An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Cult of the Lamb (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Heket & Kallamar & Leshy & The One Who Waits | Narinder & Shamura, background Leshy/Yellow Cat
Characters: The One Who Waits | Narinder, Leshy (Cult of the Lamb), Heket (Cult of the Lamb), Kallamar (Cult of the Lamb), Shamura (Cult of the Lamb), The Lamb (Cult of the Lamb)
Additional Tags: Implied onesided Narilamb, heed the character death warning, Angst little comfort, Sad Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Hopeful Ending, Sickness, Talks of afterlife, Reincarnation, mentions of alternative universes, pain medication addiction, fantasy pain medicine but still, No Beta, Minimal editing, Blood
Summary:
Five siblings stand on a choice that will change the fate of the entire world. It all rides on the vote of the fifth.
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One cannot be god of Death while being alive. Narinder's life is directly tied to the crown, and in sparing him the Lamb did not sever the contract. Without the crown his mortal body begins to fail, and whatever is left of his divinity struggles to keep up with repairing the damage. Narinder tries to hide this as long as he can, which isn't difficult when the Lamb avoids him just as much as he avoids them.
Then his siblings are brought in, one by one. Luckily for him, they are more interested in trying to make a new future than lingering on the past.
Just a little... not a drabble but a thing? I guess? It’s more like the first part of a story I’m writing but it can stand on its own
!!TW!! religious abuse and leans pretty heavily on Philip Wittebane being Puritan.
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Caleb Wittebane was always the better brother.
Funny yet proper, quick witted, charming when needed, smart and well-studied, well-versed in law and the holy texts, talented in arts and speech, strong and quick on his feet, a good witch hunter who could sort the righteous victims from the wicked sinners... a natural born leader who prayed every day and knew when to curb his natural curiosities.
Every good quality Philip held, Caleb was ten times better.
Everyone loved Caleb. Their mothers' accuser the stranger who took them father loved Caleb.
No one envied hated loved Caleb more than Philip did.
Losing Caleb to the Witch hurt more than anything else ever did.
If he had just listened. Just stayed by Philip's side. Just remembered who, what, they really were. Kept praying every morning and every night, kept his curiosity in check, didn't ask questions, didn't drop that weapon, didn't accept that damned bird...
If he had been a good brother, if he had just listened, just done what Philip demanded asked, then Philip wouldn't have had to do it.
Wouldn't have had to punish him for his sins, wouldn't have had to kill him, to send him to meet his dark master.
Philip tried to save him. He would keep trying to save him.
(Surely the Lord, in his compassion, would understand the dark magic he used. He was trying to save his brother's eternal soul, lead him on the path of righteousness, pass the soul down and bring his brother back and save him.)
(Every time they betrayed him, every time they chose witches, he knew he failed. It hurt less every time, and his flimsy excuse burning hope was weaker every time, and still he would never admit the satisfaction that killing punishing the abominations his brother's vague lookalikes brought him.)
Then there came Hunter.
Hunter, with his pale untameable hair and endless questions, his insatiable curiosity, his annoying endearing need to know more, learn more. It was like his brother come alive once more. Like he was standing in front of Philip once more, but better.
Like he really was Caleb.
He really was Caleb.
Philip loathed loved him. He would raise him right.
Smart and sharp-witted, quick on his feet and overly optimistic, loyal to a fault and so easy to manipulate.
(Replace God with the Titan, righteousness with covens, sins with wild magic. The boy would never know.)
Hunter was a curious child who pushed Philip's limits. He made Philip hurt him a few times, just to shut him up keep him on the right path, but Philip wanted to knew it was a necessary evil- spare the rod, spoil the child.
Once, when Philip caught him carving wood, so much like Caleb, he thoroughly made sure Hunter knew that wasn't his place. No time for art, no time for fun, no time for disgusting sinful secular school or lessons- focus on God the Titan, his will and the Day of Unity.
Maybe this time, Philip thought, maybe this time he could save Caleb.
(Yet still he gave Hunter the coven mark, still branded him for death on the Day of Unity, still prepared to make a new Grimwalker. Perhaps he knew, deep down, that even with it being everything he's ever known, Caleb's new mind- his new vessel- and very soul could never be loyal to him and him alone. Perhaps he knew the magic vessel needed to die to free his brother's soul. Perhaps this time he could save Caleb before he turned completely to wickedness.)
