Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drinktending was a fairly relaxed job, all things considered.

Sure, Hakoan usually had to stay up much later than his wife; and sure, it could get a bit hectic whenever two befuddled people decided to start having a go at one another; and sure, all he was doing was putting things into a small metal container and shaking it as hard as he could– but all in all, the purple tiger found himself honestly enjoying the downtime he had.

It beat missionaries, that was for sure.

Julkay visited often, especially when they traded the kids off so she could focus on her own work.

(Refining was tiresome work already, from what he heard from his wife; but Janor made it nearly unbearable with her nitpicking.)

He rather liked having Mamerno and Aranbre with him– it tended to make unruly patrons think twice about doing anything rash, and Hakoan rather enjoyed spending time with his two sons.

(Even if half of the time, he was trying to keep them from accidentally eating something they absolutely should not be consuming. It felt like they enjoyed trying to eat the most non-edible things possible, and thus sought to do it as much as possible.)

Besides that, it was just pleasant to be able to see the other Followers– not many others could claim that they just got to socialize with their friends and acquaintances as a large portion of their job.

Fikomar and the red frog– Miss H– had taken to coming by the drinkhouse nearly daily.

The red frog’s sign language had improved in leaps and bounds.

(Which was actually a delightful irony, because she was a frog; but if Hakoan told Julkay his excellent joke, she was more than likely to smack him (playfully) in retaliation, so he kept it to himself.)

Hakoan never actually let them have drinks until the sun was setting– too risky, considering Fikomar’s tolerance, or rather his lack thereof– but he’d let them have some of the juices that he would mix into some of the drinks.

(Miss H, he’d noticed, had some kind of throat injury– not so severe that she coughed blood daily, but enough that the bandage she wore would seep through eventually; and the air was starting to get dry, which expedited that seepage from ‘every few days or once a week’ to ‘every other day’.)

(It was strangely akin to the God of Famine’s injuries in the legends– but Heket had been vanquished long before Hakoan had even been born at this point, even though her influence still persisted in the Lands of the Old Faith.)

(That would just be silly.)

Alna (who sometimes would react rather abruptly, if Fena called out her daughter’s name) tended to stop by sometime after Julkay handed off Mamerno and Aranbre.

He didn’t seem to be interested in the drinks, but rather in seeing the two tiger cubs and chattering away with Hakoan about his sister that hadn’t come with him.

(“Lala’s not great with kids. I mean, she doesn’t hate them or anything, but it always took me way too long to convince her to help me babysit. She’d like these guys, though. They seem quite nice.”)

(Mamerno had promptly spit up on Alna, who had thankfully laughed it off with Hakoan and added that ‘Lala’ hated that sort of thing, before immediately wandering off to get changed.)

Mr. Worm would also stop by quite often– not nearly as frequently as Alna, or even Miss H and Fikomar, but still enough for Hakoan to become quite accustomed to Mr. Worm randomly appearing once he turned back around.

He took particular enjoyment in eating the camellias that Hakoan had stored for decorations on the fruit elixirs.

He also took particular enjoyment in screwing with Miss H, for some reason (he’d once popped out of the ground behind her and tackled her off the stool).

(Hakoan had then been treated to Ryn’s exclamations of dismay but not surprise at the large goose egg on the burrowing worm’s head that they had to treat shortly after that particular incident.)

But, strangely, beyond his usual hijinks of bothering the red frog or engaging in petty theft of ingredients, he’d actually begun attempting to engage in whatever conversation Fikomar and Miss H were having, whenever he inevitably and randomly appeared.

It usually utterly failed, since he couldn’t see the conversation (and what little he did through echolocation, he couldn’t really understand), but he’d try nonetheless.

“Is the Lamb in love with the Hermit?”

Fikomar blinked at Miss H.

Hakoan also blinked at the red frog.

It was a very blunt question, and one that seemed to spring out of practically nowhere.

(Another jumping joke. He held his tongue, lest Fikomar also lightheartedly try to swat at Hakoan. With how strong the gorilla was, even with slightly stunted growth, he’d probably send the drinktender flying.)

Fikomar had a response before any of the others, Hakoan translating aloud for Leshy’s benefit. “Why do you ask?”

She glared at Hakoan.

(He didn’t even blink at that. The red frog was constantly in a foul mood, always ill-tempered no matter how he greeted her, whether it was boisterous or low-key or Hakoan’s best attempt at ‘casual’.)

(Actually, it reminded him of a certain hermit living at the top of a hill that was currently the topic of conversation, who also seemed to perpetually be in a foul mood.)

“They seem... fond?” Hakoan hesitated on one word, but a nod from Fikomar had him finishing the translation, “of his company. And they gifted him wine for the feast.”

Well, that was news to Hakoan– after all, the Lamb had not stopped by the drinkhouse, beyond checking to make sure nothing was going to spontaneously combust.

(Which was, unfortunately, a valid concern; seeing as Hakoan once had turned around mid-drinktending to find Brekoyen setting it on fire.)

(It thankfully hadn’t spread, and Brekoyen had had the decency to explain that she’d watched her uncle do it, once, quite a long time ago when her village had been intact and made of mud-bricks in fresh spring air; but Hakoan had taken to preparing the drinks well out of reach from that point forward anyways.)

Regardless, Hakoan let out a laugh that boomed out of his chest (and made Miss H jump– she never seemed to acclimate to his laughter well).

“Well, it is true that the Leader spends a great deal of their time with him. He is the only being they’ve permitted to attend their crusades with them– it wouldn’t surprise me if that suggestion were true.”

Fikomar considered it, then signed, “isn’t the Hermit usually in a bad mood around the Lamb? What if they’re simply trying to keep an eye on him?”

Mr. Worm snorted loudly. “Trust me, if Br– the Hermit is anything like I remember him to be, he’d shake the Lamb off quite effectively. Right, Miss H?”

The red frog’s eye twitched at the nickname.

Hakoan mentally stashed that thought away for later (Mr. Worm had a history with the Hermit?) and kept juicing the grapes– which really ultimately amounted to putting the grapes into a bowl and beating the hell out of them with a mortar and pestle. And straining out the grape skin whenever he felt satisfied with it.

“Heya, Fiko.”

Fikomar, without skipping a beat, reached down and helped lift Tyan onto his shoulder, the much smaller blue monkey easily hopping up into her usual spot (whenever she wasn’t in the kitchen, at least).

She was grinning, as per usual. Much like the Lamb, Hakoan didn’t think he’d really ever seen Tyan irritated.

“Heya, Miss H. Mr. Worm.”

The frog grunted and took another sip of her drink, slurping loudly as to avoid conversation with her, while Leshy just cackled at Miss H’s obvious irritation.

“Whatch’all talkin’ about?” Tyan asked breezily, taking the wooden cup Hakoan offered to her with a grateful nod. “Heard somethin’ about the Hermit?”

Hakoan, while he hadn’t really been present for that, had heard a rumor that Tyan was insisting on taking the black cat ‘under her wing’, so to speak– he helped her in the kitchens when he wasn’t on crusades, and she’d been pretty staunch in her opinion that he was ‘pretty alright, really, ain’t nearly as bad as Kimar and Brekoyen make the whole thing out to be’.

Seeing as her tone had very subtly shifted, in a way that hinted at the chef showing off her exact skill with knives if whatever they’d been discussing was particularly juvenile, that rumor was probably true.

“Good to see you, Tyan,” Hakoan boomed out with a hearty laugh, before Mr. Worm could inevitably say something that’d make Miss H try to wring the worm’s neck.

(Seriously. Hakoan would not have put it past them.)

“Nothing bad, just speculating on if the Hermit and the Lamb are together.”

“Oh, ain’t a doubt in my mind. Absolutely,” Tyan said immediately, her face relaxing again.

Miss H looked surprised at that; Mr. Worm did not.

(Well, it was hard to tell, since he had bandages over where his eyes might once have been, but his mouth did tend to give away what he was feeling. Right now, it was stretched into a wide grin, showing off all of his teeth.)

(And he had quite a lot of teeth, so that was saying something.)

“Told you, Si– Miss H.”

(Miss H chucked her now-empty drink at his head.)

“That’s quite a lot of conviction you have in that statement,” Hakoan said, rather genially. “Care to elaborate?”

Tyan shrugged from atop Fikomar’s shoulder, taking a sip of some pumpkin juice. (The Lamb had suggested it as an alternative for grape juice, in case anyone didn’t enjoy that. Hakoan found the flavor to be a bit lacking, but he’d obliged in making some anyway.)

“Lamb’s always hangin’ around him, half the time he’s frettin’ about something or another about them, and then they both get real mopey once they get in tiffs with one another.”

She leaned on Fikomar’s skull, ignoring his very gentle half-wave of a swat. “’Sides, I’ve never seen Lamb so focused on one follower. Best I could suggest was Feyen, but even then they hardly spent any extra time with her, y’know?”

Hakoan hummed absently, handing Miss H a second cup of grape juice.

(It was likely she was just going to end up throwing the cup at Mr. Worm again, but he’d cross that bridge once they got to it.)

“I suppose that’s true… and I’ve never seen the Lamb actually accept any followers going on crusades with them. Occasionally a demon or two, but not anybody else.”

Tyan gave him a lazy salute of a point. “’Xactly. And on Hermit’s end, he’s always grumpin’ about something, but he turns into a real grouch whenever he ain’t hangin’ out with the Lamb.”

Mr. Worm opened his mouth to say something, but was promptly interrupted by Hakoan catching a glimpse of movement and turning to look away. “Well, speak of the devil! Or my Lamb, I suppose.”

“Hi, Hakoan,” and the fluffy white-wooled (actually, their wool was a little grayish, at the moment) topic of conversation butted their head in with a basket of camellias, setting it down out of Leshy’s immediate reach. “Kimar said you’d made another order of camellias?”

Hakoan laughed– partially because it was nice to see the Leader; but partially because Miss H jumped a little, which caused Mr. Worm to laugh loudly at her, which resulted in Miss H chucking her second wooden cup full of grape juice at his head (there it went), which caused Mr. Worm to sharply prod her in the ribs, which then caused the red frog to kick him in the shin–

“It’s good to see you, Lamb,” he said, ignoring the scuffle that had started unfolding in his peripheral vision. “Yes, I happened to go through… more than usual this month.”

