#i hc them as on the aroace spectrum but i think the fox is a supporter LOL

[spoiledleaff]

there's a monster circling the borders of the cult. the lamb knows what it is—who it is. they're not terribly bothered.

the fox.

as a creature who values both brutality and strategy, the fox admires shamura deeply, to the point of love obsession. they've met before, though shamura could not remember that now. as a bishop, the fox loved watching them work. they would meet on occasion, standing at the crossroads between war and darkness. the fox has always had a bit of a stalking problem, not that shamura would feel threatened by him. they never stopped him before. the company was nice, soothing. they both smelled of blood—it was like finding another half of yourself, drenched in the afterbirth of your crimes and murders.

they'd chat. sometimes. ironically enough, shamura liked taking time to talk about nothing. so much of their life and work is spent strategizing and wondering and learning and doing things with a purpose, it was nice to take a moment to revel in the nonsense. the fox didn't mind, he would be too infatuated with the way they'd fidget with the bones of their followers. they would remember so much.

he was so curious, so obsessed that when shamura offhandedly let slip of that damned prophecy, of their siblings, of their brother, of the lambs—he didn't hesitate.

"i will handle it." he said. "i will devour every lamb to ever walk this earth if that is what you wish of me."

they paused, calculating. always so careful.

"leave one for me." they said, their smile filled to the grim with too many teeth and murderous intentions, and the fox thought he felt something stir in his long dead chest.

(there was a sadness there too, he realizes. maybe they knew of the consequences all along. even back then.

maybe especially then.)

it's hard to think that the shamura from before and the one he'd grown so used to watching from the shadows were the same creature. they still smell of blood, still ramble nonsense that only makes sense to them.

the fox wants to kill them, this mockery of the great bishop he once knew. this thing does not demand respect, does not stir that feeling in the fox's chest; it cannot be them.

they never seem to sleep, always roaming the cult's grounds while the rest of the herd scatter off for their bedtimes. they drift near the cemeteries, reading aloud names of followers they've never known. they do this every night—pay their respects.

"i know you are out there, little shadow." they say one night, "may i help you?"

"no." the fox is quick to answer, his maw is open and dripping with his resolutions. this thing will die tonight.

the false one turns towards the shadows, though the fox knows they will never find him if he doesn't wish it.

"do i know you?" they ask. "you feel familiar to me, though i'm afraid i cannot place it."

"...no." the fox lies — it is the truth — his teeth lay ready, though he does not bite.

"ah. my apologies then." the false one turns back to the graves, turns away from the fox. "your voice soothes me in a way i cannot describe. though i am unsure as to why, as to me you sound like blood, like cattle willingly led to slaughter, like betrayal."

the fox is ready to strike, he drools.

"you remind me of someone who i think i once felt safe with." he stops. "i apologize. i know we've never met before, but i cannot shake the feeling that i know your teeth."

the fox hesitates, closes his maw, backs away.

"your teeth are beautiful, by the way." the thing turns around, and the fox feels as though they see him—they see him. "i feel as though i've known your ivory all my life."

he leaves.

it doesn't matter, the night will always come—there will always be tomorrow.

it doesn't matter that this false one replicates shamura's desire to babble about nothing.

it doesn't matter that there is a beating in his chest that will not go away.

(he misses the chatter.)

there is always tomorrow night.