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In a world of nothing but white fog accompanied by chains and the faint scent of the deceased, there stood a large towering being, immediately noticeable even from a farther distance. It took the Lamb a second glance to notice two additional figures nestled to the left and right of the being, clad in black and white respectively. Guards, presumably, who were serving their duties with an intimidating presence. A fitting match for the god that stood in between.
The Lamb appeared so helpless and frail at first. Shackled as they were in their chains, weighed down by the burden of their existence, they were weak. Living was no fault of theirs—after all, what choice did a mortal have in the destination of their souls towards their bodies? The Lamb, and all of the other sheep that there used to be, possessed no fault in being who they were. Even so, the Bishops of the Old Faith condemned them and the rest of their kind for the mere act of existence. Had the prophecy been ignored in the first place, perhaps all would be at peace. Alas, paranoia festered within the minds of those in the Old Faith, and now the Lamb trekked toward a god who was shackled even more than they were.
Chains wrapped around his tall and magnificent body like a coiling black snake. Although The One Who Waits was a prisoner of his own realm, the grace and authority of his being could not be confined. The faint red of his stare shone from beneath his veil, and it rustled as the god released a weighty puff that he did not need for continued existence. It seemed almost like a mockery directed at the mortals whose breaths were a requirement for survival.
The eyes of both him and the crown scanned the Lamb in scrutiny. He asked the Lamb in his low and rumbling voice, which possessed a bite that was akin to sharp metal scraping across a jagged and rocky surface, “All I ask for is for you to start a Cult in my name. Do we have a deal?”
The Lamb shivered, but amidst the fear that threatened to suffocate their mind, they felt a sense of connection to the god at the mirrored circumstance—of them in chains and the god more so. Perhaps they and this god weren’t so different after all, and perhaps that was one of the reasons why they bowed down to the god.
“Absolutely.”
Alongside the relationship they’d established with Death, the Lamb felt another emotion arise within. It was buried so deep in their helplessness and fear, it appeared as if it were nonexistent—but The One Who Waits provided them with another chance at life. He’d saved them, freed them from suffering. With that freedom, the gateway opened for the life of the new emotion, previously suppressed by uncontrollable circumstance.
Rage. Pure, unbridled, thrashing rage that overflowed in relentless waves and exploded with each vicious swing of their blade. They’ve received a newfound power, and they wielded it with such ferocity that not a single foe could escape from their wrath.
The Lamb arose from Below, and the gasps of heretics erupted from all sides of them. Before the hooded figures could process their resurrection, the Lamb dashed and stabbed at the heretic to their left in the chest. The heretic delivered a gurgling scream, and on instinct threw her dagger at the Lamb; the Lamb leapt back, then swung their legs to trip another heretic that made his way to them. They jumped behind the tripped heretic to summon the crown’s sword. The blade flew from the first heretic’s chest, and as the heretic in front of them rushed to stand, the crown too stabbed them.
The Lamb took the crown again and used its blade to block a mad swing from an enemy behind. A loud clang resounded in their ears. The assaulter rebounded, and the wooly vessel slashed their blade in an arc, creating a large gash on the third heretic’s midsection. Another eruption of screams. It wasn’t over yet—the two they’d previously wounded struggled to attack them at the same time. A fourth heretic made his way to assist his wounded allies. Surrounded by all four prepared to retaliate, the Lamb gnashed their teeth. They tried to roll away—a knife pierced through the Lamb’s wool, creating a cut on their skin. The Lamb grunted, voice transforming into an angered yell, rage refueling at the sting of the wound.
The Lamb’s vision turned red, new power surging within them. The crown was providing strength. They rolled at an enemy and sliced their neck in one swift motion; a gurgle, a splatter of blood, and a thump on the floor.
Not done.
They sliced at another attacker’s arm and kicked her to the ground, then pierced their blade into her back; they took the blade out quickly and thrusted it into another masked assailant’s head. Three fallen, one more to go.
The final enemy put up a fight, quick and agile in their footsteps. Still not enough against the Lamb’s fury. The Lamb ducked as the combatant swung for their head, and the Lamb sliced up at the heretic’s arms, cutting them off with the sharp edge of the crown. The Lamb relished in the screech of agony and the rush of blood that rained from the amputated arms. They pushed the blade into the foe’s chin, through tongue and muscle straight to the brain. More were arriving.
The Lamb killed them all off. They remained in the same room as all of the rotting corpses for longer than intended. Growls erupted from the Lamb’s throat as they swung repeatedly at the decaying bodies of the followers of the Old Faith. The corpses were already a mess of blood and viscera, spewing fluids further with each slash, and yet they did not stop. Red coated their eyes, and they swung til even the bones were reduced. And once they were finished with their mad frenzy, they stood still in place. The red glow of their eyes receded, and they breathed harshly at the effort of combat, observing the work of their anger.
Everything was destroyed. The grass, the stone, the tents, and the bodies of their enemies. The eye of the crown, still a sword in their hand, flickered.
“Excellent, vessel.” The Lamb flinched, their gaze moving to glance at the sword. The red eye of the weapon gazed back with satisfaction clear—a sword could look satisfied?—and then the Lamb realized who it was.
Their ears twitched, and their lips quivered at the words. A gentle feeling, akin to spring breeze kissing their wool, spread from their steadily speeding heart and throughout their veins. Their thrashing fury was gone just like that, replaced by the feeling of serenity and relief at the now-familiar sound of their god’s voice, permanently etched into their mind at the moment of their revival. They cradled the sword’s handle gently and looked at the red eye of the crown with trembling lips.
Their savior.
“Thank you, my lord.” The Lamb responded in a reverent whisper that went unnoticed as they pulled the blade back to a warrior’s stance and continued to cut and tear relentlessly.
—
On the Lamb’s first death, they arrived in a fit of screams and sobs. They’d succumbed to the blade of a heretic. Tears wet their wooly face as they clutched at their gaping wound, and they laid pathetically on the summoning circle. There was a dazed, hopeless look in their eyes, as if they’d been reduced to what they were prior to receiving the power of the crown. The One Who Waits, alongside his most loyal disciples, observed the Lamb in quietude.
“Rise, vessel.” The One Who Waits commanded. The Lamb’s wounds had finally healed back together. The Lamb pressed their hands against where the stab had been, and they flinched, peering down at it with confusion swirling on their face.
“I-I’m, I’m not dead…?” The Lamb slowly looked around their body, noticing as well that even their tattered fleece had been restored. Their eyes trailed to The One Who Waits.
“Fear not, for you are my chosen vessel and death cannot halt you.” The god of death raised his skeletal hands and aroused the chatter of his chains. He peered at his vessel with the might of a powerful being. “I shall not allow it, for I still have need of you.”
The Lamb looked down again at where their wounds used to be and rummaged through their wool. Then, they steadily stood, their legs wobbling at the effort. They grasped at their arms, squeezing with what could only be described as an expression of rabid effervescence mixed with horror on their face. They looked at their god’s disciples before their eyes once again sought out the veiled countenance of their god.
“I… I tried so hard to survive,” They mumbled with a perceptible crack in their tone, restlessly tapping a finger on their arm. “I thought I’d be dead for sure once I lost my second chance. I didn’t know I would… yeah.”
The One Who Waits paused. Oh, how helpless his vessel looked in front of him. The scornful god inside him could not resist the rise of an inward scowl. Each one of his previous vessels had displayed a similar look of mortal weakness. He could only hope that this one would not be consumed by it like the rest had been. He stated, “Now you are aware, vessel. Build and strengthen the Cult. This is how power is gained.”
The Lamb kneaded against their wool to ease a phantom pain. They took in a deep inhale, the heart beating within their chest steadily regaining a more stable rhythm at Death’s declaration. “I see.”
Narinder extended, “Continue on, undaunted. Each time you are brought down, you rise again stronger.”
The Lamb provided a small nod. They dropped their arms to their sides and lowered their head. The One Who Waits raised his hand, satisfied with the conversation, ready to resurrect the Lamb—
“T-thank you, my god!” Abruptly, the Lamb yelled. The god of death halted in his movements, peering curiously at the interruption. The Lamb’s hands were held into fists, and their eyes were shut tightly. Aym and Baal similarly glanced in confusion at the vessel’s unusual display.
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have ever had the chance to feel alive again. I lived most of my life in fear of death. You’ve… saved me. I-I can’t thank you enough.” The Lamb said in a lowered tone, a modicum of worship leaking through their expression of gratitude.
The One Who Waits raised an eyebrow. This reaction… it was unexpected, but it made him contemplate. The gears whirred in his head, and a quick conclusion was made.
Perhaps it would do him good for the Lamb to possess veneration towards him. More than once, his previous vessels had acted in some form of resistance against their impending doom. It was inevitable at the conclusion of their servitude. They would beg, they would fight back, or bargain much like the rat that had served him previously. If he made the Lamb devoted to him, they wouldn’t resist him when it was time for their sacrifice.
The more he pondered about it, the more it made sense. A plan formulated within the god’s mind. He moved closer to the Lamb and verbalized, “Liberation from death is no blessing, vessel, nor is it a curse. It is only a tool for you to serve me.”
“Even so, my lord, you’re my savior. For that I’m—thank you. Thank you so much.” The Lamb responded, and with the enlightenment that Death received, he could now clearly see the budding fanaticism that showed even through their anxiety. A coiling sense of satisfaction at his own genius grew in his mind.
The weight of such a gaze was, in a sense, a burden—but it was good. Even better than good, actually. It was disturbing in one way yet served to stroke his ever-large ego. And so The One Who Waits scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “I have no need for appreciation.”
—
One of the Lamb’s habits whenever entering a domain with unfamiliar enemies is to first remain at the defensive to learn the enemies’ attacks. Dodge left, right, and dart through whenever they saw the enemy at the verge of charging. Then, once they saw a pattern in the way their foes came after them, their skills would shine through. Strike—dodge, strike again. Ultimately, enemies would fall beneath their blade without leaving more than a simple burn or cut through their wool. At times battles would take longer than they should within one room, but the Lamb was ever so cautious in their steps, swift with each devastating deliverance of their blade and cat-like in their skips and hops—a trait likely obtained from the one they served. By the end of each crusade, they’d return with victory and numerous spoils for their flock. And yet, the first time the Lamb came across Leshy, the Lamb was anything but swift and devastating.
The One Who Waits sensed their anger in the way they gripped the sword in their hand with such intensity. The Lamb watched mutely as Leshy’s followers became sacrificed for his power, and The One Who Waits observed as the vessel’s breaths grew faster when Leshy transformed. The chained god felt it with the first step the Lamb took after witnessing the transformation—
It was hate from the Lamb, dripping and overflowing much like the ichor that stained Death’s hands. Hate so vile and putrid that it consumed the Lamb’s body whole and caused their precise strikes to be reduced to nothing more than reckless attacks committed in sheer anger. Hate so loud and prominent that it caused them to run back at Leshy, again and again, despite suffering numerous wounds.
The Lamb fell. Their legs had been stabbed by one of the thorned spikes that Leshy threw at them. The Lamb remained on the floor, crawling and groaning and so filled with determination and unyielding rage despite bleeding heavily on the ground. Enemies flocked the Lamb on all sides, and with one low and spine-tingling rumble, the ground collapsed.
“W-wha—” The Lamb had no time to scream. Their bleeding and beaten body succumbed to the whims of gravity, and vertigo served as a momentary distraction as the Lamb fell into the void that was Leshy’s yawning maw with one vicious roar. They were crushed between numerous spiked teeth and drowned in black ichor.
The Lamb awoke once again in their god’s domain. They collapsed to the ground, choking and spitting out both blood and ichor and retching as they clutched at their gaping wounds inflicted by numerous teeth. But just as quickly as the snap of Leshy’s jaw had killed them, the wounds stitched themselves back up, leaving the Lamb panting on all fours at the clear surface of the great white Below. The three occupants of the prison of white fog surveilled as the vessel gathered themselves.
“You are much too consumed by anger.” The One Who Waits voiced, disappointment etched even onto the veil that shrouded his features. The Lamb removed their shaking hands from the floor and knelt with perturbation in front of their god.
“T-they killed us! Killed us all! Killed my flock, my kind, me!” The Lamb responded, then let out a stifled gag. They fixed their gaze up with wide and disoriented eyes at their god before shifting to clutch at their knees, clinging onto their wool. They shook, and whether due to fear or anger, The One Who Waits couldn’t tell.
