Chapter Text
It's late into the night when The Lamb knocks against the door of Leshy's cabin. Three times in quick succession before tucking their hands back against their side, careful of their volume as to not disturb the rest of the Cult. There's no movement from beyond the wooden door but they know that he's awake. He always is, no matter how many times they remind him of the flocks curfew. They play with the threads of their fleece, waiting just a few seconds before knocking again.
They don't let up this time, keeping up a continuous pace that begins to bruise their knuckles, "Leshyyy~" they call out in a sing-song voice, "I have a gift for you, I promise you'll like this one."
It's a moment until they finally hear signs of life, a thump and claws against wood. Footsteps head towards the door, heavy and angry with a purpose. The Lamb ceases their knocking, tucking their hands against their side and stepping just out of the way as the door is flung open.
Leshy swipes at them with sharp claws, striking at the air. A growl builds in his throat when he finds nothing, a heavy tail thumping against the wood. They slowly move before him, keeping themself at a distance as they watch him sniff and take in his surroundings. They look him up and down, searching for differences, finding none. The same leafy green fur and black antlers, dirt stained cultists robes and a bandage tinged with newly mortal blood.
"A fair night, isn't it?" They greet him with a mischievous lift of their smile.
He tilts his head, his antlers twitching in the wind, "Must you feel the need to torment me every night of your existence?" he hisses in a low tone, flexing his claws as if meaning to attempt another strike.
"I apologize my dear." The Lamb hums, fearlessly ducking around him and into his cabin. "Perhaps my next gift to you shall be my heart on a stick."
It's dark inside of his living quarters, only illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through a single window. They take in what they can regardless, finding nothing too out of the ordinary from their previous visits. Scratch marks in the floors and walls, the mattress torn up, blanket and pillows strewn across the floor. It's a miracle that the window hadn't been shattered or the door taken off of it's hinges.
There are other gifts from them around the room—shoved in the corner, under the bed—in various states of disarray. Now wilted camellias from Darkwood, petals scattered across the floorboards. Stalks of mushroom from Anura, rotted and mush. Fine jewelry from Anchordeep, crystals and necklace's, stuff that has gone unworn. A tablet or two in braille from Silk Cradle, a dull weapon that could do no harm. Perhaps the mess—the insult—aimed at them would've stung more if they weren't doing this for shits and giggles.
There are many ways to torture a person. A thousand ways to inflict pain and make a persons every waking moment miserable. But in The Lamb's opinion, killing someone with kindness had to be one of the most amusing ways. And it was a lot less messy as well.
They hadn't meant for their relationship with Leshy to turn out this way. They'd been intent to treat him like Narinder; keep him on a tight leash until they were sure he wouldn't be a danger, and then let him loose on the world. But instead they'd given him a flower. A red camellia held carefully between their fingers that'd made him stop in thought and then flip like a switch, spitting curses at them.
Curiosity had begun to stir inside of them. How would Leshy react to receiving the utmost kindest treatment from them? With curses and threats, they'd found, tearing up their gifts and leaving them strewn across his own cabin or outside their own residence. It's humorous to them, really. They can't fault his anger, his distrust of them. It'd be wrong of him to accept the friendship of whom massacred his family, stripped him of his godhood.
"God of death," Leshy spitting out the title brings them out of their inspecting, "we both know that you will just rise again should you die."
"How saddening, to offer yourself up to someone only for them to turn you away." They spin around to face him with a longing sigh, their gold colored fleece fanning out around them. They look him up and down, noting the tension in his body. "Oh, how you wound me,"
"What have you come here for?" Leshy demands in a hiss.
The Lamb perks up at the question, placing the dramatics they'd been playing into at the back of their mind. They walk forward, bringing their left hand up and opening their palm to gaze at the precious item they've been holding.
"I told you, I have a gift for you." They shift from hoof to hoof, unable to stop the restless excitement from seeping into their body. Leshy's antlers seem to track their movements as he hisses gently, letting them know of his displeasure with their answer. "More jewelry, will you allow me your left hand?"
Leshy tilts his head, silence settling as wind filters in through the door left ajar. He makes a low, annoyed sound in his throat before giving in, used to their shenanigans by now. He holds out his hand, leafy green forearm leading down to clawed fingers. They hold in a laugh, their smile widening as they envision the rest of the scenario they've planned.
