Good Luck Finding Anything
462 posts
Sometimessekkah - Sekkahs Place - Tumblr Blog
Andriel warm up doodles ✌🏾
This video killed me 🤣🤣🤣💀💀💀
LMAO I absolutely lost it when I realized Dick was standing in the back and had to bust his way through Tim and Jason just to go hit Daniel first, this is THE original unstoppable feral chaos gremlin Robin and nobody should ever forget it.
just your typical day at unite HQ
Sometimes annoying your bratty husband with silly gifts will cause him to bluescreen unintentionally. It's fine, though. Just take advantage of his touch starvation with cuddles to override the issue. Any biting and hissing that follows is totally normal. You may then proceed with your usual goofy antics of sticking tape onto the end of his tail when he's not looking, no doubt leading to the massacre of half your followers. :]
Anyway.
I can't be the only one convinced that Narinder hates having stuff around his wrists after finally being freed. I Can Not.
where’s that quiz where you choose lke 4 colours u like and 4 u dont and it hands your ass on a plate
hey cotl fandom. listen. listen to me about this concept. listen.
--
"And I'm telling you that I was here last fucking week!" Lamb snaps as they slice through another bush, wishing it was Narinder's face. "I fucking grew up here, you lunatic-"
"You are a useless, flea-attracting, sad excuse of a textile," Narinder swears at him, as if the last time he'd been here the river had even existed. "If you want to climb a hill and back down, you can go ahead, but I refuse-"
Lamb opens their mouth to retort heatedly, or maybe start begging Kallamar to take their ears in place of his own, before suddenly catching a glimpse of something gold flashing between the tree bowers.
They crouch down into battle posture in hard-won reflex and Narinder shuts up immediately to twirl around with a flourish of blades, the others following seconds later. Lamb feels a pang of... something, looking at the back of Narinder's head, at how quickly the paranoid bastard turned his back to them at the first inkling of danger, at how there wasn't even a second between Lamb's reaction and the cat's understanding.
Then they shake it off and lead the rest wordlessly into the thicket, sword drawn. Narinder is on his tail as always, warm breath down their neck and sword angled to catch any projectiles that might be thrown at Lamb from hidden foes.
(Narinder spits blood in their face with a snarl, which stuns them so much they stop putting pressure on the wound to stare at him.
"Stop crying like a toddler," The insufferable asshole demands, even as he messily bleeds out from an arrow that an errant archer had aimed at Lamb, tail lashing weakly. "The only being who will be responsible for your permanent death will be me."
Lamb resurrects him before the day is out and slaps him in the face.)
They shake off the memory and creep closer to the clearing, tense, and-
Oh.
"Forneus!" They call happily, straightening up. Thank the One. They push past the brushes to greet her, feeling the tension drain away. "Oh, it's so lovely to see you!"
"And you as well!" She replies, eyes crinkling. "I-" she glances behind them, and for the first time since they've known her, her smile drops. "The- The One Who Waits. My Lord, is that you?"
It's such a sudden punch to the gut that Lamb moves back; they'd forgotten, in all the ruckus, how devotion to Narinder had sounded like, hidden and kept alive for a thousand years; had forgotten the story of Forneus' kits and who she was willing to give them up to.
"Fortune," Narinder says, dipping his head, as regal as ever. It doesn't look stupid or pretentious now, with the wide-eyed smile on Forneus' face, eyes shining. He approaches them, handing his blades to Lamb as he walks past. Lamb is too tense about where this conversation is going to lead to to remember to drop them to the ground. "You are... the mother of Aym and Baal, yes?"
"Yes," She breathes, even as her eyes shine with bittersweet sorrow. "Yes, were they- did you-"
Narinder breaks into such a blazing grin, all three eyes creased with joy, that Lamb's mouth falls open, stomach swooping in kind.
"The mother of my kittens!" He booms, hands spreading wide. "Oh, you finest of creatures, to have given life to such wonders, and had the courage to give them up still."
Forneus sways in stunned shock, even as her eyes fill with tears. "Did they please you so much, my lord?"
Narinder catches her by the shoulders as she tries to bend down to touch his feet and then suddenly softens in a way that Lamb hasn't seen in years. "They were splendid, Fortune. Loyal to the very end, the best devotees I have ever had. And I assure you, I loved them as if they were my own, given everything I could possibly bestow in my prison."
"Oh," She whispers, tears overflowing. Lamb's own do in sympathy, knowing her only prayers have been met.
