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Chapter Text

The Lands of the Old Faith began to fear death once more.

How could they not? As the heretics that tried so desperately, so sloppily, to bring back their beloved Bishops were under threat by not one, but two gods of death?

The Crown sit upon the brow of the Lamb, and yet its powers were shared. It recognized its current and future wearers. Its powers split.

Usually, The Lamb held the Crown-turned-weapon, swords and claws and axes shaped like great scabs sharpened to a fierce edge, eyes poking through the hardened blood.

Weapons as Zealous as they were.

Narinder meanwhile would wield Curses. Acidic ichor and balls of fire, spirits of the damned and great scythes of white light.

Where there were tentacles would instead be chains. Where there was frost there was instead locks. Reclaimed were his bonds, they were his weapons now. The Chained God became a God of Chains.

Of course, sometimes, the Crown would allow Narinder to hold it. Never upon his brow, but as a weapon in his paws. And they were shapes of bone, of red eyes and the promise of the after.

Necromantic. Antithetical to Death, and yet death's compliment.

And during these times, the sheep dawned a fleece not of red but of burning orange that crackled like fire as they wielded curses with absolute devastation.

They were Death. Inevitable, Now and Future. Those few that ran would have Narinder's third eye burn into their skin, a brand and a mark. That their death waited for them.

They were the Death of Future. That which the Lamb did not kill in the Now were marked for him, for the Later.

Occasionally, a Heretic would drop their weapon and submit. They would lower themselves and wait for their demise. They would surrender.

They were the ones to live the longest.

When all other dissenters were slain and sent to the white pastures, the two gods approached the kneeling heretic.

The Lamb would look into their minds, a cloying feeling to those that weren't his followers, but what choice did the heretic have but to shiver and have their intentions read? And if they were found truly repentant, the Lamb would kneel down.

"For you have identified the falsehood of your old faith, Your life shall be allowed. You may join our flock, or flee to live elsewhere. We will not stop you."

Narinder, however, knelt down next as his third eye opened, piercing the veil that shielded his face as he looked directly into the eyes of the Heretic.

"But know this. You cannot escape Death. Live, fulfill your potential, and do right. When we meet again, We will judge you." A small mark of a third eye was marked into the back of the heretic's hand. It didn't burnt, but its presence was undeniable.

The Heretic thanked the gods profusely, in tears as their fears were replaced by belief, before they ran around the two beings and out of Anchordeep.

"It's always about potential to you, isn't it?" The Lamb spoke to Narinder.

"Life is temporary. It must be spent wisely. Death is eternal. Any squandered life is lost forever." Narinder replied. The lamb rolled their eyes.

"Life is also about the small pleasures, you know. The same things you and I enjoy. Time enjoying life is not time wasted."

"We've had this discussion a great many times. We will never agree fully with one another on this."

The Lamb just sighed and took his lover's hand. "Well, I'll gladly waste my time with you, savoring the flavor of heretical flesh and the softness of our pelts."

"You and I are different from mortal lives. But I am also a hypocrite. We both have resurrected the dead after all. Potential is not a finite quality anymore."

"Just as little pleasures are not a finite resource. We simply must decide who is worthy of such infinity."

Narinder chuckled a bit. "There is no such thing. Even for us. One day you will die, and I will return to the after with you."

The Lamb smiled, blush filling their cheeks as they held the hand of Narinder tightly. "We'll simply have to enjoy our finite time then."

A shared kiss, both focusing on the still-blood-red marks upon their heads and the golden bands that hung from one's horn and the other's ear. The marks of their wedding day still as fresh as they day they were painted. "And we'll accomplish great things too. Both you and I have much potential. And we'll reach it together.

A blinding light covered the gateway.

Both the Lamb and Narinder were returning from their crusade, both soaked in blood. They had two followers to indoctrinate, but this deserved greater attention.

Something unknown now stood, floated, where the doorway to the old ritual ground once stood. A being of gold and light, and a head/face/visage of black ichor gently dripping as eyes and stars peaked out from the shadows.

It spoke. Its speech was incomprehensible. It was language, it had structure, but it was unholy/sanctimonious/blessed/heretical. The Lamb was left clueless. Narinder tilted their head, as if they had a vague understanding but nothing concrete.

"It has been a long, long time since I saw you." Narinder spoke at the angel/demon/undefined.

The Lamb turned to their beloved in confusion. "You know it?!"

"Vaguely. The memory is old and mostly gone. But I've spoken to it, and we bargained."

And then the being/mouthpiece/mystic spoke. Their voice was legible, yet it moved in ways the Lamb couldn't place. Like the speech was broken and stitched back together, like a haphazard quilt.

"I expected the Infant God. To see this diminished god again is unexpected. ☟︎□︎⬥︎ ♋︎❍︎◆︎⬧︎♓︎■︎♑︎."

The Lamb just shook their head a bit. Its words...they didn't hurt but they pressured. This wasn't a god, but whatever it was it was threatening. This Deity/Messenger/[Insert Definition Here] Yet despite their reluctance and wariness, they spoke.

"I am no Infant, but I am the youngest God of this land. Why have you appeared before us?"

"You are an infant. Newborn into divinity. And artless in your domain."

The Lamb twitched and almost began to growl, but Narinder held a hand on their shoulder. Calm down, the gesture said.

"You have given the bishops death, but you have not given them rest. They suffer, relieving their final agonies. You are the Infant God of the Death of the Present. It is your duty to rectify this. Bring the Bishops peace."

Narinder took a step closer and spoke up. "The fault lies with me. In spite and anger, I denied them passage to the after. Their agony was of my design. The duty lies with me." The Lamb was about to protest when the being spoke up again.

"■︎♏︎♑︎♋︎⧫︎♓︎❖︎♏︎. The fault lies on both of your shoulders. Your burdens are shared, literally and spiritually. You are twin gods of Death, and thus the duty belongs to both of you."

"Good." The Lamb nodded. "I refuse to let Narinder do such a thing by himself. And I imagine he wouldn't allow me to do the same."

Narinder paused, eyes looking to the cobble before he looked back up and nodded. "They were my family. They still are. Though they have suffered far less than I have in death, they have served their sentence. It is time to give them mercy."

"It is decided then. We shall provide the Bishops rest." Both gods once more held hands as they looked at the Empty Space/Not Applicable/Everything that floated enigmatically. With a twinkle of the stars in its face/window and closing its eyes, it nodded.

"A deal is struck. And to the twin gods, a pact. Give unto me a name, and I will act as a partner in enterprise and overseer of your duty."

A name? The Lamb and Narinder looked to one another. The Sheep poked into his mind, but allowed it to go both ways. A silent, telepathic conversation.

Do you recall what you called him in the past?

I do not. It was eons. Time has devoured the memory.

Any suggestions then?

Something equally old. This being is not a god, but it is not to be disrespected.

Something comes to mind. Recall the time we spent going through Shamura's archives. The records of faith obliterated by the Old Faith.

I recall. Names of faiths even older. Ancient and gone. Only existing as footnotes within my sibling's writings. Do you have an answer?

I do.

The Lamb broke the connection as he turned to the Who Are You/What Are You/When Are You. "I name you Metatron."

"And thus, our contract is struck."

The two gods returned to their flock. The two newest members were welcomed with fanfare and family. One of them bared the mark of future death upon their hand, but the Cult did not judge.

Past the twin statues of the cat and the lamb, into the temple, the two deities sat in a private space. The temple door was sealed.

"We are in agreement, then? We are to free the bishops in the same order they were slain?"

Narinder nodded. "Tis only fair their sentence be kept as close to equal as possible."

"O Death...a question." The cat's ears perked up. "Should we grant them death? Or grant them life?"

The question made the One Who Waits pause. Deep in thought.

"They should be allowed to live. But that is not my decision to make, Death of Present."

"But it is. They are your family. And you want to give them a chance, don't you?"

"I want to give them the same mercy you gave me. Freedom from the burden of godhood. The ability to enjoy mortal pleasures, Of food and dream and skin."

The Lamb smiled. "They will return to you in time, regardless. As will I, O Death, My Death."

Narinder allowed themselves to feel warmed as they both scooted closer, embraced in fur and wool.

The One Who Waits had long since forgiven his siblings. They have been punished, served a penitence. Now he hopes they will accept him.

For he does not seek their forgiveness.

After all, both He and His Lamb Dearest have made death move backwards.

Chapter Text

I am asleep.

These moments of calm. These moments relief from the pain. From the Hell I have damned myself to.

I can feel the forest.

I can feel the tangling roots of the trees, of the plants and grass. I can feel the rain falling from the canopies.

When I breath, the branches sway. Nests of insects buzz, working despite residing within my lungs.

Every leaf, every blade of grass, is a fingertip. I can feel the footfalls of those that live in my domain.

I taste that which soaks the soil. Rain and river water. The guts of insects stepped upon. The blood of hunted creatures. The blood of those still sacrificed in my name.

My followers. Fools. They should run. They can do nothing for me now. By staying here they risk the wrath of the new death.

All I am now is the chaos of these woods. There is nothing for you now.

When I wake, I will see the Lamb again.

How will I die, this day? Perhaps I will melt in the black ichor. Perhaps I will be torn into shreds by claws. Perhaps I will be quartered.

I fight it. Every time I fight it. I can't not fight it.

A memory replayed forever. Like watching your hands burn, but being unable to move. Knowing the fire will creep up your arms and burn you, choke you, kill you. Except you never die. You simply burn.

That's all I am now. A bonfire. Burning. We betrayed death. So we are denied it.

I'm so sorry, Narinder.

I did not agree to your punishment. But I did nothing to stop it. I followed Shamura's words. I followed Heket's confidence. I followed Kallamar's cowardice.

I did not object. I did not defend you. I simply accepted it as a necessary evil. I took my loss of sight as proof of your evil. How wrong I was. How wrong we all were.

I deserve to burn.

Blood of my followers soak into the soil. I can taste their faith and fervor, their fear and wrath.

The Lamb's hooves tread my domain. But they are not alone. There's another sensation.

The soil beneath their footfall feels like...burning one's tongue. Where these hooves and this new pair of feet walk, the ground dies. Chaos ends.

I can feel you, Lamb. In my forest.

I am awake.

I see before me the Lamb and...Narinder.

