Lambert: Humanist AU

Lambert stood alone in the vast, echoing chamber, blood dripping from their wool and their hands trembling. The body of The One Who Waits, once a towering and omnipotent figure in their world, lay their feet. The throne, shattered. The heavy, divine chains that once bound them now lay forgotten on the cold stone floor.

This was the culmination of everything they had become. No gods. No prophecy. Just them. Just… this.

Now what?

Now, they were no longer beholden to anyone.

A deep breath, and then Lambert stepped forward, crossing the threshold from the cold, blood-soaked stone into the daylight. The sun had just begun to set, the faithful were gathered at the foot of the temple, waiting.

Lambert raised a hand and stepped forward, their voice cutting through the air.

"Brothers. Sisters. Today, we are beyond the old world. The world of The Old Faith, of kings, of chains... of bishops."

A tear dropped from their eye.

"We fought, we bled, we killed for them," Lambert continued. "We tore apart each other, believing that they would grant us power, salvation, or victory. But all we’ve done is wage endless holy wars against each other. All we’ve done is perpetuate the suffering they brought upon us. But no more." Their eyes swept across the crowd, taking in the mixed expressions, some narrowed their eyes, others frowned, many furrowed their brows, it was only a minority that smiled.

"The Old Faith, us, none were any better than each other. All this bloodshed, war, and murder, and why? Because we kneel and bow before different deities? Even the deities themselves... they are dead, and we've killed them! All of us are their murderers! What water is sacred enough to wipe our hands clean off our blood? What fire blazes enough to purge our greatest sins? How many times shall we pray in our empty temples and pretend salvation will come?"

They shook their head vehemently, before their eyes lit up in hope.

"What if I told you there’s another way? A way forward. A way where we, together, can build something that doesn’t rely on bishops who see us as pawns. A society based on mutual respect, cooperation, and the understanding that we are enough as we are, without intervention from The Old Faith or The One Who Waits?!"

*The words hung in the air... Lambert felt a flicker of fear, but they didn’t let it show. This was their truth, and they had to speak it.

"The chains we’ve carried, are ours to break," they said, "but not through divine favor. We break them by standing side by side, as equals."

The reaction was immediate. Like a split river that diverged into two completely separate flows, the crowd’s response was a diaspora. Some of the cultists, mostly younger innocent souls, those who had never fully accepted the old order, those who were tired of being oppressed by powers they never understood, they cheered.

The vision Lambert painted of a world where they could finally rely on themselves, spread like wildfire among them. The younglings, eyes alight with hope, began murmuring in agreement, some even taking tentative steps forward. The idea of a new dawn, a 'New World,' burned bright in their hearts. They could almost see it, a society of equality, cooperation, no more blood sacrifices, no more fanaticism.

But there was a dark undertone beneath their words, a seething undercurrent that soon broke the surface.

Lambert’s heart sank as the angry, red-faced faces of the zealots rose in defiance. The older followers, those who had long held the doctrine of The One Who Waits deep in their souls, seethed at that vision.

"No!" A voice screamed, "You betray us! You betray everything we believed in!" A fanatic stepped forward, eyes wide and quick breaths. "You would have us cast aside everything you've taught us? You would have us throw away the very thing that made us strong?"

Another voice, older, broken, yelling, "You are nothing without The One Who Waits! You are nothing! No... WE are nothing without The One Who Waits!"

And that was it. The violence as quickly as these fanatics raged. A shout rang out. "Death to the heretic!" And from there, chaos erupted. Fans of Lambert's vision scrambled to shield them, but the zealots were already pushing forward, weapons drawn and pointed at Lambet.

The zealots didn't hesitate, they screamed and charged against anyone who stood in their way, mostly the younglings who were hellbent on Lambert's vision. And in mere seconds, a skirmish culminated as the upshot of this tension.

Lambert’s heartrate rose steeply. This had been inevitable, but it didn’t make it any less painful. They looked to Dahlia, Orrin, and Marian, all three of them standing firm beside them.

Lambert's hands curled into fists, and they gritted their teeth... before tears fell out of their eyes.

The forest thins just before it breaks into a gentle clearing, where the trees arch like old guardians around a settlement carved from necessity and vision. Smoke curls from low stone chimneys. The scent of firewood and roasting roots hangs in the air, mingling with wild herbs and damp moss. It’s a village born not of wealth, but of stubborn hope, of Lambert's vision of a new world. Wooden structures lashed together with vine and care, pathways lined with woven grass mats, and communal gardens bursting with vegetables and medicinal plants.

At its heart, a fire pit glows low, surrounded by log benches and smooth stones where children scribble ideas into soft dirt with sticks. A weather-worn banner, hand-painted with symbols of clasped hands encircling a tree, flutters above a circular meeting hall.

You didn’t even hear her coming. One moment, you were stepping between tree roots, unsure if this clearing was your destination—or your end. The next, you felt the sharp snap of rope tightening around your wrists and a quick shove to your knees.

"Don’t move," said a voice behind you—young, sharp, female. And fast. She had your hands bound in seconds, and before you could even get a word out, a rough cloth bag was yanked down over your head. Darkness swallowed you whole.

"Got a stray," She muttered to herself. "Better safe than sorry."

The bag stays over your head as she walks you. Your feet stumble over uneven ground, and you hear murmured voices from nearby, the rustling of fabric, the distant cluck of chickens, the scrape of tools. The rope around your wrists burns from the constant pull, your shoulders aching as you're dragged through the camp.

Eventually, the sounds stop. A door creaks open. You’re pulled forward a few more steps, and then...

"Lambert," The voice again, steady but slightly breathless. "Found them just outside the perimeter. Could be a spy. Could be lost. Up to you."

A pause. Then a calm, measured voice.

"I see," the voice says. "What does this… fellow looks like behind that bag, Marian?"

"Heh." Marian chuckles. "Here. Take a look."

You feel fingers at the back of your neck, and then... fwump. The bag is yanked away. Light floods your vision, making you wince. The shapes around you blur at first. Then they come into focus.

A small figure stands before you, just over two feet tall. Wool the color of clouds, a soft leather circlet resting atop their head, its wooden beads clacking gently as they move. No red crown. No divine glow. But their eyes, deep amber, flecked with ember-light, was unmistakable for anyone else but Lambert. The one who killed The One Who Waits.

They smile gently.

"Hello," Lambert says. "I’m sorry for the... ungentle welcome, but we’ve had many who are out to slaughter us."

They tilt their head.

"May I know who you are?"