Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Heavy clouds smothered the sky overhead, ushering in one of the coldest, darkest nights the forest had ever faced. Flurries of snow whipped across the cult grounds, stirring branches and debris as it deposited gentle embankments of fresh powder. The downfall had only begun minutes ago but was already doing a fairly decent job of covering the bodies, charred and crimson as they were. The cold was all-encompassing, and threatened to snuff out even the greatest of the fires spread across the small, ruined settlement. A single snowflake, dancing and bouncing gleefully on the choppy air, fluttered down in the middle of the wreckage, reaching closer and closer to the ground until joining its brethren in a small pile atop Lambert’s chest, which rose and fell in small, staccato breaths.

The lamb could barely gather their thoughts as they felt their life continue to slip away; the invaders had failed to kill them, but blood loss was sure to finish the job. With the help of the Red Crown they could barely remember any details of the attack: Shamura’s forces had found the cult and sent an army to take out all of their flock. Anything more specific than that—such as how much damage did the buildings take, how many of the attackers were able to retreat, or even who survived—was too difficult to think about for the fading lamb.

Without a following the Crown’s power was beginning to wane, and without power they didn’t have a chance of taking out the final Bishop. “I’ve lost,” the realization gripped Lambert’s heart as consciousness finally began to fail them. Tears welled up at the corners of their eyes as they could no longer fight against the call of death.

“I’ve lost...”

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn had only just begun to reach across the leafy canopy as Ratau settled down for his morning prayers. It wasn't much, but it was the only thing he could offer the young god besides his tutelage. Just like every morning since Lambert had received their Crown, the gray-muzzled rat punctuated his prayers with long, drawn-out sips of strong black tea.

The sound of footsteps through the crisp autumn leaves could be heard long before the visitor finally made it to the edge of Ratau’s small clearing, giving him ample time to head inside. Out of habit he began to prepare more tea and some bandages for the only person who knew where he was living.

His back was turned to the door as it swung open, the Lamb’s clumsy hoofsteps and tell-tale pattering of fresh blood dripping onto the floor being all the greeting he needed. “Was the hunting good?” he laughed dryly, “I hadn’t expected you’d be going out on another crusade aga-”

A loud thunk shook the house, causing Ratau to spin on his heels to see Lambert drop a bloody bushworm on top of his table, knocking all manner of dice and cups onto the floor. “My holy one,” he did his best to keep his composure, “what the fuck.”

“He’s dying,” Lambert collapsed to the ground beside the table, “faster than I thought.” They took a few more haggard breaths before looking up to their mentor, “I might be dying too, but, well, priorities, you see.”

“Right,” Ratau sighed as he began to search for the source of the newcomer’s bleeding. His brow furrowed as he found more and more cuts along the length of his torso. “What in the realm caused this much harm? The only thing I’ve ever seen take this much damage and survive is you .” Ratau snorted, but quickly noticed that the lamb was not returning the sentiment. The look Lambert gave instead seemed filled with a strange mix of pity and forlorn, a look that sprung powerful feelings of empathy from the depths of Ratau’s heart. “Listen to me, little lamb,” he took a moment to meet their eyes, “I know you were planning to hunt your first of the Bishops today, but take heart! Just because you failed to kill Leshy today doesn’t mean you won’t succeed next time! Besides, it looks like you have a strong, loyal new follower that you saved for your flock. You have already done so much-”

“Ratau please,” Lambert cut in, “there’s something I need to tell you.” They waited a moment as Ratau assured them that they could tell him anything. “I didn’t fail in hunting down Leshy. This,” they leaned their head back against a table leg, “is Leshy.”

~

“What were you thinking!” Ratau hissed through his teeth as he grabbed his old clothes in an attempt to scrounge up more bandages. “I can’t send you back to your flock missing an arm!”

Lambert turned their head as they gagged once more on the blood filling their stomach, weakly they tried to retort, but only blood and bile came out.

Ratau’s gaze softened as they continued to tend to Lambert’s many wounds. They were tearing themself apart at the seams, Ratau could tell. Not just literally, but in everything Lambert was doing. Their crusades into Heket’s lands were becoming more and more frequent, and it seemed that each one was leaving the lamb in worse and worse conditions. It seemed like the only thing the two of them could talk about anymore was this grand plan that Lambert had been working so hard on.

