#skivwrites

As a child Narinder was warm.

So very warm, Shamura almost couldn’t believe their many eyes when they carefully curled their palm around the kitten's tiny claws.

Three bright eyes stared up at them. Three pure, innocent eyes the colour of coal, of trees in the Darkwoods, of burnt food created by Heket no matter how careful the girl was.

Shamura named him Narinder: a name of soft syllables owed to his soft fur, tail and paws. His claws were dull, unable to cause nary a scrape no matter how the little one tried. 

Shamura couldn't believe how gentle he was, playing with Leshy as boys oft to do. Stick sword fights, picking bugs and showing their prizes as the young often do. They danced in the mud and sang the songs the creatures of the lands taught them. More than once did Narinder convince both Shamura and Heket to join in their trysts, and what wild evenings those had been.

Leshy and Heket loved Narinder, and admittedly, Shamura did too.

How could they not? When Narinder brought them flowers the colour of his blood, weaves of grasses as green as the leaves blooming around them in the shape of baskets and shapes vaguely resembling their little family. How could Shamura look Narinder in the eye, and believe themselves able to forsake him? Shamura could not, they refused to see him anything other than their brother, their sweet, innocent baby brother. Narinder had a sparkle to his eyes, as well to his voice. It shined in others’ eyes and they would become just as enchanted as Shamura, they knew it.

Heket was unsure of the child, when Shamura brought him to their dilapidated home. The villagers had long left the houses surrounding their small village vacant in fear of them. Of their mutated appearances and harsh tongues. It had only been them for so long, Heket was reluctant.

Perhaps Heket was right. Right about throwing Narinder to the brush, leaving him to eventually die in the mud he so dearly loved to roll in. 

Shamura hated the thought, but they couldn't help but think Heket was right.

Their sister was always right. 

Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing-

Heket was always right when it came to creatures of intention.

As Shamura’s thoughts melt to snow melt to water melt to vapour, Shamura grieves their oldest, youngest brother, second eldest sibling, watching as that damnable lamb strikes at their eyes.

Heket was right: Narinder would be the end of them. 

And yet…

Shamura can’t help but hope to see him at the gates of hell.

Leshy had never liked Narinder.

He was older than him, and much, much bigger. Even when their eldest sibling had found Leshy in the shrubbery, when Narinder was skin and bones starving in the lands of the oldest faith with Heket and Shamura, he was intimidating.

Perhaps it was because he was scared. Leshy had always been scared of the creatures wandering the forests. Not as much as their brother Kallamar, but enough to hide behind Shamura’s cloak as they carefully picked up the exhausted boy's frame.

Narinder had looked Leshy in the eye with his three, empty pupils and Leshy had felt a foreboding cross his blood, chilling it. There was a vacant mess behind those curious eyes, and Leshy could feel it pulling him in, threatening to swallow him whole within a single move.

Leshy was afraid of Narinder, but Shamura wanted them to get along, to be brothers, so Leshy did.

And Leshy grew to stop stuttering around Narinder. To not feel the need to hide behind his leafy hair. To trust him and follow him to the end of the world.

Leshy grew bold, eccentric; confident. No more did he stalk the brush claimed to be his own, no longer did he cower at the glares of the creatures he ruled over. Narinder encouraged him, goaded him. 

For that, Leshy owed his brother the last sliver of distrust, and finally did Leshy love him fully. 

It had been Shamura’s idea to lock Leshy’s brother away, to chain him with the might of all four together at once. Leshy had never wanted to throw his brother away, to jail him with only his two sons by his side for eternity. 

—At least, Leshy believes them to be his brother's sons. He was never truly sure, but the similarities were undeniable. Leshy had loved Aym and Baal ever since Narinder had brought their tiny forms to them, yet to grow to their full size, their tummies empty as Narinder’s was so long ago.

Leshy loved them, and they loved Leshy.

And it was no one's business than Leshy and his nephews’ if they had visited him one last time, minutes before Narinder’s Lamb came to take his life to say goodbye.

Heket hated that scruffy three eyed cat from the moment she set her eyes on his small, lanky form.

Heket knew he was important. It was a feeling she got every time he was around, every time he gave her family those passive looks only reserved for their followers. For those beneath them only appeased for them to continue their hard work. He was cold, and distant. He was only ever loving to Shamura, and even then to Heket’s eyes it seemed shallow.

The other three seemed not to notice. Leshy fell in love with him within years, and Narinder relished in it. Shamura was always wrapped around his sharply clawed paw, they had always been ever since they found him. 

Even Kallamar, sweet, anxious Kallamar had warmed up to him, too. 

Heket hated Narinder’s callous charm. Hated the light in Narinder’s eyes when Shamura looked at him with praise on their lips, when Kallamar gave him a riddle to solve or Leshy sat with him in silence as they scribed doctrines and sermons. Hated how his gaze would remain stiff as stone, even as their followers were slaughtered mercilessly for this or that, even during sacrifices even Heket would be queasy watching.

Narinder tried to give Heket his wrong, despicable, distant affection, but she never let him.

Never.

Heket graciously allowed him to win a few times, cooking with him, settling to write doctrines and scripture–but nothing else. And still yet, he watched her every move with wide eager eyes, ready to learn anything Heket offhandedly imparted to him, completing every order Heket barked at him. 

Narinder, in his own way, tried his best to love her. Them. This family they’ve come to form. And Heket… she saw that, despite her dislike of him.

