Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the lamb first dies, The One Who Waits is, admittedly, growing desperate.

Vengeance is a burning, hot feeling. It’s something that swells in his chest and makes him dizzy. It’s something he’s chased after since chains had latched onto his wrists and imprisoned him. It’s been his driving factor and motivation. His claws itch and burn with the need to do something. Old battles wounds still ache. He still remembers inflicting battle wounds. And they burn with desire. Desire so sharp that it stings.

And when the lamb first dies, it’s his last bet. His last card. He hopes it’s a good one.

His head feels empty without the crown.

But it is with his crown that he is able to watch and survey what his vessel does. It is through the eye of the crown that he watches as the lamb swings swords, gathers cultists, and grows in power. And it is through the eye of the crown that he witnesses the lamb’s first death.

It isn’t the last.

But there is a shaken look on their face. This is their second taste of death. Not many got to experience such a thing twice, and it was no doubt not an enjoyable experience based upon the way their face was twisted. But he had been there, veil covering his face as he rumbled his reassurances.

”Fear not, for you are my chosen vessel and death cannot halt you. I shall not allow it, for I still have need of you. Take what you have gathered. Build and strengthen the Cult. This is how power is gained. Continue on, undaunted. Each time you are brought down, you rise again stronger.”

Admittedly, the last part could’ve been phrased better. The lamb’s next death comes quickly after the one prior, almost as if intentional. ”Death is of little consequence. Rise once more, vessel of mine. It matters not how many times you are struck down. The Cult shall continue to grow.” His tail flicks behind him, an itching feeling. Before the lamb is whisked away, he adds a quiet remark:

”You do not gain strength after each fall, lamb.”

The words must be interpreted differently this time. At the very least, they don’t die for a while after that. The One Who Waits is left alone once more with his servants. They don’t talk. And when they do, it is a few spare words tossed through the air here and there. Time is weighing heavy on his shoulders, but he can wait.

The next time they die, they aren’t silent.

Their white wool is slowly losing the burnt, ashen color and smell it has gained. The shocked look in their eyes remains as they blink rapidly, nostrils flaring as they cough a little. The One Who Waits is already lifting his wrist to dismiss them when they speak, stopping him in the act.

“I didn’t know they could shoot fireballs…”

Aym’s ear flicks. Baal’s tail twitches. The One Who Waits slowly lowers his hand, chains rattling quietly in the vast void that surrounds them. Curious. He tilts his head, almost mockingly, as he studies the lamb. They seem frazzled, yet, but more than anything… they almost seem agitated. Annoyed, even. His tail flicks around behind him, rattling slightly. How amusing.

And then the lamb is gone, and it is quiet once more.

The next death doesn’t come for a while. And well before it happens, Leshy is felled. The One Who Waits promptly summons his vessel into his prison realm, his face twisted into a smile. “Leshy fell before you like a grain of sand before a tidal wave.” Amusement coats his voice. The lamb almost looks surprised, but they are gone before they can say anything.

The cult is growing.

He doesn’t pay much mind to that part of the lamb’s mission. He is more interested in the crusades. Nonetheless, he is aware of the changes. He is aware that it is growing. Of course, that doesn’t mean he is caught up on the happenings.

When the lamb dies once more, they stay for the longest they have yet.

“Can’t you just… kill all the things for me? Make it easier?” And it’s a complaint. The first thing the lamb utters to them since the last is a complaint. Not only that, but a complaint that angers him. His tail rattles behind him, twitching angrily as he leans forward, fur bristling. ”Had I been able to do that, I would have killed them myself. Do not test me, vessel.”

He can feel the tension in the air. Despite that, the lamb merely tilts their head, one ear flicking up as their bell jingles. “You sent your crown with me… why not send it after them?”

The One Who Waits barks out a laugh, pulling back. He doesn’t offer an answer, however, and the lamb is soon sent back. Aym and Baal make no comment, but he can feel questions burning in the back of their throats. He doesn’t give them the satisfaction of answering.

The next time the lamb dies, plenty of time has passed. It’s a stupid slip up on their part. A single missed fly is what takes them down in the end. The One Who Waits can’t help but snort at the sight, but the display is quickly shoved aside upon the lamb’s arrival. He can practically feel the annoyance radiating off of his vessel. Nonetheless, they quickly look over at him with that curious look in their eyes.

“Are you up to date with the cult?”

The question catches him off guard. The One Who Waits almost feels as if he has been caught in some sort of act. So, he heaves a sigh, and admits he has not. And it’s the key for the floodgates, because suddenly, the vessel is babbling on and on about the cult. It’s a complaint more than anything. It’s amusing, more than anything.

Surprisingly enough, he allows the lamb to stay and do this.

It is more so for the fact that Aym and Baal look completely lost. Unsure of what to do. The expressions on their faces are more amusing than anything else. But eventually, time draws on, and he grows bored of it. With a heavy sigh, he straightens up his posture, the chains rattling as he moves. The lamb stops talking immediately, giving silence for him to speak instead.

”Do not get attached to them, vessel.”

It’s a warning. Curt and simple. But the lamb still tilts their head, almost bothered by the phrase. “Why not?”

His ear twitches.

The lamb is gone.

The next time the lamb visits, it’s because he summons them. Heket is gone. He feels relaxed. He can’t help but grin as he purrs out his praise. ”I enjoyed watching you destroy Heket. Her arrogance was always destined to be her undoing. Your merciless crusade against the Old Faith warms my cold, unbeating heart.”

And, once more, they are gone. Except, the next time they return, they come with a question.

“Do you actually have a heart that doesn’t beat?”

It’s a silly question. The One Who Waits blinks a few times, and the lamb continues. “You’re a God, and you’re immortal. You shouldn’t need a heart.” It sounds more like the lamb is piecing together a puzzle than asking a question. Still, he indulges. ”I do.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t indulge any further, and the lamb is swept away.

It’s an odd feeling, so say the least. He hasn’t had much conversation in a long while. Doing it so much with his vessel is… odd. But it doesn’t stop. Nor does him singing his praises as the lamb continues to fall the Old Faith.

”Kallamar was always a coward. This land is a better place now his pathetic, sniveling carcass is nothing more than a mound of rotting flesh. Soon I shall be freed, and the world remade in my image. All will pledge themselves to the Cult. All will bow to my name.”

The lamb looks conflicted, but no comment is made.

”Shamura was weak, not wise. Their vision was too small to contain the multitudes of one such as I. The time has come to free me. You shall have the honor of returning the Red Crown to its true bearer. I admit, you have worn it almost as well as I could have myself.”

Kallamar is felled. Then Shamura is felled. But the lamb still holds an odd look in their gaze. It seems misplaced. He smiles.

”Your appetite for death is something I can admire, vessel. But the Crown is mine, and none - none - are worthy. None other than I. You shall lay down your life and return to me what is mine. After millenia, all may bask in my glory once more. But it cannot be done here. The final gate awaits. Hurry now, the time is at hand.”

The look remains. Even as they leave. The One Who Waits waits. He sits and waits, patiently tapping his clawed hands against the chains. And finally, the lamb arrives, a shadow strewn over their face. He brushes it aside, smiling down eagerly.

”Vessel, 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. Finally… I will be free! Approach, vessel, and lay your life down at my feet.”

It’s simple. It’s expected. It’s short.

The lamb does not budge.

For a moment more, he waits. He waits and stares down at his vessel. And then, slowly, the realization dawns. His lips curl back. His hackles rise. Bitter anger burns at the back of his throat. Another traitor.

”So you have betrayed me, Lamb. You have shunned my gospel, and claimed yourself a false idol. The crown is mine by divine right! You think to stand in the very face of death?”

And then there’s a blur of fighting.

Baal is the first to fall. It’s quick. Too quick. Aym follows shortly after. They are snuffed out just as quickly as they start fighting. The One Who Waits bares his teeth. He rears, an ugly snarl tearing itself from his throat as he raises his arms. The chains rattle, straining against his wrists to a point that it hurts.

And then they shatter. And he’s almost free.

“Even after I have slaughtered you, your pain will not end! You cannot escape me, even in death!”

He sounds tormented. His voice is raw and ripping with anger. His throat burns. Anger and grief churn in his chest. Betrayal burns through him. He hasn’t fought in years. Surely he won’t be felled by a traitor?

And yet, as the vessel swings their blade, pain sears through him. It’s fresh. It’s new. It’s reminiscent. Flashes of his siblings dance in his vision as he tears across the field. Chains roar across the ground. Ichor drips from his eyes. Flames rage. And yet, the lamb dances between everything perfectly. Almost perfectly. They slip up.

One of the chains shoots up from the ground and pierces the bottom of their jaw, bursting from the top of their skull. There is a spurt of blood, and then they are gone.

But then they come back.

And once more, they slip up. This time, they trip. They stumble and waver. Before they can regain their balance, they are engulfed in flames.

They come back, and this time, they drop him to his knees. For a moment, the wind is knocked from his lungs. His aching hands scrabble at the ground to support himself. And then, he sinks down, reemerges, and sets the field ablaze. The lamb is not fast enough, and the flames eat them alive.

It loops like this for a while. He could very well take the crown from them, but then that would leave him without a vessel. Without a ticket to freedom. They were trapped here. Either until the lamb decided to yield, or until…

No.

He refused to let that happen. And yet, as more and more deaths painted the once white fields a scarlet red, his moves became more and more predictable. Up until he had enough. He dropped down with a snarl, body half submerged into the cracked ground. For a moment, the lamb looked hopeful. Relieved. And then he spoke, and their expression fell away.

“Did you believe me defeated? Did you think that to be all there was to a being such as I? You thought yourself…above a God?”

The world flips, and everything is dark.

When it lights up, his face is peeled back like a star. Angry red flesh pulses as hundreds of eyes dart around. His head pounds. He can taste ichor. And yet, the lamb remains undeterred.

“You are corrupt, false idol. Your corruption has no doubt spread.”

They die fast.

Flames brush over them, and they fall. But they get back up. They keep getting up. They keep coming back. And he will not wait for his freedom.

Desperation makes him clumsy. Makes him stupid. The lamb is readjusting to the new moves fast. Faster than before. Their deaths become less repetitive. They die less. They slip up less. And he can feel himself faltering. It’s devastating. It can’t be.

And then, there’s a flash of pain. A burst. He feels his form wobble, and then it’s gone. And suddenly, he feels small.

His body is aching. He can feel liquid running down from his injuries. And in front of him, the lamb stands, staring down. He feels inferior.

Yet, he still curls his lips back and sneers as they use their blade to tilt his chin up.

“You have supplanted me. A vessel no more, instead a crown bearing deity.”

He has to think.

“I am at your mercy… are you to be a vengeful, false idol, or a merciful coward? No longer can you blame your vile acts on me.”

He doesn’t have time to think.

The blade is cold beneath his chin. He can smell his own blood. It burns the back of his throat. He’s bristling. He’s scared. And despite it, he stares the lamb in the eyes, unwavering. The blade presses towards his throat for a moment. He waits for stinging pain… and then the blade is lowered.

Got it.

“You weak, sniveling, foul thing…” He breathes out, slumping for a moment.

And then he moves. Adrenaline roaring through his veins. His clawed hands outstretched and latched onto the blade. He ignores the sting as the metal slices his palm. For now, he can act while he still has power. And he will put all of that power into the blade. Into the Crown.

