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mad-salesman · 10 days ago

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Enduring of Gods in Shadow

Ch. 2.

"Unbelievable." -Faust Ch. 2

Ao3 Link Here <<Previous Ch. Next Ch. >>

Faust rolled their shoulders and pressed a hand to their neck, fingers kneading at the stubborn ache that refused to fade. No matter how many times they stretched or tried to pop their neck, the discomfort remained. A phantom reminder of their beheading.

The shink of the headsman's blade meeting their neck still rang in their ears in quiet moments.

Before them, a fire crackled. Once, it was a luxury they could not afford. Fire meant cultists. Cultists meant capture. Capture meant death. In the end, Faust was captured anyway. Not because of a fire, but their own exhaustion and physical limits.

Now, they could indulge in the warmth and the light.

The reason for it sat contentedly in their hand. A dagger stained in blood. Except, it was not always a dagger. It pulsed with the same quiet energy that had been thrumming beneath Faust's skin since the moment they awoke on the chopping block.

Their gaze lingered on the gleaming edge of the dagger before drifting to its hilt where a deep crimson eye stared back at them with something ancient and knowing. It was more than just a weapon. It shifted, changed, became what Faust needed. Its true form seemed to be that of a crown. One not unlike those worn by the Bishops of the Old Faith.

Faust did not know what is was, not truly, but its presence alone suggested what they were to do. The Bishops had stolen everything from their people and now the spirits of the fallen had granted them this power in return. A gift. A purpose. A demand for justice written in blood. And Faust would give it to them. They named the crown Red.

A faint crunch of leaves broke through the stillness of the night. Footsteps too deliberate to belong to any mere animal. Faust did not move, did not startle. They only exhaled slowly as the firelight flickered across the trees, hand clenching on their dagger. The underbrush rustled and then a cry rose up as a cultist burst through the treeline, handaxe raised in preparation for sinking it into the lamb's skull.

In the same breath, Faust threw the dagger. It left their hand as a blur slicing through the air. There was a sickening squelch and the cultist's yell was cut off. A gurgling wheeze escaped its lips as the blade buried itself deep into its eye socket. A brief moment of stillness and then it crumpled, lifeless to the dirt.

Faust's lip curled in disgust as they stared down at the body, a hard hatred sharpening their gaze. The corpse was little more than a stain, the blood pooling around the head as if its vileness were leaking into the dirt. They turned away and called the dagger back. It shifted seamlessly into the form of a crown, coming to a stop floating just above their head.

"There's filth in the campsite now, Red." Faust muttered in irritation as they began kicking dirt onto the fire, smothering it with a hiss as embers sputtered and died. "Let's find somewhere better."

They moved silently through the darkened woods with sure steps, despite the lack of light. They marveled at how easily they could see now, their vision taking in the world around them like the shadows were nothing. It was one of many changes, though this was one of the more helpful and allowed them to move at any time of the day or night.

There were other changes though, some more useful than others. Their teeth had grown sharper, feeling foreign in their mouth. Their cloven fingers had lengthened into claws that Faust scraped lightly against bark as they walked. They had not yet felt the need to eat or sleep, only a faint urge to stop and rest every once in a while. As they scratched idly at the baldness of their head, where wool should have been, they wondered if this new power would also affect its growth or if- because they had died sheared- they would be stuck like this for good.

They hoped it would grow back.

Maybe their horns would finally grow longer, too?

Faust continued through the forest, not bothering to keep their steps quiet. Every snap of branch or rustle of leaves served as noise to draw more cultists across their path. Let them come. Let them meet the same fate as every other one who had crossed them. Anger stayed bubbled up in their chest, unyielding and unforgiving. This life, this second chance at existence, has given Faust the opportunity to avenge their people. They were the last to remain- a revenant forged from the ashes of their fallen kin. A bitter thought, yet that fueled them.

As the sun began to rise, the world around Faust brightened. The edges of the trees and underbrush became illuminated in the soft morning light. The lamb enjoyed the warmth on their skin and paused, eyes closed and facing the sky, basking for just a moment. When they opened their eyes, they noticed something strange.

Their shadow was facing the wrong direction.

They blinked.

That was strange.

It was unusually dark, especially in the light of the morning, and more defined. The lamb looked behind themself and— yep— there was a shadow behind them as well. Was this a part of their power or was this something else?

