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Yellow paws rubbed his eyes. On previous nights, there had been tears on them. There could have been tears today as well, for the nightmares had not gone anywhere, but his mind had grown accustomed to the visions. Nothing showed on his face except weariness. Another day.
Stepping outside, the cat was struck in the eyes by a ray of sunlight. The soft touch of this warmth could have brought a smile, but not for Hastur. When something becomes so familiar, you forget just how pleasant it once was.
Walking further along the beaten path, he found himself in front of the water barrels. Scooping a little into the bucket that lay on the ground, the cat splashed the liquid onto his face and ran his paws over it several times, smoothing his eyelids and temples.
As a sigh escaped his throat, Hastur’s expression changed. A calm and somewhat flattering smile lit up his face. He turned toward the distant tent that had been deliberately set apart from the others, located at the far end of the camp. After taking a few steps toward it, he noticed the Deity emerging. Its white fur shone just as brightly as ever, and its beautiful face radiated kindness and mercy.
"Liar."
The first word that came to Hastur’s mind. He would never have dared to voice such a thought aloud. He certainly did not wish to die before his time. And in this cult, the time of your death was always in one pair of hands. The Great Lamb held absolute power over when you were born and when you died, when you laughed and when you sobbed, when you felt pain and when you felt pleasure.
"Good morning, Great One. Allow me to escort you to the temple. The morning sermon will surely make you smile. Haha, what am I saying? You always look wonderful…"
Hastur delivered his polite speech without a single stumble, like a memorized text. His posture was slightly inclined forward, as though ready to drop to the ground at any word from this being. In the ginger cat’s head, however, things were far from cordial.
"Always smiling. Even when we die. From old age, from wounds, from sacrifices. Even when our flesh is torn apart by those tentacles that come into this world only at the God’s command… You always look upon our suffering with a smile. Are you hiding something? Or trying to seem kind? As if our torments were normal…"
Hastur escorted the Lamb to the temple doors, then unlocked them and let the Shepherd enter first. Usually, the Lamb's preparation for the speech took no more than ten minutes. During this time, Hastur could watch as the other followers lazily crawled out of their tents and gathered in front of the temple. For many of them, this was a familiar ritual. An ordinary thing.
Hastur swept his gaze over them with his black eyes. Once, many might have called his gaze beautiful, even enchanting. Now, no one dared to meet his eyes. This was not because he now held a position closer to the Shepherd. Not at all.
That little spark we call our soul was fading. With each passing day, the bright point inside the bottomless eyes of Hastur grew smaller… and smaller… until the Black Sea had swallowed almost all the space in his eyes. It is said that if you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. And many of those who interacted with Hastur could swear that, upon inadvertently looking at his face, a chill ran through them. Perhaps there was a smile on his face, and his words were just as energetic and loud as always, but they knew. He was not alive. This being no longer existed in the same way they did.
Pushing away the intrusive thoughts, Hastur heard a knock from inside the temple. The signal to gather. As always, he was the first to enter. Behind him, a crowd of other believers already pressed in. New, old, faithful, and doubting. All found a place under the roof of this sacred building. Upon all fell the gaze of their Shepherd, standing upon the pedestal.
"So then, good morning to you all. I hope your sleep was not gloomy, and your beds were as soft as silk!"
Cheerful voices rose from the hall, merging into a quiet chorus. After a few moments, the Lamb nodded and continued.
"Very good, very good. We will begin now by reviewing the basic doctrines, and later we will move on to hymn singing. I hope you are all ready?"
Hastur listened to the words of his God. He had been here every day since his salvation. Every day he heard these speeches. Every day he learned these words. Every day he prayed that this voice would continue to speak only of rules, and not of rewards or punishments. Hastur no longer knew what was worse in this place: the Lamb’s joy or its wrath.
Several hours passed this way. In the mornings, one could afford to relax. The important rituals took place in the evenings, when weary followers could grieve to their heart’s content or pour out the emotions accumulated over the day. Many did exactly that. Almost all.
"O holy Lamb, O great Lord of Death. I beseech you, find blessing in your eyes and grant us a portion of your love. For we are all equal before you…"
His hands unclasped and fell to his knees. The cat took a couple of deep breaths and turned to the statue beside him. A faint glow emanated from it, which meant he could rest. Hastur glanced sideways at the bowl lying on the grass next to him. Usually, he preferred to combine mealtime with prayer. It saved time, which was otherwise completely packed with various activities.
His gaze settled on a small piece of meat in his bowl. He dipped a finger into the pulp he was eating and felt a bone. It crunched under the pressure. Crunch, crunch… Screams. Screams and agony.
He stood before the altar. Cold eyes, like those of a corpse, looked down at him from above. On the face, hidden by shadows, not a single emotion could be seen. Neither sadness, nor pity, nor even joy.
"Wh… why? For…give… me… I… I… Guilty…"
Crunch. His hind limbs were already crushed by black appendages that had burst from the ground, as though awaiting this moment. Tears streamed from Hastur’s eyes; he fell forward and pressed his head to the wooden floor.
"I… love you… Master… Love… Always… Believe… A…ah…"
A wheeze tore from his throat. At last, one of the tentacles reached him too. His chest was squeezed, just like his arms. No oxygen could seep through, no blood could flow. These were the hands of death. They were putting an end to the suffering of this pitiful, fragile body.
Darkness. Darkness once again. It flooded everything Hastur’s gaze could see. The world did not exist. There was only darkness. And then… the darkness parted. But not to light. It was bright. But it was not warm.
Fire seared his throat. Burned away all the nerve endings. Pain sent his body convulsing and twisting. He raised his eyes again. The same temple. The same place. He was here again.
The pain in his legs faded, as did the cracks in his bones. But in their place came a horrible sensation, as if his lungs were filled with a huge volume of water. He was drowning, right there on the ground.
The cat helplessly opened his mouth, and a stream of black liquid burst out. Ichor. It continued to pour out in a torrent until it seeped through the floorboards and vanished into the earth.
A few people approached Hastur and carefully lifted him into their arms. His head hung limp, bowed down. He was breathing, but he made no sound. His body did not twitch, did not try to stand. It simply hung there, like a puppet on strings.
A familiar voice rang out through the hall. Familiar to all whose lives had been hell before. Familiar to Hastur, for whom life had only just become hell.
"Congratulations on your third life, Hastur. Welcome back…"