The blade pulses, lighting up with a white glow. One of the vessel’s hands is on his forehead, desperately attempting to shove him back while the other attempts to pry the blade away. It burns. It burns as the blade slices against his palms, but he doesn’t care. He will not have his dignity snuffed out like this.

A plea dies in the vessel’s throat as the blade bursts. At least, that’s what he believes to happen.

All he knows is scorching, white pain, and then nothing.

Chapter Text

The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is swing his claws through the air.

It was like a blink for him. One moment, his hands were on the blade, the sharpened edges digging into his rotted hands. And then, the next, there was nothing. There was pain, there was heat, and then it was gone. Replaced by a horrible, lonely cold. And then, it was all back. Everything slammed into him at full force. Pain, warmth, cold, noises, light. All of it swarmed his senses. His reaction was purely animalistic, in that it was almost a defense mechanism.

He couldn’t see at first. Not when he wasn’t sure of where he was, what was happening, and what had happened. The pain swarming his senses doesn’t help. The pain spiraling up his arms and throughout his body is not helping. It’s like a shock to his system. It’s agonizing. It burns brightest at his hands and arms. That alone almost blocks out the rest of the pain, but it doesn’t. He feels every bit of himself, and it feels like he is on fire.

The lashing out part is for his own defense. That, or maybe it’s the muscles in his body contracting in pain and forcing himself to move. His nostrils burn and sting. His throat feels raw. He can smell burnt flesh and ash and smoke. And when his claws go ripping through the air, he feels them catch on something. He can’t make out what it is, though. His vision is smudged and fuzzy. No shapes are sharp enough for him to construct. Not only that, but the ringing in his ears is making it hard to hear anything.

But he feels them catch, and something sharp and white bursts through his hand and wrist. It takes not a moment more for him to reel back with a strangled, gargling snarl as pain flares once more. He can taste blood. It’s in his throat and nose. He can feel it dampening his fur. There’s so much.

Something far away and underwater sounds in front of him. Between his gagging and retching, he can make out what almost sounds like words. Except, he can’t quite understand those words. It’s more so the structure of the sound. The familiarity of the sound. He feels his ears swivel atop his head, almost trying to dissect the noise a bit more to hear it. Where are Aym and Baal?

Another retch. They’re gone.

Before he can do anything else, there is pressure on his shoulders. It’s not weight, nor is it something being pressed down onto him. It’s something grabbing. Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much. But still, he can’t help but elicit a hiss of pain as he blinks his eyes. With each blink, the world becomes clearer. He can see rocks beneath his feet. Rocks and grass. Color. It isn’t just white. It isn’t empty.

He’s free.

But there is also ugly red and black. It stains the ground beneath him and… someone else. A few more blinks and the color white meets his eyes. It isn’t exactly pure white, no. It’s more off white. But it’s a familiar color. Not familiar in the same way his prison has been. No. It takes no more than a few seconds for him to place his fingers on who this is. And it takes no more than that for his vision to finally focus on the worried face of that traitor.

“Usurper…” His voice is strangled and comes out raw. There’s a gargle to it, too. Likely the liquid in his throat. He feels the pressure on his shoulders tighten for just a moment before he’s retching once more, claws hands desperately trying to keep himself upright. Where they are touching the grass, it burns. It’s not the same pain from where the chains had rubbed against his arms. No. It’s different.

The simple fact is that his hands and arms are scorched to an ugly, rotten black. It’s a stark contrast against his fur, and it shouldn’t be. It’s rough and ugly and misshapen. It’s a dark, twisted form. And he finally grasps why it hurts so damned much.

The vessel says something. It’s far away. It’s soft and gentle. It makes his blood boil. With a wordless snarl, he lashes out once more. He ignores the pain that goes lancing through his arm up to his chest. He does his best to ignore the way his arms scream in protest against the motion. He’s felt pain before, and he is no stranger to it. But this is different. It’s new. It hurts. Gods, it hurts.

The attack makes the lamb reel away, and the pain is enough to make him lose balance. He hits the ground with a thud, and a shock of heat pulses through his body. He coughs, and he can see angry red dots splatter on the dirt in front of him. Not like this. He refuses. And with heaving, ragged breaths, he continues to refuse.

The lamb is staring at him from a distance, eyes wide with concern and worry. “Narinder, you just–”

“Do not speak to me, vile thing!” He spits the words out, venom coating each syllable. For a moment, the lamb almost looks hurt, but then he continues. “Not a word out of your… traitorous mouth!” With a snarl, he heaves himself upright. It’s lopsided. He’s swaying. But he refuses. With his lips curled and ears pinned down, he spits venomous words at the lamb. “Traitor!”

“I brought you back to the Cult.”

He’s caught off guard by the curtness of it. He coughs, shoulders heaving with a strangled breath as more liquid trickles from the corners of his mouth. The lamb continues. “We’re outside. I needed to run in and get something to cover you up.” Why are they explaining. His fur bristles, hackles rising. “If you think that I will willingly join your little gaggle, then you’re wrong.”

The lamb presses their lips together into a thin line, ears swiveling downward. They’re starting to look annoyed. They sound annoyed when they speak next. “I brought you back here to help you. I spared you.”

“Coward.”

“You can call me that all you want, but you’re the one who tried to blow us up as a last ditch effort.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs in response, but a peculiar thought crosses his mind. A sudden realization. The lamb’s head is barren. No Crown. Icy cold pinpricks are starting to travel up his arms. “Where is the Crown.”

The lamb’s nostrils flare with their next exhale, but they don’t respond. Rather, they pull out a hooded robe. “Put this on.”

“Answer me, Vessel.”

The lamb rolls their eyes now. He feels himself bristle even more. “You rotten little thing!” He practically snarls, raising a hand on instinct. The lamb flinches on instinct. And nothing happens. No fireballs. No chains. Nothing. The lamb looks relieved and more worried at the same time. But they do relent.

After a moment of hesitation, they reach their hand back behind them before slowly holding it out.

Narinder barks out a laugh.

“Do you think of me to be fooled by this?” His gaze sluggishly drags itself back up to the lamb’s face. They blink a few times before shaking their head. “What– no. No! This is part of the crown!”

And he can’t believe him. Not only because the lamb has freshly betrayed him, but because what lays in their palm is a small black shard. It’s no bigger than one of the lamb’s fingers. The edges are jagged, but have smooth, clean cuts. Narinder is shaking now. He tries to ignore it. “I will not so easily be tricked by you again…” He breathes out, and suddenly, his voice is airy and wrong.

The lamb immediately puts the shard away, taking a few steps forward with the robe. “Can we just-”

“Stay back.”

The words come out as an animalistic growl. It’s a noise that Narinder hasn’t made in a very, very long time. And it’s enough to halt the lamb for a moment, a bewildered expression carving itself onto their face. Narinder draws in another jagged breath through his mouth, jaw hanging open with each haggard breath. He can feel himself drooling. That or maybe it’s blood. He feels queasy.

And then the lamb stomps a foot, nostrils flaring once more. “I’m trying to help!” They declare ears flattening. And at that, he offers up a laugh. “After you betray me?” He breathes, tail thumping against the ground. “How comedic.”

“I didn’t–” The lamb cuts themself off, pinching the bridge of their nose with a sharp inhale. After a moment or two, they slowly exhale, lowering their hand and shaking their head softly. “You do understand you were asking me to just… give up my life. Die. Cease existence.” They explain, cautiously taking another step forward. Narinder bristles at the action. “I made you my Vessel. You made a cult in my name.”

The lamb coughs, and Narinder stills in the slightest.

“What did you do?”

“I did keep asking if you were caught up on the Cult.”

“Lamb.”

“It wasn’t exactly made in your name? They sorta… worship me?”

Narinder pauses. Exhales another laugh. And promptly slumps to the ground.

Waking up this time is a far more enjoyable experience.

It isn’t exactly the best. No. But it is much, much better than last time. The one big difference is the pain. While it is still there, it is lessened. While it still lingers deep within his bones and body, the throb is far away and behind a numbing buzz. His arms ache instead of burn. His throat, while still pulsing with pain, feels less as if the inside has been torn apart.

Not only that, but it isn't on the ground outside anymore. Wherever he is, there is a roof of some sort over his head. Beneath him is soft cushioning. It’s warm. He’s warm. But there’s one big difference this time that wasn’t there last time.

There was something covering his third eye.

He shifted, squeezing his eyes shut as he let out a quiet huff of pain. It was dark outside whatever structure he was in, and there was little to no light aside from a few candles inside. He could make out a table near whatever he was laying on as well as a few containers holding carnelians. His tail thumped. His ear twitched.

Damned Lamb.

The next exhale comes out as a crackling wheeze. It sounds as if his lungs are full of gravel. He lets out a quiet grunt, slowly moving his aching arms. Each small bit of movement is followed by a twinge of red hot pain, but he pushes through it. The next difference he notices is that his arms and hands are wrapped in bandages. They look as though they need to be changed, but they are wrapped.

For a few moments, he stares, perplexed. And then he reaches one hand towards his third eye. The contact sends a small spark of pain through his finger tips, but he brushes it aside. Of course, he can’t really feel the texture of whatever is covering his eye, but he can feel the shape of it. And whatever it is, it is wrapped around his head.

Another bandage.

Which… admittedly, does confuse him. His eyes had not been injured when he had last awoken. He was sure of it. And it was bothering him. He made a disgruntled sound, quietly scrabbling helplessly at the fabric in an attempt to get it off.

“Oh! Deary, don’t go taking that off yet!”

Narinder abruptly stills at the voice. It isn’t familiar, which is good. But it isn’t familiar, which is bad. With slow, calculated movement, he cranes his head towards the entrance to the structure. Just outside, not venturing in, is a small deer. Her voice matches her appearance, as she is rather small and looks… well… rather nervous. Unsure.

But he cares not for this creature. Without so much as lowering his hands from the bandage covering his eye, he spits out one simple question: “Where is the damned lamb.”

The deer stops, blinking her eyes rapidly in bewilderment. After a moment of hesitation, an uneasy smile begins to form. They continue to approach, heading towards the containers of carnelians with an unsure expression. “My Lamb is… busy.” She offers, flipping open the lid of a box before taking out a few of the flowers. Not a moment later, she sits down at the table and begins to carefully pluck the petals from some of the flowers.

After a few moments, Narinder (reluctantly) lowers his hand away from the bandages, scowling crossly at the deer. “Busy with what?” He finally huffs, wincing as he moves to sit more comfortably. She doesn’t look up from her work, carefully inspecting one of the petals. “A crusade. They’ve left to handle things outside of here.” After a little hum, she carefully flicks something off the petal before setting it aside.

They left him alone at their Cult? Foolish move.

There isn’t any hesitation in his next movement. His hand simply rises up into the air, palm facing towards the deer, and he wills chains upon her.

A moment passes.

And then another.

His hand falls back down defeatedly. A withering emotion makes his chest feel tight. Gods dammit. He silently curses, tail lashing furiously behind him. The movement hurts, but it's the only way to express how he’s feeling at the moment. He needed his Crown. The Lamb had been playing at a game when saying that fragile little shard was all that remained. He would not be fooled so easily. Not again.

“All done!”

The deer snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked a few times, turning his gaze towards her. She was standing at his side now, holding out a bowl with a few petals in it. His gaze switched between the petals and her face for a few moments. She blinked before clearing her throat. “To eat… they should help you feel better.”

