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Being leader of a cult had certain perks.
Adoration, for one. Respect. Power. Devotion flowed as easily as water every time the Followers so much as saw anything that reminded them of the Lamb. Which, given the imagery scattered all over camp grounds (that was NOT a sudden ego trip, thank you very MUCH, NARINDER), meant that their shrine was plentiful.
What certainly hadn't been in the job description had been being the built-in-nanny.
Followers - bless their hearts - were usually sometimes as intelligent as a rock, which meant they absolutely could not be trusted with their progeny.
That, in turn, meant the Lamb had to rear them by themself.
And it was fine. Kids were great! They brought so much joy! The Lamb was perfectly content to hold a toddler’s paw/hoof while they took their first steps or when they tripped and scraped their knee.
…until the Lamb suddenly found themselves swamped with crying cat infants and shaking eggs while a shark toddler ran round trying to bite everything in sight while another tugged on their cloak asking for a story. Suddenly, there was no more time for long crusades because the children would be hungry, suddenly sermons had to be cut short because another - yes, another - egg was hatching, and devotion drained as the cult lands became filled with the cries of babies.
The Lamb closes their eyes, trying to ignore the sound of one of the infants trying to have a bowel movement. “Thorear, sweetheart, why don’t you ask Heno nicely for your toy back? I’m sure she’d give it back if you stopped trying to punch her.”
The monkey-child by their knees stared up at the Lamb with large, unblinking eyes. Did this one even have thoughts?? The Lamb stares right back, wrinkling their nose when the smell of the infant succeeding in dirtying their diaper reaches them. More things to clean up for them.
“I want,” Thorear says slowly, “my toy. Back.”
“I know, sweetheart, but you can’t keep punching her. You have to go ask her nicely,” The Lamb sighs, pressing a hoof to their forehead when one of the newborn kittens (thankyoufornothingNarinder) starts to cry. “Look, okay, why don’t you go over there and say, ‘Heno, can I have my plushie back, please’? I’m sure she’ll say yes, sweetheart. Use your words.” The Lamb steps quickly toward - what did they name this one?? Gregre? Ajul? Fuck if they knew - and scoops up the crying bundle of black fur. Thorear tags close behind, refusing to leave their side as they try to hush the wailing kitten.
“I want my toy back.” Thorear repeats.
And I want my sanity back, but we can’t have nice things in life, The Lamb thinks as they forcibly mold their crown into a very solid pacifier, ignoring the indignant glare from its red eye. Instead of voicing their thoughts, they say, “Sweetie, I know, I know, but I’m busy right now. Like I said -” They stuff the crown-pacifier into the kitten’s mouth, where the crying abruptly ceases - “just ask her nicely, ‘kay? No hitting.”
The Lamb tries to pretend to not notice Thorear’s unblinking, hollow stare, feeling a chill run down their spine as the monkey’s lips slowly pull down into what they could only call a slightly homicidal and dangerously crafty expression.
“Okay.” Thorear agrees. The Lamb puts the now-quiet kitten back in the cot. If they were any less drained, they might’ve been suspicious of the way Thorear abruptly turned in an about-face towards the nursery that Heno was playing in, but as it were, the fox kit with the soiled diaper is rolling around and smearing hell-knows-what on the ground.
They pick up the fox, trying not to gag at the scent, and change it with the other hand plugging their nose. Unfortunately, the bedding on the bottom of the nursery would have to be replaced. The Lamb plucks the crown-pacifier from the kitten’s mouth, paying no heed to the annoyance radiating off of the thing, and uses its arm to scoop up all the blankets to let a Follower wash later.
A heartbeat later, the kitten starts screaming again. Next to it, the sibling, who’d been sleeping peacefully, wakes up and joins the cacophony. In the background, the unrestrained shark-child starts attacking the bars of their nursery, after using their peers as teething toys.
The Lamb is going to swandive off of the temple’s rooftop.