“I didn’t eat them,” Mr. Worm called out, stuck in a headlock– Miss H was larger than him, taller and more well-built, and so nine times out of ten, he’d ended up losing whatever fight he’d ended up picking with her.

(It was oddly familial, the way the two would quickly start bickering with one another, the way they were quick to blows that never seemed to do more damage than a bump on the head or a sore rib.)

“We didn’t even mention you, Mr. Worm,” Hakoan replied blithely, letting the two keep tussling.

Fikomar signed ‘hello’ while taking a sip of his juice. He was ignoring the display as well.

The Lamb smiled at the scuffling. Now that Hakoan looked at them, they seemed a little tired– there were bags beneath their eyes, and he could almost hear a bit of strain in their voice– had they stayed up late talking to somebody?

“Heya, Lamb,” Tyan said, smiling broadly at them, “ya showed up just in time. We were wondering about somethin’.”

“I could tell,” the Lamb replied, a bit drily.

(Hakoan blinked, again– the Lamb was usually nothing but warm, sunshine-y smiles that practically seemed to glow in the dark; but as of late, he’d noticed more and more hints of sarcasm sneaking into their mannerisms, almost mirroring the skulking black cat that lived atop the hill near the stairs leading outside the cult who had saved his children.)

(It was almost something of a relief, to tell the truth. Julkay had brought it up once, sometime after they’d been married; how she’d never once seen them tired or sad or anything except blindly happy.)

(He’d never thought about it before that, not that deeply; but it felt like the moment she brought it up, he suddenly noticed every smile, every bell-like laugh, every cheerful word in painstaking detail.)

Tyan didn’t seem bothered by it at all, giving a hearty laugh and leaning her chin on her hand. Her bad leg swung a little, carelessly. “Think Miss H wanted to know if you had a thing for the Hermit.”

“I did gather that, yes.”

The Lamb cleared their throat a bit, ducking their head slightly, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the flush to their cheeks, coloring their gray fur until it looked almost rosy in the lengthening shadows and the warm glow of sunset. “Mind explaining exactly why this was the topic of choice?”

“Si– ‘Miss H’ was curious,” Mr. Worm said, smugly.

(Miss H slapped the back of his head again, but she finally released Mr. Worm from the headlock. Despite having been trapped in it for at least a few minutes, his only reaction was to cackle and rub his neck a little.)

(Even though she got into quite a few physical altercations with the burrowing worm, he never seemed injured enough to warrant a trip to the healing bay.)

“Sorry if this is a disappointment to you all–” The Lamb didn’t sound particularly sorry. “–but we aren’t currently in that sort of relationship.”

Tyan’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Currently?”

The Lamb gave another bell-like laugh at that, a fleeting glimpse of something in their eyes– Hakoan didn’t really catch it, it was so quick to vanish. “Not that we ever were. Or that we will be, I suspect. We’re... uh… friends? Maybe?”

The blind burrowing worm snickered, earning him a sharp elbow to the ribs from the red frog.

“You’re inspirin’ so much confidence in your words, Lamb,” Tyan said drily, earning another bell-like laugh from them. “Sure nothin’s going on ‘tween you two?”

It said a lot about the Leader that the Lamb did not close off immediately at her line of questioning; like Hakoan knew the Bishops once had, with anything even remotely personal– but rather, almost seemed to ponder her question for a few moments.

“Well, I suppose I told him he was beautiful.”

Fikomar– the most stoic of the Followers that Hakoan knew, the most stone-faced creature Hakoan had ever seen, the seemingly utterly unshakeable gorilla– proceeded to spit his drink across the bar.

Miss H was gaping at the Lamb. Mr. Worm looked torn between laughter and bafflement; while Tyan looked quite smug, and… well, truthfully, Fikomar mostly looked normal besides the fact that he was now coughing what part of his drink had gone down the wrong pipes.

(Hakoan started to wipe down the wooden countertop.)

“Elaborate on that, Lamb?” the worm finally asked, breaking the silence first.

The Lamb shrugged slightly, as if they’d simply said something casual like ‘I ate berries for breakfast’.

“I told him he was beautiful, during the Wintertide Festival. He’d had too much ambrosia, though, so I don’t think he heard me.”

“You… told… that he… beautiful?”

Miss H was apparently so flabbergasted that she was half-signing, half-actually-speaking.

(Which she seemed to regret a moment later, because she gave a sharp wince the moment the last word came out.)

“Yes, that is what I just said,” the Lamb replied, cheerfully.

“But he didn’t remember,” Hakoan interjected, drawing their attention back to him.

An expression touched the edge of their smile; the purple tiger couldn’t quite figure it out. Perhaps a touch of sorrow; perhaps a touch of regret.

He never saw such an expression on his Leader, and thus he had no way of identifying it.

“No, he didn’t.”

Mr. Worm had recovered from his bafflement and was now grinning widely at the Lamb. “You should tell him.”

“I already did.”

“Think Mr. Worm means you should tell him again, Lamb. While he’s conscious this time,” Tyan coaxed, her smug grin having settled into a much gentler, more encouraging smile.

The Lamb’s smile fell– just for an instant, just for a fraction of a heartbeat– and flickered back into place, a bit smaller than before. “Oh. Oh no. No, I couldn’t.”

“Whyever not?” Hakoan chimed in. “You already have, after all; it would just be a matter of him being conscious.”

The Lamb shrugged, already beginning to walk off in a random direction– a rather abrupt ending to the whole conversation, and a very rude one considering how the Lamb would usually close their conversations.

(Were they that against the suggestion?)

“It’d be… awkward, between us after. Things are pleasant as they are.”

Hakoan remembered, suddenly, back when he’d been young(er, he was hardly a decrepit old beast), before he’d approached Julkay for the first time with a flower necklace, practically withering away compared to the ones the Leader made– he’d slipped into the confessional and babbled away about his anxieties about approaching Julkay for approximately half an hour.

A lot of it was very embarrassing drivel that he sincerely hoped the Lamb had forgotten by now (he distinctly remembered wondering out loud if he ought to start lifting stones, for a better physique); but he remembered the things he’d said in his haste to try to make himself seem a little less embarrassing to the Leader.

(Now, he just didn’t really care how embarrassing he seemed. The Leader certainly didn’t care.)

“What if she says no? It’d be awkward,” he remembered fretting.

Perhaps it was good that the confessional was so cramped; else he’d have been pacing up and down like he was caged.

“Things are fine as they are.”

(Had they been, back then?)

(Were they now, for the Lamb?)

The Lamb, obviously unaware of Hakoan’s internal thought process, gave a pleasant little half-bow. “I’d best get back to–”

“Lamb.”

They stopped, turning back to face Miss H again.

The red frog was frowning at them– though whether that was because of disgruntlement, or the fact that her voice had broken quite badly on the final word, it was hard to tell.

Fikomar signed ‘sign’ at Miss H, which made the red frog heft a silent sigh and raise her own hands. Despite her brief show of irritation, her hands practically flew to craft the words she wanted to say.

“Do not leave your feelings to rot.”

The Lamb was silent.

They were still smiling pleasantly, but the air itself seemed to have shifted slightly– Hakoan couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t chilly, or boiling underneath itself uncomfortably– rather, it just seemed… slightly wrong. As if a stream suddenly began flowing the wrong direction.

“I’ll… think about it.”

With that, the Lamb did actually depart, taking longer strides than usual (they were nearly skipping) and leaving everyone in an awkward, ponderous silence.

At least, until Mr. Worm abruptly spoke up, surprisingly aggravated.

“Is anybody planning on telling me what S– Miss H said?”

Lambert was exhausted.

The night before, Narinder had come to them before they were about to sleep, and told them about Yartharyn.

(They’d have to talk to Yartharyn about that; but knowing Meran, she’d get on his case about it too; so they resolved to not be too too harsh on the possum.)

(Otherwise he’d faint, and Lambert really didn’t want Yartharyn doing that.)

It had resulted in an incredibly long conversation about what this new information could possibly entail (“do you think Kimar’s that stupid?” “Do you not?”) and trying to work out how this fit into the information they already had– before both of them had then realized that the sun was about to rise, and Lambert hadn’t finished any of their early-morning chores, and so they’d gone sprinting off to finish those on time with a hasty promise that they’d talk about it again later.

Unfortunately, they miscalculated how long the whole thing would take, which meant they were behind on everything all day, and by the time they were finished not even a flicker of light came from behind Narinder’s curtains– so they resolved to try again tomorrow and gratefully curled up in their new sleeping nook in the Temple to get some rest.

When Lambert opened their eyes again, the Goat was looming over them.

They were lying on a table they’d seen a few times, shattered down the middle with papers strewn everywhere. Rot and decay had seized ahold of the space, resembling a library with spiderwebs strung up throughout (not small ones, either– huge ones, that towered up to the ceiling and seemed almost to act as a ladder).

Lambert had tried, once or twice, to pick up and read the books and papers– but they might as well have dunked their hands in ink and then frantically smacked the pages until they were thoroughly covered; for what books they were even able to open or pages they were able to turn over, they were filled with utter gibberish.

It was a library– and Shamura’s, to boot, because who else would use spiderwebs as ladders– but where it was…

Well, perhaps they’d just have to fetch Shamura to learn that.

“… good evening,” they said to the staring Goat, politely enough.

The Goat prodded their face hard. It didn’t hurt– not exactly– but it still squeaked a bleat out of Lambert. “Oh. You’re here again.”

“So are you.”

The Goat snorted, teeth briefly flashing in a grin (wild, mad).

Now that whatever pretense it had been maintaining had slipped and fallen (like a mask), their own face was fairly stoic– but still broken, almost, behind the oddly shaped pupils.

Despite that, there was no response.

“… how… how did your Narinder die?”

It was a question that Lambert didn’t ask entirely consciously– they simply found the words slipping out of their mouth.

The Goat’s lips peeled back in another sarcastic grin, showing off sharp teeth.

Unlike the smile it had maintained on the previous occasion, this one seemed to have more personality to it– a more direct window into the Goat’s thoughts, compared to last time.

(It was almost a relief.)

(They wondered if Narinder felt that way, after learning about the mask Lambert wore.)

(What a silly question.)

