Summary: After hearing from several concerned Crown Bearers, Kudaai goes to check on his sister, only to find her collapsed on the ground of her home.
Rating: T
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Non-explicit suicide ideation.
Read it on AO3
----
Why did he have to be the mature one, Kudaai wondered, marching away from his home to the small stone building across the field.
Every time something happened with Chemach, he ended up being the one to go check on her. Why couldn't the concerned Crown Bearers go bother Clauneck? It seemed high time that it was his turn to make sure Chemach hadn't made a mistake she was scrambling to fix.
Kudaai slumped his shoulders forward.
Who was he kidding? Clauneck, more often than not, was useless in situations such as this. With his tenancy to be lost in the past and future, he would lose focus on where he was going or believe he had already done it.
So the duty of keeping both his siblings on track fell squarely on Kudaai's sturdy shoulders.
Kudaai knocked on the thick hardwood and metal door of the stone building. He hadn't liked the change Chemach made from her past home to this strange boxy thing of gray bricks.
Her dwelling, a quaint wooden shelter with a thatched roof and flowers crawling along the walls, had been as welcoming and airy. It was open and inviting to mortals that wandered by or a god seeking a moment of respite from the struggles of divinity.
Her new home reminded Kudaai too much of a fortress desperate to keep everyone out.
Moments passed with no response, so he knocked again, louder this time.
If not for the circumstances that pushed him to come check, Kudaai would have left then, but when three different Crown Bearers tell him Chemach seemed 'off,' what choice did he have but to wait at her doorstep?
"Sister!" He shouted. "It is I, Kudaai. Open your door if you are here." He strained his ears, listening for signs of life from within. Finally, he heard a faint groaning. Clenching his bill shut, Kudaai pushed the unlocked door open.
The stench of sweat, rot, and defecation hit Kudaai so hard, he took a step back.
"Chemach?" He called, covering his nostrils with his hand. The groaning came again from within the darkened brick box. Kudaai reached into his pocket and took out a piece of coal. Cupping it in his hands, he blew magic into it. A flame sprang to life around the coal. Holding the warm coal in his open palm, Kudaai stepped inside.
The inside of her home was a mess. Papers scattered across the floor. There were dark red and brown stains on the disheveled rug and several loaves of stale or moldy bread sat half-eaten on various surfaces. Something that had once been alive now rotted on the table with a knife sticking out of it, and in the middle of all the mess lay Chemach, sprawled out on the floor.
Careful of the papers and bread and stains, Kudaai picked his way to his sister.
"Chemach?" He tried to put more concern in his voice than he felt.
Chemach enjoyed being around mortals. She liked talking with them, working with them, and partying and dancing with them. More than once recently, Chemach had wandered towards his forge, stumbling over her feet, giddy and tipsy not just from drink, but the atmosphere of a rambunctious gathering.
She had even tried to drag him along with her to the festivities, despite Kudaai's repeated requests not to do so. He did not care for large parties. A small gathering of a handful of friends congregating together was the kind of social merriment Kudaai enjoyed.
A long departed friend, rest his soul, once called Chemach 'an extreme extrovert', and Kudaai had to agree. He never understood how she could enjoy such frivolity.
Chemach moaned, rolling over to reveal a puddle of vomit. Vomit also coated the side of her face and her dishwater blonde hair. She squinted at him.
"Koo-Koo?" She muttered with a voice that sounded faraway.
"I have requested that you not call me that childish nickname anymore, Chemach." Kudaai tossed the flaming coal into the nearby fireplace. The half-burnt logs and leaves inside caught alight instantly.
She rubbed her eyes, blinked hard, before moving her hands around her to search. Kudaai sighed and tapped his forehead.
"On your head," he told her. Chemach touched her head to find her glasses tangled in her hair. She untangled the temples then settled the glasses on her bill.
The First Ones made Chemach farsighted so she could judge mortals on their character, not their appearance. Only after Chemach held a half-hour conversation speaking towards an oxen-shaped rock instead of the Crown Bearer beside her was she allowed to wear glasses to improve her vision.
"What are you doing here, Kudaai?" She asked as she hauled herself up to her feet.
Kudaai held back a wince. She looked crumpled while on the floor, but now that she stood with the light from the fire and the open door on her, Kudaai had no choice but to admit his sister looked positively terrible. Not only did she have vomit on her face, but the feathers of her blue tunic were in disarray and covered in unknown filth. Her own body feathers did not fare much better. The ones Kudaai could see, too, were in disarray and dull. Her messy hair shone with grease. The whites of her eyes were red-rimed with predominant veins.
Kudaai ignored her question for one of his own. "What is that?" He gestured to the half-rotted thing on the table.
"Was, ah, dinner, I guess," she muttered, taking the knife out of it. Kudaai eyed the knife with a frown. It didn't look like any of the butchering knives he had ever seen. Its jagged edge reminded him of a sacrificial dagger, a knife not for clean cuts but for pain.
Now that he was closer and in better light, he could tell whatever the something was, it probably hadn't been a regular critter. It had fingers and toes and wore shredded clothing.
He sighed. He knew what had happened now and why Chemach had been acting so strange.
"Did they try to hurt you?"
With the power and duty to assign Crowns to worthy mortals, Chemach had plenty of rumors about her floating around. All three of the siblings did, in fact. Kudaai still had mortals come to his forge under the impression that if they bested him in a duel, he would award them a godly weapon. Mortals thought that if they returned one of Clauneck's misplaced cards, he would change the course of fate in their favor.
And, of course, Chemach now had one that said she would present a Crown to anyone who broke into her fortress-like home.
Whomever this person had been must have broken in to Chemach's home. When they attempted to threaten Chemach into giving them a Crown, she defended herself.
Chemach did not meet his eyes. "Something like that. I…I didn't mean to go that far." She set the dagger beside the putrid corpse before drawing half the tablecloth up to cover it. "Now, what are you doing here?" She repeated her earlier question.
He shrugged. "I was nearby. I wanted to check in on you."
"Well, you have. Now you may leave."
When Chemach took a step to shoo him out, she wobbled and fell. Kudaai moved to catch her. The malodourous scent wafting off his sister made him choke back a gag as she landed against his chest.
"When was the last time you bathed?" He asked, helping her stand steady with his hands on her shoulders.
She raised her shoulders in response. Still, she did not look at his face. Kudaai sighed and took a step behind her. With firm but gentle hands, he pushed her towards the door. She resisted, trying to keep her feet planted, only to fall to her hands and knees. Rolling his eyes, he ducked down, slid his arm under hers and around her back, then hauled her to her feet.
Chemach grumbled at him, but allowed herself to be half-dragged and squinting into the sunlight.
----
Chemach sat nearby in the grass as Kudaai prepared the bath. The large wooden tub usually only saw use twice a year when Kudaai took a day off to scrub the six months' worth of sweat and soot from his body.
The smaller bucket of soapy water sat near by. Usually, it was what Kudaai used to clean the soot and dirt from his hands and face on a day-to-day basis, but Chemach, he felt, needed a full soak to remove the smell from her.
He dumped another bucket full of boiling water inside the sealed tub. He dipped a finger in and frowned.
As came with holy nature, Kudaai was more or less fireproof. The heat of the hottest flames could not harm him, but his siblings did not have such a luxury, so he needed to make sure the bath would not scald Chemach.
"It will need to cool for a few moments," he told her.
Chemach plucked a blade of grass and then dropped it.
"You can put your tunic in that bucket there and wash it too. I have a spare you can borrow."
Chemach plucked a blade of grass and then dropped it.
"I will…I will go start lunch while we wait."
Chemach plucked another blade and then dropped it.
As Kudaai went into his own home, a wood-and-canvas lean-to built onto the other side of the wall that ran behind his forge, he wondered why that intruder's death bothered Chemach so much. If a mortal was impure and wicked enough to attack a child of The Last Of The First Ones for power, then they were a heretic. Heretics against The First Ones were not the kind of mortals their creators would have wanted around a Crown in the first place.
Besides, it would not have been the first time she had to defend herself from mortals who sought power. He could even remember the first time, since he had been with her.
They were mere ducklings back then, still with a few tufts of downy feathers, when a mortal much older than they were approached and demanded that Chemach give them a Crown. The First Ones had not allowed Chemach to carry Crowns at the time. When she found a mortal that possessed the special something Crown Bearers needed to have to make a proper match with a Crown, she was tasked with bringing the mortal to The First Ones to ensure her choice was correct.
This mortal picked up Chemach by her tunic and shook her, ordering her to give them godhood. Kudaai tried to defend his sister, but the mortal was stronger and pushed him away. He was about to turn and flee. If he called loudly enough, one of The First Ones would be likely to hear and come help.
Before he could, Chemach swung out her leg and kicked the mortal square in the jaw. Their head snapped back at an unnatural angle with a CRACK before they crumpled to the ground.
Chemach and Kudaai didn't check to see if the mortal was alright before the two fled.
Now that he thought about it, Chemach had been quiet after that event, too, but she recovered and returned to her normal self soon enough.
Admittedly, despite being a weaponsmith, Kudaai had never taken a life. He had defended himself before, but once a ten-foot-tall duck pulls out a sword, even a poorly-made mortal sword, most would-be attackers disengaged. Those who still wished to fight gave up after one good hit with the side of the blade.
Still, though, he did not understand why Chemach felt such guilt over it. She said she hadn't meant to do it. It was an accident while trying to defend herself, same as the first time. There was no reason to be so hard on herself for it.
Kudaai opened one of the baskets he kept his food stores in. He winced.
He'd been asked to make a weapon for Laplace recently. That gambling-addicted fool wanted something that would either hurt or heal their enemies at random. Kudaai was up to the challenge, of course, and had sunk days into the urumi. The whip-like blade would do exactly as Laplace desired. No matter how foolish that desire was. When he got hungry while creating the urumi, instead of cooking, he just reached into baskets and ate whatever was inside, raw or quickly browned over his forge's flames.
He hadn't realized all he had left was a half-basket of flour and a sprouting potato.
Tossing the potato outside, Kudaai put the lid on the flour basket. If he didn't have food, Chemach probably did. Since he was making lunch for them both, she wouldn't mind if he went and borrowed some.
As he walked towards her home, Kudaai looked over at Chemach. She had a large pile of plucked grass blades by her, but hadn't moved otherwise.
If her new dwelling had the same layout as her old, then Chemach kept her food stores in the back, on and near some shelves.
He eyed the rotten intruder, covered in its makeshift burial shroud. The delicate hand stitching and embroidered flowers on the tablecloth had been stained an ugly brown. Maybe he would offer to help bury it once Chemach was cleaned up.
A proper burial for the intruder would help her feel better.
Stepping over the vomit and a few other sticky-looking puddles, Kudaai went to the back of the room. As he suspected, Chemach kept her food in the same place. After opening the nearby window, he looked into the first basket only to be greeted with flour. As he went to put the lid back, he noticed something moving inside. He scooped up a handful and let the flour fall through his hands.
Several small, yellow-brown beetle larvae wriggled in his palm. With a shrug, he popped the larvae into his mouth. He had always liked the taste of worms and insects in his bread and other baked goods. The crunch was satisfying and the food more filling, but Chemach had never been a fan.
"Bread is a desert! It's not supposed to be filling," She would say, picking out any insects that made it through her shifter into the mixing bowl.
Good to see she changed her tune on that topic.
In the next basket, Kudaai found long, leafy stalks. He took one out to identify it. The large leaf was a rounded fan shape and dark green, while the thick stalk was a reddish color. Kudaai took the plant to the window and held it to the light.
It seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. Kudaai took a nibble of one of the leaves and spat it out almost instantly.
Now he remembered it.
Rhubarb.
Once, long ago, Clauneck had either been gifted by a farmer or stolen from a farm—Kudaai never got a straight answer—a bushel of rhubarb, which he then ate half of over the course of a whole day, completely raw. Clauneck liked sour and bitter foods. He claimed the strong flavors helped him stay in the present instead of off in the past or future.
Chemach and Kudaai took turns nursing their brother through the stomach pains and lethargy over the next few days.
Later, the three would learn from the Yellow Crown's Bearer at the time that eating a lot of rhubarb leaves was dangerous to one's health.
"An occasional leaf wouldn't hurt anyone, especially you three, but anymore and you've got yourself trouble. Just because you are immortal doesn't mean you can't hurt yourselves. Either cook these properly or don't touch them, you young ones understand?" He'd chided them, taking the rest of the bushel away from Clauneck, much to his disappointment.
Kudaai turned the stalk over before tossing it back with the others.
After searching, Kudaai finally found some sad, shriveled peas and dried corn. He took a large container and put a scoop of each inside. He went back to the flour and sifted out a few handfuls of larvae and beetles and added them to the container.
It wouldn't be the best soup, but it was better than nothing.
---
When he returned, Chemach lay on her back, eyes shut, in the sunlight. She was relaxing. Kudaai nodded to himself. Maybe they didn't need to do an entire funeral ceremony and could just toss the intruder into a hole.
All Chemach really needed was some fresh air, warm sunlight, a nice bath, and a good meal to get over her unnecessary guilt.
Kudaai stuck his hand in the tub. The bath felt a little cool to him, but steam still rose from the water. He assumed that would be a good enough temperature.
To Chemach, he said, "It's ready."
Chemach didn't respond.
He repeated himself, louder, "It's ready."
Nothing.
With a huff, Kudaai went to her and tapped her shoulder with his foot.
Chemach cracked open an eye at him to glare.
"The bath. Get it in." He nodded to the tub. She groaned and pushed herself to a sitting position, but didn't stand up.
Taking a breath, Kudaai tried the diplomatic route one last time.
"It's ready. Get in yourself, or I'll put you in, just like you did to me when we were children." He held out his hand to her.
Many eons ago, Chemach regularly had to be the one to remind her brothers to bathe.
The reminder was all Clauneck usually needed, but Kudaai had to be wrestled with. She would ambush him when he left his forge and drag him towards the nearest river, shouting, "You're a duck, Koo-Koo! Act like it!"
When he, enviably, grew too strong for her to wrestle away, she recruited Clauneck to help throw buckets of soapy water at him.
It wasn't that he hated bathing, of course. He felt it was a waste of time that he could be using to sharpen his skills.
Chemach snorted something Kudaai thought was a laugh before she took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled up.
Satisfied, Kudaai took the container of ingredients and left Chemach to the bathe.
----
After some searching, Kudaai was able to scrounge up some herbs and spices and a few dried fish to add to the soup.
It wouldn't be great, but it would help ease her mind once Chemach was done scrubbing herself.
He wiped his hands on his tunic, then realized he'd forgotten to bring Chemach anything to wear once she was clean. Kudaai went to the chest by his nest and dug around to find her something.
He and Clauneck might be the same height, but he had spent eons swinging his smithing hammer and strengthening his muscles, so he was wider and well built than his brother. Chemach wasn't as thin as Clauneck or as wide as Kudaai. She wasn't that much shorter than her brothers, either.
Once, Chemach elbowed him in the side and joked, "It's not fair. You have a bigger chest than I do."
Not understanding what she meant, he had replied that if she wanted large pectoralis muscles, she should try moving her arms and chest more. "You only ever exercise your legs by walking from place to place. I can make you weights to lift if you'd like."
Chemach had just rolled her eyes at him.
Kudaai took out a soft cotton nightshirt from the chest and held it up.
It was a gift from an old friend, a former student who, though talented, could never handle the heat of Kudaai's flames. In the past, whenever Kudaai settled near his home, the friend would come and see him.
Kudaai made a mental note to stop by his grave next time he visited the area.
The nightshirt had short sleeves and tiny weapons embroidered on the neck and sleeve hems by his former student's wife.
Most nights, Kudaai flopped down in whatever he had on. Sometimes he didn't even remove his hooded cloak. After finishing a big project, Kudaai would indulge himself by wearing the soft nightshirt and sleeping until two whole hours after the sun rose.
With the nightshirt over his arm, he headed out to the tub.
"Sister? Once you are done and have shaken yourself off, you may put…Sister?"
Chemach was nowhere to be seen. Her tunic lay in a heap, well away from the bucket it should be soaking in. Even from where he stood, Kudaai still could easily see her home. She hadn't left with it in the siblings' usual fashion.
Perhaps mid-bath, she needed to relieve herself?
With a frown, he wandered towards the tub and peered inside to see if the water was dirty or not.
Under the surface, Chemach floated, her bill open and eyes half-shut.
Kudaai plunged his hands into the warm water. He yanked Chemach's naked body out and over the side of the tub.
Taking part of the nightshirt that hadn't gotten wet, he wiped her face. He should have known better than to leave her. He remembered how lethargic and tired Clauneck had been. Just because Chemach was older didn't mean she wasn't affected the same way.
Gently slapping her cheek, he cried, "Chemach? Chemach!"
He knew she wasn't dead. Clauneck and The First Ones confirmed that all three, he, Chemach, and Clauneck, would live until the day the world let out its final, gasping breath.
That day, Kudaai was certain, it was not going to be today.
Finally, Chemach coughed. She rolled over and hacked until water flooded from her bill.
She cringed at the puddle she threw up.
"What was that?" Kudaai demanded.
Chemach didn't look at him, instead forcing herself to sit up and fixing her gaze on the grass.
"I fell asleep," Chemach mumbled.
"You fell a…" Kudaai trailed off, exasperated.
He wanted to pull his hair out. Kudaai nearly threw back her own childhood taunt that she was a duck and needed to act like one.
And ducks don't drown.
He held his tongue and said instead, "You've been eating those rhubarb plants, haven't you? I saw them in your home."
A look of panic flicked across her face, confirming his suspicions.
Chemach swallowed hard, then coughed again, before she muttered, "Those were given to me by…They were a gift. I couldn't just toss them out. I suppose I wasn't cooking them as properly as I thought."
Kudaai put the nightshirt over her shoulders.
"Dry yourself with this. I will get you something else, and you are going to stay here so I can make sure you recover from your folly." He paused, then added, "I'll help you pick up your mess in your home, too. We'll bury the person you mistakenly killed. Don't worry. It won't burden me at all."
Chemach flinched before glaring daggers at him. She threw the nightshirt at his face, then patted around until she found her tunic and glasses.
Pulling the tunic on, she growled, "I'm fine, Kudaai. Let me go home. I just need more sleep, and all my problems will go away."
"Sleep?" Kudaai gestured to the tub. "How was sleeping just now going to make your problems go away?"
Chemach stood shakily, bracing herself against the tub. "You wouldn't understand. You never understand. I'm just tired of it all. I'm tired of waiting to see if I'll ever get what I deserve."
"And what is it you think you deserve so much?" Kudaai clenched his bill.
"Recognition! The same as you get!" She shouted. "Everyone knows the great blacksmith Kudaai. To have a weapon you discarded halfway through making is considered an honor." She laughed dryly. "Or even Clauneck. Kings and chiefs search the world over to hear him ramble about the future and draw their cards. But me? No one cares who gives out the Crowns, only who gets them. "
Kudaai began to argue she was wrong, that wasn't true, and she knew it, but Chemach continued to rant.
"I want praise and recognition for being able to tell the best mortal for a Crown! I want mortals to look at me with awe! I want their devotion, their loyalty!" She slapped the water with her open palm, splashing both her and Kudaai. "Mortals only care about me if I have a Crown to offer—and I would make a better goddess than those greedy fools who come asking anyway!"
She let out a quack of frustration. She started to speak again, but her voice cracked. Chemach wiped her eyes.
"It's not fair. It's just fair. I didn't choose this…"
Kudaai's stomach twisted as he slowly stood.
This topic of recognition and praise made him nervous.
None of them were supposed to want those things. They were to fulfill their purpose without expecting gratitude or praise. They were to be happy with continuing The First One's ideals and take pride in what only they can do.
Though it did not sit well in his crop, Kudaai couldn't find himself totally surprised that Chemach was jealous of his accidental accomplishment.
"Clauneck and I didn't choose this either. We accept our duties and fulfill them without question, as we were created to do. That we gained fame is simply a side effect of doing so." He frowned, clenching his fists. Why couldn't she just be happy that she was so blessed? Why did she want more?
Chemach searched his face for an awkwardly long moment. She sighed, but must have found whatever she was looking for since she sent him a tired smile the next moment.
"That's about what I thought you'd say." She shook her head with a sniff. "Thank you for the bath. You said you had lunch earlier, didn't you, Koo-Koo?"
"I do, but come with me for some clean, dry clothes first." He looped his arm around hers.
The knot in his stomach began to untwist itself. He knew all Chemach needed was fresh air, sunlight, food, and a dose of good sense from her brother.
----
AN: Anyway, Kudaai has the emotional intelligence of a brick.
I was talking with DarkGaiaBishop / @extraterrestrial-jackal about my interpretation of her and just Chemach in general, and they brought up a deliciously angsty and amazing idea.
The ducks are destined to live and do their jobs until the world ends—Chemach hands out the Crowns, Kudaai hands out the weapons, Clauneck hands out the cards.
So, extraterrestrial-jackal pointed out that Chemach going so far against her design to no longer be able to do what she was created for was like she committed suicide to escape her binds in an ego death kind of way.
And thus I now headcanon that the lead-up to Chemach making her crown, she was passively suicidal and dealing with a lot of suicidal ideation.
Originally, I considered writing part of this from Chemach's perspective, since I wasn't sure it would clear what she was doing, but I trust you guys are able to put on your thinking caps and figure it out.
Though if you've read this far or just the content warnings, you probably can put two and two together anyway…
Summary: The Shepherd brings Rami's master by for an impromptu visit.
Rating: Gen
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Spoilers for Woolhaven
Other: the AMA confirming Rami made the gauntlets while they were a ghost really smoothed out the timeline, didn't it?
Read on AO3
---
Rami raked the coals of their forge. The mountain air was heavy with wet fog, leaving the outside dreary and cold.
Not that Rami felt much cold anymore. The smith stooped down to adjust the bellows when they noticed a hole burnt into the folded leather side. While Rami might be invulnerable to flames, their equipment was not.
As Rami took the bellows to their work bench, the door to their forge burst open, sending a wet gust of air in that caused the embers to sizzle and dim.
"Heya, Rami!" The Shepherd greeted, waving a little too excitedly.
Ever since Rami and the other disciples failed to spread The Rot, The Shepard's attitude towards them would shift dramatically from visit to visit. Sometimes they were cheerful, as if the disciples' attempt to force The Shepard to die and join them hadn't happened at all. Sometimes they would avoid talking to anyone other than a required curt reply. Sometimes they would come to Woolhaven just to brag about how well Yngya was doing in The Shepherd's cult without any ghosts of Her forgotten past to bother Her.
While Rami would readily admit they deserve punishment for their actions against The Cold Mother, sometimes The Shepherd seemed a little too eager to rub salt in the wound.
"Good day, Shepherd." Rami took up their hammer to remove the tacks holding the leather in place, wondering which attitude The Shepherd visited with today.
"I brought a friend with me." The Shepherd put their hands on their hips and beamed at Rami.
Rami dropped the hammer against the wooden handles. If they had a heart still, it would be racing. What friend could the Shepherd bring? Could it be Lady Yngya? Had Her memories returned? Would Rami be able to even face Her if it was?
Or had the Shepherd brought back that horrid murderer who intruded on Woolhaven before? The Shepherd was a particularly strange sheep, so it would not surprise Rami if they, for some reason, considered her a friend now.
At Rami's concerned expression, The Shepherd quickly added, "Don't you worry, the guy I brought would be one-hundred percent Yngya approved. I can guarantee that!"
Rami forced a smile. So not Yngya and not that hyena. Who else could it be?
The Shepherd waved for someone behind them to enter. "I also guarantee he is excited to see you, Rami."
Rami pointed to themself, confused. Who in the world would be excited to see them—
"Speak not words I did not say, Beast."
Rami's ghostly body stiffened at the familiar voice, ancient and deep as the mountains themselves.
The Shepherd skipped aside as a tall, broad figured person crouched in the doorway. With a grunt, he carefully made his way through the door. The wood frame groaned as he slipped in, but the strong ewebark wood held.
"You said you wanted to see them!" The Shepherd replied as Master Kudaai settled with his knees tucked under him as he was much to big to stand up properly.
Master Kudaai scoffed. "You threatened to avoid using my weapons on your crusades until I came here with you. I said between the awkward reunion with my apprentice and my blades being left to gather dust, I would prefer the former."
The Shepherd waved their hand at him. "Same thing." To Rami, they said, "Either way, he's here! I bet you two have plenty to catch up on." The Shepherd smiled at Rami, but the dread in Rami's chest forced their attention to the floor.
How could this be happening? Besides Lady Yngya, Master Kudaai was the last person Rami wanted to see.
No, with Lady Yngya, at least, they knew She had such a vast well of kindness in Her heart to forgive them, even if they didn't deserve it. Master Kudaai on the other hoof…
None of the three spoke for several long, heavy moments. The Shepherd looked expectantly between the blacksmiths. Finally, they took a breath and started to speak when Master Kudaai cut them off.
"If no one will do what needs to be done, then I will." With that, he put one of his massive hands on either side of The Shepherd's forearms and lifted them up as if they weight no more than a single bronze pin. He set them outside the forge and shut the door.
"Crown Bearers," he muttered. "They believe they need to have their nose in everything."
Master Kudaai adjusted his cowl hood, the yellow, overlapping feathers shuffling together. He scooted closer until the low embers in the forge glowed against his front. Rami pulled their face mask down to hide their expression, thankful for the work bench between the two of them.
"Tis a fine forge you have here," Master Kudaai commented. "Your fire is low, though."
He reached into his cloak and took out a small piece of coal. Cupping the coal in his palms, he blew into his hands. A warm glow emanated from the gaps between his fingers. A moment later he tossed the glowing coal into the forge. The fire spread from Master Kudaai's coal the Rami's embers blazed.
Rami had begged Master Kudaai to teach them how to do that trick the first time they witnessed it. Master Kudaai indulged them, showing them how to control their breath and imbue the coal with magic, though Rami had never been able to accomplish more than a slight warming of the coal. They were a simple mortal, not an divine being like their master.
The smiths watched the fire before Master Kudaai said, "Was I a small youngling again, I would enjoy working in here. It is very well laid out."
Rami remained quiet, thankful their mask hid their quivering lips.
What could they say to him? That they were sorry they ran away and stole some of his tools after overhearing Master Kudaai accept an order for a weapon from one of The Bishops?
Well, they weren't!
Kudaai had complained about the problems those selfish, power-hungry, blood-thirsty monsters would caused if they kept up their crusade against other gods, and yet he still forged blades and curses for them.
It made Rami sick to their stomach with disgust and rage.
Rami knew Master Kudaai hadn't just come based on The Shepherd's threat—a threat Rami also knew The Shepherd wouldn't go through with. The look of delight when they swung a new weapon proved they valued a smith's work to highly to forgo it for too long.
What else would drive Master Kudaai to—
The Gauntlets.
Rami felt a stone land in their stomach. The Shepherd had mentioned they showed them to Master Kudaai, hadn't they? That's why he so willing came. He was here about those vile gauntlets that blasphemous heretic forced Rami to make.
Rami swallowed hard. "There is a back door. You might fit out it and leave. We've spoken now. That should appease The Shepherd."
In their head, they begged for Master Kudaai to take their offer.
Master Kudaai snorted. "I have known that beast since they were but a vessel of The One Blow, waving their Crown sword about with the same skill and elegance of a child playing with a stick." He shook his head. "They shall not be appeased so easily."
"Oh."
Rami wished they could produce spit again so they could run their tongue over their forever chapped lips, as had always been their nervous habit. They almost laughed aloud. Master Kudaai used to reprimand them about licking their lips all the time when they trained under him.
"It shall make them worse. Go get some water. That will help. You ought to be drinking more water anyway if you are to be near the forge."
Perhaps, if Master Kudaai could not leave, Rami themself could leave. If they phased through the stone floor and fled, The Shepherd could not be upset with Master Kudaai and would relent about using his weapons.
Or The Shepherd just drag Master Kudaai back in the future.
All three of them did have all the time in the world, after all, with two immortals and one ghost.
Rami wracked their brain for some sort of plan. They didn't want to be punished for the gauntlets. They wanted to never see or think about those things again--those horrible, disgusting displays of Rami's skill and technical accomplishment—
"Rami?"
Master Kudaai knocked against the stone work bench with his knuckles. Rami jumped and then realized they had sunken half way into the floor while in their thoughts.
Their cheeks, were they alive with still soft, unmarred skin, would have burned red with embarrassment.
No.
Rami swallowed hard.
They could not run from this.
Channeling the bravery and conviction they prayed they would have if Lady Yngya were to ever return, Rami floated up until their single, white eye met their master's gold ones.
"If you are going to yell at me about the gauntlets, please, just ge-get it over with!" Rami shouted, hating how 'get' got stuck in their throat.
Master Kudaai snapped his slightly open bill shut. The glossy black feathers at his neckline puffed out over his hood hemming. He straightened his back so his head touched the ceiling of Rami's forge. He loomed over them and Rami floated back down, wrapping their arms around themself.
No running. No running, they repeated to themself.
"'Gauntlets'?" He repeated lowly. "You mean those furry ones with the captured storm inside?"
Rami nodded, trying not to shake.
Master Kudaai reached towards them.
It never occurred to Rami that their master might be able to hurt a ghost. Most beings can't even touch them unless the ghost allows it, but Master Kudaai was not like most beings. He was hatched by the First Ones eons ago and would live until the world took its final breath.
Rami forced their form to remain as tangible as they could. They had never known Master Kudaai to take to violence when upset, but a sin as horrid as Rami's might push him past his limits.
"My disappointment in you over those gauntlets is great, Rami. How could any apprentice of mine," Master Kudaai flipped up Rami's mask, "allow such wondrous craftsmanship to be renamed to something so utterly foolish!" He slammed his other palm against the floor with a smack
Rami stared at Master Kudaai with their mouth a gape.
"I am bound by my nature, thus if a god so wished to rename the weapon I created for them, I must accept that. But you? You are not shackled by such things, Rami!" Master Kudaai started to throw his hand up in exasperation, but hit the back of it on a rafter.
He rubbed the top of his hand as he continued." 'The Shocky Grabbies' " He spat the gauntlets' new title as if it tasted of moldy bread. "Truly an unworthy name for something made so finely. The Red Crown is not your god. You needn't bow to their whims."
Rami drifted down until they sat on the edge of the forge. Their only eye stared at Master Kudaai in disbelief.
"Did I not teach you that the weapons you create will have your name attached to them for the rest of history?" Master Kudaai touched his forehead with his fingertips. "Shocky Grabbies…"
"You…are mad about the name?" Rami's voice shook as they spoke.
"I am not mad," Master Kudaai corrected. "I am merely disappointed."
