Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Narinder

He fills his lungs with air, again and again, attempting to collect himself enough to deliver another attack. With his third eye slain, he can now only view the damned Lamb through the eye of his crown, and he is too weary to gather enough focus for that. Some paces away, he hears the traitorous beast taking this moment to breathe as well, though they do not sound as weary as he is.

Before he feels he has gathered enough energy to commence the battle, the sound of hooves hitting the sandy ground reaches his ears. No matter. It will not end this way. He rears back to slash at the Lamb with his claws, but they manage to dodge, as they have the last few times, and keep sprinting towards him. They have always been good at dodging.

The Lamb plunges the sword-shaped crown into his abdomen and drags it through his flesh, spinning away before he can retaliate. He screams in anger and agony as he collapses, the strength in his arms no longer enough to hold him up. He tries to move, to swipe at them, but finds he has no strength for that either.

Something strange happens then. As if he was not already in enough pain, the sensation of snapping bones and tearing muscles washes over him. It is over in a second, after which he regains his eyesight. The Lamb is larger than before.

No … he is smaller.

The sharp tip of their sword drips ichor inches away from his nose, permeating with its sweet smell of rot. They wield his crown still, and he is bleeding on the ground, at their mercy. He cannot have been defeated. This cannot be his destiny, not when he has waited so long, given his all. It cannot.

He growls and attempts to lift himself with his arms, yet all he manages to do is cough up his ichor instead. It joins the little black puddle already on the ground. Did the Lamb curse his arms aflame?

The sword is lowered, then vanishes like smoke before reappearing as a crown on that woolly head where it does not belong. The Lamb turns away from him to tend to their crucified followers that were supposed to be his. He watches as they are lowered from their crosses and sent away, back to the cult, and when the very last one is gone, he watches as the Lamb slowly approaches him anew.

Again, he tries to lift himself up. He will not be slaughtered like a … like a damned lamb. A portal opens up beneath him and he too is dropped into it, as if he were a lowly follower. At first, he thinks the Lamb failed this easy task, for everything is still blindingly white, like the sands and clouds of the Gateway. However, when he finally manages to open his eyes again, he sees that the light blinding him is coming from the sun high up in the sky. He doesn't remember it being this bright.

A weapon. He needs a weapon. It takes all his power to lift himself to his feet and limp over to the closest building so he may lean on its wall as he searches for anything sharp to stick into that vile beast's heart. He would even settle for anything blunt he can crack their ugly skull open with.

Luck is not on his side, as it has never been, for he has yet to find a weapon when the Lamb approaches. No matter, he still has his claws with which he has rendered four gods permanently wounded and perpetually bleeding. He will simply have to make it five—though this time he aims to kill. It escapes him, in that moment, that they are godly claws no longer, and as such will not inflict godly wounds.

The Lamb steps closer. He pushes himself away from the wall to claw at them, but he catches only air and dirt as he stumbles to the ground. He hisses at the Lamb, and then at the movement behind him. A bear comes near with its hands raised. He turns around to claw at it too. Brown fur and red blood flies to the ground. Good. He moves to attack the bear again, but the Lamb's voice makes it moves out of the way.

Just as well. With the distraction gone, he can return to his real target. He has yet to puncture their flesh with his pointed claws. He needs to slice their stomach open and feel the warmth of their entrails as they spill over his hand. He needs to— he—

He scrambles to his feet and manages to take one step before he falls back down, coughing up more of his ichor. Searing fire claims his limbs again, but he needs to kill that weak, sniveling, foul thing. He tries again to rise, but it is like the ground has taken hold of him and refuses to let go.

There is something within him that feels like it is turning itself inside out. His abdominal muscles contract and he retches up nothing but air and more blood. His vision shakes, his entire world shakes, and a void envelops him as his cheek hits the puddle of his own sweet-smelling, rot-reeking blood.

The Lamb

They enter the healing bay that is thankfully empty of patients save for one. In the entrance of his room hangs a plain curtain which they shift to the side as they step over the threshold. The healer they have assigned to the black cat resting in his cot stands over a table, crushing camellia petals in a mortar.

The Lamb clasps their hands together and puts on a smile as the gray mouse turns to bow. "Hello, Trety. How is it looking?" they ask, eyeing the mass of black fur and blood-stained bandages.

Trety wrings his hands in front of him before putting them behind his back. "It's … I have cleaned him up and treated his wounds as best I can, but … I will be truthful, my Lamb—his injuries are the worst I've seen on a living person. His forearms are, without exaggeration, worn down to the bone with only clumps of skin hanging on. His chest has numerous deep gouges and one of his lungs has collapsed."

With this knowledge, the Lamb pays greater attention to the sound of Narinder's breaths, and indeed it sounds like he struggles with them as they are short and strained.

"I have scheduled the surgery for when Huan starts her shift."

The green frog began her work as a healer only a couple of years ago and works the late shifts. She should arrive soon.

"I will do all that I can," Trety says, "but I would not say his chances are good."

The Lamb nods. "Has he given you any trouble so far?"

"He woke up once, delirious and aggressive, but only for a short period. He passed out rather quickly, I reckon due to the pain."

The Lamb gestures to the abandoned mortar on the table. "The poultice doesn't help?"

"Camellia doesn't have pain suppressing properties, my Lamb." Trety watches the mortar for a moment before he looks back with determination. "I wanted to speak to you about that, actually."

The Lamb nods for him to continue speaking.

"By your decree, the recreational usage of menticide mushrooms is prohibited—with good reason—but they have an application in medicine too. In small doses, and with the right preparation, they work as pain suppressants. I believe, with this patient, it's going to be necessary for a chance at a swift recovery."

"How much do you need?"

"Not much, my Lamb, but for starters … about five medium mushrooms will do."

Menticide mushrooms are a dangerous substance they decided long ago would not be welcome on their grounds. It only took them one ritual to deem it so. The blank faces of their followers walking around the compound, following each and every order or even suggestion mindlessly, sent shivers down their spine. The wave of illness that grabbed their flock afterwards only solidified their decision to prohibit any and all use of the fungus.

Narinder's whiskers twitch and his brows furrow as his breathing stutters. It's strange to see him like this—asleep and oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes closed to the waking world. It's not normal. He shouldn't be like this.

They nod their assent. "Then I'll be off. I will return as soon as I have the mushrooms, hopefully before his surgery."

"Ah, the mushrooms will take a few days to prepare. We will have to perform the surgery without it. I would use alcohol, but we cannot make him drink it in his unconscious and delirious state."

"Very well. I will return shortly nonetheless."

Trety bows as they turn around to leave the hut. Curious eyes follow them all the way to the conveyance ring just inside the compound's gate. As they step on the pentagram, the circular stone beneath their feet glows bright red. They hop up and spin in the air as they imagine their destination, then plunge into the void below. When they come out on the other side just a second later, the humid air of Smuggler's Sanctuary greets them.

The pier's wooden planks creak with every step forward, and they make sure to steer clear of the rotten ones, lest they step right through and fall into the water below. Swimming was never their strong suit.

The sea louse sits on the foldable chair by his wares as usual, smoking a pipe. He lets out a hearty laugh as soon as he meets their eye. "Hello, me mighty Lamb. These blasted witnesses have returned! I swear, didn't ye … take care of 'em? Well, they're back! What a world, eh? If only the dead would stay that way! Get 'em gone, won't ye? I've dug up some good pieces for ye, too!"

"Hello, Plimbo," they greet with a cordial nod. It's impossible for the witnesses to have been resurrected without them or Narinder. "I will investigate it and bring you any eyes I collect."

He takes a long drag on his pipe. "Ahhh," he says, the smoke billowing out of his mouth to hit them in the face. "Like music to me ears. I knew ye was up for the job." He points the pipe at them. "Now, what can Plimbo do ye for?"

"I need menticide mushrooms. About ten, if you have."

Plimbo chuckles deep in his chest. "Them's the good stuff, I hear." He walks over to the shack. The Lamb stays outside as the sea louse rummages around inside. "Ah!" he exclaims and emerges with the goods wrapped in paper. "Ten o' your shrooms, right 'ere in me hand. I'll be takin' a hundred and forty four pieces o' your coin, Lamb."

They do not know what menticide mushrooms usually sell for, but these seem like extortionate prices. It is Plimbo they are dealing with, however, and they have already accounted for that. The louse happily accepts their bag of coin, and the Lamb wastes no time putting the paper-wrapped mushrooms in the crown's storage.

"Pleasure doin' business with ye, as always. Take it easy on the shrooms, ye hear? They have a way of makin' ye mouth-frothin' mad." With a glint in his eye, he takes a big breath.

"Just like your mother-in-law," the Lamb fills in.

Plimbo's boisterous laugh reverberates in the little sanctuary, scaring away a little crab looking to grab itself some crumbs of stale, old food. They bid him farewell and return to the cult. This business with the menticide mushrooms reminds them it's been some time since they visited Spore Grotto. They wonder how Sozo is doing. He sort of gives them the creeps, but they should probably check up on him again someday. His addiction concerns them.

The noise of a scuffle accompanied by hissing and a calm voice reaches them as soon as they enter the healing bay, prompting them to speed up their pace. Losing Trety's talents is not something they're particularly keen on doing. The curtain is pushed aside, revealing a chaotic scene.

Trety is standing with his palms raised about twice an arm's length away from the cot, attempting to calm down the ferocious creature that happens to be their ex-god hissing upon it. Narinder's bandages are hanging off him in tatters, his black blood smeared all over. His back is pressed into the corner and his fur is standing on edge as he takes rapid, shallow breaths between feral hisses. It's only then that they notice Huan is standing in the corner of the room with her hands suspended uselessly in the air before her, watching the debacle with wide eyes.

"Thank you, both of you. I will take it from here," they say.

Trety nods and backs away from the cot, putting himself between Huan and Narinder as he herds her out of the room. The mouse pauses in the doorway, holding the curtain to the side. "He is feverish, my Lamb. He may not be reasonable right now," Trety says before leaving.

The Lamb thanked him for the warning, but they doubt the cat would've been reasonable without a fever.

With telegraphed movements, the Lamb makes their way towards him, but their presence only seems to agitate him further. The painful thuds of his tail thrashing and hitting the wall makes them wince. They stop advancing to give him a moment to acclimate.

"Narinder, please. You're hurting yourself," they say in as soft and calm a voice as they can manage. "Take a breath and lie down."

He does nothing of the sort, electing to sit right where he is, staring them down with a wild look in his eyes. The Lamb follows his lead and stays still as well, making no further moves towards him. That is, until he starts to tear his bandages off his chest. Because he never takes his eyes off them, the attempts are a bit clumsy, with his claws raking indiscriminately across cloth and flesh alike, new blood joining the old. The Lamb can't let him do that.

"Narinder," they say, lifting a hand to discourage him.

He only becomes more frantic in his attempts when the bandages don't come off, and his breaths are now so quick and irregular that he even skips a few. The Lamb takes a few steps towards him, intending to stop him physically if need be, even though they know he won't like it. Predictably, he lashes out, pointing his claws away from himself to the Lamb. His ears are pinned backwards, completely flat, and he's yet to stop hissing and growling—all complete with raised hackles and that tail moving like a whip. He's like a wild thing in the forests of Darkwood.

With concern, the Lamb notes the beads of ichor gathering in the corners of his eyes. Another step later and the Lamb is met with the exposed musculature of his face as it's split open. Ah, so he can still do that.

Trety chooses that moment to return bearing bandages and poultice, with Huan following just behind. He shrieks at the admittedly horrifying view and would have dropped the supplies if he hadn't chosen to cling to them instead. The Lamb eases off and steps back, Trety turns away, mumbling a prayer, and Huan stands by the curtain, looking as if she's calculating the pros and cons of making a run for it.

"I will not touch you, as long as you stop fiddling with the bandages," the Lamb tries to bargain and receives a growl in return.

Narinder's body becomes too heavy for him to hold upright, and so he slowly sags back down to the cot. He looks away for the first time since they locked eyes, watching his hands tremble inches from his exposed face. The Lamb can tell he's fighting against exhaustion, but he quickly loses that battle. The change is stark when he falls unconscious, so despite his wide open eyes, unable to close with the absence of lids, it is clear he is no longer awake. Peeled flaps of skin settle across his face again, but do not reattach themselves, letting ichor drip to the fabric below. The dark color of his fur obscures how much blood flows free, but the light sheet stained black reveals it.

He should be dead, if he's mortal. And he should not be able to do that thing with his face either.

The Lamb turns to face Trety, who is now approaching the unconscious cat with the medical supplies he was clutching earlier. "I brought the mushrooms," they say, taking them out of the crown's storage and handing them over.

Trety grabs the wrapped mushrooms and moves to the table. "I will get started on them right away. Huan, would you please change the patient's bandages? Leave the chest, though, as we will begin the surgery soon."

The Lamb bids them farewell and moves towards the exit. They would like to stay for the surgery, but they have much to do, and the less people disturbing the healers, the better.

"Leader," Trety says, grabbing the Lamb's attention once more. "It's going to take a few days to dry the mushrooms. Until then, he will continue to be in immense pain."

They wait patiently for the question he means to ask.

"I am … concerned about our safety around this patient. I would feel more confident treating him if we had the assistance of someone stronger while tending to him, or if he were restrained. It would also keep him safe from himself."

Somehow, they don't think it would be very appreciated if Narinder wakes up restrained. And despite what he has put them through recently, they would have to be morally bankrupt to put shackles on him again now that he's finally free of his old ones.

They take another look at the black cat lying on the cot. He's thin and gangly, weak and roughed up. They remember the surprising lightness of his body and lack of resistance when they carried him here. Granted, he was unconscious for it, but still. They do not think it would take the strongest follower they have to hold him down, but they would do best not to underestimate him. He was a cunning god once, and while he may have lost his divine title, the Lamb does not think he has lost his brain, even if it is currently addled. Besides, he seems to have retained some number of abilities not befitting of a mortal—who knows what else he has retained?

"I'll send Breno here to assist you."

He bows. "Thank you, Leader."

And with that, they leave the healing bay, nodding goodbye to Huan who gives her own bow. First order of business: find the brown bear.

Narinder

Unfamiliar rooms, faces looming over him, strange visions he has not the faintest clue how to decode. This cycle repeats again and again. Walls threaten him with words they should not be able to speak, closing in on him, devouring him with gnashing teeth. The vision fades to the warm room where the walls don't talk.

There is a weight on his wrist, heavy and restrictive like shackles. Five fingers are locked around it, winding something around the exposed bones of his arm, chaining him again. This time he won't let them. He flexes his hand, letting his claws unsheathe, and swipes upwards. A scream tells him he hit his target. When he attempts to sit up, something blocks out the light and pins him back down. He hisses at the pain in his arms and tries to kick with his feet. He finds that they are pinned too.

The shape above him takes a horribly familiar form—a violet spider's face, pinning him down with not only their hands and legs, but their many eyes too. He's being pulled, pushed, down into the trap his once beloved sibling laid. Into the Beyond, the Gateway, the bridge to the afterlife. His realm, meant to be his prison forevermore. He's not going back there. He's never going back there. He can't go back there he can't he won't please.

He splits the seams of his face with a loud hiss—or was it a scream?—letting the four sections of skin unfurl before Shamura. They jump off, taking the suffocating weight with them. He scrambles off the raised platform they had him lying on and up to his feet. There is shouting, but he can't make out the words. It's like he has been submerged in water. All he can tell is that there's two voices and they don't sound right.

He's focusing on the wrong thing. Only his freedom matters. Should he fight them or should he flee while they are distracted by their dispute? He has rarely backed down from a fight before, but to survive, one must recognize their limits. Shamura taught him that, after one too many fights where he came back bloody and beaten in his teenage years.

He feels far past his. He is panting hard, breaths only filling his lungs halfway before they're exhaled. His heart beats blemishes into his ribcage until it feels like it's going to burst, and everything is hazy around him. He cannot focus like this. He's a god—this shouldn't be happening to him. What god feels short of breath?

"Buddy, are you listening?" says Shamura. "Take deep breaths, okay? Deep … breaths."

No, this is not Shamura. He doesn't know who this is. Some bear. Where is he? Where is the exit?

"He can't do that yet. We only recently inserted the tube, it needs time to drain," the second voice says.

"Then … please take just a little deeper breaths. Slower ones."

"Just— please get him to lie down first before he ruptures something."

"I'm working on it. He needs to calm down first. I can't just grab him."

He needs to run. Or maybe he can fight, if it's not Shamura. They have always been a worthy adversary in their sparring matches—they have to be, as the God of War. But even better than War at dealing death is Death himself … when he doesn't feel like he's the one dying. But no matter what he wants to do, his legs won't move beneath him, and his entire body burns. His vision swims again, until it doesn't. Until nothing does.

When he comes to again, there is still a fire blazing on his face and up his arms. His chest feels like it's been torn open and eviscerated. He opens his eyes to a black void, as if he didn't open them at all. His hand feels at his face. Something is off with his fur. It's coarse … short … doesn't feel like fur at all. He presses harder and immediately regrets it when the pain flares and shapes of all colors dance around on his eyelids. A sudden nausea takes over and makes him shoot up from his supine position and double over, retching up nothing but blood once more.

A muffled voice comes from his right, soft-spoken and drawing nearer. He breathes as well as he can through his mouth, nausea still roiling inside of him and threatening to spill more of his inner contents. A hand touches his back, light and barely there. The voice is still speaking to him, so he tries to listen, to parse the words and the meaning through the coursing river of his own blood in his ears. He catches one word, he thinks.

"… drink?"

It must be Kallamar, helping him through this illness of his. He doesn't remember becoming sick, nor how long he's been in this state, but he supposes such ailments can cloud the mind for a time.

Something cold touches the back of his fingers, and he moves his hands to grasp the cup. With gritted teeth, he tries to grip the object, only to fail at such a simple task.

"… help …" is one of the words his brother says. The other ones he fails to understand.

The edge of the cup touches his lips, and slowly, he sips the water until he tires enough to fade away again. As soon as his head hits the pillow and he starts drifting off, the nausea threatens to wake him just to heave up the water he just downed. The constant pain makes him aware of every single nerve ending in his body, but it's okay. He has nothing to worry about in this moment. His siblings are taking care of what he cannot in this state. His elder brother sits beside him, watching over him and nursing him back to health. All is well.

The Lamb

They watch as the last of their flock fills into the temple, taking their seats on the pews to await the start of their new god's sermon. The only ones specifically excluded from the mandatory attendance are Trety and Breno, as well as Narinder, of course. There are two more absent, but they are ill as well and thus have been excused.

They have held a couple of sermons since their newest, three-eyed member joined, but they have mostly lacked any substance and only served to calm their confused flock's nerves until the Lamb could gather their thoughts and provide a good explanatory sermon. This is that sermon.

"Good morning, my loyal flock," they begin as they always do. "Three days ago, some of you were held in cages in a strange land and witnessed a divine dispute between the God of Death and his prophesied liberator. I know you still have many questions regarding the events that took place, of which I have promised to answer all. And I am a lamb of my word, for today's sermon will shed light on these matters."

They pause to send a meaningful look around the room, letting their people's thoughts settle before they get to the meat of it.

"When the dispute was settled, I brought you back to your home"—they spread their arms wide—"and as prophecy foretold, the One Who Waited waits no longer, for he is free of the chains that bound him. The cost of this freedom was his crown—his divinity—which now sits upon my brow, not as a loan, but as a right. In our faith, we will always pray to the God of Death, for their teachings are true and virtuous, only Death now takes the image of the Last Lamb.

In ages past, divine wars were fought as often as the stars streak the sky in the Celestial Exodus. Gods devoured gods—for power, for security, for worship—and left nothing but ruin in their wake. Today is the dawn of a new age, one of peace and prosperity, but most importantly, of forgiveness. The One Who Waited lost his crown to the Last Lamb, but instead of devouring him, I brought him home too. None shall worship a god dethroned, but all shall lend the warmth of your hearts to the newest member of our flock."

All faces in the crowd look upon the Lamb with rapt attention, absorbing every word they have to say. When they have let the silence dwell some moments, they close with the finishing line of every sermon, "Death is not the end." A chorus of voices echo the sentiment. "I will now take questions."

They sweep their eyes over the many faces again, taking in their varied expressions. Most seem to be content, neutral, or confused. Some even look conflicted. They refrain from reading any thoughts as the people will soon give voice to them anyway. A hand shoots up and shortly after a second one follows, then quickly come the rest.

"Jultre," the Lamb says, gesturing for a pink caterpillar to speak.

"Where is the One Who Waited? We have not seen him since that day and he is not present for this sermon."

"He did not leave the Gateway unscathed, hence he is recovering in the healing bay." The Lamb gestures for a raccoon on the third pew to their right to speak next. "Anbre."

"Why did the One Who Waited put us in cages and fight you, Leader?"

"I regret I have not had the chance to ask him, and as such, his motivations are unknown to me. I believe he saw it as a necessary step to free himself and his disciples. However, I found another way—one with lesser consequences."

"What happened to the disciples?" the same raccoon asks.

Lamb dips their head in subtle sorrow. "They could not be freed along with our former god."

Muted chatter in the corners of the temple cease as heads dip in an imitation of their display, inviting a silent moment for the lives left in the Gateway. When they lift their head again, so do the others. Sometimes they can't help but feel unsettled by how blindly these people—their people—will follow them.

The Lamb gestures towards another one, stating their name and forgetting it immediately thereafter.

"Will the One Who Waited live with us from now on as a follower of the New Faith?"

"He is welcome here, and if he wishes to, he will stay as a resident, but he is not bound to the same faith due to his history in it."

The next person says, "He attacked you and Breno when he first arrived, and Breno almost lost his eye! And Trety has a new injury that looks really similar. Won't he still be dangerous once he recovers? Are we safe with him living among us?"

The Lamb smiles reassuringly for the cowardly possum. "As long as you are here on hallowed grounds, you will always be under my protection. He will need time to adjust, but I will not let more harm come to you by the hands of your former god."

The sermon has already dragged on for longer than usual, and so they wrap it up and let the followers leave to start their workday. The Lamb stays behind to collect their thoughts and rest their constantly smiling face.

They are officially their flock's god now. The only god of the New Faith and the last god of these lands.

Of the entire world?

How come they are always the last of a kind? It is such a lonely state of existence. And now the only person who could have qualified as their friend despises them with such profound vitriol that it would turn even the sweetest honey sour.

They sweep invisible dust off the Holy Tome before them and leave the pulpit, stepping down the stairs and out of the temple. The smile is plastered onto their face again like it never even left.

"Good day, Merryn," The Lamb says as they approach the seamstress. "Is all well?"

The calico cat puts her project down and hops off her chair, skipping up to them and performing an energetic little bow. The big grin on her face is even brighter than their own. "Leader! Oh, I'm doing fantastic, as always. We just started reading a new novel in the book club and it might already be my favorite one of the year! I have it with me, actually," she says, pointing towards the back of the workroom. "I can get it if you're interested—"

The Lamb pulls out their hands from under their fleece to slow her down. "That sounds wonderful, and I'll gladly hear about it another time, but I have a request to make of you."

"Anything, my Leader," she says with a dip of her head.

"I need you to make a long, everyday robe for a cat."

"Oh, is it for the newcomer? Sorry, our former god?"

"Yes."

"Okay! Do you have an idea for the design or do you want me to freestyle it?"

Merryn was not one of the unlucky followers to get caught up in the battle of the Gateway, so she has not seen Narinder in person, but she should know his choice of clothing from the depictions of him in the scriptures. "If you are familiar with his signature white robe with a red stripe down the middle, I would like it to be as similar to that as possible while still adhering to our standard."

"Of course! Do you know his measurements, by chance?"

"No … but I am due for a visit. I will return with his measurements after that. Which specifically do you need?"

