Chapter Text
The afterlife is strange. It’s worried faces huddled in a building lit only by candles. A black cat stares down at them, concern written on a pretty face. There is something familiar about the scene, being stared down by piercing red eyes behind a thin veil. Staring in to those eyes, the Lamb feels they can nearly read the cats thoughts.
This is not my lamb.
No one in the building speaks, breathing that is not their own fills in the silence. The desire to speak claws at their throat, and yet it feels wrong to disrupt the precious moment.
The cat is the first one to move. One of three eyes stays on the Lamb as he steps down towards them. They crane their head up to see him, their eyes trailing up from white robes to a crown resting between his ears. His ears flick as their staring becomes prolonged, and they bring their gaze back down to his eyes.
“Lamb,” The cat’s voice is firm, the single word holding so much power behind it. There is meaning in it, meaning that they do not understand.
“Cat?” The Lamb responds in a voice that cracks, their throat is dry from weeping, “Where- is this the afterlife?” They swallow nervously, eyes flicking to the confused and worried faces of their fellow dead.
Disappointment settles in their gut as they realize the absence of any Lambs. They’d hoped to see their family once more after death, to embrace their parents and meet those they should’ve had a chance to.
“The afterlife?” The cat repeats, teeth clenched and brows furrowed as his mask seems to fall, “No, do not joke with me, Lamb,”
They fidget uncomfortably, the familiarity once again bothering them, “I’m not- I’m sorry?” why they’re apologizing, even they aren’t sure. But there is something about the cats tone, the subtle hints of desperation that they can barely pick out, that makes them want to apologize.
The cat’s face crinkles behind his veil, “Who are you,” the cat demands, glowering down at them.
They shrink under his gaze, looking around to the others in the building for help only to be met with looks of uncertainty and fear, “I’m- huh,” they do not seem to remember their name. The word plays on the tip of their tongue and dances on the edge of their mind. But when they reach for it, the word and the memories associated seem to slip through their fingers. They find themself less alarmed then they should, “I am a Lamb,” They mumble the only thing they can think to say.
The cat nearly flinches, offended or scared, the Lamb isn’t sure, “Out, all of you out!” The cat yells, waving a bony hand at everyone in the building.
The people heed his command, tripping over themselves to flee from the building and out of two large doors behind them. The Lamb does not move from the warm wood beneath them, sensing that they are to stay seated.
When the building finally empties, the cat turns away from them. He walks briskly to a lectern, atop it a thick leather-bound book sits. They flinch as he slams it open, not daring to utter a word as he flips through the pages rapidly. Perhaps they should’ve left with the crowd, even if the cat would’ve hunted them down anyway.
Silently, they watch as the cat pauses at a page to read. He hunches over the book, mouthing words they can’t make out. Apparently not finding anything helpful, the cat throws the book from the lectern with an enraged growl.
The Lamb sucks in a breath and cringes. The book looks old, ancient. He could’ve ruined it by throwing it like that. They look from the book to the cat, finding that he’s now hunched over the lectern, heaving with his hands in his head. The sight both unsettles and saddens them.
“Pardon me, are you alright?” They ask on a whim, their mouth goes dry the moment they earn the cats eyes on them again.
The cat doesn’t answer as he pushes himself up and off of the lectern and trudges over to them. The two lock eyes as he holds his hands out, and their both amazed and horrified when the crowns slides from his head and forms a crooked black scythe in his hands. The weapon has a singular red eye just as the crown did, nearly as piercing as the cats.
“I’ll fix you,” The cat’s voice is desperate as he steps just too close to them, “I’ll fix you,” He repeats, raising the scythe above his head.
“Wha-”
Red fills the Lamb’s vision when they wake up, a pretty crimson color that takes up most of their vision. They’ve always liked red. There’s not enough red and too much purple in Silk Cradle. They tilt their head as the red turns to black and red again, intrigued. For a moment their foggy mind is content to stay staring into the pretty red forever.
“Lamb,” the red says, voice firm and hopeful.
“Huh?” They answer back, squinting into the red.
