Archive of Our Own

It’s an unmistakable sound, that familiar whoosh of divine energy signifying the Lamb’s return from the lands beyond. It wouldn’t be long now. Narinder is quite familiar with their routine after all. They’ve always been a fairly meticulous creature as far as cult life goes. Every morning, after sermon, they’ll be seen doing their rounds, making records of who is doing what and when. In the evenings, Narinder would see illumination from within the temple. On Tuesdays, the Lamb visits Ratau.

And after crusades they’ll find him with a persistence like clockwork. Narinder can only preemptively mourn the peace. The fields are quiet today.

It was nice.

Almost nice enough to ignore the dull ache radiating from his lower back, something of a cruel prize for a day’s work well done.

Narinder huffs, rising to his feet with admittedly more effort than it should, but he pays little mind. After all, he could tolerate the bite of chains for thousands of years, he’ll manage a mere pulled muscle. Even if wear and tear is a novelty of flesh he has yet to fully settle into.

Before him, the farmland stretches out, fertile and freshly planted. Almost glowing in the late afternoon sun. It’s hot.

Narinder glances back towards the road, and annoyance briefly pricks at him upon finding it still empty. He need not wait for them, but at least the breeze he fans using that communal farming hat feels nice against his face. His fur has that tendency to soak up the sun’s radiance, and as much as he’d enjoy it any other time, it certainly has its detriments. Still he tries to ignore the way the heat mingles with his aching body.

Narinder could leave now, call it a day. Take a nap, even, or at least escape this heat. But he can’t avoid the Lamb altogether. Sooner or later they’ll just hunt him down. Hell– the thing used to die purposefully simply to visit him in the afterlife.

…Fine. The crops need watering anyway.

And it isn’t until a little over halfway that he hears them– or rather the light fluttering of that bell. And a voice. They aren’t alone, it seems. Irritation briefly flares again along with the pain in his lower back as the farmer cranes his neck towards the source. The Lamb, just around the bend in the trodden road and partially obscured in foliage. But the sunlight reflecting off white wool was unmistakable. Brilliant. The cat wonders briefly how they can tolerate the sun when he realizes they are turned, listening passively to the impassioned supplications of a much larger figure.

The bear. Maerya was it? Narinder wouldn’t ordinarily pay much mind to the names of the Lamb’s fodder, but the thing has been following them like a shadow since her recruitment. Eating up the attention they dole out in spades to these fools. He scowls, turning back to the farmland. This far away he can’t make out what’s being said, but knowing how sycophantic the new recruit has proven to be, he can wager a guess.

Shameful, really. But incredibly fruitful. He cannot fault the Lamb for entertaining such behavior.

As Narinder finishes up the rest of the crops, they seem to finish up their conversation. The creature trails them and lingers at the farm gates for a moment too long, watching as the Lamb crosses the fields, before finally turning back the way she came.

He cannot fault them…

“What’s that look for?”

Narinder’s gaze snaps to the petite figure, now within earshot. They outstretch their arms with a playful, almost exasperated expression, and he feels a tension in his jaw begin to ebb.

“Is that any way to greet your god?”

“Hmf,” Narinder drops the watering can just outside the barn door with a clang, and the Lamb seems taken aback at the noise as they meet him there, raising a brow in questioning. He ignores them. “You are a slave to your devout.”

“Y’know you always say that,” they hum as they follow him inside, “But I never hear you complain when I do this!” A hand shoots up to muss at the fur behind his ear. “Oh, wow– you’re sweaty. Have you been at this all day? Where’s everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” he mutters, “The fields have been planted. My work is done.”

“…You did it yourself?”

“Why does that come as a shock to you.”

The Lamb pinches their brow with a sigh of resignation. “Look, you gotta stop scaring off the other farmers, Nari! It’s too much to be doing on your own-”

“Lamb, I once tolled the dead.”

“Yes, well, ‘Destroyer of Worlds…’” The hand is back. “…’Slayer of Millions.’ Now you till my fields, and it’s a job you SHARE. Got it?” The Lamb falls silent, appreciating the soft, downy fur behind his ears. When no reply comes, they continue.

“You did good, Nari, but you– wait, why are you so tense?”

The cat pulls away and almost immediately regrets it as a sharp heat radiates through his spine. He steels himself, if barely.

“I need not your praise,” he grits, peeling a glove free, “nor lectures on adequate husbandry and cooperation. Someone must be competent, and if they choose to cower I will gladly prevail.”

Narinder approaches the supply station off to the side, tucking the loose glove under his arm as he begins working the other hand free. In his peripheral, the Lamb sighs and slouches against the barn threshold.

“Y’know, for someone with so many past ‘vessels,’ you oughta be better at working with people.”

With the second hand freed, he reaches for the first glove only to be met with the loose fabric of his work tunic. A glance reveals the glove now lies on the ground.

“Besides, my followers are plenty competent!” they continue. “We managed just fine before you-”

The Lamb’s prattling is cut off by a quiet hiss as Narinder strains toward the fallen garment. He had foolishly hoped that in their chattering they wouldn’t notice. Instead, they silently watch as he slowly returns upright, leaning heavily on the workbench for support.

“Nari.”

His ears pin back, but opts to stash his gloves with the others rather than face them. So much for ‘competency.’

“Narinder. What the hell was that?”

The tip of his tail twitches. “…Speak clearly or not at all.”

“Rude.” The Lamb is beside him now, and he startles when a hand meets the small of his back. “Is it here?” It moves a little higher, “here?”

They give him an exploratory jab with two fingers.

“Get off of me!” He whips around, trying his damnedest to ignore the pain such an action elicits as he puts a good few steps between them. “Damned Lamb. What gives you the right?”

“…You hurt your back?” Not a question, but the way genuine concern weighs upon their brow only compounds the cat’s indignation. “I want to help.”

“Spare me your sympathies. I need not your ‘help.’”

The Lamb steps closer anyway, and despite the dampness on his neck, Narinder feels his hackles rise.

“Rubbing one out always helped me.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Y’know, like a massage. Rubbing out the knots or whatever.”

He blinks at them.

“Lamb-”

“I could do it!”

“Lamb!”

“I help my followers all the time!”

His eyes snap to theirs. “You have rounds to make. Leave me so that I may rest. In PEACE.”

The Lamb looks him head to toe in an act that somehow unsettles him even more before returning his gaze with a skeptical look in their own.

“Fine,” they shrug noncommittally. “Suit yourself.” The Lamb moves past him to the open air beyond the barn’s threshold. “You’re a big boy. You know where the Healing Bay is– if you have any problems.”

Narinder bares his teeth.

“There will not be any problems so long as you leave well enough alone.”

The Lamb doesn’t respond as they walk back towards the road.

–

Sleep provides no respite. It is fleeting and plagued with phantom pain.

The coarse, rain-worn wood bites into Narinder’s wrists in a manner not unfamiliar. How long has it been? The scene is grey. Greyer than he remembers. A thick covering of clouds chokes out all color, but somehow it’s still so damn bright.

Narinder tests the bindings only for the wood to groan in protest, and that dull, ever-present pain in his back is proof enough escape won’t happen. He’s been here for hours.

And so he stands in silence, feeling his breath coming shorter. Hearing the blood roaring in his veins. Lungs crushed within the confines of ribs. A beating heart. How he loathes a body of physical matter, weighing him down like an eternal ball and chain.

He is exhausted.

Time goes by, though he can’t be certain. There is no point of reference. The world seems to have settled into an entropic inertia. And then Narinder hears a bell, over all the sounds of his body in the absence of an environment. Death braces at the first sign of life, lifting his head as the figure of his usurper– his warden– emerges into view from some unseen beyond. Was it always this foggy?

He must look like hell, the way the Lamb stops dead in their tracks before deflating somewhat. In their hands they clutch a bowl, and their thumbs trace the lip as they seem to consider their words with some sort of guilt weighing at their expression. At least he can take satisfaction in that.

But the Lamb opts to skip pleasantries.

“Here,” is all they say as they bring the bowl to his lips.

The wood groans as he pulls as far back as it will allow, teeth bared at their gall. After everything, they won’t so much as grant him the dignity of serving himself, of slinking off to lick his wounds and tend his broken pride. They even refuse him the satisfaction of knowing the Bishops are– were– where they belong. Taking all that remains of his divine legacy and corrupting it beyond all recognition. And now they intend to break him, just like the rest of their helpless fodder.

He would rather die.

“Come on, Narinder. You’ve been out here all day!” The Lamb raises the bowl again, “drink.”

“Release me,” he practically spits.

“Can’t do that. Bad for morale.”

“Curious how ‘morale’ will fare when your flock finds your captive dead at the pillory.”

Finally, the bowl is lowered as the Lamb frowns at the image, but it’s a victory short-lived. They walk closer, leaning against the pillory’s arm just beside Narinder’s head. The hand closest reaches over him to hook his jaw, holding it up. The strain pinches at the sore nerves in his back and makes the cat hiss uncomfortably. The Lamb uses the opportunity to tilt the bowl against his lips and–

Narinder nearly gags.

It’s not water.

It’s supposed to be water.

Instead a familiar metallic tang coats his mouth, thick and still warm with vitality. In his time, he knew many libations and even more by sacrifice. He knows from what creature it was harvested. And his body betrays him as he swallows again and again, feeling it stain his fur as it rolls down his chin in thick drips. But the color will never be known. As soon as he catches his breath, gasping for air, the bowl is taken away and simply ceases to be.

The Lamb seems unperturbed by it all, possibly completely oblivious. At least Narinder is finally given the grace to calm his nerves.

“Leshy’s doing alright.” They push off the structure to face him head on once again. “It wasn’t too deep.”

“…You think me sympathetic to that treacherous worm?” Narinder tests the wood again.

“…I just thought you might be.”