The Lamb is somewhere between balancing a fussy infant in their arm with a bottle of milk between their teeth and using their free hand to try to pry off a tantruming toddler from their knee when a familiar Follower veers toward them, holding a very indignant and pouty Thorear over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“My Lamb,” Balls calls out, tail wagging slightly when they turn - “ah…”
He pauses when he sees the state his spouse is in, ears lowering. “Is this… a bad time, my Lamb?”
“Oh, no, Balls, not at all,” The Lamb mumbles around the bottle in their mouth. “I’m having a blast.”
As they talk, the infant in their arms slaps their cheek and the bottle tumbles out, landing on their hoof. Simultaneously, the tiger-toddler at their leg tries to yank their fur off while screaming incoherently about wanting apple slices. The Lamb hisses, picking up the tiger by the scruff of her neck and the infant in their other hand starts crying, still hungry.
Balls’ muzzle contorts into a slightly concerned, yet understanding smile. “My Lamb, let me take the baby.”
Before they can reply, he’s set down the ever-quiet Thorear into the grass before taking the bawling bird-baby in his own fluffy embrace, cooing at them. The Lamb watches as the chick slowly calms down to wheezy little squawks, lulled by the warmth of Balls’ arms. The tiger cub in the Lamb’s own hands has yet to have her fury assuaged, but even she softens to a low growl, tail lashing behind her as she glares daggers at Thorear sitting on the ground.
A sigh leaves their mouth. It was far from quiet, but it was the most peaceful moment the Lamb had had in at least three hours. They massage their temples with a hoof, sending their crown off to terrorize a Follower into cutting up some fruit for the grumpy toddler.
“Thank you,” The Lamb murmurs to their husband. Sure, he would’ve smelt the gratitude wafting off of them anyway (damn dog noses) but Balls’ tail starts to wag again.
“You should get somebody else to watch these little ones,” Balls suggests, shooting a glance at Thorear. The Lamb sighs again, carefully placing down the tiger cub as they see the crown slowly floating back, carrying a plate of the long-awaited apple slices. “The cult hasn’t had a sermon in two days. You’re working yourself to - to death, my Lamb.”
“Then it’s a wonderful thing that I have jurisdiction over it,” they mutter as they hand the tiger cub slices of the fruit. “Dearest, you’ve lived here for centuries. Do you really think that the other Followers can be trusted with them??” The Lamb points to the tiger cub at their feet, messily tearing into the apple with juice staining her fur. They hold back their next sigh, reaching down to wipe it away from her muzzle. “I wouldn’t… anyway, dearest, what was it you came here for…?”
Balls, frowning, adjusts his hold on the chick in his arms. “I was walking from the farm grounds when I saw this one -“ he gestures to Thorear, still sitting glumly in the grass - “in the nursery, biting a poor little rabbit girl. She was about to smack him back when I intervened, my Lamb.” He pauses. “Apparently it was over a toy.”
The Lamb bites the inside of their cheek to keep from screaming. With practiced patience, they set down the rest of the plate of apple slices for the tiger cub to go to town on before they climb out of the nursery, where Thorear looks up at them with the same hollow expression.
“Thorear, sweetheart,” the Lamb starts, ears flattening, “what did I say about using your words?”
The monkey’s tail twitches. “You said no punching.”
“That’s right, I did.” They confirm, leaning down toward his level. “But I told you to go talk to Heno about getting your toy back, didn’t I?”
“Yes…” Thorear says slowly.
“So.. did you?”
At that, the monkey’s blank expression shifts to one of quiet irritation. “You said no punching. I didn’t.”
“Thorear, you still bit her,” The Lamb says, exasperation bleeding into their tone. “You need to go apologize and say sorry. How would you like it if I bit you??”
“I wouldn’t have stolen your toy to begin with,” Thorear mutters. “Heno ‘s mean. She didn’t give it back.”
The Lamb bites their tongue this time.
“My Lamb,” Balls says quickly, “perhaps I should take Thorear and talk to him about his behavior.” A soft paw lands on their shoulder and Balls gives them a gentle lick on the cheek when they straighten, brushing his muzzle against their snout. “And I could ask one of the Bishops to help with babysitting?”
