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Chapter Text

---

(You were a comet, and I lost it

Watching for comets - will I see you again?)

---

The Void was still.

It lay dormant, as it had for years stretching to centuries stretching to millennia; for the being that was able to give it meaning was brought down so long ago. It had been still as its worshippers were eradicated, proclaimed heretics. It had been still as kingdoms rose and fell above it. It had been still as a Higher Being of Light built his shining palace full of pretence and declared his kingdom eternal. It had been still as its presence claimed the lives of hatchlings lowered into its territory, their light snuffed out and replaced by darkness. It had been still as small shells rained down, down, down, the cracks as they broke stifled, their cries unheard, the fear and regret they left behind returning to the ever-inert sea.

It did not think or feel or want. It did not pity the thousands of shades coming back to its embrace. It did not despise the Light that it snuffed out together with his shiny palace. It did not heed the pleading, desperate cry resonating within it as one of the tainted hatchlings called out, their voice stricken with gold. Even the ever-present hunger was toned down, no one able to harness the power of the sea to devour.

The Void was still, for it was its natural state of being.

---

They woke up.

They noted so with dull, tired resignation as the pain of their physical body slammed down on their shell; bubbling beneath their carapace, even more growths of the infection were jutting out from the soft not-chitin than they’d remembered when drifting off last. It seemed like they won't hold for much longer.

That thought brought forth no terror, no fear of certain death, no hope for the pain to end, nothing at all. They thought that maybe they'd finally lost the ability to feel, that She wouldn't be able to revel in their regret any longer.

"Well why don't we test it out, my little shadow?"

Her laugh resonated in their mind, filling their vision with specks of gold, adding to the orange film that already impaired their vision. As their vision cleared once again, they were greeted with a sight of their sibling, broken, crumpled on the floor. Their breaths wheezed, the Void pooling under them too quick and yet so slow.

They felt as if someone tied a string around their heart and squeezed, squeezed until there was no more Void left to bleed through, how was there any emotion left still, why did this pain still block out the physical one, when will there be no regret and grief left?

Hot, orange tears ran down from their mask's eyeholes. In the far corner of their mind they knew it to be painful, the liquid leaving sizzling trails in its wake, but the emotion ripping their heart in two overshadowed that. They shivered in the chains that bound them, unable to close their eyes, to ignore the scene in front of them. Their sibling's fingers clawed weakly at the floor, their body giving out, both orange and black in their eyes fading out. After what felt like an eternity, they went completely still, the weak jerks of their limbs stopping, the flaring of the Seal of Binding over their mask dissolving into nothing.

"All your fault, am I not right?"

Their vision blurred. They weren't sure if that was because of Her pushing ever so slowly on their consciousness or because of another molten tear that was gathering inside their mask. Maybe it was both. Her emotions bled into theirs, guilt and delighted anger dancing in tandem within their broken mind.

It was, indeed, their fault and ever since finding out how much more they suffered from this compared to Her ravaging their physical form She never stopped reminding them of it. They both knew their body wouldn't hold for long and what was a few more years to Her who'd waited, forgotten and hurt and jailed, for centuries? When She could get back at all of the remnants of the Light who'd stolen everything from Her ?

Oh, how She delighted in their thoughts, their guilt never subsiding, even after She'd shown them that their taller sibling had, indeed, abandoned them to die first. Even as She let them see Her memories of Her previous jailor, who didn't break with guilt once She'd uncovered this memory, only finally giving up when She found, hidden behind spinning blades and spikes and thorns, the memory of a faint falter in the façade of their father who'd looked fondly upon them.

'You never mattered to them, yet they became your undoing,' She liked to remind them.

How ironic.

"The same downfall for the both of the 'hollow' siblings, right, my little shadow?"

Some emotion almost surfaced at the moniker - almost a name - that She'd given them.

It was drowned out by exhaustion.

They let themself drift back into dreaming. There was nowhere to hide from Her, after all. She had just demonstrated it.

---

Dreams brought no respite. All of them were shot-through with golden lines and light, elegant moth feathers; all the scenarios She’d have them participate in always amounted to the same; all of them designed to bring their pain onto the podium, with Her as the only audience.

This one was no different. She'd had them kill their sibling in thousands of ways, never growing tired from the reaction it got out of them. Never growing bored of their little paws cupping the larger vessel's mask, crying tears that slowly turned orange, trying and never succeeding in saving them.

She liked to say that them killing their sibling was an act of mercy. They wanted to die, She whispered, wanted it so desperately. You've just fulfilled their greatest wish. They wouldn't have wanted to live on. Didn't they turn their nail against themself the moment they wrestled a bit of control from Her?

They wanted so vehemently to deny this, as they tried to overpower the larger vessel, to turn their nail away , to release their sibling's grip on the hilt, to do anything but watch and listen again.

Unsurprisingly, they did not succeed.

This time, as they were left with their sibling's lifeless body, She didn't speak. 

She was awfully quiet, today. She 'd never been quiet with them (oh, but She had tried to be kind to their sibling, tried to welcome them and give them a chance of a better life in Her service if only they let. her. out.) ; Her constant noise the antithesis to their being, Her fury reverberating through the dream prison and them both; Her dreams sometimes singing of what could've been, had they not been too late and too weak - the promises of Her downfall, of their sibling living warping back to where they were now, back to Her heart sending scorching-burning-searing pain through their Void-borne body with each beat.

Why was She quiet?

Where was She?

Sickly-sweet triumph filled their consciousness, Her voice the closest to a genuine, pleasured laugh that they’d ever heard.

"I think it's time for the fun to end, wouldn't you agree with me?"

A shot of pain jerked them awake, agonising even through the dense fog of exhaustion. They twitched in the chains, feeling their mask cracking open, their vision but a blur of orange tinted with gold and black. Their shade unfurled from inside its confine, slowly but surely slipping through the quickly growing split between their eyes. Their whole body felt as if it was being set on fire, and, faintly, they noticed Her glow escaping it. They hacked and gasped for air, realising that She was pulling something from within them, forming a solid body, glowing weakly as She, it was Her, She'd used their body to form her own , their thoughts beat at their already wounded head, never forming the end of the observation. For the first time in what felt like forever they felt terror.

No, no, no, it couldn't end like this. They wanted, wanted so badly to fix their wrongdoings, to do anything but set Her free. Setting Her free meant that their sibling died… that they'd killed their sibling for nothing.

No matter how hard they fought to stay conscious, to will their shade back inside their shell, they more felt than heard the Abyssal Sea's call. Return to the whole. Lay your regrets to rest. Merge with it.

The chains restricting them went slack, their dying body crashing on the floor of the temple. Gathering the last of their fading strength, they lashed out at the golden light in front of them, some far part of their mind remarking how unusually sharp and big their claws were. They found purchase, sinking the claws deep into something soft and hot, trails of searing liquid running down their? Was it still their hand? They were not sure.

The figure gasped in pain, its- Her, it was Her- hands fighting to try and fend their claws off. She managed to speak, breathing strained, body beginning to collapse against them.

"How are you- I've destroyed- your shade- thoroughly- like theirs-"

As the figure crumbled onto the floor, they finally gave in to the call and the world went dark.

---

The Void stirred.

A tiny shade surfaced, sending ripples through the ever-still sea.

Merge with us, the sea beckoned without words.

The shade looked back at the sea, its eyes tinged golden, the crack remaining between them even in this form. It flew a bit higher up, as if refusing the sea's call. Its regret, guilt, shame, grief weighed heavy in the ambient air, almost tangible.

No, it sent through the Void. Save-sibling. Correct-mistakes, it sang without words, pushing all of its emotions into the not-words.

The sea churned. Big, almost lazy waves lapped at the shore, where the shade floated.

Save-sibling, the shade insisted. Void-power-correct, it pushed, floating higher up still, unwilling to return to the sea yet.

Rejecting its call.

Disturbing the sea's calm with its will.

Tendrils shot out at the shore, the massive waves no longer slow and sluggish.

The sea was hungry.