“You know nothing,” he spits. “Respect nothing. With open arms, you welcome the one who aided my capture into the cult you made in my honor. And you bind me for my righteous attempt at finishing what you could not. Coward! You may be divine, but you are still a fool. For trusting either of us.”

They’ve always been quick to rise to a challenge– quick to anger– but here in this ephemeral mote of a memory, they hardly react at all. The cat’s spine prickles at the disquieting stillness in their response.

Is that it, then? This is the Lamb who refused to kneel? Who challenged Death and won?

Utterly deplorable! And they still have the gall to look at him with that warm pity aglow in their gaze. Like their captive is small and pathetic, and utterly inconsequential. The offering wasn’t enough– Narinder longs vividly for the warmth of their flesh beneath his claws.

He has half a mind to spit at the beast– to see just how far they’d let him push them before finally pushing back– when at long last they sigh. Almost bored. Somehow, this is what offends him.

And then a hand makes contact on his forehead, just above his third eye. A gentle pressure is all it takes to send all his ire sputtering and fizzling before it can manifest. He watches as those lips press together in something of a placid smile while they smooth down his fur.

…What?

The cat stares mutely, mind reeling at their audacity. He misses being able to sift through their thoughts. What the hell is wrong with them?

“ENOUGH!”

Using what little space he has Narinder attempts to wrench his head away, but the motion nearly sees his knees buckling as white-hot agony shoots up his spine like a brand. The visage of the Lamb contemplates him for a beat, judging by the stillness of their fingers. Narinder hasn’t the wherewithal to look at them. To even raise his head, defeated by the confines of his own body.

“…You did this.”

Silence.

“You could have killed me. Put me out of my misery. Selfish demon.”

Silence.

“Even now, in the sanctity of my mind, you deny me peace.”

More silence.

Silence and pain and stillness all under the weight of a single palm.

They are all that is real. All that remains. When at last the hand pulls away, Narinder is left only with the quiet numbness and ambient aches of a body never designed for mortality. The only life in this…bubble of existence turns, approaching the threshold of reality.

And panic makes his stomach churn.

“Where are you going?” He means to demand. How dare they leave him like this? His voice feels far away, as if lost to the oppressive atmosphere that bears down on him alone.

“You want me to stay?”

Narinder’s mind stutters. He wants out. The Lamb seems to take his hesitance as affirmation.

“I’ll stay, if you want me to.”

“I… did not–”

The Lamb turns around, the movement making their red fleece billow forth in waves– so stark against the bright grey diffusion where once a small town resided. They move closer, taking a knee before him in a facsimile of honor, and something unpleasant twists in his gut. They seem so small like this…

“Why do you gotta be so difficult, Nari?”

Narinder jolts when their fingers muss at the fur under his chin, and the Lamb seems rather amused. A second hand joins the first, and soon they’re cupping his face, gazing upon the fallen god like one would a trophy.

The safety held within the protected walls of a memory, corrupt though it may have been, has long vanished. The Lamb was supposed to leave. Storming off somewhere to seethe like some coward, running from conflict as if they weren’t the last thing holy in these forsaken lands.

Narinder doesn’t need this– whatever ‘this’ is. Don’t they know that?

“Lamb…” he warns. But for what? What leverage does he possibly have here? This memory has collapsed into absurdity– This shouldn’t be happening.

The only thing in existence regards their prisoner with warm, lightless eyes, and he feels so small when faced with the vastness he finds there. A tightness builds in his throat.

This didn’t happen.

They’re closer now. He’s certain they can feel the heat radiating off his body, if they can feel anything at all.

This can never happen.

The visage seems to finally take notice of the stains matting the cat’s neck and chin, and by now surely their hands as well. They lean closer. So close he swears he can feel the heat of their breath against his cheek. So close the smell of them turns his mind to cotton and warms his blood with the fervor of a heart that now beats.

But the warm, cottony nothingness gives way to alarm when the Lamb dips their head and Narinder is met with the heat of their tongue against his throat. It drags up his neck. Along his jaw. Over his chin.

His lips.

They taste like blood.

-

The scene persists well into the morning as a memory, settling like a thick mist over his waking mind and lingering long after the taste had faded. In the way that dreams do, Narinder had hoped it would be forgotten quickly, but it lingers like a ghost, settling only to rise again in wisps.

By comparison, the pain is far more relentless in how it haunts. Rest gave the barest illusion of relief, but left the cat stiff and suffering by morning. A stretch would be phenomenal if it wasn’t for his oppressed mobility– limited in scope by threat of worsened suffering.

The Lamb’s offer tempts him, but Narinder banishes the thought upon arrival– not exactly keen on prolonged contact in the waking world. Not keen on prolonged contact at all, as a matter of fact. If fortune smiles upon him, he might go all day without seeing their face.

Then again, if fortune was in his cards, he’d have buried the memory long ago– or better yet, not have thrown out his damned back in the first place.

But his hope collapses in the fields with the red cloak he finds there, glowing in the sunlight like a beacon to signal the Lamb’s divine presence at just a glance. It makes the cat falter in his steps, still within the relative shelter of the trees lining the bend.

Narinder’s better instincts tell him to move. To turn around while he still can, before he’s out in the open and spotted. Before he’s forced into conversation with the Lamb– forced to endure more of their incessant petting and cooing. Or worse: their pity. His fur pricks at the very thought.

But then another figure moves, and at that he does stop. It’s that bear again. What the hell is she doing here?

Well, judging by the watering can clutched in a massive paw, she’s doing his job, and if that doesn’t just get his tail flicking.

To hell with the ‘injury!’ Narinder is through the gates before he realizes he’s walking at all.

“Narinder!” The Lamb whips around upon his approach. “What– why are you here? I thought you were gonna take it easy after yesterday.”

“I work here,” the cat glowers before his eyes snap to Maerya, willing her to disappear by whichever means are fastest.

She only returns his glare with a passive curiosity.

He huffs in disdain, eyes returning to the Lamb when the creature’s insouciance offers no headway. “Why is she here.”

“Oh, I’m just helping to fill in! You were here yesterday too, weren’t you?” The bear turns back to the patch she was watering and resumes. “It’d be a much easier job if you had a fella or two out here to lend a hand.”

“Mind yourself,” Narinder hisses. “And be not your god’s tongue.”

The Lamb catches him with a quirked eyebrow before grabbing his sleeve and tugging him aside.

“So I take it you aren’t feeling any better?“

If they’re hoping for an answer, they don’t find it. Instead they sigh and reach to smooth down the fur that had apparently raised on his neck. “Why show up, then?”

“I am capable all the same. And it seems when I am not, you see it fit to replace me with your fodder.”

“It’s watering the plants, Nari!“ they gasp, exasperated. ”That’s literally all there is to do here! Anyone could do it!“

“Then I will.”

The Lamb crosses their arms at that, pursing their lips in something of a pout, and Narinder wills himself to look elsewhere.

“I could order you to, you know.”

“You think me frail, Lamb?”

“Hey, uh,” Maerya’s voice sounds from somewhere behind the two. “I don’t mind if he stays! Actually, I think I could learn a thing or two.”

Despite his disdain for the new recruit, Narinder can’t help a smug sort of satisfaction at having majority’s advantage here. He zeros in on the Lamb again, who is working their own agitation out through their jaw. They click their tongue before ultimately marking their capitulation with another sigh.

“Fine.”

As soon as the word meets air, Narinder turns with his sights set on the barn, but a hand stops him.

“You can stay. But I forbid you from working.”

The cat narrows his eyes at the Lamb’s begrudging tone. Success, sure, but it still evokes a prickling unease– not quite anxiety, but close enough to be unsettling on his nerves.

It’s a feeling that doesn’t abate as the morning wears on, making itself comfortable cradled in the pit of his stomach every time the bear thinks it appropriate to address the Lamb directly like a friend and not the leader and god they are. Every time the Lamb entertains the disrespect regardless.

By midmorning Narinder had given up trying to covertly reclaim his job. The Lamb is too observant, and the bear is far too loud–

“I thought Leader said you weren’t supposed to work.”

Speaking of the devil. Maerya sets the empty can on the dirt beside him, and offers him a hand. 

Narinder hardly spares her a glance upward, opting to remain on the ground. “The Lamb speaks many things, much of which are nonsense.”

It’s difficult to keep busy when ordered not to work, but the pump well alongside the barn keeps him well out of sight of the Lamb, and more importantly keeps the Lamb well out of his sight. It’s been a while since the tap was cleaned of calcite buildup anyway.

The hand falls to her hip. “Narinder–”

The cat feels his ears pin back, knowing for a fact he’s never given this creature his name.

“Leader says you were their god once.” It’s not posed as a question, but by the inflection Narinder can tell she’s hoping for corroboration.

You follow them around like a lost duckling, yet this is where you have doubts?

“More nonsense,” he utters under his breath, feeling rather bitter about it all of a sudden.

Maerya continues on undeterred, watching him brush away the loosened calcite with a dull knife in passive interest. “So you’re like the Bishops, then? Why’d you choose farm work instead of something– I don’t know– cushier?”

With a hand propped against the spout, Narinder stands, stiff and rigid, before kicking the bear’s watering can into position. It’s a shame that he must resort to such crude measures in the wake of his injury, but if the gesture seems callous, he can’t be bothered to care. Maybe she’ll even leave him alone.

“Why do you choose to tend the farms only when the Lamb is nearby?”

The first pump is dry, shaking a few loose pieces of calcite that he missed into the can. When he finally catches her gaze she looks almost ambushed, before it cracks into laughter. “Ah, you’re funny! I can see why Leader keeps you around!” Maerya slips her hands into her back pockets and chuckles at her own expense.

The second pump is met with a responding splatter of ground water against old metal.

“Here I thought I could pick your brain about farm stuff, but…”

Ignoring the question. Like truly calls to like.

“On with it,” Narinder grits, feeling the familiar irritation in his muscles at the repeated motion, now that the weight of water has been added.