Slowly, Faust raised a hand, watching the unnatural shadow. It mirrored their movement like a normal shadow. Alright....

When nothing else strange happened with their new shadow, Faust decided to press on with their day, shaking off the odd feeling. They had no idea what was going on, and there wasn’t much they could do about it for now. But as the hours passed and their journey continued, they could not ignore the subtle strangeness creeping in.

Sometimes, the shadow rippled as if it were made of liquid instead of darkness. Other times, it stayed firmly in place one moment, then the next it would branch out in strange directions, casting itself against the light at impossible angles. It made Faust uneasy.

They stayed silent as they navigated the dense woods, senses alert for any movement. Including that of their shadow. Smoke in the sky caught their eye. A beacon right to the enemy. Faust grinned maliciously and moved to follow it.

Just there, in a clearing, a camp of cultists had set up tents in the old ruins of a village. Their eyes flickered over them, counting their numbers. There were more than Faust had taken down on their own. More than there were when their head was first removed from their shoulders.

Maybe it was time to return the favor?

The lamb called to their crown, its form twisting into a macabre mimicry of a headsman's great axe, and stepped silently into the clearing. The cultists froze for just a moment, surprised by the sudden intruder. Surprised at it being a lamb.

The camp burst into a flurry of movement.

Faust charged forward, axe swinging in heavy, deadly arcs. Enemies fell before them, screams lost in the chaos as the weapon cleaved through flesh and bone. Blood splattered the ground, the tents, the lamb. Ignored in favor of battle. Their ear flicked at the sound of chanting as a mage aimed a fiery shot at their head. What was with the old faith and heads?

With a quick twirl of their axe, Faust used the momentum to dodge the blast, spinning into another cultist and cleaving them in two. They were quick on their feet, dodging and weaving. Each movement was sharp, focused, deadly. Revenge guided each strike. A far cry from the being they once were that could hardly run without being winded.

They reveled in the destruction.

Faust's eyes narrowed as they spotted a cultist trying to edge behind them. They turned to take it out, but before their axe could reach a full swing something strange happened.

The new shadow that clung to the lamb snapped out like a whip, coiling around the enemy, and devouring it whole.

Stunned silence.

The whole clearing was frozen in disbelief, every pair of eyes locked on the spot where the cultist had just been. Faust stared at their shadow.

"Okay, what the fuck?"

Seemingly too unnerved to think, a cultist attempted a throw at the lamb with its own dagger. At the same time, Red shifted into a blunderbuss. Without even glancing away from the shadow, Faust shot the cultist point-blank. The dagger did not even reach them.

The blunderbuss shifted back into a great axe in Faust's grip, their fingers curling around the weapon as they pointed a finger at the shadow. It had not moved from its spot after its meal.

"This is not over," the lamb said sharply, not feeling the least bit foolish that they were talking to a shadow on the ground. "We're going to talk- or something. After."

They returned to the fight with a renewed fury. One by one, the cultists fell with fading screams. Soon, the ground was littered with bodies. Faust could hear a wheezing breath and strode to where one of their enemies was barely clinging on to life. It scrabbled at the ground, as if trying to get away. It was ended swiftly and emotionlessly.

That taken care of, Faust took a breath and turned away to find a nearby spot to sit- a log that managed to stay untouched by blood. They sat heavily, leaning their elbows on their knees before kneading at their neck again. It was sore and tense again. Rubbing at it did little to alleviate the pain and they gave up soon after.

They sighed and glanced at the shadow. It lingered oddly close to the fire in the middle of the campsite, form shifting just beyond where it should be. And to the opposite of where it should fall. It wavered in place, edges flickering in the firelight. Faust felt a mix of confusion stir inside them. This was not normal- nothing about their situation was normal- but this was a special amount of not normal. Shadows just did not behave like this and they had never heard of such a thing happening. Sure, "the shadows are watching" was a saying that they had heard used, but they doubted it was meant like this.

Faust tried to chalk it up to some strange facet of their power earlier, but this seemed… wrong. In the moment it snapped up that cultist, the shadow seemed almost alive. As if it had a mind of its own. Faust certainly was not thinking of anything but slicing into that cultist in the moment they drew their axe back so they knew they did not do anything that could have spurred the shadow into action.