The shade jerked back from a tendril, sending an influx of pure, unbridled fury and hatred through the Void.

Kill-her. Devour-light.

The tendril stilled. The Void did not think, nor feel, nor want , yet this shade left an imprint strong enough to rouse the ever-impassive sea.

To awaken something meant to be forgotten.

Let it be as you wish.

The Void reverberated, tendrils undulating, beckoning the shade to come closer to the sea again. Warily, it followed, keeping its distance from them. When it finally reached the shore, the sea stilled again, not even the faintest ripple disturbing its calm.

The last thing the shade saw before everything went dark were four pairs of glowing white eyes.

---

"Lay down on the table."

The vessel obeyed instantly, laying down with movements that were almost mechanical, the clips snapping shut around its wrists, upper arms, waist, legs and horns, keeping it from twitching. Keeping it from disrupting its Creator's work with whatever reflexes were not extinguished by the Void inside its shell.

"Stay still."

(Maybe if it'd lay still enough the pain would stop earlier.)

It breathed with even, measured inhales and exhales, willing its limbs to go limp, willing its fingers to uncurl and lay palm-up without any hint of tension in them. It was not its place to wonder, for it did not think, however the traitorous spark of curiosity led to it following its King's arms, looking for what He was about to do. It stifled that curiosity almost immediately.

Do not think.

Someone knocked at the door. Then again, in fast succession, almost banging, demanding the door be opened. From its position the vessel saw its Creator frown and let out an exasperated sigh. He went to open it, His tail flicking at the floor under His robes.

"We told you not to disturb Us," he said coldly, looking up to meet the gaze of the person who dared disturb Him in His workshop. Preparing to work on His vessel, nonetheless.

"A bug who looks just like the Pure Vessel did was found near the Temple. It bears wounds akin to those who'd been infected," Isma's voice from behind the door said. She spoke again, but it could not make out the words behind the loud ringing that filled its head at the news she brought. Its Void twisted inside, tightening until it felt like its insides were twisted in a knot.

As much as it tried to not think, Isma's words thrummed in its head over and over again.

Just like the Pure Vessel- near the Temple- wounds akin to those who'd been infected-

A vessel a vessel a vessel a vessel, thumped under its mask, its god-forsaken mind repeating it over and over as if mocking it.

Do not think.

It snapped its attention back as its King looked down at it, frowning.

Had He noticed its turmoil, its shameful panic? Had it missed an order? Did he see its failure?

It snuffed out a shiver wanting to surface.

He stepped back to the table, undoing the clips around its body with practised, fast precision. It lay still, waiting for an order to move.

"Pure Vessel. Follow me," its Father ordered.

It obeyed.

(It did not want to know more about the found vessel, for it had no mind to do so.)

Chapter Text

Its Fa- the King was afraid.

His fear hung heavy in the air as He traversed the corridors, rooms and stairs of the White Palace; His footsteps falling too fast yet too slow, as if heavy loads weighed Him down; His tail twitching animatedly, uncovering His further-most set of legs with each wag; His breathing just a fraction out of its normal pattern.

Had it been capable of feeling, it would've called its current state of being afraid, too.

It kept its breathing deep and calm, measuring its steps carefully to keep itself on the King's right side and behind Him. It noticed Isma giving it sideway glances every so often, brows tightened in a deep frown.

(It hoped she didn't notice the frantic fluttering of its heart, or the way the claws of its right hand clenched shut underneath its cloak.)

The Palace was abuzz. The whispering of the Royal Retainers seemed to prick at its body, their gazes lingering on it like sticky honey. It wasn't able to make out any words behind the dull roaring inside its head, the sounds muffled; its vision far-away and blurred. Corridor faded into corridor, room into room, people were nothing more than shadowy flecks among the perfect, pale whiteness of the Palace.

"-told it was taken here," Isma's words tore through the haze that seemed to enclose the world as both she and Him stopped in front of what it knew to be the medical wing's door.

The King turned slightly to face the Knight, His tail still bouncing against the floor.

"You are not to disclose any detail as to what happened to anyone," He said, words cold as ice. "You are dismissed."

Isma bowed and turned around to leave. Before doing so, her gaze met its. She scrutinised its mask, expression betraying nothing, and it felt cool pinpricks of fear run through it. After what was likely no more than half a second, but felt like an eternity, she broke eye contact and made her leave from the room, the sound of her steps gradually fading into the distance.

"Vessel."

It turned all of its attention to its King, ready to obey whatever command He was going to give it.

(Was He shaking? Almost imperceptible little shivers wracked His hands as He clenched them together, meddling with His fingers; His eyes narrowed to the point they were almost closed, face tightened in a deep frown; His mandibles ground against each other as He drew in a slow breath - was it to steel Himself?

It was not its place to ponder.)

Do not think.

"Follow me inside and stand guard by the door," He finally ordered it. Its heartbeat grew faster still, to the point it was sure He'd see it, see how it struggled to keep its breaths even with the air seeming too thin and not enough-

He turned around and opened the door. It obeyed His orders, following Him inside and stilling by the entrance, taking its nail from its back and folding both hands over the hilt; empty eyes locking onto the small figure on the infirmary bed.

A white mask with two big, round eyeholes and two thin, curved horns that divided into two sharp points at their peaks. A crack running down the middle of the mask, slowly weeping Void. A tattered cloak that was once dark blue, now soaked through with sickly orange . A small - too small, too fragile - body marred with pockmarks, edges melting into each other as there were no hard chitin plates to shatter, to break, crack open like their mask did- They were still bleeding, motes of Void rising up and dissolving into the air, they were hurt-

Their eyes met its, the Void within swirling rapidly, their whole body giving a violent shudder. Its whole world shrunk down to them, their bottomless gaze, their curved horns and small paws and it was at the Abyss' exit, looking down at its sibling silently begging it for help, the soft while light illuminating them from behind it and it turned away, it let them fall it abandoned them left them to die-

Sibling-

---

The vessel was shaking.

Strain from its injuries, most likely.

He looked it over as it sat on the bed. Short and small, mask round; still yet to moult for the first time. Its cloak was torn and soaked through with what looked like infection, its still soft body covered with scars that bore a striking resemblance to pockmarks left by the plague.

Vessels were not supposed to be able to get infected - was this one impure, tarnished?

He found himself relaxing just the slightest bit. This vessel was just a faulty exemplar - it had, probably, found a way out of the Abyss and fell prey to Her light.

Motes of Void were rising up from the crack in its mask. He frowned - this injury was the only one still unhealed, still bleeding.

This, by extension, meant that the vessel was drained of Soul - it had probably run out of it sealing the other injuries.

How did it survive?

No one should be able to survive after being infected this badly - judging by the markings on its body and the crack in its shell, it should've been long since reduced to a shambling husk, animated only by Her rage. Yet here it was, sitting, still shaking - he started to notice a pattern to its shaking and its breath hitching every few seconds - uninfected. Free, not a trace of orange in its bottomless black eyes, not a single malignant growth on its body.

He leaned in, focusing his gaze on the crack in its mask. He knew how vessel masks cracked - he'd seen it time and time again, waiting for his Pure Vessel to ascend. This crack looked deadly - it ran through the middle of the vessel's mask, splitting it in two. This crack also did not look like something caused by falling down into the Abyss. It didn't resemble a scar from a nail or needle either.

It looked like it had burst from within.

His next breath came a little sharper than he would like to admit. It makes sense, it had been infected, he reminded himself.

Just now he noticed that the vessel was not looking at him. It was not looking out at nowhere in particular, as was usual for vessels waiting for an order, either. He turned his head and followed its gaze.

It was locked onto the Pure Vessel.

The Pure Vessel stood at attention behind him, near the door, as he'd ordered it. Its hands were folded over its greatnail, its posture perfect. And yet, its eyes met those of the little vessel, which hadn't moved at all since he'd come in, save for its shuddering.

"Vessel," he said, not letting any of the sudden uncertainty and fear seep into his voice, keeping it level and as cold as ever, when addressing the vessel. It turned its gaze to him immediately, waiting for orders.