His pupil was hurting, he had to be strong. “Listen to me, lamb…”

~

“You know I’d never be one to suggest how to run your own cult,” Ratau sweated as he looked down on the freshly bleeding body on his table, “but are you truly, completely certain that mercy is the correct choice in this situation?”

“Funny, it ssssssounds to me like that’s exactly what you’re doing, Ratau,” Flinky snickered as they rolled a die against the ground, placing it in front of the lamb’s carefully assembled dice.

Lambert shook their head as they grabbed a new die to continue the game, “I’m not going to be sorry for showing mercy, Ratau, I’ve already explained my reasons for keeping them around.”

“Yes, I know, but-” Ratau flinched as he saw Heket’s chest rise with a deep breath, “and you know I’ll always bandage you up, no questions asked, but…”

~

“But what?” Lambert shouted, wiping the newly forming tears from their eyes as they charged out of the hut into the muggy spring air, “I know you don’t understand, and I’ve never expected you to understand! I’ve only ever asked for your help!”

“Lambert please!” Ratau chased the fledgeling Crown-Bearer as fast as his stiff legs could carry him, “I’m sorry! Please Lambert,” his begging managed to slow Lambert to a stop, allowing him to cough and pant out, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I can’t possibly know what pain you’ve gone through, I just, I need you to know-”

~

“I care about you,” Lambert smiled, their face lit by the final remnants of the hearth’s fire, “truly. I don’t think there are many things left in my life that I care about, but you are one of them.”

Ratau laughed as he snatched away the nearly empty bottle in Lambert’s hand, “Stop talking, you fool,”

~

“Just stop talking,” Lambert did their best to hold in their tears as they placed another damp cloth on Ratau’s forehead. They had never expected that they’d be a carrier for the illness Kallamar had struck their following with, to then infect their elderly mentor. “You’ve helped me so much, now you have to let me help you, okay?”

Ratau could only nod weakly, causing his senses to swim as if the room had suddenly begun spinning.

It felt like a candle had been lit, revealing a new world of torment that Lambert had never been aware of before; never had they thought that Ratau might ever be taken away. They shook the thought from their head as they placed a firm yet gentle hand onto the shaking rat’s shoulder, “I’m not losing you. Everything is going to be fine, and I won’t even need to bring you in for the resurrection ritual because I’m NOT going to lose you!”

A swift knock at the door pulled from Lambert a shaky laugh of relief. “That’s probably Klunko and Bop with the ingredients I asked for!” they nearly bounded to the door in a single leap, “I’m going to make you my favorite meal, or rather, a thinner, easier-on-the-stomach version!” Lambert only took their eyes off of the frail, bed-ridden figure long enough to get the door and receive the food.

Ratau couldn't follow the lamb's nervous chattering any longer, and instead turned his weary gaze out his bedside window, eyes following a pair of leaves dancing in the evening breeze as he drifted into a feverish slumber…

~

The howling wind rattled the window pane, rousing Ratau with a start where he'd nodded off reclining by the hearth. A shiver cut deep through his aching bones. "Awful stuff," he mused as he stoked the fire with offerings of lumber and dry leaves, "I should hope that Lambert's flock is keeping warm.

"Certainly," he assured himself under his breath, "certainly they're safe from the cold. Lambert wouldn't let any possibility go unchecked. That kid-"

Just then the door shuddered violently, like the wind was threatening to tear it off its hinges. Typically he'd pay such things no mind—considering the strength of the storm—but still, there was a chance someone was out there, and if that was the case then he couldn't leave them shivering out there a moment longer.

Ratau pulled the door open to see Lambert standing in the snow, a look in their eyes that betrayed a deep and all-encompassing fear. Moments later his eyes adjusted to see the small crowd behind them: only ten or so people, including the three former-bishops. “My most holy one?” Ratau could smell the blood and fire from their bodies, “What’s the matter? Why have you brought a portion of your flock here?”

A small voice crawled from Lambert’s throat, in a deflated, half-laugh, “This is the flock, now…” Their eyes shot down to their own feet as they drew upon the strength to admit, “I couldn't think of anywhere else for us to go.”

Chapter Text

Ratau had never felt more cramped in his own home than he did in that moment: shoulder-to-shoulder with shivering, whimpering bodies, each holding various mugs, bowls, and vessels filled with hot berry-wine. Every dish he had was put to use in the shaking hands of these trembling refugees. "So that's it?" he leaned forward, both arms crossed on the table, "Shamura's scouts finally found your cult and now it's time to call it quits?"