The Lamb grumbles, taking the chick from Balls’ arms. Internally, they wish they could drag every single Bishop to the nurseries to deal with the many progeny that they’d left on the Lamb to raise, but they shake their head. “I wouldn’t bother. They wouldn’t want to.” Even if they did technically have the aptitude to care for them.
Balls frowns, giving a small nod of acknowledgement before taking Thorear’s hand. “I… see, my Lamb.”
The dog leads him away, murmuring things to Thorear.
The Lamb watches the pair go, absentmindedly feeding the chick in their arms. Balls was right, though. They really did forget to hold a sermon in the past few days. Narinder would kill them. If he dared to look into the cult nurseries, that was. Deadbeat.
Among the infants, one of the sleeping froglets starts to croak, and their neighbor, presumably an elephant, starts to trumpet back in response. The Lamb places the chick down back in their cot, sighing.
In the end, Shamura shows up to the nurseries a few minutes later, when the Lamb is trying to hush the elephant calf so that he doesn't disturb the entire nursery. Their gait is unsteady as they lean on their cane, but the spider's eyes are clear and they scan the nurseries with a sharp gaze.
“Lamb,” they whisper, inclining their head ever-so-slightly when they near. “The disciple informed me… you require aid. He mentioned you were… overburdened.”
“Did he, now??” The Lamb mutters, tail flicking behind them. The elephant calf prods them with his trunk and they lean back, careful not to let the infant grab their crown. They frown, turning to face the spider. “I’m sorry he bothered you, Shamura. I thought I told him not to, but…”
“No need, Lamb.” Shamura murmurs, raising a hand to stop them. “It has been a long, long time… since I’ve last cared for brood, but…” They pause, closing eight eyes in tandem. “Ahh… I have… missed seeing the circle of life… flourish… as hypocritical as that… may be.”
Flourish, huh? The Lamb casts a skeptical eye over the swelling nurseries. “Perhaps it should stop.” They mutter, and Shamura chuckles, opening their eyes.
“In that regard… I duly apologize for… my sibling’s contributions.” They hold out a pair of hands not holding onto their cane, offering to take the fussy elephant from the Lamb’s arms. “Please… allow me.”
Hesitantly, the Lamb passes him over.
The brief touch between their hooves and Shamura’s hands sends a jolt through their entire body - where they would normally see thoughts and emotions from any other Follower, Shamura’s mind always feels like stepping on shards of glass. They wince, pulling their hoof away as if they’d just touched fire.
Shamura doesn’t seem to notice. They simply pull out a length of spider silk (where in the world did they keep that???) and gives it to the calf to play with. The elephant curiously prods at the adhesive material, sneezing softly when it tickles his trunk.
The Lamb watches, rubbing their forehead. “I didn’t… I didn’t know the Bishops of the Old Faith bothered with caring for children.”
“We didn’t.” Shamura replies easily, nudging a bit of silk off of the elephant’s nostrils. “My siblings, at least… never tried.” They cough. “It was… easier, to simply… abduct new ones. But… I admit, I… took pity… on a few occasions. After all, spiders… are very ruthless.” They pause, blinking down slowly at the elephant. “And, of course… raising the Bishops… themselves.”
“I see.” The Lamb quite doesn’t. The image of Shamura raising tiny spiders or running after a homicidal baby worm seems impossible to reconcile with the terrifying, slavering beast the Lamb had faced in the Silk Cradle, but… then again, they were currently cradling a smiling baby elephant.
Shamura smiles and adjusts their grip on their cane. “Go, Lamb. I can… care for the younger… ones.” With one of their remaining free hands they indicate to the rest of the nursery where the children who hadn’t yet learnt to crawl. “Attend to the… toddlers.”
The Lamb hesitates again. Sure, Shamura could handle one, but leaving the spider alone with all of the infants seemed like a supremely bad idea, especially with nobody else to help. Shamura clicks their pedipalps together, smile widening.