When he looked back at the smaller vessel, he saw that it still stared at the Pure Vessel. A stronger shudder ran through its body and its tiny hands clenched into fists.

So this vessel was, indeed, impure. To what extent? No one knew why or how it'd appeared inside the Temple, too weak to resist being hauled all the way to the Palace; why it bore the scars of infection and how it freed itself from Her influence.

Something inside of the Pale King squirmed uncomfortably. He felt as if this vessel was important, somehow, but couldn't put his finger on the reason behind the feeling. It was weak, impure and wounded - wouldn't it be logical to dispose of it as soon as possible, maybe putting its Void to better use?

And yet here he found himself, moving closer to it and calling it once again, trying to pry the answers out of it.

"Vessel, We are talking to you."

Slowly, painfully slowly, it broke its stillness and turned its head the smallest fraction to look at him. He shivered. Looking into the eyes of a vessel was never a pleasant experience - the Void coiling and twisting inside its eyesockets feeling as though it smothered any light, any thought and left cold, dull numbness in its wake.

He did not recoil, staring into those eyes, unwavering. The Void inside swirled fast, faster than it ever had in the Pure Vessel's eyes. It almost seemed angry.

The vessels did not have emotions.

He couldn't bear to look into those eyes because he was a being of Light, naturally opposed to the Void; not because it had an expression , not because it reminded him so painfully of the thousands of broken masks; of the little, helpless shades with bright white eyes; of what could've been had those eggs not been taken by the Void.

There was nothing left after the Void had seeped into the bodies of those hatchlings.

And this little vessel did not shake and hitch as if on the verge of tears.

How was he going to get answers out of a thing with no mind to answer him or even comprehend the questions?

He sighed. The vessel tensed even more at this small motion. He frowned and looked it over once again.

"Can you understand Us?" he asked, not hoping for an answer, yet knowing deep inside he'd get one.

The vessel nodded.

He fell silent. First and foremost, he needed to know all about this vessel's experience with the infection - yet it still took him time to formulate a yes-no question, extract it from the whirling mess his mind had suddenly become.

"Were you infected?"

The vessel inhaled sharply enough for him to hear. Its trembling got worse, its eyes looking straight through the Pale King. It clenched its fingers again, giving him a sharp, short nod.

It looked scared.

How was it not dead, then?

Not like he could just ask it like that.

"Do you remember how or why you'd ended up in the Temple of the Black Egg?"

This time the answer came almost instantly - a small shake of its head. Then it stilled, breath hitched in its throat in what could've been a whimper, had it not been mute. Its gaze wandered to the Pure Vessel once again. After looking at it, the small vessel's eyes met the King's and it nodded.

If it had looked scared before, now it almost looked terrified. Its breaths came as short, desperate gasps, the shaking growing nearly unbearable. He was sure that had it claws to do so, it would've pierced straight through its own palms with how tight it clenched them.

"Had you come there on your own? Uninfected yet?" he pushed.

It nodded.

His head was starting to hurt. How did no one notice a small, child-like and very off-putting in its un-bugness creature wandering into the Temple, which had a perimeter and workers inside and outside?

It did not make sense. He felt as if he was missing something crucial, overlooking a piece of information that would shine light on this whole situation.

"Did you break free from the infection?" he asked next, emphasising the break free part of the question.

It shivered again and shook its head no.

He looked back at his Pure Vessel, still standing perfectly still by the door, gaze still locked onto him. The Void in its eyesockets, however, seemed to unravel and quiver at a faster rate than usual. He broke eye contact and tried his hardest not to think about this.

At the very least, not right now.

Looking at it, however, reminded him of the scarce few times he'd overestimated his Vessel's capabilities. When it was still fresh from the Abyss, its body soft and vulnerable; when it had struggled to balance itself with its newly huge horns after a moult. He'd seen its Void leak out of it after a particularly rough sparring session with the Kingsmoulds, shaping itself into a shade. He'd gently coaxed the shade back inside its body, the cracks, nicks and cuts repairing themselves as its body mended back together.

It gave him an idea.

"Did your shade break out of your shell, vessel?" he asked.

It gasped again. Its trembling did not abate, its mask tilting a fraction upwards to look at him. It inclined its head, leaving it hanging low, looking at the ground.

He let out a sound, his mandibles grinding together. So that was it. This easy. It just had to die to lose Her influence - its regrets and fears pulling it back, mending its shell as much as they could. If only every bug was fortunate enough to have such a way to reincarnate themselves.

This, however, made the whole story even more ridiculous - not only had no one noticed a vessel roaming around and into the Temple; no one had noticed it getting infected, its shell giving out under the strain, its shade breaking out and eventually reforming.

Could this vessel be lying? came the unwanted suspicion. He shot it down, burying it deep into his mind - already nothing made sense and if he took into account the possibility for a vessel to lie he'd surely go insane.

The vessel looked up at him again, unprompted. The Void under their mask seemed unfocused, coiling and uncoiling lazily, almost as if in a haze. Its mask still dripped Void, the motes disappearing into thin air with nowhere to fall onto. It almost didn't shake now, shoulders slumped and head still hanging low, if turned skyward to look at him.

He sighed. It was wounded, it made sense that it needed rest. Even the Pure Vessel needed it sometimes. He stood up to leave, noticing how the smaller vessel looked at the tall vessel again.

He'd have to figure that out, too. Was it longing for another of its kin, as it seemed to have feelings? Was it feeling the presence of another Void being nearby, latching onto the familiar darkness? Was it looking at something other than him, given how it seemed angry at the beginning of his interrogation?

He couldn't get any of the answers he sought with only the yes-no questions. He had to think of a way to let this vessel communicate.

He felt nauseous at the thought.

And it was not because of how the Knights, his Root, his Pale Gift, Herrah, even some of the retainers tried to persuade him to teach the Pure Vessel to write or sign. Not because of how he'd denied every single one of them, reiterating over and over again that a mindless thing requires not a means for communication.

These words tasted bitter, now.

"Pure Vessel. Follow me," he ordered before leaving the room, not sparing it a single glance.

He didn't see the smaller vessel curling up into a ball, its entire frame shaking with silent sobs.

He didn't see the one stray mote of Void, drifting from the Pure Vessel's right hand.

Chapter Text

( Everybody needs someone, but they can’t feel like this-

How can I breathe with this burning in my chest?

You were gone so fast, I want you back)  

---

The Void link was closed.

They'd been afraid, at first. To project too much of their emotions onto their unsuspecting - and, most probably, very confused - sibling. When the first, gentle pokes at the thread between them went unheeded, they'd tried to gradually tug at it with more strength, more emotion, more will. The thread reverberated under it, but their sibling stayed as still and unmoving as when they'd just come in. Staring them in the eyes, posture stock-still, unresponsive. The smaller vessel tried to pull at their connection with all they had, struggling to send just one concept through, to let their sibling know they were not a threat.

Not to them.

Not anymore.

Never again.

Now, with no Pale King in sight, they hoped they could convey this better. Now, when their sibling has come and sought them out on their own, looming silently in the dark doorway.

They struggled to rise, all their limbs feeling heavy and numb, the crack in their mask still throbbing ever so faintly. They tried to meet the taller vessel's gaze, but could not make it out in the suffocating darkness.

(The darkness should not feel like this. Not to them.

Moving should not feel like trying to tear through layers of honey, even in their somewhat weakened state.)

Stuffing the unbidden panicky thoughts down, they persisted, stopping only after coming close enough to touch their sibling.

They still couldn't make out their eyes.

Gently, slowly, they laid one paw on the taller vessel's shin - their height didn't allow for more.

Sibling? they sent through the link, soft and welcoming.

The link was not there.

They jerked back in surprise and panic, stumbling and falling over. Only now could they finally see their sibling's eyes.

Eyes, glowing brightly in the all-encompassing darkness, weeping orange tears.

Chains lashed somewhere near them, the sound they knew all-too-well combined with the white seal that flashed over their sibling's mask.