Within the Lamb’s form, the god of death saw a small reflection of himself. This sheer hatred was much like his own. He himself had reacted as madly as them when his siblings had imprisoned him in collaboration Below. The One Who Waits stored the infuriated image of the Lamb in his mind.
“You are no longer dead,” Death asserted, raising a blackened, skeletal hand to the air and shaking it in an almost chiding manner. “I prevent you from having the ability to be so.”
“But not the others!” The Lamb screeched, pulling at their wool. “I’m the only one left! I hate them. I hate all of them for what they’ve done to the others. Each and every one of the Bishops of the Old Faith, I-I—“
“Then allow that hate to be your tool, not your weakness.” Commanded The One Who Waits. The air seemed to shift slightly at his declaration. The Lamb, though they were still trembling, stilled and raised their ears a margin to listen to their lord. Sporting the display of a wise god, he outspread his arms. The white fog of Below churned, shifting throughout his form as if to succumb to his glory.
“Despair over the others that have expired before you is irrelevant. Remain vengeful only for I, if not for yourself. Wield your rage as a tool to better serve me, not for them to use to their advantage,” The One Who Waits raised his arms, and the tinkling of his chains echoed within the foggy white prison of nothingness. All three of his servants marveled at him. “Never forget your final purpose.”
The Lamb stared at their god with an expressionless face for a lengthy amount of time, and the god of death allowed them to do so. Something within him grew content at the unwavering gaze of his vessel.
The god waited, wordlessly returning the gaze of the unmoving vessel, small and helpless beneath him. They were so simple, so easy to beguile. Then he viewed as they stood, glaring red fleece fluttering with their movements and gracefully cascading over their body. They reached up slowly, grasping at the crown nestled on their head, before closing their eyes and heaving a deep sigh.
“…Okay.” The Lamb uttered, and once they opened their eyes back up again, there it was—that blazing and relentless rage burning deep within and writhing alight with ferocity.
“Do not fail me, vessel.” Wield your rage. Let it consume you and transform into inflexible devotion, The One Who Waits thought.
The marks etched onto the summoning circle flared to life. The Lamb left in a whirl of fading red and black lights. The siblings standing on both sides of him glanced in confusion up at their god before hesitantly locking eyes with one another. Baal looked down and, in disciplined practice, continued to hold his weapon with undisturbed dedication. Aym, however, ever the braver and brazen one of the brothers, retreated his gaze back at the god of death. He raised a finger, “Master, pardon me for asking, but do you perhaps have some sort of intention towards the Lamb?”
The One Who Waits shifted all three of his eyes at his disciple. “Why do you ask?”
“You have never treated a vessel like this before,” Aym responded, moving his weight to his other foot and fixing his grip on his staff. “You would usually just, well, dismiss them.”
“Indeed, my disciple, you are correct in your judgment.” The One Who Waits nodded.
“I have discovered that, unlike the rest, their mind is more vulnerable to molding according to my preference.” A sharp-toothed grin sprouted at his lips. “Their faith would be a powerful tool for my use. If they devote themselves fully to me, they will not struggle like the rest have had before.”
Aym’s eyes sparkled alight through his veil. “I see now, master. If they lay their heart down fully for you, they will also willingly lay down their life for your freedom!”
The god of death nodded once more. “Precisely.”
Baal surveyed his god and brother in silence.
Something didn’t feel quite right to him.
—
Many days ran past with the Lamb fulfilling their mission of subservience towards the true owner of the red crown. They preferred ruling with quiet intensity, their god noted. While they would appear as a benevolent and kind ruler to their people, they would plot and act towards their best advantage—not unlike him. The introduction of mushrooms has been one example. Vivid were the memories of the Lamb wielding the power of chemicals to manipulate their followers. They wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse at utilizing the ritual when faith ran low, even at the expense of addiction and illness spreading throughout the followers. The fasting ritual was another tool for them too. When followers starved, they’d make them starve more, and cared not for when they returned from a crusade to a famished flock.
The Lamb masterfully disguised their cunning beneath a mask of benevolence, reassuring terrified followers in the morning and gutting the dead for their meat at night. Although it was not the iron fist he’d desired out of his vessel, The One Who Waits was still satisfied with the pitilessness of their performance.
In battle, the Lamb was ever so ruthless. The god who looked through the crown accredited the Lamb’s strength to the power of it, but he couldn’t stop himself from hesitantly wondering at their quick feet and calculated movements. Still, these skills weren’t enough to prevent them from dying from time to time, such as now, where they’d succumbed to a bomb exploding in their face.
“I had to force myself to fight for survival when the Old Faith committed genocide against us all.” The Lamb expressed as they arrived in their god’s domain. They glanced down at their body, now rapidly restoring itself back to its former glory, from bone to nerves to muscle and skin. Their arms had finally returned, and they gazed dazedly at their reformed palms.
“All I had was a dagger. And I got used to killing.” The Lamb closed their eyes tightly. Memories, probably, flashing in front of their eyes.
“Rumination is a weakness, vessel,” The One Who Waits responded, red eyes narrowing down at the small figure of the Lamb. “Focus on your purpose.”
And as soon as his words were finished, he willed the Lamb back into the mortal realm. Unfortunately for him however, the Lamb’s conversations with their god didn’t end there. The Lamb, now ever eager to express unsolicited information, continued to speak to their god as if one would a friend.
“…Welp,” Aym and Baal peered curiously as the Lamb held a quickly decaying piece of fish in their hands. “Tried bringing some salmon here, looks like it doesn’t work!”
The One Who Waits flexed his bony fingers. Conversation was quickly becoming an irritating task at the Lamb’s continued acts of familiarity. He did talk to his disciples, but the frequency of it decayed the less he had to teach them. The three typically basked in silence—he’d allow his disciples to do as they wished whilst he himself either watched the Lamb’s ventures or contemplated his plans for vengeance. He was not built for constant communication. “Anything that arrives in my domain decays lest I make certain exceptions.” He stopped. Then he added, “For what purpose did you bring fish, of all things, Below?”
“You didn’t see through the crown?” The Lamb asked back as they let their hands tilt, and the bones of the fish fell—those too decayed, faster than they hit the ground.
“I do not observe your every move like some crude interloper, vessel.”
“Strange. Feels like you watch me all the time, my god.” The Lamb dusted their hands clean and grinned toothily at the lord they served.
The One Who Waits scowled. “You think too highly of yourself.”
The Lamb, that insect, chuckled at their god’s reaction. Death hurriedly buried his scandalized feelings away as he sensed the near immediate bubbling of irritation at the blatant display of disrespect.
…No matter. Cultivating the devotion of a vessel had more value in the long run. Camaraderie had not been what he wished out of the Lamb, but if it was what allowed them to make poor attempts to please him like this, then so be it.
The god of death graciously expanded his patience for the vessel. Without an ounce of fear, the Lamb hopped off the section of land that donned the portal to the afterlife, on to the white surface of Below. Numerous eyes, the god and his disciples’, followed the wooly creature’s steps as they sat themselves in front of the god of death. They appeared much like a careless child in a nursery sitting before a weathered and wise adult. The Lamb craned their neck to gaze up at the veiled complexion of their god.
“You seem to give me a lot of gold in return for offering you certain fish. I didn’t know if you guys actually manage to eat the fish I give as offerings, so I jumped into a river and held onto some salmon while waiting to drown, just to see if I could give you food myself!” The Lamb explained, their bell tinkling with each enthusiastic bob of their head. Aym and Baal’s eyes simultaneously widened in reaction to the Lamb’s words.
The One Who Waits became speechless. No other vessel had done such—halfwitted things in the past. Truly, he was beginning to question if he’d chosen the correct vessel after all.
He shook his head. “Foolish Lamb, we have no need for consumption here Below. It is unwise to waste time drowning when you could be venturing off on a crusade or tending to the Cult.”
“But don’t you guys miss it though? Food? Since you said you could make exceptions and stop stuff from decaying in here, can’t you just stop fish from decaying and then you guys can eat?”
Patience. One must have patience. “Certain exceptions require great power. You are an exception, and your price was my crown. All things that come to the realm must always be deceased. Are you finished yet, Lamb?”
“So… you don’t hunger?”
“Lamb, return to the flock—“
“I starved,” The Lamb interrupted, standing to their feet and placing a hand to their wooly chest as they looked firmly up at their god. “And I had to dig into trash and filth for food. At times all I could do was pull and munch at grass and tree bark.”
The One Who Waits gazed down exasperatedly at the Lamb, vexed at the interruption. “What significance does this hold in your purpose?”
The Lamb ignored him, continuing bravely, “Eventually, I had to learn how to pull and munch at the followers of the Old Faith, too. I wanted to try and bring you something so you could… I don’t know, eat? Eat again?”
The One Who Waits sighed. The strong urge to run a skeletal hand across his face and heave an inelegant groan tugged at his mind. He quickly ushered it away. “Your tale and your actions do nothing to faze me, vessel, if you wished to bring something out of this.” He shook his head, and a small movement of his hands caused the tinkling of chains to erupt briefly.
The Lamb chuckled. “I wasn’t trying to get anything out of it. I was just trying to… you know?”
“No, I do not.”
The Lamb shrugged in response, and the god twitched a finger to return them to the cult.
Raising the devotion of a vessel was taxing.
—
The Lamb has taken to rambling through the crown.
It was insufferable, their constant blabbering. He was able to endure it well enough when they came to him death after death (the occurrence of dying had begun to get more frequent as well, with the Lamb committing careless mistakes in battle from time to time), but now they irritated him more by forcing him to respond through the crown. They’d speak of many unnecessary things to him, most of which he’d dismiss, but listening to their words was an inevitability when they’d bleat away unceasingly. The One Who Waits attempted desperately to expand his patience—he suffered the annoyance, all for the singular goal of having the Lamb’s fanaticism increase towards him. He consoled himself many times—headaches were a small sacrifice to the conclusive goal of undisturbed liberation.
“I don’t know why so many of the followers find it fun to try and prank people by eating poop,” The Lamb rambled. “I feel bad for rejecting them each time—they look so upset when I do—but who finds it fun to make someone eat literal poop?”
Death replied from his realm. “Loyalty is a necessary thing to raise for the growth of the Cult.”
The Lamb picked camellias and stored them. “What, so you’re telling me to cook poo and feed it to my followers?”
A snap in his mind. All promises within him of greatness in return for toleration melted into fizzing vexation. The One Who Waits, contrary to his moniker, responded in impatience. “Your nonsense is beginning to get irksome, vessel. Do not test me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m teasing! Please don’t go, I’m so lonely without you!” The Lamb clutched at the crown and begged. The Lamb waited, listening in for any further words from the crown, before pulling it down from their wooly head and staring dead into its red eye.
“My lord? My god? My gooooddd? Please answer, my lord!”
Narinder growled.
“You’re still here!” The Lamb laughed, a skip and a hop in their step as they rolled into another section of Darkwood.
The ridiculousness of this thing.
It was when the Lamb landed a heavy attack on one of the shielded heretics in Darkwood that the god of death thought to himself, was stretching his patience thin for this Lamb truly worth it after all?
The Lamb timed the fall of their hammer in perfect precision. They gathered the enemies into one corner, dodging swiftly as the hoard of bats and heretics all attacked them in unison. They heaved the hammer upwards with great effort—one hoof lifting off the ground as if they were on the verge of falling backwards from the weight of it—and slammed the hammer down with a thundering smash. The bats all but became crushed under the weight of it, and the heretics whose bones and muscles broke from the impact let out yowls of agony, convulsing on the floor as they felt themselves shatter from within. The other bats that escaped the hammer’s fury quickly became agitated and attacked the Lamb again—too late, the Lamb dodged.
The Lamb was surely using his patience as a tool for themselves to play with, making a fool of their god. Perhaps their show of devotion was false after all. They’d gotten comfortable with him quickly. The Lamb lifted the hammer once more, grunting, and smashed the rest of the living heretics. Blood gushed from beneath the hammer and quickly splattered on the Lamb’s wool, some leaving red dots against their face. Organ and bone became pulverized as easily as that, oozing out from beneath the dark covers of heretic robes through splintered skin like a wish to quickly escape from the heretics’ bodies. Another dodge from the Lamb, then they heaved the hammer to their side. The Lamb swung in a circle and hit the remaining bats all at once. The force of the swing made the bats crash against one another and fly fiercely to a wall, perishing.
