Esriaal had begun spending their nights in his home, which they had conveniently separated from the rest of the housing. It was clear they were organized, cult grounds laid out strategically into zones so that the followers were easily able to get what they needed close by. From the healing bay and kitchen right next to the indoctrination zone for newly joined to easily be fed and healed after arriving from the old lands to the houses laid out in neat lines, evenly spaced with the disciples living furthest away from the statue to do a last sweep to check in on any cultist's before they went to bed, it was clear Esriaal had carefully planned out nearly every square inch of the cult's grounds for clarity and ease of access.

So the singular home, arranged far from any others, on the opposite side of the grounds was an oddity Narinder could not figure out.

Still, it meant they easily came and went without much notice from the cultists. 

It was a relief Narinder could appreciate, the isolation. Far from the sounds of the other followers, he could actually relax in this poor mortal form, with it's too sensitive ears now that the crown was not there to filter the excess noise. He had forgotten over the millennia how loud the living world was, and his sudden reintroduction had gone catastrophically as he had almost clawed off his own ears before Esriaal had covered them with their own hands, gentle but firm as they had brought him here with the promise to return.

He'd had half a mind to leave then, still unspeakably enraged by the lamb's betrayal when they had returned with a veil, a layered set of robes, and some of their own wool to put in his ears to help filter out the sound.

He remembers they had apologized, though he doesn't remember for what. Only remembers attacking them, and the way they had easily dodged his woefully uncoordinated attempts to disembowel them without even calling for the crown. It was a indignity. It was a relief. It was unspeakably infuriating.

He had dismissed them. Had refused to leave for weeks, meals arriving at his door each day that he would have refused if his body had not been so desperate for it after so long of nothing.

He had hated the berry bowls, but enjoyed the meat dishes. Slowly, over the weeks, the vegetarian offerings disappeared, until only the food he finished was being brought to his doorstep with the quiet sound of hooves each evening.

He remembers vividly their look of pleasure when they saw him getting his own food for the first time, other cultists giving him a wide berth that spoke more of politeness than fear.

At the time, it had been infuriating.

Now, as he does it, it is bittersweet.

The cult works as it always does in their absence. The sermons and other necessary tasks for running the cult are left to their disciples, a frog and the dog. He had asked them once why only two in a cult of so many, and they had answered that too many opposing voices would only sow dissent. They chose only those who thought like they did, who understood their vision. Less conflicting decisions to undo when they returned, they had said.

And Narinder could admit that it was a good decision. Aside from the dog's deplorable actions a few weeks prior, he was indeed a model example of a disciple of the Lamb. Devoted and kind, he was eager to help others. He handled the needs of the workers, making sure all pre-written plans by the lamb were carried out to the letter. The projects were completed quickly under his careful watch, workers moving with vigor.

Despite his personal misgivings at the dog, Julbre, he could see how he had secured himself his position.

"I did not expect to see you today," a croaking voice said, and Narinder turned his gaze from the dog at the nearby worksite to the small red frog always at Esriaal's left side.

Narinder finds it hard to look at her sometimes, so similar to Heket in her coloring. Same croaking voice, though her demeanor is entirely different.

She wears Mystic Robes in black and white, her own skin crimson enough to look the part of a disciple. She stands a polite distance away, food held in her own hands. There is a thread of curiosity to her, eyes studying him in a way that manages to be both cutting and un-threatening.

"I am as subject to this body's needs as you are," he says, looking back with equal weight.

She laughs a little and sits at the small table across from him despite the countless other available seats. Sitting down, she looks even smaller, and Narinder can't help but think of how young she looks.

"I hope you don't mind if I join you," she says, though she's already taking a bite. Her eyes have not left him, though her gaze remains gentle.

"Your company is acceptable," he says in return, and leaves it at that.

She seems to understand he doesn't intend to talk, discomfort at the lamb's absence brewing like a storm in his chest. He hates that he wishes they were here. He wants to scream. He wants to chase them down into the Darkwoods and drag them back to his bed to wrap around them like a child clings to a beloved doll.

"They told me to tell you that I am at your beck and call for anything you may need," she says after a few moments of silence. Her voice is softer than usual, as though she's doing it for him. "They also told me that you may not want me to do anything, but to be clear regardless."

She's looking at him slightly differently, and Narinder does not need to read minds to know she's putting together pieces of their relationship that few others have noticed at all. She's deceptively perceptive, easily noticing things that few others have the time or wherewithal to pay attention to.

"You can tell me why you like like a child," he says, taking a calculated bite.

She laughs, and it is a loud thing this time. It isn't as grating as he fears it may be, the pitch of her voice low enough not to scrape at his ears.