"And none of that," Narinder says, pulling her clasped hands apart, voice so warm and gentle it does things to Lamb's insides. "I may be a god no longer, but I vowed when they were brought to me, saving me from madness, that I would one day find you to reward your sacrifice, most devoted of creatures, and I will keep that promise."
Forneus laughs wetly. "Oh, what is there to reward, Lord, now I know they were loved? No wealth is greater than love, I always say, and no reward is needed. Only, perhaps- where are they?"
Lamb's eyes widen, scrambling to think of a way to defuse the situation, but- "In my domain," Narinder says smoothly. "I have lost much of my strength, so I could not summon them before now- but you shall have our kittens in your lap in a fortnight, this I promise you."
Forneus squeals and laughs with joy, which- Lamb's very happy for her but, hello? What? He had this planned already?
Narinder glances over to meet their outraged expression with his glare, silently telling them to shut up. Lamb scoffs, crossing their arms, annoyed.
Narinder breaks their staring contest to look back to Forneus, soft smile returning. Lamb has an odd vision of ramming the infuriating cat to the ground and maybe keeping him there until he learns to, they don't know, direct some of that to the person who actually deals with his shit.
"And if the only reward you desire is love," Narinder purrs, voice suddenly deep and charming and hot, eyes going half-lidded as bends down over her, one hand tracing up her arm. "Perhaps I could repay you with... another kind of love, hm?"
Lamb can feel their brain melting out their ears, blushing almost as bad as Forneus. What the fuck. They hadn't- What the fu- Since when was this asshole capable of-
They turn to the others, who are in a similar state of absolutely flabbergasted and variously horrified, staring at Narinder like they've never seen him before. What the fuck.
Forneus giggles, body language slipping effortlessly into something more receptive, tail flicking next to Narinder's in that casual feline seduction Lamb had to embarrass themselves to find out about from that one group in Silk Cradle. "Well now, that's quite the other offer, isn't it?"
"Hello?" Lamb interrupts loudly, voice outraged and cracking. They cannot believe- "He's married?"
They point to the gold on their own finger emphatically. Fine, they haven't won him over enough to be kissed yet, but still! They'd married him, fair and square!
Narinder raises a contemptuous eyebrow. "Weren't you the one to claim it was open?"
Lamb's mouth shuts, jaw working, because they can't deny that, despite wanting to do nothing more than call their husband a harlot and whore, untangle his tail from Forneus', and drag him back to their tent so he could keep all that hidden charm and scorching hot seduction for Lamb, instead.
Narinder moves closer to Forneus, leaning in with a confident smile. They look good together- two black cats able to read each other's language, his sharp angles and her soft curves, tension sparking so hot there's no way anyone else in the clearing has any doubt about where this is leading.
But only Lamb is close enough to hear Narinder whisper in her ear, "Besides, I believe there is something else you desire, more than anything- wouldn't it be nice, for Aym and Baal to have a litter to grow with?"
"WHAT?" Lamb shrieks.
Narinder is already leading a dazed Forneus to her caravan, looking back to them imperiously. "You can continue the Crusade without me. I will find my own way back home."
"Sorry, excuse me, uh, no-" The tent flap has already closed, leaving Lamb seething alone in the middle of the clearing with a furious erection and blushing cheeks and rage so bright they thinks they might set fire to the whole place.
"UGH!" They yell finally, aware of the Bishop's and followers' eyes on them as they spin on their heel and stomp off. Fuck Narinder anyway. Fuck him and his stupid beautiful face and his pretty veil and soothing voice and promising sex life- Lamb will go on without him and have the best Crusade of their fucking life.
...And then maybe go visit the graves of their old spouses. They may have an apology or ten to make.
find me in the future
After so many reincarnations and reunions, Wei Wuxian’s soul is so attuned to Lan Zhan’s soul that all it takes for Wei Wuxian to remember his past lives is making eye contact with Lan Zhan. He never remembers a life before the first one where he met Lan Zhan, which is probably for the best. You have to start somewhere.
Of course, as the centuries fly by and Wei Wuxian collects reincarnations like Pokemon cards (fantastic new invention, he’s finally born in the right century!), it takes longer and longer for him to recalibrate to centuries of memories getting dumped into his previously innocent nine-year-old brain. (Always nine years old. Can’t ever get away).
