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Black ichor stains their wool, pooling from the gash in their skin. The Lamb hisses in pain, the blood from the fresh, pulsing wound dripping in a puddle to the ground. A quiet hiss of death follows, killing the grass beneath it as they continue onward, pushing past the sick swirl of dizziness in their head. One more hit may kill them again, but death is nothing but an inconvenience to a god who’s died too many times to remember all of them. Anchordeep has only gotten worse since the death of the Old Faith, enemies growing strong to survive anarchy without Kallamar to rule them here.
Another room, sword drawn and at the ready with their uninjured arm. Their face hardens and they rush forward, their blade swinging down on a jellyfish monster before them, knocking it away. In retaliation it spits a small, green thing at them. They don’t have time to react or take cover before it detonates in their face.
The Lamb doesn’t enjoy dying, nor do they enjoy the disappointed glances they receive when they return from a failed crusade. They weren’t even able to reach the Witness this time, not that their ignorant followers would care. What isn’t a success is seen as a raging failure, even if their return yields plenty of fish and bones for the cult to thrive on.
Regardless, they drop the food off at the kitchen and head towards their own tent. Not to sleep, of course, no. They don’t do much of that. They’re looking for something specific; or rather, someone, whom they know will be there, because he often spends his time there when they’re gone on a crusade.
The Lamb isn’t sure what they are to Narinder. He’s difficult enough to read even when they can hear his thoughts, constantly flipping between ideas and notions, never consistent enough to understand what his true feelings are. It may be by design in order to keep them out, but they’re doubtful. Narinder doesn’t have enough trust that he’d let his guard down around them, per se, but he has to possess something similar inside him if he lets them get this close. It’s a mystery that is, admittedly, irresistible to the Lamb.
The bell around their neck jingles quietly, announcing their return as they slip past the tent flaps into their home. As expected, Narinder sits on their bed, his tail swaying idly behind him. He looks up when they enter but otherwise is motionless, staring while the Lamb stands before him. They let out a tired sigh, their hand running through the tangled wool on the back of their neck.
Narinder finally speaks up first. “You died,” he says plainly, his head cocked towards their form and the absence of blood and grime on their wool and clothing, resulting from their resurrection. The Lamb winces.
“You noticed?” they reply with a strained smile, stepping over to their wardrobe. Narinder seems to flinch when they unbutton their fleece, placing it back on its hanger, but they pay it no mind. They only wear their special fleeces during their crusades. Otherwise, the regular red one is fine. (Though sometimes they keep on the white, just to feel pretty.) Once dressed again, they turn to the cat sitting in their bed with his back to them, picking at the blanket beneath him.
“I assume you are going to leave again while they sleep,” Narinder says over his shoulder, his third eye open and peering up at them. His mind is strangely muddled, a slow swirling of the same contradictions as always, but almost like put through a filter. It’s peculiar.
Carefully, the Lamb sits on the other side of the bed, being sure not to accidentally brush Narinder’s hand or tail. They’ve come to find that Narinder isn’t a fan of contact, especially when he isn’t aware it’s going to happen, something they’ve had to pick up on after being screamed at one too many times by Narinder’s mind.
“I don’t see why I should,” they tell him as they smooth out their fresh fleece over their lap. “We won’t need any more resources for a few days.”
Narinder snaps his head in their direction, a scowl on his maw. “That Witness is still out there, if you haven’t forgotten,” he growls, ears flattening against his head.
Lips pursed, the Lamb calmly replies, “And it can wait until I need more bones.” They smile despite the nasty look they’re given. “Besides, there’s still Shamura and their Witness left in Silk Cradle. We have time.”
“You have not reopened the door to Silk Cradle, so it isn’t a threat.”
The Lamb’s smile wilts. “It’s fine, Narinder. There’s no reason to rush killing the Witnesses. They’ll all fall eventually, why are you stressing this?” They don’t mean to raise their voice, but they find it increasing in volume anyway, almost straining. It makes Narinder visibly bristle, his tail flicking.