They frowned, brow furrowing.

Could it be connected to the power that brought them back or was it something completely different? Was it something sinister? It had not done much up to this point and it had not been aimed at Faust.

They had no answers, only questions that gnawed curiously at the back of their mind. Questions that were going unanswered and growing at every strange shift of the shadow before them. Faust had to figure out something better to call it than just "the shadow." "What are you?" They asked, voice sharp. There was no response but a ripple across its form. They did not know what they expected. It did not seem as if the thing had a mouth. "Do you understand me?" Nothing.

"Why are you attached to me?" No answer.

"Are you a spirit?" Nada.

This line continued for a few more minutes with Faust growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of answers.

Then they asked a final question, "What did you do with the cultist? Eat it?" The shadow seemed to undulate violently for a moment before it rippled, stretched, and a bloody cultist hood dropped out of it as if spat out. Faust blinked, stunned. Then, they threw their hands up in tired exasperation.

"Nope. Not dealing with that today." They stood and turned on their heel, deciding that whatever this was, they were so not going to deal with it right now. With a flick of their fleece, resettling it so it closed around their body, they began walking away. The shadow still clung to them, following their steps and wavering every once in a while. Faust was not about to waste any more time trying to make sense of it when it was obvious there was no sense to have.

They'd figure it out later... probably.

Flickering as they walked, the shadow seemed to stretch upwards. Then, as if completely unconcerned with Faust's personal boundary, it shrunk closer and sank into the folds of Faust's cloak. A lazy retreat. Faust scowled and yanked one end of their cloak open to stare at the darkness that had taken up residence. "Excuse you? What you think you're doing?" Their fleece barely shifted in response as the shadow only curled deeper in the fabric. The lamb huffed, irritated. "Unbelievable."

Faust pressed onward, determined to shake off the unease crawling up their spine. There were still enemies to find, battles to win, vengeance to take. But the knowledge that something lurked within the confines of their cloak, nestled against them —they could almost feel something cold just barely leaving pressure— like an unwanted passenger… it gnawed at them.

They twitched their shoulders, trying to dislodge the feeling, but it did little to abate it. There was no weight to their cloak and they hardly felt the thing. It should have been no different than wearing a normal cloak. Yet, somehow, it was. After a few more tense minutes of walking, Faust stopped abruptly.

"Alright, that's it." They shook their fleece vigorously. "Out. Out of the cloak. I did not give you permission. This is my space and you are encroaching on it."

Frustration boiled over, a dam breaking under the weight of everything— years of running, of loss, of helplessness, of dying. Could they not just be left alone? Faust ripped off the cloak and shook it out as if they could physically throw the shadow from it. "Get out!" They snapped. Their voice held something dangerously close to desperation. "I did not ask for this! I did not ask for you! And now you will not leave me be!"

Breath hitching, they threw the mantle to the ground. A single tendril of shadow rose off of the cloak as if forlornly trying to look at Faust. It did not budge from from where it sat, clinging stubbornly and pooling like ink within the fabric's folds.

Faust ran a trembling hand over their face, teeth gritted. "Of course."

With a huff, they turned on their heel and stormed off, pointedly leaving the cloak behind. If the shadow wanted to stay in it so badly, then fine. Let it rot there.

Barely a few steps away, the soft shff of fabric against the ground made their ears twitch. Faust glanced back to see the fleece dragging after them, the shadow stretching like tree roots to keep up. They stared, exasperation mounting as the damned thing refused to be left behind. "Oh, come on! Really?" Faust quickened their pace.

The cloak slithered faster.

Faust groaned.

This carried on for several minutes until the sound of dragging fabric slowed. Faust paused at this and turned to look. The shadow was wobbling in place, edges blurring. It started to shrink back, pulling itself tighter into the folds of the fleece as its movements became sluggish. A single dark tendril stretched into the air, unsteadily holding itself in place before giving a slow, almost plaintive wave.

Unbelievable.

Faust's eyes narrowed. "Are you tired after being carried around by me all day? Or however long you've been attached to me?"

They crossed their arms, scowling down at the pitiful display. "You eat one guy, have to move around a bit, and suddenly you need a nap?"

The tendril gave one last flicker before retreating, disappearing into the cloak like it had never been there at all.