“Lamb, I assure you… my mind is clear. And… Naryn is… biting her cousins again.”
The Lamb whips around, bell jingling wildly as they see, indeed, the shark is back to tasting her nursery-mates. They groan.
“How did you even..?? Whatever, forget it. Thank you, Shamura,” the Lamb huffs, trotting away. Just in case, though, they leave their ever-watchful crown curled in the form of sin underneath one of the bassinets. Just in case.
Shamura chuckles to themself, rocking the elephant back and forth. Poor-God-lamb-I-know-understand-same.
“I think I need to train a Follower to be a nanny,” The Lamb grumbles as they bury their face into Balls’ fluffy chest. He strokes gentle stripes down their back, paw gliding over the smooth wool.
“You’ve finally changed your mind?” He teases, tapping the tops of their nubby horns. The Lamb bunts into his hand like a cat, disturbing the blanket covering them.
“Yes. Maybe. I dunno,” The Lamb mutters. “It was just... Really nice today. With Shamura there. Thank you for that, by the way. Even if you did technically disobey what I said, most Devoted,” The Lamb says, narrowing their eyes at him. Balls gives them a wolfish grin.
“My love, technically you never told me not to,” Balls points out. The Lamb can feel his tail wagging underneath them. “Besides, you certainly needed the help.”
They sigh. “I suppose. I didn’t need to worry about changing someone’s diaper… Not as often, at least.” Balls stops petting for a moment and the Lamb nudges his hand again.
“I always told you I could help you in the nurseries.” Balls comments mournfully. The Lamb snorts, shaking their head.
“Balls, if you don’t manage the farmlands, who will? And don’t think you can try replacing that duty with one of the Bishops,” They add sharply, upon seeing his mouth open. “Leshy could never direct the Followers - or, I guess, could never control himself enough to do that - , Heket and Narinder would hate you for eternity if you made them work in the fields…” They pause, taking a breath - “-and Kallamar would just flirt with everyone.”
Balls blinks at them. A chuff escapes him and he scratches the back of the Lamb’s ear. “So who are you thinking about?”
They shrug. “I don’t know yet. Maybe one of the younger Followers can hang around and watch me… ugh, but I still don’t trust any of them. They’ll get distracted by a butterfly and then forget to give someone their milk or something,” the Lamb groans. “Can I duplicate you, dearest? Then I might actually feel comfortable leaving the Followers alone.”
“I don’t think I’d be keen to share you with a clone of myself,” the dog rumbles, yet his tail wags again at the praise. The Lamb snickers, toying with the golden necklace on his chest.
“What, had enough when the cat showed up?” They joke, tracing the ridges of the gold skull that connected both halves of the necklace. Balls snorts, dragging his hand down his face, and the Lamb catches flashes of annoyed-amused-love before he cups their cheek, pulling them down for a sweet kiss. The Lamb’s eyes flutter shut, and they kiss him back with enough enthusiasm that his tail starts thumping twice as fast.
Something cold brushes against the Lamb’s cheek. They open their eyes, startled, and pull away with a frown when their crown is blinking back at them, coiled on their arm in the shape of sin. The red pupil almost appears to be grinning, and the Lamb rolls their eyes at it.
“Oh, piss off.” They wave the crown off of their arm as Balls watches, bemused. The Lamb turns back to him with a huff. “Where was I?”
“Something about duplication?” Balls replies lazily, nuzzling beneath the Lamb’s chin.
They nod, cutting halfway into a yawn as the toils of the day catch up with their body. God or not, sleep was, unfortunately, still needed. Balls doesn’t seem to mind the change in his partner, only shifting slightly so his body doubles as a pillow.
“Right, duplication. I… need to figure out how to do that…” they mumble, dropping their head against his chest and snuggling underneath his shoulder. The weight of his chuckle reverberates through their own chest, and strong arms hold them close, pressed comfortably against his fur.
“Maybe, my love.” Balls presses his nose against their wool, breathing in their scent. The Lamb relaxes, curling up into a tight ball.
“Goodnight, dearest.”