The Lamb turned the hammer into a crown once more. They let out one breath, and the excitement of battle washed away from their body. They lifted the sharp ends of their fleece. “Since I can use the hammer with the crown, and every other weapon really, this means you’ve used them too before you were chained, right?” The Lamb asked as they winced at the mess of blood at their midsection.
The god of death contemplated whether they deserved to be provided with a response. An inward sigh resounded in his mind. The Lamb would continue pestering him if he did not respond, anyway. “Every curse and every weapon you wield are all of my possessions. I am the sole owner of the crown and its abilities. So do not disrespect me, Lamb—“
His old speech of his greatness became cut by the Lamb once more. “That is so awesome!” The Lamb quickly took the grown into their hands and cradled it in awe, eyes sparkling as they pushed the red eye to themselves. The One Who Waits was startled at the sudden closeness of their face through the gaze of the crown.
“You’re awesome! Since you own this power, I can’t believe how long it must have taken you to learn how to use these weapons!”
This was… unprecedented. But it wasn’t an unwelcome reaction. Better than the mockery they’d made of him prior.
The god of death’s ego grew at the enthusiastic compliment. “I had no need to learn their mechanics. Once the crown was bestowed upon me, usage was as easy as lifting a finger.”
“Seriously?! I hated using the hammer and gauntlets at first. I can’t believe it, that’s so unfair. Why couldn’t I have used it easily right off the bat?” The Lamb grumbled in envy. They trotted away from the crushed enemies to rummage through the grass for camellias.
…Good. At least the Lamb was aware of his greatness. The corners of the god of death’s lips twitched upwards. “It is because you are not the true owner of the crown, Lamb.”
“When and how did you get the crown, anyway?” The Lamb asked, letting out a sound of awe as they pulled a heap of flowers in their grasp.
“I will not tell you how. I received it far before this generation was ever born, when the first gods dawned the land. Far before civilization expanded its reaches.” Perhaps having the Lamb understand the sheer weight of his might would allow them to finally cease their disrespect.
The Lamb gathered all the materials they’d collected before moving on to the final section of Darkwood. The Lamb walked to it leisurely, humming gently along the way. “You’ve lived for that long, huh?”
The One Who Waits straightened his back from Below. Yes, mortal. marvel and devote yourself to me—
Suddenly, the Lamb jumped from where they stood. Their eyes shone brightly. “You should tell me stories from the past when I’m down there! Silly stories, sad ones! I want to hear all of them!”
Nevermind. “You dare make demands of your god?”
—
In the conversations between god and vessel, The One Who Waits would get interrupted every once in a while, and he’d force his vessel out in a bout of irritation. Over time though, he’d learned how to endure the Lamb’s ramblings. The Lamb would increase in persistence the more he dismissed them, and The One Who Waits is (or at least should be and tries to be) very patient.
The Lamb had just finished another one of their fasting rituals and tended to the flock’s needs before immediately darting back into another crusade. They continued their trail of slaughter in the name of their god, before causing their return to the white Below due to a stab from a heretic.
“What were you like when you were free, long ago?” Before The One Who Waits could speak his mind, the Lamb spoke first. The god of death grunted at the act. The two were alone Below, his disciples off to do something elsewhere.
“I fail to see why I should tell you anything.” Death responded, hunching his back to better see his vessel.
“Come on, my god, aren’t you bored being here for so long without anything else to entertain you? Or your, er, companions?” The Lamb waved a hand at their god. They anticipated a reply, but the god of death only harrumphed and said nothing.
“Alright,” The Lamb cleared their throat, shrugging nonchalantly at the lack of word from their lord. “Why don’t I try talking first then? Maybe that’ll encourage you to speak.”
“I will tell you nothing regardless, vessel.” The One Who Waits sternly replied. A grunt slipped past Death’s throat. Thinking of all that had happened in the past and running his thoughts across his grudges was a dear pastime of his, but it was not something he had a habit or enjoyment of sharing to others. If he did share information about himself, it would ultimately be irrelevant. The Lamb was already aware of this, but they were prepared to bleat ceaselessly anyway.
“I was nothing, and for a while I felt like I was as irrelevant as the dirt on the ground, or maybe even more than that.” The Lamb began their story, crossing their arms.
“No one helped us, no one helped me.” The Lamb continued, their voice small yet loud within the white foggy void of the god of death’s prison. “No one sheltered us, no one protected the sheep. Even when we begged for help and groveled, they didn’t aid us. I watched one of my kind be killed on a doorstep while she screamed for them to stop the heretics from slaughtering us.”
The Lamb’s gaze cast down to the curling fog of Below. “No one helped.”
Death regarded this expression of theirs for a moment. He was no stranger to the Lamb’s vulnerabilities—they were open and unafraid of expressing themselves. He thought about it—had he become that large of an influence on them that they expected comfort out of him each time they showed him their wounds?
“Why would they, when all they’d receive in turn for their kindness is slaughter?” The One Who Waits made a response.
“You’re not wrong,” The Lamb replied, chuckling helplessly as they sat themselves on the ground, a small yet solemn smile plastered upon their wooly face. “Still, I think I wouldn’t be the last one left if some had tried harder to help.”
“Mortals cannot escape the eyes of gods. Their deaths were inevitable.” Truthfully, he could not care much for the history of fodder. For what reason would he have to do so anyway if the conclusion was death to his cause? Still, he masked his indifference with a sliver of sympathy. Small ounces of care, no matter how insignificant it would be or how fake they were, would allow the gullible Lamb to adore him.
“Must be why they were so sure that I was the last one on my execution, then…” The Lamb murmured, playing with their thumbs.
“…But you helped,” The Lamb declared, their playful voice changing into a more somber yet sincere tone. They ceased their relaxed stature, surveying The One Who Waits with an unflinching stare. “Nobody else helped. But you did. You gave me a second chance when no one else did. You gave me strength.”
The god didn’t know what to make of that gaze of theirs. Something rumbled within that cold chest of his—pride, perhaps—and he shook his head lightly at the Lamb. “Do not mistake my actions for kindness and mercy. I provide such things for no one. I serve only myself.”
Contrary to the dejected reaction he expected from his vessel, The Lamb grinned. “Thank you anyway, my lord. Now, will you tell me anything about yourself before, well, before you were sent down here?”
The Lamb tilted their head to the side, one of their ears twitching upwards as they awaited his response. The god of death released a huff. “Why should I tell you anything?”
Ah. Now, the Lamb deflated. “Cause—I don’t know—please?”
Resorting to begging, now? The god couldn’t resist the small smirk that graced his lips before he forced it back down again. Perhaps giving the Lamb irrelevant pieces of his past would provide them with a false sense of security and mutual trust. The One Who Waits thought of what memory to offer before he grunted and told the Lamb, “Fine. Once, my ideals grew contrary to the rest of the Bishops of the Old Faith.”
The Lamb listened intently. The god of death did not preen inwardly at the attention. “My ideals are superior to theirs. They were far too narrow-minded to see this. So, I separated myself from the rest of them. If they could not assist me in furthering my greatness, then I must only assist myself. That, as my vessel, is something you should embody.”
The Lamb hummed. They lifted their hands to their eyes and gazed at their palms deeply. “But it kind of hurts, doesn’t it?”
The One Who Waits raised an eyebrow. “Whatever do you mean?”
“It hurts being so isolated and alone,” Their voice lowered softly. “It must have hurt, becoming an outcast among your siblings.”
The One Who Waits tensed. His eyes sharpened at their words. If this was what he knew he’d receive from the Lamb, then he should not have said anything at all. “Your sentiment is inessential. Do not extend your foul pity towards me.”
“I wasn’t trying to pity you!” The Lamb quickly replied. The god of death only glared at them.
“It’s just… well, I used to be so alone before. It was the worst thing in the world.” The Lamb drew a contemplative gaze and rubbed their forearm dejectedly.
“I rule alone, Lamb. Do not make the mistake of believing we are similar in any way.” The One Who Waits tugged harshly at one of his chains, startling the Lamb. “The others only dragged me from my potential, and now I am chained here Below. From the beginning, I was destined to stand greater alone.”
“But… but being with others helps you to be greater, too,” The Lamb sported a frown. “I want to help you be greater…”
A beat in his cold chest—satisfaction, he thought.
The One Who Waits paused at their words, before allowing a toothy smile to slowly dance across his mouth. He extended a chained hand at the wooly vessel underneath him. The Lamb’s eyes followed his movements, until the skeletal hand was placed in front of them on the floor.
The Lamb didn’t know what to do. Their eyes darted from hand to god repeatedly, lost, before they stood and stepped forward to touch the tip of his blackened fingers. A small, unfamiliar ounce of warmth spread across that space.
The Lamb climbed the god of death’s palm. He lifted his hand and allowed the Lamb and him to come face-to-face. From here, the Lamb could vaguely make out the god’s features better, and they burned the image into their mind.
“If you wish to bring me to greatness, vessel,” The One Who Waits told them. “Then devote yourself fully to me. Your mind and soul. Lay your life down for me solely. In return, I too shall provide you with a reward.”
The Lamb’s eyes shone ever as bright as the sun at their god’s words. They listened, so still and so determined, it was as if the god of death had frozen them with his very words.
He continued, “I shall extend to you an exception I have provided to no other.” Make them feel as if they were special to further their loyalty. “I shall allow you to aid me, who has always been greater alone, at furthering my greatness—whatever your method may be.”
A silly look replaced the Lamb’s expression. The One Who Waits observed it momentarily. A hint of amusement swirled in his mind, causing him to extend a finger from his free hand and place it on the Lamb’s wooly head. The crown floated away from contact as he did so, and he felt the Lamb jump at his actions from under the weight of his bone. The fluff of the Lamb’s wool caused their face to become briefly obscured.
One of the corners of his lips twitched at the sight. “Do not squander the grace I have granted to you.”
The Lamb closed their eyes at the touch of the cold finger to their head. They seemed to be absorbing his words as they basked under the attention of their god.
They responded in reverence, “Yes, my lord.”
—
On a day where the god of death neglected to gaze into the crown’s eyes, the Lamb returned. With them, they brought the name that he had not heard for a long, long time.
“Narinder,” The Lamb chirped with an ever so joyous expression on their face. Narinder’s eyes widened from beneath his veil. Shock morphed from confusion into an undisguised and fuming snarl.
“Do not speak of that name, Lamb!” Immediately, Narinder snapped, jerking at the binds on both of his wrists and turning his hands angrily into quaking fists.
Hearing that name sparked alight his fury, far greater than the wooly thing’s own. The lamb’s was a forest fire set to motion by the spark of thunder—his was a volcanic eruption, festered by eons of rage and despair over the imprisonment he believed to be unjust. Visions of the past flooded his mind like a tidal wave, and the curling hand of wrath and indignation seized him with a binding force not unlike his shackles. Aym and Baal were startled at the unexpected reaction from their master, and both took steps back by the sudden thrashing that came from the god of death.
Bound by duty bestowed upon them with the power of the Bishops combined together, his manacles flared to life. Ancient magic rumbled from within them and hummed throughout wrists, allowing his movements to produce an eerie orchestra of chain and bone.
The great wide Below seemed to both mirror and suppress his vehemence, the white fog ever so slightly surging upwards at his billowing rage. The Lamb, befuddled, housed a concerned expression and stepped closer as his two disciples inched back. “Is… i-is your name upsetting? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!” They lifted their hands in front of them and waved them in apology, their anxieties perhaps sparking the sudden bout of movement.
“That name is deceased, Lamb. Deceased along with the failures of those around me.” Narinder hissed at the Lamb.
“I’m sorry,” The Lamb repeated. The hairs on Narinder’s back raised as they decreased their distance from him. “I was just so happy to finally find out what your name was, I-I didn’t mean to upset you, my lord!”
His shackles grew ever so hot, tightening around his wrists. Anger burned so brightly it threatened to consume him. It was akin to a searing ache inside his old, old chest of bone and organ, desperately struggling to be released. That slowly-burning pain carved scars of sheer abhorrence and loathing into his innards, reminding him always of the hurt that he suffered and the years of long isolation Below. With that burning pain came, of course, unwanted memories. Thoughts of what had been in the past, thoughts of former glory that had been shattered by retorts of “But,”s and “If”s and “No”s and numerous rejections for his suggestions of innovation and change. Thoughts of what could have been, memories of how great he was and how he wanted even more than what he already had.