That was that then. Faust turned sharply and marched away, resolute in their decision to leave the shadow where it was. It wasn't their problem. They did not ask for it to attach itself to their person. If it wanted to curl up and stay in the cloak, that was on it.

But with each step, an uncomfortable weight settled in Faust's chest. Their pace slowed. Their jaw clenched. The forest felt too quiet without the comfortable sound of the cloak brushing the taller grasses. They looked back.

There was no movement from the discarded cloth.

Faust looked to the sky and let out a long, drawn out groan. They rubbed their hands roughly against their face. "Why do I feel bad for it?"

They huffed and glared at the cloak as if it were the one responsible for every ounce of frustration in their life. It was, at least for today. With an exaggerated sigh, they stomped back to where it lay in a piteous slump. Faust bent and gripped the fabric with more force the necessary.

"Fine. You win." They threw the fleece around their shoulders. "You owe me for this."

They tugged the fabric closer, not bothering to look at the dark spot inside, and tried to smother any lingering resentment. So, now they had a pet shadow. They had a pet shadow that ate cultists. Wonderful.

"You had better not cause me any trouble, got it?" They snapped, fully aware they would receive no answer. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on them.

And so, Faust trudged onwards. The path ahead was still long and winding. The weight of the cloak around their shoulders a constant reminder of the burden they carried. They focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

A soft curl of cold pressure eased around one of their wrists, barely there but now unmistakable. A gentle reminder of the shadow within. Faust's lips twitched in irritation, but they did not stop their walking. Did not acknowledge the sensation. They didn't want to. It would be easier just to ignore it moving forward.

Still, the cool pressure remained like the faintest trace of a tether they could not escape.

Damn...Their neck still hurt.

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mad-salesman · 11 days ago

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Y'all. Y'all ... Read this. Do it now.

Enduring of Gods in Shadow

Ch. 1.

"Well, this is convenient." -Faust Ch.1 Ao3 Link Here

The erosion was gradual, at first. Barely noticeable. A thousand years, then two, slipped by in a haze of anger and betrayal. A constant pulling of chains and pain. Time accumulated and with each passing moment, something slipped farther and farther from him.

His thoughts were once sharp and divine. A torrent of purpose and power. They became muffled with distorted whispers that faded into the echo of a voice that used to command.

Doubt crept in with a shift he could not name. Was he not once something more? The question only lingered for but a spare moment. A last breath leaving a body. Was he leaving his body?

Power faded into a cold void of absence. Memories dulled; no longer sharp, no longer clear. Thought became irrelevant. There was no god left here. He was absence and yet, even this was actively slipping from him. No body to hold. No mind to guide. Was he a shadow left, lingering? Tethered only by the faintest pull of instinct? Time had stripped him of everything.

It was a hollowing. The edges of his thoughts are unravelling. Thread by thread by thread by thread by-

Each moment is slipping away like water through fingers. Wind through leaves. Fire through-

Flesh and power melted into nothingness. A vague impression of something once whole, now fragmented. He couldn't grasp-

There was something-

He hurts.

He has been hurting.

He will hurt.

The name is lost. The title is lost. There is nothing but time. Unending. Unyielding. All that remains is the primal pulse of instinct. The need to cling. To survive.

So he clings.

So he survives.

There is an echo of something that he was, once. He is less than he was. But more than nothing, he was drawn to a warmth, to a presence. He was not alone. Something had changed from the endless, endless, endless endlessendlessendlessendlessendlessendlessendlessenLESSNDLESS

A haze of confusion as the dissonant noise of his thoughts were interrupted by a something. By a newness trying to pass by. Its journey cut off in the Inbetween.

There.

A body. Chained. Cold. Unmoving. Wrong. Very wrong. Bodies were not meant to be like this. When did it arrive?

He could feel it. A pull in the emptiness. It should not be empty. There should be more. There should be something. But it is all gone.

The once-was crawls towards it. Or thinks he does. He could not tell what was him and what was not. His arms? Legs? Tail? Or none of it? The edges of him are blurred and slipping away like smoke across the ground. A shapeless form.

The body. There was a body. There should not be a body let alone a dead one. It should not be dead.

Dirty and shaved of wool. Neck separated cleanly.