The Lamb leaves the seamstress with a set of instructions and a set of loungewear that they eyeballed the size of. Right now, only the bandages around Narinder's body and the blanket placed over his lower half serves to cover his nude form, and they do not believe he would approve of it very much once he recovers.

They greet Trety and Breno and set the clothes down on a chair. From the crown, they take the measuring tape Merryn loaned them and walk over to Narinder's bedside. Luckily, he is resting—otherwise the measurements would have probably had to wait to be taken.

They begin to measure his neck, his shoulder width, and all other relevant areas on his upper body, jotting the numbers down in the journal they carry with them always. It is only when they are measuring his chest that they realize the tube sticking out of his body is gone, and that he seems to be breathing easier. There is a new bandage over the place they stuck the drainage tube, and they take care not to touch it.

Next, they pull his blanket to the side to uncover the rest of his body. They only need three more measurements, and they intend to get it done quickly, but pause at the figure now entirely laid bare for them to see.

He is scrawny and gaunt. Scraggy and weak. They have looked upon him before and realized the same, but it still takes them by surprise. It feels fundamentally wrong to witness him this way and to know it is partly their fault. They take the last measurements before the need to avert their eyes grows unbearable and cast the measuring tape back into the crown, replacing his cover.

They look back to Breno who has been quietly observing from a few paces away, but stands near enough that he could intervene quickly if Narinder wakes up with murderous intent. The bear sports two fresh scars over his right eye, courtesy of said cat's proclivity for violence.

"How is your eye, Breno?" they ask, feeling responsible for the injury.

"It was just a scratch, my Lamb. My eye works just as well as before," the bear says with a gentle smile.

The Lamb prods his mind and finds that there is no hidden malice behind his words. Breno has forgiven and forgotten the incident already and moved on with his life, despite having been put on guard duty for his attacker. They will have to reward him soon with a necklace or a luxurious meal.

"I told him he's more handsome now," Trety says as he walks into the room with a wooden cup. "Ladies like scars with a good story, and that is not a bad one."

Breno chuckles quietly, but doesn't look too convinced by the mouse.

"And before you ask, my Leader, I am also fine," Trety says. Breno was unfortunately not the only one to catch Narinder's claws with his face.

"Only because you also have a good story for the ladies now," Breno jokes.

"Tsk," says the mouse and waves a dismissive hand at him.

For good measure, the Lamb jumps into his mind as well. When their worries are assuaged, they watch silently as Trety gently rouses Narinder from his sleep and sits him up, helping him drink the cup's contents. Narinder's cooperation has them raising their brows.

Trety says, "He's been strangely cooperative since yesterday. I believe it's because he's not entirely conscious, but it's relieving nonetheless since we are getting some water in him finally. No luck with food, though."

It feels strange to speak of him as if he's not in the room with them, but Narinder does not seem to notice or care. He doesn't seem to be processing any input from his ears or nose whatsoever, and his eyes are hidden beneath bandages still. Blissfully unaware of his surroundings, he continues to take small sips, Trety's hand supporting his back.

"Oh, I forgot to mention, my Lamb," the healer says, looking over at them, "the mushrooms finished drying yesterday and I have prepared the pain suppressant." Trety nods towards the cup Narinder's drinking from. "This is his first dose and should kick in shortly."

The Lamb nods. "What do you make of his chances of recovery now?"

"Definitely better. I'm still concerned about his arms—they haven't grown any new tissues—but otherwise I'd say he could be out of here within the week provided nothing happens. I suppose it has to do with his former status."

The Lamb already gave him the rundown of the morning's sermon yesterday as he would be exempt from it, and because, as Narinder's primary healer, Trety is first on the list of people who need to know.

They bid them farewell, eyes lingering on their defeated god being helped onto his back again before they leave the healing bay. The day has only started, yet they are already out of energy and in desperate need of a break. However, they have a divine responsibility for this place and it would be a bad look for them if they shirked their duties on their first official day as their faith's god. They also have the measurements to give to Merryn.

Hours later, once the rounds have been made and the needs of their flock have been met, they can already envision the softness of their bed and the silence of their room within the temple. It is without question then that they are intercepted on their way there by a red panda with a request.

"My benevolent God, please would you hear my humble request? It would brighten my day considerably."

They hold their sigh in, as they have practiced many times, and attempt to place a name to the face. They completely ignore the strange unfamiliarity of the new form of address. "Of course. Name your request, Brejul, and I shall see what can be done."

"Oh, thank you, my God, thank you! It is only that my wife and I wish to start a family, but nature seems not to be in our favor," he says, only a little bashful. He presents to them a necklace he procured from his pocket. It's not familiar to the Lamb. "Would you please bestow a blessing upon my family's heirloom? It's a charm of fertility, but I believe it might need a godly touch."

The Lamb blesses the pendant of a gravid red panda to the elation of Brejul, who bows to them. It is not the strangest request they have received. "May you and Theryn find yourselves blessed with the joy of life."

"Thank you, my God, again! Thank you!" he says, barely keeping himself from hugging them in excitement as he bows again.

"Your mirth is mine," they say. "Go on and resume your work so you may reunite with your wife in the evening."

"I will, thank you, O God of Death!" Brejul says and bounds off towards the lumberyard. It doesn't seem to occur to him the irony of asking Death for a blessing of life.

To be entirely honest, the Lamb does not know if their blessing will even work in the desired way. They are hoping for placebo to do its job here.

When the red panda is out of sight, the Lamb continues onwards towards the temple. If their pace is just a little faster than before, no one is around to notice.

No later than the very moment the temple doors shut closed do they fasten the wooden bar in place, locking the building from inside. They finally let the sigh out and lean backwards, wiping the week's stress off their face. With great effort, they push themself off the doors and head towards the stairs leading to the upper level of the temple. It's where their respite from the world awaits them. Like a stone statue toppling to the ground, they take a heavy seat on their bed.

The attempt to clear their mind doesn't work very well. They don't feel like they've had a chance to since Narinder arrived, which might explain things. The full-length mirror before them reflects the image of a tired sheep with the crown of a god on their woolly head. They grab the crown and turn it around in their hands to face the single red eye. Now there is only a tired sheep left, and it doesn't look like much of a god, but more like the lamb everyone insists they are.

When they fought Narinder, it was not the crown they were after. Despite the guilt of betraying him and putting him in such a sorry state, they could not accept being another sacrifice. Not with their history. It would've been a massive fuck you to every sheep before them who was butchered on the altar. All because of a stupid family squabble.

It's not that they do not ache for Narinder and his plight, but they have a feeling the countless death toll could have been avoided. That this unjust genocide did not have to happen. They have a right to feel wrath and resentment towards the bishops and their needless sacrifices—it is something Narinder used to his advantage in the beginning of their partnership—but when he turned around and told them to lay their life down for him, their heart plummeted into the depths. Even though they had suspected such betrayal would come, nothing could have prepared them for the rage and sorrow it would inflict when it finally came.

Still they spared him after his defeat. They did not expect to survive challenging their god, but there they stood with the crown's sword still pointed at his face—his mortal face—and a choice had to be made. So despite the roiling feelings within, they spared him, trying to dismiss the fact that he would not have done the same.

A tear falls into the crown's eye, which blinks in return. The two-pointed shape shifts into a snake and slithers up to the top of their head. They let out a sniffle as they pet the crown's tail, then drop their hand to their aching shoulder in hopes of soothing it.

It is not only their shoulders that ache, but their entire body—ever since their battle in the Gateway. They would have thought it would all be healed by now, but it has only gotten worse. It's somewhat concerning as they've never had such issues before, but they have more pressing matters to worry about and it'll probably get better with time. It makes sense that it would take longer to heal from a fight with a god.

With another sigh, they remove their fleece and their bell, and plunge into bed. The crown settles on their chest, keeping watch over them with its one eye. They deserve to indulge themself in some sleep … It's been a while since last time … Maybe it'll even help with the aches …

Their eyes blink open to a ceiling lit by only the moon's light. The crown returns to their head and shifts back to normal when the Lamb sits up on the edge of the bed. Looking out of the window, they can tell by the position of the moon that there's a couple of hours left before the morning sermon. They do not need much time to prepare for it, so they might as well check up on Narinder as they wait for the sun to rise.

The Lamb whispers a greeting to Huan and her friend who volunteered to be the night guard, seeing as Breno could not work all day and night. They grab a candle before entering Narinder's room. He is sleeping soundly on the cot with even breaths, and the Lamb takes great care to move the chair to his bedside as quietly as they can. The candle takes its place next to a cup of water on the nightstand, gently flickering its light against the sharp edges of Narinder's face.

There are no longer bandages covering most of it, letting the Lamb have their first look since he split it open. There are no visible seams or other such marks from it, which bodes well, they think. So they sit on the chair with their chin in their palms and watch as Narinder's eyes move behind his lids, wondering what he's dreaming of. They have to suppress a chuckle when his whiskers twitch and he lets out a funny little cat sound.

He's so painfully mortal now, despite some of his eldritch remnants. It's been such a long time since they were truly mortal themself.

The Lamb grabs his arm with tender care and unwraps the bandages. It doesn't seem to be bleeding anymore, but his forearm still only consists of two thick bones with no flesh to speak of. Why will his face and chest heal, but not his arms?

They hunt down a roll of unused bandages and get to rewrapping his arm. Just as they finish, he blearily opens his eyes, but doesn't keep them open for long. Narinder swallows with difficulty before his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Kallamar?" he croaks. They don't correct him, but understand now why he's been cooperative. "Water …"

The Lamb helps him sit up and brings the cup to his mouth, but he holds onto it in silent insistence that he can do it himself. They keep their hand hovering below just in case. He is two sips in when he looks at them, pauses, and squints his eyes. The next second, their fleece and wool are completely drenched, and the cup rolls away across the wooden planks of the floor.

They raise their palms instinctively to try to placate him, but he's no follower of theirs and therefore such tricks do not work on him. They opt to remain seated on the chair, despite being within clawing distance. They hope he might stay calm as long as they don't move another muscle.

He glares, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. He then starts blinking as if something fell into his eyes. This paired with the twitching of his whiskers and ears makes for a funny but concerning display.

"Pick a color," he snarls.

"… What?"

"Stop … switching … colors." He keeps blinking like a madman and begins growling to top it off. "Leave."

Slowly, they rise from the chair and leave the room, notifying Huan that her patient has awoken and is speaking nonsense. After reassuring them that it's merely the side effects of the pain suppressant, they take their leave to let the healer do her job in peace.

Their fleece drips water onto the ground, leaving a trail behind them as they walk back to the temple to dry themself off and change into new clothing. They have a sermon to preach when the sun rises and people to tend to until it sets again. It's all routine, except now they are the god they preach for and their predecessor is high, healing, and hateful within the cult they started in his name.

They plaster the smile back on when they realize it was missing from their face.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Narinder

They have drugged him. He is sure of it. They want him compliant and subservient, like the rest of their brainless flock. To show them the hollow carcass of their former god, walking among them and serving as a reminder of who they now pray to.

No, he has no delusions about why he is here—why his usurper did not kill him like they should have—for what wicked god spares their predecessor, unless to keep a trophy?

He would rather have his head cut off and mounted on their wall. Instead, he sits in a new prison, seeing flavors and hearing colors, waiting for the day the Lamb finally tires of him and finishes the job. It might be days from now, or it might be centuries. It might even be a millennium. The thought halts any others. He needs to do something about this. He will not sit idly and wait for change to come, not when the choice is his.

The overwhelming, all-consuming pain has mostly left him, so he climbs out of the cot and opens the window. A chilly breeze burrows into his fur and freezes his skin. Glancing down, he notes that he is completely divested of clothing. Not a single scrap of dignity could the Lamb spare him.

Upon looking around the room—swirling floors, laughing walls—he finds a long tunic and throws it on. Colors swim around him and mumble incoherent things as he climbs out the window and escapes into the night. It is not hard to find the temple from here, its high towers visible on the horizon, the lights at the top always lit.

Trying the doors would be futile—he knows the Lamb bars them at night—so he walks around to the other side of the building. A round window on the second floor stares down at him, and without much more thinking on the matter, he sinks his claws into the wooden wall and scales it. With his knee, he breaks the window, and squeezes inside.

It's a humble bedroom for a mortal, even more so for a god—nothing like his chambers back in the day. A small, simple bed in the corner, a chest at the foot of it, and a desk under the window, which he hops off after swiping a long shard of glass. The room is dark, lit only by the moon, and he makes use of this as he slips into the shadow of a corner next to the entrance. The Lamb is not here, but they will be. He was not exactly quiet when breaking in.

While he waits, he observes the rest of the room. As far as decor is concerned, the only visible evidence of it are the brass stars and moons hanging from the ceiling and the plush version of the Lamb sitting on the desk. Calling the latter a decoration is generous though, for it is only a memento of a child long dead, kept for no other reason than the possession of a soft heart.

How many times he chided them for it, finally deeming it impossible to change their stance. Yet not once did his vessel show him that soft heart when he asked them to make one final sacrifice for him. When it truly mattered, their heart hardened to unbreakable stone. Despicable, rotten traitor. The bane of his existence.

The door almost swings into him when the Lamb finally enters the room. Their hooves click on the wooden planks as they walk over to the desk, picking up a broken piece of painted glass. His crown sits unbothered between their horns, not having been called to form a weapon. Foolish Lamb is much too relaxed. They are God for a day and already think themself above the world. Arrogant beast. He'll amend that.

On silent feet, he stalks up to his prey, shard primed for stabbing, and closes the distance. He grabs their collar and wrenches them backwards as the jagged point of the glass sinks deep into their chest. While he is aware they are at the most vulnerable stage of godhood, they are still supposed to be a god, and this was entirely too easy. He pulls the shard out to plunge it in again, desiring to see more of their white wool turn red, but the Lamb seizes his wrist and twists the makeshift weapon out of his grasp.

He hisses in their face, the cry of their final battle commenced. He will not relent until one of them is no more. The Lamb lets go of his wrist and steps back, and he jumps to put some distance between them before they can draw their sword and run it through him. They do nothing of the sort.

"I'm sorry!" they say, donning an expression of alarm.

Very well. He lunges at them, claws ready and yearning for the flesh of their face. He is stopped by the crown's hand, closing around him as if he were a misbehaving kitten to be picked up and manipulated. It doesn't stop him from refocusing his attacks on the hand, despite knowing it feels no pain. He only stops when he remembers to preserve his energy for when the Lamb lets go of him. He entertains himself by watching the red stain on their front.

"Are you feeling better?" the stupid thing asks. "Since you climbed the temple and all and even squeezed in an assassination attempt! I was beginning to worry, you know. Trety said it looked bad."

He doesn't deign to answer their moronic question, opting to stare daggers at them instead. If only they were real, actual daggers. The Lamb shifts their eyes down his body, where he feels warm liquid trailing over his skin in multiple locations.

"Oh, you're not better. Let me take you back to Huan."

They take him downstairs, humiliating him all the way by not letting him walk with his own two legs. Just before they go to remove the bar across the doors, someone knocks with urgency on the other side. The Lamb opens the door to a red frog. Or is it green? Yellow? All of them? A dog stands to the side, and he swears they are both familiar somehow.

"Leader! He escaped and we can't find him anywhere! I—" The frog cuts herself off when the doors open enough to reveal his presence. "Oh!" she exclaims, then catches sight of the blood he drew. "Your chest! I am so sorry, Leader, I should have watched him more closely."

The Lamb carries him all the way across the cult grounds, back to the healing bay, all the while trying to convince Huan that she does not have to keep apologizing. He is placed back on the very same cot he escaped, and the frog takes hesitant steps towards him with bandages in her hands. He hisses at her and whips his tail in warning.

"Touch me and find out if you'll live to see the morning."

The frog stops in her tracks and looks back to the Lamb for guidance. They do not take their eyes off his own, so he glares right back.

"I'll— I'll bring the painkiller," the frog says and escapes the room.

The dog stays in the room, but he is barely aware of its presence, his eyes pinned to the Lamb. One of them has yet to die. Their battle is not over.

"Will you apply the poultice and wrap the bandages yourself?" the Lamb asks.

The frog comes back with a cup of what seems to be water, but what he knows to be a mind-altering substance. He refuses it when it is presented to him, the frog just barely managing to pull it out of his reach before he swats it to the floor. The dog takes a step closer, looking ready to jump on him.

"I will not take your poison again," he says. He will not let them cloud his judgment or fog his mind.

"I will put it here then, within reach if you change your mind," she says and gently places the cup on the nightstand.

He slaps the cup off the table, taking great satisfaction in the sound it makes as it hits the ground and spills the drug within. The Lamb clasps their hands at their front and dismisses the two minions from the room.

"Narinder. I know it's hard to believe, considering everything that's happened recently, but no one is here to harm you. You don't have to act as if you're defending your life—we're trying to save it."

Right. If the Lamb wanted to save him, they would have honored their deal and returned his crown when he asked for it. The Lamb is a treacherous liar, as they have always been. As false as the smile they plaster on their face. It is currently nowhere to be seen.

"I will leave you be then. Please try not to terrorize my healers so much."

He remains alone in this room, unsure of the time that passes. No one returns after the Lamb's departure, which is a relief, but he cannot rest with enemies surrounding him. He sits still, listening to his own heartbeat and attempting to keep his mind off the growing pain in his arms and chest and even his knee. It's easy at first, but then it returns worse than before, and he can't do anything to keep the contents of his stomach down. He doubles over and aims for the floor, but his stomach seems to be empty since long ago.

Despite the drug having worn off, his mind still feels foggy. Foggier still, even. He wills himself to fall unconscious, his enemies the last thing on his mind in the face of his pain. The sun rises and sets outside his window several times during this spell of his. People keep coming into his room, changing his bandages, offering him water, drugs, food, and what have you. He refuses all of it. He cannot bring himself to fend off their touches, though they sting and burn. He cannot bring himself to do anything but attempt to sleep, to keep his nausea in control, and to remember to breathe.

Chains and shackles dig into flesh and bone, years and years of lying still has now gotten uncomfortable to the point of having to reposition himself. Sand sticks to his cheek, but he makes no attempt to brush it off. He watches the white grains before his nose, settling into waiting for the next couple of years to pass before he tires and switches sides anew.

He thinks it's been years, but he does not know the passage of time anymore. There is no sunrise to signal the start of a new day in the Gateway, no moon to let him know when night has fallen. He used to keep track of time through vessels. A century dedicated to attempting communication with his siblings, to find out what went so wrong, if they could just release him from his chains to talk. Then begging and pleading, all on deaf ears, as if Kallamar's were not the only ones he tore. Vessel after vessel sent, all struck down and returned. Despite his efforts, his siblings would not answer.

He gnawed on his arms until he hit bone, flesh and fur hung in strips or scattered on the ground below. He kept gnawing to free himself by self-amputation, yet his teeth and jaw ached before even a dent was made. His freedom depended on his action, yet he was cursed by the rule that states a god cannot destroy himself.

He began thinking that perhaps he was in the wrong after all, for him to have received such a ruthless punishment from his beloved siblings. He held onto the hope that it would be temporary, because they would not leave him to rot here eternally. They would be back soon. They were family, and they always stuck through thick and thin. This would be no different.

Now here he lies, rotting, for he no longer deludes himself with their return. He has been forsaken, family no more. He shed all the tears he could, screamed until his voice gave out, then screamed further still until his throat bled and choked him. There is no more for him to feel, so now he lies with only the clouds for company, flipping himself over every so often to keep the chains from digging in. It does not help much.

Despite his predicament, he never abandoned his duty as Death to ferry the souls that reach him to their place in the After. But his heart is not in it anymore, and his attention is fleeting, resulting in careless mistakes like misplacing souls. Other times, his deep-rooted wrath is the culprit of such mistakes, like the occasion where the ghosts of a family came to him after succumbing to a house fire. He sent all of them to Hell, despite their immaculately spotless lives lived. Their mere presence mocked him, and he deemed that sin enough to qualify for eternal suffering.

Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. There has not been movement in this realm that did not belong to him or the clouds in ages, yet he does nothing to investigate—he only just moved, and he does not intend to do it again in the next few years. His cheek lies buried in the sand, and it is too bad that he cannot suffocate himself with it.

A high-pitched noise reaches his ears, like a squeak. The sound is not loud, but in this oppressive silence, it is deafening. His ear twitches when the squeak comes again, and curiosity pulls on him enough to move his head just to see the source.

A wicker basket lies on the offering stone which has not been in use since shortly after his imprisonment. From his vessels and dwindling devotion, he knew his siblings had excised him from their pantheon. They shunned him and his faith, converted his followers, and killed those who were not persuaded. It left him starving, an empty hollow where devotion should be, but of course not even this would kill him. Of course he had to have a special crown that did not function like the rest.

Another squeak, drawn out this time. He gathers enough energy to lift his head and look inside the basket. What greets his eyes is so out of the realm of possibility that he takes a moment to register what he sees.

Two kittens, their fur almost as dark as his, bundled up in blankets. A familiar smell reaches his nose, and even though it's been countless of years, he immediately recognizes it as Shamura's. An emotion bubbles up from deep within him and boils over. Ages of nary a word from his siblings, despite his desperate attempts, only to now receive an offering of two small lives from the eldest.

Is this their idea of a joke? Are they laughing at him from above at this very moment?

He brings his claws out, fully intending to pierce the small bodies of these helpless kits, permanently destroying their souls. He does not want Shamura's worthless offerings. With a claw hovering above the things, he pauses. Perhaps he should ferry them on to Hell, instead, let them suffer forevermore, as he is?

It is tempting, but he craves violence. Their lifeblood leaves in rivulets down their throats when he draws his claw over them. They don't have much of it, for they are so very small. He feels it when the souls are gone to him. Gone to the world. The blankets in the basket are painted red, and his realm is swathed in silence once more.

His eyes shoot open and a sharp breath invades his lungs. It takes him embarrassingly long to realize that it was a hallucination his mortal mind conjured in his sleep, because it did not happen that way. It's true that he meant to kill them, but he never went through with it, choosing instead to spare them. Even to raise them as his disciples.

Yet they are dead all the same. Their lives laid down for him, and he let them. It's what they were taught to do, but it … but now he cannot …

He returns to his dream, trying to recollect it the way it actually happened. Not how his mind twisted it with death. No, in reality, he spared them and watched as they grew up in the Veil. They were all he had for a good number of centuries, along with an old prophecy.

In the new dream—the memory, the past—his raised hand pauses over the kits. The one to the right squeaks unhappily. They are young enough to have closed eyes still, meaning they must have been born only days ago. What possessed Shamura to rip these away from their mother only to offer their lives to him? They are innocent. They have done no crime.

He racks his brain for a plausible reason behind this offering. Could it be the color of their fur? Will his siblings strike down any black cat they see from now on, just for the resemblance? He would not put it past Shamura if the kits are the first of a genocide. They devised his torture, after all.

He craves violence, but not against these innocent lives. He will send them on to Heaven and return to his languishing.

The kit cries again. Its sibling is oddly quiet. Any bloodlust he had dissipates before these weak, trembling creatures. He retracts his claws, bringing the back of his skeletal finger down to touch the crying one. It immediately quiets down, then lets out a content squeak. It opens its mouth, trying to follow his finger, but he moves it away. When it cries again, he only watches and keeps watching until it stops and falls asleep.

He lies with his chin resting on his shackles. It doesn't take long for the kit to wake up again, crying even harder and squeezing all the air out of its little lungs. It produces the most pitiful sound he has ever heard, but it inspires even the quiet one to join in with an unhappy squeak of its own.

They need food. If he doesn't feed them and water them, they will perish, and their souls will be destroyed. He could ferry them on but … perhaps this could be a balm for his boredom. He has been wasting away for so many years. So he summons a vessel and orders it to retrieve a bottle of cat's milk. When it returns, he orders it to feed the kits, as he is too large to handle the small lives and cannot minimize himself.

