The Shepherd, the Nightwatchman, or the Butcher

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Before writing this story, I must declare: I did not paint him to defend him, nor to write his biography. He is not any known holy figure. He is a character from my unfinished novel—you may call him «Twelve».
If a man betrayed his country, his oaths, and abandoned all honor and comrades amidst the smoke of the Victorian era—just to flee—would God still hear his prayers? This is him: a war traitor hiding deep within a monastery.
In this image, he bows his head, wearing a heavy wool coat, his hands seemingly guarding the lamb in his arms. You might assume he is a merciful shepherd.
He is a Nightwatchman. The monastery bells cannot wash away his bloodstains; he stands all night in the shadows of the cloister, clutching the fragments of an old faith.
He is also a Butcher. Do not be deceived by the stillness. Within the deep sorrow in his eyes lies unextinguished killing intent. The lamb is so fragile; he could snap its neck at any moment, just as he did on the battlefield.
No one knows why he offers this unsettling consolation to the pure Agnus Dei (Lamb of God). Perhaps even he cannot distinguish: is he holding it out of a fleeting mercy for the faith he betrayed, or is it that only by stroking such a docile, powerless life can he suppress the manic urge to destroy everything within him?
As the author, I won’t reveal the answer here. His sin has no standard answer, and his redemption is not something a priest can grant with a few Rosaries. You don’t need to judge him. You just need to step into this monastery, through the mottled stone walls, and silently watch how he fights against the terrifying waves of killing intent and fear beneath this suffocating peace and mercy.