Philip hated loathed despised envied loved his brother, his nephew, his abomination creature betrayer monster child more than his own salvation.
It elated humored delighted hurt every time he had to kill him.
It’s the first thing they notice as they step out of the hut they share with their siblings; their brother, beloved as he was once feared, sits in the field in the early morning twilight, legs crossed and hands resting on his knees.
It’s improper posture for proper meditation, but Shamura supposes that doesn’t matter now.
His back is to the village, knowing well that the greatest threat to his safety comes from beyond the trees, and what little they can see of his face is obscured by his veil, but Shamura imagines that his eyes are closed.
They consider their options for a moment; it is too early for anyone other than the Lamb, the night guards and that day’s designated kitchen staff to be awake, and Narinder himself often stays in his hut until well into the day, when he is certain he won’t need to face his once-siblings.
If Narinder is out this early, it means one thing; Aym and Baal are with their mother and Narinder could not sleep.
Making their decision, Shamura folds their hands under their robes and approaches their brother.
Narinder’s ear twitches as they sit next to him, and he makes no complaint. It’s as close to an invitation as he’ll willingly give.
(Shamura remembers, in fragments, a kit standing in their library, wide eyes bright with curiosity and excitement. A moment that, at the time, had felt so innocent, so normal- of course Shamura would share their library, their knowledge, with their younger brother. It’s a choice Shamura often regrets; would things have been different, they wonder, had they listened to the Elders and discouraged Narinder from learning? If their brother had only read the books on his own domain- had he learned only what he needed to know, would anything have changed at all?)
Shamura closes their eyes, breathing out steadily. Blood drips down their face, the injury just as fresh as the day Narinder gave it to them.
“You should have changed your bandages first,” Narinder says lowly, voice oddly soft.
“I am no stranger to blood, brother,” they answer simply. “No, no stranger to blood... this has been our lives for a millennium now. I am no stranger to blood.”
There’s no answer, and they continue to sit in silence as the sun slowly rises above the treeline. Behind them Shamura can hear window shutters starting to open as the early risers of the village begin their day.
“... I apologize for what I did to you,” Narinder says, voice hardly more than a whisper, but his words echo in Shamura’s ears. They open their eyes and glance at Narinder, finding his two eyes still closed but his third cracked open, gazing in their direction. “I was angry and lost control of myself. It is no excuse. I have lived every day for a thousand years regretting it.”
Shamura takes a moment to collect their thoughts, clinging to this moment almost desperately. Memories, they find, are hard to hold onto, but they don’t want to forget this. “Why?” they ask, closing their eyes again. “You did what you had to in order to escape. Who can fault one for that? Any of us would have done the same.”
“... You did not forget me,” Narinder says, as if it explains everything. “You thought of me. I could feel your grief every day. And you gave me Aym and Baal.”
“... I did not want you to be alone.”
Its a confession they vaguely remember telling the Lamb, but words they have never told Narinder himself. Of course, they hadn’t ever visited Narinder in that between place before; the Afterlife is not a place for the living, after all, and until Shamura was slain they had no right to walk into that blinding light.
(They don’t remember what it was like, being dead. They would think it a relief, a mercy, if they didn’t know how much care their brother put into shaping the worlds for every soul that passed through his gates. Curiosity, after all, is what drives discovery, and discovery creates knowledge; and curiosity, as such, burns inside them, wondering about what After world their brother would have given them to.)
“Thank you,” Narinder says softly, and Shamura doesn’t respond. They don’t need to.
“... I apologize, as well,” Shamura says instead. Narinder tenses next to them as they continue, “The prophecy we received did not need to come true. It was merely a self fulfilling prophecy; in our attempts to stop it from coming to be, we simply set the act in motion. From the moment we fought over your ideas, we were already lost.
“Only, instead of being lost as a family, we lost it all.” They open their eyes and turn to look at Narinder, only to find him looking back at them. “We said that death is unchangeable, but how could we make judgment over your domain? Perhaps it was not your ideas we feared, but change itself.”
Shamura looks out over the fields as the first of the farmers begin their morning tending, the roots and vegetables not quite ready to be picked. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that Shamura is no longer used to.
“Perhaps the world was ready to change,” they finish.