The head. A body needed its head. He tries to grasp it by an ear. It slips. Keeps slipping. His fingers-No matter. He must fix it. It has to be fixed. Everything will be fixed if he can just fix this. If he could just grab-

He manages to slide the head closer, some how gripping the cold and lifeless weight. The head rolls. Its face is blank, a blank lamb. A blank slate. He pulls, dragging it nearer but something is off. He churns with faint confusion. Thoughts shatter and reform. The puzzle piece is not in the right order. The ends have to match.

He can feel it. The deep need to connect. To be.

A flicker of clarity.

The head slides into place as he aligns the neck with the body. There. Now he just needs to-

To-

To?

For moments-hours, years- he drifts. The void stretches, deep and vast. A place where time does not matter. A matter of nothingness.

A shift.

A tug.

A reminder.

There was a dead lamb. He needed to fix it. Yes. He needed to fix this to fix...what? To fix what? He needed to fix. How?

There was a hibernating power. Dormant and tucked away. Eye closed like a slumbering beast. Sleeping through the shatter. This is what he needed. This had power. Power he could use.

He called to it. He thinks he did.

He calls.

He call- there. He felt a something. A correct something. Something awakening.

Red and black comes into being nearby, rolling as it dropped to the ground with nothing to catch it. No head to land upon. Eye still closed. He needed to give it to the body. That would fix it.

It takes time-time time time time time time- but he had it. He moved it, nudged it, to the body. A gift for it.

He watches through a haze of his shattered thoughts.

The Red Crown. The moment it touches the lamb's head its eye snaps open. The limp form it touched lifted into the air, chains breaking and clattering to the ground. The hands drop. The head twists, the neck realigning with a sickening, smooth crack.

The body jerks.

Power surges, red and untamed, through the air as the Crown claims its place.

In an instant, the lamb is no longer broken. Fixed.

A gasp, loud and painful sounding, erupts from deep within the lamb. Then coughing, choking. A cloak as red as blood settles over their shoulders and gleaming bell collar forms at their neck, clinking and covering the crude scar left behind. They stumble as their hooves touch the ground, collapsing to their knees as they hunch over, a hand to their neck as they suck in greedy lungfuls of air.

The dead body was now alive. His job done.

He is tired now.

Was.

Will be.

Darkness presses in with a blurring, heavy fog. He slips away, emptiness beckoning again. He manages to stir just a bit, instinct telling him to find somewhere safe. Somewhere to rest.

The cloak around the groaning-alive- lamb. Flared out, but enclosed. Dark. Safe.

He scuttles forward as the lamb is too distracted to notice and wedges himself inside. Shadow blends with shadow. The dark wraps around him. He allows himself to fade and sink into the quiet.

The connection to his purgatory, his jail, is lost.

Between one blink and the next, the Lamb finds themself kneeling, confused, atop the very chopping block where their life was taken. The stone is cold beneath them, still slick with the blood that once spilled freely from their body. The scene is almost unchanged, frozen in time as if no time had passed since that moment of death.

The air is thick, charged with an eerie stillness as their murderers gap in blatant surprise as the lamb they just killed came back to life in a twist and snap.

Power spills from the lamb, raw and unrestrained. Flooding the very air around them. For a moment, everything is still. Then, realization strikes and a sharp grin splits across the lamb's bloodstained muzzle. The Red Crown rises from atop their head and drops, now a sharp and dangerous dagger, into their hand. "Well," the sacrificed lamb says. "This is convenient."

Their words drip with new malice as they drag the back of their hand across their lips, smearing a trail of crimson. In a blur of motion, they a whirlwind of violence, the sharp edge of the Red Crown slicing through the air and into the helmsman’s neck. The force of the strike is swift and unforgiving.

The lamb left the clearing that evening, blood covered and hungry for revenge. Unaware of what has truly happened. Oblivious to the passenger settled comfortably within their cloak.

And so, they walked into the night, a pawn of fate, unaware that the true cost of their resurrection had already begun. Next Ch. >>

Have a Faust fresh off the chopping block! I really wanted to make a creature-coded Narinder fic and throw him into baser instincts. This is another branch off of the Choiceless AU with Faust. A "What if Narinder had never been given Aym and Baal"?

#cotl fanfic #fanfic #ao3fic

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