“Well… what was it like?” The bear leans against the wall of the barn, clearly in no rush. “Being at the end of their blade, I mean.”

The cat falters mid-pump. Of all the questions he expected–

Narinder fixes the bear with a decidedly unfriendly grin. “There is a simple way to find out.” He knows better than to expect violence against the flock from one who shied away from mere sacrifice of all things, but the thought still swims pleasantly– albeit briefly– in his mind.

“I heard they pack quite a punch!” She ignores him again. “It’s hard to imagine something so sweet could hold such brutality.”

…Sweet? It nearly makes his lip curl back in disgust. This creature revels in ignorance. Long before her birth, Narinder watched the Lamb desecrate the corpses of his siblings to sate a blind rage that could not be quenched with merely their lives. The pampered brat knows not the extent of the tribulations that plagued this cult in its founding, nor what was sacrificed in the process.

The ways they’ve died for him–

Narinder fixes Maerya sharply, “Do not condescend your leader.”

She blinks quizzically, “Condescend?”

Narinder turns back to the pump with a scowl, ready to be done with this interaction. The water is already beginning to settle back within the ground, and it shows in how little resistance the resumed motion faces.

She studies him for a moment before a breathy laugh escapes her, evidently amused. “You… you two are close, huh?”

He shoots her a look but Maerya barrels onward. “I mean– it makes sense, right? After everything you’ve been through together… I guess time really does heal all wounds, huh?”

Narinder scrunches his nose, but opts to finish filling the watering can so this interaction can be over with. A silence draws out long enough he figures the bear is awaiting a response, or at least a reaction. He gives her none.

“…Honestly, I can’t blame you, I’m sort of in a similar boat.”

At this, Narinder scoffs. “We are nothing alike.”

The silence that follows is only a mild comfort. He tops off the can and lingers as the water settles before heaving himself upright using the pump as leverage. The look that meets him is a mix of intrigue and scrutiny, far from the obsequious follower of earlier.

“…You’re injured, but you fought to be here. You clearly watch them enough to know my patterns as well as theirs. And if I were a betting gal, I’d guess there are very few you’d let touch you like they do.“

“…What are you suggesting,” Narinder feels unease welling in his chest, and his tail lashes when he decides he should be angry about it.

The bear raises her arms defensively. “Hey, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong! When I first arrived I thought maybe there was something there, but when I never saw a ring I figured I misread your situation.” She shrugs. “…Now I’m not so sure.”

“You wish to court the Lamb?” That anger is rapidly turning genuine. “You think yourself worthy of a god?“

The fucker laughs. “Oh, so I was right! For a sec I was a lil worried I was projecting.“

Narinder’s posture is rigid with cold indignation and something far, far more visceral. “The Lamb and I have not been,” his tail lashes again, “and will never be an item.“

She tilts her head, oddly crestfallen for the cat. “Oh, well… I’m sorry to hear it.” Maerya pushes off from the wall and lifts the can effortlessly in a massive paw. “More for the rest of us, I suppose,” she shrugs.

“The Lamb is your god, not a prize to be won!” he spits, bristling. “Have you no respect for the one who saved your wretched soul?!“

At that she seems to startle, eyes snapping to him, but before he can press his advantage she studies him, shock dissolving into that look again. Narinder holds his ground, trying his best to ignore how his hackles rise with the heat creep of embarrassment. The exhaustion must be worse than he thought if he can’t even hold his own against a mere follower. Fresh meat at that.

Maerya sets the watering can back down.

“I respect them enough to call them ‘Leader.’” She steps closer, hands on her hips, and is not shy about getting up in his face. “I respect them enough to understand and accept a rejection, should it ever face me.”

Rejection? He sneers. If anyone had been ‘rejected’ it was them, but saying as much would open a dialogue Narinder would sooner forget. At his hesitation, Maerya presses onward. She’s nearly as tall as the former god himself, but he should still have the advantage– he was death! Why is he so unnerved by this follower?

It’s as if she stares right through him.

“And yes, they are my god. Why aren’t they yours?“

Something inside him snaps and Narinder lunges at her. The close proximity has nothing on the shock of her face and she falls like a dead weight beneath him, among the packed dirt this side of the barn. Turns out his height ended up giving him an advantage after all. Atop her, he finds himself going for her throat, adrenalin muting the ache in his spine as he reels back.

And then the world spins.

White-hot agony erupts from his lower back at the same moment he feels the wind punched from his chest. The crushing weight on his back is among the first sensations to surface from the sudden flood of excruciation. The bite of grit against his cheek. A muted voice.

The bear is speaking something to him, pinning his arm behind him with her pure body weight, but Narinder can hardly make it out over the ringing in his ears. The pain is making him dizzy.

A shadow eclipses him from somewhere above. More muted voices. A moment later the weight lifts and he coughs, his body gasping for oxygen of its own volition.

She knows nothing. How dare this wretch presume to know the affairs of the divine?! He sculpted the Lamb into the being they are now, and she’s hardly a month-long devotee! Had Narinder still bore the crown, he’d raise hell to ensure she learned her place– she’d wear the scars of that lesson for the rest of her life.

He ought to say something, give this bitch a piece of his mind. He’s not done here–

Instead, all that escapes him is a weary, broken groan.

“Get up.”

The cat feels his heart sinking, even before he’s grabbed by the collar and hauled upright.

The Lamb glances between the two of them, Maerya looking at her feet, abashed …and Narinder likely looking exactly how he feels. Crushed and fuming, still slightly dazed by the pain.

“I cannot believe you.” The Lamb’s eyes settle on their former master, and he finds his indignance quickly swallowed by shame.

They turn to Maerya. “You are sure you’re not hurt?”

She nods her head, and they seem to relax some. Narinder feels he ought to be offended by that.

“Good, finish up here then.” The Lamb points to a hedgehog among the small cluster of onlookers that had somehow accumulated in the interim. “And you.”

Vultures. The cat wrinkles his nose, but he hasn’t the chance to let the bitterness seep in before he’s being yanked by the arm as the Lamb practically drags him back toward the road.

“Lamb–” he grits, trying in vain to keep pace; ultimately he fails to wrench himself free of the squeeze they have on his bicep. Narinder hasn’t seen them angered like this in some time. They are always so lenient with their flock, at times he forgets their patience is merely a thin blanket atop the solid granite of their resolve.

Any other time, with any other follower, this ire would have been a treat to witness…

In an instant his mind flashes back to the dream–to the memory of splinters digging into the bare scars on his wrists, and he’s hit with a wave of dread so intense it steals his breath. “Lamb, wait–”

“You’re not going to the pillory,” they huff, only stopping once in the sheltered shade of the bend.

The cat’s breathing is still heavy from the haze of lingering adrenaline and his struggle to match pace with them over the pain in his spine, so it honestly takes a few heartbeats for him to settle into that mercy.

“Though maybe I should punish you.” The Lamb shoots him a glare, a petulant thing he’s come to recognize as more of a pout than genuine anger. Still those eyes flit over him with scrutiny. Concern. The sharpness softens around the edges.

“You’ve been punished enough,” they decide.

Maybe they are soft, but he hasn’t the wherewithal to complain here.

In the pause that follows, the Lamb begins leading him again, though not nearly so rushed or brutish.

“Where… where are you taking me,” the cat gasps, not the least bit relieved.

“I mean really?” they grumble to themself. “The pillory?“

Narinder bites his tongue, feeling the irritation return with the ebbing panic, but ultimately deciding it best for him to not push his luck. Though he’d never say it, a small part of him concedes their offense is… understandable. With all the heinous acts of sabotage and spite committed during his indoctrination, all the ways he sought to punish them through attrition and pettiness so steep that any other follower would have been long dealt with… the cat had only been jailed once. And his usurper didn’t seem too proud of needing to resort to it.

Even now, they grab him by the upper arm and not the wrist. He ought to feel offended by that too.

“Lamb, where–”

“Home.” They don’t even bother glancing back. “I’m not going to force you to work this thing out, since you wanna be an ass about it, but you clearly can’t be trusted with your own recovery out and about like this.”

His ears pin back flat and Narinder finally manages to tear his arm free, hissing against the brief burst of discomfort. “You are far too lenient with your flock. Were it not for the bear–”

“Nari.” The look they shoot him is one of exasperated defeat and a patience worn dangerously thin. “I don’t care who started it. You’re hurt and– Don’t you dare deny it,“ they snap when he opens his mouth to retort. ”I wouldn’t be surprised if everybody on this side of the commune heard the way you screamed, don’t you dare deny it!“

Narinder’s jaw clamps shut at that, feeling the heat prickle beneath his fur. An uncomfortable silence draws out, and he feels his tail thrash behind him. He has suffered enough humiliation for one day, hasn’t he?

“I can make my own way home,” he mutters, and the Lamb quirks a brow in silent challenge.

If they think to stop him, they don’t.

“Go on then,” they capitulate with a sigh. “But if I check in and you aren’t there, we will have a very different problem.”

The tone has him fighting a grimace and, unbidden, he finds himself missing the gentle comradery of the thing from yesterday, as patronizing it may have been. The pain has him delusional.

Horrifically, the Lamb’s demeanor softens in response to the rogue thought. “…I hate this too. I’d really appreciate not being forced to play ‘bad leader.’” When they reach up to muss at the downy fluff behind his ear, the cat tenses so sharply they falter.

“Boundaries, Lamb!“ Narinder reels back mortified, trying to mask the odd sense of dread floating behind his ribs.

The Lamb blinks in surprise. “I… I can’t understand you sometimes–what else am I supposed to do?!”

But Narinder is already stalking away down the road, head down, ears canted backwards like his attention can’t help but remain with them even as he makes his escape. True to their word, the Lamb chooses not to follow, and he thanks his lucky stars for that. The last he hears from them, the Lamb is calling up the road:

“You read my mind all the time back then!”

The cat scorches a hiss from between grit teeth.