“I feel fine.” It’s a lie. Narinder aches and throbs. He feels queasy all over. Everything is wrong and nothing is right. But he refuses to take help from a mortal.

“You can trust me if… you’re worried about that.” She laughs a little, carefully reaching into the bowl and plucking a petal out of it. After a moment of deliberation, she pops it into her mouth, quietly chewing on it before swallowing. “My name is Fion.” She offers between the chewing, still holding the bowl.

Narinder looks her up and down once more, a scowl still carved into his face. “I’m The–”

“You’re awake!”

Both Narinder and Fion startle, jumping at the new voice. And this is one he recognizes. He is not surprised to see the Lamb standing at the entrance to the structure, looking haggard and out of breath. And suddenly, Fion looks nervous. “I– I figured I could help take care of him if he awoke! I know you said not to, but–”

“You’re alright, Fion. Just… go help with the kitchen.” The Lamb dismisses her easily, waving a hand as he steps inside. And after she has set the bowl of petals aside and left, it’s just them.

“Are you feeling–”

“Vermin.”

“-well…”

The lamb heaves a sigh, an unamused expression taking place on their face. Narinder returns the expression with a toothy, forced smile before frowning once more. The Lamb takes the silence as a motion for them to continue, and they do. “Are you feeling well?” They repeat, and Narinder scoffs. “As well as someone who was betrayed and stripped of their power can feel.” He retorts, ears pinning downwards. The bandage over his eye shifts with the movement, and he hisses. “Why the bandage over the eye?”

“I figured they might get a little startled upon seeing a cat with three eyes?” The Lamb offers. Narinder deadpans, raising an eyebrow. The Lamb coughs, clearing their throat. “It’s… temporary.” They offer, and Narinder rolls his eyes at that.

After another moment of silence, the Lamb clears their throat. “There… is something I’d like to talk to you about.” They begin, and Narinder scoffs. “I’m not playing buddy with your Cult. Traitor.” He sneers the final word, baring his teeth. The Lamb looks unbothered, though they do practically collapse in the chair Fion had been sitting in.

“The Crown–”

“My Crown.”

“Your Crown is split up!”

The Lamb is exasperated. They finally spit it out, and Narinder lets out another laugh. “And you expect me to believe you?” He hums, tilting his head. The Lamb ignores the taunt, continuing. “I have a piece of it, and I can… generally tell where the others are… but I can’t do a lot of what I did anymore. It’s all… divided up.” They wave their hands vaguely in the air. “And they… might be causing issues…”

Narinder rolls his eyes. The Lamb heaves out another sigh. “I managed to find another piece. And I got a little bit of my power back! But… it’s not complete.” They offer, carefully reaching back and pulling out the shards. Narinder can’t help but lean forward to inspect, squinting down. It’s still small and tiny, and he can see the breaking point of where the two pieces have haphazardly reconnected. And suddenly, everything feels wrong.

“Why are you telling me this?” He grumbles, leaning back. The Lamb tilts their head. Narinder narrows his eyes. “Why are you acting as though we did not just battle, Vessel.” He continues, ears flattening down further. “Do not think for a moment that I will just accept and move on.”

“I don’t–”

“Putrid scum.”

The Lamb groans and drags their hands down their face, sliding down in the chair. Narinder watches, silent. And after they recollect themself and sit back up, they look at him with a straight face. “You blew up the Crown. You made a mess. Help me clean it up.”

And Narinder howls with laughter.

It hurts his chest, and his rubs pulse with angry pain. But he can’t help it. He rears his head back, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as he clutches himself. “Help you? After the treacherous act you committed against me?” Another laugh. “Never!”

The Lamb heaves out a sigh. “Y’know what– how about this,” They begin. “You help me gather up the shards, and we can split the power.”

Narinder stops laughing.

“That way, you get to keep the Crown in some way, and I also get to keep–”

“Three fourths.”

The Lamb stops, jaw gaping. “What.”

“I want three fourths of the power.” Narinder repeats. The Lamb almost immediately starts shaking their head, crossing their hands through the air in an ‘x’ shape. “What– no? No. No! That– no! I’m helping you get better! Half!”

“Greedy.”

“You said you wanted three fourths!”

“The Crown rightfully belongs to me.”

The Lamb opens their mouth to speak, and then promptly stops. Rather, they stand up, inhaling a sharp breath. And then they turn to leave. Narinder blinks a few times, opening his mouth to make some taunt before they turn around. “I’ll bring you food later and change your bandages. Don’t try running off, and do not attack any of my Followers.”

And then they are gone.

“...vile thing.”

And when they return later with a bowl smelling of fish, Narinder feels his stomach ache (weak mortal bodies). He does, however, take interest in eating. Though he isn’t especially inclined when it's the damned traitor bringing his food. He merely raises an eyebrow when The Lamb sets the bowl on the table beside the bed. “It’s got… fish! A lot of fish. Because… cats like fish! Usually…”

“Stereotypical..” Narinder muses, and The Lamb grows alarmed. “What– no! I didn’t mean it like that!” They exclaim, and Narinder pauses at that. He tilts his head in their direction, one of his ears swiveling curiously. After raising an eyebrow at them, The Lamb coughs and turns towards some of the containers. “You can eat while I change your bandages. Just… let me get some stuff.”

The Lamb has a mortar and pestle. Narinder doesn’t pay much mind to whatever they are smashing up. He is more interested in the bowl that he is now holding with bandaged hands. He recognizes some of the fish, but he can’t put a name to others. Still, he quietly takes one of the smaller ones out and nibbles on it quietly. He only stops when The Lamb turns around, mortar and bandages held in hand.

The process is… difficult.

It burns. It’s an awful feeling. Not only that, but it itches. The sensation drives him crazy. And what makes it even worse is that they were supposedly “overdue for change.” He nearly bites their head off at that comment. He does, however, continually threaten them. Part of it is because of the process, but part of it is because of the angry resentment burning in his stomach.

But when it’s finally done, The Lamb turns to put the bandages away and wash out the mortar. The pestle is left on the table.

Narinder takes it.

And is decidedly surprised that The Lamb doesn’t take notice when they put the mortar away. How they have managed to run a Cult this entire time is a mystery to him. He doesn’t point it out, however. The Lamb seems more focused on his unfinished bowl. They quietly gesture to it, and Narinder nudges it away from himself. Their face falls. “Is it… not good?”

“I don’t take handouts from traitors.”

The Lamb’s face twists as they pick up the bowl, narrowing their eyes. “I have a name.” The way they say it almost makes it sound like an announcement. Narinder doesn’t react. They huff, turning away. “Lambert.” They add.

Narinder snorts.

The Lamb’s face twists even more, and they begin to leave. “This is where you’ll be staying for the night. If you sneak out and get caught, there will be repercussions.”

Narinder almost laughs once more.

Narinder, decidedly, doesn’t sneak out.

He, in fact, doesn’t move for a while. Sleeping is weird. It’s wrong. He can’t will himself to do it, but he can feel it weighing down on his body. To keep himself occupied, he keeps watch on what little of the sky he can see from where he is laying. He watches the stars slowly drag themselves across the sky. He watches the pitch black slowly change to blue, to purple, to pink, to orange, and then to red and blue.

It doesn’t take long for the Followers to begin moving. He catches pieces of conversation here and there, but it’s nothing important. For the most part, it is just greetings and names. Nothing he cares to take too much note of.

Eventually, Lambert arrives.

They are waving away one of the Followers when they get to the door, and they almost look surprised to see him up. He merely offers a slow blink in acknowledgement as they enter the structure.

“I got a tent set up for you.” Lambert explains. “If you want to move to it.”

I don’t take handouts. He bites back the scathing retort, slowly sliding off the edge of the “bed.” Upon seeing him moving, Lambert turns to head out. Narinder sees his chance. He grabs the mortar and, quite simply, throws it at the other's head.

A loud thunk echoes, and Lambert stills.

By the time they turn around, Narinder is on his feet, eyes half-lidded and expectant. They look down at the mortar on the ground. Then back up. Then down. Then up again. And finally, they heave a sigh. “As long as it's me and not any of the Followers…” They mumble, and Narinder can’t help but roll his eyes at that. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Lambert begins to lead him out.

“Did I not tell you to avoid getting attached?” Narinder mumbles, suddenly feeling very self conscious upon leaving. The robe he was given has a hood (thank the Gods), and he finds himself tugging on the edges to hide his face even more. Lambert sighs a little. “Yes, you did…” They nod, and Narinder hums a little.

“You didn’t listen.”

“They’re people.”

“They’re fuel for you. They should be stepping stones and nothing more.”

“Do you think that of Fion?”

“Why would I not?”

Lambert quiets after that, and Narinder can't help but feel as if he has won the dispute.

His tent is on the edge of the settlements. Narinder must make a face, because Lambert begins to explain. “I don’t want any mingling to happen until you’ve recovered a bit more.” They look him up and down. “And until you learn to… behave…” They mumble the last part quietly, looking away. Narinder bristles, ears pinning down. “Me? Behave? I’m more mature than you! At least I know not to betray people!”

Lambert exhales a quiet huff, but says nothing more. They leave, and Narinder is left to himself once more. And it remains just as such throughout the day. It is only towards the evening that Lambert reappears.

Narinder has taken shelter inside the tent by then. At least, that is what Lambert hopes. There isn’t any sign of the felled God outside of the tent, so he is simply hoping that he is inside the tent and hasn’t run off. They arrive with a bowl of food once more. This time, a different assortment. Not fish, but not just vegetables. A mixture of meats and vegetables. Balanced. They clear their throat.

“Narinder. I’ve brought you food for the evening.”

No response.

Lambert’s ears twitch a little. They can hear him breathing. So he is still here… They take a mental note of this before clearing their throat once more. “I’ll just… leave it outside.” They cough a little, bending down to set it on the ground. “Try not to leave it outside. It’ll rot and go bad, and then there’ll be a whole thing and…” They trail off with a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping.

Still, they get nothing.

Just the confirmation that he is still in the tent is satisfying enough, however. So, they turn to head back towards the center of the settlement. With it nearing evening, most tasks are finishing up for the day.

They can’t help but catch some of the passing conversations from the Followers.

“He didn’t look like he was in the best shape when they brought him here…”

“Just goes to show how harsh the world can be sometimes.”

“I’m glad I’m here and not out there… but it makes you wonder.. What happened to the guy?”

Lambert paused in his tracks, one of his ears perking up.

“The Lamb didn’t have their Crown when they came back… and they looked awfully frazzled. Maybe it had something to do with him?”

“Could be. Or maybe they were just taking a break from wearing it?”

“Do you ever see them without it?”

A pause.

“Look… all I’m saying is that I’m curious. I wanna know the story. That’s all.”

“You and me both…”

Right. He’d have to bring it up at the next sermon. If anyone went poking around and upset Narinder, who knew what he would do. Sure, he was injured, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t spiteful. And adrenaline could do a lot for a person when it really riled them up. With a sigh, Lambert continued on, making their way towards the exit.

They were hoping for some helpful insight from Ratau. Or, at the very least, maybe some assistance. Anything, really. So, with high hopes, they stood atop the portal and activated it.

Chapter Text

Narinder is bored.

Maybe not bored, but more so tired. He isn’t quite sure what to label the feeling as, but those two feel closest. It isn’t a particularly terrible sensation, but it isn’t desirable. Not to him. It makes his movements drag. He itches to do something, but there isn’t exactly much for him to do.