He is free. And yet the crown remains on the Lamb's head.

They speak to me. I do not hear it. I am dead, after all. I feel the same words rip through my petrified vocal cords.

Hell, at least, has allowed me to see my brother again. Even as a delusion, as a mere kit. I wish I could tell him how sorry I am.

I am...awake?

I feel lighter. Smaller. I feel...something other than pain.

There is a breeze on my skin, my leaves rustling.

Then I am lifted. At first I think I am a leaf, being picked up by the wind, until I suddenly fall. I am surrounded by salted earth. My tongue is burnt.

The Lamb and Narinder watched the summoning circle intently within their cult. Most other followers were told to remain away, only the most trusted remained present. They were armed, but only with simple spears. A precaution, the Lamb ensured. Narinder warned them that should they jump to conclusions with their weapons, they would become very familiar with the white pastures much sooner then planned.

Then the circle glowed, and after a moment of confusion did the worm land upon the stonework, curling in on themselves and shivering. They wore the barest scrap of their old black cloak, covering their much smaller, regular sized body. They twitched, growled, and then promptly snapped their tooth-lined maw in the general direction of the two death gods.

"Where am I?! I can't see! My crown, where's my crown!" The statement made the Lamb look to the graveyard, where the four crowns stood on dedicated podiums. A moment of worry crossed their mind, as if they could simply be taken back, but Narinder put a hand on the Lamb's shoulder and shook his head with a small smile. No, this gesture assured. It's not that simple.

"LAMB!" Leshy suddenly barked in their direction. "I can smell you, What have you done?! Where am I!?

Narinder quietly spoke. "Calm yourself, Brother."

Hearing Narinder, The One Who Waits, made the once-bishop freeze. "...So I'm dead then. Truly. Decided I've served my sentence and are finally taking me to your realm?" Despite this claim, Leshy seemed...calm. Almost relieved.

"No, Leshy." The Lamb spoke then, causing the worm to growl. "You are not dead. Feel the ground around you, the warm breeze, the sunlight. You are alive."

Leshy promptly scuttled forward a few inches before he dug his claws into the soul, ripping out some grass in the process. He sniffed, head turned up to the air. He was alive. Narinder's realm was a void, that white desert serenely desolate.

The worm stood, shakily, and bared his teeth as he held the tattered robe around him like a security blanket. "Explain. EXPLAIN! Explain how Narinder is here, in the land of the living! Explain how I am here!"

The worm had been given new robes. White robes, normally meant for elderly members of the cult, only the front was marked with a green stain of grass. An identifying mark until a more proper uniform is made. He held in his hands a long staff, which became slightly gnarled with fives as he held it. Like Narinder, a remnant of his powers remained. Unlike Narinder, he hasn't had decades to nurture it without a crown, nor a contract with a crown.

"The Lamb betrayed you...And you married them."

"You skipped a few steps there." The Lamb interjected.

"THOSE SKIPPED STEPS SHOULDN'T MATTER!" Leshy screeched as he slammed the end of the staff on the floor of the temple. "Your divinity was stolen from you! And you married that which stole it!"

Narinder was calm. "Correction, Brother." he stated. "My divinity is maintained. I am the One Who Waits. I still am. The Lamb is the God of Death Now, whilst I am the God of Death Future. Thus is the pact we made."

"You getting married wasn't part of that pact." Leshy hissed. "I can smell it. The heat of your palms linked together. Disgusting."

The Lamb growled slightly. Narinder however just sighed, his other hand moving to put a placating hand on his lover's head. "It wasn't. That part came later. And our love is not the reason we asked to speak to you in private."

Leshy couldn't help but stick out their tongue at hearing the thrums of joy coming from the Lamb having their head petted. Narinder, The Ambitious Death, The One Who Waits, doting on a lamb. Still, he swallowed his disgust. "Fine. What is it then you want from me?"

The worm could hear Narinder stand, a reassuring pat to the horns of the Lamb before they stepped closer to Leshy. If it were anyone else, He'd try to bite them, but this was Narinder. The one they feared and loved. The sibling they helped damn. They couldn't help but flinch when they felt his hand touch his shoulder, but his words were quiet and calm. No anger, only concern. "It was years since you were killed. In my cruelty, I denied you passage and rest. And for that, I am sorry. I am deeply, deeply sorry."

The worm just stood still for a second, before suddenly dropping their staff and lurching forward to hug Narinder rightly. If they could, they would cry. As it was, the bandage around their eye socket grew slightly damper with ichor. "I should be the one apologizing! We left you abandoned for centuries! I let them imprison you! I-I should have said or done something, I shouldn't have simply gone along with it! What I experienced, It couldn't compare!"

"Our suffering is not to be compared. The truth is that neither of us should have suffered, but it matters little now. We're both free. And we're both forgiven." Leshy smelled it before he felt it: Narinder's tears, the faintest hint of sulfur. "And I have missed you so dearly, Brother. I've missed all of you so much."

Suddenly the worm became alarmed. "T-the others! The others, are they here?! Is-"

"No, Leshy. Not yet." Narinder gently pet Leshy's foliage. He needed to comfort him, because the realization of what this meant slowly sunk in. Something akin to a sob escaped from the worm as they held Narinder tightly.

"Not yet..." Leshy repeated. His head tilted up towards Narinder for a moment before it snapped in the direction of the Lamb. "Swear to me-"

The Lamb cut him off. "I swear to you I will save your siblings. All of the bishops of the old faith have served their sentence, and they are to be recovered."

"This we swear." Narinder concurred. "It is our duty, after all. We are not to leave souls without rest."

"I still don't like you."

"Completely understandable." The Lamb spoke as they cleaned they counted temple donations after a sermon.

"And I don't like you dating my brother."

A twitch of the Lamb's ear. Leshy couldn't see it, but they could hear the ruffle. "Firstly, We're married. Secondly, That's too bad, but not your decision."

"Didn't say it was my decision. But I don't like it."

The Lamb paused their counting and went quiet for a second. "...Alright, I'll bite. Why do you not like it?"

"Because I don't like you. And because I cannot understand my brother's decision to not just like you but love you. You betrayed him, trapped him in a mortal body, and kept him in your cult. And he fell in love?"

"If you suggest I used menticide-"

"Wasn't going to."

"Good. I didn't betray him. I bent the rules of our agreement. And he hated it at first, hated me at first, but I did free him from the chains. I meanwhile have always loved him. I made a cult for him, after all. The cult only started to worship me after Narinder told them to. We're dual gods, paired in purpose and now in marriage."

Leshy seemed unimpressed by the explanation.

"Why don't you ask Narinder himself?

"Because that wouldn't be awkward at all. Hey, dearest sibling who I helped imprison for centuries and am still regretting even now: Why did you fall in love with your usurper?"

The Lamb just shrugged, the faint jingle of the bell on their pelt being the only indication of his movement to Leshy. "Then don't. And you don't have to join the cult, you know."

"Wasn't going to. But I am staying. I'm not leaving Narinder behind. Not again. If I am to pray, it will be to him."

It had been a month. Leshy had new robes, one befitting his status as a bishop. Or, Former bishop. Still, it's craftmanship was to his standard, the softest of fiber plants can provide, a wreath-like collar.

It took Leshy only a short few days to become accustomed to moving without sight, and by now he was fully accustomed to the layout of the cult. Orderly. It needed to be, and yet some small part of him still didn't care for it.

But it was today he went to the graveyard, past the smells of burning candles and offered flowers, to the place where he could smell something else.

Indescribable to anyone but him, and perhaps his fellow bishops. The smell of famine. Of pestilence. Of war.

And of Chaos.

He approached the green crown sitting upon the altar, touching it, only to feel something like lightning shoot down his arm. He fell backwards, the clattering of his staff hitting stone, before for one brief moment he could see.

He saw through the Green Crown. He saw himself through it, and yet could identify the gaze. It was one of disapproval. An unsatisfied judgement. Then the vision vanished just as quickly, leaving him blind once more.

He was standing by the time a follower (Smelled like a rabbit, Younger.) tried to make sure they were okay. A simple nod and a grunt confirmed they were, a simply excuse of tripping on a crack in the cobble.

They were no longer a worthy vessel of the Crown of Chaos.

They expected as much, but it still hurt to have confirmation. Maybe someone else will take the crown someday, fill the now vacant role. Or perhaps the darkwood itself will fulfill the role without him, remaining a place wild and free.

He so desperately missed Heket. His dear sister. He was told by Narinder that she is who they would be saving next.

And so, for the first time, Leshy prayed not just to Narinder but to the Lamb. May they be successful in their promise. May they bring his siblings back.

Chapter Text

Cruel mercy. Come to visit once again.

Not allowed rest, but not allowed madness. Moments of clarity amidst the cycle. A curse.

So these are the chains you bound us to, Oh Brother Death.

I can feel absence. I can hear the low growl of instinct.

The mycelium of a hundred thousand are my nerves. They beat with rhythm as they feed on the corpses of those that fall within my realm. Within my gut.

I see through the viscera of the starving, the burning stomach holes are the lens which I view my realm. Those sacrificed to me, to the great stalks of my nerves and arteries, will starve with me. They will be my eyes.

But those that followed me remain. As is their wish, as is their death. They will die. Food will turn to ash in their mouth as bile burns their throats. I will digest them at their weakest.

Yes, that's what Anura is. It is my stomach. It is my gut.

And I am starving. And though I may starve I will never die, and though I eat I will never be sated.

Such are the chains you bound to me, Oh Brother Death.

Damn you. Damn you and your vessel.

Rocks shaped like teeth surround the fools trying to resurrect me, trying to reverse death. Such heresy is what bound Narinder to begin with, and now they wish to do it to me?

They cannot. And I will ensure they know the error of their ways.

For each stone is a tooth, and the great core of the menticide stalk is my tongue. I can taste them. So close, so close, so close. The bile of my gut must be filled.

And yet I cannot close my jaw. I cannot chew, I cannot swallow. I can taste, but never eat.

I'm so hungry.

I taste rot. I taste wool.

The lamb returns again. To spill more blood, to further deny me any satiation. They are not alone.

I taste...ice. I taste nothing. A stillness, killing nerve endings and making my teeth fall out.

I so badly want to eat you, Lamb. I want to eat you.

