Chapter Text
It’s over. Kallamar drags himself to a sitting position, heavy movements hindered by the dark, slimy puddles surrounding him. The only evidence of the killing blow is a residual ache at his collarbone, stretching all the way down to his stomach. He traces his fingers over the area as the feeling dissipates. Kallamar has never felt so small.
The Lamb starts scanning the shivering, tangled mass of limbs in front of them, making mental notes of the wounds that need to be taken care of. They tentatively approach, so distracted by their checklist and the conversation they’ve planned out that they miss when Kallamar’s hand dips down into the ink pooled underneath him.
With a sharp, calculated flick of his wrist, The Lamb is blinded. They bleat in surprise, grabbing part of their cloak to wipe it away. Kallamar scrambles to stand, and his fingers catch on something sharp on the way up. It’s so marred by time and gore that he isn't sure what it used to be. Glass, crystal, weapon? It doesn't matter. He holds onto it so tightly that it hurts him, cutting into his palm and the long webbing between his fingers. The Lamb is saying something in between their pained hisses, but Kallamar can’t be bothered to listen to anything over the panicked thoughts jumbling through his head and the rush of adrenaline in his veins. With the speed and strength of a cornered animal, he jabs the fragment into The Lamb’s thigh. They gasp and double over. Kallamar tries to pull the shard back out, not to stab again but to keep some means of defense, but the edge slides through the gash in his hand and he deems it a lost cause. The Lamb blindly scrabbles to grip his wrist, but Kallamar twists himself out of their grasp. He shoves them aside and bolts out of the temple.
Outside is dark. The columns lining the path are crumbling, the crystal lanterns that adorned them long shattered. The ground is littered with shallow, long-stagnant puddles of dirty water and ichor and who knows what else. The air is dry, unnaturally so, a testament to how dilapidated and hellish his haven had become. How much time had passed for his main temple to have decayed this badly? Everything else he'd built up, had that all rotted away too? Was there anything, anywhere, left for him? One minute in and Kallamar can’t run anymore. He desperately wants to, he’d run until his heart burst if it meant getting out of this, but he just can’t. He had forgotten just how pathetic his mortal body was. He had forgotten just how much he hated it. Exhausted and desperate, he curls up behind a pillar, hoping against hope that The Lamb will just leave. They've stepped out of the temple by now, and again they’re yelling out something to him, but the exacts are drowned out by the rasping of his own gills. Kallamar realizes now just how dry his temple was, how dehydrated he is. Each breath feels like sandpaper scraping through his insides, he’s barely getting enough air to think straight, and if he doesn’t manage to quiet his breathing right now The Lamb will find him. Instinct and desperation take full control as his hand darts toward the nearest puddle, scooping up liquid that feels far too heavy and drips down his fingers far too slow. The moment the liquid makes contact with his gills, Kallamar starts spasming, his body expelling the mud and ichor cocktail with harsh, grating exhales. He’s made it so much worse, he’s so much louder now and he knows The Lamb can hear him. He can see the bright crimson light of the red crown creeping across the ground, stretching closer and closer. He’s going to die again, he’s going to die and he isn’t even sure if it’ll be The Lamb that kills him or the sludge still dripping from his gills. His vision swims. The red light of death, his past and future murderer, looms from above.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While the initial battle with Kallamar was quite frustrating, Lamb had endured it with the assumption that the rest of the process would be simple. The stab wound in their leg and the ink (they have to keep reminding themselves that ink is not squid pee, but it still feels so gross) still burning their eyes argued otherwise. Lamb had neither the energy nor the will to get angry, though, seeing how the squid in front of them wasn’t doing any better. Bathed in the red light of the crown, Kallamar was an absolute mess. He was curled back against the pillar, shuddering through forceful, painful sounding exhales through his gills. Tears streaked down his face as he stared wide-eyed up at Lamb. Ichor was starting to bead at his torn ears, and the slice in his palm smeared black wherever he touched.
Since everything had gone so awry, Lamb had pretty much forgotten their entire speech. They awkwardly shifted where they stood, trying to think of what to say. Kallamar found his voice far faster.
“I’msorryI’msosorry!” He sputtered the words out between pained breaths and sobs. “Please just let me go! You’ll never have to see me again I swear it just- please I -”
“Hey, hey, calm down!” Lamb interjected before Kallamar could break down any further, kneeling down next to him. “Our battle is over. I didn’t follow you out here to hurt you.”
