Chapter Text
How long suffering their divinity is. The sword in their hand still feels light as a feather, dripping still with ichor drawn from their foe, now twice-slain. The grandeur of this profane arena serves to only magnify their irritation, trunks of wood turned stone, pointing inwards, centered upon inset dais within inset dais, a break in the floral canopy above shining a brilliant ray of light upon this little wretch. Leshy. What right does he have to persist?
“Do you not have the decency to die?” They demand, stalking towards his prostrate form. “Long centuries could not erase the memory of what you have wrought. All that is left of your legacy is death! There is nothing for you here!” Their radiance flares alongside emotion, casting long shadow.
Leshy pushes up weakly upon his limbs, before his ascent to verticality is arrested by violent coughing. He trembles forward, and vomits blood and pitch. Disgusting thing. A sneer graces their face as he finishes expelling godhood from his body, and coughs out- “Lamb- you-”
His sentence is interrupted with their hoof, punting him in the stomach. “Silence-” They demand, answered by naught but his pained grunt. “Your death would have been a mercy to us both.” The Lamb considers their sword, its presence tugging at their mind once more. They dismiss it into their crown. “...It would change nothing.” They grumble to themselves. “Even the dead belong to me.”
It would be a lie to say seeing him like this didn’t bring them some schadenfreude though. An orchestrator of genocide- the genocide of their own kind no less- stripped of all power, lying weakly in a pool of his own blood and vomit. They could stand having him in such a state. They very much could stand it.
“Whatever is to be done with you, I wonder.” They smile widely, falsely, for their own benefit. “I will have to find you a place in the world eventually, I suppose!”
They think they hear him hiss before he is yanked into the dark space between. They feel their face drop back into a frown. This likely means the rest of the Bishops will have to be dealt with similarly. They chuckle darkly at the thought- The Sheep will never be brought back, and they will never be free of the Bishops. Perhaps it is fitting, in some perverse way, that they will haunt these lands in the flesh. At least this way, they can pay for their deeds a thousand times over.
The Lamb’s divine light casts a pentacle onto the ground, and they allow themselves to flow from one place to the next, mind set upon inventing fates for their new ward.
~*~
“Come after me all you want, Disciple. You take away our hunters, we bring home less meat.”
The burly otter stood defiantly before Narinder as other laborers milled about the lodge. This lodge captain has been obstinate in the face of the quartermaster, and now him. Surely a punishment was now in order? What a shame he was forbidden to mete it out.
“Disobedience has its consequences.” He said, gently, darkly. “Situation notwithstanding, you have a quota. Through labor, luck or wit, you will meet it.” He leaned in closer, looming over the ranger’s steely gaze. Mortal minds were simple, predictable, yet without the benefit of divine insight, more guesswork was required than he cared for. “You may think-” He hissed, “you are protecting your underlings? They too will suffer for your failure. Your incorrigible attitude may impress the quartermaster, but do not forget who you are.”
The otter’s demeanor was carefully maintained, even as a flaxen-furred hand landed upon his shoulder.
“Boss,” Its owner said- some cat kitted for a hunt. “Me and the others who are getting pulled away- we can go on a run in the evenings. This isn’t worth you going to the stocks over.”
The otter turned to her. “That can’t last! We don’t have that time, it’ll cut into your sleep, you’ll make mistakes and get injured out in the woods-”
“We’ll make time. We can pray as we drill-”
“Arren-” He grumbled. “We’ll discuss this later.”
Narinder scoffed. “Enough of this. Heed the wisdom of your colleague, or you will be found unfit for your position.” Old instinct inclining him towards the dramatic, he swoops his robes as he strides away. Such thankless work he does on the Lamb’s behalf.
As he moves away from the lodge, cresting a hill, his eyes fall upon the Lamb’s domain proper. A grand gothic ziggurat the locus- built from the remains of his temple, flaring dark divine energy towards the sky. Not a mere echo of the Old Faith, but something of his vessel’s own design. Formal gardens serve as a slim buffer between this monument to power and the town proper- tightly packed insulae, taverns, workshops and cafeterias, guildhalls and shrines jutting upward from the din. Radiating further out, farmland, loose cottages, lumberyards and apiaries. A community united in devotion and service.
Passing between the buildings, the particular character of the space is drawn into sharp focus. Tombs, packed graveyards, architectural motifs of memento mori are woven throughout the space. The people themselves swing suddenly between ecstatic devotion and elegiac reverence, as though the rhythms of work and worship themselves cast echoes of the Lamb’s private pain. Climbing the steps into the temple, Narinder can’t help but reflect. He can’t help himself but think that he couldn’t have done better himself, in their position.