“I am not stressing, it is just very important for you not to forget your role,” he says, his voice low but sharp as a blade. The Lamb scoffs, standing up from the bed to glare at the former god before them.
“And you shouldn’t forget yours. I tolerate your behavior, but don’t forget where you stand,” they hiss at him, their eyes flashing red for a brief second. They take a breath to keep themself calm, remembering that this isn’t worth their energy, not to this degree.
“You do not deserve my respect; you should earn it.”
They whirl back on him. “What haven’t I done to earn your respect?” they exclaim, holding out their hands, genuinely baffled. They’ve sacrificed so much not just for Narinder but for all of their followers. Hell, their entire life was dedicated completely to The One Who Waited up until the point they dethroned him. To say they haven’t given enough to be worthy of respect is just downright stupid, and Narinder has to be completely aware of the fact.
And yet, he stands his ground, his ear twitching. His eyes lower. “Weakness has spread through you and your flock like a plague,” he says simply, like it isn’t grounds enough to kill him where he stands for saying. They won’t. They can’t, and he knows it. But it’s no less infuriating. “It may not be able to kill you, but it can the others.”
Brow furrowing, the Lamb clenches their fists. They have to will themself not to summon their weapon. “It’d be wise for you to take that back.”
“Never.” Three red eyes glare back at them as Narinder rises, standing defensive like he’s ready for a fight. The Lamb must look similarly.
“Last chance,” they warn, feeling the spark of the Crown’s influence in their fingers and their feet, a familiar feeling right before they jump into a fight. Narinder is probably one of the dumbest followers they have, despite his ingenuity. He takes their warning as a challenge.
“You. Are. Weak.”
The Lamb lunges. Though the Crown remains on their head, they aren’t without strength. They narrowly miss Narinder as he leaps away, climbing back onto their mattress of hay and leaves, his tail lashing behind him. Sharp claws swipe at their face, giving them the opportunity to duck and kick Narinder’s legs out from under him.
It’s a short chase, barely even that, and ended quickly with Narinder toppling off the bed. He tries to scramble back onto his feet, but the Lamb is faster than him, pinning him down with their weight. The Red Crown flies off of their head, forming into a blade that they press against his neck to keep him from moving. The dull edge of the blade hugs the bump in Narinder’s throat as his breathing is labored. Glowing red glares at the Lamb from beneath them.
“Am I, now?” they whisper, a hint of a victorious smile on their lips before they let him go, stepping away. Narinder picks himself off of the floor, avoiding the Lamb’s eye in defeat. Pleased, the Crown returns to their head.
Keeping his back turned once again, Narinder grumbles, “I could catch you without the Crown.”
The Lamb gives pause. “Sorry?”
“It would be easy to catch you,” he repeats, glancing at them from the corner of his eye.
They raise their eyebrows. “I can teleport.”
With a low growl, he turns to them fully. “If you did not use the Crown’s power.”
A moment of silence passes before the Lamb laughs, shaking their head at the insane proposition. “And why would I do that?” they ask, crossing their arms.
There’s a strange determination that gives them pause when Narinder says, “For the thrill?”
The Lamb’s shoulders drop, their smile not far behind. Their eyes narrow, scanning him. It doesn’t seem like him, to turn so suddenly like this, to be trying to fight them then suggesting, what, some kind of manhunt? It’s ridiculous, and his thoughts yield almost nothing in elaboration. So, if only out of a piqued curiosity, they bite.
“What thrill?” they ask carefully, well aware of how Narinder can be. They keep up their guard, unsure of his intention. They thought he gave up trying to steal back his crown, but if he’s had a change of heart…
Narinder steps closer, almost uncomfortably so, yet the tension hangs still like a knife waiting to drop. “How often are you able to let yourself be vulnerable?” he asks them, jarring enough for the Lamb to snap their head towards him as he begins to circle them slowly. “Be vulnerable without being in true danger, I mean.”
