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Narinder cursed under his breath as he stumbled toward his hut. He hissed at any followers who dared to gawk at the tall, lumbering black cat who was clumsily holding his skin together with one paw. They scattered when he glared at them, fearing the raw, exposed muscles of his face.
He had gotten into a fight with one of the damned Lamb’s followers. The pale blue elephant had towered over him confidently, but she had been quick to change her tune when Narinder’s eyes turned blood red.
Narinder would admit to himself that he’d gotten carried away. He hadn’t needed to split his face apart, but it made for a good intimidation tactic. He had seen the Lamb running over to break up the fight, and he’d acted before they could touch him with their dirty, traitorous hands.
He would not die, even with his flesh exposed. The unpleasant part was yet to come, however.
When he reached his hut, he shut his door and locked it. He had begrudgingly requested a real, wooden door with a lock rather than a flimsy curtain like the rest of the cult had. The Lamb had obliged, like the soft and weak thing they were.
Narinder’s sewing kit was hidden under his bed. His hut was one of the nicer ones, but it still had minimal furnishing, and he’d had to steal a needle and thread from the tailor. He had been told centuries ago by his wretched, cowardly older brother that this kind of sewing kit was not sufficient for stitching wounds, but he refused to go to the healer’s hut to see the traitorous squid.
It was unfortunate, he thought, thoroughly unamused. For once, he wished he had Kallamar’s help.
He banished the thought and took a deep breath, threading the needle and turning toward the floor length mirror propped up against the wall. His bedsheets would need changing. His blood was staining the white fabric, and it would only get worse. Oh well.
Narinder braced himself, pinching two flaps of skin and fur together. He tried fruitlessly to steady his hands, as usual, eventually resigning himself to the fact that his work would be sloppy at best. Before he could plunge the needle in, however, he was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door. The knock was followed by a click as the door was unlocked from the outside.
Only one other person besides him had a key.
Narinder shoved his sewing kit under his bed just as the Lamb came in. He growled at them, his eyes beginning to water from being exposed to the air for so long. Having his skin detached from his face tended to hinder his ability to blink.
“What do you want, traitor,” he spat. The Lamb’s hooves thunked on the wooden floor as they drew closer, their wide, dark eyes filled with pity. The Lamb called it concern, but Narinder knew better.
They sighed, looking at him drily. “You got into a fight with Patre.” Their voice was filled with disappointment.
“So? She pushed me first.” He felt like a petulant child, turning away from the Lamb so they wouldn’t stare at him in this pitiful state. He could feel their eyes on the back of his head anyway.
“It matters not who started it, Narinder.” Something brushed against his ear, and he jumped backwards, whirling back around to glare at the Lamb. The Crown had transformed into a large hand, much like the one the Lamb often used to send followers to the pillory.
Narinder snarled. “You mean to imprison me for a fight that was not my fault? You are as cruel as ever.” Searing pain jolted through his face with every word, but he refused to show how much it hurt. He held back involuntary tears. Wretched mortal body.
The Lamb rolled their eyes. “I mean to help you,” they corrected, taking a step closer. The Crown reached out and grabbed Narinder’s upper arm before he could do anything to stop them from approaching. He hissed at the traitorous thing, its single red eye blinking expressionlessly.
“Fighting will only make things worse,” the Lamb said, their monotone voice grating on Narinder’s nerves. They bent over and pulled the sewing kit back out. They acted like they knew Narinder’s habits well, much to his chagrin.
“You will return this in the morning,” they ordered, holding up the kit. “For now, sit down.”
“Do not touch me.” Narinder finally wrenched his arm free from the Crown, trying fruitlessly to press his skin back together. His hand tremors were beginning to worsen. “And do you expect me to return a needle and thread that are covered in my own blood? You are a fool.”
The Lamb hummed thoughtfully as they took Narinder by the shoulders and forced him to sit. “I didn’t think of that,” they said casually. “You’re right, the tailor would be pissed. Hold still.”
