Chapter Text
It wasn't the first time he'd woken up with aching joints, a foggy head, a metallic taste in his mouth, and no clear memory of the last few days. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but he usually didn't think about it. There were followers to tend to (and keep a particularly close eye on), there was menticide to collect, rituals to perform. The pain dulled when he wasn't thinking about it, and dissolved completely when his lungs were saturated with tiny, pale red spores.
No, the problem wasn't that he wasn't feeling his best. The problem was that he clearly wasn't in the Grotto, or even in Anura.
He knew that right away, because the first thing he noticed as the dizziness subsided was a sharp, grassy smell, interspersed with sweet smoke. The smell was so different from the damp, slightly putrid air of Anura or the musty, dusty Grotto. The contradiction struck him faster than he could even comprehend it, forcing him to strain and open his eyes despite the cutting, hot pain. His vision was clouded, and yet he struggled to see the dim blurs and the shapeless shadows that flickered against the unbearably bright light. The flashes and shimmers made his throat ache, insistently, but even so he could make out log walls, wooden shelves full of… something, and green tufts of herbs hanging from the ceiling. He blinked, confused. The image was familiar, scratching vaguely at something far away in the back of his mind, but not enough for him to recognize it before it faded into oblivion. His thoughts were slow and viscous, like tar, and he lacked the concentration to even be properly surprised, though something told him he should be far more concerned about being in a completely unfamiliar place. For a moment, he wondered if it really was unfamiliar. The rough-hewn logs reminded him of Darkwood, lush and alive, especially with flashes of green and red here and there. Darkwood bordered Anura, but to get there from the Grotto would require crossing all of Heket's domain, full of her followers, and then the vast swamps. He pushed the thought aside. No, he couldn't know this place; he had never, ever, been so far from his home and his followers.
He frowned. Followers… Mushroomo, where were they?
Anxiety twisted in his chest, unwinding like a spring. He remembered his followers, their quiet footsteps outside the Grotto, their red eyes looking up at him with reverence… and fear, yes, fear they couldn’t hide, couldn’t hide. Could they…? No, why would they, why, they were fine, they had menticide, they had a safe place, what more could they need in the lands of the Old Faith, bloodthirsty and merciless? The excitement grew, writhing beneath the chitin, and he dug his claws into his shoulders, trying to calm it. His followers… loyal… devoted… his Mushroomo… traitors?
A dark, acrid anger exploded with a dull click inside his head, washing over him in a choking wave, and he growled. Betrayal, treachery, deception! He had never trusted these faithless abominations, staring at him from every corner of the Grotto with a bestial hunger. Certain that he did not know and did not hear, they whispered of his madness, spreading lies. The spores seemed to keep them docile for a time, but apparently it was not enough, and they found a way to get rid of him. He shook with anger, with a slowly growing panic (he had to leave here, now), with the pain that had reared its head again. How dare they, after all he had done for them, useless, ungrateful… Fingers greedily grabbed something beneath him, something soft and pliable, and the hard chitin cut through it with a dry crack. The feeling was strangely satisfying, but his hands immediately sank into a pile of straw, the prickly stems seeping through his fingers, turning his furious howl into a surprised chirp.
There was a movement that made his antenna twitch nervously, and someone appeared in his field of vision. He tried to pick out this face in the row of distorted ones, but it was no use. He had no idea who it was.
“You’re awake! How are you feeling?” a bright yellow, sand-colored frog leaned over him, looking at him with a mixture of wariness and sympathy.
He was in no hurry to answer. Frankly, he didn’t want to answer at all. Why should he? He didn’t know this frog, he didn’t know where he was, and it might as well have been an Old Faith patrol, eager to sprinkle his blood on the altar for the glory of the Bishops. Large, bulging eyes looked straight at him, too close, as if looking for cracks that could be torn open by tearing off the shell.
The frog, as if mocking his thoughts, smiled softly.
“The leader told me to keep an eye on you until they got back,” the voice was deep, with a distinct Anura accent, and he stared at the frog, wondering again where he was. He had almost completely missed what had been said.
The stupid amphibian blinked, and something like annoyance flitted across his face. He fiddled with the hem of his red robe, glancing uncertainly toward the exit.
“So?” the frog coughed. “How are you?”
He shook his head. None of this made any sense. The pieces he had been trying so hard to put together were falling apart in his hands. Confusion, worry, and anger were all mixed together, eating away at what little was left of his calm. He needed to get out of here, somehow. His arms tensed again, claws bared, ready to grab the soft frog skin, to tear that wide throat, while the other pair of hands pressed down, ready to push forward at the right moment. Everything hurt and ached, down to the last chitinous plate, and his vision was still swimming at the edges and darkening, but all common sense was sacrificed to the simple desire to survive. He would not allow himself to be killed so easily.
