Work Text:
You have my trust and I'll stand in your name
Before him, at last and after a long wait, stands the Lamb. His vessel.
No.
His champion.
The blood of They of Might has already begun to fade, lost among the reddish tufts of his wool, darkening parts of his robes, yet the metallic scent that surrounds him is unmistakable, the blood of the last traitor spilled in his name. The scent of betrayal clings to him as well, settling into his fleece like a second skin. Not betrayal toward himself, never toward himself, but betrayal carried out without remorse against the one who guided his little vessel along the path to becoming his shepherd. And yet it does not seem to weigh on his steps, for the Lamb approaches with firm strides, shoulders straight and head held high.
Upon his head rests the Red Crown, placed there by his own hand, yet worn with such pride that, had he not known better, he might think it belonged to him. Such a thought would once have sent The One Who Waits into a fit of rage at the mere idea that his vessel would dare usurp his place. Now, however, it does nothing but stroke his ego to see his mark carried with such devotion.
No trace remains of the trembling lamb his siblings foolishly sent to his door. The innocence and desperation with which he had looked at him that first time, the image of the filthy and battered lamb soaked in his own blood, has vanished. In its place there remains only confidence and malice, and a touch of blind devotion that has found its way into the hollow where The One Who Waits' heart should have been.
Before him does not stand the lamb that had been sacrificed in vain to prevent the prophecy and halt his resurrection, but the prophet of a new order.
The Lamb turned Shepherd.
Satisfaction coils within him at how far his little vessel has come, mingling with the cruel anticipation that bristles his fur at the thought of how close he is to breaking his chains. To being freed from the foolish prison in which he had been forced to remain for centuries upon centuries. And deep within, very deep within, the spark of pride that ignited when the first of his siblings fell at the hands of his champion has grown into a blazing inferno.
His chains chime softly as he spreads his arms to welcome his champion, who finally stops a few steps away and lifts his gaze, allowing him a better look at his face.
Part of The One Who Waits expects to find a hint of fear in the Lamb, for neither of them is unaware that the moment of the final sacrifice has come. His three eyes drift across the Lamb's face, then down the rest of his body, searching for anything that might betray the calm he carries. He expects to find a tremor in his hands, some small gesture of nerves. Instead, the Lamb meets his gaze with a calm that unsettles him for the briefest fraction of a second.
It is not the calm of someone who's resigned to their fate. It is the calm of someone who has accepted it.
The One Who Waits knows what must happen now. He has waited patiently for it. He has prepared his Lamb for this very moment. Only one thing remains to fulfill the prophecy. And yet that single fraction of hesitation leaves him frozen.
He opens his mouth, words swirling at the tip of his tongue, as heavy as the chains that bind him, yet no sound escapes his throat. Before he can even begin to speak, without warning, his little Lamb drops to his knees before him.
"My Lord," the Lamb says, his voice soft but steady, a reflection of his resolve.
In an act of submission he bows his head, raising his hands toward him, palms lifted in offering. Instantly the Crown dematerializes from his head and settles upon them.
Like an offering.
"I have fulfilled your command and come before you, no more than a humble follower, to return what was lent to me."
Curiosity replaces The One Who Waits' surprise. He tilts his head slightly as he considers the Lamb's words. At last, one of his hands descends, and with the tip of a claw he lifts the Lamb's chin.
The same calm greets him.
In his eyes there is none of the defiance with which he faced the other Bishops before delivering their end.
"Kyle," The One Who Waits pronounces his name with the same reverence the Lamb shows him.
Perhaps far more than a god should ever grant a mere mortal, but who remains to judge how he addresses his champion? The Guardians would not dare utter a word at the gentleness with which their Master treats the Lamb.
They would not even dare think what it implies.
"Kyle," he repeats, moving his claw carefully from chin to cheek, bending a finger to brush it lightly with his knuckle. "Do you know why you have come before me today?"
The Lamb leans into his touch without shame. He never lowers his hands, the Crown still held reverently toward its rightful owner.
"I do, my Lord," he answers firmly, never looking away.
The chains chime again as The One Who Waits' other hand joins the first, holding the Lamb's face between them. His thumbs slide along his cheeks, pressing them lightly. The Lamb does not flinch, allowing him to do as he pleases until he seems satisfied.
"And why have you come?" he asks.
The words are spoken as a question, though they are anything but.
It is a subtle request.
An order.
A command to speak what churns within that small red head of his.
"To fulfill the prophecy," the Lamb answers without hesitation. This time his hands tremble. The One Who Waits recognizes that it is not from fear but because he wishes to return the gesture and hold him in the same way the god holds him. Yet he is far too stubborn to release the Crown, and so he keeps it raised, waiting for it to be accepted.
"I am here to carry out the final sacrifice that will allow you to return, my Lord, and for you to claim your rightful place in the cult I have raised in your name." he carries on, unaware of the storm that his words unleash inside The One Who Waits.
