Michelle Writes Stuff

That day, one particularly rowdy child had grabbed hold of his bandages and yanked one side off when Kallamar was checking the lymph nodes in their throat.

He rubbed the replaced bandage with a scowl. Just because he had mastered how to dress the wounds dearest brother Narinder left at the base of his ears didn't mean he liked doing it.

Something caught Kallamar's attention out of the corner of his eye. In the dimming light of the evening, he turned his gaze to see a figure diving behind an offering statue. The figure crawled along the ground before leaping and rolling into a bush.

He tilted his head to the side, watching as the figure continue to stealthlessly creep across the grounds.

Could it be a spy? Kallamar hoped it was, if just so he could laugh at that lamb for letting such a pathetic spy slip past them.

Leaning against the wall, Kallamar waited to see if the figure would dash for the shadow by the stairs and cover a lot of open ground, or take the longer route behind the missionary building, which had more hiding spots.

To Kallamar's surprise, the figure chose neither. Instead, they bolted from between the drum circle and towards the healing bay.

Instinctive, Kallamar reached to his side for his sword, but grabbed nothing but air. He swore. That damnable lamb refused to allow him or Shamura to keep a blade on their persons anymore. The two of them had been carrying swords at their hips since before that creature's great-great-great-great grandparents were born! It was another of that lamb's humiliating punishments, he knew, to leave him so defenseless.

Instead, Kallamar stood his ground, his legs spread and hands gripped into fists, ready.

You've fought beasts a hundred times that thing's size. You can handle some puny mortal, Kallamar thought, trying to pump himself up, despite the pounding of his heart. If any of this younger siblings found out he let a fleeing spy topple him over, they would mock him relentlessly.

As the figure neared, more details became clear. They were smaller than Kallamar. They had long hair and horns. They wore a cloak. They–

The figured jumped an impressive distance to land in front of him.

The Goat grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Their mouth moved quickly, but Kallamar couldn't make out what they were saying in the dim light. The Goat looked over their shoulder before making a beeline behind Kallamar into the healing bay.

"What the..." Kallamar tried to see whatever The Goat had been staring at, but found nothing. When he turned to the healing bay, a faint light glowed out the door. He considered just going to his shelter. This didn't have to be his problem, but the idea of some stranger in his workplace made him antsy. It took weeks to get that place organized to his standards!

With a sigh, he walked back inside. The Goat held up a candle without a holder, looking around wildly. They opened the medicine cabinet and used their free hand to remove the bottles and tins that Kallamar had spent hours combing through, relabeling, and replacing.

Huffing, he marched over and grabbed The Goat's hand.

"What in the world are you doing?" He demanded. "Put those back!" Kallamar wrinkled his face up at the thought of this simpleton messing up his excellent system and instead pushed them aside. "Nevermind. I'll do it."

As he swiftly replaced the bottles and tins, The Goat scrambled to their feet. They waved the candle around. The light reflected off the amber glass in a way that Kallamar almost found pretty—if not for the context of a smelly mammal bursting into his space.

Once the tinctures and salves were safely back inside, he stood and spun around. This time, The Goat had pushed the boxes of supplies and extra blankets from under the bed and crawled to take their place. They licked the tips of their fingers to snuff out the candle, but Kallamar grabbed them by the wrist and shoulder.

He yanked them forward. He would have to concentrate, but if he paid close attention, he could read their lips well enough.

"What are you doing in here?" He hissed.

The Goat pulled their wrist free. "Hiding. What else does it look like?"

Kallamar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you hiding and why here?"

"I kind of pissed Lamb-Bam off, and I figured no one would be here. I told you that a second ago."

Kallamar pointed to his bandaged ears with a scowl. The Goat's thick eyebrows raised in surprise, as if they had forgotten one of Kallamar's defining trait. Besides his good looks and charming personality, he was deaf.

"Oh. Right." The Goat blew out a breath. They continued, enunciating every word painfully clearly, "Lamb. Made. Cupcakes. For. Their. Spouses. I. Ate. Them. Lamb. Is. Mad. At. Me. I. Want. To. Hide. Here. So. Go. Away." They waved him off with their free hand.

Kallamar dragged his hand down his face. The Lamb was bad enough. They killed him, they subjugated him, they forced him to heal their followers, and they made him to interact with Narinder, but this goat was rapidly climbing the ranks to take The Lamb's spot as the most annoying creature in Kallamar's life.

Since they clearly weren't going to leave, Kallamar had no choice but to stay. He was not about to let them stay here without supervision. He could just imagine the broken glass and half-dried herbs scattered across the healing bay should he leave them alone.

Also, knowingly keeping The Goat there would make The Lamb irate, and making that horrid beast irritated would make Kallamar very pleased.

He rocked back to his heels and held out a hand. "I will make a deal with you. You can stay here in with me, and I'll cover for you, but you have to do something for me."

"Do what?"

"What do you have offer, Goat?" Kallamar smirked at him.

The Goat narrowed their eyes, glaring. They opened their mouth to speak but jumped. They looked warily towards the door. He wondered if The Lamb was outside, nearing the healing bay.

Cringing, they said, "I know what the topics for the next week of sermons are. I'll tell you so you can skip out on the ones you don't care about. Please, they're coming!" They held their hand out to him, waiting for him to take it.

Kallamar considered that a moment. So long as Kallamar didn't skip multiple days in a row or more than half a week's worth, The Lamb didn't bother to reprimand him for skipping sermons. Knowing which of the sermon topics would be the worst to sit through would definitely help decide which days he should avoid the temple.

Kallamar shook The Goat's hand. "Deal. I'll cover for you." Kallamar licked his fingers and pinched out the candle flame. He stood, took a blanket from the box, and tossed it over the bed to cover them.

He went to the entrance and leaned against it, looking around.

The Lamb hopped off the roof of the missionary building. They swung their head around before spotting Kallamar.

The Lamb waved their arm, running towards him.

They spoke as they neared, but Kallamar didn't bother to try to understand. The Lamb was—ugh—his god now. They should know he can't tell what they're saying in the dark. The Lamb opened their mouth again before remembering.

They summoned a fiery curse in their hand and held it up in their palm. "Goat. Have you seen them?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I did. Why?"

The Lamb grit their teeth, and Kallamar smirked. When they were flustered, it was too easy to get under their skin.

"I wanted to surprise my spouses with some treats. That asshole came in and ate them!" The Lamb threw their hands up, the curse bobbing and throwing shadows around. "And then they—" The Lamb turned away as they ranted and paced. Even if Kallamar cared about their story—which he didn't—he wouldn't have bothered to try to understand them. It would have been too difficult.

"I think I saw them," he cut in. The Lamb spun on their heels and demanded to know where, so Kallamar pointed towards the steps. "They were heading over there, I think."

The Lamb growled something, their jaw clenched and lips barely moving, before they bolted off towards the stairs.

-- --

Kallamar looked over the list and made a note to skip the sermon in three days. He already knew how sickness was divine, both as punishment and as gift to force reflection. Part of him wondered if The Lamb hadn't taken cues from his own sermons. They had stolen his disciples from him at one point. Baalzebub probably wouldn't spill his secrets, but Saloes had always been a social climber. While Kallamar loved that about xem when Saleos was in his cult, it meant xe would happily tell The Lamb the contents of his sermons if it got xem special privileges.

