Chapter Text
The cold night air scratched their skin even through the thick fleece and their own fur. They tried to stay in the cult during the day, when there was almost always something that required their presence, and to go out at night, when most of the followers were asleep, save perhaps for a few elders with insomnia. The grass, wet with dew, rustled barely audibly under their hooves, gradually giving way to old crumbling stone, until finally they came to the steps of the stairs, from the top of which light fell. At least it looked like light, pure white light, but something told them it was as close to light as polished diamonds were to the dirt beneath their hooves. It poured out of the Gates as an almost tangible substance, comparable to Devotion, but slipping through their hooves instead of being meekly absorbed. Equally bright white eyes that were certainly not eyes watched their approach. They did not like that look, even if they knew it was not hostile, just as they did not like that voice, too big for their newly ascended mind. The presence of this creature made their fur stand on end, and so they tried not to come for its gifts until they had collected at least five or six God Tears.
They sighed, climbing the steps.
Fortunately, the transaction was done quickly. Although they did not understand the principle by which The Seller distributed its gifts and whether it really relied on chance alone, they tried not to interfere in the process. The creature had already demonstrated more than once that it would not hesitate if it sensed disrespect.
They were already heading back to their flock, when they heard the familiar creak of wooden wheels from the direction of the Silk Cradle. After some hesitation, they decided to turn around, following the sound of the measured clatter of the cart on the stone. They always tried to take Helob's victims when they had enough pentacles. The cult always needed new hands, especially since it was much easier than fighting their way through heretics. And even though their followers were now slowly and carefully starting families and children, now confident that their home and current life were not going anywhere, they needed adults too. Although the spider did not show up near their cult as often as before, not to mention the increased prices, but Lamb could understand that. If they were uncomfortable with the light-bearing creature, it was hard to imagine what ordinary mortals felt.
Helob emerged from the darkness of the Silk Cradle, as always, bringing with him the distinct smell of death and decay. Lamb had grown more than accustomed to the smell in all their time as the Death God, and so they didn't even wince. Although they still remembered how their nose had twitched constantly the first time they met, unable to stand the pungent smell of raw meat and blood. Spider had only chuckled quietly, clicking his chelicerae, still bearing traces of familiarity with someone's flesh.
"Isn't this my best customer?" Helob purred in his low voice, blinking all three eyes alternately. Lamb chuckled. Helob always reminded them of the witches in the fairy tales they had heard in their distant, foggy childhood. Witches who lured children with cooing speeches and sweet promises before throwing them into their big black cauldron. As they grew older, they realized that there were things in their lives much scarier than fairy tale witches.
They came closer, expecting the spider to drag another unfortunate, sticky-webbed victim out of his cart, but Helob seemed in no hurry. His usual false good-natured attitude was still there, but his eyes kept looking away, and his chelicerae clicked against each other. He seemed almost… nervous. They tilted their head to the side.
“Lamb, we’ve known each other for so long,” the spider drawled, finally focusing on them. “How about a little deal? A little favor for old Helob, what do you say?”
They blinked in surprise. In all their satisfactory cooperation, Helob had never asked for anything. Helob had never given any indication that he might want anything other than meat, which he was perfectly capable of obtaining himself, and gold, of which the spider should also have plenty. They nodded hesitantly, wondering what kind of favor this might be.
“Ah, you are truly a gift,” Helob chuckled, his voice smooth and deep. If Lamb hadn’t known the spider for so long, he wouldn’t have noticed that it lacked his usual lightheartedness. “I have… a friend who needs help. Help that only you, Crownbearer, can provide.”
They nodded again, more confidently this time. It wasn’t the first time they had rescued someone’s friends and family from the clutches of heretics. They could handle this. They could understand it. Helob was a good hunter, but he tried to stay away from Old Faith patrols, hunting mostly for lone travelers or stragglers. They called the crown into their hand, forcing it into the comfortably familiar shape of a sword, showing their willingness.
“I appreciate your kindness, Lamb,” the spider grinned, “But I’m afraid my friend needs a different kind of help.”
Helob beckoned them closer to the cart, and, driven by curiosity, they followed him. The scent of blood now mingled with the scent of old wood, tar, and something else, something painfully familiar. A sharp, sweet, spicy scent... of mushroom spores. They held their breath, more out of disgust than fear of inhaling poison.
Uh-oh.
They had left Sozo then without any regrets. In the war against the Old Faith, they cared little except for a clear and understandable goal – to be stronger and more prepared than the enemy. Sozo had given them one of the opportunities to achieve this goal. The Menticide made the followers more obedient, their Devotion undiminished even as they crusaded for days, its white light coursing through their veins, help to hack and smash and burn the flesh of heretics. The small red talisman gifted them with a glittering golden fleece, filling them with more power with each foe they slew. And the ant seemed happy, drowning in a euphoric haze. Some part of them, the part that had miraculously survived the years of persecution, the execution and the godhood that had fallen upon them, the part that had once been little sheep barely reaching adulthood – that part whispered that this had all been wrong from the start. They should not have fed Sozo's addiction, they should not have been so willing to use his gift, they should not have simply abandoned him there, in the Spore Grotto, with nothing but more spores and mushrooms and equally drugged followers. Nevertheless, they went away, driven forward by the duty imposed upon them and the vengeful ghosts of their relatives. They left and swore never to set hoove in this Grotto again.