This is Wei Wuxian’s excuse for why he doesn’t immediately run to Lan Zhan after making eye contact with him on a crowded street. Well, one of many excuses. There’s also the part where he’s a tiny little nine-year-old orphan (again?!) tossed between the bodies of many, many stampeding adults, all attempting to reach for Lan Zhan. He’s above them, of course; Lan Zhan cultivated to immortality so long ago that now he doesn’t walk, he glides, or floats, or flies. The result is the same: the god-like light-bearing lord appearing before his people, who fall over themselves (and Wei Wuxian) in their eagerness to be blessed by his presence.
By the time Wei Wuxian struggles to the front of the crowd, Lan Zhan is long gone.
Okay, so here’s his problem: Wei Wuxian is not immortal. Mo Xuanyu’s body, if it ever possessed the potential to cultivate to immortality (doubtful), had that potential beaten out long before Wei Wuxian came to own it. Unfortunately, back then, he and Lan Zhan, still young and naive (ha, funny what perspective time gives you), truly believed that with enough effort he could succeed where so many had failed.
Instead, Lan Zhan was forced to watch as his beloved withered, wrinkled and finally grew still while he remained as pristinely young adult as ever. To make matters worse, Jiang Cheng also cultivated to immortality, proving that Wei Wuxian’s original golden core had that capability. The ensuing guilt from both of them–Jiang Cheng for having Wei Wuxian’s core, Lan Zhan for encouraging Wei Wuxian to cultivate to immortality with him–and loneliness as the only two immortals of their generation brought the two of them together, which Wei Wuxian still thinks is kind of cute. They’re like frenemies now, who know how to work with each other instinctively and will defend each other to the death (or a death–no, bad Wei Wuxian, not funny) but still hate each other’s guts.
Over the centuries Wei Wuxian has been reborn as just about every type of person. Some lived entire lives without ever even hearing of Lan Zhan. Some never learned to write, much less cultivated a golden core, some were widely beloved, some were scorned, and some found their way back to Lan Zhan.
If Wei Wuxian is being completely honest–and he’d never share this brutal honesty with any of his loved ones–those lives are the worst. Inevitably, Wei Wuxian’s new body lacks the capability to cultivate to immortality, and his loved ones who have are all forced to watch for the thousandth time as Wei Wuxian sputters and stalls until his body inevitably gives out and he dies. Old age, Wei Wuxian has come to learn through vast unwanted experience, is an unlucky way to go. No, better to go out in a blaze of glory, for a cause or for a people. The death is temporary and he will be remembered by people who love him. Making his loved ones watch his slow demise when he knows that he will never reach immortality in this lifetime is nothing short of torture.
Perhaps that’s why it is such a surprise when little nine-year-old Wei Wuxian (Zhang Xinyin, or William Zhang, in this lifetime, he’s Chinese again but he speaks Cantonese now for a total of twelve languages, nice) hunkers down in a quiet little corner of the orphanage and discovers that this body has the highest potential to cultivate to immortality of any body he’s ever had, including his original.
The practice of cultivation fell out of use many, many centuries ago. Wei Wuxian is on his own for this one. The good news is that he’s an expert at forming a golden core at this point, perhaps more than anyone else in the world. So all Wei Wuxian has to do is find a stable way of life for the next decade or so, which supports a child practicing an esoteric art like his life depends on it, and then he can worry about finding his family.
That is, of course, easier said than done.
“Will! Hey, Will!”
Wei Wuxian startles out of meditation (if only Lan Zhan could see him now) when he hears one of his new friends calling his name (well, one of many). He had spread a blue rubber yoga mat out on the green concrete rooftop, hoping to find some peace and quiet wherein he could meditate and nurse that slowly-budding golden core in his chest.
Freckles, or Ruddy, or Rush, or Chen, pokes his little cherub-like face over the roof edge. (Everyone Wei Wuxian’s age–biological age–looks like a little baby child to him, and everyone in the world seems impossibly young. It helps that he likes kids, and they tend to like him).
“What troubles you?” Wei Wuxian calls as he stands up.
So the last time he learned English it was quite different, okay? Sue him. He’s relearning it.
“You’re so weird,” Chen informs him as he picks his way between cracks and loose sand and dust. “Were you meditating again?”
“Yes.” Wei Wuxian pounds a fist to his chest twice. “I will be stronger than anyone. You will see.”
Chen only rolls his eyes. “Okay, Bruce Lee. Anyways. Lynch is asking for you.”