But that acceptance of him to her family came too late. Far, far too late.

Heket worries she warmed up to him too late. She had always been cruel. Argumentative and dismissive. Perhaps… perhaps if she had been nicer, if she would have been less cold. More loving, more willing… he wouldn't have left them. Wouldn't have left her, even when she tried too late. 

Narinder wouldn't have scorned them by rejecting their love. They wouldn't have had to trap him for the rest of his lonely life. 

…Kallamar cried the most when they leashed him and his children. Narinder’s sons came with blades and fire, tears in their eyes as they screamed and fought for their father’s freedom. 

The kits had cried with Kallamar, not even passed their tenth year,and they sobbed in sorrow for their lost freedom, lacerations and bruises maring their patchy, burnt fur. They cried with Kallamar until nothing was left, not even their anger.

For the fate that Heket and her siblings commanded upon their father, they cried

Heket had hurt them, to protect them; and they cried. 

Heket had stolen them from their mother when they were too young to understand or remember her, and for that harrowing understanding… they cried.

Away from the judgemental, scornful eyes of their “Father”

Narinder never knew. Aym and Baal claimed to fight for Narinder’s freedom, serving him as their master and not as their father, returning to him defeated and suppressed with injury after injury; Narinder never thought of Heket the same, she was sure. Especially as it was her hand that sent her Nephews back bleeding and hollow.

If Narinder had any thought about her, he would have hated her the most for destroying his life from the very start.

…Heket thinks perhaps turning on the children and directing her brother's hate from them for their failure to her, was for the best. 

Kallamar loved his brother. He really did.

But Narinder had always been off his rocker.

Kallamar knew Narinder was different. He could see it. 

It was in  the way Narinder’s third eye was open, how Narinder’s ears were always perked, listening for anything and everything.

How Narinder’s smile seemed so soft and warm to everyone on the surface but was so shallow it was surprising no one had ever noticed. 

Narinder had charmed everyone, but Kallamar doesn't think it was for evil intentions.

Kallamar believed Narinder never wanted to hurt them. But maybe he did? No, no he didn't start out with that. 

Kallamar believed- no, knew-  that Narinder perceived love and empathy differently than them.

Narinder loves the way a flower loves: from afar, barely there and it sways in the wind even when its leaves fall off. He loves time spent together, not with gifts. He loves the way a wild animal loves: with harsh shouts, growls and manipulative crying. He’s cruel, but cruel for the betterment of themselves, and Kallamar has no clue if that was ever a good thing or not; perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps Kallamar just grew a spine not because of Narinder’s harsh temperament, but instead, in spite of it. It’s not much of one, but Heket always told him he’s less snivelly than when he was new. 

Kallamar could never begin to understand him, and maybe that's what makes Kallamar’s skin crawl, deep down: and it’s ironic, for in the end It was for nothing. All of that trying to understand and tolerating younger brother’s rough exterior, Kallamar’s surface level attempts to not be afraid: Narinder deafened him, though it never affected him much, and thus he was chained to be alone forever guarded by his sons. 

…Kallamar doesn't know what to think about Narinder other than he has good taste.

That wretched Lamb served his brother well, Kallamar muses as his sludge-like blood trackles from the many wounds carved into his skin, even as its perfection succinctly ended his life. 

At least that damned creature made his passing quick.

The Lamb stood by the crowns, softly; quietly. 

They could sense emotion wafting from them. Memories, almost. Within their resting places, the crowns mourned for their bearers in the secluded alcove far from the cult lands.

How, the Lamb didn’t know. 

Smoothing a hand down the side of their own crown atop their brow, the Lamb wonders if one day, when they either pass or are overthrown by one of their own, if their memories and remains will wisp through their own crown. 

Leshy’s timid love, Heket’s hatred. Kallamar’s suspicion.

Shamura’s absolute and unconditional adoration. 

The Lamb wondered what Narinder did to deserve the mixed swirl of conflicting emotions. The cat wasn’t kind enough nor worthy enough of the encompassing trust Shamura’s crown gave. But he didn’t deserve the harsh clashing hatred of Heket’s either. The Lamb understands Kallamar’s worry and Leshy’s reluctance, but the Lamb can’t help but wonder exactly what the cat had done to warrant it all. 

Narinder wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t a horrible person, either.

The Lamb laughs to themself. Not horrible is being nice, if they’re completely honest with themself.

Narinder has done some horrible things; turning on his family, discarding his followers. Betraying his only true follower. Narinder had tried to kill him, take back the power he gave the Lamb, and even as unsuccessful he was he continued to scorn the one who gave him life again;

But he wasn't a horrible person.

But he had you kill us, Kallamar’s crown whispers, filled with sorrow and regret. The Crown speaks no words, and yet the Lamb can’t help their head swivelling over to the cyan eye watching their every move where it's nestled amongst the dried and dead coral and seagrass. He used you to get to us. 

The Lamb turns their head towards where Narinder sat sorting berries given to him by one of the cult children as a safe-travel snack. Narinder was always picky with his food, nothing could touch, nor could it be in separate plates, much to the Lamb’s chagrin.

Narinder truly was a fussy one to feed.

He did, the Lamb whispers back, levelling their gaze back to the cyan eye; The Lamb watches as its pupil flickers, before the eye slowly creeps closed once more, joining its brethren in slumber. 

He did, but was that really his fault? 

The crowns lay silent, dormant, and the Lamb walks away.