Memories of his godhood are the last thing he’s willing to entertain right now. As the path he follows continues south, Narinder breaks from the shelter of the trees and finds that familiar heat from the sun bearing down on him among the chirruping of insects in the tall grass.

After that dream. After today. Those memories are the last thing he needs.

He doesn’t want to think about any of it.

Once certain he’s alone, Narinder stops in the middle of the packed dirt road, baked by the midday heat on the outskirts of the commune.

The bear is a fool.

He scowls at the trodden soil underfoot.

The Lamb is no better.

He’s seen the worst of their rage– had witnessed his retribution rain havoc against heretics and traitors alike, and experienced first hand the judgement they’ve mete with the very fire and steel stolen from the divine. They could easily have the finest worshippers and acolytes in all the land if only they bothered with separating the slag. In a different time, perhaps he’d have been more sympathetic.

Worship is worship, after all.

It makes Narinder’s stomach roil and his tail thrashes against his leg. Maybe he’s grown soft too.

The discolored bare skin of his wrists catches the light, and he takes a moment to examine the scars– something he does whenever he needs to ground himself, or whenever the gnarled flesh looks a bit too metallic from his periphery.

How long has it been? Ten years? Twenty? Time had always been a struggle to reacclimate to, and somehow it feels like he’s been here longer. Maybe he has, with how much stuff seems to always be happening. The counting of weeks and months begins to feel arbitrary, though he keeps pace well enough, he supposes. There’s a timelessness to the blur of activity here that is completely alien to what he experienced in the Below. If not for the Lamb and their cyclical nature, he’d have likely drowned in it.

This is… better.

He’s better off now than he was all those years ago when the world was his for the taking waiting just beyond the bite of chains. It has taken some time to accept that.

A light breeze picks up, flowing through the grasses, carrying the hum of activity from deeper within the commune.

Worship is worship.

Narinder is… not used to being on this end of it. Perhaps being surrounded by these sycophants has simply worn his patience thin.

Taking a breath, Narinder looks skyward, letting the coolness settle over him and quench the heat on his brow. Clouds linger on the horizon, woolen and full like sails catching wind. They promise rain. It will bring a nice reprieve, as well does it bring a twinge of satisfaction knowing the bear’s job this morning had been for naught.

Still, he can only relax so much with the pain ever-present in his spine, so with the Lamb not on his tail and the knowledge that the cult’s herbalist would be tending the temple garden this time of day, Narinder makes a point to stop by the healing bay on the way home.

–

Moon necklaces were hard to come by. The drugs were admittedly easier.

Still, it can’t be said that Narinder didn’t try. The pain had caused his delirium the first night, so logically, dealing with the pain would prevent it from happening again. But it seems there is only so much stolen drugs can numb before one hits an invisible threshold of discomfort just shy of what would be considered an ‘ache.’ Fortunately that threshold lies within the bounds of Narinder’s tolerance enough to rest.

By his standards it should have been adequate enough to render a dreamless sleep.

The apparition finds him all the same.

In the quiet stillness, this place is seemingly frozen in time. Again Narinder is surrounded by a pale void of diffused light, wood biting into his wrists, a gnawing apprehension as the familiar silhouette emerges behind a thin layer of fog.

This time the Lamb carries nothing as they step into view. “Do you feel any better?”

Narinder bristles at their approach and it makes the figure falter in step.

“I’m guessing that’s a ‘no…?’”

Before him, they come to a stop and squat to peer up at his face.

“What do you want,” the cat growls, and the wood feels tighter against his wrists.

“I dunno,” they shrug, “you summoned me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Hm, well, I’m here, aren’t I?” They rest their head in a hand, “Guess I could use the break, though. Don’t know if you noticed, but faith hasn’t been all too great lately.”

“You always were a weak leader.”

A begrudging lie, but is it a lie if none of this is real?

It certainly laughs like they do. Narinder recoils.

“What does that say about you, hmm?” They– It looks at him like divinity. The satisfaction disgusts him.

“I, as do you, have many decisions to regret.” He struggles against his binding, but it’s fruitless.

“Do you?”

The cat scoffs. “That bear will make a better sacrifice than ever a worshipper.”

The thing claiming to be his vessel hums. “I don’t think that’s true. I brought you here kicking and screaming, and look at you now.”

“Lamb, I am imprisoned.“

It tilts its head just like them, “What for?”

And at that he can only stare at them, willing this thing to take a hint and cease to exist.

“What?!” It laughs, “What’s that look for?”

“Release me,“ he grits.

The thing shakes its head. “Can’t do that, bad for faith.”

He snaps. “What the hell are you saying?!”

But the visage of the Lamb is already standing to brush nonexistent debris from that red mantle, as if preparing to leave. ”Was that all you brought me here for? I wanted to go fishing while the moon’s still high.“

What…?

Narinder blinks, his ire stuttering like last time. He has no clue why– no reason to believe this is anything other than the absurdisms he’s come to expect from his dreams. Still, bent and shackled, the cat searches this figure for a sign, for any clue as to what it means.

Why does this feel so familiar…?

“…Yes,” Narinder murmurs, a bit slack-jawed with confusion and a creeping sense of dread.

In an instant those inky eyes are on him like a trap sprung, flickering with something knowing, something cruel and almost playful.

“Liar.“

With a single motion, that red fleece falls to the ground like blood around their ankles, and the Lamb takes a step closer. “Try again.“

Narinder ought to fight this. Ought to run.

Ought to look away.

Instead, he merely watches in mute horror as the specter of the Lamb bears down on him like judgement from the heavens, white wool pristine and unblemished like it had been that night. The weight of that revelation, that recognition, roots him in place.

Kneeling now, the Lamb hums, not particularly abashed. Not shy like they had been. “You remember now, don’t you? When I was yours…”

Narinder bears his teeth at the apparition, feeling the fur along his spine bristle.

It blinks, almost comically unimpressed by his little show of resistance. “…No? What about this?” The specter settles down before him, opening its thighs to his gaze and snaking a hand–

“LAMB!“

The cat jolts against his bindings, the struggles making the aged wood groan in protest before ultimately forcing his compliance. The most he can do is avert his eyes, feeling his ears flatten with a burning shame when the thing laughs.

“Aw, c’mon! Don’t be like that– you loved seeing your obstinate little vessel brought to heel.“ It reclines on its palms and extends a leg upward in one smooth, languid motion, forcing his gaze back to it with the tip of a pointed hoof.

“It made you feel better last time.” It tilts its head knowingly. “Didn’t it?”

“Better?” he growls– if it wants his glare, the thing can have it. “It… wasn’t for me.”

Wasn’t founded in a desire for anything other than his freedom– his vessel… they had doubts. He merely steered them in the right direction. A gentle course correction. And it proved the right decision, he got his freedom and they got their fantasy.

…And in the end neither got what they wanted.

“…How altruistic,“ the thing claiming to be his vessel drawls wryly. “And now?”

“Absolutely not.“

What reason has he to entertain their hedonism now?

“Was the pain worth it?” The thing leans closer and muses smugly, and the cat wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into it.

“If you mean to suggest I was acting on similar instincts as back then, you are sorely mistaken,“ Narinder growls. The apparition laughs, all bubbly and inscrutable. It sits up on its knees before him, nearly face to face as it cups his jaws in gentled hands once stained with the blood of his kin. With the blood of the Lamb.

This is unsettling. Intimidating, even. The way it reads through the fabric of his being with those eyes, as if this Lamb were truly here to probe his thoughts. It certainly looks like them.

But Narinder knows better.

He knows better.

A mote of warmth flutters to life somewhere within him as those fingers stroke his cheek, an ember smothered on the heels of icy anxiety. Anticipation and dread intertwine as those dark eyes meet him like an eclipse against the oppressive, bright atmosphere, and Narinder finds himself unable to turn away.

He wants to turn away.

He knows the price of staring at the sun.

“You’re lying again,” they sing.

When those lips meet his, the cat feels the warmth spread to his chest– to his throat– but he will not allow himself to reciprocate. This thing– it means to toy with him. To taunt him with the sins of his past, but he refuses to be brought any lower… will not let them take any more from him… will not indulge them a second time…

Or be the center of their attention…

After everything…

A tongue graces the seam of his lips, and he feels his breath become ever so slightly thicker in his lungs. A palm guiding his head into a gentle tilt has his eyes falling shut. There is a rhythm to their movements much like the tide, a warm syrupy slog carving away at the cliff face of his fortitude.

They lick at his mouth again, and Narinder feels his jaw slacken. They don’t hesitate.

They rarely do.

It’s as if he’s been starved, and all at once the heat is behind his eyes, the tips of his ears, the claws gone numb on gelid wood as they clench and unclench around nothing. It’s in his veins as he falls into the vast abyss of their eyes when they pull away, seeming to bask in their victory.

“Lamb…” he whispers in what is certainly a warning– not heated, not pleading.

They hold him hostage in their gaze, admiring the soft fur beneath their palm. That warm touch is barely a ghost against his cheek, but certainly there.

“Wasn’t for you, hmm?” There’s an amusement in their voice that doesn’t reach their eyes. “You were always so adamant you needed me for your freedom… and all that entailed.“

“Lamb,” he hisses again, feeling his ears pin back. This time the sharpness of the word bleeds through.

“You don’t really mean to say you did it for me, do you? Indulging me like one would a prisoner’s last meal? Or maybe you just saw something so ripe for exploitation you couldn’t help yourself. You aren’t exactly known for charitability.” The pleasant bloom is gone, replaced by a hollow cooling emptiness, much like the hand that is no longer pressed to his cheek. “And what about now, Narinder? Your vessel, at danger of falling into the enemy’s clutches, and you mean to tell me it wasn’t for you? That your little fight had noble roots and no ulterior motives?“

He feels the world tilt. “What… what are you saying?”

The responding smile sits too sharp on their face, making the fondness in their tone even more dissonant. “Such a stubborn, selfish god. And you wonder why you’re here.” They emphasize the point with a knock on the weary wood beside his head.