“I’msorrypleaseleavemealone” He begged, flinching as Lamb tried to inspect his wounds. They pulled his wrist out towards them, and the squid’s lack of resistance indicated pain had finally overtaken his adrenaline. Kallamar slumped back, still heaving, his jittering gaze frantically following every movement Lamb made. He was far more frail than Lamb had expected. His wrist was thin, unnaturally light in their hold. Leshy and Heket certainly hadn’t felt this fragile.
“Kallamar. I am not going to leave you here.” The slice in Kallamar's palm was deep. Ichor steadily bubbled up from the wound, the blood and tar mixture dribbling onto Lamb’s palms as well. They bunched up one of the last few clean parts of their cloak and ripped it free, pressing the fabric against the gash. (They'd definitely have to throw this cloak away once they got home. Damn.) “I want to help.”
Kallamar’s coughing had finally calmed down, as did his shuddering. But while his body may have slowed its trembling, his voice had not.
“Why?” He forced out. His eyes were trained on the holy garb they had chosen to ruin with his blood. It had been ruined already, yes, but the sentiment of staining it further for him was not lost. “You hate me, I know you do! Why bother with this?” Kallamar stopped there. ‘What are you planning to do with me?’ was left unsaid, not for lack of breath, but because he simply could not bring himself to ask.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get an answer either way. Lamb wasn’t really in the mood for a conversation on their motives right now, what with the fresh stab wound in their thigh and the ink staining their face (they’re still arguing with themselves about the level of grossness). As such, they ignored the question, tying off the makeshift bandage and standing straight again.
“I’m taking you back to the cult with me, okay?” Red symbols appeared on the ground beneath the two, spinning slowly. Lamb saw panic start to bleed into Kallamar’s expression again. “Leshy and Heket are there as well.”, they quickly added, hoping their words would come across as reassuring and not like a hostage threat. The pair sunk down into the portal.
Lamb decided to forgo the indoctrination stone this time, instead aiming for the fountain near the med tent. Kallamar dropped down first, landing flat on his back and quickly submerging in the shallow water. The impact would have knocked the wind out of him if he had had any, but in his current state it served to help jolt the last bits of sludge out of his gills. He laid there, exhausted but relieved, wisps of ichor drifting off of his wounds. Lamb dropped down next. They tried to land upright, but their wounded leg crumpled beneath them and sent them tumbling down face-first. They lifted their head out of the (quickly graying) water, sputtering and upset. Add ‘being soggy’ to the list of current problems. The red crown hovered above, obviously disappointed at the undignified display of its bearer. Lamb looked up at it, equally frustrated, before pausing and dipping back down again. “Undignified” be damned, it was nice to finally be able to wipe the ink off their face.
“I see the crusade was successful.”
Lamb was hoping no one would be awake at this hour. They cringed, whipping their head to the source of the voice (and flinging a sizable amount of water along with it, due to how drenched their wool was).
An olive yellow hare leaned over the edge of the fountain, unbothered by the grayed droplets flicking against him. Lantern light glinted against the metal scraps strung together over his arms. His face was slightly shadowed, but Lamb would have recognized him with just silhouette alone. One of their earliest and most trusted followers. The hare had never shared his name, so he was always just referred to as his role, ‘Bodyguard’. Although Lamb seldom needed him for that anymore, so as of now he was just the general peacekeeper for the cult.
“Ahah, mostly successful, yes.” They replied, immediately relaxing. Bodyguard wasn't the type to judge.
“My apologies for being late, Lamb.” The stump of his right ear twitched. “I was prepared for you to arrive through the indoctrination stone.”
Lamb gave a small, tired laugh, one that sounded one more mishap away from being completely insincere. “I was prepared to arrive there too, but I decided to take a last minute detour.” They wrung out some of the wool on their head. “Though, I thought we agreed that you wouldn't stay up all night waiting for me anymore. How long have you been awake?”
“I wanted to be here to assist you. This was far from a normal crusade, after all.” The hare dodged the question with the grace of a toddler avoiding their bedtime. “Do you need anything? A towel? Bandages?” Bodyguard’s gaze shifted past the Lamb, onto Kallamar. The squid had sat himself up against the statue in the middle of the fountain, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. The hare narrowed his right back. “Backup?”
“No, no.” Lamb waved him off. “We will be heading to the med bay anyways. You can go back to bed.”
Bodyguard gave a curt nod and turned to leave. There was no hesitation in his movements, but Lamb knew him well enough to tell that he was disappointed. They made sure to call after him.
“I appreciate you! We can go on the next crusade together, alright? Leader’s promise!”