"That would be because I am," she says, eyes sparkling. "I am only seventeen. I became a disciple shortly before my sixteenth birthday."

It is an oddity Narinder does not expect. The lamb is prudent, and it seems unlikely they would assign a child to such important work as overseeing a cult of so many to a child.

She just watches him as she chews, face a pleasant, blank slate that he cannot read despite his own perceptiveness.

"Explain," he says, a demand, and she answers without a hint of frustration at his cold demeanor.

"I am the first child born and raised here. The other children were born outside the meadows and came as refugees. I am told my egg was golden," she says, like that means anything to him. She seems to recognize his lack of comprehension, because she continues. "A golden egg is rare. The Lamb has told me that it has blessed me with additional strengths to others. I would not know. I cannot read minds."

There's something in her tone, like she's aware that others can. Mind reading is unnoticeable to all but the most observant of mortals, so perhaps she had been as blessed in her birth as she says.

"That does not answer my question," he says after a moment, chewing his food slowly. He lacks divinity, but even he can tell there's something different about her. It's the way she moves, the way she speaks. She carries the weight of years she has not experienced, like she somehow has the knowledge of her parents as well as her own.

"You will have to ask a clearer question," she offers back, gaze going from soft to challenging.

Narinder remembers her with a jolt. Remembers her parents, a disciple of the faith and and a cultist the lamb had given the opportunity for demonhood that he had taken with unmatched vigor. The lamb had been surprised that the two had fallen in love with how busy they had both been. He remembers them planning the wedding with so much joy it had rolled off them like waves of warmth in a sunbeam.

"You belonged to Thorgre and Joon," he says, voice neutral.

"I have always belonged to The Lamb," she says, voice sharp before softening. "But yes, my egg was made by Thorgre and Joon."

They are both silent for a moment, though there is no awkwardness. The frog does not seem as though they are in any rush to keep talking, sitting comfortably across from him and eating neatly. She smiles warmly at the cultists as they pass, offering kind words to those brave enough to approach. Her body holds no tension, a trait few of the followers share. They gravitate to her like flies to honey, seeking blessings and advice.

Narinder can see why she was entrusted with the rank.

The moment stretches to minutes, both of them eating in pleasant silence. She studies him as they eat, noting things about him that few get the chance to. He studies her back in turn, noting the tone of her voice as she speaks to others, the slight bounce of her leg as she sits, the careful way she pats her mouth clean every few bites. She's a vision of peace and Narinder wonders if the cultists can see the sharpness of her underneath the facade she so carefully seems to have cultivated. It is nearly as perfect as the Lamb's.

"The Lamb did not specify any tasks they wanted me to do for you, so you will have to let me know what it is you need. I am unable to go without sleep like they do, so I will be unavailable to you during the nighttime hours unless there is something urgent. Is there any need you have for me?" she asks when she finishes, eyes meeting his with a confidence saved for the brave and the foolish. 

"I have further questions for you," Narinder answers after a moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

"Ask them," she offers, making no move to stand.

"How long does the Lamb intend to be gone?"

"They will return in a few days time. Crusades for materials are often shorter as they tend to return as soon as they have what they need, though the supply of bones is exceptionally low after the feast. As is the way of it," she says with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"Why do they not send missionaries?" 

A smile this time. "Their response is because they collect more, faster. I believe the truth is that they don't like endangering the followers. I've heard them speak of finding their bodies out in the old lands, and it seems to weigh on them heavily."

It is a candor Narinder does not expect from a follower so clearly devoted. She seems unphased at the fact that she has given something away they clearly don't wish to share, though she keeps her voice low. It is a calculated truth, as though she expects him to make the same conclusion.

"Bold of a disciple to speculate on the lamb's thoughts in front of a follower," he says, gaze calculating, but she does not flinch. Instead, she smiles conspiratorially at him, as though they share a secret.

"Perhaps a bit bold, though we both know you aren't a mere follower, One Who Waits."

It is the first confirmation he has received that anyone recognizes him in this form. He had suspected some may by the air of fear many seem to have towards him, but she says it like it is obvious.

His eyes dart around, though her voice is far too low for anyone but him to hear. She is studying him carefully, weighing his reaction with calculating eyes. He realizes a bit belatedly that it was a guess based on the borderline giddy smile he receives for his caution.

"You are sharper than most," he says, not bothering to outright affirm her instinct.

She nods graciously, taking it as the compliment it is. "I like to think it's why The Lamb has entrusted me as a disciple."

He nods slightly, eyes still on her. He realizes she uses her youth to be disarming, face schooled into that wide-eyed mask of naivete as another follower comes to tell her of a line forming near the confession booth.