So he watches, always watches, as his vessel takes care of the little ones. The way they greedily imbibe the proffered milk reminds him of Leshy sometimes. Heket found the infant worm in the bushes when she was foraging for berries. His family was nowhere to be seen, so she took him back to their camp for them to raise. See how that turned out.

He picks them up in his hands with unpracticed care, the little bundles of warmth. They are so tiny in his palms, but they squeal with good health. He knows they will make fine disciples with his guidance, and if he happens to overindulge them in the simpler joys of playtime over the years, it's only because it gets awfully boring in the Veil—for him and for them.

Rain patters on the glass of the window, calling attention to the coarse flesh in his throat. He has refused the healers' concoctions for days upon days, whether they are presented as pain medication or simple water. He can no longer read minds to see if they speak truth.

He does not know if this will kill him in the end, or if he will continue to suffer a dry throat, among every other sensation of pain in his body. He only knows a regular mortal would have already been desiccated to the point of death by now, which means he is either irregular or immortal.

Whatever the case, it feels like he swallowed a cactus, so he gathers enough power to slide off the cot and walk over to the window. He fiddles with the latch, but his hands are too weak to open it. The rain hits the glass so close to his face he can almost taste it. Against all sense and reason, he presses his cheek against it and opens his mouth to catch the drops. One makes it onto his tongue, salty and sour.

He sinks down onto the floor. Even just standing takes effort that he doesn't have. A spider crawls on the wall and stops before him. It's a big one, perhaps the size of his palm, including its long, spindly legs. His stomach growls. He hasn't eaten since the Lamb sent him an offering of a bowlful of fish, however long ago that was now. He only ate one of them, the smallest one, and gave the rest to his disciples. They loved fish. He promised them they could eat all the fish they wanted once they were free.

He catches the spider, only barely managing to pin it before it escaped. He thinks of Shamura as he pops it into his mouth and bites down with a crunch. When he swallows, it feels like sand grating against the walls of his throat. More saltwater reaches his mouth, and he doesn't let a single drop go to waste.

Hasn't he been punished enough? Is he truly so terrible that the fates deem him unworthy of reprieve? That they give him false hope only to crush it beneath their figurative foot? He lost his chains, but he is no less imprisoned than he was. Constantly in pain. Endlessly humiliated. Robbed of the little he had.

He can't do this for a thousand years more. He can't. Why didn't the Lamb just take his crown and kill him? He was wrong, about being kept as a trophy. He knows now they kept him for torture.

The Lamb

It is morning, the sermon concluded only an hour ago, when the Lamb returns to the healing bay. Narinder hasn't made it easy for his healers to do their job, refusing all medicine, drink, and food. They suspect he only lets them tend to his wounds because he is too exhausted to fight them.

Trety came to them about a week ago, worried that his patient would die without more drastic measures taken. The Lamb listened to his request, but denied it in the end. While Narinder is suffering, it is clear he is not dying, so they did not permit the act of forcing him to drink or eat. If they know him well—which, admittedly, they are unsure they do—autonomy is more important to him than food and water. As someone who has had their entire life governed by fate, they cannot deny him this, for his life has been just as entwined in the same strings.

Nevertheless, they hold a tray in their hands, on which a bowl of meat broth and a cup of water sits. They greet Trety and Breno on their way to Narinder's room. They pause upon seeing his awake and seated form, but don't let it discourage them. His red eyes follow their every movement. The anger that is usually burning within them is not present at the moment, replaced by a blank stare.

They present the tray to him with a smile. "Good morning, I hope you're in the mood for meat broth."

The cat only stares, though his eyes drop to glance at the food. The third eye never leaves their own pair.

"At least drink the water. It's been more than a week since you last drank something."

"Not something." he says, voice raspier than when he arrived. "Poison."

Medicine, really, but they don't argue. "There's no poison in this." How can they convince him? "Trety?" they call out.

The mouse joins them in the room, followed by Breno. "My Lamb?"

They turn towards him with the tray still in hand. "Would you give the food and drink a taste?"

The mouse looks confused for a second, then glances at his patient with understanding. He takes the spoon in hand, but gets interrupted before he can lift it to his mouth.

"Not the mouse. Someone else," says Narinder. "Not the bear either."

The Lamb places the tray on the table in the room. "I'll return in—"

"The bear will retrieve. You will stay."

Trety and Breno glance between the two. Making demands of them is not something a follower does. They may make requests, but they all know better than to command. Narinder is not bound by the same rules.

"Breno, please bring someone here. Make sure they are not vegetarian."

Not a word is exchanged while they wait for the bear to return with another follower. A golden retriever who goes by Jatyan. She's a kind one, has never uttered a lie for as long as she's lived here. She tastes the soup and the water without a single question or complaint, expressing gratitude after they thank her and dismiss her.

"The dog stays."

Jatyan looks back at the Lamb for confirmation.

"Grab the chair and make yourself comfortable while I catch up with him, alright?"

"Yes, my Leader!" she says and happily takes a seat in the corner.

The Lamb gives the tray to Narinder. He doesn't touch anything on it, but just the fact that he even accepted it is a huge step towards the right direction. Of course, it means he feels compelled to take a few steps back to balance it out.

"You are a wretched creature," Narinder says. "The bishops were right to slaughter the sheep. My only regret lies in resurrecting you, for you should have died with the rest of your ilk."

He has not exchanged many words with them since their fight, and they cannot decide whether this development is positive or not. Though, despite his atrocious words, they do not feel anger upon hearing them. Well, perhaps a smidgen, but mostly they feel somber.

"You should eat your food before it gets cold," they say.

He glances towards the corner where Jatyan sits. Narinder will not find any evidence of poison or drugs in her, and hopefully he will finally eat. He does not move to do so. Perhaps he needs privacy.

The Lamb ushers the dog out and bids Narinder farewell. They leave feeling rather dejected, their remaining tasks for the day demanding more energy to be completed, but when the workday comes to an end, Trety finds them to let them know Narinder licked the bowl clean and left not a drop of water in the cup. They work through the night with a bounce in their steps and deliver the sermon with gusto the next day.

They attempt to recreate this success the next few days, and Trety's reports indicate it works. However, for every new day, Narinder has increasingly scathing things to say to them, about themself, their kind, or like today, where he's taken it a step too far.

"Your family, your parents and sibling … they suffered endlessly just to keep you safe. Was it worth it? Is your life worth their blood? Or the blood of sheepkind? How can you live with yourself, knowing your fate spelled the end of your kin?"

The crown materializes in their hand as a sword, pointing to the side. They lift it to his throat to serve as a warning. While they do not intend to harm him, they will not tolerate the words he says. But their warning seems to have the opposite effect. He dons a wicked grin with a madman's glint in his eye, tilting his head back in defiance. It snuffs out all of their anger. Why is he baring his neck?

"I remember your sister. Her soul came to me after she perished. If I had known then what a wretched beast her sibling would come to be, I would have erased her soul from existence. Or perhaps I would have resurrected her, so you could watch her die all over again. And again. And again. And I would have relished every second of it. And when you died, I'd have sent your soul straight to Hell, to relive it all until the end of time."

The anger is ignited anew, its flame stronger. The urge to sever his head from his neck is overwhelming in the face of his cruelty. His throat is right there—unguarded, unprotected, inviting them to slice their sword clean through. A part of their brain works in the background of righteous fury, level and logical. It forces them to remove the tip of the blade from its threatening position, until they calm down enough to dismiss the sword entirely.

"That's not gonna work," they say after a deep breath. "Your words sting, it's true, but I won't kill you over them. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to end your suffering?"

Narinder slowly lowers his head to glare at them straight on, no longer baring the vulnerable section below. The Lamb sighs and excuses themself for just a second. When they return, it's with a cup of liquid pain reliever.

"You're the one letting yourself suffer, so end it yourself." The Lamb puts the cup down on the nightstand and steps back. They blink. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean for you to take your life, but to take your medicine."

The Lamb leaves upon receiving nothing but silence. It is morning still and they have duties to attend to, but their path takes them back to the temple. They haven't thought about their sister in years. They can't even remember her face, so young were they when she was caught, never to be seen again. She's nothing but a concept now. An idea of what they once had. What they could have had, if the world weren't so cruel.

Narinder's words aimed to inflict as much pain as possible, and he aimed true, knowing just the spot to target. But his words, upon reflection, were soothing too, for Death had sent their sister to Heaven.

Narinder

The cup stands on the little table next to the cot, within reach and beckoning him. After the first cup they made him drink, his pain was manageable enough for him to walk and even climb, though that little stunt set him back in his healing process by likely a few weeks. In his current state, he's unsure if he can even lift the cup to his mouth.

He tries. His hands are clumsy and almost drop it, but he manages to drink the substance, because what does it matter anymore? He lost. In every sense of the word, he lost, and if he is to be tortured by the Lamb for all eternity, then he might as well be high for it.

A numbness washes over him. He wonders if it's the drug already kicking in, or if it's just him. The feeling is familiar. He felt it once, when he realized they weren't coming back to free him from his chains. The first time he lost everything.

Fate is funny like that.

The healers clear him after two weeks. The bones of his forearms have begun to grow back the missing flesh, and he doesn't need as high a dose to manage his pain anymore. The strength of the hallucinations diminish as a result.

"That's wonderful news. Thank you, Trety. Your work has been invaluable," the Lamb tells the mouse.

"Thank you, my Lamb, but his recovery was not flawless. There is permanent functional damage to his hands as a result of the chains, originating from his wrists, so I would advise against assigning him work in occupations that are physically straining for them. I have given him instructions on how to regain mobility and ease pain, but please take this note with the exercises written down, in case he forgets. And the pain suppressants. I've written an instruction for them too on the back of that paper."

The Lamb leads him to his assigned hut, far away from their followers. They speak during the entire walk there, about things he does not care for.

"I mean, you've gotta be bored out of your mind, so if you want something to do, there's a bunch of available work that's easy on your hands. Like worship," they say, finishing with a laugh and a glance.

Narinder keeps walking.

"So, this is your new home sweet home. It's an old storage shed that I repurposed, but it has everything you could ever need, and I tried to make it cozy to boot." They open the door for him and wave him inside. "Take a look! I hope you like it."

They step inside after him, showcasing the humble living space they've assigned to him.

"What do you think? It's not much, but I thought you might want to decorate it yourself." Their smile falters at his continued silence, but is quickly replaced by a wider one. They walk over to a desk and pick up a red candle. "You can change anything you want about it too, like if you want a skull candle instead of this regular, boring candle. I think that's probably way more your style. Why didn't I think of that?"

They are right. He had a collection of them in his temple, consisting only of the skulls taken from his greatest foes slain. All of them gods. Some, however, received the honor only because there was something visually pleasing about them.

The Lamb would have made a great candle holder if he were still a god.

They place the candle back on the desk. "Well … I'll let you get settled in. But I'll be back tomorrow morning with your work assignment, if you wish to work. It's not obligatory for you, but I think it'd do you some good to go outside and have something to do. If you have anything specific in mind, do tell, and I'll see if I can get it arranged."

He only watches as they linger in the doorway.

"Okay, well, um … Goodbye."

Narinder stands in place, unmoving, unblinking. The door opens again and the Lamb pops their head in.

"Hi, sorry, I forgot to give you this." They wave the note with his written exercises and step inside the hut again. "Here."

Narinder looks down at the paper, but doesn't lift a finger. The Lamb simply sets it down on the desk next to the candle.

"Oh! And the medicine." They set that down too. "God, am I forgetful today!" They return to the door. "Alright, I think that was all. Goodbye now."

Once the jingling of their bell and the clop of their hooves have faded, he investigates the door and finds it has a latch. He locks it and takes a seat on the bed to stare at the regular, boring candle.

Home sweet home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The Lamb

The sun shines on a new day and the Lamb heads over to the seamstresses' workplace to pick up the robe they requested weeks ago. It was finished only a few days later, but there would have been no use in giving it to Narinder before he recovered enough to leave the healing bay. They are happy to see the black veil they requested be made once they remembered he used to wear one.

The Lamb skips over to Narinder's hut and knocks on his door. Only the sound of crickets respond, so they knock again, calling out to him. They are about to try the handle when they hear the door unlatch on the other side, opening to reveal a disheveled black cat who looks to have seen better days. The Lamb offers the folded robe and the veil to Narinder, who looks on with detachment.

"Your work assignment is consecration, if you're feeling up for it," the Lamb says. "So change into your new clothes and eat some breakfast once the bell rings, and after that you can either attend the sermon or start working. Or if you still need time to rest, you can stay here. I'll find you later to see how you're doing. That sound good?"

Narinder takes his clothes and shuts the door in their face. The Lamb waits a minute, because they don't want to leave before they've heard him say at least one word, but he doesn't come back out. They knock again.

"I take it you'll be resting today?" The door opens and the clothes are dumped into their hands. "What—"

"The robe is inadequate and so is the veil."

The Lamb looks over the items, unsure of where the problem lies. "I tried to get it as accurate to your old robe as possible, but I did change some things to fit our traditional garb."

"The design is acceptable."

They beam at the positive critique. "Then what's the …"

"I cannot don this."

"Do you want me to change something about it? Is it the material? The size? It's made to your measurements, but maybe—"

"I cannot physically don this."

"Oh!" The Lamb looks between the cat and the robe. "Do you want me to help you?"

Finally, that definitely earned them a glare. He shuts the door again and the Lamb yells through it that they'll take it back to Merryn, and for him to sit tight until then.

Back at the seamstresses', they fold out the robe and hold it before them, trying to identify the problem area. They are alone in the hut and will be until the workday starts, so they shed their fleece and don the robe. Fairly simple. The only issue so far is the fabric pooling at their feet, but that is to be expected when they are a head shorter than the intended wearer. Next, they grab the cincture and tie it around their waist. Also simple. For the last item—

No, wait. They untie the cincture and redo it, and there lies the issue. Someone with weak wrists would not be able to tie it. The robe itself should be fine, however, so they don't understand why he returned it too.

They pick up the veil and immediately spot the problem—it too needs to be tied to fasten it, and at the back of the head at that. The Lamb disrobes and changes back into their fleece. Before leaving the hut, they leave a note on the folded clothes detailing the changes they want made.

The bell rings to signal the start of the day's first meal. They walk over to the dining hall and give a nod and a chipper greeting to all standing in line. They enter the kitchen and take a serving of the carnivores' breakfast. While the bowl of meat probably looks good to a meat eater, the Lamb feels that it's missing color. They cut a few slices of cucumber and make some flowers out of them for garnish, earning a few curious looks from the cooks.

They put the bowl along with a cup of water on a tray and return to Narinder. Luckily, they are let inside the hut, so they deposit the tray on his desk.

"Your clothes should be done in a few hours. I'll return with them and show you where consecration is. Unless you know already? I could never really tell when you were watching through the crown."

They grab the box of medicine, pretty sure that it hasn't been touched since it was set down. Reading over the instructions, they pour some of the powder into the cup and stir it with their crown turned spoon. They hold the cup out to the cat. Predictably, he does not grab it. Perhaps they are babying him too much and as a result being overwhelming or even suffocating, so they leave him to his own devices until Merryn finishes making the adjustments.

The cincture has been stored away, leaving behind his unchanged robe. The only real adjustment was made to the veil, now with a rigid headband to be placed on the head, and an elastic band at the back for stability.

The Lamb shows him to his workplace once he is robed and veiled, hearing not a single complaint uttered. They should be happy that he's calmed down since his thrashing and hissing, but he doesn't feel calm exactly. More like absent. It continues for weeks, this state of his that reminds them of catatonic followers, during which he has changed jobs four times.

His first job in consecration turned out to be a bad match for him and his lack of devotion. They never learned this, but apparently followers consecrate resources by channeling their devotion for their god into the resource they want to consecrate, imbuing it with better qualities. It explained why Narinder, after several full workdays, never had anything to show for it. An uneasy follower working beside him told them her suspicions once they inquired about it.

His second job was in the library which they thought was a pretty good fit until they realized he inadvertently scares people, preventing them from browsing the literature they keep. While they want Narinder comfortable, they cannot sacrifice the comfort of their flock for his. They figured he could also benefit from spending time outside during the day—he has yet to appreciate the world he was kept away from for so long.

His third job was as an apprentice candle maker. His teacher grew frustrated by Narinder's inability for precision, the consequences of which were quite a few ruined candles. Instead, he put him to work rolling incense sticks, but was unimpressed with his slow speed and asked for a new apprentice.

His fourth job was to sort seeds and take inventory of them along with the farming equipment, but there wasn't much left to do for him, as the last time the task was completed was not too long ago. However, this work placed him among other followers who began dropping their guards around him when the weeks passed without further incident.

His fifth job is therefore also his second job, as the Lamb assigned him to the library again. The followers aren't as scared to step foot inside the building anymore and it's a job he can perform adequately enough.

Life goes on as normal. They tend to their flock, do their paperwork, hold sermons, bless followers. The only thing that is different from before is the lack of crusades. They feel now that they cannot be away from their flock for too long, away from Narinder, who rarely eats and rarely answers though they bring him food and conversation every day. It's like he's not even here, and if they leave for more than a day, they fear he will just go up in smoke. Though they miss the times they would crusade, die, and be reborn—all in his name. Between those last steps, they'd take a little break in his realm, converse with him and his disciples … their most cherished moments. The only times in their life they felt they were not on the run from something. When they could truly relax and let go, safe in the care of Death. They just wished he'd now feel safe and cared for in return.

Life goes on. A new baby is born and added to the register; a celebration is held to commemorate the creation of life. The red panda who asked for their blessing finds himself blessed with an expecting wife; he celebrates the expansion of his family with friends at the drinkhouse once work is over. An elder passes away in his sleep after a long life lived; a celebration is held to commemorate the embrace of death. His body will soon be used to nourish their crops which will in turn nourish others. Life goes on.

They haven't seen Ratau in a while. Thinking of the gruff but sweet rat puts a smile on their face, and that decides it. The Lamb heads to the gate and steps on the conveyance stone that transports them to the lonely little shack in the woods. They have invited him to come live in their cult before, but were declined. The Lamb doesn't understand why someone would want to live alone among the trees, even if they do get the need for short bouts of solitude—and that is presuming they have the ability to fall back on their flock when the seclusion gets to them. They respect his decision nonetheless.

The Lamb knocks in the agreed pattern and jumps to embrace him when he opens the door. He stumbles back a step and grumbles half-heartedly while patting their back.

"You're gonna break my spine one of these days, kid."

"I'm just happy to see you."

"Bah, come in already. You're bringing the cold in."

The Lamb enters his home and sees Flinky seated at the table with a game of knucklebones before him. "Hi, Flinky! Here to grow your pile of debts?"

The rattlesnake hisses a laugh. "Now that you're here, child, it'sss your pile that will grow."

"Is that a challenge?" they say and take a seat at the table. "You're on."

"Not so fast," Ratau says and joins them, picking up a die and blowing on his fist. "I have a game to win first."

He shakes the die and throws it, and sure enough wins the game. Coin is swapped and the game is reset, Ratau's dice are handed over to the Lamb.

"I'll let you go first to give you a fair chance," the Lamb says.

"You'll regret it," the snake replies.

Ratau stands up and heads to the door. "I'll fetch some more cider."

An hour passes with the Lamb losing to both Ratau and Flinky, at which point they give up and let the two continue playing each other while the Lamb keeps count. They don't do a very good job at it, because they keep zoning out and needing to be reminded once matches end.

"What's up, kid? Are things well at the cult?" Ratau asks.

The Lamb sighs, deflating on their chair. "I don't know where to start, so much has happened since we last spoke."

"Let's start with how your crusades in Silk Cradle are faring. Have you come any closer to defeating Shamura?"

"Oh, yeah, I killed them some months ago."

Ratau and Flinky pause their game to cast each other a glance probably. They are looking at the ceiling currently, so they could be wrong. Only when the silence is broken by a die hitting the table does Ratau speak up again.

"Knew you could do it," he says. "And the One Who Waits?"

The Lamb takes a deep breath and drags their hands down their face. "I went to free him, but he was going to sacrifice me, and you know how I feel about that. I refused him, which he got angry about, so we fought. Now his disciples are dead, he's catatonic in my cult, and I don't know what to do."

The dice sit untouched again. Ratau says, "You fought the One Who Waits and won?"

They shrug. "I guess."

The two knuckleheads glance at their crown and bow to them. "Your Holiness."

They sit up and bring their palms up. "Please don't treat me any differently. I'm your friend first, your god second."

Flinky slinks out of his chair. "I'm rolling in a barrel, we're gonna need it."

Ratau clears his throat. "So … he is mortal now?"

"Well, he's immortal still, and he can do the face thing, but otherwise, yeah."

"The face thing?"

"He can, uh, split his face apart, like this." They cover their face with their hands and fold them out, wiggling their fingers.

"Huh. And I thought I'd seen him angry."

Flinky returns with the barrel, and the rest of the evening is spent drinking cider and lamenting about the state of things. It's a shame the Lamb cannot get drunk on alcohol anymore, because that's just what they need. Not even tipsy do they get for all the jugs of cider they pour down. At least it's tasty.

When they have gotten everything off their chest, they hug their two friends goodbye and return to the cult.

When their hooves settle on the conveyance stone again, the sight of their sleeping cult makes them want to run the other way, so they do. They pass under the arch of the gate and leave the grounds, making their way over to Darkwood's portal.

A familiar chill runs down their spine, swiveling their ears forward and straightening their stance. They hold deathly still, listening for danger and scanning for moving bushes, like the prey animal they once were. But the bishops are dead, and the sole remaining god is themself, so what is triggering this long dormant instinct?

They receive their answer in the form of a rumble coming from the entrance to the Gateway, followed by a blinding beam of light shooting up into the sky. A figure stands within. Loose rocks float in the air until the beam vanishes and they drop down again, tumbling down the stone steps.

The Lamb blinks their eyes, adjusting their vision back to normal. The being standing atop the stairway doesn't look to be from this world, with its abyssal orb for a head, eyes floating inside and piercing their very soul. Instead of a body, there are stars captured in its cloak.

Behind it, a portal to another realm has opened, one they do not recognize. It looks similar to the Gateway, blindingly white with rolling clouds, but in the sky there are dark pyramids floating freely, also adorned with eyes. Behind the being, just beyond the portal's threshold, two smaller forms stand guard. The formation is a familiar sight.

When the being speaks, its voice booms from not only its head, but from the realm behind as well. It's like nothing they've ever heard before—not the language and not the voice. The next time it speaks, they understand it.

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

They stay rooted to the spot. They can handle the threat of a god or five, but whatever this thing is, it's above even that.

"Fickle beast, do you not feel how the boundary betwixt this world and the next has begun to fray? You are artless in your duties, infant god. You bestow upon the bishops death, yet deny them rest. Bearer of the Red Crown, set this right. Forced are they to relive their final agonies; move them on, as is your duty as the new God of Death. Crusade once more. Give peace unto the bishops trapped between life and death."

Beams of light pour out of the four portals to the bishops' realms and all doors close and lock except Darkwood's.

The Lamb stares at the floating eyes in the void. All of what it just said mostly flew over their head, too filled with questions. "What are you?"

The eyes stare back but offer no answer. The Lamb backs away towards the only open portal left, but they are not sure it is wise to leave the flock unguarded with this thing around.

Rocks rise into the air again as the being leaves like it came, in a beam of light. The portal to its realm closes and the rocks drop.

They need to clear their mind. The being doesn't seem to care for anything but the task it's given them, and even if it turns out to be malicious, the Lamb doubts they have the power to stop it. They are, after all, an infant god, artless in their duties, as put by the being itself. And the faceless thing is surely above even a god. Perhaps it is the God of Gods?