Within the structure, the air is cool, quiet. Shrine tenders and parishioners go about their worship in near-silence, the halls echoing the drone of prayer from the temple proper. The building itself radiates the power of their devotion, he can feel it, taste it, but cannot hold it. The prayer is not for him, the language they chant is not his, the halls and the tombs and the dead are not his. This feeling could drive a lesser being mad. Something tugs at the heavenly fabric he remains faintly aware of, coalescing in an anchor point; An easy place to target teleportation. The Lamb has likely returned. And so, he ought make his reports.
Entering the chamber, he catches his sovereign staring into the middle distance, face betraying some degree of emotion. Their eyes snap to his, and the serene mask they wear slips back into place.
“My Lamb,” He offers. His mentality shifts, carefully erecting walls, scrubbing errant thoughts, to prevent any psychic snooping. How he regrets granting that boon, at times.
“Narinder. Accompany me.”
They stride from the chamber, and the cat follows. Moments pass in silence.
“Your subjects are not meeting all targets,” He begins. “Foremen among the masons and foresters in particular are becoming belligerent, citing the loss of workers-”
“Those that were chosen for training must be trained.” They dismiss it with a wave of their hand. “At the moment, I haven’t patience for the steward’s report.”
A few silent moments more pass.
The Lamb sighs, almost imperceptibly. “You recall- why I left, this time?”
He was hoping to not have this conversation. The status of his kin would forever be a sore spot. “...Yes.” He said, with some reluctance.
“When I freed him- he lived, as you did.” They said. “He is now under my power. He will be joining us.”
It was at this moment Narinder realized they were heading to the indoctrination plinth. It was at this moment Narinder parsed the fact he would be seeing his brother very very soon. He felt his mental walls falter. Hastily shored up, he attempted to regain the affect of apathy that had served him so well.
“Why?” He asked.
The Lamb afforded him a glance, obviously having noticed his lapse in concentration. “Make no mistake,” They said, “I still hate him. This is not a mercy; I deny him peace.”
Narinder had nothing to say to this.
“He will serve and suffer for as many lifetimes as I see fit.” They declare, a current of steel flowing through their facade. “Perhaps once I tire of this, he will live one life of toil for each of my slaughtered kin. And further lifetimes for the children they would have borne.” They drop their mask for a moment, allowing a sneer befitting a god of death to grace their features. “Your little brother has incurred an unpayable debt. He shall not know the release of death for as long as I reign.”
Careful attention is paid by Narinder to his mental walls. A small song, traditionally sung by orphaned kits at their parents’ funerals, is chosen to occupy his thoughts.
They notice this.
“I hope it will not be difficult for you- having him around.” They say. “I will not be particularly fond of it either; Do what you must, but I ask you not to kill him. It would be a waste of effort to raise him more than necessary.”
~*~
How long has he been held in the space between? Seconds? Minutes? Years? The very fact of his existence enters the realm of doubt, warmth-streaked darkness stretching and twisting alongside him. He might feel fear; Should the space have allowed it. Instead he waits, feeling nothing, aware of nothing. Waiting. All at once, an awareness like an itch beneath the skin blooms in his chest, and he is plucked from the aether. He falls, gracelessly.
Cool, smooth stone sits beneath him, humming. He rises to a kneel.
“And here you are.” Said the Lamb. This voice he recognizes well, now. “A Bishop of the Old Faith, here in the heart of my temple. The mechanisms of fate are truly fascinating.” The voice moves around them, carried by hoof-steps in a predatory circle. He doesn’t bother turning his head. The air is cold, carrying a scent of candle wax, incense, mildew- stirred only slightly by the movements of his captor. How strange it is, to once again be reliant on these senses. They stop behind him, lean close- breath warm on the nape of their neck.
“You know-” They speak quietly into his ear- just above a whisper. “You don’t even deserve the barest necessities of life. The air you breathe would be better spent elsewhere.”
“Kill me, then.” He retorts through gritted teeth. “Spare yourself the befoulment of your little paradise, pretender- or is the prospect of further vengeance too tempting?”
“Ha.” They say, flatly, air following as they stand erect. Their hand ruffles the plant matter atop his head, fingertips feeling almost like claws- “A wiser being than you would not test the patience of their God.” The fabric of their robes brush past his shoulder, hooves click on stone. Something moves towards him. “Take this.”
He raises his hands , grasping in the general direction of the movement; A book is shoved into his hands, bound in stamped leather. Embossment bearing the symbol of Narinder’s crown. He cracks it open.
