Queening the Pawn
Cult of the Lamb Ficlet
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Lambert awoke in the middle of the night by the sound of a loud, dull, thud, from outside.
They wrapped their hand around their bell to muffle it and slipped out of bed. They crept outside, shivering, the simple beige rags they wore did little to warm them after their recent sheering.
Lambert crept outside the bermed house to find their father, Ramses, working behind the secluded refuge. His graying wool was soaked with blood.
Ramses stood very tall, a scarred and grizzled one-horned ram. He claimed he lost his left horn in a fight against Leshy, Himself, and his right hand to something far worse. Though, the exact Bishop in question changed between retellings; Heket, Kallamar, Shamura, even The One Who Waits.
He never spoke of it boastfully, though. Rather, informatively; Ramses was always very specific about how he would escape these gods, how to fight their followers. He never made any illusion that fighting them directly wouldn’t be a death sentence.
Lambert came closer, struggling to make out what Ramses was doing in the dark. Then he realized that his father, shovel slung over his back and sword in his belt, was dragging the corpse of Lamb’s uncle away from the camp. Lambert gasped.
Ramses’ long, notched ear perked up at the sound. He muttered to them without looking away from his grim work, “I’m sorry you had to see this, Lamb’. I planned to do this when you were asleep, should’ve known that wouldn’t stop you… Don’t worry, I made sure he didn’t feel pain…”
“What happened, father? Uncle Ovid…” Lambert said.
“Ovid was talking about turning himself in to the Bishops. He never could listen to reason, ever since we were lambs…” Ramses said.
“S-so you killed him?” Tears welled up in Lambert’s eyes.
Ramses set down the cadaver and shovel. He stood up straight and turned to Lambert, retracting his bloodied hand back under his long, tattered cloak. He was stoic. Though, very dark bags hung beneath his damp, forlorn eyes.
“You know how we play chess together, Lamb’? Sometimes you predict a few turns ahead, and see the only way to win is to sacrifice a pawn. You have to do it, even if you aren’t sure. Even if that pawn might be very useful, even if you love it. Any pawn can become a powerful queen piece if it gets to the enemy’s side of the board, after all. Or, you might need to sacrifice bigger pieces, like horses, or bishops, even your original queen, just so another pawn has a chance at getting that far.”
Lambert’s eyes lingered on the body, strewn lifelessly on the ground besides him. But their father never looked away from them.
Ramses continued, “Sometimes, protecting a family is like a game of chess. If I’d let Ovid live, he might’ve snuck off when I wasn’t looking. If they caught him, they might’ve tortured him until he tells them where to find us. I didn’t want to do it, but it was a necessary sacrifice… I did it to protect us. Do you understand me, Lambert?”
“… yes, father.” Lambert stared down past his hooves.
Ramses bent down to Lambert’s eye level and wiped tears from their face with his cloak. “… Why don’t you go back to bed, Lamb’? I’ll come up with some warm milk, later.”
Lambert said, “Um… are you sure you don’t want help? With Digging the g-grave, I mean…”
Ramses tilted his head to the side and smiled at Lambert, his horn resting against a shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
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