They scrambled to rise as the other vessel fell to their knee, failing as they skidded on something damp.

No.

No!

Giving up on trying to rise to their feet, they crawled, coming underneath the sleek, heavy mask of their sibling, now marred with that all-too-familiar crack. They could hear the tall vessel's heavy, wheezing breaths, could hear the wet splotches of their Void mixed with orange acid spilling from the wounds made with a nail too big through their chest, could feel the weight in their paws deepening, threatening to crush them, burning and freezing with molten tears and Void blood as their thoughts ran and ran and ran around in circles, screaming pathetically that this couldn't be, they couldn't fail again, couldn't let them die-

Her laugh resonated within their shell, sending blinding flashes of pain through the crack between their eyes, coagulating into tears that ran over the freshly-healed trails below their eyes and seared through their shell anew. A thick orange film covered their vision, blurring pain into terror, regret into contempt, guilt into relish not their own.

Ever the same reaction, my little shadow.

They faintly heard a snap before the orange haze cleared from their vision and the scene in front of them dissolved into nothing.

They jerked upright, struggling to draw a deep enough breath as they saw tears - their own, normal, Void tears - drip onto the bedding they'd been given. Looking around, there was no one at the door, and the room was faintly lit with pale silverish lanterns.

The scent of smoke lingered around them, together with fading sparks of red.

---

It did not sleep that night.

It was scheduled to do so, yet it lay still and unmoving in its room, its body unable to so much as relax. Rest, if not sleep.

Its right hand still stung. It resisted the urge to lift it up to its eye level and look at the four punctures it had made with its claws.

(At least those were not dripping Void still.)

It reprimanded itself for the notion. It had failed, spectacularly so, and on top of that it dared to hope He didn't notice- conceal the proof of its failure- from its Creator.

Since it heard the news about the vessel, its Void had been restless. Even moreso after it noticed them tugging at the thin thread of the Void, trying to talk to it.

Why would they try to talk to an automaton?

It shut off its connection to the Void shortly after ascending, for it would never need such a thing. A means of communication was of no use for a mindless thing, its King had said on multiple occasions - mostly to His soulmate, its Queen, or to nobles that were foolish enough to try and get it to communicate. Who has always needed this reminder the most, though, was the Pale Gift.

It did not - could not - respond. Even as the Void inside it swirled and seethed, even as the tight knot inside its abdomen released just enough for it to notice the smaller vessel's body language, the extent of their fear- impurity. 

(It yearned to respond, or at least hear them out.)

They'd been tense, painfully so - the fury they radiated after its Creator ordered them did not need to be transmitted through the Void link to be noticeable. It catalogued the information, tensing internally in case the smaller vessel - sibling, they are its sibling, it left them to die but they survived - would attack its Fa- King. They were weakened, but they were also in the point blank range.

It couldn't look away from their cracked mask and the motes of Void that rose lazily from it, dissolving into the ambient air.

(They were hurt-)

They came from the Black Egg Temple. The place where its purpose and fate lay, there'd been another vessel. How did they get in unnoticed, how'd they wound up infected so badly, how'd they manage to release their Shade and reform anew?

(It ignored the cold feeling inside at the mental picture of the crunch of their mask breaking, at the visage of their Shade slipping free from the confines of their shell.)

It was not its place to ponder, it reminded itself.

Its King would surely overcome this problem, just as He had overcome any other.

(It did not want Him to discard them.)

It need only wait for orders. To stay still, not let the signs of its failure slip through, to get itself under control again.

For how could it hold the Old Light if something this minor could take it to the precipice of failing, to the doorstep of revealing its impurity?

It had standing orders to sleep.

Yet, as the absence of sounds outside its room gave way to chatter, footsteps and life, it was still wide awake.

---

They did not sleep again that night.

As the initial terror faded away, they found themself staring at the door, waiting for… something.

They weren't sure exactly what for.

Their thoughts swirled, overlapping and chaotic. They'd been granted their wish, this much they could tell - they were not dreaming, and this place was far too real to be one of Her illusions. She wouldn't dare to create an illusion of the Abyss anyway - they'd noticed that in their time together. Something about their birthplace frightened Her.

Was it the Void entity that sent them here?

How much time did they have?

Very little. They knew that their sibling was sealed shortly after their final moult (sent to eternal torture as soon as they didn't look like a child anymore, She'd told them; their hate surging at the twisted pity She had for the vessels) and they'd seen the bigger vessel just a few hours prior - they were the same size and stature as in the Temple; their mask a sharp V, unlike the smaller vessel's round one; their eyes narrow and diagonal, unlike the smaller vessel's big circular holes which took half of their mask.

They looked perfect - their armour a pristine white (with no anchors in their pauldrons - just like the statue in the City of Tears. Was he too much of a coward to let others see that their sibling was not just sent away, but imprisoned?); their cloak flowing smoothly to the floor; their Pure nail etched with countless runes and sigils, glimmering in the dim light of the room; their posture one of power, one of confidence.

Unwanted images flooded their mind, showcasing the stark contrast between what they'd seen this cycle and what they'd seen in a life lost; they knew too well what would become of their sibling were they to stay idle.

They wouldn't fail them again.

They tried to assess their condition. They could move about freely - they were, for some reason, not restrained in any way. Their body still felt stiff and heavier than it should, but they could lift their nail for certain.

Their nail wasn't with them, though. They tried to recall if they had it here in the first place, but all they found was an impenetrable fog of exhaustion immediately upon their arrival. They faintly remembered collapsing just shy of getting out of the Temple and coming to already here, in this room.

In the White Palace, it seemed.

The crack in their mask stung unpleasantly at the thought. They raised one of their hands to trace what they could of it and found it still open, although no longer bleeding motes of Void. On instinct, they reached inside themself, hunching their shoulders and trying to focus.

A yawning emptiness was all that answered them.

They were fully drained of Soul.

How come the wounds on their shell closed and scarred over, but the crack lingered? They experimentally tapped one of the depressions in their thorax, no pain or tenderness forthcoming to answer their touch.

This much was good, at least.

Their assessment finished, they stared at the door again, fear rolling slowly just under their carapace.

They didn't want to see their sibling like that ever again.

The smell had convinced them that it had been a nightmare. The Terror of Sleep was their friend in the last life - now he didn't know who they were.

Confusion as to why he would save them from the clutches of their nightmare flickered in their mind, quickly drowned out by an awful realisation.

They would never get the chance to apologise for not finishing the ritual in their haste to save their sibling.

The thought made their heart drop all the way down to their feet. Another dear someone they'd failed.

Another thing they had to do right, this time, they reminded themself.

They briefly wondered where he was now. Hallownest has not yet fallen - would not fall this time. They hoped that wherever he was, he was welcomed - as much as it was possible for such a being.

They missed both him and Grimmchild, they realised. He had been someone to show them kindness and hospitality after a lifetime of being shunned for their otherness, after all. Someone to let them sleep inside his tent, covered in softness. Someone to recognize their emoting, to understand what they'd wanted to tell him. Someone to teach them to dance, the skill utterly useless save for the enjoyment of it.

Shunned was still better than treated like a thing, though. Their Void churned every time they remembered how their sibling looked at the King, head bowed, ramrod-still, waiting for whatever order came next.

They'd hoped so much that this bit wasn't true. That it'd been construed by Her to add to their anguish.

They were proven wrong in their hope.

Why would they obey the Pale Light? Surely they knew they weren't empty. Surely they understood such a thing was ridiculous, impossible; the goal of the King unreachable. Why would they be loyal to someone who'd killed every other sibling, let them fall down, let their broken shells comprise the entirety of the ground of their birthplace?

They loved him. Why?

(Why do you love them still, after they'd let you fall to what they knew to be certain death? After they'd left you all alone, not once but twice?)

Their rejection stung in a way they couldn't put to words - in a way that made their anger at the King roil; in a way that made their eyes fill with tears; in a way that made them want to run to their sibling, hug them tight and hit them with the same motion and scream, render them incapable of ignoring what their smaller sibling wanted to convey.

