Chapter Text
All was quiet in the Cult. Everyone was fast asleep.
Everyone except Lamb.
They had been trying to sleep, just about to drift off, when they had suddenly awoken. For a moment, they didn’t know what had woken them up. But then they noticed they felt a sense of… trepidation, which tied their stomach into knots, their ichor pressure rising from agitation. Worried that something was amiss, they had gotten out of bed, careful to not disturb Narinder, and donned their fleece, the Red Crown floating to them, gently landing between their ram horns. They didn’t grab their normal accessories, they wanted to be able to move through the Cult grounds with minimum noise to avoid alerting those who were asleep.
Or those who were not a follower. On Cult grounds without permission.
Slipping out of the house, and gently closed the door behind them, Lamb inhaled the air. It was cool tonight, a relief from today’s heat. The summer’s heat had been so bad lately that they had been forced to shear just three days ago.
They walked toward the temple, a few feet away, moving across the grass instead of the stone path. Their hooves would cause too much noise, and would no doubt wake up the followers.
Lamb sighed, pushing the long wool out of their eyes as they peeked in through the temple’s windows, then tested the doors. They were locked, the only ones with keys to the building were Narinder, Jamar, and themself.
Nothing seemed wrong in the temple, and unless someone had snuck in during the day, Lamb highly doubted there was anyone, or anything, in there. But then again, they had encountered a few too many… animals that could seemingly come and go as they pleased. One of them could get into locked buildings if they had their mind set on it and cause all kinds of trouble. However, they sensed no one within the temple, be they follower or enemy.
With the temple cleared, they made a beeline for the food storage, located near the kitchens. They wouldn’t be surprised if someone was hiding there- they couldn’t count the number of times they had witnessed a greedy follower sneaking in to steal some late-night snacks. Or, in one case, had discovered someone trying to poison the food supplies.
After a successful assassination attempt involving poison, for a while, Lamb had gotten paranoid about the food supplies and did nightly checkups on storage. Their paranoia had paid off, they had apprehended, and killed, a spy who tried poisoning the entire Cult.
Storage was also empty, Lamb couldn’t detect any presence and didn’t notice anything out of place that would warrant cause for concern.
Next would be the outhouses. Nothing was out of the ordinary there. After that, they went to the healing bays, then the seamstress's building. Then, the village. No one was lingering outside the huts, creeping and stealing glances into the windows.
Lamb was beginning to suspect that there was nothing wrong- their mind was playing tricks on them. They could sense their followers, everyone was present, alive, and asleep. Yet that feeling wouldn’t go away. It clung to them like a tick- stubborn and clingy.
As Lamb stood there, in the center of the village, they placed a hand over their stomach, knotted as it was. This trepidation was coming from somewhere, but where? Something was clearly off. But when they tried to reach out, to feel the lay of the Cult grounds, there was nothing. There was no one. What was happening? Were they losing it?
Shaking their head, they resumed their journey. They’d head to the Cult’s entrance, then make a loop of the outer grounds, and if they still didn’t find anything, they’d go to bed. Or, they’d try to. It wasn’t like they needed sleep, but it was a good way to pass the time.
Passing by the crystal lamps that littered the Cult grounds, they walked, turning their gaze to the starry sky above. Overhead hung the moon, a beautiful gem in the sky, surrounded by smaller gems. During the winter, as snow flew about, a beautiful curtain of green, blue, and purple would dance in the sky. A beautiful present that the universe gave the world, but one that was not often looked at as the living slept.
Lowering their gaze, they realized their hooves had been leading them not toward the entrance of the grounds, but toward the shrine, making Lamb frown, then stopped in their tracks.
As a mortal, like many sheep, Lamb had good eyesight. But as a God, their vision had enhanced greatly, allowing them to see further. And now, with their vision, they could see someone before their shrine. A robed figure, back to them. Small against the towering, grand statue. No devotion floated about, for Lamb had collected today’s bounty.
Their skin prickled, sweat seeming to come out of nowhere. This was an intruder. Someone who was not a follower was in their territory. Without their permission.
Lamb hastened to the shrine, turning the Red Crown into gauntlets as they swiftly approached the figure, kneeling before the shrine, clenching their sharp teeth together.
However, they reduced their speed, their mouth going slack as a chill ran down their spine. Closer, now, they could see the white horns sticking through a halo, draped with black chains, gleaming in the moonlight. It was horns they had only seen on murals in sheep temples, back before sheepkind was wiped out by the Old Faith when temples and homes were destroyed. Murals that had depicted the creatures as cunning and uncanny.
