Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are those favored by Fate. This, Death has known for as long as he can remember.

He does not find it a very good position to be in.

The weight of the Red Crown lays heavy on his head, even now that he has learned to tune out its whispers. Not all of them are born of ill-intent, but enough…

The chains holding him down shift minutely, a grim reminder.

“Tell me, O’ Death: Do you believe in destiny immutable?”

Sometimes, it feels as if he alone does not believe one’s nature to be set in stone.

“Our brother is no more- you are not Narinder. He is lost to us.”

It is more like a dirt road, the path further marked into the earth the more you walk the same exact steps.

“...it is…only…your right…as Death…”

Of course, there will always be machinations outside of their control at play, even as gods- like water finding its way down the dirt path, turning into a rushing river that sweeps you along. Its current too strong to find a way out.

“...five remain, felled to nothing. So the darkness has decreed. Will you dare prove them wrong?”

He does not blame them, in the end; though he resents the chains. Resents…

Baal and Aym yawn simultaneously, before immediately straightening. They stand rigidly for a moment, before glancing at each other and bursting into giggles.

Anger… is hard to hold onto. Even though it is not unfamiliar, its taste is now bitter on his tongue.

The last he’d felt such fury…

The One Who Waits had slain hundreds in defense of his family. Never before had he himself hurt them so.

He can still see the red staining his claws.

It is a vivid memory, playing out against the endless white fog.

His family… his eyes trail back to the twins. Perhaps they should contact Forneus soon. Maybe even reach out to-

The Gateway around them shifts, and his disciples quit their roughhousing to stand tall again. Not that they are very tall. If they were mortal, they would appear as teenagers.

The fog around them fades almost imperceptibly, enough to provide clarity to the group of souls now in their midst. Visages of forests and half-formed towns spawn within the endless white, mirroring what the once-living had known.

It is another group of sheep. Smaller in numbers than the last.

Anger may be hard to hold onto, but it is quick to grab hold of.

His siblings’ magic perfuses the air around them, daring to check in on his realm even as they steer clear from Death himself.

No, they do not check on him, even as they dare ensure that the spell they used -his own spell, worked and kept the lambs away from him.

He lets them believe so.

The cruelty their fear has driven them too- if it was not made clear by the chains that rattle above his head, it would be made obvious in the senseless genocide they are now performing.

How the mighty have fallen. The irony is not lost on him.

The One Who Waits is not remiss on how some of the group lingers back in fear- but the three sheep, who are in the lead and undoubtedly the reason their group managed to evade the bishops’ attempts to send them astray- approach without hesitation.

“O’ Death Beautiful, we are at peace in your presence!”

“Praise be He, Eternal Guide!”

“We thank you for your patience.”

Death blinks down at them, noting the first title. Only those who encounter Forneus tend to call him such, but they tend to last a bit longer than the three younglings in front of him.

He gazes towards the other two, a crow and a mouse.

The eye of his crown glows a little brighter as he lets more power through himself, and the lives of the group flashes through his mind. Ah, willing sacrifices. Though, to call them willing under these circumstances…

Whatever expression he makes at that thought is likely not visible through his veil, but the others step forth as well.

“We thank you for your guidance, O’ Death.”

“May our devotion give you strength.”

He nods, slowly, and the chains around his neck reverberate upwards.

The faithful always have an easier time in finding their way directly to him, even now that he is restrained.

He’d used to find them on his own, before. Now he remains in one spot, and Baal or Aym collect the lost stragglers in his stead.

“Your loyalty will grant you peace of mind, and you are free to choose how to proceed. A rebirth is open to you individually, though timing is not certain. You may cross the gates into a calm existence, free to rest eternally whenever you decide.”

Individually, they step forth and cross through the gates into The Afterlife. It does not matter how long they contemplate in front of him, registering their ended mortality. Time works differently in his realm. The Primordials made it so- long, long ago.

Afterwards, when he is alone save for his twin guardians, The One Who Waits decides it is time to elect the next vessel. He already has just the rat in mind. There are preparations to finish, afterall. The last lamb will be upon soon enough.

Some decades or perhaps centuries later- naught but an agonizing blink in his lifetime, Death stares down at a trio of lambs. A father and two children. Though he accompanies them, this ram’s own child is not among the two young lambs.

Ramdy- the father, steps forth first. Death knows already of his request, but lets him speak regardless.

“Death Eternal, I ask that you hear my plea: Please, my child- allow them choice in their fate.”

Like you were not, echoes through his head, and Death stares balefully through his veil.

The twins do not gasp, for they do not have breath- but it is a close thing.

“I know it is blasphemous to insinuate that you would not,” he wrings his hands, “but a father worries, you know?”

Of course he does. Baal and Aym silent and still in his claws, the desperation as his spells failed to work, enough so he’d blindly agreed to their offer-

Somehow, hearing it said aloud does not quell the turmoil of his thoughts on the matter.

The One Who Waits is more than familiar with what happens to those that defy their nature. ‘Sacrificial beast, take heed…’ He knows it is unlikely the last lamb will choose any differently to what prophecy has foretold, what he himself once chose.

He still cannot find it in himself to give in, even now.

The Red Crown burns familiarly atop his head, as if approving. He ignores the chill that travels up his spine.

…It was his own choices that landed him here, despite it all.

He knows it is only fair to let the lamb choose as well, when the time comes.

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Death does not let himself linger on bitterness unfair when the last of a species finally enters his realm.

Age-old weariness has a habit of growing sickening whenever he lowers his guard.

It is without a falter that he kicks his siblings’ awareness from his realm, letting them feel his ire.

The time for subtlety is finally over.

Patience never came as naturally as anger, even if he has grown to appreciate its need. The Red Crowns burns atop his brow, its very presence surrounding the air with a red glow.

The twins have not dared move or speak for a while. They can recognize when their God is not quite himself-

He ignores the twinge of something that he feels at that thought, and draws his focus to his vow. The One Who Waits will be true to his word, as he has always been. As he decided to be fair in death when life was not, so long ago-

The last of the lambs is wide eyed and trembling before him, at long last. But even so, their gaze is sharp and expression hardened. Experience has made a survivor out of them, undoubtedly.

He knows already what choice they will make. He speaks the words he’s practiced regardless.

“A choice before you, one that not many have gotten.”

In truth, Ramdy had been right- Death had not planned to refuse the last lamb a choice. He had given one to every vessel before them, and he would do so again if the prophesied one refused.

“I have need of you yet, but know you will see your due rest regardless of what you choose now.” Even if it takes a little longer, for them to finally cross the gate…

He pours intent into the fog around them, lets the mist ebb and flow to mirror the stone where this soul took their last breath.

“Should you dare enact my will: bear this crown and its power as my vessel. Have your revenge on the Bishops of the Old Faith. Know that your life will exist in service to me, until the day I am freed.”

Lambert- proven survivor and last of their kind, stands completely still for a moment. Magic crackles around them, charging the moment.

The One Who Waits lets himself consider a fate where his siblings efforts were without reason, before-

They bow their head.

“I will make your will my own, O’ Death…” and the Red Crown rises from his head, floating down to the lamb as the sting of a divine vow bears down on both Death and his last vessel.

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

-He does not let himself consider such a fate again, for a survivor is only such when they possess a strong will to live.

‘FIve becomes nothing-’

So prophecy foretold, millenia ago.

And it unfolds as such. Centuries pass.

Death watches on as his chosen vessel crusades- their vacant eyes growing more cunning each time, charming promises falling from their lips at every sermon as the cult grows, and- he does not quite resign himself, but he does accept it.

He has seen Lambert grow from blind obedience, to open curiosity, to something almost kind- at least, in the mortals’ eyes. Word spreads of a benevolent cult leader operating outside the Old Faith, and his vessel leans into the image painted of them.

They grow flippant in their regard for him, almost casual upon every death that brings them to him. There is a growing scheme building along with the desperation in their eyes, as their service draws to a close. It's easy enough to notice- Baal and Aym certainly do, with the way they remain on guard whenever The Lamb joins them. The two take to sparring with a vigor he has not seen in centuries.

They, too, are all too aware of how things will go. And it seems they’ve picked up his penchant for defiance. The thought was more endearing then it had any right to be.

Death huffs, and watches on through his crown as Lambert delays what prophecy foretold.

The One Who Waits will be freed, and The Old Faith will fall.

‘Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing.’ So Shamura had said to The Lamb.