Lamb turned their attention back to Kallamar, the squid still flush against the stone centerpiece, perturbed with how this was all playing out. Lamb held out their hand, intent on helping him up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everything felt far too casual, normal, wrong. Kallamar’s unease grew with every second that ticked by. This wasn't right. This had to be some sort of trick. Or maybe a new facet of purgatory? Was purgatory capable of adapting like that? Could it dip into his memories and fears to create new hells tailored specifically to him? His body gradually became as feverish as his thoughts, his head pounding in tandem with his heartbeat. He let The Lamb guide him out of the fountain and into the medical tent, too dizzy and nauseous to do anything but follow. The tent was spacious, empty of patients and full of impromptu weapons. Kallamar didn’t bother to grab any of them. He curled up on the cot he was led to and tried not to vomit, awaiting whatever new suffering purgatory had cooked up for him.
Time ticked by, tauntingly uneventful.
The Lamb tentatively moved into Kallamar's field of view, having shed their ruined cloak, their newly bandaged thigh at eye level for him.
“I understand you may not be feeling very good right now.” They said. “I tried to give you a bit of time, but your hand will need stitches and I don't think we should stall for much longer.”
Kallamar didn't look up.
“I would let you do it yourself if I could, but I know- from experience!- that stitches are difficult to do by oneself. Especially if you only have one hand to work with.” They pulled a stool up next to him and plopped down onto it.
No response.
“Unless you would be able to do it with one of your tentacles? Most cephalopods I’ve met aren’t able to do delicate work like that, but if anyone could do it, it would be you, wouldn’t it? If -” The Lamb cut themselves short when Kallamar jerked his hand out in front of them, a silent resignation to let them help and a silent demand for them to stop rambling. The fake small talk (and the underlying mockery thereof) was making his head pound even worse.
“Thaaank you.” The Lamb drew out the word a bit as they reached over to a tray of supplies. “You know, I don't think I’ve ever seen a squid with webbed hands like yours.” They idly chatted as they worked, and the tone they used with him felt so wrong. Far too gentle. Far too casual. Similar to the way they had spoken to that follower at the fountain, though rightfully missing the familiarity. Centuries of godhood (and centuries of sacrificing spies) had taught Kallamar how to spot the ingenuine, and yet The Lamb had given no signs that this was an act. Which, of course, meant that the ‘act’ was the world around him. A taunting reprieve from his suffering, before the universe pitches him right back into hell. And reprieve or not, Kallamar couldn’t deal with the anticipation anymore.
Calling it out would hasten the process, surely.
“Stop this.”
The Lamb looked up from their task, confused. Kallamar met their gaze, steeled even as his pulse grew loud in his head once again.
“Ah,” The Lamb gripped his shivering hand a bit tighter. “My apologies if I hit something sensitive. It will only be a minute more, then I can get you so-”
“Enough! I can see through- I can- I know what this is!” Kallamar was stuttering, cracking, growing louder with every word until he was on the cusp of screaming. He ripped his hand away from The Lamb’s grasp, only shaken further by how easily they let go. “Nothing- none of this is real! Whatever twist- whatever you are planning to do, get on with it!”
The Lamb was silent, expression twisting with what had to be faux concern. Kallamar could already imagine, how their mouth would turn upwards and outwards into a smile too wide for their face, how everything around them would melt away into a sludge of shiny black until it was just him again, just him being burned and sliced and broken apart. Over and Over and Over. Forever, as promised.
But nothing was happening. Nothing was happening and he was shaking now because something has to happen and it surely must be even worse than his imagination.
The room refused to melt. The Lamb didn’t smile. So Kallamar reached for the tray.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lamb sat, frozen in the wake of Kallamar’s outburst. He thought this was still purgatory? Lamb had faced a slew of difficulties over the last century, from followers and former bishops alike, but this was certainly uncharted territory. How do you deal with someone who is convinced that nothing is real?
You stop them from stabbing you again came the Red Crown’s quip, its crimson tinted view shoving to the front of their thoughts. With a high pitched squawk, Lamb hastily turned and swept the tray off its stand, the sharp tools clattering across the room and far out of Kallamar’s reach. The squid’s hand dropped down and drew back in as he curled up. He looked like he was on the verge of vomiting, pale, sweating, feverish, and Lamb wondered whether it was pure paranoia, or if there was something else at play. Perhaps the mud stuck in Kallamar’s gills earlier was having an effect? Or, judging by his frailty, maybe Kallamar had started out sick?
“You killed me. I killed you.” Kallamar panted. ”You wouldn’t just… help. After all of this. What are you planning?”
“Look at yourself.” Lamb replied, their bluntness juxtaposed with their softened tone. As exasperated as they were, hostility would not help this situation. “You’ve had enough.”