(They wondered if Narinder thought that about his thoughts, too.)

“Straight to the point, I see.”

“If this is a warning.” Lambert swallowed, and found that their throat was dry. “For… that.”

The Goat didn’t answer; looking around the library instead and clicking their tongue in disappointment. “Damn. At least last time, we could’ve skipped stones. This place blows.”

When Lambert didn’t push, waiting patiently; they looked back at Lambert, their strangely-shaped pupils practically piercing through Lambert’s own eyes.

“I killed him.”

(– claws that matched the gashes in his chest–)

Lambert swallowed again.

Even though all they were swallowing was air, it hurt moving down their throat; got caught in an uncomfortable spot and wouldn’t unstick.

“Did you want to?”

The Goat shrugged, apparently deciding that they wanted to sit and plopping onto a stack of books and sending a huge plume of dust that would undoubtedly have had Lambert sneezing everywhere, had they truly been present in this cavernous library.

“Of course not. But do you truly believe intentions matter when it comes to Fate?”

Fate.

Lambert had never really had a solid opinion, when it came to matters of Fate.

Sure, it sounded quite plausible– quite likely, even, when Clauneck spoke of it.

(Thunder rumbling every time Narinder even rolled his eyes at Clauneck.)

But, well, when your supposed ‘fate’ was the thing that had caused four Gods to wreak destruction upon your entire people, you learned to possess some healthy skepticism about matters of Fate.

“… so… what is the point of receiving the warning, then?” Lambert’s voice wobbled a bit despite themself. “Does that just mean Narinder’s going to die?”

“’Course not; like you said, what would be the point?” The Goat kicked over a pile of books. It went thundering over and sent a huge plume of dust that Lambert had to squint through, to keep seeing the Goat.

“The world gives warnings based on your fate. That doesn’t mean fate is immutable, as much as Clauneck likes to comment on that.”

The Goat turned to stare at Lambert– or perhaps it was more of a glare. “At least you received warnings.”

Lambert’s chest felt strangely sore at that. Perhaps because the Goat was their counterpart (if they were being told the truth; it was hard to discern what exactly was a lie– or even if any of it was), the idea of one day hurting Narinder–

“I wouldn’t,” Lambert said; but despite years, centuries, lifetimes of keeping a mask upon their features, their voice trembled.

The Goat did not seem perturbed by them abruptly speaking their thoughts out loud– if anything, the dark-furred creature seemed to have picked up on their train of thought, because they let out a slightly dark chuckle.

“Do you truly believe you wouldn’t hurt him?”

Lambert opened their mouth to respond– and found that their voice was disabled; like when crippling fear washed over them and they struggled to stand as Leshy, Heket, Kallamar, Shamura dragged them to their feet; Gods gazing upon a tiny mortal vessel–

They took a shaking step back– their foot landed on something and caused them to topple over backwards, landing just behind–

– a black cat– their black cat– Narinder–

– gashes and glass eyes and claws caked in mortal blood–

The Goat didn’t move; even as a part of Lambert desperately scrambled to try to stem the flow of blood (too late) with skeletal claws, even as eldritch power seeped into their bones–

There was something else in the Goat’s eyes– something that didn’t quite match the madness brewing in their mind.

Sympathy, perhaps, if Lambert was being charitable.

Pity, if not.

Oh, something thought dimly at the back of their head, it wasn’t Godly power silencing them.

It was just plain old fear.

“That he wouldn’t hurt you?”

Lambert was already scrambling outside the Temple in a half-conscious haze, by the time their brain caught up to their motions– hell, even Tia was lagging a short ways behind.

They were aware of blindly stumbling into cold air (it was always cold, in the winter, but this year everything seemed crisper, sharper); of their feet scraping on brittle, dry grass.

Before long, they were fumbling with an ice-cold doorknob– it clicked open, and they shoved the thing open to see that–

Narinder was fast asleep, judging by the way he didn’t so much as twitch when his door swung open with a loud creak that should have woken the dead.

(Ha, ha.)

Their exhausted mind was finally catching up to their body, waking up more and more with each passing second; even as they stood frozen in the doorway and let cold air sneak past them, the frost on the grass slowly soaking their feet as it melted beneath what warmth they still possessed.

Perhaps they should have closed the door, and let him be, let him rest, but–

“Do you truly believe you wouldn’t hurt him?”

They watched him, as closely as they could in the darkness and from across a whole room.

He didn’t stir– perhaps he was a sound sleeper?– and a moment later, Lambert crossed the floor, their bell jingling a bit with each soft step.

Not even the sound of his door swinging back shut behind them seemed to rouse him even slightly; or their footsteps, or the chill that had briefly invaded his home, nor the jingling of the bell around their neck.

He may as well have been–

– claw marks and blood on their fingers and eldritch power coursing through their bones–

Lambert reached out, despite themself, and found their hand pressed to his cheek a moment later.

It was surprisingly warm, despite the chilly air they’d briefly let gush in past them as they stood frozen in his doorway; it was almost a relief to know that the insulation inside the houses worked.

Narinder made a strange sound in his sleep and nudged his skull a bit closer to their palm.

Their other hand came up to feel his sealed eye, on instinct.

It hadn’t opened in a while now (strange– was he simply not having visions), so his fur was actually decently clean there– no blood or dark stains that could only be seen in the brightest of sunlight.

(Progress on the bathhouse had stalled out, mostly because Lambert was not an engineer by any stretch of the imagination; and from what little they knew of bathhouses, drainage was important to avoid stagnant water (and thus, all sorts of pathogens).)

(Lambert intended to ask Kallamar for more help on that front; as the God of Pestilence, he was sure to at least have the vaguest grasp of what to do.)

(Well, presuming Lambert didn’t just so happen to stumble across a genius engineer on the next crusade; but one could only get so lucky.)

Lambert realized they’d absentmindedly started brushing their thumb, ever-so-gently, over Narinder’s third eye.

They’d have stopped in that instant, drawn their hand back– he was so averse to their touch, after all– but Narinder had, strangely enough, tilted his head a bit closer to their palm.

Tia, after Lambert had been frozen for a few moments too long, nudged the back of their hand again, and they began to gently continue rubbing their thumb over the sealed eye.

He rumbled once in his sleep, and didn’t pull away.

“… I have the same nightmare every night,” Lambert whispered to him, continuing to gently smooth his short, somewhat coarse fur back.

Of course, he didn’t respond.

Tia did not, either.

Perhaps that was preferable, in this case.

“It’s not the exact same, I suppose,” they murmured, stroking his fur. His skull almost seemed to vibrate against their palm; then they realized his entire body was rumbling quietly, even as his chest rose and fell evenly.

Honestly, it was a strangely soothing sound– besides just being able to hear something to know that he was alive, the soft, repetitive sound itself was rather comforting; and Lambert found themself cupping his face with their other hand.

“You aren’t always in the same place. And sometimes I try to do other things, besides seeing you,” they murmured, listening to his rhythmic rumbling. “But you always die.”

He didn’t respond.

They leaned over a little bit– instinctively, without thinking (perhaps they wanted to listen to the soft, barely audible rumbling in his chest; softer than any snarl or roar that that rumble was typically present in); their face ended up right beside his.

They could feel a periodic exhale from his nose, ghosting against their own.

“I’ve tried everything I can think of,” Lambert murmured. “I run away from you, even though I don’t want to. Or I try to die. Sometimes I have conversations, instead, if I can… but even then, you’re always dead. And I can’t bring you back.”

They swallowed, a hard lump that had abruptly formed in their throat, and allowed themself a single moment of weakness to press their forehead to his, his sealed eye a warm spot that felt almost comfortingly soft against their own soft wool.

“Death is beautiful, but yours…”

Lambert breathed out and was surprised when their breathing shook. They blinked, eyes abruptly feeling strangely wet.

“The idea of yours is terrifying.”

They gave a huff of laughter, but it lacked any sort of humor and it died in the pit of their throat.

They pressed a little closer, so that the soft rumbling practically was in their ear. Their shoulders untensed slightly– enough that Lambert realized they had been tense, so much so that it actually ached to relax. “You’d call me a hypocrite if you were conscious, I’m certain.”

Of course, he didn’t reply, so they continued.

“I don’t… I didn’t have anything to lose when the Bishops finally caught me, Narinder.”

Narinder made a soft, grumbling noise at his name being spoken to him. His whiskers (the only part of him that was practically invisible, except in harsh sunlight that made them sparkle slightly– and then, he’d wear a veil, so you never saw them anyway) trembled against their cheek, tickling it.

“You gave me everything, when I went to your realm.” Lambert let out a shaky sound– it might have been an attempt to laugh, but it came out too strained, too thin. “I didn’t exactly have a life that was worth living, or… friends, or– or any semblance of strength, or you… and you gave me all of that with a single agreement.”

They made the sound again, and this time they knew for sure it was an attempt to chuckle, failure though it was.

“Isn’t it funny? I only became scared of death after you gave me reign over it. Even if that was meant to be temporary.”

Their betrayal had come as a surprise to themself.

“Have you thought of what awaits you once your task is completed?” Shamura had asked them, looming over them with Lambert fixed to the spot, fear coursing through their veins as Godly power kept them from so much as flinching. “What is to become of you?”

Of course they had.

They had so much time in the hours of moonlight to dwell on that thought, resting in the back of their mind.

“The lamb is, after all, the sacrificial beast.”

He’d been a God, after all– their God, even if he no longer was, even if they’d ultimately stolen that role from him.

But he’d given them everything, and so they’d thought– for the days and months and years that they had run the cult– they had thought that they would be fine with returning the God of Death the life he’d gifted upon them.

Of relinquishing their hold, once again, on the things that had made life worth living.

He had gifted them all to Lambert, after all.

And yet, in that moment, when they readied themself to return Tia to him– they thought of Death being beautiful. Of a fate that cannot be outrun, of The End. The end of a long day. Of rest.

Lambert had stood, holding Tia, ready to return the Crown to its God; and thought of an eternity of peace. Of no more blood or ichor being spilt, of no more betrayals and stealing Coins, of squabbling Followers, of cleaning outhouses alone in the earliest hours of morning with yellow gloves and being unable to trim the wool on the back of their neck alone.

Of an eternity without their beautiful Death.