Their eyes follow Narinder. “I don’t understand.”
He has the audacity to chuckle, his tail brushing their leg as he circles them again. The Lamb jumps in place, glaring. “This is an easy solution with a clear winner,” Narinder says, almost languid, like he knows something they don’t. “A fight would be unfair no matter how little of your power you use. And it is a shame I’ve been cooped up here for a long while.”
An uneasiness spreads through the Lamb. “It’s been only a year,” they say, trying to keep up their facade of nonchalance. Showing interest means Narinder has already won. “You’ve been sent on missions.”
His head tilts. “You have yet to say no.”
They hold their ground. “I didn’t say yes, either.”
Clicking his tongue, Narinder shrugs. “Your choice, Lamb.” They turn to lock eyes with him behind them. “But it could be entertaining.”
“And the rest of my cult?”
He hums. “We will not be gone long enough for them to require your presence,” he replies readily, like he’s already gotten what he wants. And, well, he has, hasn’t he? The Lamb can’t deny they’re intrigued. And, truly, what could be the harm in this? They won’t be without the crown; they just can’t use it, not without forfeiting. It wouldn’t be the worst way they’ve had to spend the evening.
A breath. “Fine.”
Narinder stops in front of them, grinning something near menacing, all teeth. “Fine?”
It makes them question their decision, if only for a second. “But I get to choose where.”
His grin only grows, shining like the cat who got the cream. Not a very far off simile, they reckon. “Fair enough,” Narinder says. His eyebrows raise, a carefully constructed look upon his face that gives away nothing. “What is your choice, then?”
They take a moment to ponder it. The decision could very well distinguish between victory and failure, after all. Choosing someplace swarming with heretics and non-believers would be terrible for both of them. It could slow them down, sure, but a fight breaking out wouldn’t be quiet. The Lamb doesn’t want either of them in real danger, and doesn’t want to alert Narinder where they are through what they consider unfair means.
So that rules out any of the Bishops’ territories. There are too many civilians and not enough hiding spots in Pilgrim’s Passage, and all of the other small areas are too, well, small. So really, that doesn’t leave the Lamb with any better option than the forest that surrounds the cult grounds. It would be plenty big, easy to get lost in; there’s a reason they don’t let villagers roam the forest. Knowing the area, it gives the Lamb an advantage.
They recall that Narinder is familiar with the land too, living here with them. But he doesn’t have decades of navigating the dense woods underneath his belt.
The rest of the details are discussed before they separate. After all, it’s to settle a dispute and prove their ability (though it feels like it’s more than that, at this point). Narinder has thirty minutes to find them. If they can get by in that time without being caught, the Lamb wins. Otherwise, the win goes to Narinder.
“Though, I wonder,” Narinder interjects after the Lamb explains what they think is fair. “Would it not be easy for you to camp in a tree for thirty minutes and win?”
It’s…a good point, the Lamb has to admit. “Then what do you suggest?”
“A different win condition,” Narinder says with sharp teeth that make them think he’d planned this from the beginning. “After the time limit, you need to make it out of the woods without being caught in order to win.”
It’s simple enough, and the Lamb is confident in their abilities to sneak past him. They may not be as fast as Narinder, but they can get where they need to and stay out of his line of sight.
Nightfall leads to nerves that race through the Lamb’s form. They pace in their room, dawning a black fleece, if only to conceal the stark white of their wool from Narinder’s eyes. They wait for his arrival, anticipating their small wager.
It shouldn’t have them feeling so worked up, it shouldn’t set their insides alight with a kind of anxiety they haven’t felt in decades. And yet, they don’t dislike it. It’s new, exciting, and, well, it’s far from boring. How long has it been since the Lamb took place in a truly fair fight?
They’re unsure how long they spend brooding in their room, considering every way this was a terrible idea in the first place, considering backing out before it’s too late. They take too long, because soon enough, the tent flap is being pushed open and Narinder steps inside with them.