I want to eat you and your friend. I want to feel you become nothing but bile. I want your eyes to melt first, for acid to fill your skull.

I want to eat. I want to eat. I want to eat.

I'm hungry.

I want to eat my brother. His leaves will taste of mint and spinach, his body of tender meat beneath a hard wood shell.

I want to eat my brother. The salt of the sea, how flaky cooked seafood can be. The scent that permeates for hours after preparation.

I want to eat my sibling. To crunch their shell and suck out their insides. Their legs would be toothpicks, and I'd swallow them as well.

I want to eat my brother. The crunch of his marrow, the bile of his death will be the sweetest succor. I will eat his three eyes as though they were grapes.

I want to eat the Lamb. Here he stands before me again, to kill me again. I want to know the taste of mutton. Just one. More. Time.

The Summoning Circle within the cult began to glow, and once more an ex-bishop landed with a light thud upon the stonework, wrapped in the remains of her black robes. Unlike Leshy, Heket remained still upon the stone for several minutes.

The Lamb and Narinder did not simply watch with just their followers. Leshy stood by as well, hands tightly gripping his staff. "It's her. She's here, she's really here..."

"She's starving." The Lamb noticed. The Crown let them see that which invited death. Disease, Starvation, Age. And Heket seemed to be about to perish from starvation.

Leshy quietly gasped before he ran closer, kneeling down to his sister. "Heket! Heket-You're alive, I can hear your heart beating, Thank...I don't know what deities to thank but thank you regardless." Heket barely moved, her head tilting up before her mouth opened wide, a loud yet raspy croak escaping the ruined throat of the ex-bishop as they tried to chomp down on Leshy.

It was only by Narinder grabbing and yanking Leshy away that he wasn't mauled. His staff however was not so lucky, Heket's teeth tearing it to splinters and attempting to haphazardly swallow before promptly spitting up wood and blood, a whistling noise escaping from somewhere beneath her mouth.

The Lamb watched in horror as Heket proceeded to scramble forward off the platform, grabbing handfuls of dirt and grass and shoving them into her mouth. They've seen the truly hungry and desperate, but this is something else entirely. The Goddess of Famine now struck with the same affliction a hundred fold. The Lamb finally acted when Heket's four eyes looked up and focused on the Lamb. A loud, pained croak before being lunged at, grabbed in mid-air by the red crown turned claw as she tried and failed to attack and presumably eat the Lamb.

Narinder was quick to command. "All of you, get food from the kitchens and bring them to the medical tent. Bring enough meals to feed twelve!" Several confirmations and the scrambling of followers quickly followed. Narinder took Leshy's hand to guide him, now absent a staff to assist in guidance, as they both followed the Lamb carrying the still struggling Heket to the medical tent.

To calm Heket was a process.

Narinder set forth four bowls of food. A normal mortal could realistically eat two, maybe attempt a third before injuring themselves with consumption. Heket, who had been attempting to bite and eat anything she laid her eyes on, proceeded to focus on the scents of cooked goods and devoured them, barely chewing, occasionally coughing as solid food scraped their ruined throat. They are the third without slowing down and began on the fourth. And then they promptly vomited into one of the empty bowls.

They overate. Their mortal bodies had limits to the amount of food they could hold, but Heket either didn't know or didn't care. They had to be restrained as they tried to shove more food down their throat while bile yet rose, and the sick had to be removed before she could attempt the disgustingly unthinkable.

And yet, Narinder brought more food.

The Lamb looked over Heket. Stout and strong, with a healthy amount of fat. She was healthy, yet her mind screamed. More. More. More. Fill the empty space. Hungry. Hungry.

Hunger is all she had known for over a decade.

Finally, under Narinder's supervision and the Lamb's powers, they managed let Heket finish an extra full bowl of food and them lift her up to where she could reach and grab no more. She screamed, a horrid noise, like two voices erupting at once, one high and one low at being denied food. But the Lamb understood what had to happen.

She needed to be sated. Food needed to sit in her stomach, and her body needed to learn that it was full.

Heket sooner exhausted herself in her struggles before such a thing occurred, hanging unconscious from the Red Crown's grasp.

Heket's eyes opened lazily several hours later.

It took her a moment to register what she was feeling. Fatigued. Confused. Pain in her throat and gut.

But...not hunger.

She wasn't hungry. For the first time in...She didn't recall how long. A thousand years, a million, a single, ten. It didn't matter. What mattered is it ended. She was sated.

She looked up, seeing Leshy fiddling with a small bundle of flowers. Her other two eyes opened to see Narinder, unchained but diminuitive, a red star painted over his closed third eye.

She tried to speak, but found the first complication: She had a thick rope in her mouth. She wasn't restrained, yet there it was. She tried to spit it out as Narinder removed it, allowing Heket to see the bite marks along it. She must have been gnawing on it in her sleep.

The second complication, the one she was familiar with: Her throat was damaged, a large section missing. But now she had no yellow crown upon her brow to speak for her. A few experimental noises, what could and couldn't be said.

Eventually, she croaked out a noise. "...Sshyyy..." Leshy promptly took her hand. "I'm here sister. I'm here." Heket used her free hand to gesture to her own head, indicating the absence of the crown. Leshy responded. "We are no longer worthy of them. We're mortal now."

Heket made a noise akin to a growl before her eyes turned to the other sibling present. "...Nrndr..." Narinder smiled, a small yet rare motion in his expression as far as Heket was concerned, and yet his eyes carried an air of guilt. "I'm sorry, Dearest Sister. In spite and hatred I denied you rest. It was by my direction that they left you without rest, and it is with their guidance that they freed you and Leshy from the curse I had placed upon you."

Heket clasped her hand around her own wrist, copying the motion on her other wrist. Manacles. Narinder looked towards the door of the foliage-roofed tent they were residing in, though no one was there. "The Lamb freed me. The Crown is now theirs, but I am free."

Heket narrowed her eyes as she looked at Narinder. That expression. Wistfulness. Longing. Why would her brother death display such emotions?

"...Khhhmr...Sshmr..." Leshy responded first, re-taking his sister's hand. "They are suffering, but they won't be for long. Narinder and the Lamb have been working tirelessly to free us, and they have sworn to do so with the rest of our siblings. We will be reunited."

Narinder nodded. "I swear to you as I have sworn to our brother: We will grant our family life and rest."

A noise then, almost like laughter. "Kkhkhkhkhhh...Nrndr...Lff? Nrndr...Dff." The god sighed. "Life and Rest does not mean freedom from death. The Lamb is Death, Now. I am Death, Later. To allow my family to live does not mean they will not one day die. It will simply be a far off day, years from now. I'll wait, as I always have."

Heket blinked at Narinder. The One Who Waits, yet is free of his chains. What happened since her death?

Days had passed. Heket had learned two skills in that time. One was recognizing the limitations of the mortal body when it comes to ingestion. How much is too much, those bile soaked nights informed. The second skill was one she still had faint memories of, but re-education by a follower and fellow mute allowed her to quickly pick up sign language again. She could still attempt to speak, but gone were clumsy charades.

She stood now in the temple, alone, with The Lamb. The one her brother married.

The vessel did not surpass the god, but became his equal. Their dual nature, how the Crown can be held but not worn by Narinder, the nature of their pact, it made sense. The Lamb offered her brother a true mercy and a comparative paradise. This nature of equals, of mercy, and of time provided an adequate explanation of their mutual love.

The Lamb sat near the podium as they looked at Heket, her arms crossed. A clear anger in her expression.

"I do not seek your forgiveness. What I have done to your family is heinous, regardless of intention or compulsion. So why have you come into my temple?"

"[A request.]" Heket signed. "[A desire for revenge and recompense.]"

"You believe you do not deserve the fate you received? If you wish, I will treat this temple as our confessional. I will not judge whatever you say."

"[I care not for your judgement.]"

"In that case, I'd consider you and Narinder even. His chains, your unrest. You've both suffered enough."

"[But you have not.]"

"Did you forget that I'm the last of my kind? That you and your siblings have brought every family, friend, relative, and potential flock to the white pastures?"

"[Where they are at rest. Stop over-complicating this. What I want is simple.]" Heket's signs didn't change, yet the energy behind them did, as if she lowered her voice. "[I tortured Narinder. He tortured me in turn. We are even. You killed me.]"

"...So you simply wish to kill me in turn?"

"Hhh...Yhss..." Heket spoke the reply.

"You realize my death would be temporary. I'd return within the hour, unharmed. You cannot kill death."

"[But I can kill Death's Body, if only for a moment.]" Heket promptly hissed. A cloying feeling. Something was reading her look a book. She looked up at the Red Crown atop the Lamb's head, it's red eye burning into hers.

"...Oh." The Lamb replied. And then chuckled. "You want to eat me."

Silence from the ex-bishop.

The Lamb was smiling now. "You've eaten my kind before, and you miss the flavor. I believe you've inspired me, Heket. I believe I know of a ritual to perform. And for today, you will be the sole recipient.

A stone tablet was set up within the temple. High-ranking followers waited outside to ensure the temple remained unperturbed and without unwanted guests. Within, two gods of death and two ex-bishops stood.

The dual gods were writing within a book formed by the Red Crown. A collection of doctrines and of occult knowledge, a reservoir of all the Lamb recorded. And as the two conversed silently between each other, some unseen link between the duo, Leshy spoke up quietly to his sister. "This is...wrong. This is not your cult, Heket. You cannot make demands like this of another's followers."

The Lamb however spoke up. "This is not her decision but mine. It is a request I have decided to fulfill. I simply must ensure the terms of the ritual are precise first." The Lamb turned to look at Heket. "This is an offering of my temporary mortal flesh to a follower, and to followers. This is not a sacrifice. You will receive meat and bone, and naught else."

"A ritual to prevent Famine, using your very own body, to sate the ex-deity of famine." Narinder smiled, a quiet chuckle from his lips. "Pragmatic and wise, yet not giving up what is mine. A "selfless" act of false sacrifice. You continue to surprise me, O Lamb Mine." Narinder gently took a claw under the Lamb's chin, causing them to lean into him. A mixture of purring and rumbling filled the room for a short moment before Lechy made a retching noise and Heket hissed with impatience.

The Lamb simply laughed then. "If you're so jealous of our displays, you're free to seek love within my followers-"

"HHHGRRYY..."

