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Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, don't look down, breathe out.
Breathe in, don't look.
Just don't look.
That's the mantra Lambert repeated as he laid on the floor of Anura. He stared up at dusty gray skies, feeling rain slip between beautiful orange leaves to patter against the crunchy, yellowing grass. Forever autumn, forever waiting for winter.
He wasn't going to survive this, that they know, but that isn't an issue. When they die, they'll just be remade once again, Narinder will summon them to the death God's prison and realme. Large skeletal hands, with sharp claws but gentle movements, would put him back together, a deep voice that shook his bones and insides in a nice way would tell the Lamb to fight. To get up and fight.
He could not get up and fight, not right now. He's fought through missing limbs, through broken hands and shattered legs, the crunch of bones was nothing when he could still move. A simple moment of healing, on the off chance they were lucky enough to find a heart was enough to fix it without death. And if it wasn't, if continuing would only bring harm?
They have moving arms, moving legs, and a way to kill themselves. Narinder doesn't like it, he knows this, for some odd reason his benefactor is bristled by the idea of their callous abuse of their ability to be revived.
Or maybe it was the idea that others that do the same, will never be revived.
Lambert doesn't know, he doesn't even know why that's what he thinks of right now as he looks up at the sky. He understands now, that death wasn't something to scoff at, that he took advantage of his quick way out. Oh how he understands.
By now, his wool was soggy, rain although slow, was persistent enough that they are left feeling like a soaked rag, it bunches up in thick coils. If he had room in his mind to think, he'd be annoyed for the future matting he'd have to shear or brush out. He wonders if Sozo would help him, even when Sozo’s mind was drifting elsewhere, he seemed to like having something to do with his hands. And well, wool is very soft and fun to fiddle with.
Lambert coughs, and he feels blood fill his mouth, the jarring movement knocks him out of his adrenaline induced state of peace. And it hurts, what he now recognizes as him passing out slowly is reversed as he is thrown into consciousness. It hurts, it hurts so bad but at the same time he can't feel it.
He looks down, he can't move his head, but he can move his eyes. He can't help but gurgle out a sob at the sight, eyes looking back to the pale clouds, back to the rain that moistens his eyes because he. Can't. Blink. He can't close his eyes and pretend he isn't here.
It's not enough, the memory of what he saw when glancing down was ingrained in his mind. A large spike, straight through his spine, out his midsection. Blood and gore covered it, some organ spilling out to decorate the spike like some morbid maypole. It was a trap, he fell back into it, a clumsy step leading to him tripping and now he was stuck.
He was stuck impaled to the ground, nerves in his spine severed, so his limbs didn't even twitch. Nothing vital was hurt, none of the now disemboweled organs were ripped, in a stroke of disgusting luck. Instead, they pooled around him, getting covered in dirt and grass, attracting flies as they land on the now washed off intestines and stomach. Long since had the visceral brown and red liquids been cleaned away by the rain, somehow seeing it without the veil of gore was worse.
Because of the spike position, there wasn't anything bar bleeding out that was actually going to kill him, seeing as he survived the spinal injury. But the spike itself acted as a plug, blood was tainting the dying grass, not even fertilizing it. But slowly, a slow drip that felt like eternity because he couldn't make it go faster. He couldn't use his hands to grasp at the crown’s weapon. He couldn't move his legs to agitate the wound. Their limbs lay uselessly, much alike the corpses of heretics that lay scattered around him, he can see someone else's blood slowly mix with his in the grass and he's envious of their no longer breathing form.
The crown hovers uselessly, it can't harm him. Lambert always wondered if the crown was alive, if it had feelings and a perception of the world. He knows now it does, as it nudges against his head, how it hovers near his hand when he moves his eye to look. A dagger, a knife, an axe, a sword. He cannot close his hoof around the handle, he can only look into a red eye, more narrowed as usual as it flits between forms.
A dagger, a knife, an axe, a sword.
A dagger, a knife, an axe, a sword.
Lambert tried to tell the red crown to stop, a gurgle as he coughed out blood. It's not a word, his tongue feels like lead and it's a miracle he can still cough, lest he slowly drown in his own blood. The grass below him is more red, it really stands out against the dull colour.
The crown stops, and just lands in his hand.
Lambert wants to scream and cry, they really do. He can't even feel the stupid spike through his spine, he can't move to end his life quicker and all he has to measure time is how much blood he's slowly losing.
He's tired, he wants to sleep, but he can't close his eyes, eternally staring even though he's breathing.
Narinder can't reach him here, not alive like this. He prays to him desperately in his mind anyway, knowing they can hear, that the feline probably thinks him weak.
‘Help me, please help me, One Who Waits, please have mercy, this is not death, this is not living, help me. I can't feel anything, but I know it hurts, it feels like it hurts but I can't feel it. Please, I'm sorry for failing, I'm sorry. I devote myself to you mind and body, please don't leave my body like this. Please.’
It's less of a prayer and more of a desperate babble. Lambert wasn't above mortal hysteria.
‘You will die.’ Is the baritone voice that always makes him feel warm, it doesn't this time. It echoes in his mind like a sentencing.
‘Please, please-’
‘I can't make it go quicker, I'm trapped, just like you.’