The needle was poised at the side of Narinder’s face, ready to pierce his skin. He stared at it incredulously. “Have you gone mad?!” As if he would ever allow the Lamb to operate on him when they had no surgical experience. Hell, he was sure they didn’t even know how to sew. At least he had done this before.
“Oh, shut up and let me sew your face up, you self-righteous piece of shit.” The Lamb gripped him by the chin, their grip strong despite the slickness of his blood. He hissed in discomfort, but even Narinder knew when to stop fighting.
Even though he had sewn himself up many times by then, he could never get used to the sharp pain of the needle and thread tugging through his skin. He held back a yelp, forcing himself to show as little pain as possible. He would not appear weak in front of the Lamb. He wanted to keep at least some of his dignity.
It was nigh-impossible, though. When he stitched his own face up in the dead of night, he had to bite down on his bedsheets to muffle his screams. He always ended up either throwing up, passing out, or both, only to wake up hours later to be forced to continue. This semi-mortal body did not take well to pain.
The hellish agony was somehow worse in the Lamb’s company. They did not comment on his sorry state beyond telling him to hold still, but even that was insulting. Narinder fought back cries with every tug of the needle.
The Lamb was not smiling, as they usually did around their Flock. They seemed to do that less around Narinder, but it wasn’t as unnerving as it used to be. Despite himself, he had gotten used to it. He actually preferred this Lamb to the one who constantly played the part of the carefree leader. At least this Lamb wasn’t loud.
They pulled particularly hard on the needle, and Narinder hissed. “Steady your hand,” he growled. “Are you being rough on purpose?” The Lamb snorted in spite of Narinder’s furious expression.
“Maybe I’d be less rough if you didn’t scare my followers half to death.”
“Perhaps I would not scare them if they did not bother meeOWWW!” Narinder’s sentence trailed off into a loud yowl as the Lamb yanked the thread to break the end. Demonic curses spilled from Narinder’s lips.
The Lamb shrugged, a shit-eating grin overtaking their expression. “Whoops,” they said, visibly not remorseful. Narinder stared at them furiously, only for his eyes to water again. The tears finally spilled over, his tear ducts working overtime to compensate for the lack of blinking.
“Aww, don’t cry, kitty.” The Lamb patted the top of Narinder’s head, pulling their hand back before he could bite them. They chuckled, getting back to work. They had already sewed two flaps of skin and fur together. Narinder had to give them credit— they certainly worked quickly.
He sighed as they returned to re-attaching his skin to his face. They were saving his mouth for last, allowing him to keep talking. “Where is the elephant,” he asked, searching for a distraction from the pain.
The Lamb allowed themself a soft smile. “The pillory,” they answered. “She will be released in the morning.”
“You are too soft on your followers.” He would have flayed the elephant alive for her transgressions if he was in charge. Ratau’s influence still showed, even though he no longer guided the Lamb as much as he used to.
“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” The Lamb pulled the thread more gently this time, much to Narinder’s relief.
“Am I a fly now?”
The Lamb laughed quietly. “You’re too pretty to be a fly,” they answered with sincerity that made Narinder pause.
Their candidness made him sick. Or perhaps it was just the pain, or a combination of both. Either way, Narinder’s stomach lurched and he let out a gag that was halfway to a groan. His vision blurred with tears, and it wasn’t long before his paws were clutching what felt like a bucket as he vomited.
The Lamb’s soft hands rubbed his back as he hacked up the little dinner he had eaten with his rather small appetite. He had half a mind to shove them off, but he was tired, and they would leave faster if he humored them. He moaned pathetically into the bucket.
“Lamb.” Narinder felt the smooth sides of the bucket he knew he did not own. “Did you just use my Crown as a sick bucket?”
“Yep!” The Lamb took the transformed Crown back with a grin. “It doesn’t mind, though.” The Crown’s one-eyed expression suggested that it very much did mind.