Goats had never been a favorite of sheepkind.
They were strange creatures, so eerily similar yet different to sheep. Their cultures ran different, yet vaguely alike, from one another. Often sheep had sneered that the goats copied their culture, that they stole from sheepkind because they were envious of them. Lamb often wondered if the dislike of goats came down to religious differences, not just because of the uncanny feeling goats carried with them.
Sheep had worshiped the Old Gods in secret, never the Bishops, with hushed festivals and ceremonies and food dedicated to the deceased Gods who no longer heard their prayers.
But goats…
They worshiped strange things no one could comprehend, for never had goats labeled their ‘Gods’. They had loud festivals giving praises and thanks to things that couldn’t possibly be Gods, with food that was similar to the meals sheep had. They kept to themselves, the Bishops had left them alone, meaning there was something wrong with goats for the Bishops to not intervene with.
It was said that if a goat with black chains were to appear before you, it was a sign of ill omen. It was just their luck that the goat before them was wearing those cursed chains.
They came to a stop next to the kneeling figure, peering down at her, flexing their fingers.
She was a black goat, a stripe of white running down her forehead to her snout. Dangling from her ears were small, white, tear-drop-shaped earrings with golden halos crossing one another. The pale gold robes she wore had gold patterns stitched on, patterns that made their head throb when they stared too hard.
Floating behind her head, not above it like a disciple’s halo, was a thick, pale gold, almost white, halo. It was solid, made of a strange material they did not recognize, yet reminded them of stone. Parts of it were chipped on the edges, giving it a weathered look.
The goat’s eyes were closed, her posture straight. Her hands were clasped together, gold prayer beads intertwined with her black fingers. Instead of smooth beads, they were replaced with sharp stars that would pierce skin and draw blood should you tighten your grip on it. And the pendant, resting between her wrists, was in the shape of an eye, staring up at Lamb. They could have sworn it blinked at them. Divinity oozed from her, thick and cloying in their nostrils. It was softer than the harsh divinity they had felt with the Bishops.
“Hail, Infant God,” she greeted, without opening her eyes. Her voice was soft, and patient. “Disperse your weapon, I come as a guest, naught as a threat.”
Lamb felt their hackles rise. “No, I won’t. You are a-”
“Goat,” she finished, “I know.”
“An intruder,” they corrected, though they had almost said she was a goat. It was ridiculous, they were a God who had killed Gods. They shouldn’t be scared of a goat. But growing up, Lamb had been taught that goats were meant to be feared- to never trust them, almost as bad as demons. Every elder had a story to tell of how evil goats could be, a way to prevent lambs from wandering into the woods at night. And that feeling in their stomach had only gotten worse by standing next to the doe.
“An intruder who means you no harm,” she tilted her head toward them, opening an eye to stare at them. Gold met black, and she smiled, purposefully showing off her white teeth. Just as them, she had not the teeth of a herbivore, but that of a predator. It made their skin crawl. “Sit by me, Infant God, let us speak.” Her eye closed, and she straightened her posture, relaxing her hands, and placed them on her lap. “For long I have yearned to visit you, yet the time had ne’er been right. Until to-nite.”
Lamb hesitated, then dispelled the Red Crown, it returned to their head. They slowly knelt, tucking their legs under them.
“Why are you here?” they asked. Their wool fell into their face, and they pushed it back.
“As I said, this is naught but a visit. Mine Master has seen you, Infant God. It knows of you, of your actions, the consequences, an’ your ascension. You are blessed, for It only speaks to Gods. No mortal can experience Its awesome voice.”
“Who is your Master?” Lamb demanded, feeling their hackles rise. It surely was one of the strange creatures the goats prayed to.
“Be not afraid, It will not hurt you. It shall be here soon- I am only here on Its behalf to speak with you, to announce Its arrival. The one who bested not one, not two, but five Gods. A mere mortal ascendin’ to Godhood has not occurred in eons.” She opened her eyes, a smile on her face, continuing to stare at the shrine. Lamb did the same, for they did not need to turn their heads to see one another. So eerily similar were their eyes. “The Old Faith has come to an end- so now shall rise the New Faith. All hail the Lamb, all hail the God of Death.”
“Do you mock me, goat?” they asked, fingers curling. They hated how tense they felt, and how easily agitated they were. They had so carefully trained themselves to emote little, to keep calm and collected under difficult situations. Yet here they were, crumbling so easily because of a goat. Well, their elders had certainly done a good job in turning them against goats.
