink with me as a show of power?”

“I think you’ve lost your senses long before you touched the wine to even invite me.”

“I’ve lost my senses? Me?!” Their shoulders tense up to their ears. There’s a shake in their voice now. “You’re the one that showed up! You’re the one more confusing than anything-!”

“Ahem.” Someone clears their throat, and it’s neither one of them. “I thought I heard you two over here.”

Both heads turn towards a figure standing not far off. Ratau has seemingly come out of nowhere. Well, maybe not ‘nowhere’. He might have just walked right up to them but neither god nor vessel is sober enough to register their full surroundings. There’s a small stain on the front of his shirt and he sports tired lines in his face, but otherwise perfectly normal. Save for the concern that is not so well concealed in his expression when his eye lands on the lamb. “Look at the state of you, Lamb. And you wanted to ban me from the bar.” He tsks. That eye drags to the cat. “...Ah. The state of both of you.”

It dawns on them both in that moment that they’re closer than what they remember. Lambert is the first to take a step back, and the world stickily spins when they direct to the rat. “Ratau-”

Hands on their back, and they are half-heartedly pushed forwards into the rat’s direction. “Take them. They are far more inebriated than I.”

“I have my doubts.” Ratau catches them, and Lambert curses something low that’s not audible enough for either to hear them. Whatever anger was simmering before has weakened until a dull throb (or maybe that was just the drink) that makes them slump against the rat’s shoulders. Narinder on the other hand is doing quite the good job at pretending to be sober. Or at least appearing to be. Better than the lamb, for sure. If Ratau was shooting him looks of concern, then that was just pure coincidence.

The rat does not question what their argument was about, whatever he might have heard, and that at least is a blessing. “Are you sure you’re able to make it back to your hut safe?”

“Just leave.” Narinder’s scowl returns. Eye contact with the Lamb feels bitter, so he looks at the crown instead. Even that feels off, so he looks into the distance and hopes the third eye is not obviously staring. “I’m finished. I’ve humored the lamb well enough already.”

There’s an uncomfortable twist in his ribcage when Lambert looks at him dejected. “Liar. We never even got to toast.”

“Come now. You’re spent. Save that for a another night, won’t you.” Ratau hoists them up, staff in one hand and around the lamb in the other. There’s a knowing look about him, and the rat surely has thoughts to say, but Narinder’s attempt at reading only proves he’s too much of a mess in his own to be successful. Ratau tips his head to the God of Death with a smile. “Goodnight, my lord.”

He turns to walk them towards the temple. Lambert looks over his shoulder. “...G’night, Nari.”

Pathetic.

They sound pathetic.

Narinder watches them drag to the front doors where followers greet them immediately upon sighting. A few gasp to see the leader in such a state, to which the rat greets all with a practiced smile that the Lamb appears to mimic. A muffled explanation that the lamb is retiring for the night, a few of their flock nod in mutual agreement of their own exhaustion, and their backs disappear past the crowd, past the wooden doors until they can no longer be seen.

He stands just stands there for a second. Someone is vomiting against the shrine. Someone else from a distance is in the midst of a coughing fit and complaining of a fever. The cult grounds have gone quieter; the party is nothing but straggling remains. Narinder inhales deep so that the air might soften the slight burn that’s crawling up from his chest to his throat, and turns to make the march back to his hut.

It’s far too quiet.

There is a pulsating itch in his veins. A notable hum in his ears. It feels like there’s something coiling inside of them, swimming in hot blood. (Was it the ambrosia? It must be the ambrosia. ‘Defeat him for a second time’, they said. He should have driven his claws into their jugular on the spot.) The idiot. The fool. The blasphemous sniveling traitor that’s clearly at fault for this state in the first place, mortal size and falling influence for such overindulgence. (He was meant to leave as soon as they saw him attend. This was supposed to be brief.) The rest of the night shall be spent either sleeping on the floor of his isolated hut or cleaning up the rest of the ichor he had left behind. That too, was something avoided. (He was supposed to leave when they saw him.)

Ah. The anger is for himself. Moron.

In peripheral vision, familiar shapes pass from a distance to the gateways exit from where he had just came. Green head and a black cloak. Yellow stubby ears. Narinder dully notes Leshy calmly walking towards the exit of the cult grounds, passing the stairs and the arch with a yellow cat following close behind. He brother certainty wasn’t in the prison like the lamb believes. He probably burrowed his way out from underneath. They should have thought of that. The pillory would have been the more secure option. Whatever. Not his problem.

The wood of the door stares back at him when he arrives. Isolation again. The lamb will have their bedrest and he’ll have his attempt at one. They’ll bother him in the morning if they’re not completely taken out by their own hangover to check on his state. They’ll bleat something about the party. They’ll probably only remember half of it. Routine again.

His hand encircles the doorknob, and pauses. Skeletal fingers with a thin layer of black skin lies underneath his sleeves. The healing, despite all of everything tonight, was still not enough for some reason. They remain like this, still. His fist curls in tighter. No matter. He’s retiring for the night.

The knob clicks and the door pushes inwards a crack, then stops. Narinder hesitates.

He’s tired. He’s done. He needs to sleep or sit out the rest of this inebriation in silence.

(His fingers tap in a nervous fidget.)

...

...The window in the attic of the temple is brightly lit when he looks back towards it.

-

They didn’t have to sleep before the final confrontation with The One Who Waits, but that doesn’t mean the lamb didn’t try. The crown’s bearer had no need for such a thing; forever fueling the body with devotion or fevour or some other explanation to keep them running like a well oiled mechanism. It makes for a perfect tool, a perfect vessel, but some luxuries of mortal life simply cannot be left behind. So they don’t regret using their status as the leader to have such a plush, soft bed made for them so many years ago that’s far too large for a single person alone. It comes in handy with sleep now being a requirement again.

And they’re really grateful to have it now; considering Ratau has to have somewhere to dump them before saying he’ll return shortly, and disappearing downstairs just as quickly.

They’re not even tired. But they are tired, in a different way. It’s hard to think about what kind of way because it’s hard to think of anything at all right now. So Lambert sits straight up on the comforters and picks at the grimy feeling under their skin. There’s a little bit of dirt and cobweb they brush off their knees. A black splotch on their wool they have to comb out with their fingers thats undeniably ambrosia. Their hand rubs over their cheek, through their wool to their ear, down to their neck where the feeling of dark fur and whiskers still tingle there. Their fingers dig beneath the skin of their collar-

-and touch something silky. They pinch it between their pointer and their index to drag it out. Black veil, transparent and yet shields the wearer’s face completely in most lighting.

Right. They stole it from him. He’ll need it back. He hates being seen without it.

(That’s a good enough excuse to leave-)

The door creaks back open, and Ratau’s head pops through. “Here we are! The buffet table was picked over, all of the finer cooked dishes have been eaten. But some fruits and snacks were still left behind. I got you your favorites. Some of the newer ones, too.” He comes with a wooden bowl, it’s contents of reds, greens, yellows and other blurry colors they can’t define. “It’ll be something in your stomach, at least.”

The veil is shoved underneath the nearest pillow before Ratau spots it. They don’t know why they felt the need to do that. “M’not hungry.”

“Try to eat anyway.” He waddles over, sets the bowl down by their bedside table. He’s not staying for long. They can tell because he doesn’t sit on the bed to conversate. Even the rat himself needs to tire. Poor Ratau, still taking care of their mishaps all these years into his retirement. “I fear you’ll have a truly horrid headache come morning. Take it from an old heart, your first hangover is always the most memorable one.”

“S’fine. The crown will filter it all out. ”

“You overestimate the crown’s abilities with godly liquor, Lamby. I was one of the crown’s vessel’s too, once.” He says, and chuckles when their reaction is to drive their face into the pillow. “Best for you to rest for now.”

“He hates me forever.” They huff. It’s muffled by the pillow.

“Oh, I-” They hear Ratau hesitate. The rat clears his throat, and he sounds like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “I really think you should sleep before coming to such…assumptions.”

It does not to quell the ongoing anxiety, but Ratua’s hand brushes back the front of their wool twice, and they hear him step away from the bed. “I’ll still be in your cult come morning, but this old rat needs to sleep. My bones don’t do as well in the cold as they used to, joints and all, ha.” He laughs. Exhaustion is in his own words, and guilt settles into the lamb. Footsteps towards the door, the creak of the hinges opening. “Goodnight, Lamb.”

They say it back, but it comes out more like a quick yap into fabric.

The door shuts.

Lambert immediately sits straight up.

As soon as his footsteps meet the bottom of the stairs, they reach into the crown to pull out ambrosia bottle number six. Seven? How many have they had now? Does it count as a full bottle if it was shared? Well, they had one at the party, another went to Heket, Narinder drank half of...uh. There’s no more. The crown has snapped it’s maw with an audible clack as soon as they yanked the drink from it’s confines. Okay. Cut off then. No more, Lambert. That’s fine. They’ll just make this one last. And by that, it means they uncork it and down one third of it in a single sitting. They’re fine.

Had they been anyone else, they would be dead of alcohol poisoning by now. Maybe they should give it a shot. They could tally it off their list of the many different ways they’ve died. It’s be a good test to tell if they could resurrect themselves afterwards, which wouldn’t really be a concern if Narinder actually cared enough about them to bring them back. (He does, doesn’t he? Feels like it sometimes.) No. Of course not. He’d kill and erase them the moment there was a way to be certain the crown’s power would be return to him.

They flop back down against the bed, taking a swig as they go and swinging it over the edge until the bottle is dropped on it’s bottom to the floor. Lambert reaches above their head, groping at the air. Their hand hits something pointy, and they grip the crown like the do the handle of the sword. It’s surprisingly squishy when it wants to be. They bring it back down to their face. “Hey.”

It stares, unblinking.

“Do you like me or Nari more?”

It just stares.

“I like him more. He looks cool with the powers. You think so too, right?” They shake their hands up and down so it looks like the crown is ‘nodding’. “Good. Me too.”

The crown doesn’t answer, and they didn’t expect it to. Like a taunt string snapping back into place, they let it fly right back to the top of their wool and heave a sigh big enough to make their lungs hurt. Whatever. Their hand darts out to the end table where the bowl is, fumbling through it’s contents. They grab something round and bring it their mouth, biting into it-

-before splitting back out the taste and pulling it back. The bitterness lingers on their tongue, but not in the way the ambrosia leaves it. The fruit is a red color with a tiny ‘crown’ at the top. They have to hold it further away from their face to get a better look at it. Their teeth marks are on the side of it. Looks like one of the new ones they haven’t had a chance to eat yet. ‘Pommy’-something. It stands in contrast from the dark figure...behind it...

Lambert lowers the fruit slightly and turns their gaze upwards.

Red blinks down at them. They would think it be the crown’s eye, except there are three of them, accompanied by two ears and a swishing long tail. Narinder is currently halfway through their attic window.

They chuck the fruit directly into his face. “The hell-!”

There’s audible sound of impact, a quick cut-off yelp of pain, and Lambert rolls off the bed just in time for the cat to fall face first from the window’s ledge in a fit of spitting and hissing. “VILE LAMB-”

The world spins and nausea threatens to knock them as they scramble back. Lambert points to the cat (still flailing and throwing a tantrum, mind you. He’s putting claw marks into their sheets.) and shouts. “You bastard! When you said you were gonna kill me in my sleep, you never told me you meant it this soon!”

By the time he stops scratching marks into their bed covers, Narinder more disheveled then he originally came in as. He rolls himself off the bed, poised for combat with pinned back ears like he didn’t currently look like he just crawled out of one of the deepest circles of hell. So just marginally worse than how he usually does. “You hit me with a vegetable-”

“It’s a fruit!” Lambert corrects him. “…I think.”

The cat is growling at them. The sudden shock subsides. Heart racing aside, Lambert’s shoulders drop. They try to relax. “Could you at least let me finish my snacks first? I’ll give your veil back.”

Narinder’s brows scrunch together further. “What?”

“Your veil.” They drawl. “That’s…what you came here for, isn’t it?”

He looks as confused as they feel, which is the primary emotion until Lambert remembers said veil was currently tucked underneath a pillow, and the drunken mind could not come up for a reasonable explanation as to why it was stashed there of all places instead of a drawer or on their person. It doesn’t seem to matter, though. Narinder looks like he’s two seconds away from lunging at them. “Draw your sword.”

“..Huh.”