Folding the paper and sticking it in his pocket, Kallamar went to the window. He pulled the curtain shut then repeated the action at the door. If the Lamb returned, they wouldn't be able to look inside as easily now.

The Goat sat on the bed, one knee pulled up. They glanced wearily at the thick curtain hiding them from The Lamb. More than likely The Lamb would spend the night prowling outside the ground walls and not come back until early in the morning.

If The Lamb did come back earlier than expected, Kallamar planned to say he didn't understand whom The Lamb was asking for earlier.

"Goat? I thought you said 'Float', like a butterfly. That's who I saw wandering off. That blue and red butterfly? You really should learn to speak with your hands. It would make this so much easier," he'd tell them.

Kallamar took the lit candle, now in a candle holder, and walked to the far side of the healing bay where his desk was. He covered the window there as well before settling in his chair.

He took a book from the bottom drawer. It was some sort of romantic, swashbuckling adventure that Narinder lent to him as a 'show of good faith'. In reality, Kallamar knew he was just being an ass giving him a book to read that Kallamar wouldn't enjoy at all.

The plot was cliché, the characters one-dimensional, and it was clear to Kallamar that the author had never once been on a boat bigger than a rowboat given how often port, starboard, and aft were mixed up.

The author also, for some reason, believed that sailors at sea only ate lemons and drank rum, nothing else.

At least, the erotic parts were written well enough, even if he didn't find them tantalizing enough to make use of them in a physical manner himself. Kallamar was honestly impressed by the author and how many words they thought of to refer to the male private parts.

He opened the book to where he left off. The pirate captain and the woman he kidnapped off a trading vessel had just had their first night together. Somehow, the two were in love, though Kallamar didn't remember reading them falling in love.

Lady Liza Turnbank held her skirts up as she tiptoed back to her room. The tapir still felt the starfish captain's lips upon the voluptuous skin of her bosom as he kissed down her body and caress of his suction cup fingers as he stroked her inner thighs. Her loins trembled, begging her to return to him, but she pushed down the need. The rest of the crew would awaken soon, and their captain needed to be ready to lead them. The next port was less than a days trip away.

She began to wonder if she will be able to return to civilized life on land now knowing the pleasure of this seadog rutting inside her. No gentleman would be able to fill her body with as wonderful sensations as the captain and his strong hips.

Lady Liza closed the door behind her. Went to the mirror Captain Nox—no, just Nox, as he had requested her to call him—so kindly gifted her. Her thick, lovely hair was a mess from her and Nox's love making.

She took out the silver hairbrush her mother had given her and began to brush out her long hair. She took the hair oil and put a few drops on her scalp and began to brush it through her raven locks.

But the idea of having hair to play with or style was appealing. He had brushed and plaited the hair of some of his followers' hair before, especially in his younger days when he wasn't busy running most of the trade in and out of The Bishops' lands. Back then, he had all that free time on his tentacles.

Kallamar paused and touched his own head. He had never been envious of those who had hair or fur until he started conjuring the land with Shamura. He knew, of course, he was one of the handsomest creatures in all of The Lands of The Old Faith. He did not need hair to change that. (Though he might have commissioned one wig—or maybe, two…eight…ten—just to see if hair improved his already handsome looks. None of them did of course, since perfection can't be improved upon. )

Kallamar shut the book with a sigh. He missed doing playing with someone's hair. The man he currently attempted to woo was a rooster and had no long hair or feathers to speak of.

His gaze wandered over to The Goat and their mane of messy hair. He hummed a moment then set the book to the side and stood.

"Excuse me. I'm bored and have a request." He walked across the bay to them with the candle.

The Goat looked up skeptically.

"A request?"

"I want to style your hair."

The Goat pulled their hair over their shoulder and clutched it to their chest. "Why? You gonna cut it? My beard, too? Like the you did in my world did?" They bared their teeth at him. The Crown on their head narrowed its eye.

Kallamar frowned. He didn't totally understand how The Lamb's friend worked. He knew they weren't from his world, but their Crown had more or less the same abilities as The Lamb's, somehow. They were a mirror of The Lamb, or so he was told.

It hadn't occurred to him that there might be another 'him' in The Goat's world.

He wondered for a moment if that Kallamar was as handsome he was before deciding probably not. He was the handsomest Kallamar in any world.

"If I cut it, then I couldn't braid it." Kallamar snorted, setting the candle on the cabinet near by.

Besides, he wasn't any good at giving haircuts. More than a few spouses could attest to that. He nearly smiled remembering one of his husbands wearing a large hat for weeks until the choppy messy Kallamar left his hair grew out.

The Goat stayed quiet, fixing their gaze at him, before Kallamar felt something prodding at his mind. A second later, The Goat had their eyes in his head, picking through his thoughts.

Kallamar jumped back in disgust. "Do that again and I'll get The Lamb myself," he snarled. Having anyone peeking through his mind made his skin crawl. It was so intrusive. How could regular mortals stand it?

The Goat held up their hands, palms facing him. "I just needed to make sure. If you want, you can style it. Here." Their Crown left their head and a moment later a boar hair brush fell from it to their palm. "You can even use this."

Kallamar tentatively took the brush and looked it over, half expecting the offer to be a prank.

The brush itself was made of dark, polished wood. The leather cord wrapped around the handle was still stiff and not yet broken in, contrasting the little bit of worn wood that peeked out just before the bristles started. The backside of the brush had symbols that reminded Kallamar of the ones he'd destroyed in Woolhaven carved into the wood, but slightly different.

Squinting, he saw some flecks of paint in a few of the thinner crevices.

Running his thumb over the bristles, he decided, all in all, it was a fine hairbrush.

Kallamar sat down next to The Goat. He took their shoulders and forced them to turn so their back faced him.

"I won't be able to tell what you're saying like this, so don't bother talking."

The Goat raised their shoulders in reply, paused, before they gave Kallamar a thumbs up instead.

Their hair was a little greasy and not as soft as Kallamar had hoped, but at least it wasn't tangled too much. He played with the idea of washing it, but discarded the thought. The soap he kept on hand in the healing bay would be too harsh on The Goat's hair, and the only water was in a bucket in the corner and had been sitting stagnate for at least a day and a half.

Did this tiny place have soapwort growing around? Probably not, or the whole cult wouldn't smell of sweat and body order all the time. The Lamb's followers threw requests at them often. Maybe he could order them to find some. Heket would grow it for him, if he asked nicely—and maybe offered her some of the alcohol he was allowed to keep around for tinctures.

While he was at it, he should ask them to grow rosemary. Rosemary loved rocky cliff sides on his coasts, so it might not grow well here as it did in some places in Anchordeep, but even a small bush would improve the smell.

Or lavender.

One of the trade ships that often docked to sell goods near one of his shrines would sell enfleurage scented with lavender. He had always meant to get some seeds and talk either Leshy or Heket into grow it for him if lavender, like many other plants, did not take well to salty soil.

Shamura had liked the scent too, hadn't they? They won't have had much luck growing it though. Shamura's skills at plant cultivation were greatly lacking. Beets and lichen seemed to be the only things they had much luck with, and even then they left most of the work to their followers.