"Are you going to tell me what the damned thing is before I discard it," Leshy growls at them, fingers twitching inward as a threat.
The Lamb gets down on one knee, gently taking Leshy's hand in their own. his hand is warm, tickling them like they've grazed by a bush. They hold his hand firmly as he twitches, careful of his claws as they look up at his face.
"That depends, will you accept it?"
Leshy angles his head down, his brows knitting together, "What are you playing at?" He asks in a low tone, voice full of suspicion.
They rub their fingers over his knuckles, feeling the limb tense further, "Nothing at all, I only want for you to accept if before I give it to you."
They study Leshy's blank features, the absence of eyes or a mouth making it hard to read him. They watch his muscles tense and un-tense, the way his branches sway as he thinks it over, contemplating carefully in a way they don't typically see him do.
"Fine, I accept it," he relents eventually.
Their own tail wags behind them, a forgotten part of their physique. A smile splits their face as they hold the silver ring to Leshy's ring finger, carefully sliding it on. They breathe out a happy sound, seeing it nestled against his claws and fur. It's a pretty ring, a silver color with a small green gemstone tucked inside the middle.
"It's an engagement ring, I picked it up from Anchordeep especially for you," They say sweetly, pressing their muzzle gently to the back of his palm.
Leshy is uncannily silent and they lift their eyes to his face, watching his body language. His whole being is still, blank, expressionless. It bothers them to no end, that they can't tell what he's thinking when they aren't invading his mind or being growled at. They consider it for the briefest of moments, peering into the tempest of Leshy's brain. But they decide not to, they prefer to use that particular power only when necessary.
They lift their lips from his hand as he yanks the limb away, splaying his fingers wide. With feigned innocence they say, "What's with the sour look my beloved? Why, I can't tell if you've gone red with bashfulness or anger."
"You-" The single word is spoken with nearly enough anger to shake the cabin, and yet it sends a thrum of excitement through The Lamb's body, "How dare you." His voice is a quiet hiss as he clenches one fist, using a finger to run along the gemstone. They watch his fingers, wondering—genuinely—if he likes how it feels.
They look up at Leshy with big black eyes, tail wagging in excitement. There is something so impossibly amusing about seeing Leshy drowning in anger. When once this thundering anger would've scared them, when they were made to duck around attacks, to scramble and fight for their life and the honor of their God. Now it it is nothing. He can do nothing to them except get angry and spew threats he can not go through with lest he yearns to wind up in the pillory. He is powerless. Leshy holds no power over them, and every threat and growl is a beautiful reminder of that.
"How dare you not drop more hints!" Leshy says through gritted teeth, tone masked in happiness and body shaking in barely concealed anger.
Silence again, the chill of the night winds. They look up him, blinking in confusion, "Pardon?" They mutter, waiting for him to rescind his words, to lunge at them or threaten to rip out their eyes.
Leshy sniffs the air, humming to himself, "I understand, the presents, you were courting me," Leshy spits out in a forcefully happy tone. He unfurls his hands, allowing for The Lamb to see bloody puncture marks where he'd dug into his palm. His hands lurch forward, giving them hardly a second to flinch before he grabs their face, squishing their cheeks in a hold that's uncharacteristically gentle, "What a wonderful present."
What in the name of themself? He wasn't meant to do this, he wasn't meant to act happy. He's meant to act angry—he is angry. He's supposed to get angry, tear the ring off and lunge at them, threaten them. And they'd act coy, put up their high and mighty act and remind him who the Cult leader is and who the God isn't. Perhaps they'd feign sadness and innocence, saying it was all but a joke and that they weren't actually proposing. Leave him to stew in his own thoughts after leaving. He wasn't meant to act happy, to take them by the face and practically thank them.
They force a smile and a laugh, reaching up to cup his right hand as they lean into it, "Leshy I- I didn't think you'd like it."
"Why wouldn't I?" He challenges them, a slight bit of amusement leaking into his voice.