His sly smile from before is gone, replaced with a much more serious look. His top eye is back to being closed, though he lacks the veil he wears during the day time. “Ready, Lamb?” he asks, nearly urgent in his tone. Though he’s better at hiding it than they are, it’s clear to the Lamb that he’s just as anxious to get started as them. It provides them a small bit of relief. Not enough to calm them, though.
“I’ve been ready,” they snip, fidgeting with the end of their cape. Narinder’s eyes roll, and he steps forward, placing a hand on the Lamb’s shoulder. They jump, locking eyes with him.
“You get a five minute head start,” says Narinder, tilting his head at them. They nod, shrugging off his hand quickly as they walk to the door. They glance over their shoulder, waiting for Narinder’s mark.
The cat grins. “Do not let me catch you.”
Despite the jolt of nerves those words cause, they return his smile. “I don’t plan to.” Narinder laughs, something darker than usual, and not for the first time, the Lamb wonders if they’re making a mistake.
“Then run.”
Without another thought, they take off out of the small hut and into the cult grounds. Everyone has gone to sleep by now, so no one stops them as they run past the church, ducking behind it and into the woods.
Their heart beats a steady, increasing rhythm in their chest as their feet hit the ground, soft grass making way for sticks and leaves and dirt. They don’t worry about being quiet yet, since Narinder won’t be able to hear them from his spot in their home. It’s in their best interest, right now, to get as far as they can while they’re able to run full speed.
The woods aren’t small, but they aren’t huge either. It would only take about ten minutes of running at their fastest to reach the end of it, and that would be much too obvious of a place to stay hidden. Getting as far away from Narinder isn’t the most strategic play. After all, wouldn’t he suspect that? No, they need to hide somewhere he wouldn’t suspect. Staying too close to the cult grounds, however, is a death sentence. Narinder will probably check there first, just to be sure, and the Lamb isn’t dumb enough to be caught so quickly.
Their chest begins to ache sometime after a good few minutes of running, and they take a chance to slow down and let themself conserve their energy. If they do have a run in with Narinder, they need to be prepared to flee. It would be pathetic if they were too tired to escape already.
Continuing to walk farther into the woods, the Lamb steadies their breathing. They’re no stranger to being alone; it was the center of their being for decades. But there’s something eerie about being alone in the forest. Or maybe it’s even more chilling knowing that they won’t be alone for long.
They quicken their steps when the five minute mark hits, aware that Narinder is faster than them and could catch up quickly if they aren’t careful. Of course, moving so far away from camp has its disadvantages. Namely, the darkness. Without the Crown’s powers, the Lamb’s natural eyes aren’t adapted to the darkness surrounding them. Black shadows become of what used to be trees and brush, illuminated only by the low red glow emitting from the Crown. Their immediate surroundings are muddy shapes, but visible enough to evade. Anything past that is a black pit of unknown.
Pushing their trepidation to the back of their mind, the Lamb pushes on. They continue moving, taking a turn to the east parallel to the cult, hoping to throw off Narinder. He may be able to smell them, but their scent will only reach so far. They pray the wind won’t immediately give them away as they quietly push past the foliage to keep going.
Their ears are perked up and listening to any sounds, but their hearing is muffled by the surrounding noises of the forest; crickets, squirrels, wind; it’s hard to distinguish what could be someone hunting them down versus a non threat. They have to remind themself not to reach out into the Crown’s depths and listen for Narinder’s thoughts. He would never know, they could get away with it easily. And yet, there’s an enticing thrill that comes with the idea of winning fair and square that they can’t risk.
A sudden snap makes them jump.
The Lamb spins on their heel, their weak eyes scanning the darkness. They hold their breath, fear creeping up their spine. All is silent, too silent, for a long moment. They sit there, waiting, unsure if they should move, or if their movement could give away their position.
A long minute goes by before the Lamb allows their guard down. Whatever it was must’ve been only an animal, nothing to be afraid of. They internally berate themself, huffing as they turn around, their shoulders untensing.