Kallamar tossed a section of hair he'd finished brushing over The Goat's shoulder before portioning out a new one.

How was Silk Cradle now that the beasties weren't subjugated and kept in check by Shamura? Even when they were lost in their haze of memories and confusion, Shamura still used their great power to quell any uprising or smite those that sought to stir up trouble.

Kallamar dared not even imagine how his wonderful Anchordeep faired without him. The Lamb and their followers may have viewed his use of plague and pestilence as unholy and cruel, but it bridled the worst of the creatures that lurked in the deep from causing destruction and pandemonium.

Without him, that one jellyfish Witness would still be smashing houses and throwing her weight around as if she had a more divine right to Anchordeep than its god did. He was told that The Witness returned not long after his death to attempt to take over, only to be quickly dispatched by The Lamb and indoctrinated.

Witness Astaroth lurked around the grounds and glared at him whenever their paths crossed. She must hold a grudge about her humiliating defeat at his hands. He supposed he would be upset too if he had lost to a Crown Bearer who had earned his full godhood mere decades before.

As Kallamar pulled the brush to the end, he paused to examine the tips of The Goat's hair. He expected there to be spit ends from how rough and tumble and generally barbaric The Goat seemed, but to his surprise there did not seem to be many. Their hair actually was healthy, greasiness aside.

Narinder once explained to him when The Red Crown brought him back to life, it remade his body in peak physical form—no scars, no broken bones, no untidy fur, not even dirt under his claws.

Had The Goat died and brought themself back recently? Was that why their hair seemed so well kept? Or did them actually take care of it?

He glanced at the new leather around the brush handle then back at the long, black hair.

Holding the brush in one hand, he carefully pulled at a snarl of hair with his fingers. A piece of twig had tangled in the locks. Probably from when they rolled on the ground trying to hide from The Lamb.

After prying the twig out and tossing it to the side, Kallamar continued brushing. He let his thoughts wander from old memories to new worries and back several times.

As he was ruminating on his wooing of the rooster, the hank of hair in his hand pulled forward. The Goat's chin lulled to their chest.

Frowning, Kallamar shook their shoulder.

"Are you awake?"

The Goat jerked up right. One of their horn slammed into Kallamar's mouth.

The Goat swung their head around and winced at the scene of Kallamar holding his face, swearing across several dead languages.

Kallamar pulled his hands away, blood seeping from a cut on his upper lip down his chin and oozing from a scrape across his gum. Praying to his Crown, he pressed his thumb against his front teeth. If they fell out, he had a hunch he wouldn't be able to grow them back anymore like when he was a god. Or maybe he could. He didn't fully know how this new, stupid mortal body of his worked, only that it was much different from the body he had as a critter or as a god.

Luckily, all his teeth stayed in place.

The Goat reached out a hand, but Kallamar slapped it away. Their mouth moved. They said something, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention as he scraped dirt from The Goat's horn from his teeth.

Disgusted, he hopped off the bed and went to the water bucket. What choice did he have but the old water? Using the small wooden cup beside it, he scooped up a cupful to swish around his mouth. He pushed aside the window curtain and spat. He repeated the actions twice more before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Out of spite for the stale water taste in his mouth, Kallamar grabbed the bucket and dumped it outside.

He dropped the bucket and cup unceremoniously on the floor before returning to the bed. The Goat chewed their lip then offered a wad of gauze they must have gotten while he rinsed his mouth.

Kallamar pressed the gauze to his lip, scowling away from them

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed their mouth move slightly, but refused to look at them.

When he didn't respond, they stood and stepped in front of him. They held up their hand. The Goat made fist facing him, then a ring with their fingers and thumbs. They started to cross the finger farthest from their thumb with its only neighbor, uncrossed them, then crossed the middle finger with the one closest to their thumb without lower the first finger. They furrowed their brow at their hand.

Kallamar raised an eyebrow before he understood. With an eye roll, he set the gauze aside. He took their hand and folded their fingers and thumb down into a fist before he moved it in a circle over their chest.

"'Sorry,'" he translated slowly, repeating the gesture. "It has a sign. You don't need to spell it out."

The Goat blinked. "Oh. I did not know that. I thought you spelled everything out when you talked with your hands."

Kallamar snorted a laugh. "No? Do you spell out words when you T-A-L-K?"

They blushed, glancing away. "Yeah, that makes sense."

Despite himself, Kallamar smiled. He supposed if they hadn't been properly taught, they wouldn't know the complexities of signing.

Much like his ability to lip read, Kallamar learned to sign before he lost his hearing. Lip reading made it easier to see what someone was saying about him from across a room, and signing let him gossip to his people without being heard.

He never would have guessed these skills he picked up would make his adjustment to his deafness and chronic tinnitus easier.

The Goat ran their hand through their hair. "Are you finished? With my hair? I won't fall a sleep this time if you're not."

Kallamar hummed before taking the brush from where it landed on the bed. Before The Goat could turn around, he brushed down their unruly bangs a few times. After reach stroke, their bangs flicked back up of their own accord, not unlike the cowlick between Narinder's ears that Kallamar used to tease him about.

"Worth a shot." He shrugged and started to gesture for them to turn around, but stopped. "What do you want me to do with it?"

The Goat tilted their head to the side, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you want a standard three-strand braid? A fishtail braid? A milkmaid braid? I've never actually done it, but I think I could easily figure out how to braid with five strands of hair." He ticked off a few more styles on his fingers.

The Goat held up their hands to him to stop. "I don't know anything about braiding more than the normal one with three pieces all looped over each other. I don't even usually wear my hair like that either. " Their Crown left their head and pulled back their hair into a ponytail. "This is how I wear it when I need it out of the way." They pointed.

Kallamar wasn't surprised to hear that at all, though with the hair away from their face, the Goat did look much less scruffy. Almost handsome, or would they prefer to be called beautiful? Did it even matter if he didn't plan to tell them?

"Fishtail," he decided. Something a little advanced, but not so much that he might have to undo the braid and try again.

Before The Goat turned away from him, they said, "You need to talk. I won't fall asleep then."

"About what?" Kallamar questioned. He could babble on easily. Thousands of years of sermons left him with the gift of gab. Though, unlike Narinder, his sermons didn't put anyone to sleep since his were thought provoking and interesting.

They shrugged. "I dunno. Anything. I never bothered to learn about Lamb-Bam's you. I wasn't going to help fight you, so I didn't care." They snapped their fingers. "Wait, I do remember being told something."

Nerves twisted his stomach. Kallamar doubted any of what they might have heard about him was flattering given whom their best friend was.

The Goat smiled broadly. "You're a slut."

Kallamar rolled his eyes. He stood and snagged some thick thread from his desk. The Goat's Crown seemed unamused as it dropped the ponytail and returned to its normal shape. Instead of settling back down on their head, it lazily dropped into its bearer's lap.

Kallamar sat back down then took the Goat by the horn and forced them to turn away so he could begin.

He pulled their hair back into a low ponytail before dividing it into two sections.

As Kallamar started to plait their hair, he said, "Call me what you will. I enjoyed having a lover or three around when I was going about my business. There is nothing wrong with being admired and adored. Even you should understand that."