“Die.” Narinder would have spared more words, but he was too exhausted to come up with a more eloquent response.
“No thanks.” The Lamb gently wiped Narinder’s mouth, taking considerable care not to irritate his exposed muscles. Then, with equal care, they picked up the needle and began to sew again.
Black spots swam before Narinder’s eyes, but he forced himself to stay awake. He would not allow himself to pass out in front of the traitorous Lamb. He had suffered an endless parade of indignities, and he would be damned if he suffered another tonight.
Thankfully, he had a distraction. The Lamb would not shut up, and for once, Narinder did not mind. It was actually pleasant, to his chagrin. Though, he didn’t have the mental capacity to be embarrassed through the pain. He barely even had the physical ability to sit up straight, having to brace himself on the Lamb’s shoulders.
“You really should be more careful,” the Lamb scolded softly. “This isn’t healthy.” They gently stroked the skin they had already sewn together, their eyes filled with something akin to concern. Narinder stubbornly interpreted it as pity.
“I am a god, Lamb,” he grumbled. “I do not need to be healthy.” It took considerable effort not to slur his words. He could blink properly now, at least in one eye, as half of his face was now intact. He took the opportunity to glare at the Lamb.
The traitor’s smile dropped from their face. “You aren’t a god anymore,” they said, their tone becoming solemn. “You do have to take care of yourself now, and I know you are not.”
“I am not a child, Lamb.” He gripped their shoulders tightly, his claws piercing their fleece. They did not push him off, or even chastise him for this. Instead, they paused their sewing and looked Narinder dead in the eye with a scowl.
“You are not,” they agreed, “but you are acting like one. Did you think I would not notice how little you threw up just now? Or how much your hands are shaking?”
As much as Narinder hated it, he knew the lamb well. Their expressions were easy for him to read after centuries of talking every single time they died. The expression that they held now was one they got when they were trying to get Narinder to talk more— determined, stubborn, curious, and worst of all, worried.
Narinder tried to distance his emotions, regarding the Lamb coldly. “You speak nonsense,” he spat with less venom than he would have liked. The Lamb’s grip on his face tightened painfully.
They stared at him stonily. “Narinder,” they intoned. “You barely eat. You almost never sleep. You constantly split open your face, and as I have recently discovered, you perform first aid on yourself with no painkillers.”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“You will die, Narinder.” The Lamb’s big brown eyes were wide and filled with concern. “I do not want you to die.”
“You should have thought about that before you forced me into this wretched body.” Narinder hated how soft his voice had gotten. He blamed it on exhaustion, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d had a very long day, after all. If you asked him, his time on the mortal plane had been a very long century, too.
If he was being honest, he often forgot to take care of himself. It was easy to forget when hunger, thirst, and exhaustion were foreign feelings to him. He hadn’t needed to eat as a god, and he could tolerate much more pain.
Here, where he was average, he could barely lift a bowl on bad days. Walking was easier now that he had recovered his muscle strength, but his hands always gave him grief. He despised it. Evidence of his weakness stretched across his face in ragged scars from every time he had sloppily sewn his face back together. It was absolute torture.
The Lamb paused their work, then sighed. “You know as well as I do that I didn’t know this would happen,” they muttered. “I want to make the best of things, My Lord. I cannot do that without you here.”
The crown shifted into a hand again, though it was much smaller than usual. It was the perfect size to lace its fingers through Narinder’s, and the cat found himself squeezing it back. He gripped the Crown-hand tighter when the Lamb pierced his skin with the needle again, but he did not make an effort to distance himself.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, the air trembling on his lips. “You haven’t called me ‘My Lord’ since you usurped me,” he commented, his voice hoarse. The Lamb chuckled.
“Do you not like it,” they asked. They knew damn well how Narinder felt. They just wanted to make him say it. He scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“It is inaccurate,” he said. “Would you have me call you My Lord when I do not worship you?”
