Chapter Text
The Battle for his Crown was... Humiliating in the worst way possible.
His Loyal Sentries Slain before his eyes, bodies disappearing under the white sand and water. His Eldritch body close to useless but his eyes and Magic. But that, too, have been similarly cut down. Unstable, Overpowered by the very Creature he nurtured as a God. Beneath them, vulnerable and torn by His millenium of Tourture, only to be spared.
Narinder does not remember when He first arrived, or the following days. His first day awake was spent in blinding pain. He wished The Lamb had run Their Crown-Sword through him in those moments.
He still does, sometimes, as he painfully sits on a creaky bed in a little hut.
He stares at the bandages wrapped tightly around him. They're everywhere where the Chains had ate away at his body. That He gnawed on himself. His arms, legs, torso, neck, even his tail. He looks like one of the mummies he used to delicately wrap when he was centuries younger. Blood is beginning to seep, and Narinder known the medics will come soon to change them.
He looks dead.
He feels dead, alone in a bustling Commune lead by his Treacherous Ex-Vessel.