Kallamar fell in love easy, especially in his younger days. Finding those people among his followers who loved him more than the rest and rewarding the affection they doled upon him with affection in return was a wonderful feeling.

The memory was fainter now as the years passed, but he could still recall the warmth of his first husband's hand in his and the pure devotion and love that came from their union. The tantalizing memory of taking the loyal reward from him the next day after their wedding rose goose flesh on his arms.

"Marriage makes your followers happy, too. Who doesn't like a wedding? Why, my last wedding before that little usurper murdered me, I…" Kallamar continued to babble.

The braid began to take shape. The strands zigzagging over each other as he recounted his last wedding. How glorious his temple looked. How his husband pressed against him as he sat on his lap, looking up at him adoringly. How the honeymoon would have been better had Narinder's rat vessel not broken into his larders and stolen weeks worth of food.

"Besides, I didn't have that many spouses." He knotted the thread around the end of the braid and tightened it. "At most, during the height of my reign, I had fifty-four."

The Goat swung their head around, flicking Kallamar in the cheek with the end of their fishtail braid, but, luckily, were mindful of their horns this time.

They bit down on their lower lip then let their mouth fall slack before finally speaking.

"Fifty-four?!"

Kallamar scoffed. "Fifty-four spouses out of tens of thousands of followers isn't much. From what I've heard, The Lamb has had a higher ratio of spouse to not spouse followers than I ever did."

The Goat shook their head, and Kallamar wished he had started the braid more to the side. It would look nice over their shoulder instead of straight down their back.

"You must have kept them all around your temple, I bet. They were your spouses, after all." Their eyes sparkled. "That time must have been full of debaucherous sex parties. Orgies as far as the eye can see! " They pointed a finger at him with a smirk.

Kallamar sighed dramatically. "Alas, no. Most of them loathed each other, and I was constantly separating them before they murdered one another." He slumped forward, pouting. "Aside from that, I was also a little too big by that point to indulge in any of the 'seas of orgies' in the way I would have preferred." He paused then added while pointedly eyeing The Goat's Crown, "A word of the wise from your elder, enjoy your spouses' intimate company while you still can, little godling."

The Goat pursed their lips, seemingly mulling something over. A moment later, they nodded to themselves.

With a sly smile, The Goat leaned forward on their arm towards Kallamar.

They spoke slowly and clearly, "So, tell me, squid man, what were the ways you would have preferred." They winked, setting a warm palm on his thigh. "Maybe, I could help you…recreate them."

The blood rushed to his face.

This mirror image of the creature who murdered him, twice, then forcibly subjugated him had just made the offer to fool around with him in any way he preferred.

In his head, he knew he should feel disgusted. It had to be a trap.

This couldn't be a quid pro quo or pleasure for pleasure's sake, not between the two of them.

The Goat must want something more: Blackmail against him or something to lord over him. Maybe they wanted this because it would piss off The Lamb.

Did The Goat even have the anatomy he liked? He might fall in love with anyone, but he preferred partners who had the same anatomy as he did.

However, the alluring idea of being with someone and not having to constantly gauge his strength sent shiver down his spine.

How nice it would be to tangle himself around a lover and not worry about crushing them in his embrace? How freeing it would be to be able to push himself as far inside his lover's orifices as he could without fretting about tearing the muscle and tissue?

Kallamar put his hands on either side of The Goat's head and tugged them forward to kiss, the wiry hair of their bread scraping against the skin of his chin.

His heart picked up its beat in his chest with excitement.

He decided he didn't care what they had. Hands, mouths, and butts worked the same whether Kallamar had any interest in the rest or not.

He would make it work.

The Goat looked stunned when he pulled away, but not revolted by the impromptu kiss. They blinked their surprise away as a blush crossed their cheeks.

"Guess that was a 'yes'."

— - -

The sun warmed the wood wall he leaned against the next morning. Kallamar rubbed an eye with his free hand while holding a cup of willow bark tea in the other.

His body already began to ache. He'd forgotten the immense well of stamina a Crown gave its bearer. Last he remembered from the night before was collapsing onto the bed and muttering to The Goat to give him a few moments to rest. When he opened his eyes again, the sun peaked through the small crack in the curtain.

The Goat had left sometime after he fell asleep, and Kallamar wasn't sure he how he felt about that.

He, as the gentlemen he was, always woke his partners to tell them if he had to leave for more than a few moments. The look of appreciation in his spouses' eyes as he treated them respect made the devotion he would soon collect from them even sweeter.

On the other tentacle, the idea of looking The Goat in the face after giving in to their obvious manipulation made his stomach twist and his chest ache with shame.

He put a hand against the middle of his sternum. Was this what it felt like to create sin? Gods didn't make sin nor did critters. One was above concept of morality and the other below.

He shuttered at the thought of letting sin corrupt him. Loathe as he was to do it, he'd might have to go to confession. If he worded it carefully, The Lamb wouldn't know what he and The Goat did together, just that he fooled around with someone and felt shame for falling into lust so easily.

He sipped his tea, watching The Lamb's followers go about their morning rituals.

Was The Lamb still looking for The Goat outside the walls, he wondered.

A moment later, Kallamar got his answer as The Lamb came down the steps with The Goat trudging behind them.

The Lamb had their arms raised and their expression angry as they, presumably, shouted at The Goat like a parent reprimanding a child. The Goat's shoulders hunched, and they scowled at the dirt.

Since they were too far away to even guess what they were saying, Kallamar instead just watched their body language as they passed the missionary building.

The Goat looked away from The Lamb towards the healing bay. When they caught sight of Kallamar, they stopped. The Lamb, still ranting, did not notice and kept walking. The Goat looked to their friend then back.

Turning to face Kallamar fully, they made a fist with their hand and moved it in a circle over their chest.

"Sorry."

Kallamar took a drink of his tea and nodded in acknowledgment. If they wanted an actual acceptance of their apology, they needed to do better than that.

Instead of following The Lamb, The Goat suddenly leapt forward, splashing into the inky black ether. A heartbeat later, they jumped out of it next to him, their loose hair waving behind them with their fleece.

All his work with their hair came undone, and he felt a little disappointed—even if it had been his pulling that loosen it.

The Goat snagged the tea from his hand and took a gulp. They cringed.

"That tastes terrible!"

Kallamar grabbed the tea back with a scowl. "It's pain medicine, horn head. It's not supposed to taste good."

They winced and signed "Sorry" again.

"My bad." They said, rubbing their neck. "I overdid it. You were just a lot of fun." They tapped through his robes to one of the many tender spots on their teeth left on his chest, but he held his composure against the sting.

They continued, "More fun than I thought a blasphemous, old man god would be."

"I'm not old. Don't call me old," Kallamar snapped, pushing their hand away with his pointer finger. He been called 'blasphemous' by Chosen Gods for centuries, so that insult did not bother him. But old? He was not old!

"Fine. I won't." They held up their hands, palms facing him. "But only if you forgive me for leaving. Lamb-Bam came back and was prowling around. Since I still had plenty of energy," pumping their arms, they chuckled, "I thought it would be fun to lead them on a wild goat chase." The Goat flashed a lopsided smile. "I hope leaving didn't damage my chances of fooling around with you again."