It was the only gift he’d given that they could not bring themself to return.

“I’m sorry.”

They blinked, eyes abruptly quite heavy again, and pulled away a little– the last thing they wanted was to conk out right on top of him.

He grumbled a bit, when the hand cupping his cheek and tickling against his whiskers fell away, but the rumbling didn’t stop, so they kept thumbing his third eye.

Lambert yawned a bit, but kept going– even if Narinder didn’t remember any of this in the morning (“you were the most beautiful God I’d ever met”), their chest felt lighter– just a bit– with each word they murmured.

“… prophecies can be… wrong, right?” they mused, eyes drooping a bit– were they truly that tired? Maybe the relief– the sheer warmth that had flooded their body at hearing the soft rumbling and feeling him breathing in their ears– was just that potent.

“Because… because if you aren’t there… and it’s… it’s my fault… I dunno what I’d do…”

Narinder, of course, had no response.

Lambert let their eyes drift shut for a moment, listening to the soft rumbling that filled the wintry silence and letting the unanswered comment drown in it.

Just for a moment. They just… needed a moment.

A moment to reassure themself that he was alive, that whatever this dream (prophecy) told him, they could keep him safe– do something different, listen to the Goat’s advice and prevent losing the only being that had gifted Lambert not only a second life, but a life worth living.

(Usurper.)

They’d stay here. Just for a moment.

Once upon a time, when Old Gods roamed the lands and the First still ruled, there were three Fates (Shamura had once told them; or far more than once, for each new sibling heard the tale once again, and at times would pester the spider to tell them the story once more).

(“Why three?” Leshy had asked, perched upon Shamura’s knee.)

(“For balance,” Shamura had uttered, with no further explanation, and continued telling the tale.)

At the beginning, there was Tayet.

(“Her name’s like mine!” Heket had piped up, the first time Shamura had told her the story.)

(“Yes,” Shamura had replied, and continued.)

Tayet was the eldest Fate, and yet she was also the smallest. A caterpillar whose cocoon was never complete, Tayet wove the thread of Fate. A fairly singleminded God, the caterpillar did nothing but weave that Fate endlessly; even when others pointed out their next stage of life could not continue if they did not finish that cocoon.

The Beginning, the Start, the Origin.

At the end, there was Atropos.

(“Why did you skip to the end?” Kallamar asked once, apparently having the thought occur to him on the second retelling.)

(“Patience,” Shamura said, mandibles clicking with amusement, and still they continued.)

Atropos was the youngest, but simultaneously the harshest. Betrayed by a spouse that she took vengeance on, smiting his head from his shoulders, the praying mantis now spent the remainder of her endless days severing the threads of the eldest Fate.

Shamura was honest that there were no consistent tales on Atropos’ relationship with Death. Some said that Death obeyed her every beck and call; others said she sliced the threads whenever Death’s whims struck.

(Narinder had no idea which it was. Which was a thought that was awfully annoying, so he decided to ignore it.)

The End, the Finale, the Conclusion.

And in the middle, there was Kali.

Kali struck a balance between the obssessed elder and the ruthless youngest. An industrious sort, the bee constantly worked to keep the threads of Fate reasonably measured, reasonably sturdy but not ridiculously so, and the two mindsets from squabbling.

(“A little bit like you,” Shamura had told Narinder, when he had come to ask them for help with a Follower of theirs spitting on him and had been greeted instead with a tale he’d heard far too many times by then.)

(And yet, Shamura had continued.)

Perhaps because of the constant examining of the threads, the world and Kali often took pity on the woven threads they saw, and would find ways to mitigate the other Fates’ shortcomings.

Petty revenges on Gods who went mad with power, minor blessings for mortals who suffered.

(Warnings, for God and mortal alike.)

Narinder, of course, had never met any of the Fates.

By the time he was old enough to even formulate thoughts, the Fates and the First had long become distant tales of the past, told to infant Gods and rapidly fading from mortal history.

So perhaps, Narinder could be forgiven for instinctively spitting an eldritch swear when he turned around– expecting to see the fake– to come face to face with a towering bee’s stinger, inches from his nose. She was huge, wings that reminded Narinder of the stained glass windows in the Temple reflecting crystal-hue light across a cavernous space.

Bulbous eyes, uncomfortably similar to Chemach’s, seemed to be every color all at once. Blue, purple, green, red; a kaleidoscope of hues that Narinder got lost in, the world spinning around him– then he would blink, and the haze of endless iridescence would begin all over again.

The only thing that was even partially amusing about Kali’s appearance was the makeshift spindle hung from her stinger– but the amusement was curbed by the fact that hundreds of thousands of threads were tied to it, trailing off into some sort of distance that made Narinder’s temple throb and his eyes blur when he tried to actually follow the thread to its origin.

Kali’s six legs were constantly moving, shifting one thread to another, crossing a few, marking another that would snap (cut) in thin air.

The bee tilted her head, regarding him.

Even that small gesture felt oddly regal, and despite knowing he was in a dream (prophecy, vision) he could feel his entire body tighten in his effort to not sink into a bow.

“One, two, three. Hello, One Who Waits. Hello, Narinder. Four, five, six.”

“Who are you?” Narinder growled, feeling a little foolish immediately after the words left his mouth.

Both he and the bee knew that he knew who this was.

“Seven, eight, nine. You know who I am. Ten, eleven, twelve. You resist the world’s warnings.”

Narinder wanted to spit that these prophecies were bullshit– but even in his slumber, even in a dreamscape, thunder distantly rumbled; and so instead he frowned and tried not to glower up at an Old One that his brain could barely fathom.

“It is hard to believe a warning when it is so cryptic that I cannot make heads nor tails of it,” he growled in reply.

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. It cannot be helped. We do not wish to favor either of my sisters, lest one feel neglected. Too clear a warning and Atropos would be wronged– twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four– but no warnings at all and soon Tayet would have no thread to spin.”

“And so you send a false image of the Lamb to slay me every night in my sleep. Excellent plan.”

Kali seemed to smile, either unknowing or uncaring of Narinder’s sarcasm, her antenna twitching a little bit.

“You seem quite confident that it is false. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.”

Narinder blinked– and the False Lamb sat there instead.

(In the sky above, iridescent threads in every color imaginable wove themselves through the sky– Kali was not gone, simply weaving an image (a dream, a vision) for Narinder instead.)

“What else would it be?” he growled, and even though he did not take his eyes from the False Lamb’s (slitting his throat), he knew both he and the Fate knew he wasn’t speaking to the Lamb before him.

The False Lamb laughed, the motion sending fervor rolling down its cheeks and staining its fur.

“You truly are fond of them.”

Narinder would have spat that that was a filthy lie, but by now he knew that such a statement would earn him a sweet laugh and a gentle admonishment that the world cannot lie, Narinder– so he just tried to glower a hole through the False Lamb’s skull.

Obviously, it didn’t work, but he could try.

The False Lamb spoke, but it was Kali’s words that this visage of the Lamb echoed. “Thirty-six, thirty-seven. Perhaps that fondness shall be your destruction.”

It was the knowledge that Kali probably had the power, even through a dream (prophecy) to reduce Narinder to a smear on the floor for him to reign in his immediate instinct to snarl at the bee. As it was, he leveled a (hopefully) hideous glare at the False Lamb.

“And why would it, Fate’s Measure?”

(Thunder rumbled.)

“Your heart beats– forty-two, forty-three, forty-four– quickly,” Kali observed, not answering his question directly.

“Do you mean to tell me it’s from fondness?”

The bee’s mandibles clicked, much like Shamura’s; this was a scolding click.

That singular click suddenly made his heartbeat triple in pace, hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t stop shaking– he clenched his hands, in a futile effort to still his trembling, but it just made him tremble harder–

“You know as well as any God, Narinder, that it is fear that afflicts your heart, and not any measure of fondness.”

The Fake Lamb reached towards him, smile widening– fervor dripped into their open smile and stained their teeth blood-red–

“But is the fear solely of the Lamb?”

“H-how should I know?” Narinder bit back, immediately chiding himself for stuttering.

Gods don’t feel fear.

You are no longer a God, Narinder.

Never take your eyes from your enemy’s attacks, Shamura had used to drill into him, whenever they practiced sparring. Always see it through to the end, no matter what.

He had gotten used to battle, to steeled nerves, to staring himself in the face as ichor spilled and Gods fell– but despite that, despite all of that, he couldn’t help but clench his eyes shut–

– and soft hands cupped his face, holding it with a gentle warmth that felt so foreign whenever the False Lamb was in his presence.

His eyes flew open– and nothing had changed, the sky was still red and the moon glowed with a bloody hue; but the False Lamb’s gaze had softened. Fervor still flowed from their cheeks… but the consistency was more like tears than fervor, than power; and the crushing fear had lessened immensely.

“Aren’t you lucky,” Kali said, and though with most Gods that would have sounded sarcastic or bitter, Narinder got the overwhelming feeling that the bee genuinely meant it. “Fifty-six, fifty-seven– The Lamb feels fear, as well.”

Narinder couldn’t help the derisive snort that slipped out at that, face to face with the False Lamb. Their sweet smile persisted, but fervor-filled eyes overflowed constantly.

(Thunder rumbled.)

“If you mean to convince me that the Lamb fears me, when they are the God of Death–”

The bee clicked their mandibles again, which made something in Narinder’s chest feel oddly sore for a moment– he had gotten something wrong again. “Oh, no, One Who Waits.”

“I said nothing about what precisely the Lamb fears.”

Narinder’s consciousness practically flipped like a lever, which was entirely disorienting– from hellish red skies and a moon dripping with blood to the gentle blueish hues of moonlight, peeking through the crack in his curtains.

It wasn’t exactly a lot of light, filtering in through his window and mostly hidden with the curtain; but it (along with his naturally sharper vision) was enough to see the silhouette of something lying beside him.

White wool practically seemed to glow in the sliver of moonlight framing them.

He stared until his eyes started to itch so much that he had to blink to keep them from feeling uncomfortably dry– but they did not disappear, and so Narinder had to conclude that this was not another dream, and the Lamb was in fact on his bed.