“You will commit the Penitent’s Supplication to memory by this evening.” They instruct. “I will find you then.”
“Lamb.” Leshy says, hands running over smooth pages. “I am blind, I cannot read this. Nor do I care to.”
“Find someone who can, then.” They say. “I will not labor on your behalf.” A minuscule gust of wind follows them as they turn to leave. “Do remember, little Leshy, what you are now.” Their hoof-steps carry them away.
The room feels warmer for their absence.
The book in his hands seem a leaden weight, all the heavier for whatever profane dogma lie within its pages. He sets it aside, gently. It could wait, whatever it was the Lamb wanted him to memorize. He is utterly alone in an alien place, pointedly lost. He should try to get his bearings; And he doesn’t care to haul that blasphemy with him. He rises uneasily to his feet. The relative stillness of the air gives him no cue as to the shape and size of the room, but the direction of his captor’s departure provides a hint. He travels perpendicular to it- slowly, hands out in front of him, until- his hands touch smooth stone. A little textural exploration reveals it to be drystone- cracks bearing no mortar, rock expertly smoothed and shaped to be perfectly flush. From here, he feels his way along. Slowly still, slowly, in the direction of an assumed egress.
The wall under his hand reaches a corner, and the shape of the sounds around him change. He listens. Echoes implying a corridor, and a quiet- breathing. Not his. The air carries a hint of cat dander.
He turns his head toward the noise, as a courtesy. He waits to be addressed.
Silence stretches on, and he realizes the burden must fall upon him- and so he speaks.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Brother.”
Ice shoots through his veins in response to Narinder’s voice. Why must he be here? Why must fate be so cruel to return Leshy unto him? Weakness is a mortal vice, however. He cannot allow this treacherous mog to dishevel him. And so he steels himself.
“And the nature of my punishment becomes clear.” He grumbles, unconvincingly, and navigates in the opposite direction. Past the gap of the doorway, and along the wall.
Padded footfalls follow.
A small ways down the hall, he comes across an alcove with an occupant performing some task or another. Sweeping, it sounds most like.
“Hello,” He speaks to the space. “You will help me.”
“Oh?” A chipper voice responds. “I’m afraid I’m a little busy with my duties, dear.”
He sniffs the air. Rabbit, probably. Arrogant, definitely. “You are a mere servant!” He huffs. “At least lend a blind man your broom, so I can walk without hugging the wall.”
The rabbit tuts softly. “You must be new, carrying all that anger.” Their hand seizes his wrist and jerks him forward. “Come along, we will find a parishioner to guide you.”
He quietly seethes at their impudence. But, he is moving significantly faster, so who is to say if this was good or bad? The drone of asynchronous prayer grows louder, the acoustics worse, the air less still. Probably a temple room, now?
“Hold here.” They say, releasing his hand, their frock stirring the air as they turn away. “Young lady-” They say to another, “I don’t want to interrupt your worship, but your service is needed.”
“Ah?” A new voice responds. “What d’ya need?”
“This child is new to our community, and needs a guide. Doubly so, since he’s blind. Will you be able to take the day to help him?”
“Oh, sure.” She says, and draws close to him. And then stops. “Ah, any reason for the escort? Uhm- Sir?”
The quiet moment reminds Leshy about the presence stalking him.
“No.” Narinder responds. “Just ensuring he didn’t get lost, on his own. I leave him to you.”
“Right, then!” She chirps, hand falling onto Leshy’s shoulder. “First things first,” She says to him, “Let’s see if we can’t get you a cane.”
~*~
The setting sun casts light through the slim, tinted windows, painting all with a scarlet hue.
“You know,” the Lamb says, looking over their shoulder to his entourage of former gods. “You should be honored to be here.” They allow themselves a moment to appreciate the opulence of the room. Golden reliquaries, silver accents on finely detailed walls, an altar of richly colored pink marble. “My Holy of Holies.” They lean against the altar, and turn towards Leshy. “This chamber has only been walked by my disciples. My- confidants, my most trusted and skilled. And now you defile this space.” They affect a sigh. “But your path to redemption will be so very long- and will require a great deal of attention on my part.”
Narinder guides Leshy, with something akin to gentleness, to the center of the room. His mind is blank- carefully guarded, as it tends to be whenever he is aware of the Lamb’s presence. The worm, on the other hand, is consumed by a morass of hatred, derision, fear. He very clearly did not prepare adequately for the evening. They take a moment to appreciate Narinder’s discretion in not sharing the extent of their psionic ability. Another valuable tool.