“Your sword. The crown. Draw it.” He repeats. His hand raises; black sparks of lighting start to trickle around his fingertips. The shadows look choppier than usual; magic stuttering from a mind clouded by distraction. It’s in a manner their own weapon would flicker. Eventually it materializes, and Narinder readies the scythe. “You want to spar? We’ll spar. Draw the sword.”

They blink at him. Once, twice. “Wait.”

He sneers. “Backing out-?”

“NO. No, no no no. No weapons! No scythes, no chains, no curses, nothing! None!” Their words nearly jumble together, but their point is made when they gesture for the scythe to be done away with. Their sword won’t even summon against him anyway, it’s unfair. “You’ll wreck the place with it. If we’re doing this, it’s under my conditions. My room, my rules!” A pause. “Unless you let me hold it.”

He scoffs. “You’re only touching it when it’s your blood on the blade.”

“Then no scythes!”

The way his fur stands on the back of his neck suggests an extreme annoyance, but the scythe dissipates, and Narinder’s arms pull back. “Fine. I need no weapons for this.”

Their instincts and general logic scream of caution. The cloudiness in their mind has them look him up and down. Narinder takes one step to the side to circle them, searching for an angle, and the lamb mirrors it. “…You changed your mind?”

“From killing you?” He scoffs. “Never. I simply decided to wait no longer.”

They’re circling each other. Tension is rising enough to feel it in the air. Or maybe thats just death’s power leaking through both of their teeth when they speak. Lambert’s hands curl into fists. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t get mad if I, uh…accidentally…do that. I’ve never sparred drunk before.”

Narinder’s offense only last a moment before it’s replaced with a coiling smile. “I suppose you’ve never begged for your life while intoxicated either.” Strain in his hands, he’s lowering to pounce. “There’s a first for everything.”

Lambert stops circling. All teeth flash in an equally excited grin. “First to bleed loses?”

Narinder readies himself. “First to call mercy.”

Lambert rushes him.

It’s with all the force of a speeding ram, but it’s null when in one split second, his spot is empty. He’s behind them, a quick fleet of foot, and the lamb feels him make a grab for the back of their neck at the same time they swing behind them. Narinder’s attempt at capture is thwarted when he dodges their fist and both are backed to give a wide berth. If there were any unspoken rules about not aiming for the face, none of it mattered now.

Something hard hits the back of their knees. Lambert barely registers their storage chest half-open before the shadow of Death decends. Contact; one arm blocks another, the other juts out to aim for their head. They duck and it flies above them (He leaves gashes against the wall, and Lambert quickly notes that they should have added ‘claws’ to the list of forbidden weapons.) The cat curses as the lamb darts to tackle before using their own momentum against them; the sheep is somehow tossed into the chest itself with an ‘oomph’. Fleeces and trinkets blunt against their back end and fly up on impact.

They grab a fist full of whatever the nearest one and chucks it over him. Narinder’s reflexes are immediate; the fleece is ripped away with tears in it’s fabric in a split second, but a split second is all Lambert needs to barrel through him.

The chest contents are spilled now in the wake as they catch him by the side, biting their tongue when a knee goes into their ribcage. It hurts, but they get him halfway across the room before he grips one their horns, yanking their head back-

Lambert grabs that hand by the wrist, their other catching his closed fist, and feels an immense satisfaction when they slam the cat hard enough into the back wall that one of their banners falls and clatters to the floor. Narinder is wincing with grit teeth. The lamb barks a laugh. “Stealth is your strong suit, but brute force is mine-!”

The first they’re holding twists, their arm caught. Both of them, and the drunken mind spins as Narinder flips them.

They’re slammed into the wall just as hard, the twisted arm pined against their back. Lambert bites back a yelp as a hand grabs into the wool of their head, digging their cheek further into the wood hard enough to leave indentations. “And you think it is not mine? You’re gravely mistaken.” Cold taunting. The hand on the back of their head moves so he can mock them closer to their ear. “You are reckless, little lamb. I’ve watched you die to overconfidence more times than I can count.”

They smash the back of their head into his nose hard enough that he whips back, letting go. One hand comes to cradle the injured nose, the other juts out for a support. His hips knock back against a desk, and dodges the lamb’s incoming blow just in time for their first to bust a piece of wood off the edge of the table and nearly knocking it on it’s back legs. Papers and books scatter to the floor.

Narinder’s hand pulls back from his face. Black ichor drips from his nose. First blood. “Disgusting beast.”

Drunken fevour fuels them. They shaking off the sting in their knuckles, words slurring even in adrenaline. “One of your own making.”

Such blood draw shall be returned in full. He rushes them again, and they catch both hands right before they land on their mark. The lamb thinks it to be a battle of strength for a moment until suddenly Narinder forces their arms both downwards between them, and descends to the side of their head.

“Ow!” The outburst is almost comical. The pain is not. They take the risk of capture to release one of their arms to sock him in the throat. He unlatches in the same second, so they use the arm to push him back instead.

Narinder stumbles backwards, tripping up corners of the rug with him. He stops, panting, and its Lambert enough time to raise fingers to the tender flesh of their ear. It’s wet. Flesh burns with the familiar feeling of puncture wounds in the shape of Narinder’s fangs.

Their face darkens. “I told you no weapons.”

Narinder’s smile is dripping with their own blood as he laughs and sways, low and maddening. “You said nothing against teeth.”

They cannot tell if it’s the drink or the adrenaline that burns heat to the tip of their ears, but blood pools behind their irises with it, and Lambert runs for him again. It’s almost a catch, and somewhere in the blur, they’re both knocked into their bookshelf. (Which is not the greatest decision.) both cat and lamb now have books raining down upon them. One even hits them directly in the head, another catches Narinder by the ear. It takes a considerable amount of focus, they realize to not slam a fist so hard into the cat’s stomach to do anything in terrible harm. It still knocks the wind from his lungs and sends out a cut-off hiss of pain.

The victory doesn’t last; black claws find purchase in their wool again and slams the Lamb’s head into the shelf. They flinch hard, sucking in air through clenched teeth and throws themselves back to topple both the shelf and Narinder to gravity.

They might have thrown a little too hard, maybe, because Narinder crashes into their mirror.

Glass shattered on impact. There’s cuts on his neck and face, and a horrific stinging in Narinder’s hand that he had used to break the fall. It’s ignored. (Blood-rush. Bloodlust.) He picks himself up. Pieces of glass fall from his clothes and clink to the floor. (He needs to kill them.)

He spits ichor onto the floor from an aching stomach and it splatters black against the wood. He would have noted that it didn’t rot it had he not found the tiny shards of glass on the ground more distracting; a reflection of himself within the pieces, and some of the lamb look back. He looks up. Blood drips from their forehead spilling past their eye, another line spilling down their nose and decorating some of their teeth in a bloody grin. They raise a fist to wipe away the wetness, and gesture with an open palm. An invitation. “Come, Death.”

He needs to kill them. His teeth and claw ache as a laugh bellows from his throat, and spews manical as he rushes them.

Their own laughter is deranged when he meets them in a rolling tackle. The lamb’s back thuds against the wood; any attempt to roll or flip is thwarted by a skeletal hand diving to their neck, fingers slipping underneath the collar to wrap around them. “I’m going to take back everything you’ve stolen from me!” His own ichor drips back down onto their face. Kicking knees are pushed aside and all attempts to escape are crushed as the cat presses them further. “I’ll erase you nothing. I’ll have your wool fashioned into a keepsake, and you will nothing more but a tainted memory on my divinity!”

The lamb has one hand trying to pull away his near-choking wrist, the other on the wrist of the claws that intend to rip them apart. They laugh, even as his hand itches to truly start crushing their windpipe, eyes bloody as the color of his own. “You’d remember me. I’d still win.”

The One Who Wait’s bloodlust hikes, and he raises his burning hand high over their chest to tear them apart-

-and stops.

…The malice in his expression drains to something else. The force behind his hands slows. His lamb keeps grinning until they see something in three eyes flip like switch. They wait for him to attack, give them an opening. He does not. Their own smile faulters slightly. Narinder pulls back sluggish, and the world starts to tilt. “…Fuck.”

He faceplants directly into the floor besides them.

Lambert stares at the ceiling. There’s just an empty space above them now. They can’t tell what’s more jarring; the fact that the string light in their room seemed to be swirling, that the cat was not taking their surprise as an opportunity to drive their head into the ground, or that he just cursed so casually. When they turn their head, he’s still flat against the rug. They can’t see his expression. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. His tail flicks, though.

They sit up and ignore the nausea when they do. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, sure, but the booze was and exhaustion was quickly taking its place. Lambert pokes his shoulder blade, arm outstretched just in case this is a trick. “S’okay? Are you calling mercy?”

His ear twitches. His tail lightly smacks the side of them.

“Are you sick?” They poke him again. “I can get you a bucket.”

“No.” He groans. Narinder shifts to push himself up, falls back flat again, attempts to sit up once more and resolves to scoot to the nearest wall for support. Blood rushes like a maelstrom in his skull; none of his thoughts are clear enough for him to grasp onto. A sharp pain is still rising up his arm. He looks down.

There’s a rather sizable shard of glass sticking right through his hand, punctured all the way through. Wonderful.

The lamb’s gaze follows his own. They have to stare at it for a second to process. “You’re bleeding!”

He glares at them. His intimidation buffers when he coughs. “So are you.”

They scoot closer next to him, and Narinder says nothing when the lamb is practically right next to his knees. They were rolling in fits of violence two minutes ago; the world isn’t going to end if their legs are touching. “I uh,..” They drawl. “I think we went too far with the sparring.”

The God of Death makes a mild sound of agreement. The glass hurts, and he’s not quite sure what factor is dulling the pain, but he can only grimace as his other hand tries to get a good hold on the piece to extract it. (Which isn’t very easy when they’re slippery from blood, but alas.) The shard is yanked out before the lamb can even offer to help. He hisses as it drops to the side. Ichor begins to bleed freely from his palm.

The lamb takes it into their own without asking, and Narinder looks torn between clawing at them or just sitting there. The exhaustion wins. He sits to catch his breath, and they rotate his damaged hand like a prize, bringing it closer to their face. They run a thumb over the wound in a manner they watched him to themselves, and furrow their brows when all it does is seal the wound enough to where they can’t see through it. “Does ambrosia make our healing factor worse?”

Narinder has to think about it for a minute, because he doesn’t actually remember the answer. “Alcohol makes mortals bleed easier. Same thing...maybe worse.”

Their face is scrunched together. “It’s hard to focus.”

“It’s a part of the…the effect .” He almost butchers that last word entirely. Violence was a lot easier to navigate than speaking was. “Impaired judgement, nausea, mood swings, impulsiveness-” He hiccups. “-Memory loss…Wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t in this form.”

He’d continue complaining for the sake of it, but the lamb’s cheeks suddenly puff up, and they press their lips to his palm and pull back with a ‘mwah.’

Every single hair on his body might have just raised. He’s drunk. He’s insane. He’s drunk and insane. What.

“It’s mortal sayin’. ‘Kissing it better’.” They sloppily pat his turned knuckles like it’s a comfort. It honestly sends a stinging pain up his wrist that was threatening to sober him. There is a high probability they don’t know what they just did. “Pa used to do it. It’s like, traditional or something. Wanna see if there’s any real magic to it. Maybe that’s where the myth comes from to make it better-” They reassure, and inspect their handiwork. Narinder cannot see it, because currently he’s staring straight ahead like a man possessed until the lamb gasps a little. “Oh. It really is all better.”

He looks down to a fully healed hand. No puncture wound. No skeletal fingers. It has full feeling and no pain when he flexes the fingers. The only evidence of it’s injury was the ichor left behind.

“Cool.” Lambert’s hands leave his own before it can close around them. They don’t even get up, just stretching across the floor in an awkward half-crawl to grab the forgotten bottle near the bed before scooting back. There’s just enough drink left at the bottom for it. “If we’re not fightin’ anymore, we can toast now.”

He highly debates it. The drink and the blood loss has him hallucinating. “...To what?”

Lambert sways for a moment. “Freedom? Friendship? Both. Let’s do both.”

“Make it to your future death.” He says, but they’re already tipping the bottle back and swallowing a gulp before handing it over. His reflection is in the ichor again. There’s a bit of blood dripping from his eyes as he takes it.

Fine. Friendship and freedom it is. He downs the last of it; dropping his hand once finished. The bottle rolls away on the carpet. Something still feels oddly wrong.

“I don’t think I ever want to drink again.” They huff a single laugh. “You look worse than I feel. You got blood on your face.”

He tries to get more comfortable in this position. It’s futile, but the legs just bump up against them and if that makes it to where they’re half-way leaning over them, then whatever. “You’re bleeding still.”