Hell.

This is hell.

It must be– divine, karmic retribution for every vile, twisted act he wrought upon the world. At their hands. A punishment for thinking he could ever tame the god killer of four. After all, what’s one more god to conquer?

No, he has nothing worth taking– they’ve stolen everything from him, and here they mean to suggest– to demand–

“Is it such a punishment, granting you what you want?” Their tone is so gentle it nearly gives the cat whiplash. The Lamb is closer now, and he feels the air vibrate with their warmth.

“I… I want no such thing!”

The thing hums dubiously as they sit back on their haunches. “I’m not buying it.”

“Release me,“ he growls, but the thing only laughs, the sound flowing like water. It sets his teeth on edge.

“Release? You want release?” They lean in, muzzle finding contact in the soft fur of his jaw, and their breath is warm when they speak. “…Who am I to say no to a god?”

Then they’re kissing along his jaw, feeling emboldened by the rumbling growl building in his throat. But the cat stays still for them as they lick and tease what little they can of his neck.

“Lamb… “ He fails to warn, the sound ending up airy and distant.

Let me out.

The words are trapped behind his tongue as the Lamb pulls back to admire their work. When those inky eyes meet his, he becomes trapped by their gravity. In their depths, the uncaring magnitude of the sea. Icy blaze of stars in the dead of night. The hunger of shadows. The warm embrace of eternity. Closing his own eyes is all he can do to shut them out.

Somehow the kiss is less expected this time. Short but lingering, a mere taste of the feast they long for.

“Remember, you are mine now,” they murmur against his lips, “not the other way around.”

He should say something. Anything. He knows this thing is toying with him– he doesn’t have to be powerless. There must be something he can do! But before the thoughts can coalesce into action, Narinder jolts at contact on his lower tummy, and whatever seed of action takes root in his resolve shatters spectacularly. He can no longer see their head.

The Lamb has instead focused their attention lower, freeing his tucked tunic from those work breeches and lifting it enough to admire the untouched pelt beneath. It makes the hackles along his spine stand on end.

“What–” He stops dead when the Lamb buries their face in the fluff between navel and groin, a rush of heat shooting straight to the latter. “Lamb!”

Any attempt to writhe his way free is met with equal fervor by the Lamb. He shifts his bodyweight and they wrap their arms around his hips. He tries pulling away, but a single flex of the back nearly has him crumple under his own weight with a yelp. They shush him, and Narinder feels their fingers comb through the fur of his lower back in a placative motion, to little effect.

“…Lamb,“ he repeats in a low growl, punctuated by a thrash of his tail.

Much to his horror, it seems their response is to smother themself in him, effectively stoking the heat sitting low in his belly. They mumble something that he doesn’t catch, but he feels their hands thread up his back again and can’t help but arch slightly into it. It’s on the tip of his tongue, some scathing retort to put this thing back in its place, if only he could keep his breath from steaming out long enough to strike.

Hands smooth down the mussed fur on his back.

Narinder shivers.

In a last ditch effort, he attempts to claw the thing off him with a foot, but the angle is all wrong and his balance is tenuous at best with them clutching to his waist. By this point the stimulation from struggling against the push of their body is beginning to take its toll.

That is what frees him of their grasp.

“You really got worked up over that, huh?”

Skin warm, breath thick, and knees bent ever so slightly, the cat can only imagine the smug triumph on the creature’s face– if the wagging of their docked tail was anything to go by.

“You…” he starts shakily. “Shameless, incorrigible beast! You’ve got some nerve.”

The Lamb sits back on their haunches to peer up at him with a put-on look of innocence. “I learn from the best, you know.”

Narinder feels himself bristling at that. “You know NOTHING of what I went through! To use me as some… plaything for your sick brand of retribution–!”

They blink. “Is that what you think this is?”

He hates when they look up at him like this. Seemingly aware, the visage of the Lamb comes closer, cupping his face and trapping his gaze.

“If this is to be my hell… my divine punishment… then show me your teeth,” he utters shakily, attempting to affect something other than a plea. “Not… not this.”

“Hell?” They snort, and he feels his heart sink. “Nari, you came to me!”

…What? He stares at them with blank incredulity, not budging even when they begin to pet him.

They spare a glance down before quirking a brow smugly. “And I don’t think it’s my teeth you want.”

A sudden pressure followed by a surge of electric pleasure jolts the cat from his stupor and he sucks in a sharp breath. That damned wandering hand of theirs…

“You haven’t tried out your new body yet have you?” The Lamb’s tone is far too conversational for someone groping him so carefully through his clothes. And his breath is far too hot to entertain words right now.

“You’re in for a treat,” they grin, but pull away anyway. “If you’ll have me, that is.”

Narinder’s tail thrashes, whole body feeling warm and staticky. It’s just a sensation. It means nothing. None of this means anything! Sex was the one thing he didn’t have to do to survive– the one mortal vice he didn’t need to entertain. In fact, he refused to.

But the cat finds refusing a lot harder now. Barely any friction, yet his breath is thick in his throat. He practically vibrates with suppressed mortal drive. Pride battles a long starved beast, a tension winding tighter…

And then Narinder deflates under the weight of it.

“…Do what you will, Lamb,” he rasps, head hung. “I am at your mercy.”

The vision shatters with a crack from overhead, and the cat startles awake in the early lowlight of his hut. Beyond, rain falls in sheets over the valley, thrumming a steady counter beat to his racing heart.

Not real.

None of it was real.

All that persists is that ever present ache and–

Fuck.

Narinder groans, dragging a hand over his face. At this point he cannot tell what is worse, the utter betrayal of this wretched mortal body or the flicker of disappointment, no matter how brief, at being pulled from the dream.

This… this cannot be allowed to continue.

-

The storm has mostly passed by the time sermon concludes. It leaves behind a wet sheen in ambient greys that sets Narinder on edge as he waits outside. Mass was typically mandatory, but the cat has long since made it known he operates on his own schedule, and the Lamb never seems to push the matter. Not for him. For that he is grateful. Narinder is not sure he can stomach any unnecessary and prolonged interaction with the leader after the night he had.

He tries not to think about it. It was delirium brought on by restlessness and pain– no point in entertaining it more than he must. After all, he is no stranger to the absurdity of dreams by now.

And only fools search for meaning in the meaningless.

Narinder shifts uneasily. There’s a cold dampness seeping into his clothes where he’s leaned up against the outer wall of the temple. Unpleasant, but enough of a distraction from his apprehension to settle his nerves.

He doesn’t want their help. But the sooner things return to normal, the better.

The cat nearly leaps from his skin when the doors swing open wide and the congregation begins pouring out, loud and energized by the morning’s preachings. A few curious glances are thrown his way, but the flood carries on down the hill to the compound’s heart with single minded determination. The heavy doors fall shut, and Narinder is left in the silence, willing his heart to still.

He can still leave. It’s not too late. Ignoring the problem hasn’t worked well in the past, but who knows. These things have a way of working themselves out, surely.

But is it worth the risk? Something in his gut tightens at the thought of the Lamb’s continued haunting of his dreams, and he decides he doesn’t like it. Sleep may be a grudging mortal necessity, but his mind is holy. Narinder may have given them the power to peer in through its windows, but never to barge in and make themself at home.

Never like this anyway.

For a second time, the temple’s heavy wooden doors swing open without as much as a creak in protest, and the Lamb appears a moment later with their logbook clutched to their chest. For such a small creature, they’ve certainly gotten comfortable flaunting that divine constitution of theirs. Even as a vessel, they weren’t shy about exerting the strength given to them by the Red Crown. There are growing pains, of course, but the way they trot down the steps brings an elegance to that power he hadn’t given much mind to back then.

Downy wool atop sturdy legs. The sharp heaviness of a fatal blow wrapped in a flowing red mantle.

Godhood suits them, he supposes.

But the Lamb keeps moving, several paces away and oblivious, and in his reverie Narinder nearly misses them. “Lamb.”

Their head whips around. “Nari!–Oh you look like shit.”

No doubt it’s true; he hasn’t allowed himself to fall asleep again after… well.

The cat scowls anyway, bracing himself for the next part as they close in on him. “Rest was… fleeting. Should the offer still stand, I would–” Ugh. He glances off when their expression goes smug. “…I would appreciate your remedy.”

“Finally came to your senses, huh?”

Narinder feels his tail thwack against the side of the building. “On with it, Lamb.”

At the silence that follows, he tests a glance back at them to find the Lamb’s expression blanked. “You want me to do it? …So you waited here instead of going to Hugh?”

His own expression falls, causing the Lamb to laugh. When he huffs, they laugh louder. The thought of entrusting the burly tabby– or any of these hapless fools the Lamb calls followers– with his pain management makes Narinder’s spine prick with unease. “The herbalist is an oaf.”

“Hey! Hugh gives good massages!”

“You know this for a fact, then?” The damned ache must be making him more irritable, the way he snaps at them.

Fortunately they’re in too good a mood to notice. “Everyone knows it! But I think it’s sweet you waited for me.“

The Lamb raises a hand to muss happily at the fur under his chin. They pet him all the time, and Narinder has long learned to tolerate it. It must be sleep deprivation, the way his chest tightens unpleasantly at the contact.

The dreams certainly don’t help.

Narinder pushes off from the wall– breaking contact– all too aware of the stiffness that has settled in his spine since taking up roost there. “You speak of adulation where none exists. If I could manage it myself, we would not be here.”

“Wha– well I’m glad you can’t,” they huff. “I’ll take care of you just like old times. Stubborn ass. You didn’t have to wait this long, y’know.”

They think to lecture him? Narinder’s only response is a flattening of his ears, shutting them out–perhaps even capitulating to a degree. Of course the Lamb would assume the latter.

“Well?”

He fights an instinctual scowl. “Let us be done with this, Lamb.”