The Lamb left a while ago. Or, at least, they last attempted talking to him awhile ago. The sun was beginning to set, so it was probable they were helping finish up tasks for the day. That, or perhaps they had settled in for the night as well. Whatever it was, he didn’t care enough to think about it too much.

The bandages on his arms itched. The bandage around his eye itched. He could feel a gentle thrumming on patches across his body. Now that he had somewhat settled down, everything was slowly creeping back into his senses. He could still faintly taste blood on his tongue. He could still smell it.

He’d spent a bit looking himself over. There were more bandages littered across his body, covering the ugly wounds that had painted him like a canvas. They were likely far less severe than the injuries on his arms. On top of that, it seemed that he had been cleaned. Somewhat. At the very least, there was no dried blood hardening his fur that he could find.

And after he had finished scouring himself, he resorted to other things to cure his boredom.

The main one being moving his hands. The bandages were there to help, but they (somewhat) strained his movement. Of course, it wasn’t necessarily a problem at the moment. He wasn’t doing anything that required such use of his hands. Nonetheless, the feeling of restraint was bothersome. Not only that, but he was curious how far he could bend his fingers before the stinging got to be too much.

As it turned out, he couldn't ball his hands into fists. The furthest he really got was bending the second joint. The insides of his knuckles were where it hurt the most. That as well as his palms. Not to mention his wrists.

They suffered the same ugly burns as well, but there was the remnant of another older pain that lingered on top of the new one. The wearing of those chains. They were gone, but he could still feel the way they rubbed. The way they had lingered and weighed him down. It felt… nice. It felt good to not have that burden.

And now, here he was, confined to a tent on the edge of the Cult.

He had no interest in socializing, of course, but it still felt as though he was trapped. It was an unpleasant idea, but nothing was truly stopping him from venturing out. However, he didn’t want to risk the thought of one of the Lamb’s Followers attempting to interact with him. The deer from earlier (Fion, if he remembered correctly) was already pushing it.

But as time drew on, his boredom grew. That and the smell of old food. He wrinkled his nose against the scent, fur bristling slightly as his tail lashed. They had left him a meal before disappearing. He hadn’t bothered looking at what it was made up of, but wasn’t enticed by the thought of eating it. For all he knew, it was poisoned.

Still, it was a loathsome smell. It wasn’t rotten yet by any means, but it was old. Stagnant. And (unfortunately), he had a very good sense of smell.

He had to get rid of it.

With a disgruntled sound, he carefully rose up from the bed. His knees ached at the sudden weight, but he carefully maneuvered his way to the entrance. Luckily for him, anything below his waist hadn’t endured too much damage. He was still able to walk. He’d just been laying and sitting for so long that the sudden movement hurt. But that wouldn’t be enough to stop him.

He nosed his head out the flap of the tent, his hood already drawn up over his head. He could see lights in the distance from where most of everyone else resided. Then, he looked down, scrunching up his face at the bowl of food set on the ground. Not only was it old, but he could see ants crawling all over it.

With a heavy sigh, he reached down and carefully picked up the bowl. He couldn’t see or hear anyone around, which made him all the more encouraged to dump the food away from his tent.

...

Why was he listening to the Lamb in the first place? He was their Patron God. It wasn’t the other way around. He bristled some more at that, grunting as he began to make his way towards the lights. He decided that he wasn’t listening to the lamb. He could leave the tent whenever he wanted and if he so pleased. The only reason he lingered was because he didn’t want to bump into any of–

“Hello?”

Narinder stopped in his tracks, his tail swishing one final time before stilling abruptly. The voice wasn’t familiar, but it wasn’t alarming. It sounded… young. With careful, calculated stillness, he carefully craned his head to the right. He was on the outskirts of the main area now. The Followers tents were across the clearing from him. To say the very least, he was surprised to be met with a young raccoon staring up at him.

He blinked down at them, and they blinked back.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

The question catches him off guard. Narinder’s tail twitches once more. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. But he figures they’ll run off after he answers the question. So, with a little grumble, he responds: “No.”

And then he continues to walk, now crossing the clearing towards a rather special looking tent. He has an idea of who sleeps in it.

“Why are your arms covered in bandages?”

Narinder stops again. His arms are out. The robe doesn't have sleeves. It makes it easier to change the bandages (according to that thief). After a moment of thought, he slowly cranes his head over his shoulders to look at the young raccoon again. His tail rattles with annoyance.

“Your mighty leader did this to me.”

It’s half truth, half lie. A conflicted expression forms on the young kit’s face. He can’t help but grin at the reaction. So, he continues. “Your mighty leader came to me and betrayed me. They lied.” He hisses out. The raccoon shakes their head, ears pinning down. “I don’t believe you!” They spit out, fur starting to bristle.

And at that, Narinder simply chuckles and turns to keep walking towards the tent. The raccoon speaks up again, but it sounds as if they aren’t following right after him. “Why are you going to their tent?”

“To return their handout.”

The food makes a wet splat when he dumps it on the ground outside of their tent. He sneers down at the mess, dropping the bowl shortly after before turning back around. The raccoon seems upset. “You made a mess…” They mumble. And it’s at this point that Narinder is starting to tire of them.

With a sharp inhale, he marches over to them before squatting down. They don’t flinch.

“Brave child…” He hums, tilting his head. “What’s your name?” He won’t remember it. The raccoon swallows nervously before speaking, nose high in the air. “Heryn!” They announce bravely. Narinder hums, nodding his head softly. “Heryn… right… I suppose I should tell you my name now, hm? It’d be rude of me not to.”

The raccoon (Heryn, his mind supplies) nods meekly. And with a satisfied grin, Narinder reaches a bandaged hand up to the bandage wrapped around his forehead. With a simple move, he catches his thumb under the fabric and lifts it up, revealing his third eye.

“I’m–”

Before he can say another word, Heryn lets out a shrill shriek. Their tail bushes out and they turn, scrambling and tripping over themselves as they flee away. Narinder watches after them for a moment or two, letting out a defeated sigh as he lets the bandage slide back over his eyes. Tragic.

But he’s sure the noise will have alerted some of the Followers. So, without waiting, he slinks back into the shadows and retreats to his tent.

“You have weighted dice!”

“I would never.”

“Depending on the rolls of your opponent, that might not even help you!”

Lambert might have gotten distracted. It really wasn’t their fault. They had arrived at Ratau’s place with their discussion in mind. When they had first arrived, Ratau had been ecstatic to see them again. On and on he had rambled about how long it had been since a visit, and how he had grown tired of Knucklebones with his other friends.

Lambert had agreed to play a game or two before talking, seeing as they weren’t in any rush. It was night time by now, and surely nothing could go wrong. So they had settled down and began rolling dice. However, they decidedly did not take into account just how competitive they could be. Especially when one or two friendly games turned into an all out war with a scoreboard.

And finally, at long last, Lambert noticed something off about Ratau’s dice. They were weighted.

And despite his insistence on this fact, Ratau merely laughed and pocketed the dice away. Lambert allowed themself to slump back in their seat, crossing their arms with a huff.

“So… where’s the Crown?”

Lambert blinks once. Twice. And then they lurch upright, slamming their hands down on their legs. “That’s what I came here to talk about!” And then they’re talking. “So I took care of all the Bishops, and then I went to The One Who Waits, but then I decided I didn’t want to just die so we sort of fought and then I beat him and he decided well I don’t wanna - or something - and he sort of blew… it up?”

Ratau very calmly nods, slowly pressing his hands together while dipping his head. It’s all so precise and carefree. And then he raises his head, and his eye twitches in the slightest. “I beg your pardon?” He breathes, and Lambert nods furiously. “That’s what I’m saying! Who blows up their crown when they don’t win?”

Ratau holds up one of his hands, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t– I get that part. I do. But you… fought him? As in.. battled?” He raises an eyebrow, and Lambert nods. Ratau merely squints in response, as if he doesn’t believe them.

Instead of trying to push their point, they decide to focus on something else. With a defeated sigh, they reach back and draw out the small pieces they have gathered, setting them out on the table. “This is… all I have left of it. Right now… it’s split up, and I have a general feel for where they are? Kind of like… hot and cold? I know when I’m getting close to one.” They explain. “But there’s a teensy issue because the one I found was sort of making a mess of things.”

Ratau takes the two pieces, examining them. “Go on…”

“It was like it had a mind of its own… and, I mean, in all fairness.. I think it’s somewhat sentient. But this wasn’t just oh I’m evil, oh look at me. It was like it was rabid.” Lambert sighs a little, leaning an elbow on the table to prop their hand up on their hand. “I can still use the pieces I have. Just… not to the same extent.”

Ratau sets the pieces back down, gesturing for Lambert to continue. They do. “I still have access to all of the weapons and stuff. They’re just… weaker? Fragile. They don't hold up very well in fights. Not as well as they used to…” Their shoulders sag. Ratau raises his eyebrow. “What of your curses? And non-combat related powers?”

Lambert shrugs. “Curses are… iffy. Some of them work the same, some don’t work at all, and some are weaker than before. It’s all out of whack. Sometimes the same curse will work great one time, and then the next, it’s all.. Sad and floppy. Like a mood swing.” They gesture through the air with their free hand before letting it fall down into their lap. Ratau makes a little noise, as if contemplating something very deeply. And then, in full confidence:

“You’re on your own with this one.”

“Wh–” Lambert shoots upright. “I came to you for help. You’ve worked with the Crown before. And Narinder.” They point out. Ratau leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah. Past tense. Worked. He wasn’t a fan of how I liked to run things. Thought I was weak.” They almost sound… cross. Lambert doesn’t push.

Instead, he changes the topic. “Well… what about him? Could you at least help with that?” They ask, hopeful. Ratau scoffs a little, although there isn’t any dismissive aggression behind it. “What exactly are you trying to do with him?”

Lambert opens their mouth, pauses, and promptly shuts it.

What are they doing?

Of course, they’re helping him get better. And then they’ll work on gathering up the pieces of the crown. But outside of that, he isn’t quite sure. Narinder seems dead set on not following along with the Cult. Not only that, but he seems to hold a deep resentment towards them. Which, to be fair, they can’t blame him. However, Narinder also can’t blame them either.

After a few moments of thought, Lambert shrugs. “I’m… not quite sure. But for now, I’m trying to help heal. And get getter… and then we’re gonna try and gather up the Crown since… he’s the one that caused it to shatter.” They explain. Ratau nods slowly. “And after that?”

“I’m… not sure.”

“If you ask me, it’d be best to let him do what he wants.” Ratau scoffs a bit. Lambert looks up, frowning. “I would but… I promised to share the Crown with him when we find the pieces. He’ll have some semblance of his old powers. I’m not sure I can trust him with that.” They argue softly, fidgeting nervously with their fingers. Ratau narrows his eye a little, pointing at them. “Thank you for leaving that very important detail out.” And then he drops his hand and tilts his head.

“So are you the new God of Death now? Is that it, then?”

Lambert coughs a little, smiling nervously. “Uh… yeah? Sort of. It’s… complicated. I… when I was bringing him back after our fight, some… someone showed up. And they kind of gave me another quest?” They offer. Ratau looks back at them. They sigh, scratching the back of their neck nervously. “I gotta… go through the bishops again. Free them from their current fates.”

Ratau blows out a heavy breath through his mouth, leaning back in his chair. “Well… looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Lambert groans. “Tell me about it…”

A comfortable silence washes over the two. Lambert is in no rush to get back to the Cult, and Ratau doesn’t seem like he’s keen on kicking them out any time soon. Rather, he seems to enjoy their visit. And after a long while, he eventually speaks up again. “Just be careful, alright kid?”