Their eyes trail over to a heap of clothing on the floor, ripped to shreds by his claws, "I'm simply surprised is all, I offered you my heart only moments ago and you declined so-"
"I've taken back my words, you're heart belongs to me now," Leshy growls, cutting them off as he digs into their cheeks with his claws. Perhaps the possessiveness would've been almost cute had it been anyone else, someone they'd loved. But it only becomes ever so apparent that Leshy serves to gain something.
"You cannot say you don't want a gift and then claim it as yours," The Lamb says, attempting to push a bit of humor into their tone.
"And you cannot simply give a gift and take it back, especially if that gift is your hand in marriage."
They blink, stumbling over their words as Leshy lets go of their face, "No I- I wasn't trying to do that I-"
"Our wedding," Leshy cuts them off again, "Our wedding? When will it be?" He repeats when they stare at him dumbly.
"Ah-" he wants to get married to them. Their eyes drift down from his face to the ring they'd placed around his finger themself. He's really going through with this, "What a fine question," They mumble absentmindedly, wrapping their mind around the current events.
Leshy's hum is nearly a growl, his claws twitching, "You're quick with setting up events, aren't you?" He prompts, his tail swishing back and forth in a show of annoyance. Like Narinder, they note. They wonder if it's a natural habit or something learned from his older brother.
They clear their throat before answering, "Yes, I suppose I am."
They imagine the smile that would split his face as he says, "Then, my love, be quick."
The Lamb rings the Temple's bells at dawn, waking the Cult and calling them into prayer. Nearly the whole Cult gathers before them, a sea of fur and scales dressed in red. They gaze upon the faces of their Flock, a warm feeling hugging their un-beating heart. The people they've gathered over the years, whom they've sworn to protect.
They preach their sermon as usual, touching the hearts of their Cultists. A weight settles in their chest as they near the end, the announcement sitting on the tip of their tongue. They end their prayers, wearing a strained smile as the words tumble from their muzzle.
Silence settles in the Temple, the rarest of sounds in a large crowd. It's a shock for sure, to see them finally take a spouse after so many proposals over the years. One Cultist claps, and then another, and another. The applause is hesitant, unsure, but there. Some aren't applauding at all, looking at one another in question. The confusion too is no wonder. Leshy is not new but he's not been here for long either, and though he's not been recognized as the ex-god of Darkwood, he's often regarded as an unchecked heretic to be left alone.
They receive congratulations in person as the morning sermon comes to an end. Hand shakes and prayers for a happy union. When someone questions when the wedding date will be they unsurely say about three days.
They've had weddings before, few and far between. They've become less common now. Relationships are far more casual, children born are raised by the Cult and rarely by the parents. But the weddings they do have are grand. The Temple is adorned from head to toe with decorations of the to-be-weds choosing. The main ceremony would be held in the Temple, then have a bonfire and feast of food outside. It's only natural that their own wedding would be no different.
The rituals required would cost bones. The decorations camellias, spider silk, crystals. They need something to be wed in, Leshy does as well. Wedding rings. They're low of a few materials, some things they simply don't have. Leshy had told them to be quick, they'd already given themself three days.
They find themself circling back to the Temple after their sermon, seeking out one of their three disciples to alert them of their leave. They push through the large doors, finding the large hall now empty. Naturally, they chide themself, it's early morning, nearly the entire Cult will be at breakfast. They spin on their hooves, hand on the handle of the door.
"Did you not think to ask for my blessing first before marrying my brother?"
Their hands tighten around the handle of the door as footsteps drop onto the wood behind them. They force a smile onto their face as they turn around, meeting the narrowed eyes of Narinder. Fluffy black fur and crimson eyes, draped in black robes that reek of death with sleeves long enough to cover the scars left behind by chains, and a red heart sewn above his own. His tail thumps against the floorboards and The Lamb knows that they're in trouble.
"Narinder," They speak in an even-toned voice, "I apologize, I meant to come talk to you before the sermon but I was unable to find you," they say, a lie.
"Do not give me excuses, Lamb, you are marrying my brother and you are doing so without my consent?" He hisses out, taking a step forward.
The Lamb stands their ground, holding eye contact and gazing into the sea of crimson. They cannot help but wonder if he is mad at them because they are marrying his brother, or because they are marrying one of his former captures.
"I did not mean to marry him," they say slowly, carefully.