Upon entering Darkwood, they are met with the renounced god Haro. The Lamb stops before him to perform their signature curtsy. The owl usually shows up to part with valuable information about history and its people. If anyone knows what Voidface is, it's Haro.

"Hail, Lamb. 'Tis a world of flux in which we once more meet. 'Tis a motion behind which thou art the force. Yet thy reign is in its cradle, thy duties not yet satisfied. Lamb, thou knowest what must be done."

"Yep, got the rundown earlier. Move the bishops on or the world explodes, something like that."

"Slain, purged, or simply … forgotten. A crown's eye closed in slumber … or perchance in waiting. I mean not to affright, though certainly gods may fear. Thou hast proven such. The bishops four now placated, what great power hath lain dormant in anticipation of this very moment?"

Hmm. Okay, well, he's not always very helpful. "Great power—do you mean the being with the night sky in its cloak? Do you know what or who it is?"

"Attend thy tasks. Triumph. Hail, Lamb."

Haro flies away, of course. What is it with the people who surround them? Why must they all be so cryptic and unforthcoming? They call to the crown's gauntlets, feeling the need to get up close and personal to any heretics that cross them.

So the bishops have found themselves in eternal agony. Let them rot in it forever for all they care, for all they did to them and their kind. Who is Floaty Eyes to tell them it's their duty to put them to rest? They are sick and tired of others dictating their life for them—the bishops, the fates, Narinder, this being. Their duty is whatever they say it is. They pave their path and no one else. Not anymore.

They need to be smart about this, however, lest they face the judgment of a being beyond their comprehension. For all they know, it could unravel their very existence with a wink and a wave. What would putting the bishops to rest even entail? They are already dead. Though they suppose of all people they should know death is not an end to suffering.

Blood splashes in their face as they cut down their foes, fool enough to challenge a god. It is therapeutic, this repetitive hack and slash. When did they become so violent? There is a distant memory of a little lamb crying a river for the bug crushed beneath their hoof. The grown lamb has learned that crushing bugs is inevitable, and tears are too precious to waste.

They reach a clearing in the woods, the creeping sunrise shining light on a familiar caravan. Forneus sits outside with a kettle warming over a small fire. Her slanted eyes open and smile at their approach. The Lamb would normally apologize for their bloodied person, but Forneus has never minded it. She reaches behind to set a cushion on the ground next to her.

" 'Tis a blessing to begin the new day with company for the heart." She lifts the kettle's lid to reveal the boiling tea. "And company well-timed," she says with a chuckle, handing them a stick and a pot of dough.

The cat pours the tea into their cups while the Lamb tries to figure out how a stick and some dough go together. Forneus tears a piece off the mound and forms it into a thick length. She picks up a stick of her own and winds the dough around the end of it.

"… and wrap it around like a caterpillar on a branch," she says with infectuous mirth and holds the critter of dough above the fire.

"Nibble on toast and cool your tea with sighs, or else forget the purpose of the night. Forget your tea—forget your appetite."

Once the bread has been toasted to perfection, they throw it in their mouth and wash it down with tea. "Mmm, bread—so simple but so good."

"Simple joy indeed! To fill one's stomach with food and one's heart with company; there is little else one can ask for."

The Lamb takes the lead and wraps another caterpillar around their stick to toast. It's been some time since they felt this relaxed. So long since they just sat back and listened to the birds sing on their branches and watched the sun wake up on the horizon. A gentle breeze strokes their cheeks, and they exhale weeks' worth of compacted stress. The tea is soothing in its caress down their throat, and the lovely smell lingers pleasantly in their nose.

"  'Twas on a morn not unlike this one that I last did hold mine own kits. Oft I close mine eyes and forge waking dreams of darling twins slumbering in their hamper, for a mother's heart doth ever yearn. Oft I hear sweet snores, but when eyes open anew, dreams do conclude."

The Lamb closes their own eyes and squeezes the cup in their hand. Darling twins, waking nightmares, sword and staffs clashing, blood drawn. A terrible, monstrous roar from above. Skin peeled back to reveal many furious eyes.

They are a monster for sitting here, partaking in smiles and tea with the grieving mother. So giving in her nature, yet they have taken her most precious treasures from her. She's unaware that she had a very real chance of reuniting with her kits again once they were freed. A chance that is now gone.

"I'm sorry about your kits," the Lamb says.

"Oh, but I blather, and on a fine day such as this. Sentimentality cares not for when it is desired—it comes and goes as if with a mind of its own."

"Don't sweat it," the Lamb says and stands up. Tea gone, appetite gone. "I must continue on through the woods now, but you have my utmost gratitude for the reprieve of your company." They perform a curtsy.

"My heart swells with joy! The Lamb will always find a home in mine."

"And you in mine, if you ever find yourself weary of travel."

The Lamb purchases more wares than they need or know what to do with as consolation. For whom? They aren't quite sure.

They continue their crusade and dwell deep under the surface of their mind. They are the God of Death now, so if anyone is able to defy death and get the twins back, it's them. If they had died a regular death in the living plane, this would have been less of a question and more of a certainty. They have performed many a resurrection in their time as his vessel, but to perform it for a soul that perished in the Beyond? Narinder once told them, on one of their many breaks in his realm, that there is no return from such a death. The term he used was erasure.

That one little piece of knowledge is the reason Narinder's final demand stung them so. They are no stranger to dying for him, but they never thought he would rid himself of them like that. Like a tool to be discarded once it has fulfilled its purpose. They are aware that Narinder's moral compass is … a little broken, but they thought … they thought a bunch of crap. They were always a tool to him. For him.

They reach a mutated, almost unrecognizable Amdusias and flex their crown-lent claws. It's a little nostalgic to be back here, fighting Leshy's first minion. What's it been now—three hundred years or so?

They try to stay present in the fight, to enjoy the bloody dance, but other matters flood their mind. Not only is Forneus grieving her kits, but so is Narinder, they're sure of it. While he didn't ever show them affection during the Lamb's visits, they could tell by the concessions he'd make for them that he has a soft spot for the twins.

They were tough to crack at first, still as statues beside their master, observing passively. They were surprised and wary when the Lamb began addressing them directly, but grew more relaxed in their presence with time and with their collective god's silent approval.

They are grieving too for the kits they killed. They have to get back to the Gateway and find a way. They will bend the very laws of this world if they must.

The Lamb deals the final blow to Amdusias and puts him out of his misery. His body vanishes and leaves behind a drop-shaped object emitting a warm glow. They pick it up with their gauntlet and bring it to their face. The reflection in the glowing tear reveals a bleeding cut on the Lamb's cheek. They store away the crystal and swipe their cheek, a black smear tinting their hand. Ichor. That's new, but of course. The blood of gods courses through their veins now.

They stand in place, collecting themself before returning to the cult. A feeling of deja vu washes over them, and they suppose it's a feeling justified, for they are repeating history, except … will the bishops die when they are killed, or will they turn mortal upon defeat, like Narinder? If so, do they spare them too, or behead them to give a taste of their own medicine? To finally rid themself of the looming shadows that have hunted them through life and death?

They pat down their fleece and tilt their head to see the state of it. The color does wonders to hide the blood staining it from top to bottom, but it's still noticeable. Suddenly, they sense the seam around their neck unraveling, the head atop growing heavy. They straighten their spine and hold their head in place to assure it's still attached to their neck and not about to go anywhere. Narinder assured them it would never happen, and true enough, it never has, but the sensation is so vivid that it feels like it could. Narinder explained it to be a common side effect observed in resurrectees who suffered a violent or otherwise traumatic end. They reach up to their collar and tighten it against the scar. It usually helps with the dread.

Back to the cult, then—but only once they have replaced their bloodied fleece with one that is clean. They always keep spares in their crown for this very reason.

They wonder how Narinder is doing, if he has eaten his meals, worked his job, and completed his exercises. They'd be surprised if he has. He's so bad at taking care of himself that he might just end up dead, despite his immortality. Would they be able to resurrect him if he did? He's not exactly normal.

They push the thought out of their head. They'll make sure Narinder survives his own neglect, and the bishops … they'll figure that out later. For now, they have two kits to save from erasure.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The Lamb

The moment the Lamb's hooves touch the stone, they're bound for the temple. They'll deposit the bones and camellias they amassed on the crusade later, but for now, they bar the door and pace the floor in thought. They need to get to the Gateway. As Narinder's vessel, they only ever got there through death. Even the last time they went there, through the offering ritual, they all lost their lives in the process. The Lamb had to resurrect each of the twenty lives that partook in the ritual—quite the feat as a new god. Only Narinder did not have to be resurrected, his life still intact.

Hm. Well, they haven't tried dying yet as a god. Perhaps they would automatically appear in the Gateway upon death. That would be ideal.

The Lamb calls upon the crown's dagger and turns the sharp point to their own chest. They plunge the blade into their heart, but it disperses into black mist before reforming in their hands. They blink and try again, but the crown refuses their will.

"Come on! Why won't you let me stab myself? It's not the first time we've done this," they tell the eye on the crossguard. Seems vessels and gods play by different rules.

The Lamb shrugs, dismissing the dagger. They look around themself in search of a regular blade, but they know none are kept within the temple. They'll have to visit the kitchen, borrow a knife, and somehow make it seem like completely ordinary behavior. The Lamb groans.

The crown's storage! There's something of everything in there—should be no problem finding a simple knife. They pull out a few bones, a stick, a bird skull, a pretty feather—oh, hey, they were looking for that a few weeks ago—but simple knives are regrettably lacking. That bone is looking sharp, though. Bet they could stab pretty good with it.

The bone sinks in easily, but nothing happens. Absolutely nothing, except a little bit of ichor trickling out of the wound. Not even a few more stabbings do the trick. With a sigh, they return the items to the crown and head outside. There's one more avenue to take.

They make a stop by the kitchen to pick up that knife before returning the way they came. The library is connected to the temple, though the door between is normally locked. They walk through the main entrance and cast a cursory glance around the interior. Narinder stands behind the front desk, listening to a talkative duck. His veil obscures his expression, but he exudes an air of much rather wanting to be anywhere else.

"… thought I'd touch up on my historical knowledge, you know? Not my strongest suit, but I've been meaning to change that. It's embarrassing when you don't know the order in which the bishops fell, or how long it's been since the first one did. Blasphemous, even. I confessed to it last week, actually. That's why I'm here—got the advice to swing by the library."

Narinder stares at the duck before jotting down his name and borrowed books in the ledger. He holds the pen in his fist as he writes. "Return the books in two weeks."

"Gotcha, two weeks. I bet you don't need to bother with history texts, since you lived it all. What's it like, to live for so long?" the duck asks before looking to the side, finally noticing the Lamb. "Leader!"

The duck jogs up to them and bows, showing them the stack of history books in his arms. "Good choices. I am glad to see you educate yourself through literature."

The duck beams. "Praise the Lamb!" he says with another bow and leaves the building.

The Lamb shuts and bars the doors behind him, turning on their hoof to join Narinder. They dig the knife out of storage and greet the cat, his eyes visible through the veil at this distance. They settle on the sharp object, look past them towards the barred doors, and finally down at the ledger. He closes it and waits for the Lamb to close the distance.

"Hey, Narinder." They place the knife on the ledger and spread their arms invitingly. "I'll allow you to kill me just this once."

Three red eyes stare at them as if they're a lunatic and blink asynchronously. He slowly picks up the knife and turns it over, inspecting the blade's edge. His third eye stays pinned to them. Once his inspection is over, he returns his full stare and drops the knife to the floor. "Leave."

The Lamb sighs and bends down to pick the knife up, offering it to him again. "Come on, I thought you'd be ecstatic at the chance to kill me."

"I want neither your pity nor your mockery."

"Then do it for me? Please, I just need to get to the Gateway, and you're my guy when it comes to murder."

Narinder flicks his tail. "Have you not been since our fray?"

The Lamb crosses their arms and shifts their weight to one leg. "No. I haven't had the time, and like you've probably figured out, I don't know how to do it."

The tip of Narinder's fang pokes through his open mouth. His eyes travel down their body and back up again. "This is what my crown forsook me for," he scoffs. "You are unworthy of it."

"It's not like I have anyone to guide me! I'm stumbling in the dark on my own here!" They throw their hands up. "If only there was an expert around to teach me."

His tail flicks harder. "I am not teaching my usurper how to bear my crown."

"Fine, suit yourself," the Lamb says and grabs the knife, turning to leave.

"Lamb," Narinder says, stopping them in their tracks. "You've had no … strange dreams?"

"Huh?" The Lamb says, giving him a confused look. "No?"

The cryptic cat says nothing more, so the Lamb shakes their head and leaves the library. Once night approaches, they return to their bedroom in the temple to catch up on some sleep. They peer outside the new window, and once they ascertain that no vandalistic cats are climbing the wall, they collapse on their bed, barely remembering to take the collar off.

Their eyes close, and the next time they open, it's to a place they don't recognize. They walk through a hall with tall stone pillars on either side, supporting a high ceiling. Red banners hang under torches, showcasing symbols of the Old Faith, as does the red carpet underfoot. Two black paws take them soundlessly to a bedchamber adorned with red candles melting over various skulls.

They take a seat on the floor of the balcony and close their eyes to meditate, something they would never be caught doing willingly. Their mind clears, like clouds parting to reveal a road, or like the earth splitting to swallow them whole. They shoot their arms out to stabilize themself, but their body does not obey. There is nothing to hold onto here anyway, only mist and sand. The Gateway. It looks different without the chains. Almost … peaceful.

They wake up in their bed, earlier than the sun. So, that's how you do it—meditate well enough and you'll end up in the Veil. Figures. They've never been the best at meditation. There's no point in sitting still and doing nothing, unless you're hiding, and they've had enough of that.

The Lamb glances around for their crown and finds it missing. They pat their head and sigh in relief when they feel it there. They take a seat on the bed, folding their legs like they did in their dream. Or, well, what Narinder did in it. They wonder if this'll even work, or if it was just a conjuration of their sleeping mind.

They wiggle their hooves and drum on their knees. How long should they give this? It shouldn't take too long. They can't miss the sermon. They open their eyes to check the night sky, but instead they're met with a brightly lit one, chain links stretching up through the clouds. The elation at their success dissipates somewhat upon the sight of massive ichor-stained shackles.

They almost expect to see their god and his disciples here, so strange is it to witness this empty realm. Their god is elsewhere, but the kits—they must be here somewhere. No bones turn up when they scour the place, but buried in the sand, they find two necklaces that must've belonged to the kits. They recognize the theme of the pendants, the same as their staffs.

The necklaces are put away as they look for another sign of the kits. It is an unsuccessful endeavor. They take another look at the shackles and the chains, feeling the oppressive air about them. Narinder's thousand-year prison. The kits' too. How they would love to see the wonder on their faces the first time they see a sunset, or when they see their first butterfly flapping its pretty wings. No one deserves to be locked away in this white void for eternity, but especially not two innocent kits.

The necklaces will have to do. Maybe that's all they need for a resurrection ritual, and if not, maybe they can invent a new one. How hard could it be? Narinder invented resurrection as a whole. Surely they can invent something too. But if they can't, these necklaces will serve as mementos of the dear departed. Forneus would be happy to have them. Narinder would likely also want them. And now they have a problem—to whom do they give the necklaces?

Forneus is their mother and she deserves to have something to remember her lost sons by, but Narinder effectively raised them, and they were each other's only company for so long. One necklace each? It doesn't seem like a good solution to them. They need to make this resurrection work. They weren't meant to die. As God of Death, they now have a say on that. They must have.

They take another look at the void around them. So, how do they get back from here? The Lamb folds their legs and closes their eyes, meditating again. They think of the conveyance stone by the entrance of the commune, a common destination in their magical travels, one they are used to. And, surely enough, that's where they find themself when they open their eyes.

The Lamb gazes outside the gate and decides to step out. The strange being materializes again outside Narinder's shrine with its little minions behind it.

"I sense your success," it says. "I feel … I feel the presence of a god tear. Strength, longevity, and a mourning that stretches eternally. Found in the bellies of the foulest of beasts and villains. But seen only by those ascended to godhood."

A god tear? They reach into the crown's storage and pull the tear-shaped crystal out. "Are you talking about this thing?"

"I am glad to have underestimated you. For I deal only with gods. An offer, newly ascended; give unto me a name and we shall be fellows in enterprise. I have precious articles for a being such as you."

"You want me to name you? Not sure if that's a good idea. I once had a pet rock; guess what I named it. Rocky. Yeah. Not my most creative moment."

"And thus, our contract is struck."

"What, no—"

"Bring me the god tears and I shall reward you in turn."

The Lamb smacks their palms to their face. "Please don't tell me you chose Rocky. I didn't mean to name you that!"

The being does not move or say a word.

"Well … Rocky … Let's do business, then." The Lamb holds out the god tear. "What do you have to trade for this?"

The crystal floats out of their grasp, towards the being.

"Hey!"

The tear disappears in a gleam of light, replaced by a necklace. It floats down to them, where they can take a closer look at it. The silver pendant hangs on a thin cord of rope. It has the shape of a swallowtail pennant with an engraving of the Red Crown.

"Thanks," they say. "It's … pretty?"

"Our inaugural transaction. Some items may hold powers you cannot yet fathom. May they serve you well."

The Lamb puts the necklace away. "Oh, that reminds me! So, you seem to know a bunch of things … do you happen to know how to resurrect someone with just a necklace?"

They show Rocky the two items they found in the Gateway. Their grip is sure, just in case the being gets any ideas.

"I don't have their bones, and they died in the Veil. This is all I have."

Rocky's eyes stare from the abyss. They sigh and put the necklaces away.

"Well, thanks anyway. I'll see you—"

"Knowledge is oft gained through sacrifice."

Sacrifice. They really hate that word. "And what do I need to sacrifice to get that knowledge?" No answer. "Another god tear? What do you want?"

The Lamb taps their hoof to the ground in frustration.

"Okay, well, thank you. Goodbye."

Rocky may not want to tell them more, but they have learned something precious: that there is a way.

Narinder

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as he performs his exercises. They are pathetically easy, yet he struggles with them. He must touch each of his fingers, one by one, to his thumbs. His little fingers are the ones giving him the most trouble, pain radiating from his wrists up his arms. The instructions say to stop if the pain worsens, but he barely just began.

He hears the jingle before the knock. Might as well call it quits if the Lamb insists on bothering him. He entertains the idea of pretending to be asleep still, but the annoying creature will only keep knocking until he opens the door.

The Lamb greets him, chipper as always, and deposits a tray with a bowl of food and a cup of water on his desk. It is something they do every day with few exceptions. Usually, they leave promptly after giving him the tray. This time, they take a seat on the chair by the desk and rummage through the crown's storage. He stands still by the foot of the bed, watching their movements.

He loses his ability to breathe when the Lamb produces two necklaces, dangling them carelessly as they speak. He does not hear their words, for it takes all of his self-control not to lunge at them and swipe the objects. By some miracle, he resumes breathing as inconspicuously as possible, and forces himself to listen to what they're saying.

"… and I found these lying in the sand. I asked the god tear merchant if it had any clue how to resurrect them, but it wasn't very helpful—though it seems to be possible. You know the merchant, right? Void for a face, floating eyes, starry cloak? Said it only deals with gods. Anyway, I know you said it's impossible to resurrect someone who's been erased, but there has to be a way, right? The merchant said so. How would you do it?"

He needs to get the necklaces back somehow, but he cannot let the Lamb know this. They put the items away again, and he wants to rip into something. To tear something apart. Preferably the Lamb's face, but the mattress would have to suffice once they leave.

"What are you thinking?"

Narinder knows that if he tries to answer, his voice would betray him, so he merely stares at the Lamb, attempting to look as unperturbed as he was before they pulled those necklaces out.

"I thought you'd be happier about this. There's probably a way to get your disciples back, don't you want to help find it?"

"Do what you wish, Lamb, but do not include me. I care not for them."

Their face squeezes in a sad way before they stand up to leave without another word. His heart beats quickly and he puts a hand over his chest in an attempt to silence it. The stupid sheep will fail to discover the method to resurrect them, and even if they did, they're too soft-hearted for it. There is a reason sacrifice isn't part of their doctrine.

But if the unspeakable happens and they are brought back …

He needs to retrieve the necklaces and hide them. Perhaps he could figure out how to perform the ritual himself. He still has some divinity. Next time they're away on a crusade, he could abduct two followers and sneak into the temple … and then …

He growls and unsheathes his claws to scratch the wall, but needs to stop himself before he damages his wrists further. His damned wrists. How is he supposed to do anything with this handicap? Invalid trash. He used to be a godslayer himself. What has become of him?

The god his disciples served is dead. What would they think of him when they're resurrected? What would the Lamb do to them, once they are?

He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his breakfast. There are cucumber flowers on the meat again. The urge to slap the tray off the table is strong, but his stomach growls at him to not waste the food.

They will not harm the twins unless he gives them reason to, like letting them think he cares for them. The kits will be spared the Lamb's wrath, even if they are brought back, for he won't show a shred of sympathy for them. Not a single one.

The Lamb

After the sermon has concluded and the Lamb has seen to their tasks around the cult, they enter the library with a mission. Narinder looks up from where he stands, sorting books that have been misplaced. They give him a wave and a smile, receiving none in return.

One of the texts in here must contain something about resurrections, right? Narinder wrote a few books on the topic of life and death, some of which they have in this library. Though, if they think about it, they are unsure if any of them contain the information they're looking for. He invented resurrection pretty late into his godhood, and it's not certain he had time to write about it before his siblings cast him down. If only he were cooperative, they could figure this out so much faster.

Does he truly not care for his own disciples? They could have sworn … They seem to think they know him better than they actually do. Did years of loneliness lead them to simply imagine his clandestine benevolence? Was it truly never there?

Does their Narinder even exist?

They take the three books they could find to a table, quickly skimming their contents. In these, Narinder writes about experiments on cadavers and what he's learned from them, about their pantheon and the significance of each god's domain, about the cycle of life and death's crucial role in it, but nothing about resurrection. Not even a mention.

They take the books back to the shelf they found them on and head to the front desk where the sound of Narinder thumbing through the ledger can be heard. He only looks up once they've stood still and silent for some time before him.

"I looked through some of your books. They're very interesting and well-written. I'll have to read them fully sometime."

Narinder returns his gaze to the ledger and turns the page.

"Did you ever write on resurrection?"

The cat gives them a glance, bordering on a glare. "No."

"Really? Nothing?"

"Nothing I published. I was chained before I finished writing it. The draft was likely used as kindle by the bishops."

The Lamb nibbles on their lip. "Okay. Thanks, see you later."

They return to the temple to think. Stupid Rocky. Why would it ask for a sacrifice as payment for knowledge and then not elaborate? How are they supposed to know what to sacrifice? They're tired of sacrifices. All of this—their godhood, their cult—is a result of sacrifices. Then again, isn't their life so much better now that they don't have to run? To be scared of every noise in the dark? Now they are the one people fear instead.

Sacrifice. Narinder was to sacrifice them and a portion of their followers at the end, once they'd served their purpose. But what if there was a reason for it? What if the sacrifices were necessary to free them? Would that make it okay? Not really, no, but at least they wouldn't have been discarded like a broken tool if that were the case. They would have just been a functioning tool still.

Sacrifice. They bring out the necklaces to look upon. The sun and the moon. Light and dark. Life and death. They jump at the revelation. But of course! The world is always playing a game of balance. It's one of the subjects Narinder wrote about regarding the cycle of life. For life to thrive, death must too. By dying, you give back to the living—it's in their teachings, how did they not think of this?

They know what they must do now, but they will not sacrifice their followers. No matter how much Narinder favored it, it's not a practice of theirs, and never will be. For those who have chosen to live in their commune and contribute to it, the fear of waking up not knowing if that day would see them go to sleep on the altar at the whim of a merciless god will forever remain unknown. Heretics, however, will do. It leaves a bad taste in their mouth, but for the kits, they will do this.