"Do you intend to take their confessions?" Narinder asks once the rabble has been dismissed, and she appraises him a moment before standing.

"I will tell them it is closed until The Lamb's return. I doubt they would appreciate the followers deepest secrets being held in any hands but their own," she says, but there's an undercurrent of something else.

I don't need them to tell me their secrets. They already do.

Narinder rises with her, and realizes just how small her stature truly is. She is small even compared to the lamb, though they both carry themselves in that imposing yet gentle way. They do not need size to be clear that they lead the followers. It is clear in the way they both carry themselves.

Narinder wonders how much of a hand the lamb had in her upbringing.

They walk together quietly to the confession booth next to the temple. There is indeed a line forming, though why the line is so long before breakfast has stopped being served is a mystery to him.

"Apologies, faithful. The confession booth is closed until The Lamb's return. I urge you to write your confessions and submit them to the prayer box if you require advice. If not, know that The Lamb shall absolve you so long as you stride forward with the intent to be better," she says, voice clear and carrying. One of the followers grumbles at the inconvenience, but none speak against her. One comes and pats her on the head, clearly encouraging her as she smiles up at them, face transformed to that child-like expression yet again. There is no sign of resentment of being treated as a child, though her eyes lose the warmth as soon as the follower walks away.

"The Lamb has already prepared today's sermon, but prefers it to be done in the evening in their absence in the case they return midday. Do you wish to come in and help me retrieve them?" she asks once everyone has returned to their places, gesturing at the temple. It is open all hours of the day, with only the one exception.

"Do you think it wise to invite the man your beloved lamb stole divinity from into their inner sanctum?" he asks, voice dropping to a low growl. It is a threat. It is a test.

She considers a moment before she gives another conspiratorial smile. "I believe they have, as you say, invited you to their inner sanctum already."

She doesn't bother to watch his reaction, walking calmly to the temple. It is fortunate, as Narinder cannot help the color that rises to his cheeks. He follows close behind, if only to get out of public view quickly.

There are followers praying here, different than those at the shrine. These prayers are clearly personal, and he remembers hearing them in the gateway. Whispers for assistance, for peace for their loved ones. Prayers for the lamb's safe return, prayers that they will survive their missions when the lamb still sent them, back when they had no other choice to keep the cult fed.

She keeps walking until she reaches behind the lectern, then to the pillar left of the water fountain. She carefully touches it, halo briefly glowing before an illusion drops and Narinder realizes it is an archway.

Upon inspection, none of the followers look up, heads still bowed in prayer. There is no sound, and once she steps through, it looks solid again. After a brief moment, her hand emerges, palm up in offering.

He takes it, and once they step through, Narinder immediately recognizes the pocket dimension for what it is.

It is clear the lamb has only recently made the space because it it hazy at the edges. Where there should be clean lines, the space seems to to flex and breathe as they enter. There are no walls, just the haze of space being bent with some makeshift furniture vaguely outlining where the space becomes too unreal for them to use.

It is a bedroom, though the bed looks like it has been left untouched and unmade for much longer than a few weeks. The air is colder than Narinder enjoys, though it seems suited to the needs of their wool, especially as the summer heat creeps in. Most of the furniture is bookshelves, all full to tipping with even more books on the floor in piles much like the skulls that once decorated Narinder's temple.

There is no rhyme or reason to the titles, everything from history to fiction to a section nearest the desk of detailed depictions of each ritual and how to do it. It is as though they have saved every book they've ever encountered, though Narinder has little memory of them doing it. 

"They're organized by where they were found," the frog eventually says, letting him study the shelves as she collects the papers on the desk and starts organizing them. It is clear they have done no such thing, papers scattered and piled haphazardly along the edges of the desk, all in that same messy script Narinder had tucked in his robes close to his chest. "Something about different scripts and mythos. I would not know. I am not yet permitted to read them."

There's a hint of frustration in her tone, the first sign she resents her youth.

"They cannot stop you while they are not here," he says, voice neutral.

She scoffs. "No, but they can punish me when they return," she says, as though it is obvious.

"Only if they find out," he returns, and her look at him is as disgusted as it is disbelieving.

She says nothing in response, neither confirming nor denying his attempt to see if she actually knows what the lamb is capable of. It is a funny thing, to have a conversation partner so young. She is so forward in some ways, the only true sign of her age. She cannot seem to help her sigh of defeat as she gives up on finding the rhyme or rhythm of the lamb's desk, simply picking up the stack labelled sermons.

"Perhaps I could read a passage. Surely the lamb cannot blame you if you happen to hear me read aloud," he says, voice taking on a tempting edge.