Heket's horrid noise snapped Leshy out of his fake fit, but didn't perturb the two gods of death in the slightest. Narinder simply spoke thusly: "It is ready."

Heretical bones were placed in a neat circle around the altar as the Lamb laid down upon it. Narinder stood on one end, Heket on the other. The Red Crown drifted off of the Lamb's head and into Narinder's hands, where it formed a blackened nail. Narinder began a recitation.

"Our Blessed Lamb most merciful promises an end to hunger, for their vessel is one of skin and bone and brain and blood. Feast upon the marrow, drink upon the blood, taste the flesh of divinity and give thanks to the Lamb, for through his mercy does he delay the death of hunger. Praise be the Lamb for he shall return, now and always, until the time of the final death. Praise be this feast, for it is the only of it's kind, and celebrate the mortal pleasure of life."

"Praise be." Leshy quietly spoke, one of Heket's eyes turning to look in his direction in mild disbelief.

"See you tomorrow." The Lamb spoke quietly as Narinder proceeded to drive the nail deep into the chest of the Lamb. There was no struggle, no slow process of bleeding out, no sign of pain. The Lamb's eyes simply turned blank, the immediately removal of life at the crown-turned-nail sunk into the body and promptly vanished. The Lamb and the Crown now wait below, within the empty white fields. They will return, as they always have and will.

Heket looked at the lifeless, crown-less body of the Lamb. Drool started to creep out of the corners of her mouth. "...Ssrry Nrndr..." "Do not apologize. Eat."

Wool was torn off, taking vast heaps of skin with it. Claws dug deep into the pits of the vessel's body, pulling apart bone and sinew as something softer within was gripped and accidentally crushed. She pulled out the now unidentifiable organ and began to leak the excess that seeped from between her fingers before eating the rest, like an overripe fruit. Bone was snapped, the marrow within sucked out and licked clean with her long, amphibian tongue. She held the vessel's body open as she simply dove in and bit down, pulling out muscle and sinew alongside some other organ. In this state, as she gnawed to snap and chew upon the muscle, tender yet taut, did she make one observation.

The Lamb's heart was absent.

Their hearts were devoured. Perhaps they are tied to the cycle of life and death, or tied to the connection of their crowns. Such idle curiosity meant nothing however, as what Heket focused on instead were the lungs. Such soft, tender things.

Leshy's expression was one of mild discomfort. They could hear every noise, and perhaps it was his new mortal body, but the noises that once would do nothing now left him disgusted, his insides feeling as though they were retreating inwards.

Narinder meanwhile simply watched with indifference. This body was not The Lamb. This was a body of a lamb. Their Lamb was elsewhere. And yet they couldn't help themselves,  using a claw to scrape out a small morsel of their lover's body. They savored it, the flavor of their blood, the taste of their body. The pleasure of taste, The Fifth Love.

Heket either didn't notice or didn't care as Narinder joined in the meal, much smaller in amount and more particular in taste. Heket gorged, meanwhile. They had wanted to taste mutton again in so, so long. And the Lamb, that Damned Lamb, managed to do it.

A thousand curses, they realized, as this meant they and the Lamb were even. No debts to repay. Only warm blood and the pleasure of dining.

A few hours after the ritual, Heket had devoured most of the Lamb. Little remained of their chest minus the spine and a few ribs. One arm was entirely gone. The face was stripped bare, the eyes eaten like grapes, a delicacy shared by both brother and sister as they dined. Their horns were untouched, by Narinder's command. They would not let their wedding band be touched.

It was in the midst of cleaning themselves of blood and spare viscera that the body suddenly began to self-immolate in crimson flame. Heket's momentary fear vanished the moment they felt their insides remain satiated and pleasantly full, not burning. All that remained were ashes and wool.

The wool was gathered, the ashes were collected in stone bowls and set aside for potential ritual purposes, and the temple was left clean of their feast.

The next morning, the Lamb returned to the cult with nary a scratch on their person, still bearing the red eye sigil and golden band of wedlock. Narinder greeted them with a hug and a kiss, and whispers that left the Lamb a burning mess of blush.

Heket, simply sitting on a log as she watched the Lamb's return, felt a small bit of bile. Perhaps to subject themselves to such base instincts was unwise. But then they recalled the words Narinder told her: That Mortal Pleasure gives life meaning, and fills the gaps where potential cannot.

And what is more mortal, more instinctual of a pleasure than to eat?

Chapter Text

No! No more! Please! Please!

I-I don't want to die anymore!

It's stopped. It's stopped, but it will come back. Like a predator, wearing down prey. It will be on me again. That Lamb. That Lamb! Death! Death!

I see the corpses and bones still hanging in the air of Anchordeep through the crystals that sprout out of the bedrock. I see new bodies still. Still! Are they still here? They need to run.

The bodies, their blood, float up into the sky. Even they are trying to escape.

I feel with the seaweed. Is there any way out? Any sigils, any doors? No, There isn't, there wasn't, and there won't be. I'm trapped.

Trapped like my brother.

Oh gods. Oh long dead gods this is my fault.

It hurts! It hurts! I can't run. I can't.

The lamb always finds me. My temple, my haven, has become my tomb!

This is it. This is what I've been running from ever since Shamura told us the prophecy. There was never an escape.

There was never an escape.

I'm never going to be saved.

There is beauty in Anchordeep. Not just in my temples, those places I tried to make wonderful, those places I tried to make shine.

In the wild seaweed. In the memory of the land. This whole place was once underwater, and it remembers.

Things float to some unseen surface. Light fractures, glistening and roiling against unseen waves.

The air is cold, clammy, and sticks to your skin. The currents of air mimic the currents of water.

It must miss it's home. It must miss the ocean.

What even is the point of this anymore?

It hurts, but whats hurting? Nothing.

I'm afraid, but afraid of what? Nothing.

I am nothing, not anymore. I'm not even a ghost.

But...I am still thinking. I still exist.

Maybe I am pain, now?

Death still walks Anchordeep. I see their blade as they crush my gemstone eyes.

The Lamb still lives.

I almost wish I could fight them again. I'm not afraid of them anymore.

I've become pain. Pain doesn't fear, it just is.

Pain can overcome even death. I'm proof of that.

Leshy, I want you to have the seaweed that grows here. It's wild, it sways, it's beautiful. It would look good in Deepwood.

Heket, I want you to have the Psuedojellies. They don't have stingers, they're just little creatures, like fish. They'd taste delicious, I assure you.

Shamura, I want you to have the crystals. They would make the Silk Cradle that much more beautiful. Imagine them reflecting the webs!

Narinder...

Narinder, I want you to have my deepest apologies. I understand what we did to you, now.

We made death into pain. And gave that pain to an entire race of innocent sheep. And that pain became death. And that death killed me. And now I am pain.

Ha. Haha.

I can see Narinder.

I remember when he was this young. Just the littlest kit. We didn't fully know what you were yet. I wasn't afraid of you yet.

But stay away from the Lamb, Little Narinder. Stay away from us. Run away. We'll betray you. Don't trust us. Run. Live away from us. Make a new faith on some distant land.

Please. Please. Please.

The Lamb, Narinder, Leshy, and Heket all stood around the summoning circle. Followers joined them, but rather than spears for self defense they had a makeshift gurney and explicit orders. As soon as Kallamar is confirmed alive, take him to the sick bay.

Heket was the one that warned them. When she appeared, she was Famine, and Ate. When Kallamar appears, he will be Pestilence, a Plague.

The circle burned crimson. Out came the squid, landing in a heap upon the stonework. There was a pause as every limb of the squid seemed to move one at a time, the ex-bishop learning to move again. After a moment they managed to shakily sit up.

His eyes focused then on the four in front of him.

"Death. Death. Chaos. Famine. So young..." His statement bore equal parts confusion and concern from the onlookers. He then turned to face Narinder. "Please, I know you may not understand, but you need to run. You need to get away from us. Shamura, she's going to see something, and we're going to betray you. Run. Please."

Narinder seemed deeply uncomfortable. "Kallamar...I am not a kit. We are not young. The Betrayal has come and gone. You're alive."

Kallamar shook his head gently. "No. I'm dead. And I became Pain." His face twitched as his eyes rolled into his head. He began to seize, bile and blood escaping his mouth and eyes.

The Followers were quick to try and assist, but were cut off. "Ssssaaaahhhh!!!!" Heket's loud noise, a hiss and growl and croak all mixed together, made the followers halt. Narinder and the Lamb approached, the Lamb frowning. "This is worse than I was expecting. Nobody touch him! Everyone get away!"

"He is Pestilence. It's as though every disease has wracked his body at once." Narinder looked towards the lamb. "He's dangerous as he is. Any of these illnesses could jump to our followers. I don't think there's any saving him."

"Resurrection then?" The Lamb asked. Narinder nodded as the Lamb promptly shot up and instructed the followers. "Everyone! Temple, Now! Death has taken someone too early, and we're to bring them back! And keep away from the summoning circle!"

"You intend to kill him?!" Leshy yelled out, wanting to step closer but being blocked by Heket. Narinder shook his head. "He'll die regardless. What we're doing is a mercy, and then we'll bring him back. The Lamb is readying the ritual as we speak."

Narinder held out a paw as his third eye opened. A request to the Red Crown: A Curse. One to burn and melt. The request was granted as Kallamar's body was quickly submerged in ichor. It took less than a second then for the pained movement to stop, and for the body to become silent. Kallamar had died, and their body, alongside the diseases it carried, were killed as they melted away into nothing.

Heket looked away as Leshy gripped her arm. She said a silent prayer. The Lamb better be successful. If they are not, they will wish they could permanently die.

Everything was white.  Desolate. Endless plains of nothing, marked only by the occasional rotten wooden marker or cairn of marble-white stones.

Kallamar squinted, looking in the distance. Vague shapes, of a hundred thousand million people walking, talking, dancing, celebrating. Just out of view and just out of reach.

And Kallamar...was no longer in pain.

"I-i don't understand." The squid asked in confusion. "I don't hurt. But, I am pain. That is what waited after my death. So what is this?"

"You were never truly dead." The cat wearing white spoke softly, holding their staff at an angle so as to match their sibling's, the sun and moon overlapping. "You were denied rest."

"You were denied passage to here." The cat wearing black spoke, gruff but no less sympathetic, holding the moon to their sibling's sun. "This is death."