“I’m not a kid–”

“You are compared to me.” Ratau points at his chest with his thumb. “This is a… big change. Things are gonna be thrown off because of this. I don’t want you taking on more than you can handle. Hear me?” He tilts his head, staring at them expectantly. Lambert sighs, shaking their own head a little. “Alright… got it.” They nod.

“Promise?” Ratau presses further, holding out a hand with an extended pinky. Lambert snorts a little, a smile tugging up the corners of their mouth. “Pinky promise.” He confirms, gently wrapping his pinky around Ratau’s before giving a firm shake of their hand.

Ratau, seemingly satisfied, pulls his hand back, slaps both palms on his thighs, and stands up. “Well how about you take me back to your little Cult! Might as well check on things and see the old boss.”

Lambert rises to their feet as well, nodding a little. “It’s been awhile since you last visited…”

“I wouldn’t call me explaining things a visit.”

Upon leaving Ratau’s comfortable home, Lambert realizes the sky is beginning to light up. They hadn’t realized just how long they had spent at Ratau’s. They can’t complain, however. It was nice. It was stress-relieving. It was a get away from his Followers (who, as much as he cared for them, could become a bit insufferable at times).

“Lead the way!” Ratau chirps, slapping a hand against Lambert’s back. With a small “oof,” Lambert smiles and nods. “Alright… follow me.”

The portal back is quick. Ratau seems a bit frazzled, as his fur stands on end. He quickly assures the other that he hasn’t done it in awhile. With Lambert’s worries quelled, they begin to lead way further into the Cult. Many of the denizens are already scurrying about, tending to the fields off in the distance or working on retrieving wood and stone. All is well. All seems well.

“My Lamb!”

But it was too good to be true. There’s terror in the tone of whoever speaks. Ratau and Lambert both swivel their heads to see where the voice is coming from, only to be met with a very worried looking raccoon (accompanied with her child). Lambert recognizes the two as Mery and Heryn. With a small inhale, they quickly slip into their persona.

“Yes, Mery?” They hum, tilting their head with a calm smile. Mery stops before the two, setting Heryn down with a frustrated lash of her tail. “Heryn has been spooked all day! They snuck out last night and… well, I think it could have just been their imagination…. Y’know how kits are…” She shakes her head, and Heryn makes a sound of protest that is quickly shushed.

And Lambert… frowns. Their eyebrows furrow and they tilt their head. “What could’ve been their imagination? I’m sure there is an explanation that will calm them.” They offer, smiling. Mery opens her mouth to speak, but Heryn cuts her off.

“There was a demon! It had three eyes, and it said you hurt it! It’s out for revenge! It left a warning outside your tent!” They wail, and Mery quickly goes to hush and reassure them.

Beside them, Ratau lets out a soundless laugh.

After a moment of processing, Lambert clears their throat and clasps their hands together. He knew the three eyes would freak them out. “Rest assured, there is no demon after me for revenge… but… what exactly was left outside my tent?” But they are curious. Mery looks back down at Heryn, who shrinks in on themself.

Lambert quietly drops down to a squat, carefully reaching a hand out to rest on their shoulder reassuringly. “No one is mad at you for sneaking out… you were very brave with whatever you saw. But I would like to know what it left.”

“...it smelled bad.”

A pang of concern, sharp and tangible, lances through Lambert. With a firm nod, they rise back up to their feet and begin to walk towards the tent. Judging by the sound of footsteps behind him, the three are accompanying them. They aren’t surprised to see a small group huddled outside their tent. It mostly consists of elders, but they spot a few younger folk there. Time to de escalate.

“Friends!” They begin, waving their hands. “I have returned!”

One of the elders, a stag named Feson, turns his head. Upon spotting Lambert, he quickly turns back to the crowd. “There is no more need to fuss, now… Our Lamb is here. Calm yourselves. Please.” Lambert silently thanks the elder for seemingly managing things for now. The small group parts to allow them through, and they stop and stare at what is laying outside their tent.

It’s an ugly black stain. Web-like markings have spread across the ground in a small area, some tendrils trailing onto the fabric of the tent. Alongside it, an ugly mass of mush is present. The smell resembles rotten food, but it also resembles another thing. Rotten flesh. Lambert makes a little face, their ears pinning down. They weren’t exactly expecting something like this.

“What is it?” One of the Followers pipes up, and Lambert turns to the crowd. “I believe… It is a type of fungus! No need to worry!” A quick lie. A bad one. But they seem to buy it. All except Feson, who merely raises an eyebrow. Lambert tries to give them a reassuring look. Something that says “we can talk later.” But right now, he is more focused on calming the flock. “I’ll be sure to address this in the sermon!”

“And what about the demon the child saw?”

That wasn’t good. Lambert’s ears twitch a little. “It was late at night… whatever Heryn saw was likely made up by their imagination. I assure you that I would be able to tell if something has tread on our grounds!” Another lie. But the flock, once again, seems pleased. And shortly after, they begin to disperse. All except Feson, of course.
Lambert heaves a sigh, turning back to Mery and Heryn. “You two are dismissed… and no more sneaking around at night!” And then it’s just Feson, Ratau, and them.

“I’ve never seen a fungus such as this before…” Feson mumbles after everyone is far away. Ratau laughs a little, patting the elder on the shoulder. “Me neither…” They agree. Lambert groans a little, dragging their hands down their face. “I’m doing the best I can! I don’t know what that is!” They hissed. Ratau grins at them, shaking their head. “Fungus? That’s the best you can do?”

Lambert just groans again.

Feson clears his throat. “I am… curious about the supposed demon, however. I assume that’s another cover up that has to do with this?” They gesture to the mess, and Lambert simply nods. “It’s… it’s complicated. Just… Come with us. And don’t say a word about this to anyone.”

Feson nods, and they begin to walk. As they leave the main grounds and begin to approach the tent, Feson makes a noise of interest. “I was wondering what this was doing all the way out here…” They mumble. Ratau scoffs a little. “If you ask me, nothing is more suspicious than a tent out all by itself.”

Lambert simply casts a scathing look over their shoulder, but says nothing to the comment. When they finally get to the outside, Lambert stops, inhales, and very simply calls out. “Narinder!” They hum, leaning forward. “I would like to speak with you!”

No response.

Ratau stifles a laugh behind them. Their eye twitches. “Narinder… come out. It really is important that we talk about last night.” They really don’t want to just open the tent flap. It feels like an intrusion of privacy! But at the same time, if Narinder doesn’t listen, they might just force themself to do such.

Feson makes a discontented sound. “This… Narinder… doesn’t seem to listen very well.” They grumble. Something inside the tent shuffles. Lambert perks up. “I hear you in there!” They announce. More silence. They are beginning to grow agitated. “Narinder, if you don’t come out, I’ll come in. And then no one will be happy!”

“Threatening the old God of Death, eh?” Ratau laughs a little. “You got some nerve, kid.”

“Ratau?”

Lambert reels backwards when Narinder suddenly pokes his head out, his hood down and ears upright. Two red eyes lock onto the rat, who subsequently blinks in response. After a moment of silence, Ratau dips his head. “My lord…” They greet, and Narinder’s ears suddenly flatten against his head. “Cowardly rat.”

Lambert isn’t fast enough to stop what happens next. It’s a very simple, swift move. Ratau merely raises his cane and brings it down on top of Narinder’s head. The cat lets out a sharp sound of pain, reeling backwards into the tent while his hands fly to his head. Lambert gapes while the other begins to laugh. “Ratau!”

“What? Don’t you think it’s a little deserved?”

“We’re trying to get him to come out!”

Narinder snarls from inside the tent. “I don’t listen to you, traitor!”

Feson hums a little from the sideline, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “So the demon is… a cat?”

“No!” Lambert whips their head around to look at Feson, raising their hands to wave them frantically. “He isn’t a demon! He’s–”

Narinder cuts them off from inside the tent. “I was the God of Death until this traitorous thief tried to keep my Crown from me!”

Lamber turns on the tent now, ears pinning down. “Yeah? Well… you’re the one who blew up the Crown!”

Narinder pokes their head back out, lips curled back into a snarl. “Maybe I wouldn’t have had to do that if you didn’t betray me… Betrayer!”

“Alright, alright!” Ratau raises the cane once more, and Narinder flinches in the slightest before relaxing as the rat lowers it back to the ground. “Enough with the scuffling… We came here to talk, so let’s talk.”

Narinder merely rolls his eyes, glancing over at Feson before tugging his hood up over his head. He glares at Lambert, eyes narrowing. “Why is one of your Followers here?” He hisses quietly, as if Feson isn’t there. The stag merely rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Lambert also rolls their eyes, sighing. “I trust him.”

“And Ratau? Why is he here?”

“He… wanted to visit.” Lambert glances over at Ratau, who seems satisfied with the answer they’ve given. Narinder glances between the three for a few moments before retreating back into the tent. “Don’t bother.” He mumbles. Lambert narrows their eyes before promptly grabbing onto the tent flap and flinging it up so that it catches on the top of the tent, leaving it open. Narinder startles, whips around, and bristles. “Hey!”

“We are talking!”

“First my dignity, now my privacy?”

It goes on for a while, really. Small arguments and squabbles here and there. But eventually, they all manage to settle inside and talk. Narinder is unbothered by the scolding he receives from the lamb. Something about not scaring the children. But then he mentions the food he left outside the tent. Or, well, what isn’t described as food. His head suddenly swivels back towards the lamb, eyes bored and lacking interest.

“I didn’t leave that.” He simply mumbles, head resting in the palms of his hands. Lambert frowns, shoulders slouching. “You’re an awful liar.” They grumble, and Narinder shakes his head. “As much as I would love to wreak havoc and make a mess of this place, I’m lacking my fire power.” As if to prove a point, he briefly raises a hand, seems to focus, and then gives up. “I didn’t leave whatever you’re describing outside your tent. It was the bowl of food you gave me. Must’ve been something in it.”

“You expect me to believe you?” Lambert almost sounds offended. When Narinder doesn’t respond, they heave a sigh and shake their head. “Whatever… just… don’t go around at night, and please don’t go scaring the kids. The whole Cult is worrying about a three-eyed demon now.”

“Good.” Narinder rolls his eyes, and Lambert shakes their head. “Not good. I’d really appreciate it if you'd at least try and cooperate. I’m taking care of you, and I’m helping you regain some of your power. The least you can do is avoid making a mess of things around here.”

“I’m not making a mess. I didn’t leave whatever you’re describing outside your tent. I left a bowl of old, stale food. Nothing more, nothing less. And I only showed the kid my third eye to scare them off.” Narinder grumbles, rolling his eyes while scratching at his bandaged arm absentmindedly.

“Don’t scratch.” Lambert quickly scolds, reaching forward to grab his wrist. “It’s not–”

“Don’t touch me.”

Narinder reels away so suddenly and violently that it makes them jump. His fur is bristling and his pupils have shrunk to pinprick points. Behind him, his tail lashes. Lambert can feel the tension in the room. They don’t dare to speak. Luckily for them, Ratau does not hold the same sentiment. “If they’re itching, it means they’re healing. That, and you probably need to change the bandages. I’ll go fetch them.”

“I will accompany you.” Feson offers. Before Lambert can protest, the two have left the tent and are walking away. Well after the footsteps have faded, Narinder speaks up.