He can't help it, truly. Even before he was banished, it was commonplace for his siblings and himself to steal followers from each other. Mortals are so easily swayed, though most worshiped him by the end.

It's the first crack in her resolve. He can see her hunger. She wants to prove herself, wants to be entrusted with it all. She wants.

He smiles, a cruel thing.

"I could teach you how to lie with your thoughts, you know. It was I who gave them the power in the first place. They would never even have to know," he purrs, picking a book up off the shelf. Her eyes are fixed on it, hands gripping the parchment just too tight.

There is a moment, heavy and still, as he waits.

She lets out a stuttering breath. "They said you'd try something like this. I didn't expect it to still be so tempting even knowing you would," she says, eyes turning to his with an intensity of those on the edge.

His smile stays in place as he opens the book, eyes turning to the page, opening his mouth to start reading.

She is almost as fast as the lamb. She jolts forward and slaps the book out of his hands, eyes blazing with a combination of desperation and fury. She makes no further movements against him, though she remains close. Simply stares him down with defiance as he puts his hands up slowly, indicating he means no harm. He does nothing to temper the sharpness of his smile.

He watches her regain her composure. She takes a deep breath, then another as her eyes close. The hard lines of her face smooth out until her eyes reopen, though she does not try to hide the disappointment in her gaze.

"I'm disappointed you didn't try to tempt the followers first. My will is stronger than theirs," she says, though he cocks his head in disbelief.

"A shame. The fall of the devoted is always so much sweeter," he says, lifting the book to return to the shelf.

She's tense for a moment before she laughs again, breathless like she's run a marathon. "I can see why they are so devoted to you. You certainly have a way of offering up exactly what a person wants."

She's no longer on edge, but he can tell he's shaken her a bit. She may be smart, but still unpracticed. He can tell very little has ever truly tempted her before.

"Was so devoted," he corrects, wiping a bit of the dust that should not be gathering in a space like this with distaste.

"And yet they still pray to you when they think no one is listening," she says, and Narinder can't help the way his eyes magnetize to her.

He has no way of confirming it's true. He doubts the lamb would tell him if he asked. Still, he's tempted to pry further.

Instead, she waves her hand toward the door, smile polite if a touch more wary. He follows the unspoken direction, nodding his head in polite acknowledgement.

Once they have left, the temple is empty. It seems whoever had been here praying had finished, returning to the bustle of the meadows.

"You will be able to pass through even when I am not with you. They said to tell you, quote, 'Their door is always open for you, no sacrifices needed.' I assume it is a joke," she says, though brows furrow in slight distaste at the concept of sacrifice. He wonders idly if she is against it.

She's about to walk away when she hesitates, then looks at him with that odd depth she shouldn't have. "My name is Mele, by the way. You didn't ask."

"It looks as though I didn't need to," he says, and she smiles.

"I suppose you didn't. Find me if you need me, Narinder," she says, and then she's leaving, already put back together. She recovered quickly, though he hopes now that the temptation is there it will grow. After all, watching the mighty fall has always been his favorite entertainment.

Narinder does not seek Mele out again. Instead, he avails himself to the lamb's library, absorbing them with speed and focus as he soaks up all the knowledge he had missed in his captivity. The selection is varied, with some texts repeating in a variety of languages, as though translated multiple times.

He looks for any mention of himself, but almost none are written before a century ago. The fact that many of the books are from before the lamb's time as his vessel is impressive, and it's clear they have filled in the blanks themself when a book has become too difficult to read due to deterioration.

It reminds Narinder vaguely of Shamura's archivists, their most esteemed position of followers. Some of the books seem to have come from their archives directly, as it is the only way some of the texts had any chance to survive hundreds of years.

He's in the middle of an account written a mere decade after his imprisonment when the lamb stumbles in, eyes unfocused as they drip ichor the floor seems to drink up like water to sand. They are covered in cuts and bruises, panting lightly.

There are no windows here, but Narinder can tell night has fallen. He imagines they would have stopped to clean themself up if they had been in view of the followers.

As it is, their eyes go wide when they see him, freezing in place like they've seen a ghost.

Narinder shuts the book with a snap, though he doesn't move from his position on their bed. It had been an eyesore every time he had returned, so he had taken the liberty of washing the bedding and lounging against their multitudes of pillows and poorly sewn stuffed creatures while he had read.

The view seems to have completely shut their brain off as they just stare at him, dripping ichor and other viscera in a quiet plop, plop, plop that reminds him of rain.

"Do you intend to die at my feet as an offering?" he asks after a moment, brow lifting in question. It seems to shake them from their stupor as they shake their head, laughing softly.

