Chapter Text
Sometimes Narinder wonders how much differently his life would have gone if he’d just kept his mouth shut and his claws to himself that night. It’s hard to even remember what had happened then, it was so long ago. Well over a millenia. But he can still feel the way his siblings insides felt in between his claws, dripping down his robes and the blood pooling on the floor. It would be hard to forget the night he lost everything. He could have seen the imprisonment coming, but he could not have seen being forced to live in a cult that was meant to be dedicated to him coming.
Well, he’d use the word “forced” lightly. He could leave whenever he’d liked. It’s just… dangerous out there. Where would he even go for refuge? His sibling’s domains? Whether he likes it or not this is the safest place in the Lands of the Old Faith, it’s not like he’s capable of fighting in a form he understands so little. But that’s just the thing, he doesn’t have to live in the Lands of the Old Faith, does he?
Sure, going on visits to his siblings' domains was risky, but he didn’t have to do that himself. With his reputation, one hard look at one of the Lambs weak, snivelling followers was enough for it to agree to going to Silk Cradle and fetching a few books for him. He had been worried it hadn’t known how to read since it’s not like Lamb knows what education is, but it got the right books. He’s grateful for that. He expressed his thanks by leaving a dead mouse on the followers' doorstep. He is sure it loved it.
The books were stacked on his desk, one book open, they were dusty and old and in some places the ink was smudged, in some the handwriting was absolutely indecipherable. One of them even disintegrated the second he opened it. It had been several millennia since they’d been opened anyway, this is good condition for the circumstances.
He and his siblings hadn’t been the first, that he knew for certain, but he’d heard vague myths and legends that the Lands of the Old Faith weren’t the only Lands either. Shamura had tried to steer him away from researching these topics in his bishophood, but now it seems like his only option. One of the oldest purple crown bearers had sealed these lands shut, made it so no one could leave, and no one could enter. But it’s had to have worn off by now, those kinds of things don’t last forever, especially when there is no purple crown bearer anymore.
And for the past 2 hours, Narinder has been toiling away with his own parchment and ink, trying to learn the languages of the old lands. Unfortunately, this civilization wasn’t as advanced as them so their maps are… Certainly not accurate, and their languages are confusing. He’s decided to learn the 3 that seem like the most people speak. surely at least one person will understand him wherever he lands. Aren’t travellers a thing?
And suddenly his door creaked open and then his ink smudged and he dropped his quill, and almost but thankfully didn’t spill the rest of his ink. He glares down the one who dared enter his home without permission. His black fur blended in with the darkness of his hut, leaving just 2 dots of sinister red.
The Lamb giggles at his anger and sets down a bowl of fish for him on his desk, the smell is very pungent. Their eyes scrawl over his work curiously, and he tries to hide it before remembering the little shit can’t read. The Lamb was never the brightest. Narinder normally had his vessels around middle aged, he considered that the best time for vessel hood, not young and naive, but not old and senile. Lamb had been prophesied and he had no say in how old they would be. Unfortunately, his siblings were never against child sacrifices. And now he’s stuck with someone permanently stuck at a prepubescent age. They weren't kidding about the lamb being… a lamb.
“What are you doing?” They finally ask, it breaks the silence that’s been encompassing him the entire week. His heart burns with hatred for this godforsaken sheep.
“Nothing.” He growls, eyeing them angrily, but they are unmoved by this. They go to sit on the only part of his desk that isn’t covered in books, parchment, ink, dissolved ancient books, or the food they just put on it, swaying their feet back and forth as they watch him work silently.
“Are you studying?”
“No.” He lies through his teeth.
“What’s that symbol? Is that something to do with godhood?” They point to a letter he’d written from one of the languages he’s learning. It’s from a dialect in 'Chinese'. He’s already forgotten what it means. He refers back to the books.
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate further despite their constant attempts of small talk. They still won’t budge. This is why he needs out. And he needs out fast.