#not the same.

The lamb is a good vessel. The best vessel. Fueled by the vengeance burning in their veins, they start their crusades with leaps and bounds towards progress. It stills, somewhere in the middle. They become comfortable in their situation. Summoned to their god at his whims- first to demand, then to plan, and then to chat. The one who waits is everything- their god, their savior. He is even, not so secretly, someone they hold a certain mortal kind of devotion for. Things that make them sigh when they look at camellias and stare at the ceiling at late into the night.

Affection, they think, is returned. Not in the ways of mortals- never that way. But their god lets them stand in his hands and peak under his veil when their curiosity is piqued. He allows them comfort, allows them to rest. There is a gentle nature within him, dead like the rest of the veil but not quite yet completely decayed. The Lamb’s devotion only grows as time is spent lingering in the place between.

The cult grows. It prospers. New buildings, new rituals, disciples crowned and friends old and buried revived. Five becomes four becomes three becomes two-

Becomes one. The last fight. The last slaughter. The last chain broken.

He speaks desperately, demeaningly, to them the second to last time they are to meet. None shall wear the crown but himself. None could wear it as well as he, admirable though they were. They will return to their home, and afterwards will lay down their life at his feet, and all will bask in his glory once more. (Are they afraid? Why are they afraid? It is too late for that)

The Lamb does not want to die. It no longer terrifies them like it once did, but to be the last sheep and lay down their life…? For a god, no less. Yet another sacrifice.

But of course they would. For him. The one who holds all the devotion in their heart. And also because they are tired. They hope they will be given a place to rest. They have faith that death will be kind to them, as he has so often before. A quick death, a restful sleep, a tool put back on the shelf.

They kneel before him, on that foretold day, and relinquish to him what they have borrowed.

Their death is none of the things they hoped for. (The crunch of bones is perhaps the worst part.)

They wake, gasping and shivering. The voices of those they have long since killed buzzing in their ears like flies.

“Before us stands the last of its kind. All others we have hunted down and put to the blade.”