A very nice white lady who is unfortunately named Ms. Lynch came to volunteer at their school to teach. Wei Wuxian likes her, and to his surprise he likes the woman who runs the orphanage too. He’s had a bad run with orphanages in the past but this one is okay. No funding, of course, and understaffed, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t need adult supervision. (Somewhere on a different continent, Jiang Cheng sneezes loudly).
“Yeah? Whatever for?” Wei Wuxian follows Chen down the ladder and misses Chen rolling his eyes again.
“Dunno, go find out.”
Wei Wuxian takes a few shortcuts on his way through the school building. He goes to public school, of course, as do all the kids from the orphanage, but Wei Wuxian is their star. A shining example of what orphans can be if they apply themselves. The kids all think he’s weird, which is fair, because he is, but the (other) adults think that Wei Wuxian is a studious little goody-two shoes. The truth is that Wei Wuxian has learned how to solve problems discreetly and how to cause trouble without getting caught. And that he’s only well-adjusted in the sense that he’s had dozens of childhoods; one more isn’t going to mess him up too terribly.
Ms. Lynch is poking around her computer (absolutely amazing new invention, Wei Wuxian was definitely reborn in the right century) when Wei Wuxian skids to a stop by her desk.
“Hello, Ms. Lynch.” Wei Wuxian beams in a way that he knows she loves. “Chen said you were asking for me?”
Ms. Lynch closes out of a few tabs and turns in her swivel chair (another great new invention), brushing straw brown hair behind thick plastic glasses. “Yes, I heard that you have been trying to learn cultivation all by yourself, can I ask what sparked your interest?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs. “It seemed interesting.” He really wants to become immortal this lifetime in order to save people who he cares about deeply a lot of grief. “It’s fun.”
“I see.” Ms. Lynch clearly isn’t satisfied with this answer, but she nods and smiles all the same. “You know, I wrote about the ancient practices of cultivation for my senior thesis, and it’s quite dangerous to do without supervision. Have you considered joining a class?”
“Uh.” Well, actually, Wei Wuxian could teach that class better than probably anyone else in the world, except maybe for Jiang Yanli, but it’s irrelevant because he certainly doesn’t have the money to afford it. “Noooo?”
“Hm.” Ms. Lynch smiles again, in a gently disapproving kind of way. “Well, I know that they can be expensive and quite a hassle, but I just wanted to make sure that you aren’t taking anything you learn from the internet about it too seriously. A lot of it is misleading and you can really harm yourself.”
Wei Wuxian is fighting for his life on the Wikipedia pages for cultivation. First, because he’d hoped that leaving some kind of coded message there could catch the attention of someone in his family and lead to them finding him. When that didn’t work, Wei Wuxian started combating misinformation (a losing battle) while having the reputation of that Wikipedia editor who put random gibberish in for fun.
“Oh, I’m not,” Wei Wuxian chirps. “It’s all for fun, Ms. Lynch. I promise I’m not doing anything dangerous.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Ms. Lynch says, mostly sincerely. “I don’t mean to discourage you. It’s wonderful to see you taking an interest. Most kids your age have no interest in stuff like that.”
What she means is that cultivation is the ancestral practice and cultural heritage of his people. Because Wei Wuxian was born into the right social group: there are maybe a couple hundred thousand of his people spread across the globe, in little diaspora communities with varying levels of wider acceptance. Wei Wuxian’s family–the ones who have cultivated to immortality–are their leaders. Mysterious, reclusive figures who almost never interact with outsiders yet are beloved within their communities for how steadfastly they’ve protected them over the centuries. A lot of people outside the community think they’re a cult, which is probably fair, all things considered.
It’s funny. Wei Wuxian has never been closer and yet never felt further from his family than this lifetime. A real chance of cultivating to immortality, a place in the only group of people with access to the famed (or rumored) immortals, and his reputation has never been better; his people celebrate his birthday every year (or they celebrate the excuse to party, same difference) and pray for his reincarnation. Yet if he–William Zhang–claimed to be the legendary Wei Wuxian’s reincarnation, no one would believe him. They’d ignore him as a loud-mouthed kid, at best. At worst, well, Wei Wuxian isn’t going to test that. In no situation would they–the community leaders–reach out to the immortals on his word.
Instead, Wei Wuxian slinks back to the bedroom he shares with Chen and two other boys (he doesn’t miss being a girl, but damn could they keep a room clean) and wonders if Sizhui has gotten Lan Zhan an iPhone yet.