“Why do you care if I’ve had enough?”
Clearly Kallamar would not cooperate without an explanation. Lamb grimaced, pausing for a few seconds as they mulled over the right words to use.
“... Hating someone is exhausting.” They began, hesitant. “Every day, remembering the same horrible events, and feeling hurt and angry over and over again. No advantage to it, no gain. It doesn't even work to drive me forward anymore. It only serves to make me miserable. I’m going to live for a while yet, and I don’t want to spend my time feeling like that anymore. So I am doing this… to try and think of you differently. So I could find reasons to not have to hate you. I could find some way to like you, or some way to not have to think of you at all. Because I’m tired.”
No matter how many times or how many ways Lamb explained it, they could never make it sound confident. It felt like such a pathetic reason, unfitting given the scope of everything that had happened. Given the God that they were now. The Red Crown would always chime in, That is for Gods to judge, and you are God. A stilted attempt at reassurance that rang hollow. Surely there had to be a better motive, something grander, or more righteous, or anything that would sound more substantial than ‘I’m tired’. But Lamb could not think of one. This was what they felt, the extent of their reasoning, and they could not change that.
“Because you’re tired.” Kallamar echoed, eyes narrowed as the panic slowly bled out from his body. He uncurled and sat up, still tense, but seemingly snapped out of his episode by Lamb’s admission. “You're willing to keep me around just for that.”
“Your siblings were skeptical too.” Lamb sighed. “You all act as if being miserable is the most respectable option. As if I'm weak for feeling this way.”
Kallamar nervously inspected the loose stitching on his palm, fiddling with the suture needle left embedded there. A retort was evident in his eyes, though he didn't speak it aloud. He was unwilling to argue against the leniency he had been given. Smart.
Unfortunately, Lamb could sense the judgement either way. They lashed out with a barb of their own, a thought that had been rattling through their mind for a while.
“Look at yourself, what you've done, where you've ended up. I would be a fool to follow your ideals.”
Kallamar's expression soured at that. Lamb let him mull over their words in silence as they picked up the supplies littering the ground behind them. Everything would need to be cleaned again, but at least the one tool they still needed was saved from the floor.
Lamb turned back, finally (rightfully) letting their exasperation show. “With that out of the way, would you kindly let me finish-” Kallamar deftly tied off the last suture, trimming off the extra thread with the sharp end of the suture hook. It seems Lamb had been wrong. He could do it one-handed. And without scissors. “Ah. Okay.”
Kallamar set aside the hook and moved to redress the remains of his ears. “There are more stitch patterns than just simple loops, you know.” He glanced knowingly at Lamb’s bandaged thigh.
“I know that.” Lamb pouted, dumping everything into a bin to be cleaned later. “I’m just not good at the other patterns.”
“You're hardly good at this one.” Kallamar mumbled. “You should practice more.”
The topic change and semi-civil banter gave Lamb enough reason to slip back into the friendliness they had shown before. They sat themselves down on the edge of the cot next to Kallamar, pointedly ignoring the way he flinched.
“Is that an insult or an offer?”
Kallamar replied with a noncommittal grunt that Lamb took to mean ‘both’.
“Glad to hear it.” They giggled. “Would you like me to show you to your shelter?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As drained as he was, Kallamar took the offer. The Lamb assured him that they would not be walking far. He was thankful it was still dark outside. Had it been daytime, his arrival surely would have garnered an audience, and he knew he looked far from presentable. Small mercies.
The Lamb kept pace at his side as they led him through the cult grounds. Flowered lanterns illuminated the edges of the path, and past them Kallamar could see silhouettes of shelters and other common structures.
“Pretty big, right? Are you impressed?” The Lamb piped up, leaning themselves forward into his field of view. Kallamar readied a reply, because really, this place paled in comparison to his old cult grounds, but he stopped himself when The Lamb stumbled in their gait, nearly toppling over. They quickly righted themselves and continued, albeit with a slight limp and an embarrassed tint to their face.
Kallamar, in his infinite grace, decided to spare them further embarrassment and respond instead with a simple acknowledgement.
“It's… expansive, yes.”
True to what The Lamb had said, it only took a few minutes of walking to reach the shelter designated to him. It was a fair bit away from most of the others, at the outskirts of the camp. Stone walls separated it from the untamed brush of the surrounding forest. There was a small natural pond situated nearby.
“I figured you'd want to be near your siblings for the time being.” The Lamb said, gesturing to a large, vaguely house-shaped mound of foliage clumped further down along the wall. Another shelter sat next to it, unremarkable save for a picnic table and shattered windows. Kallamar stared out at them, somewhere between fond relief and crippling anxiety.