The red backs away, and they almost chase it until they realize exactly who the red belongs to. The cat stares down at them, red eyes wide and white robes drenched in blood. His scythe lay forgotten on the ground, soaking in a pool of crimson.
The Lamb makes a choking sound as their hands reach for their throat. Tears begin to prick at their eyes and they push their hooves against the warm, wet ground in an attempt to make distance between themself and the cat.
The Lamb can not breath. Their chest feels impossibly tight and their mind cloudy with both fear and pain. This isn’t the afterlife. This isn’t the afterlife and their not dead because dead people shouldn’t feel pain or bleed or feel like their choking. This isn’t the afterlife, but they died. They’ve died twice and they’ve come back twice as well.
The cat’s face falls at their reaction and he takes a step forward, “Why are you-” The cat says, frustrated as his fist clenches.
Desperately, the Lamb shakes their head. They try to speak, but fear coils to tightly around their throat. They need to leave, this cat is no better then the bishops. Their hooves and hands slide against the bloody floor as they attempt to stand, their jittery limbs and the slippery floor working against them.
“Lamb,” The cat says, picking up his scythe from the ground, “Calm yourself, or you will make this harder for the both of us,”
The next time the Lamb awakes, their mind is less cloudy. They press a hand to their throat again, no wound remains. The cat stands over them, scythe ready despite him barely having assessed them yet. The floor is warmed with their blood and their fingers feel sticky and numb.
“Wait- wait- please!” They choke out, coughing up something that dribbles down their chin.
The cat hesitates, lowering his scythe to his side, “Have you returned to me?” He asks them, knowing the answer no better then they know the meaning of the question.
“What do you want from me?” They rasp out, trying to subtly back up against the wood. There is a door behind them, if they can make it out of the door, then they can-
The Lamb’s first ever death was done by a rusty axe that had never seen a sharpener a day in its life. The axe had taken two swings to go all the way through their neck, and it had hurt. They’d been alive just long enough to feel blood climb up their throat and spill from their mouth.
The cat was kinder with his murder. The scythe was sharp and the cat’s cut was clean, getting the job done in a single swipe. There was pain for only a moment. Perhaps they wouldn’t have minded being murdered by him so much if it was only once. In fact, they think they would have liked it if he were their executioner.
“Are you with them?” The Lamb asks the cat before he can kill them. Tears stream down their face like a water fall, mixing in with the blood splatters on the floor.
The cat looks at them with a strange indifference meant to mask something else, “With whom, Lamb?”
“The old faith? The bishops?”
His eyes narrow in distaste, “Do not utter such blasphemes Lamb,” The cat is not angry, perhaps he once was but now his voice only holds frustration and annoyance.
They don’t apologize, shutting their eyes tightly and bracing themself as the scythe is swung again.
The cat has his back turned the next time they awaken. He’s picking up the book off of the floor, his weapon is not brandished, and he is distracted. The Lamb can feel their hands shaking, already wet with blood as they watch the cat pick the book up. They stop breathing, finding that the urge and need to is no longer there.
With trembling legs, they slowly stand up as the cat begins to flip through the pages of the book once more, dirtying the pages with his bloodied hands. They feel like a fawn with how their legs shake, so they take slow steps backwards to avoid falling.
A gasp leaves their throat as they step on an uneven wooden floorboard and they fall to the floor. The cat’s head turns and he lets the book fall from his hands. His eyes are wide with confusion and the crown begins slithering down his shoulder almost instantly. The Lamb scrambles against the wet floor, and launches themself up with a cry. Their hand barely grasps the handle of the door.
“Interesting,” The cat says, staring down at them with a calculating gaze.
The Lamb shivers, eyeing the weapon in his hand, “What?” They mumble, their voice small. They’d though the cat would be angry with them this time, but if anything, he seems to be interested.
The cat kneels down in the blood, getting on their level. He lets his weapon fall to his side, laying it in the pool of blood. The Lamb freezes and screws their eyes shut, bracing themself for the feeling of death they’ve nearly grown used to.