The Lamb scrunched up their snout and laughed fully for the first time that night, high-pitched and bleating. “That sounds horrid,” they said. Despite himself, Narinder found himself smiling as well.
“Yes,” he said. “Damned Lamb suits you much better.”
Narinder had to close his mouth as the Lamb started working around it, but he didn’t mind resting his voice. His throat was beginning to hurt, from bile and from screaming at Patre earlier.
He didn’t like being unable to cuss out the Lamb while they scolded him, though.
“Narinder,” they bleated softly, “please promise me you’ll take better care of yourself?” They could have ordered him to do so. They most certainly knew that, as they were too smart not to. They could have forced Narinder to comply, shoving food down his throat and knocking him out every night to go to sleep.
But they didn’t. They waited patiently for an answer, and did not even frown when Narinder glared at them. I cannot speak, he thought in their direction. They could read his mind, but even if they weren’t at the moment, they would have understood.
“Promise?” The Lamb prompted again. With nothing left to do, Narinder finally accepted defeat, and nodded. He supposed he didn’t want to die by accidentally neglecting himself, in the end.
The Lamb smiled, the expression making Narinder’s heart skip a beat. Briefly, he wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. He had seen many deaths caused by heart attack, though, and this did not feel painful like it was supposed to.
Instead, it was warm and fluttery. Narinder loosened his grip on the Crown-hand, pressing a paw to his stomach almost reflexively. This was happiness, he realized. He was happy, despite everything.
“All done.” He blinked, clearing his head. The Lamb was holding the needle proudly, and the Crown rested atop their head once more. Their hands were covered in Narinder’s blood, and they carelessly wiped them on their wool.
“How are you feeling,” they asked gently. They cupped the side of Narinder’s face, as if inspecting their handiwork. “I think I did okay, but you really should see Mooren and Kallamar. And don’t give me that look, Nari.” They poked Narinder’s nose, causing him to recoil and cross his eyes.
Narinder shook his head, wincing when his stitches pulled. Still, they did not break. He had to give it to the Lamb, they were better at this than he was.
“I would rather die,” he insisted. His lips were somewhat swollen, so it was difficult to speak, but he managed.
“They’re actual doctors, Narinder. Not a cult leader with a sewing needle.” As if to punctuate their sentence, the Lamb flicked the needle aside. It landed on the floor with a quiet ting. The tailor would really be upset now that the needle was missing entirely.
Narinder scowled at the Lamb as they sat down next to him. “Kallamar is no doctor,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “But fine. I shall see the cow, and only the cow. You’d best tell that squid to stay away.” He would rather humiliate himself than have the Lamb tend to his wounds again.
The Lamb smiled again, and Narinder forgot why he was angry. He huffed, turning away from the traitor to look at the door. Through the crack at the bottom, he could see that it was dark outside. Despite the late hour, Narinder found himself wide awake.
“Let us get something to eat,” the Lamb said. Narinder turned back to them, staring incredulously.
“Do not read my mind without permission,” he hissed. The Lamb tilted their head, raising an eyebrow amusedly.
“I didn’t have to,” they said smugly. “I can hear your stomach growling. And your hand tremors get worse when you’re hungry.”
Narinder’s ears flattened. He rubbed his wrists subconsciously, brushing his fingers against the gnarled scars that prevented fur from growing there. “…Shut up,” he spat. His irritation did not stop his heart from fluttering again, unfortunately.
The Lamb hummed, extending their bloody hand. “I’d rather not,” they said happily. Begrudgingly, Narinder took their hand in his own, standing on unsteady legs.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Heket had better not be on night duty.”
“Hm. I think she is, actually.”
“Fuck you.”
Narinder smiled at the Lamb’s laugh, even though the stitches around his mouth ached. Perhaps he could handle taking care of himself as long as he didn’t have to do it alone.