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The Lamb doesn't ask themself just what they should or shouldn't do on the basis of some semblance of sense or morality anymore.
Their understanding is a deeply flowing river, and on the surface, it is slow moving, ineffable.
They are a gentle god. A giving one.
Cutting, violent, adaptable.
They are confident, now. They know this sort of thing.
They press their palms together and rest their forehead on their fingers. They do not pray. There is nothing left to pray to.
They call. They beckon forth. They pull.
And they are answered.
They simmer sweet red berries, juice staining and welling as blood does. The Lamb's hands are ash-dark, tending dutifully to the temperature, the seasoning, the spatula. They hum to themself.
On their body are the palms and fingers and wrists of the dead; sprits granted this.
They push. They drag. They poke.
The Lamb hums to them, too. Them and their soft words, their endless whispers.
Add more sugar.
Where's the crust?
Oh, it's over there. Can't you see?
I can now. Thank you dearly.
Of course.
How much longer is this?
Some time.
But what about—
Their soft inclinations. Their presence a balm.
Wearily, the Lamb steps back.
The spirits step closer, inside of the Lamb's skin.
The Lamb's hands move differently. Stiltedly. Trembling this way and that way, jerking as the dead converse with themselves.
No, not that way—
Are you sure?
It's going to burn.
No, it really isn't.
How can you tell, you don't have Their eyes.
I have a baker's intuition.
The kitchen is shadowed in its canopy, a gentle breeze brushing against their wool.
There is the chatter that exists outside.
There is the chatter that the Lamb invites into themself, willingly, as method of reward, as method of penance.
No great thing has ever been infallible.
The Lamb's legs twitch.
Stop that! We'll fall!
I am sure They would catch us.
That isn't reassuring!
I don't know how to stop.
Then let me. I can take over our legs.
But what about our measurements?
Over the pan, the Lamb's palms, full of vanilla extract and lemon half, falter.
There's a moment of contention.
What if I handle the standing?
But what will I do, then?
If you are incapable of much, you can just breathe for us.
…alright.
It's midday.
The first to fall was felled by hunger.
The Lamb has not forgotten their face.
They'd no control over where their devoted went after death, no knowledge of what the One Who Waits would gift unto them for their service.
One day, they lived.
Another, they didn't.
The Lamb had to offer something. The Lamb needed a way to send them off.
Some time, maybe.
Just some. At least.
Words are worth more than epitaphs, though stone stays for centuries.
How many do we have?
Great Leader, please, what more is there to be done?
The Lamb hums, counting coins.
Patience, they chide, serenely, as they finish.
The voices fall silent, in wait.
The coins jangle in their burgundy pouch, disappearing into the open maw of their crown. Much to be done. All will be handled.
The sun, dipping below the horizon, casts everything in some orange-pink concoction. The trees cast long shadows.
They soothe, in mind and to the spirits, worry not.
Which is an order easy enough to give, but a harder one to follow.
Those who would frequent missions when they could breathe and fight often follow at the Lamb's heels as they crusade for their good faith's cause.
They focus not on the mundane, the standard, the simple; after death, they bask in the glory of their leader's power, their fierce strength, their firm hand.
The Lamb is stricter when in battle. They do not welcome their dear followers into their godly body, though they encourage them to hold onto them, and tightly, with their cold hands.
This ocean of blood, they wade through with many younglings behind.
Red, caught under their coal-black nails. Red, caught in their sharp, sharp teeth. Red, soaking their pure white wool.
They send their followers on missions.
It is only fair that, when they die on them, they are shown this patience and grace.
There is blood dripping from the trees, congealing on leaves, dried ugly brown on the bark.
Steak is easier than most meats, yet many insist on a specific kind of finesse for them.
An old chef, taken by age, holds careful control of their hands.
Amused and vaguely intrigued, the Lamb watches.
Unimpressed, a spirit mutters, what use is our Great Leader going to have for this? They do not take interest in what us mortals do.
The chef snips, are my gifts not up to your standards, child?
That's not what I meant.
It's what you said.
A third voices, do you think They enjoy listening to us squabble?
There's silence, for a time.
The Lamb's hands do not falter, butter basting the steak.
Truly, the Lamb does not mind either way.
Heaven forbid they think anything is funny.
A follower freezes to death praying at the Lamb's alter, offering to them their strength, the inner kind, the last dredges of it.
They'd felt their life slipping from them, and they had not left to huddle up beside their fellow followers.
This is foolish devotion. This is eternal supplication. An act of divine servitude.
The Lamb praises them, for they gave much.
The Lamb detests wasteful death.
This follower is with the Lamb for a month before they are revived.
They tell nothing of what they've seen.
The Lamb does not write a list to determine who is rotated and when—from their side to the great, merciful beyond.
They know. They know who, they know when; they can sense the closure on them, the peace.
They do not need more.
They sit at the edge of a lake and watch as one spirit throws stones across the water's surface. They sit and watch as another draws in the dirt with a stick.
Two separate spirits tap their hooves to two separate rhythms.
All is well.