Then longing. Thirst, pining, envy. A covetous and deeply entrenched craving of what he used to take for granted—the world Above. The crown’s eye was red, warped—saturated and changed so that it could not present to him what the world Above truly was to him before. He could not feel nor taste and smell the world through the crown. Inside him, sparked by the burning, was an eager clinging to an increasingly difficult act of remembering what once was something so easily reachable for him. He missed the world Above with such an acidic yearning that not even images produced by the crown could satisfy.
Crashing waves of varying emotions ran through him. From rage to anger to sadness and yearning—then, the thought of the Lamb manipulated by their own fury passed his mind. Back when they gripped that sword so tightly and was mauled by Leshy’s jaws, back when they’d hack the corpses of those in the Old Faith til there were no bones. He remembered in increasing detail the way they died to Leshy, and how their fear and hate contorted into silent reverence upon hearing his words of wisdom. He hurried to utilize the image to calm himself down.
Narinder did not require breathing to live, but he used it anyway to soothe his seething bones. In, out. He drew his mind to emptiness and ushered the molten lava inside of him into stone. The burning hot metal of his shackles reverted to cold steel, and the fog of the white Below receded with his final puff of exhale.
He relaxed his wrists and let them dangle at his sides. He gazed coldly at the Lamb beneath him as if the anger had never occurred at all. “Only the dead and those who will be dead are aware of that name.” A promise. A threat. Not only to the Lamb, but to those he long since ceased to call his own blood.
The Lamb, ever the foolish being, clasped their hands together and responded meekly with their ears pressing flat against their wool. Visible lines of relief spread across their face at Narinder’s transition into composure. “I’m sorry again. I just didn’t know what else to call you besides ‘my lord’ or ‘the one who waits.’ “
Narinder responded with a grunt, nonchalantly inclining his head toward the Lamb in silent regard. Baal scanned his eyes across his master’s veiled face, then slowly but surely returned closer to him. Aym, noticing his brother’s actions, moved quickly back to Death’s side as well.
Baal cast an inquisitive look at the Lamb through the shade of his own veil, tapping the pad of one of his fingers across the sleek sheen of his weapon’s handle in contemplation. The Lamb shifted their weight to and fro across their feet, twirling their fingers as they continued in a meek voice, “Shamura told me your name before—well—forcing me to slaughter one of my followers.”
Narinder scoffed, bitterness brewed by remaining long Below creating cracks in the composure he’d crafted with precision.“Of course it was Shamura. Spoke badly of me, did they? Had me in chains. The rest were ever so eager to jump and include themselves.” A sour, toothy smile made itself known on his face.
The Lamb shook their head. “They said they loved you.”
Narinder’s smile froze in place. He blinked once, twice.
Time seemed to come to a stop—or a slow, Narinder didn’t know. Time in the great white Below was a nasty and unpredictable thing. Red eyes remained locked onto the form of the Lamb beneath.
Most of his time spent Below was spent accompanied by unyielding, replaying memories of how what once was care and kindness quickly morphed into doubt. He used to be in harmony with his siblings—Shamura especially—but when he came into a disagreement with them, the long-built bonds shattered fast into nothing as if they’d never been there at all. A false illusion of union with people who he now realized were nothing but strangers from the start.
Was the Lamb lying? It didn’t seem like it. There was that resolute appearance to them that they always donned. A liar’s appearance would quake. Shining black eyes with a line of white within stared back, carrying only sincerity. No, he thought. The Lamb might have disrespected him many times, but they… they were crude, and never ceased to maintain their openness and honesty. Gazing upon that wooly thing below him, the image of Shamura overlapped with their form.
“‘In my imprudence, I loved him,’ They said to me.”
It did sound like something they’d say.
The One Who Waits imagined it. The way Shamura’s mouth might have expressed their words and their ever so wise voice that opened his mind to the knowledge he eventually grew an insurmountable hunger for. Inside his mind rang the copy of an aged yet unforgotten voice of a mentor, a guide, a teacher, a sibling. How had they expressed it, he wondered. Were they remorseful? Did they regret what they had done to him here Below? And he imagined it. He imagined Shamura, with their great many knowledgeable eyes, and the way they might have expressed it with their curled and sharp teeth fluttering up and down with their moving mouth.
The Lamb was now close enough to the god of death that they reached with their wooly hand and touched the sharp end of one of his skeletal claws. Aym and Baal’s eyes looked inaudibly at the Lamb’s actions. Narinder only stared, and he let them touch him. He let them run their wooly hand down his cold bone in an act of unnecessary, mortal comfort.
Foolish thing.
“I like it. Your name.” The Lamb continued to stroke his finger. Narinder let out a low rumble from his throat, and his eyes thinned at the shameless display.
“Can I… can I call you your name? Please?” The Lamb begged him, eyes ridiculously wide and filled with so much giddy and childish expectation.
What a fool he was as well, to see the image of Shamura in this idiotic vessel of his. The Lamb was everything that Shamura was not.
“Do as you wish. If you perish by my hand due to your impudence, it will be no fault of mine.” Narinder moved his head away from the sight of his vessel. At the corner of his vision, he could just barely make out their face shining alight with joy.
—
“What are your guys’ names?” The Lamb boldly asked after one of their deaths as he stood in front of Narinder’s disciples and calmly discerned the two, one of their fingers stroking their chin.
Aym flinched and helplessly locked eyes with his brother. Then, he looked to his master with a barely disguised plea for assistance in his eyes. Baal was calmer of the two, ever continuing to display elegant grace and authority yet simultaneously not having the vain dignity that upper beings possessed. Narinder observed the reactions of the two kits he’d taught and raised, then shook his head lightly. The Narinder spoke to his vessel, “Why must you pester my disciples, Lamb?”
The Lamb released an indiscernible grumble and flailed their hands upwards, complaining to their god, “Come on, Narinder, I want to know more about them! What are they to you? Bodyguards? Are they twins? How long have they been here?”
Aym flinched at the Lamb’s usage of Death’s name and Baal’s eyes widened from beneath his veil. The two immediately glanced up at their master and clasped on to their weapons tightly as if in preparation for battle.
“Lamb. Do not overstep your limitations.” Narinder’s reaction, however, merely consisted of his third eye twitching in displeasure, a grating note now clearly present in his tone of voice.
He was vexed at the usage, but not murderous. The two disciples relaxed.
Almost instantly, the Lamb shot back with a pleading expression, “Please?”
Aym’s eyes darted back and forth from master to vessel. Narinder let out a suppressed groan. Aym grappled with the battle of the decision of whether or not he should fight in the name of his master. Curiously, his usually stern face shifted between calmness and anger—it was something that would have made the Lamb burst in a fit of laughter were his face not concealed by the veil. Baal, though, has taken to relaxing in his place, albeit still clasping his weapon in case something were to occur.
Narinder rolled his eyes at the Lamb and waved his hand dismissively. “Do not spread the plague that is your idiocy to my disciples, vessel.”
The Lamb beamed.
Soon enough, with the vague expression of agreement from their master, the three seated themselves in a triangle across the floor of the great Below. It was the Lamb’s idea, of course. They ushered the two disciples to sit on the ground while Narinder glared in disapproval. He never stopped them, though.
The cat clad in white was the first to follow the Lamb’s insistence. He was seated cross-legged on the floor, and Aym—he was still confused as he did so, of course—hesitantly also sat himself down.
“My name is Baal, master’s vessel.” Baal offered a gentle bow to the Lamb, earning a gleeful giggle from them. They sat in the same manner as Baal, but they were far more loose and relaxed in their posture—back arched, hands perched upon their legs and shoulders raised in zeal.
“Wow! That’s such a cool name! You can call me Lamb instead!” The Lamb chirped, their ears fluttering upwards.
“What about you? What’s your name?” The Lamb turned to the god of death’s dark-clothed disciple.
Although he sat in the triangle as his brother did, he had a more guarded stance. He sat with his knees on the ground and his weapon clutched and ready at his lap, far less eager to entertain the Lamb than his brother was. He seemed to want to spout his criticisms to the vessel, but couldn’t find his voice due to his master’s silence on the matter. Aym marveled at the Lamb’s audacity before he cleared his throat and replied with a straight back and a curt nod, “My name is Aym.”
The Lamb, ever the rude creature they were, giggled loud at Aym’s introduction. They proceeded to shower question upon question to the brothers, and somehow the three ended up sitting closer to one another in the triangle. As he watched the three, Narinder wondered—why does he continue to entertain the Lamb’s nonsense?
Right. So they remain devoted to him. (He was beginning to doubt this.)
“How long have you guys been here with Narinder?”
“Since we were kits,” Baal amiably responded, a small smile upon his face. “Decades have passed since then.”
“Really? Do you guys know how old you are?” The Lamb placed a curious finger on their chin and tilted their head.
“Time here Below is difficult to measure. We don’t know how long it has been,” Aym this time replied, a little more relaxed and easygoing than his brother. He softened up to the Lamb faster than expected.
“Don’t you guys ask for the year from the ones who pass here? Or doesn’t your master know the time and year?”
Aym shook his head. “There are no small talks with the souls who meet our master. They are immediately passed on to the afterlife.”
“How unfortunate!” Lamb cried. “So you guys haven’t experienced much of the world at all?”
The more that Narinder observed the familiarity that brewed between the Lamb and his disciples, the more that discontent seemed to brew inside of him. He was startled, actually, at how calm and sociable his disciples quickly became at the presence of conversation with the Lamb. He’d expected the two to at least have been wary and only reply with short responses, but they conversed more with the Lamb than he’d expected. Both of his disciples had become lax and cooperative in the conversation.
Furthermore, they were beginning to ask questions of their own to the Lamb.
“Not exactly,” Baal responded. “What is the world like Above?”
“You guys don’t see through the crown?”
“Only Master has the ability to observe through the crown!” Aym chimed in, his eyes glistening. “We ask him from time to time, but…”
“Oh, I can tell you so much about what’s going on up there!” The Lamb reached out to touch Aym’s shoulder.
Something upsetting flickered to life in Narinder’s mind. Narinder hissed at the Lamb’s actions. “Lamb, do not taint my disciples with your ludicrousy!”
The three immediately snapped their heads toward Death, the harmonious atmosphere shattered in an instant. The Lamb retracted their hand from Aym’s shoulder.
“Er, sorry? I was just trying to talk to them and tell them about the world?” The Lamb apologized in a curious manner. They tilted their head in confusion, and the action only served to brew the upsetting feeling in Narinder. He exposed his teeth beneath the veil in a threat.
“And what shall you tell them? All that comes out of your mouth the moment that you arrive in my domain consists of absurdity. You will no doubt influence my disciples negatively.” Something in his words sounded wrong. Narinder couldn’t care enough to define what it was. All he knew was that he was led away by this sudden rancor in his bowels.
The Lamb fell silent. Aym and Baal’s backs straightened, and they made moves to stand up and return to Narinder’s side—the Lamb stopped them, a hand on each of their shoulders gently ushering them back down to their previous positions. The two glanced back at the Lamb in perplexion.
“I-I don’t think bringing kids down here before they can really experience life is a very good thing, Narinder.” The Lamb spoke. Narinder’s ire grew even more with their words.
“They were gifted to me. Do you believe me to be some ill-bred swindler? Are you questioning my sanctitude and authority, Lamb?”
“Well,” The Lamb winced. ”Even so, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want me to, well, tell them stuff about things up there. I don’t say awful things all the time, my lord. I know I don’t seem like it, but I do most of the things I do in jest.”
The Lamb tugged at their fleece, furrowing their eyebrows. “I’m sorry for making it seem like I’m going to tell them awful stuff about the outside world…?”
With their final words, the sour feeling that suddenly arose whisked itself away from Narinder’s heart.
Narinder couldn’t understand it. He did not snap so easily, nor has he ever felt that emotion before. It was so sudden and—Narinder refused to acknowlege this—he felt some semblance of guilt for earning the apology of the Lamb. Usually the Lamb’s meekness and this appearance of theirs would have made him satisfied.
Regardless, he kept his mouth shut and stubbornly persisted in maintaining his ground, forcing that bitterness back up.
The three of his servants were quiet. Aym seemed to want to be as still as he could possibly be, whereas Baal only cast concerned glances between vessel and master.
The Lamb put down their arms and sighed, sagging their shoulders. Their ears lowered.
“When we get out of here, the four of us,” The Lamb expressed, a gentle smile replacing the discomfort on their features. “I’m taking you everywhere I’ve gone. The Cult, the flower fields, out fishing, to go and play knucklebones… I promise we’ll make up for all the lost time you guys have spent here.”