Kallamar snorted. He still had people he planned to woo into his arms, starting with the rooster, but if The Goat wanted to play around with him, who was he to deny a god such a simple request?

"I will allow it to pass this one time," he smirked at them over his cup, "but next time, you'd better wake me."

— - -

AN: inspired by my favorite type of asmr role play videos being the hair styling ones.

Should have used that otherworldly rizz on him when he was a smelly murderous god, I guess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I shall never get over my self-imposed irony that I headcanon The Goat having a tentacle kink but my version of Kallamar not having tentacles as a follower.

But noooo…she had to stay sober and make sure no one tried to put their disgusting feet in the lettuce like the last feast day.

Heket ground her teeth at the memory. It still angered her that she wasn't allowed to slaughter and carve up that salad-soiler. A day in the pillory could never make up for the wasted food defiled by feet.

She had a running list of things she hated, and wasting food was always near the top.

Heket had many reasons for her hatred, though at least part of it came as holdover from her days as a simple critter. Her second summer of life brought with it an awful drought and lean times. The power starvation could hold over all mortals installed itself in her so deeply that it was one of the few events she remembered from her time before her Crown.

Another part came from her time with The Yellow Crown. Food took effort to grow, even when encouraged with her power, and wasting food meant wasting time and effort that could have been used elsewhere.

Heket stood over the bowls still piled high with chopped vegetables and oil cruets without a single meat dish in sight.

She never would have pegged a wolf as big and muscled as Abas to be a vegetarian, and yet somehow the canine did not care for the taste of succulent meat.

If Abas hadn't been so pretty, Heket might have held it against her.

She understood not eating something because it made one sick, but choosing not to eat an entire category of food just because of some issue with morality? No way she could wrap her head around that. If it fit in her mouth and it wouldn't make her vomit, she would eat anything. It was better to eat bad food than no food, as far as she was concerned. (Though she would always prefer good food to bad.)

Slumping against the table, she took a handful of pumpkin seeds and tossed them in her mouth. She shut her eyes to enjoy the taste of the baked seeds and the sprinkling of salt.

Pumpkin gained entry to her list of loved foods not too long after she found her Crown. She remembered finding her first pumpkin in the garden of a village she persuaded—with the threat of famine—to follow her. The pumpkins were much smaller and bitterer back then, but over the centuries she and her followers bred the pumpkins to the delicious, large squashes that now curled their vines through Anura.

A hand on her shoulder took Heket from her memories. She turned a glower to whomever dared to interrupt her.

The Lamb tilted their head. "You're by yourself."

No shit, wool for brains.

Heket nodded.

"Where...wife?" She croaked.

The reception party was for them and their new wife, after all. For some reason, The Lamb didn't take their new spouses on celebratory honeymoons away from the grounds to spend hours enjoying each other's companies and bodies. As a goddess, Heket often spent a few days alone with her new wife after they wed. Not only did it give her time to relax and indulge in the sweet nectar of physical intimacy, the honeymoon made her wife feel special and more devoted.

How The Lamb let such an opportunity slide by, she'd never understand.

They shrugged. "Abas doesn't like loud crowds, so the party ended up a bit much for her. She's resting in my tent."

The party ended up a bit much for everyone, given the drunks just within eyesight.

Heket grunted to indicate she understood.

The Lamb hopped up to sit on the table, nearly knocking over an oil cruet. Heket snatched it and glared, but she went ignored.

"I'm also making the rounds to check all my other spouses are alright and not feeling murderous." They winked at her. Heket slammed the base of the ceramic cruet on their leg.

Another on the list of things Heket hated, The Lamb treating her like a spouse. She didn't bully them into marriage for love. Narinder can waste his time sharing longing glances and swapping spit with the little usurper. She would rather The Lamb wither and die than treat her like an actual wife.

No, Heket married The Lamb solely for the dress.

She saw it at the tailor one day, a creamy white dress with blood-colored stitching and a red sash around the middle. The moment she pressed her fingers against the soft fabric and delicate embroidery, she knew she had to have it.

She dragged The Lamb from whatever meaningless conversation they were having with a lesser follower to the tailor and demanded she be given the dress. It would need some alterations to fit her body type. Sewing had never been one of Heket's best skills, but The Lamb had followers who knew how to do it. They could assign one of them to make it fit her so she could parade around and earn no small amount of admiration and envy.

The Lamb then informed her that the dress was a wedding dress. Only their spouses could wear it.

Heket spent a few hours seething before deciding to go a different route to get her dress. If The Lamb won't just give it to her when she asked, she would make them give it to her.

For the next several days, she pouted and pretended to be upset, so whenever anyone asked, she could tell them her sob story of how The Lamb so cruelly denied her a simple, little request. Most of the people asking were stupid enough not to think deeply as to why The Lamb denied her one day in a fancy dress, and faith started to wane a bit.

Her ruse worked, for The Lamb pulled her aside to say they would allow her to wear the dress. Heket felt elated that she bested the puny critter until The Lamb finished speaking.

She could wear the dress if she married them. A mischievous gleam glowed in their eyes.

That fool thought they had won against her. They thought they were cleverer than she!

Heket did not back down and accepted the proposal, to The Lamb's shock.

Not only did Heket get the dress—which she still had in a chest in her shelter—she also got the social power that came with her new title as their god's wife. If she worded her sentences carefully, the simpletons that follow The Lamb believed she held much more sway over The Lamb than she did.

It made getting her way so much easier.

The show of her brothers chasing The Lamb around with a pitchfork, after the ceremony had her in stitches with laughter. As she cackled, she braced herself against Shamura, who could see a grab for power from miles away and knew exactly what she was doing.

The Lamb rubbed their thigh with a laugh. "Ah, so you are murderous, but unlike Bathin and Lily, to me and not Abas."

She rolled her eyes. "Go," she ordered, pointing away. It mattered not where, but the less time The Lamb pestered her the better.

They leaned forward, resting their arms on their knees. "I will. I'm just checking in on you. You seemed to like Abas, at least, from a distance." They smirked as Heket flinched.

She thought she had been careful in her ogling, but could she be blamed for wanting to look? Abas was stunning, tall and muscular, with scars crisscrossing her body. Heket could watch her chop wood at the lumberyard all day.

Admittedly, she had been disappointed when The Lamb announced their engagement to Abas, but she had no plans to do more than look anyway, so she told herself it did not matter much. Unlike Kallamar, she had no desire to share The Lamb's secondhand lover.

As Heket began to gather the other oil cruets onto a tray, The Lamb frowned. They watched her a moment longer before asking, "Why haven't you ever dated anyone here?"

The cruet in her hand hit the table, cracking deeply. Swearing, Heket put a thumb over the spout and turned the cruet so the oil stayed away from the crack before more could seep out.

She shook some of the other cruets until she found the one with the least left in it. She opened it, and poured the contents of the cracked container inside. The different flavors of the infused oil dressings might not go well together, but surely she could find a use for them in something. Perhaps she could dump it in the dishes of people who annoyed her.

Heket dropped the cruet next to The Lamb with a glare. The ceramic shattered. A shard skittered across the table and stabbed The Lamb in the thigh. They shifted back away from her, tossing the shard aside.