They raise a brow. “My place or yours?”

His tail is flicking again. “Healing bay.”

—

They make no protest nor comment as the two fall into step, and as much as Narinder would have preferred to simply trail behind them, the Lamb makes an effort to match his gait. Much to his irritation, they have always been like this, always so eager to drop the leader act around him. Always so… familiar. A fact made worse by the occasional brush of shoulders as the two passed workers and worshippers alike along the way.

Briefly, Narinder wonders how many of their followers they’ve helped like this in the past, but immediately smothers the thought with a grimace.

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that once this is taken care of he will be able to sleep in peace. No more of these nightmares, for at this point he thinks it an apt enough label.

“Nightmares?”

The cat nearly trips over himself. The Lamb is peering up at him with a curious look in their eyes, and he doesn’t fail to notice the discretion in their tone.

“…You wanna talk about it?”

A steadying breath does little to quell the nerves rushing through his limbs, though he wills the fur along his forearms and spine to remain flat. He prides himself on his patience, but ironically it seems time has dried that well. The nervous energy rises in the form of tail flicks, and fortunately the Lamb doesn’t seem to notice.

“Boundaries, need I remind you, Lamb,“ Narinder hisses, keeping his gaze dead ahead.

“Talk to me then! You looked so broody–”

“I am in pain,” he snaps, and rushes past them when the little alcove comes into view. One way or another, this will end, and his life can go back to the way it was. Free of apparitions. Unburdened by the strange, lingering shadow of what once was.

The healing bay, built a level lower than the road, is separated from the bustle of the beating heart of Lamb’s faith by a retaining wall lined with shrubbery, and sheltered by the sparse foliage of a handful of spindly trees. This time of morning, the only part of the clearing touched by sunlight is the small herb garden opposite the medical huts.

For now, all is quiet save the clacking of hoof steps as the Lamb follows him down the stairs. None of the huts seem occupied, and there is no herbalist to be found. Likely chattering with his brothers over breakfast. Narinder can’t find it in himself to be grateful as he pushes past one of the curtains.

If fortune smiles upon him, his siblings will never have to know.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” they stubbornly continue as Narinder moves to maneuver himself onto the cot in the least unpleasant way he can manage. He hears the curtain move aside. “I just think you’d feel better if you did–”

Their expression blanks as he settles onto his stomach. “…Y’know, usually people, uh… expose their back for this type of thing.”

It’s an awkward chuff, maybe even an attempt at levity, though it does nothing to alleviate the tension in his spine. A growl builds in his throat at the thought of going through the whole ordeal again just to remove his tunic.

“Lamb.”

“Okay! Okay, fine,“ they huff. ”I’ll figure something out, just, uh– just sit tight.“

Oh, this is a first for them. So much for ‘doing this all the time.’ Something in his breast is sated upon the realization, but a sense of unease replaces it at the thought of entrusting this process to the brash hands of a god-killer. Narinder can only wait for whatever it is to come, stiff as a board, staring at the woven hut wall.

He hears shuffling behind him; the more they drag this out, the more regret begins to seep in through the cracks in the cat’s resolve.

And then Narinder feels the cot dip.

Feels the distinct press of a warm body as a thigh slings across his hips and a weight settles astride his prone form. It takes several moments, much to the cat’s chagrin, to even process what exactly happened, and several more for the gravity to settle over him.

The audacity of this little beast is second to none.

“Hey, relax for me, okay?”

It’s the placative circles rubbed between his shoulder blades that reactivates his sensibilities. “What the hell are you–“

A tug against the fabric of his red tunic is all the warning Narinder gets before it’s untucked entirely and hands greet his bare back.

“I need access, Nari,” they say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you want this done or not?”

“That’s not–!“ he shudders when the tunic is pushed up exposing the entirety of his back, and his body feels warm in spite of the rush of cool air. He’s certain all the fur along his spine is standing on end, but it’s confirmed anyway by the way the Lamb smooths over the line. ”Is–is this what Hugh does?!“

He doesn’t see their shrug, but hears the flippant ‘I dunno’ sound just fine. “Never had one of his massages. Never needed it.”

…Hell is real and it found him, on this quiet morning in this quiet corner of the commune. Not even his waking life is safe.

A hand smooths down the line of his spine again to little effect. “I can stop if you–”

“Be done with this, Lamb,“ the cat growls, not fancying the idea of what his dreams may conjure if fueled by this. The only possible way out is through.

“Does that mean you want me to stop or…”

“FIX ME.“

“Alright, fine!“ A third soothing pet and he hears the pout in their voice. ”Whatever happened to that patience of yours…“

Another growl builds in his chest, but Narinder doesn’t deign a response. Instead he opts to focus his energy on ignoring the gentle warmth blooming to life in his gut.

A palm follows his spine, firm and probing over the muscles, and he allows himself an incremental relief at being able to focus on something other than their thighs against his ass.

Wait, what–

“It was your lower back, right?” With two fingers, the Lamb follows the line downward. Narinder valiantly stifles a shiver. “…Tell me when.”

No need. Any pleasantness from the sensation is so abruptly burned away when they reach it. Only in hindsight is Narinder certain he winced, judging by how their palm flattens against the problem area and applies a gentle pressure without further instruction. Pain radiates outward at the press and it takes everything he’s got to further temper his reaction to a mere grunt. As soon as the Lamb hears it, they seem to change their tactic and begin to work the heel of their palm into the muscle in tight little circles.

It nearly draws a different reaction from the cat, and his ears flatten at the hypothetical indignity. The more their hands work him, the more the ambient warmth of his body seemingly begins to focus at his core. There is something wrong with him, very very wrong. That warm bloom, squirming at his center, unstymied by the solution he was promised. If anything, it seems to grow to fill the void left by the sharp edge of pain as it’s worked and smoothed over into a more tolerable dull ache.

And still Narinder tries to relax under the Lamb’s ministrations. He must try.

“I’ve dealt with muscle knots from time to time, y’know. Always go away quickly. I wonder if it’s got something to do with the Red Crown,” the Lamb muses aloud.

Yes, divine constitution. Living without it, Narinder has become all the more aware of just how much the crown did to mitigate the less favorable aspects of the flesh. Muscle knots, among other things.

Damned Lamb…

At least he can take solace in the darkness of his fur.

“Feels better already, huh?”

Narinder feels the pressure subside as the circles gradually widen. Then, it disappears altogether as the body above him sits back. “Yeah, I’m something of a legend myself, you know.”

Unbidden, he scoffs; that Lamb is far too boastful of mediocrity. Narinder tests a glance behind him, and the Lamb is practically beaming in self-congratulatory pride, their wool framed in a halo of the light filtering in through the curtain behind them. Holy in any other context, but here the sight is ironic at best. Oxymoronic, even.

Still serving their former master, even after years of uncontested divinity… damnable creature.

The squirming moves higher, his nerves fluttering in his chest as he focuses back on that wall. Anxious. Why is he so damn anxious?

Narinder refuses to linger on that question.

“Hey.” Fingers glide through his fur, pushing it up the wrong way, and the Lamb leans over him with a cautious look. “You okay?”

“Was that necessary?”

They pause, glancing at the mussed strip of fur along his back before offering a sheepish laugh and smoothing it back down. “Ah, sorry. Your fur is really soft.” They stroke down the path, now smoothed flat, a second and third time.

“Lamb–”

“Y’know,” they muse, absentmindedly ruffling up the fur all over again, “I might as well search for any more while I’m here.”

“That is–” he’s cut off trying to steady his own body against the sensation of their fingernails raking down his back. Still the muscles flex ever so slightly as, unbidden, he arches against it.

“–A great idea!” they dub in, audibly smug, and the nervous flutter sets root somewhere deeper. “I’ve been told I’m not known for working in halves.”

They just want to pet me, the wretched thing.

But the indignity is harder to cling to now with their hands already on him, following the contours of his muscles and ribs, down to his spine and back up to his shoulders. He sighs carefully, hoping it sounds more defeated than pleased, and thankful they cannot see his face from where they are.

How long has it been since anyone has touched him like this? As miserable as the circumstances are, a part of him can’t help but preen at the pampering.

From the Lamb–

The cat’s ears flatten sharply against his head as an odd sense of giddy anticipation and despair churns within his chest. “Be done, Lamb,” Narinder clips, forcing the words out.

“Almost,” they object, digging the heels of their palms just below his shoulder blades. “Feelin’ better at least?”

“Hardly,” he snaps, a fool’s attempt at fortitude. A distraction from the growing pressure in his throat he valiantly smothers before it can stumble forth into a purr.

Fortunately this is enough for them to stop.

Unfortunately, Narinder registers too late what he’s done.

The responding hum is tinged with frustration, and a heartbeat later they fixate back on the problem spot again, pressing deeper with both hands as if to wring tension from the very muscle itself, if that’s what it takes. When their attention shifts lower, he’s barely able to stifle a grunt of surprise.

The roots smolder in Narinder’s core as the Lamb follows his spine south, and a wash of panic has his fur rising all over again. “Lamb–“

They reach the place where his spine and tail converge, and the cat just manages to stifle a yelp into a hiss. They hesitate, and he feels like he’s burning alive from within when they put weight onto that spot again, eliciting another grunt from the cat.

“I… I think I found something!”

“That is not–!“ The cat’s jaw snaps tight when they begin repeating the process from before– it’s all he can do to brace himself against the sensation. A sudden bolt of warm, syrupy pleasure arcs through his nerves as the smolder within ignites. Claws sink into the cot and his body goes rigid with the effort of not arching into the pressure, and for a moment Narinder entertains the thought he might still be dreaming. His torment always seems honed in on his dreams.

But it’s much too real, and he hardly dares to breathe for risk of losing the tenuous grasp on his composure.

“You’re really wound up. You gotta learn to relax.”

His tail, thrashing behind him, has been hitting the Lamb, he realizes distantly. A huff from behind him has the uncomfortable, borderline bruising pressure softening into a soothing rub, and at the sudden gentleness Narinder’s control slips entirely.