“Nice.” The proximity doesn’t matter to them, it seems. They have no problem leaning over him entirely to grab at one of the fruits that been knocked to the floor. The entire lot of them were. The room is a mess. Torn banners are on the floor along with damaged fleeces and broken glass. Half the furniture is toppled over and all their books strewn about in the aftermath. Even the rug was crumpled with a few blood stains in certain spots. So much for a clean room.

Lambert freezes when a hand settles on the top of their wool. They half expect him to shove them down and continue fighting. It digs into the depth of their wool instead.

“You have…” Narinder hiccups. “Blood. You have dried blood on your head.”

They can feel him picking it out with his claws. It’s uncomfortable to lean over like this; they move to shift back to their original position, only to have a second hand grasp the front of their cloak and pull them up closer. Narinder has dragged them on top of himself just to have a better angle. Lambert is basically straddling him.

Any other time, they’d probably attack each other. Whatever mortification they expected from him is surprisingly absent. “Whattya doing.”

Both hands on the side of their head now. They wonder if he intends to snap their neck. Instead, claws curling up under both ears. “When I put your head on a pike, I’m going to position your ears…” He raises the lamb’s ears to the highest point and outwards like flags. “-like this.”

Lambert flatly groans. “My ears are cold.”

He flaps them. “Suffer.”

They swat at him to stop. It’s a lackluster effort. Their head hurt and the touch of Death was warmer than the chill that was seeping in through the window he crawled into. Lambert yawns involuntarily, and Narinder’s attention briefly drags from their ears to elsewhere. “You’re just trying to steal the crown.”

“Yeah.” Fingers trail down to their bitten ear. His thumb swipes over the marks of his own fangs. They disappear. “I’m stealing the crown. Give me back my power.”

“Do’ya think it would even still work?” Their head bobbles forwards a little bit, and then pauses. Something in his face catches their interest. The lamb takes two fingers and pinches the bridge of his nose. Narinder flinches only slightly when there’s a small crack. They’re petting it before dropping their hand, and he blinks near-cross eyed. “There.”

He scrunches it. It feels normal again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Their hands rise to their head, swatting away his own. “To heal.”

Narinder’s arms fall slack to his side, and he lets his head fall fully back against the wall with shut eyes. Even the dim lights in the room were starting to burn through his retinas-

The lamb places something on the top of his head, and snorts when they tousle his fur in the process. “I rela…reli…ah, relinquish the crown, to you-”

(Blood gurgles spill from their lips. “I-I..relinquish the crown to...you-”)

Narinder’s eyes fly open.

The body is still. His chest grows cold.

Lambert does not notice. They’re still giggling. “To you, God of Dumb-”

(“To you, God of Death-”)

Divinity bleeds. His body is numb and not his own. The room is bathed in red and vast. The skin of his face feels like its splitting, tearing, every fiber and sinew in this body is beginning to feel like burning fire and pain that’s not his own.. Divinity bleeds from his eyes, his mouth, his ears, his mind and drips from the warm pulse in his hand-

(“To you, The One...Who…Waits.“)

“To you, Narinde-Hey. Ow. Oww.” Lambert flinches. A jabbing pain. There are claws digging into their waist and one hand was rapidly traveling up the wool to their chest. “Hey-”

(They do not have a heartbeat. They do not have a pulse. They will not rise.)

“Quit it.” They press their palms against his shoulders to push him back, and the claws dig in deeper. Rivets of blood are starting to draw from where he drags them and heal just as quickly. The world blurs and spins. The lamb’s head swirls with confusion.

Narinder’s pupils dart wildly, seeing nothing. Lambert blinks, and there are several more eyes than the last time they remembered. “Nari.”

(Nothing. They are nothing.)

“Narinder, your eye.”

(Rise for resurrection, Death, and submit to your vessel sacrifice-)

A grab takes of his jaw harshly, and the touch burns. Whatever part of them he had claws into sink deeper and the skin heals even as it presses further into the musle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the lamb frowning from the discomfort, hovering over him, and he see’s himself with several rows of teeth with the lamb’s hand holding them all steady-

“I caught it. It fell out but I got it.” They speak casually, though there’s light in their own. The hand on his jaw caresses in a drunken comfort. “S’ok. I got it.” Pat, pat. “It’s okay.”

A pulse, slow and steady beneath his fingers deep beneath their skin. His hands are trembling. The air shifts with magic.

“Your face is all split up.” They’re whispering low, like they fear to startle him. All eyes drag down to their other hand; they grasp one of his eyes, held by the stringy gore it comes with. Even that pupil is trained upwards towards their face. Lambert’s lips press together in thoughts. “I didn’t really get to see all the uh…details before. You’ve got a lot of teeth.” Long lamb ears tilt in curiosity. Their fingers trace the exposed muscles and come back red. “Why are your ears like that?”

Narinder inhales. He wasn’t getting enough air before. Pathetic mortal form . Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. The lamb’s scent is mixed with his own.

“Here, little guy.” Lambert raises the eyeball with a certain newfound affection. They’re hand lets go of his face to wiggle a finger at it. “You’re not bad this small. You’re kinda cute.”

It’s perhaps their absurdity that snaps him back to reality. “That…that is my eyeball you are talking about.”

“Well, I didn’t steal it-”

“Lamb.” He keeps his tone calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. Flex his fingers. Blink all several eyes. He reaches for it. “Give it back.”

They blow a raspberry through their lips, but obliges half-way. They move too quickly for him to protest; the lamb holds his face in place and in one quick push; resockets the eye. They do it wrong. Narinder’s teeth grit in mild pain when one of their fingers scrapes the inside of his eyelid. “Lamb-”

“I’m working on it!”

He replaces their fiddling with his own. The eyeball re-sockets properly, and Narinder shakes his head rapidly to dispel any more feeling crawling on the exposed sensitive tissue. It work to get rid of the tingling sensation, it’s awful for the cauldron of dizziness plaguing his mind.

“My appearance changed when I got the crown, but I never got a eldritch form like this.” The lamb is unaware of his toils. They’re poking around still, face glazed with their own tiredness and yet just aware enough to continue this. They yawn again. “Feel better?”

“No.” He might have just had a panic attack. Or close to one. He doesn’t know. None of this feels real anyway. It’s probably not. The layers of his face do not respond when he wishes to seal them back, and it takes using the palm of his hand to lay them flat in place. The lamb’s hand joins as well, although not as coordinated, not that his was much better.

One of the eyes scans the room. It’s not red. It’s still destroyed. It’s snowing outside the window. The Red Crown is lying on it’s side on the floor nearby.

“Is it the touching?” His vessel freezes, and there’s a slight alarm about them. Like a realization switch, they start to pull back. “Is the touching freaking you out?”

He’s got a death grip on their cloak before they get away. “Stop talking.”

“But-”

“Stop.” Everything needs to pause. Just for a moment. Just wait.

The lamb stares at him. Half his face is sealed back together, the other is hanging precariously down and dripping blood onto the hood of his robes.

They sniff. “Okay. Hungry.”

With that, they stretch off of him. There’s a half-minute where the grip on their cloak threatens to yank them back but the item they’re reaching is close by anyway. One of the fruits from the spilled bowl’s contents. It’s bruised from the fall, and their teeth marks from before still decorate the outside. Lambert attempts to peel back the skin like it’s an orange. “I don’t really remember how Plimbo said to eat this. It’s skin is…gross. I think it’s one of those ones you gotta suck the juices out of.”

There are bags under the eyes that track their every movement. Then, still slumped up against the wall, Narinder presses the rest of his face back into place. “…Pomegrante.” There’s a wet squilch noise of skin stitching back. A faint outline of an ‘X’ is left behind when he’s finished, and that was starting to heal rapidly. “You break it open. Eat the seeds.”

“Oh, yeah.” They bite it again. Yuck. The crown will make for a dagger to cut it in half, they think, only to grab thin-air above their head. It’s far away somewhere. “Stupid fruit.”

“Give it.”  He snatches it and ignores the whine that comes from the creature in his lap. He punctures it with the claw on his thumb, a bit of red spewing over ichor-stained hands (And blantidly ignoring the small comment from the lamb of how he just ‘killed it’) before splitting it open. Red, juicy seeds are now exposed. He holds it out. “Here.”

“Ha. It split like your face did.” Lambert snickers, plucking it and bringing it’s seeds up to their mouth and bites. It’s sweet and bitter, not in the way the ambrosia was, but fresh. The red fruits were always the best. They bite again and some juices dribble down their chin they’re too distracted to care about, and picking the stray ones they didn’t get with their fingers. Then, they pause. “You didn’t rot it.”

He slinks further down the wall, eyes low-lidded. Exhaustion is prevailing in him. Lambert can feel another yawn in them as well.

“Here.” They split it apart, gesturing one half towards him. “Try it.”

He looks unconvinced. “Hmm.”

“C’mon. Please.”

A groan. The cat takes his ‘half’ into his claws and waits for inevitable disappointment. The pomegranate piece doesn’t rot to his touch again, though he prepares to spit it out. Narinder takes a small bite of a pocket of seeds, ears pinned back and ready to grimace. He stills.

“Howssit?” Their words slur.

Narinder is still for a long time. He bites into the seeds again. “…It’s sweet.”

“Cause it’s red.” They bite into their own. The realization has not hit them yet. “The red ones are the best ones.”

He says nothing. They’ll take the break of silence to get more comfortable; the room has grown colder, and their bed is all the way over there. Not worth the crawl. Their wool will keep themselves and what’s underneath them warm, and the cloak will work as a blanket well enough. Adjusting their legs takes a little bit of focus, mostly because their stomach is cursing at them right now and any sudden movements threaten sickness, but they manage.

Narinder does not protest as they shift, and Lambert finds it easy to scoot down and lie their head across the front of a blood stained robe. They accidentally add a few drops of pomegranate to that. “Feel better?”

A hand has slithered up their cloak and curled into the wool of their back. “I think I’m dying.”

“Dramatic.” Another bite. They’re almost out of pomegranate. Lambert’s ear presses flat up against his chest. “Sounds alive to me.”

“Hm.”

“You’re all rumbly.” They yawn. “Like, ah...growling sound, but quieter. Are you mad?”

“Mhmm.” A seedless pomegranate rolls from him. He moves that hand to rotate their collar so the bell isn’t pushing up against him. They have no protest to it. “Asleep.”

“Oooh.” They move upwards, sluggish and slow, and use their free hand to push back the fabric of his hood collar where they lay their head. He doesn’t stop them. It was their spot in the first place. In the afterlife, it was here. They snuggle into the space beneath his neck. “Dreamin’. Makes sense now.”

Their horns brush against his chin. Stray pieces of wool brush against his mouth. What hand isn’t on their back lifts to the top of their head. It’s funny, because he used to be able to do that with just his thumb.

Narinder’s vision is plastered is straight ahead to the window. Snow falls in blankets of white. A pinprick in the corner of his eye has them dragged over to the side. The Red Crown is upright. It blinks at him. He blinks back through blurred vision. It’s pupil trails downwards. His grip on the lamb tightens.

The Lamb breathes against his neck, muffled. “G’nigh.”

They hear him say nothing back. The body beneath them lies still save for the constant low rumble emitting from where their head lies.

Chapter Text

The floor is cold when Lambert wakes up.

The chill is the first thing that brings them to awareness, then the taste of old ambrosia in their mouth, coupled with the sluggish drag of sleep weighing them down until they come out of the half-sleep state and open their eyes-

The light burns them and they’re scrunched tight again, head dropping back down to the warm spot on the floor and using an arm to cover their head. Lambert groans into the wood as waves of pain seem to pulse from every vein in their skull. Trying to lift their head again makes the pain return and the world spin. Not in the fun way, more like there’s a something bludgeoning the space behind their eyes. It takes two, maybe three tries to shake the bleariness from their vision and recollect themselves to sit up fully.

It’s cold in here. Their back hurts. Their mouth feels gross. All of them feels gross. They smell like alcohol and their stomach is churning like storm clouds. Lifting limbs feels like raising rocks in water and there’s something sticky on the side of their face that they can’t tell if it’s drool, but it smells too sweet to be.

Is this what a hangover was supposed to be? Oh, hells. They’re going to have a new found appreciation for the followers who report to work complaining of it’s effects. Their wool feels awfully tussled. They must look as abhorrent as they feel.

...No, nevermind that. Their room looks destroyed.