A rush of anger gripped Rami as they cried, "That's not—You should be mad that I made those terrible things at all!" Rami slammed down their mask over their face then balled their hands into fists at their sides. "I helped make the Defilers of The Divine knowing full well what they were going to be used for! How Marchosias was able to rip away the ties that bind mortal and god was my work. I helped figure it out!" They slumped forward as guilt quenched the hot iron of rage in them. "I helped make…I made them, Master. I made an unholy weapon that was planned to be used destroy the very gods you were created to arm."
When Marchosias dismissed them back to their wool, the only peace Rami had was that sooner rather than later The Rot would consume Marchosias, The Free Pack, and his vile gauntlets.
A pang hit Rami's chest at the thought. When they preformed the ritual to create The Rot, they knew it would devour Master Kudaai as well. They thought he deserved it. After all, he not only stood by and allowed lambkins' deaths to happen, he supplied The Bishops with the means to kill Lady Yngya and destroy Woolhaven.
Rami had wanted him to hurt, to feel the same betrayal they felt. His excuse that he was bound by nature would mean nothing in the face of The Rot, and, if, for some reason, Master Kudaai was immune to the burning effects by the grace of his divine nature, then Rami would have taken joy in knowing he was alone with no one to forge for. That was a fate worse than death or The Rot for a man like Master Kudaai.
When Rami plunged the dagger into their chest, they focused much of the anger and hate towards Master Kudaai for his contribution.
Now, guilt stabbed their heart just the same as that blade.
They blinked, tears wetting their vision. A sob caught in their throat as their shoulders began to shake.
Rami pushed their gloved hands under their mask to cry tears that would never fall into their palms.
A moment later, a sensation Rami had not felt in a long time fell upon their shoulders—the weight of a large, warm, calloused hand.
Master Kudaai didn't speak. Instead, he sat, leaning over the work bench, and rubbed their back.
"I'm sorry, Master," Rami croaked. "I used your teachings…"
"To make something extraordinary, " Master Kudaai finished. "Rami, I explained to you long ago that by my very nature, I have made, and will make again, weapons that end the lives of people whom I consider friends. I have forged and will have to forge many weapons that I disagreed with their intended use, but I will always put my entire soul into making them anyway. You have simply followed the philosophy I exhibited. How can I fault you for that?"
Rami wiped their eyes. "I never liked the part of your philosophy that did not take sides, though. Sitting on the fence is a terrible stance in matters."
Master Kudaai shrugged. "I cannot fault you for that either."
Much to Rami's disappointment, he took his hand away. Their shoulder remained colder than normal for a few, long seconds.
Master Kudaai picked up the bellows from the work bench. He turned them over in his hands until he found the hole.
The Lamb rocked from the tips of their hooves to their heels. They had been waiting outside Rami's forge for what felt like hours, thought it had probably been less than one.
Sticking his finger in it, making the hole even bigger, Master Kudaai asked, "Would you care for help fixing this, Rami?"
*****
Across the road, smoke curled up from Kudaai's forge. It sat nestled in Baraq's cowish pasture as if it had been built there eons ago. One of the cowish nibbled on the canvas, but the rest didn't seem to care one way or another about the new building.
The Lamb looked over at Rami's forge door and wondered if it would be rude to eavesdrop, but shook their head a moment later. Of course, it would. Besides, Kudaai made it very clear he did not want them there.
They rubbed one of their forearms. Kudaai's grip had been rougher than they had expected.
The Lamb kicked a lose stone. They had hoped Rami would be excited and happy to see their master, but instead of excitement, Rami looked like a cornered critter with a hunter's arrow pointed at them, all wide eyes and tense muscles.
The Lamb didn't get it. If they were handed the opportunity to see someone important to them from their past, they'd be over the moon—
Oh.
Oh no.
They did it again.
The Lamb slumped down with a groan to the cold earth.
The Goat was going to tease them relentlessly for this as they were the one who pointed out The Lamb's bad habit of pushing their wants onto others, especially if those wants meant mending a broken relationship.
"You did it with Narinder and The Bishops, and I bet you'd do it with anyone one else with family troubles," The Goat mocked. "You'll take any excuse to do anything else than do retrospection of your own trauma, huh, Lamby?"
The Goat was not wrong. The thought of digging into losing their family and friends to The Bishops made their stomach twist into knots, but so what? How was it bad to want to help other people?
"Help other people without checking if they wanted help…Ah, crap." The Lamb knocked the heels of their hands angst their temples, startling their Crown.
Why hadn't they spoken to Rami first to make sure they were alright with bringing their master for a visit instead of just dropping Kudaai on them like an iron bar?
The Lamb pushed themself up. They should apologize and let Kudaai head back to his own forge.
As they reached for the door, an explosion of hot hair and steam blew open the door, forcing The Lamb to take a step back while holding their hands up.
Rami's voice howled from within and echoed off the stone walls with a passionate reverberation.
"With the bellows fixed, I'll show you the hottest flames my forge can create! They may even surpass yours, Master!"
The Lamb poked their head around the door to find Rami in the air with their mask down over their face, laughing manically as their forged burned with roaring, white-hot flames.
A second later, Rami coughed and floated down, lifting their mask with a bashful smile.
"Well, I mean, not as hot as yours, but close to it, I bet."
The Lamb followed Rami's gaze to where Kudaai sat.
They smiled to themself and took a step back, and quietly shut the door. They might as well go shoo the cowish away from Kudaai's forge, then maybe they'd play a game of Flockade against Baraq. They'd let him win as an apology for the disruption to his pasture.
After all, seeing the expression on Kudaai's face, they knew it would be a while before he was ready to leave Woolhaven and his apprentice's forge for Kudaai wore an expression of someone who was overjoyed to be with an old friend again.
****
Anyway, I've been having a lot feelings about color-coated ducks lately.
AN: it must leave a lot of pain in one's heart knowing one can forge the most powerful weapons in existence, but one can't even use them to protect their apprentices.
Summary: The Shepherd brings Rami's master by for an impromptu visit.
Rating: Gen
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Spoilers for Woolhaven
Other: the AMA confirming Rami made the gauntlets while they were a ghost really smoothed out the timeline, didn't it?
Read on AO3
---
Rami raked the coals of their forge. The mountain air was heavy with wet fog, leaving the outside dreary and cold.
Not that Rami felt much cold anymore. The smith stooped down to adjust the bellows when they noticed a hole burnt into the folded leather side. While Rami might be invulnerable to flames, their equipment was not.
As Rami took the bellows to their work bench, the door to their forge burst open, sending a wet gust of air in that caused the embers to sizzle and dim.
"Heya, Rami!" The Shepherd greeted, waving a little too excitedly.
Ever since Rami and the other disciples failed to spread The Rot, The Shepard's attitude towards them would shift dramatically from visit to visit. Sometimes they were cheerful, as if the disciples' attempt to force The Shepard to die and join them hadn't happened at all. Sometimes they would avoid talking to anyone other than a required curt reply. Sometimes they would come to Woolhaven just to brag about how well Yngya was doing in The Shepherd's cult without any ghosts of Her forgotten past to bother Her.
While Rami would readily admit they deserve punishment for their actions against The Cold Mother, sometimes The Shepherd seemed a little too eager to rub salt in the wound.
"Good day, Shepherd." Rami took up their hammer to remove the tacks holding the leather in place, wondering which attitude The Shepherd visited with today.
"I brought a friend with me." The Shepherd put their hands on their hips and beamed at Rami.
Rami dropped the hammer against the wooden handles. If they had a heart still, it would be racing. What friend could the Shepherd bring? Could it be Lady Yngya? Had Her memories returned? Would Rami be able to even face Her if it was?
Or had the Shepherd brought back that horrid murderer who intruded on Woolhaven before? The Shepherd was a particularly strange sheep, so it would not surprise Rami if they, for some reason, considered her a friend now.
At Rami's concerned expression, The Shepherd quickly added, "Don't you worry, the guy I brought would be one-hundred percent Yngya approved. I can guarantee that!"
Rami forced a smile. So not Yngya and not that hyena. Who else could it be?
The Shepherd waved for someone behind them to enter. "I also guarantee he is excited to see you, Rami."
Rami pointed to themself, confused. Who in the world would be excited to see them—
"Speak not words I did not say, Beast."
Rami's ghostly body stiffened at the familiar voice, ancient and deep as the mountains themselves.
The Shepherd skipped aside as a tall, broad figured person crouched in the doorway. With a grunt, he carefully made his way through the door. The wood frame groaned as he slipped in, but the strong ewebark wood held.
"You said you wanted to see them!" The Shepherd replied as Master Kudaai settled with his knees tucked under him as he was much to big to stand up properly.
Master Kudaai scoffed. "You threatened to avoid using my weapons on your crusades until I came here with you. I said between the awkward reunion with my apprentice and my blades being left to gather dust, I would prefer the former."
The Shepherd waved their hand at him. "Same thing." To Rami, they said, "Either way, he's here! I bet you two have plenty to catch up on." The Shepherd smiled at Rami, but the dread in Rami's chest forced their attention to the floor.
How could this be happening? Besides Lady Yngya, Master Kudaai was the last person Rami wanted to see.
No, with Lady Yngya, at least, they knew She had such a vast well of kindness in Her heart to forgive them, even if they didn't deserve it. Master Kudaai on the other hoof…
None of the three spoke for several long, heavy moments. The Shepherd looked expectantly between the blacksmiths. Finally, they took a breath and started to speak when Master Kudaai cut them off.
"If no one will do what needs to be done, then I will." With that, he put one of his massive hands on either side of The Shepherd's forearms and lifted them up as if they weight no more than a single bronze pin. He set them outside the forge and shut the door.
"Crown Bearers," he muttered. "They believe they need to have their nose in everything."
Master Kudaai adjusted his cowl hood, the yellow, overlapping feathers shuffling together. He scooted closer until the low embers in the forge glowed against his front. Rami pulled their face mask down to hide their expression, thankful for the work bench between the two of them.
"Tis a fine forge you have here," Master Kudaai commented. "Your fire is low, though."
He reached into his cloak and took out a small piece of coal. Cupping the coal in his palms, he blew into his hands. A warm glow emanated from the gaps between his fingers. A moment later he tossed the glowing coal into the forge. The fire spread from Master Kudaai's coal the Rami's embers blazed.
Rami had begged Master Kudaai to teach them how to do that trick the first time they witnessed it. Master Kudaai indulged them, showing them how to control their breath and imbue the coal with magic, though Rami had never been able to accomplish more than a slight warming of the coal. They were a simple mortal, not an divine being like their master.
The smiths watched the fire before Master Kudaai said, "Was I a small youngling again, I would enjoy working in here. It is very well laid out."
Rami remained quiet, thankful their mask hid their quivering lips.
What could they say to him? That they were sorry they ran away and stole some of his tools after overhearing Master Kudaai accept an order for a weapon from one of The Bishops?
Well, they weren't!
Kudaai had complained about the problems those selfish, power-hungry, blood-thirsty monsters would caused if they kept up their crusade against other gods, and yet he still forged blades and curses for them.
It made Rami sick to their stomach with disgust and rage.
Rami knew Master Kudaai hadn't just come based on The Shepherd's threat—a threat Rami also knew The Shepherd wouldn't go through with. The look of delight when they swung a new weapon proved they valued a smith's work to highly to forgo it for too long.
What else would drive Master Kudaai to—
The Gauntlets.
Rami felt a stone land in their stomach. The Shepherd had mentioned they showed them to Master Kudaai, hadn't they? That's why he so willing came. He was here about those vile gauntlets that blasphemous heretic forced Rami to make.
Rami swallowed hard. "There is a back door. You might fit out it and leave. We've spoken now. That should appease The Shepherd."
In their head, they begged for Master Kudaai to take their offer.
Master Kudaai snorted. "I have known that beast since they were but a vessel of The One Blow, waving their Crown sword about with the same skill and elegance of a child playing with a stick." He shook his head. "They shall not be appeased so easily."
"Oh."
Rami wished they could produce spit again so they could run their tongue over their forever chapped lips, as had always been their nervous habit. They almost laughed aloud. Master Kudaai used to reprimand them about licking their lips all the time when they trained under him.
"It shall make them worse. Go get some water. That will help. You ought to be drinking more water anyway if you are to be near the forge."
Perhaps, if Master Kudaai could not leave, Rami themself could leave. If they phased through the stone floor and fled, The Shepherd could not be upset with Master Kudaai and would relent about using his weapons.
Or The Shepherd just drag Master Kudaai back in the future.
All three of them did have all the time in the world, after all, with two immortals and one ghost.
Rami wracked their brain for some sort of plan. They didn't want to be punished for the gauntlets. They wanted to never see or think about those things again--those horrible, disgusting displays of Rami's skill and technical accomplishment—
"Rami?"
Master Kudaai knocked against the stone work bench with his knuckles. Rami jumped and then realized they had sunken half way into the floor while in their thoughts.
Their cheeks, were they alive with still soft, unmarred skin, would have burned red with embarrassment.
No.
Rami swallowed hard.
They could not run from this.
Channeling the bravery and conviction they prayed they would have if Lady Yngya were to ever return, Rami floated up until their single, white eye met their master's gold ones.
"If you are going to yell at me about the gauntlets, please, just ge-get it over with!" Rami shouted, hating how 'get' got stuck in their throat.
Master Kudaai snapped his slightly open bill shut. The glossy black feathers at his neckline puffed out over his hood hemming. He straightened his back so his head touched the ceiling of Rami's forge. He loomed over them and Rami floated back down, wrapping their arms around themself.
No running. No running, they repeated to themself.
"'Gauntlets'?" He repeated lowly. "You mean those furry ones with the captured storm inside?"
Rami nodded, trying not to shake.
Master Kudaai reached towards them.
It never occurred to Rami that their master might be able to hurt a ghost. Most beings can't even touch them unless the ghost allows it, but Master Kudaai was not like most beings. He was hatched by the First Ones eons ago and would live until the world took its final breath.
Rami forced their form to remain as tangible as they could. They had never known Master Kudaai to take to violence when upset, but a sin as horrid as Rami's might push him past his limits.
"My disappointment in you over those gauntlets is great, Rami. How could any apprentice of mine," Master Kudaai flipped up Rami's mask, "allow such wondrous craftsmanship to be renamed to something so utterly foolish!" He slammed his other palm against the floor with a smack
Rami stared at Master Kudaai with their mouth a gape.
"I am bound by my nature, thus if a god so wished to rename the weapon I created for them, I must accept that. But you? You are not shackled by such things, Rami!" Master Kudaai started to throw his hand up in exasperation, but hit the back of it on a rafter.
He rubbed the top of his hand as he continued." 'The Shocky Grabbies' " He spat the gauntlets' new title as if it tasted of moldy bread. "Truly an unworthy name for something made so finely. The Red Crown is not your god. You needn't bow to their whims."
Rami drifted down until they sat on the edge of the forge. Their only eye stared at Master Kudaai in disbelief.
"Did I not teach you that the weapons you create will have your name attached to them for the rest of history?" Master Kudaai touched his forehead with his fingertips. "Shocky Grabbies…"
"You…are mad about the name?" Rami's voice shook as they spoke.
"I am not mad," Master Kudaai corrected. "I am merely disappointed."
A rush of anger gripped Rami as they cried, "That's not—You should be mad that I made those terrible things at all!" Rami slammed down their mask over their face then balled their hands into fists at their sides. "I helped make the Defilers of The Divine knowing full well what they were going to be used for! How Marchosias was able to rip away the ties that bind mortal and god was my work. I helped figure it out!" They slumped forward as guilt quenched the hot iron of rage in them. "I helped make…I made them, Master. I made an unholy weapon that was planned to be used destroy the very gods you were created to arm."
When Marchosias dismissed them back to their wool, the only peace Rami had was that sooner rather than later The Rot would consume Marchosias, The Free Pack, and his vile gauntlets.
A pang hit Rami's chest at the thought. When they preformed the ritual to create The Rot, they knew it would devour Master Kudaai as well. They thought he deserved it. After all, he not only stood by and allowed lambkins' deaths to happen, he supplied The Bishops with the means to kill Lady Yngya and destroy Woolhaven.
Rami had wanted him to hurt, to feel the same betrayal they felt. His excuse that he was bound by nature would mean nothing in the face of The Rot, and, if, for some reason, Master Kudaai was immune to the burning effects by the grace of his divine nature, then Rami would have taken joy in knowing he was alone with no one to forge for. That was a fate worse than death or The Rot for a man like Master Kudaai.
When Rami plunged the dagger into their chest, they focused much of the anger and hate towards Master Kudaai for his contribution.
Now, guilt stabbed their heart just the same as that blade.
They blinked, tears wetting their vision. A sob caught in their throat as their shoulders began to shake.
Rami pushed their gloved hands under their mask to cry tears that would never fall into their palms.
A moment later, a sensation Rami had not felt in a long time fell upon their shoulders—the weight of a large, warm, calloused hand.
Master Kudaai didn't speak. Instead, he sat, leaning over the work bench, and rubbed their back.
"I'm sorry, Master," Rami croaked. "I used your teachings…"
"To make something extraordinary, " Master Kudaai finished. "Rami, I explained to you long ago that by my very nature, I have made, and will make again, weapons that end the lives of people whom I consider friends. I have forged and will have to forge many weapons that I disagreed with their intended use, but I will always put my entire soul into making them anyway. You have simply followed the philosophy I exhibited. How can I fault you for that?"
Rami wiped their eyes. "I never liked the part of your philosophy that did not take sides, though. Sitting on the fence is a terrible stance in matters."
Master Kudaai shrugged. "I cannot fault you for that either."
Much to Rami's disappointment, he took his hand away. Their shoulder remained colder than normal for a few, long seconds.
Master Kudaai picked up the bellows from the work bench. He turned them over in his hands until he found the hole.
The Lamb rocked from the tips of their hooves to their heels. They had been waiting outside Rami's forge for what felt like hours, thought it had probably been less than one.
Sticking his finger in it, making the hole even bigger, Master Kudaai asked, "Would you care for help fixing this, Rami?"
*****
Across the road, smoke curled up from Kudaai's forge. It sat nestled in Baraq's cowish pasture as if it had been built there eons ago. One of the cowish nibbled on the canvas, but the rest didn't seem to care one way or another about the new building.
The Lamb looked over at Rami's forge door and wondered if it would be rude to eavesdrop, but shook their head a moment later. Of course, it would. Besides, Kudaai made it very clear he did not want them there.
They rubbed one of their forearms. Kudaai's grip had been rougher than they had expected.
The Lamb kicked a lose stone. They had hoped Rami would be excited and happy to see their master, but instead of excitement, Rami looked like a cornered critter with a hunter's arrow pointed at them, all wide eyes and tense muscles.
The Lamb didn't get it. If they were handed the opportunity to see someone important to them from their past, they'd be over the moon—
Oh.
Oh no.
They did it again.
The Lamb slumped down with a groan to the cold earth.
The Goat was going to tease them relentlessly for this as they were the one who pointed out The Lamb's bad habit of pushing their wants onto others, especially if those wants meant mending a broken relationship.
"You did it with Narinder and The Bishops, and I bet you'd do it with anyone one else with family troubles," The Goat mocked. "You'll take any excuse to do anything else than do retrospection of your own trauma, huh, Lamby?"
The Goat was not wrong. The thought of digging into losing their family and friends to The Bishops made their stomach twist into knots, but so what? How was it bad to want to help other people?
"Help other people without checking if they wanted help…Ah, crap." The Lamb knocked the heels of their hands angst their temples, startling their Crown.
Why hadn't they spoken to Rami first to make sure they were alright with bringing their master for a visit instead of just dropping Kudaai on them like an iron bar?
The Lamb pushed themself up. They should apologize and let Kudaai head back to his own forge.
As they reached for the door, an explosion of hot hair and steam blew open the door, forcing The Lamb to take a step back while holding their hands up.
Rami's voice howled from within and echoed off the stone walls with a passionate reverberation.
"With the bellows fixed, I'll show you the hottest flames my forge can create! They may even surpass yours, Master!"
The Lamb poked their head around the door to find Rami in the air with their mask down over their face, laughing manically as their forged burned with roaring, white-hot flames.
A second later, Rami coughed and floated down, lifting their mask with a bashful smile.
"Well, I mean, not as hot as yours, but close to it, I bet."
The Lamb followed Rami's gaze to where Kudaai sat.
They smiled to themself and took a step back, and quietly shut the door. They might as well go shoo the cowish away from Kudaai's forge, then maybe they'd play a game of Flockade against Baraq. They'd let him win as an apology for the disruption to his pasture.
After all, seeing the expression on Kudaai's face, they knew it would be a while before he was ready to leave Woolhaven and his apprentice's forge for Kudaai wore an expression of someone who was overjoyed to be with an old friend again.
****
Anyway, I've been having a lot feelings about color-coated ducks lately.
AN: it must leave a lot of pain in one's heart knowing one can forge the most powerful weapons in existence, but one can't even use them to protect their apprentices.
Summary: Clauneck offers to show Shamura the future in his crystal ball.
Rating:T
Ships: ShamuraxClauneck
Content Warnings: N/A
Other: For Colttober 25, prompt crystal. It was edited but maybe not enough.
read on AO3
---
Shamura stretched their arms up then to the side. When they went to rub their shoulders, their fingertips brushed a soft, black feather. They twisted it between their fingers before dropping it to the side. The feather drifted to land on its owner, who was sleeping contently under a thickly woven blanket.
Shamura stood and reached for their robes, which were in a rumpled heap to the side of the tent. Clauneck's own feathery cloak rested half on top of the brown robes. As they pulled the robes on, Clauneck shifted beside them. He grunted then pushed himself up. His blond hair had tangled into a mess from sleep and the two's shared activities the night before.
He, too, stretched, his joints popping as he did so. With a yawn, he turned his gaze towards Shamura as they smoothed out their robes. without speaking, he reached to the end of the bed roll and picked up Shamura's belt and the peace tied sword attached to it.
Nodding, Shamura took the belt and began to buckle it around their middle.
"Thank you," they said, adjusting the scabbard so it sat comfortably on their hip. While their Crown could turn to any weapon they wished it to, Shamura felt comforted having the weight of a mortal blade at their side. (Also some enemies did not deserve to meet their end by the sharpen edge of a holy blade.)
"You are heading back to your followers," Clauneck said, not as a question but as a statement.
"Not unless you have something interesting to share with me," Shamura remarked, tugging at the tie around their blade's hilt. The moment they left the little tent, they would discard it. For reasons Shamura could only guess related to his brother, Clauneck did not allow blades in his tent unless they were peace tied. Other weapons without blade, he requested be left outside. They assumed Crowns were permitted because their inherent divinity and power that could not be easily cast aside (or, perhaps, he just allowed Shamura's Crown due to the relationship they shared.)
"Something interesting enough to earn another night…" Clauneck mused, scratching the stubble on his bill with a finger.
That was their arrangement, after all. Shamura would bring or offer something for Clauneck, and Clauneck would give Shamura valuable information--tit for tat. Clauneck was an ancient being, hatched under the eyes of The First Ones eons ago, with knowledge of gods and events, both old and new, as well as secrets lost to mortal libraries.
In the beginning of their arrangement, Clauneck would request outlandish things: peas when they were out of season, a strange charm for his shoe, or a leaf that was a particular shade of orange.
Shamura did not care for the requests at the start and did them only out of necessity for the knowledge that the divine duck could provide, but as time passed they came to enjoy the odd tasks the same way they enjoyed solving riddles. Clauneck handed them challenges to puzzle out, each time with that mysterious smile of his.
Something more than friendship but less than true romance bloomed between them. Plenty of times, after finishing up whatever request Clauneck had for them, they would stay the night with him, sometimes engaged in sexual actives, sometimes just cuddling and talking. Shamura enjoyed the latter times the most. Clauneck brought an interesting perspective to the two's discussions that forced Shamura to think outside their own experiences and expectations.
Shamura knew they needed to tread the path they and Clauneck shared carefully. Physically attraction and intimacy was one thing, but truly loving each other as a married mortal couple might could not ever be in the cards.
During a midnight discussion many years ago, Clauneck admitted that, though he knew it would not happen, he still feared the outcome if he went against the very nature assigned to him by The First Ones as his sister had done.
That nature meant he was never to decline the drawing of the cards from any god who asks for power or a vision of the future, even gods that were Shamura's enemies, or trying to change a doomed fate to better one.
Shamura had met his sister, Chemach, a few times in the past. The stench of blood and rot that hung around her and the shaking, oozing eyes of her Crown left a lasting impression on Shamura. They could not imagine what it would feel like if their only brother, Kallamar, lost his mind. What a tragic fate for such a thing to happen to a set of siblings…
And so for the sake of Clauneck's sanity, Shamura dared not push their relationship farther than it was and leave Clauneck in a position where he may feel tempted to go against his purpose.
"Hmm, do I have something interesting..." Clauneck repeated and ripped a chunk out of the dark-brown seed bread Shamura had crossed half the island to get and tossed it in his bill. He chewed thoughtfully. After he swallowed, he nodded to himself and said, "I believe I may have something."
"Oh?"
Clauneck wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. It barely covered his lower regions, but Shamura did not bother to point it out to him. He pushed past Shamura into the foggy morning. The sound of small pieces of wood--his incense sticks, Shamura presumed--clattering came from outside the tent. Shamura started to head to the flap when Clauneck returned.
In his hands was a clear glass orb on a gold and stone base. He sat it down before taking a seat behind it then gestured for Shamura to do the same on the other side. With a shrug, Shamura sat with their legs folded under them and all four of their hands resting in their lap.
"What is this?" They asked.
"A crystal ball." Clauneck ran a finger along the smooth surface. "It can show the future inside."
Shamura sniffed. "Just like your cards?"
"In a way, but it is not as," he rolled his wrist, "encompassing. It shows but a point in the future that is yet or not to be. A moment without context of the machinations that may lead to its happening."
Shamura hummed. A single moment that might not even happened did not seem like enough reason for them to stay, but they nodded at him to continue.
Clauneck waved his hands over the orb, muttering something Shamura could not quite hear. The clear glass of the orb clouded like a sky before a storm. The clouds shifted and danced. Shamura leaned closer, trying to see anything inside. Just before they gave up, the clouds parted and a scene, still fuzzy as though seen through the surface of water, appeared.
Inside the orb, Shamura stood with four other Crown-Bearing gods. Beside them, a shorter god that reminded them of the burrowing worms from the great Darkwood stood, a large, bloody heart in his hands. The shorter god beamed up at Shamura, who smiled back at him. Looking over the shorter god at the heart was a black cat god with skeletal arms. He had his mouth open, frozen mid-sentence. Just behind Shamura and the two unknown gods, Kallamar stood with a frog god. The cheerful frog held a severed arm in her hands with a large bite taken out of it. Kallamar cringed at her, recoiling back in disgust.
Shamura wrinkled their brows at the scene. They recognized only Kallamar. The worm, cat, and frog were strangers. They had not even heard of such gods having taken up Crowns in their travels.
The orb clouded over once more then cleared, returning to the state Clauneck had brought it inside.
"Who were they?" Shamura asked.
Clauneck raised a shoulder. "I have an idea, but it shall stay with me for the time being. I do not believe you would like for me to ruin the surprise." He chuckled to himself.
Shamura mulled over that for a moment then asked, "If you tried your crystal ball again, would it show me the same scene?"
Again, Clauneck shrugged. "Unlike my cards, my crystal is finicky. It may show you the same or something different, if it shows you anything at all."
Shamura pushed themself up, wiping the loose feathers and grass from their robes. "That was very interesting, my friend, but I worry what my followers are getting up to without me there for this long. Would you mind if I owed you double the next time?"
Clauneck accepted their offer with a nod. "Followers of the knowledge-seeking god do not have as much wisdom as you'd like them to?" He laughed, ripping another piece off the bread.
Shamura rolled their eyes, but not in irritation. "It was a nice evening, Clauneck. I will seek you and your knowledge out again soon." With a final wave goodbye, Shamura left the tent.
They were not sure how accurate Clauneck's predictions with the cards were, let alone his shiny crystal ball, but perhaps it would be worth keeping an eye out for those three mystery gods in the future. Maybe the worm, cat, and frog could be useful pawns to Shamura and his brother as they conquered the lands.
---
Writing dramatic irony is fun. I suggest everyone try it once!
Summary: Clauneck offers to show Shamura the future in his crystal ball.
Rating:T
Ships: ShamuraxClauneck
Content Warnings: N/A
Other: For Colttober 25, prompt crystal. It was edited but maybe not enough.
read on AO3
---
Shamura stretched their arms up then to the side. When they went to rub their shoulders, their fingertips brushed a soft, black feather. They twisted it between their fingers before dropping it to the side. The feather drifted to land on its owner, who was sleeping contently under a thickly woven blanket.
Shamura stood and reached for their robes, which were in a rumpled heap to the side of the tent. Clauneck's own feathery cloak rested half on top of the brown robes. As they pulled the robes on, Clauneck shifted beside them. He grunted then pushed himself up. His blond hair had tangled into a mess from sleep and the two's shared activities the night before.
He, too, stretched, his joints popping as he did so. With a yawn, he turned his gaze towards Shamura as they smoothed out their robes. without speaking, he reached to the end of the bed roll and picked up Shamura's belt and the peace tied sword attached to it.
Nodding, Shamura took the belt and began to buckle it around their middle.
"Thank you," they said, adjusting the scabbard so it sat comfortably on their hip. While their Crown could turn to any weapon they wished it to, Shamura felt comforted having the weight of a mortal blade at their side. (Also some enemies did not deserve to meet their end by the sharpen edge of a holy blade.)
"You are heading back to your followers," Clauneck said, not as a question but as a statement.
"Not unless you have something interesting to share with me," Shamura remarked, tugging at the tie around their blade's hilt. The moment they left the little tent, they would discard it. For reasons Shamura could only guess related to his brother, Clauneck did not allow blades in his tent unless they were peace tied. Other weapons without blade, he requested be left outside. They assumed Crowns were permitted because their inherent divinity and power that could not be easily cast aside (or, perhaps, he just allowed Shamura's Crown due to the relationship they shared.)
"Something interesting enough to earn another night…" Clauneck mused, scratching the stubble on his bill with a finger.
That was their arrangement, after all. Shamura would bring or offer something for Clauneck, and Clauneck would give Shamura valuable information--tit for tat. Clauneck was an ancient being, hatched under the eyes of The First Ones eons ago, with knowledge of gods and events, both old and new, as well as secrets lost to mortal libraries.
In the beginning of their arrangement, Clauneck would request outlandish things: peas when they were out of season, a strange charm for his shoe, or a leaf that was a particular shade of orange.
Shamura did not care for the requests at the start and did them only out of necessity for the knowledge that the divine duck could provide, but as time passed they came to enjoy the odd tasks the same way they enjoyed solving riddles. Clauneck handed them challenges to puzzle out, each time with that mysterious smile of his.