He knows it’s a vain effort, but Narinder still manages to bury his face in the cot before the moan is torn from him. To his relief and utter horror, the stimulation stops abruptly.

The silence that falls between the two is suffocating.

…He never should have done this. A mere three days of mortal soreness– he had once fought against the confines of his shackles until his arms were dripping with ichor and hanging pieces of flesh– his intolerance on this front is an embarrassment.

“…Nari?”

He needs to run.

Flee somewhere safe.

Leave this interaction and save what remains of his pride.

“…Are you–Mmf!“

The Lamb falls backward as Narinder scrambles out from under them.

Out.

Away.

Their eyes widen with alarm, stumbling to follow a mere moment before he yanks the hem of their cloak over their head and pushes them back down onto the cot. “AUGH–what the hell?!”

Narinder doesn’t stick around to hear the concern evaporate from their voice. He breaks from the tent in a run, nearly colliding with Hugh and Kallamar at the top of the stairs.

He can’t be seen like this.

Housing isn’t very far from the healing bay, but the rush feels like agony and Narinder only dares breathe once within the safety of his hut with his door closed and locked behind him.

There’s a ringing in his ears. A fog in his mind.

A tightness in his breeches.

The cat presses his back against the solid wood and slowly slides to the floor.

Mortifying… utterly mortifying…

Narinder allows himself a handful of seconds to settle into his surroundings, ears still pricked for the sound of pursuit. Fortunately for which there are none. He hadn’t even registered that he was holding his breath until he nearly spooks at the sound of his own exhale.

How shameful, to allow himself to unravel so– by the touch of his usurper of all people! He should be so incensed, had the sinking dread not already taken its place in the fog of his mind. Still, it does little to quell the warmth in his loins.

It’s merely physiological, it will go away given time, and Narinder is nothing if not patient. After all, this is far from his first erection in this body, and he’s managed his dignity just fine thus far. Suffering from the mortal condition has already been degrading enough.

Forced to eat to survive.

Made to sleep to remain sane.

This will not be where he breaks.

It was merely pain relief, a shepherd caring for its flock. Warm fingers coaxing out the knot in his muscles, now pressed flush and bereft against the cold grain of wood, and in a flash he is reminded of the dream. Narinder runs a hand over his face, feeling suddenly helpless in the life he’s found for himself. A life granted to him by the very soul he once sought to consume.

Was this intentional? Surely not. The Lamb may be bold, but not bold enough to proposition him so blatantly. It was by their own foolish blunder that he was made aware of the depths of their infatuation– the timidness they exhibited that night had been a pleasant surprise, all things considered.

Their body yielded so beautifully for him…

The heat within surges, and he looks to the rafters for guidance, as if he could find a mote of sanity drifting amidst the dust. Instead, the implication looms over him like a blade.

He… will meditate, he decides. At least until he’s fit enough to leave. This is merely an obstacle, and it is asinine to ascribe meaning where there is none.

Not with this.

Not with the dreams.

Not with the phantom touch of those exploratory fingers branded beneath his skin.

…Do they still have that scar?

With a careful inhale, his eyes fall shut. He holds it before releasing it alongside the tension in his shoulders. Inhale. Hold. Release. The sound of his breathing provides an anchor as, drip by drip, his other senses bead away like rain from a feather. The process finds him like a cool bath on a hot day–a much needed cleanse of his mind.

But his body lingers somewhere in that cruel world, unable to fully shake it. In the void left behind, the searing brand of those damned fingers burns even hotter, and before long he finds himself caught by their dance, flames licking along his nerves. The ghost of those hands haunts him like a memory.

Perhaps it’s the most he’s ever properly felt of their touch— perhaps a thousand years of rot has merely eaten away at his tolerance for physical sensation. Starved him of the simplest of acknowledgements. Perhaps now that these lands are lost to him, having the undivided attention of the Last God ought to be seen as a triumph– that he can yet influence them into servitude. And with the libido of a mortal body…

Surely it’s that simple.

A memory splits his mind like lightning, one where the roles were reversed. One where Narinder was the hand that fed. One where the Lamb was besotted on the bounties he offered. His ministrations, his presence.

The role he had no intention to fill.

The cat feels its weight sitting heavy in his gut, his shoulders sinking all the while the temperature in this single room cabin seems to jump a few degrees.

Besotted. Ha! Like he’d be caught dead yearning for the one who stole his crown. Their situations are nothing alike.

They were so… beguiled. So beautifully were they unraveled and delicately picked apart for his enjoyment…

Narinder could have done whatever he liked to them, he’s certain. Plucked them limb from limb if he pleased– by stars did the Lamb love him.

…Do they still fantasize about him?

Arousal surges as his thoughts are dragged back to that night, before the betrayal, before the tryst. When his attention was called to his vessel by the utterance of a single word. And what a pathetic display he found– the vessel of the Red Crown, locked away in the archives below the temple for a modicum of privacy, said crown smothered within the chest they sat upon as they rocked against their fingers in the most sacrilegious ‘worship’ he’d ever witnessed. The poor thing, they had been so careful, but how could they expect him to not take notice when they called him by name?

And so fervently did they do so– they always have. Speaking his name like it was something precious to them, even after butchering it to that shorthand “Nari.” Still such warm reverence uttered around the bastardization of something once holy. Only the Lamb could manage it.

And only the Lamb could go through the careful effort of ensuring privacy for a moment of mortal weakness, only to unknowingly put on such a show for–

His breath slowly steams out on an exhale.

Fool.

Fool!

He was a fool to believe meditation would work– not when the Lamb is capable of drawing out this… insanity from their subjects, and Narinder refuses to go the way of the bear.

But in his current state he is weak. Prone to… influence. The cat opens an eye, glancing down at the tent in his breeches and grimaces. It is uncomfortable as hell, and a small, noticeable stain indicates where his erection strains against the fabric, made all the more conspicuous by the light material. Mortality has never before felt so debilitating.

Yet a small inkling in the back of his mind whispers it would be better to deal with the issue, before his mind wanders into less forgivable territory.

The rogue thought has the cat bristling, and he covers his face with a groan. When had he become so weak to the mortal condition? This is the one front he needn’t cede! Sleep? Admittedly, Narinder had caved to it rather quickly, as it provided a needed respite from the living. Feeding oneself? He held onto his laurels a bit longer before his body finally gave out. Longer still for his body to not outright reject what it was fed.

Every vice was the result of the mortal subjugation of divinity.

Except this.

Yet here the cat sits, loosening the ties of his pants with cumbersome movements, and he shudders as the onerous thing springs free to quench itself in the still air. The tip glistens in mockery of everything he once was. Once stood for.

…But surely this is better than–

No.

Narinder shuns the thought. Refuses to so much as let it pass freely through his mind. This is maintenance, and will be treated no different than eating or rest.

But still the fallen god hesitates, because this time the capitulation is willing.

And it’s all because of them.

Frustration flares in his chest, and Narinder decides then to move, because surely anger is better than the other option.

Quickly now, before he can think better of it– before pride can take hold– he takes himself in a loose grasp, feeling his abs tense at the sensation. The cat had expected sensitivity, but must have forgotten just how sensitive such organs could be, and his breath whispers between his teeth as he slowly slips that hand upward.

A fresh bead of precum awaits at the tip, and when he reaches it he smears the sticky fluid over the glans with a shudder.

…What is he doing?

A fist wraps around his length before he can think better of it, and as soon as friction is added it's like a switch flips inside him.

His ears cant forward.

His pupils dilate.

And when he starts to properly pump himself, his hips give a light jolt.

… It feels… good.

The cat swallows a rogue wash of shame with a growl. He hates how much he enjoys it, flames licking deep in his abdomen as he finally sheds his inhibitions enough to stoke them. Had godhood truly muted sensation so much? This feels far more… potent.

The heat feels like alcohol in his veins; inhibitions become easier to discard the more he partakes.

This is what he was holding back on all this time?

Of all the hurdles and obstacles and heightened senses and lowered awarenesses to come with being stripped of his divine mantle…

Narinder understands now why the Lamb chose the Rite of Lust over that of Wrath, as much as he is loath to say it. Deeper still, he is glad they did, and the realization has his palm slow.

A ritual they haven’t performed in years. Not since he was divine– not since before he arrived.

Not since–

Narinder sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his cock twitch in his grasp and wondering silently how he ended up here.

But isn’t that it?

Shouldn’t divine malefaction be absolved through tribulation? Penance granted through service?

Atonement through suffering?

What would it take for them to perform the rite now? What would it take for them to choose him? To allow him sanctification through worship…?

What would it take for them to anoint him with their hands? For their touch to burn away the sins he carries until all that remains of his past are the scars on his wrists?

To venerate them properly… he could show them the true meaning of worship.

Not the devotional extraction of a long starved god, but a proper tribute. On his knees. Drinking deep of the communion they offer, with their thighs trembling around his head. He still remembers the taste– their fealty, their lust– perhaps clearer than he ought.

They way they gazed up at him from beneath his veil…

A surge of arousal has the cat stifling a gasp and withdrawing his hand in a panic. No– not like this.

Not the Usurper.

Not… not them.

Wadding the fabric of his tunic tightly in his fists, he gradually becomes aware of his own labored breathing. Blood surging through his veins filling the silence of his poorly lit quarters. A place of stillness to calm the frantic animation of his flesh.

Maybe Narinder should wait. He’s got a hunch how this will play out if he were to continue. Discomfort is a small price to pay for dignity, after all… even the lingering memory of those hands in his fur–

…

…Is he just prolonging the inevitable?

Narinder grimaces at the notion before staring at the object of his frustration, protruding obscenely from his crotch and weeping for attention.

What has become of him? He used to be a god! Praised and worshipped and feared! At this point how can he trust reason when his mind has been so clearly poisoned?