An argument could be made that he was no longer of The Old Faith, not since the moment his siblings ambushed him, only solidified when they erased his name from history.

But in truth, he was still the last of the bishops. Still accepted their followers in his realm, even if they did not receive quite the warm welcome that those that followed him did.

It was only fair. It was only his sworn duty.

He was the last, even now.

When Lambert stands before him at long last, the look in their eyes is almost sad- almost mad, lips pulled back in frustration.

But the time to rework this dirt path is long gone, their tracks as good as etched onto stone once they felled the eldest of the bishops. For in the fates’ eyes, the lamb of prophecy had only marked themself as such, no longer a sacrificial beast.

Such irony…

Around them, the mist cages in the cult’s following, making them bear witness.

Death’s vessel holds the Red Crown in their hands, but The One Who Waits does not expect them to lay down their life for him, even though he still asks.

It is a cruel question, he knows. But one they’d always been aware was coming. The scene is almost reminiscent of their first meeting, the only difference being the spark of stubbornness in Lambert’s eyes.

It is quickly fading, as they gaze into the crown. Conflict warring within them. Despite himself, Death searches for a comfort upon the soul before him, as he has always done for the dead.

“Your father will not realize how long the wait truly was, regardless. The Primordials made it so.”

Lambert looks up at him with a gaze both lost and familiar. The One Who Waits allows himself a moment of empathy for his vessel.

It is quickly swallowed by the growing headache behind his third eye. The Red Crown has not been so far from him for so long, and he can feel it is anxious to return.

He ignores it.

The soul before him remains corporeal in a way unlike any mortal should, and the moment drags on.

With a bow, the crown is cradled in Lambert’s arms. Their grip is harsh on the metal.

“Is this truly the only way?”

He does not reply, for it is not needed. The question is obviously rhetorical, spoken more for The Lamb’s own sake than his own.

“My lord…” the last lamb rises, turning the crown from side to side. It trembles in their hold, red eye narrowed and waiting.

“...I am afraid that I must refuse.” They place the crown back atop their wooly head, and Death feels something fray in the back of his mind.

Baal and Aym jump to defend him -and at any other time, he would’ve been proud.

Now, he feels only a gaping tiredness at it all.

Still, he will fight. As he always has. As he has always known to do.

When The Lamb turns to him- bloody and revived many times over, something nearly divine reflected in their gaze, Death only has eyes for the ether that consumes his boys’ prone forms.

Grief is familiar, too.

He lets it wrap around him like a blanket, lets fury engulf him as it always does in battle. It will fade, soon enough, as it always does.

But, until then, until he is the last no more-

Until the favored weapon of the Old Faith is finally put down for good-

He refuses to submit as his nature would demand. Or, perhaps, is it his nature to defy?

A question Clauneck would’ve loved to ponder back and forth with him-

He thinks of his siblings’ missing souls -wonders, for a second, if the ether will consume him too. Of what would follow, should even Death somehow die. The world trembles around them.

The Lamb falls and rises again. They wield a power borrowed well.

They would wield their own power even better, he cannot help but think.

Death wonders what kind of god Lambert would be, as his version turns upside down and he knows no more.

—

They do not remember much of the first few decades. That period of their life feels as though a blurr, whenever they try to recall it.

They know it happened. Know what they agreed to, what they did-

But, sometimes, it feels as though it was somebody else who acted in their stead.

Somewhen, there was a unicorn. He was not the first, but it is his face they remember, and so it is him they revive, eventually.

Somewhen, there is a foe delighted in pink and a name given anew. They are not the first who once served another god, but it is her face they recall when deliberating on a trusted cook after one too many followers fall mysteriously ill.

Somewhen, more recently- there is an egg and a child’s giggle as they follow them through the cult grounds. It is a face free of torture and pain, and they realize they like this look as much as they do the fear of dissenters.

Lambert wishes, sometimes, that they could remember those early years. It keeps them up at night, when they cannot recall the before-

Other times, they recall all too well the mawning emptiness and cold satisfaction that followed every crusade and drop of blood spilled.

Leshy had been the first. They remember little of it, save for his presence behind the crown, watching their every move and reviving them instantly without a word.

Death had watched on as they killed his brother.

He had watched them kill each of his siblings.

They wonder if he felt sorrow at all. Or maybe glee, or- anything.

For a time, Lambert had comforted themself with the thought of exacting revenge for them both. Embracing the betrayal Death had suffered as their own. It was easy, when they were so alone. Easy to confuse devotion and loyalty for desperation.

Closer to the present, plagued by spots in their memory and a growing dissatisfaction with their own apathy- they could not help but feel used and almost resentful. Could not help but want back control in the only way they knew how.

Much as they delayed everything in an effort to not fully commit either way, their mind had been made up as soon as they considered their options.

Oh, they still tried to postpone it. Took their time traversing Silk Cradle and exploring the rest of the other bishops’ realms. Focused on improving the cult, completed a number of side quests throughout their surroundings, even met a strange fox in the shadows-

But none of that changed their decision, nor how they felt about it.

In the end, it is a battle a long time coming, and Lambert cannot help but wonder at the irony- how Death will only find freedom in his own death.

For it is his death or theirs, and Lambert chose long ago to always put themself first. They will never be a sacrifice again.

They are tempted to retract that vow, now. But if they do not have their word, then what else are they left with?

They are uncertain at how long the battle takes. Their benefactor from below had never bothered to explain why or how time worked in The Gateway.

Lambert hadn’t known how to react at his last -almost friendly, comment about their father and Primordials.

They had forgotten their father’s voice, his face, his name-

It was not the first they’d heard of the Primordials- The First Gods.

Whatever questions they harbor about them, though, they are unlikely to ever get answered.

There are not many left who could have any answers. More importantly, the closest one around is not likely to want to.

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It is the middle of the night, when they find themself respawned on the teleportation stone located by the cult’s entrance.

They are bloody and aching, left shoulder injured and burning dully.

Beside them-

Death himself lies, terribly small. At least, small compared to before.

Lambert is not sure what exactly had occurred. They’d managed to fell him after so many tries, and he’d laughed, a jaded and broken sound. The look in his eyes was one they recognized from their own reflection.

Then, the fog around them swirled and grew bright- The One Who Waits shrinking as noise imploded and pain consumed them before-

Utter nothingness. And then here they were.

It is not every day one fights the God of Death to the death.

Abruptly, Lambert feels laughter bubble out of their chest. It takes terribly long to bring the hysteria under control, and their chest hurts.

Beside them, Death breathes.

Lambert pauses.

They do not recall having seen him breathe before.

Impulsively, The Lamb puts their ear to his chest, and listens. After a moment, they hear it. A steady, grounding beat.

No, Death did not breathe. He had said so himself, before.

…was he no longer Death, then?

Hysteria threatens to pull them under again, and Lambert firmly pushes it back.

With a deep breath, they resolve to panic later- and let the veneer of cult leader fall over them.

Death or no- their lord was also bleeding, and needed tending too.

It would not do to discover his possible mortality by letting him bleed out.

…at least, he still bled ichor.

It was a pain to clean up, and it was not until The One Who Waits -except he was free now, so what should they call him? was bandaged and laying on a cot in the healing bay that Lambert realized their own wounds were still bleeding.

Bleeding red red red- leaving another mess everywhere. In the dim light of the moon, some splotches even appeared to sparkle.

Lambert sighed, and reached for the crown’s power. They must have been too frazzled to start healing automatically, earlier-

Except,

Except- the crown did not respond.

They paused, staring at the still form of the cat in front of them, before reaching up to physically grab hold of the Red Crown.

Lambert cradled it in their arms, and stared down at it.

The red eye was firmly closed.

Well, that can’t be good.

Chapter Text

Lambert manages to hide his presence from the cult for three days.

As the fourth dawn gives way from red to blue, a follower finds them and volunteers to take care of their patient. It occurs to The Lamb how this follower- a deer by the name of Tybregre, is one of the few capable of perhaps recognizing the black cat as the God of Death.

Tybregre is also amongst the few followers that The Lamb knows they can trust, though. It would still calm their mind to read his thoughts and confirm his intentions, but upon trying- they find that they cannot.

It's not as much of a surprise as it had been a couple days ago.

Lambert has not been able to read anyone’s mind since the battle. Which none of the flock seem to remember, even though The Lamb recalls seeing them amongst the fog. No one’s questioned their leader for heading off to free The One Below and returning without news, either.

It is strange, but Lambert’s never been one to question lucky strikes before.