Lambert gurgles out another sob, this one not for himself, but the idea that Narinder has gone numb like this. That he's trapped like this for much longer than the hour or two he's been here. For centuries, for a planned eternity. Did he beg and plead for help too? Did Shamura answer that they can't help, as Narinder answered to him?
Lambert lays there for another hour, and Narinder listens for another hour. The god listens as he prays for strength, as he hopes his family, long gone, hadn't died like this. How he will forever always make sure his enemies are dead, a small mercy as he doesn't wish this fate on anyone. To slowly die and not be able to do anything about it.
But that is to live isn't it? To die slowly.
To not be able to stop it.
To be sacrificed.
Once he's lost enough blood, the rain has stopped, his blood looks crusty where it's now successful collecting on his wool. His organs are drying out, it looks wrong and sickly. So he looks away and back to the sky as his vision fizzles out.
And then his eyes open, body laying in a shallow pool of water as he looks up into white oblivion and rising mist. He groans, body twitching erratically for a bit, before he starts to sob. It's pathetic, how he curls up into a ball before his god and cries.
But he feels a skeletal hand stroke his back, stinging pain he didn't even know was there in his shock fades away, as the cat gently mends together the last of split skin above his spine.
“My vessel, you did well. You are strong, you survived that for longer than any other person would, but it seems strength is sometimes a curse.” Narinder says, adjusting their fleece to cover them better, chains rattling and clinking loudly even when the moment is so small. The action doesn't feel small though, as Lambert grabs onto his fleece like a lifeline, his hands feeling the texture of the fabric.
The red crown shifts on his head, he touches it as well, and it happily forms into a sword for him, eye back to normal. No longer narrowing and creasing with whatever limited emotions such an object has.
As he sits up, letting the crown shift and land on his head, the Lamb is surprised as skeletal hands wrap around him and lift him up from the ground, leaving him to almost fall back lest he grab onto the thumb. He fits perfectly in Narinder's hand, tears still falling and form shaking slightly in shock.
“I'm sorry- I should not of-” Lambert starts, voice croaky as he tries to apologize for praying in such a manner. To beg for mercy that could not be given.
“Do not apologize vessel,”Narinder says, three red eyes narrowing at the shaking form within his hands.
There is a heavy silence in the air, Narinder's thumb slowly moves to pat against the now dry wool of Lambert’s back, sneaking under the fleece to do so. It doesn't feel invasive, the gentle scratch down his spine reminds him he can feel and move now.
“I wanted to help you. I do not wish a fate like that upon anyone, even less so my own vessel.” Is what the trapped god eventually says, watching as Lambert still shakes in his palm, petting them gently in an effort to help them brush off the shock.
Lambert leans into the touch, looking up at Narinder at those words, own face creasing in an emotion best described as pure empathy and rage mixed all in one. He looks into three red eyes with such righteous conviction that the cat gives a sly smile of joy, knowing what morbid desires linger in the head of such a pathetic creature. His expression smooths out when Narinder scratches a bit harder, snapping him from thoughts.
To say Lambert was devoted to his god was an understatement, somewhere along the lines, devotion and affection was mixed into one confusing cocktail of wanting to be close, close like this, but knowing that it was inherently wrong.
That he has to be tortured and suffer greatly to be touched like this, to be talked to so gently and handled with such care. That it's like these words are as fake as the words he murmurs to high ranking followers and empty kisses he gives his spouses.
He’s no better though, because he truly believes Narinder wanted to help.
Narinder couldn't save them from that trap.
He could save Narinder from his own.
“I won't… I won't need help next time. I'll set you free.”
That gets a laugh and a languid purr that almost scrambles the Lamb’s mind and insides. Wether from the physical feeling of the vibrations or the emotions connected to it, it is hard to tell.
That's… new.
“Such conviction my vessel… Truly, I would not accept help from anyone else, no one is worthy of the title of being mine like you are. Those traps, I sent Aym to disable them. You need not pray for me like that again.” Narinder replies, hands lowering the lamb back to the ground and hovering for a moment as they briefly struggle to stand.
“I will still pray to you.”
“I expect you do.” Is the slightly cocky response, voice a back to the usual cold tones, “But do it in your own free leisure. Not out of desperation.”
The Lamb nods, they feel heavy and faint still, but a small part of them preens from the attention. The other warns that this is fake, that one day Narinder will have them trapped like that spike. Leave them begging and stuck, that one day, Narinder will not answer his prayers.
He doesn't push that thought away, even as his face reddens and he nods, dropping into a bow. The Lamb holds that thought close to his heart, above where the spike had once held him. His own taste of imprisonment, left an aftertaste of bile and blood.
Once the glow of the portal beneath their feet fades, he finds himself back at his cult. Spouses sleeping and chores to be done, Lambert doesn't rest. He knows what dreams await suck a scrambled mind if he tried to sleep.
No, he moves his arms, his legs. He cleans and he slaves away.
His hand beckons the crown.
A dagger, a knife, an axe, a sword.
He doesn't look down at his midsection, he hasn't stopped to check if there is a scar beneath the wool like usual. There is always a scar after deaths.
No. He breathes in, breathes out.
Lambert throws up in the bushes next to him, thinking about a spike and a purr.
Two traps in one day.