"Death is...Nothing?" The squid looked at the barren surroundings.

"Death is Everything." Baal corrected. "But you need to but walk there. It is a short trek."

"Past the end is where everything and everyone is. It's what you'd call the afterlife." Aym added.

"So I...I just need to walk. And I'll be free of pain?" Kallamar took a step forward, only for the two siblings to lower their staffs in unison, blocking passage.

"You're to wait."

"It's not yet your time."

Kallamar looked as if he was about to scream in confusion and rage when he heard a second pair of footsteps. The Lamb. The accursed Lamb. They seemed...immaterial, only halfway there, and held out an extended hand.

"Yours is not the death of Now. So you are to be brought back to the land of the living."

"Rejoice, for you have time yet to live your life. Fill it with Joy, waste no potential."

There was a pause. A hesitation. Kallamar looked at the Lamb. They were not covered in blood, their expression not one of rage and fervor. It was soft, welcoming, a little smile and shining eyes. They...weren't afraid of this creature.

And so they took their hand.

Kallamar vanished in a blink. The Lamb's image remained a moment longer. "Baal, Aym, I will return you to the living soon-"

Baal chuckled. "We know, Lamb. Tis only the thirtieth time you've told us. We will wait."

Aym just huffed. "We have waited long with Narinder. We can wait a little longer. Be well, Lamb."

Kallamar found himself disoriented. He was somewhere dark, but with beams of light peering through stained glass. Surrounding him were the muffled chants of at least thirty others. His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the light, and all he heard from the right of his head was a distant ringing.

He promptly turned and retched. Something black escaped his throat, bubbling up towards some unseen surface before fading in the light. It hurt, but...what was hurt, anymore? It paled in comparison to his time...not dead. He still didn't fully understand.

He felt two pairs of hands gently lift him up. One was covered in foliage, the other the faintest of moisture. Leshy and Heket, His dear siblings. They lead him out somewhere bright, blinding him for a moment as his eyes adjusted. It was all just shapes, of green and gray and red.

He was brought somewhere darker and green, placed upon soft sheets. They were not silk, he's felt better, but they were welcome regardless. Soft words, He recognized as belonging to Leshy, but he couldn't make them out. It didn't help he was speaking into his right ear, the ear of ringing. He made an assumption and shut his eyes. His assumption must have been right, as Leshy stopped trying to speak. They were still in the room, he was sure of it, even if he couldn't hear them move to leave or stay.

He dreamed of Anchordeep, only it was pure white. Of long dead coral and sunbleached stone. It was peaceful. It was nothing. It was everything.

Kallamar sat upon the bed he had fallen asleep on, tentacles wrapped around a bowl of hot camellia tea. He described what he saw in the short period of death he felt to Heket and Leshy. They seemed unsurprised by the description, though Leshy explained some shock at Narinder's guardians still being there.

Narinder and the Lamb entered a moment later. Kallamar greeted them both with a smile, as best as his mouth could approximate. The expression seemingly confused Narinder, but the Lamb seemed to beam.

Kallamar set his bowl of tea down and spoke. "Narinder...I'm sorry. For everything."

Narinder held up a hand. "You really do not need to-"

"I'm going to anyway." Kallamar cut him off and continued. "In my cowardice I followed Shamura's prophecy. I thought I'd be safe, doing what I did. I realize now that cowardice was born of ignorance. I was afraid of nothing, and that makes my act in imprisoning you all the more heinous. I owe you a great debt, Narinder."

Leshy's head tilted in the direction of Kallamar while Heket seemed...confused. Narinder himself seemed a little taken aback. "...I accept your apology. To be afraid of death is natural, even amongst gods. You owe me nothing, Kallamar-"

"But I do!" Cut off again. "The Lamb killed me, but you denied me rest. And you gave me clarity. I'm not afraid of death, and I'm not afraid of pain. You gave me pain, you made me pain! I understand it, understand the fears I once held and the fears others held. You helped me see the truth, Narinder."

The air within the tent changed. Heket was frowning, Leshy as well. Narinder seemed to emanate guilt while the Lamb had to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Narinder, after a moment to choose his words, spoke. "Kallamar...Pain is not to be celebrated. Suffering isn't meant to bring clarity. I didn't help you, I tortured you out of spite."

"I'm not saying to celebrate pain and torture. I'm saying I understand it. I understand it better than the fear of death, than pestilence even. I'm no god, no bishop. But if I was...I'd be a changed one." Kallamar smiled at them. His expression was filled with gratitude.

Narinder felt something deep within him sink. The Lamb felt it too. And within their minds, the Red Crown shared the simple thought between them.

I'm so deeply worried about him.

Kallamar's adaptation to the cult was shockingly fast in comparison to his siblings. Leshy has been accepted for a while and helps with farming and gardening, while many are still wary around Heket despite her excellent cooking skills and willingness to do physical labor with the promise of extra meals.

Kallamar meanwhile almost immediately began to socialize, proving himself to thrive when speaking to others. Despite his old position as Bishop, he was humble and only brought up his past in passing or in story telling. He needed time to find what role he would best fulfill within the cult, but the flock welcomed him as an equal far faster than they did Leshy simply due to his attitude.

Then the first accident occurred.

It was nothing major, thankfully. While attempting to work a pickaxe he accidentally drove the end of it into the tip of one of his tentacles. It only grazed it, but it still left it bleeding and requiring first aid. The issue arrived when Kallamar didn't notice the error. It took a follower alarmingly pointing out the pooling blood at Kallamar's feet. Even then, he acted barely shocked, though he held the wound tightly and reported to the sick tent to be patched up.

The second accident was far more severe. He was attempting to instead try using a wood axe before promptly chopping his arm off entirely. He noticed this time, but reported to the medical tent casually, as if he wasn't under serious risk of bleeding out and dying anew.

It took days to patch that wound. The Lamb had to use some of their own backwards methods of healing to help ensure the limb would function, as using necromancy on a still living person was always an awkward, unsure process. However he soon was healed, though ordered away from any job that required sharp tools.

The third accident was minor, yet all the more concerning. Heket began to drool, unsure as to why until she noticed her brother had his limb on the grill and was cooking himself. The burn at least was able to be taken care of and was caught before it became too bad, but this was the breaking point for his siblings.

Something needed to be done.

"It's not that I don't feel it-" Kallamar explained. "It's that I'm not threatened by it."

"Congratulations, Brother, You've managed to make us all worry for you thrice as much as before." Leshy deadpanned.

"...Aoid....payn..." Heket spoke before signing. "[Threatened or not, you need to avoid it. You're hurting yourself.]"

"But why would I avoid it? I'm not scared of it anymore. Nor am I scared of Death. I'm still going to avoid death, obviously, pain is something I can just deal with."

"Not when it involves you almost cutting your arm clean off." Leshy stamped their staff on the ground for emphasis as they spoke. "If you aren't careful you're not going to be able to avoid death!"

"Well...So what if it happens then? I've seen it, the other side. I'm not scared of it anymo-"

Kallamar was promptly cut off by Heket standing punching their brother in the gut, knocking the air out of them. Even if they were unphased by the punch itself, they still needed to breathe as they gasped for air. Getting an lung full of air proved difficult when they were suddenly hugged tightly by the same sister that just punched them.

Tears were streaming through her four eyes. "...ann...lss...yoou...aain..." She sniffled, a gross noise before a sob.

With a quiet clock of wood upon floor, Leshy made their way over and also hugged Kallamar, his grip far less tight but no less present. "You may not be afraid, but we are. We're so afraid of losing you again. Of losing our family again."

Within the sibling's grips, they could feel Kallamar's heart beat faster. At first they thought maybe he just emphasized, only for his heart to spike further.

Kallamar was afraid.

"I-i. I can't abandon you. I can't! I won't! I-i know pain and I don't wish it on you! I don't wish it on anyone, not even the Lamb! I can't-I can't hurt you like that!"

Hurried breathes. Panic and fear. Heket loosened her grip slightly while Leshy gently began to pat the side of Kallamar's head. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're here, with us. You're not abandoning us."

"I-i'm not, I won't! I'll-I'll take care of myself, I'll...Maybe the Lamb or Narinder can help me feel pain again-"

"Nnnn...dnn do thad." Heket shook her head.

Leshy concurred. "No, no more pain for any of us. We're not asking you to find a way to feel hurt again, we don't want that. We just...want you to be careful. Please."

"...eeee...airfull..."

Kallamar nodded. "I will. I promise, no, I swear it. I don't want to leave you alone again. I don't want to be alone again. I just...I thought I was..." A pause before he continued. "...I was always such a coward. I helped imprison Narinder due to my cowardice. I thought, by getting rid of it, I would be better. A better sibling, a better mortal maybe. I thought I had no reason to be afraid anymore, I thought..."

"Kallamar." Leshy spoke up then. "I always thought you were the bravest of us."

Kallamar looked at Leshy in pure confusion. Even Heket seemed confused by the statement. Was that just a lie to make him feel better?

The worm continued. "You were scared of so much, but you were still the bishop of pestilence regardless. You ran your part of the faith with conviction, you provided and punished despite it all. You loved Narinder despite what he represented. As a bishop, you were the best fighter of all of us! And you did all that despite your fears. You could only have done that by being brave. And don't you dare blame your actions against Narinder on cowardice alone. We were all afraid. We all did something regrettable because of some prophecy, one we simply accepted out of fear."

Kallamar's tentacles promptly wrapped around Leshy as he openly cried into his foliage. His once pestilent heart burned for love for his brother, for love of his family. All three held in an embrace for a time.

They were almost all together. Shamura needed to be freed. And then they would be together again. And no one was leaving the family, not by betrayal or recklessness.

Kallamar remained a socialite amongst the cult, though his appearance changed somewhat. Several of his tentacles now had protective sleeves and gloves over them, precautions against accidental injury. A custom edit to his uniform, for while all of his siblings wore unique robes, his was slimmer to incorporate these safety measures.

Accidents still occured, but they were lesser and less frequent. Kallamar was more attentive, quick to investigate pain, even if it was a mere curiosity to him now rather than a horrid physical response. He could work an axe or pick without issue, but his true talent proved to be aesthetics.

