Work Text:
In Darkwood, they collapse.
Their breathing is slow and rationed. Their chest is heavy, like their heart is deadened or—even worse—a ticking metal apparatus, thumping its long, drawn out last, right beneath their fingertips.
They've seen plenty, they think, so they beg for it to stop.
The Red Crown is splayed across their lap, unblinking.
The Lamb doesn't know what's worse.
They don't know what they want. They don't know what they see. They don't know what they do.
They are alone in a clearing in Darkwood, the wind rustling something peaceful through the tall, vast trees, and their hands are covered in the blood of their enemies. Oh, make it stop.
There is nothing for them. This cannot happen.
There is no scar across their neck, but there was a blade there.
A day ago.
Maybe less.
The Red Crown is staring at them, and it is the only grounding presence they've had in their life.
They are used to being sure-footed, quick-witted, not to be underestimated.
They are not used to power. Genuine, tantalizing tasting power.
They have never, not once in their life, prayed to the One Who Waits.
They think it might be different if they had.
More believable, maybe.
They feel taught and wrung out.
Life is a precious, limited thing.
If they are given this, they are not worthy of it.
It's dark, midnight in the place where the eyes of the dead watch always and their followers breathe softly. Firelights of past devotion flit by and when they catch the dredges of it in the palms of their hand, it is warm and cold and electric. Like they are being bit by something they are not worthy of.
They are almost used to this now, but they should not be.
They feel like vomiting.
They have given everything to hold onto life, but now that they have it, it feels strange. They are off-kilter, unappreciative. It should have been a different lamb.
It's hard to believe that they are the last. Were the last. Before they died and the last died with them.
Now, they are… an epitaph. An epitaph without end, so long it's begun to be carved into the dirt. Something that should have stopped but yet was denied closure. Purposeful limbo.
Mindless wraith. They cannot think anymore. Their mind runs too quick.
Who could come to terms with this?
Someone far smarter, that's who.
They rest in the lukewarm water of a blood-laced lake and they feel nothing about it. The blood of their enemies does not cleanse them. It does not make them suddenly pure of heart.
They are covered in water and iron and sodden everywhere, sitting silent on a smooth boulder stuck firmly in the earth beneath them, beneath the surface of the water, beneath their heart and soul and crown and clever, slow-churning mind.
They have nothing. They have everything.
It's surreal. It's almost hard to care about.
It is, actually. It is difficult. Many things in their life are.
They're used to things being hard. They did not think death would be one of them, when it seems such a simple occurrence.
Eventually, everything must stop.
They did, and then they didn't, but their body—or maybe their mind—hasn't caught up.
They're used to being clever.
This isn't clever.
They make ripples in the water and they watch them gradually as they expand and warp and change. Trees sprout from a nutrient-rich seed and when they are cut down, they stop living. They don't grow again if their trunk is just reattached.
Their head was reattached.
They remember the metal.
They remember its taste.
It was iron.
They suppose his this a natural conclusion.
Maybe they are a perennial plant. Maybe they've just never known.
The squirrel has no wishes for the 'morrow, but the 'morrow does, indeed, arrive.
In their spare time, they weave fabrics, spin string. Their hands are deft. They know what to do. They learn quick.
Their work is endless and long but rewarding. The moons rises and falls as the sun does. They chase each other. They do not question each other. They live perpetually and they do not question just why, or how, or to what end.
This is meant to be a gift. It's meant to be a miracle.
A lot of things are intended to be many things. But they can cope with this.
They can.
They will.
They blink tears away from their vision as they tell themself this.
The day is bright.
They are warmed from the outside in.
It feels like it's happening all over again as they burn. Like they are terrified of dying but unable to stop it.
Except, they are fighting. They are fighting and they burn with it. Their blood is scalding to themself.
And it will not happen again. It cannot happen again. They will not die, they do not want to, they do not care what they are fed about immortality; it is terrible and they fear it.
Their nerves are vines and they refuse to be cut down.
They do not know how they fight.
They know that they do.
They know that they win.
Perhaps they could have been a simple creature living their whole life in a single, peaceful home. Perhaps they could have had parents. Maybe they could have taught a sibling how to cook. Maybe they could have been taught how to cook themself.
A deer, or a butterfly, or a rabbit, or a dragon.
Their life has been long, and it is longer still.
A lion, a fox, a wolf, A coyote.
They look at their loyal followers and they ache with envy. What kind of god does this?
They've never wanted to die, they've only ever wanted to live differently.
This life is a pain to them but they cannot shake its grip in them, its teeth and its claws are deep in their flesh and it is far more trouble than it is worth to dig the knife into the wound.
Kill the dam, save the flood.
What is worthy of savior? What is above purpose?
They imagine themself as a small child and they see nothing. They cannot think it into existence.
A snail, a tiger, a cat, a dog.
They imagine the life of a traveler, a merchant, a farmer, a rancher, a seamstress, a cowboy.
They are Shepard, now.
They can learn.