The Lamb (Lambert) had fallen asleep, half-asleep on the edge of his bed. They’d been sitting against his headboard, like (the vestiges of a hangover, despite it having been days since he’d had ambrosia, snuck in at his temples for a moment), but they’d clearly slumped down a bit in their sleep and were now awkwardly half-bent at the neck.

Narinder gazed at them silently.

He must be too tired right now– too confused, from his encounter with the Fate– why else would he not immediately be bolting upright and throwing them off of his bed?

Why else would he allow their presence beside him, watching their oddly still form?

– Gods do not need to breathe–

Because he was so tired, so confused, so weak; a part of his mind that he usually spent too much energy quashing made him reach a paw up and tug them so that they were flat on their back, rather than awkwardly bent in a way that would have made a mortal’s neck sore with a vengeance when they woke in the morning.

It was hard to read their expression, even if the moonlight had shone directly on their face; it was nigh on impossible in the dark.

Even so, they were close enough that he could see their eyelashes tremble in their sleep, and the way their mouth was the very tiniest bit ajar.

They let out a soft sigh in their sleep, head turning towards his slightly.

“Vile thing,” he muttered aloud (Tia, obviously fully conscious, rolled its eye), but he let them lay there in peace– clearly, if they’d drifted off on their own, they desired sleep.

Gods did not strictly need sleep– not after (ichor spilling and Crowns turning to dust).

His third eye was strangely warm, the scent of iron barely reaching his nose– but even though the eye had undoubtedly opened, the blood seemed to be flowing less; because it was a very faint smell that he was only just catching.

After a long moment, Narinder reached up with his hand and prodded the same spot on their head, which squished a half-bleat out of them and made their nose wrinkle in their sleep.

He snorted and let his hand drop back to the bed. His exhaustion must be getting the better of him.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ear (oh, Gods, he’d squashed it against his skull. That was going to be sore in the morning, wasn’t it? Damn being mortal. He supposed he could just move his head, but he thought about it and couldn’t be damned to do so).

It was fast. Probably the aftermath of his prophecy (it’s just a nightmare, it’s a prophecy, it is the world’s warning).

Why else would his heart be beating quicker than usual?

He should kick the Lamb out of his bed, he considered, eyes already beginning to droop back shut. After all, only a fool would permit a usurper to stay in his bedroom– let alone his own bed, and a bed that was too small to boot.

(Truly, he was considering going up to the gorilla and demanding something for the time being, if Fikomar could not adjust his bed anytime soon.)

Fool, something in the section of his head that grew louder and larger by the day whispered.

Tia had a tendency to tuck Lambert in while they were asleep.

Not at first, of course; but as more and more time had passed, Lambert would wake up to find themself with a blanket draped over themself, or a pillow under their head where none had been before.

(Usually, it had been snatched from some random Follower, and Lambert could thankfully avoid questioning by the Follower being ecstatic that Lambert had used their pillow, and oh my god there was a stray strand of their wool, and they were never washing this pillow again until the day they died (which Lambert had had to head off with a sermon on please wash your bedding and clothing in the stream, lest your living conditions become horrifically unsanitary, please and thank you).)

(On one occasion, they’d somehow ended up with Ratau’s pillow.)

(Ratau had been particularly baffled about how his pillow had ended up at the cult. And how Tia had managed to ‘respectfully borrow’ it without him waking up.)

All of this was to say, it didn’t really phase Lambert all that much when they shifted into consciousness with a blanket tucked around them; and so they didn’t open their eyes immediately.

It was surprisingly warm, considering how crisp and chilly the air had become outside.

And oddly soft beneath them, as well. The Temple floors occasionally had some slightly springy moss, but you could hardly call that soft–

Hang on. They hadn’t been in the Temple when they’d last been awake. They had been–

– “I have the same nightmare every night”–

Lambert’s eyes popped open, their abrupt return to vision greeting them with tears to the eyes– and, arguably more importantly, Narinder’s face inches away from their own.

They froze, almost comically still– but the black cat didn’t stir, chest slowly rising and falling ever so slightly.

Lambert let out a soft breath– relief? Disappointment? they weren’t sure– and let their head sink back onto the pillow.

Tia nudged itself into the edge of their peripheral vision; when Lambert’s eyes trailed over, it was to see the Crown half-perched on the pillow, watching them both rest with its singular eye.

“You could’ve woken me up,” Lambert mumbled, trying to keep their voice low to avoid waking Narinder.

Tia just stared; so Lambert just let out a soft huff, feeling their lips tug a bit at the corners, and let their gaze fall back onto Narinder.

The black cat’s eyes were shut– in the light of day (well, sort of. His curtains blocked out most of the light, leaving only a small sliver around the parts that the curtains didn’t quite cover; when they looked, the light was bright and harsh, which probably meant it was quite a bit past when they’d intended to wake up and fetch Narinder and Aym and Baal for the next crusade), they could see a little bit of blood caked around his scar again.

He’d had a vision too, then.

Either his dream (prophecy) hadn’t roused him, or he had in fact woken up– but if he had, he surely would’ve woken the Lamb up by hurling them across the room.

Surely.

… now that they thought about it, had Tia adjusted them into this position, too? Because they’d been quite certain they were sitting when they’d fallen asleep…

Narinder stirred, his fur squashing awkwardly against his pillow and sending a wrecking ball through Lambert’s train of thought. He yawned– his jaw practically stretched to the point where they could see his uvula– and settled again, his eyes half-cracking open.

The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Lambert couldn’t quite tell if he was awake–

Narinder abruptly lurched forward and bit their ear.

Lambert blinked.

“… I would’ve thought you were going to throw me,” they said, in lieu of a ‘good morning’.

The large cat grunted and released their ear– when they reached up to felt it, there was no blood; so he hadn’t bit hard enough to draw blood (ichor).

“I was certainly thinking about it. Get out of my bed before I change my mind.”

They laughed, but sat up and swung their feet out of the bed (Narinder gave a very displeased grunt as they accidentally tugged at the covers, as the blanket caught on their feet), hopping out and turning to face him in a single motion.

Lambert debated trying to give him an explanation– but despite how easily the words had come the night before, the things they wanted to say couldn’t make it past their lips, and what few excuses crossed their mind all sounded like (to put it the way Kimar had once spat, in a foul mood) pure horseshit– so they waited for Narinder to broach the topic first.

Strangely, he did not.

The two stared at each other for a good long while, the silence stretching.

Despite how long it was, it didn’t feel awkward or like a standstill. Perhaps because Narinder’s gaze was oddly less harsh than usual.

(Oddly soft?)

(Probably not, as much as hope stirred a treacherous head in Lambert’s chest at that.)

“… we overslept,” they said, at last, when enough time had passed that it was pretty obvious that he had no intention of bringing this up. “We should get ready to go.”

Narinder gave a silent nod.

There was a long pause.

“Did you get possessed or something?”

Immediately, his familiar scowl came back to his face. “What? Where the fresh hells of the afterlife did that come from?” he snarled.

Their lips curved up slightly in a smile. “Never mind.”

They couldn’t duck in time before his pillow hit their face.

“Go get ready for the damned crusade, vile Lamb, or else the ki– Aym and Baal will pester us for hours.”

“You’ve already used vile Lamb before. Are you out of insults?” Lambert couldn’t help the single note of amusement slipping into their voice, barely touching the corners of their eyes; they tossed the pillow back.

He swatted it out of the air and onto the ground. “Out.”

They gave another laugh– softer, more vulnerable than anything they’d ever trust anyone else with.

“Okay, Narinder.”

The crusade was about as average as usual.

Well, if you didn’t count the fact that they slayed heretics in half the time.

He’d noticed how quickly they moved the last time; but he still couldn’t help but wonder a little at how swift they were practically blazing through Anchordeep– adding Aym and Baal to the mix meant they were adding two very good warriors to the team (was he considering the Lamb a teammate? Truly? He really hadn’t gotten enough sleep, then)– and two warriors that Narinder had spent years honing the abilities of, to boot.

That was all to say, they worked phenomenally with their former God and the Lamb, who had also kind of been trained by him.

(And by that, he just meant he’d taught them how to roll.)

Beyond that, the air was filled with chatter– Baal and Aym still had a tremendous amount of curiosity about the world, especially when they hadn’t been to Anchordeep before; and Narinder could hardly find an opening to continue the discussion they’d had a night or two ago.

“What’s that?”

“A salmon. It’s a type of fish. And that one’s a pufferfish. Yes, it will hurt if you grab it.”

(Aym hastily snatched his hand back.)

“How did you even find the totem?”

“We’ve found it before,” the Lamb said brightly, holding it at a subtle angle so Narinder could scan the words on the tablet.

(He got so far as to read ‘Tis clear, now, that none shall survive this purging before something inside him clenched at the memory and he couldn’t quite finish reading the ninth tablet.)

“What about the starfish putting his hands in your wool right now?”

Narinder, the Lamb (Lambert), Tia, and Baal turned at Aym’s question to see a blue starfish in a ridiculously gaudy crown (no, not Crown with a capital C– just a mortal creation, gilded and sparkling and far too fancy for a creature with such an irritating grin) with his hand wrist-deep in the Lamb’s wool.

They probably needed to shear it soon, if they hadn’t even noticed that.

The starfish gave an awkward laugh, though notably, he didn’t bother withdrawing his hand. “Ahaha, valued patron–”

“Oh, this is Midas,” the Lamb said cheerfully, and without skipping a beat or turning to face Midas fully, punched the starfish in the face.

Narinder couldn’t quite hide the snort that made its way out of him at that. It didn’t help that Midas went flying six feet backwards and took quite the inelegant tumble, or Aym and Baal’s twin comedically baffled faces.

“Eek! Ouch!”

(Narinder had never heard anybody actually physically say ‘eek’ before.)

(The snort turned into chuckles, which then turned into coughing as he attempted to rid himself of the half-smile that was threatening to make its way onto his lips.)

(At least Aym and Baal’s muffled laughter and Midas’s whining complaints as he fled allowed him to hide it before they noticed.)

But of course, because the world seemed to absolutely despise him, and such amusements had to be balanced out with the most infuriating encounters of Narinder’s immortal life; the feel of stone (especially cool, and strangely somehow damp– shouldn’t it be soaking, if it was wet at all?) beneath Narinder’s paws signaled that his least favorite blue owl was up ahead.