In any other context the lamb would've had to punish him for saying such things in front of his followers. In any other context he'd have to be made an example of, to keep the image of 'infallible god-king' strong. This, however, was truly the end of Lambert's rope. "What choice do I have?" They threw their hands up in defeat, "Shamura is the strongest of the Old Faith, and now I'm weaker than I was when I fought Leshy." After a beat Lambert turned to the former Bishop, "No offense."

"Not at all," Leshy did his best to keep his chattering teeth still, "Shamura could probably destroy your Crown and kill you without even ascending their form."

Heket nodded along with a huff.

"I can't believe they didn't recognize us!" Kallamar spat out his first words since the attack, “We could’ve been free! How did they not see Heket’s four eyes? Or my mangled ears? Or Leshy’s-”

“Enough!”

Everyone in the hut turned to look at Mulch, who was now standing atop a small stack of firewood. “Enough!” it repeated, “All of you! Do you think we have the luxury to mope about in self-pity? There is nothing out there but the cold and merciless sky, waiting to rain misery down upon us and grind us into the dirt! We all came from the earth and to the earth we all will return but I am not ready.” It seemed to falter a bit, shifting its feet. “Not yet… I- I don’t want to go yet…”

The tears that had welled in its wide, staring eyes finally fell as Ratau settled a steady hand on its calf. 

“You’re not going anywhere, kid.” He gave Mulch’s leg a comforting squeeze and helped it down from its makeshift podium, handing it a fresh bowl of berry-wine. “None of you are.” He met eyes with every single soul in the room in turn, until finally landing on Lambert and holding their gaze as if daring them to look away first. “Not while this old rat still has air in his lungs. You can rebuild, we can come back from this. Deep down inside you I know you know it too.”

Silence hung in the air, draped around every fixture like the snow falling outside; everyone knew intrinsically that the next thing said aloud would disrupt and forever change the course of fate.

Lambert stood, face unreadable. No one dared make a sound as they moved to stand atop the firewood, as Mulch had just done. They breathed in a long, deep breath, and parted the quiet like a dark and tumultuous sea.

“That is not how a flock should speak to their shepherd.”

They almost enjoyed the ripple of panic that they could feel rolling from face to face around them. Almost.

“But we are not the same flock we were yesterday. And I am not the same leader, either.” Ratau’s proud smile creeping across his face steadied the ground beneath Lambert’s feet, steeled their heart. “What we’ve gone through has changed us forever. We will never be the same. The people we lost…” They swallowed the rest of their sentence and continued, clearing their throat. “You’re right, Mulch. This defeat does not have to be our end. We may never be who we were, but we can use this as a chance to become something better.” 

They took a breath to continue but paused; the crown was… stirring, nestled between Lambert’s horns. It had felt almost inanimate ever since they had crawled out of the mud and muck of the battle, its power and presence sapped away almost to nothing in its wake. Scanning the faces around them, however, feeling that pull in their chest that was tethered to every pair of eyes where hope was growing, it was if the crown were… waking up.

The tables had turned.

The apostles had brought the gospel to their Lord, and from the ashes of defeat, the fire of their faith burned brighter than it ever had before. 

It was like the air had returned to the room, every hollow face now shown back at the lamb the hope they themself couldn’t contain. Even the bishops sat a little straighter, heads held higher, gripping each others’ hands tightly. 

Lambert’s hands balled into fists; the crown hovered above their head and pulsed with power.

Their eyes shone red like a scalding star.

“We are not finished yet.”

Lambert held both arms forward and closed their eyes, feeling the Red Crown dance and lengthen into a heavy pickaxe that settled gently yet firmly in their hands. They opened their eyes, taking in the pile of rubble that was once the longhouse.

"Once more," they petitioned the Crown from their mind, "show me the longhouse before it was destroyed, especially the exits and where it was that Tobias slept." At their command the image began to string itself together in ghostly red mist, much easier now that it'd been the sixth time Lambert had asked for that very vision.

Much of the ruins were now covered in over a foot of snow, even those that had been regularly cleared by Lambert in the months since the attack.

With a grim determination Lambert raised the pick before swinging it powerfully into a massive hunk of burnt rubble and began pulling it away from the pile. Over and over they cleared the bits of wood and packed mud from the gargantuan mound, hoping that each layer peeled away would reveal the object of their search.