They nod, only instructing Tybregre to keep this job on a need-to-know basis.

It's almost time for the morning’s sermon, so the cult leader heads to the temple.

A few early-risers have begun to make their way there, but they do not intercept The Lamb for anything. It's been three days since the battle, and even so, Lambert still feels on guard- responding to each approach more tautly than they would prefer to. Their injuries have not healed so slowly for a long time, and they’re already sick of having to keep track of their shoulder’s bandages.

They do not know how long the battle at The Gateway took, even though it seems as though not a day passed, back at the cult. It is a thought filed away into the growing list of things they don’t know.

The temple is lush with greenery as they enter, foliage creeping down from the ceiling and around the stained glass window. Its image depicts the glowing white silhouette of a crown.

Expansions are still under way, and will be for a while, but the glittering sunlight making its way through the stained glass hides any disorganization. They should really get back to that. Not many are entrusted with matters concerning the temple, and so it all falls under The Lamb’s direct responsibility.

Standing at the altar, Lambert takes a moment to observe the temple. How long has it been, since they first built it? They can’t recall.

It's a pretty sight, regardless. Prettier than it was, and that's saying something- Lambert had always found the temple to be the most beautiful construction of the cult. But now…

Pretty sight though this may be, it would not have been possible without a rather- ugly, sort of power. Ugly- though, only for lack of a better word. Power is power, afterall.But the weight of the crown atop their head remains, even though it is likely only a figment of their imagination. For The Lamb can still feel the absence of a presence that had once been there.

As far as they can tell, the crown is… asleep, is probably the best way to put it. Red eye firmly closed, with that presence they’d never given much care for, now glaringly gone.

They have yet to see if there are any other limitations to their abilities, mind drifting too often to do much since the battle. Then again, every ability had been granted by him… perhaps he retracted them somehow?

He Who Once Waited, for he is very much no longer chained- is yet to wake, lying still in the healing bay.

The Lamb is… trying very hard not to think about the implications of having him there. They take the crown off their head, staring at its closed eye. Ancient law dictates magical artifacts of one beast go to the winner after a death match. Except, Death is no mere beast, and no one truly died after the battle. Maybe the crown- in its oddly life-like state, didn’t even count as a magical artifact.

Lambert just doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why the crown’s eye has closed. Doesn’t know why their benefactor is lying unconscious and shrunken. Doesn’t know why they have been unable to sleep since the battle. There could be so many reasons for that last one-

All they do know, is that they know far too little about this entire situation. By all accounts, the Red Crown could be fully sentient and throwing a tantrum over The Lamb’s choice at The Gateway.

The thought draws a strained chuckle from them. Nothing about this is humorous.

Not knowing things is dangerous, Lambert learned that long ago. They’re uncomfortable with the realization that, despite all that time agonizing over their choice to fight- they had not prepared enough for whatever would happen should they succeed.

…no, that’s not fair.

Lambert had delayed the confrontation for as long as they could. Had used that time to master every ability the crown had allowed them- focused especially on reviving themself.

For they knew that fighting Death himself would not be easy. It was only possible because they bore the Red Crown in his stead. Only possible because he had granted them second life- only to then take it away? No-

A tantrum being thrown or not, the Red Crown was no longer cooperating with them.

That presence The Lamb had grown accustomed to, all those abilities granted by him and achieved through the crown’s power- none of it was their own, in the end.

That was only made clearer at every sermon, as it would be again now.

Lambert placed the crown back atop their head as the cult’s following finished congregating within the temple.

They took a deep breath, and began preaching.

As always, power wafted through them, and they could feel the cult’s devotion growing stronger.

As had occurred the last three days, a blinding headache nearly knocked them from the air as their eyes began to bleed red with magic. The crown’s apparent shunning of them made even this difficult.

Lambert pushed through regardless, only slightly shaky as they landed. Inhaling a silent breath, they did their best to collect at least some of the devotion in the room. Doing so felt… slimy, in a way that they were unused to.

“May Death Beautiful guide you,” they ended with. A prayer taught to them so long ago they’d forgotten by whom.

“For in Death is kindness,” the flock dutifully replied, before dispersing.

The Lamb blinked at their surroundings as vision focused back in. Preaching a sermon had not been so disorienting since the early days…

A flare of pain moved through their skull, and Lambert practically fell onto the altar.

“... Leader?”

Oh, great.

Head still bowed on the altar’s surface, the cult leader managed to look up. A racoon stood before them, hands clasped politely even as he tapped his foot.

“...Jooty. What is it?”

The racoon’s ears pinned back at their tone, but he squared his shoulders and spoke, arms falling to his sides.

“O’ Blessed Lamb- I have been informed we have an esteemed guest staying with us.”

Of course Tybregre would inform him. Jooty was the cult’s loyalty enforcer, but seemed to interpret that as being a second in command to them- demanding to always be kept in the loop for every little thing. Lambert only allowed it since he’d proven to be effective.

With a mental sigh, they managed to push themself back up.

“I see.”

“Do you grant permission for the construction of a new shelter?”

The Lamb pauses. A shelter was… definitely a more permanent accommodation, compared to a bed in the healing bay. If they refused, though, it would undoubtedly lead to far too many questions.

“...Yes, Jooty. I grant permission. But I want this shelter built away from the residential section- closer to the temple, here.”

“Of course! We’ll have it constructed by your tent’s fountain, if you find that agreeable?”

“...yea, sure.”

The racoon bowed his head to them, and hurried away. Lambert’s head continued to pound.

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By the seventh day after the battle, things are almost normal.

Routine, at the very least, has started to form again. Their shoulder injury is nearly completely healed. Faster than if they were a regular mortal, but slower than they were used to.

Lambert officially starts their day with the sun, makes their rounds around the cult and then gives the morning sermon. They stay in the temple until midday, organizing wayward records. There had been a massive effort to relocate certain buildings right before the battle at The Gateway, meant to make things more efficient.

It's easier to stay grounded when they’re actively doing something.

When they decided enough had been done there, they would check on the harvest and give some blessings -which thankfully seemed still work, even if casting them felt a little odd.

Yesterday, they’d had to clear the air between Yarna and Naon- the cult’s first two children, though they were now fully grown. And as siblings tend to do, they either got along or they didn’t… though, Lambert wasn’t sure what made them think so.

They huffed, placing a crate down into a hidden alcove. They couldn’t even get the crown to hold stuff for them, now.

The crate is filled with older tomes, some of them provided by Ratau and others directly from their God. This particular room is not yet furnished, but The Lamb had decided early on that it would become a makeshift library of sorts. Wiping down a few stray cobwebs, they run a mental list of their current duties.

They’d managed to bless the crops, but hadn’t yet taken inventory. It would be best to check directly with the cult’s cook, see if he had any comments.

Janaty was still at the kitchen when they got there, his pink coloring stark against the building’s neutral tones. The bat-toad wore a golden skull around their neck, a gift from Lambert after they got sick of having to revive them.

The cult leader watched her bustle about, putting everything back into place, before noticing The Lamb and approaching them.

Lambert automatically held the bowl shoved at them. It was filled with grass gruel.

“Oh! There’s no need, Janaty. I just-”

“With all due respect, Leader, I have not seen you stop by the kitchens in a week.”

“...I was just getting to that, need to verify our food stocks.”

“There is enough meat still, and a surplus of greens for everyone- though we are low on beetroots and the others are complaining about too much pumpkin again. Now eat, blessed one.”

Their shoulders fall. “Thank you Janaty.”

When the bat-toad only continues staring, Lambert steels themself and shoves a handful of grass into their mouth. As though a switch were flicked, hunger finally lets itself be known, and Lambert forces themself to continue eating slowly.

Janaty huffs at them, eyes crinkling with mirth as he returns to tidying the kitchen. He’s swift with his movements, practical and familiar. It’s been years since Lambert chose them for the role, afterall, so it's only a given. Decades, more like, or was it centuries…?

They frown, pushing the thought away. When they finish eating, Janaty takes the bowl away and procures a list.

“I compiled a report of the others’ requests while you were… indisposed.”

Ah.

“Thank you, Janaty.” They murmur, grabbing the list.

Thankfully, it was nothing too pressing. Wishes for another outhouse, some different scented soaps for the bathhouse…Amari wanted to see them… Thorar asked for a splendid feast to give to Heno… some wonderings about when the mating tent would next be used…

Lambert made a face at that last one, not wanting to pick up anymore gigantic poops for a while, before looking up at the cook.

