Cult of the Lamb Oneshots

Alone (Narinder x Lamb)

Some hurt/comfort just because <3 

Narinder always knew to never cry.

Tears showed flaws, imperfections, and weaknesses that shouldn't be known.

He learned from Shamura to not cry, especially around his younger siblings once he aged. They never shed tears. Sure, they got upset and furious, but they never wept. "It is important you remain strong around the young," Shamura would say, "if you don't cry, then they will cease to."

His older brother Kallamar believed otherwise, but he never tried to take his younger siblings under his care and guidance like Shamura. The squid instead wrapped himself up in his frequent depressive episodes that Narinder never cared to count.

Heket used to cry from frustration. Weeping when things didn't go her way, though her tears eventually ran as dry as Narinder's as she aged.

Leshy would cry unintentionally in random situations. He cried when he laughed, went teary-eyed when he smiled, but seldom cried when it was usually appropriate.

Narinder bottled. It didn't matter how large or how minuscule, every drop of sadness, fear, and all signs of weakness were locked away. Out of sight, out of mind.

Emotions were fickle. A double-edged sword. Cherry-picking the right kinds of emotions to put on display offered many benefits, but all other emotions were ruinous in his eyes. What would his followers have thought of him, had their savior wept like a mortal? Shown ounces of fear and uncertainty? Revealed imperfections? Then he wouldn't be an all-powerful idol anymore, would he? It was best to be without them, those sorts of emotions, their only purpose was to get in the way.

Inevitably, the bottle cracked. The lid no longer fit. Narinder began acting irrationally as emotions seeped out in waves like a slit artery. Miniscule frustration was enough to make him snap. Narinder simply remembered it as the point of no return.

He'd had enough of living under his siblings' shadows as the Bishop of Death. Overlooked. What made them worthy of such high acclaim? Worthy of such prosperous cults with high followings Narinder could only dream of holding a candle to? How would the world react, knowing the other Bishops had constantly turned down his plans for a better future?

Something had to have been done, surely?

That accursed day, the moment he took action, was one of his most vivid memories. Narinder had stared into the eyes of the Bishops as he mutilated them. He'd watched his siblings closely, feeding off their emotions as he fumbled with his bloodied scythe.

Leshy stumbled about, desperately trying to locate Narinder's chains, what was left of his eyes now useless. Heket was incapacitated on the ground, sucking in short, frantic wheezes as she clotted her wound with her robes. Kallamar had run away to fetch medical supplies, but Narinder wouldn't have been surprised if his cowardly brother used the excuse to retreat. Most of the cultists present had fled as well, only the most faithful, or most courageous, stuck around, trying to aid their discombobulated idols.

He couldn't act further before Leshy held two of his chains in their strong grip, and signaled to Shamura to finish the job.

Shamura wept, that day.

The spider cried as they absently tightened their clutch on the rest of Narinder's chains, their Crown rooting itself to their brain in vain attempts of damage control. The tears could've easily been confused with the blood trickling ceaselessly down their face, but their choked sobs as they hurried through the final words and motions told him everything.

It had been the first and last time Narinder had ever seen Shamura cry.

It has been centuries since Narinder last cried. He didn't remember the occasion. Now, idling forlornly by the statues erected of his siblings' Crowns, he felt that dreaded, unfamiliar dampness of his cheeks and mistook it for rain.