"I just didn't expect you to be here. You're usually in bed by now," they say as they move to the wardrobe across from the bed.

It is full of rags, and a bucket of water that is certainly cold, if notably clean. They peel the fleece off their body, grimacing as it peels off their arms with dried flakes of old blood. They hang it carefully from the wardrobe's handle before submerging a rag in the bucket and beginning to scrub away the blood like they don't care if they take their skin with it.

Narinder sighs deeply, moving off the bed with easy grace as he approaches them, hand held out in silence once he's standing in front of them.

For a moment, they just look at him. After a few breaths, they gingerly put the rag in his hand, eyes wide in the way they always seem to be when they can see through his eyes.

"You look terrible," he says, voice soft as he leads them to their desk chair, gently pushing on their shoulder until they're seated.

"You don't," they say, but they don't follow up. They look exhausted, eyes drooping in the way he's noticed means they need rest. He doesn't understand fully why they cannot seem to sleep, but he holds hope that perhaps they will get more than two hours sleep tonight.

"Doubtful. Mele let me know one of the lumberyards collapsed. No injuries, but it will have to be fixed before morning," they say, answering his thoughts easily. They are less stressed about it now, gaining confidence that it isn't upsetting him.

He hums neutrally, already calculating how to keep them from going back out as soon as they're clean when they pull him down by the robes and headbutt his cheek gently but clearly annoyed.

"I told you to be nice to Mele," they say, gaze an odd mix of exasperation and fondness.

"I believe I was being very nice, offering her a taste of something new. I believe it was you who told me that it is important to gain a varied experience. Surely that is why you assign me to a different place every time I begin to become familiar with a job and the followers I share it with," he says, though he knows that isn't why.

They laugh lightly, and Narinder begins to purr gently as he begins wiping their wool, much more difficult to do with a rag than their arms.

"She's still really young to see what exists out there. I don't want her to be frightened like the rest," they say, like a confession.

"It is irresponsible to hide things from her. She is clearly ready for the burden of knowledge, and she knows enough from the followers. They are not as careful about what she hears as you are," he says, blunt, and they frown.

Even like this, they are a visage. The blood only darkens as it dries, nearly black against the white of their wool, though not as dark as his own fur. It is an enchanting color display, and he has to refocus himself on his task.

"She likes you, you know. She says aside from your little stunt, you complimented her," they say, and this time the hum Narinder gives is affirmative.

"She is intelligent and calculating. She was able to discern who I once was," he says, and watches Esriaal's eyes widen.

It is odd sometimes, the dissonance between Esriaal and the lamb in his mind. The beast that stole his godhood and the devotee held so gently in his hands. The dichotomy is jarring enough to feel like they are two different people sometimes, both gripping his heart and constricting his chest until it feels as though he cannot even breathe around it.

"I am not angry," he says, because he can feel the beginnings of panic in the stillness of their form, the slight shake of their breath. It soothes them more than his thoughts do, as though they believe he can somehow lie through his thoughts.

"That's good. She's always been perceptive like that," they say, and he can hear the pride in their voice.

"I was surprised by your decision to ascend her so young until I saw how she reacted when presented with temptation," he responds, dipping the rag back in the water before gently moving to wipe their face.

They laugh again and the sound with the jingle of the bell is all the music Narinder thinks he needs to hear for the next century at least.

"You describe me so poetically," they say, smile warm as he wipes their eyelids gently. "She's as devout as they come, though it makes sense. Followers born into the cult gain loyalty much faster than others, and she gained it even quicker. I could have ascended her at fourteen."

Narinder doesn't answer, just wipes blood carefully from their face until it is clean, unable to resist the urge to kiss them briefly before kneeling down to start cleaning the blood off their legs.

It is a position Narinder is rarely in, preferring to sit with his legs crossed when he is on the ground, and he doesn't miss the hitch in their breath as he holds an ankle in one hand while wiping blood away with the other.

There is silence for another few moments, and he looks up to see their eyes are closed, body sagging into the chair as though they are struggling to stay awake. It is as laughable as it is baffling, to watch them fight to delay what is clearly inevitable.

"I do not understand why you fight sleep so desperately. It is a good way to build power, allowing yourself to absorb the devotion. I'm sure it is harder to resist now that you are the god the heretics beg to in their final moments," he says, and he watches as their eyes slit open, leg held up and slightly open so he can wipe the blood off their inner thigh, a long cut clearly put there by a spear slowly knitting itself back together.

