Embrace the End (A Narilamb CoTL fanfic)

Spiked Stew

It has been a week since Narinder's dethronement. He sits in the nearly empty, cramped hut that was assigned to him, his three eyes closed as he attempts to meditate. What was once an elementary task has proven to be quite difficult since losing his godhood; he just can't seem to focus in such an environment, so bustling with life. Life has never been his domain, after all.

"Narinder!" A pitchy voice snaps him out of his short-lived trance. He sighs with discontent.

"What do you want now?" Narinder spits, only two of his eyes opening to look at them. The third never opens anymore. He doesn't bother to face the Lamb, but he imagines they are poking their head through the doorway with that stupid grin they always wear.

"I need you to check on dinner, maybe get it served? I know you're too good for chores or whatever, but we're all so busy, I could really use the help."

Narinder rolls his eyes, growing frustrated as he struggles to comprehend all of their words at once. Why do they have to prattle so damn much?
He has already told that farm animal he isn't going to be their slave, but still, the Lamb continues to ask favors of him despite his rejection of each one. Dinner does sound tempting, though...perhaps it's something he could eat? And if he doesn't help, the Lamb probably won't get around to having it served anytime soon...

"Fine. But do not call me by that name."
"Thank you. And why not? It's yours."
"Don't thank me. And it's not mine anymore. It's dead to me."
There is silence before the Lamb just sighs.
"Then what shall I call you, you grump?"
"I don't care what you call me."
Narinder stands and turns toward the entrance, only quick enough to catch a glimpse of their red cloak as they storm off in frustration. The Lamb is already gone when he steps outside, presumably fulfilling other tasks, and Narinder is glad they won't be hovering.
He feels weak as he makes his way toward the kitchen. Though since becoming mortal, there isn't a moment that's spent comfortable. Ah, there it is, the throbbing pain that vibrates his skull every time he stands...he clenches his jaw, pushing through the discomfort. His thoughts feel sluggish, like they're lagging behind and clouded by fog.

The camp is loud and lively as it is everyday, with followers everywhere running around completing tasks. The Lamb's following has been growing exponentially since they started, but since Narinder's usurpation, they've experienced a sort of boom. Population is as high as it's ever been and continues to grow, forcing the Lamb to expand; so every minute of the day, new structures are being built, more trees are being chopped, and more food needs to be grown.
It all gives Narinder a headache, and the reminder that he is no longer what he once was leaves him feeling bitter and empty.
Somehow he still finds it in him to eye the camellias as he passes them.

Though he's content to have at least escaped the void, the normal world is taking some getting used to. Especially in this new form.
The void was empty. The only colors, the only voices, the only existence there besides Narinder was Aym and Baal. And now he's been tossed into a cacophony of bright sights and only somewhat familiar sounds and sensations. He sometimes feels as if he is drowning in them.
Many times has he had to shield his eyes or squint. He occasionally has to plug his ears if anyone so much as shouts near him.
It's humiliating.

He finally arrives in the kitchen, his heart a loud, thumping, constant reminder of his mortality. A handful of followers are chopping and washing vegetables, stirring a large pot, controlling the fire beneath said pot. Narinder approaches with a stern expression, and as he expected, the group silences their mindless chatter when he shows. Thank the Old Gods; he wouldn't have been able to focus otherwise.

"How is supper coming along?" He asks simply, and the one stirring the pot freezes.

"I-it's going well," they sputter. "Would you, um, like to try it?"