“You said we’re low on beetroots?”

Janaty nodded.

“Do we have a sufficient seed supply to recultivate?”

“Negative.”

They nodded back, expecting the answer. They’ll have to visit Rashasa for that.

Lambert folds the list into their fleece, waving at Janaty to indicate they’re leaving.

“O’ Leader-” they pause, watching as her gaze turns distant and oddly solemn.

“Our guest, you will keep us informed about him, won’t you?”

“...of course.”

It had almost slipped their mind, how Janaty had once served another god- if under a different name. Of course she’d be able to recognize him. They do not question when Janaty would have seen him, figuring she must have been curious enough to peek through the curtains of the healing bay or the new shelter.

Mentally running through the cult’s current members, Lambert came to the conclusion that there were at least two others that could piece it together. Focalor, a spider who- like Janaty, had once served one of the bishops. And Huon, a unicorn and one of their longest-standing followers.

Huon- the first follower they revived. The only one they could recall when trying to scour their memory for that first face they’d rescued from Darkwood-

Huon was the most loyal of all, though, and Lambert knew they need not worry about him questioning them.

Janaty’s concern brought their attention to another possible problem, though. After becoming The One Who Waits, the remaining Bishops of the Old Faith had done their best to erase him from history entirely.

This was done through a widespread effort to slander his name, before outright banning any mention of the once-bishop of death. Though a few pockets of true followers remained for a while- and Lambert only knew this from shared stories from Forneus, most beasts grew to know Death as a malignant and wayward figure.

In the end, the four bishops of the Old Faith had been successful. Death’s name was forgotten to time, and any mention of him was met with fear and disdain.

Of course, the followers of their cult all worshiped Death, so there shouldn’t be an issue whenever they found out he’s physically on the grounds.

But one thing was to worship a god imprisoned on another plane, and another was to learn he was unconscious a small distance away. Especially after having fought their esteemed leader fight him… Not that they knew that part, thankfully.

Lambert had made a conscious effort to always put themself forward as the face of the cult. Yes, it was in Death’s name- but the last lamb had made a more recognizable figure, at first. It made it so that his faith was intrinsically associated with them first, and so many followers viewed Death himself as more removed from them than he actually was.

He’d questioned them about it, once. There…had been a reason, something happened that kept them at the forefront.

Lambert finally heads out of the kitchen, rubbing at their head. It doesn’t really matter what the reason had been back then- towards the end of their mission, they’d made themself a clearer figurehead simply for selfish reasons.

They didn’t want to be forgotten, too. Didn’t want to give up everything they’d built-

They walk down a shaded path. The healing bay is visible across the shrine’s plaza, a small garden of camellias blooming behind it. The residential quarters are not too far east of there.

No one is at their quarters currently, so Lambert heads over. They walk around the outside of the shelters, slowly collecting as much devotion as they can muster. It's almost slippery in their metaphorical hold- but not nearly as difficult to grab ahold of as during sermons.

Lambert ends their collection in front of a tabernacle, and their own golden likeness stares back at them. The figure’s eyes shine red even in the light of day, crying a mysterious black substance. They’d always kind of figured it must be ichor…

Even the tabernacle’s crown had a closed eye.

But Lambert’s focus was drawn to the figure’s wings, depicted in an unfurling state. For a moment, as they’d engaged Death in battle, it had felt as though they could fly-

As if a millennia-old power had propelled them forth, even while the crown on their head had screamed-

They closed their eyes, bringing a hand up to rub at the bridge of their nose. After a moment, The Lamb looked up- right at the new shelter located directly northeast from where they stood. The curtains of its closest window shifted slightly.

The One Who Waits had been relocated to this finished shelter just the day prior. Tybregre had insisted on providing some darker curtains for his windows while he recovered. Their black coloring stood out starkly against the pale wood of the small building.

Lambert ignored the strange urge to pay him a visit, reasoning it would be pointless if he was still unconscious.

They should head over to the barns, validate Janaty’s report.

Nodding to themself, The Lamb begins the long trek to the western side of the cult.

The farms take up the entirety of the northwest field, trailing down south where they meet with the cemetery at the southwest corner. A few followers are tending to the crops, their figures eclipsed by the towering scarecrows.

The cult leader nods to them as they pass, entering the red barn first. This barn is where they store most of their seeds, before grabbing smaller amounts to leave closer to the farming plots. Taking inventory, they run through the timetables for the expected harvest of the crops currently growing.

Lambert frowns as they calculate things. A little short on seeds… and not just the beetroots like Janaty had said. Nothing too bad, but the harvest won’t be enough to replenish their fields afterwards. They’ll have to go see Rakshasa soon.

They exit and head over to the yellow barn. Inside is the main supply of camellias, along with cotton, hops, and grapes. No cause for concern there.

The green barn is as Janaty had said- plenty of lettuce, and a definite surplus of pumpkin. No wonder people are complaining… Lambert winces, all too aware of the huge pumpkin patch growing outside. There’ll be a lot more pumpkin for a while, still. The lack of beetroot is evident, and The Lamb considers their options: they could crusade for more, check in with Rakshasa, or… maybe Plimbo will have some?

They leave the green barn, walking a bit east while still remaining on farming grounds. Up ahead is the purple barn, though calling it a barn is a stretch. This building is fortified especially to hold and preserve poultry and meat. Checking inside reveals a decent amount stored, and looking into the side room used to contain bones shows the same.

Back outside, The Lamb contemplates heading out beyond the teleportation stone to see if Rakshasa is present, before they are forced to pause as a dizzy spell hits them.

Feeling weak, Lambert lets themself fall to sit beneath a nearby tee. As the sensation fades, they look up at the sky.

They lose track of time, staring at the drifting clouds. Drifting slowly, oddly reminiscent of the mist at The Gateway…

They blinked back to a slowly darkening horizon, and looked around. Only a few followers were visible, hanging by the kitchen some ways south.

It wouldn’t be long now, before everyone had retired for the night. At this time, they were unlikely to be bothered unless someone was specifically looking for them. That thought in mind, The Lamb stood slowly and walked over to the exit.

At the intersection between realms, Lambert paused, feeling strangely watched. The red crown statue located at the center of the space still had its eye wide open, crying black. That wasn’t where the feeling came from, though…

On guard, The Lamb crept forward. The stone flooring of the intermediary place was covered in a light fog, trailing from the stairs that lead to The Gateway’s door.

Or rather, where the doorway would have been. The candles on the topmost steps remained, flickering back and forth, back and forth. Lambert approached, stopping before the first step. Something…compelled them, to not go any further.

The feeling of being watched grew stronger, and Lambert tucked their chin onto their chest. The crown’s weight was a mock comfort against their wool.

Where the chained doorway had previously stood, only briefly opened- now lay what The Lamb could only describe as a void. They’re not sure of how long they remained staring at it, utterly entranced. Only that they would have continued doing so if a spark had not traveled down from their head.

Broken from the daze, Lambert shook their hood and turned around. They gazed towards Rashasa’s usual corner, only to find it empty -somewhat expected, at this hour. Though it was disappointing they’d missed him, that means there would be no one to witness them experimenting with the crown.

The crown seemed more present now than it had since the battle, even though its eye remained closed. It seemed heavier than they remembered, as The Lamb held it in their hands. They waited for their eyes to adjust to the dimness.

With a deep breath, they willed the crown to transform. Slowly, they cycled through a mental picture of every weapon they’d wielded during their crusades, each one pictured with great detail. The crown remained solid in their hands.

Standing completely still, Lambert forced their thoughts away from the oddity in front of them and closed their eyes to try again. For a moment, it felt as though the crown rippled in their hold, but when they looked, it was solid and still.

Frustrated, they attempted to fire off a curse- just a simple flaming shot, but- nothing.

Nothing at all.

Their grip tightened on the crown, and its eye remained closed.

This would certainly pose a problem.

They looked up at the open doorways to the lands of the, now fallen- Old Faith.

The crown’s metal felt warm in their hands, and The Lamb wondered if the risk of crusading would be worth the reward of replenishing their supplies.

They looked around one last time, still searching for whatever caused that feeling of being watched. With their eyes now adjusted to the dim glow let off by both the Red Crown and its statue- Lambert caught sight of a note pinned near Rakshasa’s usual corner.

Walking over and ignoring the feeling of eyes upon them, the cult leader saw it was addressed to them.