The sight of it, and the surprising combination of the smell of their ichor and their wetness begins to distract him as he meets their eyes slowly. Their gaze is sharper now, less tired and more hazy with desire. He hears another hitch in their breath as his grip tightens instinctively on knee his hand has migrated to without his notice, as though touching them is so second nature it doesn't require conscious thought.

He wants to lick the wound, and he does nothing to hide the thought from them. It seems to have a visceral affect on them as he feels the muscle of their thigh flex, smells as their desire becomes further wetness that stains the air of their half-baked pocket dimension.

They laugh again and it's breathless. "Cut me some slack. I don't know what I'm doing yet," they sigh, eyes fluttering as he adjusts his grip so he's holding the back of their thigh.

"Perhaps if you rest, I will teach you how to contain the space," he says, rag forgotten as he nuzzles just below the wound, breathing against it in question.

"Do I have to sleep?" they ask, voice dripping in want. 

"I will say no only if you do nothing for the next hour," he says, breathing in deeply.

They let out a shaky exhale before nodding, like they can't help but agree.

Their submission is a sweetness he's desperate to swallow down as he presses a kiss to the wound, gaze fixed on their expression.

The moan they give is ragged, like they're surprised. Their brows knit together, and they look confused until he licks along it, drinking in their ichor like ambrosia and moaning into the wound like it's a delicacy crafted to perfectly fit his tastes.

Their own moan echoes it, but they squirm against him like they're trying to get away.

He stops a moment, brows knitting in confusion as he pulls back before their hands jolt out to grab him, pulling him back in.

"Again," they beg, eyes delirious. They look confused. They look overwhelmed. They look delicious.

He takes them at their word, licking along the wound again before gently pressing the tip of his tongue in, feeling the muscle contract in a wicked echo of the way their core tightens under the same ministrations.

Their hands pull him in as they gasp raggedly, like pain, and he realizes with a surprise that borders on delirium that they may have died and brought themself back while they were gone, body remaking itself the way it's supposed to.

It shouldn't make him feel like his every nerve is on fire, but it does. They pull away and push back toward him like they're fighting the instinct to flinch away, and it layers with the way they're moaning fully unrestrained, eyes unseeing as he runs another long line along the ragged edge of the wound.

He presses his lips to it again, gentle. Soothing maybe. It does nothing of the sort, just causes them to whine helplessly as they pant harshly, trying to focus on him through their haze.

"Did something happen out there, Esriaal?" he asks, and their hips stutter forward in an attempt at friction at the sound of their own name.

"I.." they start, cutting off on a gasp as Narinder brings a claw up to drag like a phantom on the wound. "I died but I had the tarot card that brings you back? It was like it wasn't me reconstituting myself."

They barely get the words out, gasping and keening as he slowly drags his claw back and forth. They look lost, eyes flashing red as they struggle with their mortal form. It's the first indication Narinder has gotten that there were changes to their form after ascending to godhood, their fingers flickering in and out of their current plane, leaving the impressions of claws as their hand comes up so they can bite down with a force that causes them to start bleeding more ichor.

"So you're feeling pain?" he asks, though he doesn't need to. It's clear based on their expressions, the knit of their brows, the helpless whine that doesn't end no matter how breathless they become.

And still they lean into the sharpness of his claws.

They don't answer, so he reaches up to pry their hand out of their mouth.

They've bitten into their pointer finger, between their palm and second knuckle. It's healing quicker than the wound on their thigh, but he licks it clean all the same, enjoying the sweetness of their essence.

"Do not stifle your sounds," he says, and there's no need for a threat. They listen regardless, nodding frantically as he returns their hands to his head, fingers scraping the base of his ears they way they do every time he's between their thighs.

He dips back down, stopping briefly at the wound to lick clean the last dregs of ichor before making his way up, pressing soft kisses to their inner thighs before he bites.

The sound they make is indescribable, even with several millennia of knowledge. It is primal, and high, and make him feel a bit like he's being pulled apart at the strings, but still it isn't enough. The pain is clear on their face, but his nose fills with the smell of their arousal thickening, and as he glances up at their face from his position, he sees the ecstasy written across it as he watches slickness pour down their thighs.

The intake of breath they draw as he removes his teeth is deep, as though they haven't breathed since it began. Their body goes limp like their strings have been cut, and the chair and Narinder's hands seem to be the only thing keeping them up.

"I had intended to give you pleasure, but it seems you've already found it," he purrs, mouth curving into something smug and satisfied. He feels the way his tail slowly crooks at the end, licking the remaining ichor off his mouth.

They say nothing, simply trying to breath, and when he looks up, there's a steady stream of tears pouring down their cheeks. Their expression is almost empty, eyes pointed at what would be a ceiling if they knew how to make one. There's a lifelessness to them, as though they no longer occupy their body.