"Sorry, that was abrupt, wasn't it?" They chuckled. "My bad. I just got to thinking about it during the ceremony. You know my other wife, Lily? She leaned against," the Lamb gagged, "Kallamar the whole time. Bathin found comfort with his new beau as well. You, however, just kept by your siblings, looking bored as ever. I never noticed until now that you don't have anyone special like that."

While nowhere near as bad as Kallamar had been, The Lamb had a handful of other spouses who actually loved them. The Lamb also did not seem to mind their spouses finding affection in the arms of other mortals—so long as the spouse loved them most of all.

Though it remains an enigma to her how The Lamb, however reluctantly, allowed Lily to pursue Kallamar—or what Lily saw in someone like Kallamar. If she were in The Lamb's place, Lily and Kallamar would be drawn and quartered for treason.

"I would like to know why." The Lamb patted a short beat on their legs. "I'm told you used to have wives. Did you love them or did you only take them for the devotion?"

She narrowed her eyes. This annoying beast loved to pry into other people's business. They took great pleasure in pestering until they had enough information to attempt to 'fix' whatever they deemed 'broken.'

She had seen them do it time and time again to not only followers, but to her own siblings. Prying and pestering was the only way The Lamb could force someone like Narinder to open up and change as much as he had.

The Lamb broke down her walls and convinced her to talk once before, when they escorted her to her temple for one last visit. She had been full of emotions then. Too full. The words and feelings just spilled out.

Rubbing the scar on her neck, she muttered, "Both. Loved some….Wanted loyalty from others…."

If she was honest, she mostly loved them, or thought she did. At least she thought they were all attractive.

Heket had high standards for wives. Not only did they have to be beautiful, they had to be charming and able to make her laugh, but never had to try too hard at either. She expected her wives to be someone she could be as comfortable going and salting lands of her enemies as staying in her temple and cuddling.

Consequently, she never did have as many as any of her brothers, who seemed to take spouses on a whim. Only Shamura held higher standards than she did. As long as Heket had known them, they only ever had a maximum of three at a time, with long stretches of bachelordom between spouses.

Before Narinder ruined everything, Heket had once had a nice loving group of eleven wives that fawned over her and sang her praises.

She kept less wives after the schism.

It was much harder to find, woo, and arrange a marriage with a woman when Heket was running around The Lands of The Old Faith doing all that needed to be done: culling the remains of The Red Crown cult, wrangling her newly traumatized brothers and their quirks, or helping Shamura run their cult when the pain of their injury made it too difficult for them to do it on their own.

That last two hundred years of her reign, she didn't have time to do much more than assign beautiful women to work at her temple so she could occasionally admire them when she took a breath to relax.

If the culling of lambs had gone off without a hitch, she had planned to talk Shamura into giving her that executioner, Hagar, of theirs, the big one with a sturdy built, wiry spotted fur, and the once pretty brown eyes.

Once The Bishops' fate had been secured in their favor, Heket wanted to restart her harem beginning with Hagar. She had spent more than a few hours on that forsaken mountain imagining holding her in her arms while she waited for her followers to round up the remains of Yngya's flock.

Of course, Hagar went missing after The Lamb resurrected and attacked her. Heket didn't have time to find her before she herself was struck down.

The Lamb jumped a few places in her list of hated things.

"So why haven't you found someone here to date?" The Lamb asked.

Heket snorted, reaching for a large bowl of cut cauliflower. "No one…good enough…."

Hopefully, that put the issue to bed.

"That's, " The Lamb hummed, "not true, and we both know it."

Dammit.

"What's the real reason, Heket?"

Heket was not playing this game! Instead of gracing The Lamb with a reply, she put the bowl of cauliflower on the tray with the dressing cruets then spun around.

She took two steps away from them when she tripped over the staff member she kicked earlier.

The tray flew from her grip, cauliflower already leaping out of the bowl.

She flinched and braced for impact, but instead of hitting her front against the ground, something yanked her clothing from behind and saved her from falling.

Heket looked up to see The Red Crown in the shape of a large claw holding the tray with the stray cauliflower safely in its palm.

The Lamb pulled Heket back to her feet before releasing her bodice.

They scowled at the follower she tripped over while the follower looked groggily at them.

"L…Leader?" He asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Where's the rest of the kitchen crew?" They gestured to Heket. "Why is she the only one doing what she's supposed to?"

The follower's mouth gaped like a fish momentarily before he scrambled to his feet. He bowed at the waist to The Lamb.

"Go find the others and get them back here. Bring the leftovers to the kitchen and do whatever my bishop says to," The Lamb ordered with a fire in their eyes. The terrified follower nodded then darted away to find his coworkers.

The Red Crown floated to The Lamb. Instead of taking the tray and bowl and returning The Red Crown its normal spot between their tiny, red horns, The Lamb let the Crown continue to hold it before taking a half-filled tray of cookies in their hands.

"Let me help you."

- - - -

The cookies didn't make it to the kitchen. The Lamb either ate the remaining, or stored them in their fleece for later, Heket wasn't sure. So long as the cookies were eaten, she didn't care.

Her focus instead rested on if The Lamb's kindness was genuine or if they were trying to lull her into a false sense of security.

Either was possible.

Her mood soured farther when the two arrived at the kitchen.

Both she and Lena told their underlings that the kitchen had to be set back in its proper order before they headed to the reception—no dishes still dirtied, no knives stuck into the cutting boards, no half chopped vegetables and fruit left exposed to the air.

Stacks of dirty plates and bowls, silverware, heads of cut lettuce, pumpkin guts, and more were abandoned to brown across the counter and stove tops.

Heket groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose wishing she still had the power to smite.

When she finally returned to her shelter, she was going to write down every terrible things she had to say to her staff about that evening, then she would drag Kallamar over to have him yell at them for her.

Kallamar had the perfect condescending tone of voice when he reprimanded followers. Those hungover assholes were going to regret ditching her and their duties for the rest of their short, pathetic lives.

The Lamb reached for a dirty bowl with bits of dough crusted to the side, but Heket slapped their hand away.

"Don't."

"Are you sure?"

Heket looked at the messy kitchen then back at The Lamb and their too caring expression.

She cringed.

Fuck it.

Whether The Lamb was manipulating her or not, she would let this terrible monster have the win tonight, as a wedding gift.

Taking a deep breath, Heket leaned against the counter.

"Don't deserve it."

"You're right about that. You worked the whole reception. Make the others clean this up."

"No, I mean…why I don't…" She swallowed the pride blocking her throat. "I don't…deserve a…relationship."

The Lamb looked confused for a moment before what she meant clicked inside their little lamby brain.

"Why?" They asked with a careful tone.

Heket's shoulders sagged.

"Couldn't …keep…family together…or safe…" She mumbled. "I failed…them. How could…any…one want…me? "

She expected some meaningless reassurances and faux clemency from The Lamb, the same she would get if she ever admitted that to her brothers or Shamura, but instead The Lamb exclaimed in a bewildered tone, "<i>Bitch, what?!</i>"

Ignoring her surprise, The Lamb continued, "That's bullshit! So many people here want to put their faces between your tits or your thighs." They slapped their chest. "Myself included! If Narinder wouldn't break open my ribcage and eat my heart and lungs while I was still alive for it, I'd ask to put my face there, too!"