“Sorry O’ Blessed One, my love grows nervous at the world’s fraying, so we’re taking a much needed vacation. I will set up shop again the day after the next blue moon.”

Fraying… Lambert peeked over their shoulder at the void. Is that what it was?

Regardless, no shrimp trader meant their options were even more limited. They looked at the portal doors again, contemplating.

They had most of those areas memorized, their lack of weapon shouldn’t pose a problem, if they went in and out really quick…

Not sure if they were willing to test that out so soon, Lambert reasoned that a few fishing trips would help prolong their supplies for a bit.

They left the old shared space with that thought, murmuring under their breath. The crown remained a heavy weight on their brow.

(They didn’t pay attention to the condensing fog behind them. Even as eyes followed them from within the endless white.)

—

The following morning, Lambert decided against doing a ritual for the ocean’s bounty. With their head pains growing worse at every sermon, difficulty just gathering devotion, and failure to summon the crown’s aid- they just didn’t want to find out if rituals would also be compromised.

They call Jooty over after the sermon ends, alerting him that they’ll be gone to Pilgrim’s Passage for the next day or so. The racoon nods and promises to keep everything in order.

On their way to the teleportation stone, Tybregre intercepts them.

Lambert slows their pace, aware this likely has to do with him.

“My leader, I am sorry for the delayed report, but- The One first awoke as of 24 hours ago. However, he remains unresponsive.”

They blinked at him.

“That is all. I will continue monitoring him closely while you’re away.”

“Alright, thank you, Tybregre.”

Unresponsive? Lambert frowned, the crown weighing heavy between their horns. Perhaps they should pay him a visit when they returned.

Reaching the teleportation stone, the cult leader turned back to their cult. As they swept their gaze through the grounds, they caught sight of one of the faith’s flags. Its fabric eye seemed to glare back.

Magic activated easily under their feet, and within a blink, the forest clearing was replaced by a beach.

The repaired lighthouse reflected the sun’s light as Lambert walked towards the docks. They stopped briefly by the wooden planks, searching. This was where they’d encountered ‘The Teeth in the Darkness,’ as he’d called himself, and though the creature had claimed they would meet again- it had been some time already.

The moon sigil was absent, as it had been every other time they’d cared to look. Though, it was daylight, currently.

Unperturbed, Lambert greeted the vigilant fisherman and asked to borrow a fishing rod. Afterall, they had been unsuccessful in getting the Red Crown to morph.

The fisherman gave them an odd look, before staring at the crown on their head and handing them his own fishing rod.

“I am due for a small break, anyhow.”

The Lamb blinked at his retrieving back, feeling oddly off-kilter. Needing a break wasn’t odd, no… it was just, in all these years- Lambert had never not seen him by the water.

Turning to the lapping waves, they couldn’t help but wonder at how two of their constant contacts outside the cult were suddenly leaving their usual posts. What was next, Plimbo taking off? Sozo, too?

Amused, Lambert let out a chuckle. No, Sozo wouldn’t leave Spore’s Grotto until his very own death. And who knew when that would be, after so long…

They should visit him soon.

Staring at the water beneath their feet, Lambert watched a small fish nip at their lure. They waited for it to bite, before reeling it up.

The water continued its rise and fall. Some point after an entire bucket had been filled with fish, they looked down and caught sight of the crown.

Its closed eye seemed to taunt The Lamb, with its wavering reflection almost appearing open at certain points

They frowned, contemplating.

…the Red Crown, did it not belong to them, now?

They had beat the God of Death, afterall- by all things concerning ancient law, the crown should now be magically bound to Lambert instead of him.

Except, the crown had always appeared to have somewhat of a mind of its own- and it had never accepted Lambert as its bearer, merely as a vessel. And not even that, as of late. The thought was almost insulting, after everything they’d been through. But it was hard to deny.

No, the Red Crown was not theirs. They stared at its closed eye, wondering. If the crown did not accept them- then there was only one other it would. And he still had not awoken. At least -not properly, not fully.

Was it their fault? Did the crown’s slumber have something to do with his recovery?

Lambert had always gotten the sense that their benefactor was still connected to the Red Crown, a connection beyond simply being able to watch them through its eye. They had no way of knowing how far that connection went, especially now, with a -mortal? God?? as the still-rightful holder.

Afterall, the other bishops had just died, even as their crowns remained…

Actually, that reminded them- The Lamb had left the bishops’ crowns in storage while they remodeled the cult grounds. They had yet to put them up again.

They gazed out into the horizon. There were no clouds in sight.

…what if it wasn’t their own actions that had caused the Red Crown’s slumber, but something else? The Lamb frowned, watching the distant waves. They would have to check the other crowns, see if they were still awake.

The reflection rippled with another caught fish.

If the other four eyes were open, then it would only confirm that the Red Crown’s state was their fault. And maybe his state, too-

But, even so…

Lambert gripped their borrowed fishing rod tighter, scowling.

Even if it became nothing more than a pretty artifact in their hold- The Lamb found it a troubling thought, even just to consider parting with the Red Crown. They were already no longer a vessel, but would they still be a cult leader without the crown?

They gasped as a flare of pain traveled through their head, lessening their hold on the fishing rod.

Their thoughts remained blissfully silent thereafter, and the sun fell and rose across the sky. Inevitably, though, their mind turned back to him.

They had decided to visit upon their return, but the last time they’d done so…

It had been hard to look away from his scars, as Tybregre changed the bandages. Or rather- his would-be scars, for the wounds were still healing.

Dark ichor had hidden the bone underneath, but Lambert had still been able to tell how deep the injuries went. Deep enough they would undoubtedly leave a mark.

[They’d recalled a question asked sometime during the middle of their crusades, a spoken wondering about how much it must hurt, to always be chained so.

“Not as much as their disregard,” Death had answered. A rare moment of calm honesty.

Baal and Aym had frozen, watching their God intently before glaring at the lamb and sending them back to the living.]

Lambert breathed slowly out, watching the first sun rays peak through the horizon.

Guilt was not unfamiliar, but it had never been so pressing, either.

The crown’s reflection glowed red with the light of dawn. Its weight seemed to grow heavier by the day. The Lamb decided they’d caught enough fish for the time being, and left for the teleportation stone.

They left the borrowed fishing rod by the docks, knowing it was unlikely anyone else would take it. The fisherman was nowhere to be found.

It was as the magic of the teleportation runes lit up their several buckets full of fish -for they could no longer simply store them in the crown’s pocket space, either, that Lambert recalled how Death had always seemed to appreciate the fish meals sent through the offerings chest.

Well, he was a cat…

Stewing on that thought, Lambert did not allow themself time to rethink their actions as they kept some salmon out while storing everything else away.

The sun would soon spread enough light above the treeline for some followers to begin waking, so they were quick in preparing a simple fish meal.

It was no apology. Merely… a token of good faith. The Lamb nodded at the thought, reasoning that- if the crown saw them treating their benefactor well enough, then perhaps it would cooperate again.

…that was, assuming this whole absence was because of a tantrum, over Lambert’s actions no less -which hinged on the belief that the crown was at least partly sentient and had its own opinions. They’d never asked, but somehow, Lambert got the feeling that this was… at least somewhat likely.

They ignored how the crown warmed the wool on their head.

It was a decent walk from the middle of the cult to its northeastern boundary, but Lambert kept their pace steady. Wouldn’t want to accidentally spill anything, afterall.

A few small spiders still scuttled about, though they would soon hide again as the sun fully rose. The Lamb watched as they steered clear from them, avoiding their path.

Northbound and closer to the temple was their own tent. Eastbound was the shelter built specifically for him, slightly larger than the others.

As they approached, Lambert noted how oddly quiet the surroundings were.

The crown’s absence suddenly felt overwhelming in the silence.

They paused at the door, shifting the bowl of food onto one hand. It was dark as midnight inside the shelter. They thought of the endless white of The Gateway, and conceded that Tybregre had a point with those curtains.

They let the door close behind them, and stood still, letting their eyes adjust.

The cat’s black fur allowed him to blend in with the shadows, but The Lamb was soon able to differentiate his figure as it lay still on the bed.

“...I brought you food.”

No response.

“You like fish, right? I’d noticed you preferred salmon, so-”

They gestured awkwardly at the bowl of fish, laying it on the bedside table.

Still, the shrunken god didn’t shift.

Tybrege had reported him awake and unresponsive, but he’s clearly resting again now.