Narinder’s eyes widened at the Lamb’s words. All prepared words of reprimand at the Lamb became lodged firmly in his throat as he listened to them. Aym and Baal, too, were equally flustered.
The Lamb regained their energy the further they spoke. They placed a fist into their palm and continued, “The first thing we do once all of you are out is to get fresh air! Feel the breeze, enjoy the grass!” The Lamb grinned so brightly, it stung Narinder’s eyes. They said it with such absolute certainty, and though they were anything but, they seemed so innocent.
Aym and Baal’s eyes shone briefly at the thought of the Lamb’s aspirations, before deflating at the sudden realization that dawned on them.
…Right. Everyone but the Lamb in this room knew of their fate.
“It’s a good idea, right?” The Lamb asked, turning to Baal. The disciple flinched at the sudden attention, before quickly nodding and smiling nervously at the Lamb. The Lamb placed a hand on their chest, “I promise I’ll build a nice shelter for the three of you in the Cult for when you first come out, and then we can go look for Aym and Baal’s parents! Then when we get their permission, we can go wherever we want to go. Or you two brothers can go off wherever, and I can just give you a map and point you to the most exciting spots everywhere.”
Narinder’s hands turned into fists.
“Of course,” The Lamb smiled. “We can’t forget the food. I’ll cook you three delicious and hearty fish meals. My feline followers love the salmon that I cook! I’m sure you three will enjoy it.”
“…You would do that much?” Narinder softly inquired, earning a proud nod from the Lamb.
“Of course.”
Anything. The Lamb thought, a glint of fanaticism in their eyes as they looked at Narinder. As long as I’m with you, I’d do anything at all.
—
The Lamb grunted as they buried their head in their arms. The crown gazed blankly at them. It was the dead of night, and they were nestled at the desk inside of their shelter. Accompanying them were numerous stacks of scrolls and papyrus paper scattered all throughout. There were many quills and ink bottles pushed at the edge of the table—many were unused and unopened, but a leader like the Lamb could never be too prepared for things.
The Lamb’s shelter possessed the fragrance of nature and flora, supplemented by the numerous greenery scattered outside of it that had been placed by their followers. The inside wasn’t too complicated. It had been designed in a humble manner, with only the needed furniture required for a leader and blueprints posted on the walls serving as both decoration and an outline for future goals. There was a bed, the desk for them to write on and plan them and their followers’ daily agendas, a carpet, and numerous bookshelves lined with necessary documents.
But although they chose their shelter to be this way, the sight of everything exhausted them.
“Narinder,” The Lamb groaned at the crown, scratching at their wool. It remained silent.
“Narinderrr,” The Lamb drawled, raising their head and gazing pleadingly at the crown’s red eye.
Finally, after numerous attempts that increased in volume, the crown finally responded in an aggravated tone. “What?”
The Lamb grabbed the crown and lifted it up high as they leaned back on their chair and released a dramatically agonized moan. “Narinder, I’m so tired!”
The crown narrowed its eye. “Do not use me as a tool to express your exhaustion, vessel.”
“Narinder,” The Lamb ignored him. “Even being inside my own tent is exhausting! I know this is how I chose to decorate my space, but everything reminds me of everything I need to do! I’m so exhausted! I want to sleep! I want rest!”
“Possessing the crown, you are immortal. You do not require things such as sleep.” Narinder expressed with a scoff.
“Still, I want to… y’know, relax! Like when I was mortal,” The Lamb placed their elbows onto their desk and grasped the crown firmly between their palms, allowing the crown’s eye to gaze fully at their face. “Don’t you get it, Narinder?”
“No, I do not.” Narinder’s exasperated voice echoed from the crown as the eye glared at them. “I am a god, Lamb. Now would you cease disturbing me with every opportunity you receive?”
The Lamb shook their head. “Have you ever gone stargazing before?”
The crown paused, and the red eye gazed up and down at the Lamb’s face. Odd question. Narinder responded again. “What need would I have for such trivial things?”
“Oh, so before you were imprisoned, you were too busy with planning world domination to actually relax and have fun in life.” The Lamb’s teasing remark earned a hiss from the god of death.
“Stay with me, my lord. let me show you something.”
The Lamb placed the crown on their head and walked out of their shelter. The grass beneath their feet, normally inaudible in daylight, rustled clearly under the weight of their hooves. The singing of crickets rang from elsewhere, and spiders ran amok throughout the village. The Lamb paid them no heed as they exited their shelter and into the woods.
Their shelter was placed farther away from the rest of the flock’s residences, right next to the barrier and the forest housing numerous heretics and monsters. Narinder peered through the crown at the path that the Lamb took as they swiftly climbed and jumped their way over the barrier and into the dangerous forest.
“When I was younger, I used to go out into the woods aimlessly. Back then it was much safer than it is now, but it was dangerous enough to make my parents worry and tell me to never go out into the woods unaccompanied. I still up and disobeyed them though, each and every time, whenever I was too tired with everything. They were never aware of it.”
The crown’s eye scanned the dim outlines of the forest as the Lamb walked. “Your disobedience from the past reflects your improper behavior towards your god now.”
“Come on, Narinder! You know I’m just joking with you everytime.” The Lamb laughed.
Before Narinder could issue another retort, the Lamb transformed the crown into gauntlets. The Lamb used them to grasp onto a tall tree’s branches, and they launched themselves up in the air. They swung themselves upwards by grasping on strong branches, quickly and steadily climbing. Eventually, the Lamb crawled on to the very last branches of the tree, sitting down on one of them. They transformed the gauntlets back into a crown, holding it in their palms and allowing the eye of the crown to see the surroundings clearly.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Narinder?”
The Lamb and the peering god gazed upon a floor of trees below. Above was a sea of twinkling white stars, endlessly filling up the night sky like white rain suspended in time. The black of the sky wasn’t black at all—it was a blend of hues, blue and purple and white and more, shining in all its glory with ardent gusto. And at the epicenter of it all was the moon, so large and daunting it appeared so easy to reach out to and pluck from the sky like an orb ready for the taking. And Narinder marveled at the sight.
As a god above he’d never… gazed upon the stars like this. It was still dyed in the saturated hue of the crown, but the sky looked nothing like how he remembered it before. He’d looked at the night sky many times when he used to be free, but it’s never looked so—shiny? There was another word to describe it, and he was too prideful to agree with the Lamb.
Perhaps it was also due to his pride that he’d never seen the sky in such magnificence before. He’d never witnessed the stars like this, suspended in epicurean reverie, because he thought himself above it. He looked upon the stars and saw not it for what it was, but as something for him to conquer. Even while he remained chained Below, he continued to think that when he’d been freed by his vessel, he’d go on to rule the world as its sole deity, and the stars would automatically be his for the taking. But the Lamb…
“On nights whenever I was too scared or hungry, I looked to the sky for comfort. I begged some other god that wasn’t of the Old Faith to come whisk me away to safety. The sky was—is—hope for me. And when I died, you were the god that saved me. I mean, yes, you used to be in the Old Faith, but that’s not the point! Maybe from the beginning, even before I became your vessel, you were the only god I truly ever needed to pray to.” The Lamb brought the crown close to their face. They pressed their lips against the back of the crown.
Narinder didn’t feel it. He could only see and hear through the crown, after all, and the crown’s eye was facing the the sky.
…The Lamb saw not a world ready for absolute dominion. The Lamb was similar to him yet unlike him in many ways. Maybe it was because the two had lived vastly different lives as well. He’d basked in the glory of divinity whereas they learned how to be so miserable that the skies became their only hope.
He’d never undergone such a thing before, not even in imprisonment. Below, there was only bitterness and yearning. He felt no hope, just resentment.
The Lamb pulled their lips away from the crown’s sleek black surface and murmured, “I want to go and stargaze with you when you get out of there. I promise, I’ll give you a nice and free life when you’re out. Maybe we can talk about the constellations up there! You said you haven’t stargazed before, but with how all-knowing you are, I’m pretty sure you know all about the constellations already.”
“…Naturally.”
The Lamb smiled. “I promise it’ll happen, then. I’ll work hard to get you out of there!”
Below, the One Who Waits’ chains tinkled, and he laggardly reached out to grasp at the robes above his unbeating heart. He spoke in a voice that was less harsh and grating than before, “Good. Maintain that devotion and give your everything for me.”
“Aye aye, my lord!” The Lamb laughed.
—
The god of death did not dream, but Narinder carried visions in his mind when the Lamb slept and the crown’s red eye drew to a peaceful close.
He and the Lamb, frolicking in a field of flowers of all things, under the gaze of the moonlit night. Of them and he lying upon the lush greenery below, stargazing with one another, holding hands—
You are becoming tricked, Narinder. He bit the inside of his mouth, allowing the bitter taste of black ichor to spread across his tongue. Bewitched by the Lamb and their lies. Eons of imprisonment has made you weak, prone to the sweet words of a creature below your status. You are weak to the lies of a slick-tongued lion disguised as prey—
But the Lamb has never lied before.
They were disrespectful, yet in that disrespect was nothing but the honesty of their character.
A small hiss of breath rushed through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t discern the Lamb’s thoughts, not with the crown and his power bestowed upon their brow, but he saw it within their eyes. That wide, wide stare of theirs that carried undisguised acclaim, singing loud within the confines of their eyes. They never went back on their words. Each time they agreed to the ludicrous requests of their followers, they always successfully followed through with it. Each of their own promises for themselves and the Cult did not go unfulfilled. He’d seen it himself through the crown’s gaze.
The Lamb promised to provide joy for both he and his disciples. Narinder envisioned it—how nice the breath of fresh grass would be, how warm the covers of a bed might be like on his fur, how curious his travels with the Lamb will feel. Then all at once his foolishness washed over his back like cold water. Narinder frowned deeply, and emotions that he refused to define as yearning quickly contorted into wrath. Thoughts paced rapidly through his mind—The Lamb made him this way, the Lamb passed on their foolishness to him, and he has been charmed by the Lamb. He felt no longer like a god, no. He felt sick within his body. He was nothing more than a weak and bumbling clown, harvesting feelings for a mortal playing as a false deity.
Aym had asked him meekly the day after the Lamb had promised them a life Above once they’ve been freed, “Master, do we—do we really have to use the Lamb as a sacrifice for freedom?”
Narinder denied it vehemently, but he knew he’d thought of the same question himself. He hated it. And in his lunacy he’d snapped at his own disciple.
“As I expected, I should not have allowed the Lamb to converse with either of you!” The sudden burst of flame from Narinder, when he’d just been calm moments before, sent both of his disciples aquiver. “Their plague is spreading to the two of you.”
Aym hugged himself in terror and shrank in front of him. Narinder continued, his loud and baleful voice reverberating throughout his prison. “Have you forgotten, child? This is all but a farce. I welcome their tomfoolery for the sake of our ultimate goal. I have taught you better than this.”
The way his own words sounded like lies in his mouth made his bitterness burrow deeper, like fingers digging into wounded flesh. The two disciples bore the brunt of his fury.
“I’m sorry, master! I apologize greatly! It was my mistake! I will not be charmed by their ruse any longer!” Aym fell to the ground with his arms pressed flat on the floor, groveling. Baal followed suit. Narinder was too blindsighted by the conflict of his emotions to take back his words. A mix of pride, of revulsion, of melancholy, and want of all things, blended with one another and created a ghastly concoction that left a rancid sensation at the pit of his stomach.
The god of death could not dream, but Narinder envisioned it. A life outside of his chains. A life in the Cult.
A life with the Lamb.
Then the image of the Lamb, in tattered clothes and wrapped in chains stained by the blood that seeped through the wound around their neck, traveled in his mind.
They were helpless. And right at that moment, he felt as helpless as they were.
He could not deny his raging emotions any longer.
But what could he do? What could he do, when the only options there were for him was either the Lamb’s death for his liberation, or his eternal suffering?
What could he do?
—
Back where they were but a small Lamb among many, they had no one. They were an outcast in their flock of sheep, outshined by their many peers and weaker than the rest. When the purging of their kind had come down upon them, they were the first in the flock to have been abandoned. The flock required the strong, their parents told them. The flock did not require weak, sickly Lambs with nothing to provide. It was only through that isolation did the Lamb learn how to fend for themselves.
One of the memories they possessed after being removed from the flock was the fierce struggle against a warrior serving Heket.