Suddenly a chill beyond mere cold set through their neck, down their spine, as suddenly the eye of their pickaxe turned to meet their gaze.

"Back at this again?" The condescending chortle grated against the lamb's mind, "Don't you think it's time that the fox earned his rest?"

“With respect, Oh Mighty Narinder,” Lambert gritted their teeth as they thought back to their patron, “Piss. Off.”

An incorporeal laugh filled the lamb’s mind for a moment before drifting off into nothingness, leaving them to another hour of toil before finally a small patch of familiar orange fur, nearly completely stained black with old blood. “Tobias,” Lambert sighed in relief as they leaned down and started to rip chunks of brick and debris out of the way, “I’m sorry old friend, but I need you.”

Chapter Text

Early morning’s first light broke through the barren branches and errant, stubborn leaves above as Lambert looked down at the still-lifeless corpse of Tobias in confusion. Was there something they were missing? Some part of the resurrection ritual that they had failed to do? "It doesn't make sense..."

"If I may make a wild guess here, Holy One," Ratau scratched his chin as he shivered against the cold, "but there might be plenty of reasons this didn't work: the size of your flock, the amount of time that the old fox has been dead, the amount of times he’s been resurrected, the... state... in which you found his body-"

"Yes, thank you, Ratau," Lambert gave a curt smile, "no more musings, please.” The lamb furrowed their brow; if Tobias couldn’t be resurrected yet, then there was a great likelihood that the other dead members of the cult couldn’t be, either. Lambert hoped it was simply a matter of needing more worshippers and not some other factor that couldn’t be as easily solved. Anxiety crept around the small god’s mind as they considered a possibility that their most trusted follower would not be coming back again, but the lamb pushed those thoughts to the side reflexively; now was not the time for self-doubt.

From the makeshift-altar Lambert and Ratau looked around to their remaining flock members: Omodele the farmer, Heidi the smith, Miriam the cook, Mulch the strange, the boarlets Alban and Bryn, and the three Bishops--who had actually decided to try and participate in the ritual to help bring Tobias back. There was also Gusion, one of Heket’s daughters, and Valefar, former high-priest of Leshy, keeping watch at the edges of Ratau’s small clearing.

Alban and Bryn weakly raised their hands, and immediately Lambert could tell what it was they were about to ask. “Not yet,” the Crownbearer let them down softly, “your mother will be raised from death soon, but just not yet.” At their words the two children began to weep quietly to themselves, trying to put on as brave a face as possible. Lambert made a mental note that bringing their mother back had to be a near-top priority: seeing the children in distress was only causing more distress in the adults around them. On-cue, the Red Crown started arranging a list of priorities in the lamb’s mind, automatically searching their brain for what needed to be done and what order it needed to be done in.

Lambert’s face twisted slightly in disappointment as each priority added to the list pushed the task “Get revenge on Shamura” further and further down. Still, the first task was clear: “All hands must toil together, now, if we are to survive this brutal winter: continue working on the new barracks using whatever means and materials Heidi directs you to. Omodele, Miriam, you’re on gathering duties again.” The lamb took a deep breath before stating, “I’ll be going back to the old camp to look for more of our dead. Even if we can’t bring them back yet we can still bury them respectfully until the time comes when we can.” Lambert looked to the sky, the Crown immediately sensing their intention and letting them know that there was no chance of snow that day until sundown, which they informed the congregation of before dismissing them to their tasks.

~

Despite the warmth provided by their cloak, clothes, and natural wool, Lambert couldn’t help but shiver against the winds as they pressed on deeper into the valley towards their former encampment. Using the Crown’s enhanced senses they kept a constant vigil around them for anything and everything that could be trying to get the jump on them. Even the lightest bounce of a bird landing on a branch or the stirring of the bugs beneath their feet was made known to them as they stayed as wary as possible.

Sensing the need for Lambert to be as prepared as possible, the Crown took the list of tasks created earlier and began going over them again, splitting each primary task into dozens of secondary tasks. Then, sensing that this only made the lamb even more anxious, starting splitting those dozens of secondary tasks into hundreds of tertiary tasks. “Focus,” the lamb snapped at themself, “just, focus, one thing at a time. We’re walking to the old camp and we’re looking for bodies to bring back. Hopefully Marta will be amongst them, and we can bring her back to be with her boys-”

Suddenly a warning cried out in the lamb’s head, forcing them to a stop as they heard the distant sound of hands brushing against cloth, maybe a half mile or so away, in what Lambert suddenly realized would be the direct center of the camp. Large hands, gripping at the hem of clothes. If this was who the lamb thought it was, then they needed to proceed in complete silence. Calling on the power of the Red Crown to make them float several inches off of the ground and slowly progress towards the old cult site.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the lamb floated onwards, doing their best to not even breathe as they made their way closer.