“Well… I’ll leave you to it-”

The door was closed softly as they left, and it wasn’t until they were across the fountain that Lambert let themself breath out.

They put a hand to their chest, feeling their heart beat rapidly as they stood in front of their tent.

With a groan, they pushed the curtains aside and entered their living space, reaching a hand up to rub at their face.

Why was that so stressful?

The crown tilted with their head, and they almost imagined it rolled its eye at them.

They were far too tired for this.

But morning had already arrived, and a cult leader was ever busy. Not like they’d slept much that past few weeks, anyway-

Standing in front of their mirror, Lambert avoided their own tired gaze as they made their wool more presentable. Deciding their typical red fleece stunk too much of the sea, they reached for the white fleece of the fates.

It was their preferred fleece as of late, providing four of the fates’ power boosts at the start of a crusade.

They rubbed at the fabric, the fates…

Somewhere in their memory, a voice echoed dimly, tinged with nostalgia. ‘It was said that the fates could not intervene with our world, only ever watching from a distant plane. So was the trade, for being all-seeing observers.’

Lambert sighed, wondering at how true that was. They could not recall whom the voice had belonged to. That was not an uncommon occurrence.

They decided to wear the green fleece of the glass cannon, instead. Just until their regular one was clean.

When they stepped back outside, The Lamb realized that he would need something new to wear as well, once he was finally up and about.

…It didn’t seem like the right call, to just give him a follower’s robe.

That in mind, they headed for the tailor’s shop. A simple design would do, but first they had to see what materials were available.

The tailor’s shop was still a relatively new build, and they hadn’t focused too much on gathering designs yet. Flicking through the limited materials, Lambert set aside a bundle of red fabric for Fion -a grey cat who had taken to sewing rather well.

As they put everything back in its place, The Lamb caught sight of a shiny, light fabric. Upon inspecting it, it was clearly spider’s silk. It would contrast nicely with the dark red fabric they’d set aside already.

The amount wasn’t much more than a rag, in all honesty. But… well, certainly enough for a veil. Lambert weighed the gossamer cloth in their hand.

Not an apology, but a boon… A gesture of goodwill on their part would make it easier for them both to get along, if he was to stick around.,/i>

Maybe.

Ichor running down their arms and blood welling from their eyes, a fractured laugh and a booming in their ears as the fog swallowed them whole-

Exhaling, Lambert set it aside as well. The crown’s vague light reflected off the fabric as they opened the door to leave, only to pause.

Silence, coupled with a dull ringing. For a moment, the cult appeared brightly lit- the ground covered in a dense fog that curled at their feet.

Then they blinked, and everything was as it should be.

The Lamb remained standing there, rubbing at their eyes.

Perhaps they were more tired than they’d realized.

But sleep would have to wait, for it was time for the morning sermon.

Death’s faithful followers were already waiting when Lambert enters, and the crowd parts to make a path through the middle of the temple.

Lambert gazes at the ritual pentagram still marked on the floor as they walk over it. “Five points to a pentagram, five portents of doom, five siblings stood abreast, five gods and one tomb…”

The Lamb shook their head, unsure of when they’d heard such a thing. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, enough so that they knew it would bother them. At least, until they forgot those echoing words once more.

They stood facing the stained glass window for a moment once they reached the altar, before turning to the crowd. The eyeless crown behind them caught the gleaming rays of sunlight, forming a halo around The Lamb.

“May we begin this sermon with a prayer,” the flock bowed their heads.

“Beautiful Death of all things, show us your endless patience once we finally meet.”

It had been a while since they started sermon with a prayer, but Lambert had devotedly served the God of Death for centuries, and prayers to him were a typically frequent occurrence.

At least, up until Silk Cradle…

“We ask for a shred of your fairness in this life, so we may be as kind to you as you have been to us.”

They took a silent breath, bracing for the oncoming headache as their feet lifted from the ground.

“O’ Guide Eternal- I ask for forgiveness! May we not be led astray again!”

The Lamb raised their arms, a perfectly divine image as the flock looked up at them. In their minds, they were undoubtedly thinking about the Old Faith- those rescued certainly having more gruesome thoughts towards the heretics still out there.

But as Lambert lowered slightly, still hovering with eyes glowing- they felt all too heavily how the Red Crown bore at them.

I ask for forgiveness, that my actions not stop your recovery- now that you’re finally free.

They continued as usual, reciting a prose from the brown book laid out on the altar- it was the main one used for preaching, a compilation of texts from all previous vessels.

When they finished, the followers stood in silence for a moment, basking in the temple’s light.

Lambert dismissed them, listening to the soft steps of trampled grass. A grey cat stood by the entrance, waving her friends on. They’d signaled for her to stay already.

Once everyone had left, The Lamb walked down to meet her.

“Fion, how has your progress been?”

“Rather well, Leader. Thegrena really liked the dress I made her.”

“That’s good,” they opened the doors, motioning for Fion to follow.

Outside, the others had begun heading to their duties. A few mingled by the kitchen, having requested breakfast from Janaty.

They continued west, towards the tailor shop.

“I have a request for you.”

The cat following behind them remained silent.

“In case you haven’t heard, there is a guest currently recuperating from an… incident, with us. He is very important.”

Fion followed them inside as they entered the small building, not responding to that last comment. Lambert pointed to the pile of fabrics.

“I have set aside some material for you to work with. Feel free to take whatever creative liberties you wish, so long as you provide ample coverage.”

“My Leader, I will require some semblance of our guest’s measurements for better comfort.”

“Right… I will provide them to you shortly.” They grabbed a roll of measuring ribbon.

“Until then- he is a cat like you, though I am unsure of his current height.”

Fion nodded, grabbing the fabrics to examine. She held up the scrap of white spider’s silk, looking up at them quizzically.

“For a veil, if you could.”

“Of course. I’ll get started on this right away.”

“Thank you, Fion.”

Lambert left the shop, walking rapidly to the newest shelter in hopes no one would intercept them for something. Luckily, no one did, and they reached their destination.

The surroundings appeared slightly more lively in the full light of day, but as The Lamb stood in front of the door, they couldn’t help but notice how strangely quiet everything still seemed.

They breathed in, before slowly opening the door and stepping inside. The room was considerably darker than the outside, but enough light made it through the curtains to see.

A shadow loomed darker than the rest, sitting atop the bed by the opposite wall.

“Oh, you’re awake…”

Two red eyes stared directly at The Lamb. While the third eye remained closed, there were tracks of… something trailing down from it. Lambert couldn’t quite tell in the darkness, it might’ve just been more shadows.

They stepped closer, noting the untouched plate of fish on the bedside table.

“Not hungry? I get that sometimes, but it's easier to recover with food.”

The cat remained silent, and Lambert twirled the ribbon in their hands.

“I need to take your measurements, I can already tell you’re taller than most of the flock- but a fitting garment would be nice, don’t you think?”

Silence. The Lamb pauses for a moment, before attempting to read his mind. The failure is expected, but the crown’s sudden burning is not.

Lambert gasps, reaching up to grab the crown and dropping the ribbon from their hands. The Red Crown is warm to the touch, but no longer scalding. They feel at their wool, finding nothing amiss.

Hesitant, they look back up to the cat and find him staring at the crown. Those two red eyes seem to nearly glow in the dimness.

Cradling the crown in one arm, Lambert reaches for the fallen ribbon. They keep their eyes on the cat, just as he continues staring at them.

“I…” they stare into his eyes as they stand again, unsure of what to say. Far too many things-

“I’ll be quick, just need a rough profile since I told Fion to make something more covering. I get the feeling you’d prefer some proper robes to just a simple dress.”

Warily, The Lamb places the crown on the bedside table, with the fish bowl between it and the cat.

Their fallen god remains still as Lambert holds up the measuring ribbon. They lean over him to measure his limbs and torso, hovering without touching. There’s a moment of brief contemplation before they take the ribbon up to his ears as well.

This close, Lambert can see something does indeed trail from the cat’s closed third eye. As they lean closer, the substance appears almost iridescent.

A whisker flicks at them and Lambert jumps back. “Oh- sorry!”

Sorrysorrysorrysorry-

They stand there, then. Ribbon still aloft in their hands, following that trailing tear down to his chest. Their old benefactor is wearing a light dress from the healing bay- undoubtedly one of the ones left aside for any of the larger beasts that require care. It’s tied securely at the back to provide better fit, and sleeveless. Whatever happened to the robes he’d been wearing before?