Narinder

He leaves his hut early in the morning before the sun has finished creeping over the horizon and too many followers are out. The Lamb did not arrive with breakfast today, and he refuses to visit the dining hall once the bell rings, so he will go without.

He stops at the sight of two people in the rarely used pillories. They are not members of the cult, but heretics, yelling and struggling against their wooden prisons. The few other early risers have stopped to gawk at the spectacle. His wrists start to ache suddenly, so he leaves for the library as he kneads the tender flesh.

It doesn't take a lot of brains to deduce what purpose the heretics have been brought here for. They figured it out much faster than he thought they would. Now it's too late to sneak into the temple to steal the necklaces. Fuck.

He works with his heart in his throat, attempting to swallow it down once the Lamb joins him.

"I'll be reviving your disciples after the sermon today. You should be there."

"I told you, I care not for them."

The Lamb's face squeezes pitifully again. "That might be so, but they care for you."

They leave him to his work, the temple bell ringing to announce mandatory attendance. The words in the ledger swim out of focus, and the efficiency of his sorting is abysmal. His ear twitches at every muffled sound from the temple, swiveling this way and that. He cannot be here once the ritual begins, and especially not once it concludes, so he leaves the library and sneaks into the kitchen to steal a bowl of leftover breakfast.

He wants to hide in his hut until this day is over, but he must return to the library. If the Lamb looks for him and finds him missing, they will find his behavior suspicious, and the twins will suffer for it.

He holds the bowl to his chest, glancing between its contents and the temple doors. They open and two kits come running out, whipping their heads around and getting their bearings. Their stances signal their readiness for battle, their staffs clutched tight in their grips. He presses the bowl harder against his chest and lowers his head. He must reach the library before they see him, but he knows it will only delay the inevitable. They will seek him out, as their duty demands.

Two sets of footsteps quickly approach him and stop abruptly when he does. What will they make of his diminished form? His pseudo mortality? He is not the god they used to serve. He is nothing. Narinder takes a deep breath and turns around, holding his head higher than it wants to be held. There is a torturous moment where their eyes flit across his pathetic appearance, snagging on his bowl of meat and his crown-deficit brow, before landing on his third eye behind the veil. They bow before him, despite everything he lacks.

"Master," they say in unison and tap their staffs to the ground, reporting for duty.

Followers start filing out of the temple, and before he has found his words, so does the Lamb. Cold. He needs to be cold. He needs to get the twins away from this damned cult before the Lamb touches another strand on their bodies. Show not a shred.

"I release you, Aym and Baal, from your service to me. You may leave." He turns his back to them, eager to find some dark, dusty corner of the library where he can eat his breakfast in peace.

"But, M—"

Baal interrupts his brother by prostrating himself on the ground. "Master, forgive me for my defeat to the traitorous Lamb."

Aym drops to the ground as well, following his brother's lead. Followers stop to stare, and the Lamb is closing in.

"Let us atone for our failings," Aym says. "It will not happen again, Master."

They are only doing what good disciples do, what he taught them to do, but it rubs him the wrong way to hear the kits apologize for dying in his name. For defending him to their very last breaths. It feels like it should be the other way around, and maybe it would be if not for the Lamb and their minions and this entire damned place.

"Rise," he hisses instead, for anger is always the easiest and safest emotion to display. "You have nothing to atone for, as you are no longer my disciples. Now leave."

They rise, but stay rooted to their spots, ears flattened.

"I will not repeat myself," he growls. It pains him to use this tone with them when they have done nothing wrong, but he must get them away from here, and the Lamb is watching.

Baal is the first to bow. "Yes, Master."

He doesn't bother to correct him. Aym looks lost, glancing between his brother and former master. Baal makes him bow as well, and then drags him off. The Lamb follows him with their eyes as he enters the library. As alluring as that corner seems, he takes a seat by one of the tables instead. He cannot risk letting this encounter affect his behavior.

The Lamb

Well … that wasn't quite the reunion they were expecting. Going off the kits' droopy ears and hunched shoulders, Narinder seems to have told them off. They don't understand anything. They're quite a good judge of character, and the kits always seemed to be Narinder's soft spots. He said he does not care for them, and while they almost believed him, they figured he was just being difficult. That he'd be happy once he finally saw them. Yet he turned them away so harshly.

They feel bad for the kits, but leave them to explore the grounds and settle from that encounter. As long as they behave, they may roam freely. The weapons are a bit of a concern, seeing as the only thing that kept them from attacking upon their resurrection was their priority to find their master, but confiscating them now would only escalate things. They need some time to come around before the Lamb speaks to them. Hopefully, Narinder is more receptive.

They find him just as he's putting away an empty bowl. "Take a break and walk with me."

Narinder ignores them, stepping around them to inspect a shelf that doesn't look like it needs it.

"I can tell you don't want to work."

"Whatever nonsense you want to say can be said where you stand."

The Lamb leans against the shelf. "I'll be assigning them to a three-person hut with a roommate. They've only ever been in the Gateway since they were kits, right? So I'm thinking it would do them good to socialize and learn from the others. When they are a little more adjusted, I'm thinking I'll reunite them with their mother. She misses them so."

The Lamb tries to gauge his reaction, but he seems to have none.

"What do you think?"

"If that is your will," Narinder says.

The Lamb purses their lips. "Do you really not care? You raised those kits. They were your only company for centuries, and you're all they know. You're like family."

This catches Narinder's attention. He turns his head just enough to glower at them. "What do you know of family?"

The Lamb's smile falters. "You can be such a cruel person sometimes. I am not your enemy—I'm just trying to help you."

Narinder sniffs disdainfully.

"I'll leave you to it, then," the Lamb says and turns their back on the cat. Sometimes they wonder why they bother at all. A sane person would have already called it quits.

They find the twins by the gate to the outside and slow their steps as they approach, but the jingle of their bell is loud as ever. Their ears twitch as they turn their heads, staffs planted hard into the ground. Their synchronization has always been eerily fascinating to watch.

If they've learned anything of cat body language since Narinder came here, the kits are not happy to see them. The Lamb risks coming just a bit closer, so they don't have to shout to be heard. The two cats are clearly hostile, but they're holding off on their attacks for now.

"Follow me and I'll show you to your accommodations."

The kits do not move a muscle.

"You are free to leave too, if that's your will," they say, gesturing to the gate.

Baal glances over their shoulder at the village they've built, then shares a glance with Aym. "You will show us to our accommodations."

The Lamb blinks at his demanding tone, but decides not to admonish him for it. Instead, they turn and lead the way. As per their request, the follower who lives in the hut is at home, having tidied it up in preparation for his new cohabitants. The yellow cat bows to the Lamb and smiles at the kits.

"Arty, this is Baal and Aym. They are the One Who Waited's disciples. Baal and Aym, this is Arty. He works at the farm. You will share this hut from now on."

Arty extends his palm towards his roommates. "Nice to meet you."

Baal and Aym do not move to shake it, too busy holding their staffs and looking generally displeased. Their quiet stare unnerves the yellow cat, but he takes it in stride, lowering his hand yet keeping his smile.

"We have a pretty regular schedule here, and it's very easy to follow if you listen to the temple bell. In the morning, it'll ring once to signal that breakfast is ready in the dining hall. Arty will show you there. After breakfast, the bell will ring thrice, it means the sermon's starting. If it rings three more times, attendance is mandatory. The kitchen serves lunch and supper as well, also signaled with a single ring.

You will work at the library. Your shift starts after breakfast—or after the sermon, if you attend—and ends at supper."

"We do not serve you, traitor," Aym says.

"If you want to live here, you will work here. Even your master works."

The kits glare.

"At the library. I have two spots open there, but if you would prefer another assignment, that can be arranged."

The Lamb isn't in need of more librarians, but they want to put the kits with Narinder so they'll solve whatever issue has come up between them. They also suspect it's the only job the kits will take without a fight. They say nothing more.

"Perfect, the library it is. Oh, one more thing. I will need to take your weapons."

They grip the staffs harder and scowl at them.

"Them's the rules," they say with a shrug. "No weapons on our grounds. I will not destroy them, only store them away until you leave, if you decide to do so."

After what seems like telepathic communication between the twins, they relinquish their weapons. Arty immediately relaxes, and so, the Lamb leaves the kits in their roommate's care.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Narinder

Narinder leaves his hut earlier than usual, before the sun even hints at waking. If the Lamb asks, it's because he's eager to start the workday. In reality, he wants to avoid that woolly thing. He will miss breakfast for it, but it's a small sacrifice.

He is reading through one of his old books when someone walks in through the door. It is Baal, closely followed by Aym. What are they still doing here? He told them to leave. They are more than capable of defending themselves out there.

They bow their heads to him. "Master."

He closes the book without a word. Narinder has no idea how to speak to his former disciples without the Lamb present.

"We are to work at the library with you," Baal says.

What on earth is the Lamb up to? He can barely find enough work here to occupy himself with all day—assigning two more workers is completely redundant. It must be a test.

"Is that one of your books?" Baal says, eyes gleaming as he eagerly approaches.

Narinder picks it up and stands, leaving the desk to put the book back on its shelf. The kits don't dare follow him, but are visibly relieved when he returns moments later.

As detached as he can, he teaches the twins how to perform their new job. He would prefer if they left the cult entirely. They are not safe here.

While he shows them around the building, letting them familiarize themselves with the layout of the shelves and how the books are categorized, Baal's mouth hangs open.

"I've always wanted to see a library. There's so many books all collected in one place, just like you said."

Aym has never shared his brother's interest in literature. He leans in and whispers, "Master, whatever your plan is to take back your crown, we will aid you in it. Merely say the word."

Narinder doesn't acknowledge their statements. There is no plan—not with his handicap. What is a cripple to do against a god? Even curses and other spells are inaccessible to him now. His crown is lost to him, as is his revenge.

The kits watch him work in silence, learning from observation. Narinder provides explanations where necessary, but otherwise refuses to partake in conversation.

The bell rings, announcing the midday meal. Baal and Aym straighten and start making their way to the exit, but when they notice that he has stayed behind, they hesitate. He can tell they want to ask questions, but think better of it. They return to their work, and Narinder lets them be for some time, but they should not skip out on meals only because he does.

"Go eat."

They still hesitate, but do as he says. An hour passes before they return, chatting with each other. Upon nearing him, their conversation dies down. A bowl is presented to him.

"We brought you a serving," Aym says.

When he doesn't reply or move to accept the offering, Aym carefully places the bowl next to him without another word. They resume working in silence, the food left untouched. Aym quickly becomes restless; he never was the type to sit still, unlike Baal. Narinder instructs him to take the feather duster and clean any surface where it seems necessary. When he returns triumphantly, he can better focus on rebinding the ancient, crumbling book for restoration. It's something that Narinder cannot do himself due to the precision required.

His stomach growls. It is quiet, but in the silent bubble they find themselves in, it's loud enough to make the twins' ears twitch. How embarrassing. The two brothers glance at him and the neglected bowl. He would eat, but his wrists are worse off after he scratched his wall. He won't be able to grip the utensils and maneuver them well enough.

He performs his exercises out of sight, hoping it will ease the aches. He is not able to do them all, as he ceases upon experiencing further pain, but the ones he could do helped him regain some mobility. It is not good, but it is better.

Finally, he picks up the bowl and attempts to ignore the kits' sharp attention on his every move. It's familiar to him, as they have always been very dedicated listeners, but it is not benefitting him now.

He picks up the fork and brings a piece of meatloaf to his mouth. He is lucky it is sliced already, as he doesn't believe he could have handled a knife today. The hand holding the fork trembles a little as it is. His second bite ends up on the floor along with his utensil.

He holds his bowl with both hands and refuses to look at anything else, especially the kits. As he will not sink low enough to eat directly from the bowl in front of an audience, he elects to set it down and push it aside to continue working, ignoring the fork and the slice of meatloaf on the floor. Of all people to witness this humiliation … Any respect they had for him is surely gone. He wonders what they are thinking. They have kept entirely quiet throughout his shamefully weak display.

Aym wordlessly picks up the dropped items and carries them out of the library. When he returns, the slice of meatloaf is nowhere to be seen, and the fork he sets beside the bowl is sparkling new. He does not give it another attempt, and fights against his ears that want to droop in defeat.

When the bell rings again to signal the end of the workday and the start of supper, the twins are hesitant to leave him again when he does not move. Baal steps forward and collects the bowl.

"I will discard this for you."

He planned to eat it when they left, but because he would rather not explain this, he lets Baal take it. He leaves soon after the kits, collapsing face first on his bed. He wants to fall right asleep, but forces himself to sit up and do his exercises.

The Lamb

The stars twinkle in the darkened sky when the Lamb finally returns to the temple. Two of their faithful were hankering for a late-night snack and ended up fighting over the last celery stick. It took some time to de-escalate the situation and reach a compromise. They bar the doors behind them and pull on their ears.

"Can't believe they were fighting over a piece of celery," they tell their crown, for it's a good listener. "Celery! It's not even one of the good vegetables." It also makes them seem more sane than if they were to speak to themself. "Sometimes I wonder—"

A pair of shears flies past their head and embeds itself in the door. The only reason it didn't embed itself in their face is because they managed to dodge in time. Baal and Aym materialize from the shadows. It feels like the Lamb danced this dance not so long ago.

They pull the shears out of the wood and clasp their hands, giving the boys a smile. "To what do I owe the visit?"

"What have you done to Master?" Aym growls.

"What?"

"Is it not enough for you to steal his crown and reduce him to a mortal? Must you also injure him for your own amusement?" Baal says, more disappointed than angry.

"What?" they repeat. "What are you talking about?"

"He is too injured to even eat!" Aym hisses and flexes his hands, letting his claws out. He looks ready to pounce at the slightest movement.

"Narinder's wrists are injured because of the chains," the Lamb explains. "I don't seek to hurt him."

The twins stare at them, attempting to figure out whether they should trust their word.

"So he didn't eat today?" they say, mostly to themself. When they knocked on his hut in the morning, he never answered. Cautiously, they entered his home, but he wasn't there. They figured he'd left for work early, and that they wouldn't bother him. Maybe it was the family comment from yesterday. "Come with me. We'll make him a bowl."

The Lamb unlocks the door to the kitchen and walks in, Baal and Aym in tow. They look through the cabinets to find something for Narinder to eat. The fresh meats have started their curing process, and so that is unavailable, but they have foods stored that have already finished being cured and are ready for consumption.

"Aym, the bowls are over there, in that room, if you'll fetch one," they tell the cat, pointing him in the right direction. "Baal, the utensils are in there too. Please bring a fork and a knife."

With their findings in hand, they walk over to a counter to prepare the meal. Baal and Aym return with the requested items.

"Since it's the end of the day, we have no fresh meats anymore, but we always have cured foods. So, I'm putting in some pickled herring … aaand some, uh … jerky, and … Oh! I'll show you how to cut a cucumber flower. I always put one or two of those on his food. Makes it look pretty."

Baal and Aym listen intently, observing their kitchen magic, which consists of taking some ingredients, dropping them in a bowl, and calling it a day. They look on as the Lamb cuts a few slices of the cucumber and shapes them into a flower.

"Ta-da!" They present the garnish to the twins, whose only reaction is to blink at it. "Your turn."

Baal steps forward first, and the Lamb claps when they see his pretty creation, giving him praise. He puts it in the bowl, next to their flower, and moves to give Aym the spot. He is more hesitant than his brother.

"This is stupid," he mutters, but picks up the knife. His creation is … a little wonky, but the Lamb claps and gives praise either way. "It looks like crap."

"No, it looks good! In the bowl it goes," they insist, holding it out for him to drop the flower into.

Aym takes the bowl off their hands. "We will take it to him."

The Lamb clasps their hands behind their back. " 'Course." That was their plan too.

They leave the kitchen, locking the door behind them, and turn to face the kits with a genuine smile on their face. It felt good to hang out with them in this manner, without any hissing or throwing of sharp objects. Or any accusations of being a traitor. They expected it, but their sudden hostility still stings. They have such fond memories of the kits.

"Sleep well, you two."

The kits glance at each other. Baal says, "Where does Master reside?"

"Oh, um …" They walk with the twins until they can see the hut in the distance. "Over there, up on the hill."

Aym is off immediately with the bowl in hand. Baal follows him instinctively, but stops for a moment to glance behind, locking eyes with the Lamb. It lasts for a second, and then he's gone. The Lamb does not know what to make of it, really. He didn't seem angry, but he also didn't seem glad. Pensive, perhaps.

They wish they could accompany them to that lonely hut. It's been so long since they were all in each other's company—without counting that awful last time, where everything went wrong.

Narinder

Someone knocks on his door, but it's not the Lamb. Prior to that offending sound, no footfalls could be heard, and the same could be said of the jingle. None but his usurper have ever been so bold as to bother him in his new prison.

Assassin? A poor one if so. Why alert him to their presence with a knock? Still, he expects nothing much from the Lamb's brain-dead following. He lets his claws out and watches the door.

"Master, it's Baal and Aym," the former's voice says through the door.

Immediately, his claws disappear, but a growl starts up in his throat. What on earth do they think they are doing? Wasn't he clear?

He steps forward and opens the door, not bothering to cut off his growl. Aym shoves something into his hands, but he has to envelop it with his arms to prevent it from dropping to the floor.

A bowl filled with food. The scent of its contents make him salivate. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. Since the kits' return.

Three flowers made of vegetables sit atop the food, something the Lamb insists on doing—though his usurper has never before bestowed him a meal with three of them. Often it's only one, sometimes two, but never three. He doubts the kits could have known how to prepare any of this for him; they are so new to life among the living. That damn sheep involves themself in everything.

Narinder closes the door without a word, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed with the bowl in his lap. The kits do not bother him further, so he picks one of the vegetable flowers up and takes a closer look at it. It's uglier than the others and all of the ones before. One of the kits must have made this one, and he's certain it was Aym.

They used to draw in the sands of the Beyond during their downtime, and Aym's drawings were always wobblier and not as recognizable as Baal's.

He puts it in his mouth. Something about this particular piece of garnish makes it tastier than any he's had before, despite its deformity. He eats the rest of the food with his hands, like a savage creature. Fish sauce sticks to the fur on his fingers and his chin, but he's too hungry to care.

The Lamb

Through a window, they watch as the kits walk back to their hut. Their ears, and the fact that they only just left them not too long ago, tells them that Narinder turned them away. At least he seems to have accepted the offered food, but Baal still carries the utensils for some reason.

They leave the window and find their room. The kits care so much for their master, and it's painful to see him deny them that same care. He wasn't this cold towards them in the Veil. Never affectionate, but not indifferent.

During their post-sermon rounds, Trety tells them they are getting low on camellias. He explains that with Narinder now needing to apply the poultice to his arms, and with his newest patient covered in burns from a work accident, they need the flowers. The healers grow their own right here, but they are not ready for picking yet.

They assure Trety that it will be solved, give the patient their blessing and wish them a swift recovery, and leave the healing bay. Halfway to the hut serving as a preparation area for missionaries, they stop in their tracks to reconsider.

It's been a week since they brought Baal and Aym back from death. They seem to have acclimated well to their work at the library, and their roommate has had nothing bad to report, but they don't seem very happy here. Not that Baal has ever been very expressive, but where he is hard to read, his brother is not. Aym has always guarded his emotions, but they slip out anyway.

The kits could use some time away from the cult to unwind and have fun. They'd see more of the outside world, and if they come across Forneus, they could say hi. They'd keep the excursion short as they don't need to know about the bishops just yet. If they learn of it, Narinder is sure to follow, and the Lamb has not yet made a decision.

In the library, Narinder sits before his disciples and reads from a thin book. They grab the noisy bell and stop by the entrance to watch. He speaks slowly and pauses after each sentence to let Baal and Aym catch up in their transcription. It doesn't take long before he stops to turn around and look at them. They were quiet!

The Lamb approaches them and glimpses the contents of the book Narinder is holding. The text is one they cannot read, written in an ancient language as it is.

"Sorry to disturb your work—you're all doing great, by the way—but I'm heading out to Darkwood, and if you two wanna tag along, you're welcome to."

The kits look to Narinder for guidance, but the cat keeps silent. It takes a bit of visible deliberation between the brothers, but eventually they rise from their seats.

"I'll return them to you before the evening," the Lamb tells Narinder. Predictably, he doesn't acknowledge that they even spoke, only gets up and starts clearing away the books and tools on the table. The kits bid him farewell anyway.

Rocky isn't there when they pass the cult's gate. Once they stand under Darkwood's canopy, the Lamb returns the staffs to the twins. They grab them with fast hands, eager to be reunited with their weapons.

"We're here to pick camellias—this red flower—for the healing bay. It's used to make a medicinal paste, but also for lots of other things, like tea, or bouquets. We need it specifically for the paste."

The kits pay attention to them, but their eyes flicker around a lot, taking in the new environment. They don't move to help with the flowers.

"It helps against infections and such, so it's super good on injuries. Narinder uses it, actually, for his arms."

Like it was a magic word, the kits pause their visual exploration to pick camellias with them. They are quiet, and the Lamb lets the silence be. For an hour they walk through the woods, picking flowers to throw into the Red Crown's storage. The kits' eyes linger on the divine object every time they come near.

The sudden sound of a scuffle from behind makes them whip around with the crown's sword in hand. They'll be damned if they let heretics hurt the kits on their watch, but death has not made them forget their lessons in combat, it seems.

Aym knocks the first heretic to the ground with the butt of his staff, and Baal follows it up with a beheading. The second heretic winds his sword, ready to swing it at the cat who dealt the killing blow. Aym severs his arm and impales his chest, letting the cloaked figure bleed out on the ground. It's a quick affair.

The twins share a cursory glance, confirming they are both alright. The crown returns to their head when no more foes show themselves, so the Lamb begins harvesting bones. Always good to have.

"Good work! You took them out faster than I could blink."

They fight foes and pick flowers until the smell of food hits their nostrils. They turn to the kits. Aym is sniffing the air.

"Anyone hungry? Rakshasa's restaurant is around here, I can smell it. They've got lots of tasty things on the menu."

The Lamb doesn't wait for an answer before leading them towards the origin of the scent. Rakshasa greets them immediately and shows them to a table, producing three menus for them to peruse.

The cauliflower bake is their usual go-to, but today they have a little bit of a sweet tooth. The berry pie is very good, and it's been a while since they had it. They put the menu down to check how it's going for the twins.

Aym leans closer to the text, pointing at it with a frown on his face. "What is … dumpling?"

"It's like a— It's dough formed around a filling, like meat or vegetables, and then cooked. Tastes great."

Baal reads aloud another item. "Calzone. What is that?"

"Oh, I don't really know, I've never had it. I think it's meat-filled bread?"

"They have fish dumplings!" Aym pushes his menu over to Baal and taps on it.

"Fish!" Baal lets go of his menu to look at his brother's. "We'll have that."

Rakshasa returns to their table with a little notebook in hand and a pencil in another. "I hear you're ready to order. What'll it be?"

Aym confidently says, "Fish dumplings."

"Fish dumplings for me too, please," Baal chimes in.

"I'll have a berry pie."

"Excellent choices! I'll be back with your drinks soon."

They receive their grape nectars and soon thereafter arrives their food. There is a moment where the two cats struggle with the chopsticks, but Aym quickly tosses them to the side and dives into his dumplings while Baal takes his time to learn and eat. The berry pie is delicious and just what they needed.

"Is it good?" the Lamb asks them.

"I like it," Baal says. Aym only nods, too engrossed in his food to do more.

When Aym is down to his last dumpling, he pauses. He folds out a napkin and places the dumpling atop, enveloping it and putting it to the side. Baal looks at the covered dumpling and follows his brother's example.

"Are they for later? I can store them for you."

"For Master," Aym says.