The prophecy.
The One Who Waits knows it well, burned into his memory alongside his siblings' betrayal. Words whispered in a dead tongue, torment for the old gods and the only hope that kept him bound. The same words that say that to be freed from The Gateway, he must…
"Do you truly understand what fulfilling the prophecy entails, Kyle?" The One Who Waits presses the Lamb's cheeks gently, the tips of his claws sliding beneath the wool to cradle the back of his head, holding him there so he cannot look away.
Not that the Lamb seems inclined to, since his gaze only grows more resolute.
The One Who Waits wonders if perhaps so many deaths and resurrections have clouded his Lamb's judgment.
Questioning it does nothing to dull the pride swelling in his chest.
"My Lord needs a body in order to return," the Lamb says, confusion briefly creasing his brow. "And I am your vessel."
"Do you know what that means, Kyle?" he asks again, with a patience that feels foreign to him. He watches closely as the Lamb turns the question over in his mind and knows the exact moment he understands, his lips parting slightly in surprise.
"That I must be sacrificed so that my Lord may take his place," he answers softly, tilting his head slightly.
"You would cease to exist entirely," The One Who Waits clarifies.
He does not know what compels him to say it. Nor why he prolongs the inevitable.
No. He does know.
He knows perfectly well that as his Lamb accepts his fate, it is his own resolve that begins to crumble.
"My existence belongs to you," the Lamb says quickly, emotion tightening his voice as he leans forward, indignation burning in his posture. "My life is yours, my Lord. Your will is mine. And if it is your will to take my body so that you may rise again, then so be it."
What a curious creature.
The other vessels had not been so receptive to the idea. One after another they died by his siblings' hands, and the most resilient among them lacked the faith to carry out with his will. But what drives his Lamb to surrender himself completely is not faith.
Nor worship or believe.
It is pure, unadulterated devotion.
The Lamb is not merely willing to cease existing so his chains may break: he is offering himself on a silver platter.
Silence falls over The Gateway.
The Lamb remains kneeling, The One Who Waits' hands holding his face, his own hands lifted with the Crown resting patiently in his palms as he waits for a decision.
Slowly, The One Who Waits moves.
One hand slides down to the Lamb's arm, helping him rise. The other lingers in a gentle caress along his cheek before drifting down his neck. Instinctively the Lamb lifts his chin, stretching his throat until his cloak slips aside, revealing the scar beneath.
He traces the mark with the tip of a claw.
He is certain that if he were to search the rest of his body, he would find every scar earned in the course of his mission. Every mark proof of his Lamb's devotion. Every one of them his.
Each one earned in his name.
The Lamb shudders and something inside The One Who Waits twists.
What a waste it would be, he thinks, to lose such a loyal and capable champion.
"No," he says at last, withdrawing his hands. Why would he destroy something that belongs to him?
He takes the Red Crown and sets it once more upon the Lamb's head.
"My Lord?" Confusion is plain on his face, the first spark of fear flickering in his eyes.
The One Who Waits knows the prophecy well. He knows it by heart, etched in his mind with the fire of betrayal. Words whispered in a dead tongue, speaking of how a lamb would be the catalyst for his return.
His freedom will come at the hands of the chosen one. Not despite them.
"That would be a waste," The One Who Waits trails his finger across the Lamb's face one last time before straightening up in all his glory, chains rattling around him. Instinctively, the Lamb takes a step forward toward him as he steps back, his attention completely absorbed in his words. "You are meant for greater things, Kyle."
"Eric…" The words catches in his throat. Saying The One Who Waits' name so casually feels like blasphemy upon his tongue, and yet he cannot stop himself. He lifts a hand and clutches at the edge of The One Who Waits' robe, his fingers trembling slightly against the worn fabric.
Out of confusion, not fear. Never from fear.
"A new task awaits you, my Lamb." The One Who Waits says, lowering his hand to stroke his Lamb's head. His fingers weave through the curled wool before withdrawing again, a crooked smile forming upon his lips when the Lamb's body finally relaxes.
He resumes his usual place at The Gateway, watching with quiet fascination the emotions that pass across the Lamb's face until, at last, understanding finds its way through.
''You are to find a worthy vessel for me. A body fit for me to inhabit,'' he declares with the same finality with which they forged their pact that day, what already feels like an eternity ago. ''You will bring before me the one who shall take your place as my sacrifice.''
"Your word is my will, my Lord," the Lamb replies, letting go of his robe to offer a deep bow.
"Go, Kyle. Fulfill your destiny. Strengthen our cult and tend well to our flock."
Our, he says with deliberate intent, and the word sends a shiver through the Lamb. He offers one last bow before turning to leave. His steps grow firmer with each stride until, at last, his shoulders square and determination settles over him before he vanishes, returning to the world of the living.
The One Who Waits remains at The Gateway, certain his champion will return with another victory.
He has already waited long enough.
Waiting a little longer will not trouble him.