Something more than friendship but less than true romance bloomed between them. Plenty of times, after finishing up whatever request Clauneck had for them, they would stay the night with him, sometimes engaged in sexual actives, sometimes just cuddling and talking. Shamura enjoyed the latter times the most. Clauneck brought an interesting perspective to the two's discussions that forced Shamura to think outside their own experiences and expectations.
Shamura knew they needed to tread the path they and Clauneck shared carefully. Physically attraction and intimacy was one thing, but truly loving each other as a married mortal couple might could not ever be in the cards.
During a midnight discussion many years ago, Clauneck admitted that, though he knew it would not happen, he still feared the outcome if he went against the very nature assigned to him by The First Ones as his sister had done.
That nature meant he was never to decline the drawing of the cards from any god who asks for power or a vision of the future, even gods that were Shamura's enemies, or trying to change a doomed fate to better one.
Shamura had met his sister, Chemach, a few times in the past. The stench of blood and rot that hung around her and the shaking, oozing eyes of her Crown left a lasting impression on Shamura. They could not imagine what it would feel like if their only brother, Kallamar, lost his mind. What a tragic fate for such a thing to happen to a set of siblings…
And so for the sake of Clauneck's sanity, Shamura dared not push their relationship farther than it was and leave Clauneck in a position where he may feel tempted to go against his purpose.
"Hmm, do I have something interesting..." Clauneck repeated and ripped a chunk out of the dark-brown seed bread Shamura had crossed half the island to get and tossed it in his bill. He chewed thoughtfully. After he swallowed, he nodded to himself and said, "I believe I may have something."
"Oh?"
Clauneck wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. It barely covered his lower regions, but Shamura did not bother to point it out to him. He pushed past Shamura into the foggy morning. The sound of small pieces of wood--his incense sticks, Shamura presumed--clattering came from outside the tent. Shamura started to head to the flap when Clauneck returned.
In his hands was a clear glass orb on a gold and stone base. He sat it down before taking a seat behind it then gestured for Shamura to do the same on the other side. With a shrug, Shamura sat with their legs folded under them and all four of their hands resting in their lap.
"What is this?" They asked.
"A crystal ball." Clauneck ran a finger along the smooth surface. "It can show the future inside."
Shamura sniffed. "Just like your cards?"
"In a way, but it is not as," he rolled his wrist, "encompassing. It shows but a point in the future that is yet or not to be. A moment without context of the machinations that may lead to its happening."
Shamura hummed. A single moment that might not even happened did not seem like enough reason for them to stay, but they nodded at him to continue.
Clauneck waved his hands over the orb, muttering something Shamura could not quite hear. The clear glass of the orb clouded like a sky before a storm. The clouds shifted and danced. Shamura leaned closer, trying to see anything inside. Just before they gave up, the clouds parted and a scene, still fuzzy as though seen through the surface of water, appeared.
Inside the orb, Shamura stood with four other Crown-Bearing gods. Beside them, a shorter god that reminded them of the burrowing worms from the great Darkwood stood, a large, bloody heart in his hands. The shorter god beamed up at Shamura, who smiled back at him. Looking over the shorter god at the heart was a black cat god with skeletal arms. He had his mouth open, frozen mid-sentence. Just behind Shamura and the two unknown gods, Kallamar stood with a frog god. The cheerful frog held a severed arm in her hands with a large bite taken out of it. Kallamar cringed at her, recoiling back in disgust.
Shamura wrinkled their brows at the scene. They recognized only Kallamar. The worm, cat, and frog were strangers. They had not even heard of such gods having taken up Crowns in their travels.
The orb clouded over once more then cleared, returning to the state Clauneck had brought it inside.
"Who were they?" Shamura asked.
Clauneck raised a shoulder. "I have an idea, but it shall stay with me for the time being. I do not believe you would like for me to ruin the surprise." He chuckled to himself.
Shamura mulled over that for a moment then asked, "If you tried your crystal ball again, would it show me the same scene?"
Again, Clauneck shrugged. "Unlike my cards, my crystal is finicky. It may show you the same or something different, if it shows you anything at all."
Shamura pushed themself up, wiping the loose feathers and grass from their robes. "That was very interesting, my friend, but I worry what my followers are getting up to without me there for this long. Would you mind if I owed you double the next time?"
Clauneck accepted their offer with a nod. "Followers of the knowledge-seeking god do not have as much wisdom as you'd like them to?" He laughed, ripping another piece off the bread.
Shamura rolled their eyes, but not in irritation. "It was a nice evening, Clauneck. I will seek you and your knowledge out again soon." With a final wave goodbye, Shamura left the tent.
They were not sure how accurate Clauneck's predictions with the cards were, let alone his shiny crystal ball, but perhaps it would be worth keeping an eye out for those three mystery gods in the future. Maybe the worm, cat, and frog could be useful pawns to Shamura and his brother as they conquered the lands.
---
Writing dramatic irony is fun. I suggest everyone try it once!
Summary: Ratau is scolded after he tried to kill himself.
Rating: T
Ships:N/A
Content Warnings: suicide and Suicidal ideation
Other: For Cotltober 25, prompt 8, must survive.
Edited but maybe not enough
----
All three of his master's blood red eyes narrowed at the captured rat. The ancient god tsked his tongue, though whether the action was in disgust or pity, Ratau couldn't tell.
Ratau chewed his inner cheek. From beside him The One Who Waits' faithful servants held their weapons across Ratau's body, one in front and one in back, boxing him in, as if he had anywhere to flee in the foggy white advances of The Gateway.
The one in white, Baal, kept his eyes trained their master while the one in black, Aym, would occasionally shoot glares at Ratau.
"My, my, my..." The One Who Waits drew out the words as he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice. He crossed his bony arms, the chains around him shifting and clicking together. Ratau wanted to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.
"I knew I would see you again after I took my crown back, but," his master shut his own eyes, but the eye on the The Red Crown never left Ratau, "three months is a little sooner than I expected."
Ratau turned his gaze to the white ground of The Gateway. His stomach twisted in knots. He felt Aym's glare and The Red Crown's eye burning into him like hot brands. He wanted to drop dead then and there, but, since he was already dead, that was not possible.
The One Who Waits opened his eyes and leaned forward as he spoke, "Farther more, you took your own life."
Ratau felt the phantom sensation of the blade against his neck. He started to move his hand to rub his throat, but Baal shifted his staff in a warning before he could do more than twitch.
The One Who Waits slammed his skeletal hand down, making all three before him jump. He snarled, "You could not defeat the weakest of the Bishops! You could not keep a cult growing in my name without making foolish deals! And now, after all that, you dare to think you can take the easy way out? Why do you wish to keep mocking me, rat?"
"I'm not!" Ratau cried out, reaching forward against Baal's staff. "Please, Master, I can--" The words caught in his throat. Could he explain?
The One Who Wait's tail lashed behind him, dispersing the heavy fog that blanketed The Gateway. A low growl echoed from deep inside his chest.
"You can what?" He hissed.
Ratau shuddered. He took a deep breath and whispered, "I can explain?"
The One Who Waits narrowed his eyes before waving a hand at Baal and Aym. With a nod, the two stepped to the side, though they never took their eyes off Ratau in case he attempted to run.
"Explain."
Ratau opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again.
"I...I am sorry, my great, merciful lord." Ratau began, hoping the flattery would help his cause. "I could not keep living with the guilt. As you said, I failed. I was given a scared duty by the powerful of gods, and I could not accomplish even a fraction of what you asked me."
Tears pricked his eyes. Ratau tried to blink them away, but they returned just as quickly.
"I am a failure. There is nothing left for me in the living world, nothing but the shame of knowing I could not step up to your expectations. Every morning I awake, reminded constantly of how I left my followers to die or loose faith in The Red Crown. How I was too weak to release you for your unjust prison. How--" A sob cut him off. He swallowed it down best he could before wiping his eyes on the heels of his palms.
How pathetic he must look, crying like a child who lost a game. The One Who Waits should have picked someone else to be his vessel. Someone like him could never be worthy.
"Enough of this blubbering," The One Who Waits commanded, pushing himself back up. Ratau sucked in a breath before looking up at his master with red-rimmed eyes.
The One Who Waits held out his arms wide and shook his chains. "You failed to release me from this Hell, true, but you are not yet excused from my service."
"How can I be of service without your power?" Ratau tapped the top of his head, which felt so cold and empty since he returned The Red Crown.
A sharp, cold laugh escaped The One One Waits. "Foolish, short-sighted rat..." He shook his head. "You have spoken to me recently of The Bishop's culling of sheep, have you not?" He did not give Ratau time to answer. "There is a prophecy that a sheep, a lamb, the last of its kind, will come put an end to The Old Faith." His lips curled up in a cruel smile. "Four becomes three, becomes two, becomes one, becomes nothing."
Ratau nodded, uncertainly. Yes, not only had he heard of the Bishops beginning to round up sheep to sacrifice, but he had even seen it with his own eyes when he sneaked through a crowd outside Shamura's temple. He watched, hidden among the cheering Silk Cradle cultists, as one by one each sheep's head was swiftly removed from their shoulders.
The One Who Waits continued, "In their idiotic attempts to avoid this prophecy, The Bishops are unknowingly going to send the final sheep to me. When that time comes, and it will come soon, I must have someone there who can mentor my new vessel." He pressed a sharp, red claw against Ratau's chest. "And that mentor shall be you."
Ratau opened his mouth to argue a failure like him could never be a mentor to the vessel that will finally put an end to The Bishops, but The One Who Waits pressed his claw harder against Ratau's chest.
"You will never die by your own hands again, do you understand?" He asked, finally pulling his claw away. "I do not care if you live, but you must not die. You will survive until my next vessel is ready to lead a cult on their own, after that, you may do as you please. Live, die, retire—it matters not to me. "
Ratau blinked slowly at his master's words. He muttered, "I don't need to live, just not die." He nodded slightly, more to himself than The One Who Waits. "Yes, I think I can do that."
"Good. Now go and just survive." The One Who Waits' eyes began to glow and he raised his hand. The familiar sensation of being returned to the world of the living began to wrap Ratau in its eerie embrace.
---
Ratau fell forward onto the sticky wooden floor of his little shack. He cringed at the still wet blood he left when he tried to end his suffering. He wiped the blood from his hand on his shirt before slowly pulling himself up with help from the nearby table.
He went to the door and pushed it open. The fresh smell of morning dew filled his nostrils. He breathed deeply, held the air in his lungs, then slowly let it out.
His master told him to survive and that was what he was going to do.
---
AN: Honestly, this is more based on Comic!Ratau more than Game!Ratau, since in the comic!Ratau is chomping at the bit to kill himself in sacrifice, and I always got the feeling he was doing so more to atone for his failures than anything else. Though from Ratoo's dialog post fox snack, it seems like Game!Ratau was pretty upset after losing the crown too...
Summary: Unbidden thoughts have been making The Lamb's life a nightmare. Do these thoughts about hurting their followers make them as bad of a monster as The Bishops
Rating: T
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Intrusive thoughts and the discussion of
Read it on AO3
---
With a crack, the tiny hand pushed its way past the shell. Another crack and a foot followed suit. More and more cracks spider-webbed across the egg until the shell burst apart. The infant blinked at the dim evening sun as embryonic fluid dripped down its little body.
Pride welled up in The Lamb's chest. This little pink bird was the first baby born under their care. From beside them, the infant's parent came forward and carefully wrapped the infant up in a blanket, cooing at it.
The Lamb sat against the side of the nest, pretending to examine the remains of the eggshell, but in actuality, their legs needed a rest. They had just returned from a short crusade to Anura for pumpkin seeds and wood when their disciple rushed over to them and told them of the egg hatching.
They still had globs of frog slime stuck to their wool and an oozing wound on the back of their right thigh from their slaughter of Heket's minions. Rolling their shoulder, still stiff from swinging a sword through amphibian flesh, The Lamb pushed themself back up.
They went to the new parents and their baby. The parents bobbed their heads in respect at their god. With glowing eyes, The Lamb tapped into the power of The Red Crown. Light flashed in their hand, leaving a tiny golden bell on a soft cloth collar.
"This is a symbol." The Lamb said, to the parents and infant alike. "It means this one was born under my crown and I, and will die under my crown and I."
The Lamb began to slip the collar around the baby's neck, the little bell jingling. As they pulled their hands back, a thought, brash and unexpected, jumped to the forefront of their mind.
Strangle it. Wrap your hands around its neck and choke it...
The Lamb jerked back. Their heart squeezed in their chest as they hid their hands under their thick red fleece. They dug their fingers into their soft palms as they tried to suppress the shake in their arms.
The new parents frowned at their god. When one went to open his mouth, The Lamb waved him off with a laugh.
"Such an exciting time. Exciting and emotional." They forced a smile to placate the parent. "Now, go put," they paused a moment, "Joon in the nursery. I will attend to them in the morning."
The parents bowed to The Lamb and turned to take the newest follower of The Red Crown away. As they walked, The infant turned in its parent's arms and stared at The Lamb with big, clear eyes. The Lamb jumped, wondering for a moment if their new follower knew about the thought that came into The Lamb's mind.
----
The Lamb scraped the chopped pumpkins into the boiling broth. They wiped their brow, careful of the knife in their hand. Usually, they would have used The Crown, but The One Who Waits gave them a judgemental look when they mentioned using it to sweep up vomit from drunk followers.
If The One Who Waits didn't want them to use their Crown for mundane tasks, they would do their best not to.
"Oh, dear leader?"
The Lamb looked up from the pumpkin soup as Lena, a newer follower, padded up. The shrew wrung her hands together. She had only been recruited from Anchordeep a few weeks ago and still found herself trembling when trying to speak to the god who saved her life.
"Yes, can I help you?" They asked, picking up the other half of the pumpkin their were using for the soup.
Lena shuffled nervously. "Do you need help? I was--am--a good cook." She gestured to the small kitchen.
Knowing that receiving praise for a job well done would encourage Lena feel more comfortable with The Lamb and her new life, they nodded.
"That would be wonderful." They began to settle the handle of the knife between their fingers for her to safely take when Stab her. Stab her in the chest invaded their mind, along with a bloody scene of Lena with the knife sticking out of her chest, blood dripping down her robes with wide, scared eyes fixed on The Lamb.
The Lamb flinched. They threw the knife to the side as if it burned their skin. It threw up a puff of dust when it landed.
Their chest clenched with guilt.
"My lamb?" Lena asked, stepping backwards.
"I, uh..." The Lamb forced a breath, but it barely expanded their lungs. "Please, finish the soup. I remembered I have something else to do." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. Without waiting for a response, they bolted away.
The Lamb finally stopped when they reached the shadow of the morgue. They slumped against the cool, wet stone, panting.
It happened again. Ever since the first time with the infant, that horrid, vile voice had shoved gruesome ideas and images in The Lamb's head at the worst possible times.
When they were talking, blessing, reprimanding, or even just looking at, that voice would piped up, sly and cruel, and tell them to hurt, to strangle, to stab, hit, grope, insult...
Their stomach twisted with shame as they pulled their fleece tighter around themself.
Those ideas, where did they come from? Could they come from The Crown? No, The One Who Waits said The Crown is a tool, nothing more. It couldn't be putting those thoughts in their head. If The Crown isn't, then...
The Lamb flinched.
The thoughts must be their own. Was that how they truly felt towards their followers, deep down? Did they want to hurt them, break them, lord their power over them until they merely feared their god, not loved and respected?
The Lamb wrapped their arms around their head, trying to focus on breathing. That couldn't be true. They vowed to be a kind and fair god, not a monster like The Bishops.
But what if they were? What if they were just as cruel and merciless as those whom they swore to kill. Maybe The Lamb wasn't a protector. Maybe they didn't deserve to hold The Crown. Maybe they--
"Lamb?"
The Lamb jumped to their feet. The Crown flew to their hand as a sword that they whipped towards the person who spoke.
Eligos winced and held up one arm over his head as he balanced his weight on his cane. "Please, not again..." he whimpered.
The Lamb's body went hot with embarrassment. They returned The Crown to their head. Swallowing to wet their dry throat, they raised their hands, palms up, at him with a soft smile.
"Apologies. You startled me from my thoughts is all." They reached for Eligos' shoulder to give a reassuring squeeze, but he jerked away before they could touch him. A heavy blanket of shame fell on their shoulders, making them feel suffocated and hot.
As Eligos shuffled away, The Lamb knew they needed to get away from their followers for a while. They couldn't risk hurting those they swore to protect.
----
The Lamb hadn't meant to end up at Ratau's door, but somehow their legs brought them to the lonely shack. They swayed with a pounding in their head. Their body still felt too hot and breath came slowly.
The Lamb shook their head. If they wanted to hurt their followers, what would they secretly want to do to their mentor? They cursed their fool-hearted legs for taking them there. They turned to walk away when the shack's door opened.
Ratau called, "Child, is that you?"
The Lamb stiffened. They wanted to flee, but instead they forced their body to turn around to face him with a false smile on their lips.
"Greets, Ratau." They waved. "Sorry, I thought I had time to stop by, but I was mistaken."
Ratau tilted his head, narrowed his good eye, then frowned. Before The Lamb could escape, he marched to them. The old rat pushed his pointy nose into The Lamb's face, meeting their eyes. The Lamb tried to hold his gaze, but couldn't. They fixed their sight on the open door just behind Ratau's left ear. Flunky poked his head out of the door while Klunko and Bop looked from the window.
"Something is wrong." He took hold of The Lamb's arm. "Come inside. I will shoo off my friends and we can speak--"
"No!" The Lamb ripped their arm away. They wouldn't risk being alone with Ratau. What if they hurt him? What if the monster inside wanted them to stab him or strangle him or rip his head off?
They left Ratau crying out for them as they dashed away.
----
The water of the stream was muddy from recent rainfall. The stream lapped greedily at its edges. Winged, long-legged insects danced at the surface. The murky outline of a fish stalked under the insects before it snapped its mouth out of the water to greedily eat.
The Lamb turned The Crown over in their hands. The Crown's red eye kept its gaze firmly fixed on its bearer no matter which way it was rolled in their palms.
They wished they could seek guidance from their master, but The One Who Waits did not seem to hold followers in high regards. The Lamb knew he viewed them as tools, as was his right as an ancient god, but The Lamb wasn't ancient and was not so disconnected from their mortality as to not see their followers as tools.
Unlike The Bishops, at least, The One Who Waits didn't expect The Lamb's flock to burn homes and spill innocent blood in his name. He only required work and worship. The followers might be tools to him, but he wanted to keep them clean.
Or, they thought he did. What if all gods were as cruel as the Bishops—including them? Is that how only The Bishops and The One Who Waits survive the purge of gods and crown-bearers that Haro once mentioned? Was that how The Lamb was doing so well as a vessel of The Red Crown, because they harbored that cruelty inside them as well?
They bit the inside of their cheek until they tasted metal, but the thoughts kept racing through their mind, telling them what they must have hidden deep in their heart and that it was trying to claw its way to the surface.
A loud panting and rustling took The Lamb from their thoughts.
Ratau pushed aside a low hanging branch. He leaned heavily against his cane and wiped sweat from his brow.
"A run like that was easier in my younger days." He laughed dryly. The Lamb started to stand, but Ratau shot them a glare and snapped, "Don't you move now. I'll just wait for you at your cult if you do."
The Lamb froze then sighed, sinking back to the grass. Ratau ambled over. With a grunt and the popping of old joints, he settled himself beside his successor.
The pair sat in silence. One of the long-legged insects buzzed from the water and flew around them before returning. The fish made another attempt to eat its prey, but the insect dodged.
The Lamb's stomach twisted into knots. They shouldn't be alone with Ratau. It was dangerous. What if that voice wanted them to hold him under the water or slice him up or--
"If you are going to be sick, aim over there." Ratau used his cane to point The Lamb's face to the opposite side from where he sat.
"I'm sorry," they mumbled. Ratau's imploring stare pricked at their skin. They shuttered, wishing the blanket of guilt offered some reassuring warmth and not just burning shame.
Finally, they heaved a sigh.
"Can The Crown...make you think things?" They reached up and touched The Crown's hard, smooth surface.
Ratau frowned. "No, not in my experience. What makes you think it can?"
The Lamb worried their lower lip. They opened their mouth, only for the words to die on their tongue. After a beat, they tried again.
"I have had thoughts," they started, "come unbidden to me. Terrible thoughts. Thoughts of," they swallowed hard and forced the words out, "of hurting my followers."
"'Hurting'?" Ratau repeated with a furrowed brow.
"Even the smallest ones." They cringed, remembering the voice telling them to strangle the infant.
Ratau put a warm hand on their shoulder and squeezed reassuringly for them to continue. As if he released the dam, a torrent of confessions came flooding out. They admitted everything, the thoughts, the shame, the fear.
When they finished, The Lamb couldn't look at Ratau. They could not handle his judgment of them. All of Ratau's friends, his past followers, spoke highly of Ratau's kindness and how good of a leader he was. Ratau was the kind of leader The Lamb wanted to be, but never would be.
Ratau cleared his throat.
"I...see, and because of these thoughts, you think yourself a monster?"
The Lamb nodded. "I have to be. Why else would I even think such horrible things?"
Ratau held his cane out over the water. One of the insects landed on the leaf at the end. He waited before bringing the cane back towards himself. He eyed the insect then blew on it to send it off the cane and on its way.
"I don't know why—the mind is a mysterious place—but I do not think you are a monster."
The Lamb's jaw fell open. "Of course, I am! I'll be as bad as The Bishops someday..."
Ratau laughed a loud, ringing sound that startled The Lamb and the long-legged insects. He shook his head.
"Child," Ratau set his cane across his crossed legs, "if you were really a monster as bad as The Bishops, do you think you would actually care?"
The Lamb wetted their lips. "No, I suppose not."
"That's right." He nodded. "You wouldn't. The fact that you do care and that these thoughts disturb you so proves you are no monster."
The Lamb looked down at their palms. The phantom sensation holding their hands stiffly to prevent them from acting on the thoughts tingled across them.
"Perhaps," they breathed through their nose, "but how do I stop the thoughts then? I can't keep going on like this." They shook their head. "No matter how much I try, I can't get them to leave me alone. Even ignoring them makes them louder."
Ratau scratched his scalp, his fingers brushing his paper crown. He mulled on the question before his brows raised in inspiration. Ratau plucked the leaf from the end of his cane and held it out to The Lamb. They carefully took it between their fingers before turning it about. It was just a regular leaf.
"What do I do with this?" They asked.
"Hold it in front of you," he ordered, and they did so. He continued, "Now, take one of those thoughts and imagine writing the words or putting a drawing of the thought on the leaf."
The Lamb pursed their lips. They didn't want to think about the thoughts at all, let alone bring one back up, but they trusted their mentor. With a deep breath, they imagined the words "Stab her. Stab her in the chest" along with the bloody image of Lena on the leaf.
"Now what?"
Ratau gestured to the stream. "Now, let it go."
The Lamb held the leaf protectively to their chest. What if someone saw the leaf and knew--
They blushed at the idea, looking at the blank leaf in their palm. No one would see it. The thought wasn't really there.
Steeling themself, The Lamb leaned over the stream and let the leaf go. It bobbed along the current. A few of the long-legged insects landed on the leaf and floated away with it.
The Lamb blinked. They breathed deeply and freely. Some of the weight on them had lifted.
"That does feel better," they admitted, "but I don't exactly have a stream running through the grounds."
Ratau rubbed between their shoulder blades. "Just imagine it then. Take the thoughts from your mind, put it on a leaf, and send it down stream. It doesn't even have to be a stream. You can pretend its written on a sandy beach with the tide wiping it away or on a cart passing on a busy road." Ratau took a dead leaf from the ground and sent it down the stream. "Just so long as you acknowledge it, but don't give it anymore attention than it deserves.
He looked them in the eye, smiling. "They are just thoughts, nothing more. Actions are what make you a good leader or a monster or anything else."
The Lamb looked down stream. Their leaf, their thought, was already gone from sight, along with the remaining mud, leaving the stream clean and clear.
----
AN: I don't remember where I picked up the leaf and stream trick (That one event in The Kinder World app maybe?), but it's been very useful to me--and so has finding out intrusive thoughts have a name and are pretty common. Kinda cool learning something I've been suffering with since high school has ways to deal with it lol
That said, if your intrusive thoughts are causing you problems on the daily, it is best to talk to a doctor. They can be symptoms of an underlying issue like OCD, PTSD, or depression.
Summary: Unbidden thoughts have been making The Lamb's life a nightmare. Do these thoughts about hurting their followers make them as bad of a monster as The Bishops
Rating: T
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Intrusive thoughts and the discussion of
Read it on AO3
---
With a crack, the tiny hand pushed its way past the shell. Another crack and a foot followed suit. More and more cracks spider-webbed across the egg until the shell burst apart. The infant blinked at the dim evening sun as embryonic fluid dripped down its little body.
Pride welled up in The Lamb's chest. This little pink bird was the first baby born under their care. From beside them, the infant's parent came forward and carefully wrapped the infant up in a blanket, cooing at it.
The Lamb sat against the side of the nest, pretending to examine the remains of the eggshell, but in actuality, their legs needed a rest. They had just returned from a short crusade to Anura for pumpkin seeds and wood when their disciple rushed over to them and told them of the egg hatching.
They still had globs of frog slime stuck to their wool and an oozing wound on the back of their right thigh from their slaughter of Heket's minions. Rolling their shoulder, still stiff from swinging a sword through amphibian flesh, The Lamb pushed themself back up.
They went to the new parents and their baby. The parents bobbed their heads in respect at their god. With glowing eyes, The Lamb tapped into the power of The Red Crown. Light flashed in their hand, leaving a tiny golden bell on a soft cloth collar.
"This is a symbol." The Lamb said, to the parents and infant alike. "It means this one was born under my crown and I, and will die under my crown and I."
The Lamb began to slip the collar around the baby's neck, the little bell jingling. As they pulled their hands back, a thought, brash and unexpected, jumped to the forefront of their mind.
Strangle it. Wrap your hands around its neck and choke it...
The Lamb jerked back. Their heart squeezed in their chest as they hid their hands under their thick red fleece. They dug their fingers into their soft palms as they tried to suppress the shake in their arms.
The new parents frowned at their god. When one went to open his mouth, The Lamb waved him off with a laugh.
"Such an exciting time. Exciting and emotional." They forced a smile to placate the parent. "Now, go put," they paused a moment, "Joon in the nursery. I will attend to them in the morning."
The parents bowed to The Lamb and turned to take the newest follower of The Red Crown away. As they walked, The infant turned in its parent's arms and stared at The Lamb with big, clear eyes. The Lamb jumped, wondering for a moment if their new follower knew about the thought that came into The Lamb's mind.
----
The Lamb scraped the chopped pumpkins into the boiling broth. They wiped their brow, careful of the knife in their hand. Usually, they would have used The Crown, but The One Who Waits gave them a judgemental look when they mentioned using it to sweep up vomit from drunk followers.
If The One Who Waits didn't want them to use their Crown for mundane tasks, they would do their best not to.
"Oh, dear leader?"
The Lamb looked up from the pumpkin soup as Lena, a newer follower, padded up. The shrew wrung her hands together. She had only been recruited from Anchordeep a few weeks ago and still found herself trembling when trying to speak to the god who saved her life.
"Yes, can I help you?" They asked, picking up the other half of the pumpkin their were using for the soup.
Lena shuffled nervously. "Do you need help? I was--am--a good cook." She gestured to the small kitchen.
Knowing that receiving praise for a job well done would encourage Lena feel more comfortable with The Lamb and her new life, they nodded.
"That would be wonderful." They began to settle the handle of the knife between their fingers for her to safely take when Stab her. Stab her in the chest invaded their mind, along with a bloody scene of Lena with the knife sticking out of her chest, blood dripping down her robes with wide, scared eyes fixed on The Lamb.
The Lamb flinched. They tossed the knife to the side as if it burned their skin. It threw up a puff of dust when it landed.
Their chest clenched with guilt.
"My lamb?" Lena asked, stepping backwards.
"I, uh..." The Lamb forced a breath, but it barely expanded their lungs. "Please, finish the soup. I remembered I have something else to do." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. Without waiting for a response, they bolted away.
The Lamb finally stopped when they reached the shadow of the morgue. They slumped against the cool, wet stone, panting.
It happened again. Ever since the first time with the infant, that horrid, vile voice had shoved gruesome ideas and images in The Lamb's head at the worst possible times.
When they were talking, blessing, reprimanding, or even just looking at, that voice would piped up, sly and cruel, and tell them to hurt, to strangle, to stab, hit, grope, insult...
Their stomach twisted with shame as they pulled their fleece tighter around themself.
Those ideas, where did they come from? Could they come from The Crown? No, The One Who Waits said The Crown is a tool, nothing more. It couldn't be putting those thoughts in their head. If The Crown isn't, then...
The Lamb flinched.
The thoughts must be their own. Was that how they truly felt towards their followers, deep down? Did they want to hurt them, break them, lord their power over them until they merely feared their god, not loved and respected?
The Lamb wrapped their arms around their head, trying to focus on breathing. That couldn't be true. They vowed to be a kind and fair god, not a monster like The Bishops.
But what if they were? What if they were just as cruel and merciless as those whom they swore to kill. Maybe The Lamb wasn't a protector. Maybe they didn't deserve to hold The Crown. Maybe they--
"Lamb?"
The Lamb jumped to their feet. The Crown flew to their hand as a sword that they whipped towards the person who spoke.
Eligos winced and held up one arm over his head as he balanced his weight on his cane. "Please, not again..." he whimpered.
The Lamb's body went hot with embarrassment. They returned The Crown to their head. Swallowing to wet their dry throat, they raised their hands, palms up, at him with a soft smile.
"Apologies. You startled me from my thoughts is all." They reached for Eligos' shoulder to give a reassuring squeeze, but he jerked away before they could touch him. A heavy blanket of shame fell on their shoulders, making them feel suffocated and hot.
As Eligos shuffled away, The Lamb knew they needed to get away from their followers for a while. They couldn't risk hurting those they swore to protect.
----
The Lamb hadn't meant to end up at Ratau's door, but somehow their legs brought them to the lonely shack. They swayed with a pounding in their head. Their body still felt too hot and breath came slowly.
The Lamb shook their head. If they wanted to hurt their followers, what would they secretly want to do to their mentor? They cursed their fool-hearted legs for taking them there. They turned to walk away when the shack's door opened.
Ratau called, "Child, is that you?"
The Lamb stiffened. They wanted to flee, but instead they forced their body to turn around to face him with a false smile on their lips.
"Greets, Ratau." They waved. "Sorry, I thought I had time to stop by, but I was mistaken."