Closer.

Slowly.

Until finally they could see exactly what it was they were afraid to see: at the center of the decimated grounds of the lamb’s old camp was Shamura, seated with their legs folded neatly over one another, waiting for the Lamb to approach.

Shamura felt the cool air settle on their skin as they sat in the clearing, their eyes closed, including the eye of the Purple Crown, a sign of trust that they knew would not fall on deaf ears as they heard the feet of the lamb finally touch the ground for the first time in nearly an hour. “From once there were five,” their massive voice hissed across the ruins, “now there are two.” The spider opened their eyes one at a time, ending with the eye of the Crown, looking at the rival god standing merely a hundred meters from them.

Lambert’s mind raced wildly as they took what they were seeing in, the Red Crown only making their mind race faster. After several moments of panicked contemplation they observed, “You are not here to kill me, are you?” Normally they would be able to say such things with certainty, but there was something about the nature of Shamura’s Crown, or maybe just their brain in general, that made reading them impossible.

Shamura blinked a single time before retorting, “It does not matter what words I use, you will not believe what I have to say.” They waved a hand dismissively, “No, you will likely only trust me after my Crown is destroyed.”

“After?”

Shamura patted the ground beside them, their hoarse voice cutting through the air, “We are getting ahead of ourselves. Please, approach, take a seat, and know that the fact I have not killed you yet is all the evidence you should need that it is not my intention to kill you at all.”

The lamb weighed Shamura’s words carefully, but could only find what they said to be the truth. Reluctantly the God of Death approached the God of War for parley, and together they sat in the ruins of a snowy clearing.

“I saw through the eyes of my followers that night,” Shamura began, “I saw that you fought fiercely to kill my disciples as quickly as possible, as you were right to do so.” They waved their hand in the air before them and produced a cup of tea from nothingness, “And I saw that you have some very unusual company in the ranks of your following.”

Lambert was stunned, firstly because they didn’t know how in Crucia that Shamura was able to conjure a cup of hot tea, but also because they didn’t know that they were able to look through the eyes of their followers. Was this merely the power of the Crown of War? Or the abilities of a practiced and ancient Crownbearer? Regardless, Lambert could sense that there was no use in playing coy at the moment: “You are speaking about Leshy, Heket, and Kallamar, I presume?”

Shamura nodded, “I’ve run the possibilities many times: perhaps you used menticide to coerce them into joining your cult after their divinity was taken from them, perhaps you threatened them with an eternity in Crucia unless they complied, perhaps you simply offered them a life that they have secretly wanted to live for a very, very long time.” The spider paused on that last potentiality pointedly, “Regardless, I could see that they were transformed into mortal shells, and I realized in that moment something very important.”

“You want to be with them,” Lambert finished the thought to its natural conclusion, “that’s why you’re not here to kill me, you’re here to surrender.”

“Very good,” Shamura closed their eyes as they took another drink from their tea. “Though you are new to the abilities of your Crown I see you have a sharp wit between those floppy ears.”

Lambert wasn’t quite sure if the comment on their ears was supposed to be back-handed or not; regardless there were more important things to discuss: “But we both know the danger that comes with destroying your Crown,” Lambert considered, “after what Haro told me, it seems like you were injured in the brain when, umm, when the One Who Waits attacked you.”

Shamura did not yet open their eyes as they sat in the silence for a moment longer, “Yes, there is a very real possibility that these are my last moments alive, so you’ll have to extend me the courtesy of drawing said moments out a little longer. I might have lived a preternaturally long life, but that doesn’t mean I’m quite ready to throw it all away.” The spider waited another moment before observing, “Naturally you won’t let me see my siblings until the Purple Crown is destroyed.”

“Naturally,” Lambert agreed, “otherwise you would just take them back and kill me.”

