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Heket reached across the countertop for the bag of fresh mint, knocking over an empty bowl and sending it clattering to the ground. She resisted the urge to groan at her own clumsiness in this new, mortal body.
Without the help of her crown, every word sent jagged edges through her slit throat. During the first few days in the Lamb’s cult, she almost clung to a foolish hope that the damage to this body was only temporary, that the Lamb could heal her with the power of the same crown that damaged her. Almost. But they had mastered a fraction of the strength of the Red Crown she once knew, and she noticed the cold bitterness behind every polite word they spoke to her or to the other former Bishops and knew, realistically, that giving her a second chance wasn’t in their heart the way they had given one to Narinder.
Heket chopped the fresh herbs and slid them into the salad bowl before tossing them together with the fresh vegetables. Somehow, her culinary skills and the crops Leshy oversaw paired well enough that the two newly resurrected siblings almost never strayed from their niche. It was no surprise; when she was a god she didn’t need to eat mortal food but she had mastered cooking her own feast rituals.
She brought the back of her webbed hand to touch the fresh blood on the bandages wrapping her neck, noting to change them after everyone had taken their dinner. Her cooking had never been so silent as it had been during the past few months. She accompanied her dishes with a side of impromptu song in the kitchen, back in the day. After Narinder revolted, she had at least been able to sing a few tunes before going hoarse. But now, even sustaining a note was unbearable.
Once Heket had apportioned the meals and rang the meal-bell, she counted a few heads among the Lamb’s flock that she had once considered her own acolytes. How few creatures still lived who remembered who she had once been, hundreds of years lost long ago. She passed each bowl to the next in line until the last found its way into hands covered in thin black fur.
Narinder hadn’t spoken to her since the Lamb dragged her from Purgatory, but every once in a while she caught him casting a glance over his shoulder at her, only for him to look away whenever she noticed his stare. Had she her voice, she would have used it to berate him for his cowardice. Almost two thousand years had passed since that day, and he still couldn’t face his own mistakes.
Not today. Before Narinder could turn to walk away, she reached to place her hand on his shoulder.
To the surprise of both of them, he gave a half-hearted shake as if he wanted to push her away, a move that never came to fruition. Heket raised her eyes to give him a chilly stare-down, but her expression threatened to soften when she didn’t find the hard-hearted glare she was expecting. Instead, she saw a spectrum of emotions not-too-successfully hidden beneath his stoic facade.
He looked at her like this for an unquantifiable blip in time before he tried to turn away, but Heket tightened her grip. “No,” she choked out.
“I’ve changed, Heket.” Narinder looked like he was fighting to keep the same broken shards of whatever familial love they still had, a feeling Heket knew all too well.
Heket had watched Narinder out of the corner of her eyes and noticed who he became around the Lamb. He wasn’t quite the same person she had known even back when their family was unfettered, obviously, but she saw glimpses of the brother she had once known occasionally. She was caught between risking another couple precious words to say either, “I noticed,” or “Have you?” but she couldn’t decide what to say before she felt him push a long, thin object into her hands.
When she lifted the flute to inspect it, her eyes went wide as she noticed each fine detail of the carvings into its wood. It had elements of Old Faith imagery, which was scandalous for an object within the perimeter of the Lamb’s cult. However, the symbols upon it weren’t those of the Old Faith of the past couple thousand years, but the ones she recognized when they were five. She wouldn’t admit that she was moved.
Penitent, Narinder looked away. “I’m sorry this is all I can give you. I don’t know if you want to forgive me yet, but we’re both here now.” He reached his hand behind his neck and took a step back, getting ready to turn to leave. “We might as well start trying.”
Not one to let him have the last word, Heket opened her mouth to speak. “...I’m… fine,” she uttered before erupting into a wheezing, hollow cough. She knew he’d been easing his way into talking to his family again, and wasn’t sure if she was ready to let go of her anger.
But when Narinder reached into his pocket and wiped the ichor from her neck, she almost wanted to try. He had hugged her many times before, so she wasn’t surprised to feel him go in for one, years of unspoken regret suffocating between them. He probably wanted to believe it was comforting to her, but for a frozen moment in time, she had her big brother back and it stung more than it healed.
So why couldn’t she explain why she was crying now, every lie and laceration spilling with her tears?
As she held him tighter, she tried to speak, but her words came out in a mangled mess.
Narinder shushed her. “Don’t say anything, please.”
When she finally almost managed a word, Narinder let go and left without giving her a glance over his shoulder.
Heket taught herself to play a few songs only their family would remember within a fortnight, pleased to once again share the music that lurked within her even still. And after a few practice sessions, she worked up the will to wave Narinder over when she noticed him listening to her play from a safe distance.
“Let’s… try… again.”