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Unsure how to deal with crying? Appropriately responding must involve considering why the baby is crying and attending to that, rather than simply aiming to make the crying stop. One of my favorite ways to navigate this, especially with younger infants, is to go through a mental checklist of what might be distressing to the baby and offering solutions to each. Remember that infants don’t have a better way to communicate. When the baby stops crying, you know you’ve met their needs.
Upon ascending to godhood, Shamura learned very quickly to accept that solitude was the natural companion of brutality. They shed their mortal life as they would molt their exoskeleton: carefully, then all at once, before they devoured the shell they had once inhabited.
How many eons had passed since they had unraveled the Violet Crown from their web, since they had felt the first rush of power from its crescent eye? It wasn’t worth counting anymore, but none of the gods that reigned in their youth had met their claws and lived.
Perhaps that was how they became the Bishop of War, even after the powers of their crown pushed their domain towards Knowledge. Conquest made it easy to keep even their followers distant, to regard others as a means to an end. Keeping themself busy with their cult warded off any lingering emotions they might develop towards their lack of connection. Sometimes, briefly, they wondered what it might feel like to not be lonely, but they had more important matters to prioritize.
This, however, was exactly why their decision had made no logical sense.
They had found the infant, feline god near the entrance of Silk Cradle, curled up and alone, where only faint trickles of sunlight reached. Where he had come from and whether he had ascended from mortal life or had been born with his crown was unknowable. He simply showed up, a mystery begging to be unraveled.
Shamura told themself it was the similarity of their crowns, the way they knew that whatever the origin of their own crown might have been, that the red one before them was made from the same stardust. They told themself it was the bearer’s vulnerability, since such a young god would have no power to offer if they killed him. They told themself he would die without a way to feed upon fervor.
These should have been reasons for them to leave the infant bearer of the Red Crown to perish; it would save them time to eliminate a future god before it could threaten them. Instead, they picked up the kitten, whispered “hello, little one,” and watched the wonder glisten in his three red eyes.
Shamura had already taken him back to their temple and placated the bewilderment from their followers when they came to two realizations.
First, that taking in an infant god had created a ripe opportunity to build the Old Faith. It initially seemed counterintuitive, since the conflict between gods to reign superior instilled a deep mistrust for other deities– and each one Shamura had met and thereafter slain held the same sentiment, for good reason. But once they took the crowned kitten back to their own temple, they considered how advantageous that was. Expanding their pantheon to include an ally god would quickly establish the Old Faith’s might above any other, with Shamura as its foundational pillar.
Their second realization was that despite their vast knowledge of many subjects, child-rearing was unfortunately not one of them.
For the first few days, the kitten was easy to manage. They swaddled him in a blanket of newly-spun spider silk and carried him around, alternating him between their extra pairs of arms. He cooed at the world around him, not quite able to form words but babbling at any creature or object to capture his interest.
But this? This was hell on earth.
A week had passed since Shamura had taken the yet-unnamed black kitten under their care. This was the first time he had cried, and the racket had dispersed every last follower from their temple. The Silk Cradle inhabitants had scattered in a commotion when their ears had begun to leak blood and they began to hear voices of long-dead ancestors. His wails had no such effect on Shamura, but they had whisked him to the solitude of their library.
Shamura perused their archives and briefly questioned why they had convinced themself to do this. They rocked the inconsolable kitten back and forth, digging through mountains of scrolls and books they had set aside to scour for information about raising babies and the history of gods. Unsurprisingly, no guide about raising baby gods existed. Perhaps they would have to write one once they had much more experience.
Shamura sat defeated in the scattering of parchment around them, their head resting in their main pair of hands. For a god whose domain included knowledge, they never felt any less deserving of their title “O Wise One” than they had before.
Shamura took a moment to clear their mind and stood, balancing the tips of their feet in the small pockets where the floor was visible so as not to crush any precious documents. The kitten, meanwhile, had not stopped wailing, so they rushed over to retrieve his bottle and held it up to his mouth. “Here, little one. Mortal blood will sustain you. Won’t you feel much better if you have a bit?”
The kitten blinked at them, tears still dripping from his eyes. When Shamura thought he might have finally calmed down, he freed himself from his swaddle by shredding it with his claws, grabbed the bottle, and threw it onto the floor unceremoniously. The cap popped off, drenching a few of Shamura’s books in crimson. The kitten resumed his ear-splitting screeches, peeling his face back in four eye-spotted flaps to reveal red skin and rows of sharp teeth.
“Stars above,” Shamura hissed under their breath, picking up the bottle. They’d have to deal with the mess later.
When the kitten didn’t stop crying, Shamura decided to try a different approach. They clapped their hands against their cheeks repeatedly with their mouth agape in the shape of an “O,” which produced a popping sound. At long last, the noise grabbed the kitten’s curiosity long enough for him to quiet himself after a minute. He choked out a few more sobs before the sides of his face folded back in.
“There, there. You’re alright.” Shamura repeated this ridiculous action a few more times for good measure before wiping the rest of his tears.
The kitten reached up, his limbs weak and his movements squirmy. He gave a little mew and began to babble.
Shamura smiled down at him, listening intently. “You’re very opinionated. You’ll grow so quickly that you’ll be using words soon enough.” They gingerly rubbed at his chin in the way that seemed to comfort him. Sometimes he would start vibrating when they did this. It was alarming at first, but within the past couple of days they realized it signified happiness. He didn’t do it this time, but he grabbed onto their fingers and squeezed them.
Shamura flickered their eyes closed, exhaling a sigh of deep relief. The sigh turned into a shout when the kitten sunk his sharp teeth into their hand.
“Ow! Baby!”
The kitten in their hands shrieked with triumphant laughter.
For nearly the fiftieth time that week, Shamura reminded themself why they had taken him in. But the longer they considered it, something about the way they had approached this situation, even over such a short amount of time, changed. This gave them pause. Was it normal that any transient longing for companionship they had quashed over the eons would find its way trickling into their heart? Why did this feeling come with a whisper to dare to let it stay? Maybe they shouldn’t have followed their instinct. Maybe they weren’t ready to answer these questions yet.
Without another thought on the matter, Shamura began to clean the mess of spilt mortal blood.