“Nay, I do no such thing,” her voice sounded sincere, which made Lamb all the more suspicious, “You hold my respect, Infant God, though goatkind shall ne’er worship you. Your cult is wondrous, an’ the Red Crown holds such a beautiful bond with you. How blessed be the New Faith is, an’ I pray it shall continue to be blessed for many a year to come.”
“… thank you.”
The goat’s smile broadened, “The Bishops oft held their cultists in terror, Old Death’s betrayal only fueled their cruelty. An’ when the Prophecy was revealed to them? Any kindness they once held for the world was dissolved.”
“I know,” they spoke through gritted teeth. Lamb’s claws dug into their legs, making them wince. How they hated being reminded of the Bishops. What they had done to them. To their friends, and family. The children they slaughtered, the parents they tortured. What they had done to Narinder. The trauma they had left him. With their deaths, Lamb had pushed them out of their mind, locked in a small, dark corner. To be forgotten about.
“’Twas a shame what happened to the sheepfolk. Innocent lives, gone. Blood spilt because the Bishops feared the inevitable- Death. They should have accepted the End, but like many a Gods of the past, they thought they could avoid their fate. Now they rot in the afterlife, no more shall they do harm,” she thumbed at her beads, “All thanks to you.”
“You’ve let me know that your… Master will be here,” Lamb spoke, “I ask that you leave, now.” The sooner she went away, the sooner they could shove the Bishops into the back of their mind once more- out of sight, out of mind.
They hadn’t erected the Bishops’ crown monuments, even though Narinder, then known as The One Who Waits, had insisted they do so after Leshy, Heket, and Kallamar had been killed. It would bring them nothing but hate and anger should they look at the Red Crown’s counterparts. They kept the damned things sealed beneath the Temple, where they would hopefully rot someday, just like their former bearers. Never to be worn again.
The goat tilted her head, a small laugh leaving her mouth, “Not yet, Infant God. For I have an important question to ask of you.”
Lamb stared ahead, hands clenching. They didn’t care for the shift in her voice. They couldn’t explain what it meant, but it made them tense. “Fine. One question. Then leave.”
The goat slowly nodded her head, and asked, “Tell me, Infant God, are you capable of forgiveness?”
“What do you mean? Forgive who?” they asked, tilting their head, turning to look at her head on. They liked to imagine they were capable of forgiveness. Forgiving anyone, except for-
“The Bishops, Infant God. The hatred you hold for them is horrific, suffocatin’ an’ ill-mannered for a God. Would you pardon the sins the Bishops committed against you? Or will you remain stuck in this righteous hate you bear?”
Lamb reared back in shock, jumping to their hooves. “What?” they hissed, hands beginning to shake. Anger coiled in their gut, making them feel hot and feverish.
The goat tilted her head, the smile gone from her face, “You did not mishear me, Infant God. Would you be capable of forgivin’ the Bishops? To release your hate of them?”
“Why would I forgive those monsters!? They killed my loved ones. They’ve burned down villages and allowed their followers to sacrifice and kill those who were not of their faith! Those monsters don’t deserve forgiveness. Especially from me,” Lamb clenched their hands, claws pricking against skin, drawing ichor, “The Last Lamb.”
It was something that hurt the most. A worthless title, not a name, given to them by the Bishops.
They had a name once. A real name. An identity. Given to them by their parents, one that held meaning. Parents who had died during a village raid.
The moment the heretics had captured them, the Old Faith had stripped them of that precious name, one they no longer remembered, could not remember, for it was gone, just like the rest of their kind.
There was no one to remember them, as the followers of the Bishops had not asked for their name. The Bishops denied them their sense of self, their final connection to sheepkind. Just the final sheep to slaughter, a sacrificial lamb, to be forgotten about, a blip in the history of the world. It would have put an end to the prophecy that had called for the deaths of the Bishops.
But they had been wrong. The annihilation of sheep had brought their downfall.
The goat rose to her hooves in a fluid motion, holding her prayer beads in one hand, and she faced Lamb. Shorter than them, her presence, those golden eyes, which now flickered and glowed like a candle, made up for her lack of height. “Aye, the Last Lamb. The one who has no name- there is none left to hold a funeral for you. To remember you by. An’ so too shall the Bishops be forgotten,” her mouth quirked into a semi-smile, like she knew of some joke unknown to Lamb, before she frowned, “I take it you do not deserve forgiveness either, Infant God? You are no different than the ones who have wronged you.”
“I am nothing like the Bishops,” Lamb snarled, “I have not wronged anyone who didn’t deserve it- I’ve not razed villages, and I’ve not wiped an entire species out of existence. I’ve done more good than harm.”