"One does not accidentally marry someone, explain yourself to me," Narinder demands, tail thrashing growing wilder.
They rock back and forth on their hooves, feeling Narinder's eyes on them but unable to stop. How do they explain to him that they've been torturing his younger brother with kindness without telling him that they've been torturing his younger brother with kindness.
"I've been exchanging gifts with Leshy for awhile, in an attempt to win his favor," they begin, being met with a look of skepticism, "Last night, however, I gave him a ring and joked about proposing, which he took seriously."
Narinder is silent for an uncomfortable few seconds, his face unchanging. Nerves prick at the back of their neck as they stare at the stained glass behind his head, their shifting unrelenting. The exit is behind them, they remind themself. Like Leshy, Narinder is hardly a threat. He's been in the Cult long enough that they trust him not to thrust a knife into their back, that he's free to leave and come as he wishes, that he has a job and a life here. He wouldn't throw his progress away just to make an attempt at their head.
And yet the hints of fear remain. Stewing deep in their gut the moment they come face to face with their ex-God. He was their everything once, whom they centered their life around. Every action— every step they took was in his honor. Everything to free him. And yet.
"So, without the consent of any of his older siblings, you courted him and then proposed to him." He recounts, tone firmly neutral. They nod slowly, forcing themself to still as they ready themself to be berated. And then Narinder laughs, a low sound that makes its way past a hand pressed to his mouth, his shoulders shake with compressed chuckles as he speaks. "That is by far the most foolish action you have ever done."
They nod slowly—dejectedly—before speaking up, looking too Narinder with the smallest glimmer of hope, "I must say I agree with you, I never did ask for your blessing—as you said." They fold their hands across their chest, easing a smile onto their face. He'd spoken of blessings quite vehemently, though they're not something The Lamb is familiar with, they can infer how important the consent of older family members are in marriage. "As his older brother, if you wish to object to our union, I suppose I have no room for argument."
Narinder's tail flicks upward in a rare sign of happiness, "That either of you would even begin to entertain the idea of getting married to one another baffles me." Narinder responds, his tail returning to thrashing as his ears flatten against his head. "I hope this marriage serves as a punishment to both of you, I give you my full blessing to marry my brother."
Narinder makes a line for the door and The Lamb rushes to get out of his way. The door slams shut behind him, casting The Lamb in the red-tinted light of the stained glass window. They press a hand against their chest, feeling for nothing, finding nothing. They stand in a stunned silence before letting out a small laugh. Of course he'd do this to them.
In the days to come, The Lamb rushes around as they prepare for the wedding. Nearly everything is up to them, gathering and planning, decorating and most of the cooking. They allow their Flock to pitch in on some of the minor details, consult their disciples on certain matters they aren't sure about.
They had spent their first night of preparations at Leshy's door, questioning him about their future union. He'd huffed at them from beyond the door, growled when they'd mentioned Narinder and shoo'd them away. It was bad luck for them to converse before the wedding, he'd said. They'd left with little fight, kicking dirt at the door.
Their three days blur together as the wedding date rolls around with an uncomfortable swiftness. Dawn that morning and the temple decorations have just been finished, the last string of camellias pinned up across the rafters. The Lamb looks up at their handiwork; strings of camellias and crystals from Anchordeep that chimed together in the wind. It's pretty. Not something Leshy can see but something he can smell and hear.
It's perfect. And The Lamb is miserable.
The day passes and preparations outside of the Temple are continued, the feast and bonfire readied. Dawn rolls around, the sun slipping below the horizon and painting the sky shades of orange and red. Cultists begin to gather at the Temple as Leshy would be taking his place at the alter inside.
The wedding looms above them as they stand before the Temple, the two large doors closed for their entrance. They press a hand against their chest, the absence of a beating heart still chilling after all these years. They'll be walking down the aisle alone, no parents or family left to hold their arm and pass them along to their future husband.
Husband. They bite their tongue as they think of the word. It's a bit humorous, really, Narinder had been right to laugh in their face when they'd told him.
The Lamb plants their hands against the wood, the cold seeping in through their palms. Their flock must be getting antsy by now. They were meant to walk down the aisle awhile ago. Time to stop stalling.