They picture the bloodied white robes, how the cloth had felt beneath their ear as they listened to his heartbeat.

Lambert shakes their head, gazing briefly at his bandaged arms -no longer bloodied dark with ichor, before turning to look at the Red Crown.

Its eye is open.

They freeze, feeling their heart stutter in their chest. Slowly, The Lamb turns back to face him.

The two red eyes are still gazing at them. But the third eye, now open- is staring directly at the crown.

Lambert drops the ribbon and grabs for the crown. The black cat remains where he sits, still silent. When they look back, his third eye is closed again. A black tear welds in his eye and follows the marked path down.

The Lamb pauses, feeling the crown’s warmth in their hands and swallowing down their panic. They place the crown back on their head.

The cat’s face remains impassive as his own blood further stains the borrowed clothes. Lambert watches him for a moment, waiting for a reaction. Something, anything-

Nothing happens.

“...is your eye… bothering you?”

No response, unsurprisingly. They ignore the slight stab of disappointment.

“I’m having a veil made for you too. Wasn’t sure if you’d want it, but- might help with your eyes as you recover.”

It seemed like a sound enough reason. The One Who Waits had been stuck in the endless white of The Gateway for well over millennia, and now even the slight light of day that made it through the shelter’s dark curtains seemed to agitate his recovery.

Tybregre had reasoned so already, Lambert knows. But it was another thing to see for themself how he’d be affected.> The cat blinked at them, one eye first and then the other.

“I’m doing you a favor, you know. Letting you recover here undisturbed, after…”

“Should you dare enact my will… know that your life will exist in service to me, until the day I am freed.”

“But- I suppose it is only what I owe you, after you granted me second life.”

Only to then try and take it away-

“Consider this my debt repaid. You are free now, afterall. We need not fight.”

The crown bears heavy on their head, warm and scalding in its continued slumber.

It has awoken for him-

Lambert clasps their hands in front of them, willing themself to remain calm, even as a tremor works up their spine.

“I do not regret my actions, but I am sorry for having injured you further.”

Those eyes only continue staring at them, unfocused and distant.

“I hope we can get along.”

The Red Crown’s absence feels briefly disproving at that, but Lambert ignores it.

If the eye opened for a moment, that means that its slumber is not permanent. Regardless of whatever caused it.

Maybe if they repeat that enough they’ll believe it.

Stepping outside, The Lamb heads back to the tailor shop and gives Fion the measurements. Done with that task, they stand outside the shop and watch the rising sun for a moment.

Something shiny catches their gaze, and Lambert looks down to find its source. At the refinery, a yellow cat has just melded a complete gold bar.

Reminded that this particular cat had requested them for something in Janaty’s list, the cult leader heads over.

It was curious. Amari, the yellow cat, had been with the cult for several months now. She had anxiously avoided them for the entirety of her stay, though. Lambert let them be, knowing how a few followers tended to be more skittish after their rescue.

“Amari.”

The yellow cat’s glowing eyes faded back to normal as her ears perked up. They didn’t jump at The Lamb’s presence, even as their shoulders tensed. Still weary, but at least comfortable enough to make a request.

“Y-yes, leader?”

“You had a request.”

They stood in front of the cat with hands folded in front of their chest, posture perfectly serene. She inhaled slowly.

“...Indeed, I did.”

“...”

“There was a boy- not my brother by blood, but he may as well be. We’d been traveling through Anura together before the heretics found us. He hid before they caught sight of him, but- I grow weary they may have found him. Please, won’t you search for any sign of him?”

It was not a direct request to bring their brother back alive- Lambert gazed at the yellow cat’s tearful gaze, made steely with the acknowledgement of reality. Those rescued instead of raised in the cult tended to understand the grim actions others were capable of better.

They also tended to accept them better, so long as they themselves were safe.

The cult leader nodded in acquiescence.

They would look, deciding their next crusade would take place in Anura. When that would be, though…

Lambert pondered over it -though they would prefer not to leave him alone with the cult so soon, they would have to go gather supplies sooner rather than later.

Amari’s request was not an immediate one, though, so they could push off crusading for a bit longer. The Lamb resolved they would check in with Plimbo first. Maybe they’d get lucky.

“I will look thoroughly, the next I head into Anura.”

Lambert smiled at the yellow cat, trying to put them at ease.

“Thank you, O’ leader.”

Amari bowed her head to them, and The Lamb observed who else was present at the refinery stations.

“I see Focalor is not yet at his station.” They had yet to check in with the spider, see what he thought about their latest guest.

“I- indeed, Blessed One.”

Lambert hummed. “Tell him to meet me in the temple whenever he gets the chance today, yes?”

Fion bowed again, “I will- of course!”

The cult leader smiled at her once more, before turning to head to the temple. They had some more organizing to tackle…

They spend the day separating the crates of tomes into piles designating where in the small library they’ll be placed. At some point, it becomes clear they’ll need more shelves…

Lambert hardly registers it when the bright light of day beaming through the temple windows dims into dusk.

They were down to the last box of texts -finding that first red tome granted by The One Who Waits, all the way at the bottom.

Not for the first time, they wonder if he himself wrote it. They thumb through the yellowed pages, quietly amazed at its durability. How many centuries has it been…?

“Leader?”

Broken from their reverie, The Lamb looks up. A spider’s figure is visible in the golden light.

“Ah, Focalor. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Apologies, Fion reported I was to arrive at my own discretion.”

Lambert chuckled. “Yes, I did say that.”

The spider watches them, quiet in the fading light.

They stand up from where they’d been crouching, pushing aside their current thoughts and leaving the red tome above the pile of records they’d been sorting through.

“I figured you’d likely know the truth, so I must ask: do you have any concerns in regards to our guest?”

“I am not concerned, for I know Death cannot be killed by any means we have available.”

Focalor’s eyes stare at The Lamb with meaning, blinking slowly. Lambert disregards the chill that travels up their spine as the crown practically becomes a solid block of mass balanced on their head.

“I meant, concerns regarding his conduct.”

The spider clicks their mandibles again.

“Death is the most honorable of the bishops. So it was once said.”

Lambert sighs, accepting the answer. At least, it seems like no one will have a problem with him right off the bat…

“I had thought you confident in your actions.”

A flare of pain travels through their temple, and The Lamb looks sharply to Focalor.

“What do you mean?”

“At The Gateway, were you not sure of yourself?” The spider clicks his mandibles again, head tilting.

“You- uh, you know of that?”

Focalor nods. “I may not be well-versed in its fundamentals, but I can recognize dream magics when I am subjected to such.”

Lambert breathes out, trying to recall the battle in better detail. It all remains hazy.

“So, everyone was really there?”

“In a way, though they are unlikely to remember. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Lambert nods. Dream magic, huh?

Their head flares again, and Lambert must wince rather noticeably because Focalor says:

“You are experiencing pains. I imagine your own crown must be calling you.”

“...what?”

It is hard to tell when Focalor smiles, but it’s easy enough to hear the wistful tone of his voice.

“It was said, before, that for every God, there is a Crown.”

“But I’m not-”

“A god?”

Lambert nods, reaching up to rub at their forehead.

“Are you sure? I can feel you are divine, Blessed Lamb. It has been growing for a while.”

The Lamb only stares at him, and Focalor sighs.

“Shamura’s library held numerous records, once. I seem to recall mention of early godhood in one of their tomes. I am sorry I do not recall much more.”

“Do you think those tomes still exist?”

“...if they do, they are not in the best conditions. Disarray had already befallen the library before Shamura’s fall. With them gone…”

Lambert stares at the stone floor of the temple, ignoring Focalor’s obvious sadness at that. Though he may be a member of their cult now, it would be remiss to ignore who he’d once served -and they’re not entirely sure how to react to that loyalty.

“If you would like, I can draw a map for you to investigate the next time you visit Silk Cradle.”

“That would be appreciated, thank you.”

Focalor nods, and The Lamb dismisses them, staring at the growing candlelight. The candles within the temple were charmed to increase their luminosity as the outside grew darker.

For a moment the flames seem to take on a wispy appearance. They grow larger, the smoke covering the temple ceiling and turning a bright white. Countless eyes stare down at them.

Lambert blinks, and the temple is dark again, the candlelight flickering.

They should really try and get some sleep, Lambert thinks, rubbing at their eyes.

Determined to do just that, they exit the temple and turn east, heading for their tent. Standing briefly by the fountain, they ignore the urge to look at the nearby shelter.