That's … really sweet of them. "We can buy one to go for him. You should eat yours."

They call the mantis shrimp to their table and order another fish dumpling meal. Aym eats his last one while Baal still has a few left. Their berry pie is almost gone, and soon it's time to get back out there. Though they have enough camellias since an hour back, they haven't had the heart to call it a day since this little adventure has brightened the kits' spirits considerably, and the Lamb is still hoping to reunite them with their mother. It's unlikely to happen today, though. They have yet to come across her.

Forneus would be overjoyed to see her long-lost kits, that's a certainty, but they wonder how the two kits in question would feel about it. They have never broached the topic of their mother with them, and neither have they. Maybe it's time.

"I was hoping we'd see Forneus today, but it seems our paths did not cross. Hopefully, next time, they will."

Aym looks around the restaurant, drumming his fingers on the table and seemingly disinterested in what the Lamb has to say. Baal licks his lips, wholly entranced by the food on his plate and the taste in his mouth. The Lamb keeps watching him, and only then does he return their gaze. He looks to the side as he recalls the last minute.

"Who is Forneus?"

Huh? "Narinder didn't …?" The Lamb stops themself from finishing their mindless reply. They don't know about their mother, for Narinder chose to not inform them. Should they …? Now?

"Just … a good friend. I think you'd get along with her."

Baal doesn't seem convinced, but Rakshasa chooses this moment to return with Narinder's meal. They thank the shrimp as they pay and leave his establishment to cut down some more foes and flowers. The twins are a blessing to work with. They never complain, never slow down, and never miss a beat in battle. Narinder taught them well. So then, why would he throw it all away and abandon them? It doesn't make sense. The only reason they can think of is that he is not himself right now. Thing is, they thought the kits would help with that, but it seems not. Only a little.

"Is that a Shrine of Chaos?" Baal asks, taking them out of their musings.

Indeed it is Leshy's shrine beckoning them in the distance, the very building they fought his disciples so long ago, and the one they fought a disfigured Amdusias only recently. They did not mean to bring the kits here.

"It seems so," they say, feigning disinterest. "We have all we need, however, so let's—"

"I'm gonna give his ghost a piece of my mind," Aym says, shooting them a glare as he walks past towards the shrine. Baal follows him.

The Lamb rubs their temples and rushes after them, getting ready for another battle with Valefar, if memory serves right. As they enter the building, the Lamb remains on high alert. Valefar should show up any second now.

Aym finds the statue of the god overseeing this shrine and stalks up to it, his staff primed for attack. He jumps halfway across the room, hissing, when the statue speaks.

"Little Lamb, I feel you there … Darkwood has not forgotten me yet … I can still … find you … in my woods …"

Waves of enemies attack them, but they stand no chance against the three. Once they stand victorious, Aym destroys the statue, letting it crumble to the ground with glee. It's short lived, dissipating once the statue mends itself with its imbued magic. Aym looks like he might try again, but Valefar appears before them, begging for the sharp edges of their weapons.

The fight is over soon thereafter. The twins assess each other for injuries, finding none. Good, the Lamb might have sustained one or two scratches themself trying to keep the kits out of harm's way. They quickly turn to pocket the god tear when two pairs of squinted eyes find them.

As they are an hour into the night, they do not bother making themself presentable for the flock. It's all the better, as they are eager to get the kits back to the cult and make a run for their temple before the questions come barging.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aym says.

"Let's get going, it's late." The Lamb walks over to the exit with the cat trailing behind. He picks up his pace to pass them, only to block the exit with his staff.

"Halt," he growls. "Explain yourself."

Baal observes the statue and turns to the Lamb. "The worm's statue spoke, and his disciple rose from the dead, yet you don't seem surprised. Explain."

Well, it's no use trying to sweep this under the rug now. The cat is out of the bag, so to speak. "How angry do you think your master would be if I brought the bishops back?" they ask conversationally.

Baal frowns. Aym bares his sharp teeth. "Murderous," the latter says. By his intensely hateful scowl, they can't tell if he's still speaking of Narinder.

"You plan to bring those wretched bishops back?" Baal asks coolly.

"I have not decided."

The interrogation ends and the Lamb takes them back to the cult, managing to take their weapons before they step down the stone stairs. They hand over Narinder's food and bid the kits good night, but they seem to be in a hurry elsewhere. Narinder's hut, they'd wager.

Narinder

The Lamb is late.

They were supposed to have the kits back before evening, yet it's well past sundown, with the clouds obscuring the crescent moon, and his kits are nowhere to be seen.

He attempted to continue his work when they left, but their notable absence left him unfocused and restless, so he put his time into something more productive, like watching the gate. The tree he hides behind is far enough away that he may slip away unnoticed once they return. If they return.

When they return, he reasons with himself, as he has had to do since evening came and went. The Lamb would not take them on a crusade only to dispose of them. He has given them no reason to think he cares for the kits, and if they still have concluded so, they would not pass up the chance to murder them before his eyes once more.

Their red blood flowing freely down their bodies, staining the grassy greens of the living world, rather than the sandy clouds of the Beyond. Terrible, horrible, evil beast. The very kits he permitted them to spar and converse with, struck down as mere obstacles in their quest for his crown. How long did they deceive him? How long did he fall for this carefully crafted facade of theirs? Kind, merciful, understanding. Sure.

Three figures materialize on the conveyance stone. The relief upon confirming their identities is palpable. He turns away immediately, hurrying back to his hut. He barely has any time to settle before there's a knock at the door. No bell, no footfalls—must be the brothers.

The knocks turn more demanding, with another fist joining the first. "Master, it's important!" Aym hisses through the door.

He opens it with the intention of sending them away, but the looks in their eyes convey that their matter truly is important. He glances past their shoulders for any spying eyes or ears, then ushers them inside and locks the door. When he shifts his attention to the kits, they do not waste any time dawdling, immediately beginning to recount the incident on their excursion.

"The Lamb is considering reviving the bishops," Baal finishes.

The revelation is so shocking that he does not know what to feel. Anger? Incredulity? Confusion? He settles on anger. Purgatory is meant to be their prison for the millennium to come, then—and only then—would they be released from their torture. He designed it so, if only for the satisfaction of looking them in the eye and asking how they liked it. They have not yet served their sentence, and if the Lamb dares interfere …

"What else have you learned?"

The twins glance at each other. "Nothing relevant," Baal says.

Narinder wants to tell them he'll be the judge of that, but he must make them leave now that they have given him their report. He turns back to the door, but is stopped by Aym's voice.

"We … we were wondering …" Aym looks to his brother for assistance.

"Who is Forneus? It seemed important to the Lamb that we meet her, but they would not elaborate. Is the name familiar to you, Master?"

This … is not how he meant to introduce them to that bit of their past. Ever since the Lamb met Forneus and brought to light her identity, he has debated on when and how he should inform the kits. He waited too long. "Yes. She is your mother."

Their eyes brighten, yet the next second they seem stricken, as if by betrayal. "She is alive?"

He nods. The kits glance at each other again, then at the floor. Their expressive eyes are so full of emotion, revealing their every thought. He can tell they want to ask why he did not tell them of their mother. Instead, they ask him other questions, like what does she look like? Is she kind? How come she's still alive? Did she name us, or did you?

"Forneus is her name, and she's a black cat. That is the extent of my knowledge of her," he says, ready for this uncomfortable conversation to be over. "You have told me what you wished to. Now leave."

Their ears droop before popping up again. "We brought you a meal from the restaurant we stopped at," Aym says, offering him a paper bag, the source of the scent they brought into his hut. "It's fish dumplings. They were delicious and we thought of you. You'd like it, I think. Master."

Narinder takes the bag and turns towards the door again without so much as a word of gratitude. He wonders what their mother would do if she discovered how he treats them so unfairly. Were the roles reversed …

He opens the door and scans the surroundings. Only when the coast is clear does he let them leave, and he does so with no further words spoken. Not even when the kits wish him good rest. He never did deserve them. This world did not.

The Lamb leaves the temple, their back facing him as they shut the doors. Silently, he closes the distance, looming over them. They are terrible at sensing danger. How they survived all those years before the convergence of their two fates is beyond him. They must have grown heedless with Death as their safety net, and even more so with the title now theirs. How delightful it will be when their eventual downfall comes. What he would give to see it with his own eyes. Even more would he give to be the one to deliver them their end.

His eyes drop to their covered neck. That accursed collar—he regrets ever gifting it to them. Were their neck bare, he would sink his claws into it and rip out their spine. He kneads his wrist. If only many things were different.

The Lamb turns their head just enough to pierce his eye with one of their own. It seems they were aware of his presence after all.

"Tell me, Lamb, do the flowers still grow in my brother's absence?"

The Lamb perks up, holds out a finger, and turns around to rummage through the crown's storage. When they face him again, it is with a cluster of camellias in their hand, pressed almost to his nose. He wrinkles it in distaste and sneers at the flowers, slapping them out of their hand. The Lamb merely blinks and watches them fall to the ground.

"You mean to resurrect the bishops we spent centuries slaughtering. Is there another purpose than to torment me?"

"Baal and Aym were quick to tell you."

Shit. His mind must have gone dull from disuse in his chains. He failed to consider that the Lamb could make this connection. "Answer my question."

They sigh explosively. "No, Narinder. All I do is with the singular goal of tormenting you. Each day I wake up and wonder what new horrors I can inflict on you. Today, I went out to get camellias for your poultice so your arms may heal faster, such wonderful torture! Tomorrow, I will bring you breakfast and hope it quells your hunger, because I love to see you suffer. The day after that, I—"

"Quiet. You talk endlessly."

"And you talk nonsense."

Really? He does? Their lack of awareness is almost funny. "The bishops were not only a plague upon me. Must I remind you they severed your head and slaughtered your kind? Their rightful punishment lies in Purgatory, and you would be making a grave mistake in bringing them back."

"How'd you know they're in Purgatory?"

"I made Purgatory."

The Lamb blinks at him, then turns around to open the temple doors. "Come inside. We'll talk, but not out here."

As loath as he is to follow what sounds like an order, it lies within his interests to discourage the Lamb from performing these resurrections.

"God tear merchant told me the world is falling apart, collapsing, because the bishops haven't been put to rest or some sort," they say, inhaling so they may continue their incessant speech. He would like nothing more than to stuff their mouth with their own wool until they choke on it. "So it told me that, but it wasn't very specific. Said something about them being trapped in some place—didn't even know it had a name. I think the choice is between killing them for real and letting them live, as long as they're saved from Purgatory."

Narinder flicks the tip of his tail. "So kill them and be done with it."

They look away, nibbling on their lower lip. "I've decided to save them. Their lives."

"Then I will rip them to shreds the moment they show their faces here."

They meet his eyes again, defiance in their nature. "Then I'll just resurrect them."

"And I'll gladly rip them apart as many times as it takes. You robbed me of the fun as my vessel."

The Lamb frowns, crossing their arms. "I don't think you're as sadistic as you make yourself out to be. Anyway, I've made up my mind."

"Again, I will remind you that they orchestrated the genocide of your kind. No torture you devise in the living world will come close to the torture you can bestow them in the afterlife."

"I don't plan to torture them."

"Then you plan to torture me."

"I don't plan to torture anyone, dense cat!" the Lamb yells. The unexpected volume makes the cat hiss in return. "I want them to see me."

The Lamb turns away to walk down the center of the nave, their hand brushing against the wooden backs of the pews. Narinder follows them, always keeping them in his sights. The Lamb is not so cautious, their attention set solely on the pulpit.

"I want them to see their sacrificial lamb prosper despite being put to their blade. I want them to witness the aftermath of their fall and to live in their failure. I want them to see all the ways in which the New Faith is an improvement on their own. And maybe, just maybe, I want to reunite a broken family."

The Lamb's dark eyes meet his. Shackles weigh on his wrists and his soul, scraping his flesh off—a gift from his family. He sees red, and he sees their neck, so he lunges teeth-first. He will rend that artery out of their throat, collar and all. He will feast on their godly heart and bathe in their ichor. He will tear their head off their body and laugh in their face as he plucks the crown from between their horns.

What a blasphemous suggestion. What a heretic. The worst of them all. To think he ever— That he once did—

The Lamb stops him with the crown's hand, acting as a barrier between him and his prey. It doesn't stop him from scratching and biting at it, snarling at the Lamb all the while. He knows he must look like a rabid dog, but the only outlet for his rage stands before him, and they are untouchable.

"We are broken for a reason," he finally forces out. "Do not meddle in things you have no grasp of."

The Lamb holds his stare, their silence highlighting his labored breaths and the blood rushing through his ears. He can feel the metallic taste on his tongue. It is not the blood he wants to drink. The Lamb calls back the crown. He doesn't lunge again, though his tail thrashes behind him as he stares them down.

"I will crusade tomorrow. I still need to defeat Barbatos, but after him, I will battle Leshy again."

Narinder's fury simmers beneath the surface, threatening to possess him again. He directs his focus to his breathing. Now that the adrenaline is fading and only pain remains, he nearly regrets his impulsive actions.

"How are your arms, by the way? They healing good? You shouldn't strain them so much, it—"

Narinder turns around and leaves.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Narinder

Baal and Aym arrive at the library, content with a night of rest and bellies filled with breakfast. He refused to open the door today for the Lamb, but they left his tray just outside for him to take, so between that and the food he was brought yesterday, he does not hunger.

The three continue translating and transcribing the text from yesterday, as they were interrupted only for the Lamb to steal the twins from him. The kits are diligent in their tasks, keeping up with his pace and remaining silent. As difficult as it was to provide them with an adequate education, imprisoned as they were, he was able to scrounge up enough reading materials and writing tools to make it work. His vessels always looked at him strangely upon his demands for certain offerings.

"Master?" Baal says when Narinder pauses between sentences. "The Lamb invited us on another expedition today. We … accepted." Baal looks at Aym, but he pretends to be engrossed in his work. "They said they will help us locate our … Forneus. We would like to meet her."

Narinder knew this would happen as soon as they learned of her. It is for the best. They will leave this place and explore the world like he promised they would. They will reunite with the mother they were wrongfully separated from mere days postpartum, only to be dropped before him. He had no say in their abduction, but he feels complicit all the same—like he stole them from the world and locked them away. But now they are free, and he will not be a part of their lives anymore. It is. What he wanted. They will be safe, far away from the new god of these lands.

"Very well," he tells Baal and returns his attention to the book in his hand. He needs to occupy his mind with something else. "Shall we continue?"

The kits return to their silent work, their focus unwavering until the bell rings for lunch. He watches them leave, and watches the doorway even after that. Aym has been atypically quiet, now that he reflects on it. He doesn't get to for long before the Lamb waltzes in and takes Aym's seat. Narinder fixes his eyes on the ancient words in his book, hoping they'll leave him sooner if he doesn't engage. He doesn't have high hopes.

"I'm leaving after lunch; might be a day or two. Baal and Aym are tagging along. Hopefully we'll come across their mother—they seem excited to meet her." The Lamb's eyes skim over their work laid out on the table, deems it uninteresting, and flicks their eyes back up to him. "They didn't know who she was yesterday. I'm guessing they asked after we returned. Why did you keep it from them? Back in the Veil?"

He stares at the pages of his book even harder. Perhaps if he absorbs enough of the yellowed parchment and fading ink, he can forget that his usurper sits just before him.

"They'll probably want to stay with her some time. You should come say goodbye at the gate in an hour, I think they'd really appreciate it."

He looks up from the book to send them the blankest stare he can manage. "Are you finished with your prattle?"

The Lamb returns his stare and heaves a peeved breath. "Yes."

Finally, they stand up and leave.

The tree before him has the perfect vantage point for his objective, but the puzzle lies in climbing it without his hands. Experimentally, he sinks his claws into the bark and simulates the strain of climb— No. This won't work. He looks around, relieved that no one is here to witness this mortifying act that should come to him so naturally.

He backs up a little, eyes the branch he's set as a target, and jumps onto the trunk. The claws on his feet keep him in place as he hugs the tree with his arms. It's not painless, but his arms hold him up better than his wrists can. In this manner, with his feet and his arms, he climbs the rest of the tree. At one point, he even had to use his teeth to prevent himself from falling to the ground.

He spits out the bits of bark in his mouth as he settles on the branch. From here, he has a good view of the gate leading to the world beyond this commune. The gate where he will set his eyes upon the twins for the very last time. He doesn't know how long that deplorable climb took, but they should be here any moment now. The Lamb's bell rings true.

The three of them come to a stop around the conveyance stone, eyes pointing towards the temple and biding their time. For each uneventful minute that passes, Aym's ears droop just a little lower, visible only to him, for Aym stands behind the other two. Baal wears a blank expression, as he tends to do when he doesn't want others to be privy to his mind. The Lamb turns around and Aym's ears pop up, his expression set to stone. Ire seeps through the cracks.

"Shall we go?" they say in a quiet voice, gesturing to the gate.

The twins nod their assent and walk towards the exit, and then they are gone. Unbidden, memories of centuries past assaults him. They were so little back then, still growing into their great personalities. As they left the fragility of infancy behind, he began picking them up to seat them in the crook of his neck. They would marvel at how minuscule the pile of skulls looked down below and wonder at how high the chains extended. Aym had asked him once if he would grow just as tall one day. He was told that if he studies diligently, he might. At times, when Narinder had vessels running around and was too absorbed in watching through the crown's eye, the kits climbed up to their preferred spot on their own, tearing the fabric of his robe on the way. Their snores and purrs never failed to make his own chest rumble.

He hits it hard enough to regret, pain blooming in his wrist. He glances down at the distant ground and wonders how he will reach it, but for now, it doesn't matter. The branch supports his weight for hours on end until a blend of warm colors chase away the cold blue of the sky. How long has it been since the last time he truly enjoyed a sunset? Even before his imprisonment, he must have forgotten how captivating they are, always caught up in his studies and ambitions. Rarely did he step foot outside his temple—something he came to regret in his captivity.

He wonders if the kits are looking up at the sky now, slack-jawed, in awe of the different colors on display. He wonders if they stop to smell the flowers and watch the bees buzzing in their pollen. Will they squeal the first time they catch sight of a millipede squirming in the dirt? What do they think of their first birdsong? Is it anything like they imagined at all, or is it even better, even prettier?

It was so long ago now, and he was so young it feels like it happened to someone else entirely, but he remembers the overwhelming confusion and wonder upon leaving the confines of his first prison. How the world opened up before his eyes, so vast and diverse beyond the four rotting walls of the shed that had been his universe.

He had given the twins everything in his might—food, clothes, leisure, education, work—but the one thing that mattered the most is what he could not provide. Whether white void or rotten planks, a prison is a prison, and all he could do was to give them his word. A promise that there was a bigger world out there, and that one day, it would be theirs. He had meant to be a part of it, when that promise was made, but it doesn't matter now. Forneus is better equipped to guide them in their new life. He never did know how to live.

The Lamb

With the fish finely roasted and distributed, the Lamb takes their long-awaited sandwich out of the crown. They pick a few berries off the bush behind the pitched tent to put between the bread slices for a pop of flavor, and sit down near the kits. Aym flicks his tail irritably as he bites the head off the fish. His mood had improved after the fishing session, but it seems to passed already. Baal doesn't shift his attention from the setting sun.

"Master told us about the sky and the various colors it comes in, but I never imagined it would look like this. There's not much color in our old home."

"Yeah, it's pretty," the Lamb says. "It's a shame you couldn't see through the crown's eye back then. I would have showed you lots of sunsets. Oh, have you seen a shooting star yet?"

"No, but I haven't looked for one."

"Maybe tonight!"

"I want to see the Celestial Exodus. When you returned to us yelling about how the stars fell from the sky and how incredible it was, I couldn't imagine it. I thought maybe I'd understand when I see what stars look like, but now that I have, I'm none the wiser. They look like they're content where they are."

"Wait, how long ago was that now?"

"Two hundred seventy-eight years," Baal says with a private smile.

The Lamb sits straighter, wide-eyed and beaming at Baal. "That means—"

"The stars will travel the sky next year," Aym finishes, tossing a sharp bone. "It's all Baal ever talks about."

"I don't talk about it all the time."

"Only often enough that even I remember the date."

"Oh, hush, you are just as excited as I am."

Aym makes some face or other in the corner of their vision.

"I need to start planning …" the Lamb mumbles, deep in thought about the specifics. They are no stranger to arranging festivals, but for something this grand?

Gentle snores mingle with the usual sounds of the night, making for a calm and soothing backdrop to their ward of the camp. Baal accompanies them, taking the first shift between the brothers, as agreed with Aym earlier. They did not trust the Lamb enough to both sleep under their watch. It stings in their heart, but they try not to dwell on it. It was easy to put aside when Baal saw his first shooting star, following it with rapt attention. To stay their query when he put his hands together in prayer was difficult, but you are not supposed to reveal your wishes to anyone, even if all of it is only something you tell kids to entertain them. None of their wishes were ever granted, and they've asked many stars.

"Why did you betray him?" Baal asks, breaking the long silence.

The Lamb takes some time to ponder the question. While they initially viewed their defiance as a necessary betrayal of their dear god, they have since re-evaluated their stance on it. They were not the one to betray, but arguing semantics with their traitor's kit—disciple—is wasted breath. They took his crown, whether it was betrayal or not.

Their attention snags on the blunder in their mind. They would do well in reminding themself every now and then that the twins are grown adults. It's just … they're centuries older than the Lamb, but they're so … full of life. So naive about the world. So innocent and childlike that they just want to gather the two in their arms and protect them from all evil. Narinder may be a callous jackass sometimes, but … he didn't do half bad in raising these two. Why couldn't he just swallow his pride or whatever it is he's guarding and come to say goodbye? The kits are miserable as a result. It shows clearly when they hack down heretics like there's no tomorrow, even if they do not say a word about it.

Right, the question. "I will not die as a sacrifice again. One time was enough."

Baal looks away to watch the fire in contemplation. "I think he's very displeased with us. That's why he didn't show up earlier."

The Lamb frowns. "What makes you say that?"

"We failed to stop you after your refusal to return the crown. Now he's injured and mortal, and it's our fault. He trained us better."

"I … don't think that sounds right. I think he's … going through a rough patch right now, and he needs some time to himself. But you're his disciples, and he will come around."

"We are not. He stripped us of the title."

"Oh." The Lamb racks their brain for something comforting to say, but this is not like consoling their followers with just any passable string of nonsense. Baal moves on before they come up with something.

"What is Forneus like? Has she mentioned us at all?"

"Yes, and she always speaks fondly of you." The Lamb plays with their ear, bringing up an image of the motherly cat in their mind. "Forneus is the kindest person I know. There's not a single evil bone in her body. She's wise too, and her cookies are the best. No one makes them like her."

Baal hugs his knees as the flames reflect off his half-lidded eyes. His ears twitch every now and then at any sudden changes in the soundscape of the night. An owl hoots among the song of crickets. The wind whispers against the dancing leaves of woodland flora.

"We'll get to her soon, I know it."

Another snore from the tent. The cat looks up and gets to his feet. "I will wake Aym now."

Baal doesn't talk much, but Aym talks even less. The Lamb doesn't force conversation on him, simply content to exist in his presence. The one time they spoke was when he came out of the tent with a big stretch and a yawn, wary to see the Lamb once he opened his eyes. They asked him if his rest was peaceful. He replied with a stink eye.

He's much more distrustful than Baal, though he was the quicker out of the two to warm up to them. Now he has thorns all over his heart, and probably a stone wall too. At least towards them. Hm, he takes a lot after his— after Narinder. Baal is more like his mother, with an open heart and mind. Granted, he has a few walls himself, but they're not barbed and fortified like Aym's and Narinder's.

They make one more attempt at conversation before the sun wakes up, but the cat is not very appreciative of it.

The first rays of light announce a new day. They get up to hunt some squirrels for the cats' breakfast.