“Lamb,” The cat says, so close they can nearly feel his breath on their face, “Look into my eyes,”
Not wanting to make their next death more painful for themself, they slowly open their tear-filled eyes. They stare into the sea of blood that makes up his eyes that narrow at the contact. His eyes seem to be full of equal amounts of desperation and hope, and the Lamb isn’t quite sure what to make of it.
This is still not my Lamb. His eyes seem to say.
A cold feeling washes over them and they force their eyes down to the blood-stained floor, though they feel no better when they do. Their eyes trail over the bottom of his robe, once white now stained with red that’s slowly climbing its way up, mingling with other blood splatters. Following the pool of blood, the Lamb focuses on his weapon, seeming to lock eyes with its eye. It’s just laying there, right by his fingertips. Could they-
“Lamb,” The cat says, causing their eyes snap up to his face, “What is the last thing you remember?”
“You killing me,”
“Before waking up here,” The cat snaps with a roll of his three eyes.
The Lamb swallows down the taste of blood, eyes fluttering down to the weapon again, “The bishops,” They say in a breathy voice.
“Again then,” There is a hint of disappointment in the cat’s voice as his hand reaches down for his weapon.
The Lamb feels fear course through their veins and un-beating heart, chilling their blood. They do not want to die again, they can’t wake up surrounded in red once more. Without thinking, the Lamb reaches for the weapon as well.
The cat grabs the handle as the Lamb grabs just below the blade. They take in a sharp intake of breath as they feel a thrum of power course through them, almost making them loosen their grip. Their hand presses against the blade as they try to pull it from the cat’s grip, causing pinpricks of blood to form from a developing cut. The cat’s ears flatten in annoyance as he attempts to pull it back his way. He lets out a warning hiss when they don’t release it, glaring into the very essence of their soul.
“Lamb, release my crown,” The cat hisses, giving them a chance before he forces them to.
There’s a remark sitting on the tip of their tongue. It’s not technically a crown right now, it’s a scythe. They wish to say, but they doubt their mouth would be able to form words at a time like this. As they see the cat tense to tug, the Lamb plants another hand on it. They bite their tongue, another surge of power thrumming through their body and making them want to scream. They pull at the same time, the cat is ever-so-slightly stronger and the Lamb slides forward in their blood. Gritting their teeth together, the Lamb raises one of their hooves. They deliver a hearty kick into the cat’s abdomen.
“You!-” The cat heaves out, letting go of the crown turned scythe as he clutches at his abdomen.
The Lamb pulls the weapon away from him, holding it over their head in both surprise and triumph. The cat aims a glare up at them and they scramble away from him. He lunges for their foot, but they’re quicker than him. They roll to the side, hitting a wall and bracing themself upon it to stand. On their feet, they hold the weapon close to their chest and adjust their hold, mimicking the cats. The playing field has switched, they realize with a start, they could kill him now if they so desired.
The cat stands as well, his fur clumped together with blood and face frozen with rage, “Drop the weapon Lamb, you know not what you are doing,”
Trembling, the Lamb shakes their head. They can’t. They turn towards the door and run, nearly slipping in the puddle of their own blood. The cat calls for them, but they ignore him as they fling the door open and dip outside. Vaguely they catch sight of someone by the door, but they don’t wait to see who it is. They keep the scythe tightly clutched between their hands, as if scared it may come to life and kill them itself.
Their head is dizzy with power as their hooves thump against grass. They can feel their chest heaving, desperately taking in oxygen they don’t require. Their eyes take in buildings, a statue of a Lamb, and people around them pointing and gasping but not helping them even though they must be drenched with blood and tears. They don’t need to look to see that the cat is making chase, they can hear his shouts, his demands that they come back. They have no idea where they’re going or where they even are for that matter. All they know is that they have to leave and keep the scythe away from the cat and any of his cohorts.
They stumble over their feet when they reach a set of stone stairs. The blood on their hooves is slippery and leaves a trail of red as they pass over a glowing red circle and follow triplet arrows painted into the grass. They exit out into a clearing of doors, and promptly stop in their tracks.
There is a being floating in front of a blinding white light that the Lamb assumes must have been a doorway at some point. For lack of a better term, the figure looks godly. They’re dressed in a cream colored cloak, with the bottom of it opening to reveal a contained galaxy. Their head seems to be a black moon with two floating eyeballs, all neatly encased in a ring.