“Boo.”
Whispered right in their ear, the Lamb finds themself bathed in the red glow of three eyes staring them down. They shriek, immediately fumbling back. They kick up dirt as they turn, sprinting away as fast as they can. Narinder cackles behind them, tail lashing as he gives chase.
There was a point in the Lamb’s life, a long forgotten memory of before their sacrifice, where they’d learned about their base instincts, of the way sheep used to interact with the world before it became what it now is. Long before the bishops, before death sweeped the land and riddled it with war and famine, all creatures survived for themselves and depended on their base instincts to live.
There’s nothing like running from a natural born predator to remind them of that.
Panic surges through them, thundering like a drum behind their ears as hooves pound against the forest floor beneath them. Their fleece billows from behind, whipping at the plants and trees and hindering their attempt at escape. They hadn’t expected Narinder to find them so quickly, and now they desperately duck beneath a fallen tree to avoid detection, praying they’re quiet enough to not be spotted.
Their breath tries to give them away, their lungs aching from the need to get more air, but they hold it, scared to breathe in fear of being heard.
“You cannot be afraid already,” they hear Narinder call out, taunting them from somewhere close by. “We’ve only just begun.”
They remain still.
He speaks again, this time more distant. “Careful, now, Lamb. Insolence is not an attractive look on you,” he continues, nearly teasing in his tone. They’d curse him out if it didn’t spell their immediate defeat. “If your scent did not lead me to you, the evident footprints you left me would have.”
The Lamb grimaces, cringing at their carelessness. No wonder he found them so quickly. They’d failed to even think of him tracking their footprints. It sheds light on just who they’re dealing with, and they wonder if this is less of a fair fight than they’d originally thought it was.
Narinder grumbles, his voice faint. “Clever, hiding downwind,” he says in a low tone that stirs something in the Lamb’s gut. He continues to talk, but they have to strain to hear it, and they let themself relax for a moment as he moves away from them. They sit and wait for a few minutes, just to be sure he’s truly gone, before stepping out of their hiding place.
The darkness gives little clues as to where he’d gone, so they wager staying downwind is their best bet. They don’t want Narinder having any more hints as to where they are. So long as they keep away, it will be an easy win. Well, “easy” being a generous term. Keeping away from the predator actively hunting them can’t and won’t be so easy.
Stealth becomes the Lamb’s priority. They can’t be so foolish to leave a trail leading straight to them; they’re angry at themself for not thinking of that prior. Their steps are light as they creep past trees, being sure to avoid any twigs or branches that could easily give them away.
Anxiety eats at their gut as they move slow, too slow to feel safe. The thought that Narinder could easily catch up to them should he come this direction weighs on their mind, stiffening their limbs and causing them to move faster, if only a bit. The concentration they use to keep silent makes them itch, something unbidden in their stomach churning with their fear.
The Lamb doesn’t want to call themself excited. That implies that they’re getting something out of this, that it isn’t just to settle a dispute and prove themself to Narinder. Sure, that’s something in and of itself to be excited about, but not like this. No, they fear putting a name to what boils beneath the surface will make it real. Will force them to face it. They don’t want that, so they pretend it’s their trepidation and continue through the forest.
See, the thing about having your sort-of-but-not-really friend chase you down through the forest at night is that paranoia sets in fast. The Lamb’s ears are continuously pricked up and listening, trying to drown out the natural noise of the woods in order to hear impending footsteps. This is much easier said than done when the crickets are relentless this time of year.
The soft crunch of a twig sets them off and they spin on their heel, breath coming in fast, labored pants. An innocent little rabbit looks back at them, its nose twitching in judgment at their fear. The Lamb stares for a moment before letting out a sigh, running a hand through their wool. The power of the Crown atop their head twitches in their fingers, itching to light their way or teleport them back to camp. They refuse, pushing the urge back into the depths of their mind, and keep walking.