Ratau tilted his head, narrowed his good eye, then frowned. Before The Lamb could escape, he marched to them. The old rat pushed his pointy nose into The Lamb's face, meeting their eyes. The Lamb tried to hold his gaze, but couldn't. They fixed their sight on the open door just behind Ratau's left ear. Flunky poked his head out of the door while Klunko and Bop looked from the window.
"Something is wrong." He took hold of The Lamb's arm. "Come inside. I will shoo off my friends and we can speak--"
"No!" The Lamb ripped their arm away. They wouldn't risk being alone with Ratau. What if they hurt him? What if the monster inside wanted them to stab him or strangle him or rip his head off?
They left Ratau crying out for them as they dashed away.
----
The water of the stream was muddy from recent rainfall. The stream lapped greedily at its edges. Winged, long-legged insects danced at the surface. The murky outline of a fish stalked under the insects before it snapped its mouth out of the water to greedily eat.
The Lamb turned The Crown over in their hands. The Crown's red eye kept its gaze firmly fixed on its bearer no matter which way it was rolled in their palms.
They wished they could seek guidance from their master, but The One Who Waits did not seem to hold followers in high regards. The Lamb knew he viewed them as tools, as was his right as an ancient god, but The Lamb wasn't ancient and was not so disconnected from their mortality as to see their followers as tools.
Unlike The Bishops, at least, The One Who Waits didn't expect The Lamb's flock to burn homes and spill innocent blood in his name. He only required work and worship. The followers might be tools to him, but he wanted to keep them clean.
Or, they thought he did. What if all gods were as cruel as the Bishops—including them? Is that how only The Bishops and The One Who Waits survive the purge of gods and crown-bearers that Haro once mentioned? Was that how The Lamb was doing so well as a vessel of The Red Crown, because they harbored that cruelty inside them as well?
They bit the inside of their cheek until they tasted metal, but the thoughts kept racing through their mind, telling them what they must have hidden deep in their heart and that it was trying to claw its way to the surface.
A loud panting and rustling took The Lamb from their thoughts.
Ratau pushed aside a low hanging branch. He leaned heavily against his cane and wiped sweat from his brow.
"A run like that was easier in my younger days." He laughed dryly. The Lamb started to stand, but Ratau shot them a glare and snapped, "Don't you move now. I'll just wait for you at your cult if you do."
The Lamb froze then sighed, sinking back to the grass. Ratau ambled over. With a grunt and the popping of old joints, he settled himself beside his successor.
The pair sat in silence. One of the long-legged insects buzzed from the water and flew around them before returning. The fish made another attempt to eat its prey, but the insect dodged.
The Lamb's stomach twisted into knots. They shouldn't be alone with Ratau. It was dangerous. What if that voice wanted them to hold him under the water or slice him up or--
"If you are going to be sick, aim over there." Ratau used his cane to point The Lamb's face to the opposite side from where he sat.
"I'm sorry," they mumbled. Ratau's imploring stare pricked at their skin. They shuttered, wishing the blanket of guilt offered some reassuring warmth and not just burning shame.
Finally, they heaved a sigh.
"Can The Crown...make you think things?" They reached up and touched The Crown's hard, smooth surface.
Ratau frowned. "No, not in my experience. What makes you think it can?"
The Lamb worried their lower lip. They opened their mouth, only for the words to die on their tongue. After a beat, they tried again.
"I have had thoughts," they started, "come unbidden to me. Terrible thoughts. Thoughts of," they swallowed hard and forced the words out, "of hurting my followers."
"'Hurting'?" Ratau repeated with a furrowed brow.
"Even the smallest ones." They cringed, remembering the voice telling them to strangle the infant.
Ratau put a warm hand on their shoulder and squeezed reassuringly for them to continue. As if he released the dam, a torrent of confessions came flooding out. They admitted everything, the thoughts, the shame, the fear.
When they finished, The Lamb couldn't look at Ratau. They could not handle his judgment of them. All of Ratau's friends, his past followers, spoke highly of Ratau's kindness and how good of a leader he was. Ratau was the kind of leader The Lamb wanted to be, but never would be.
Ratau cleared his throat.
"I...see, and because of these thoughts, you think yourself a monster?"
The Lamb nodded. "I have to be. Why else would I even think such horrible things?"
Ratau held his cane out over the water. One of the insects landed on the leaf at the end. He waited before bringing the cane back towards himself. He eyed the insect then blew on it to send it off the cane and on its way.
"I don't know why—the mind is a mysterious place—but I do not think you are a monster."
The Lamb's jaw fell open. "Of course, I am! I'll be as bad as The Bishops someday..."
Ratau laughed a loud, ringing sound that startled The Lamb and the long-legged insects. He shook his head.
"Child," Ratau set his cane across his crossed legs, "if you were really a monster as bad as The Bishops, do you think you would actually care?"
The Lamb wetted their lips. "No, I suppose not."
"That's right." He nodded. "You wouldn't. The fact that you do care and that these thoughts disturb you so proves you are no monster."
The Lamb looked down at their palms. The phantom sensation holding their hands stiffly to prevent them from acting on the thoughts tingled across them.
"Perhaps," they breathed through their nose, "but how do I stop the thoughts then? I can't keep going on like this." They shook their head. "No matter how much I try, I can't get them to leave me alone. Even ignoring them makes them louder."
Ratau scratched his scalp, his fingers brushing his paper crown. He mulled on the question before his brows raised in inspiration. Ratau plucked the leaf from the end of his cane and held it out to The Lamb. They carefully took it between their fingers before turning it about. It was just a regular leaf.
"What do I do with this?" They asked.
"Hold it in front of you," he ordered, and they did so. He continued, "Now, take one of those thoughts and imagine writing the words or putting a drawing of the thought on the leaf."
The Lamb pursed their lips. They didn't want to think about the thoughts at all, let alone bring one back up, but they trusted their mentor. With a deep breath, they imagined the words "Stab her. Stab her in the chest" along with the bloody image of Lena on the leaf.
"Now what?"
Ratau gestured to the stream. "Now, let it go."
The Lamb held the leaf protectively to their chest. What if someone saw the leaf and knew--
They blushed at the idea, looking at the blank leaf in their palm. No one would see it. The thought wasn't really there.
Steeling themself, The Lamb leaned over the stream and let the leaf go. It bobbed along the current. A few of the long-legged insects landed on the leaf and floated away with it.
The Lamb blinked. They breathed deeply and freely. Some of the weight on them had lifted.
"That does feel better," they admitted, "but I don't exactly have a stream running through the grounds."
Ratau rubbed between their shoulder blades. "Just imagine it then. Take the thoughts from your mind, put it on a leaf, and send it down stream. It doesn't even have to be a stream. You can pretend its written on a sandy beach with the tide wiping it away or on a cart passing on a busy road." Ratau took a dead leaf from the ground and sent it down the stream. "Just so long as you acknowledge it, but don't give it anymore attention than it deserves.
He looked them in the eye, smiling. "They are just thoughts, nothing more. Actions are what make you a good leader or a monster or anything else."
The Lamb looked down stream. Their leaf, their thought, was already gone from sight, along with the remaining mud, leaving the stream clean and clear.
----
AN: I don't remember where I picked up the leaf and stream trick (That one event in The Kinder World app maybe?), but it's been very useful to me--and so has finding out intrusive thoughts have a name and are pretty common. Kinda cool learning something I've been suffering with since high school has ways to deal with it lol
That said, if your intrusive thoughts are causing you problems on the daily, it is best to talk to a doctor. They can be symptoms of an underlying issue like OCD, PTSD, or depression.
Summary: As Shamura leaves their fallen brother's temple in Anchordeep, they stop and visit an old friend for one last chat and to bury the hatchet.
Rating: Gen
Ships: N/A
Read Ao3
----
Shamura drifted trance-like through the sandy grounds of Anchordeep. Every breath ached like their rib cage was too small and stabbed their lungs and heart. Their body felt heavy like an enemy had wrapped thick chains and iron shackles around their wrists and ankles.
They forced a dry laugh from their constricted lungs.
Chains...
Chains started all this, didn't they?
"Chains that bind, chains that bind," they mumbled, stumbling against a pillar of coral-crusted stone. "Chains of yours made of mine."
They squeezed their eyes tight, trying to focus on anything other than the pain stabbing their chest--their breathing, the pounding in their head, anything--but shutting their eyes to the outside world forced recent memories to bleed into their mind's eye: Memories of blood-smeared stone, snapped branches, and tuffs of mossy fur; of ancient columns broken, ripped cloth, and burnt flesh; of crystals shattered, weapons cast aside, and limp fingers.
The viscera of what was left of their siblings overtook their thoughts, drowning them in memories of blood and waves of guilt.
They slumped down to the sand, holding their chest and wanting to claw open the flesh and bone to free their heart from the pain.
When Leshy died, Shamura rationalized his death. He was the youngest, the weakest. He had been coddled too much through his ascension to godhood. If he had trained more instead of sitting on his laurels, he could have won.
It was expected, Shamura had presumed, that when one of The Red Crown's vessels finally killed a Bishop, it would be Leshy to receive the fatal blow.
When news came of Heket's demise, they used logic to rationalize her end, as well. She was upset, rightfully, over Leshy, and when Heket is--was--upset and angry, she grew reckless. If she had just gone to Shamura first, instead of allowing the vessel to fight her, she would still be alive.
Now, as Shamura walked away from Kallamar's temple, they tried to rationalize his death. If Kallamar hadn't hidden away in such an obvious place... If he hadn't tried to fight alone... If he...
It didn't matter now. No 'if's or 'had's or 'could's would fix their siblings. They were dead, gone forever.
Shamura pondered how long it would take for them to die if they stayed put in that spot and allowed the coral and the sand to engulf them, leaving a statue of a sad, lonely god. Perhaps that was the fate they deserved. Swallowed up by the earth and forgotten, just like Shamura had tried to leave him…
They shook themself and clawed their way to their feet. They couldn't do that. If they were going to die, they had to die fighting. They were the god of war. Their wars started and ended in bloodshed.
Shamura shuffled along as the sky darkened into night. Stars sparkled above like the crystals that peppered Anchordeep: beautiful, cold, untouchable things.
Shamura craned their head to stare, picking out constellations, new and forgotten.
"Where do souls go, after their life meets its end?"
They had asked that of The Fifth Bishop several times and were met with the same answer each time.
"It would be easier to count the stars in the sky than explain it to you, dear sibling."
As they lowered their gaze, another star caught their eyes: a spinning piece of metal hung from the broken mast of an abandoned ship. More stars and moons spun nearby, hung from coral branches.
An ache of nostalgia gripped their stomach. When was the last time Shamura had pushed past those stars and moons and held a conversation with the being beyond? A millennium, perhaps? The two's last encounter was less a conversation and more Shamura shouting accusations and threats.
They swore they would never go past those hanging pieces of metal again, all those years ago, but now their feet slowly walked towards the stars and moons without Shamura ordering them to.
Perhaps they could bury one last hatchet.
Clauneck did not raise his head from the spread of cards before him as Shamura neared. Without waiting for an invitation, Shamura sat on their knees in front of him.
Unlike them, he hadn't changed: the same square bill, the same red eyes, the same glossy black feathers, the same wisps of blonde hair escaping his hood. Shamura set one hand over the other to stop themself from reaching up and pushing the hair back, as they had done countless times before.
Clauneck gathered the cards, shuffled the deck, then flipped the three cards at the top of the pile to show a card with a black chain, a card with tentacles spawning from an eye, and a card with a bleeding skull.
"The past," Clauneck said, running his fingers down the face of the first card, "the bonds of family forged in battle and victory, a family head doing what must be done to protect, and, yet, the blood of gods still stained the earth."
Shamura looked at the cards, then back up again without utterance.
"The present." Clauneck drew again. This time, the three cards were a sun with two lopsided eyes, a second sun blazing over a circle of ichor, and lastly a tower with a lightning bolt coming down upon it.
"A destruction of the day-to-day routine by an unending siege of malice and revenge."
Shamura gripped their long cloak tighter around themself.
"And the future." Clauneck turned over only one card, a blazing hand with an eye stared out at the sky above.
"The Hands of Rage," he intoned. "A violent wrath unleashed upon a foe, but will it be your wrath or theirs?" Finally, Clauneck looked up. He tilted his head, waiting for Shamura to respond.
Shamura reached out and touched the top of the deck. "Are you not meant to draw two more?"
Clauneck shrugged. "Is that what you want?"
They withdrew their hand with a shake of the head. Though they were certain their fate was set in stone, they did not want details of how their end would meet them.
Once, they had not believed in such things as a predetermined fate. After all, why would anyone wage a war they were destined to lose? Shamura knew better than that now. Duty, love, fear, spite, all those emotions and more drove losing combatants onto the battlefield.
"Do you believe destiny is immutable?" echoed in their head in Clauneck's ancient, low voice.
Shamura still was not sure how much of their life path had already been paved for them, though now they knew at least some had been. Was it the whole path from their first stumbling step out of the egg to their final fall in the grave? Or was the path merely a suggestion in an empty expanse? Did ravines encircle them regardless of which way they chose or were there gaps they could use to avoid the fall?
Shamura gripped their hands into fists to end the thoughts before they spiraled.
It did not matter much, not anymore. In their attempt to fight fate and prophecy, they paved the path for their end to lead to their open crypt.
Clauneck waited a moment before gathering up the cards. He began to shuffle the deck in that practiced, easy way of his. In the past, Shamura would sometimes snatch a card from the deck and ask Clauneck to explain it to them. Clauneck would always comply: pointing to the different symbols on the card, what it meant when drawn for the past, present, or future; and what power it gave the god who drew it in battle.
"Clauneck, you know when you are going to die."
It was not a question, but Clauneck answered it anyway.
"I have known since I drew my first cards." Clauneck cut the deck then put it back together. "When the sun no longer rises, when the seas are not but dust, when the tapestry of fate has been bound off, my death shall come to me."
Shamura looked down at their hands. Small, almost invisible scars left a loose net across their palms, reminders of all the hard work they put in to reach the heights where they now stood.
They traced a scar that trailed from between their thumb and pointer finger to the middle of their palm. Had it always ended so abruptly? They couldn't recall anymore.
"Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing. Five gods, one tomb…" They muttered to themself, lost in thought.
Shamura thought the prophecy had been poetic. After all, The Bishops were too strong to ever fall. Shamura and their siblings had defeated gods who ruled for eons. They all worked together to take the lands for themselves. They proved their worth against heretics and fanatics who thought all of them unworthy of their Crowns.
The tomb was the island the five of them ruled, where they would rule until, one by one, each grew weary of immortality, and they would give up their crowns and live the rest of their existences in peace.
Shamura chided themself for even thinking such a naive thought.
Clauneck slipped his deck safely into his sleeve. He put a hand on their knee.
"You do not want them, but I offer my sympathies, Shamura, for the fall of your siblings."
Shamura placed a hand over Clauneck's.
It was true. They did not want Clauneck's sympathies now any more than they wanted them back then, when he said he understood how it feels to lose a sibling in a way other than death.
Shamura, in their rage, had sent a fireball at Clauneck's tent behind him. The air filled with smoke and embers, but he remained unflinching by both the fire and the verbal assault Shamura threw at him.
They screamed insults and curses. They demanded to know why Clauneck hadn't given them warning if he knew the future was set in stone. Why hadn't he told Shamura they would lose their brilliant mind both to terrible, sharp claws and to the gnawing grief that followed in the decades after? Why hadn't he cautioned them that the chains that bound death would strain what remained of their little family just as tightly?
Why, why, why!!!???
Clauneck, however, simply shrugged. "Would you have listened?" He had asked, though they had both known the answer.
"I shall die soon," Shamura confessed, fully aware that Clauneck surely knew. "Allow me to offer an apology for how I reacted at our last meeting. Whether you had told me what we would lose or not, I would have gone through with chaining Nar--" The name caught in their throat. "...chaining The Red Crown regardless." They let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "I suppose, at the time, I simply wanted another to blame besides myself."
Clauneck laughed, a deep, rumbling, and nostalgic sound that filled Shamura with an odd comfort.
For a moment, Shamura wanted to stay there with Clauneck and talk, as they had done so often before. Shamura wanted to remain in that moment and forget the heartbreak of the world outside. They wanted to lean again their old friend's side and talk about philosophy and history; what happened to The First Ones and the names of the stars; the best plants for herbal teas and the colors of grapes; weaving patterns and...
But that would be selfish and cruel to their fallen kin.
Shamura slowly stood and then brushed the sand from their robes.
Clauneck began to reach into his sleeve. "Do you wish me to draw you a card for your upcoming battle? For old time's sake?"
Shamura shook their head. "A kind offer, but no."
He raised his brows, surprised, and Shamura turned around to hide their smile.
"It was nice to speak with you again, old friend, though it shall be our last. I am not fool enough to think I may be allowed to truly triumph over death a second time."
Clauneck hummed to himself before he told them, "We shall meet in your next life, Shamura. Some day."
Shamura snorted a laugh.
"Well, I hope I can remember you when that time comes, Clauneck," they said and started down the path to meet their fate.
-----
A/N: I have remembered recently that very early fandom had a flash in the pan moment where Shamura and Clauneck was a ship, thus, I've been thinking about their dynamic. I didn't want to write them as actual ex's here, but friends who had a falling out. Maybe I'll write something about them being in a romantic relationship one day. I've definitely drawn it before (*cough cough, follow me on tumblr or bluesky cough cough)
Summary: The clinking of chain links has an adverse effect on Narinder.
Rating: General Audiences
Pairing: If you squint, you might see some NariLamb
Content Warnings: Panic Attacks
Read it on AO3
---
The Lamb held up the blueprints next to the skeletal structure of the new missionary building. Beside them, the architect of the project stood with his chest puffed out.
Cornelius beamed at The Lamb.
"Now that the basic frames are in place, we just need to haul the trusses to the top, then we can work on installing the roofing and walls." Cornelius vibrated with excitement. This was the first project of his own design The Lamb had approved. As the yellow cat babbled on about materials, The Lamb rolled up the blueprint and stowed it away in their fleece.
The original missionary building stood as a 'welcome home' for their followers for countless years. With the exception of re-thatching the roof on occasion, The Lamb figured the sturdy building would never fall, but back then they hadn't been dealing with sin.
The destruction that came with The Rite of Wrath typically limited itself to cracked flower pots, snapped sign poles, and a broken nose or two, but, last time, the ritual brought out a wave of extreme violence from their flock. The still at the drink house had several fist-sized dents in it. Almost all of the drum circle drums needed to be reheaded. Poor old Ammit had his arm fractured in a fight.
Worst of all, however, was the destruction of the old missionary building. The flock had taken hold of the wooden planks and pried them from the frame; nails bent and popped from the boards, and the structure groaned in protest. The Lamb tried to stop them, but they weren't fast enough. Soon, the entire building collapsed, injuring many.
The replacement would be slightly bigger and much sturdier, made of a type of durable wood found in the depths of Darkwood. They knew, of course, stone would probably last even longer, but a stone structure seemed so cold for the returning followers to rest at--and, admittedly, they enjoyed the look of thick wood much more than stone.
"Making progress, I see."
The Lamb turned to see Narinder strolling towards them. He wore that bored expression he liked to have on when he was trying to seem aloof about something he was interested in. The Lamb hid their smile by pretending to wipe sweat from their face.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Narinder!" Cornelius bobbed his head at him. "Are you here to help bring the trusses up?"
"No." Narinder rolled his eyes. "Unlike all of you, physical labor is well below me."
The Lamb shot Narinder a perturbed look, but Cornelius didn't seem bothered by the insult. Instead, Cornelius called out to the other workers to gather so he could explain the process of raising the trusses.
Narinder's ear twitched. "You know," he started in a judgy tone, "the missionary for <i>my</i> cult was much grander than this." He gestured to the frames. "It was much bigger and could comfortably accommodate visiting missionaries and travelers from my siblings' cults as well. Of course, I suppose you have it much easier than I. You don't have anyone to accommodate. Lucky little thing you are." He smirked at them.
The Lamb let the stab at their godhood slide. Narinder had improved when talking about The Bishops' and his shared past without scowling or cursing his siblings' graves. Narinder's growth from resentment of his past and current situation to apathy was slow, but The Lamb would take any bit of it if it meant their past god was even a little happier in the present.
"It'll be a nice, cozy building. That's all that matters," The Lamb said as the workers gathered around to listen to Cornelius.
Cornelius looked over the other workers, nodding his head as he counted them.
"Where's...Julen?" He asked when he came up one worker short. The Lamb scanned the crowd and found that, yes, the new follower, Julen, was absent. They hoped she hadn't wandered off. Julen had strength to spare, but her work ethic was lacking. More than once, they had found her lazing away when she had been assigned to work at the lumberyard or stone mine. They had hoped after the threat of punishment they issued last time they caught her lollygagging, she wouldn't run off as much.
"I'm here!" Julen waved as she ran closer. She carried a wooden box at her side. The Lamb could not recall what was in the box, but knew it came from the lumberyard.
Cornelius frowned. "What were you doing? We're about to get started."
She reached into the box at her hip and dug around. "I saw these while I was looking for nails and thought they'd make raising the trusses easier."
The Lamb's blood ran cold as Julen pulled out a set of chains from the box. The links clicked and clinked against each other as she shook them.
From beside them, Narinder's body went stiff. He sucked in a breath. His pin-prick eyes fixed on the clinking chain as if it were a sword held to his throat.
The Lamb sprang forward, slapping the chain from Julen's hands. Julen flinched back, dropping the whole box. The chains, bent nails, and bits of scrap metal clattered together as they tumbled out of the box onto the ground.
The Lamb winced. They turned towards Narinder. Panic painted his features. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he gasped in shallow breaths. Narinder took a shaking step back. His gaze never left the chain on the ground.
Before The Lamb could stop him, Narinder spun on his heels and bolted away.
Those in attendance who knew what Narinder had been before his indoctrination exchanged pitiful looks with one another. The few who did not know tilted their heads or furrowed their brows in confusion.
Julen chewed her lip nervously.
Cornelius stepped forward, his shoulders slumped.
"I am so sorry, my lamb. I--"
The Lamb held up a hand to silence him. "I don't care what you do with the rest of it, but take the chains and bring them to the temple. I'll keep them there until I can find a better spot to store them until when they are needed."
Cornelius nodded stiffly.
Without another word, The Lamb left in the direction Narinder ran off in.
---
Narinder didn't know that The Lamb knew most of his hiding places—and The Lamb wanted to keep it that way—but, at that moment, they were too worried about Narinder to care as they searched around the mausoleum and behind the seed silo.
The Lamb balanced a top of the temple roof as they looked for any sign of the black cat hiding away.
Finally, they noticed a familiar set of ears peaking out from behind the drink house bar.
The Lamb slid down the roof and leapt off in one smooth motion before they sped towards the drink house.
Even if The Lamb hadn't known Narinder was there, his heavy breathing would have given him away. The Lamb slowly tiptoed around the bar to find Narinder curled into a tight ball with his arms and tail wrapped protectively around his legs and head tucked behind his knees. His whole body trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. The wine glasses and beer tankards stored under the bar rattled with him as if sharing his panic.
The Lamb cleared their throat to make their presence known, waited for his ear to twitch in acknowledgment, then slowly, carefully, moved closer to him.
"Narinder?" They said, crouching down in front of him.
He didn't respond.
Spots of blood stained the white fabric of his sleeves where his claws dug through to the tender flesh below. The Lamb frowned.
"I'm going to touch you now," they whispered, slipping their fingers under Narinder's fingers to pry the claws away from his arms. Once no longer gripping the fabric, he curled his hands into tight fists. The Lamb wasn't sure that was any better, but let it be.
"It's alright," they soothed, placing one hand on his shoulder. "Do you know where you are?"
Narinder growled.
"I'm not stupid, Damned Lamb."
Well, that answered that.
"I know you're not." The Lamb squeezed his shoulder. "Can you breathe with me? In..." They took a deep breath through their nose. "Hold..." They held their breath for a few heartbeats. "And out..." They slowly let the breath out through their mouth. "In...Hold...Out...In...Hold...Out...."
After a moment, Narinder began to mimic The Lamb's steady breathing, filling his lungs with air, holding it, then releasing.
Narinder wasn't the first, or the last, member of The Lamb's flock to have panic attacks arise from something innocuous. Sometimes it was a hand raised a little too quickly, the smell of burnt meat, the rumble of thunder, or a flash of lightning, and for Narinder, it was the sound of clinking metal.
"There we go." The Lamb stroked his shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe now, Narinder. I won't let anyone hurt you."
Narinder raised his face from behind his knees. He glared at them with shining, wet eyes.
"I don't need your protection or help," he snapped, pushing The Lamb away. They stumbled back with their elbow adding another dent to the drink-filled still behind the bar. Narinder scrambled to his feet, back pressed against the counter. He narrowed his eyes venomously then hauled himself over the bar and to the other side.
The Lamb pulled themself up to watch Narinder storm away, his tail lashing the ground.
---
The Lamb didn't usually sleep. They didn't need to with The Crown, but after the events of the day, drifting off into unconsciousness sounded much more appealing than doing their nightly rounds of queuing the refineries and gathering devotion.
At least, the roof of the missionary was on. When they returned to the building site, Cornelius begged for forgiveness and promised he would do better about telling The Lamb if chains were needed for a project so they could send Narinder off for the day.
The Lamb, of course, forgave him. It hadn't been his fault after all.
Julen nearly burst into tears as she pleaded with The Lamb not to punish her. Begrudgingly, The Lamb gave her mercy. Julen didn't know that Narinder had spent more than a thousand years trapped by chains.
The Lamb rubbed their wrist.
When The Bishops' forces finally captured them, they had been shackled the moment the guards dragged them through the jail's door. They remembered the cold metal that bit into their bony wrists and how the extra weight made their movements slow and unsteady as they trudged to their execution.
The Lamb's wrist had been shackled for but a week or so. They couldn't imagine what it would be like to have their wrists and body bound for a thousand years—and they had tried, many times before.
The Lamb pushed open the flap to their tent only to freeze. Someone was already inside. Their instincts kicked in, and The Crown instantly flew into their hand in the form of a sword as their eyes glowed a blood red.
From the other side of the tent, Narinder blinked, both unthreatened and unimpressed.
"Put that fickle creature back on your head." He readjusted the pillow behind him and then settled back down comfortably.
As The Lamb returned their crown to their head, The Crown seemed to roll its eyes at its past master.
"What are you doing here?" The Lamb asked.
Narinder took a breath through his nose, held it for a few heartbeats, then slowly let it out through his mouth.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" He ran his fingers over the crescent marks his claws left on his palm. "A being once so great and mighty as I reduced to a shaking mess because of some metal clinking together. I hate it. I hate knowing in my head that I will never be chained in The Gateway again—that I'm free from that torment—and yet..."
He scoffed. "You seem to be well versed in such things, Lamb, tell me," he looked up and met their eyes, "how do I stop this? What do I have to do so I no longer feel like I'm back in The Gateway again every time I hear that clinking or feel cold metal on my arms?"
The Lamb sat down on their knees next to Narinder. They smoothed out their fleece as they tried to pick out the right words to say.
"I'm not sure I have an answer you'll like," they confessed, "but when other followers are dealing with panic attacks from a traumatic experience, talking about it helped a lot."
Narinder cringed. "You are correct. I don't like that."
The Lamb smiled sympathetically. "You don't have to talk about it with me. You're friends with Witness Astaroth, aren't you? She would be a good candidate to talk to."
From what The Lamb had seen, Narinder did enjoy Astaroth's company, and they knew Astaroth had the most emotional intelligence of all her siblings. Save for The Lamb themself, she was the best person to listen to Narinder's woes and worries.
Narinder grunted in response, looking dejectedly to the side.
"You could try exposing yourself to them in small doses, the noise and feeling, that is," The Lamb offered. "You can go somewhere you feel safe with someone you trust and, for just a bit, listen to the chains or touch them. That helps sometimes." They paused, then added, "In time, it will get better. I promise it will. It may take another thousand years, but soon you will be able to handle the sounds of clinking chains without your body feeling threatened."
Narinder slumped farther down into the pillow, crossing his arms over his chest like an indigent child. He wanted a simple, easy answer. The Lamb wished they could give him one.
Despite all that had happened between them, The Lamb had worshiped Narinder as their god. They sang his praises in sermons and catered to his whims of sacrifices and offerings. They passed hours at a time vying for his praise in The Gateway with stories of their latest battles against The Bishops' cultists. They spent nearly two and a half centuries working for his approval, so no matter what happened between the two of them, deep down, The Lamb wanted him to be happy, both with his new life and with them.
The Lamb scooted closer to rest a hand on his arm. When he glanced over at them, they smiled.
He rolled his eyes and stood. Narinder held out a hand for The Lamb to take. The Lamb set their palm against his, only to be pulled to their feet and have Narinder wrap his arms around them.
"Your constant need for positivity is sickening. You must know that, yes?"
"So you've told me."
The two stayed like that for several long moments. Narinder breathed deeply the scent of their wool, and The Lamb listened to the thumping of his heart.
"I'll talk to Astaroth," he muttered against their wool before pushing them gently away to head to the door. "You'd be too pleased with yourself if I told everything to you."
The Lamb nodded but did not dispute that.
----
A cheer rose up as The Lamb announced the completion of the missionary building. They soaked in the moment as the faith of the followers grew with the newest construction. Some of the workers hoisted Cornelius up from where he stood by The Lamb's side onto their shoulders. The Lamb stepped to the side to let them chant and celebrate the team's hard work.
Out of the corner of their eye, they noticed Narinder leaning against a tree. They hadn't tried to speak to Narinder again since he showed up at their tent two nights prior. The Lamb knew Narinder well enough to know they should give him space to process his feelings and their advice.
After a moment, The Lamb broke off from the crowd and headed towards him. As they neared, they heard his deep voice.
"...I saw the fear in their eyes, how scared they were of my power, and yet I still foolishly believed that they would let me out after a few decades, but decades turned to centuries, and centuries to a millennium, and still I was left there."
Witness Astaroth leaned against the other side of the tree as she nodded at his words.
"I think I get that. When this island was cut off from the mainland, I thought the other witnesses would come from there to help us all somehow, but they never did," she said. "It hurts being left alone by people who are supposed to care about you."
The Lamb wanted to eavesdrop and learn more about the inner workings of the being who was once their beloved god, but they forced themself to stop, breathe in slowly, hold it, and let it out, and leave Narinder to his healing.
Summary: The clinking of chain links has an adverse effect on Narinder.
Rating: General Audiences
Pairing: If you squint, you might see some NariLamb
Content Warnings: Panic Attacks
Read it on AO3
---
The Lamb held up the blueprints next to the skeletal structure of the new missionary building. Beside them, the architect of the project stood with his chest puffed out.
Cornelius beamed at The Lamb.
