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The two of them sit on the bank of a silent, deeply flowing river. Around them, Darkwood is lush and quiet in the evening air.
Tall trees, many bushes, nests far above yet inconsequential. The sky, slowly purpling with the bruise of dusk. The sun slinking away at steady, even pace.
They are there at the Lamb's behest, of course, and they sort through wildflowers with deft fingers, picking only the whitest, the purest, the best to weave into a thick circlet of fragrant blooms.
The Goat, bored by this from the very start, is knee-deep in the water, messing with river stones, weathered bones, rusty weapons. They flash out with their claws to pull fat, lazy fish from the water. They sink under the cool stream to emerge with their spoils.
When the Lamb beckons the Goat back home to them, they stick out their tongue in childish jest and oblige.
When they return, early in the morning the next day, after clearing more heretics in the former lands of the Old Faith for their righteous and just cause of supreme leadership, the Goat is adorned in white flowers, the Lamb carrying pocketfuls of heavy nonsense.
They speak nothing of it. Everything is natural between them. Even the strange.
They like to tangle up in each other. That is, to say, they cuddle. They lounge. They bask.
The morning is crisp and cool, singing sweetly.
They're in the Lamb's tent, in the Lamb's home, in the Lamb's sensible world of heartache and consistent, courteous sacrifice. They're pressed up against each other there, silk pillows and cotton blankets a nest of muffled noise beneath them. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, the Goat's back to the linens and the Lamb atop them.
The Lamb counts their coins, their bones, their prayers. The Goat counts the beat of their hearts; as one, always.
There is, eternally, some mundane task to fill their days together. Like watching the sunrise. Like watching the sunset. Like watching the tumultuous clouds roll ever closer to home.
The Lamb is looking up to the night sky and embroidering the constellations they find on coal black cloth. Crickets cricket, the fireflies buzz. Tangible devotion, vestiges of the past, flit and flutter by. The wind rustles grass, rustles trees.
While the Goat is off on crusade, the Lamb tends to their vicious flock, quiet in the night.
It is almost lonely, without them by their side. Some part of the Lamb wants to give chase, track their brutal path through the Lands of the Old Faith and catch them in some skirmish, however.
The Lamb devotes their time to embroidering cloth.
The Goat had needed solitude. The Lamb can acknowledge this. It is a simple concept. It is nice, too, to be simple and solitary. They feel this way in their heavy, slow thumping heart. They feel this, too.
The Lamb devotes their time to embroidering cloth, and, when the dawn comes, they drape the Goat's disciples in it.
Maybe they will think twice before they leave them again, to their own terrible devices, bringing wonder to darkness and joy to light.
The both of them are pulling silk from Silk Cradle when the Goat starts it.
First, they are collecting steadily, careful and precise in their practiced ministrations. Then, there is a moment of silence, where the Goat stares the Lamb down with a considering gaze. Very soon after, there is a quick flurry of movement as they hasten, slashing down cradle of silk upon cradle of silk, stashing it within their crown's realm of power with vigor.
The Lamb watches them curiously for a moment, then gasps, air heavy and dust-smelling on their tongue.
As time passes, their competition grows uglier. The Goat rams themself into the Lamb's side, the Lamb swipes a spool of silk from beneath the Goat's very fingers, both lock weapons, retreat, lock weapons again, that gleeful fire in their eyes.
They gather for three days. They bicker over the winner even longer. Neither of them dwell on these things much. Everything simple is unimportant; things of joy are uncomplicated.
Things keep moving.
The Lamb wakes in an instant and thrashes, whacking the Goat in the face with a foot. The Goat wakes in a flash and, on instinct, slashes out with their weapon. Bleary eyed and frantic, the Lamb blocks with their own. Sparks fly.
They freeze. They stare at each other.
Their lower their killing things. They look each other in the eye. They breathe. They consider.
The walls of the Goat's home is curved with the bones of an ancient creature's ribcage. The skylight is dim with the slow coming dawn. The bed is large, and darkly colored, and it is where they rest at night, when they deign to rest at all.
After a moment, they shake themselves off. The Lamb stares at a wall. The Goat resettles themself in bed and stares at a different wall. Things are quiet.
Neither of them speak much. They do not open their mouths to speak on it. They don't have to.
They talk often. They talk through the tilts of their heads, the stances they stand in, the expressions on their faces, their hands.
They don't break the norm for this. They never have. They likely never will. They would never have need to.
Instead, come morning, the Goat orders the Lamb good meal, nice bathing, good time. They send the Lamb to spend hours with their followers. The Lamb adores those followers. Neither of them mention any of it. They just know.
Mirrors of each other. One and the same.
It only takes five minutes of the Lamb being pelted with ripe, gleaming berries for them to chase the Goat around with a fishing rod.
This becomes a race, which then becomes a battle of attrition spanning several days where many are slaughtered in the good names of their faiths.
The sun stares impassively, the creeks run rampant, the days are long and good.
There is much to do. However, much has been done already.
No shame in joy.