It’s incredibly difficult to keep their eyes peeled for a cat as black as the surrounding shadows. There’s something to be said about black cats and the bad omens brought with them—at least, if you’re the superstitious type—but the Lamb is too focused on not being caught that they lack the wit for that kind of joke. Their head is kept low, ducking between tree trunks and behind shrubbery to have at least a fighting chance for stealth. It’s slow going, but they’re inching closer to camp, circling around the way they came—or, they are, if their internal compass is correct.
It must be. They hear a soft patter of footsteps, their head snapping around to find the source. They freeze in place when they see a black tail curl around the tree in front of them. It slips out of view as their stomach flips.
The Lamb stumbles back, holding a hand over their mouth to stop from letting out a noise of surprise as they slowly back away, praying Narinder hadn’t seen them. They wait a long, agonizing moment, and when no expected attack comes, they allow themself to breathe again.
That was too close. Way too close. Narinder had been just ahead of them. He could have been for some time, in fact, and they’d be none the wiser. It makes their wool dampen with sweat, a cool shiver running through them.
And yet, they don’t hate this. They enjoy it, even. No danger, no magic, just them, Narinder, and the elements. It’s exhilarating in a way they didn’t even know they needed, and yet can’t imagine themself not doing it again. They almost want to get caught, just so they have an excuse to challenge Narinder to a rematch. Their pride doesn’t allow that, of course, but it’s a momentary thought that they almost consider.
The Lamb pauses as their mind begins working, after the rush of fear and adrenaline settles. Narinder can see in the dark, how had he not seen the Lamb? Surely he must’ve been checking his surroundings; he’d be foolish not to, and they know Narinder is anything but a fool. They continue to creep forward, the gears in their mind churning faster than the swell of nerves in their abdomen. They wouldn’t be hard to spot. So why hadn’t Narinder spotted them?
Unless he had.
That thought hits them like a train and they stop, kicking up dirt at their abrupt halt.
Narinder was playing with them.
He was teasing them.
They feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. Of course, he would tease them, dance around them and make them see him, just to terrorize them more. He was messing with them, and they’d fallen right into it. He must’ve been snickering to himself from the shadows, watching them nearly fall onto their back in fright, delighting in how easy it would be for him to catch them, but waiting it out, just to give them the idea of having a chance.
Because truly, what’s more frustrating? Them nearly winning, or the crushing realization that they never stood a chance in the first place?
The Lamb’s hands twitch, their ears hot. Narinder has no idea who he’s messing with. He may be toying with them now, but he doesn’t even realize he’s giving them the chance to win. And now that they know, they have an advantage over him. He can’t spook them into losing their nerve, or whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish. Fury broils beneath the tension in their body, fueling their next movement as they trudge their way through the forest, making turns towards the camp faster.
It’s been nearly thirty minutes, after all. All they have to do is get there.
They can already see the flickering flame by the edge of the camp, smoke rising in the distance. It’s not so nearby, but they could make it in a few minutes if they’re quick. They feel a smile split their face, their strides quickening at the sight of the goal.
And perhaps the dim light illuminated by the cult, so close yet so far, makes them sloppy.
Their hoof catches on a rock beneath them. They yelp, stumbling upright and holding out their hands to keep from falling over. There’s a sudden hand on their shoulder, brushing almost gently against their wool as it latches onto them from behind, balancing them.
The Lamb backs up, swatting Narinder away and putting as much distance between themself and his sharp smile.
“Going somewhere?” his voice taunts, low and malicious. Narinder steps forward, pressing into their space, and their breath catches. Every nerve ignites with fire, burning through their body with an intensity they haven’t felt since facing Leshy for the first time. Their legs shake beneath their weight, unsteady as Narinder draws closer.
Only a hair away from them, his grin widens. They watch in slow motion as he reaches out, ready to pounce. It snaps them out of it, ducking down just in time to avoid Narinder, kicking their way out of the leaves and muck and sprinting back towards camp.