There is silence for only a few moments, and then Narinder laughs- something deep and quiet, not really amused. It’s the kind of laugh one laughs when something tragically ironic occurs, when one laughs because the only alternative is to cry.
He turns away.
“The irony,” Narinder starts softly, “is now that I live among the realization of my plans, I am finding it... lacking.”
“How so?” Shamura asks.
“It appears that, with the absence of permanent death, the living have lost value for life,” Narinder explains simply, finally folding his hands in front of himself. “Without an end, life ceases to be precious. My gates are never empty of souls, for the false idol only holds onto those under their care, yet just this night alone I have seen what the living will do when they do not fear the permanence of death.”
“Perhaps one day you can find beauty in that. It is what you wanted all those years ago.”
“But not like this,” Narinder says. “Resurrection was not meant to be used so frivolously. Death was never meant to be avoided completely. There are worlds beyond my gates for every one of these souls, sitting empty now. Perhaps the resurrected would prefer to be there- but how would they know? They are not like you or the other Bishops, nor like Aym and Baal or even the false idol. They cannot remember After.”
Shamura refrains from stating that they do not either; hours, at length, spoken with Heket, Leshy and Kallamar have all but confirmed that they couldn’t remember the world that Narinder had carved out for them, either.
(Or maybe they lie and just don’t want to remember.)
“Yet, I suppose you are correct,” Narinder gives. “This is ultimately how resurrection would always go. The living fear what they do not know, and no matter how many sermons are given, they will always fear the After. This is how it always would have ended. I should have listened to you.”
“Perhaps we should have all listened to each other,” Shamura compromises, unfolding their lower hands. They set one on Narinder’s shoulder and ignore the flinch he gives. “Perhaps we should have had a conversation, rather than a screaming match?”
Narinder relaxes, leaning into Shamura’s touch, and Shamura is reminded that he likely hasn’t been touched in a thousand years. Sure, they know, he likely held Aym and Baal when they were confused and scared kits in need of guidance still, but a giant would hardly even feel the touch of an ant.
They pretend not to notice, for his pride’s sake.
“I must take my leave now,” Shamura says. “I am meant to be helping with breakfast.”
“Go, then.” Narinder hesitates as Shamura stands, then adds, “Thank you for sitting with me. I...”
I missed this, are the words he doesn’t say. Shamura hears them anyway.
“I feel the same,” Shamura says, smiling at him. “We should speak more often. I have missed you, brother.”
With those words, Shamura turns and walks towards the kitchen. They trace over every word that was spoken, repeating the scene over and over again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Cult of the Lamb (Video Game)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Pre-Relationship - Relationship, The Lamb/The One Who Waits | Narinder, implied, Leshy/Yellow Cat, Heket & Kallamar & Leshy & The One Who Waits | Narinder & Shamura, The Lamb & The One Who Waits | Narinder
Characters: The One Who Waits | Narinder, The Lamb (Cult of the Lamb), Leshy (Cult of the Lamb), Kallamar (Cult of The Lamb), Heket (Cult of the Lamb), Shamura (Cult of The Lamb), Minor Ensemble, minor OCs
Additional Tags: Open Ending, Healing, Family, Hurt/Comfort, The Lamb did not spare Narinder, They/Them Pronouns for The Lamb (Cult of the Lamb), no editing no proofreading no beta, you get what you get kay thanks
Summary:
After the Lamb kills him, Narinder let himself get lost in the field of memories.
Decades later, the Mystic Seller delivers a certain ex-god to the Lamb... and he has no memory of the last few thousand years.
The sands seemed to extend forever, the silence almost deafening in its entirety. He walked alone, a small splash of colour against the endless whites and tans, the soft sand sifting beneath his feet nearly tripping him with every step.
In the distance hills rose against the horizon, and as he got closer he could see they were finger tips, barely peaking out over the sand. The sun glinted off the corroded, rusted metal, and as the flash of light blinded him he saw an echo of walls- walls so much taller than L'Manburg's ever were, made of simple stone and towers.
An echo of a memory, a division. On one side a small town made of wood and stone and straw, airships docked and knights and skylords- though he did not know this word he was sure it was right- milling about with their families.
On the other, the endless desert he now walked in.
It was gone, and in its place he stood at the base of the fingers. He stared between them to the white-faced being on the other side.