Chemach perked up as the four of them walked in– she was practically strung up close to the ceiling of the chamber, so that all you could see of her as you entered was two bulbous red eyes.

(Conversely, Narinder’s ears folded back, his tail twitching in irritation.)

“Little God! Ah! Yes. Ah. Ah.”

The blue owl swooped down (if an owl that was bound to some otherworldly harness that seemed to travel with her could be said to ‘swoop’), very narrowly missing plowing over the two younger cats in her haste to greet the Lamb.

“Hello, Chemach,” the Lamb responded cheerfully, over Aym’s sounds of indignation and Baal’s sounds of pure confusion– while Chemach wasn’t really the type to care (or notice, to be quite frank), perhaps the Lamb felt the need to maintain a semblance of decorum. “What do you have today?”

Aym and Baal turned to stare at Narinder as Chemach showed off a cracked mirror to the Lamb (“the face that stares back; yours, and yet not”), completely ignoring the three black cats still lurking at the entrance of the chamber.

“Yes, this is normal,” Narinder grumbled.

The Lamb gave another bell-like laugh before Aym and Baal could inevitably launch into another barrage of questions. “Did you ask Clauneck before you turned his mirror into a Relic?”

“Why ask? Power. Powerful things.”

They laughed again, bright, cheery, (fake); taking the mirror from the small pedestal it was resting upon carefully. Their gray fur shifted slightly; despite the mirror being rather large compared to them, they almost seemed to lift it effortlessly wait why was he noticing this–

Narinder’s sudden outburst of coughing in a futile attempt to banish these thoughts from the front of his mind drew everyone’s attention.

Including, unfortunately, Chemach.

“Ah. Ah! The One Who Waits.”

Narinder’s head snapped up. Simultaneously, he could feel his ears press into his skull.

Great. Just fucking great. The last time she had called him that, he had been impaled by a rampaging, mind-controlled vessel of his older brother’s (he is not). What did the damned owl want now?

“What do you want?” he growled.

Chemach lurched forward; and suddenly her face was a mere foot from his– which sounded like a fairly respectable distance, but when Chemach was quadruple the Lamb’s height, it meant that all he could really see of the blue owl were her two bulbous eyes– and those were blurry in his peripheral vision.

He stepped back, a snarl in his throat. “You–”

“Power. Powerful things. The God of Death. The Abyss.”

The snarl froze in his throat, halfway out; it practically choked him.

“Neglected, shadows drowning in light. Powerful things. Pretty things.” Chemach tilted to one side, regarding Narinder. “Temptation to Godliness. Temptation to Power. Pretty things Void cannot possess, things Chemach cannot possess. Kinship. Friendship. Ah! Yes.”

“… Crowns?”

Narinder nearly jumped out of his skin at the Lamb’s voice suddenly interjecting. Despite that, Chemach’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Narinder.

“… you call the cards and the weapons ‘pretty things’. Are Crowns under ‘pretty’ things, too?”

“Pretty. Prettiness is for the worthy only,” Chemach replied, seemingly as a confirmation. “Darkness holds power. Chemach holds power. Keepers of Godly tools, unable to wield the tools they keep.”

Narinder’s head was spinning a little– whether that was from the flurry of thoughts fighting in his head, or the fact that he couldn’t quite breathe (Gods should not need to breathe, but what was he), he didn’t know.

What did the blue owl mean? She was cryptic, he knew that well, but to suddenly bring up Crowns, and temptation, and Abyss–

“I think I see,” the Lamb replied quietly, their voice suddenly close to his side; and he simultaneously jerked and heaved in a tremendous gasp of air that had been cycling awkwardly in his throat and looked down to see the Lamb.

Their hand was gently cupping his– not quite a grip, not really, but brushing against his.

Did they see? he wondered dimly, did they truly?–

– but then his train of thought was (once again) interrupted by Chemach lurching backwards (away from him, thankfully) with a screeching hoot of a laugh that made his jaw clench. “You see, you see! Little Lambs with Little Lamb eyes. So you see.”

“Return again, return again! Eyes and ears and throats and brains,” Chemach warbled, before she gave a sharp jerk of her whole body and her harness launched her back into the darkness above.

(“What was that about?” Aym whispered loudly to Baal, who hastily hushed his twin.)

The Lamb turned large eyes upon Narinder, regarding him. “Are you okay?”

The look in their eyes–

– Pity? Kindness?

Care?

– snapped him out of whatever stupor Chemach’s incessant barrage of incoherent information had put him into, and he scowled at them– the Lamb simultaneously took a casual step to the side, so their hands no longer brushed together.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” they said, face instantly fixed in a bright smile. “Come on– we should get going if we don’t want to spend more than one night outside.”

“I told you we should have left earlier today,” Narinder growled instantly.

“Well, we can’t help having slept in.”

“Technically, you two were the only ones who slept in,” Baal replied to the Lamb, giving a shy (but still incredibly cheeky) grin and earning himself a punch to the shoulder.

Even if the Lamb actively had to hop up to do it.

“Yeah, yeah, get your giggles out before the next room– you too, Aym,” the Lamb said to the scarred cat, who couldn’t quite hide his smile in time but still immediately tried to protest that he wasn’t giggling.

Narinder watched them gently herd the two younger cats towards the exit, careful to avoid the subject of what had just happened– either because they didn’t want to discuss whatever bomb Chemach had dropped with the kits (he crushed that thought), or out of concern for Narinder (he crushed that one, too).

Then he padded across the ground after them, feeling the stones warm ever-so-slightly as he approached the exit into forever-summer sea.

The chamber was silent after they left– eerily so.

Then, it was broken.

“The cards foretold this meeting, Sister.”

Chemach came dropping back from the ceiling like a puppet on strings, letting out high-pitched hoots of delight. “Ah! Ah. My brother. Ah. Yes!”

The owl bowed, red feathers shifting softly in the silence, and seated himself on the floor– he typically walked wherever he went (he would have flown, but every time he flew, he’d inevitably accidentally lose something of his– first it had been his shoe, then his mirror had fallen out of his bag– and he’d never discover it again, so he had simply decided to walk from now on)– but he had been walking for the last day, and it couldn’t hurt to rest with the blue owl for a while.

“Pretty. Pretty things. Mine are better.”

“Yes, that is how the Fates said you would feel about this,” Clauneck said, taking out the deck of tarot cards to shuffle while he rested. He never felt anger, or even sorrow about the transformation she had undergone, so long ago.

It was foreseen, after all.

“Tell me, Lamb, do you believe in destiny immutable?”

“How does the Crown suit you?”

The three-eyed thing blinked. The veins rooted into her skull almost seemed to throb– fleshy, alive.

It was.

“Pretty thing! It is the only pretty thing I still have. Ah! Yes.”

She blinked bulbous red eyes at him, cocking her head to one side. “Ah. Ah! And you? How fare the Thunderous Ones?”

(Thunder rumbled distantly.)

“The Fates still aid me in selecting my cards, sister,” Clauneck replied, plucking up The Hearts from his deck and sliding it to the bottom of the deck.

Clauneck was not a curious creature, by nature.

It is by nature we must abide, after all.

But it was the distant memory (very distant, now; so long ago that no living God remembered her for anything besides the Relics she tore organs and parts from to craft) of how she had used to be that propelled him into his following question.

“Do you regret, Chemach?”

She stared at him, bulbous eyes darting around rapidly.

Clauneck elaborated when no response came forth, shuffling the deck again. “Do you regret seeking more, Chemach? Do you feel remorse for pushing your old creations past their limits? For giving it power?”

“Do you regret gazing into the Void?”

Chemach continued to stare, before she let out her high-pitched raucous hoot of a laugh; the sound echoing harshly off stone walls and pillars throughout the chamber.

“Ah! Ah. Ahahaha! Deals struck, exchanges made. Yes. Yes.”

Her laughter didn’t abate for a long time, the sound lasting for far longer than it should have with the sound reverberating in the air.

When she did finally stop laughing, her bulbous red eyes were focused on her red-feathered brother, and there was no humor lingering.

A rarity, for her to be even remotely lucid.

“I regret only Atropos’ tears. Ah. Yes.”

Thankfully for Narinder’s patience (or lack thereof), Chemach was easily left behind in the ever-shifting paths of seaweed and sand, and they were soon surrounded by the remains of sunken ships and centuries of sand scouring stones into strange shapes and oddly shaped coral.

The Lamb was chattering away with a curious Baal about Chemach (“yes, the Relics are bits of Gods, no I don’t know the exact process of her making Relics out of bits of Gods”) when their head abruptly rotated to face forward.

Narinder was puzzled for a moment, before he lifted his head to see bubbles amidst smoke, rising through the water (air? Gods, this was confusing) and disappearing far above them.

Ah. A fire– and, as he lowered his eyes again, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be canvas, like the kind that stretched taut over covered wagons.

The Lamb trotted forward and pushed some seaweed aside.

Their look of anticipation relaxed into one of warm relief, one that sent a small wave of warmth through Narinder’s bones.

(How ridiculous.)

“Hi, Forneus.”

Forneus had a new book, from the last time he’d encountered the motherly cat– the cover was leather, rather than flimsy paper that had begun to tear along the seams, and she was only a few pages through it.

“O, but a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” Forneus said in greeting, not tearing her eyes from her book.

“Definitely a new book,” the Lamb said very softly.

Narinder shot them a strange glance, a bit despite himself– of course, as usual, they were not offended. “How do you know?”

“If it’s old, Forneus stops reading immediately. You could probably eat everything in her wagon before she looked up,” they responded.

“You sound like you have personal experience with that, Lamb.”

“I take offense to that.”

Narinder glanced at Aym and Baal while the Lamb gave their soft, bell-like laugh.

The two of them were frozen, staring at Forneus.

They’d been very small, when Shamura had gifted them to him– not quite newly born; but not yet old enough to stand on tiny paws.

Aym’s scar had been acquired sometime before he’d been given– it had, in fact, been quite a fresh wound when Narinder had first plucked the kitten up in skeletal hands; one that had faded slightly over time, and stretched across his face– but a wound, nonetheless; acquired from the dangers that the Lands of the Old Faith ran rife with, even now that the Old Faith was gone.

“That we lived three summer days, I could fill my heart with such delight…”

They had only been with their mother for such a short time.