"Esriaal?" he asks, and something cold washes over him when they don't respond. He gets the same feeling he did when he first became mortal, everything too much and too loud as he reaches up to gently hold their face in both of his hands, using his own body to hold them up.

They seem to focus a bit as he comes into view, but only barely. They blink at him, slow, like they don't understand how their own body works. He watches them closely, moving a hand down to their chest, pressing to where their heart is.

It hammers beneath his hand, a sign they are still alive, if rather out of it. He presses down the terrifying, crushing thing that says they are gone, that they will never return, as their gaze focuses back in increments.

"Kinda hoped you would kill me," they mumble after a moment, and his head would snap to theirs if he hadn't been staring them down, watching for any sign that he had pushed too far.

"I could kill you quickly, if you like. Let you be remade like I intended," he whispers back, thumbs gently wiping their tears away. He feels wrong, though it becomes less terrifyingly crushing as their limbs start to move in increments, their face twisting back into pain.

"I kinda want to take you up on that," they say, their grimace noticeable even in their tone. "I forgot how much pain hurts."

Narinder cannot help the sharp exhale he gives, leaning forward to press his lips to theirs, fear slowly fading now that he can recognize it for what it is. He is reminded briefly of their second attempt at Leshy, his brother's rage as they had told him that they could not be killed in a way that matters.

"Truly a scholar," he says as he parts their lips, a chaste thing despite what they have just done. "The historians will recount your genius as the one who declared that pain hurts."

They laugh in return, and the warmth is returning to their eyes. They are looking at him like something cosmic, like they can't believe he's real.

His hands can't seem to settle, gently brushing against every inch of them he can reach, gently kneading in the places his hands can stand to settle, feeling the flex and move of them under his hands. They seem to be healing quicker now, as though their temporary evacuation of their body has rested them in some way. When he looks, the wound on their thigh has closed, though there is still a mark that will likely disappear over the next few hours.

"Sorry for my lack of eloquence. I came so hard I think I almost died for real," they say, lifting their hand to gently pet his cheek with the backs of their fingers. Narinder barely has the control to keep from headbutting straight in their hand and rubbing his cheek along every inch of them.

"I am aware one can die from pleasure, though that wasn't my intent," he tells them, purr so loud as their other hand rubs the back of his ear, soft and grounding.

"Oh well. Maybe next time," they say, an attempt at a joke that he chooses not to acknowledge.

It takes only a few minutes for them to be fully back to themself, looking as refreshed as they do every time they share a bed. He breathes in their scent, sweet and earthy like loam wet by the rain.

"I really scared you," they say after a moment, looking at him curiously.

Narinder freezes despite himself, eyes flying open to look at them in apprehension.

Their gaze is soft, unexpectant of an answer. He doesn't have one for them, the intensity of his reaction giving him away even if his thoughts hadn't. There is no judgement from them, just a soft curiosity, as though they did not think he could be afraid for them.

"It is not often a mortal gets to see a god so close to death. It is... harrowing, having experienced mortality for the first time in millennia."

If you die, I can no longer bring you back, he thinks. I do not yet trust you will.

Their face softens further at his thoughts, and when they lean forward, it is to press a gentle kiss just above his third eye.

It feels like damnation. It feels like absolution. It feels like home.

(I will make sure you come home, they had told him once. When I free you, I will make sure you have a home to come back to.)

When they pull away, they have an odd expression, but he doesn't bother to pay it any thought as he chases them, pressing his lips to theirs in a kiss like the world is ending.

They sigh into his mouth, hands gentle as they pet over his fur. Now that the perceived danger has passed, he cannot help the desperate way he chases them, hands pulling them in until they're flush against him, the warmth of their body soothing the coldness in his chest like a balm.

Their breath hitches at his sudden intensity, but they do nothing to stop him. Just sigh into his mouth as his hands knead into their sides, their hips, their thighs. There is little thought to the pattern of his hands, just trying to touch as much of them as he can, confirming that they are here.

"It's ok, I'm here," they say, though Narinder is barely listening. His mouth moves to their neck, pressing his lips to their pulse, breathing them in like he needs it to live. Maybe he does. The way he's begun to crave them feels like madness, like he would be nothing without their heart in his hands.

"Narinder, hey," they try, but he just moves back up to kiss them again, eyes closed as he just feels them.

(They sought him out after every death, clinging to his hand as he cradled them, crying and gasping for air as the pain faded, until he allowed it to hurt them no more.)

They melt under his hands, holding his face gently in their own, a soft hum into his mouth as he let's them soothe away the terrible thing inside him again.