Apparently, this was some kind of sophisticated retribution. They had already learned from experience how much fate, whoever controls it, loves such turns. For now they stood and looked at the consequences of their indifference. They watched as the ant shook with violent spasms that seemed to twist the joints to the limits of their ability. They saw dirty chitin, covered with cracks that were not there before. The crack running across his head was especially noticeable – it was bleeding, and in this bloody mess were visible thin whitish threads of fungi, reminiscent of parasites. As for the fungus growing through the top of his head, it had opened up, splitting in two, releasing more and more spores into the night air. Sozo's eyes, always bloodshot, were now bleeding non-stop, too, red streaks running down his cheeks, down his chelicerae, and onto the white fluff covering the ant's neck. Sozo's gaze was blank and absent, not euphorically meaningless, but almost catatonic, his wide pupils not even moving, glassily frozen in place. His surviving antenna twitched erratically, and looking lower, Lamb saw that his fingers were moving, too - or would have been if they had not been held in place by the web. Had Helob done this to protect himself, or to prevent Sozo from hurting himself?
They nervously stamped their hooves on the stone beneath them. They had seen much agony and pain in their lives, they had caused much agony and pain. But in the last few years, they had rarely had to answer for it. No one asks God for answers, no one dares to judge God (except other Gods), and they are accustomed to this inspiring feeling of impunity, accustomed to not being responsible to anyone except themselves. Their word was law, their word was the only truth in these lands, and their beloved, unquestioningly adoring followers never thought of contradicting them. Occasionally, someone would risk biting the hand that fed them, but if they could neither be bribed nor forced, then their fate was decided very quickly and just as quickly forgotten. It had been a long time since they remembered what it felt like to feel… guilty.
"I didn't know he could get so bad," the smile didn't leave the spider's voice, and Lamb shuddered. They didn't want to know what could be hidden behind that smile. Sadness? Anger? Or the same guilt? "I'm afraid only God can help him now."
They shifted awkwardly. Helob hardly knew how much they were responsible for Sozo's current state, and yet they could not help but hear the hints. Spider obviously interpreted their hesitation in his own way.
"I understand it won't be easy and it will probably take a long time. How about I give you the next five morsels completely free of charge. That's more than you'll collect in one crusade. I suppose you could use an extra pair of hands now, eh? I hear your cult is growing faster than ever," another teasing note crept into Helob's voice, making them roll their eyes. They wouldn't be surprised if the little pests that raided their storerooms and barns at night occasionally whispered to the big spider everything they saw in the cult settlement, "One life for five, that's a good deal, Lamb."
The suggestion was purring and sticky, like a web, but something in it seemed almost desperate to the Lamb. They flicked their tail, utterly unsure. Their forgotten, dust-covered consciences sank their teeth into their unbeating heart, while a thin whisper came from the dark material of the crown, urging them to refuse. They tapped their bell thoughtfully. They liked the mycologist (though he was probably an ex-mycologist now), but not as they would have liked him if they were still mortal. Mortals liked each other as neighbors, friends, lovers, but to God, mortals were more like... things. Short-lived, but entertaining. They could be admired, they could amuse, they could even be pitied, but they would never resonate in their souls strongly enough to be mourned. In the end, mortals would die anyway, they knew that well. Now, in a few years or a decade, it didn't matter to the God of Death. To a God. But not to another mortal. They more than enjoyed their new power, perhaps too much at times, but they did not want to become someone else's Bishop who robs people of those they care about and love.
And they'd be lying if they said they were doing it entirely selflessly, though. Five new followers who wouldn't need to be rescued from sacrificial altars or paid for in gold - that sounded very, very good. Their newfound divinity flared with joy at the thought of the Devotion fueling them.
Helob was right, it was a good deal, though they were honestly going to help without it, if only to soothe that burning feeling that was gnawing at them inside, worse than the Diseased Heart. But if the spider was offering, they saw no reason not to get a little more.
They tapped their hooves seven times.
"Ssseven?" Helob hissed, his purple fur standing on end briefly. The spider was rarely angry and never threatened them before, but they retreated anyway, just in case. "You're an insatiable creature, aren't you?"
They shrugged their shoulders. They would not have become God if they had been content with little. In a way, it was fair, after years of persecution and the burden of being the last of their kind.
“Very well, Lamb, you shall have your meat,” the spider snorted, turning back to the cart too quickly for them to see his expression clearly. He wrapped his arms around Sozo's bound hands, helping him up, a gesture that was far gentler than Lamb had expected. The ant made no resistance, allowing himself to be led to them.
They took his hands carefully in theirs, and winced as they discovered how feverishly hot they were. Lamb lifted one hoof and laid it solemnly over their dead heart. Not quite gratitude, not yet a promise. Helob winked at them, as he always did, as if this were another of their deals, and they were surprised again at how carefully the spider's feelings had been hidden all this time beneath a veil of bloodthirsty amusement. Enough that even they would find him callous, incapable of… affection? Whatever the relationship between these two was. They shook their head, the bell jingling, and headed toward the cult's land, with the almost deathly silent Sozo in tow. They were approaching the stone archway that marked the beginning of the settlement when they heard the spider's voice again.
"And yes, Lamb," Helob returned to his deep, purring tone, "When Sozo wakes up, don't tell him I was the one who brought him here.
They looked at the spider intently, and nodded slowly before continuing on their way.