The warrior chased them for what felt like an eternity through the woods, croaking much like the god that he served as he swung his weapon wildly and demanded the Lamb to stop. The Lamb remembered so clearly the intense color of his cloak, like a flame threatening to burn them whole if they so even entertained the thought of hesitating in their steps. The Lamb didn’t have the time to even scream. Their lungs burned in their chest as they gasped for air at the continued chase. They tripped and fell and stumbled through the maze that was the woods, and they became backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. They were a mess of dirt, grime, and bruises. The warrior closed in on them with long and intimidating strides, chuckling at them as they whimpered and crawled away. The warrior grasped at the front of their ragged clothing and raised his blade at them—
The Lamb felt a stone touch their hand. Without thinking, they grabbed it and smashed it on the warrior’s head. And they did it without stopping. Over and over and over again, like stopping meant immediate death, like stopping meant the world around them would crumble to nothing.
The warrior had long since ceased breathing. The Lamb’s vision was blurry from the long lack of food and water. They did not know where the mess of brain matter and blood ended and where the warrior’s red hood began—everything blended into one another into a single mesh of red. Even their wooly body was red.
And the Lamb was so, so very hungry. A thought that they did not wish to entertain flashed in their mind, and they stood with quaking legs and ran and ran again. When they fell to the ground in exhaustion, they vomited what little acid there was remaining in their stomach. They fell unconscious.
It was when they awoke from their slumber that they met Tregety, a widowed sheep who’d lost her children and spouse to murder, and for the first time in their life they were no longer alone.
Days spent with Tregety was a constant struggle for survival, but the Lamb no longer had to face the struggle by themselves.
Unfortunately, Tregety, too, had to go.
“’Gety! Please! No, don’t leave me!” Hands grasped at their wool and jerked them away with such ferocity that it felt as if the wool would be ripped off of their skin. They struggled and strained against the force, digging their hooves and hands into the soil below and clawing their way through the grass.
“You have to go.” The female sheep stood with her back facing them. Her back appeared so tall, so mighty, and yet with every struggle they made, her back appeared farther and farther away.
“I can’t do this without you! Please, you’re the only one I have left, you can’t leave me here!”
“I said go!” Tregety screeched. The Lamb flinched. She didn’t turn her head to face him.
Tregety’s ragged robes and thin coat of wool did nothing to shield her from the cool air of the night—still, she protected them. Protected the Lamb with her warmth, protected the Lamb from cold and heat, protected them as she would her own children. And even now, at the threat of her life, she protected the Lamb from the followers of the Old Faith.
Many of them held on to the Lamb and ripped them away from her. One of the dirty followers of the Old Faith’s hands remained by Tregety’s side, possessing a firm grasp on her arm and holding the bag of gold that she’d given them as a bribe for the Lamb’s freedom. Both they and Tregety knew what would happen to her as soon as the Lamb was gone. Still, even so… Tregety stood her ground, with her straight back and mighty shoulders, appearing so strong and unfazed even at the face of death.
Ever the strong protector. Yet even the mighty come to an end.
The Lamb’s pleas and cries drew into a high pitch. Arms grasped at their abdomen, and they were lifted off of the ground. The Lamb kicked at the air and desperately attempted to scratch at the followers of the Old Faith, even when they had no claws to do so. Each attempt at freedom was so futile. The feeling of being so incapable left a pounding ache in their body. It felt so heavy from within, so maddeningly frustrating from the inside, being unable to stop Tregety’s death, stuck as a spectator.
The Lamb’s face became covered by numerous pairs of hands, muffling all senses until their sight became shrouded in a pit of black—
The Lamb awoke in cold sweat. Their hands shot to their cheeks, then to the rest of their body—there were no hands surrounding them. Breaths came in quick gasps as they felt at the wetness of the wool throughout their face. The dark sight of the shelter’s ceiling was blurred by tears.
The Lamb instinctively felt around blindly for the crown—they grabbed it, and they hugged it tightly to their wooly chest. The cold warmth of it, there really was no proper way to describe its sensation against their wool, grounded them. The Lamb trembled. They eased their breaths little by little and dug their head into their pillows.
Their breaths steadied, then stuttered. Quiet sobs escaped them. They pushed the crown under their chin and spoke in a strained plead, “Narinder.”
Silence. They let out a small whimper and tried again.
“What is it, vessel?” The sound of his voice made them sob harder.
“Narinder,” The Lamb brought the crown away from their chest and faced its glaring red eye in front of them. Narinder’s movements from Below froze at the sight. “Narinder, I hate this.”
“…What is it that you hate?” Narinder croaked. The crown’s eye was not inhibited by the dark. The sight of the Lamb’s tears and their despairing trembles were clearly visible through the eye.
“I hate feeling so powerless, I hate having no control. I hate being alone.” The Lamb paused at a hiccup. Their fingers pushed into the sleek surface of the black crown.
“I had an awful dream. I haven’t had one since you saved me, I don’t know why it came so suddenly. I felt like I was back to when things were…” The Lamb let out a cry, placing the bottom edge of the crown to their forehead. The crown’s red eye became overwhelmed by the sight of their wool.
“Why?” The Lamb continued, rubbing their forehead gently against the crown as they pulled their knees to their abdomen. “Why did they all have to die? Why did I have to be the last? Why have I been left all alone?”
Narinder was quiet. The Lamb’s sobs filled all sounds within the vicinity. Narinder’s hands curled, and his shoulders slackened.
“They never spoke of the Prophecy to the mortals when the Sheeps’ persecution came down upon them,” Narinder began. “There was only slaughter.”
The Lamb quieted their sobs. They reached out with a free hand to wipe at their eyes and pulled the crown to eye level again.
Narinder gazed deeply through the crown. The words came out naturally from him. “You are no longer powerless, Lamb.”
The Lamb sniffed. A smile blossomed across their tear-stained face. “You’re right, my Lord. And I’m not alone anymore either,”
A hiccup. “I have you.”
Narinder flinched at their words. Obviously he’d meant the Cult, but the Lamb nonetheless grinned brightly at the crown. The One Who Waits felt…
“You know, I used to be so scared of the color red,” The Lamb whispered, releasing a such a gentle smile that made Death feel as if it was only supposed to be for him to see. “I don’t hate it as much anymore because of you. A lot of bad things had come out of that color, but…”
”But now, it’s in everything I love.”
Narinder’s breath hitched.
He gently lifted his hand and touched the corner of one of his eyes through his veil—
He cut off connection from the crown.
—
Death has ceased responding to the Lamb’s calls from Above.
He could hear it, the way the Lamb ceaselessly continued to beg for his responses and spoke anyway despite his silence. They were a determined bug that was always seeking to annoy him every step of the way. But the spark of emotion he’d received with each of their attempts to contact him had shifted from one of aggravation to… something that begets curiosity. This shift happened ever since he’d finally come to the realization of what his emotions truly were, and what it meant for him.
He’d tried immensely to convince himself that his emotions were wrong. After all, even now, he was unwilling to retract his reach for freedom in the face of his mortal sentiments. He’d tried telling himself numerous times to stop feeling for the Lamb.
It was all for naught. Now, each word that came through the crown from the Lamb sent a foul emotion that left him aching throughout his bones.
So he blocked the Lamb’s words out. He took his consciousness out of the crown and no longer saw nor heard through the eye. The silence, accompanied only by the occasional clinking of chains and the faint hymns resounding from the faraway purgatory, only served to heighten the volume of his thoughts. It was unpleasant.
Baal and Aym stood silently at guard. The two remained as such even when the only times they’d encounter a threat to guard against was when a vessel of his resisted his whims. Silence would scarcely be pierced by conversation or words of teaching and wisdom from Narinder, and it seemed that today would be no different. The shy inquiries of his disciples were not present anymore either. He’d made them afraid.
Some part of him, deep within, felt guilty for it. He was aware that the two had not deserved the outburst when Aym had asked in a manner that was not an ounce rude, but the larger part of his mind, the one that had always been the same for all his conscious being, the one that valued pride above all, thought otherwise. Narinder was always correct, see. His judgment was never false. He was a god, after all. A god possessed no flaws—such things were reserved for mortals. All who opposed him were the ones who were wrong. And it was in this way of thinking that he blamed, once again, this softness of his heart on the reprehensible sway of the Lamb. Yes, that larger part of him spoke. Yes, everything was the fault of the Lamb. The Lamb was a vile tumor that has corrupted his plans. How could he think he was ever in the wrong? How could he think to love the Lamb?
Then, a familiar sharp tug in his mind interrupted him and sent the slowly-forming order of his thoughts back once more into disarray. He hissed for his disciples to leave, and they hastily obeyed. Moments later, the symbols of the red circle on the ground flared to life, and up the Lamb went, returning Below. The tingle in his chest was what led him to bring them back to the mortal realm immediately before they could even utter a word.
Not even seven minutes passed before the Lamb returned again, this time their fleece and wool dripping wet. Drowned. The Lamb yelled, “Hey—!” And the same fate happened again.
Twice. Thrice.
Why am I acting like such a fool? Narinder wondered, and finally, the Lamb returned for the fifth death, blood oozing from a quickly-healing self-inflicted stab to the heart.
“What is with you, my lord?!” The Lamb yelled, stomping over to Narinder and sporting both a confused and angered expression. “Why’re you sending me away!”
Narinder winced inwardly at the Lamb’s expression. He wordlessly moved his head to the side and lifted his shackled hands. “It seems that I have grown far too lenient towards you, vessel, for you to disrespect me so bravely.”
“I don’t understand! Did I do something wrong? We were just fine yesterday!” The Lamb pulled at their wool in a frustrated manner. And oh how he hated the way his heart wavered at the sight of the Lamb’s eyes glistening with tears. “Were you—I knew I shouldn't have said anything last night. I’m sorry for crying to you and giving you the burden of my emotions, I—“
“No,” He hated how quickly he refuted. “It is not because of that, Lamb.”
“Then what is it? Why’re you pushing me away?” The Lamb wiped their eyes roughly, glaring at the god above.
Narinder hated it. He hated how quickly he softened beneath that heated gaze, how quickly he succumbed to the Lamb’s determined approach. He hated how he remained silent and how he did nothing but watch as the Lamb pulled and shook at the hem of his robes, thrashing about in anger.
“Why aren’t you answering me! Narinder!” The Lamb yelled as they continued to tug at his clothing.
Oh, how he hated the Lamb.
“You…” Narinder began sluggishly, eyes wide and dangerous.
“You are… irritating.” He knew what he was about to be doing.
The larger part of himself wanted to resist it so strongly, to just send the Lamb back to their duties and force them away from himself. A larger part of himself wanted to wrench the crown away from the Lamb and send them to the afterlife, far and away from his reach. He wanted to so desperately resist it—but that influx of emotion inside broke him.
The Lamb stared up at him, continuing to house an aggrieved expression. Narinder continued, everything gushed out of him like a broken dam. “You are hateful, vile, and despicable. Everything that you do annoys me. And yet… yet, you make me… happy.”
The Lamb flinched. He watched as their eyes shifted from one of shock, to confusion, to clarity. And finally, they reddened. Narinder felt the need to look away, but something within him forced him to continue staring down at his vessel straight in the eye through the veil. Narinder’s back slackened, and he let out a barely perceptible sigh that released all of his hate and woes. And all that was left was warmth, a stark contrast from the lava that left scars of hatred inside. It was a slow burning that didn’t leave him yelling in frustration—it was one that itched like a raging pestilence that threatened to ravage his village of a heart whole.
“You have corrupted me, Lamb.” Narinder raised a shackled hand under his veil and rubbed his face harshly. “You’ve made me desire… something. With you.”
And it is wrong, Narinder thought. Desiring a relationship, companionship, whatever—it is wrong. Especially towards a vessel that would eventually be sacrificed for his freedom.
It is simply wrong.
“Leave, Lamb.” Narinder urged. “Return to—“
“Narinder, carry me.” The Lamb cut him off, earning a pause from Narinder. A wide-eyed look graced his face and he looked down incredulously at his vessel. Their head hung low and he could not discern their expression.
“Lamb, follow my directions—“
“Carry me.” The Lamb tugged at his robes, interrupting him once more. “Please.”
And Narinder collapsed with just that one word. Time and again, he surrendered with just that one word from them.
This time was no different.
After a brief moment of silence and another sigh, he offered his hands to his vessel and allowed them to mount his bony palms. He raised the Lamb to his face, and the Lamb, the irritating thing, gestured for Narinder to bring them closer. The Lamb raised his veil and entered, and there, finally, without the black shroud of the veil, he saw the Lamb. The Lamb, too, saw him in his whole being.