Shelves are toppled with books that are scattered along the floor among other trinkets and paperwork they had left out on the desk, which was now sporting a new hole in the side of the wood with ink dripping down the side of it. Their chest was wide open with fleeces strewn about, some of which ripped as they lay across the rug with it’s several upturned corners and ripples. There are banners knocked down and string lights dislodged from their nails. Their mirror was broken, nothing more than a pretty golden frame with shattered glass a few feet away from them, trail leading to there’s an empty bottle of ambrosia near their feet.

There’s also small, red splotches around the room that cannot be anything else other than blood, and only that, because the Lamb is pretty sure they don’t currently have any pigmented inks.

The Lamb rubs at the sticky feel around their mouth and jaw; their fingers come back pink. Dried flakes of...something. It smells like fruit of some sort. Two small lumps nearby catches their eye: split fruit of the pomegranate, each missing it’s seeds. Great. They got to try out one of the new foods they were looking forwards to and don’t even get to remember what it tasted like-

Lambert pauses.

They don’t remember much of anything, actually.

Is there a reason why they’re on the floor? The bed was not destroyed, albeit unmade, but seemed to be spared most of the damage save for some tears in the covers. They’re lacking a night tunic, too, still wearing cloak and bell. Did they stumble up here themselves?

Attempting to stand is an agony that lasts for a solid minute as the body complains, but they manage. One would think that the effects of the crown would filter out such feelings, but Lambert spys The Red Crown sitting plainly on the ground next to where they sat and gives it a look. It summons back to their head in a single motion. They wait for godhood or dark power or something, anything really, to remove the throbbing in their skull. Nothing happens. Lambert’s frown sags deeper.

Well. At least their not dead of alcohol poisoning. That would be a pretty anti-climatic way to end things.

They look to window (which is open for some hell-forsaken reason) to the sun that’s rising just above the horizon. They could afford to rest for a little while longer before tending to the cult, but first the Lamb waddles across the room (ignoring the glass and books, mind you) crawls across the bed and goes to shut the window.

They pause momentarily when the white light burns their eyes, and blink as they realize it’s quite bright outside. Way too light. Probably because it’s a complete blanket of white out there. It snowed. No wonder they were cold. They shut it, draw the still intact curtains to block out the day a little while longer, and fall back against the bed.

This was awful. Terrible. They’re also hungry. Even partial godhood doesn’t seem to grant them mercy because it just feels like they’re stuck in between the state of stability and the need to vomit. They must had hit their drinking limit at some point last night, if only they could remember when that point was.

Lambert’s eyes scrunch closed.

Okay. Wedding. Officiated that. Festivities and feasts and dancing. They partook in drinking of mortal wine and, per usual, no effects. Ratau was there, the wives were enjoying themselves, everything seemed to go as planned. Their first sip of godly wine started when…when Narinder got there. Right. He showed up.

Their stomach churns at the realization. There’s a pleasant delight in there somewhere, but it’s currently being eaten alive by nausea.

Let’s see: Narinder is a mopey drinker. They down a bottle and half with him then. Leshy is currently in prison for blowing a hole through the temple side (They sincerely hope their memory fails them and it’s not as bad as they recall), then they followed him to Heket’s bedside for a rather short spat. They drink their full second or third bottle by that point. Not sure. Maybe just three. Or four.

Then he headbutts them. Maybe. They can’t think of any sort of crime they had done to provoke such an attack, but the cat was too uncoordinated to land it properly...which is equal considering Lambert is certain they got stuck in a fence and was victim to his harassments. At least they think so. It’s hard to think, actually. There’s gaps steadily growing where memory should have been.

Then…there’s the box? They ended up in the offering box. Why were they in there again? He yells at them for it, though the memory brings the image of his face but no words to his scolding. He’s on their tail when they end up at the gateway, staring up at something otherworldly that has burned the clarity of it’s eyes into The Lamb’s brain even in the drunken haze before they find themselves back at the entrance of the cult-

He’s yelling at them. They’re yelling back. There’s no memory of what they’re even fighting about. They remember feeling the world spin when he shoves them towards the rat, to go to bed, and...

Ah. Nothing else. The wine limit was somewhere at three or four bottles. Maybe five. The bottle on the floor suggests a higher number than they recall.

Overindulgence got to them, and possibly the both of them. The cat drank from the same supply that the Lamb kept pulling out, and it would not be difficult to imagine a bitter sweet wine must be an oasis to a god who hasn’t tasted anything in a thousand years. So their fault, then. Narinder might be as horrifically ill as they are.

Lambert groans, running a hand down their face and dragging skin, dried drool and fatigue away with their palm. They shove their hands underneath the pillow to push it around their ears. They need to apologize to him. But they also need to give sermon and begin clean up of what was probably the biggest party the cult has had in centuries-

Something silky touches their hand. Lambert half-mindedly fiddles with it, feeling the texture for a moment of grounding before realizing that it’s not something that blends in with their bedsheets. They pluck out whatever it is, holding it up above their face and inspecting with squinted eyes.

It’s a veil.

It’s Narinder’s veil. In their bed.

Lambert shoots straight up fast enough that the crown flies off their head in the momentum and has to fly back to the wool. The details they registered before stand out more now; the droplets of blood on a tussled rug, the complete disarray of the room, the window…didn’t Narinder say he was going to try and kill them in their sleep at some point?

Lambert drags another hand down their face and looks down to the broken glass.

The sunlight hurts their eyes. It took them an hour to freshen up, using a larger shard of broken glass to double check their appearance so they didn’t look too ghastly (the glass had dried ichor on it, so that just fuels their current theory.) before combing through their wool and straightening out their cloak as neat as they could manage. They still look a bit undone, but at least they’re not downright horrendous.

The flock members, however, all look terrible.

Lambert makes it down the stairs of the temple (The hole is right there, and they try to ignore it for their own sanity.) and comes across several waking cultists who look as miserable as they feel. Some are slumped over against the temple walls like they spent the night there, puddles of vomit and drink are spilled and mixing in with each other with tracked footsteps through the muck. Those who weren’t still passed out where groggy and disoriented. Some of them are curiously inspecting the hole (Still ignoring it!) as Lambert walks outside.

It’s a bright winter day. Snow blankets the cult grounds, just enough for tracks to be left behind. A few cultists are sludging through to start their work. Someone is running to the outhouses with a look of panic. A few cultists are picking at the leftovers from the banquet. Several posts and piles of rubble suggests décor and smaller buildings have been damaged or destroyed during the party. Someone has tripped over the vine sticking out of the temple wall and has resigned to lying face down in the snow with a groan.

Lambert slowly turns back to the side of the temple. Yep. The huge vine is still there. They’re going to have to repair that before they can host another sermon.  The cult is going to have a lot to clean up.

“You don’t look so well, Lamby.”

Lambert turns to the voice, and inwardly regrets it when the momentum makes their stomach churn. “G’morn’ Ratau.”

“Doesn’t look like you or the rest of ya are havin’ one, ha.” Said rat looked perfectly spiffy. He was eating a plate of what looks to be grapes. Aside from the bags that’s ever present under his eyes, Ratau was in prime better shape than the rest of the cultists who were all harboring hangovers. In the cold, Ratau’s speaks through his scarf, and eats a grape in-between sentences. “You should get something to eat before starting the day. It’ll fix you.”

The idea sounds promising, but the thought of eating anything right now makes the the nausea creep back up into the throat. “I don’t have time to eat. There’s too much I need to do.”

“Well.” Ratau follows their gaze to the vine and chuckles. “Your sermons are going to have to wait.”

Lambert would scream into the snow if they could. “You sound like you’ve been awake for a while.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering your early risers and your un-inebriated to start the clean up process. Wood for the fires, everyone’s wearing their winter coats, a few janitors on duty and the like.” He pops another grape and looks out to the destruction. Ratau whistles at the sight of damaged buildings, and Lambert decides not to look in that direction for their own sake. “A building ritual might do you some good. Speed things up a bit.”

They make a mental note to do something nice for Ratau when they’re feeling right again. Their soreness from sleeping on the floor is starting to awaken just as they do. “I’ll have to go crusading. I’ve used the last of the bones.”

Ratau hums, and for a split second, Lamb sees him hesitate. “…Well. You might have a fresh set here soon enough if you’re desperate and not looking to host a funeral.”

Lambert’s head slowly grinds to stare at him.

“Just a joke.” He laughs nervously. “Someone, ah…near died last night.”

They are quiet for a long moment. “From over consumption?”

“Of a sort.” Ratau keeps his voice light hearted, and it still does not lift the sinking stone in their stomach. He gestures with a free hand towards the healing bay. “Come. See for yourself.”

The trek to the healing bay is a short one, and disorientating all the same. Several cultists they pass bid them a good morning, many of whom appear to be not so hungover (although a few only manage out a slur of words before attempting to carry on.) They get a better scope of the damage in the walk, though at least the cultists are already fixing the more important parts of the flock already.

Even the shrine was vandalized with berry juice and paint, though worshippers are already scrubbing the images off. Lambert shivers halfway to the bay.

The healing bay has a line around it. Several flock members are nursing their aching heads and complaining of nausea as they pass. A few who are aware enough try to bow at the Lamb’s arrival and groan at the attempt. They wave them off, nodding, and follow Ratau into the right-side curtain.

Mooma is inside. The cow had nothing to drink, but it appears exhaustion haunts her all the same. She jolts a little as rat and lamb both enter. “Ah, my leader. Good morning.”

Lambert almost forgets to bid her morning as well; their eyes track to the bed.

It’s a deer, a stag with large antlers that appear to have dirt caked at the end of them. He appears to be naked save for a blanket that has been laid over him, giving them more visual to see just how pale the deer was beneath his fur. The red corners of his eyes were white and there’s drool in the fur around his muzzle. He didn’t stir when they entered the room. If it wasn’t for the slow rise and fall of the deer’s chest, one would think him a corpse.

“Our only near fatality, which I believe is a blessing given our number of idiots.” Mooma begins when the Lamb remains quiet, and clears her throat when the professionalism kicks back in. “Friends say he was quiet inebriated. Went streaking about the cult grounds and got his antlers stuck in a few hard places. Brought him here after he began to convulse and foam a the mouth.” The cow speaks so plainly of it, working to the side to string camellia petals into a edible paste.

Lambert’s face is neutral. “Let him know when he awakes that he is barred from any drink in the future if this should be the result of over-indulgence.”

“That’s the bit where your attention is needed, my leader.” Mooma starts again, and Ratau pops another grape into his mouth and looks to the deer with a look of pity. “His friends say he did not consume much drink. They confessed to using Menticides. I expect you shall hear for their pleas in the confessional in time.”

Lambert frowns. Their stomach is starting to cramp.

(No time for a break to be sickly. The nausea is beaten down with a metaphorical stick.)

“I see.” On the inside of their cloak, their fingers curl into the fur of their leg. “Thank you for your skillful work in stabilizing him. Do not hesitate to fetch one of my disciples if the situation changes.” They do not look towards the deer as they step calmly backwards towards the curtain, and lift the fabric up to leave. Ratau’s eyes are on them, but they do not meet them either. “Pardon the short greeting, but I’ve much to attend you. Please, have a calm morning.”

The cow must not care much about their abrupt departure when they have an entire line of patients outside, as she merely answers a simple, plain ‘Praise the Lamb’ before returning to her work without so much as looking up from her paste.

Ratau is the first to speak when he follows them away from the healing bay. “Well, now. I suppose I’ll be taking my leave since there’s not much else I can do for you.” He’s finished the grapes, scrunching up the scarf even higher as he does. His tail doesn’t lay low for long; rats don’t typically enjoy the snow. “I’ve got a personal furnace back at the shack that your little huts don’t quite meet the standard! I’d say stop by if you freeze out, but one of us has been blessed with thick wool, ha!”

Menticide Mushrooms. Banned Menticide Mushrooms. Distributed amongst the cultists, just like they heard in the confessional booth not so long ago. The memory slipped them in the midst of other stressors. Too caught up on the increasing famine. Too far concerned with the Bishop’s arrival. Too far concerned with the Mystic Seller’s riddles. Far too concerned with Nari-

A hand on their back that feels ice cold from the weather and warm all the same. “You look lost, Lamby.” Ratau’s voice has lowered, and it’s only then does Lambert realize they’ve been staring blankly into white snow. “…Get something to eat before you start your day. There’s plenty of snacks in the kitchens. I would know, since I helped myself and all.”

The nausea threatens to twist in their chest as well. “I’m not very hungry.”