They smooth their face into a smile as they push open the doors. The chattering stops as eyes turn to them and they take their steps down the red woolen carpet. Their eyes snap to Leshy as they walk towards him, taking him in.
Their groom has cleaned up, somewhat. His antlers stand at full attention and his leaves seem brighter. Distantly, they wonder how he maintains himself, if he has to get sunlight and water himself like any other body of plant matter. Their eyes trail down to the outfit they'd given him to wear. Black robes embroidered with the symbol of the red eye. It's similar to the typical groom-wear of the cult, perhaps a bit more fancy for the occasion.
They've also dressed up. Their own golden fleece swapped out for a longer fleece of white wool, embroidered with gold and red threads. Both commissioned by Berith for a hefty price considering the short time.
They reach Leshy far sooner then they would've liked, climbing up the stairs of the alter to stand in front of him. They study his unreadable face before gazing out across their Flock. They take in the excitement and anticipation, the confusion and worry.
Their eyes find the front two rows, reserved for family. Empty, for the most part. On the left sits The Lamb's three disciples. Not exactly family, but at the very least the emptiness feels a little less mocking. On Leshy's side sits Narinder, scythe strewn across his lap and foot propped up onto the wooden seat.
They don't quite bother to hide their look of surprise as they lock eyes, shocked he'd come. He's elusive, not the type to come to large gatherings unless it's a funeral. He'd been turned into a cryptic myth the moment he'd stepped foot into the Cult, choosing to run into the woods and find himself somewhere to hunker down. He'd only come out during the late hours of the night to make an attempt on their life or for food. He settled though, found his place in the Cult as their undertaker and calmed as much as a former God could.
Eventually, they remember that they are also the priest for their wedding and clear their throat, "Siblings joined under Death, we gather here today under the eye of the Red Crown to celebrate the union of myself and Leshy." They scan the crowd as they speak, peeling their eyes away from Narinder's amused smile to look at Leshy. "Leshy, do you take me to be your spouse under the will of Death?"
"I, Leshy, take you-" He seems to hesitate for a brief moment, to stutter, "-The Lamb, to be my spouse for now until the end of time." Leshy's vows and simple, short, and sweet. They wonder if they were the traditional vows for his cult.
"I, The Lamb, take you, Leshy, to be my husband under the will of Death, I promise to be by your side through wind and rain and sickness, may only Death do us part.” A bit longer, the vows they're used to hearing others repeat. Without turning their head they call. "The rings?"
One of their disciples stand up in the front row, their chosen ring bearer. When they look to their left they see Fetygre looking back with a creased brow. The orange fox had been their first follower, first death, first dissenter, and first disciple. He had died many times over the years, from sickness, old age, at their own hands. Having been brought back with a new scar to show for it each time.
They offer him a smile as they look to the cushion he holds out and the rings sitting atop it. The rings are nearly identical, a black band and red gems. Leshy's has more gems, five whilst there's has one. They've never cared much for jewelry.
The exchange of the rings goes surprisingly well. It's not the first time they've held Leshy's hand gently in there's and slid a ring onto it after all. His hand twitches in there's as they slide it in front of the engagement ring. They look nice together, red and green. They drop his hand as he begins to do the same, taking the ring from it's pillow and sliding it over their ring finger. He's not especially gentle but not harsh either, something in-between.
Fetygre sits down as they finish and Leshy drops they're hand. With the ring giving finish, comes The Lamb's most dreaded part of the ceremony. Their eyes trail over to the alter, the ceremonial knife they'd laid out prior. It's a very pretty thing that'd been gifted to them quite awhile ago. The blade curves with a sharp edge and the handle is made out of wood, carved with flowers and eyes. It's made both to be pretty and for use.
"You're not going to take this opportunity to stab me, are you?" They ask in a whisper as they pick the knife up from the alter, showing it off to the flock.
His head tilts in confusion, "Excuse me?"
"The- oh" They spin the knife so it's facing down, leaning in closer to him. Right, they remember, In their haste to prepare for the wedding they'd forgotten fill Leshy in on their personal tradition, "We have a tradition in the Cult, first you'll take this knife and cut the palm of my right hand open, and than I'll cut the palm of your left hand open. After we'll press our palms together to mix our blood."