“I could wake them up and tell them you're here, if you'd like?” The Lamb offered, as if seeing his siblings again would be the simplest thing in the world. As if he could ever be ready to meet them at his new, permanent lowest.
“No.” Kallamar sharply declined, ducking through the half-open door. “Not yet, I mean.” The Lamb nodded and followed him in.
The furnishings were… basic, but, for once, Kallamar had no will to criticize. He beelined to the bed and sat down, the familiar bland scenery already sinking him down into another negative spiral. He moved to clutch at the fabric of his robes, but the anxious habit was shut down immediately as his hand met nothing but scraps. Looking down at himself, the tattered remains of his outfit were more hole than robe. Oh.
… Had he been nearly unclothed this whole time?
The Lamb was quick to butt in, somehow more embarrassed than he was. “Ah, my apologies!” They rooted through the Crown’s inventory to hand him a small folded stack of cloth. “Clothes would have been my first step, but it became a low priority compared to the stab wounds.”
Kallamar ignored the perceived barb of that comment and sifted through what he had been given. Still eager to fill the awkward silence, The Lamb jumped into an obviously-rehearsed spiel of the cult rules, the sermon and meal schedules, the behavior that they expected of him, yada yada yada. Kallamar half-listened multitasked as they spoke, stepping outside briefly to dip the cloth wraps in the pond. He wrapped them loosely around his gills and sighed. He had forgotten what it was like to be able to breathe easily.
The Lamb cheerfully finished their explanation. They were no doubt aware that Kallamar had tuned them out, but they didn't seem to care.
“So. Do you have any questions?”
Kallamar stared blankly at them.
“Have you considered handing out pamphlets instead?”
The Lamb gave a short laugh, wilting just a bit. “Funny. I don't have any pamphlets, but I do have a book.” Said book materialized into their hands, before being tossed a short distance onto the desk behind them. The impact rattled some of the other objects on the desk, and the shrill clinking of glass drew Kallamar’s attention over to a small ink jar with a pen rolling around the upper rim. The Lamb must have noticed the direction of his gaze, and hastily reached over to move the jar away from the edge of the desk.
“...Is that a calligraphy set?”
“Ah, yes! I was hoping to make this transition a little easier for you, so I asked around for what kind of things you may like.” The Lamb smiled sheepishly. “The few suggestions I got were a bit… outlandish, but I felt this one was reasonable enough.”
They really were committed to this, weren't they? To keeping him around?
Kallamar looked to The Lamb, to their bandaged thigh, to the bed beneath him, to the present stitches on his palm and the memory of wounds that no longer existed.
This was the mercy he had begged for since the day The Lamb entered his domain, and every day afterwards. The mercy he had begged for long before The Blue Crown had even found him. Whether he agreed with it or not, this was the mercy he was provided. He would take it. He had to. Fate wouldn't give him another chance.
“Kallamar? You look close to vomiting, are you alright?”
There were a few seconds of silence before Kallamar mustered enough will to spit out the words.
“I… would like to apologize for the difficulty I gave you earlier. Lamb.” It wasn't a proper thanks, or even half of what he wanted to convey, but it would have to do.
And The Lamb, seemingly ever gracious, brightened once again.
“It’s quite alright. You weren't in your right mind. This was far from the worst indoctrination I've had.” They glanced out the window. “Back when Leshy first arrived, he kept summoning forest traps to crush me. You can still see one of the imprints, back by the indoctrination stone. And Heket wasn't any better. It's amazing how many everyday objects can be effective weapons.” They turned back around to face him. “Compared to those two? You’ve been a delight.”
Kallamar let himself laugh at that, light and warbling.
It was less than ideal, but living like this would be bearable, surely. It was likely the best he would get.
“I’ll let you rest now. I trust you can get situated on your own.” The Lamb opened the door to leave. “I will come by sometime tomorrow to take back the book I lent you.” The book they knew damn well he wasn't planning to read? Kallamar reached to snuff out the lantern on the bedside table, darkness hiding his smirk and the roll of his eyes.
“I hope you feel better by then.” And yet that simple, meaningless pleasantry was enough to yank Kallamar back down to reality. Back down to the realization that his time was limited. He couldn't feel better. And no matter how civil he was, he wouldn't be tolerated forever.
The darkness also hid the way Kallamar tensed, the way he grimaced when he bit out an affirmative “Yes. Of course.”
And if The Lamb had noticed anything as they walked off, the moonlight wasn't bright enough to show it.