They hear Narinder snarl behind them, something feral in his voice that makes them look back to glowing red boring into them. They clench their teeth, pushing themself to run as fast as their wobbly legs allow.
And yet, despite their efforts, Narinder is still faster. They know this, and yet hearing his pounding footsteps growing closer and closer, closing in on them, forms a pit of dread in their stomach. They have to think fast, making a sharp turn to get him off their tail long enough for them to jump, gaining footing on the bark of a nearby tree. They reach up, hefting their weight into their hands and pulling themself into the branches just in time for Narinder to swipe up at them. The Lamb lets out a surprised shout, clambering up higher into the tree to get away.
They huff out a breath, chancing a glance down. To their surprise, Narinder hasn’t moved, his tail lashing back and forth behind him as he stares up at them.
It’s smart, admittedly, that he doesn’t follow them up. Which is unfortunate for the Lamb, because it means that they don’t have a chance to escape so easily. If Narinder followed them up the tree, they could have moved quickly enough to possibly make it to camp. Not a perfect plan, of course, but a better chance than being chased on the ground.
But Narinder waiting them out does nothing to benefit them. In fact, it’s more so a benefit to Narinder. The Lamb can’t come down without being caught if he waits down there. There’s no way for them to escape him.
The Lamb grimaces, hoisting themself higher up into the tree branches. Their eyes remain locked onto the ground, carefully climbing higher, but not so high into the leaves that they cannot see Narinder. Trying to lose him is pointless. His vision is better, and there’s no way he won’t be able to spot them. They want to have eyes on him, regardless, in case he does attempt chasing them up the tree.
Crimson reflects off of Narinder’s bared teeth, his maw open in a beaming smile that’s wider than any the Lamb’s seen before. “I swear not to bite,” he tells them, though they doubt it. He looks like he wants to cleave his teeth straight through their neck. The fear must be apparent on their face, because his eyes narrow, and he murmurs just loud enough for them to hear, “Not if you come down…”
Like hell they’re doing that.
His words only push their resolve, giving them strength enough to pull their weight higher up into the tree, Narinder’s form just clipping the edge of their vision. They breathe in shakily, trying to think of a plan. It’s a suicide mission to climb down there now, but they’ll never win if they sit here forever. Briefly, the Lamb considers traveling through the treetops, but they grimace at the few branches they can see. It would be a gamble, and they’re not even sure if the route back to the cult would be clear enough, let alone risking the branches cracking beneath them. It’s too risky. If they fall, it’s over. They’ll have to use the crown’s powers, which gives Narinder the win.
Grimacing to themself, the Lamb peers down, watching Narinder circle the tree like a wild animal. It makes their gut sink, their fingers itching. They lower their head, trying to think harder. There has to be something they can do, there’s no way that it’s all hopeless for them, they haven’t lost yet.
A stick falls from the top of the tree and onto their head. They bite down a noise of surprise, barely managing to catch the offending thing while they rub the new sore spot on their forehead. They stare down at the twig with a frown, lamenting their lost train of thought.
Their gaze snaps back to Narinder. An idea begins forming in their head, and their grip tightens around the stick. It might work, if they can pull it off. He’ll have to fall for it, for one, but it’s probably their best shot. Nothing to lose, right?
Careful not to draw Narinder’s attention from below, the Lamb stands shakily in the tree, holding the stick above their head. Their gaze narrows on another tree a few feet away. Sucking in a breath, they take aim, winding their arm back, and throw the stick as hard as they can.
Narinder’s ear immediately perks, his entire body turning towards the noise. The Lamb watches in glee as he sprints the short distance to the other tree, immediately sinking his sharp claws into the bark.
They take their chance. Careful not to trip, they skid down the tree, using the trunk as a makeshift pole to slide down to the ground. Their hooves meet the grass with a heavy thud, loud enough to draw Narinder’s attention. He stops climbing, staring for only a second, before he pounces.