(Narinder, God of Death, who can sense when his devoted are near to death, and yet told them nothing of a dying deer.)

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind, but I’m not waiting until the snow melts.” Ratau’s hand slides from their back and he steps away. There’s a hesitancy in his light hearted tone, but it’s dampened when the wind blows and cuts through his thin tunic. “I’ve friends to meet for the night, gold owed and all that.”

Lambert’s tone is almost monotone. “I’ll escort you back.”

“No need!” He drags a necklace out from this scarf and swings it around his finger. “I think you’ve got plenty of pressing matters waitin’ for ya other than helping an old rat cross the road.”

Lambert snaps out of what trance they were in when the glint of the sun comes off the talisman swinging around the rat’s hand. Grey blue with a red sheen, the writings and symbol of the red crown on the front. A missionary talisman they remember blessing. “…Where did you get that?”

“Won it in a bet. Quite the handy thing to have traveling back and forth.” He stuffs it back into the fabric of his scarf, and steps towards the exit. “Less for you to worry about, Lamb. Come see me when you get bored of all this hustle.” A pause. “Or if you’re tired. My shack has a very nice furnace, you know. There’s still cider in the cabinets.”

“I know.” They smile. Ratau mirrors it. He turns away into the snow.

Lambert watches his back until the wind upturns their ears and they turn in the direction it blows. The pounding in their skull remains. The hole in the temple is visible even from here.

Narinder is not in his home.

The door isn’t locked when they arrive. There’s a thin layer of snow on the knob and in front of the doorway that would have been brushed aside if it had been opened. It creaks when they enter, and they find the room empty. Messy, cold, and lacking a cat. The heater they’ve placed is untouched and cold when they place a hand on it.

He hasn’t been in here. There’s the temptation to crawl under his covers, block out the light and pretend not to be a cult leader for today. They shut the door behind them and swallow the lump in their throat.

He’s probably sulking somewhere, maybe experiencing snow for the first time in a thousand years and doesn’t want the lamb to intrude on a precious moment.

(They dully note the feeling of something burning into the back of their neck when they re-enter the village.)

He’s...somewhere. Yeah. Somewhere.

By the time the sun is high in the afternoon sky, most of the cult is awake by that point. No one is going to receive scolding for waking up late, especially since half of the populace was waking up just to barf into the bushes.

Snow is swept off the main paths so that supply and delivery is safer. Wood for fires is prioritized, often using the debris from what’s been destroyed to fuel the heating fires. Worshippers gather around the shrine’s fire in the cold. Proper winter wear has been distributed, so animals that cannot grow winter coats of their own work amongst side those who do. It’s a little funny, almost, to see things like a chicken wearing a puffy coat and wrapped completely in scarves next to the polar bear who has decided to work the lumbermill shirtless today.

Outhouses are repaired and the bathhouse is full. Cultists are put to work to cut up the vine and start the repair of the temple’s damage. The kitchens and food storage is fully stocked and the fields are still full of prime crops, which, despite the cold and snow, do not appear to turn yellow nor brown. The fruits and vegetables show no sign of decay even if snow layers over their leaves. An odd sight, and an unexplained one, but Lambert isn’t going to complain. The cultists are still pretty stoked about it.

A number of cultists are missing from the full count they conduct; most of which are sick in their beds with hangovers that won’t let up. It is Finor who catches them mid-walk to the shrine and tells them with a sour face that the honeymoon tent is broken and needs to be added to the list of buildings needing repair.

Well. At least the brides enjoyed their perfect wedding.

The plans and schedules to start repairs and continue chores are put together in a few hours. Rather quickly, given the extent of the damage. Now that the flock has their orders, their attention can turn elsewhere. They haven’t been alone long enough to seek him out without an animal coming up to them with one request or a problem of some sort.

Their head was killing them, too. It’s been four, maybe five times now they’ve caught themselves from almost puking in front of a cultists and swallowing the nausea back down. Ratau was not lying when he said the red crown did not do much to help a hangover.

The prisons have long since been built to withstand the weather such as snow and storms, but it still wasn’t as preferable as a warm hut. Still better than the pillories, they think. Lambert breaks away from the hustle and bustle of a busy flock and approaches the prison. Snow decorates the top of it in a thin layer. There’s no warden posted outside; probably ill with the rest of them, and there was only a single prisoner to account for-

They yelp as the ground beneath them gives way, and snow piles up to their hip. Lambert blinks. They’ve sunken into the ground after stepping into a…hole? (A rather deep hole, it seems.) The top was covered with dead leaves and snow, now obvious with the Lamb half-way sunk into the earth...Some party goer’s prank project forgotten about overnight?

It takes a simple lift to crawl out of it. They pat themselves down and look down into it’s entrance. It doesn’t go straight down, rather curving inwards towards the prisons.

The puzzle pieces click together. Lambert feels their face flatten.

The prisons are empty, and there’s a similar hole in the cell they remember leaving the worm in. The lamb pinches the bridge of their nose for the ever increasing throb of a headache that doesn’t seem to appreciate the realization. They should have just put him in the pillory-

A sigh. Lambert straightens their posture, and turns towards the gate-

-and ducks right before the blade of a scythe slices across the air above them. “What the-”

It swings for them again, cutting across the prison cell’s bars clean with sparks flying. They fall back, off-guard. “What the hell?!”

A familiar hooded figure with a thrashing tail and pinned back ears. His face is shadowed, eyes glowering. Red eyes flash wildly, pupils slitted, and his grip on the scythe tightens as he brings it back.

He looks downright murderous.

The blade swings for them again, and Lambert bleats as they crane their head back, the scythe cutting close enough to their neck it near clips the bell from their collar. “Wha-Why are you so homicidal suddenly?! Narinder!” Another swing, towards their shoulder. They side step it, backing further into the prisons. Their palm aches for the red crown. It stays disobedient on top their wool. “What’s your problem?!”

They dodge another slice, and the scythe drives into the brick of the prison wall. There’s a few short seconds where he struggles to dislodge it as the Lamb backs further away (No weapon, the crown does not answer, no surprise. They can take him hand-to-hand, but the scythe gives him too much range. Maybe if they disarm him-“

A crack snaps as the blade breaks from the brick. Narinder is rushing them, silent and eyes of fury. The scythe is brought down quick-

Their hands are quicker, ducking underneath it’s cutting motion and wrapping hands around the scythe’s staff. Their negotiation dies in their throat when the staff slams into their throat and pins them against the wall, their strength pushing against his own.

The back of their head almost snaps against the brick until the Lamb pushes back. All hands on the staff of the dreaded scythe (Pretty weapon, don’t get them wrong, but this is not how they wished to hold it.) until Lambert brings their palm down against it. Knock the scythe from it’s owner’s grip; his wrists are unguarded, if they could only twist it out of his grip-

The hand they lift in the split second to do the maneuver is suddenly crushed against the scythe’s staff. Narinder’s hand is grasping theirs, pushing against their own force with added conviction. Of course he knew what they were about to do.

Lambert swallows back bile down their throat. The fighting was making the nausea worse. They hiss through clenched teeth. The cat’s eyes are dark, expression tight and unreadable. “Did I do something particularly annoying to you or something?!”

There is a barely registerable second where his pressure lightens, ever so slightly where they might think they imagined it, before Narinder drives it back with more viciousness.

Fine, then. Free arm pulled back, their elbow finds impact at his jaw. The cat’s head is knocked sideways, not enough to push him off, but a raised kick to the chest (Careful, this time. They don’t wish to crack any ribs like before) that sends him back a few feet with him hissing a sharp inhale.

The empty space between them rushes with cold air and adrenaline. Lambert’s panting makes clouds that mimic the ones coming from within the cat’s hood. Their head spins, and their stomach feels like pestilence itself is trying to crawl up their throat.

“You prick. Not even going to tell me why you’re-” A hiccup catches at the end of their sentence when sickness trails it off. “Wait...Wait a second.”

Narinder doesn’t appear sick at all, just tense. Shoulders coiled and grip tight enough on his weapon it makes the fur stretch thin on his hands, his tail lashes aggressively behind him. Pin prick pupils glower down at them like a traitor remembered.

He’s breathing hard. His mouth is moving like he’s muttering to himself. He doesn’t move.

“Hold on.” Lambert croaks, holding up a hand. “I think I’m gonna need a m-”

The word dies, and the lamb promptly turns to the side and vomits.

Puking is a horrid feeling. They don’t do it often, probably haven’t done it in a long while considering their immunities to many things, so this one just feels ten times worse. The unpleasantness that consumes them leaves them just aware enough to move the bell out of the way before it becomes stained with the process, the other grasping the longer ends of their cloak together as they hunch over.

The first wave comes and goes, leaving a black splatter across the prison’s floor, (Ichor? Ambrosia? A miserable combination of both?) and Lambert sucks air in through shuddering lungs. Their vision is blurry. They wipe wetness from their eyes and mouth when they turn their head to face him.

He’s glaring. Slow, silent breaths coming out from the shadowed face of his hood. The grip on the scythe tightens.

They sniff. Their mouth tastes of sick and their face was cold. “Narinde-”

The second of nausea cuts them off and they hold their breathe to stop from puking again. Lambert’s hands struggle to keep back their bell, their cloak, their wool, to push back the wetness in their eyes as he stands in the corner of them. Somewhere in the back of their clouded mind, they register his scythe raising to attack…then falling. His grip shakes on the staff. Sharp teeth grit together as the weapon melts from solid to shadow in a wavering confidence.

Lambert coughs again and blinks through tears to see him.

“Fuck.” Narinder’s hands are clawing down his face, pulling at the skin below his eyes and refusing to look at them. He’s muttering lowly. Demonic and otherwise, but curses that roll out in multitudes as he seems to curl into himself. “Fuck.”

(Great. They’re puking and the God of Death is having a crisis in the corner.)

“Narinde-?” A hiccup cuts them off, that turns into a cough, that turns into upchucking more contents of their stomach into the mess they’ve already made.

Silence, save for the vomitting of course, then footsteps approach. The sound of the scythe dragging across the floor disappears as his shadow encases. Their stomach heaves, and a painful throb agonizes behind their eyelids that almost blots out their vision completely that they don’t see the shadow of hands coming around their head, and for a moment, Lambert thinks he’s going to try to snap their neck.

Clawed fingers pull back the longer pieces of wool away from their face, the palm of his hands settling over their ears. Their own sick is muffled by it, but at their their hands can keep their cloak and bell away from the mess more easily. The nausea comes in waves again, and they ride through it.

Breathing comes easier after another minute. “I’m never…never drinking ambrosia again.”

Narinder is quiet.

“This sucks.” They sniff. Wetness on their face is brushed away with their palms along with their runny nose. All their attempts at looking decent was now ruined, but at least their stomach felt calmer. “How come you’re not hungover? Are you hungover? You don’t look sick at all.”

He’s still quiet. They can’t see his face. The hands on the sides of their head are warm.

The hands only fall away when they go to wipe their mouth. He stands up straight. The weapon is gone, and his hands are curled into fists at his side.

Whatever his problem was a moment ago, Narinder appears to have chosen not to kill them over it. Lambert looks wholley unimpressed and a bit like a wet rag. They sniff again.

“You’re disgusting.” Narinder glowers down at them.

They briefly consider the idea of kicking out his knees. “You’re an asshole.” Speaking tastes icky. They have half a mind to crawl outside and start shoveling snow into their mouth. “Two assassinations attempts in a short time…Are you fine now? Get it all of out of your system? My room is a mess, by the way. I rate it a one for efficiency. Can’t even get me in my sleep.” They dig through their wool, and bring out the veil, holding it out to him. “You’re banned from my room. Next time don’t leave evidence behind.”

Red eyes flit down to the veil before zeroing back on the lamb’s face. He makes no move for it. Brows furrow together in confusion.

“Here.” They hold it up higher.

He ignores it. “Choke.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Their snap back is punctuated with a audible grumble from their stomach. Lambert groans at the cramps (Ratau was right, they should have eaten something first.) as Narinder’s ears pin back flatter. He pinches the veil in-between two fingers and snatches it from their grip.

They stand, and Lambert curses at him as they rise, careful not to tilt too far over to the side lest they upset their stomach once more. Their hand juts out and grasps for a hold to keep them upright, and it finds purchase on the front of Narinder’s cloak. The motion feels familiar somehow, and they use it to keep them steady as they stand. The cat doesn’t dislodge them. For someone who appears to want them dead, he’s becoming more and more eased with their touch.