"Now that the basic frames are in place, we just need to haul the trusses to the top, then we can work on installing the roofing and walls." Cornelius vibrated with excitement. This was the first project of his own design The Lamb had approved. As the yellow cat babbled on about materials, The Lamb rolled up the blueprint and stowed it away in their fleece.
The original missionary building stood as a 'welcome home' for their followers for countless years. With the exception of re-thatching the roof on occasion, The Lamb figured the sturdy building would never fall, but back then they hadn't been dealing with sin.
The destruction that came with The Rite of Wrath typically limited itself to cracked flower pots, snapped sign poles, and a broken nose or two, but, last time, the ritual brought out a wave of extreme violence from their flock. The still at the drink house had several fist-sized dents in it. Almost all of the drum circle drums needed to be reheaded. Poor old Ammit had his arm fractured in a fight.
Worst of all, however, was the destruction of the old missionary building. The flock had taken hold of the wooden planks and pried them from the frame; nails bent and popped from the boards, and the structure groaned in protest. The Lamb tried to stop them, but they weren't fast enough. Soon, the entire building collapsed, injuring many.
The replacement would be slightly bigger and much sturdier, made of a type of durable wood found in the depths of Darkwood. They knew, of course, stone would probably last even longer, but a stone structure seemed so cold for the returning followers to rest at--and, admittedly, they enjoyed the look of thick wood much more than stone.
"Making progress, I see."
The Lamb turned to see Narinder strolling towards them. He wore that bored expression he liked to have on when he was trying to seem aloof about something he was interested in. The Lamb hid their smile by pretending to wipe sweat from their face.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Narinder!" Cornelius bobbed his head at him. "Are you here to help bring the trusses up?"
"No." Narinder rolled his eyes. "Unlike all of you, physical labor is well below me."
The Lamb shot Narinder a perturbed look, but Cornelius didn't seem bothered by the insult. Instead, Cornelius called out to the other workers to gather so he could explain the process of raising the trusses.
Narinder's ear twitched. "You know," he started in a judgy tone, "the missionary for <i>my</i> cult was much grander than this." He gestured to the frames. "It was much bigger and could comfortably accommodate visiting missionaries and travelers from my siblings' cults as well. Of course, I suppose you have it much easier than I. You don't have anyone to accommodate. Lucky little thing you are." He smirked at them.
The Lamb let the stab at their godhood slide. Narinder had improved when talking about The Bishops' and his shared past without scowling or cursing his siblings' graves. Narinder's growth from resentment of his past and current situation to apathy was slow, but The Lamb would take any bit of it if it meant their past god was even a little happier in the present.
"It'll be a nice, cozy building. That's all that matters," The Lamb said as the workers gathered around to listen to Cornelius.
Cornelius looked over the other workers, nodding his head as he counted them.
"Where's...Julen?" He asked when he came up one worker short. The Lamb scanned the crowd and found that, yes, the new follower, Julen, was absent. They hoped she hadn't wandered off. Julen had strength to spare, but her work ethic was lacking. More than once, they had found her lazing away when she had been assigned to work at the lumberyard or stone mine. They had hoped after the threat of punishment they issued last time they caught her lollygagging, she wouldn't run off as much.
"I'm here!" Julen waved as she ran closer. She carried a wooden box at her side. The Lamb could not recall what was in the box, but knew it came from the lumberyard.
Cornelius frowned. "What were you doing? We're about to get started."
She reached into the box at her hip and dug around. "I saw these while I was looking for nails and thought they'd make raising the trusses easier."
The Lamb's blood ran cold as Julen pulled out a set of chains from the box. The links clicked and clinked against each other as she shook them.
From beside them, Narinder's body went stiff. He sucked in a breath. His pin-prick eyes fixed on the clinking chain as if it were a sword held to his throat.
The Lamb sprang forward, slapping the chain from Julen's hands. Julen flinched back, dropping the whole box. The chains, bent nails, and bits of scrap metal clattered together as they tumbled out of the box onto the ground.
The Lamb winced. They turned towards Narinder. Panic painted his features. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he gasped in shallow breaths. Narinder took a shaking step back. His gaze never left the chain on the ground.
Before The Lamb could stop him, Narinder spun on his heels and bolted away.
Those in attendance who knew what Narinder had been before his indoctrination exchanged pitiful looks with one another. The few who did not know tilted their heads or furrowed their brows in confusion.
Julen chewed her lip nervously.
Cornelius stepped forward, his shoulders slumped.
"I am so sorry, my lamb. I--"
The Lamb held up a hand to silence him. "I don't care what you do with the rest of it, but take the chains and bring them to the temple. I'll keep them there until I can find a better spot to store them until when they are needed."
Cornelius nodded stiffly.
Without another word, The Lamb left in the direction Narinder ran off in.
---
Narinder didn't know that The Lamb knew most of his hiding places—and The Lamb wanted to keep it that way—but, at that moment, they were too worried about Narinder to care as they searched around the mausoleum and behind the seed silo.
The Lamb balanced a top of the temple roof as they looked for any sign of the black cat hiding away.
Finally, they noticed a familiar set of ears peaking out from behind the drink house bar.
The Lamb slid down the roof and leapt off in one smooth motion before they sped towards the drink house.
Even if The Lamb hadn't known Narinder was there, his heavy breathing would have given him away. The Lamb slowly tiptoed around the bar to find Narinder curled into a tight ball with his arms and tail wrapped protectively around his legs and head tucked behind his knees. His whole body trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. The wine glasses and beer tankards stored under the bar rattled with him as if sharing his panic.
The Lamb cleared their throat to make their presence known, waited for his ear to twitch in acknowledgment, then slowly, carefully, moved closer to him.
"Narinder?" They said, crouching down in front of him.
He didn't respond.
Spots of blood stained the white fabric of his sleeves where his claws dug through to the tender flesh below. The Lamb frowned.
"I'm going to touch you now," they whispered, slipping their fingers under Narinder's fingers to pry the claws away from his arms. Once no longer gripping the fabric, he curled his hands into tight fists. The Lamb wasn't sure that was any better, but let it be.
"It's alright," they soothed, placing one hand on his shoulder. "Do you know where you are?"
Narinder growled.
"I'm not stupid, Damned Lamb."
Well, that answered that.
"I know you're not." The Lamb squeezed his shoulder. "Can you breathe with me? In..." They took a deep breath through their nose. "Hold..." They held their breath for a few heartbeats. "And out..." They slowly let the breath out through their mouth. "In...Hold...Out...In...Hold...Out...."
After a moment, Narinder began to mimic The Lamb's steady breathing, filling his lungs with air, holding it, then releasing.
Narinder wasn't the first, or the last, member of The Lamb's flock to have panic attacks arise from something innocuous. Sometimes it was a hand raised a little too quickly, the smell of burnt meat, the rumble of thunder, or a flash of lightning, and for Narinder, it was the sound of clinking metal.
"There we go." The Lamb stroked his shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe now, Narinder. I won't let anyone hurt you."
Narinder raised his face from behind his knees. He glared at them with shining, wet eyes.
"I don't need your protection or help," he snapped, pushing The Lamb away. They stumbled back with their elbow adding another dent to the drink-filled still behind the bar. Narinder scrambled to his feet, back pressed against the counter. He narrowed his eyes venomously then hauled himself over the bar and to the other side.
The Lamb pulled themself up to watch Narinder storm away, his tail lashing the ground.
---
The Lamb didn't usually sleep. They didn't need to with The Crown, but after the events of the day, drifting off into unconsciousness sounded much more appealing than doing their nightly rounds of queuing the refineries and gathering devotion.
At least, the roof of the missionary was on. When they returned to the building site, Cornelius begged for forgiveness and promised he would do better about telling The Lamb if chains were needed for a project so they could send Narinder off for the day.
The Lamb, of course, forgave him. It hadn't been his fault after all.
Julen nearly burst into tears as she pleaded with The Lamb not to punish her. Begrudgingly, The Lamb gave her mercy. Julen didn't know that Narinder had spent more than a thousand years trapped by chains.
The Lamb rubbed their wrist.
When The Bishops' forces finally captured them, they had been shackled the moment the guards dragged them through the jail's door. They remembered the cold metal that bit into their bony wrists and how the extra weight made their movements slow and unsteady as they trudged to their execution.
The Lamb's wrist had been shackled for but a week or so. They couldn't imagine what it would be like to have their wrists and body bound for a thousand years—and they had tried, many times before.
The Lamb pushed open the flap to their tent only to freeze. Someone was already inside. Their instincts kicked in, and The Crown instantly flew into their hand in the form of a sword as their eyes glowed a blood red.
From the other side of the tent, Narinder blinked, both unthreatened and unimpressed.
"Put that fickle creature back on your head." He readjusted the pillow behind him and then settled back down comfortably.
As The Lamb returned their crown to their head, The Crown seemed to roll its eyes at its past master.
"What are you doing here?" The Lamb asked.
Narinder took a breath through his nose, held it for a few heartbeats, then slowly let it out through his mouth.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" He ran his fingers over the crescent marks his claws left on his palm. "A being once so great and mighty as I reduced to a shaking mess because of some metal clinking together. I hate it. I hate knowing in my head that I will never be chained in The Gateway again—that I'm free from that torment—and yet..."
He scoffed. "You seem to be well versed in such things, Lamb, tell me," he looked up and met their eyes, "how do I stop this? What do I have to do so I no longer feel like I'm back in The Gateway again every time I hear that clinking or feel cold metal on my arms?"
The Lamb sat down on their knees next to Narinder. They smoothed out their fleece as they tried to pick out the right words to say.
"I'm not sure I have an answer you'll like," they confessed, "but when other followers are dealing with panic attacks from a traumatic experience, talking about it helped a lot."
Narinder cringed. "You are correct. I don't like that."
The Lamb smiled sympathetically. "You don't have to talk about it with me. You're friends with Witness Astaroth, aren't you? She would be a good candidate to talk to."
From what The Lamb had seen, Narinder did enjoy Astaroth's company, and they knew Astaroth had the most emotional intelligence of all her siblings. Save for The Lamb themself, she was the best person to listen to Narinder's woes and worries.
Narinder grunted in response, looking dejectedly to the side.
"You could try exposing yourself to them in small doses, the noise and feeling, that is," The Lamb offered. "You can go somewhere you feel safe with someone you trust and, for just a bit, listen to the chains or touch them. That helps sometimes." They paused, then added, "In time, it will get better. I promise it will. It may take another thousand years, but soon you will be able to handle the sounds of clinking chains without your body feeling threatened."
Narinder slumped farther down into the pillow, crossing his arms over his chest like an indigent child. He wanted a simple, easy answer. The Lamb wished they could give him one.
Despite all that had happened between them, The Lamb had worshiped Narinder as their god. They sang his praises in sermons and catered to his whims of sacrifices and offerings. They passed hours at a time vying for his praise in The Gateway with stories of their latest battles against The Bishops' cultists. They spent nearly two and a half centuries working for his approval, so no matter what happened between the two of them, deep down, The Lamb wanted him to be happy, both with his new life and with them.
The Lamb scooted closer to rest a hand on his arm. When he glanced over at them, they smiled.
He rolled his eyes and stood. Narinder held out a hand for The Lamb to take. The Lamb set their palm against his, only to be pulled to their feet and have Narinder wrap his arms around them.
"Your constant need for positivity is sickening. You must know that, yes?"
"So you've told me."
The two stayed like that for several long moments. Narinder breathed deeply the scent of their wool, and The Lamb listened to the thumping of his heart.
"I'll talk to Astaroth," he muttered against their wool before pushing them gently away to head to the door. "You'd be too pleased with yourself if I told everything to you."
The Lamb nodded but did not dispute that.
----
A cheer rose up as The Lamb announced the completion of the missionary building. They soaked in the moment as the faith of the followers grew with the newest construction. Some of the workers hoisted Cornelius up from where he stood by The Lamb's side onto their shoulders. The Lamb stepped to the side to let them chant and celebrate the team's hard work.
Out of the corner of their eye, they noticed Narinder leaning against a tree. They hadn't tried to speak to Narinder again since he showed up at their tent two nights prior. The Lamb knew Narinder well enough to know they should give him space to process his feelings and their advice.
After a moment, The Lamb broke off from the crowd and headed towards him. As they neared, they heard his deep voice.
"...I saw the fear in their eyes, how scared they were of my power, and yet I still foolishly believed that they would let me out after a few decades, but decades turned to centuries, and centuries to a millennium, and still I was left there."
Witness Astaroth leaned against the other side of the tree as she nodded at his words.
"I think I get that. When this island was cut off from the mainland, I thought the other witnesses would come from there to help us all somehow, but they never did," she said. "It hurts being left alone by people who are supposed to care about you."
The Lamb wanted to eavesdrop and learn more about the inner workings of the being who was once their beloved god, but they forced themself to stop, breathe in slowly, hold it, and let it out, and leave Narinder to his healing.
Title: Bleeding Wounds
Summary: The Yellow Cat, Cornelius, sees Leshy without his bandages on for the first time.
Rating: T, for the swears
Ships: LeshyCat
Other: For @aniflowersartblog ' LeshCat-pril, week 3, injuries. Short fic. Barely any editing. We post the second drafts like men!
Read it on Ao3
---
Cornelius paced outside the camellia encircled shelter. He tapped his foot impenitently. The pleasant floral scent wasn't enough to curb even an ounce of his annoyance. The temple bell rang out twice, announcing that the sermon would be starting soon. He gritted his teeth, tail lashing the grass.
He thought Leshy was past this skipping the daily sermon thing! With a huff, he knocked his knuckles against the wooden panels of the shelter.
"Leshy! Leshy, hurry up!" He shouted. "Do you need help getting out of bed?"
It wouldn't be the first time, but at least this time Cornelius wasn't being held captive in bed by his lover's arms, those nice, sturdy, warm arms… He shook the indulgent thought from his mind. He was not going to get yelled at because of Leshy.
"No! I'm fine!" Leshy snapped back.
At least he was awake. That was something.
"Well, hurry up!" Cornelius grumbled. He'd heard a rumor that today The Lamb planned to do the fight pit, and he didn't dare miss the carnage of two combats duking it out. He considered pointing this out to Leshy, but decided against it. Leshy enjoyed the crunching of a fist to a nose as much as anyone, but without the added entertainment of name-calling and ad hominems, the fight pit didn't interest him as much as bar fights.
From inside, Cornelius heard shuffling and quiet swears. After another few moments, right before Cornelius was about to burst open the curtain and drag Leshy out by his tail, Leshy groaned loudly.
"Fucking dammit!" He cried. "Ok, Cor, come in here and help me. If you need to puke, do it outside, though."
Cornelius raised his eyebrows. Puke? What could Leshy mean by that? He knew Cornelius had a strong stomach. After all, he was the one who praised Cornelius with an "Oh, fuck yeah! That's my boy toy!" for eating the whole bowl of that chewy, grey-green, mystery meat dish that Leshy either made or found--he never admitted with which.
He still owes me coin for that… Cornelius thought as he lifted the curtains to step inside.
Leshy scowled at the ground of his uncharacteristically messy shelter. The bandages that he always wore were no where to be seen, leaving his face exposed. Cornelius nearly took a step back, but forced himself to stay in the doorway and take in the scene.
Four deep wounds tore across his face, blood oozing from them as if they happened just before Cornelius stepped in. The wounds slashed across five eye sockets, each as empty as a field after a wildfire. Blood seeped from the sockets like dark red tears down his face.
"Help me find my clean bandages," Leshy ordered, wiping blood from his around his mouth with his arm. "I had those two kids that always bother me bring them here yesterday, but I never told them where to leave them."
Cornelius nodded in understanding as his stomach did flips in his belly. the kids, Len and Sparky, had been chasing Leshy around all the day before, begging to be played with. Cornelius had been the one to suggest he assign them a menial task to distract them so Leshy and he could enjoy some time alone.
Cornelius looked around the shelter. Leshy had already turned the whole thing upside down. The heap of stolen blankets he slept on was scattered; quilts and large, raw-edge squares of fabric covered the ground like grass. The the short desk Cor made him as a gift was on its side, the contents stacked precariously next to it.
As Leshy felt around the ground, Cornelius looked over his shoulder to see the pristine, white bandages hanging from a nail right behind him.
Cornelius carefully stepped around Leshy and reached out for the bandages, though his eyes never left Leshy's face.
"Here. I have them," he said, praying Leshy didn't hear the quake in his voice.
"About time!" Leshy held up his hand. "Give them to me.
"Do you need help?" Cornelius offered without thinking.
Leshy paused, titled his head, then snorted. "I've been changed these damned things for more than a thousand years. Give me more credit than that." He gripped his hand around the bandages the moment Cornelius dropped them in his palm.
As Leshy began to wrap the bandages around his bleeding wounds, Cornelius tried to force his gaze away, but not matter what he focused on, his eyes went back to the empty sockets and seeping blood.
When he was part of The Darkwood cult fifteen years ago, he had been told that Bishop Leshy lost his eyes in a glorious battle defending The Old Faith from a heretic that wanted to destroy it. Of course, after his escape from The Darkwood cult and indoctrination into The Lamb's, Cornelius knew the truth. Leshy had been the heretic for fighting against the will of The Red Crown, trying to deny its previous owner the right to use his power how he saw fit.
The Lamb in their sermons presented the wounds inflicted upon the Bishops as a just and proper punishment for chaining the god who saved The Lamb from slaughter, but despite that, Cornelius found his chest aching for Leshy.
"Wounds that always bleed," he muttered to himself as he watched the blood stain the new bandages.
Leshy froze with the last of his bandages half tucked in to place.
"What was that?"
Cornelius started, blushing. "Oh, nothing, nothing, it's just…" He frowned, trying to figure out a way to cover his tracks. He tried not to talk about Leshy's past. It was an uncomfortable topic knowing he was whispering sweet nothings or sneaking off at night with someone who had hurt so badly the god that saved Cornelius' life from a sacrificial blade.
Leshy snickered, finishing up. He pulled the leafs free from the bandages so they popped out at the top of the wrappings.
"What? Did you expect my eyes were just blind?"
"No, of course not!" Cornelius scoffed. "You wouldn't need bandages if you were just blind."
Leshy nodded. "Then, lemme guess, you just thought dearest Nari just," he hooked his thumb in his cheek and pulled it out with a pop sound, "popped them out?"
Cornelius shuffled, staring at his own claws. He had, actually. It never occurred to him that Leshy's eyes had been torn out by Disciple Narinder's own claws, which were so uncomfortably like Cornelius' own. He shook the thought from his head. It was hard to see Leshy as a god, but even harder to see Disciple Narinder as one. Thinking too much on either made his head hurt.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"What? Why? I think it's funny." Leshy pinched his thumbs and pointer fingers together. "Imagine if Narinder did pop them out instead of clawing them. My head around have been flat."
Cornelius sucked in a breath at the thought, and Leshy flinched.
"Yeah, ah, bad joke, I guess." He chuckled without mirth. "Sorry. If I don't joke about what happen sometimes, I might cry, and I swore to my sister I wouldn't give Narinder any more tears."
Leshy's face twisted suddenly in a emotion Cornelius couldn't quite place. He touched the injuries hidden just under the thin wrapping of bandages and pursed his lips.
"The last thing I saw with my real eyes were Narinder's claws. The last thing I saw with my eye through The Green Crown was Narinder's usurper bringing a hammer down on my skull." Leshy's hand fell limply to his side. "Despite having been handed down judgement twice by The Red Crown, I still have these ugly, damnable wounds constantly bleeding and aching." He lowered his head. "And the only sibling I have here is the egotistical pussy that gave them to me."
Before Cornelius could reply, Leshy jumped up and shook his whole body. "But enough of this lousy emotional shit. I think we have time to sneak in at the tail end of The Little Lamb's sermon. It counts, and The Lamb won't yell at me!" He started to pick his way through the mess he made towards the door when Cornelius grabbed his wrist.
He pulled Leshy into a hug and squeezed him tightly. He kissed the top of his head and breathed deeply the forest scent that somehow still clung to him.
"I'll take the blame," he mumbled. "Why don't we just…stay here for a bit? I think you could use it."
Thinking or talking about what Leshy had been, the things he did or that happened to him a millennia ago, was too much. It made Cornelius' head spin and his stomach twist with emotions he didn't want to face. He would rather forget he or Leshy ever existed outside The Paradise that The Lamb created, but he knew that wasn't possible. He couldn't fix the wounds Leshy received in righteous judgement, but he could make sure he didn't have to suffer alone.
Leshy paused then muttered into Cornelius' chest. "I don't appreciate pity, Cor," he sighed, "but I'll accept it this time, since it's you."
--
AN: A short fic, but the comic version of this didn't turn out how I wanted so…switcheroo from last week, I guess? Anyway, Cor very much is a 'we're going to put these complicated feelings about my boyfriend doing war crimes and other terrible things into this little drawer in the back of our head and just not talk about it" kind of guy. Leshy is a 'the less I have to think about how my family fell apart, the less it will hurt so we're gonna ignore it with jokes and japes' guy.
Summary: Narinder goes to pester Kallamar at the Healing Bay.
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: N/A
AO3 Upload
When The Lamb wandered towards Narinder's sunning spot, Narinder pulled his robe's hood down over his face. The Lamb would understand he wished to be left alone to enjoy the nice sun and did not want to be roped into whatever task they had on hand.
The Lamb plopped next to him with a noisy sigh.
Or perhaps not…
"Your older brother is…" they paused momentarily to gather their thoughts, "a bit much."
"You can say 'annoying,'" Narinder grumbled, adjusting his hood so only one of his three eyes peeked out towards The Lamb.
"I said he's 'a bit much,' not 'annoying'."
"Are those not the same?"
"Not the point." The Lamb rubbed their temples with the heel of their palms.
"Then what is the point? If you are here to bemoan your mistake of bringing him to the cult, take it elsewhere. I tried to warn you."
"I'm not." The Lamb jutted out their chin. "I'm being nice and giving you an update how your older brother is doing."
Narinder didn't want any updates on Kallamar. He wanted to lounge in the sun until he had to go prepare the temple for the evening's sermon.
The Lamb said, "Giving you and your siblings specific jobs seems to have helped you all adjust faster to mortal life."
Narinder conceded this fact with a slight nod of his head.
Leshy lived for the drama and fighting he encountered at the drink house. Nearly every other day, his youngest brother had some tale to tell of the night prior where he had to step in and calm down a particularly nasty argument—or goaded the fight into continuing, depending on how he was feeling.
As for Heket, she enjoyed cultivating the garden plants. If Narinder stood up from his sunning spot, he could easily see the sizable pumpkin his sister had been babying for the last month and a half.
"You gave a job to Cowardly Kallamar then?" Narinder smirked. "What do you have him doing? Scaring off birds with his shaking?"
"I brought him to the healing bay," The Lamb explained. "He was the god of sickness, so he must know what helps the sick, too."
Narinder made a noise of agreement, then added, "Let me take a guess: He spent ten minutes bragging about how true that was and telling you that you are a fool for not realizing it sooner?"
The Lamb slumped down into the grass. "Five minutes, but, yes, more or less."
"He was going through the herbs and tinctures when I left, " The Lamb continued. "I'm sure he will have a list of complaints about what we have and don't have when he is done." They threw their arm over their face with a groan.
Kallamar was insufferable. He had always been insufferable…and vain and annoying and a coward and--
Narinder knew he would. Unless Kallamar was in his own temple in Anchordeep, he would criticize and complain about every little thing, from how the bottles were stored to how the poultices were mixed.
Narinder stood, wiping the grass off his robes. "I will go check on him."
He had barely taken a step when The Lamb grabbed his ankle. "Don't go harass him. He needs time to adjust. You all did. Besides, I just brought him back from the dead. I don't want to waste bones doing it again so soon."
With a snort, Narinder pulled his leg away. He adjusted to being in this weak, ungodly body quickly. It only took him a week to remember he had to eat food and drink water every day.
"I won't make him cry," he promised, though he wasn't sure he would be able to keep it.
The Lamb sent a pointed look at Narinder, a wordless warning not to be a jackass.
Narinder rolled his eyes and started toward the healing bay.
Kallamar did not know that bothersome lamb had given him a Sisyphean task! Kallamar took a cracked bottle from the shelf and turned it over in his hand. Brittle leaves rattled against each other in the bottle.
It seemed half the bottles Kallamar had pawed through were like that. They were cracked, cloudy, dirty, or all three at once. Much of their contents had turned to dust or evaporated away to nothingness—completely useless!
How did that lamb keep a cult running with their medical supplies in shambles like this?
No wonder it took so long for Kallamar to heal when The Lamb forced him to join their pathetic cult.
Kallamar pinched the cork and pulled. Instead of popping out of the bottleneck, the top of the bottle snapped off at the crack near the base of the neck.
Kallamar looked from one part of the bottle to the other before heaving a sigh. He set the broken bottle top to the side then dumped the leaves into his palm to examine.
Kallamar jumped from the warm breath on his shoulder. The bottom of the bottle fell to the floor and, by some miracle, it didn't shatter.
When he spun around, he found himself face to face with death itself—his little brother, Narinder. No, no, not death. Not anymore. Kallamar had to remind himself that Narinder didn't have the crown. He held no more power than Kallamar, Heket, or Leshy. He was a lowly, earthly follower now.
Narinder raised his eyebrows before pointing back down at Kallamar's hand.
He said something, but Kallamar found himself still too shaken to pay attention enough to see what was said.
"W-what?" He stammered.
"Raspberry leaves," Narinder repeated, pointing again to Kallamar's clenched hand.
Kallamar opened his palm. He had accidentally crushed the dried leaves to dust when Narinder scared him. He wiped the powder off on his robes and did notice the slight scent of raspberry.
"What do you want?" He narrowed his eyes, focusing hard on Narinder's lips.
Without his crown to dampen the blaring tinnitus in his head and strengthen what little hearing he still had, he had to concentrate to understand what anyone said to him. Reading lips and paying attention to the slight sounds he could still pick out was all he could do.
Narinder straightened himself and took a look around the healing bay.
"I was told you were assigned to clean out this old place. I thought you might need some help," Narinder commented idly, as if he had just stepped in for a chat.
Kallamar knew better than that.
"I don't want your help."
He didn't want Narinder anywhere near him.
Kallamar turned around to the table to continue to sort through the bottles, boxes, and satchels of medicine. He had hoped that his curt reply would drive Narinder off, but instead of leaving, Narinder moved to sit on the bed, the least musty thing in the whole place. He stretched, yawned, then laid back with his eyes shut.
Of course, Narinder would not leave. Narinder never listened to Kallamar before, why would he start now? At least before, Kallamar could retreat to the safety of Anchordeep and his temple when Narinder antagonized him. Now Kallamar was stuck in this pathetic little base, in this pathetic, little body with no powers, no followers, and no place to go.
He gritted his teeth.
No, he was not going to let Narinder get to him. They were not gods anymore. Narinder was not death and Kallamar was not blight. Narinder was just Kallamar's annoying and pestering little brother now, nothing more.
He had to just ignore him. If he focused on his task at hand, he could do that with ease.
The medical bay's bed was comfortable, if a little too cool for Narinder's taste. If the bed was pushed towards the door and the warm sun, then it would be an excellent new napping spot. The Lamb wouldn't be able to find him as quickly and make him 'get back to work' or whatever other nonsense they ordered.
He sprawled, listening to the clinks of bottles as Kallamar worked. Every so often he would hear a mumble "What is this?" or a groan of frustration.
Narinder considered holding a one-sided conversation, mostly to annoy Kallamar when he finally noticed he was doing it, but decided against it. Just staying there after he was told he wasn't wanted was enough to mess with Kallamar. To Narinder pleasure, he had noticed a tenseness in Kallamar's movements and the occasional glances at Narinder when he thought he wouldn't notice.
Narinder rolled so his head lay off the side of the bed. He looked upside down at Kallamar.
Much like his younger siblings, when The Lamb hauled Kallamar from his torment in purgatory, they left all of his thousands of years of divinity behind. The air of godly power that somehow clung to Kallamar, despite his cowardly nature, evaporated when Kallamar fell face-first onto the indoctrination circle. How sickly and weak he looked then, barely able to hold his head up as an odd green color painted his face. The weakling spent days on bed rest before he was able to stand again.
Narinder almost laughed at the memory.
Kallamar took a wooden box from the counter and shook it. Pursing his lips, he pried the lid off. With a puzzled expression, he tipped over the box until the contents fell out to the tabletop. Kallamar carefully picked up something wrapped in paper and herbs. He pulled away at the wrapping before gagging.
He cringed and dropped the bundle back in the box. "Why?!"
Narinder rolled over to his belly and pushed himself up to his knees.
"What? What is it?" he asked, but Kallamar didn't respond. Instead, he held his face in his hands and groaned.
Narinder frowned. He took the pillow from the bed and threw it. Kallamar jumped when it hit his side and said a swear in a language no mortal spoke anymore.
When Kallamar turned to glare, Narinder repeated, "What is in the box?"
A smirk crossed Kallamar's face as he returned the lid with a sound tap.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"I would. That is why I asked."
Kallamar hummed in reply and set the box to the side. He proceeded to pop the top off of a cloudy bottle and give it a sniff, completely ignoring Narinder.
Narinder bristled with annoyance. He came here to mess with Kallamar, not to be messed with.
Narinder jumped to his feet and started towards Kallamar and the box. Kallamar snatched the box, holding it to his chest. Narinder stomped his foot down, knowing the vibrations through the floor would be enough to scare that coward into losing his grip.
A sharp pain shot up his leg from the sole of his foot. With a cry, he hopped back, lost his balance, and fell to his back.
He bit his tongue to hold back a cry, trying to force his head to stop spinning so he could focus on the stabbing pain in his foot. He hauled himself to the bed before he set his foot propped up on his other knee.
Glass and crushed raspberry leaf clung to his bloody foot.
It's from the bottle Kallamar dropped earlier, he realized. Kallamar had been so busy pretending to ignore him, that he never picked it back up.
An instinct Narinder usually ignored reared its head. With pain and annoyance on its side, the primal urge beat any rational thought. Narinder stuck his tongue out to lick clean the wound.
Kallamar grabbed him by the cheeks and forced his face up.
"Are you stupid? Do you want glass in your tongue, too?" He snapped.
Though Narinder knew he was right, he huffed in defiance and looked to the side.
Kallamar pulled his hands away. He carefully picked his way through the remaining shards and started rifling through items on the table. He hoped Kallamar would leave to find The Lamb or their younger siblings for help, but Kallamar returned a moment later and sat next to Narinder.
He held out his hand.
"Let me see your foot," he ordered.
Narinder snorted. "No. I will be fine." He pinched the largest piece of glass between his fingers and sharply pulled. A hiss of pain slipped from his teeth.