The cult had a great many decorations scattered amongst its grounds, but Kallamar made them shine, occasionally literally. He helped start projects to pretty up the place, from minor embellishments on decade old cairns to grander displays that mimicked the lands of the old faith, something several followers who originated from said lands quite enjoyed, a reminder of their old home without worrying about heretical practices.

And, he had proven once, he was still an excellent fighter. Though he could no longer hold four weapons at once, dual-wielding blades still arced gracefully as he sparred, unimpeded by fear.

The Lamb, internally, wished he had a chance to fight Kallamar as he is now while he was still a bishop. To see what he would be truly capable of. But this will have to do.

Only one other bishop of the old faith remained. Shamura. War. Heket's resurrection was able to be resolved, while Kallamars was far worse than expected and required a mercy kill. How would a being of war manifest in a mortal form? What must they do to prepare?

Or...do they have to do anything at all?

Chapter Text

Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing.

And now I have become nothing.

Bonded in blood and death with the vessel of my dear brother. I see them now, always, in the anger of every follower they kill. I see through the eyes of the futile war against death.

My memories are fleeting. There and gone. Scattered, like tiny flies on a great web. It's hard to see them all at once.

My feelings are ironclad. Of pain, of anger at fate and the inevitable doom of all. Narinder will destroy everyone and everything. He will kill the world in his rage against us.

And we will deserve it.

Little Leshy. What an absolute maelstrom of a child. And yet, so innocent. They were fit for the mantle of Chaos from the day we found them.

Chaos does not discriminate. It does not choose good or evil. It simply is.

I recall the drawings he made within the pages of my ritual tomes. Oh how mad I was, and yet how fleeting said anger. How can one stay mad at a child who knows no better?

Rarely I see the cult. That which the Lamb has fostered, through the eyes of dissenters and those branded as heretics by the cult of death.

I see red and green. Peace and blood. Death, accepted.

Perhaps there will be no more War. Perhaps then I will simply cease to be. No after. No future.

Oh dearest Narinder. You hated when we called you cute, but it's true. You were such an adorable kit. How we loved you, how we should have continued to do so.

I recall Heket doting on you. She wanted to be the best big sister she could. She still felt guilty for how she treated Kallamer those early years, but who can blame her? For we're all young and foolish once.

I hope you are happy, Narinder. I hope at the very least you're happy, in the end of all things.

I recall when I found my crown, my spiders bringing it to me, half-covered in silk. I remember the eye staring at me, the rage it carried, and the expectations.

I was War. I was Conflict. I was Strife.

I was Inevitable, second only to Death.

Kallamar, there is no need to be afraid.

The world is scary. It is full of things that threaten, that growl and bite and scream, but do not cry little brother.

You are stronger than you think you are. You are to be Pestilence. You are to be the thing that can topple giants, wipe out entire settlements, with only a single breeze of miasma.

So there's no need to cry, Little Kallamar.

I see you! I see you!

I see you?

Narinder, You're unbound. Yet you do not bear the crown. I do not understand.

Have you been supplanted? Death is still plentiful. I still see the sheep in those dying moments of rage.

...

But you're happy. You seem content. You seem...Alive.

Oh sweet baby sister. I won't let anything hurt you.

I was all alone before you. I thought War would be solitary, but I was wrong. And I'm so thankful for being wrong.

Famine. Of course. War breeds Famine. It breeds pain and suffering, salted fields and empty stomachs. So you are my sister.

And you have almost as many eyes as I do...

I shall name you after an old deity, one long slain. As many faces as you have eyes.

Heket. Sweet Heket. I will do my best for you.

The Lamb. Narinder. They're in front of me. The rage I see through is my own.

But with each cut...

No, stop! My body, you're not cutting my body, you're cutting my web! No!

Don't fly away, Please! Stop!

It's all I have! It's all I have!

I don't want to be alone again!

Please-

The deed was finally done. The four ex-bishops were granted rest. They were granted freedom from pain and a chance to live.

Now comes the part that everyone feared.

No followers stood around the circle. No collateral was to be risked. Instead, the dual gods of death and the three ex-bishops waited, all five armed. The Lamb held a golden sword. Narinder held a farmer's scythe. Leshy held a spear. Heket held a shield and hammer. Kallamar held two curbed blades overhead.

The circle began to glow.

Soon comes War. What will happen when they cross the threshold? Will they rage? Will they try to kill the Lamb? Will it be directed, or mindless? Would they dare hurt their siblings? Would they want revenge on Narinder?

They did not know. And so they prepared for the worst.

Or so they thought they did. For they were not prepared for this.

The spider landed on the ground, blood pooling out from their skull. The top of their head lacked covering, their brain visible as blood seemed to seep up through it. Kallamar and Heket were quick to drop their weapons and run to pull their sibling upright, to keep them from losing too much blood too fast. It still dripped in the cracks of their chitin, and yet despite being a walking physical horror, they opened their eyes.

"W-where am I?"

"Dn mvv." Heket mumbled. Kallamar made much clearer instructions. "Stay upright, sitting up. Like that, like that. Don't worry, we'll patch you up. We'll fix you, we promise."

"Fix me? Oh, I'm...injured. Badly. I'll try to stay upright."

Shouting from three other voices. Narinder began to bark for preparations for the medical tend and to open the mausoleum. They would need chitin, the dead body of a follower will do. A sacrifice will be used if not.

Leshy began to scramble in the direction of the medical tent. Blind they may be, they knew how to heal. The flowers of his land bloomed to heal. "Bring me camellia! We're going to need blood and thread-"

"Thread isn't enough. We're going to use dried sinew. Narinder, we're using the Feast of Heket ritual for a different purpose." That voice. Heket and Kallamar noticed how Shamura's eyes suddenly burned a crimson red, pupils splitting as they released an truly ungodly noise of wet death. They quickly hugged Shamura tightly from both sides, Kallamar saying assurances and trying to calm their sibling down.

The surgery was as successful as they could hope. A transfusion of divine blood and layered fragments of chitin sewn together tightly with dried sinew, more durable than any thread. A mixture of sinew stitch and cauterization sealed the makeshift cranium shut.

For the first time in probable centuries, Shamura once more had a complete skull.

It was imperfect. It leaked a dark fluid, extremely slowly but undeniable. Bandages would be necessary and they would need replacing. But their brain was no longer exposed to open air, their blood no longer leaking like a toppled bird bath.

They were left unconscious during the procedure. A perfected measure of menticide alongside a poisonous herb that grows within the Darkwood created a mixture that forces sleep and dulls pain. It was hours later when their eyes blinked open.

Every ex-bishop was waiting within the tent for them to awaken, and they all shot up to standing the moment they noticed. The still-groggy spider blinked hard and began to reach for their head, only to have a tentacle wrap around their wrist and gently pull it back down. "Don't touch it. It's still healing."

"Ah. Yes, It. It is." They looked at their brother. The squid had tears in his eyes, of joy and fear. It was a look all of the ex-bishops shared. All but one.

Leshy approached and gently took their hand. "I was so, so worried you weren't going to wake up again." They spoke through...ichor, black and seeping through their bandage where their eye should be.

"You...were the one who did this, correct? Who patched my injury?"

"We all did, but I did the precise work. I was so scared I did something wrong...Does it hurt?"

"No, No, it's...itchy. But I think that will pass. I have to thank you, all of you."

And then their hearts were crushed. But Leshy couldn't see the warning signs. The way Shamura's eyes lacked a spark behind them. They way they looked at them. They didn't see their siblings.

In one question were they toppled, their souls tread upon by fate: "Who are you all, who helped me?"

Leshy and Kallamar had to excuse themselves. They were inconsolable, and needed time to mourn. Heket and Narinder remained inside the medical tent. It was through them that they explained through tears and strained voices.

"We're all your siblings, Shamura. You are the oldest, followed by Heket, then Kallamar, then myself, then Leshy."

"I'm...sorry. That I'm causing you all pain."

"dn ala-ize." They sighed and then tried to sign the statement, which Narinder mirrored in speech: "Don't apologize. Your loss of your memories isn't your fault. It was-" It was mine, Narinder thought, swallowing guilt and holding a sob before continuing. "-it was a time of turmoil. Everyone suffered."

"I noticed." Shamura quietly mentioned. "Heket's throat, Leshy's eye, Kallamar's ears. Though, I do not see a wound on you, Narinder."

Even hearing their names hurt. There was no familiarity. They were the names of strangers recently introduced, not siblings of a family centuries old.

"My wounds are not as visible, but they exist." Heket nodded, confirming. Narinder was just as hurt as they all were.

Shamura looked down at the blanket still covering their lower half. "I...believe it is wise to not ask for the specifics of what caused this schism."

"[It is perhaps for the best.]" signed Heket in reply.

Smaller questions followed. Leshy is indeed a worm. They each had old homes, and Shamura's was known as the silk cradle. They could perhaps visit it someday. This place was a cult, known as Those Who Wait. Narinder explained he holds the title of The One Who Waits, though he is not the leader. That leader was-

At the door of the tent.

Narinder turned just in time to see the Lamb arrive. They had sacrificed their physical body for blood and sinew, materials physical and divine for the healing of Shamura, and had only just returned. Narinder blinked and smiled up at the lamb, eyes still wet with tears for their lost sibling. The Lamb was about to ask what happened, what was wrong, when they were accosted.

Shamura had, with no hesitation, leapt into the Lamb in anger, sinking their mandibles into the Lamb's neck, eliciting a scream that would no doubt alert the entire cult. Narinder and Heket both grabbed and pulled Shamura away, their eyes burning red with rage as the Lamb nursed their new injury. The crown formed a claw, normally used to lift dissenters but instead latching around the wound like a brace.

"It's your fault!" Shamura screamed at the lamb, struggling to free themselves from their sibling's grasp. "You are the sole thing I remember, You and your damned crown! You caused me to forget everything! My name is Shamura! I have a family, three brothers and a sister! These are things I learned mere hours ago, but you I remember! Do you know how much you've hurt these people?! Do you know what you've done?!"

"They've...forgotten everything?" The Lamb spoke in horror, looking at the tear-stained faces of their husband and Heket. They put a hand over their mouth, a quiet "Oh gods." leaking through.

Heket managed to get Shamura's arms in a lock, and with a nod signaled she could hold them still by herself. Narinder let go then, watching his eldest sibling continue to struggle. "The Lamb did no such thing! If anything, I'm to blame! I'm the cause of the schism that scarred us!"