She cringed, unconsciously covering her chest with her arms and pressing her legs together.

They blushed. "Sorry, but it's not my fault three out of five of your family members are hot."

Her cringe deepened as she debated asking whom out of Leshy, Kallamar, and Shamura was in the "hot" group with her and Narinder.

She decided she didn't want to know.

"Not…like that…stupid," she snapped. She already knew she was attractive. Anyone with working eyes could see that.

"Then how do you mean it?" The Lamb asked.

Regret settled in her stomach. What a foolish mistake telling them her thoughts. If Shamura ever found out about this moment of weakness, she'd be lectured for letting the enemy slip past her defenses and sneak away with valuable information.

"Couldn't protect siblings…not ok for me to be…loved after that…"

"But it's OK for Leshy? He failed to protect all of you too, but you don't have a problem with him dating," The Lamb pointed out.

Heket wanted to smack some sense into their fluffy head.

"Different.…He was the youngest….The weakest. He…can't be blamed."

If she hadn't underestimated Narinder's final vessel and overestimated Leshy, she wouldn't have sent him to fight The Lamb alone. His first death rested heavy on her shoulders.

The Lamb shrugged. "OK, so it doesn't apply to Leshy because he's the baby of the family—fair enough. What about Kallamar and Shamura, then? They're both older, and, no offense, Kallamar was more difficult to defeat than you and Leshy combined." They winced.

" They're…different, too," she insisted.

"How? "

Heket opened her mouth but no answer came out. What could she say? They were right, in a way.

Everything she held against herself could easily apply to Leshy, Kallamar, or Shamura.

She was too weak to defeat The Lamb. She didn't go for help when she should have. She was overconfident with her power. She let her emotions get the better of her.

But Heket was different from those three on a fundamental level!

She was the one who stepped up when Shamura couldn't. She was the one to make the hard decisions. She was the one holding everything together as that damned prophecy ripped her family apart.

"My failure…is greater," she finally said.

"Heket," The Lamb put a hand on her forearm, "you did some really bad things, the repercussions of which I am currently trying to repair." They paused and looked to the distance in the direction of Anura.

No, Heket realized with a jolt, in the direction of Ewefall.

"Because of that, I can't offer you any absolution for the atrocities you did against me or any number of others. That you haven't earned," they took a breath, "but I can tell you that if you told your siblings what you said, they would absolve you, truly, the moment you finished. None of them, even Narinder, thinks what you did was any worse than what they did."

Heket pushed The Lamb away. "Go…to your…wife..." she croaked, her head suddenly pounding.

The Lamb was wrong, even if she couldn't explain how. They had to be wrong, because Heket knew she didn't deserve to be loved outside her family ties. She was a failure. If she so badly failed her siblings, her unbreakable bonds formed in blood, why would anyone want to take a chance on her?

The Lamb looked her up and down before they nodded then turned and left.

— - -

By the time all the leftovers had been dealt with and the kitchen somewhat cleaned up, all Heket wanted to do was scream, and she couldn't even do that anymore.

She hobbled towards her shelter, glaring at anyone she passed. From behind her, the reception still raged with music and loud cheering. She almost wished she had the energy to join the fun, but the idea of dealing with drunks when she was still sober made her stomach hurt.

Heket's body and brain ached from that stupid sheep's pestering and prying. Kicking herself for falling for their tactics, she prayed to whatever god might listen to her that the next time The Lamb went on crusade, something chopped them in half and it took a long, painful time for them to die.

"Heket, is that you?" A voice shouted.

She looked towards the direction of the voice to see Leshy with Narinder draped over his shoulder. He waved his arm, presumably to call her over, though he was facing away from her.

"Heket! Narinder said he saw you! If he did, come here and help me!"

With a longing gaze towards her shelter just a little ways away, Heket wandered to her brothers.

She grunted loudly to alert Leshy that she was near him. He adjusted Narinder before raising his head with a relieved smile.

"Help me out here. This lug is heavy." He raised the shoulder Narinder leaned against, which caused Narinder to whine in response. Heket went to Narinder's other side and slipped her arm around his back before she pulled him against her.

Leshy heaved a sigh, rubbing his shoulder. "I'm ninety-percent sure cats get heavier when they're drunk. Cor does the same thing when he's had a few."

Heket wondered if the yellow cat Leshy had wrangled into a relationship was drunk somewhere, too, and that was how Leshy got stuck hauling Narinder around alone.

Leshy kept his hand on Narinder's arm to help guide himself as Heket made her way to Narinder's shelter.

Narinder moaned and groaned then complained that he wasn't that drunk. He could walk just fine if he wanted. He just didn't feel like it.

When Narinder lapsed into silence for a moment, Heket said, "I have…question."

"Anything is better than Narinder's babbling. Ask away," Leshy announced. Narinder tried to slap him by feebly waving his arm around. His attempt was so pathetic, however, that even the blind man could dodge it with ease.

Heket's stomach twisted as she forced herself to ask,"Would you care…if I…got a…girlfriend?"

Leshy tilted his head, his brow furrowing. He started to speak, but Narinder loudly cut him off.

"Yes, I would mind!" He shouted, pointing at Heket best he could while still leaning against her shoulder. "You'd go after Azzy, and I don't want you to go after her because she is my best-friend! You'll steal her from me!"

Leshy smirked. "Well, now you gotta take Astaroth from him. He stole our followers before. It's only fair!"

"Nooooo…" Narinder whimpered, resting his whole weight against Heket . "That stupid wolf already stole The Lamb from me for the next few weeks until the new wears off from her. Stupid, buff woman! You can't swoop in now and steal my bestie with your stupid, buff, frog-toad, feminine charms…" He paused then looked up at her with half-closed eyes. "But if you do, even to spite me, you'd better treat her right, or else." He shook his fist at her.

Heket snorted. Admittedly, she did like Astaroth as a person. Heket once watched her tackle a spy then zap him with her stinging tentacles until his flesh began to burn and sizzle like fat in a hot skillet. She was witty and smart, even if she, for some reason, allowed Narinder to take the spot of her best-friend.

Astaroth made a few flirtations towards her before, but Heket had brushed them off or pretended not to hear.

Honestly, knowing it would piss off Narinder to go on a date with her made Astaroth a much more appealing woman in Heket's eyes.

After a couple more steps filled with Narinder's caterwauling, Heket dropped her older brother onto the floor of his shelter. He flipped her off before pulling a blanket over his head and shoulders, but not the rest of him. A moment later, he was snoring loudly.

Leshy looped his arm around Heket's as she escorted him back to the ongoing party—though Heket had a hunch once Leshy left with Narinder, many of the other party-goers took their chance to escape as well. Whether it was a leftover quirk of his Crown still stuck to him or not, Heket didn't know, but any party Leshy attended rarely ended before he left.

Leshy's free hand tapped against his thigh. He had left his cane at the party by mistake and must feel a little antsy without it.

"Hey, sis?" Leshy asked. "What was it you were talking about before Narinder started ranting about Astaroth and Abas?" He tilted his head. "You're gonna ask someone out?"

"Maybe…" She muttered.

"About time!" Leshy threw his free hand up. "I guess Shamura wins the bet then."

"Bet?!" Heket winced.