They want to call him a bunch of names for daring to attack them while they’re in the middle of nursing the biggest (and only) hangover of their life, and for being a total jerk about it all. But they also just really want to lay down in the dark and not think about anything for a little while, and they’re pretty sure Narinder’s bed isn’t surrounded by broken glass. Someone else will have to clean up this mess; pretending to be the unbothered leader was starting to not be viable anymore.

They fix the stray pieces of their wool, or at least attempt to, and straighten out the more ruffled parts of themselves before they have to cross the cult’s threshold again. It is quiet in the prison for a long moment. The silence feels heavy. “Let’s go talk in your hut. It’s cold in here.”

A suggestion, one of peace. They want to ask him about the snow, the deer, and all of last night. The cat is refusing to meet their eyes, glaring flatly in the space besides them. The power to read minds is greatly missed.

They think he might tell them to shove off and die again before Narinder speaks. “Vomit in my home and I will kill you.”

No explanation, no apology, but they’ll take it. They’ll just push him for answers when the world isn’t spinning and there wasn’t a hammer driving nails into the back of their eyes. The Lamb steadies themselves, walking (More like wobbling, for a moment) to the exit. For a brief moment, normal routine returns. “I call dibs on the blanket.”

He watches them straighten their posture, fix their soppy face into a more neutral expression and walk confidently out of the prison like they didn’t just upchuck for the last five minutes. The perfect mask of a cult leader for a calm walk across town.

Narinder considers bashing his head into the brick wall until it kills him. Because surely that is the answer to all of his emotional turmoil.

He doesn’t. He still stands there for a moment before tying the veil around his head and exiting the prisons. The lamb leaves footprints in the snow, trailing off in the direction he expects them to go. Their tracks join several others until the snow is properly disturbed among working animals busy in their routine work and scheduled repairs. A few spare him wary glances, though most ignore him or hardly notice him at all. Save for the black fur and red accents on his robes, Narinder figures he would blend in with the winter well enough.

His claws itch for something to sink into still, and he digs them into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw beads of blood. The shrine of the Lamb burns the corner of his eye when he passes it.

The eating grounds for the most part are empty. A few stragglers around the benches avoid his line of sight as he approaches or tries to appear not to notice him at all. There are children and even a a brave adult that stare, but otherwise keep quiet. His presence in the cult becoming the norm is both a good thing as it is annoying, but tolerable so as long as he’s left alone. Narinder could enjoy killing something right now if the opportunity presented itself.

Maybe the Lamb. Gruesomely. That would fix things. Everything, actually.

No one stops him when he pushes past the curtains into the kitchens. An penguin and butterfly working the kitchen both gasp when he walks in, half-a-second frozen before sharing a panicked glance and quietly shuffling out of the curtain still clad in apron and dropping a cutting knife. Good. Narinder snatches one of the empty wooden bowls from the stack.

There’s a multitude of fruits and vegetables laid out, some of them already sliced for meal prep. He grabs the nearest red one, a tomato. It rots instantly. Narinder drops it to the floor without so much as a blink and grabs another. It rots. He drops it. He grabs a cabbage. It’s leaves start withering and he lets go before it’s even fully brown. He tries for a eggplant. Same result.

(Vile Lamb.)

Narinder curses when the fruit in his grasp decays faster than he can keep up with. The idea of just using the bowl to scoop them in isn’t even an option, it’s the principle of it. The power does not obey.

(Damnable Lamb. Ruined his power, his crown. Him. Standing with a headache in a meager common kitchen unable to control his own power while nursing a hangover in the only private place he’s been given. His siblings amongst them when they should be suffering a thousand years in purgatory. The audacity to scold him, to not remember their offense as if he didn’t wake up with the lingering of taste of ambrosia and weight of the lamb-)

A half-sliced apple in his hands isn’t rotting. Narinder frowns at it, but drops it in the basket with the rest of the slices. A few berries are tossed in for good measure. If he’s lucky, maybe they’ll choke on them. (And if he’s super lucky, they won’t notice he’s mirroring all the times they’ve brought him an offering.)

He hears the curtain sway first, footsteps stopping, and still does not look up when a male voice speaks after a moment. “Destroying and stealing supplies is a crime punishable by imprisonment or community service.” The tone is falsely polite. “But I will give benefit of doubt that this was accidental.”

Narinder looks up. A dog, a familiar one. Reddish tan fur with lighter ears and bright, upturned eyes. He’s carrying crops in a delivery satchel around his back. The smile he wears seems as crafted as the loyalty necklace that dangles around his neck.

The decision to read the dog’s mind is immediate:

(Grey static and white wool and blood. Whispers and thoughts combined, muffled, loud and quiet, a congelation of different sentences, circulating. Iron and soil and gurgled prayer and a harrowing sound like a sharp nail scratching against chalk-)

Narinder exits his mind as quickly as he entered it with pinned back ears and rising alarm in his blood. Whatever that was, he’s not doing that again.

Undecipherable. Unreadable, even, which shouldn’t even be possible. All who worship are devoted The God of Death should be vulnerable to such ability-

“It is not often that animals come running to me when the Reaper is found stalking the grounds, but my Lamb appears to be elsewhere, so it falls to their highest disciple.” The dog smiles, setting the satchel to the side and unloading it’s contents. “I am Tyren, the Lamb’s right hand. I don’t believe we’ve properly met.”

Ah. Not devoted to cult’s faith, but devoted to cult’s Lamb.

The berry he was holding rots. Narinder drops it to the rest of the decaying pile on the ground and frowns when the dog has no fear response to it.

Tyren sorts through the crops on the opposite side of the room. “If you are hungry, meals would have been served in about an hour’s time.” He picks up a knife that one of the workers had left behind, chopping slices of meat into salads. “There is plenty to go around, now, it would not have been a trifle to simply request a meal. Though it is the expectation to wait for one along with your fellow flock.”

Narinder ignores him. He uses the edge of his sleeve to try and roll a small tomato into the bowl.

“I suppose I won’t report it.” The dog does not seem to take the hint, or doesn’t care. “I imagine you’re quite hungry after such a wild party from last night?”

Wrong. There’s a puking Lamb in his hut this tomato is for. He also intends to get an extra one just to throw at them to alleviate his own emotional discomfort.

“The Lamb brings you your meals, do they not? I presumed because you don’t want to eat with the others.” The knife comes down, slices are made, and dragged over to finish the dish as he starts on another. “I had dinners with them prior to your arrival, although they appear far too busy for that nowadays, so I take it upon myself to try and remove them of any burden I can.”

Narinder rolls a second tomato into the bowl and decides that what he’s collected is more than enough. He backs away from the counter, opposite end of the room and walks towards the exit.

“A burden can take the form of many things.” The dog continues. “Including you.”

Narinder stops. He turns back to the dog, who’s chopping has not hesitated in the slightest. Tyren is still appearing kindly, focused on finishing this dish’s proper proportions, arranging it’s components in the bowl and setting it with the other before taking back up the knife and looking up to the cat with a calm, well-mannered expression.

Narinder glares at the red crown’s image around the dog’s neck. He’d rather asphyxiate before he respond to the jeering of the Lamb’s fucking lap-dog.

“I mean no offense, simply, My Lamb has become quite stressed since your arrival.” He works methodically. Tyren continues. “As someone who cares for their best interest, I only wish for a discussion.”

Narinder fails the resistance to not snap back. “I don’t care.”

“I do, so allow me a moment before you return to them.” Tyren lifts the knife slightly just to gesture at the bowl he holds. “Carnivores do not typically make vegetarian meals for themselves unless they’ve acquired a specific taste.”

It slips out of Narinder’s mouth before he can stop it. “For the Lamb, specifically.”

The dog goes still.

Narinder also goes still because Why Did He Say That.

He does not speak to fodder. He does not allow annoyances of mortals to grate on his nerves. Gods are above such. Yet, there is a rather notable satisfaction of watching the dog's face falter. (They come to HIS door to ramble and bleat. He wears a necklace of the lamb's making, but the Lamb wears HIS bell.)

“Ha.” The dog’s grip on the knife has tightened. “I didn’t take you for the type to joke.”

Narinder needs to leave before he spears a chain through the dog’s face, through his own face, or both. The cat turns his back and towards the curtain. He was foolish to fall into the trap of such taunts. The headache has made him waver.

“Another time, then.” Tyren’s voice sounds polite as before as he exits, almost sickly polite, as he raises the knife hand up in farewell with a smile. “Praise the Lamb.”

The curtain closes behind him, and Narinder is quick to depart from this place.

The trek to his hut is a mundane one. Several eyes glance in his direction and what he carries until he’s up the hill and at his own closed door. The ends of his robes are wet from snow and his fur on edge from the cold (and otherwise, but he’s not going to think about it.)

Balancing the bowl in one hand and turning the knob with the other, it opens. The air is warmer inside. Curtains are drawn over the windows. He enters, shuts the door behind him, and scans the room.

There’s a large lump swaddled in his bedsheets, and a bucket dragged over to the side of the bed.

He’s really trying not to think about it. “Lamb.”

“Ueughh.” The lump shifts. A hoof kicks out of the bundle momentarily before stashing itself back in.  The blanket moves uncoordinated for a moment until the head of the Lamb pops out, disheveled and completely different from how he saw them minutes ago. The guise of the cult leader has been properly dropped now that they’re comfortably hidden away in his sheets. He tries not to think about that either.

Narinder plucks a cherry tomato from the bowl and throws it at them.

The Lamb reflexively catches it in their mouth like a seal, chews for approximately two seconds, then lurches over the side of the bed and spits out into the bucket with a hack. “Eugh! That…that was rotting! You made it rot!”

Not the outcome he wanted, but a success none the less. Narinder approaches the lump as they scrape the surface of their tongue, untying the veil and storing it in his robes. “Suffer.”

“Mean. Mean to me. You’re being awful this morning.” They cough out the last of the taste while a freehand scrambles to the bedside table. A wooden cup of water sits there, something they appear to have acquired on their own, before it’s tipped back hard enough there’s rivets trailing down the lamb’s chin. They drain it, drop the cup to the floor so it clatters away, and sniffs.

They’ve made themselves far too comfortable here. Narinder frowns. “It is your own fault.”

“I didn’t think you’d try to poison me!” The lamb’s head dives back down onto the mattress with a groan, and Narinder’s ears couldn’t become more bothered. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m dying, Nari.”

And they had the gall to call him dramatic. The bowl is offered. “Eat these.”

Bleary black eyes peak out from the covers. They stare at the offering and it’s contents for a few seconds before their face twists into an ugly expression. “Eugh. Don’t want it.”

“…What?” A deep offense settles in the cat’s features and for a moment, his fur raises like he’s just been personally attacked. (Or hell forbid it: embarrassed.) “…I thought you liked these?”

“Yeahhuh.” Their face is muffled in the mattress. “Hhheugh.”

Ungrateful, sniveling, miserable creature. They’re making his room smell of sickly lamb. “Eat this before I shove it down your throat.”

The Lamb just gurgles. Masquerading as the indominable cult leader all morning did not chase away their hangover like they had hoped, and instead they were paying for it all at once. The red crown is skewed on top of their wool and being of absolute no help.

He should kick them. He doesn’t, and instead Narinder sits at the far end of the bed the furthest he can away from the pathetic heap of wool currently rubbing their face into fabric of his covers. The Lamb just groans as the weight displaces, curling into themselves. Their head lays a foot away from his hip, frowning deeper when a grumble can be heard from their stomach.

They had planned to confront him there, but the Lamb finds it’s easier to just sink into the silence and the warmth. If the cat was giving them food as some sort of peace treaty after attacking them this morning for no discernable reason, they’re not to forgive and fall for that tactic so easily-

Narinder is quiet for a long, long moment, and then sighs. “If you eat, I’ll let you use the scythe.”

The speed in which Lambert pokes their head out and lunges is a comical blur. In a split second, the sheep grabs a hand full of apple slices, shovels them into their mouth, and is already sticking their neck out and reaching again like they were going to start eating from the bowl itself before Narinder’s brain catches up with it. “Hells-”

“Apology accepted!” Lambert grabs a fist full of berries that near squish in their palm before dumping them down the hatch. They talk while chewing in the most obnoxious fashion, and the smacking sound makes Narinder shrink down into his robes in a way they snort at. “Don’t give me that look! No takes backs, you owe me the scythe.”

“I don’t owe you the scythe.”

“You owe me time with the scythe. You said I could use it. No take backs.”

“I never said for how long.”

“Forever.”

“Lamb.” He looks like he regrets the bargain already. At least they’re starting to act normal again. “I wouldn’t have drank with you had I known this was going to be the state of you afterwards.”