“Why did you spare me?”

Lambert looks back a little, blinking in confusion. “What?”

“Mercy. Why did you show me mercy, Vessel?” Narinder has clasped one hand tightly around his wrist. His tail is still lashing behind him, and his pupils are still tiny dots in his eyes. Lambert frowns a little, tilting their head. “I, uh… don’t know?”

Narinder’s shoulders slump a little, his ears flattening further. He lets out a breathy laugh. It sounds tormented. “And why help me?” He adds, tucking his chin down against his collar bone. “Why offer me shelter and care?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“I want to know your motives. Your plans.” Narinder hisses, seemingly shrinking in on himself. “No one helps the God that wants them dead out of the goodness of their heart. No one. So tell me, Lamb… why have you spared me? Why do you offer me shelter, food, and medicine when you could turn me to the wolves?”

Lambert doesn’t respond.

They don’t know how to respond. So they don’t.

Narinder looks unsatisfied.

Shortly after, Ratau and Feson return with bandages, mortar and pestle, and a few herbs. While Feson works with the mortar and pestle, Ratau and Lambert work on removing the bandages. To say the least, it isn’t fun. The moment either of them reach their hands out, Narinder recoils once more. “Don’t.” It’s simple. It’s one word. One command. But it’s shaky.

Ratau scoffs a little. “Oh, stop bein’ a big baby. The faster we get this over with, the sooner you don’t have to do this.” He grumbles, reaching his hands out and carefully taking hold of one of Narinder’s arms. And, to Lambert’s surprise, Narinder doesn’t recoil. Rather, the god seems to accept his fate.

With that in mind, Lambert reaches their own hands out, to which Narinder quickly pulls away with a hiss. “Not you.” He practically spits out, and Lambert can’t help but take offense. “Wh– I brought you back here to help you in the first place!”

Narinder doesn’t respond, but Ratau does. “I can handle it, kid. Just put the old bandages aside when I get them off.” He orders, starting to carefully unravel the bandages. The first layer or two come off without much trouble. They aren’t the layers directly on top of the wounds. But after that, it gets a bit difficult. Each round around Narinder’s arm elicits a strangled, stifled sound of pain. His fur bristles, rising and falling with each round. He’s very clearly trying not to react, but it can’t be helped. It really can’t be blamed, either.

His arms are horrifically burned. They’re charred, revealing blackened skin and underlying muscle. It looks leathery. Some areas have small patches of white on the skin… well, the areas where there is skin. In other areas, a mixture of ugly black and red ichor dots his arms. His arms are smaller… they’ve lost skin and muscle. It’s hard to make out anything, but it isn’t pretty.

What they do know is that muscles and ligaments are exposed. It’s a deep burn. A bad one. They’re sure the only reason they aren’t in worse condition is because of their status at the time of the explosion.

Certain parts of the arm almost look as if they are missing chunks of flesh. The injuries travel deep. Too deep. But not deep enough to have burned away the nerves. They aren’t sure whether that's a good or bad thing at this point. They aren’t sure if they’d really want to feel it. To them, the parts that are black look like a charred tree after a forest fire. Hardened. Charred. Burnt to a crisp.

“Take these.”

Lambert is snapped out of their thoughts by Ratau handing them a bundle of the bandages. They quickly take them and set them aside, moving out of the way so that Ratau can move to work on the other arm. His right arm. This one is worse. Not that it can get much worse, but it is worse.

Because Lambert is almost certain that he is staring at bone.

Once Ratau strips away the rest of the bandages, everything is visible. His arm looks mostly the same, but his hand is arguably worse. They didn’t remember it being this bad when they first applied the bandages, or when they changed them. The palm of Narinder’s hand has an ugly hole burnt into it. Through the gaping wound, they are sure they see bone. They don’t know what else it could be. But it’s bad.

Ratau briefly pauses in what they’re doing before glancing up at Lambert for a moment. His expression says what he’s thinking. This is really bad.

“My lord,” Ratau begins, and Narinder carefully lists his head. “I want to test something. I do want to warn you that it may hurt…”

Narinder’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing. With a little nod, Ratau turns his head back towards Lambert and motions with his hand. At this, Lambert tilts his head. Ratau sighs a little, shoulders sagging. “The Crown shards… They work to some extent. Yes?”

Lambert blinks before reaching back and drawing them out, nodding. “Yeah… they work.”

“Each of the Bishops had a tendency to offer the opposite of their trait. Death would offer life… Do you think you could heal this?”

Narinder snorts. “What is this… a history lesson?”

Ratau and Lambert ignore the comment. Instead, Lambert gives a firm nod. “I… I could try?” They sigh, dipping their head and closing their eyes. They really aren’t sure on how to do this. The Crown has been able to form into weapons for them to use. Not only that, but they’ve been able to use curses. Both of those offer ways to deal damage, or help them in combat in some way. They aren’t sure how to use it for something such as this, but they feel the need to at least try.

The shards begin to thrum in their hands. It’s hardly noticeable, but they feel it. A humming. A buzzing. It’s cold, and then it’s warm. The thrumming increases as they carefully lift one of their hands forward towards Narinder’s hand. Even with their eyes closed, they don’t need to open to see.

The thrumming continues to increase. It speeds up in its frequency until it’s one, constant sound. A constant feeling. And they can feel Narinder suddenly tense and stiffen under his hand. And then, there’s a squelching sound. They can’t help but grimace in the slightest at the noise, but they don’t lose their focus.

They continue to maintain grasp on Narinder’s hand, and the constant thrumming. Until, finally, it stops.

And it feels as if any strings have been cut. Lambert opens their eyes and tilts backwards in the slightest. Ratau reaches out to grab a hold of them, but Feson is already behind them to keep them upright. With a tired, weak hum, they thank the stag before looking at Narinder’s hand. Or, well, the back of it.

The former God has pulled his hand back to himself and is inspecting it. Of course, the burns are still there. The charred skin is still there. But Narinder has a satisfied look on his face. One that he quickly wipes away upon seeing Lambert’s pleased expression. With a tsk, he lowers his hand.

And Lambert is fairly pleased to see that the burn is no longer as severe. Of course, it isn’t fully healed. To be fair, it’s their first time ever trying anything like this. But it worked. And they feel satisfied.

“Well… that’s part one done. Now we just gotta reapply the bandages.”

Narinder scowls, but says nothing.

Reapplying the bandages is just as rough a process as taking them off, if not worse. They have to spread the poultice first before applying the bandages, and it is very clear that Narinder does not enjoy the feeling. While the burns are bad and deep, it’s clear they aren’t bad or deep enough to have charred his nerves.

Feson is the one who applies the poultice. He’s careful and calculated. Each time Narinder seems to stiffen and still, he stops and waits. Lambert swears they see a thankful look in Narinder’s eyes, but they don’t point it out. Nor does Ratau or Feson, who both see it as well.

After Feson finishes applying the poultice, Ratau reapplies the bandages. Of course, he isn’t nearly as kind or patient with Narinder. Each time the cat stiffens or hisses, he simply berates him. That, or he goes on about how “oh you’ve had worse” or “oh this isn't even that bad.” It’s amusing. Narinder very clearly wants to retort and say something, but every time he’s about to, Ratau wraps a bandage around a particularly tender spot and he stops.

By the time they’re done with the process, it’s noon.

Feson eventually leaves to help with the kitchen while Ratau and Lambert clean up. From one corner of the tent, Narinder watches with an icy gaze. He looks pissed. He’s bristling, and his breaths are stuttering with unbridled anger. Or, maybe, it’s something else. Just as the two are about to leave, he speaks up.

“Hey.”

Ratau stops first, turning to look expectantly at the former God. Lambert, already halfway out the entrance, spins on their heels to look expectantly at him. Narinder scans the two for a moment before letting out another soft tsk. He then pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his arms on top of them, turning his head away with a low growl.

“...thank you.”

Chapter Text

Narinder very quickly realized just how long healing was going to take.

For some odd reason, he had the thought process that it would take no longer than a day or two at most. If he was being honest, his current situation still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. The realization of just how powerless he was and would continue to be was something he couldn’t wrap his mind around. And when that second day passed and his hands and arms were still no better than before, he decided to accept his fate.

It was humiliating. A week had passed now, and the Lamb was still insistent on him remaining inside the tent. After the little stunt he had pulled with the raccoon, they hadn’t been too fond of letting him free roam. Especially not with the cover on his eye off. Speaking of, he still had to wear it. Even when he was inside of the tent he had deemed his new prison.

The only other people he saw were the damned lamb, Ratau, and Feson. Those three, and only those three. It was beginning to bother him. He knew that the Followers were aware of his presence (not because of the kid he had scared, but rather because Feson had mentioned it in passing). They’d all seen Lambert bring in a rather injured looking cat.

“And is it not raising suspicion that they haven’t seen me since?” Narinder had asked one day when Feson was reapplying the bandages. The elderly stag had merely chuckled at that, nodding a lot. “Most of the young folk find it a bit peculiar… The kits like to talk about sneaking over here during the night to investigate.”

Narinder had rolled his eyes at that, wincing at a sting of pain. “And why haven’t they yet? Kids have a tendency to be mischievous… I’m surprised none have snuck in yet.”

“How do you know they haven’t?” Feson had asked, stopping to apply more poultice. And Narinder had laughed in response. “I don’t sleep. I’d know.” It hadn’t been a lie, and it still was not a lie. He did not sleep. While he still felt exhausted, he didn’t sleep. Clearly, it wasn’t that bad. Feson had given him a strange look at that, but he had brushed past it with a shrug. “The Lamb has also given strict orders not to bother you… No one wants to break the rules.”

It was simple small talk. He didn’t enjoy having the bandages fixed, but he preferred the stag and rat over the lamb. He’d even had some… admittedly nice conversations with Ratau. All while he was teased for wincing in pain at every tug of the bandages. He didn’t necessarily hate their company, but he’d be found dead before admitting that it was nice to not be alone all the time.

And then there was the Lamb. The Vessel. The traitor. Lambert. They visited a lot. They came with Ratau and Feson whenever his bandages needed to be changed before leaving, as if just checking in on him. Not only that, but they had a tendency to sit outside the tent and ramble about news around the Cult. Something about telling him what was happening since he wasn’t able to see himself.

And the food. They had a terrible tendency of bringing him food every night. He didn’t eat it. He didn’t care to or need to (seeing as he hadn’t withered away just yet). Every time a bowl had been left out, he hadn’t touched it. And every morning, he’d listen to them sigh defeatedly as they took the bowl away.

But he was beginning to grow tired of waiting. Healing was a slow, slow process. Not to mention that the hand the lamb had supposedly made better hurt far more than before. The first day afterwards was bearable. After that, however, the pain grew and grew. It was a tight, sharp pressure centered in the palm of his hand. Not only that, but it was spreading up his arm from the inside. He was almost certain there was some sort of infection, but he didn’t bother to pester or bring it up. He’d be damned if he lost the last of his remaining dignity by doing such a thing.

But then, the Lamb didn’t show up one night. And then the next. And the next. Narinder’s first thought was that they had finally given up on trying to win him over. But that didn’t seem right. It didn’t settle in his head. So, when Ratau came to fix his bandages, he decided to ask about it.

“Where is the Lamb?”