Maybe it’s for the best, Wei Wuxian tells himself. Reuniting with his family while in the body of a child will be awkward. Especially with Lan Zhan, who has been attracted to Wei Wuxian in whatever body they reunited in but is obviously not attracted to children. Wei Wuxian is not looking forward to spending years lusting after his own damn husband while Lan Zhan can only see a child. Yes, it’s definitely for the best.
Even if Wei Wuxian is terribly lonely.
So the years pass. Wei Wuxian cultivates a golden core, gobbles up modern slang like he was born for it, learns how to code in Python, and enters high school with an end goal: immortality by age twenty-four. The current record-holder is Wen Qing, who cultivated to immortality at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the lucky bastard. She reincarnated in the 1500s into the perfect set of circumstances: a second-eldest son of a wealthy family who practiced cultivation. Her family patriarch was one of the community elders who semi-regularly communicated with the immortal cultivators. The year when Wen Qing was brought along for the first time, Wen Ning took one look at her and said “jiejie” and that was that.
Obviously, Wei Wuxian has to beat her record.
Some of them choose to forget.
Over the centuries Wei Wuxian and the others have encountered countless reincarnations of people they knew from their original lives. (And important people from future lives too, but those were never quite the same. There’s something about their original lives that always sang like an unfinished symphony, an epic story not yet fully written, even though Wei Wuxian lived a full life). Sometimes the choice is made for them not to help them remember. Such was the case for a reincarnation of Jin Guangyao, found in 556 B.C. by Wen Ning and Sizhui. Sometimes they choose to move on, like the reincarnation of Jiang Fengmian found by Jiang Yanli. They leave him alone nowadays, whenever they find him. His soul is not so attuned to anyone else’s as to have the strike of realization that hit Wei Wuxian on that crowded street.
The worst is when they reunite, live happily, and still choose to say goodbye. Nie Huaisang reincarnated in Italy, dragged Wei Wuxian off to France to learn Impressionist painting, and still chose to reenter the reincarnation cycle. Wei Wuxian, whose body that decade could not even form a golden core, simply could not understand Nie Huaisang’s unwillingness to cultivate to immortality. He still doesn’t.
Humans have orbited the moon. For that alone, it is worth it. He only wishes all humans could feel how far they’ve come.
Even those that chose to become immortal have retreated from the world. So many lifetimes, so many childhoods, so many parents and lovers and children–it’s impossible to care equally forever. The world feels so much larger when you have been an Egyptian farmer during the reign of Cleopatra, to whom the pyramids were ancient history, and one of the slaves who built them, and a Finnish soldier who fought on skis against invading Russians in 1939. In the face of such grandness, how can one tiny community, one family, one person matter?
It’s a blessing and a curse. Wei Wuxian has had good parents and bad parents and everything in between until he finally figured out how it works. He’s grown up in enough families with pet dogs that he’s lost his fear of them. On the other hand, he has had so many friends in so very many forms that he struggles to convince himself they truly matter. They’ll all be dead within the century, anyways.
Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng have the opposite problem. They only have one life, the original, to remember, even as that life’s length stretches far past the boundaries of a normal human lifespan. Their main link to the world, Wei Wuxian knows, is him. Sizhui and Jin Ling drag them out for enrichment exercises, and Jiang Yanli can usually get her way if she sets her mind to it, but it’s still guilt over Wei Wuxian’s second life as Mo Xuanyu that keeps them here.
The 21st century slams in, a rush of technicolor and lightspeed and skyscrapers (and like all centuries, war, disease and death). The tale of the Yiling Patriarch vastly outstrips the size and weight of Yiling. The Burial Mounds are a nice forest now. Hundreds of thousands of people hope for his return. And still Wei Wuxian cannot manage a single immortality-sized golden core.
The opportunity sneaks up on Wei Wuxian. Shamefully, he needs the obvious spelled out before he can see it.
“You going to the cultivation tournament?”
Wei Wuxian was actually studying calculus. Seriously, it’s crazy how much people have proven about math since the last time he–wait, cultivation?
When Wei Wuxian digs his nose out of his textbook, Ian is smirking at him, and Chen is blinking innocently. Ian slouches over the library table so he can push the textbook shut.
“Eh, probably not worth it,” Wei Wuxian dismisses. He’s not learning cultivation so he can dunk on some kids who only learning cultivating without the cultivation.