The frog, feeling threatened, retreated, raising his webbed hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"Hey, calm down! No one here will hurt you!"
His chelicerae clicked predatorily, and a cruel, hysterical laugh escaped of its own accord. Words, he had heard many similar words, words designed to calm his vigilance and hide the fangs aimed at him, words that were nothing but lies. Lies, lies, lies, lies and liars everywhere!
Just when he was about to spill the cold blood of a stupid frog, there was a clatter of hooves and a thin jingle of a bell, the curtain covering the entrance rustled, letting in a snow-white horned beast. Something clicked in Sozo's head.
"Lamb!" he exclaimed with a mixture of relief and even greater distrust.
"My leader!" the frog squealed at the same time, raising his hands to his chest and respectfully bowing his head.
Lamb looked at them both, their gaze sliding from the cornered follower to the pillow torn by his claws (oh, that was what it was), and Sozo relaxed his fingers, leaning back. It would probably be unwise to threaten Lamb's ward in their own cult. So unwise that it might end with his body being irrevocably separated from his heart.
The Lamb turned to the frog and gave him a curt nod. He bowed again and hurried out, leaving them alone in the dim hut. In silence. Sozo's gaze darted from one thing to another, unwilling to focus on the crown-bearer for too long. Part of him was glad to see a familiar face in this more than confusing situation, but another part of him knew that "familiar" did not necessarily mean "friendly." His memory helpfully told him that the Lamb was one of the few who visited him in the Grotto, bearing bright red treasures in their hooves, but he also remembered that they did not do it just like that, no, they wanted Sozo's secrets, they wanted Sozo's gifts. They cared about him enough to get what they wanted, but that was all, and Sozo was no fool not to understand that. And there was no doubt that they still wanted more, having brought him into their cult.
If only he had any left.
“Sozo’s little friend,” he muttered, his mouth feeling dry. His heart was pounding furiously, and he couldn’t tell if it was the general situation or the menticide slowly being driven out of his blood. It was only a matter of time before he needed more. “Tell me… What is Sozo doing here?”
The Lamb looked at him, apparently making sure he didn’t remember anything, before pointing down at his hands. There was something there that he had somehow not noticed at first – white stripes of silk, stained in places with brown. He touched them carefully, and a brief stinging pain made it clear that these bandages were there for a reason. Sozo frowned. What could have happened to him? He tried to reach into his shaky memory again, but he could find nothing but an impenetrable reddish fog. He shook his head, feeling the slight pain in his temples threatening to turn into a full-blown migraine. He needed to get back to the Grotto, to his followers, to his research, to the few supplies of menticide he had left, before it was too late.
“Well, Sozo thanks the Lamb for their help,” he tried to smile, but even without looking in the mirror he could tell it was unconvincing. After all, he wasn’t sure if this was “help” from the crown-bearer, or just scavenging carrion, bone and flesh that could be used in the bloody rituals the local cults were known for. “But Sozo must go, he has duties to his own cult.”
Yes, duties. His foolish, traitorous followers probably yearned, if not for him, then for the glittering swirl of colors and scents. All they needed was a little menticide, and then all would be well again.
The Lamb tilted his head, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
“What is it? You’re not going to stop Sozo, are you?” another nervous laugh escaped the chelicerae as he mindlessly continued to tear at what was left of the unfortunate pillow. "No, of course you wouldn't, you're Sozo's friend, you wouldn't do that to him!"
His voice broke, and the cry sounded especially loud in the silence of the small hut. Sozo froze, his antenna shaking. The Lamb seemed not to react to his outburst, their expression not changing. They studied him for a minute, the sheep's dark eyes moving in sync with the scarlet eye of the crown, after which, slowly raising a hoof, they pointed to the exit with truly divine ceremony.
Huh?
To be honest, Sozo hadn't expected them to surrender so quickly and bloodlessly. His gut whispered again about danger, about a crowd of cultists waiting outside, grinning with sacrificial daggers. However, here he was definitely trapped, locked within four walls with the young God alone. He carefully raised himself, intending to get to his feet as quickly as possible and leave the cult's lands just as quickly. No, he would only be safe when he was back under the bone roof of the Grotto, exuding the smell of spores and damp earth. His arms trembled, barely supporting his own weight, but he shrugged it off. His arms didn't know what they were doing, but Sozo did. All he needed was to stand up...
Of course, it was at that very moment that his body failed him. He had barely begun to put his weight on his legs when his knees buckled, the world went dark, his head pounded, and his breath caught as if a hand had knocked the life out of him. A small, cold shudder ran through his chitin, sticky and slimy. The thought of poison briefly crossed his mind, but he pushed it aside. He just needed his menticide.