They slow down on the eating, if only to catch their breath and sit up right. “Me? I woke up sick. You’re the one who woke up violent.” They’ve taken the unsliced apple half and are already half-way finished with it. “How come I’m the one suffering and you’re just…you?”

(Because he crawled out from underneath them careful not to wake the Lamb, climbed out of their window, puked alone in the snow in the dark hours of the early morning while suffering the ailments of the mind both from ambrosia and an emotional crisis alike. Nearly clawed out his own ears and nose for remembering how soft they breathe in their sleep or the smell that mixes with his own. Sharp teeth that grind together with the knowledge that he slept just fine.)

But the Lamb doesn’t need to know that. He’ll kill them eventually for it. “Tolerance. I deal with a headache from you on the daily.”

Lambert grumbles something incoherent in-between bites and Narinder busies himself with picking between his claws. There’s dried ichor underneath them from where he clawed himself this morning. They’re flaked off to the side as the subject of his agony continues to crunch loudly besides him.

The Lamb pauses mid-bite. “You didn’t tell me someone was actively dying last night.”

The cat also pauses, before continuing his picking. “No one is dead. I would have sensed it.”

“Not dead yet, but dying.” They finish their bite and swallow, bringing the apple down. “There’s a deer in the healing bay that’s near dead. He’ll probably make it, but I was told he was dying last night, and you didn’t say a single thing to me about it.” Their nose wrinkles a bit. “I thought you would have told me about it-”

“In case your memory fails you, you abhorrent black out drunk, I was preoccupied.” He cuts them off, stern and with a side look that carries a touch of venom. “…As well as inebriated myself. I have no memory of anyone dying last night. If I felt it at all, it would have blended it with the rest of the…sensations.”

The lamb just glares at him for a moment (It’s not so heated, hard to look intimidating when you’re a mess.) before their eyes soften. “Ah, okay. I believe you.”

Narinder hmms. He keeps his eyes to the floor. It’s blackened where ichor stains have fallen over the months.

“…I will need to make a detour before then. You can rest here, if you want.”

The cat’s eye turns ever so slightly sharper. “Where?”  He questions. The lamb’s fingers continue to press at their temples until the throbbing subsides a little. They hesitate before answering, and that alone makes Narinder’s ears perk higher. Their silence can be chalked up to the hangover, though their avoidance of eye contact can not be. Narinder’s head tilts, and he repeats. “Where, Lamb.”

Their lips twist. “Spore Grotto.”

Judging by his pause, it was not the answer he expected. The sharpness he glares with doesn’t disappear like they thought it would. When Narinder speaks, it is almost accusatory. “You are to visit the Fox?”

“What? No.” They blink, and rub the sleep out of their eyes when they do. “The deer almost died from Menticide Mushrooms. If someone is smuggling a supply into the cult, I need to know. The mushroom people there might be able to tell me how it’s getting here. It’s a small errand. I wouldn’t make you come with me. The place is very…stuffy, anyways.”

The bags under his eyes are ever so slightly lighter, they wonder if he would take issue if they pointed it out at all. He doesn’t look tired. Exhausted, yes, of a different kind. But he looks like he at least got some rest. They wonder if he made it back to his room or if he just slept drunk outside somewhere like the rest of some cultists. They’ll assume the former. Narinder frowns. “You said earlier your goal was to show me new places, was it not?”

The Lamb is quiet for a moment. “There are other places I can take you that are better.”

He knows. They know that he knows. They don’t know if he remembers. If he does, he says nothing about it, and instead lets the topic die in the air.

No need to think of sad things now. The Lamb stretches their arms out, fully extended on his bed and limbs shaking a little as they expand. Their arms and hands bump over into Narinder’s lap for a moment, and they’re sure he cuts himself off from a surprised hiss that comes out almost juvenile. “You know what? I don’t remember much of last night. At least the later half. I might have overdone it.” The lamb sits up fully, curling the blanket around themselves. Narinder shoots them a look at the mention that they ‘might’ have over indulged, but he says nothing. “I remember…the wedding, you coming to the festival, Leshy blowing a hole through the temple, Heket...I got my head stuck in a fence, I think…”

Narinder hums. “You owe me your life.”

“Sure.” They speak sarcastically. “My savior.”

“Die.” He nudges the bowl a little closer to them.

“My memory starts getting a little messed up after that. I think we saw the Mystic Seller.” The apple is bitten down to the core and the apple slices left over in the bowl didn’t look too appetizing on a filling stomach. They watch his eyes stare from the floorboards to the fruits, anywhere but them. If he had any additions to add onto their gaps of memory, he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably as brain fogged as they are. “…Did you at least have fun? It think you were having fun, at least until the end. I had fun, I think.” They’re bouncing back, rambling again. “Even though you left my room a mess. That’s how I know it was you, by the way. Everything is destroyed in there. I don’t remember fighting you but I guess I won. Obviously. I would have won earlier too if I had felt like it.”

Narinder’s frown deepens. One of his claws punctures a slice and holds it up, staring at it. “You survived because I allowed it.”

“Nope. Nada. Doesn’t sound like you. You totally just lost and are being a sore loser about it.” Lambert rubs at their eyes. Strain still aches in them with a headache that throbbed in their skull, but it was. Slowly, fading but surely. “I’ll need a day to make sure everything is on course for the cult, then we can crusade to continue our way to Kallamar. Assuming he will transform the same way as your other siblings, I’ll need to make preparations. I’m going to put them all in the same living hut, which should be finished if we do the construction ritual. I’ll need your help for that by the way.”

Irritation visibly twinges in his forehead. “You give my traitorous siblings a newly well constructed home and I am to reside in here.”

“I’m working with what I have at short notice! If you dislike your sleeping quarters so much, I can find you an alternative?” They lean forwards, questioning. Narinder just grumbles something. Leshy didn’t want to leave Heket’s side once the frog had arrived. It might be risky to have them all close together, but if the worst came, The Lamb was still stronger than all of them. “Stop being stuffy about it. Plus, you said you’d help me-”

He’s looking at the apple slice thoughtfully. “Regret that already.”

“But you will.” They sing-song, still a bit raspy in their throat so it comes out softer than they mean, but all the same playfulness. They jest, elbowing in his general direction. “You will help me cause we’re friends.”

Narinder’s eye twitches, grumbling as he pops the slice in his mouth. “Martyr yourself.”

He chews and swallows. Tastes like apple, just like how he remembered it a millennia ago. Fresh and welcome replacement for the lingering taste of everything else he’s been subjected to for the last 24 hours. He goes for another, hesitating only when the air has gone quiet and there’s an apparent lack of sheep yapping. He turns to the Lamb.

They’re staring at him with wide, blown out eyes. “You’re eating.”

Narinder finishes his chew before speaking because unlike some people, he has manners. “Yes-”

“You’re eating!” They’re scrambling closer to him, far too close. “When were you able to do this? Why didn’t you tell me? Is this new? Isn’t this good? You can try new foods! Fish! Salmon! Meats! I didn’t know you could eat fruits and veggies, can cats normally eat that? Does this mean you have your rot power under control? Can you touch organic things without them decaying? People too?! Narinder, we could go fishing, you can lay down in the meadow and it wouldn’t decay-!”

It’s the slight panic that makes him plant a hand on their shoulder and shove them off. The sheep tumbles backwards against the mattress with an oomf before losing balance and falling off the side of the bed with a thud, upturning his bedsheets and sending their cloak right over their head. Narinder’s tail thrashes wildly behind him, and he pinches the end of the cover just to throw it over the Lamb and their backside. “Calm yourself, vessel or I’ll make use of this to feast on your fresh corpse.”

The over-used threat is completely ignored. Lambert huffs from the floor. “M’just happy for you.”

“Stop that.” The cat scowls. Then, he gently pushes the bucket towards them with his foot when the lamb’s face twists with nausea upon sitting up. “If you’re done, you have a cult full of idiots to attend to and last I checked, they’re all sickly with over-consumption.”

They send him a side eye, one that spells that they weren’t quite finished with him yet, but the lamb relents with a sigh. “I know. I know.” They repeat. The headache is back full force, even if the churning in their stomach is starting to dissipate. “I already put plans for repair and chores in this morning. Everything else can wait. I just need to find your brother and deal with him before I start anything else. He’s missing by the way. Probably sulking in the fields or hiding underground somewhere.”

At the mention of his brother, the God of Death stills for a moment, as if remembering something. “He left.”

“I know, doofus. I almost broke my ankle falling into the tunnel he left behind-”

“He left the cult grounds.” Narinder cuts them off, brows furrowed. “And he took that yellow cat with him.”

Lambert’s head rises, and slowly turns to face him at a pace that would make stone grind. “What.”

The Mystic Seller was as simple as ever as they passed. It said nothing, but the eyes felt particularly zeroed today. There’s no snow on the first few steps of where it floats, (possibly burned away by the sheer proximity to the divine) and the Lamb would have normally made a joke about the being sweeping off it’s steps just for appearances sake, but the mind is running far too much for such commentary. They registered the snow around their ankles lightening as they passed through Darkwood’s portal, the snow growing thinner and thinner until green grass is what remained despite an open cloudy sky. The seasons functioned differently here; like it was trying to pass through but couldn’t quite make it fully inside.

Darkwood is the same as the last left it: all deep forestry full of eye sprouting foliage, shrubbery that moves on it’s own and heretics that don’t ever let up even if the god are dead or worse; hungover.

Lambert draws the dagger out from a heretic’s neck and wonder’s briefly how cold would it need to be for blood to instantly freeze. Or really; how cold does it need to be to kill worms. “When I find him, I’m going to string him up high up off the ground so he can’t dig away and leave him there until I can figure out a punishment worthy of everything he’s done. Blowing a hole through my temple…Kidnapping one of my flock.” They dodge a spear aiming for their head and stab the dagger into the attacker’s eye in the same second. The heretic screams cut off, buckling to the ground while the Lamb reels their weapon back and stabs again with casual anger. “I warned him not to try me, but no. The gods are always so difficult.”

A few feet away, The God of Death’s spear drives through the neck of the last heretic. Their throat gurgles, and gore splatters as it’s torn open on the exit wound. The spear and it’s chain morph back into his hand before the corpse hits the ground. “Strong conviction coming from my most difficult vessel.”

“I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him, revive him, and then kill him again.” They flick the blood off the blade, turn to the trees, and scream. “Do you hear me, Leshy?! When I find you, I’m going to wring your WORMY NECK!”

Narinder has to tug his robes out from being caught underneath a body. “Just pour salt on him. He hates that.”

The Lamb groans, loud and frustrated into the air before their face drops into their palm. The hungover headache they were sporting hours ago has long since faded, but it’s quickly being replaced by a newer one with a more divine source. “I don’t have time for this!”

“For once, I’ll agree with you.” The cat hums. He appears far too non-chalant with his brother missing. “We don’t have time for a search, not if we want to continue the crusade to kill Kallamar and do your ‘detour’.”

They rub at their eyes. It burns a little, and enemy blood is smeared along the edge of their face when they’re not careful, but the lamb’s arms drop and hang exhausted as they weigh their options. “Okay…look. I’ll go to spore grotto and you look for your brother-and don’t kill him. At least, not yet.-We can prepare for Anchordeep some more when Leshy is found and I have my answers from the mushroom folk.”

He scoffs. “Leave him to Darkwood. It’s his natural habitat. If you’re so worried about the traitor, he’s probably thriving. May he be lost forever for all I care.”

The Lamb’s face turns sour. “He’s kidnapped one of my flock!”

“They’re cheap. Easily replaceable-” He doesn’t even get most of the sentence out before the Lamb is groaning again at such a repeated argument. “I’ll buy you one from that spider that keeps them for food if you’re so particular about it. What do you want? The same color yellow?”

It’s both a mockery and a half-serious statement. Lambert doesn’t know which one is worst. “Always the same with you. Fodder this and cattle that.”

He snaps, sharp teeth poking out in the corners of his mouth. The Lamb bares flat ones in an unphased, mirrored frown that he sneers at. “I’m trying to save you time. You think Leshy would have any difference from me when it comes to your followers? The gods are vindictive, Lamb, myself and my siblings included. That ‘caretaker’ of his is probably already sacrificed and their blood used to fuel my brother’s rise to undermine us both.”

For a split second, their expression goes harrow. “Did you feel them die?”

The God of Death hesitates. “…No.”