“Leshy? Kneel where you stand.” They instruct. Narinder backs away before dropping to his own knees, closing his eyes.
Leshy’s mind runs hot, entertaining various profanities. He hits the ground roughly. “I owe you no reverence.” He spits, “Your blasphemies will not cross my lips.”
They slap him with enough force to send him teetering- just before jet black tentacles erupt from beneath him and coil around arms and legs, locking him in place.
“Are you certain you want to take that tone with me, my dear?” They ask. Not that they were complaining, of course.
In response, the worm growls weakly, unconvincingly. His thoughts betray resignment, tinted with regret. The Lamb seizes him by the antlers, roughly tilting his head upwards, being sure to pull enough to cause discomfort.
“I am being gentle with you. Far too gentle. Perhaps I am going soft?” They muse. “Here, I will guide you through the prayer. Just repeat after me; Oh Lamb, Shepard of Souls, cast thy mercy upon me-”
They sense his pride and animal aversion to suffering at war in his mind. Perhaps they shouldn’t wait for him to come to his senses? He is taking an awful lot of time to follow along.
“Leshy.” They demand. “Speak.” The demeaning tone exacerbates his pride, which quickly wins out.
“Kill me or release me, but be done with this charade!” He demanded.
“Oh, were it only so easy-” They respond, attention flitting for a second to Narinder’s studiously blank mind. “If you insist, however, I can punish your insolence.” The tentacles loosen, giving Leshy the room to stagger in response to the Lamb kicking him in the stomach. He doubles over, but is not afforded time to recover before the same tentacles lift him into the air, presenting his back.
“I haven’t found much use for this weapon in my crusades.” They explain, manifesting a flog in their hands. “But it has proven an invaluable tool against dissent.”
With a single strike, Leshy’s mind descends into the mortal fog that torture elicits. With a second, his breaths grow erratic. With a third, a fourth, a fifth, pitiable whining sounds squeak out of him. A sadistic grin grows on their face, a peculiar heat grows in their chest, their loins. Exertion, probably.
They find themselves a rhythm, wielding the whip against their back. One side to the other. The dense, mossy foliage that constitutes his flesh grows ragged under their attentions, fresh furrows coaxed into weeping trickling ichor. They encourage the tentacles to tighten their grip, twist and pull it joints to just before the point of breaking. They swear they could feel their teeth sharpening, fingertips itching with claws begging to burst out. They could get used to this.
Their body works as they allow themselves to drink deeply from Leshy’s mind, reveling in his incoherent mental blubbering. At their psionic periphery, however, they feel Narinder. His mental walls, so carefully maintained, weakening. Crumbling. He was getting distracted, and rightfully so, considering the spectacle not even ten meters from him. The flogging continues as they pretend they aren’t paying special attention to their pet cat.
With a particularly harsh strike, they draw a wail out of the subject of their ministrations. That did it; Narinder’s mind betrays his- excitement? Pointed interest? They spare him a glance, in doing so catching his watching. Just a hint of shock mars his visage with the eye contact, and his walls are back up. Their interest in disassembling Leshy fades. The tentacles retract and drop him to the floor, where he falls limply. Truly looking at the ragged mess they made of him- perhaps they were a little heavy handed. Oh well.
“Get out of my sight, worm.” They command. “If you know where the hospital is, feel free to visit it. Or don’t. You will do better tomorrow. Narinder-” They say, “Rise- stay for a moment.”
The trembling mound of plant-flesh afore them crawls to the egress, gathering his cane where it was set aside, and weakly, to his feet. He exits the chamber. The cat waits expectantly. Perhaps he is trying to loom menacingly.
“Nari,” They say, smiling beneficently. “How are you holding up? Are you feeling alright-?”
“Do not condescend to me.” He deadpans. “I have suffered aeons of imprisonment. I can survive knowing my former jailors yet live.”
“I just want to be sure this isn’t too hard for you.” They say, placing hands upon his shoulders. “Watching on as your kin is tortured- it would upset most people.”
“Your followers, perhaps.”
“Have you spoken to him at all?”
“No.” He says. “Nor do I intend to.”
‘Have you thought of him at all?’ They want to ask, but know better than to overplay their hand in such a way.
Narinder musters up a haughty expression in the short time they take to consider their options. “Have you questioned me enough, about him? You know all that there is to know, and I have tasks beyond entertaining your curiosity.”
“Of course. You may be dismissed.”
Their gentle smile turns cynical once he turns to leave. Whatever secrets he harbors will be theirs, eventually. They have eternity to pry, to meddle, to break. Nothing can remain hidden from a determined God.