“You conniving Lamb!” he shouts as the Lamb takes off, thighs burning with the exertion of throwing themself across the ground towards camp. It can’t be more than a hundred meters, so very close. They try to ignore the sound of Narinder running after them, focusing solely on not falling in the dark environment, careful to vault over fallen trees and beneath low branches.
It’s almost easy to forget that the cat is naturally faster than them with the hope burning in their chest, a fiery resistance that won’t allow them to accept defeat. Their feet hurt, surely catching pebbles in the bottom of their hooves, their lungs gasp for breath, never enough air entering or exiting them, their face burns with effort and yet there’s such ecstasy from the thrill of the chase, Narinder a swipe away from their tail and pushing them past their limit.
A cool hand wraps around their wrist. The Lamb screams, their entire arm being pulled hard with the force of their inertia, and they tumble backwards, weightless for only a moment. It’s just long enough without their bearings for Narinder to pull them back, pushing his weight onto them and forcing them to the ground. Their knees buckle beneath them and they grunt as they hit the forest floor, pinned down onto their back as Narinder successfully tackles them.
No, no no, this wasn’t supposed to happen! They kick, nearly snarling as they try to force Narinder off of them, but he holds fast, keeping them down on the ground. His hands are wrapped harshly around their wrists, his claws digging into them but not yet piercing the skin. They scowl up at him, trying fruitlessly to thrash and buck him off, but it’s no use. They’ve lost.
When reality sinks in and the Lamb slowly halts their writhing, Narinder gives them a more satisfied look, his face softening, though he still keeps them beneath him, straddling their waist. “You played well, I will admit,” he whispers through heavy breathing, a victorious smile stretching across his sharp teeth. “But you were destined to fail the moment you agreed to this.”
The Lamb can’t find the words to argue back, the bitter defiance dying in the back of their throat. Their tongue sits slow and heavy at the bottom of their jaw, their teeth bared despite the lack of fangs to back up the display. The implications, the position, the tension permeating in the air, none of it is lost on them. It makes their body run hotter, their wool suddenly too warm for the situation, but they focus on not allowing their face to show it. Narinder doesn’t need any other sense of victory over them, especially if he knew the sick amount of enjoyment they’d gotten out of this.
Because that is what this is, swirling in their stomach like a nauseating excitement, thrumming in their veins straight into their short-circuiting brain. It’s not new to them, as much as they like to deny it, but it’s impossible now. They can’t let Narinder know that, though. They’d sooner lose a million fights to him than admit any of it, so they remain deathly silent.
Narinder tilts his head at them when they say nothing. “What?” His grin is impish. “Cat got your tongue?”
Never mind, screw that. Anger flares in their chest, the Lamb’s nose turning up as they begin to squirm again. “Asshole,” they hiss, even when his grip on them becomes tighter. “Big talk for someone who was gonna ‘rip me apart limb from limb’.”
There’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes, one that makes them pause completely. “Trust me, Lamb,” Narinder says, his voice low and promising, a near growl that makes all of their anger slip away in a moment, their body freezing up.
Narinder has to know what he’s doing, right? Right?
“Next time, I will be sure not to go easy on you.”
Without giving the Lamb time to stew in their panic, Narinder stands, dusting the dirt and leaves off of his clothing, and turns his back to them, beginning to walk back towards the cult. The Lamb watches in shock, their mouth falling open. They barely register when he calls to them over his shoulder.
“Oh, by the way.”
They snap to attention, their eyes darting to meet his. Narinder smiles that thin, menacing smile.
“I would love to see next time if you are capable of catching me.”
Next time?
The Lamb spends nearly an hour processing what the hell that means after Narinder leaves before they can face the cult again. They have a job, as long as they’d like to spend the rest of their days out here considering their very complex web of feelings.
That doesn’t mean they don’t spend half the night awake, their mind racing with ideas. And if Narinder sends them a teasing little wink in the morning when they exit their tent? Well, they just pray they aren’t as easy to read as they think they are.