Little Lamb 

Cordero was used to sitting still. 

She had spent many a day sitting motionless by Shudh and Malik’s side, listening as the faithful of their court presented offerings and requested blessings. Sometimes Malik would comment that she and the pristine quartz statue of her that sat in the temple were identical. 

Her heart panged at the thought of Malik. She already missed the Father greatly. But this was an unwelcome, impure feeling, as she was doing this for him, for their god of Purity, for all that is right and good in the world. Perhaps the god of Suffering was already corrupting her heart the same way that Shudh was being corrupted. She should not have such selfish desires. Could she even repent here, where the dark temple walls were thick and the perpetually risen moon was blood colored? 

She had expected to be killed as soon as she laid eyes on the god of Suffering–talons as long as her body, dark skin lined with scales that shifted in the light. Her Shudh resembled that of a dove, perfect white feathers glittering pearlescent in the sunlight. The god of Suffering was a giant serpent from the waist down, his tail dragging behind him as he slithered about the temple around them. Jewels the color of night adorned him–no doubt other offerings–and made faint, pleasant sounds.

It was…surprisingly comfortable here, actually, now that she thought about it. The cushion of ruby red fabric she sat on was soft, and the darkness around them was one of peace, not of lack. 

He turned his eyes on her. It took everything in her not to flinch or withdraw. But she did not. She was a good lamb, and her last moments had been better than she imagined they would be. 

“...What did you say your name was again?” His voice was low and rasping, and carried a slight hiss. 

“It is not important,” Cordero said. She closed her eyes when he turned to face her completely, red braids sliding over his shoulders like blood. Would that be what her blood looked like when spilled upon this floor? Was that why the cushion that held her like the display of a priceless artifact was red as well? So her blood would be easier to clean off? Or perhaps it had been stained red by previous sacrifices, and would not be cleaned at all. She would simply stain it a darker shade. 

The god of Suffering hissed at her response. Cordero did flinch at that. 

“Obsidiussss,” He hissed, and the sound of his tail against the stone floor retreated after him, “My name.”

She blinked at that. No one had told her that the god of Suffering had a name.