It had been silent up until the question. A comfortable silence. Upon Narinder breaking that silence, Ratau stilled for a moment. Then, he relaxed and laughed a little. “Lambert? The kid went on a crusade.” He explained, grabbing the bowl of freshly ground poultice before gently taking some out to apply to Narinder’s arm. The cat hissed a little at the contact, biting his bottom lip. “What for?” He muttered.

Ratau gestured to the top of his head where a replica crown sat. “They’re looking for the shards.” Simple question. Simple answer. But Narinder bristled all the same. “They said they’d give me back some of my powers.” He spat out, tail lashing. Ratau scoffed a little, tugging a bandage tighter. “And they’re still going to uphold that deal. But rumors have been saying that there’s been quite a few disturbances. And those disturbances have, coincidentally, lined up with where the shards are.”

Narinder didn’t respond. Rather, he turned his head away and rolled his eyes. His tail flicked once. Twice. “Can I leave this wretched thing?”

“The Cult?” Ratau glanced up, raising an eyebrow. Narinder laughed a little. “As much as I’d love to do that, I’m sure you wouldn’t allow me.” He sighed. “No… I mean the tent. I tire of sitting here all the time. What harm will there be if I walk around? My hood will be up. My eye will be covered.” He looked back over at Ratau.

For a moment, the rat seemed to contemplate. And then, to Narinder’s surprise, the rat heaved a sigh. “Lambert doesn’t want you interacting with any of the flock. And they have a reason to be worried about it.” He carefully tilted Narinder’s hand in his own, weaving the bandages between his fingers with precision and thought. “And if anything were to happen…” He trailed off, nose twitching.

Narinder grumbled something incoherent, slumping down slightly. It took him a moment or two to realize that Ratau had stopped wrapping the bandages. With an annoyed sigh, he carefully straightened up. “What is it? Having second thoughts?”

“No… something smells off.” Ratau squinted a little before blinking down at Narinder’s arm. Without bothering to explain what he did next, the rat carefully lifted Narinder’s hand up to his nose and began to smell it. Narinder bristled and tugged his hand away. “What are you doing?” He hissed out.

“Just gimme your hand.” Ratau ordered, holding his hands out expectantly. Narinder sneered at him. “If you think for a moment that I’m going to–” He cut himself off with a little yelp of pain as Ratau smacked his cane against the cat’s shin. He let out a quiet growl in response, but, hesitantly, extended his hand back towards Ratau.

The other greedily took hold, pulling it back towards his nose. A few awkward moments passed where Narinder found himself awkwardly waiting. The only sound (aside from his shaky breathing) was the sound of Ratau inhaling and exhaling rapidly. But eventually, to Narinder’s relief, Ratau let go of his hand and leaned away.

“Well?” Narinder demanded, raising an eyebrow.

“You smell of rot.”

“How flattering.”

“Your hand. It smells of rot and decay.” Ratau rephrased, his nicked ear twitching a little. “People don’t tend to come back from injuries such as those without losing something.” He muttered, eyes flicking towards Narinder’s arm before returning to his face. Narinder scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not just anyone, Ratau. You know this.”

“You’re not a god anymore, either, though.” Ratau remarked. “You forget that you can get hurt more easily now.” As if to make a point, Ratau gestured to his scarred eye. “You can scar. For all we know, you can very well die.” He added. Narinder snorted, shaking his head. “I was the God of Death. I can’t die, rat.” He grumbled.

Ratau made a face, but he didn’t argue against the statement. Rather, he changed the focus. “Your right arm and hand aren’t looking good. I’m sure they don’t feel good either, no?” He raised an eyebrow. Narinder begrudgingly agreed, nodding stiffly. Ratau nodded in response, a firm agreement. “Then you know that I’m right. We can talk with Lambert about this when they return, but I find it exceedingly important that it be dealt with.”

“Or what?” Narinder sighed, pushing himself more upright. “If I were any other mortal, I would’ve been dead by now. No?” He looked at Ratau expectantly. When the rat shook his head, he continued. “It is exceedingly clear to me that things work differently for me. Would you not agree?” Once again, Ratau nodded. Narinder continued once more. “I don’t know what you are suggesting, but if it’s what I think you are, I have no doubt in my mind that I will recover just fine.”

“It’s been a week, my lord.” Ratau argued. “While it is admittedly early to decide, the fact that it has gotten worse is sign enough, no?”

“You were always worried about everything, Rat.” Narinder sneered. “That’s what made you weak. Too worried and frightened. Too cowardly.” He shook his head, and Ratau’s eyes darkened. With a sharp inhale, the rat rose to his feet before turning and marching out. Narinder snarled after him. “Even now, you walk away from opposition! You haven’t changed!”

No response sounded from Ratau. Narinder listened quietly as his footsteps faded away before sighing and slumping down. His gaze drifted over to his arm tiredly. Ratau hadn’t finished bandaging it up. Parts of his arm were still uncovered. Charred black and angry red glared back at him, pulsing with heat and pain. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head before leaning forward to grab the abandoned mortar.

“Fine.. I’ll do it myself.” He muttered, carefully setting the mortar down in his lap before attempting to apply some of the poultice. It was a messy process, and he could’ve sworn it burned more when he was doing it himself. At the first contact, he jerked, legs bouncing up and knocking the mortar off his lap onto the ground. He grimaced at the sound of the contents spilling.

“Fantastic…” He hissed out, leaning forward over himself to pick up the mortar. To his disappointment, it lay just outside of his reach. He groaned, a hollow, defeated sound. For a moment, he let himself sit there hunched over with his head resting on his knees. Then, with a new determination, he raised his head and continued to lean forward, reaching out with his right hand.

No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn’t quite reach. He’d just have to get up and–

Something moved.

It moved forth from his palm, snaking through the air before clasping onto the mortar. He stilled abruptly, the fur on the back of his neck slowly standing up. It was a black, tendril like substance. It looked like liquid and webbing. It was coming from his palm. He could feel it moving. He shuddered.

And then, slowly, he straightened up. He watched as the mortar was raised up by whatever was extending from his hand. He held it there in the air for a moment or two, mesmerized, before the shape began to tremble and waver. Not a moment later, it seemed to disappear, dropping the mortar down onto his lap.

He rotated his hand carefully in front of him, inspecting it carefully. Ratau hadn’t exactly been wrong about how it looked. While the Lamb had healed it to some degree, practically all of that progress had slowly deteriorated over the last week. The same ugly hole was back in the palm of his hand. And now, it was getting worse.

Several smaller holes had begun to form over his hand. They were beginning to trail up his arm, now. While they weren’t nearly as deep or horrid looking, Narinder could only assume that they would soon become worse. As much as he had denied it, Narinder knew he was not immune to injuries such as this. He hadn’t even been immune while he was a God. The damage had just been lessened, and his healing had been greater. Now, he was stuck with this body (horrible, putrid, weak body).

There was only so much more that could be done. He was no fool. He may have denied it, but he was not delusional. His hand was as good as gone, and his arm was sure to follow. The burns had charred and burnt away too much. When he had grasped the blade in a last ditch effort, he had felt it slice into his hand. He had felt it wedge itself deep into his body and bone. Perhaps that had been the start of it.

Perhaps that was why he had been able to do what he just did.

“Narinder.”

Narinder snapped out of his thoughts with a blink. He raised his head to look to the entrance of his tent, and was met with the sight of Feson. The stag looked disappointed and worried. “Ratau told me you weren’t cooperating.” He murmured. Narinder scoffed, shaking his head. “Foolish rat was making decisions without thinking.” He spat, leaning back.

Feson sighed, carefully treading into the tent. He paused for a moment when he stepped on the spilt poultice before shaking his head. He sat down where Ratau had been seated moments before and held out his hand. Narinder hesitated for a moment before sighing and carefully lending his own hand over.

While it had gotten worse, that meant his nerves had been… well… fried. There wasn’t much to feel anymore. Not in his hand, at the very least. He could still feel the faintest ghost of touches, and he could still curl his fingers in the slightest, but it took effort. More effort than it should have.

“You know he’s right.”

Narinder sighed, looking away. He could just barely feel Feson examining his hand. Feson laughed a little at his response. “You’re going to give me more grey hairs if you keep acting like a child…” He joked. Narinder turned back to glare at him, ears pinned back. “You don’t have any grey hairs.” He argued. Feson sighed a little, nodding in agreement. “It’s true… you caught me.”

Narinder rolled his eyes, looking away from him once more. His fur was brown, not grey. Sure, a lighter brown, but not grey.

“Do you mind if I try to make a guess here? Just… shooting in the dark, here.” Feson stopped for a moment, and Narinder could feel the elder’s eyes boring into him. He waved at the other dismissively with his other hand. “Go on.” He mumbled, trying to seem disinterested.

“I believe you don’t want to see the Lamb… which is why you are so adamant about not having this taken care of by them, or acknowledging that it is getting worse.” Narinder stilled a little. He could feel the way Feson beamed. “Am I right?”

“That damned Lamb is a traitor and a thief. I don’t want them bothering to take care of anything related to me.” Narinder growled out. Feson made a little noise. “But you two are going to work together, no? To get your Crown back, right?” He tilted his head. Narinder glanced back at him, nodding slowly. “Right…” He confirmed. Feson frowned a little. “Then why hold off? It would be better to work past your sour feelings now. Sooner than later… if something were to happen out there, it could put the both of you in danger.”

Narinder frowned a little. He had a point. His tail flicked irritatedly behind him. Feson spoke up again. “I could tell them for you.” He offered quietly. “About the condition of your arm. If you want.” He spoke with genuine sincerity. Not in a way that made Narinder feel small. Not in a way that humiliated him. His ears flattened down even further against his skull. Begrudgingly, he nodded.

Feson smiled.

“Almost there… just a bit further.”

Lambert heaved a sigh of relief as they wiped their fleece off. The crusade they had been on had been longer than they expected. They had one simple goal in mind, and that was to find the shard they were currently tracking. They figured it would only take a few days, but here they were on day five of the crusade. They hadn’t intended on being away from the Cult this long. They were worried about anything bad happening.

Ratau was there to help run things, but there was only so much Ratau could do in place of them. The flock had been informed of their departure, of course, and that Ratau would be in charge for the time being. But they knew that it would only be so long until the Cult began to grow restless and weary for their return.

The heretics were still relatively easy to blow through. Even if they only had two shards of the Crown, they were able to defend themself relatively well. Their sword still struck hard and managed to get the job done. And their curses, even if slightly weaker, still managed to deal enough damage to let them land the finishing blow. With everything that was happening, it didn’t feel as though much had changed.

The first shard they had found had been relatively easy to retrieve. Well, relatively easy aside from the fact that it had been moving all over the place. It wasn’t necessarily hostile, but it had been making a mess of things. It hadn’t been the easiest to grab onto, but once they had, it had stopped. They were just hoping it was the same for this one.

They heaved out another heavy sigh, carefully pushing through a bush before stilling.

Another clearing stretched out in front of them, except it wasn’t originally a clearing. It seemed like a field of tall grass and bushes that had been chopped short. On the other end, he could make out the shape of a spiky, black, liquid-like object darting around. A single, glaring red eye was patched onto its mass. It hadn’t noticed them yet.

Alright… Shard number three. They nodded to themself, slowly creeping forward. The last one hadn’t been hostile, and while they were making a mess of the place it was in, it hadn’t lashed out at them. They just had to sneak up on it, pounce, and grab it. If all went well, they would succeed on their first attempt. If not, then they would just play a game of cat and mouse.