“You look much nicer under the veil,” The Lamb expressed, an ever so soft expression of pure delight and kindness throughout their face, before they leaned in and… kissed Narinder’s fur.
Narinder froze, and he let them. He let them do as they wished as they plastered gentle and soothing kisses to his cheek that sent tingles from the ends of his raven strands and up to the very corners of his brain. From there, there were no more thoughts for him to speak of. He let them kiss him, and he did nothing to stop them.
A sensation akin to the explosion of fireworks expanded itself across the contours of his innards. For once in his life, he felt what it was like to be content. To be joyful. To finally feel as if he’d reaped the rewards of his sacrifices—even if he didn’t exactly have any rewards to reap. No, he realized, this wasn’t a reward at all. This loving and devotion and sheer adoration from the Lamb was no prize, but instead a gift. Something provided by the Lamb of their own volition.
Something he did not deserve.
The Lamb pulled back, facing him fully, and they grinned.
Narinder knew then, the moment that he in turn pressed a carefully placed kiss to their wooly head despite the rampaging emotions inside, that he was nothing but a foolish and soft-hearted god.
And he, hesitantly, accepted that status.
—
Why was he indulging in his feelings? Why, when he knew it was all for naught in the end? Fierce contemplation ran through his mind for many days, til the answer finally shone as clear as day to him.
It was selfishness.
Each cradle of the Lamb in his palms and each sweet nothing they’d murmur to his ears as they nestled upon his shoulder sent endless delightful sensations coursing through his old and weary bones. The warmth of it all, both from the Lamb and the one that spread in his melting heart, developed a sickeningly sweet aftertaste at his tongue that left him clawing for more. Eons of nothing but isolation and distaste at the mere concept of adoration for another has left his heart a gaping well, so dry it has lost the ability to weep. But the Lamb leapt fearlessly into that well that was his heart and shamelessly overflowed it.
The Lamb never disguised the emotions that they felt towards him, and much like succumbing to the temptation of falling into the maw of the void without fear of the unknown, Narinder fell for them. And he fell harder each and every time. He crawled into the cave of mortal temptation and became stuck in a hole that shaped perfectly to his body, leaving him in a grave that seemed it was created solely for him.
All he knew was of how sweet love tasted at his tongue, like venomous ambrosia that inflicted heroinism at the first drop. But despite how much Narinder adored the wooly thing, his inner being never changed. Death has always been a greedy thing, eager to take and take and never once providing the ability to return. He was of a dastardly character through and through, something he’d been deeply aware of from the moment he’d discovered the wonders of knowledge. Even now, he acted towards his best interest.
He was aware of the Lamb’s fate, and yet he indulged in careless amusement and never once made the blindly trusting vessel know of what will become of them. Shame, perhaps, was what held him back from speaking, but more so than that, Narinder so desperately wished for the two of them to remain as they were. Unmoving, unchanging.
Death did not shy away from the flow of time. In fact he welcomed it, but at this very moment, he wished for time to stop and for him to remain engrossed in the depths of his emotions for all eternity.
Funnily enough, it was a prison he’d more than gladly shackle himself in.
Death was aware of the impending doom that was to occur. Still, he stood there now, alone with the lamb in the great Below, allowing his eyes to pierce the Lamb as they lifted his veil and marveled at his appearance.
“Bring me closer!” They demanded. Narinder huffed and complied. A fit of giggles burst from the small thing, sounding like a tinkling much like the bell they carried around their neck. It was so, so utterly delightful.
The Lamb reached out and rubbed their hands across Narinder’s furry cheek. It sent a ticklish sensation along the inside of his mouth and shot right at his heart. He flashed a fanged tooth at the Lamb’s movements. The Lamb gaped at it.
“Ghh, I hate how your fangs are half the length of my body!” The Lamb bemoaned while they continued to scratch at his cheek. Narinder grunted, and they moved down to his chin. Narinder closed his eyes in satisfaction and allowed the Lamb to do as they pleased.
“Narinder, when you’re freed from down here, I hope you and the two siblings will be normal-sized!” The period of calmness became shattered at the Lamb’s next sentiments. His red eyes opened slightly at the words. The Lamb was not aware of his sudden stillness and proceeded to braid what they could with his thick locks.
“Then, you can hug me properly, and I can kiss you normally…” The Lamb teased, a joyful lilt to their tone.
Narinder could not feel a warmth spread in his heart any longer.
“By the way, I haven’t seen Aym and Baal for a while now. Are they busy with something?” Narinder’s mind darted back to the conversation at hand.
“…Yes. I have tasked them with something else to do.” Narinder answered. A lie. And yet it slipped past his lips as easily as it was for him to sink his teeth into forbidden fruit.
“Really? Like tending to souls of the dead?”
“Correct.”
The Lamb was far too gullible for him.
The two of them proceeded to spend more time with one another. The Lamb recounted numerous tales to Narinder, most of it he’d already seen through the crown, yet he listened to the Lamb anyhow.
He figured that… since the Lamb would be gone soon anyway, then might as well indulge in these final moments.
It was cruel of him.
“I see that your journey is almost at its end.” Narinder stated, eliciting a hum from the Lamb.
“My next crusade should be the last. I’ll be going against Shamura,” The Lamb proudly proclaimed, placing their hands on their waist and beaming. “After that, you’ll finally be free!”
Freedom. Freedom at last, freedom just a foot away in front of him. And yet, he dreaded it. “Indeed.”
It wasn’t long before the Lamb had to return to their flock once more. Narinder stared heavily at his skeletal palms, scanning his eyes along the gaps and crevices of his bones. An exhausted expression, one only cultivated by thousands of years of imprisonment, graced his expression from beneath the veil.
This was sickeningly sweet, yet what was it all for?
Narinder felt a presence to his left. He turned to look—it was Baal, and ever the graceful kit he was, he walked slowly and calmly to Narinder with eyes gleaming with intelligence. While his brother had attained Death’s ruthlessness and his warrior of a heart, Baal had taken his scholarly brain. That side of him that had been tempered by divinity and the knowledge that he’d received from both Shamura and the ancient relics he’d scoured for like a starved man.
Baal had his hands clasped together, and once he arrived in front of Narinder, he bowed respectfully. Narinder asked, “What is it, disciple of mine?”
It took a few beats of silence and a pointed stare from Baal before he responded, “Do you—truly wish to sacrifice your vessel, master?”
Narinder sighed. “I should.“
Baal’s eyes gleamed. “Excuse my rudeness, master… but you don’t want to.”
Narinder shifted his eyes away from Baal. This intelligent disciple of his saw through him, far exceeding his expectations. “I need to.”
Freedom and revenge has been his greatest ambition for years and years. Rage was what fueled him to continue on and not succumb to despair.
He used to be so certain of his goals. Now, for the first time in the duration of his immortality, he was unsure of himself.
—
“So, does this mean you’re free now?”
“Not quite, vessel. The final gate awaits.” Narinder cast a weighty gaze at the red, wooly thing, indiscernible by them through the shroud of his veil. The Lamb laughed. Baal and Aym stood at his sides once again, this time silent, not providing the Lamb their attention.
“Twenty followers, Lamb. Then I shall be free.” Narinder brought a hand closer to the Lamb and placed the end of his finger to their wooly cheek. It was sharp, but inadequately so. It did not injure the Lamb.
“I’m so excited,” The Lamb held his finger with a gentle caress and leaned into his touch. “I had three grand shelters constructed in a secluded section of the Cult. It’ll be enough for all three of you if you guys want to sleep there!”
Narinder saw it through the crown. They eagerly had those shelters planned and assisted their followers with great enthusiasm in the construction of them. Narinder saw, at the corner of his eyes, Aym fashioning a short-lived grimace.
“…Go now,” Narinder did not comment on the shelters. He retracted his arm. “Time is at hand.”
“Alright!” The Lamb leapt with a wide smile on their face. “I’ll hurry up!”
Narinder wished they wouldn’t.
—
The Lamb was ecstatic as they walked up the steps towards Narinder.
The aforementioned god watched them with heavy eyes as they approached. The Lamb, ever the joyful being, had a leap in their step and an overactive expression on their face.
“Narinder, I’m so excited! You’re about to be free soon—“
This time, it was Narinder who interrupted them. "Vessel, I relinquish you from your service to the Red Crown. Return it to me, and embrace the end that awaits.”
Aym and Baal averted their gazes from The Lamb. The Lamb fell quiet. They tilted their head in confusion and asked, “What do you mea—“
Suddenly, the cages that they failed to notice at first became filled with the followers they’d so tirelessly taken care of and collected. Whimpers of horror and confusion spread within the masses as they looked around in confusion. Finally, their eyes set upon the Lamb—their savior—-and almost in a chorus the flock begged, “Leader! Leader!”
Narinder furrowed his eyebrows and frowned at the followers. The Lamb’s expression seemed to blanch, the reality of the situation setting on their shoulders. Their mouth was agape with shock and their ears fell down. They looked to and fro, eyes darting around each desperate expression within the cages.
“With this last sacrifice of my most devoted Follower, I will be freed. Finally, I…” A flash of hesitation. A hint of pain in his eyes. He steeled his nerves and let out a sharp exhale. “I will be free.”
He reached out his hand—chains now no stronger than mere strings around his wrists with the deaths of the gods of the Old Faith. He thought about it for a moment, cradling the Lamb in his hands, and then fiercely retracted his reach. He masked his face with the dignity of the god that he was. “Approach, vessel, and lay your life down at my feet."
“What do you… mean…?” The Lamb whispered. Narinder didn’t respond.
“What do you mean?!” The Lamb yelled, stepping forth closer to Narinder, red crawling across the whites of their eyes. They tugged at their wool.
“Kneel, vessel. Or give the crown to me and leave.” Narinder murmured sternly.
“Was this all a joke? Were you just lying to me all this time—did, did you…” Realization dawned across their face. They slowly removed their hands from their wool and lifted their head to meet Narinder’s gaze. “Did you… know this was what’s going to happen all along?”
Narinder maintained the stillness of his voice. He raised a hand to rub across his face. It was confirmation enough for the Lamb.
“There—there has to be another way.” The Lamb begged, reaching up to clutch the crown tight between their fingers as their eyes observed each of the occupants in the world Below. “Surely there is? You don’t, you don’t want to kill me, do you, Narinder?”
The space between Narinder’s eyes scrunched, and a bitter taste coated his tongue at the Lamb’s distress.
“There is no other way, Lamb. Either you die and I am freed, or…” Narinder forced the words out of his mouth. “You give the crown to me and return to the mortal realm as that previous vessel of mine had.”
“But then… then, you’d still be stuck down here.” The Lamb held the crown even tighter within their hands. They bit their lower lip in perturbation.
Narinder didn’t know why he was providing the Lamb with an option to live. His goals were there, glaring right in front of his face. He didn’t know why he was hesitating so much to reach out and finally achieve his plans.
He could have forced the Lamb into submission, could have just had them sacrifice themselves immediately.
He’d grown so, so vulnerable. And it hurt.
“If I die,” The Lamb asked. “What would become of me?”
He doesn’t… he doesn’t want the Lamb to perish.
“Gone in purgatory or stuck in whatever afterlife has in store for you.” Narinder responded. “I am only a guide, Lamb. I cannot see you beyond what lies in my duties.”
“Narinder, I don’t want to die! I don’t want the cult members to die, I don’t—“ The Lamb closed their eyes tightly.
“I don’t want to be anywhere without you!”
Narinder’s next words faded into nothing at the Lamb’s final cry, and he froze. He stared down at the Lamb as they shook, tears gathering at the corners of their eyes.
“I don’t know what truly being in the afterlife is like,” The Lamb choked, their tears staining their wool. “But I don’t want to be anywhere without you, Narinder, please. I don’t care about anyone else as much as I care about you.”
“I’d sacrifice myself for you a million times, but if it means being away from you, I… I can’t,” The Lamb’s eyes glistened so bright with such emotion, it overwhelmed Narinder’s cold and hollow chest.
Narinder croaked, “…Why, Lamb? Why, after all the deception that I have used against you? After I have taken advantage of you and withheld information from you?”
Narinder tugged at his chains weakly. “Clearly I am a foul being.”
The distressed cries of the followers never stopped as they observed the exchange. Aym and Baal said nothing.
“Because I love you, Narinder.” The Lamb expressed, placing a hand to their chest and grasping at their wool.