They had to fix this, somehow. They still didn't fully know how the Void bond worked, but this couldn't be the only way to communicate, could it; could they communicate without the use of their shared Void?

They would need it to communicate to others, too.

They stuck their hand inside their storage, rummaging through the trinkets of a life long gone. Their preferred charms, a journal from a traveller taken by the infection, a wilted flower, a stack of maps-

Finally, they took out their ink and quill.

They were fast disappointed at what they saw. The ink had long since gone dry, the inkwell coming apart in their hands. The quill was broken into too many pieces to even attempt to count. A sharp sting of frustration ran through them as they stuffed the now useless contents of their hands back into their storage.

Maybe they could convey the idea of writing- more drawing, really, they had never been taught to write- somehow, when the Pale Light inevitably came back to ask them more questions.

Questions they didn't want to answer, but had answered anyway.

They had to, lest he decides to leave them and never come back before they could get through to him. They had to, lest their sibling suffers a fate far, far worse than death.

Another sharp pang of emotion tore through their shell. They still couldn't shake off the image of their sibling, tall and unbroken, being bound with chains and seals - couldn't shake off the terror and loneliness that were not quite their own, rising forth from this memory. Couldn't get the feeling of dampness from infection and Void not theirs off their hands.

Couldn't forget the sound of nail tearing through chitin and flesh, the sound of pustules popping and infection spraying; the sound of the Seal of Binding flaring furiously over their sibling's mask.

A sting of pain - their own, and physical - yanked them away from their harrowing memories. Numbly, they took their hand away from the crack in their mask, hoping it wouldn't start bleeding again.

Shadows now came and went under the door their gaze was still fixed to. They heard clatter, footsteps and hushed conversations.

A thought to escape crossed their mind, and they quickly stuffed it down. They had no nail, no Soul left and had no idea where to go. They doubted they would be unguarded, too.

Waiting for him to come back so they could stop him, could tell him that his plan would fail seemed like the only option left.

However much the idea made their insides turn in disgust.

---

The sounds of retainers scurrying around behind the closed door of his workshop tore him away from his not-quite-sleep.

He hadn't been able to sleep, exactly, but at some point through the long night exhaustion must've taken over and he found himself slumped onto the workshop table, the cards he'd been working on wrinkled under his arms.

The idea of giving them to the small vessel made something inside of him churn. He'd had to remind himself one time too many that the Pure Vessel did not need anything like that. That it was pure, the only perfect vessel he'd created. That his plan would work, as he'd foreseen so long ago. That the appearance of a small, tarnished vessel did not mean anything.

And yet he didn't quite manage to extinguish those doubts. He'd found himself on the verge of peering into the future, checking that nothing has changed many times this night; each time he hesitated, scolding himself for his fear afterward.

What was he even afraid of?

(He was afraid that everything he'd done was for naught.)

He sighed and rubbed his temple with one hand. Exhaustion still weighed heavy on his mind, soreness making his limbs heavier than acceptable. Usually, his Root would unceremoniously drag him out of the workshop if she caught him working overnight.

She wasn't here now.

With him focusing on the final preparations for the Sealing, she'd left, her sorrow practically palpable whenever she'd looked at him or the Vessel in her final weeks at the Palace.

And seeing empty space where she was supposed to be never failed to send sharp, burning grief through his body, oftentimes almost making him double-over and wail.

(Would it be the same after he'd seal the Pure Vessel away?)

His gaze fell on the cards. He frowned at himself for wrinkling them, trying to smooth them over as much as he could. "Feeling", the one on top read.

Ironic.

Was this even a good idea? he wondered once again. Would the vessel be able to communicate with those? Did it even know how to read? His first thought was giving the vessel ink and a quill; this idea was quickly discarded after he realised that it, most likely, could not write. All he had was hoping it could read, at least the basic words - and with the cards he could read them out loud, if needed.

The image of himself, teaching the vessel how to read words like one would a child, made bile rise to his throat.

(He wished he could teach the Pure Vessel that way.)

It'd shown some capability for thought; and, certainly, more than enough capability for feeling. The memory of it, bleeding and shaking as if crying, rose unbidden in his mind. He shook his head, willing the picture and the accompanying emotion away.

He couldn't pity it. He couldn't be too scared to discover what this vessel might have to say.

He stored the cards carefully inside his robe and slowly rose from the table. He wanted to have at least some sleep before doing what he had to. Before trying to interrogate- talk with- the vessel.

He couldn't afford to show exactly what he felt about doing that. Even to a vessel.

(Especially not to a vessel.)

He dimmed his light and, avoiding the retainers (did those buffoons have nothing more interesting to do than to spread gossip about things they had no idea about?), went to his chambers, burying himself into the blankets strewn around on the bed.

Instinctual and childish, trying to burrow himself to try and escape his problems, was his last thought before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was the smoke.

The second, red particles and embers floating around.

He didn't want to dream. And he certainly didn't want to have a nightmare.

Yet, here he was, in what looked distinctly not like a nightmare of any sort.

He found himself in an endless expanse of nothingness, the only things unusual the Nightmare Flames.

He narrowed his eyes, looking around, searching out any clue as to what was about to happen.

He hadn't seen the Terror of Sleep for centuries, and had explicitly forbidden Grimm from ever returning to Hallownest - or to his own mind - when they'd last met.

Flames danced around him, forming into a bug far, far higher than he was. On instinct, he gripped the hilts of two conjured Soul daggers with his upper set of arms, shifting his weight in anticipation.

"Oh, why so tense, dear friend?"

The Nightmare King finally coalesced himself from the fire, folding his body in a deep bow, staring him directly in the eyes in a satirical approximation of proper court manners. He recoiled, still holding his weapons.

The smile on Grimm's face widened, slightly uncovering his sharp fangs. He unfolded himself from the bow and stared down at the King.

"Ever so guarded," he sighed, bringing one of his hands to his forehead and slumping his entire form with the motion, "Your assumptions pain me, for I do not come with malicious intent, Pale Light."

He always had some malicious intent. The Pale King knew it all too well.

"Then why do you invade Our mind, Nightmare Vessel?" he asked, voice as cold and stern as he could manage.

"Oh, don't impale my Heart with those icicles," Grimm grinned, his face wavering as if it wasn't sure what it wanted to look like, "There is an urgent conversation to be had, but you are already aware of it, now are you not?"

Something cold ran through his body. He suppressed a shiver, not willing to let the Nightmare King know of his fear.

Judging by a rasping laugh and embers floating around him, Grimm had noticed anyway.

He stood to his full height, letting his Kingslight glow bright; no longer in a battle stance, but not letting the daggers fade from existence. Grimm's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side, still grinning. His lower part dissolved into the flames, his cloak seemingly growing out of them in a mockery of logic and reality.

For the Terror of Sleep to invade his mind - the mind of another Higher Being - was something unprecedented. He must've known full well that he'd earn the King's ire - even more than he'd already did. Something was going on; something important enough to warrant such an act.

"What is it?" he finally found the correct response.

Was it the correct response? The Nightmare Vessel brought one hand before his mouth, corners of it drooping low as if indicating disappointment.

"What had you tried to create, my dear King of a kingdom eternal?" he asked, his eyes narrowing even further, the fire flaring bright around him, "What long forgotten power have you awakened, as it slumbered beneath the surface?"

The King bristled, his wings unfolding for a brief moment. He knew about Grimm's fondness for speaking in open-ended ramblings and leaving his collocutor to guess his true intentions; this, however, did not mean that those mannerisms did not annoy him.

The Nightmare King looked angry, too, he noticed. What was going on, to agitate the scavenger of corpses so much?

Grimm waited patiently for the King to respond, his unnaturally red eyes boring into the Pale Light's white ones. He still kept his hand in front of his mouth, fingers spread and contorted in ways they shouldn't be able to, claws glowing faintly red as if ready to combust.

What forgotten power did he mean? The King was fairly sure he didn't mean the Old Light - nothing about that situation concerned him, nothing about his kingdom on the brink of destruction should've angered the scavenger of the dead kingdoms.