Leshy nodded. "Well, yeah, Kal, 'Mura, and I started a bet about when you would finally get a girl a little after Shamura showed up. Kal said within three weeks, I said before a year passed, and Shamura took everything after that." He sighed. "Technically, they won a while ago, but we decided the bet doesn't actually end until you're smacking on some lovely lady, then Kallamar and I need to give Shamura five gold."

Heket shook her head. "I'm not…haven't…" She sighed, gazing at her little brother. He looked so earnest and accepting of her that a pang squeezed her heart.

How could she have failed him so badly? How could she have let him die in her watch?

Leshy was a good brother. All the happiness he found since losing his godhood was earned for all he suffered because of her failures.

A terrible woman like her didn't deserve anyone if she couldn't protect even him.

The Lamb's words echoed in her head. "But I can tell you that if you told your siblings what you said, they would absolve you, truly, the moment you finished."

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away, despite knowing Leshy couldn't see it.

"Are you…." she coughed, forcing the words from her ruined throat. "Are you…mad at me…for telling you….to fight Lamb…by yourself?"

Leshy froze, jerking Heket to a stop beside him.

His mouth opened and shut before he said, "What the hell are you talking about? Of course, I'm not. " He gently slapped at her forearm. "That's stupid. Don't be stupid. Didn't we all already talk about this?" He frowned. "We, as a family, aren't holding what happened against each other anymore. I'm not mad at you anymore than I am at Kallamar or Shamura or even Narinder. We fucked up. It's what fucked-up families like ours do, Heket!"

Her weak voiced trembled as she asked, "Family forgive…but, others…. I…fail…ed…." Heket took a breath. "Who would…love a fail….ure…?"

She could almost see the gears grinding together in his mind as he took in what she said. He pursed his lips and pulled his arm free from hers. After running his hands up her arms to her shoulders, he let out a long, weary sigh, then vigorously shook her back and forth.

"I just said 'don't be stupid'! Did you hear me?!" He shouted. "It doesn't matter if you failed! I failed! You failed! We all failed! You still deserve to try and get some coochie if you want it! If someone holds that you died to The Lamb against you, punch them in the gut and move on. They're not worth your time!"

His hands stopped shaking and gave a squeeze.

"Got it?"

He beamed at her, all teeth and gums and brotherly assurance.

She hated it, and she hated that she hated it. Some part of her yelled at her to argue. That part wanted to keep wallowing in her guilt and disappointment as a failure, as it had been since she was brought to her new hell by The Lamb.

Giving in and punishing herself by avoiding affection had been so easy, if not logical, that she fell into the pattern of brushing people off.

Was there really a point to punishing herself anymore? Was living among The Lamb's flock while her own cult waned and the memory of her godhood was forgotten to time not punishment enough? Why did she feel the need to add to it for sins that were already forgiven?

Her chest hurt as she swallowed a sob that threaten to climb out of her throat.

"G…got…got it…" She forced out before pulling Leshy into a bone-crushing hug.

— —

"'…And farther more, if you ever abandon your posts during a feast again, expect to have your organs rearranged from the inside when I shove my hand down your throats and switch the positions of your lungs and livers. Understand, you worthless sacks of shit? Now get to work making the kitchen spotless and all the unused food ready to be cooked today. No grumbling or complaining about being hungover or else."

Kallamar loomed over the kitchen staff, looking down at them disparagingly, with Heket's speech held in his hand.

The staff flinched away and huddled against each other like cornered critters in shame and fear, as if Heket herself had reprimanded them.

"Also," Kallamar added, "she didn't write this, but remember to wash your hands. This place is an e. coli outbreak waiting to happen." He waved his hand to dismiss them. "Now, go."

As the staff scurried away, Kallamar rested an elbow on Heket's shoulder.

"How was that?"

She nodded at him and patted his back. "Wonderful," Heket signed.

"Why, thank you! It's been so long since I got to denigrate a group of mortals. I've quite missed it."

A loud groan took her attention From Kallamar preening himself towards Lena, the other head cook who went missing the night before. She wobbled to the kitchen with Witness Astaroth supporting her side. Lena had bags under her eyes with messy fur. She spoke with a croaky, scratchy voice.

"I'm so sorry about last night. My lover pulled me a side for one drink, then one became two and…" She trailed off, rolling her hand.

Heket shrugged in response. The high of watching the lower staff be belittled still coursed through her, so she let her counterpart's mistake go this time.

"It…fine…"

"I think you need some water, Lena," Astaroth laughed, "and maybe a snack?"

Lena's face paled at the idea of eating. With a shake of her head, she left towards the kitchen.

"I'll go make sure everyone is doing their jobs. You take the day off. You deserve it." Lena put a hand on Heket's arm as she passed. "Sorry again."

Once Lena left, Astaroth rocked on her heels, eyes sparkling. To Heket, she said, "You know, I could use a snack right about now." She winked at Heket. "A plate of pretty, red frog's legs would be nice." Astaroth's eyes traveled down Heket's form to her legs then back up.

Heket's cheeks heated up and her body went stiff. Kallamar rolled his eyes and pushed off his sister's shoulder.

He signed to her, "You plan flirt back? Or," he smirked, "you scared?"

A sinking suspicion in her stomach told her that Leshy probably talked to Kallamar about the conversation the two of them had the night before. Though she never told him to keep their talk a secret, she made a mental note to spit in Leshy's food today for the betrayal nonetheless.

Astaroth tilted her head slightly. Could she understand sign language? Her quiet sibling, Agares, could. Kallamar had told her that. Just because one of the knew, didn't mean—

It doesn't matter. Just respond!

Heket flashed a smile that felt too wide on her face. "I could use...a snack…too…I heard...jellyfish is a…delicacy."

Astaroth giggled and covered her smiling mouth.

The feeling that she didn't deserve this, that she was a failure, still lingered in her stomach, but Heket shoved it down.

She was not going to let that feeling hold her back from trying to smooch a pretty lady any longer.

— - -

AN:

How much of this is character analysis and how much is personal projection? I won't tell.

Anyway, I feel like I don't see enough content about Heket and how she seems to be the most discontent or depressed of all the Bishops. For example, in the final cutscene with Narinder's relic, Leshy and Kallamar are both happy. Shamura is mostly neutral. Narinder is…Narinder.

But Heket? She got the angry face.

Not Canon, but her lyrics in the metal song also continues this theme. "commended to follow the flock and follow. Spend out all my days in sorrow" are the only lyrics in the whole album that relate to their fate after purgatory.

Anyway, I have read a grand total of one and a half chapter of a Rene Brown book, and it was a chapter about how we tend to judge ourselves harsher than the people we care about even for the same thing.

So Heket thinks how she failed is worse bc it's her failure. She can rationalize her non-Narinder siblings failures involving The Lamb as not as bad.

Like 80% of her dialog is about the other Bishops' and hers relationship. How she knows they're monsters but she doesn't want to lose them. How She will stop you after your killed her little brother.

The Bishops are super important to her. I know that discord interview said they were written with them loving each other but loving power more, but in my headcanon, Heket changed that order after Narinder was sealed so power and her siblings were equal, but after Leshy's death, power went down to second.

"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…

"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.

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.

---

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.

---

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

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.

-----

"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.

"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."

--