"Fine." Kallamar sniffed. "Get an infection, die of sepsis. I do not care what happens to you, anyway." Kallamar dropped the items he'd brought in a heap next to Narinder. Narinder stared at the blood dripping down his foot.
An infection? He couldn't remember when he had last had one, but he could remember the infections and sepsis he saw in his followers, the burning flesh, the oozing pus, and the writhing pain they were in until Narinder ended their suffering.
He groaned. Before Kallamar could get out of reach, Narinder grabbed his robes.
He didn't speak; he just met his older brother's eyes for the heartbeat his pride would allow.
For an instant, Kallamar looked fearful and untrusting, but his expression shifted to one of annoyance.
"You've always been such a pest," Kallamar grumbled, taking Narinder's hand off his robe.
The bloody glass shard clinked against its brethren on the red stained cloth.
Kallamar bend down to the bowl of steaming water he'd rush to the kitchen to get. He didn't dare light the fire pit in the medical bay to boil water. Whoever had been keeping the bay up before Kallamar had put baskets of vomit stained blankets right next to the pit. Some of the blankets had even spilled into the ring of stones, and Kallamar refused to touch something so disgusting with a new body so susceptible to illness.
He took a cloth rag from the bowl and rung the water out before pressing it to Narinder's foot. He would need to stitch up some of the gashes, but the skin had to be clean before he made any attempts.
Narinder hissed through his teeth.
"Oh, do not act like a baby." Kallamar rolled his eyes.
Narinder glowered, attempting to sit up from his back, but Kallamar lifted his foot up higher.
"This needs to stay above the level of your heart."
Narinder huffed and laid back down.
"I've seen you cut in half before. This should be nothing to you." Kallamar returned the foot to his lap.
"Being cut in half doesn't hurt," Narinder retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.
A bellowing laugh burst from Kallamar's chest, making Narinder jump.
"You are a dirty liar. It does hurt--a lot, " Kallamar moved the rag away from the foot. He gave Narinder's foot one last wipe and a good look for any more glass before dropping the rag next to the glass pile.
As he picked out the needle from the bottom of the water bowl, he continued, "Your usurper cut me in half the first time they killed me." He pointed the needle to the top of his head and drew it down to his belly
He had fought for his life, sending wave after wave of curses and minions and Anchordeep beasts to kill that vile creature masquerading as a god of death. He accomplished his task twice before The Lamb came back a third time, accompanied by two small demons and a glowing, godly axe. It was this axe that the Lamb slew him with, striking him when he took less than a second to breathe. The Lamb sliced through his flesh and bone, leaving blood and pain in the axe's wake.
To add insult to injury, as Kallamar lay dying, he watched as a third demon came flying in, bringing with it a spirit heart for the victorious lamb.
"Foul, terrible, cruel creature…" he muttered, shaking his head.
Kallamar tied a knot in the silk thread. He had always preferred the use of catgut to close wounds, but dried intestines were among the many other materials the Lamb's medical tent lacked. He didn't bother to warn Narinder of the pain as he stabbed the needle into the soft flesh.
Narinder bit down hard on his lip as Kallamar worked to close the largest of the gashes. Kallamar took another rag from the side of the water bowl and wiped away the new blood.
If Narinder attempted to speak to him while he worked, Kallamar couldn't tell. His focus lay solely on closing the wounds. He felt calm, the most calm he'd felt since being indoctrinated into this blasted cult. Patching up wounds was his second nature.
As he pulled tight the last stitch on the final large wound, he saw Narinder's jaw moving out of the corner of his eye.
"What? Do you need to cry? Does it hurt worse than being cut in half?" Kallamar mocked.
He tied off the thread without having to look at his hands. He knew taking stitches without any type of numbing hurt, but he didn't want to give Narinder any pity.
Narinder made a rude gesture towards Kallamar with his middle finger.
"Lucky for you, I am all done sewing you up," Kallamar said, twisting the lid off a glass jar. Inside was the saddest excuse for a wound poultice Kallamar had seen in centuries -- there wasn't even any flax in it—but it would have to do to keep the wound moist and protected from dirt.
Narinder said something, but Kallamar was too busy slathering on the poultice to catch it. He set it aside and went for the bandages before turning his attention to Narinder's face.
"Hmm?"
Narinder opened his mouth, then shut it a heartbeat later. He looked away and shook his head.
Kallamar shrugged and started to wrap up Narinder's foot. As he worked, a thought came to him. He'd never dressed any of Narinder's wounds before then. Even before they sealed him away, Kallamar had never had to step in and suture closed gashes or apply honey and bandages to scrapes on him, unlike the rest of their siblings.
With how many fights Heket tended to pick, she was the worst of them, though Leshy was a close second since he liked to join Heket in her scuffles. Though uncommon, even Shamura had to be patched up when they underestimated the army or god they waged war against.
Narinder never needed wounds shut or a poultice applied. He would not scar. His wounds would not fester. He would die and bring himself back before that could happen.
Suddenly annoyed, Kallamar pulled the bandage a little too tight—not enough to cut off blood flow, but enough to be uncomfortable.
Kallamar lifted Narinder's foot from his lap and scooted out before dropping it unceremoniously back down.
"There. Done, " he said, tying up the cloth with the glass shards. He took them to a pile of old and broken containers he'd made earlier to throw out. He grabbed a straw broom and quickly swept the remaining glass on the floor into a pile. He was not going to risk having to use any of this cult's medical supplies on himself, not until The Lamb had replaced them with items of higher quality, at least.
Narinder moved his foot into his lap to examine the bandaging. An odd expression crossed his face, guilt or sadness, maybe? Kallamar didn't have time to dwell on it before that complete fool swung his legs out and attempted to stand.
Narinder yelped and fell back onto the bed.
"I will see about getting you some help to hobble back to your quarters." Kallamar waved his hand. "The sooner you are gone, the better for me."
He expected a snarky retort or another rude gesture, not for Narinder to smile softly at him.
"You know, I have seen you throw around your plagues and spread your miasma thousands of times," he mused. "I always found sickness a terrible way to die. There is no honor or glory in succumbing to a fever. It's pathetic."
Kallamar bristled, wishing he had tied the bandage even tighter.
Narinder chuckled. "Thousands of times," he repeated. "Thousands of thousands, even, but I only ever saw you cure sickness one time." He held up his pointer finger. "One of Shamura's soldiers brought back some sort of terrible illness, a cough that racked the body and fever that brought delirium, " Narinder recalled. "Shamura summoned me to help those that they knew would not make it pass on peacefully."
"I remember you actually scolded Shamura," Narinder shook his head, "and told them they should have called you sooner. That they know better than to let sickness spread."
Kallamar furrowed his brow. He vaguely recalled that. It was thousands of years ago, possibly more than that. Well before Heket or Leshy joined their family at the least, back when Narinder was the youngest bishop and Kallamar held less fear of him.
"You cured that whole army with ease, soothing their fevers and easing their coughs with merely a wave of the hand." Narinder met Kallamar's eyes. "I was jealous, you know."
"What?" Kallamar gasped. "You were jealous of me healing some mortal soldiers?"
There was plenty Kallamar could understand Narinder being jealous of, including his good looks, the glory of his temple, and the majestic beauty of Anchordeep, but that? Something so simple?
"I could only end suffering. I could not ease it nor erase it." Narinder looked at his hands, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "That has not changed, I'll admit."
Kallamar's chest twisted uncomfortably. How could Narinder have admire his abilities? Admire him? It made no sense.
He looked away, more emotions pulling at his heart. He should still be mad. It shouldn't matter what Narinder said. Kallamar should still hate him…
No, he never hated Narinder. He was scared of him, angry that his cult swelled while Kallamar's waned, upset about his handsome ears and hearing loss, saddened by chaining Narinder up for a thousand years, but he never actually hated him.
Kallamar blinked at the tears welling up in his eyes, but despite his best effort, they overflowed and ran down his cheeks.
Kallamar had his head turned away and was uncharacteristically quiet.
Narinder pursed his lips. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but the pain brought old memories to the surface and loosened his tongue.
A sniffle brought Narinder out of his thoughts. He winced as he saw Kallamar wipe his eyes with his wrist.
The one thing he had promised The Lamb he wouldn't do, make Kallamar cry.
He turned his attention to his lap, pretending he didn't hear anything. Kallamar stepped forward until his feet were in Narinder's line of sight.
"I have two little brothers and you are by far the worst of them," Kallamar stated matter-of-factly. "You are egotistical and annoying and a pain in my ass."
Narinder glared upwards, about to make a retort, when Kallamar continued, "However, you are still my brother, and it is clear we are stuck with each other here from now on. We should at least try to get along. Here. Fulfill your curiosity, Nari." He shoved the wooden box into Narinder's hands.
Narinder skeptically shook the box once before opening it. He took the object wrapped in brittle paper and herbs from inside and slowly pulled the paper back.
Inside was a dried, wrinkled, black-and-white spotted--
"By The First God's wounds!" Narinder yelped, dropping the bundle back into the box. Though he hadn't touched the dried flesh, he wiped his hands on his robes regardless.
"Is this a--?" He wrinkled his nose up.
Kallamar cackled. "A charm to increase male potency, yes. The wife's tale goes if one sleeps with a bull's manhood under their pillow it'll help them, well, you know." He clicked his tongue twice and jabbed his thumb up.
Narinder dropped the box as far from him as he could on the bed. He did not know why The Lamb had such a thing, and he did not want to ask.
"Disgusting. " He shuddered. "That can't possibly work."
"Oh, it doesn't," Kallamar shrugged, "but it is not the strangest 'remedy' for that particular problem I have come across. Once, some mortal brought me the foulest concoction I have ever seen, and claimed that was why he and his wife had so many children." Kallamar met Narinder's eyes with a serious expression. "They were rabbits."
The brothers held each other's gazes for a moment longer before their lips started to pull up and they both burst into laughter.
Kallamar wiped fresh tears from his eye. "Narinder…here." He held out his hand. "Let me help you back to your quarters. I'll have someone bring you some tea to help with the pain. I definitely saw some willow bark…somewhere in this mess." He gestured with his head to the table of herbs.
Narinder took his big brother's out stretched hand.
"Thank you, Kallamar."
---
This was techically my first COTL fic, but I didn't finish editing it until recently. Also I have next to no medical knowledge, so those parts might be wrong.
The two travelers rested under a large apple tree. They were halfway to where Raskska should be, and already Jalala's legs wanted to give out. She tried to convince herself that Aym wasn't tired because his legs were much longer, so he covered more ground with each step, but in reality, she knew it was because she didn't possess the stamina he did.
At least the grey-green clouds over her head blocked the sun enough that she didn't overheat as well. She wondered if it would rain soon. It had been raining a lot near Anchordeep, so she had heard.
Aym reached the crescent moon blade of his staff into the branches of the tree. With a quick movement, he cut down a couple of apples from their stems. Before they hit the ground, he held out his robes and caught them.
He offered one of the apples to her.
"I've never seen a staff like that," Jalala remarked, hoping the more time they talked, the more she could rest. "It looks...magical."
Jalala knew of the magic that ran wild in these lands, but it seemed only those who had close affiliation with the divine could accomplish such feats, and yet there was something about Aym's staff that gave it a holy feeling--as if the engravings on the blade were blessed.
Aym rubbed the shining side of the blade with his wrist.
"You could say that. I used to be able to do all sorts of spells before," he trailed off, then shook himself once "Never mind. It doesn't matter now." He frowned at the reflection in the blade. Regret seemed to weigh down on him.
Jalala focused her attention on her apple. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset."
Aym made a strangled sound. "What? No! I'm not upset." He laughed to cover up his embarrassment. "Actually, you reminded me of what skills I need to hone again. I must ask my master to give me some more training once this festival is over." He jabbed his staff high, knocking leaves and twigs from the canopy.
Jalala took a tentative bite of the apple and tried not to wince. The flesh was hard and sour, but it had been nice of Aym to get it for her, so she forced herself to chew and swallow the bite of unripe fruit.
"So, once the festival is over, you'll leave to go visit your master?" Jalala asked, hiding the apple in the grass and the disappointment in her voice.
Aym took a large bite out of his own apple. He stiffened before spitting it out. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then tossed the apple away.
"No, my master, he's at the cult grounds," Aym explained. His tail swished against the grass behind him. "Getting him to train me again, though, will be a challenge..." he pursed his lips and winced.
Whom could his master be, then? Jalala didn't know anyone else who could be strong enough and well-versed in magic to be his master.
It was clearly not The Lamb. He didn't seem to like them, for some reason. Maybe his master had passed away, and that was why he didn't want to talk about him. Aym would have to ask The Lamb to bring him back to life.
Jalala had never asked The Lamb to bring back anyone to life, but she imagined it must be a difficult question.
Jalala brushed the back of her robes as she stood. Kicking the apple into the taller grass, she said, "We should keep going. We need to make it back before dark."
---
Aym would never be ashamed of his past. So what if he had lost years of his life in the living world after he was gifted to his master? He had been the servant to the most powerful god in existence! He learned magic and spells that most mortals could only dream of. He possessed the raw strength to defend his master from any threat!
Or, almost any.
He was not ashamed, and yet he still didn't like to talk about his time in The Gateway.
His childhood before and his life after, he had no issues telling tales.
Those many years spent by his master's side, however, made his tongue heavy.
"I think it's because no one else would understand it," Baal had said once. "No one else in the whole world has had a life like ours."
Aym hadn't ever tried to tell anyone, but he had been with Baal when he did. Aym didn't know what made him more angry, the disbelieving looks or the pitiful ones his brother received.
A pang hit his chest. Those expressions--he didn't want to see them on Jalala's pretty face.
As they walked silently along the path towards the mantis shrimp's restaurant, he felt his stomach twist into knots.
He shouldn't care what she thinks about his past, but he did. He wished he had asked Master more about this feeling. Master would know how to dispel this dreadful ache in his chest crushing him when he thought about Jalala thinking he was lying about his past.
A thought hit him, and it nearly made him stumble over his feet. That was it. This feeling? It was what people called "a crush", wasn't it?
He had never had a crush. There wasn't time to waste on feelings like that when heretics still worshiped those blasphemous Bishops instead of The Red Crown.
He made a mental note to question his wise master about this when he returned.
Jalala held out her hand, stopping Aym. "Um, look?"
Aym shook himself from his thoughts and followed her gaze to a few posts sticking out of the ground near the edge of a ravine. As the two carefully neared, it became clear the posts were what remained of a bridge. Only a few planks and a bit of rope dangled down into the ravine.
Jalala poked at the fraying rope. "What now?" She craned her neck to the side, looking for an end to the opening in the earth, but the ravine went on until it disappeared into the horizon on either side.
The ravine was wide, sure, but Aym was certain he could jump it fairly easily. Then how would Jalala get across? He was supposed to be her guard. He couldn't just leave her alone.
What if I carried her? He thought.
He could imagine it: the warmth of her body against his as he held her tight to his chest while he leaped heroically over the ravine and landed with grace on the other side. She would have to think he was braver and cooler than that usurper. Maybe she would even feel so safe that he would be allowed to carry her the rest of the way.
He opened his mouth to make the offer when his master's cryptic advice rang in his ears: "Remember what I told you. Look before you leap, child."
Yes, Master was right. He needed to think carefully before he attempted something that could cause her to get hurt, even if he really liked the idea of her pressed against him.
Aym walked tentatively to the edge and peered down.
It wasn't that deep, twice as tall as Aym was, and had a trickle of water flowing through it. Both sides of the ravine weren't so steep that it would be difficult to scramble up.
"We have to go down and climb back up."
Jalala cringed. "Maybe we can find another bridge," she suggested. "I don't like the idea of climbing down there."
Aym snorted and, with one quick leap, hopped into the ravine. He planted his staff into the ground before he spun around and held out his arms to her. He might be able to get to hold her after all.
"There is nothing to worry about. Let me help you down," he offered, flashing her a smile. Jalala wore a countenance of uncertainty. He raised himself on his toes towards her to coax her into his arms.
"Well..." Jalala pursed her lips, resting a hand on the wooden post from the bridge. She let out a breath and took a step towards the edge when the ground began to rumble.
From farther up in the ravine came a roaring and tremors. The two snapped their heads towards it in time to see a deluge of frothing, brown water tearing down the ravine, ripping earth and scraggly bushes from the sides.
"Hurry! Get back up here!" Jalala shouted, holding out her hands for him.
Grabbing his staff, Aym started to scramble up, but the earth along the sides was softer than he'd expected. His foot sunk deep every step he took. Even his staff proved only marginally useful in helping his accent.
The flash flood charged at Aym like the many angry beasts he'd fought, but this was a monster he had no way to defend from.
Halfway up the ravine, he used his staff to propel himself forward. He grabbed hold of Jalala's wrist just as the water swept away his staff from the soft dirt. The churning water grabbed at his tail as he tried to plant his feet on the side.
A piece of debris caught his dangling foot and nearly wrenched him out of Jalala's grasp. She let out a cry of pain, bracing herself against the post from the broken bridge.
Aym looked up at Jalala and then at the water rising higher and higher towards him.
"Let me go!" He ordered.
"What? No! You'll drown!" Jalala tightened her grip on his wrist.
"I will be fine! I've died before, in a way that hurt way more than this will," Aym shouted over the raging flood.
She sucked in a gasp, and Aym realized he said the wrong thing.
"You what—I—err!" Jalala shook her head. "No! I am not letting you go! How can I ask you to dance with me at the festival if you're a corpse?"
For a heartbeat, Aym forgot about the water rushing past his ankles and the peril he was in. Dance? She wanted to dance with him?!
With newfound vigor, Aym tried again to plant his feet against the muddy side as Jalala looked worriedly up the ravine.
He wished he hadn't lost his staff. Why didn't he try to hook the blade into the posts when he had the chance? Not that it mattered now. The link between his holy weapon and his heart weakened the farther away it went.
If only he was as strong as he used to be! He could magically summon his staff to his hand!
But he wasn't. He couldn't use the ether between worlds to teleport or summon constructs to help.
He couldn't do anything!
How had he not realized how weak he had become?
Jalala gritted her teeth. The flood waters were up to his knees now. Debris tore at his lower legs as bits and pieces of rock and sticks rushed by, leaving his skin bruised and riddled with cuts.
He could not allow her to be stolen away by the water with him. He'd greeted the numbness of death before. He could do it again.
Aym slapped his hand over the one Jalala held his wrist with. He slipped his fingers under hers to pry his arm free.
"What are you doing?! Stop!"
Before Aym could call out an apology, he started to fall into the angry water. He braced himself for the impact of the water throwing him like a toy against the debris, but it never came. Instead, he felt a sharp pull against the scruff of his neck. He instinctively went limp as someone hauled him out of the water and dropped him on the ground.
A familiar person in warm, red-plaid clothes wrapped him in a tight hug. The pounding of his heart quieted instantly as his mother's soothing scent curled as tightly around him as her arms did.
"Oh, my sweet boy!" Mother patted his back. "What danger you were in!"
Aym turned his head against his mother's chest to see Baal helping Jalala to her feet. She took a shaky step only to fall to her knees, holding her shoulder.
"Jalala!" He reached out towards her but froze a second later.
His heart fell to his stomach, as she glared at him with blue eyes filled with tears.
---
"Mace is the outside of nutmeg," Ms. Forneus said as she handed Jalala a cup of tea. Jalala reached out for the hot cup with her good arm. Though Ms. Forneus was able to pop her shoulder back into its socket, her arm still ached. She sipped the tea, refusing to look up from the cup.
"If I have some, I shall share with our blessed Lamb." Ms. Forneus smiled, bright like the sun after a rainstorm, as she rubbed Jalala's back. Jalala didn't understand how someone so mean and rude as Aym could come from a mother as sweet and kind as Ms. Forneus. It just didn't seem possible!
She rested carefully back against the canvas of the caravan. At least, thanks to Ms. Forneus' kindness, she didn't have to worry about failing The Lamb. Jalala met her reflection's gaze in the tea.
This was all her fault for being flippant with her feelings. Her heart belonged to The Lamb. They saved her from sacrifice. They gave her a safe home. They reunited her with her brother. They would never be so cruel to her.
She scowled at the cup before taking a large gulp. The tea burned her throat, and she welcomed the punishment.
The flap on the caravan opened, and Baal crawled in. He set Aym's wet robes down before picking up another, this one the same white and red as Baal's own.
"Once he is clothed, call your brother in," his mother told him. "Tea will warm him."
Jalala wished Aym would stay outside. He deserved it for what he did...
A moment later, Aym and Baal crawled into the heat of the caravan. Aym, garbed in Baal's clothes now, raised his hand at her to greet her with a half smile. She glared at him. He furrowed his brows as he sat. He crossed his long legs, exposing the many nicks and cuts on them.
For a heartbeat, she felt bad for him. If she had been stronger, she could have pulled him up.
The moment of sympathy passed quickly.
Baal settled down next to Ms. Forneus, his long legs crossed.
"So," he held out the vowel, "you're Jalala, right? I'm Baal. Mother has mentioned you once or twice before."
"Yes, Ms. Forneus helped me and my friend when we were searching for my brother and Paradise," Jalala muttered. She already gave her story of danger and wonder to one of the cat brothers recently. She didn't have the energy to give it to the other.
"Did you find him? And what about Paradise?" Baal clasped his hands in his lap and swayed playfully back and forth.
"She did, and Paradise is The Lamb's cult," Aym answered for her.
She bristled. How rude this jerk was! She could answer on her own!
"The Lamb's cult is Paradise, huh?" Baal mused. "I guess I can see that."
"It'd be a real paradise under Master's command," Aym grumbled, more to himself than to the other three present. His mother shot him a disproving look, and Baal rolled his eyes. Aym's ears flattened against his head. He sipped his tea, not looking up.
"Tell me about this festival." Baal leaned forward. "What is it for? When Aym and I stayed there, I don't remember a festival this time of year."
"Uh, I guess it's an old sheep festival," Jalala mumbled, wishing this time Aym had answered for her.
The festival was a tradition from her Leader's culture. A festival to celebrate a holy martyr who gave up their life in defense of a long-forgotten deity whom The Lamb said they were certain was a Bearer of the Red Crown before them. When The Lamb announced the festival, they said it had been so long they couldn't remember the martyr's name, but they remembered the festival being great fun with feasting, games, and joyful dances, so they were repurposing the date.
Jalala gripped her cup tightly in shaking hands.
"Oh, that sounds fun. I like learning about other cultures. It's too bad so much of The Lamb's is gone," Baal continued. "I've heard sheep had quite the tradition of weaving. I got to see a sheep-woven blanket once on my travels. It was lovely. It depicted two young lovers dancing--"
Jalala slammed her cup down. Despite Ms. Forneus' protests, she rushed past Aym and Baal to the entrance of the caravan and leaped down. With a burst of energy, she ran.
Her throbbing shoulder, tear-stung eyes, and aching legs didn't compare at all to the pain in her heart. She heard footsteps storming behind her and her name being called, but she ignored it.
Get away! Get away! Get away! Get--
Jalala jerked back when someone grabbed the wrist of her bad arm. She cried out in pain as she fell against warm, soft wool.
The Lamb looked down at her with worried eyes. She wrapped her arms around her leader and wept into their chest.
"Oh, Lamb! I'm sorry I wasn't able to get the mace and c-c--" Jalala whimpered, her words blurring into choked sobs. "Th-there was a flood, and, and Aym, he--"
The Lamb stroked the back of her head and soothed, "Jalala, hush, hush, it's alright now. You're safe. I'm here. I'll always be here for you."
---
Aym buried his head in his arms as he sat with the shadow of The Lamb's temple looming over him like a disappointed parent. The day's preparations had wound down, and everyone headed towards bed so they could be well rested for the festival, but Aym couldn't force himself to be excited for tomorrow.
Everything had fallen apart with Jalala, and he wasn't even sure how! She wanted to dance with him one second, and the next she glared daggers at him! He didn't get it, not at all.
Why was this all so confusing?!
Aym curled himself into a tighter ball.
When Jalala ran away, he hadn't been able to catch up to her. His legs hurt too much from the impact of debris during the flood. Baal, however, was able to catch up to her, just in time to see The Lamb pop out of the ether between worlds and grab her.
Jalala had been too upset to explain about the flash flood or Aym's rescue from death, but Baal had been able to give a recap of the basics. The Lamb took Jalala back to the cult grounds themself, but suggested that Aym would do better traveling with his brother and mother there.
Aym didn't know where Jalala's shelter was, so he couldn't find her to ask what was wrong. Even if he did know, Mother had told him he had best leave her be for a little while. Why couldn't relationships be like battle? Face his foe and tackle the issue straight forward and head-on!
"Aym," Baal said, tapping his shoulder. "Look alive. Lord Narinder is coming towards you, and he does not appear happy."
Aym's head jerked up. As Baal had claimed, Master marched towards him, his face set in a scowl. Aym scrambled to his feet, standing straight back. Master must be here to reprimand him about losing his staff. Aym wanted to go find it after Jalala had been taken away, but Baal dragged him back to Mother's caravan with the promise they would go search for it after the festival.
Master's mouth set in a firm, thin line. He narrowed his eyes at Aym as his tail lashed against the grass.
"What did you do?" He demanded to know.
"Lord Narinder," Baal cut in, putting a reassuring hand on Aym's shoulder, "please, understand, there was a flood, and--"
"I did not ask you," Master snapped, making Baal jerk back his hand. "I asked him. Aym, speak."
Aym's ears pressed against his skull. "I'm sorry. There was a flood. I didn't mean to lose my staff. I promise I will get it back soon."
Master held up a hand. "Staff? I don't give a damn about your staff. I meant what happened with the little bear girl. She came back without you, crying her eyes out. The Lamb was coated with mucus." He cringed.
"I don't know," Aym answered honestly. "I don't know why she's mad at me." His shoulders fell. He looked down at the tail that wrapped around his feet.
Master pinched the bridge of his nose. "By The First Ones..." He muttered, then ordered, louder, "Tell me what happened exactly, from when you left the grounds to when you returned."
Aym did exactly as ordered, from meeting up with Jalala at the entrance to stopping under the apple tree to following Master's advice to the flash flood, to Mother saving them, and finally to Jalala getting upset and running off.
Narinder dragged his hands down his face with a groan. "Oh, child, I know you spent a long time with your only company being your brother, I, and the occasional vessel, but that should not have made you this socially inept."
Aym stiffened at the criticism, his cheeks heating up, while Baal chuckled behind his hand.
"Do you know what I did to make her upset?"
Master scoffed. "Of course, I do. You took her chance at being the hero."
Baal tilted his head and twitched his ear. "Is that why?" He almost sounded like he didn't believe in Master's answer. Of course, that couldn't be true. Master was never wrong.
"What else could it be?" He crossed his arms, daring Baal to counter him. When Baal remained silent, he went on, "Mortals love to play the hero, especially if being the hero means they can show off. I've seen it countless times."Â Â
"Uh-huh..." Baal muttered to himself.
Aym flicked his brother's ankle with his tail. Master was right! Jalala wanted to show off how strong she was and be a hero for saving him from the flood! How could Aym be so blind?
Master pointed a finger at Aym. "Just apologize to her, and she will come around, I'm sure."
Aym nodded enthusiastically. He grasped Master's hands and bowed deeply at the waist.
"Thank you, Master! You are truly the wisest person here!"
"Lucky for the two of you, your years of devoted service left me mildly invested in your happiness." Master took his hands back. He added a beat later, "Also, I'm not your master. Stop calling me that." but Aym didn't hear him.
Aym had a plan to follow now! He would rush to Jalala and tell her it was all ok! She didn't need to play the hero for him. He was strong enough for both of them! Then she would want to hug him, and at the festival, they would play games and eat yummy food and dance!
"I'll go apologize for taking her moment to be a hero right now!" Aym announced. He started to run towards the gathering of shelters before Baal snatched the back of his robes. He landed with a thud on his back, staring up at the darkened night sky.
"Thank you, Baal," Master nodded in approval. "Apologize tomorrow. She is probably sleeping now, and it is best not to wake a sleeping bear."
---
The Lamb crossed out 'by my holy light' from their notes. They had been so caught up in preparing for the festival that they had not yet completed the speech they planned to give in the morning. It would have been easier if they could remember what the elders had said for the festival back when they were young, but they hadn't paid attention to such things in their youth. There were games to play, food to eat, and friends to dance with.
Maybe if The Lamb could remember the martyr whose honor the festival was held, they could have looked into it, but even that had faded throughout their godhood. Only the joyful memories of time spent with friends and family remained.
They covered their forgotten history with a lie that the martyr died in defense of The Red Crown bearer before them. Though Narinder had called their fib out after the sermon as he claimed he would have certainly remembered another sheep besides The Lamb willing to die in his name.
The Lamb set their paper aside with a sigh. Maybe they would just wing it. That worked for many of their impromptu sermons.
"Lamb," Narinder greeted with a nod as he strolled into their tent.
"You didn't even bother to announce yourself first." The Lamb shook their head. "The Crown isn't even decent." They gestured to The Red Crown, resting on a small pillow beside them. It opened its eye, and glanced at Narinder, before closing it again.
"I have seen The Crown in states you could never imagine." Narinder sniffed. He let the tent flap fall closed behind him as he walked over. Without any warning, he snatched the blanket The Lamb had over their legs and wrapped it around himself.
"I spoke with Aym. He told me what happened. I told him to apologize," he said as he dropped down to sit between their legs. He scooted so his head rested on their stomach then sprawled his legs out, kicking over the books The Lamb had been skimming for ideas.
The Lamb rolled their eyes, setting their pen aside with the paper. Impromptu sermon it was then.
Narinder yawned. "Your scheme has been righted in its course, thanks to me."
"Our scheme." They corrected with a sigh of relief.
Ever since Jalala explained what happened, they had been wondering if they should step in and fix the matter themself. In their opinion, Aym did not need to apologize for what happened. It was a simple miscommunication of intentions, but if Aym and Jalala were to be together, as The Lamb and Narinder planned, the two youths would have to learn to solve their misunderstandings on their own.
Though The Lamb did tell her to consider that Aym hadn't meant to upset her.
Jalala had sniffled and whispered, "Maybe...but it doesn't matter. He led my heart astray from you. I don't want to see him ever again."
The Lamb had put a sympathetic smile on their face as they patted her back. "My dear child, any feelings you have for a mortal will never compare to your devotion to me. I know that, so you need never worry about it."
The comforting words seemed to help her inner turmoil somewhat. The Lamb then handed her off to Yarlen so she could eat and rest up after the day's misadventures.
The Lamb leaned back against the pillow behind them. Even if they didn't need to sleep, Narinder's body was warm against them, and once he started purring, their eyes would slip shut and they would drift off, like always.
"Fine, our scheme." Narinder mumbled, adjusting to a more comfortable position.  "Mmm, so soft...."