“You sure?” Chen butts in, now smirking too. “I hear winner gets to meet the immortals.”
Ian grins when Wei Wuxian’s mouth falls open. The kid has no idea what’s going on with “the immortals” or cultivation–he’s pretty sure that Ian thinks he and Chen are deep in a religious cult with weird beliefs but normal holidays–but Ian gleefully abuses the effect it has on Wei Wuxian.
“Sounds made up,” Wei Wuxian says suspiciously.
“No, no, it’s true!” Chen insists. “They hold it every twenty-five years. Or they say they will. They haven’t done this before.”
It’s very hard to get very old immortals to do something new. What changed?
The answer smacks Wei Wuxian in the face as Chen pulls out his phone and shows an official-looking announcement, shared around their community, to Wei Wuxian. It’s the internet. Previously, Wei Wuxian lived entire lives without ever hearing of cultivation. Now, anyone with an internet connection will probably run into the term at least once. Now, Wei Wuxian’s family can reach out, through screens and cables and the casual interest of millions, to him.
They’re doing this for him.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t read Wikipedia articles. Lan Zhan regresses into a fugue state whenever Wei Wuxian’s not around. Maybe Wen Qing had the idea, maybe Sizhui put it together. Because they’re still reaching out, still waiting for Wei Wuxian to come home.
This is his chance.
The temple is musty when Lamb steps in, dust mites suspended in the air. The door closes with a gentle thud and Lamb thanks their past self for having the idea to put a lock on it as they drive the bolt home.
Everyone is asleep, but caution never hurts anyone.
Still, Lamb’s heart beats with something like fear as they approach the altar, with the cracked stained glass beyond colouring the whole place a welcoming red.
Lamb hesitates a final time, before giving in and getting to their knees.
“Thae One who Waits, praise be thy name.”
They haven't done this since Shamura’s ominous warning in Silk Cradle about leading themself to slaughter, betrayal making them numb. They suppose now, after the anger has faded, that it was silly to think power didn't come at a price, that dead things would be allowed to walk the earth forever.
“Binsaar don in mora paelish death.”
Still, the movements and words come easy, having done this for a hundred and fifty years.
“Hear my call, jein abkaar ji keish.”
They know it's stupid. Stupid to get on their knees and worship someone they destroyed themselves. They can feel the prayer hanging in the air, with no deity to travel to. Useless.
“Hein skolaama boera jokha nayin.”
Narinder is still alive, anyways. He's in Lamb's tent right now, bandages on his arms and legs and neck, asleep.
He caught Lamb across the muzzle with his claws today, after they foolishly thought he'd be receptive to having one more devotee help sponge him down after hearing him laugh at something the others said. The scratches sting, and Lamb knows they won't be closing for a long time.
“Dei bristan hilem koi pashun.”
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that all these cowardly idiots got to touch their god, after hiding away for years like rats, only coming out now that Lamb had made it safe so they could. Acolytes of the Old One, they called themselves, coming to the cult to pay their respects to the god walking the same ground as them for the first time in a thousand years.
Lamb would have turned them away on day one if they'd known; but he'd glanced at Narinder when the group had first thrown themselves to his feet with joyful sobs and seen the surprise and the longing in his eyes. Had nearly cried themself at the bittersweet softness in his voice when he gently rebuked the group for coming after a god that had fallen and failed them after a thousand years of their undying loyalty.
“Borig haiel, borig jeilla.”
Lamb was Narinder's highest priest, his most loyal devotee, his strongest acolyte, his vessel. They should be the one replacing his veil and his robes, following him around and helping him recover with prayer and herbs and bandages alike, they should be the one travelling off to distant lands to collect the rare objects he covets in exchange for sacred knowledge, they should be the ones to bathe him at night and massage his scarred, furless limbs and sing him to sleep.
“Borig twena tael omoro pe shaen haiel.”
But they couldn't. They couldn't because The One Who Waits refuses to do so much as meet their eyes, wouldn't touch anything the Lamb had cooked, would lash out with a snarl when he came too close, like today. And all Lamb could do in the face of the crowd looking at them expectantly was laugh it off, dance around the claws and coo nonsense until everyone laughed, pretending like they weren't dying inside at the unbridled hatred in the glare being sent their way.
“Heeshal borek, heeshal nishaan.”
Their voice rises to the rafters, shaking. How shameful it was, for all those former vessels and loyal acolytes to look at them with disbelief and horror and pity, like Lamb was fucking stupid for not breaking their last promise to their sister, for not letting the god they loved kill them.