The shard made a warbling sound, arching through the air with a bounce as it moved to the left. It seemed to be inspecting something. It was occupied. Now was their chance.

They bunched their legs up, tensed, and launched themself forward soundlessly. They were on trajectory, and the shard seemingly hadn’t noticed them. It was going perfectly. But then, the shard seemed to stiffen. The eye on its body moved through its liquidy form to its back, locking onto Lambert. With a shrill shriek, one of the many spikes protruding from its body suddenly stiffened and shot forward.

Lambert narrowly avoided the attack, twisting midair to land by the shard’s side with a stuttering gasp. Just hold still! They lurched forward, hands outstretched to try and grab its form. However, to their dismay, the shards body moved around their hand, creating a curved shape to keep itself from making contact. Their momentum left the lamb stumbling forward before they face planted on the ground.

A warbling sound came from the shard. It bounced up and down, its body waving as the eye lit up with glee. Lambert carefully raised their face from the ground, jaw gaping. “Are you… laughing at me?” They breathed out. The noises simply increased, and the eye squeezed itself shut. Lambert’s jaw dropped even further.

“You little–”

They reached behind them in one swift motion, grasping the shards and focusing. Within a split second, their own sword emerged forth and extended, plunging straight into the mass. The noises abruptly stopped, and the eye shot open with an almost shocked look. Then, it grew half-lidded with defeat before it was slowly absorbed into their sword.

“Hah! Yes! Finally!”

Lambert cheered, relaxing their focus. Now that they were looking at the current shape of the Crown, they quickly realized that this was a much smaller shard. It was almost crumb-like. They sighed a little, shaking their head softly. “Well… it’s better than nothing, I suppose… I’ll just give you to Narinder.” They tapped the shards gently, smiling before pocketing them once more. “Now to head back…”

They closed their eyes for a moment, focusing before a red glow slowly begins to light up the area. Within the next moment, they blink and they are back on the Cult grounds. Lambert lets out a relieved sigh, shoulders slouching as they slowly waltz towards the main grounds of the site.

It’s been five days since they were last here, so it’s good to check in on things from where everyone usually resides. They are immediately greeted upon their return, to which they offer a few tired waves back. No sign of Ratau or Feson yet. The slightest pang of worry worms its way into their chest, but they quickly shove it down.

“Yes, yes… I am back!” They announce, waving their hands a little. “Let’s all calm ourselves! I had a very rough journey!” Thankfully, that seems to calm the crowd for now. At the very least, most begin to disperse and go back to whatever it is they were doing before. Once the crowd clears up a bit, they’re finally able to spot Ratau.

He’s staring off in the direction of the tent Narinder is in with an unreadable expression on his face. Worrying, but they decide to wait until they hear any news. With a skip to their step, they prance over to the other.

“Ratau! How have things been?”

The rat startles at the sudden voice, jerking around to look at Lambert with his eye blown wide. “Gods! You scared me half to death! Don’t do that, kid!” He scolds, shaking his head with a hand over his chest. Lambert smiles in response, shrugging their shoulders. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best!”

“I take it your crusade was a success?” Ratau asks after he’s regained his composure. Lambert nods, fishing the shards out of their pocket and pointing to the small piece they’ve recently gathered. “Got this one just now… it was pretty feisty. It actually tried fighting me.” They frown. “And then it laughed at me.”

“Laughed at you?” Ratau asks, incredulous. “What for?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Ratau snickers a little, and Lambert tilts their head. “Have things been well here? The place isn’t burnt to the ground, so I assume so.” They tease, smiling at the other. Ratau sighs, shaking his head. “Your flock is fine and dandy. They aren’t as helpless as you make them out to be, you know.” Gods they wished it was like that for them.

“And Narinder?”

Ratau’s face falls. The pang of worry sharpens in their chest. “Did something happen?” They press. Ratau reaches a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, turning to start walking in the direction of the tent. “Feson said he wanted to tell you.” He mutters. Lambert’s frown deepens.

The walk to the tent is quiet for the rest of the duration. Ratau doesn’t make any jokes or small talk. Which is… worrying. They knew that the wounds were bad, but they had healed them somewhat. Narinder’s left arm was doing fine. He wasn’t sure what was causing such an issue in the right arm.

Infection was always a risk, sure, but they figured there would be more signs. Maybe a blister filled with pus or a bad smell. The last time they had been here, there hadn’t been any of that. They figured there would have also been a fever, or maybe an even worse appearance to the injury. But there hadn’t been anything of the sort. Or maybe they’d missed it.

“Feson! The kid is back!”

Lambert blinks and they’re outside the tent. Some shuffling sounds from the inside before the elderly stag pokes their head out, soon followed by the rest of their body. They smile. “I assume you were successful in your crusade?” He asks, and Lambert nods. “Yes, I was– but… what happened?”

Feson sighs a little, shaking his head. “Don’t sound so grave. Nobody died, and nobody is at risk of dying.” He looks towards Ratau. “I’m not sure what he said, but I assure you that all is as well as it can be.” As well as it can be. The phrasing throws them off. They feel a pit start to form in their stomach. “So what is it?”

“The arm and hand have gotten worse. The hand is well beyond recovery at this point. He may be somebody of interest with a unique body, but it’s no good to keep a hand that keeps deteriorating.” Feson explains. “And judging by what Ratau smelled, it’s spreading up his arm. More holes have been appearing. His arm is being eaten away.”

It’s not good. It’s not dying, but it’s not good. Lambert nods slowly, taking it in. Feson continues. “He’s not in any pain. We’re not sure if it’s from his nerves dying or the fact that he’s… different. But either way, Ratau and I have agreed that there’s one solution to this.”

Lambert blinks, looking up. “You don’t want the infection to spread to his body…”

“We don’t want the infection to spread by any means.” Feson sighs. “It’s a miracle that it hasn’t somehow gotten into his bloodstream yet. Or, if it has, it’s a miracle he’s not sick. If it gets to his torso, things could get worse. Fast. Not only that, but if it gets to his head…” He trails off, looking at Lambert. “I believe it’s what is best. And he does too.”

Lambert blinks again. “He does?” They echo, disbelief coating their voice. Ratau snorts from their side. “He didn’t like it very much when I said it…” He grumbles. It almost sounds like a complaint. Feson shakes his head a little. “He may be stubborn and argumentative, but he isn’t delusional. He understands what is at risk and what can happen. Even if he does function differently.”

And the realization suddenly hits them. Narinder was the God of Death. Past tense. They weren’t sure what he would be able to endure now. And after that, they weren’t sure what would happen if the damage became too extensive. For that matter, they didn’t know about themself. Narinder had been the one resurrecting them all those times.

But Narinder wasn’t the God of Death anymore.

They shake their head, drawing in a careful breath. They can focus on that later. “Okay… When–”

Something painful and sharp wrenches through the air. It’s a sound that is wrong. Unwelcome. Lambert can feel their body tensing. And the sound resonated from inside the tent.

Ratau is already pushing his way inside when Lambert finally moves.

Exhaustion has made Lambert weary. They’re tired, and they know it. It weighs heavily on their body. They aren’t sure what they’re looking at. They aren’t sure if they’re just seeing things. The tent isn’t incredibly well-lit, after all. But there’s a red glow, and that’s enough. A red glow that doesn’t belong. They don’t have candles that emit red light.

But the light is enough to help form shapes. The light seeping from under the tent’s flap also helps illuminate somewhat, but it isn’t enough. At first, all they can see is Narinder’s shape on the bed. And then there’s a red glow, emanating from the palm of his head. From the deep gash wound.

The shards thrum.

The room buzzes with energy. Something is about to happen. And they don’t know what. Their very first thought is to protect the elders. So they do.

Without a second of delay, Lambert lurches towards Feson and puts himself between the stag and the cat, drawing out the shards to materialize their sword. Ratau has his cane ready. They’re both prepared.

And then something bursts.

Something inky and black. Something with glowing red edges that swirls through the air, arcing around Narinder’s arm and hand. With the extra light, Lambert can see more clearly now. They can see the pained expression Narinder’s face has twisted into. They can see the remaining charred flesh around the palm of his hand peeling back and crumbling away, making way for more of the tendrils to burst and move. It’s oddly reminiscent of when they materialize the sword.

But that means it's likely dangerous. And judging by the look on Narinder’s face, this isn’t something he’s been planning. This isn’t something he knows about. He looks just as shocked, if not concerned, as the others. But there’s also a mixture of pain etched into his features. In the way that his eyes squint and his fur bristles. In the way his tail rattles and his ears quiver. It’s painful.

And they have to cut if off at the source.

Lambert moves before anyone else can. They abandon Feson, darting forward and raising the sword up. Narinder’s expression twists again, this time into a face of confusion, and then realization. And he still has the gall to be stubborn. His lips curl back, a snarling cry leaving his mouth. “If you touch me–”

The sword slices through the air, clean and sharp. It’s like cutting through grass. There’s no resistance. As hard as the charred, burnt skin looks, it crumbles and caves beneath the pressure. Narinder’s eyes light up with a new pain, but it’s already been done.

With a hollow thud, the burnt appendage drops, and the writhing mass of black and red disappears.

They need bandages. They need bandages and a tourniquet and–

There’s another flicker of red. The light seeping in from under the tent flap seems to fade, as if a cloud has passed over the sun and blocked out its light. But there’s enough to see what is happening. There’s enough to watch. It comes in pulses, like lightning during a storm. One flash here, and another there.

Red lights up the room.

An inky, black mass of writhing tentacles seeps out from Narinder’s shoulder where his arm was connected. There’s no blood, as far as they can tell. All they can see is inky black ichor dripping from them as they pulse an angry red glow. The light fades.

Red lights up the room once more.

The tentacles are moving, now, weaving between each other almost as if braiding themselves together. The shards have stopped buzzing. The energy in the room has turned into static. Lambert can only watch as the light slowly fades out.

For one last, final time, the room lights up red.

The mass has formed an arm. It’s wraith-like in appearance, with uneven and moving edges. A red outline accompanies the look, solidifying a constant, dim red glow. Despite not being able to see much, Lambert can still make out the fact that it’s still moving. Despite having settled into a form, the stretches of black are still writhing.

They stop and stare. The arm on the ground lays long discarded, actively crumbling away. It’s almost as if it was just a hollow, flake-like shell. It’s turning to ashes and dust. Narinder is watching too. And then he’s staring at the mass on his shoulder. He’s staring, and then it’s moving.

It’s slow, but the arm lifts into the air. The hand rotates, pivoting on the wrist joint while Narinder examines it. Lambert feels their blood turn to ice in their veins. Did he have a shard this entire time? Was he just waiting?

“No, Lamb, I did not have a shard…”

They startle, eyes widening even further if possible. They can feel Feson and Ratau’s tension behind them.

Carefully, and slowly, Narinder turns to look over at the three, his two visible eyes half-lidded. They glow the same red color that outlines the new arm. “But I do seem to have a bit of my power back.” He grins, a devilish, unsettling grin.

Their sword is still drawn. “Don’t try anything.”

It’s an order. It’s supposed to be a threat. And Narinder laughs.

“Now why would I go doing that?” He tilts his head, looking back to admire the arm as it slowly changes shape. First, the form of a scythe. Then, a clawed gauntlet. Finally, it returns back to the arm form. “We had a deal, after all…” He drawls, looking back at Lambert with a gleeful look in his eyes.

“And I intend to capitalize.”