---
"And by my holy light, shall all see the glory of The Red Crown and hail The Lamb as Lord Death, Master of This World and the Next," The Lamb raised their arms, and the crowd cheered.
Baal clapped his hands as Aym fidgeted beside him. The night before, Aym stayed up late, rehearsing what he would say to his friend to earn her forgiveness. Baal had to force him to lie down and sleep by reminding him that if he was tired, he might mess up his apology.
Aym swiveled his head around. Mother put a hand on his shoulder, both to calm him and to keep him from running off before The Lamb finished.
While Aym had paced and practiced, Baal and Mother had discussed the situation where Aym couldn't hear. They both agreed that Lord Narinder's assumption that Jalala wanted to play hero didn't seem quiet right, but neither of them could think of a better answer.
Mother had suggested she was just upset that Aym was willing to leave her with a burden of guilt for not being strong enough to help him. From the short interaction Baal had with Jalala, that seemed more reasonable than her wanting to be Aym's hero.
Baal didn't dare try to tell that to Aym, though. His younger brother still believed their old master to be infallible. What Lord Narinder said must be truth, as it had always been.
As The Lamb continued their sermon, Baal turned his attention to Lord Narinder standing beside them. His eyes were shut. Was he asleep standing up there? Unlike Baal, Lord Narinder had heard many more of The Lamb's sermons and speeches. He must find them boring to listen to.
Baal wished The Lamb would let Lord Narinder do a sermon. Lord Narinder's sermons had been glorious and rousing things that made the crowds cheer so loud that the earth shook, or so he had been told.
As The Lamb mentioned something about respecting the past and those who came before, Lord Narinder opened his eyes to roll them. He was awake, at least. Beside him, the shrew disciple sent him a nasty glare, which went ignored.
"And now, may a blessing be upon all of my flock this glorious festival day!" The Lamb threw a curse into the air. It burst in a show of sparks, captivating their followers with loud 'ooo's and 'aaah's.
The Lamb turned, about to step down from the stage, when they stopped, spun around, and clapped their hands once, regaining the crowd's attention.
"One more thing, if anyone so much as dares murder someone because they think it will be funny or for any other reason," The Lamb began, their Crown morphing into a monstrous shape as their eyes bled red and fangs grew in their mouth, "they shall be the next vessel used in the sinner's pride ritual and have the whole of their souls consumed by the sin of their peers. I shall not offer any forgiveness this time."
They hopped back, returned to their normal, nonthreatening form, and chirped, "That's all. Have a wonderful time everyone!"
The second The Lamb left the stage, Aym bolted away to search for Jalala. Baal shook his head at his brother's eagerness. He understood not wanting a friend to be upset with him, but he had a hard time wrapping his head around Aym caring that much about this girl.
Baal knew of crushes, and in his travels, he had made friends who had crushes on him, but he had never had any himself. He was fine with friendships and had little desire for romance. He had tried to feel those feelings while on his wanderings. He went on dates and spent time with the people who had crushes on him, but nothing ever came from them. He just couldn't feel that kind of affection for anyone.
Baal assumed, until recently, that Aym felt the same, though they never discussed it. Aym focused his attention on battle and defeating beasts and heretics. Unlike Baal, maybe Aym just had never had the time to consider romantic feelings, until he spent time with Jalala.
Baal wondered if he should follow along, just in case Aym started to mess up again.
As if reading his mind, Mother chuckled. "Go look after him."
After giving Mother a half hug, Baal hurried in the direction Aym had run off in.
The crowd made it difficult to navigate. Elbows mashed into his side, and people stomped on his feet in their rush to participate in the festival's activities. Luckily, Baal and Aym inherited their mother's height and stood at least a head above the rest of the crowd.
Aym had just popped out the other side of a throng of followers. He dusted off his robes and then stood on his toes to look around for Jalala. Aym raised his hand and began to shout when a blue blur tackled him.
Baal choked on a gasp. His training instincts kicked in, and all tact and manners were pushed to the side, just like the people in his way between him and his brother.
"Aym!" Baal cried when he caught up.
Aym threw up dust and grass as he wrestled with the blue skunk wrapped around his waist. She held tight to his middle with her arms and his upper legs with her legs. Aym raised his fist, about to hit the girl, but Baal dove and grabbed his arm.
The two of them were strong, stronger than most mortals realized, and if Aym wasn't careful, he could accidentally hurt this girl, or if she was particularly weak, kill her.
They had come across those people consumed by sin before. The damned soul writhed in pain and agony, trying to drag others down with it into death or depravity. He couldn't risk his brother the same fate.
"Release me, skunk!" Aym ordered, trying to pry her arms off him, but she dug her fingers into her locked arms.
"No! Not if you are going to bother Jalala!" She snapped. "I never doubt the Leader. I know they're never wrong, but this just isn't the right time!"
"Let me go!" He pushed on her shoulders as Baal pulled at her middle. "I need to apologize!"
"Apologies mean nothing coming from someone like you, heartbreaker!"
A group of onlookers gaped at the scene. Baal shot a sharp, threatening glare at them. Just because this mess happened in public didn't mean the public had a right to judge them!
This girl stuck to Aym like tree sap. Her actions didn't make any sense! Clearly, this girl was Jalala's friend. Why wouldn't she want Aym to apologize? Aym apologizing would make Jalala feel better!
Aym gritted his teeth. Baal knew Aym was considering if he could get away with one small punch. Baal had to think fast. He couldn't risk Aym getting in trouble, but no matter how hard they pushed or pulled or pried, this girl wouldn't budge.
An idea struck Baal.
Baal pressed his fingers under the girl's arms and started tickling. Her eyes widened, and she puffed out her cheeks. Snorts escaped her nose, and Baal knew he was winning.
He continued to tickle her underarms and sides until the girl burst out in laughter. Her grip loosened for the briefest of seconds, but that was all Aym needed to slip out of her grasp. He rolled to his feet.
The girl, tears in her eyes, reached out and gasped, "No! Stop!" at the same time as Baal shouted, "Go! Go!", but Aym didn't need the encouragement to bolt away.
The girl thrashed against the ground, beating weakly at Baal's chest with her fists.
"No more! No more! Please! S-stop!" She pleaded.
"Not until you promise to leave my brother alone."
"I-I can't!" She grabbed at his arms, trying to push him away. "I can't let him hurt Jalala again!"
Baal tickled her belly. "He's not trying to hurt her. He wants to apologize for taking away her heroic moment."
"That's-That's not what he did."
Baal froze, his fingers just above her stomach. He frowned at her.
"Isn't it?"
Had Mother been right? Baal couldn't say he was fully surprised. Mother would know matters of the heart better than Lord Narinder.
The girl sat up, holding herself around the stomach. She glared daggers at him.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "Please, tell me what Aym did. He honestly doesn't know."
The girl eyed him warily, then heaved a sigh and shook her head. She muttered something about 'idiot boys' under her breath before facing Baal to explain.
---
"Thanks, Disciple Lena," Yarlen said about the extra slice of cake she gave him. He knew it was a pity slice. The moment he walked up, she wrinkled her nose; the scent of dead fish still clung to his fur. Rinor had found him a necklace of beads made from fragrant camilla flowers. They had hoped it would cover the smell, but the beads did nothing for a sharp-nose shrew like Disciple Lena.
Yarlen balanced the cake slices, two in hand and one on his arm, as he worked his way through the crowd towards where his sibling glumly sat on a log bench. Rinor suggested he and Jalala head to the feast table first thing when Leader ended their sermon while she scouted around for that terrible Aym.
Save for the elderly and children, no one but those who worked the tables or games were allowed to eat before the festival began, so the long tables of savory foods and soups were packed with hungry followers. Disciple Lena stood marshal by the kitchen where the dessert foods were to make sure no one took more than two of any of the goodies before everyone had a chance to swing by.
Jalala slumped, her gaze fixed on her feet. The usual glow in her eyes faded by the time Leader returned her to Yarlen the evening before. She collapsed against him and clung to his robes, whimpering how she had one of the worst days of her life.
That vile Aym! He better count his lucky stars Yarlen hadn't been there, or Yarlen would have given him what-for!
"Here," Yarlen said, offering her the slice on his arm. Jalala took the cake with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. He placed the extra slice beside his sister before taking a seat himself.
Yarlen bit into the soft cake and let out an exaggerated moan of delight.
"So good! I know it's a little early for cake, but it is a party." Yarlen raised his cake for a toast. Jalala's slice of cake stayed put in her lap. He cleared his throat. Jalala blushed when she noticed the raised cake slice.
She tapped her bowl against his with a forced smile.
"Yeah, I guess." She sighed. "Sorry. I'm not in the mood for cake right now. My stomach aches..."
A stomach ache had been Jalala's go-to excuse since they were children. If she didn't want to go to the temple, her stomach ached. If she didn't want to talk to someone, her stomach ached. If she wanted to get out of chores in the fields, her stomach ached.
Luckily, Yarlen knew just how to handle her stomach aches.
He set his cake slice beside the extra one and hopped to his feet.
"No, it's my mistake. We're not kids anymore. We need something healthy to absorb the sugar in our stomachs first." He patted her shoulder. "Stay put. I'll get us some soup. It'll help with your tummy troubles too." He winked at her, and she shamefully looked away.
Yarlen wracked his brain as he headed towards the feast tables. He had to figure out a way to make Jalala feel better. He couldn't let some random tomcat who had to gall to leave Paradise ruin the festival for Jalala.
"...seen Jalala?"
Yarlen froze at the sound of his sister's name. He swung his head towards the source. His heart dropped to his feet.
Talking to one of the kitchen helpers, loomed a tall, dark-furred cat with a long, deep scar across one blind eye.
Aym! That had to be him. He was looking for Jalala--no doubt to rub his disrespect in her face. Yarlen's blood boiled with righteous rage for his sister.
No, no way in hell would he let this feline hurt Jalala anymore! He would put a stop to this once and for all!
Before the kitchen helper could point out where Jalala sat, Yarlen marched up, his chest puffed out and shoulders square. Sure, Aym stood nearly head and shoulders taller than him, but the grannies in his village always said Yarlen was scrappy! He wasn't scared of some overgrown kitty-cat.
"Hey! You!" He jabbed a surprised Aym in the chest with his finger. "Leave Jalala alone!"
Aym narrowed his eyes and slapped Yarlen's hand away. "You're Yarlen, aren't you? Where is your sister? I have to talk to her."
The kitchen helper sucked in a breath through their teeth as they looked between the two boys staring each other down. They took a quick step back before darting away towards the kitchen.
"I wouldn't let you within ten feet of her, asshole," Yarlen countered, balling his fist. Leader said no murder, but they said nothing about a fight to defend a sister from a terrible, rude bastard.
Through gritted teeth, Aym grumbled, "I was attacked once already today. Don't test me. I just want to apologize."
Yarlen scoffed. "An apology wouldn't ever make up for what you did."
Aym ran his hand through the hair between his ears. He muttered, "Lord Death, give me strength."
As if Leader would help him. Their glorious and powerful Leader cared more about Jalala's feelings than whatever Aym wanted to say. Why else would they have gone out of their way to comfort her the day before? The only offering death could give Aym was if they made him fall dead at that very moment.
"Please," Aym drew out the word, "I did not even know I did anything wrong."
Yarlen bristled. How could he not know what he did was terrible!? To play with a girl's heart? To taunt her so rudely and callously? Yarlen had had enough of this tomcat's nonsense!
Yarlen twisted his torso back and raised his fist. He would defend Jalala's honor right then and there!
Aym fell into a defensive stance as Yarlen swung.
"Stop! Yarlen, you dunderhead! Stop!"
Rinor pushed Yarlen, sending him toppling into one of the feast tables. The table shook, bowls and cups clattering together. Luckily, other followers at the table grabbed it before it fell completely over. The sudden jostling back and forth, however, caused a large bowl of fish broth soup to spill right on top of Yarlen's head.
Yarlen wiped at the warm soup on his face with his soaked robes. When he could finally see again, he found Rinor cringing at him and not one but two tall, dark cats staring pitifully at him.
"Rinor! What the hell?!" He snapped, using the table to pull himself up.
"Sorry, but there's been a mistake!" Rinor raised her hands to help, but unsure how to, put them back down. "Aym didn't do what Jalala thought he did."
Yarlen threw his hands up. "What are you talking about? Of course, he did. What else could he have meant by trying to kill himself only after Jalala asked him to dance but that he didn't like her?"
"Wait...what? Isn't Jalala mad because I didn't let her be my hero?" Aym tilted his head. Yarlen opened his mouth to snap at him for even suggesting a stupid idea like that but stopped when he saw that Aym looked genuinely confused.
Rinor put a hand on Yarlen's fish broth-soaked shoulder. "Disciple Narinder told him that was why she was mad. He said she wanted to be heroic and save Aym, but when he tried to pull his hand away, he accidentally took that from her and made her upset."
"Jalala doesn't care about that stuff at all," Yarlen pointed out with a scowl. Yarlen didn't know him that well, but Disciple Narinder had to know someone like Jalala didn't want to play hero, whatever that meant.
Aym gasped. "Master was...wrong?" He grabbed at the other cat's arm for support.
The other cat patted his back sympathetically. "Lord Narinder has been without his crown for a while now. He isn't as infallible as he once was."
Yarlen looked between Rinor and the cats with furrowed brows.
"So, I..." he sighed, "guess we should go get her...?"
Yarlen didn't want to. He still wasn't sure he trusted Aym to be around Jalala, but if what Rinor said was true and this was all a misunderstanding, then Aym should have a chance to clear his name.
From behind them, someone cleared her throat. "Um, I'm already here."
Jalala shifted nervously. All three cake slices were now piled on top of each other in one bowl in her hands.
"Jalala!" Aym hurriedly stood straight. "We need to talk. I think I need to apologize, but," he glanced at Rinor and Yarlen, "maybe not for the thing I thought I did?"
Before Jalala could reply, Disciples Lena put her hand on Jalala's shoulder. The kitchen helper from before peeked around her with wide eyes. Dispicile Lena glared at the group and raised a heavy soup ladle.
"Whatever you kids need to do, do it somewhere else," she roared, jabbing the ladle away from the table.
Before Yarlen could muster an apology for the disruption and the wasted soup, Rinor had his and Jalala's arms in hers while the other cat grabbed Aym by the front of his robe, and the two dragged the rest away before they had to face the kitchen shrew's wrath.
---
Yarlen had pointed two fingers to his eyes and jabbed them at Aym. He, Rinor, and Baal then left. As they were swallowed by the crowd, Jalala heard Rinor suggest they dunk Yarlen in the fountain nearest to The Lamb's tent, as it might have some holy properties that could help with the fish stench.
That had been more than ten minutes ago, and yet, sitting on a bench near where the festival games were held, Aym and Jalala hadn't said a word to each other. Every time one of them attempted to speak, they puttered out, embarrassed.
Jalala wanted to find a pit to crawl into. This was all her fault, wasn't it? She had assumed Aym tried to pry his hands from hers to avoid the awkward conversation of declining a dance with her. Why else would he let himself die when she hadn't given up saving him?
She twiddled her thumbs. The Lamb had told her that she should think about whether Aym had meant to upset her, and she ignored their wisdom to brood and sulk on her perceived rejection.
Jalala shook her head. She couldn't believe she fell for the most overused trope in the book!
Aym cleared his throat. "Um," he started, paused, then continued, "I...I'm sorry."
The skin under her fur burned. "No!" She shook her hands in front of her. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I didn't even try to listen to you."
"Well, I didn't even try to explain why I was trying to die to you," Aym countered.
"You didn't have time! I'm the one who jumped to conclusions," she argued. He opened his mouth to continue, but she cut him off. "How about this: if you accept my apology, I will accept yours." She held out her hand to him. "Deal?"
His giant hand engulfed hers as they shook. The two held hands for a beat longer than they needed to before each slowly pulled away. Their eyes met and they looked away from each other.
Jalala looked out to the games ahead of them. The archery contest had a long line of people, probably because it was one of the few times The Lamb allowed bows and arrows in the camp, while the guessing the numbers of seeds in a bottle game had only a few children around it, tapping the glass jar as to attempt to count the seeds.
She spotted Disciple Narinder stomping away from the ring toss game. The person running the game called at him with a mocking tone, and Jalala was pretty sure she saw Disciple Narinder send a rude gesture towards the game and its runner.
"Did I hear you right earlier? Your master is Disciple Narinder?"
Aym perked his ears up. He rolled back his shoulders, suddenly radiating with pride.
"He is. He taught me almost everything I know about combat and magic and serving The Red Crown." Aym crossed his arms and gave a confident head nod. "Whatever Mother had not taught me, he taught me. I'm privileged to have been gifted to him."
Jalala didn't quite know what Aym meant by 'gifted to', but that answer could wait for another day. She had something more important to ask. She stood up, dusted her robe off, and then held out her hand to Aym with a bright smile.
"Did he also teach you to dance?"
---
Narinder glared at the target on the other end of the range then at the arrow stuck in the ground halfway between him and the target. He slammed the bow down at the feet of the follower in charge and stormed away from the archery game.
Thank The First Ones Shamura wasn't there to see that sorry display of archery. They would have forced him to practice until he could hit the target a hundred times over without missing for such a failure--and Narinder would happily do it.
First, his guess at the seed guessing game made the woman behind the glass jar wince, then he made a fool of himself at the ring toss game, and now this...
"I'm losing my edge," he muttered to himself, staring at his palm.
"Maybe. There isn't all that much to sharpen it on here, after all."
He jumped as Baal watched him with an amused expression. Narinder glared at him, too. In the Gateway, Baal would never even think to suggest his master was soft or weak. He would have argued that Narinder was The Great Lord Death, He Who Puts The Souls To Rest, and such a person could never be weak.
Narinder wrinkled his nose. "You stink of fish."
"It's been an interesting day already for me." Baal chuckled, brushing at a wet spot on his robes. "Are you having fun, Lord Narinder?"
Narinder grunted in response, thankful at least one of the two called him by his name.
"Where is your brother?" Narinder asked, steering both of them and their conversation away from the archery game.
"Dancing with his bear girl." Baal hummed. "They were able to make up. It was very awkward for everyone. The Kitchen Shrew threatened all of us with a ladle. Aym will want to tell you all about it later, I'm sure."
Narinder perked up a little. So The Lamb's--and his--scheme came to fruition then. Aym and that girl were in the starts of a romantic relationship.
"Good for him." Narinder put his hands behind his back and walked coolly over to a set of large logs set up for seats. Baal took the seat next to him.
"Do any of the people here catch your eye?" He asked, idly looking up at the sky. Not a single cloud darkened the blue. A perfect day for a festival.
Baal waved his hands in front of him with a laugh. "Oh, no, not really. Honestly, that romance stuff is not really for me. I'm fine with having just friends. I even made a few here today." A smirk crossed his face. "And what about you? Surely after all this time, there has to be someone here worthy of your affections, my lord, perhaps someone...fluffy."
Narinder rolled his eyes. "Hold your tongue, child."
Baal propped his elbows on his knees and set his jaw in his hands. His eyes glowed with impish light. His tail flicked mischievously behind him.
"Why? You're not my master. I don't have to listen to you."
Narinder pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes then scoffed. "It is complicated, and that is all you need to know."
Baal rocked back, roaring with laughter. Narinder forced his mouth to stay in a frown. He had expected Baal and Aym to stay stony-faced when acting as his servants. It pleased him now to see the boy so easily laugh in public.
Baal wiped a tear away from his eye. "Aym is planning on asking you to let him stay here and train him. He misses being able to use spells, and so do I, actually." He looked down at his hands. "Our bodies aren't as good at magic as they were before."
"Without The Crown, neither is mine," Narinder admitted.
"Then, could you use that 'complicated' relationship of yours to talk The Lamb into helping you teach us again?" Baal set his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "I promise to force Aym to stop calling you 'Master' if you do."
"As if my wisdom could be bought with such a weak offer," Narinder said, standing up. Baal's ears flattened in disappointment.
"Oh, I understand..." He twiddled his fingers together and bowed his head.
Narinder smirked to himself. He would not let a youth like Baal act so coyly to him, not without retaliation.
He picked at his claws. "Now, if you were to promise that and offer me all the bread you both get for dinner while here, I suppose I can consider attempting to train you and your brother again with The Lamb's help."
Narinder turned away so Baal--and his beaming expression--couldn't see the smile on his own face.
---
The Lamb leaned against a flower-wrapped pole, a cup of wine in their hands. They sipped it as the band on the stage played something close to a song. They made a mental note to encourage some of the younger members to pick up an instrument so the cult could have life-long permanent musicians.
"Forneus, no offense, but your son cannot dance." The Lamb raised their cup towards the throng of dancing people. Near the far edge, Aym took awkward, shaking steps, his hands in Jalala's. He kept glancing down at his feet since when he tried to look up at his partner, he accidentally stepped on her toes. Admittedly, Jalala wasn't much better since she couldn't keep on beat to the music.
"A tragedy that will remedy itself." Forneus sipped her wine before she asked, "Blessed Lamb, tell me truthfully, did you have something to do with their hearts' connection?"
The Lamb shrugged and hid their smile behind their cup. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're implying, Forneus."
Forneus chuckled and shook her head. They and she had a longstanding friendship. She had been one of the first outside the cult to give her praise to them, after all. She could read them as easily as Narinder at this point.
Is that a universal cat trait, I wonder? The Lamb thought, watching as Jalala took a step forward too fast and toppled over Aym, leaving them both on the ground.
Forneus sighed. "I know it is not my place to make demands of a god, but," she bent her large body down so she was at eye level with The Lamb, "please, do not manipulate either of my boys in the future like that."
The Lamb put their hand to their chest in faux offense. "Why, Forneus! How could you say such a thing? I'm hurt." They faked a sniffle. "First Narinder calls what I'm doing 'a scheme' and now you call it 'manipulation.'"
"Ah, so you admit to it." Forneus sent them a knowing look then straightened back up.
The Lamb raised a shoulder. "Caught me. I promise I won't 'manipulate' your children's romantic relationships next time. I just want the boys to be happy, is all."
They were thankful Forneus hadn't been upset with them for pushing Aym and Jalala together. They had a hunch Forneus knew there was an ulterior motive to their plan, but whether she guessed it was to use her son's strength to help around the grounds or not, they weren't sure and definitely weren't going to bring it up.
"Thank you." Forneus raised her cup with a laugh. "To The Blessed Lamb, conduit of great power."Â Â
They raised their cup to hers. "To the blessed mother, protector of her children's hearts."
The two tapped their cups together and went back to watching the new couple trip over each other's feet.
---
AN: The entire bread story line is based on my cats, who are the reason I have had to toss multiple loafs that they ate through the plastic during the night, and I didn't notice until the bread went stale a day or two later.
Also, some of the scenes in this dual shot are based on comics I've made! "Don't insult Aym's fine feline heritage." (this is the comic that started it all with this ship!) and "Stuck in the rain!"
Summary: Aym barely wanted to go to this foolish festival in the first place, and then The Lamb goes and forces him to help with preparations along with a cute panda girl that makes him feel warm all over. How is he suppose to handle this by himself? Will he be able to convince his Master to help him with these new, complicated feelings, and what's this about a scheme The Lamb is planning?
Ships: AymxJalala
Content Warnings: N/A
Chapters:1/2
Read on AO3
---
If Aym knew he would be put to work, he would not have come.
He followed the vile usurp—err, The Lamb--as they spoke animatedly about the upcoming festival. They gestured to a large pole covered in vines and flowers as they babbled on about the dancing and singing that would happen. Â
If his master still had the crown—as he rightfully should—Aym doubted precious time would be wasted on such a frivolous idea.
"You're one of the strongest followers I've ever had," The Lamb said, smiling at him. Aym tried not to roll his eyes. Flattery would not make Aym like The Lamb more, but perhaps he could use this opportunity to remind The Lamb with whom his loyalties will always lie.
"Master trained me well when I was under his tutelage," Aym replied, puffing out his chest with pride. In the years he and his brother spent with their master, Master expanded greatly on the basic training they received before being sent to him. He and Baal had the privilege to be trained in the merciless ways of death by Death himself, the true barer of The Red Crown.
"Oh, don't I know it," The Lamb mumbled, rubbing a spot on their arm were Aym had slashed into their flesh a century ago. The Lamb continued, louder, "Since you're as strong as you are, I need you to help take some flour and sugar to the kitchen."
The Lamb skipped up the steps at the entrance of the cult grounds. At the top, they gestured to a pile of burlap sacks, stacked as high as The Lamb was tall. Beside the sacks sat many baskets of fruit: peaches, apples, pears, and others Aym could not name.
"The cooks in the kitchen are making lots of deserts for the festival. If there is a dessert you or Baal particularly enjoy, I would be more than happy to ask them to make it for you." The Lamb picked up a peach and sniffed it. They sighed contently before returning it to the basket.
"I don't care for sweets," Aym lied. In truth, he loved apples baked with herbs and spices in a flaky crust with freshly whipped cream, but he refused to let The Lamb know that. Besides, the cooks in the kitchen could never make it as well as his mother could. Why even waste the ingredients to try?
"And Baal?"
Aym shook his head. Baal enjoyed sweet cakes with sugary fruit syrups, but since he was traveling with Mother, he would not even be hungry when they arrived. Mother always cooked the most delicious and filling foods whenever they visited her, and Baal would have a week of it.
A small flare of jealousy sparked in Aym's stomach that he hadn't chosen to join Baal and Mother, but it extinguished quickly. It had been his choice to journey alone, after all.
The Lamb shrugged. "That's alright. There will be other, savory offerings as well."
Aym grunted, walking over to the sacks. He slipped his hands under the top one and gave it a small, test lift. It would be heavy for any of The Lamb's other, weak followers, but it should be no trouble for Aym.
"I'm sorry I'm late!" A voice cried.
Aym turned to see a small follower jog up the steps. When she came to the top, she doubled over, panting, with her hands on her knees.
He furrowed his brows. Admittedly, Aym was not as worldly as he would like and did not know the names of every type of creature in the lands, but he could confidently say he had never seen creature quite like her before.
She appeared like a bear but with a muzzle shorter and wider than any he had ever seen. She had dark fur on her round ears, arms, and legs, and patches that circled her eyes. The rest of her soft fur was an off white color.
The follower finally looked up at The Lamb and Aym with big, clear, blue eyes. Aym's heart stuttered for a beat. He'd never seen such pretty eyes before.
As The Lamb went to greet the new comer, Aym shook his head at his involuntary reaction. He would have to train his focus and fortitude after this festival ended. Clearly, he had been slacking.
"Aym," The Lamb returned with their hand on the follower's shoulder, "This is Jalala. Jalala, this is Aym. He is a devoted follower of The Red Crown and used to live here for a time."
Aym nodded stiffly. Because the follower was so short, only up to Aym's chest, she had to crane her neck to look him in the face. She made a small squeak of surprise and averted her eyes.
Her reaction to the scar that tore over his eye was not unusual. He had grown used to it in the time since he returned to the land of the living. Most folks had the tact to not ask him around it the moment they met, at least, and this Jalala was no exception.
"H-Hello," she bobbed her head, "I'm Jalala. It's nice to meet you." She spoke with an accent not unlike the one the travelers from the mainland had.
"That is what The Lamb said," Aym replied. Even more embarrassed, Jalala bent her chin down to her chest.
The Lamb clapped their hands. "Since introductions are finished..." They gestured to the pile of sacks and baskets. "Jalala, please help Aym take these deliveries from Rakshasa to the kitchen. Don't worry about the flour and sugar; Aym will take care of those."
Jalala nodded and watched as The Lamb left back to the cult grounds. She shuffled a moment, looking at her feet, as Aym sighed quietly. Even those with tact would ask him about his scar when they were alone together.
"I got it as a child in an accident," Aym said at the same time as Jalala exclaimed, "I'm a panda!"
The two exchanged brief, awkward looks before turning away from each other. Aym's skin burned with embarrassment under his dark fur.
Jalala coughed. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, still not looking at him. "Most people ask me what creature I am when we're alone. I'm a panda. I'm not from this island."
"I wasn't..." Aym shook himself. "We should get started." He spun around on his heel. In an effortless motion, he took the top sack and threw it over his shoulder. He could handle two, of course, but if he finished early, who knows what The Lamb would have him do next.
Jalala picked up a basket, holding it to her chest. Aym strode past her. He couldn't risk making a fool of himself again by trying to make small talk. This task could and would be done in silence.
Jalala rushed to keep up with him on her short legs.
As they made their way to the kitchen, Aym kept his face forward, even though he didn't know exactly where he was going. The cult grounds had changed in the two years since he and Baal were reunited with Mother. Many of the single person homes were torn down and reconstructed for multiple people. The prison had been moved farther from the entrance, near the demon summoning circle and graveyard. The crown statues, monuments to the Bishops' defeats, which once stood vigil on either side of the temple, now cowered in the shadow of a magnificent statue of his master.
Aym felt a soft hand on his arm.
"Um, the kitchen is this way?" Jalala nodded in the opposite direction Aym had been heading. With his ears down turned, he followed her past the shrine in the middle of the grounds, near the gardens, to the kitchen.
The kitchen bustled with activity. Followers chopped beets, pumpkins, and cauliflower on tables set up outside. They scraped the cubes of vegetables into pots at their feet. Near a roaring fire, some others lopped the heads off fish, plucked the feathers from small birds, and gutted squirrels. When they completed their work, some of the meat was taken into the kitchen itself; some was tossed into vats of marinate, while the rest were placed on a grill grate over the fire.
Jalala went to the front of the kitchen. She called in, "Hello? Disciple Lena?"
"What is it? I'm very busy--" A shrew popped her head out with an annoyed expression that faded when she saw the basket in Jalala's arms. "Oh! The delivery is here!"
Lena rushed outside the kitchen. She wiped her sweaty face on her apron. She took the basket from Jalala, balanced it on one hip, took one of the peaches, and examined it with a critical eye.
After a moment, she nodded. "They'll do." She handed the basket back and gestured to the followers chopping vegetables. "Take the fruit over there. Juty will know what to do with them."
While Jalala left to deliver the basket, Lena turned her attention to Aym.
Aym remembered her. When he lived in the cult, she had not been a disciple, though, but she was head of the kitchen then, too, running the cooking and food production of the cult with the strictness of a Silk Cradle Drill Sargent. She made sure meals happened at the same times everyday, each recipe followed to the letter, and no one took more than their share.
"Oh, you've come back, eh?" She sniffed. "Well, at least, you're earning your keep. Take that flour into the kitchen. The rest set here." She gestured to a spot near the kitchen wall. "Take the first sack of sugar inside as we--"
"Disciple Lena!" Another follower called from the kitchen. "The thief stole a loaf of bread again!"
Her shoulders fell and she let out a heavy sigh. "Scratch that, bring two flours inside."