“Yes, though the more I think about doing that the less that option intrigues me. You see, I’ve been a bishop for many a century, and do you know what has changed in all of that time? My siblings, the only people I’ve ever cared about, have all drifted further and further away from me with each passing year. When I looked through the eyes of my minions I saw the three of them protecting each other, standing together to make sure that they were all okay.” Shamura gave a quiet, dry chuckle, “Perhaps it reminded me of a simpler time.”

“So if the Crown is the only thing keeping you alive, I’d imagine there’s something you’d want me to say to your siblings after it’s destroyed?”

Shamura opened their eyes finally and looked to the serene stillness of the world around them, allowing the tears to fall from their eyes as they sighed, “I think you know what to say to them.”

Slowly, ceremoniously, Lambert stood to their full height and began floating off the ground, their eyes glowing crimson as the Red Crown turned into a long, barbed spear. Shamura closed their eyes and thought a short, simple ‘goodbye’ to their own Crown as they bowed to be level with the lamb’s weapon.

Chapter Text

Shamura was knitting again.

This wasn’t always the best sign, Shamura considered, as they often took up knitting when their brain was too foggy to do anything else. They focused on the movements, realizing that it was nearly impossible for them to use both hands at the same time: a particularly bad episode. In a moment of partial lucidity they noticed the length of the… scarf? Yes, the scarf they were making. It wasn’t terribly long, maybe about six inches, so the episode hasn’t lasted too long. Good.

The Crown? They couldn’t reach it. Maybe it was just due to the particular fogginess of their mind? “No matter,” Shamura mumbled, a bit of drool escaping their mouth.

Hands. A hand wiping the drool away, another hand pressed against their back. Comforting hands. Shamura smiled weakly at the touch. People were talking around them, but the words couldn’t reach them while they were so deep in the episode.

Someone kneeled in front of them, but the spider couldn’t recognize the face. Suddenly the scarf was gone and in its place was something hard. A bowl? Soup, they could smell it. Smell. Soup. They tried to reach for the spoon, but suddenly the bowl disappeared. No, not disappeared, fell. Hot soup, in their lap. Very bad.

Shamura tried to speak, to swear at the pain, but only a low moan escaped them. Hands again, voices again, fussing, wiping soup away. Shamura disliked the hands this time and tried to bat them away, but could only move one hand at a time, and not very quickly at that.

The smell of soup again, a spoon held in front of them. Shamura wondered if they were lucid enough to eat as they obediently opened their mouth. Shamura felt the warm liquid pass their lips and summoned all of their wherewithal to swallow it correctly. One gulp down, time for another.

Time. Passing. More soup.

Leshy, Leshy talking to them? “Leshy,” Shamura shook their head and tried to focus as much as they could, to reach out from the fog.

“Yes?” the voice nearly cried back. Leshy’s voice, yes, Leshy. Tell him what you wanted to say.

Wanted to say what?

Think Shamura, think. “Leshy,” their voice trembled, frustrated, as they tried to hold their own fleeting attention. What message? Something important. Something vital. Shamura, they thought they’d never see Leshy again, why? Where was the Crown to help them? The Crown. “Crown?”

Someone hugged the frail spider. No, not someone, keep it together. Leshy. Leshy hugged Shamura, and Shamura did their best to return the hug.

“Your Crown is gone,” Leshy explained slowly, speaking as clearly as possible, “we’re-”

“Mortal.” Shamura finished the sentence as they snapped to attention, the fog receding its grip slightly. “Where are the rest? Heket? Kallamar?”

Leshy nearly screamed for them to come over, and Shamura could barely recognize their shapes emerging from the cloudy, murky surroundings.

“Come close, we need to speak,” Shamura leaned forward, silently proud of their ability to break through the episode for at least a moment longer. “This is what I wanted. More than anything, I’d give my brain to be with you all.” They paused for a moment as they realized the various degrees of crying their siblings were going through, activating a deep and profound empathy within the former God of War. “I love you all so much, please stay here with me, and behave yourselves around the lamb. They, ah, they…”

And just like that, the fog rolled in again, gripping Shamura’s mind like a vice. Words were being spoken around them, hands, hugging. The hugging was nice. Shamura smiled as they leaned into the bodies pressed around them. Bodies? Who was here? The spider could tell they were important, but couldn't make out any other details. The hug lasted a long time, but eventually ended. Shamura wondered what they could do to make the hug happen again, but nothing came to mind. “No matter.” Shamura mumbled as something familiar was passed into their shaking hands: two sticks and a bundle of thick silken yarn.

Shamura was knitting again.