This is their fault.

And still his heart beats faster; he misses when it didn’t beat at all.

With a growl, Narinder lifts the hem of his work tunic to his teeth. He doubts the Lamb has reach the point in their apotheosis of generalized omniscience, but like hell if he’s going to risk it. Better to get this over with before they come running after him.

…Although, such a thought isn’t entirely unwelcome right now.

The cat huffs, blood like molten iron sitting heavy in his veins making every act and every thought feel sluggish. Intoxicating–so intoxicating.

At least if they chased after him, Narinder could have the dignity of someone else’s hand around his cock.

…Did they even consider it?

Would they have barged in with enthusiasm to offer their service like earlier?

They’d make a pretty thing, knelt between his thighs. Marveling as their fingers thread through his fur. Whispering praise in his ear as those fingers slowly make their way south. Teasing– always teasing. He can picture it now, that smug, self-satisfied smirk. The glimmer in their eyes.

"You're all warmed up for me. Good job, Nari," they'd say, "good boy."

He hates how his breath stutters at that.

"I can take it from here."

A wave of fresh heat makes the fur on his neck stand.

"Let me take care of you."

The cat barely swallows a pathetic sound. A hand wraps around his cock with far more confidence than that mewling vessel ever betrayed. When a thumb smears the beaded precum over the head the whimper forces its way out regardless.

"That's it, let it out."

The cat nearly snarls. He will soon if they don't stop with the goddamn thumb.

"All worked up and I've barely touched you."

Oh, how Narinder wants to wipe that grin from their face. He can picture it so vividly and it makes his stomach knot, so instead he forces it away by pinching his eyes shut and just grits his teeth against the sensation.

And then, it's simply gone. Narinder only marginally relaxes before hands would cup his face and his eyes would snap open to the Lamb’s. Their expression is unreadable, only to soften when their fingers begin sifting through the finer fur of his neck and jawline.

"…Are you gonna purr for me, Nari?" they'd coo, bringing their face far, far too close. "Can you do that for me?"

The cat feels his ears pin back. Feels the fur of his neck stand on end as heat sings through his blood. He is trapped in the cruel abyss of those eyes.

"I can tell you want to."

His lip curls back in a defensive sneer.

Their face drops, a mocking half pout tugging at their lips. "No?"

The cat remains silent.

"Hm… Guess I'll just have to pull it from you then."

Before he has time enough to react, that hand is back, stroking his cock at a feverish pace. It nearly wrenches a yowl from the cat, and probably would have if he didn't have the foresight to stifle the noise with the fabric in his mouth.

Impatient- always so impatient!

The short bark of laughter that erupts from them would set his blood ablaze. "It's a start! But you can do better than that, can't you? For me?"

They'd relent, but Narinder would barely get time enough to catch his breath before they sink down onto his cock. The heat almost unbearable, it's all he can focus on to stay grounded. It takes everything he has to not forget himself in that moment, head falling back against the door with a thud. He has to remember to breathe, and breathe carefully, or who knows what sounds would get torn from him.

But these hands– one atop the other– they’re not hot. Not cloying like he remembers, but for his purposes it’s more than enough.

"Already?" The Lamb’s tone is almost gleeful. His cock throbs in his grip within them. "Oh my, you really needed this, huh?"

A low growl builds in his throat, but he turns away, pressing his cheek into the coarse woodgrain as if that alone can ground him. The cat’s breath is already growing heavier. He’s unsure how long he can keep this up and the damned thing hasn't even moved yet.

"I've got you," they would hum, and his ears twitch uneasily at the fondness in their voice. "I'll take care of you."

The growl becomes a moan as their hips begin rolling against his own, and for a moment he really does forget himself. His hips respond without thought– oh, how he wishes to sink his claws into that woolen flesh.

Incrementally, it builds on itself. Each drag of flesh over his cock stokes the depravity burning deep in his core. Chipping away at his inhibitions and fueling the vision he’s crafted. In his mind, the Lamb's body dances like a flame upon his own, and Narinder drinks in the image with rapt attention and hooded eyes.

It's warm. Hot. Stifling. The atmosphere is oppressive with the weight of lust it carries. And every breath from clenched jaws only adds to it, carrying the occasional stifled grunt or sigh along with it.

If the Lamb were here, he could bear witness to their rapture first hand. The oxymoronic innocence of their blissed out expression– a memory to last an eternity. Eyes shut, brows knit in concentration and pleasure. Not at all subtle with whatever sounds they let slip through slackened jaws– his name on their tongue like a mantra. Like a claim.

They’d blink, eyes bleary and unfocused only to sharpen when they meet his own.

"Look at you…"

Narinder flattens his ears, and when the Lamb clenches around him on the ascent, he’d only have a moment to brace before they slam back down to the hilt. He groans, feeling the worried fabric fall from his mouth, and exposing his neck when his head falls back against the door.

The Lamb would, of course, seize the opportunity to snake their arms around his neck and mouth at his throat. With the pace slowing to a maddening grind, Narinder almost wouldn’t catch the way their chest rises against his own. How their breath deliberately ghosts over skin and through fur, sending a shudder up his spine that they’d somehow take notice of, for their arms would tighten in response.

"All that pride… No wonder you're so pent up."

With another deep inhale of his fur, they're bouncing again, and he can no longer stop from panting. Gods above, he must look absolutely debauched.

When he starts matching their rhythm with more vigor, they grin against his skin. "That's it…" Such a cloying tone. "Just like that."

But he'd hardly be able to parse what they're saying over the hum of their voice against his throat.

It's all so much.

Too much.

Yet not quite enough.

The cat redoubles his efforts, chasing a release just out of reach, the thought of their gasps leaves him electrified.

"Yes! Yes…" they praise, and he feels the weight of the atmosphere bearing down on him.

Fingers clutching at black fur. Hot breath coating the pelt on his neck, causing clumps to stick together. So close he can almost feel it.

Their voice is warm against his skin–it nearly drives him mad how they moan his name. Like it's something precious they want to ruin. Gods, he needs to be ruined by them.

Is this why they spared him? To destroy him?

To see him worship at their altar hand and foot? To have him a willing participant in his own desecration?

In his mind, the Lamb reels back, eyes sharp, expression inscrutable. It's an image so at odds with that perfect crystalline memory he holds close, and in a moment of lucidity he nearly stops dead.

But then their eyes soften as a huff of laughter escapes them, and in an instant they close the distance, lips crashing into his with all the force of rain falling from the sky. Like it was the only possible answer.

That does make him stop dead. Every thought and every instinct evaporates until all he can do is succumb to the beautiful hell they promise.

They kiss him like a promise, the hunger replaced with... something else entirely. It is gentle in its power, like a wave with the force of the ocean behind it. Like warmth from a raging sun. Like they blunted themself just for him in this precious instant. They cradle him in their radiance.

The thought makes something twist in his gut.

It ought to incense him. Narinder taught the Lamb everything they know, gave them everything they have. He knows the hell they are capable of, yet time and time again they soften themself for him, like he were a porcelain doll.

Yet when they pull back, the thought fades like an ember swallowed in the night of their eyes, and the Lamb gazes back up at him like he strung the stars he finds in them.

"You're so silly sometimes, y'know?"

…Silly?

Narinder can only gasp as the warmth of that gaze lingers beneath his skin, a parting gift as the Lamb raises their hips, pulling off of him entirely as well as pulling a quiet whine from the cat. Any protest he may have had dies in his throat when they take him in hand, and he's not prepared to unpack the way his heart skips at their smile when they feel him throb in their palm.

"I love that about you, y’know?" They begin to pump him, and his hips cant forward with a chuff when they add a twist of the wrist on the up stroke.

"So perfect," they whisper.

Eyes falling shut, he only manages to pant in response. Hells below…

"So good."

A tightness builds within him, and as if sensing it, the Lamb's hand works faster, filling the air with wet obscenity.

Heavens ABOVE-

"That's why I chose you."

He can almost feel their breath against his lips. As if reaching out he could touch them.

"I love you."

Under the weight of his past, of everything he is, something cracks. Pressure like a needle– like a blade– being suddenly rent from his flesh. Heat floods his veins, blood to well in a wound he knew not of. For how long did it live within him? For how long must he bleed? Here, on the altar of the Lamb, the sting is lost to the warmth of their radiance.

The Lamb.

His Lamb.

His god.

The last thing holy calls to him for tribute, and Narinder answers with a choked sob. The pressure reaches a breaking point and all he can do is squeeze his eyes against it as the tightness finally snaps.

White hot pleasure pours through his veins, constricting his senses to a single point of fiery bliss. May it burn away his transgressions. May there be nothing left but ash. And from it may his lungs fill with pneuma until he drowns in it.

Trembling, Narinder’s head falls forward meeting cool, empty air. Exhaustion among the first sensations to reach him.

After several seconds of gulping air, weary as the aftershocks echo through him like a bell, the cat leans back heavily against the door and allows his gaze to drift back up to the rafters.

He feels… warm.

It’s nice.

He just might have fallen asleep like this had the sensation of something sticky and rapidly cooling not pulled him from the haze. He’s made a mess– his hands, his clothes… With a grimace, the purr dies in his throat.

…He was purring?

…

Oh gods…

The final threads of that bliss are severed, replaced by the sinking weight of his own body. This was a mistake.

The Lamb…

He just fantasized about the Lamb…

Claws puncture little holes in the fabric with the force he grips his tunic.

This… can’t– he… but it happened.

Are… are the Fates not yet finished with his shaming? Of all the souls, mortal and immortal alike, to have crossed his paths, in all the eons of his existence walking this earth or chained beneath it… Narinder has not known one to evoke such a… madness from him.

It consumes him like a vine, slowly strangling him from within. A weed. A parasite. A foreign emotion, one that promises unending hell until he learns to kill it.

But Narinder takes a deep steadying breath; this, too, will pass.

Time is on his side, and time kills all things eventually.