The goat’s mouth twitched into a smile again, “True ‘nough. No species has gone extinct under your hands. No village has been destroyed. You have freed the world of a cruel faith. You have turned your teachin’ to be more… kind, now that Old Death is tamed. Howe’er, you are nothin’ more than a hypocrite, Infant God.”
“I am not-” Lamb started, but the goat barreled through their interruption, making them growl.
“You are similar to the Bishops, deny it as you might. You have wronged many. You have killed those who followed the orders of their Gods- such as you did for yours,” her eyes narrowed. “They had friends. Family. Those will mourn their passin’. They hate you for takin’ their loved ones from them. The Bishops are villains to you- but to those you deem heretics, you are the villain.”
“That was different,” Lamb spoke through clenched teeth, “I did that to survive. To make my cult flourish. I have not allowed my followers to sacrifice others in my name.”
“Aye, an’ I suppose that means you deserve forgiveness- you did it for survival, they should understand why ye’ve done such a thing. Nay, Infant God. You are nothin’ more than a hypocrite. You say their followers sacrificed in their names, to be granted powers. Knowledge. Have you not done the same? You sacrificed two followers to Old Death, to be granted knowledge in return. You sacrificed four followers to Midas. You sacrificed-”
“Don’t,” Lamb hissed, baring their teeth, shame overtaking them, making their face burn. They wished they could rip the goat’s heart out, but they remained frozen in place. As though a spell had been cast upon them.
“Three followers an’ your mentor, who saw you as his own, to the Teeth in the Darkness. All for power. Were they not innocent? They loved you, trusted you, an’ for that, they were sacrificed to cruel villains. At least the sacrifices of the heretics had been strangers to those seekin’ higher powers.”
It was suddenly so hard to breathe, tears springing in their eyes. Ratau’s death often haunted their thoughts. He had been so good to them, yet they had given him up to the Fox, they had needed the power to defeat the Bishops. They had soaked in Narinder’s praises for their actions, all because he had disliked the old rat for disobeying him. How they hated this stupid goat. How dare she. She knew nothing.
The goat’s eyes gleamed as she tilted her head, bringing her other hand up, intertwining the beads between her fingers, spreading the digits so she could peer at Lamb through the gaps of the chain. Her smile was vicious, as though she had caught them in a trap.
“You claim you are no different than the Bishops. How wrong you are- for you have done so many things that parallel those who you deem unforgivable.” She pulled the beads taught, sharp points digging into skin, and blood, no, it was something similar to ichor, began to drip from her fingers. Unlike ichor, the smell that wafted from her lifesource smelled of petrichor. “I could tell you every single one- but I suppose you already know, deep down inside. The inner voice who whispers poison knows. The only difference betwixt you an’ the Bishops, Infant God, is that you think you are above them. That you are without sin. How wrong you are, Lamb.”
Lamb broke out of whatever trance they were in, turning the Red Crown into their gauntlets once again, “Leave, goat. Or I’ll make you.” Their eyes stung with unshed tears.
“I hold no fear of you, nor your Crown,” the doe lowered her hands, still bleeding, opening her hands and turning her palms upward, staring pointedly at them. “Forgiveness is naught an easy thing to do. But you are capable of it, Infant God. I know you are. Confront your heart, steel your nerves, be ready. Mine Master shall be here in three days time, an’ you shall greet them with awe. I will take my leave, now, for you must be left to your thoughts. May the Lord make Its face shine upon you and be gracious to you, Infant God.”
Dipping her head forward, there was a flash of white, so painfully bright it made Lamb flinch, momentarily blinded. There was a terrible rumbling, and when they looked again, finally able to see once more, they found the goat nowhere to be seen.
Lamb stood there, dumbfounded. They felt breathless, body shivering, even though they weren’t cold. No, they were shaking, they realized. Hands trembling so much the Red Crown returned to its normal form, floating before them, its single eye wide.
Lamb bit down on their tongue, tasting ichor. How they wanted to scream. Who did that goat think she was!? Intruding on their territory, speaking of forgiveness for those horrible creatures. Accusing them of being no different than the Bishops and their followers. Lamb reached up, digging their claws into their wool, grinding their teeth so hard their mouth ached.
Just thinking of potentially forgiving those demons made them feel violently ill. So many lives had been ruined because of them. They had been left alone. Alone and traumatized, witnessing their loved ones being killed off, one by one.
Alone, traumatized, and nameless.
Such terrible creatures did not deserve forgiveness. They would never forgive, nor forget.
Not even if some powerful force demanded they do.
And they were not like the Bishops. They were not. They were not.