"Maybe you injured me, but the Lamb made me forget! It's the sole thing I remember, the sole truth I still have! Let me go!"

"Heket, Do you think you can hold them until they calm down?"

"Hmhm. I 'an..." A nod and a confident statement through their injury as Narinder went to the Lamb, grabbing their other hand. "You need to leave. Shamura's still recovering, they might re-open the wound if they struggle too much." Narinder lowered his voice and spoke much quieter. "And I need you. I need your company."

The Lamb got the message, quickly absconding the tent with Narinder.

Within the temple, Narinder and the Lamb both sat on the floor in front of the donation box. The temple had yet to be cleaned from the last ritual, the hints of ash and heretical bone still present, little as they mattered.

"They're gone." Narinder shook slightly as the Lamb held his shoulder. Narinder let off a mirthless chuckle. "I finally know the loss of death."

"Nari...They're not gone. We both know their memories will return, in the end."

"That's...Not the point. That's...My Lamb, I had hoped to spend my immortality with my siblings alongside you. I thought I could be with my family until the end. But now...now that's not going to happen. Shamura will not come back. No resurrection can return memories."

"I'm so sorry."

"This is not your fault. My heart tells me it's mine, but I imagine you'd disagree. This is no one's fault. It's just...a tragedy."

"They are here, at the very least. Maybe you can teach them about themselves? Maybe they can learn and remember who they are in time?"

"Maybe. I...I pray that is the case." There was a pause. A shiver. "I a-apologize, O Lamb, But-"

The Lamb simply held an open arm. "Go ahead."

A quiet yowling noise filled the temple as Narinder wept. He clung to the Lamb's wool and muffled his sobs against it. So rare was it that Narinder let his emotions get the better of him, but in grief and turmoil he was left wracked with misery. The Lamb held him tightly and make tiny comforting noises to his beloved, quietly weeping as well.

It was a smaller grief that held the Lamb. The guilt of feeling as though this was their fault, as though there existed some unknown way to have preserved Shamura's memories. There was a smaller loss, too. They had gotten to know and enjoy the company of the other bishops. Leshy was crass, Heket's few words burned with purpose, and Kallamar was enthusiastic about a new chance at life, his shed fears having not returned in full. The Lamb had hoped to know Shamura in much the same way. And now they could not.

They had both hit a point of being too tired to continue to cry. They sat in silence, leaning against one another, simply stewing in their feelings. The Temple was much too hot today. The air humid with their tears.

Kallamar poked his head into the temple for only a moment, seeing the very grief-stricken pair. He decided wise to not stick around and instead quickly deliver a message. "Shamura has calmed and is resting in the medical tent. They're uninjured."

The Lamb looked up at him with a small halfhearted smile. "Thank you, Kallamar. Please just...make sure the tent door is closed for now. I don't want to anger them."

There was no avoiding Shamura's wrath.

Their wound had been less agitated, and they had been taught how to properly replace their bandages and clean their new scalp daily. They could not remain in the same tent forever, so the Lamb told the others they would go searching the Silk Cradle for relics, to give them time to adjust without their presence.

They proved curious and knowledge hungry, eager to fill the gaps in their memories. They spent time with each ex-bishop, trying their best to understand their place in the family. They vowed to try their best to be the sibling their family remembered.

There was no possibility of that, they all unfortunately felt. Shamura was defined by their knowledge, by their experience and years of age as the eldest bishop. Even after the schism and their mind was wounded, they remained a font of knowledge through the esoteric filter that was scar tissue and a crown of war.

Shamura now was not any of these things. They were cautious and admitted to their gaps of knowledge frequently. They had in them, though well hidden, a sense of naivete. It was as though the eldest had become the youngest, something Leshy felt deeply uncomfortable with.

And then the Lamb returned, a confirmation of a relic made from the shards of Shamura's skull. This news was not shocking, as the mad avian had made relics from the torn remnants of the other bishops alongside every old god they could.

What was shocking was how Shamura immediately attempted to attack the Lamb again.

Days passed, and despite the Lamb's efforts, there was no stopping the wrath of the amnesiac spider. If they spotted the Lamb, they would attempt to harm them. Followers noticed, and despite the protests of Kallamar and Heket, Shamura had to be put into stocks. Their followers had to know such transgressions were unacceptable.

As the moon hung from the sky, that time of candles extinguished, the Lamb sat cross legged in front of the restrained Shamura, their eyes still burning red as they glared at the Lamb.

"So what is it you plan to do, Shamura? You can't keep trying to kill me. You can't kill me. I am death. So what are you doing?"

The spider hissed. "I made you scream. I can hurt you. I can make you hurt without killing you. I can make you wish to die."

"Because you believe I was the one that wiped your memories?"

"Because when I look at you all I feel is anger! This, This feeling I can't place, can't place where it comes from. You took something from me, Something dear!"

"...I killed you family, Shamira."

"I spoke with them earlier today. Leshy replaced my bandages."

"You misunderstand. Has your family told you about the schism? What injured all of us?"

"No. They said such things are unimportant now."

"Well, they're wrong. Your anger is born from what I did to you. Your memories are damaged but the heart remembers. So allow me to fill you in, Shamura. Narinder was Death before me. And he started to push the definition in a way that scared everyone. He thought he could reverse death, something your faith considered heresy. And then you saw a prophecy. That Death, Narinder, would come for you. So you chained him, and locked him away in the place after life."

"What do you mean "My Faith?" What was I?"

"The Bishop of War. Your siblings were Chaos, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. You feared Death and sealed him away, but he found me. Someone who loved him. Someone who would do what he asked. And what he asked was that I kill your family."

Shamura proceeded to hiss and chitter. "Blood spilled! My family was cut apart by a damned lamb!"

"I killed Leshy first. Then Heket. Then Kallamar. And I ate their still beating hearts. Narinder didn't allow them rest in death, so they remained trapped in a hell we created. And then I killed you."

Shamura still chittered in anger, but they also seemed to contemplate the Lamb's words. "This...feeling, it's anger and wrath for the loss of something precious. My memories are the only thing I know I lost. But your admittance...My anger is born from familicide?"

"It is born from many things. Your connection to War. Your lost memories. The family of yours I killed. I'm not asking you to stop hating me, Shamura. I just request you stop trying to harm me. Let me lead my flock."

"Your wound. What is it?"

The Lamb tilted his head. "Pardon?"

"We all lost something in this schism. Leshy has no eye. Heket has no voice. Kallamar has little hearing. I have no memories. Narinder holds scars on his soul. What did you lose?"

The Lamb looked at Shamura. For a moment, their eyes matched. Red fury boiling beneath the both of them. Of course. Forgetting everything meant forgetting your own sins.

"Shamura. You've seen my followers. Tell me: Have you seen a single other Lamb amongst them? A sheep, ewe, or ram?"

"...Your wound is your family."

"No. Greater. My wound is my entire kind. The Prophecy which chained Narinder spoke of a Lamb that would free him, so you and your family committed genocide against us. I'm the last of my kind."

Shamura was quiet for a moment. The Lamb continued.

"You killed my family, but in doing so have granted them rest in the White Pastures. They are all at peace in death. I killed your family, let them suffer, but then returned to free them and give them, and you, a chance at life."

"Our sins cannot compare. Genocide and Deicide."

"So, Truce."

"...Truce?"

"Yes, Truce. There is no undoing the past, we can only make our futures. In the end, we're all going to die, even I. So truce. I don't want to hurt you. I ask you not hurt me. I want your family to live and enjoy the time they have, and that includes you re-discovering your love for them. I want to live the rest of my time with Narinder. You don't need to treat me as family, or even like me, just let me live my life as well."

"Death telling a raging amnesiac they want to live." A chitter, a different one from the angry clicks from before. Almost laughter. "Fine then, Lamb. There is little more we could take from each other. I will stop my assault upon you. Truce."

The Lamb stood then, walking over to the rack and unlocking it, allowing Shamura to stand upright and stretch with a hiss. Their eyes were still red and filled with irises, but they did not try to lay their hands upon the Lamb. Instead, they looked off into the night in faint confusion.

"Shamura? What is it?"

"Something is unhappy with me."

The Lamb looked. Only thanks to the third eye that was the Red Crown could they see the faint glow of purple within the graveyard. Shamura's old crown.

"I believe you are no longer any bishop of War." The Lamb answered.

"Is that so? I only learned I apparently was one a few minutes ago. So little has changed. Am I permitted to go to my quarters?"

"Yes. Please do try to be quiet and not wake the others."

Narinder was unhappy to later have found out what the Lamb had shared with Shamura. It was the family's wish to leave their histories as Bishops behind. But the Lamb was adamant in their decision. It was necessary for them to understand their own anger. What is a War if one doesn't know why they fight?

Shamura remained angry at the lamb, but scowls and hisses were marked improvements. It was something the Lamb could live with, and something he could spin for his followers. It meant Shamura could spend time with their family.

It still hurt them, having their eldest and wisest come back confused and unknowing, but they tried. They tried to show them silk from the cradle and crystals from Anchordeep. The Lamb once heard Leshy singing a lullaby to them, something Shamura no doubt sang to a young Leshy centuries ago. They also heard Kallamar regale them with stories of conquest, of old gods felled by them.

And then they heard Narinder sing.

His song wasn't a lullaby, but a song of celebration. The Lamb could point out key words that were clear replacements. This must've been a song for a victorious conquest in the Old Faith, now changed slightly to signify a celebration of Death instead.

And it was beautiful. His voice was deep, the faintest of growls at the lowest of notes. The Lamb felt themselves heat up from the inside like it was the first time they met all over again.

The Lamb sat outside the house where the siblings resided, simply listening. They'll mourn when it concludes, but for now, they will bask in Narinder's glory of song.

There are no more Bishops to free. No souls trapped without rest.

Their duty complete. They had a promise to fulfill, a cult to run, but now...their days could be filled with life.

Their days would be filled with love and laughter. They will dance with Narinder, pretending the camellia flowers they stepped over was the blood of their wedding night.

Yes. They had nothing but time. Nothing but each other and immortality. They would patiently wait to the final day, for every day before will be filled love and song.

Chapter Text

The Ex-Bishops began to accompany the dual gods to their old lands of faith. Not as warriors, but as living proof.