---
Aym and Jalala took several more trips back and forth, but barely made a dent in the delivery. Finally, Jalala sat on the steps, breathing heavily.
"Let's take a break. Just for a minute?" She asked, holding up one finger. Though Aym was no where near tired, he agreed and sat a few steps up from her.
As he gazed over the grounds, he wondered when Baal and Mother would be there. The festival was in two days, so they had plenty of time. The Lamb had invited Mother personally a month ago, and she, inturn, requested that her sons be invited as well.
"They said you two are always welcome to come visit!" Mother had laughed, setting a bowl of hearty stew down in front of Aym. "Their heart is filled with such kindness!"
Aym and Baal had exchanged a look behind their mother's back. No matter how kind the Lamb seemed, neither of them could forget the ferocity of which The Lamb battled for control of The Crown in The Gateway.
Mother had a few stops to make before heading to the festival. She offered that both boys may stay and travel with her. Baal agreed, but Aym decided against it. He loved traveling with Mother and Baal, of course, but he found Mother's business matters extremely boring.
Baal enjoyed making friends and hearing others' stories, but Aym preferred action. He liked to travel into the deepest depths of the lands and face off against the beasts that lurked there. He liked defeating the remains of the Bishops' cults and spreading the word of The Red Crown, even if it rest on the brow of an unworthy host.
So he decided to make his own way back to the cult grounds, a much faster and more direct way than the curving roads Baal and Mother followed.
Jalala cleared her throat. "So, The Leader said you used to live here? I didn't know we were allowed to leave." She quickly added, "Not that I would ever want to leave Paradise, of course!"
"My recruitment was under unusual circumstances," Aym said, fiddling with the skull shaped clasp on his robes.
He could still remember the feeling, right before he was returned from the life beyond. A tugging at his neck, like a collar, pulling him through the endless numbing darkness of death to the sounds of voices chanting and the flicker of candle flames, then the sudden squeeze of the world after's creatures fighting to pull him back.
"Oh," Jalala twiddled her fingers, "mine was too."
He doubted it, but nodded for her to continue.
"I was trying to find this place, Paradise, with my friend Rinor, when a large skull monster, creature, thing attacked us! It planned to sacrifice us to the Bishop of Silk Cradle, um, Sh...Sher..."
"Shamura," Aym supplied then spat at the ground to remove the taste of Master's vile imprisoner from his mouth.
Jalala cringed, scooting away from where he spat. "Yeah, them, but before the monster could sacrifice us, The Lamb swooped in and saved us." Her eyes sparkled. "They were so brave and cool."
Aym scoffed. He was far braver than The Lamb. The Lamb didn't need to fear death, sloppy as their control over it was, while Aym had to fight hard in every battle to stay alive. He knew he was much cooler, too, just by virtue of his service to Master.
"And besides saving us, The Lamb brought me back to my big brother," Jalala continued. "He was the one who told me to come here. I knew I missed him, but I didn't know how much until I saw him again."
That was a feeling Aym knew well. He had missed his mother since the day he and Baal were taken from her. When The Lamb brought him back to her, his heart nearly burst with joy and longing for her embrace.
"I have an older brother as well, Baal." Aym replied.
"Aym and Baal..." Jalala repeated, her brows furrowing a moment before her eyebrows shot up. "Are you Ms. Forneus' son?"
Aym tensed, shocked that this little creature knew his and Mother's relationship.
At his reaction, she frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry. When I was traveling with Rinor, I ran into Ms. Forneus. She gushed about her sons, and I thought she said their names were Aym and Baal, too. I must be mistaken."
"You are not," he said, a little too quickly. "Forneus is indeed my mother."
"That's wonderful then!" Jalala smiled, and Aym felt his temperature rise. "Your mother is a very kind and amazing person."
He nodded, about to speak, when he noticed the smoke from the kitchen curling into the sky. He pushed himself off the steps.
"We should get back to work."
After he had another sack of flour on his shoulder and she another basket in hand, the two made their way down the steps. At the bottom, Aym coughed into his hand.
"What exactly did Mother say about me?" He asked. "When you met her, I mean."
Jalala giggled, a cute, musical sound. "Well, alright, I'll tell you, but it's a little embarrassing..."
---
The Lamb slumped down against the side of the temple wall. They wiped sweat from their brow. The festival seemed like a good idea a month ago, before the chaos of preparation. For every idea that went right, two more went wrong.
A fresh chunk of bread was shoved under their nose.
"I do not miss dealing with all this." Narinder dropped the bread into their lap. He took a large bite out of a half eaten loaf.
The Lamb took the bread and nibbled on it. As a god, they did not need food or drink anymore, but the action itself was a comfort to focus on for a moment.
"It will be worth it for the festival tomorrow." The Lamb lifted the bread up. "They all will have so much fun and make such good memories, they will never want to leave my flock."
"Not all of them," Narinder replied idly. He pointed with the loaf.
Aym with a sack over his shoulder and Jalala with a basket in her arms waited for a group pushing several overloaded wheel barrows of fire wood some ways away. Once the final wheel barrow had passed, the two continued their delivery.
The Lamb shrugged. Both Baal and Aym's mother and past master wanted the boys to have the freedom to forge their own paths, and The Lamb respected that, allowing the boys to come and go as they pleased.
It had been a long time since Baal last visited, and Aym never visited by himself, so when Forneus asked if she could bring her children with her, The Lamb agreed.
"Have you spoken to him yet?" They asked, chewing on another bite.
"For only a moment," Narinder said. "Without Baal around, Aym reverts quickly to his past role, and I would rather not have him following my every move, so I sent him to you."
"Ah. That's why he was so agreeable earlier."
The two continued to watch Aym and Jalala carry their cargo to the kitchen. Even from a distance, The Lamb could tell the two chatted cheerfully with each other. Aym laughed at something Jalala said as a big smile spread across her face.
They seemed to like each other. And weren't they about the same age? The Lamb wondered, if Aym had a special friend there, he would be more likely to visit? And if he visited more often, The Lamb could make use of his strength. And...
Narinder flicked the Lamb's ear.
"I do not care for the expression you are making towards Aym." Narinder narrowed his eyes. "It is your scheming expression."
The Lamb waved him off. "Scheming? Me? Never. I was just thinking, don't those two make a cute couple? Forneus told me she thought Jalala and Rinor were sweet girls when she met them, so she would approve if the two had a little case of puppy love with each other."
"Do not insult Aym's fine feline heritage like that." Narinder's tail flicked irritably.
"Kitten love then," The Lamb corrected. "But, come on, Nari, they're cute, right?"
He grunted. "I suppose, but I still want you to leave him alone."
The Lamb rolled their eyes. "Fine, fine, I will leave him alone." They stood, brushed the back of their fleece off, and shoved the rest of the bread in their mouth. "I have to go check on things. And you"Â Â they pointed at Narinder, "and to stop stealing bread from the kitchen. Lena is gonna figure out it's you one of these days and make you eat gruel for a week."
Narinder took a large, slow bite before he turned and walked away.
---
Jalala collapsed onto the bed in her shared home, exhausted. It had taken the rest of the afternoon to deliver all the fruit, flour, and sugar to the kitchen. Her legs ached from what felt like the thousand leagues she walked.
At least Disciple Lena gave Jalala and Aym an extra scoop of stew in their bowls when they finished. She wasn't sure if Disciple Lena did that out of gratitude or because she gave everyone who had worked on festival preparations extra.
Though tiring, the day itself had not been a bad one. In the morning, she helped arrange flowers for the festival decorations until The Leader called for her to help Aym.
Jalala rolled to her back, holding her pillow to her chest. Her cheeks went hot. Maybe not at first, but Aym ended up being a joy to talk to. She smiled, remembering the embarrassment on his face when she told him what his mother had said about him and the pride in his voice when he talked about his brother. She promised to introduce Aym to Yarlen and Rinor at the festival while he promised to introduce her to Baal.
Rinor pushed open the flap to the shelter. The smell of sweat and lumber clung to her as she flopped next to Jalala.
"Tired..." She moaned. "I think next year we should just eat raw vegetables. No firewood required."
Jalala gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. No matter how tired she was, at least she hadn't ended up assigned to the lumberyard like Rinor.  Rinor pushed herself up and slowly crawled to the bucket of water in the corner. She dunked a cloth into it and began washing the dirt and grime from her face and arms.
"So," she dragged out the word, "you had to make deliveries today, huh?"
Jalala propped herself up on her elbow. "Yes. Mr. Rakshasa brought bulk ingredients for the festival. We had to run back and forth at least a dozen times."
Rinor paused, the cloth on her arm. "'We'?" A sly smile crossed her face. "Do you mean you and that boy?"
Jalala frowned. The lumberyard was pretty far away from the entrance and kitchen. How had Rinor seen them? Her mouth shaped into an 'o' as she realized Rinor must have been in one of the teams delivering firewood to the kitchen. Though, it was unusual for Rinor not to say hello. She must have been too busy.
"Yeah, that was Aym." Jalala picked at a loose thread of her bed roll. "He is one of Ms. Forneus' sons."
"No way!" Rinor wrung out the cloth again, leaving the once clean water a yellow-brown color. "Is he the older one who brought back a beast to be a pet or the younger one who chased a bird fifty feet up a tree and got stuck?"
"Younger." Jalala laughed. "Baal is the older brother. Aym was really nice. He let me rest, even when I knew he wasn't tired at all." She sighed. "He's really strong, too."
Rinor patted the saw dust from her hair before crawling back over to Jalala.  She poked her in the side.
"Nice, huh? That's good, but....Well, I didn't get a good look. Is he cute?"
Jalala pushed her hand away, then sat up properly. "Why do you care?"
Rinor tapped her nose. "Nosy." She shook Jalala's shoulder. "Now answer! Is he?"
Jalala hugged her pillow, blushing. "A little, yeah."
He was handsome, in a boyish sort of way. The scar on his face scared her a little at first, but she soon grew used to seeing it on their many trips back and forth.  He had broad shoulders and long limbs, which shouldn't match well, but somehow, looked well proportioned on him. His fur was a dark gray, only a few shades lighter than Ms. Forneus' black coat, and thick. She never got to touch it, but it looked silky and smooth.
Rinor squealed in delight. "Jalala has a crush! How adorable!" She announced in a sing song voice.
Before Jalala could defend herself, Yarlen pushed open the door. He stank of dead fish. Poor Yarlen had been assigned to taking the fish bones and whatever other scraps of food Disciple Lena decided against saving for broth to the compose heap.
Rinor reeled back, holding her nose while Jalala pulled her robes over hers. Yarlen's shoulders slumped.
"Is it that bad? I stopped smelling it a few hours ago."
Jalala nodded. A quick wash like Rinor did would not rid her brother of the stench. He groaned then quickly stepped inside just to grab a new change of clothes.
"I'll go drop these clothes off at the laundry."
Rinor called, "You can try dunking yourself in the fountain, too!" as he left.
---
Narinder strolled through the evening air, enjoying the silence that began to over take the grounds now that everyone had headed to bed.
He had avoided doing any of the preparation work during the day by virtue of never staying in one place long enough to be recruited to help.
He turned his gaze over to the kitchen. The fire for cooking meats had died down to embers after dinner completed, but the fire inside the kitchen still glowed. He could not sneak in and steal a midnight snack tonight. That shrew Lena already suspected him of stealing bread, and he knew The Lamb would give her permission to feed him gruel if he were to be caught.
Narinder took the final chunk of bread he stole and popped it in his mouth. A thousand years of imprisonment, and sometimes he wanted to enjoy the yeasty taste of bread. There was nothing wrong with that.
In the dying light, Narinder spotted a familiar feline shape walking across the grounds towards the temple.
He had not spoken to Aym for more than a few moments when he arrived before shooing him off. It was not that he did not care to hear the boy's tales of his battles and travels, but Aym still had not yet broken his habit of falling in step behind Narinder when they walked together, nor his habit of glowering at anyone who dared near his ex-master.
While Narinder did enjoy the occasional privileges that came from his past station, being guarded was not one of them.
Maybe after a day of hard work, Aym would be too tired to act as his servant, and they could have a normal chat.
Aym stared up at the twinkling stars above him. Aym's ear twitched as Narinder neared. The boy tensed for a moment before his gaze fell from the stars to Narinder.
Narinder raised a hand in greeting as Aym's posture softened.
"Good evening."
"Yes! Good evening, Ma—Lord Narinder." Aym caught himself, though saying Narinder's real name caused a small cringe to cross his face. Narinder let the mistake pass with out comment. He went to Aym's side then craned his neck to look at the sky.
"It is nice, is it not?" He gestured to it.
"It is." Aym agreed. "Mother taught Baal and me how to identify the constellations, so we would always know how to find our way while we traveled." He pointed to a cluster of stars, connecting them with his finger. "That's the twin fish. It raises in the East this time of year."
Narinder narrowed his eyes at the stars, frowning. "Twin fish? Hmm. I learned it was one of the Old Ones, a founding goddess of some kind or another. That constellation included that dim star there as well, though." He rubbed his chin.
"I'm sorry. I think I can see a lady up there." Aym squinted his eyes at the stars.
Narinder's tail flicked irritably. He snapped, "If twin fish are what you see, then that is fine. After a thousand years, I am not surprised that mortals draw different lines between the stars."
"Apologies," Aym muttered. When he was embarrassed, he looked even more like a small child to Narinder, with his ears lowered and his eyes averted.
Well, since he was already embarrassed, Narinder decided now was his time to pry.
He knew The Lamb well after all this time. They already had a plan in motion to exploit some loophole or another in their promise to leave Aym alone.
Narinder needed to know, at least, how annoyed he should be at them.
He waved his hand dismissively. "Enough of the night sky for now. Tell me, what menial task did The Lamb assign you?"
Aym's ears perked back up. He puffed out his chest as he spoke: "I carried bags of flour and sugar to the kitchen. It took no effort, of course, with how strong your training made me."
Narinder nodded. "If I recall correctly, did that one monochrome bear not also help carry things?"
"She's a panda!" Aym corrected, a little too enthusiastically. Seeing Narinder quirk one eyebrow up at his reaction, Aym coughed into his fist and replied, "I mean, that is what she told me. She is a panda. Her name is Jalala."
Narinder gestured for him to continue, keeping a close eye on his face.
"Oh, well, she carried baskets of fruit since she isn't as strong as me. She even needed more than one break, but Mother always says if someone needs a break, you should let them rest." Aym smiled to himself. "She was fun to talk to, and she liked my stories I told her. And!" He turned, his eyes shining. "She didn't even ask about my scar. Everyone asks about my scar after a little while! I don't think she even cares about it."
Narinder did not doubt that. There were enough followers with scars or wounds that never healed quite right that most people there were desensitized by such things.
Though, being used to scars did not make anyone less curious about them. Narinder himself had asked about the scar not long after the boys were gifted to him.
"That is quiet a scar you have there," Narinder remembered saying, drawing his skeletal finger over his own eye. "Pray tell, child, were did you acquire such a thing?"
Aym had nervously spun his staff back and forth in his clenched hands. He swallowed hard, opened his mouth, but no words came out. Beside him, Baal held out a hand to their new master.
"It was an accident when he was very young," Baal offered. "He--"
"I did not ask you." Narinder sliced a massive hand between the two, obscuring their view of each other. "I asked him. Speak."
Aym started to look to his side, to peak through the gaps in Narinder's bones, but Baal quickly shook his head, then gestured to the god before them. Aym took another breath and slowly hissed it out between his teeth.
"I, uh, I got it when one of Mother's customers got upset," he explained, his voice shaking and ears pinned to his head. "He, um, didn't like Mother's prices, and tried to steal from her. I tried to stop him by grabbing his robe."
"He attacked you, did he? An adult knifing a child; truly, those Bishops have let the world fall into such horrid corruption." Narinder interrupted, mostly to watch the teenager before him squirm uncomfortably.
"No, I mean, yes, I mean, ah...he pushed me. The person who stole from Mother's shop," Aym continued, his tail wrapping around his ankles. "I fell back into a barrel, and a knife fell from the barrel top and..." He made a slashing motion over his blind eye. "I haven't been able to see out of it since." With a sudden burst of confidence, he stated, "But I'm a good fighter! I swear I am. I don't need my eye to be of service to you."
He had then bowed deeply and that was when Narinder began to appreciate the gifts he had been given.
"And you did not ask her anything rude?" Narinder wanted to know. Unfortunately, he had not been able to offer much training to the boys in the way of tactfulness, as they had only the occasional vessel as visitors. It was something he had planned to do once free when he ruled over the lands, though that plan did not work out.
"I don't think so." Aym's tail wrapped around his ankles. "I hope I didn't. What if I did? How would I know? I don't want to have insulted her. She's so nice and sweet and pret...te...te-teal! Her eyes! They're teal, well blue, really, but I've not seen many people with eyes like that either!"
Narinder covered a smile with his hand. He hated to admit it, but The Lamb had been right. Aym and Jalala did seem like a nice couple, and Aym certainly liked the young lady. Narinder wondered if she liked him back, though. Had Aym, in his time returned to the mortal world, experienced heart break or even romantic love? Was he even mature enough to understand the implications?
Narinder hummed to himself as he mulled how best to proceed. He knew he didn't have to proceed at all. Aym was no longer his charge, and he had no desire to take the role of sagely master back up again, but Narinder had had Aym and Baal as his only company for so long, and they in turn had been loyal to him right until--and after--their final breaths, he felt as though he ought to offer some sort of advice.
"I am sure you did not insult her. That said..." He put a hand on the younger cat's shoulder and squeezed. "Do not...jump into anything too abruptly, even if it feels good at the time."
What sound advice he gave--short, straight to the point, and not embarrassing for either party to hear or say. If Aym did not hurry into a relationship with the little panda before he truly knew her, he could not have his heart broken. Simple as that.
Aym furrowed his brow. He went to open his mouth, but Narinder cut him off with a flick of his wrist.
"You should get some sleep." Narinder nodded to the temple, where guests often slept. "You will be asked to help with something else tomorrow, I am sure."
Before Aym could wish Narinder a good night, Narinder turned on his heels and walked away, proud of his excellent and straight forward advice.
---
Rinor crept away from her shelter, quiet as the dead, and guided by the light of the half moon. She knew, of course, if Jalala or Yarlen woke up, she could make the excuse that she needed to use the outhouse, but she had been ordered to be sneaky on this mission!
As she tiptoed past the shrine, she heard talking. She stiffened and pressed herself against the cool statue. Under the watchful stone eye of her leader, she peaked out towards the voices. She squinted.
Disciple Narinder stood next to someone Rinor couldn't make out. Whomever they were, they were taller than Disciple Narinder. Disciple Narinder placed his hand on the other person's shoulder for a moment before turning and walking away.
The other person waited for a bit before they went inside the temple. Once the temple's door shut, Rinor rushed across the open expanse between the shrine and the leader's tent.
Her legs yelled in protest. They had already spent the whole day running loads and loads of wood from one place to another, and now she expected them to carry her that far, that fast?
<i>This is important!</i> She thought to her legs, pushing herself a little faster.
She doubled over near the leader's tent, rubbing the tops of her thighs, promising her legs it would all be worth it.
"Rinor?"
She jumped as Leader stepped out from their tent. She used honoring her god as an excuse to fall to her knees in a bow.
"Great Lamb, I did what you asked of me!" Rinor looked up at them with bright eyes. The Lamb grinned at her. They held out their hands to help her up, much to her hidden disappointment. They ushered her into their tent. The earthy smell of her holy leader filled her nose as they gestured for her to sit down on a pillow.
Rinor took a grateful seat while Leader sat cross legged in front of her. They leaned forward with their hands on their knees.
"Tell me, what did you find out?" Their eyes sparkled as they asked.
"You were definitely right!" Rinor vibrated with excitement. "Jalala really does like that guy! She kept going on and on about him, well, until Yarlen came back in, anyway." Rinor wrinkled her nose as the memory of Yarlen's fishy smell came back to her.
"What did she say?" Leader clapped their palms together and pointed their finger tips at her.
"Um, Jalala thinks he's cute, really nice but just a bit awkward, and really strong," Rinor explained. "While Yarlen was changing out of his stinky clothes, she told me she hopes she gets to dance with him at the festival!"
Rinor wondered if Jalala knew how lucky she was. It's not everyone who had their god play matchmaker for them.
As she hauled herself towards her shelter early that evening, Leader had grabbed her by her arm and pulled her aside. Rinor would never say no to her leader's request, but especially not a request that was for the betterment of her best friend's life! This Aym fellow better be as good as Leader and Jalala claimed.
Leader chuckled. "Wonderful! Simply wonderful! Thank you, Rinor." They stood. "Now, sneak back and remember, this is our little secret." They put their finger to their lips.
Rinor stood and started towards the door when the tent flap opened. Disciple Narinder looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. He stepped around her towards Leader.
"Lamb, there is a topic we ought to discuss," he said, idly picking at his claws. "You need not sleep, so I know you have time to speak."
"Just because I don't need to doesn't mean I don't want to. Unlike you, I still have dreams," The Lamb playfully countered.
"Oh, hush, little godling," he snorted back.
It never ceased to amazing Rinor that Disciple Narinder could talk so casually to their god. It was almost like the two were old friends. Rinor hoped one day, if she ever earned the title of disciple, she, too, could walk up to the leader's tent at night for a chat the same way Disciple Narinder did.
Leader rolled their eyes. To her, they said, "Rinor, go, have a pleasant night."
Rinor took only a single step out into the cool air when Leader put a hand on her shoulder. They asked her, "As a reward for your investigation work, what job do you want to do tomorrow? You don't need to be in the lumberyard."
Rinor's legs cried out in joy.
---
The master sat on the ground next to Aym as he told tale of one of his latest battles. He jabbed his spoon forward as he spoke of how he countered the blade of one of The Yellow Crown's followers before spinning around and dispatching them with a slash to the throat.
"Impressive." Master pulled the meat from his breakfast's fishy bones. "I appreciate you going out of your way to cull Heket's remaining followers. My dear sister is rolling in her grave." He cackled.
Aym beamed with pride. "I'm only doing as expected of me. It would be wrong of me to allow a heretic to live. Only The Red Crown can be worshiped in these lands."Â Â
Master nodded in approval as he tossed the last of his meal into his mouth. Aym followed suit, slurping up the last of his leftover stew. Master craned his neck to look up at the sky, not unlike he did the night before. Aym copied him, gazing at the pale blue sky.
Master hummed. "It's going to rain." He pointed towards the horizon where heavy gray-green clouds gathered. "I think it should go to the east, though."
"If it rains, will the festival be canceled?" Aym asked, his tail flicking nervously.
Originally, he had not cared much about the festival. He came because Mother asked him to and because it was an excuse to see his master, but after his afternoon working with Jalala, he found himself excited for it. He wanted Jalala to introduce him to her brother and best friend. He wanted to introduce her to Baal. He wanted to eat the food with them all, even if it wouldn't be as good as Mother's, and play games and, maybe, even dance with...
His face flushed.
Master shook his head. "Probably not. It may be delayed or taken into the temple, but after all the work The Lamb has put into it, I doubt they would cancel it."
Aym sighed in relief. "Good." When Master looked at him with an unreadable expression, he quickly added, "I would hate for all my hard work to go to waste."
Master nodded. "That is true, I suppose."
"Aym!"
The two cats' heads jerked up as The Lamb trotted over. They smiled a little too brightly for Aym's taste, and he clenched his fist, his face twisting into a grimace. Master patted Aym's arm, soothing the fur that bristled up.
"Good morning, Lamb," Master greeted. He turned to Aym and gestured his hand towards the Lamb.
Aym reluctantly muttered a "morning" to them.
"And a good morning to both of you." The Lamb bobbed their head. "Narinder, do you mind if I borrow Aym from you again today?"
Master waved his hand. "He is not mine to give or take. If he wishes to help you, he may."
Aym felt a small pang in his gut. He knew Master didn't mean any harm saying Aym was not his anymore, but it still hurt a little.
The Lamb put their hands on their hips. "Well, that's true." They turned to Aym. "Aym, could you run an errand for me?"
"Perhaps," Aym replied coldly. "What is the errand?"
They rocked on their heels. "It seems that I forgot to ask Rakshasa for some spices. Lena needs them for a recipe. Normally, I would go track him down myself, but," they gestured to the ongoing festival preparations around them, "I can't really leave right now."
As Aym started to decline, The Lamb continued, "You won't be alone, of course. I'm sending Jalala as well."
Aym's heart skipped a beat.
Master snorted. "Oh, so you want him to go as her guard? Is that all you can think of him as?"
The Lamb chuckled, rubbing the back of their head. "Maybe a little bit. Rakshasa hasn't gone far, only a few miles towards one of his usual spots in Anchordeep, but I would feel better if someone with a little battle experience under their belt went with her." They turned that too bright smile to Aym, and he felt like a spotlight was on him.
He swallowed. "Only Lord Narinder has more experience than me." He bit down on his tongue. He hated calling the master by his real name so casually.
"That may be true, but I have no desire to play escort." Master stood, stretching. "Besides, I am out of practice."
Aym twisted his spoon in his fingers. He hadn't been trying to convince Master to go; instead, he had simply pointed out a fact. Out of practice or not, Master held strength and power that any mortal--or The Lamb--could not even imagine.
"I can go," Aym agreed.
The Lamb clapped their hands. "Excellent! I will go get Jalala and meet you at the entrance." The Lamb spun around and started off, humming a tune.
Master rolled his eyes. He took the empty bowl from Aym without asking.
"I shall take these to the kitchen," he said as he stepped away. He paused a moment, then turned back and met Aym's eyes. "Remember what I told you. Look before you leap, child."
Aym reached out, both to take his bowl back and to stop his master from leaving him with such cryptic knowledge, but Master had already disappeared into the crowd preparing for the festival.
---
Jalala wrung her hands nervously as she followed behind The Lamb. They knew she didn't like to leave Paradise, especially not on her own. It took her months to find it the first time, and she had almost lost her life so many times in that short period. Even small trips away by herself made her shake with nerves.
"I wrote down what you need to pick up," The Lamb said, handing her a slip of paper. "Mace and cardamon."
Jalala frowned. She didn't know what either of those were. Wasn't mace a weapon? She wanted to ask about them, but kept her mouth shut. She didn't want to sound like a fool in front of her holy leader.
As they neared the entrance, Jalala noticed Aym. He leaned against one of the large rock walls with a bladed staff by his side, looking up at the sky. Her heart skipped a beat. He must be waiting for Ms. Forneus and his brother to show up.
Jalala hoped she would be back in time to clean up before they arrived. Ms. Forneus had been so kind to her and Rinor when they met. She found them lost in the edges of Darkwood and offered them a ride on her cart. Rinor and Jalala stayed with the motherly cat for a week or so, helping her package her wears and set up her shop. Her sweet nature reminded Jalala of the grannies in her old village. How they would pinch her cheeks and pat her head, telling Jalala what a darling child she was, then slip her treats when no one was looking.
Baal, though, she only knew of through reputation. Ms. Forneus had spoke of his wanderlust and friendly attitude.
"I believe he could make friends with a stone statue," she had told her with a laugh. Everything Aym said yesterday just reinforced this notion. He was a strong fighter, Aym claimed, and could hold his own in a fight, but Baal would rather talk things out when he could.
Jalala hoped Aym and his family would like Yarlen and Rinor when she introduced him to them as well. She told Yarlen after he came back, still smelling slightly of dead fish, about the planned introductions. He seemed happy about finally being able to thank Ms. Forneus for the help she gave his little sister
The Lamb stopped, and Jalala nearly ran into their back.
"And there is your escort," The Lamb said, gesturing to Aym.
"'Escort'?" Jalala yipped.
"Of course," The Lamb flashed her a smile that made her cheeks burn and set a soothing hand on her shoulder. "I would never send you out without someone to protect you, and Aym here is the best person for the job."
Aym pushed himself from the wall. He walked towards them with the confidence of a man who just won in the fight pit. He gave a small nod to The Lamb then turned to Jalala.
"Good morning," he greeted; his good eye seemed to sparkle at her, and the blush under her fur deepen.
The Lamb chuckled and clasped their hands together. "You two better head out. It's supposed to rain a lot in that direction, and I doubt either of you want to get caught in it."
As The Lamb left her and Aym alone, Jalala decided this was either going to be a great day or one of the worst days of her life.
---
The Lamb found Narinder hiding in the graveyard. He rested his back against the mausoleum where the other disciples were entombed. He plucked a flower, spun it in his hand, then tossed it over to a nearby gravestone.
The Lamb picked up the tossed flower and set it on Trebre's grave. They gave the top of the stone a few gentle pats before returning to Narinder.
He looked up at them with a bored expression.
"How did it go?" He asked, shuffling out of the mausoleum shadow into the sun.
"I've sent them off," The Lamb proclaimed, taking Narinder's vacated spot in the shade.
Warming the shade was about all The Lamb expected he would do that day. Narinder claimed not to like parties or festivals, so he rarely helped set them up, but a century with him freed from his chains, The Lamb knew better. The ex-god of death enjoyed a lively get-together and feasting as much as any other, no matter how aloof he tried to be about it.
Narinder picked at the dirt under one of his claws. "Truly, I hate being part of your schemes, but if it makes the boy happy..." He trailed off with a shrug.
"I'm sure this will work out for both of them," The Lamb agreed, still excited about their secret motive of having extra muscle around the grounds.  "After all," The Lamb bumped their shoulder against Narinder's, "this was your plan."
They had been surprised when Narinder showed up the night before, right after Rinor came with her report, and said he now wanted to take part in The Lamb's matchmaking plan.
"He does seem to enjoy her company, and the girl, at least, is one of the ones I do not find terribly annoying," he had explained after they shooed off Rinor. "Not that it matters what I think for his life, but of the girls his own age here that he could court, the little panda is the preferred one. Besides, I gave him some excellent relationship advice." Narinder's tail was lifted with pride. "He will be just fine no matter what happened."
Narinder then suggested the best way to ensure the two young people actually liked each enough to peruse a relationship was to send them on a boring, menial task alone together.
With the sun on his face and his eyes shut, Narinder snorted. "I cannot take all the credit for it. Kallamar used to play match-maker with his followers all the damn time." He held out his hands in front of him as he spoke. "Two would just show up at my door with a letter saying 'Use them as free labor for a day or two and send them back with something. I do not care what.'"
He held his forehead in his hand, laughing. "It was so annoying, but, by The First Ones, did it work."
The Lamb smiled softly. How strange it was the ways he spoke of his siblings now that they were gone. Sometimes they wondered if he actually missed them.
"If this works as well for me as it did for him, then I'll have to keep this plan around for the future." They patted Narinder's leg before standing up. "I need to check on the lumberyard. They're down a person today. If you would like to come help..."
Narinder scoffed, "Nope." and pretended to fall asleep.