There was only one other forgotten power he'd meddled with.

The realisation dawned on him, heavy as a hammer falling right on his head. The world around wavered and blurred, even the Terror of Sleep losing his already unsteady outline.

"Do you mean the creation of the vessels, Grimm?" he snapped, his words just a bit too sharp, his voice quivering the slightest bit.

Grimm's body contorted as he brought his head lower and forward, his hand falling away from his mouth, "What vessels, Pale Light?" he demanded, coming uncomfortably close to the King.

The King kept himself from recoiling, steadying his voice.

"Creatures of Wyrm, Root and Void," he answered, "meant to-"

"-to contain the Old Light?"

Grimm brought his head back and laughed, embers rising from his mouth. The sound was not unlike scraping on a hard surface with someone's claws.

When he'd finally stopped laughing, he looked back at the King again.

"Did you think to use my design to contain a God unwilling," he hissed, "using the Void no less?"

"The Void is the power opposed, the power to drown out anything and everything," he answered carefully, not letting his posture slump as if he was a child being scolded for mischief.

He had a distinct feeling he was.

The Nightmare King sighed, the air hissing through his fangs, "I would have never thought you foolish, God of Higher Thought."

He bristled again, hissing in response, though the sound was not nearly as impressive as Grimm's shrilling impression of anger and disapproval a few moments prior.

"Watch your words, Nightmare Vessel."

Grimm straightened to his full height, flames licking his fingers now, their light illuminating the dreamscape.

"Your goal is not to be achieved, Pale Light," each word a stab into the King's abdomen, "your vessel's nightmare a proof of that, beyond my and the Heart's knowledge."

"The Pure Vessel is unable to dream," he recited before he could stop himself.

Terror of Sleep looked him intently in the eye and let out a dry, scraping scoff.

"It is not your 'Pure' vessel's nightmares that caught our attention," he answered, almost in disbelief, "the smaller vessel's terror is strong enough to pull me and the Heart both to their dreamscape," he paused, curling his hands around his frame and puffing up his shoulders, his head tilted downward, "the contents of their nightmare unusual enough to warrant my venture to you, Pale Light."

"The Void does not dream," the King defended weakly, knowing that Grimm wouldn't come all the way here for a lie.

"Oh, but you know that to be untrue," came the answer. His stomach turned, nausea rising up his throat. He let his shoulders slump, the Soul daggers flickering and fading out of existence in his hands.

"The Void is a force inert," he continued, his voice laced through with unwavering conviction. He'd experimented with it enough to know what it was and what it was not.

"The Void is not a power to be awakened, for there is nothing to awaken, for it has no will or mind," his voice steady and firm, his gaze locked with Grimm's.

Grimm smiled, a hand coming up to rest his chin on.

"You have always loved to play with half-truths, haven't you, Pale King?" he asked almost gently, "the Abyssal Sea itself, indeed, does not possess any of those qualities. The power- the being able to be roused has slept for an amount of time unthinkable, and for a good reason. "

The Nightmare King's voice grew louder, enveloping the dreamscape, coming from every direction. The flame now seared bright, brighter than the Kingslight; fading in, fusing together with Grimm's form, "yet, as it would seem, your plan not only led to your shining kingdom's downfall, but to the awakening of something far more dangerous than the Old Light."

At this, the King flinched - a sharp, cut-off full-body motion. His wings flared for a brief second, as did his light - before dimming to a faint glow.

The Terror of Sleep's words an embodiment of his worst fears - of the terror he'd felt when thinking to use his foresight, to see if his plan would succeed.

As his gaze fell to the ground, he noted how the flames circled around his form, never touching him, never coming too close.

"And what is there to be done?" he heard himself asking, not thinking the implications through.

"To live to see the day when you'd ask me for advice," Grimm mocked, though his voice held something else; sympathy? No, that was ridiculous, the King told himself. The Nightmare Vessel kneeled down, his eyes once more meeting the King's, "Listen to them. Heed their words and accept their feelings; gain their trust, else their hatred be the world's undoing," no mockery in his words, no theatrics in his posture, "and accept the failure you've denied for just about too long."

He pulled away, once again stretching to his full height.

The King did not want to let the last of his words sink in. Not yet. Not while Grimm was still watching.

"I shall see you in the waking."

And, with a snap, the nightmare was gone.

---

"Match."

It obeyed, lowering its nail and storing it away onto its back. Its breaths still came strained, all the spots where Isma's attacks found purchase burning, some still dripping Void. Slowly, careful not to limp, it went towards the Soul totem just outside the training arena, placing its claws on the runes carved into the totem's surface.

Soul welled, cool and comforting, numbing the pain and chasing away the weariness by its mere presence. The vessel tensed its shoulders and focused, sealing all the cuts, nicks, and cracks in its carapace.

There were too many, it noted. Its form today was subpar - was it the lack of sleep last night?

(Was it the traitorous wandering of its thoughts, back to the small vessel and what was to happen to them?)

All the injuries now gone, its Soul reservoirs full, it came back into the arena and stood at attention, hand over the hilt of its nail. Isma gave it a long, calculating look; has she, too, noticed its lacklustre performance? Her eyes sought out its, as if she was trying to piece something together from its body language, as if she was trying to look into its Void and understand it better - for neither she, nor any other Knight could possibly hope to understand exactly how the Pure Vessel worked. Its Creator had told them all many times over that they need not understand; that they need just command it, any other method of speech useless in talking to an automaton.

His words did nothing to stop her - and others - from trying to find life where there was none. Even now, as she came closer and looked it over with a worried frown, her eyes were searching every inch of it for a sign of its failure. For an indication that it was more than another of its King's mindless, perfected inventions.

Her scrutiny was distinctly uncomfortable; its carapace prickled slightly under her gaze, the Void inside squirming as if trying to curl into itself.

When she spoke, her voice was just as warm and comforting as always. It knew not why she'd use this tone while talking to a thing unfeeling, unthinking.

It was not its place to know.

"We're done for today. You are dismissed."

With the command given, she stepped out of the arena, meeting up with Ogrim at the far left entrance to the room. Just before it left the room, it heard her utter a "they seem tired today, why not them rest up a bit more" to Ogrim, the beetle sighing in response.

Even now, she was still intent on calling it a them.

It did not understand why.

Neither did it understand why did she cut its training short.

It was not its place to understand.

The voices of the Royal Retainers followed it as it made its way back to its room. Almost all of them were talking about the unknown bug taken to the Palace the cycle prior; all of their conversations wild speculations as to the identity of said bug or their relationship to the King.

Their words stuck to it, leaving behind a distinct impression of dirtiness. As it rounded a corner leading to its room, it stuffed down an exhale stronger than its usual ones, noticing that the corridor was empty.

Maybe not empty, it corrected itself, as it heard scuttering of small legs somewhere ahead. It tensed, before noticing a small figure in red; the figure stilling in place for a brief moment, before dashing across the corridor and clinging to its leg, hiding beneath its cloak.

It stifled out the warm feeling enveloping its chest as the small spiderling hugged its leg tight and shushed it - as if it was able to speak to give away her location.

An agitated retainer rounded the corner in front of the vessel, looking around wildly. He cursed under his breath, muttering to himself threats of "telling the King she'd run off again" mixed with exasperated "I can't do this shit anymore"s.

As he walked past it and into the more lively quarters of the Palace, the Gendered Child came out from her hiding place, standing in front of the Pure Vessel and crossing her arms. Her chelicerae clicked together, her mask giving off an impression of pouting.

"Stupid retainers with their stupid teachings," she complained, looking at it. It did not react.

She tugged on its cloak.

"Hollow," she scowled, gradually tugging with more force, "take me to your room. I need to hide, I don't need to learn about stupid economics of civilizations of old."

It kneeled in front of her, scooping her entire form into one hand and carefully settling her against its armour, just below the pauldrons, hidden underneath its cloak. She let out a happy squeal, squirming around in its hand to get comfortable.