The Old Faith was no more. All that exists now is the cult. Those Who Wait. The One Who Waits. And The Lamb.

Having the diminished bishops explain to their followers what has occurred prevented much unneeded bloodshed. Many swore themselves to the Lamb's cult, either to the dual gods or still swearing fealty to their ex-bishop, despite said ex-bishops requesting they not do that. It was heresy now, after all.

Some gave up their weapons and abandoned their talismans and charms, simply choosing to leave. Some seemed to pick a direction and go, whilst others mentioned settlements that need to know the news. Some even lead the dual gods to their settlement, to allow for a peaceful surrender. Even within the cult of death, one of the tenets was that life was to be valued, and any life that can be spared should be.

There were, of course, those few so confused and scared or in such deep denial that they raised their blades against the dual gods, or even their ex-bishops. They were not granted the same mercy, for heretics cannot be spared. Blood was still spilled, but this was not the crusades of old. This was a chore. A necessary tedium.

The Old Faith is now but weeds in the garden that is the Truth, and it is to be removed to allow those true ideals to bloom.

"Do not take your victory as an excuse for complacency. ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ●︎□︎❖︎♏︎❒︎⬧︎. There exist a great many still within purgatory that require your aid. But do not take your duty as discouragement. You have earned yourself a place within the pantheon. All hail the Dual Gods of Death, Present and Future."

"We thank you, Metatron, for your assistance. There is but one thing we request from you. A trade." Narinder looked toward the Lamb then. They knew precisely what he meant.

"A trade of two souls. We believe Shamura once made the trade with you in the past."

"Ah yes, the Twins. Their presence within the After have allowed them to act as guardians, to hold souls that are destined to return. To have them returned to this plane would render them mortal, and leave the After unguarded. Souls you intend to resurrect may decide to wander and move on. Is this your intention?"

"It is. They deserve life, and they deserve a proper death. They have fulfilled their duty to me admirably, and to the Lamb when the crown was moved to his brow."

"And there is another that deserves life and death. Their mother. It has been centuries: She has not aged. Yet, she is not immortal. This imbalance must be corrected."

"❖︎♏︎❒︎⍓︎ ♑︎□︎□︎♎︎! You have noticed the discrepancy and aim to correct. As a God of Death should. Yes, she has lived longer than she should, but not through ritual or belief. It is sheer will that has allowed her to wait, for she refused to pass on without her children."

"Two birds, one stone."

"Two kits, one mother."

"For your recent procession in Purgatory, I will grant you what you need." Two necklaces fell to the ground in front of the dual gods. A sun and moon, and of recognizable style. "Their return is a trade as well. A soul is a soul. Have those you plan to sacrifice wear these before the deed is done."

The lamb held the moon while Narinder held the sun. Both did a small bow towards the angel/demon/medium.

"One can be certain of nothing but the heart's- Oh."

Forneus looked upon the dual gods, those she worshiped, and the two kits in front of her. Young as the day they left, young as the day Shamura told her of their duty.

With tears filling her eyes, and the eyes of Baal and Aym shimmered with their own tears beginning to form.

"A Heart remembers. A Mother shan't forget." She promptly threw her arms wide as the two leaped against her. The laughter of the mother and her children filled the wood.

Sparkling in the grass amidst the tears that sat like morning dew were solid gemstones. Relics, Tears of the Mother. Divinity manifest, the will of a single mortal's wish made into something extraordinary.

The dual gods waited. The mother and children had many words to exchanged, tales of woe and wonder, of The One Who Waits, and the time after he was taken from his place within the White Plains.

When they had finally finished and finally calmed, the two gods stepped forward. The Lamb took one of the solidified tears while Narinder took the other. Clasping it in their palms, the Lamb spoke thusly: "You, My faithful, are mortal. Though your lives will be long, they will be finite. Fill it with love lost, and live."

Narinder then spoke: "Know when the time comes, do not mourn, do not fear. For I will ensure your place within paradise and ensure your will never be separated, even beyond those white hills."

Their crusades were slowed to a near halt. So few heretical remained, and even fewer held fury. Rather, they looked now to Purgatory, to those that could not let go and those that are bound by any number of mortal contrivances. Heretical, Faithful, Good, Evil. Such things do not matter in death, the great equalizer. And so those lost souls must be severed from the place of living and left to fall to the White Sands, where they can wander and find peace beyond the veil of even the gods.

The ex-bishops, Narinder's family, would often trek into the lands of the old faith on their own. To find those last few followers. To check on how things are proceeding in their absence. Shamura was lead to their old archive, and a great many tomes were recovered. The nights the family spent pouring over what paintings and journals exist of the old Shamura, of how much they loved each other, then and now. Present and Future.

Shamura themself no longer felt estranged. They may hold no memories from before their reawakening, but they treasure the new memories they have. This is their family. And they love them all. Leshy's obnoxious laughter, Heket's recipes and surprisingly complex jokes, Kallamar's overly-complicated presentation of nobility and grace, Narinder's calm exterior hiding their warm, purring heart.

It was because of this that when they suddenly felt a pull from the Crown of War, as if it was calling them to don it once more, they instead informed their family.

Within the graveyard sat the other four crowns. Three remained dull, but the fourth burned with intensity, a purple light as the eye glared at Shamura.

Wear me, It said.

"Why is it calling to you now? Does it find you worthy?" Leshy could feel it where sight failed. Fury and the smell of forges and the taste of blood.

"Wh wll ou oo?" "[What will you do?]" Heket looked at the burning purple, idly looking at the still and lifeless Crown of Famine.

"Shamura." Narinder put a hand on the spider's shoulder. "I don't know what will happen if you choose to wear the crown. You may ascend to divinity. If you choose to wear the crown, I will not stop you. All I ask, as your brother, is you remain part of us. Three gods can sit within this pantheon."

"Maybe...Maybe they'll get their memories back if they wear it?" Kallamar suggested, fiddling with a necklace adorned with a golden skull. "Or maybe not, but..."

"It doesn't matter."

All eyes and ears went to the spider, who promptly turned away from the crown.

"I will not don the crown again."

There was a pause as Shamura shook. Like a great arguement was occuring between the crown and the spider, the eye glowering and Shamura looking utterly dissatisfied with whatever is being suggested.

And then it stopped.

The crown suddenly grew dull. Purple became gray became black.

And then it crumbled to dust.

There is no more war. Strife and Conflict, while present, has never been this rare.

And without War, there is no Crown of War.

Thus was the reasoning provided by Narinder. The Crowns are the literal physical embodiment of the aspect, which is worn and channeled by the appropriate gods. Without that aspect existing on a grand enough scale, there can be no crown.

Shamura was unbothered by this.

In time, the other crowns will likely fade as well. The Red Crown will remain until the absolute end, when there is nothing left to die. The Lamb theorized that Heket's crown of famine would be the next to fade, but that may be an uncountable amount of years from now. Hunger cannot simply be forced into nonexistence.

It was the next sermon that the Lamb scattered the ashes and dust that was the purple crown, bathing the temple in purple light, that they announced a new era.

An Era of Peace.

The Lamb and Narinder sat in a garden of flowers. They were basking in the sun as a cool breeze made the temperature perfect. Their hands held, fingers interlocked, as they simply listened to the whistle of the wind and the bumble of bees.

Peace. It's not something Narinder considered possible. And yet, Here he was.

At the same time, he didn't consider his vessel usurping him possible...and here he was.

"It's getting closer." The Lamb spoke quietly, interrupting Narinder's train of thought.

"What is?"

"The day you no longer need to wait." The Lamb looked at him with eyes filled with adoration.

"The day you sacrifice yourself to me." Narinder looked up at the clouds. "How do you think it should be done?"

"Something slow. I don't mind pain. But I want it to be intimate. I want to spend every last moment with you."

"You don't want something flashy?"

"No. No one else will be there to see it, anyway. It'll just be us in one last dance. I want it to be beautiful, and then I want to fall asleep in your arms."

"The world will fall asleep then, too." Narinder paused. "May I confess something to you, O Lamb Mine?"

"Anything."

"I'm almost scared thinking about it." Narinder chuckled. "I know I won't be losing you. I'd be following you down to those white hills. But part of me is afraid of seeing you die."

The Lamb held Narinder's hand tighter then. "I'll be dying for you, My dear Narinder. With my death will the crown be yours."

"I hardly even want it."

"Well. We made a pact."

"That we did." Narinder shook his head and smiled. "Look at me, fretting over something that is potentially millennia away. It doesn't matter right now."

"You're not going to deny me my sacrifice, will you?"

Narinder's response was near immediate. "No. Never."

"Because..." The Lamb blushed. "I suppose it's my turn to confess. I've had dreams about that day."

"Gods don't dream. They prophecise. You've...seen it."

"I suppose I have, but it's always a little different. But every time...Every time I just feel so warm thinking about it. I wake up with my heart beating out of my chest."

Narinder leaned in then, letting fangs flash. "There is little stopping you from letting me kill you now. Temporarily, of course."

The Lamb's face burned. "N-not right now!"

"Ah, A pity. I was admittedly looking forward to potentially dining on your body again."

The Lamb's face only burned hotter. "You're just trying to fluster me now!"

"You're the one flustered by thoughts of being sacrificed and eaten."

The Lamb let off a small shout, or rather a bleat, before shoving Narinder over into the flowers.

Narinder promptly got back up and shoved right back. Soon the two were rolling, wrestling each other. They stopped after a moment however when they realized how silly they must look. Covered in flower petals and burning in blush. They began to laugh.

Death is one final moment, the grand finale, the final chapter. But life is many acts, and several pages. Life is the small moments. Life is the joy of being with the one you love, abandoning any decorum to play in flowers. Life is Joy, and that's all it needs to be.

Narinder thought back to his older mindset. He believed Life was about potential. That one must strive to achieve their best possible selves. But they were wrong.

His best possible self was covered in flower petals and kissing the Lamb between fits of laughter.

The Lamb's best possible self is the one that suddenly started to run from an angered bee. The God of Death, running from a bee because they rolled over a flower it was on.

His best possible self wasn't hurting the bee, because he knew his love would be upset if he did. For the God of Death valued even the life of a pollinating insect.

Narinder was the One Who Waits. But he didn't mind waiting one bit.