And yet.

And yet, though so much time had passed, though they had barely ever seen her face in the years proceeding; both were gazing at the tall cat in silence, something soft and yearning in their eyes– an expression that Narinder did not frequently see, on the two of them.

Baal, always taking the charge, even when he was filled with terror.

Aym, only a step behind, making up for it with zeal that his brother could not quite hope to match.

The Lamb abruptly had crossed the clearing, gently touching her book with a single finger. “We– um, my ‘companion’, from last time, and me– we brought you something.”

“O, gifts are not needed, Lamb,” Forneus said, finally raising her eyes from the book, “one can be certain of nothing but the heart’s–”

Her eyes landed on the two cats staring at her.

Forneus went very still.

The Lamb took a delicate step back, the only movement in the abruptly frozen tableau before Narinder.

Had the fire not still been crackling, the bubbles full of smoke still rising, the pot (he’d only just seen it, burnt black with charcoal and bubbling with something that sent a faint smell of something warm cooking through the scent of sea) still clattering away quietly– had the Lamb not moved, ever so slightly– Narinder almost would have thought that time had frozen for an instant.

“Oh,” Forneus breathed.

Narinder realized he was holding his breath.

(How annoying, that he had to breathe.)

(How foolish, that he was even bothering.)

(He did not let it out.)

“A heart remembers,” Forneus continued, softly, eyes still fixed upon her two kits. “A mother shan’t forget.”

She blinked, and Narinder again realized that there were tears in the black cat’s eyes. “O, generous Fortune; should I be dreaming, never allow me to wake. O, fractions of my beating heart.”

Baal took a small step forward.

(Baal, ever the bravest, ever the first to take the first step, even if his entire body was seized with tremors of fear.)

“Often I hoped,” Forneus continued; and nobody could’ve hoped to know if she was speaking to the Lamb, Narinder, herself, or her own kits, “and scorned myself foolish– that upon of mine eyes, my kits would return. When they did not, I dreamed of smiling faces held by soft and kindly paws.”

Her book had fallen– at some point, Narinder had not noticed when– into the sand, and the plaid-clad cat gently raised trembling hands towards her children. “Here, now… the wounds of a heart once carved may yet be healed…”

Baal took off running.

In an instant– a flash, almost, of white– Baal had practically launched himself across the healing and into Forneus’s arms.

A mother shan’t forget.

Neither shall the kits she loved.

The tall cat caught him easily, cradling Baal close instantly, as if he was still a kit who had never grown since the day he’d left; then caught Aym’s flying tackle, only a few seconds late, pulling them both close to her heart in a tight embrace.

There was– for some reason– an irritating little ache, tugging at Narinder’s chest; one that he scowled at and turned to glance at the Lamb–

And the ache tugged ever harder, more sorely; their eyes were fixed upon the scene, Forneus rocking her two kits back and forth and murmuring snatches of poetry and prose in an incoherent murmur.

He couldn’t quite read the look in their eyes, for a moment of blankness had overtaken their features, unseen by the rejoicing family before them.

He thought, perhaps, that it might be longing.

“Ah, Lamb! Praised Lamb! Blessed Lamb!” the mother called out, and the expression left the Lamb’s eyes.

Forneus did not release her embrace on her two kits, Baal and Aym hugging her back just as tightly. “The heart is an infinite vessel. Yet mine overflows. You and your companion have done the kindest deed for a lonely mother.”

“Companion? Mother–” Aym’s face was oddly almost as soft as Baal’s, in that moment. Harsh angles and red scars seemed to almost become gentler at the edges, softer, warmer– but the remnants of his usual sharp tone lingered. “It should be the other way around, he is–”

The One Who Waits, the God of Death.

How can one say no to a God?

“Very glad,” Narinder suddenly spoke up, earning himself amusingly identical looks of twin shock on the kits’ faces, and raised eyebrows from the Lamb, “that we could find you to reunite your family.”

Forneus beamed, even as he felt warmth fill the tips of his ears at the several stares he was receiving. “Blessed Lamb and Companion, what language speaks love? What of gratitude? Whichever it is, mine is due to you. Would you have the time to stay for a meal, with my sons and I?”

Narinder expected the Lamb to beam, and agree, and for them to grab his robe and tug him over to sit at the fire– so it was an incredible surprise for their smile to slip into a sadder one. “Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a hurry at the moment. Otherwise I would love nothing more.”

Forneus released Aym and Baal, only to grasp the Lamb’s hand in her paw– it was almost a comedic difference, in how big her hand was compared to theirs.

(Or even his. Tall as he was compared to the Lamb, he could not have hoped to match Forneus’ height in this mortal form of his.)

“Whenever you are feeling weary, then. Stop by and share a meal from the heart. Bring your companion, for a thing of beauty is joy forever.”

The Lamb’s smile warmed up again, and they gave her hands a squeeze. “Thanks, Forneus. I appreciate it.”

“We can come with you,” Aym said, almost urgently (like he wished them to stay– but that, too, was a ridiculous notion that Narinder dismissed the moment it entered his head)– but then Forneus turned her gaze onto his, and any semblance of that urgency seemed to go out like a candle doused in water.

The Lamb bid the small family a cheerful goodbye; and four became two as they passed through the seaweed, ready for the path to change.

Narinder’s steps were slower than usual– perhaps because his feet felt strangely heavy; or this irritating ache lingering in his chest that he couldn’t pinpoint the reason for.

“Will you miss them?”

Narinder glared at the Lamb’s abrupt question; who was unperturbed as usual and continued to gaze up at him blankly.

“We didn’t get to have them stay at the cult for very long, and they did serve you for so long,” they continued.

He maintained his glare on them for a moment, debating rain-checking this question of theirs as well– before turning and glaring off into the sunken ships and dead coral ahead; knowing what lay ahead of them without his two warriors.

“They are not mine to miss.”

There was a sound, and the Lamb glanced back– their face broke into a smile (a mask). “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Mas– um– Master.”

Narinder turned to see Baal standing at the very edge of the seaweed, before the two could get lost in the swaying greenery.

“We’ll come visit you. Aym and I,” Baal said, trembling slightly– from excitement, sorrow (why would the kits he had raised into warriors from the moment they could stand feel sorrow at his departure?). “And you, Lamb–”

– “What did I tell you about calling me that?” Narinder growled–

“– may we come ask you more things? If we need to?”

They smiled at him, something in their eyes softening from their usual brightness. “I’d be a hypocrite if I said no.”

Narinder debated pointing out that they technically already were, considering they still had such an immense question debt with him, but decided to let that slide.

Baal’s arms jerked a little bit– as if he was about to raise them– but he instead swept a deep bow. “Thank you. Both of you. Aym says thank you, too, but, um…”

“Is he crying?” the Lamb asked cheerfully.

“A little bit, yes.” Baal smiled, a mix of sheepishness and some kind of warmth that tingled throughout Narinder for a moment; before the fluffy black cat vanished back through the seaweed, back to his mother.

The two of them were silent, looking back.

“You should hug them next time,” the Lamb said, softly; and that look of longing was back in their eyes again. It wasn’t sad, exactly– but there was a forlorn quality to their expression that he’d never noticed before.

Yes. No. Perhaps. Why would they want that? Do they even want that? You’re being ridiculous.

A myriad of responses flickered through his head, and he said none of them, wrestling with the aching warmth in his chest for what felt like far too much time. Finally:

“We’ve dallied long enough in Anchordeep, Lamb.”

They gazed up at him for a few moments; then a soft smile touched their lips. Combined with the longing back in their eyes, Narinder felt the irritating ache twist a little deeper.

“Okay, Narinder.”

Kallamar had always been difficult to spar with.

Narinder remembered his first time sparring with his older brother.

(– he is not your–)

Kallamar had not wielded four weapons– he wasn’t good at it, yet, not then, nor dual-wielding.

Narinder hadn’t known what to expect; but it wasn’t to find himself on his butt approximately ten seconds later, his own weapon somewhere across the room.

(Kallamar had helped him back up, then, and patted him down gently.)

(It didn’t mean that the squid ever came into their subsequent spars lightly, but it had been a bit easier, back then. Kallamar had never taken to fighting as seriously as Shamura (war and conquest), and it reflected in those early days. Lighter-hearted, and always careful that his little brother was alright after sending whatever weapon Shamura made him practice with flying.)

Shamura would give Kallamar a simple ‘well done’, and then they would move on to whatever other lessons they’d planned for the infant Gods; be it more sparring or a lesson in the library.

(Narinder always pestered his older siblings to spar more. It was almost fun, back then, when Kallamar was gentler and when the worst he could get hurt was bruises and sore spots, and not–)

(– eyes and ears and throats and brains–)

The first time Narinder had beat Kallamar, it was Kallamar’s first time dual-wielding.

The squid was ambidextrous (which was quite the feat, when you had countless arms); but still, learning to dual wield when you’d become accustomed to a single weapon was quite a jump in skill.

It had been almost exciting, that day, for Kallamar to be the one to drop his weapons, for Narinder to be the one to come out victorious.

Shamura had been swept up in Narinder’s excitement too, plucking up the (at the time) small cat with their mandibles clicking in delight.

(It had been far less exciting to see hurt on his older brother’s face over Shamura’s shoulder, hurt and envy that Kallamar quickly hid by turning away.)

(After that day, Kallamar no longer would dust his smaller brother off, or double-check that he was alright when weapons went flying out of his hands or, once Narinder mastered it, chains were deflected into stone walls and columns.)

(It had stopped being fun, then.)

Perhaps it was a good thing that his older brother (he is not) was a mindless echo of his former self– occasionally parroting words or snippets of phrases that had Narinder’s teeth clenching, tight enough that he thought they might shatter.

“Mercy, Red Crown, mercy…”

Kallamar let out a shriek and swung with his sword, lurching towards Narinder– the large cat had no qualms (“but what if I hurt him, Mura?”) about hacking the scythe into the exposed flesh and muscle in front of him, and the squid let out a roar of pain.

“Narinder!”

The Lamb’s voice carried well, echoing in the cavernous space, and he instantly ducked– the axe came whirling over his head (with a safe berth) and slashed through a few tentacles, making Kallamar unleash another shriek of agony.