He stills for a moment and lets out a low chuckle, "Grotesque, was this your idea or did my dear brother implement this?"
"My addition," They inform him as they gently grab his hand and press the handle into his palm.
He tenses at their touch, covering the movement up with a snort. Before they can pull away, Leshy grabs their hand, gently running his claws along their palm. They force themself to relax and Leshy uses the knife to search the end and beginning of their hand, finally finding it and beginning a cut. He's far from kind with the blade, digging in deep and running it across their palm slowly, drawing out their pain. They steel their face, bite their tongue. They have felt far worse pain then this, they remind themself. Their fleece is stained with crimson when he's done, the stains slowly spreading.
They take the red-stained knife from him, taking his hand in theirs yet again. The blade presses against their wound as they inspect his palm, settling the knife and digging in past his leaves and into his flesh. He tenses slightly, hardly noticeable to the Cult. Their own cut is quick yet deep and it leaves them wondering if it will scar, they wonder again if their own will.
They place the knife back on the alter, taking Leshy's hand in theirs, interlocking their fingers as their blood mixes together and drips onto the carpet below. Red blends into red, Ichor and blood intermingling. They wonder if their ichor truly enters Leshy's bloodstream, if he can feel their Godhood in the remnants of his.
Still holding hands and keeping their eyes on Leshy, "By the power vested in me by the One Who- I mean the Red Crown-” Narinder coughs in his seat, the glint of a bone weapon in the corner of their eye. They keep their eyes firmly on Leshy as his shoulders threaten to shake, willing him not to, "-I now pronounce us as one. We can kiss now but-"
A shock of pain is sent down their arm as Leshy squeezes their hands tighter and wraps his other hand around their waist. He pulls them into himself, so they're flush against him with no room for escape. And then he kisses them, or something to that effect. He doesn't have a mouth, so he smashes his bandages against their muzzle in the closest thing they both can get. They taste iron, feel blood drip down from where he must've re-opened an old wound from smashing them together.
The Temple explodes in awkward applause as The Lamb wraps their free hand around his neck, not sure what else to do with themself. This is an odd first kiss, they figure. Certainly not how they thought their first would go. Not that they thought they would ever have a first. It could be worse, it could also be better. They'd prefer their partner to have a proper mouth first of all.
The kiss is over as quick as it had began. Leshy pulls his face away so The Lamb can see bandages stained with fresh blood. They take the hand around his neck away, reaching up to his bandages and softly touching. They both flinch back as the cheering finally dies out around them.
They look out across the crowd, studying the excitement, the genuine happiness of those in attending. And then they scan the front row. Their own disciples are various mixes of displeasure and careful neutrality, clearly itching to leave. They shoot them all a smile, a show of gratitude before they look to Narinder. His displeasure is even greater, ears flat and tail bristled. Aimed at Leshy, themself, or the both of them, they aren't sure.
They hold eye-contact with him as they dismiss their Flock to head out to the bonfire and feast outside. Narinder is the last to leave, hauling his scythe over his shoulder and pulling his hood over his head.
The Temple empties until it's only The Lamb and Leshy. The floral scent of camellias floats through the air, the chimes of the crystals a song. Leshy is still holding them, interlocked fingers and hand on their waist.
"You're still holding me," they mention after a moment of standing in silence.
"Is it so weird to hold my spouse?" He responds, though he lets them go all the same, taking a step back.
They eye him, "Why did you agree to marry me?" They ask, the words coming out before they can stop themself.
"How was I meant to say no to my wondrous leader?" His voice is a sickly kind of sweet. Sarcasm.
“Chaos doesn’t care about things such as the hierarchy of the Cult,” they respond with a slight laugh.
"It is bold of you to think you know chaos," Leshy closes the distance between them yet again, cupping their cheek with his claws. It's nearly romantic, "Chaos is unpredictable, my love, not even I can predict it's path,"
They are silent as he caresses their cheek, the silence deafening, "Leshy-"
Abruptly, Leshy cuts them off, "You mentioned a feast, did you not?" he asks, pulling away from their face and grabbing their hand, his injured one in theirs, their blood mixing once more, "Let us go eat,"
They don't attempt to speak again, letting Leshy- letting their husband tug them along.