She'd called it that since she was tiny; its full titles boring her, its unresponsiveness not deterring her from treating it like a living person.

It was not a living person.

It did not need a way to address it other than the Pure Vessel.

She was told as such by its King time and time again, explicitly forbidden from giving it a name; yet even as she grew up enough to understand that it was a thing unable to give her what she wanted she still insisted on treating it like a sibling, her persistency rivalling any other bug it's ever come into contact with.

(Making it feel oddly fuzzy and mellow each time she'd interact with it like she would with someone of her family.)

It let her down once it reached the destination, placing her gently onto the bed, turning around to store its nail into the weapon rack it had in its room.

She followed the nail with an awed expression, mouth slightly agape. She wriggled on the bed and then jumped down to come close, her hands tracing the sigils etched into the fine ore the nail was made of. It felt a pang of fear run through it as her hands came dangerously close to the sharp edge.

It had standing orders to protect the Gendered Child from harm.

It reached out with one hand, gently taking both of hers into it and leading them away from the nail. She gave it a look of annoyance, but let it coax her away from the weapon.

"I'm not a child anymore, Hollow," she sulked, "I know it's sharp, I wouldn't hurt myself."

It did not react, save for taking its hand away and putting it under its cloak again as it settled into sitting in front of the spiderling to better meet her gaze.

She stared at it for a few more seconds, before abandoning the expression and coming closer to climb into its lap.

"You know, I got my first needle recently!" she exclaimed gleefully, leaning on its thorax, "I would love to show it to you, but Mother took it away. She says, I can't have it when I have lessons with the retainers here, but that's unfair! I don't need the stuff they try to teach me, I wanna train how to fight to protect the kingdom and be a Knight like you are!"

Displeasure slipped into her voice again as she fidgeted with its cloak, hissing under her breath. It let her, absorbing what she said with its usual numb acceptance. Had it a mind to think, it would've wondered why would she want to be like it.

She was so much better off being like herself.

"Can you teach me how to do that dash and lunge move?" she imitated a lunging motion, nearly toppling over and falling down from its lap. On instinct, it held her with its hand, helping her regain her balance. She looked up at it, mustering an expression of unbearable sadness.

"Pleeeease, Hollow," she whined.

It did not react. It could not teach her - for how could a mindless thing be able to instruct someone how to properly use combat moves? How to properly shift the weight, as to keep the balance and strike with all the strength possible; how to react to the environment, to the moves of the opponent; how to fall back into a neutral stance, ready for whatever it would be to come next?

(How could a mindless thing be able to know those things itself in the first place?)

It did not react, yet it felt its chest tighten as she looked down and sniffed.

(It didn't want her to be sad.)

She stayed silent and sulking for all of a full minute, springing back to her feet and grinning right after. She scrambled to her feet and met its gaze with eyes full of mischief. Her chelicerae clicked together as she set to climbing its left side, coming around to its back to avoid the pauldrons on its shoulders. She perched herself on its left shoulder, her mask bumping against the lower side of its with a happy giggle.

It fought to extinguish the warm sensation that washed over it at her nuzzling.

She squirmed closer to its neck, throwing one hand over it and settling down; making herself as small as possible.

She still fit in between its mask and its shoulder.

It did not react to her movements.

(Even though everything in it screamed to nuzzle her back.)

She calmed, content. Her breaths fluttered against the underside of its mask, slightly ticklish. It couldn't tell if she'd fallen asleep, like she had so many times in the past, or if she fell into deep thought.

It knew not how long she'd stayed like this; rousing when footsteps approached rapidly from outside. Then, she let out a startled squeak and fumbled to climb down and stand near its arm, where a cloak fold allowed for hiding.

The door opened and greeted it with the sight of Herrah the Beast; upper set of arms at her sides, looking at it with suspicion, eyes slightly narrowed. It returned the gaze, waiting for an order - for she surely had one to give it with the way she scanned its form.

The Gendered Child tugged at its cloak ever so slightly, but the movement was more than enough for Herrah to notice.

"Gendered Child," she began, her voice low and heavy, "what have I told you about biting the retainers assigned to teach you while at the Palace?"

The spiderling buried deeper into its arm, as if trying to hide.

"Don't hide behind the Pure Vessel, child," Herrah reprimanded, lowering herself until her mask was level with its, now talking to it, "Vessel. Spread your arms out."

It obeyed, the cloak spreading out with its arms until the Gendered Child did not have the space to hide. She shot it a look of deepest betrayal and scowled.

"I thought bigger siblings were supposed to help cover for the smaller ones, Hollow," she complained, pulling away from it and looking at Herrah, head lowered down, posture defiant.

It had been given an order. It was not to disobey. What she wanted it to be was more than it ever could.

"You told me not to bite the retainers because I don't want to study what they try to teach me," she recited, a quiet mumble accompanied by a hiss, "but why do I even need those pointless lessons? I have to learn how to use a needle. Didn't you give me one, Mother?"

Herrah's gaze softened and she let out a chuckle.

"You need both, Child, and here and now is not yet the place for you to learn combat," she coaxed gently. The spiderling made a face at her, shoulders hunched, hands fiddling with her cloak.

The Beast gently patted in between the Gendered Child's horns, leaving one of her hands there and looking at it again.

"However much I would've loved to ask you as to the Wyrm's whereabouts, you won't answer, would you," she sighed.

It did not react. It could not answer in any way; it had no voice to do so, no mind to comprehend the question, nor the information required to respond.

Herrah, too, liked to refer to it as if it was a person, scrutinising it right after, looking for something that simply wasn't there.

Her scrutiny was far worse than Isma's. Its Void wriggled under her gaze, but outwardly it remained as motionless and idle as ever.

It did not react, for it could not react to anything other than a direct order or a direct threat to its shell's integrity.

She mulled her next words over, clicking her fangs together a number of times, before coming to a satisfactory phrasing.

"Vessel. Follow me as I look for the King."

It obeyed, standing up and taking its nail from the rack, fastening the weapon to its back. Herrah glanced at it as it stilled behind her and to the right, standing at attention, ready to move after her. Her expression looked vaguely like one of disgust.

It did not contemplate the reason for such an expression.

It did not have a mind to do so.

Chapter Text

When they'd finally found its King, it was well past mid-cycle.

Herrah had traversed nearly the entirety of the Palace, starting from its room, going through the gardens into the dining area and the kitchens and from there into the more secluded training wing; she'd growled, low and quiet, almost the whole way, her body language betraying frustration.

It had stayed by her right, adjusting the length of its steps to better match her speed and stature.

The steps had to be nearly twice as broad as usual.

The Gendered Child had expressed a desire to be perched between its horns at one point. Herrah had denied her, the little spiderling's pouting doing nothing to change the decision.

(It ignored the twinge of disappointment that rose forth at Herrah's refusal.)

It stilled behind Herrah, looking at its Creator, waiting for Him to order it to follow Him. His orders were of utmost value; however, He paid it little to no mind, bristling at the Beast as she hissed at Him.

"Where have you been, Wyrm?" she snapped, following up before He had a chance to respond, "My time is limited and I will not have you disrespect it like this."

"There were more important things to be done, Herrah," He answered, voice cold and stiff, "We-"

"Does it have to do with your mysterious Pure Vessel lookalike appearing at the Temple?" the Beast cut off, not letting Him finish the thought. She was the only one brave and ill-mannered enough to do so. It found itself tensing as the Kingslight gave a warning flare.

"This does not concern you in any way, Beast," He hissed back, mandibles grinding together. The glow settled to a nigh-unbearable brightness.

"Oh, it does concern me in every way ," she scoffed, recoiling from the Kingslight the slightest bit, "you told us that your Pure Vessel was the only one, and now there's another one appearing- at the Temple no less? Have you lied about other parts of the plan too, then?"

Its King's wings fluttered on His back, His posture straightened to the utmost limit of His height.

He still had to look up at the Beast.

"Be careful with your accusations, Herrah," He snarled, narrowing His eyes to two thin lines.

The threat made her bristle and step back, still not breaking eye contact.