It was almost aggravating, how well the two of them synced in battles now– how it only took a single call or shout for Narinder to get the gist of what the Lamb was about to do, how he could see, hear tone in a single syllable; how he could barely glance over and see a flash of white and somehow know what position the Lamb was taking.

(Scratch that, it was aggravating, and he swept the thought that he knew them well into a recess of the mind.)

What was even more aggravating was the fact that Kallamar was locked onto him.

Even though his brother (he is not) was a mindless puppet of his former self–

(Kallamar, helping his little brother up after sending him flying–)

– even though Kallamar was reduced to an echo of swinging swords and slashing daggers and a staff whirling through the air–

(Kallamar, sitting with Narinder at the dinner table and helping him peel his shrimp when the little cat was still too small to do so–)

– even though Kallamar had been killed by the Lamb–

(Kallamar, begging the Lamb for his life–)

– somewhere, deep down within what conscious remained in the God of Pestilence, was some deep-seated fear of Narinder.

(Kallamar, the God of Pestilence.)

(Coward.)

Narinder barely ducked under a slash of the squid’s sword, a stab of the dagger at his other side– he muttered an eldritch swear that made his eyes water and his ears itch, and pivoted in the nick of time to deflect the swing of Kallamar’s staff, sending sparks flickering from the shriek of Godly metal upon Godly metal, and then fire shot at him–

An unholy screech echoed across the clearing, and a huge, skeletal palm slapped Kallamar away from him.

Narinder’s breathing was ragged from exertion, and he really needed to take in a good breath if he did not wish to become lightheaded; but he practically felt whatever air remained in his lungs evaporating from his body at the sight that he faced.

The Lamb had forgone weapons, Tia instead seated firmly upon their skull once again– and Narinder truly did mean their skull. A huge caprine skull, with eyes glowing red with fervor and decorated with spiraling ram horns that made the hammer look like a squeaky toy, glowered at his brother.

In fact, their entire body had become mostly skeletal, with only their legs and a patch on their head still retaining some of their wool– and even that had become lank, almost shaggy in places, more like goat’s fur. Their silhouette had turned utterly pitch black, with the exception of the eerie glow of black ichor, of fervor, of red; shining from their eyes, oozing from skeletal claws.

The bell he’d gifted them (when they had still been his vessel, to mark them as his (he ignored that thought in favor of the towering eldritch being above him) barely fit around their spine.

They were as large as he had once been, he thought, perhaps even slightly taller– and then his lungs complained and he gasped in a half-breath, startled out of the stunned reverie he’d been dragged into.

The Lamb shrieked at Kallamar, jaw unhinging to reveal their teeth had been replaced with a cluster of tentacles, reminiscent of the former God of the Deep– and the sound made Narinder’s knees give out, and he barely managed to keep himself from inelegantly slamming his face into jagged stone by slamming the butt of his scythe into a crack in the stones and using it as a crutch.

Gods are not afraid.

But it had been quite a while since he’d been a God, hadn’t he?

Even Kallamar, single-minded and bloodied as he was in this form, flinched at the sound.

“Lamb,” Narinder said.

(– too quiet, too soft, too mortal to be heard–)

The Lamb– could he still even call them that, in this form– inelegantly slashed at Kallamar.

The eldritch squid tried to dodge, but the Lamb’s claws managed to catch one tentacle and Kallamar let out an unearthly howl of agony as the hand gripping the globus cruciger went thudding, meaty and wet with ichor, into the stone beside Narinder– in fact, the cat had to actively dodge to avoid it falling onto him.

“Lamb,” he called out, louder this time.

They didn’t seem to hear.

The stone shook, pebbles skittering across the ground; Narinder’s thumb was sore from how tightly he was clutching at the handle of the scythe– the wood was wearing a small rut into it. Each step (each movement of a hoofbeat, crushing century-old-stone to dust in an instant) made uncontrollable tremors go through Narinder’s whole body.

It was a miracle he wasn’t flat on his face.

He was afraid.

It was an uncomfortable admittance, like swallowing oil or biting into a small rock– but Narinder could hardly pretend that the incoherent roars (and Kallamar’s screams, drowned out by the sounds of the Lamb’s rage) weren’t rooting him to the spot, petrified to even so much as raise his head too much.

Kallamar was crumpling– all too easily. The (cowardly) squid that had trumped Narinder in combat, over and over and over again– he seemed to practically fold in on himself beneath the intensity, the fury of the Lamb’s attacks.

Despite how it felt like minutes, hours, years went by; it was likely only a few seconds after the Lamb’s transformation that Kallamar was crumpling to the ground, his fall shaking the ground beneath them.

(Narinder found that he couldn’t move, and could only close his eyes an instant before the sound of something heavy and fleshy and wet burst.)

(He couldn’t watch.)

(He hated that.)

When he blinked open his eyes, the God of Pestilence was dead once more.

The eldritch creature above him stared at the pile of ichor-soaked flesh that Kallamar had just turned into (great, fishing him out of that was going to be absolutely revolting), before just… collapsing.

The massive skeleton simply seemed to crumple in on itself, and in the blink of an eye the Lamb was back to a more typical size, gazing at the pile of Kallamar currently sitting on the ground.

Narinder waited for them to say something– perhaps a silly quip with the straightest of expressions or the faintest of smiles, or something about finding Kallamar in the mess of gorey flesh piled before them, or even just an acknowledgement– but nothing. They just stared at it, dead-eyed and–

– two twin graves, marked with sticks in the ruins of an old kitchen–

“… Lamb?”

“What?”

Narinder might have jumped in surprise at the Lamb’s harsh response, if it weren’t for the fact that he just didn’t care (he ignored the fact that his shoulders did still tense, because of course he would be wary after the display they had just shown, of course–)

They didn’t turn to face him, either. He was used to them turning their full body to face him when they were addressing him, but they simply stared (glared?) at the corpse in front of them.

(He noticed, somewhere in the back of his mind, the way their wool had become decidedly off-white– not quite gray, but certainly not the pristine white he was accustomed to.)

Narinder belatedly realized he was still on his knees, still gripping his scythe so tightly that his hands had gone numb, and hastily used it to haul himself back into a standing position.

(Wonderful. The scythe had almost cut into his skin from how tightly he had been holding the handle.)

Despite the amount of very ungodly scrambling Narinder had to do, in order to stand once more, the Lamb still did not look.

He could not read their expression again.

– a pastel blue door, hanging off the hinges–

– a small doll, stained rust red–

– a Lamb’s skull encircling Narinder’s foot–

“… I am alright.”

They blinked, and turned to face him fully again. Their eyes were a little wider (and he truly did mean a little, barely a sliver larger than their usual deadpan expression)– but he could still tell they were quite surprised.

“Because you seem to care about that, for whatever reason,” he growled in reply to their unasked question, feeling his face heat up slightly for no reason.

They gazed at him for a few moments– long enough to feel his face heat up even longer– and then they nodded.

“Okay, Narinder.”

Damn it all, now his ears were warm.

He turned to glare at a random pebble wedged into a crack on the ground. It was sparkly, and blue– a shard of crystal, he corrected himself.

“Just drag the coward out of his own corpse and we can get home.”

The Lamb was about to reply, but then there was a retching sound, and the Lamb turned to look over at the large mound of flesh a few meters away.

Kallamar had managed to shove his head out, covered in his own ichor, and was coughing and retching up the thick substance in his lungs.

They hurried over, squelching (ugh) through a tangle of the God’s innards and destroyed flesh and reaching down with a ichor-covered hand–

Kallamar let out a squeak and ducked back down with an incredibly slimy (ew) sound, apparently opting to drown in his own Godly blood rather than take the Lamb’s hand.

The Lamb (Lambert) sighed at that– (annoyed?) but unsurprised– and reached down.

With one tremendous tug (and a lot of incoherent gibbering, on Kallamar’s part), they managed to yank Kallamar free of whatever he’d become tangled on.

Kallamar went crashing into an unelegant heap– the Lamb crashed into Narinder, who (unknowingly, without his mind’s permission) had stepped forward the moment they teetered off balance.

It had him staggering, and the Lamb seizing a fistful of his dress to keep themself from smashing their face into the stone below; but with a lot of scrambling, cursing (okay, Narinder was the only one spewing curses), and a random bleat when he accidentally hit them on the head with his elbow, the two managed to stay upright.

“I– you– brother– bleugh.” And Kallamar promptly emptied whatever was in his system onto the ground, spewing ichor and who knew what else upon the ground.

Pestilence.

“Thanks, Narinder,” the Lamb said cheerfully, turning to face Kallamar a moment later.

Despite feeling under the weather (clearly), Kallamar still let out a shriek and cowered away, raising his hands as if expecting the Lamb or his brother (he is not–) to hack a weapon into his brain immediately. “Please! Pl-please! Spare me! I-I–”

“Do you truly think the Lamb would dirty their hands with your blood to pull you out if they just intended to kill you again? You were about to just drown in your own ichor– fitting end, for a coward like you,” Narinder snarled.

Kallamar flinched with a very unelegant squeak, curling in on himself– shielding his head, as if any gesture would cause a blade to slash through instead.

The Lamb regarded Kallamar silently, then reached forward–

Narinder’s paw was around their wrist before he was even aware he’d moved.

Their wrist was a little warm– fuzzy, too– and he thought he could feel their heartbeat fluttering away beneath his fingers.

They blinked, then raised their eyes to his– he dropped their wrist and glared off to the side before eye contact could be made, opting instead to look at the bell around their neck.

Fool.

(The bell was scratched up, here and there– it took a beating quite frequently, after all– but despite that, it was still rather shiny and well-polished.)

The Lamb remained silent for a moment, then turned back around. Narinder reluctantly peered over, a bit curious (despite himself, despite everything) about what they were doing.

They snapped their fingers in his ears.

Kallamar did not respond.

Hear no evil.

“D’you think Heket will be willing to help teach him sign language?” the Lamb asked Narinder after a pause that felt extremely long but was likely only a few seconds.

Narinder snorted– either in derision or some frustration or–

– amusement–

– he didn’t know.

“I wouldn’t necessarily hold my breath over it.”

“So not entirely a no,” the Lamb said, grinning at him. Kallamar just looked puzzled now.

“Don’t push your luck, Lamb.”