And yet-
“Hoore baikal shenagu-”
When they looked at Narinder smiling or snarking at everyone except them-
“Laenih westila shamfua-”
When all they got anymore from their god was curses and hatred, despite everything they had done in his name-
“Poen poena haish kam-”
When they once had the full force of their god's attention, cradled in his palm and purred at and loved, and craved it like poppy and menticide now that it was gone; but it was gone because of them and all they'd ever have were memories and echoes of his love-
“Leora beeth, leora ha’iash-”
When all the riches and offerings and power in the world couldn't hold a candle to the dreams of Narinder smiling at them, laughing at their jokes, nuzzling them fondly, standing by their side, leaning in to reward all their years of hard work with his warm breath and soft lips-
“Tvle non-”
Silence.
They stop breathing, prostrated on the floor as they are, hands clasped in front of them. Their head is empty, no matter how much they wrack their mind for the next sentence.
“What the fuck,” Lamb’s voice breaks on the whisper, feeling their hands start to tremble, vision blurring at the sides. “Tvle non- tvle non rere- fuck, how can I forget-”
The crown slips from his skull in his panic and he turns to meet its eye, creased in grief like his own.
“Crown,” They plead desperately. “Crown, what was the prayer?”
The Red Crown remains silent. Lamb grabs it and shakes it, feeling hysteria burn in their veins the longer the words don't come to their tongue, the prayer they had just been saying slipping away like water.
“What was the prayer?” They shriek, pulling at their wool as they screw their eyes shut, trying to remember. Now that they try, every ritual, every hymn and psalm, every last piece the cult had ever dedicated to their god- all of it has disappeared from memory, is disappearing like ribbons of sand through their hooves.
The god you sing to is gone. The Crown whispers, tears of blood falling from its eye. Death is you now.
“No, no, no, no,” Lamb chants, arms wrapped around themselves as they lean forward, tears slipping past his cheeks. “No, no, come back, come back!”
Lamb-
“My god,” Lamb moans, swaying back and forth. This is worse than any elimination, any injuries, any loss. Their chest is going to rip in half with the mourning, the horror. “My god, forgive me, please, please, my god, my lord, please, come back, come back.”
There's no reply. The altar is cold, the glass still, the shadows unmoving. There's no deep voice curling around his ears seductively, no warmth to look forward to after the gore and bloodshed, no sulphur-drenched skeletal hand to curl up in on the worst nights, no bass purrs to soothe him to dreamless sleep. No offerings he can give for gold, no curses he can have whispered in his ears, no one to place his faith in to have his back and make sure everything will be alright.
“COME BACK!” They scream to the temple rafters, wailing and bleating like they never have. In a moment of grief, of anger and fear, they manifest a knife and slice across their chest, spraying heartblood on the foot of the pew, on top of all the sacrificial blood dried in Narinder's name. “COME BACK, MY GOD, PLEASE!”
The Crown flies around them, saying something, distressed, but Lamb can't hear it over the sobs, over the healing of the cut, the sizzling of evaporating blood, the rejected offering, given too late.
“My One,” The Lamb sobs into the temple floor. But their god lies in a hut on the other side of the grounds, weak and dying, because of them. Their god will never forgive them. Their god hates them.
Lamb feels themself sink down, letting the mask drop, the facade they'd worn for eighty years come crashing down. The One who Waits hates them.
“Tvle non rere desennte troma,” They whisper, closing their eyes, tears dripping to the ground. It's all they have left.
Finally finished this, one of the many comic wips I started the last few months (you can kinda see where I got lazy and changed up some stylization in a few panels lmao)
Anyway, a scene I have planned out for The Rehabilitation of Death.
Some extra doodles below:
various doodles n requests for cuddles, pets, pet names o7
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What if Lambert first resurrects the siblings of the One who wait, and then goes to the final battle?….
But he will choose not mercy, but the crown.
It’s funny, even the crown itself no longer wants to look at the new god, but only presses longingly against the stone grave.....
what if Master returns?
But he won't....
addition to this, cannot stop thinking of them
What if Lambert first resurrects the siblings of the One who wait, and then goes to the final battle?….
But he will choose not mercy, but the crown.
It’s funny, even the crown itself no longer wants to look at the new god, but only presses longingly against the stone grave.....
what if Master returns?
But he won't....