“I want to be with you. I want to fish with you, swim with you, play knucklebones with you. I want to pick flowers with you, garden with you, crusade with you! I want to embrace you and feel your warmth and your affection. Narinder, I don’t want to be anywhere where you aren’t.”
“I’ve made a home for you, Narinder. A grand shelter right next to my own leader tent. I made two more for Aym and Baal too!” The Lamb smiled at the siblings. “And if you want, you can move in with me instead. What I’m trying to say is… I keep my promises, Narinder.”
A few droplets of tears slipped out of their eyes, and they wiped harshly at them and sniffed. “I don’t plan on breaking them anytime soon. So please, don’t take this away from me.”
An aching warmth produced a steady throb along Narinder’s whole body.
“Didn’t some of my enemies turn into mortals when I defeated them?” Suddenly, the Lamb’s eyes brightened, and a grin sprouted throughout their face.
Narinder was speechless. He processed the influx of information for a long, long moment.
Finally, Narinder released a helpless yet resigned sigh. “You are weak, Lamb.”
The Lamb summoned the crown into a sword and never dropped their grin. Narinder. “…So? What’ll it be?”
Narinder sighed again. “Aym, Baal, step back.”
“Come at me.”
The Lamb quickly grabbed their weapon and dashed at The One Who Waits. Swiftly, Narinder broke out of his chains.
—
Narinder did not hold back, and neither did the Lamb. Both didn’t have the intention to hold back an ounce of their powers from the beginning.
A fierce rain of flame and chains erupting from the ground attacked the Lamb with a gnashing determination. The Lamb rolled and ran, heaving a small yelp as one of the fireballs burnt their fleece and wool. Backed into a corner with chains coming close, they gritted their teeth and dashed in-between a gap created by the chains, managing to escape with but a few scrapes and bruises. They ran on to Narinder and attacked him with the crown, and it was at that moment that Narinder truly experienced the rage that was the Lamb’s skill and precision in combat.
Narinder had not seen the Lamb’s anger in anything besides their battles. Many times he’d theorized that the cause of this was due to the fact that they still beheld emotions from before they’d been sacrificed. He felt that their grudges ran deep into their soul and caused them to pour the heat in their heart onto their enemies.
Yet the Lamb was not rageful at Narinder. None of what Narinder had done to them had made the Lamb angry.
“Narinder!” The Lamb yelled as they parried incoming chains that rushed for them, producing a sharp and powerful clang between sword and blunt steel. “I’ve always been an emotional person!”
“Berating yourself in the midst of battle is a show of weakness, Lamb!” Narinder threw his hands forward and summoned an onslaught of chains to curl and imprison the Lamb within. The Lamb looked around in shock and confusion briefly, and the cage of chains closed in rapidly upon them—another loud clang, then the sickening scraping sound of metal. The Lamb struggled from within the cage, grunting and fighting back with sheer force. Finally, the chains dissipated, leaving the Lamb’s arms aching and sore.
“I’m not!” The Lamb parried another chain and rolled from a fireball. They gasped for oxygen. “Just listen to me!”
The sounds of combat resonated ceaselessly throughout hell. There was only the two of them there—The One Who Waits and the Lamb, competing against their opposing beliefs. The wasteland was a battlefield of their own, supplemented by the music of fighting. Chains erupted forth and fought against the Lamb like flicking snakes, snapping to and fro and emitting the sounds of a sharp whip. The Lamb continued to voice their thoughts as they parried each of Narinder’s attacks. “I’ve always been an emotional person. I’ve always been on my own, so it was only when I finally had someone in my life that I actually showed my true colors.”
Narinder faltered in his steps, the wide and many eyes of his eldritch form quaking momentarily. When the Lamb came upon him and landed an attack, Narinder growled and teleported to the other side of the vicinity, casting waves upon waves of chains from the ground to the Lamb. “Stop trying to distract me with your cheap tactics!”
“Narinder, I’ve told you before that you’re my savior!” The Lamb yelled back at Narinder as they carefully and swiftly maneuvered throughout the array of steel. Narinder threw a skeletal hand forth—a swift and merciless chain snapped speedily towards the Lamb. Quickly, they gasped and ducked, rolling away in the nick of time. “I-I know you used me and most of what happened between us has been an act, but… I was angry, Narinder. I was so angry inside!”
More chains which behaved like thrashing tentacles spewed out. The Lamb parried some and dodged some, all the while they evaded oncoming rains of fireballs. The Lamb decreased the distance between them and Narinder in time and sliced their sword, ripping a piece of Narinder’s cloak and imbuing a cut upon his fur. Narinder let out a roar as ichor stained the Lamb’s sword. “I thought it was going to eat me up!” The Lamb declared loudly as they dashed away from another attack in consequence of the wound they’d inflicted.
“At first, I admit, I was just trying to push your buttons to see if you’d abandon me. But being able to meet you and get closer with you saved me!”
The two continued to clash, and they reached the point where both god and vessel were panting from exertion. Narinder knelt on the ground, cloak tattered and stained with his open wounds, his eldritch eyes blinking rapidly yet staring with apt focus at the Lamb. They, too, were wounded—white wool coated with thick red going on brown and cuts and open wounds littering their smaller form. Neither of the two beings were able to regenerate, not when they were going against one another whilst possessing essentially the same power.
The Lamb caught their breath, gulping air in thick bulks before throwing their head back and glaring up at Death. “Narinder, I wanted to die. When I was set as a sacrifice, I was afraid, but I wanted to die. You gave me reason to live. You gave me purpose.”
Seeing that their savior made no moves to attack them, they kept on going. “Call me foolish, but… I don’t want to lose someone who loves me ever again.”
Narinder quietly gathered his breath and stared at the Lamb.
For Narinder, there were many reasons as to why he pushed against the Lamb with full power. One was due to the fact that he loved the Lamb with such ferocity that he could not hide such emotions even in a fight against them. Another was due to the fact that he firmly, desperately believed himself to be unfit for the Lamb. His words had not been trickery when he’d told Lamb that he was a vile being unworthy of the Lamb’s affection.
Narinder opened his mouth and deliberately emphasized each of his words, “…I am not good for you, Lamb. Just because I… just because I love you, does not mean I am the ideal match.”
He’d fooled the Lamb, time and again, and even intended to kill them despite their loyalty towards him and the love they shared. He’d irrevocably taken advantage of the Lamb in order to fulfill his own selfish desires. And amongst those feelings was another ridiculous thought he held—that by resisting the Lamb and not allowing them to be with him in the end, it would be the best for them. Because they wouldn’t have to hurt at all. He thought that it would be painful to them if they were together with a vile beast such as him. He thought that by winning against them and pushing them away from him, it would be enough forgiveness for his sins.
“Give me the crown and return to your life in the mortal realm.” Narinder straightened his back and extended a skeletal hand to the Lamb. They, who were still gathering their breath, gaped up at Narinder. They stood up slowly and walked to Narinder with great caution, and for a second Narinder believed they would truly provide him with the crown. A great ache in his chest blossomed…
Then faded away as the Lamb, instead, thrusted the sword at him. Narinder dodged in time, and the Lamb grinned mischievously up at Narinder’s reaction.
“Who told you to dictate the choices in my romantic interests?!” The Lamb screeched, before hurling out a fit of hoarse laughter. “Don’t assume things for me, don’t make choices for me! I get to decide whether or not you’re good for me!”
The Lamb rushed at Narinder and rapidly executed a series of rapid-fire attacks. Narinder evaded each one and parried with an attack of his own, and he could not deny the rush of blood in his veins at the Lamb’s words and sudden ferocity.
“I love you, Narinder!” The Lamb yelled, closing their eyes tightly as they could. They struggled against a chain pressing down upon them. “We’re getting out of this place! Together!”
Narinder could not help the laugh that escaped him. “Fine!”
—
His whole body felt heavy. Eyelids refused to open like a thousand tons of weight pressed down upon it. He allowed this feeling of utter exhaustion to consume him for one moment.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. He’d spent many times in the great white Below slumbering. Yes, he was immortal and did not need to slumber, but what else could he do when he was trapped beneath and isolated for eons? But this slumber was different. While he’d sleep with his worries and his grudges burdening his mind, this one was sheer exhaustion that set his mind empty. It felt cold, yet it felt comforting.
Then he felt a difference in the sensations around him. Slowly, his mind came to life. He felt something—something besides the fog of Below—touching his fur all over. A faint scent that he could not describe, or perhaps had forgotten how to describe, wafted over his nose. Then all at once everything assaulted his senses in an alarming frenzy. His arms were not cold and empty, instead he noticed they were warm. Why? It hadn’t been so since… since…
Quickly, he fought against the weight in his eyes with the might of the long-forgotten god Atlas and opened them. As fast as he did so, he shut them back down.
Bright white speckles of light attacked his senses, sending a sting throughout his eyes that caused him to hiss, black spots quickly filling his sight. Pain shot out throughout all three of his arpetures—he’d never felt this way before. The great white Below was far brighter than this, how—
Narinder stilled. Slowly, gradually, he blinked his eyes open once again.
The first thing he saw was… what he’d seen through the eye of the crown that night. The gaze of the crown was always shrouded in faint hues of red, saturating the display of what he saw slightly. Yet now that he was here to experience the thing in person… Narinder was astounded.
It was the exact same sight as that night. So bright and beautiful and so utterly gorgeous. Never in a million years would he have expected how… how beautiful the sky would be. Blue and white and purple and black all mixed together to create such a magnificent tapestry that portrayed the beauty of the goddess that was the universe, and for a brief moment he thought to himself—if the sky were a god, he would serve it. But he quickly grew out of his stupor.
He sat himself up. He groaned at the creaking and painful sensation around his body. Then he noticed his hands—they were safe, intact, and what he’d been laying upon was a circle which he immediately remembered had been the indoctrinating circle that the Lamb utilized when accepting new followers. With his renewed limbs, he traced a finger against the red symbols on the ground… he unsheathed a claw and marveled at it.
Then, the next thing he realized was the scent of everything around him. So fresh, so green, and it flooded him immediately with memories and such familiarity that it sent a great quake coursing through him. His ears twitched—the sound of crickets, the sound of the night wind, the rustling of trees and leaves. And my goodness, everything was so familiar. Narinder noticed, he’d missed this so terribly. Something awful yet good and overwhelming gathered around his head and his eyes.
“N-Narinder?” Then, a voice he knew all too well resonated from behind him. Narinder quickly turned—
The Lamb ran towards Narinder and quite literally jumped into Narinder’s arms and clutched onto his fur tightly. Narinder weakly hugged them back, limbs creaking and unfamiliar due to the change in body… but it felt so right. It felt so correct to have the Lamb in his arms, to simply be in this body. It was a sensation he’d imagined many times before, but for it to be occurring in front of him now, it felt utterly euphoric.
Narinder placed his nose into the Lamb’s wool and inhaled. The scent of greenery and flowers gathered to his nostrils. He placed a paw behind the Lamb’s head and pushed them deeper into his embrace. His other paw was on the small of their back, pushing equally as hard and keeping the Lamb firmly in place.
The Lamb’s hug was given with even more eagerness than him. They dragged their fingers harshly against his fur and placed a strong hold on him. The Lamb’s body shook in his arms—muffled wails erupted from them as they bawled into his fur. The Lamb spoke repeatedly, “Narinder, Narinder, Narinder…!”
The Lamb pushed, and the two fell to the ground. Narinder laid on the floor with the Lamb still sobbing on top of him. Narinder was met with the night sky once again, and he rubbed the Lamb’s back with gentle strokes, furry palms brushing against soft and thick wool.
“You’re here, you’re alive! I thought, I thought I killed you, I—“
“…Do you believe me to be so weak as to fall to your blade that easily, Lamb?” Narinder chuckled, his voice hoarse and raspy with the newness of it all. He grasped their chin to raise their head to meet his eyes. Red met black and intertwined with such intensity, it raised the ends of Narinder’s fur at his nape. Relief settled into the Lamb’s shaking eyes and softened quickly at Narinder’s touch.
“Of course,” The Lamb exhaled, rubbing their chin against Death’s hand. “You’re strong after all. You’re the strongest of all in this world. My world, my lord, Narinder…”
Narinder shivered at the gentle whisper of his name. He closed his eyes, let out a low grunt, before sitting up once again with the Lamb still nestled between his arms. He allowed the two of them to stay there for a while, stuck in one another’s embrace.
It felt wonderful to be alive again.