Unfortunately, he was as far from menticide as Anchordeep had been from the moon as he sat there trying to breathe again. There was a clatter of hooves, and small hands grabbed his shoulders, helping him back onto the bunk. He shook off the irritation that was already building. He wanted to say that he didn't need the Lamb's leniency, but he was little more than a larva just hatched from an egg, not to mention that resisting a God, even a young one, would be pretty stupid. The Lamb wanted something, and they weren't going to let him leave or die until they got it, were they? All he could do was hold out in the light of their favor long enough to heal his wounds, after which he would try to get as far away from the Death Cult as possible.
“Maybe… maybe Sozo will stay, for a while,” he muttered, struggling for the words.
The Lamb nodded, seemingly satisfied. Their hooves lifted the pillow from the bunk, completely ruined, and the brittle stems rustled to the floor. They shook their heads. Honestly, they had no idea what they were going to do next. Up until this point, they weren’t even sure that Sozo would wake up, let alone have a plan. All they could think of was to somehow keep the mycologist away from any mushrooms and spores, and see where that led. It was a flimsy tactic, but they didn’t have much of a choice. They had never encountered the need to break someone of an addiction before. Their gaze lingered on the mushroom, still scattering small spores like dust. And besides, they had never encountered anything like this. Perhaps it was because they used only the mushrooms themselves on their followers, avoiding the spores. Perhaps it was because Sozo's abuse of the mushrooms had lasted for years, while their followers might have seen the ritual three or four times in their short lives. They looked at the ant, now clinging to his shoulders as a pillow. His eyes were watching them, too intently and persistently to be friendly, and they didn't even need to read Sozo's mind to know what he was thinking. They weren't judging him, really. They had done the same thing when they first encountered Ratau, too used to trusting no one, ever. But now they needed his cooperation. They smiled encouragingly, doing a much better job than Sozo. After all, they had a lot more practice at putting on an attractive facade.
The Lamb bleated, a soft, innocent sound, reinforced by the words being planted directly into the mind.
“Don’t worry about your followers. I’ll keep an eye on them.” And technically, they weren’t lying. They were actually going to the Grotto now, hoping the Mushroomo could tell them something useful about Sozo. “Rest.”
They headed for the exit, but before they slipped through the curtain, they turned back to the ant.
“And don’t scare Yarimer anymore. He’s just doing his job.”
They said it as kindly as they could, but from the narrowed eyes, Sozo saw it as just another threat. They sighed as they walked outside. It was already evening, and they could see the followers streaming toward the kitchen, red robes against the thick greenery. The air smelled of boiled pumpkin. In the darkness of the forest right behind the settlement, reddish lights of fireflies began to flash, and in the shadows of the huts, small thin spider legs flickered, not yet daring to crawl out further.
Unbearable creatures.
Helob asked them for help, counting on their divine power. Unfortunately, divine power did not yet mean divine knowledge. Everything they knew was either passed on to them by Narinder or learned through experience, but neither included the knowledge of how to save someone from themselves. In general, when it came to saving, they were rather... straightforward about it, preferring to wield a blade more.
Their eyes found a small, but quite noticeable group in the crowd. At the request of the light-bearing being, they, of course, freed the Bishops from the chains of Purgatory, but that was all. All their disputes and disagreements, the former deities could resolve themselves - or not resolve them at all, they did not care. As long as they did not cause problems and did not catch their eye, the Bishops were free to do whatever they wanted. Part of them wanted to tear the former crown-bearers apart, throw them into the abyss full of bloodthirsty creatures, pay them back for the years of genocide. No one would blame them. They were God and they deserved justice. However… Killing them meant remembering them again, remembering the hatred and rage gnawing at their souls, remembering the pain and betrayal, remembering their own death. They would rather forget. Let it all dissolve in the indifferent flow of time. Let the Bishops live, let them be just followers among followers, and maybe it will become a little easier for them when the image of cruel, merciless deities is erased from their memory, as it is already erased from the memory of mortals.
They sighed, throwing these thoughts away. Unfortunately, this method was unlikely to help the former mycologist. Leaving Sozo alone with himself almost certainly meant killing him. But what could they do? They knew how to cure illnesses, but they weren't even sure if what was happening to Sozo could be called an illness. They looked thoughtfully at the crowd by the kitchen again. The blue squid was saying something to the purple spider, and although his words were hardly reaching their target, judging by the distracted look in spider’s eyes, he wasn't letting it stop him. Lamb wondered if it was because Kallamar couldn't hear anyone but himself (literally), or if he just didn't want to draw attention to it and make Shamura feel awkward.
No. No, they couldn't do that. Not now, not so soon. They had a plan, an unsure one, but a plan.
They could handle this on their own.