The godly figure fixes their eyes on them. But at the same time, they seem to be looking through the Lamb. The figure looks disappointed as well. Perhaps not in the Lamb, but at the Lamb.
Fast-approaching footsteps break them out of their stupor. In the clearing there are four more doors. Purple, blue, and orange. Only one of them is opened, seeming to lead into an empty black void. Good enough for them. They race forward, meeting the beings now curious gaze.
“Lamb! Don’t!” They hear the cat’s voice behind them, but they only spare him a single glance. It’s long enough to notice the two that accompany him now. Two younger looking black cats, one dressed in white, one dressed in black with a scar.
They close their eyes as they run through the door, but swiftly open them as they feel themself go weightless. They try to gasp as they open their eyes to black, but no air enters into their lungs. They attempt to move their hands, to move their legs, anything, but they find their body completely numb. They can’t tell if they’re moving or gripping the scythe anymore. And for a terrifying moment, they fear that they’ve died for a final time. They fear that this is their hell, their eternal punishment crafted by the One Who Waits himself.
And then they feel stone.
They fall so hard that it makes them splutter and cough, and they’ve never been so happy to be injured before. They’re alive, they made it to the other side of the door. Tears spring to their eyes as they hug the stone, rubbing their injured cheek against it.
No. They may be alive but they’re not safe yet. If they went through a door they can still be followed. If not for them, then the cat would follow for his crown. And clearly, the cat had been a leader of some sort, the two younger ones his guards or perhaps next in line. The cat had people at his disposal, maybe a whole village or cult full. The Lamb needed to run and maybe dispose of the crown somewhere along the way. And If they were lucky, they could find their way back to Silk Cradle and go back to avoiding Shamura because their life depended on it.
They push themself up on shaking, non-bloody limbs. And then they pause again. Their hands are clean, and they’re no longer dressed in rags. They sit on their knees and a confused sound passes through their lips as they notice the sound of a bell in the air. They find that they’ve somehow found themself wearing a blood-colored fleece and a black color with a golden bell. With a finger, they jingle the bell and cringe at how loud the sound is.
They stand up, inspecting more of their body. They feel better as well. Their limbs aren’t shaking and their mind is less cloudy. Their wool is pristine, not matted with leaves and sticks and blood anymore. Absentmindedly, their eyes search around the stoned floor for the scythe, and they begin to panic when they don’t see it. Until they feel a weight hop up and down on their head, nestled between their horns. The Lamb reaches up and grasps the crown that’d at some point sought a home on their head.
They pluck it from their wool, staring into its crimson eye. It pierces through their soul, just as if the cat’s. And then it blinks at them. With a scream they drop it, but it turns into a snake-like form and slithers onto their head. They swiftly grab it again, holding it at an arm’s length.
“Are you sentient?” They ask it quietly, finding their throat no longer feels dry and raw. Having no mouth, the crown doesn’t answer them, blinking again, “Blink once for no, twice for yes,” It blinks twice and they drop it. Unsurprisingly, it slithers back onto their head again.
The crown is sentient. They’ll process that later, after they’ve processed their clothing suddenly changing, coming back to life, dying over and over again for seemingly no reason, and their entire family being slaughtered all in one day. If the crown is sentient, then it must be really special. The cat is going to really want it back. They need to hurry and leave.
They briefly take in their surroundings as they walk towards the assumed exit. They look to be in a small stone temple of sorts, decorated with bushes and faces etched into the stone pillars. They wouldn’t be surprised if this belonged to the murderous cat. They briskly walk through the exit, bell jingling in their ear.
They exit into a forest with long grass and towering trees. It’s dark, even darker than silk cradle, the tall trees blocking out the sky. They pause in surveying their surroundings, noticing the stalks of red camellia in their peripheral. They’d seen the pictures of the flower in books before, but never in person. Camellia, a flower native only to Darkwood and known for its healing properties. Their chest tightens with fear, any relief gone. The Lamb is in Leshy’s territory. They’re back in the lands their execution took place.