(They meet him where he is.)

"Allow me to apologize for hurting you," he pants after they kiss for a long while, eyes boring into theirs with an intensity that feels prophetic.

"You don't owe me a.. oh!"

He pulls them half off the chair, lining their hips up and grinding against their core. They look a bit startled, eyes wide as he watches them. He takes them in with a greed that feels like consumption, like he can swallow down each of their sounds and expressions to sustain himself.

"Then let me thank you for trusting me," he says, and he commits their moan to memory as he grinds into them again.

He knows he isn't fighting fair. He knows he isn't leaving them any room to say no as he pulls them into his lap, angling so that their eyes flutter with each grind, bell ringing lightly with each movement.

"Ok," they say when they pull in enough air. He isn't making it easy, plays them like an instrument he's desperate to master. "Ok, yeah. If it helps."

The relief is immediate as he undoes his robes, kissing them again like the only air worth breathing comes directly from their lungs. He can feel their heart against his chest, pressed close as he sinks in slow, attempting to memorize the feel of them for every moment he has to go without them in his sight.

Despite the notable lack of preparation, he sinks in without resistance. They make another of those little 'oh' sounds as he bottoms out and stays there, giving them a moment to adjust. He is ravenous for them, but he wants their pleasure more. He wants them to forget what pain feels like, to be bathed in bliss so enthralling it is all they can think about.

Their hands move to his shoulders and they pull themself close, sliding fully off the chair and into his lap. They sigh into his neck as he pulls away slowly before sinking back in with equal speed.

The pace is maddening, but they sigh into his neck, clinging to him like they know he needs it. They probably do, as he's lost the capability to hide the thoughts he does not want them to hear. They murmur something soothing in his ear, but he can scarcely pay attention as he continues the near glacial pace he's chosen, paying attention only to their gradually crescendoing moans as their walls pulse around him.

"Narinder," they sigh, and he is helpless to the way his purr picks up in intensity.

"I want you to come again," he says, feeling like he's been flayed open. "I want you to forget pain under my careful hands again."

It's a confession he doesn't mean to make, and they moan raggedly as his angle changes so he's rubbing against their walls in that way that makes them unable to keep quiet.

They don't answer, though the way their body responds by meeting his thrusts with a hint of restlessness tells him enough.

He manages to get his hand between their bodies despite the way they've all but melded their bodies together, bell still jingling in melody with their moans. He's gentle as he circles their clit with the pads of his fingers, adjusting the speed and angle until the sounds they make are endless.

He can feel their tears start to soak into his fur, and for a terrible moment, he worries he's hurt them again, but they gasp out a 'don't stop' as they cling to him tighter, nearly cutting off his airway as he slowly brings them to the edge again.

When they come again, it is like a revelation. Their body, taut with pleasure, tenses briefly before going loose again as they come on his cock, and he is helpless to the way his own body responds, moaning their name as he cums with them.

It is not so much an explosion of pleasure as it is the unerring ebb of the tides, riding over him in waves that cause him to shiver against them, nearly overstimulated at the panting in his ear if he weren't so desperately starved for it.

They speak softly in his ear, and as he regains the part of his brain that understands language, he begins to truly hear them again.

"It's ok, I've got you. You're so good to me, I'm not mad. I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise," they say, hands petting at his back as he draws in shaky breaths.

"It is unwise to make promises you cannot keep," he says once he feels like himself again, and not the fear-driven creature he had become at Esriaal's pain. They exhale a laugh, low and soothing. They are nuzzling against him like he does to them, though it's clear they don't know where as one of their horns bumps against his jaw.

"Here," he says as he angles their head up, looking in their eyes for only the briefest of moments before he rubs his cheek against theirs before gently butting their foreheads together. They repeat the gesture, unraveling the anxiety in his chest with easy, careful hands.

"Are you feeling better?" they ask, hands soothing over his shoulders, his arms, his hands, until they've intertwined their fingers. Their hand is warm in his, and he wishes he had done it himself sooner.

"I am," he confirms, letting his eyes slowly close as he feels his exhaustion catch up with him.

"C'mon, let's get to the bed. You look exhausted," they say, and he hums at their words.

They lift carefully off his lap, and the removal of their warmth leaves him feeling adrift until they squeeze his hand, keeping their fingers entwined with his.

It is a difficult thing to stand up and follow them to the bed, but he's rewarded with their arms around them as he lays across their torso, ear pressed to their heart as they gently rub his face and ears, humming a tune he does not recognize.

He fights his tiredness, attempting to lift his head to look at them, but they pull him back down, shushing him the way one does a startled creature.