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Maybe it was the way the Lamb spoke without words. Something in the way they emoted. The bleats and soft sighs. The almost words. How they consoled, cared, and controlled their flock of dim-witted followers.
There were sermons almost daily. Impassioned sounds would fill the air. Followers would chant and wail. There was a call and response. And he understood... Nothing.
To him, the Lamb was an enigma. A mystery. An empty, cavernous, void where there should have been something. There should have been something. He should have been able to see everything within the tiny creature. He had spared it's insignificant pathetic life! The Lamb was his! There should have been nothing hidden from him in regards to the little cloaked being.
And yet.
He could hear the followers. He could understand every mundane word and dull little thought. And the followers clearly understood the Lamb. But. He could not.
It troubled him. Of course it troubled him. If he considered it too often, pondered on it for too long, allowed it to overtake his thoughts entirely... Something uncomfortably similar to anxiety would begin to bubble away in his core.
What was the Lamb thinking? What were their goals? Why could he not puzzle out the sounds into something even reassembling words?
Perhaps if he were able to see the Lamb with his own eyes he could garner a glimpse of a sliver of grasp of a hint of an understanding. Something he could build from. A base from which he could observe. Learn. Understand. Enthrall. Control. Own.
--
Another day broke. Followers exited their huts and hurried into the dimly-lit temple for their morning sermon, footsteps muted by grass turning loud on the stone floor. Bowing their heads and whispering while the small woollen creature stood at the alter waited patiently as they filed into neat short rows.
Silence fell as the last follower took their place.
And the Lamb began their sermon.
Around them, the dark stone walls seemed to flutter and waver, like thin gauzy curtains in a gentle breeze. The stone floor appeared to warp and buckle, as though made of water one moment and molten metal the next. Breathing became harder as the air became heavy. Hot. Wet.
A force far beyond their control dragged sounds out from deep down within their throats. Each syllable scraped across their tongues in sobering, coppery, agony.
And above them, the Lamb.
The Lamb who seemed to stretch and warp unnaturally. Their voice which deepened and rose. Their limbs which grew long. Their body that twisted. Their features which became strange. Alien. Wrong. And their eyes. Oh. Oh, gods above and below, forgive them. Their eyes...
And then... it was finished. Done. The air turned cool and kind again. All was as it had been mere moments before.
The followers murmured their gratitude to the Lamb and tried their best not to flee the temple. To flee the Lamb. Their sweetly-smiling and kindly-featured leader. The Lamb who stood in the dimly-lit temple with their pristine white wool and pitch-black face. With their wide, curious eyes and constantly twitching ears. And the black crown atop their head, with its single, unblinking eye. Measuring their worth and finding them lacking.
No. They did not flee the Lamb, but they did not dawdle, either.
And the Lamb did not stop them. This time.