The gentle hum of a song travels through the forest and reaches their ears. Both cats have perked theirs, eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. The Lamb grins and picks up their pace, almost skipping to the melody. No voice is as warm and inviting as a certain cat's.

The twins share a glance, but hasten to keep up. As the trees grow sparse, opening up to a little glade. Sunlight streams in, bathing the caravan in a golden glow. A laundry basket stands below a clothesline, the contents colorful and patterned, waiting to be hung and dried.

"Forneus!" they yell and run towards her. The footsteps behind come to a halt.

The round cat looks up from the sheet she is unfolding, smiling so wide her cheeks push up her eyes. "Lamb, the day hath— Oh."

The sheet drops to the ground with a wet smack. Baal and Aym stay rooted to their places, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. The same can be said of Forneus; that is, until she inhales sharply as if she was hit in the stomach and lost her ability to breathe.

"A heart remembers. A mother shan't forget," she says and takes a step forward. Her hand covers her chest, as if her beating organ might burst out otherwise. "O, generous fortune! Should I be dreaming, never allow me to wake!"

The Lamb moves to the side as Forneus approaches the twins, her arms wide and beckoning. Aym takes a hesitant step towards her embrace, Baal follows behind.

"Kits, two halves of my beating heart!"

Finally, they fall into her embrace, staffs clattering to the ground. She buries her nose in the tufts of fur on their heads, smelling her kits for the first time in centuries. The Lamb diverts their eyes from the scene as soon as all three … all four … start sobbing.

The Lamb shuffles on their hooves as the cats sway in the heartfelt embrace. Perhaps they should … leave them to their reunion. They have no place in it.

"Ah, Lamb! Praised Lamb! Blessed Lamb! My sons returned, soul made whole." Forneus says, only meeting their eyes for a moment before closing them again, burying them in her children's fur once more. "Often I would hope, and scorned myself foolish, that before mine eyes, my kits would return. When they did not, I would dream of their smiling faces held close by kindly paws! O with all my humble heart did I yearn for such!"

The Lamb wrings their hands behind their back, feeling undeserving of such high praise. The devotion flows like a river from the mother of the kits they slayed and revived.

"And here, now … Ah! The wounds of a heart once carved may yet be healed! Blessed Lamb, the heart remains an infinite vessel. And yet mine overflows. What language speaks love? What of gratitude? Whichever it is, mine is due to you!"

The cats untangle themselves from each other's arms. It is clear that Forneus is loath to be separated from them for even a second more, but she disappears inside the caravan with haste, returning with something in her hands.

"Kindly deeds for kindly rewards! Take this, and I shall insist."

She drops two strange vials in their palms. The enigmatic energy emanating from them is reminiscent of relics, but these can't be … can they? They have only ever been able to borrow Chemach's prized creations.

"Thank you," they say as they store the vials away. "I will take my leave now." After their curtsy, they turn to the kits. Aym wipes his eyes aggressively. "I suppose you will want to stay?"

Baal nods, to Forneus' overwhelming joy. Aym looks away from the Lamb for a glance at his mother, then drops his eyes to the ground, turning to Baal. "But Master …?" he whispers.

Baal shakes his head. "He relieved us of our duty to him."

"But …"

"He told us to leave."

Forneus notices her son's distress and rushes to console him. Is that what it's like to have a mother? Endless, unconditional love and support? As much as the display warms their heart, they can't stand to watch it any longer. They have a disciple of Chaos to slay, and a flock to return to. Their own family. Even if they are not loved by all within it. Even if they are abhorred by the one they hold most dear.

The Lamb slinks away into the depths of the woods.

Narinder is not at his assigned workplace when they return from their crusade, though the sun is high in the sky. They leave the library and glance towards his hut, thinking better of it. His work was optional to begin with, and they could barely believe their eyes when he chose it anyway without complaints. Maybe he just needed a day—they won't begrudge him that. However, they need to find someone to jump in for him. The previous librarian will do perfect.

The next day, Narinder is not at home for breakfast. Neither is he at the library when they check after the sermon's conclusion. Perhaps he's avoiding them. They did give away his ex-disciples to their mother and today … Today is the day they leave to find Leshy. He must be livid.

Oh, well. It's for the better that they leave without his interference. They do not want to have to use the crown against him again, but he never leaves them any choice.

After making sure their flock is prepared for their longer absence, they make for the gate. Strange … Rocky is absent once again. They halt. In front of Darkwood's portal, however, stands the missing cat, glowering at them from under his veil. They approach him.

"Hey, I was wondering where you disappeared to. This doesn't even make the list of where I thought you'd be."

Narinder doesn't break his glare or his silence. They could be wrong, with the veil and all, but his eyes seem bloodshot.

"You're not coming with me to Darkwood."

"You do not command me."

That's one they don't want to argue. Never do they want to take his autonomy. "I only mean that you're still healing. And you look tired. You're not in the best condition for a crusade."

His tail swishes aggressively behind him, disturbing the leaves on the ground. "It is not up for debate. It is my brother you seek to revive."

The Lamb sighs. "If you try to kill him, I will hold you back by the scruff of your neck."

He holds their eye for a moment, but does nothing more than to step aside and gesture to the door. "After you," he says. If not for the sneer and his bristled tail, it would have been charming.

The Lamb steps through the portal, shadowed by Narinder. It seems surreal to have him accompany them on a crusade, in person. As his vessel, he was always with them through the crown, but it was not the same. They push down the jittery feeling. He is going to make their mission twice as hard as it already is, but they will never turn him away. That is their fatal flaw.

"Baal and Aym met their mother. They all shed a few tears; it was very touching. They decided to stay with her. I don't know for how long, but they seemed happy, so it might be a while before they visit. I forgot to tell them they're always welcome to do so, but I hope they know that already. Though I doubt it matters—if they want to visit, they won't let me stop them."

Narinder is as quiet as his steps.

"I heard you demoted them. Or, well—fired them. They're not your disciples anymore. Why?" They glance at their companion and bite their cheek. "Baal thought it might be because you're disappointed in them for not defeating me when we fought. I told him that's not true. I wasn't lying, right?"

"You are meddling again," he says. It's a warning, not a statement.

The taste of ichor blooms on their tongue, and there is a faint sting on the inside of their cheek. They shut up before they say more stupid things to their fallen god.

Narinder doesn't involve himself in their bloody battles against heretics, instead choosing to stand to the side and watch. Sometimes he watches his hands instead, making strange signs and cursing at them in some language they don't understand. They believe those are curses, anyhow.

The first two nights saw no sleep. The Lamb did try to convince him to make camp and get some shut-eye, but he refused the suggestion. As the Lamb did not need sleep themself, they continued onward through the dark.

It is approaching their third night outside, and Narinder has turned sluggish and unresponsive. As they are aware he won't agree to stop and rest for his sake, they announce that they are going to make camp tonight because they want to rest before the battle with his brother. Narinder squints his eyes at them, but doesn't argue in his exhaustion.

The Lamb sets up the tent, but neither of them enters. It serves some use, at least, as Narinder's backrest. They are not as comfortable, with their head on the ground, but it is alright. A long time ago, they used to sleep like this the majority of nights. You don't get to have a home or a bed when you're on the run.

They close their eyes, not to sleep, but to give them a rest. Perhaps then Narinder would feel more inclined to follow suit. He has stubbornly chosen to stay awake, entertaining himself with watching the stars, making hand signs again, and glaring at them. Every time his chin sinks to his chest and his lids become too heavy to hold up, he startles awake, beginning the cycle anew.

Sometimes they swear he's actually a mule, not a cat.

An hour passes like this, until curiosity takes the lead and pries an eye open. They peep at the cat who has sunk lower onto the ground, with only his shoulders and head receiving the support of the tent's taut fabric. Finally, he has succumbed to sleep. They had no idea what they were to do with him otherwise, because he could not keep going the way he had.

The peep turns into a study. The only time they've seen him sleep prior to now was in the healing bay, and he was very sick back then. Still, it feels just as surreal now.

A foreign noise reaches their ear, and with a twitch, they realize it's coming from Narinder. It's unlike any noise he's made in their presence, but one they have heard before. Their feline following makes it when content, or to comfort. The sound is so quiet it can barely be heard, but it's there. It's soothing, and one of the last things they thought they'd hear from him.

When the sun wakes up together with the birds, Narinder's ears and whiskers twitch. He performs a big stretch and yawns, but startles midway through, instantly sitting up. His hand grasps at his chest and he snaps his head to the Lamb. Beside him, his tail is all bushy, but it's not whipping around like it does when he's angry or annoyed. It's deathly still with a dramatic curve to it. Only when his fur lays flat does it begin whipping.

He huffs and looks away, standing up and telling them to get a move on. The Lamb is frozen to the spot as they attempt to decode his behavior. For a moment there, it seemed as if he was … afraid? Of them?

"Not so fast," they say, forcing themself out of their stupor. They present to him a bird-meat sandwich and take their own lettuce one out of the crown. "Most important meal of the day and all."

He snatches the veggie sandwich out of their hand and backs away. "We will eat on the way."

They look at what was supposed to be Narinder's breakfast. "You took the wrong sandwich."

"Get up and pack the tent."

"I don't eat meat. Can I have mine back?"

"No."

"Do you even like lettuce?"

"The tent."

They put the sandwich away in case Narinder changes his mind and disassemble the tent. The cat walks off and sniffs his sandwich before taking a bite. They can only think of one reason why Narinder would switch their meals. "Why would I go through all the trouble of healing you just to poison you? I'd think I'd at least find some grander, more creative way to kill you if it came down to it."

Narinder turns his head to give them a look and takes another bite out of their sandwich. The lettuce crunches between his teeth. Point taken. But didn't he try to goad them into killing him only months prior? And now he wakes up afraid and paranoid? They must have missed something.

Around midday, they reach the temple. Three hundred years without its god and it still looks mostly the same. That isn't to say it looks kempt—it was the temple of Chaos, after all. The vines clinging to the walls have multiplied and become thicker, digging into the stone hard enough to cause some pieces to dislodge. Inside, it barely looks a day older. His siblings must have continued with its upkeep. Or perhaps his zealous followers have.

Narinder stays behind them, as quiet as if he weren't even there. They cannot judge his reaction like this. As they near the big hall, their companion leaves them to find a pillar to serve as cover in the fight to come. In the center, the green monster awaits them, surrounded by minions ready for self-sacrifice. A deplorable practice.

They take a breath to remind themself they're here to save the bastard. True to the change they noticed in his disciples, his body is mangled and maimed as well, bearing the wounds they inflicted in their last encounter.

"Time to put an end to this … frivolous masquerade … Time to put an end …"

A sense of sentimentality grips them. The first god they slayed, the first god they'll save. But that is false … they have saved one god prior.

"End … this …"

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The minions stab themselves to give power to their god, who transforms to his eldritch form. Idly, they wonder when they'll be able to do that. Perhaps never, if a dozen and a half sacrifices is what it takes.

The fight is not easy, but compared to the first time around, it's a walk in the park. Leshy goes down fast, and the Lamb keeps their eyes peeled for whatever comes next. Like Narinder, the worm sheds his divine form, leaving behind a mere mortal. He looks around with frantic motions despite the useless eyes, patting his head, patting the ground.

The bandages over his head are gone, as are his robes. For the first time, his bleeding, gouged eyes are revealed to them. They can even distinguish the claw marks that rendered him blind. It's a grotesque sight, and the knowledge that it was his own brother's claws rattles them. They don't even remember their sister, but to injure her this way? They don't think they would be capable of it. Then again, they were not inflicted with betrayal of the highest order by their own family.

Speaking of the cat, he has now emerged from behind the pillar to soundlessly approach the wriggling worm. They keep an eye on him in case they need to prevent further bloodshed, because he looks about ready to pounce any second now.

"I … I cannot see! Where is my crown?" Leshy growls loudly.

Here he is. Bringer of their end, betrayer of their god … a lost mortal. What to say?

"Lamb! Damned Lamb!"

Funny, that's what Narinder calls them nowadays.

"I know you are there. I smell you."

The Lamb furtively smells their wool. They bathed not too long ago, but maybe they rolled in something unsavory while dodging an enemy. They can't smell anything foul, however, so they decide he probably just has a good nose.

Leshy sniffs the air and stills, making a noise of confusion. "And … a cat?"

Narinder pounces fast. The crown's hand misses him by a hair, so the Lamb runs after. The cat tackles Leshy to the floor, and the fight that commences is dirty, with plenty of clawing and biting.

"I knew I wasn't crazy. I'd never forget the stink of a traitor!" Leshy yells.

"That stink is coming from you, worm," his brother growls back.

Narinder dives fangs-first towards Leshy's throat, but finds only the flesh of his blocking arm. The worm snarls as Narinder thrashes his head around, green leaves flying everywhere. Suddenly, he lets go to yelp in pain; Leshy found his wrist and dug his fingers in.

The Lamb grabs Narinder by the scruff like they promised him and pulls him off. Leshy stays on the ground but tenses up, ready to fight if his brother comes close again. Narinder hisses at the worm, straining against their hold to the point that the Lamb is sure they're hurting him.

Quickly, they open up a portal under Leshy, teleporting him to the cult so they can let go of Narinder. He stumbles out of their grasp and glares at the ground where his brother was mere seconds ago, breathing heavily.

"We are only returning once you've calmed down. Do you need a moment?"

"Do not patronize me."

Narinder holds his wrist that has bled through the bandages. He undoes them with his teeth and licks at the scarred skin beneath.

The Lamb sighs. "I told you not to—"

"You asked me not to kill him. He lives, does he not?"

"Only because I interfered."

The Lamb collects the god tears—three of them, this time, instead of one—while Narinder recollects himself. Once his breathing is back to normal and he has finished tending to his arm, the Lamb cautiously takes them back to the commune.

Narinder storms off to his hut before they can even say a word. That cat is going to be the death of them one day. But not today.

They shake their head and greet their flock on the way to the tailor's. They could have asked someone else to fetch a robe for them, but to be completely honest, they aren't particularly excited to introduce Leshy to his new life within their cult. But this is their decision, and they will stick to it.

With a standard robe in hand, they make their way to the indoctrination stone where the disoriented worm sits, guarding his shredded arm. A few people have gathered around. One bunny holds out her hand to him, offering her help.

"I will take it from here, thank you, Noryn." They flash a smile to the others standing around. "Back to work, everybody."

The flock disperses, leaving the Lamb alone with one of their long-standing villains. "Here," they say, tossing the robe at him. "Dress yourself. You're naked."

He snatches the robe angrily, but doesn't rush to put it on. "Yeah, I noticed." He pulls it over his head and pushes his arm through the sleeve, muttering. "And you're one to talk."

"Pardon?"

"You prance around with your little red tablecloth and nothing else, yet have the audacity to call me indecent."

"I have wool."

"And I have leaves."

Five minutes in their cult and they must already suppress the urge to strangle him. It would be embarrassing to have poured their heart out to Narinder about why they chose this path only to abandon it on the first step.

"Let me make this clear—you are in my world now, and you will follow my rules and practice my faith. Cause chaos and mayhem here, dissent or wound another, and you will find your stay short and painful." They let him stand up by himself to tie the cincture around his waist. "Come with me."

They lead Leshy to the healing bay and hear that Trety is busy with another patient, so they announce their presence but tell him not to rush. Still, Trety joins them soon thereafter.

"My Lamb, how can I—" He interrupts himself when he catches sight of Leshy. "Oh, that's a nasty wound. And your arm. Let's get you treated," he says, gesturing for Leshy to follow him, then thinks better of it. "Can you see at all?"

"Nope."

"Alright, well, I'll guide you to one of our treatment rooms." Trety places his hand on Leshy's back and leads him to an empty room.

The Lamb keeps an eye on Leshy during the entire treatment, but so far, he has behaved remarkably well. His attitude is what needs the most work.

With his eyes and arm cleaned and bandaged, the Lamb thanks Trety for his work and takes Leshy to his hut at the edge of the living area. He will be sharing it with Heket when they go to get her. Kallamar and Shamura will occupy another one.

"I will send someone tomorrow to fetch you for the morning sermon. The bell will ring soon for supper which is served in the dining hall. You can find your own way there." The Lamb lets that sink in before asking, "Questions?"

To their surprise, he says, "Yeah, actually." He shifts his weight and regards them, despite the lack of eyesight. "You clearly bear Red now, meaning you have beaten my brother, yet … he lives." He lifts his bandaged arm to prove the point. "Tell me, is he your little torture subject? Playtoy? Pet? I need to know how you humiliate him so I can rub it in his face."

The Lamb glares into his unseeing eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow at the sermon."

They don't care for a reply, turning around and shutting the door behind them. They find Arty to tell him that his roommates won't be coming back in a while. Speaking to him reminds them that he was not rescued from Darkwood, making him the perfect candidate for Leshy's babysitter. It feels a bit unfair to the cat, like he's being unjustly punished, but well. He takes the new assignment in stride, though it helps that no one knows his background yet.

They leave for the temple to prepare tomorrow's sermon, their eyes snagging on the lonely hut in the distance. Narinder should have enough medical supplies to treat himself. They won't baby him; it wouldn't be appreciated.

Torture subject … playtoy … Is that what Narinder thinks too? Why he woke up with fear in his eyes today? Why he fought against unconsciousness prior to that? The notion leaves a foul taste in their mouth.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Narinder

The last of the Lamb's followers trickle inside the building following the toll of the temple bell. Narinder squeezes inside before the doors close and keeps close to the wall as he navigates to a dark corner.

He scans the crowd, searching for a leafy green bush of a person. He finds him quickly, locking onto his profile. A yellow cat whispers into his brother's ear. His keeper?

The Lamb begins the sermon. The incessant, cacophonous chatter reverberating in the room ceases instantly. Their eyes sweep across the audience, giving each section equal amounts of consideration—until they get to Narinder, pausing at his unexpected presence. He has, after all, never bothered to attend previously. The Lamb's eyes crease at the corners, then their attention returns to the rest of the nave.

"With the defeat of the last bishop, the terrible reign of the Old Faith came to an end. Our paradise may flourish in the safety of their demise and provide sanctuary to all without a place to call home. To share our bread and warmth to those in need is the purest form of devotion there is. To be kind in life is to invite kindness in death, and let it be known that Death is merciful."

Narinder rolls his eyes behind the veil. Death is all but merciful.

"Among us today, stands the fallen bishop of Chaos," they say. A chorus of gasps and whispers respond. "Calm. You are safe. Leshy is a bishop no longer, his powers stripped, now as mortal as the rest."

Narinder watches his brother's twiggy appendages twitch—his nervous tic. The yellow cat openly stares at the overgrown bush.

"He is here with us because his time has not come yet. The bishops were angry rulers, kindness not in their cards, but never shall you stoop to another's level. Even in the face of evil, we must abide by our principles. In doing so, we set an example to those led astray. In his stay, Leshy will be shown our kindness and our faith, and in time, he will learn to show it in turn."

Leshy's foot bounces on the floor, the only outlet for his mounting discomfort. Narinder can tell he wants to oppose the Lamb's words, but knows it to be a fool's errand. You do not argue against a god.

The Lamb concludes their sermon with an invitation to pose questions. What an absurd thing to do. A god has the first and the last say—a mortal's opinions have no place in the equation.

"My glorious Death, why has your mercy extended to vile monsters such as the bishops? They should not get to live again," someone says from center of the crowd, gaining murmured concurrence from around.

"Remember that death is not always a punishment, and life not always a reward. The bishops will live again as mortals, and they will be welcomed in our paradise, but they will live by our faith, or by none at all." The Lamb settles their eyes on Leshy's bandaged face. "They may refuse Death's mercy, but if they know what is best, they will not."

"Will all four bishops join our faith, my Lamb?" another voice says, quiet and hesitant.

"In due time, yes, provided they behave," the Lamb answers. "Have no fear. Our home is our sacred sanctuary, and so it shall remain as long as I bear the Red Crown."

"Your Holiness has not had a disciple in years, might the time be nearing?" A third voice inquires.

That is true, he remembers, now that it's been brought up. They did not bother with disciples for a number of decades following their deal, but upon appointing the first one, there never came a period where they had none—with the exception of the time of mass dissent. He does not know the name or the faces of their most recent disciples, nor exactly how long it has been since they died—such details tend to blur together when all he sees of them is glimpses through the crown—but it has certainly been longer than the norm, given that they do not normally let any amount of time pass between disciples.

"You are correct, and there has been good reason for that. The time will come for new disciples, but it is not today."

With the questions over, the flock leaves the temple—all but Leshy and the cat, who have been bid to stay. Narinder stays too, glued to the shadows of the corner. The Lamb, who knows of his presence, says nothing.

"Leshy, you will be working with Arty at the farm. He will be your guide in all things here, and you will do best to listen to him."

The worm makes a disgruntled sound and leaves with the cat. It is remarkable how little he objects, vocally and physically. Perhaps he has grown less brash over the years.

The Lamb smiles at him. "You can come out of your hiding spot now, it's just you and me."

Narinder stays, if only to oppose them. "He will bring nothing but chaos to your paradise. You should kill him now before the damage is done."

The Lamb leans against a pew. "Thank you for the advice, but I'll manage."

"When will you leave for your next crusade?"

"I don't know. Will you two kill each other as soon as I turn my back?"

"Try it and we'll see."

"Then my next crusade will wait a bit."

"You will outwait me?"

The Lamb considers him for a moment. "You know, I'm happy you've gotten some of your spirit back, even if it's argumentative and murderous. You can say whatever you want, but I think bringing the kits and Leshy back was good for you."

"The day I gut you and string you up by your entrails will be good for me."

They roll their eyes as they push away from the pew. "I look forward to it. Now get to work."

He does not get to work. Instead, he visits the farmlands for the first time to spy on the new worker. Narinder is no farmer, but the amount of soil being dug up by the moron seems disproportionate to the seeds they will plant. Maybe this is his pathetic act of rebellion.

"That's too deep," his guide says. "We only want small grooves for the seeds, not a … body pit."

Leshy digs harder, dirt spattering on Arty's face. "It's for your corpse!"

The cat wipes the dirt off with his arm and laughs hesitantly. The other farmers keep a wide berth around Leshy. "Okay, well … you know what? Let's look at weeding instead; I think that could be a better starting point for you."

The worm emerges from the pit. His bandages are already soiled, and the arm Narinder chewed on should not be digging in dirt. It seems Narinder is not the only one to struggle with the limitations of such frail bodies … and if his theory is correct, Leshy is not immortal like himself. He truly is a mere mortal once more.

The wind blows against his back. When Leshy halts and straightens his spine, pointing his face skyward in his direction, Narinder knows he has caught his scent. He hides behind the bench he was using to lean against, despite the worm's blindness.

"Is my pest of a brother around?"

"I don't see him."

Narinder peeks at them. Leshy carefully returns to the task. Arty shows him how to feel for the weeds that don't belong.

"What's the deal with your siblings and him anyway? Haven't you hated each other for like centuries? That's pretty impressive. I can only hold a grudge for like three minutes, tops."

"This is no grudge, servant—"

"Guide."

Leshy's tail goes still in irritation. "Servant."

"Pretty sure the Lamb said guide."

"I say servant."

The cat shrugs and continues pulling weeds out.

"Like I said, servant, the deal is not a simple grudge. My brother," Leshy says with a raised voice, "is a filthy traitor."

That does it. Narinder leaves the cover of the bench to silently march over to the vile leech, hunched over the weeds he's plucking. Arty looks up at him and tenses.

"Uh—"

That is all Arty manages to say before Narinder pushes Leshy's shoulder with his foot. He lands on his rump with a snarl and grabs his leg, teeth clamping down to bite.

"Who are you calling traitor? It wasn't I who chained my brother and left him to rot in the Veil until the collapse of time," Narinder hisses, sprinkled with kicks and bites.