He could have lied, but he didn’t. So at least there’s that. They want to rest their head against the nearest tree and start peeling away at the bark with their bare fingertips just for some stress relief. They pinch the bridge of their nose instead.

Silence. Lambert rubs at the throbbing sensation behind their eyes for another second before looking up, and freezing.

Narinder is standing closer. Too close. A silent stalk across the grass until he’s practically cornering them back against the tree. They wonder if this is a habit of his. The confessional booth comes to mind, perhaps a few other times too. Maybe it’s a cat thing. Maybe its just him. Either way, it’s far too natural for him to invade this space, and alarming how comfortable Lambert was inside of it when they should be on the defensive.

They have to remind themselves that they are, in fact, now on the defensive. “…What?”

“Why are you like this?” He sounds different. The God of Death’s eyes are shadowed and the look in them suggest his mind is elsewhere than just arguing about attachment to the flock.

The bark digs in through their cloak into their back. The cat hovers, and right now, they can just appreciate the fact that he’s blocking the cold wind from hitting them. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“You have been nothing but disobedient, traitorous, and obnoxious. There is logically no reason why I should have humored this for as long as I have.” His brows are furrowed, seemingly more confounded than actually irritated. He doesn’t sound like he’s talking to them. “You make no sense.”

The resists the urge to roll their eyes if just to save themselves the headache. “Whatever-”

The crown shifts without their say-so, suddenly hot upon the skin of their palm in a blur of shadow. Black eyes dart to the side. There; just hidden in the treeline is a heretic with an arrow knocked and aimed directly for their head-

The heretic’s skull explodes. Spear and chain thrust through their head sending gore and pieces out like a star. The chain rips from them with a sickening crunch of bone as it exits, the corpse falling to the ground as it slides back through the air, blood and brain matter dripping from it’s links before dissipating back into the shadow and black fur of Narinder’s hand. His eyes are still on them. He didn’t even look in the other direction.

“We are not finished.” He speaks lowly. “Pay attention.”

Lambert’s eyes are wide and their ears upturned to the highest point. Even the crown is hesitant as it goes back to their wool; it didn’t even get to transform yet.

…Oh, okay.

Something about this was not apart of their mental ‘how-to-socialize-Narinder-checklist’.

The cat’s eyes narrow to slits, but before he can say anything else, the Lamb raises a hand flatly between his face and theirs, and tries to keep their voice even. “I can no longer have this argument in good faith. You win. Let’s go back to what we were doing.”

His nose scrunches as their fingers almost bop him to try and make space. To their horror, he hardly budges. “What-? No. No-” He blocks them, arm raising to herd them back against the tree. “I’m not finished with you, Lamb-”

“I am! Excuse me!” They try to shoulder check him as an escape, instantly regret it when the cat moves and they almost barrel into him instead, falling back. One would think the second time around they’d be better at this. Maybe they should panic and hit him with their horns. The goosebumps on their skin suggest it. “What! You win! What else do you want from me? Are you going to headbutt me again? I don’t even know what I did to deserve it the first time!“

This makes the cat pause. His frustration melts into confusion. “What in the hells are you talking about?”

“You headbutt me yesterday!” They say it like it’s obvious, before pausing. “Well. I think you tried, at least. You missed. Sheep only really do that when we’re fighting. Most of the time, I think. Our skulls are hard, and we have horns, and I don’t know if it’s because you were angry with me or making fun of me or-” They stop again, (Because he knows this. He should, anyway. They’ve rambled it to him at some point.) then wave non-chalantly and pointedly avoiding his gaze as the God of Death looks more and more confused by the second. “I dunno, actually. It’s kinda blurry-”

Narinder suddenly leans down to the space besides their neck, and Lambert goes deathly still. Not touching, not quite. But remain still as he’s close, close enough they can hear him gently inhale and feel the exhale on their ear. Any closer, and the God of Death would feel the quickening pulse in their throat.

(And at this very moment, Lambert wishes they weren’t gods so at least they would have someone else to pray to.)

Then, Narinder pulls back sharply.

They blink. His ears are pointed skywards and his eyes are wide, pupils shrunken to pinpricks. He’s just as deathly still as they are. The agitated swing of his tail seems to have frozen in time.

He’s not saying anything and that leaves them to be the one to fill the silence with an awkward repeat. “You attacked me, except you missed.” The fur on his face is raised. He looks a little puffed, actually. The sight of him off-guard is actually enough to lower their own. He’s probably just embarrassed that they remembered his poor attempt. Actually. Yeah. That makes the most sense.

“Ha.” Lambert snorts. “I didn’t do anything and you just did that to be a jerk yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Narinder answers quickly. “That.”

Well, at least they weren’t the only ones embarrassed anymore. The Lamb sighs, lighthearted, and raises a hand and pats the God of Death on the arm as comforting as they can manage. He’s stiff enough they’re surprised he doesn’t just knock over at the slightest touch. “It’s okay. I promise not to tell anyone about how goofy you were.”

They think they see his face twist momentarily into something else, mouth opening to respond before clamping shut at the sound of leaves rustling, ears pinned back. This time the crown is quicker, morphing into a dagger that the Lamb insticitly throws past the cat’s arm and into the direction of the movement. There’s a short yelp, a gurgle, and a thud as a heretic grasps at the gaping wound now bleeding from their throat. They flail and squirm for a few seconds longer until falling still.

The dagger dislodges from the victim, and Narinder takes a few wide, solid steps back from them before the weapon falls back into their palm. They’ve gotten distracted. Lambert leans off the tree and reassumes guard. “We need to keep going. It’s not safe here. Even if Leshy doesn’t hurt them, Darkwood is no place for one of the cultist on their own.” And they highly doubt the worm would do anything to actually keep Joon safe. Caretaker or not, Leshy was as selfish as the rest of the gods.

Narinder is still quiet. Whatever he’s thinking about, it has his tail frozen stiff. His fingers are curled like they’re still ready to grab them. The claws are extended.

“Okay, okay, sorry I yelled at you.” It comes out a half-laugh. They apologize first. They don’t expect him to apologize at all. At least, not verbally. The skin on their neck feels hot. The Lamb raises their hand and adjusts the leather so to not chafe against the scar so harshly. They flash teeth in a smile and ignore the quickened heart rate that still has yet to calm. “Still friends?”

Red eyes drop down to their neck. They linger there even after their adjustment finishes and their hand drops. Then they meet black again. His jaw is locked tight.

Then, Narinder raises his arm and summons a chain that wraps around a tree branch somewhere high up they cannot follow. “I’m getting a higher vantage point. Do not fall into any holes.”

They blink and he’s gone. Disappeared into he trees. Looking up shows no sign of him. Still around, no doubt, just concealed by branches and the petals of flesh-eyed flowers. That was a little curt. Maybe it was something they said. Maybe he’s just sensitive from whatever his problem was this morning.

Not important at the moment, they’ve already wasted enough time. The dagger is flipped to hold more comfortably in their grip, and the Lamb traverses deeper into Darkwood.

He doesn’t come down from the trees until the second day of the ‘crusade’, which is what they’re calling it now rather than ‘search party’ since if they’re collecting heretics and resources, might as well make the most of it.

He’s not talking to them. Not that he properly could high above in the branches, but it’s still unnervingly quiet when corpses litter the battle field and the cat still has yet to come down from his perch. Lambert rips the spine out of a large enemy (They’ll need as many bones as they can get. Construction rituals weren’t cheap, and the flock is growing bigger and bigger.) and turns to hold out the bloody prize to the cat for show, if anything for simple conversation, only to be met with the low quiet of Darkwood’s night.

He does, however, throw an acorn at their head when they almost let a ground worm sneak up on them from behind. Sometimes when the Lamb turns around, there’s a fresh corpse with a hole in it’s body somewhere and a the sound of chains clinking among the leaves. So at least there’s that.

For the next night into day, Narinder has decided the rest of the crusade shall be spent in mutual silence.

That is, until their dagger catches into stone when they’ve thrown it across the field and cut through a heretic’s belly. The enemy’s scream is cut off with a simple snap of the neck, and the Lamb has to maneuver their body to fall the opposite direction so it does not fall on the statue. The dagger returns from it as they step back. A strange crown on a pillar. A sight they’ve seen before.

They stand there long enough staring at it they almost forgot they weren’t alone. A thud of footsteps landing on dirt, the sound of his robes dragging along the grass. Curiosity drew down the cat. Narinder comes to stand besides them and Lambert does not look in his direction. The eye of the statue watches back with equal interest.

“Leave it be.” His voice breaks through the trance. It twinges at their ears. “Do not become distracted. You have a habit of forgetting your original purpose for things.”

Black eyes trail over to him, then over his shoulder. Behind him is a parting in the tree line. A trail where there was not one prior. A red light that seems to cut through him and past the flowers, further into the dark. Lambert looks away from it to find red glaring back at him. His eyes are trained on the lamb, but his ears are tilted towards the opening.

“What are you now, my keeper?” They decide to smile. “Why don’t you take a break for a bit and I’ll keep going? I heard you yawn up there. You don’t ever look like you get enough sleep.” With a grin, they touch the bottom of their eyes. Dark circles of their own still aren’t as evident as his. “It’ll be only a moment.”

“Distracted.” He repeats, and cocks his head in the opposite direction of the opening.

“Ooh, bossy.” They whistle. The crown returns to their head. They think he sends it’s eye a narrowed look before taking the lead, the Lamb following close behind. “Is the cold getting to you? Your robes are made out of wool. It should help.”

A curt wind blows and cuts through their cloak. Their limbs take the brunt of it, but their wool is nicely grown and thick. They’ll need to trim the wool on their head soon enough before it gets too long to reach their shoulders. The God of Death just tenses a bit. “It’s fine.”

The opening in the forest is ignored, and they keep pace with the cat who’s tail drags in the grass. Their attention darts to it like a shiny coin. “Now that I think of it, I never got to see your reaction to snow for the first time.”

The God of Death pulls his hood up higher. “Winter was not my favorite of months.”

“Why not? The snow is pretty.”

“The afterlife’s sand looks the same. If I had wanted to see nothing but white, I would have stayed there.”

“…Oh.” Well, there goes the last chance of trying to convince him to make snow angels back at the cult. “…But you can’t do snowball fights in the afterlife. Or sit next to a warm fire, or have a hot drink or-”

He huffs. “If you’re trying to convince me, you’re doing a poor job of it.”

“Did you and your siblings ever enjoy the small things of winter?” Their hands hover over where his tail sways, just for the tail to jut out of reach and for Narinder to shoot a red hot glare over his shoulder. They grin, hands clasped behind their back. “Or are you all adverse to the cold? Too ‘high and mighty’ to partake in ‘mortal affairs’” They make quotations with their fingers, sure to emphasize that last part with a comically over-dramatic voice.

The way his nose scrunches up in immediate distaste is funny. “We didn’t care for such things, and you are far too bold to ask questions like that so casually.”

“You still answered me, though.”

The God of Death’s frown falters. He turns away from them even as the sheep snickers. “I tire of you.”

“We’ll find something for you to enjoy before spring comes. Something new.” They think out loud, almost walking in a skip. “…Do you think your disciples would have liked winter?”

He stops then. The cat’s body goes tense, and they cannot see his expression from this angle. The hood’s fabric conceals him. When the lamb walks a step forward and leans over to peer at his face; Narinder is staring at nothing. Until the slit of his eyes drag down to the Lamb. They blink at him, expectant. He looks like he wants to stab them for their audacity.

“Sometimes at night, the sky changes colors.” They start. Smile never fading, voice soft and cautious. Narinder glares at them, but he hasn’t told them to shut up yet. “It happens on the darkest days of winter, when there aren’t any clouds in the sky. Sometimes, I’ll look up and there will be lights.”

(The Lamb freshly killed and revived back to the cult’s symbol. They take one step off the stair and pause when they notice it’s brighter outside at night than how it’s supposed to be. The sky is waves of pink and blues and golds swimming above them. They stand there and stare for a long time. The crown is gently taken off their head, and held up towards the sky.)

(“Look.” They speak to The One Who Waits behind the crown’s eye. “You’ll be underneath this soon.”)

Narinder feels his throat dry. Their smile doesn’t fall, but they do fall back into step and return to the crusade’s march, making it only a few steps before he speaks again. “They might have.”

The Lamb stops. Their head swivels back to him. “Pardon?”

“My disciples-” Narinder cuts himself off.

The Lamb’s face has softened. He is falling into distraction. It’s infuriating.

He’d do better to cut out his own tongue. They don’t say anything when he cuts past them and moves further into the treeline.