Once inside their own tent, The Lamb takes a moment to absorb the cozy atmosphere. It’s been a while since they last actively tried to sleep, but the age-old routine is still like second nature.

They switch out of their current green fleece for something more modest, then sit in front of a mirror. The Lamb pulls out a comb and takes the crown off their head, making it easier to properly untangle their wool. Occasionally, they’ll look up at the image reflected back at them.

Once, they had tried to recall when a parent had used to do this for them- only to find the memory so faded they could not parse which parent had done so, let alone remember a face.

At the beginning, sometime after they regained control of their waking mind- Lambert had sat in front of this very mirror and practiced smiling. The expression had felt foreign and forced on their face, but they continued until it fell naturally into place and they were satisfied with how it looked.

Ratau had appeared concerned the first time Lambert greeted him with a smile, and that had made it a little easier to hold.

Even now, habit has them smiling at the mirror. It's a perfectly winning smile, head tilted ever so slightly and eyes crinkling at the corners. Lambert turns their head side to side, examining the expression from every angle.

Yes, it would be a perfect smile. If only their eyes didn’t look so… wrong. The smile falters on their lips, twitching until it falls flat, and Lambert sighs.

There are times where the smile comes easier. This is not one of those times.

The Lamb heads to bed, and stares at the ceiling. They toss and turn for a bit, before looking out the curtain.

In a blink, the sky gives way from dimming dusk to nearly dawn. It seems like it's just one of those nights, where they’re just not sure if they got any sleep at all.

Knowing they won’t be falling -back? asleep now, Lambert changes back into their fleece and heads outside, stopping at the fountain. For a moment, they feel a whisper from the crown, and turn to look at the only shelter nearby.

It's strangely quiet for this time of night. No cricket song, no small spiders scuttling around. For a moment, it is as though nothing exists but them- them and the one inhabiting that shelter.

Fog curls around their feet as Lambert walks over to the door. They pause, oddly compelled to knock, before pushing the feeling away and entering.

Inside, it is pitch black. With such darkness, the two red eyes staring at them stick out like a sore thumb.

“Hello.”

They walk forward, feeling around the room. The plate of fish they’d left earlier is still there, untouched.

“If you’re not gonna eat that, I’ll have to throw it away.”

The cat only stares at them, silent.

Lambert sighs, and sits in front of the bed, their back to the door. They fiddle with the edges of their fleece in their lap, before grabbing the crown and staring at it.

Its eye remains closed. They can feel the weighted gaze of the cat sitting above them.

“I didn’t want this.”

How do I fix this? They don’t ask. How do I keep both you and the crown?

For the two are still connected, and if Lambert has any chance of truly possessing the crown, its previous holder will have to be actually dead.

“Will you try to kill me, when you recover? Will the Red Crown only accept me if you’re dead?”

“...Death cannot be killed by any means…”

Lambert stays there for a while.

When they finally rise, it is to an empty bed.

The Lamb doesn’t question it, simply walking outside.

The white fog of the intermediary space has spread onto the cult grounds. Lambert watches as it wafts by, moving as though powered by an invisible force.

A gust pushes them forward, and Lambert turns to look behind them. The shelter is gone, in its place a forest clearing.

They walk forward, vaguely registering as Forneus’ shop appears in front of them.

Her wares are absent, but Forneus herself remains as unchanged as she always is.

“Beauty is truth, truth is beauty- O’ Blessed Lamb, you hold your beauty within you, but you dare not look.”

Lambert watches her, frowning as their head starts to pound. The clearing is as it always is, but the edges start to fracture. It reminds them of the strange void hovering where the door to The Gateway once stood.

A ringing starts sounding in their ears.

Forneus doesn’t appear to notice. Or, if she does, she ignores it.

“The wounds of a heart once carved may yet be healed. But tell me, O’ Promised Liberator, do you yearn for your heart, or your mind?”

The fractures spread, and Forneus disappears. The clearing goes with her, and Lambert is left to fall into the void. Countless eyes watch them.

When The Lamb wakes, it is to the light of the dawning sun, visible through a crack in their tent’s curtains. They cannot recall if they dreamt, but a feeling of unease lingers.

They get ready for the day, putting on their green fleece again. They have not had the time to wash the red one yet.

Outside, a thin mist covers the ground. Lambert closes their eyes, feeling a vague sense of deja vu. When they open them again, the mist is gone.

They look towards the shelter at the left, and head over -intent on collecting the previously unbeaten fish bowl before it rots.

Inside the cat is sitting upright, facing the wall.

The bowl of fish is empty.

Lambert pauses, unsure why that’s throwing them off. They look towards the fallen god, seeing his gaze on them even as he remains facing away.

They collect the empty bowl, following his gaze to the wall. An eye stares back at them. The Lamb blinks, and it's gone.

They turn to the cat, finding his eyes closed. Perhaps lack of sleep wasn’t the problem…

The crown grows warmer on their head, and their hold on the bowl tightens. Lambert leaves for the kitchens.

The walk there is brief with their quick steps, and no mysterious fog intrudes on their vision.

At the kitchen, they leave the dish in its proper place to be washed, and look around. Meal prep for the day has already been sorted, though a few things remain in storage to keep things fresh.

The proportions of everything are slightly smaller, no doubt Janaty’s effort to prevent scarcity for longer. Lambert frowns at it, resolving to visit Plimbo after the morning sermon.

As the light from the teleportation stone fades, Lambert looks around. The docks of Smuggler’s Sanctuary are ever changing, but today there is only Plimbo and his cargo fish.

The Sea Louse stands as if waiting for them, shifting in the morning light.

“Lamb-Bam! What a surprise- you like the small shrine I had set up for ye?”

Lambert looks over to the shrine in question. The Red Crown’s image sits carved in stone.

“It completes its purpose.”

“Ah, rather curt today, are we. Well, ye damned lamb- what wares are you in search of? I’ll see if I’ve got any for my favorite customer!”

“...Just got a lot on my mind.”

“I’ll imagine, the seas are safe from the witnesses, that’s true- but the world itself trembles at the fall of the bishops. Millenia of sovereignty leaves an impact when torn awry!”

Plimbo gestures wildly, four arms flailing for emphasis, and Lambert frowns at his choice of words.

“Isn’t it more like a fraying?”

The pirate stares at him, still. “So, you can feel it too?”

The Lamb remains silent.

“Stuff’s happening that’s bigger than I, Lamb-Bam. But I suppose it would be right up your alley.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you came here for.”

The cult leader frowns at Plimbo’s tone, but lets the matter drop for the moment.

“I need seeds. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Seeds, eh? Trouble with the harvest?”

Plimbo heads to his cargo, and Lambert follows. The pirate rummages for a while, before pulling out two fist-sized bags.

“M ‘fraid this is all I’ve got, Lamb.”

Lambert takes the pouches and hands over the due coin, plus some extra. Something is better than nothing, though they’ll definitely have to go crusading now…

Plimbo counts the extra coins and smiles smugly at them.

“Well, since yer being so generous… some of my contacts over seas, they’ve been reporting some weird happenings.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, that's just the thing, they’re not entirely sure. Just that- one day, everything was suddenly blooming back to life!”

“Truly?”

“Yep, and it's only grown more lively since.”

Lambert lets the information sink into their head. Life overseas… far as they know, all lands outside of the Old Faith have been virtually dead since, well, ever.

“I see… and why do you think this has to do with me?”

Plimbo’s expression turns serious, something glinting in his eyes.

“Well, you are a crown bearer, are you not? Some little fishies tell me the crowns are more tied to our world than many think.”

The Red Crown weighs heavy on their head, and Lambert doesn’t miss how Plimbo looks at its closed eye. Something about the Sea Louse is different this visit.

Wearily, Lambert raises their chin. “Thank you for your business Plimbo, I’ll be on my way now.”

“Of course, of course- little sheep needs to keep their flock fed and all that.”

The Lamb walks to the teleportation stone, watching the magic of the stone light up as they stand upon it. They face away from Plimbo, not wanting to see the smug look in his eyes.

When they’re back at the cult’s entrance, Lambert turns to gaze at the cult. The midday sun is in full swing, with a group located by the kitchens for lunch.

They start walking over, intent on giving the seeds to Janaty so she can take care of them.

On their way, Tybregre intercepts them, looking harried.

“My leader, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but- our guest, he has-”

The deer takes a deep breath as Lambert stares at him, dread creeping up on them.

“The One has disappeared.”