"Oh, shoot, can someone get the Lamb?" Arty asks the farmers who have gathered around to watch. No one complies with his request. "Oh for— Must I do everything?"

Arty sprints away from the farm, leaving Narinder and the worm to their fight.

"And it wasn't I who clawed my own brother's eyes out, rendering him blind!"

"After the fact!"

"You left us no choice! You started it all!" Leshy pushes him off and digs into the ground, fast despite his wounded arm.

Narinder shuffles around on the surface, keeping his ears to the ground in an attempt to track his burrowing brother without giving away his own position. Leshy digs himself up behind Narinder and dives towards him. He manages to roll away in time.

"What did I start?" Narinder asks. "What was my terrible crime?"

"Oh, don't play dumb! You know exactly what you did. You were going to kill us, slowly and surely—your own family!"

"Why would I—" he shouts. "Is that what they said? That I'm out for your blood and must be contained? It doesn't surprise me that you blindly followed, as you always have done, never thinking for yourself."

Leshy puts one foot behind himself and steps on a gardening tool. He picks it up and rushes Narinder. It's a trowel; a rather sharp thing if swung with the right strength and velocity. Narinder jumps back and dodges the point of the tool turned weapon.

The crowd parts to make way for the Lamb who wastes no time in getting between them. Black ichor trickles down their cheeks. Their horns have grown longer and sharper, and so have their teeth.

"Cease," the Lamb demands, their voice divinely distorted and sonorous.

The audience drops to the ground in prayer to their deity, afraid of retribution. They do not often see their god furious, if ever.

"Today, I am lenient and will let you off with only a warning. The next time, you will be familiarized with the pillories."

Narinder goes still at the mention. He is a prisoner of the Lamb, but so far he has been left to roam the commune as he desires. If he disregards their warning, he has no doubts that the Lamb will honor their word.

"Pah! No pillory will restrain the God of Chaos," Leshy says, clearly not of the same opinion.

"Perhaps not, but it will restrain the God of Nothing," the Lamb shoots back.

Leshy has no clever response to that, resigning to low growls. The Lamb's horns shrink and the red glow of their eyes gives way to deep brown. They turn to address their following, bidding them to resume work.

"You too, Leshy," they say. Arty guides the worm away with a hand on his arm. Narinder stays rooted to the spot. "You. Come with me."

He reluctantly follows the Lamb to the healing bay where he lets the mouse look at his leg. He cleans it, treats it, and wraps it in bandages. Leshy's teeth have always been very sharp.

The mouse moves on to his arms, removing the bandages to examine what's underneath. He says, "It's looking better, but not as much as I'd anticipated. Are you eating well?"

"I eat once a day."

"That's not enough for you. Three meals a day, okay? How about your exercises? Are you doing them?"

"Sometimes."

"Not as often as recommended, then?" Trety rebandages his arms and moves on to his third question at Narinder's grumble. "We took you off the pain medication a few weeks back. How is that going for you? Are you in pain at all?"

"It is manageable."

Trety nods. "You must return if it becomes unbearable, alright? I see you're taking care of applying the poultice and rebandaging; that's good. Keep doing that. Still … I feel like you should have healed significantly more by now, especially with your … condition." The mouse purses his mouth in thought. "Do you strain your wrists much in your day to day?"

Narinder refrains from answering. He is tired of the questions.

"There's the problem, then. You need to let them rest. I know it's difficult to lose full function of your hands, but you will never regain it if you keep abusing them."

With his arms rebandaged and himself reprimanded, they leave the healing bay behind. Like on the way there, he attempts to hide his limp as best he can. The bite stings a little, but it's not too bad, relatively speaking. He still follows the Lamb like a lost sheep and feels ill at the thought.

He is lead to the dining hall. The cooks are buzzing around in the kitchen, preparing today's lunch. The Lamb walks up to them and requests a meal be made for him.

"Right away, my Lamb," a possum answers. "Anything for you?"

"Just water, thank you."

"Okay! Take a seat and I'll come out with your food soon."

They sit at a table far enough away from the kitchen to avoid any curious ears. He watches the cooks instead of the sheep before him.

"What happened back there? With Leshy?"

"I tired of looking at him."

"Why were you at the farm to begin with?"

He looks away from the cooks to meet their eyes, already fixed on his. "You may have lost all your sense and trust him to walk around these grounds freely, but I do not."

"And what led to the fight?"

"He opened his mouth, and idiocy flowed out of it."

The Lamb sighs and rubs their temple. The possum approaches with a bowl and two cups, prompting the Lamb to straighten up and put on a smile. They accept the cup gratefully. Narinder says not a word when his meal is placed before him. He ignores the utensils and picks the meat slices up with his claws.

"Just … try to … I don't know, get along might be too much to ask, but at least try not to kill each other."

He swallows his bite. The spices feel explosive in his mouth. He wonders if Forneus is feeding the kits well; if she uses the same spices in her cooking. He wonders if she's answering the many questions they must have about this world—the ones he was supposed to answer. The food he was supposed to bring. They haven't tasted sardines yet; his favorite. He ate so many sardines growing up.

"What are you thinking about?" the Lamb says with their chin resting on their palm, their dark eyes reflecting his image.

A chill runs down his spine, raising the fur along it. He clears his head of any and all thoughts of the kits. How could he have forgotten their ability to read minds? How could he have been so careless as to think freely? Of course he is not free. Not in any aspect is he free.

He holds the Lamb's gaze and thinks of murdering them in increasingly brutal ways. Nothing in their expression gives away that they're listening in, so he thinks of their sister. His thoughts are as bloody and depraved as he is able to make them. Still nothing. Are they … not peering into his mind, then? Nonetheless, he will not give into this false sense of comfort. They lie. They always lie. He needs to be more careful with what thoughts cross his mind in the future. Careless mistake.

The Lamb leans away and shows their palm in surrender. "Okay. You don't have to share." They pour the rest of the water in their cup down and push away from the table. "Alright, well, I won't bother you any longer. I do have to get back to my assistants. We were discussing something before your little brawl with Leshy."

"When are you crusading again?" he asks before they disappear.

"Well, like I said, not as long as you're out for each other's blood. Today didn't exactly inspire any confidence in you." They drum their fingers on the tabletop. "But … if you tag along again, we could leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, then. I tire of dusty books."

Yet Narinder returns to them after his meal, for he has nothing else to occupy his time with. If he looks at Leshy one more second today he might kick him again and then the Lamb would put him in the pillory.

Narinder opens the door for his breakfast, taking it from the Lamb's hands and closing the door with his foot.

"I'll see you at Anura's portal after the sermon!" the loud sheep shouts, their voice muffled.

Narinder waits to eat until the bell's jingle fades, then he wastes no time leaving the hut to reach their agreed rendezvous.

The door to Anura is locked, the design familiar to him. He knows only of one being with this power still roaming the world.

The Lamb joins him eventually, coming to a stop by his side to look at the door. Their hands are propped on their hips, head tilted to the side.

"Yeah, I don't know how to open this."

"It reeks of the Mystic Seller's magic."

"Is that what you named it? I accidentally named it Rocky."

Narinder eyes them with disgust. Or contempt. Something negative. "Rocky."

"Accidentally."

Narinder looks at the door again and lifts his hand towards it; a toothy mouth opens. The Lamb's brows rise to the heavens.

"It's a door with a mouth," they say.

"Hm." Narinder drops his hand and the mouth closes. "It demands a sacrifice."

"Uh huh. It told you that? Are you a door whisperer?"

He hopes the look he sends their way is caustic enough to burn their flesh away. "Which follower will it be?"

"None. I'm not sacrificing a follower to a door. We'll get a heretic."

Narinder refrains from pointing out that to him, their followers are the heretics. "You are wasting time. There are perfectly good candidates ten steps away, waiting to serve their god." He does not manage to keep the venom out of his voice.

Leaves rustle above. Steps on a branch. He looks up to see the cannibal spider lowering himself down with a silk string. His heart picks up the pace. The sight is all too familiar and the coloring does not help.

"Maybe I interest you in the flesh of the living? Tasty flesh. I hear there's a demand, yess."

"Ah. Thank you, Helob, but I need a heretic, not a poor little fella."

"One moment, maybe I have something for you."

The spider returns before either of them can comment on the strange encounter. Trapped in a webbed cocoon is a hooded figure, hissing expletives and wriggling as best it can.

"Fresh catch, just today. Very lively. What do you say?"

"Deal," they say and exchange coins for a life.

"Muchly appreciated."

The Lamb doesn't bother with greetings or explaining the poor soul's fate before it's sacrificed to the door. They smirk at him and gesture to the door. "After—"

Narinder doesn't stay to hear the rest, already through the gate. A cluster of menticide mushrooms draws his eye and he leans down to pluck one for closer inspection. The Lamb emerges from the portal.

"Vile things, still they persist." He tosses the mushroom into the thicket and finds their eyes. "As vile things are wont to do."

When the fighting begins, he stands back and watches as the Lamb makes their kills. He is content to let them do the dirty work, but he knows that should he be attacked, he would be dependent on their blade to emerge alive. He could surely dispose of one or two—he still has his teeth and a good leg—but they tend to attack in groups bigger than that.

Why can he not get spells to work? He used to wield the most difficult of curses with expert ease, unrivaled by all but his two elder siblings. Now he cannot even manifest a simple flame in his hand.

They reach Famine's shrine. The stone statue carved in her likeness bristles his fur. He means to avoid it, as he avoids the frays, but that proves impossible when it speaks.

"Foul beast! You dare trap me thus? If you insist I suffer, so shall you."

He doesn't let the statue out of his sight for a long time, and when he does finally tear his eyes away to watch the Lamb's progress, he realizes they have already finished.

He says not a word as they leave Anura. Another heretic disciple vanquished; another step towards the release of his beloathed sister. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. At least her statue speaks no more.

They are on their way to defeat the third and final Disciple of Famine when they come across Baal and Aym. The twins lend their assistance to the dispatching of heretics, their form and technique as impeccable as always.

Careless! Think of something else. The grass is yellow. Anura holds many mushrooms. The Lamb is a filthy traitor and an unworthy god.

"Thought you would stay in Darkwood much longer. Got bored of it already?" they ask the kits.

"We have been eager to see all the realms since Master first told us about them. Forneus offered to accompany us on our travels," Baal says. "After Anura, we will visit Anchordeep. She says it's the prettiest of the realms."

"It is," the Lamb agrees.

"I want to see Silk Cradle. It's the eeriest realm, according to Mother, and the heretics there should make for better practice," Aym says.

"It was ruled by the Bishop of War, after all, and they only died recently," his brother adds.

The three continue conversing throughout the crusade. Aym walks close to him and casts him glances from time to time, seemingly trying to gauge whether his presence is accepted or not. Baal is content to walk beside the Lamb, recounting his first week in the wilderness. He has always been the more independent one out of the two. Narinder cannot help his concern for Aym, but their mother keeps them—

Careless! Once more, he is careless! Clear head. Think nothing. A frustrated growl makes it out of him, barely audible, but Aym picks it up and falters in his step. He doesn't move to catch up with him, instead choosing to walk with the others.

Aym thinks the growl was for him. He did not mean to … Clear head. The Lamb makes this so difficult for him. Maybe this was their goal. Their entertainment. To watch as he succumbs to fear and paranoia, laughing at the thoughts passing through his head. Mind games. He is no stranger to those. It feels different to have it used against him.

If you are listening, Lamb, from the depths of my soul: Fuck. You.

He refrains from looking at them as he thinks it, much like how he refrained from looking through the crown's eye at all when the Lamb crusaded through War's domain. He only knew the deed was done when the fourth and final chain shattered, rendering him free to move for the first time in eons. He did not. Not until the Lamb returned. His promised liberator.

And if the fates are listening: Fuck you as well.

They have set up camp, for night has begun to set and the kits are only mortal. Another flaw in resurrection that he never managed to rectify in his time as Death. He granted them immortality when they reached adulthood, knowing it would be undone once he resurrected them. If all had gone according to plan, this would not have been a problem. As a god, he could have granted them immortality once more. Now the only god left is one who despises him.

Unless he gets his hands on not one, but two golden skull pendants, Baal and Aym will live out the rest of the mortally short time they have left in this world, hopefully in joy and wonder, then perish and fall into the hands of the new Death. That is assuming they don't perish prematurely to one of the many dangers in these lands.

With this fear anchoring itself in his mind, impossible to dislodge, he leaves camp to scout the area. Without his hands and spells, he can't do much against any threats, should they pose themselves, but at least he can make it back to camp and prepare them for the fight.

The pendant is a poor alternative to real immortality, but also the only one. Without his divinity, he is of no use to the Mystic Seller. Even if he could still see the god tears, and even if the mystic being deigned to appear before him once more, how would he manage to acquire any? He would have to steal them from the Lamb. Or he could steal the pendants. He would have to determine whether they have any, and if so, where they are stored. But that should be … manageable.

The only flaw in this plan is that they would surely suspect him to be the culprit if they find two of the pendants suddenly missing. They would also surely know to whom they were given, rendering his efforts for naught.

But if he were to only steal one at a time, with an acceptably long interval between the heists, he could feign innocence. It is not completely unthinkable that one or two of their following would steal from them. However, it would require they know about the existence and function of these pendants, which would require for the Lamb to have bestowed their following with at least one.

Time. All of it takes time. A luxury his kits may not have, now that it ages them. Time and waiting, and he is so tired of waiting.

Perhaps if he … if he asked. If he simply asked for a favor, vowing to owe them one in turn. Anything they would want, he would do.

Perhaps if he bowed to them. Gods do so love to be bowed to, and they are surely not the exception. It could very well even be the act they are awaiting from him. To break him down to the point of submission. To defeat him, well and truly.

The thought leaves a bitter aftertaste, but for them, he would take a bow. For them, he would take ten. He would bow until the end of his life if it meant theirs had none.

This solution does not come without its risks, however. If it did not, he would march back to camp and prostrate himself before his usurper. But as it stands, he has no way to ascertain that they aren't still looking for a glimpse of care in his heart towards them. He could very well plead them to preserve their lives only to be the bringer of their end. He will not be responsible for their deaths one more time.

He will have to resort to theft. Though even if he manages to escape the suspicion of the Lamb and bring the pendants to the kits, they only prevent time from touching them. That, and mortal maintenance. All else may still cut their lives short, at which point only Death may bring them back.

Perhaps he will have to resort to submission after all. If he tosses the little pride he has left and acknowledges the Lamb as his successor, they might grant him this one mercy. If he is honest and steadfast in his deference, they might leave the kits be, despite his care.

It is a gamble. He does not want to gamble with their lives.

The corner the Lamb has him backed into is cold and unforgiving, and he does not know how to escape it. At least for now, for tonight, the nooks and crannies of the woods around them hide nothing but empty shadows. It is a still night, and so it shall remain.

As he nears the camp, he waves away every thought still flying through his head. It proves to be no difficult feat when the sounds of a scuffle reaches his ears. He must have been too distracted to notice a foe slip past. Or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?

He picks up the pace, but he does not run. He still has a show to play. They are fine. They will manage. They can hold their own in a fight. Stop. Thinking. His mind has always been his worst enemy.

Finally, after an eternity, he makes it to camp. The sight makes his blood run cold, for he sees the Lamb pinning Aym to the ground, their sword drawn and pointed at his face. Baal runs to retrieve his staff. It lies in the dirt, too far away for him to save his brother in time. Even then, they are up against a vengeful god.

He has not felt this visceral fear since the day his family chained him. This terror that guts him from the inside and leaves him crazed and hollow. He will not let them die by their hand again. He will not stand idle and watch as the blood that keeps them alive seeps out of their bodies, lost to the earth.

Chains erupt from the ground with a spear at the head of each one, traveling towards the Lamb with great speed. The god dodges and looks at him with wide eyes. Good, he has the element of surprise.

He rushes them, a barrage of fire leading his way. One flame singes the hem of their fleece, and they roll to the side to evade him. He splits his face and pounces, fangs seeking the pulse in their throat. The taste of ichor is putrid and vile and he longs to flood his mouth with theirs.

They trade their hand for their throat. Flesh is flesh, so he bites down. If they were mortal, he would have loose fingers in his mouth. Because they're a god, he only gets a good crunch in before he's shoved off. He shoots a spear towards them, only snagging their wool as they roll once more.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" the Lamb shouts. Their chest heaves shallow breaths. The crown sits passively atop their head.

He does not let up with his spears and flames. One of them will hit. Even gods tire. He just has to wait. To endure. He has the practice. The Lamb passes before Baal, so Narinder ceases his curses until he is in the clear.

"Stop! Why are you doing this?"

Another flame singes the wool on the tip of their tail. It feels like his face has burned off.

"We were all fine a moment ago and now you're acting like I—"

"You do not touch my kits!"

The Lamb stops in their tracks, the movement sudden and unexpected. "I would never—"

He corrects his trajectory. The Lamb barely manages to hop away in time.

"Fuck! We were just—"

He hisses and summons multiple rings of fire, sending them flying towards the leaping, skipping pest. "I care not for your lies! You do not! Touch! Them!"

Spears pierce through the ground, always a split second too late to skewer them.

"Master, we—"

"Not now, Baal!"

"We were just sparring! It was some time ago we sparred with your vessel and we wanted to hone our skills. The heretics in this land are not very challenging."

He breaks his concentration to look at Baal. At Aym. Both of them flinch when he does. His face still burns. They have never seen him peel its flesh off. He scared himself the first time he saw the horror reflected in a mirror.

"It's true, Master," Aym confirms. "We were only sparring."

Narinder sways in place and breathes heavily, returning his gaze to the Lamb. The tension in his body vanishes, and it's through sheer willpower alone that he remains standing. He brings his hands up to his face, guiding the loose sections of skin back in place. He never meant to scare the twins.

His veil has long since dropped to the ground and his hood has slid off his head to hang across his back. He pulls it back up. A quick search for his veil yields fruitless. The shadow of his hood will need to suffice.

The Lamb's tension has left their stance by now as well. Their eyes glance behind him, to where he knows the kits stand. He is … an impulsive fool. He fucked up. He ruined everything. The Lamb knows all now, and he fears what they will do with that knowledge. He can't tell if the tremors racking his body are a product of fear or exhaustion.

"I'm not looking to hurt your … your kits," the Lamb whispers.

Their brows are bunched together in concern, their eyes warm and empathetic. Ears droop in clear distress over the situation. Every part of them looks so genuine, like they always have. That's how he knows it's all just lies.

He does not trust himself to infer the intentions of others anymore. Actions, words, a smile—it can all be feigned. Always is. It's just a matter of time before he's proven wrong. Even after the betrayal of his family did he dare to believe that his prophetical lamb would stand at his side, for how could a prophecy be wrong? It surely wasn't when it tore his life apart.

There is only one way to prevent trust from being broken, and it's to never cultivate it at all.

"Baal. Aym. Follow."

The kits rush to his side, as if he never dismissed them at all. He takes them out of the camp and into the woods, only stopping once they are far enough away that he feels safe to speak to them. He looks them both in the eye, cursing the absence of his veil. Never has he let them look upon him without the sheer fabric acting as a barrier. Their eyes flit across his face, undoubtedly putting it to memory—all the jagged, leaking seams; the anomalous third eye; their demonic red color.

A drop of blood finds his right eye. He blinks and wipes at it, careful not to agitate the mending edges of torn skin.

"You will leave," he tells them. "You will go to the farthest corner of these lands and you will never again return to the cult or its vicinity. If you encounter the Lamb, you will not engage. Is that clear?"

The twins exchange glances.

"Is that clear?" he repeats with an irate flick of his tail.

"Yes, Master," Aym says.

At the same time, Baal says, "Why?"

Aym whips his head towards Baal, eyes wide with the same disbelief that Narinder feels. He flicks his tail again. Once, twice.

"Because I commanded it."

Baal swallows. "We are not your disciples anymore. You commanded that too."

"Baal," his sensible brother whispers.

He despises the truth of it, for it leaves him with nothing to argue. He draws from his own truth. "You are young, and you are naive. You do not know the dangers of this world as intimately as I do, one of which is the traitor vessel bearing my crown. Gods are vengeful beasts brimming with wrath, and I am ensuring you do not stand in their path when they inevitably draw their bloodseeking sword."

"You are wise, and we have much left to learn from you," Baal concedes, "but in this matter, I think you are wrong."

"Baal, that is blasphemy!" Aym hisses and cuffs the back of his brother's head.

Baal swats the hand away, never looking away from Narinder. "I cannot blaspheme against a dead god."

Aym is shocked into silence, as is he.

He is losing his kits.

Baal has evidently lost all respect for him. Aym will soon follow. He has always looked up to his brother.

"I mean no disrespect to you … Master … but I believe your own wrath and desire for vengeance has led you to false conclusions. The Lamb is not as you say they are."

The nerve of this child. "You mean no disrespect, but it pours out of you in waves, kit. You are telling me the traitor who denied our freedom is a saint?" he says, voice deceptively calm.

"Not a saint, but not a demon. Only … a person. Like me, like Aym. Like you."

Narinder stares at Baal, lost for words. The kit is unyielding in his conviction. Defiant and proud.

He has lost them.

If he were any other being, Narinder would have struck him down where he stands for the offense. He has struck others down for infinitely less. Because it is Baal, and none other, Narinder can do nothing but attempt to keep his balance on the shifting ground below him.

"I see you worship a new god."

"We do not—"

"We are done here. Return to your mother, you have adventured enough."

He turns on his heel, eager to leave all of this behind. The Lamb sits by the campfire, watching the dance of the flames. They only look up when he takes a seat on the other side. No words are said as they offer him a roasted rabbit on a stick. He eyes the tender meat, freshly caught and glistening. He is not hungry. This lamb keeps taking everything from him.

"Where is Baal and Aym? I roasted some for them too. They have ravenous appetites," they remark with chuckle. "You'd think they're still growing."

He sits motionless, the proffered meat still suspended in the air. They talk as if they raised them. As if they watched them grow into their fur and take their first steps and open their eyes and say their first word. As if his kits are theirs.

Once again, Narinder underestimated their cruelty. It is clear to him now that they did not seek to harm the kits, but to convert them. To make them forsake him, like everyone is bound to do, and take the Lamb's side over his. If he weren't the one affected, he'd admire their calculatingly cold heart. Their merciless manipulation.

The Lamb gives up with the stick, holding it closer to their body. "Look, I … I'm sorry for killing them in the Gateway. I only meant to defend my life, but I didn't want to kill them. They are good kids. I don't want any harm to come their way."

More lies. He tires of the charade. "When will you be satisfied?"

"Huh?"

"You take, and take, until there is nothing of me left. You took my freedom, you took my crown, you took my revenge. Now you have taken my … Baal and Aym. When will you take my heart?"

"Your … huh?"

"The heart that grants my immortality—the only remnant of my divinity—when will you carve it out of my chest to devour it and take its power for your crown? I tire of your torment."

The Lamb gapes like a fish. Narinder rises to his feet and takes slow steps around the fire.

"You won. Is that what you wish to hear? You won." He sits down in front of the Lamb. "Do I need to bow to you? I will." He takes their hand, squeezing their fingers together to imitate the point of a blade, and brings it to the left side of his chest. "End the game. I wish to wait no longer."

They still gape, their wet eyes searching for something in his. "Nari, I— I am … I— I don't want you to bow to me, and I never meant to torment you. Your heart is yours, I will not take it."

They flatten their palm against his chest, feeling the heart beat within. They offer him the rabbit again with the other.

"Now please eat."

Narinder stands up and returns to his original seat on the opposite side. The tent is pitched, but he elects to lie on the ground instead. The curses and the treachery left him drained, so he closes his eyes and slips into sleep. His back faces the Lamb, but it's far from a show of trust. He simply does not care what happens to him now.