"We were preparing a solution to this unfortunate situation, and had you not interrupted Us, maybe We would already have the answers desired."

"Your solution better not be disposing of them and covering it all up, Wyrm," the Beast growled, holding the Gendered Child close. The spiderling looked genuinely terrified, eyes darting between her mother, its King and it.

She was not in danger. Its orders did not apply to a situation like this.

It stayed still.

Its Creator let out a sigh - a sharp, shrill sound of air escaping through his mandibles - before He spoke again.

"No, it is not. You will know details required at due time, Herrah. We will not be able to attend our planned meeting today - relay your decision about this unfortunate fact to one of Our retainers," His last sentence a direct dismissal that made the Beast huff in anger. After a few long seconds she looked Him over with that same disgusted look she gave it before and turned around to leave. It moved after her, stopping only at its King's command.

"Vessel. Stay."

It stilled, watching Him, waiting for His next decision. Herrah stopped near the corner leading out of the room they were in. She cocked her head slightly to one side, cradling the Gendered Child close.

"Don't you dare lie about any of this, Wyrm. The integrity of your plan - and, by extension, our deal - is at stake."

The threat earned another low hiss from its Creator as He watched her disappear around the corner.

He took a deep breath, dimming His light and looking at it.

"Vessel. Follow me and stay by the door of the infirmary once there," He ordered it.

It obeyed.

As it walked beside its King, all of its being was focused on His words.

He would not discard the vessel.

(He would not kill its sibling.)

---

The cards burned his hands.

The corridors were closing in on him, suffocating in their pristine whites and greys as he marched through them, the Pure Vessel by his side.

Its gaze burned, too. His shell crawled all over, his robe feeling too tight all of a sudden, the click-clack of steps his and its feeling faraway and muffled.

He hadn't used his foresight, as Grimm had indirectly advised - he simply had no time to do so, waking up well past the time he had to meet up with Herrah and setting out to find her.

Her words stuck to him, echoing in his head, mocking him. For wasn't she right to accuse him of an idea to get rid of the small vessel and act like nothing ever happened? Wouldn't it be a lie if he said he hadn't thought about that, even for a brief moment?

Wouldn't it be a lie to say he never hid from his problems?

Grimm had told him as much, too.

The medical wing came into view way too early. He wasn't prepared to go in yet, wasn't prepared to face the small vessel, to treat it like a person, to talk to it.

Heed their words and accept their feelings.

He shuffled the cards under his robe absent-mindedly, opening the door with his second set of arms. The Pure Vessel followed inside, stilling by the door.

Looking at the small vessel.

The small vessel sat on the bed, looking intently at him this time. The crack in its mask no longer bled Void and he noticed small fragments of something that looked suspiciously like an inkwell laying around it.

Did it want to communicate? To write, to draw? It had something important to say - important enough to get over its distrust in him, over its contempt of him.

He was here to listen.

He sat down, laying the cards out on the floor, and motioned for the vessel to come down.

It jumped off the bed and sat in front of him, gaze flicking between him and the cards.

Slowly, it settled its eyes on the cards alone and shuffled through them, taking its time to look at each one. He sat in silence, everything in him screaming that this was wrong, wrong, wrong for all the reasons he couldn't think of right now.

He had a job to do.

"Vessel," he called. Behind him, he heard fabric brush over the floor, ever so faint. He looked back and found the Pure Vessel staring at him.

That wouldn't do. His questions and orders were to be given to the small vessel only. The Pure Vessel could not answer questions like those he was about to ask anyway.

His first question died on his tongue as he looked calculatingly at the small vessel. It returned the gaze, cocking its head to the side, giving off an impression of narrowed eyes.

How did it manage to do so with no facial features - he had no idea.

He mulled over his next words, the question he was about to ask making him nauseous for how wrong wrong wrong it was.

"Do you have a name?"

He could've formulated that any other way, couldn't he? He pressed his inner eyelids together for a brief moment, trying to not let the vessel see his uncertainty.

It seemed to fall into deep thought. It looked itself over, then turned to search through the cards. After looking through a good dozen it finally held up the one which read "Write".

It motioned between that and itself with its free hand.

He frowned. Of course, it was not like those cards had enough words to convey a name with them. He was afraid there weren't enough words for the vessel to communicate the answers to his main questions in the first place.

Which was why he'd taken the ink and quill with him when leaving his chambers.

He searched those items out in his robes and set them carefully on the ground near the vessel. Its eyes darted between the writing supplies and him once again. It slowly reached for the quill.

Before setting to work, it put away the "Write" card and took the one which read "I". After turning it on its blank side, the small vessel took to drawing.

(Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

So he was right that it couldn't write - he was lucky it could read and he didn't have to teach it the letters comprising the words which he'd prepared.

Its drawing was sloppy, almost childlike. After it deemed its efforts sufficient, it swept the card over to where he could see it.

It had drawn something resembling its own form, filling the entire thing with a layer of ink, leaving just the eyes intact. It looked distinctly like a shade, but the answer wasn't "Shade" - there was a card with that word and the vessel didn't pick it out as a response.

Something close, then?

"Shadow?" he tried, the closest thing to "Shade" which could be seen as a name.

(Him guessing the vessel's name, being willing to give it that sense of individuality made bile rise up his throat.

Had they all been like this? Had they all wanted to have a name, a personality? Had they all wanted to live?

Wrong, wrong , wrong-)

The vessel froze, its- their- entire form tensing. It- they, they, they were not a thing- looked him dead in the eye, shaking minutely, the Void inside its- their- mask thrashing furiously. After taking a deep breath, the vessel shook its- their- head with such force he was surprised that the vessel didn't fall over with the motion.

Not "Shadow", then. Something about this has also distressed the vessel, he noted - the creature still trembled, the Void inside the eyesockets of the pale mask still uneasy.

What else did this drawing resemble?

The vessel showed him another card. That one read "Die".

Dead, then? It still couldn't be "Shade", he thought to himself - the vessel clearly able to read and find creative uses for the cards he'd hastily thrown together wouldn't just ignore that card if that was the case. What was dead and looked vaguely like a vessel?

The creature fumbled around with the cards some more. It- they- laid out two cards this time.

"Leave" and "Behind".

He blinked. Something that the dead left behind?

"A spectre?" he attempted to guess again, purposefully keeping himself from glancing back at the Pure Vessel. He could've sworn he'd heard some ever-so-faint rustling, but that could've been himself squirming around on the floor.

The small vessel looked at him and motioned with both paws, stretching them out and drawing small circles from it- them- to him.

So he was on the right track, but this was not the word?

"A ghost?" he tried again.

The vessel nodded.

His head spun.

(A fitting name for the vessel, coming back to haunt him for his sins.

No going back now. No more excuses for himself.

No more hiding from those bright white eyes that are burned into his nightmares since the day of the Pure Vessel's ascension.

Wrong, wrong, wrong- )

He surfaced from his thoughts, not letting them take him down into the undercurrent that his mind was threatening to become.

He had a job to do.

All the scarce preparations he'd managed to make were for naught as he found himself staring at the vessel- at Ghost- gasping for air each time he tried to speak. All the questions he'd meant to ask floating around in his mind, torn and lost as he tried to grasp at them, fading away once he'd managed to almost make out one.

Focus.

"Ghost. How did you escape the Abyss?"

He certainly didn't need other vessels escaping and finding their ways back to haunt him.

(He deserved it.)

Ghost looked at the cards again, picking out the one with "Memory" written on it. It- they- pushed it slightly in his direction, making a "no" motion.

"You don't remember?" he inquired, not letting the disappointment of this answer reach the surface. Ghost nodded, glancing at the Pure Vessel.

He'd meant to ask Ghost what was the deal with the Pure Vessel. He found himself stopped dead in his tracks, unable to will his voice to work, to form the words he needed.

(He didn't want to know.

He had to know.

He already knew.)

That could wait for after the other questions.

(Hiding, hiding, always hiding from his problems.)

He sighed, the next question forming with relative ease.

"How did you get infected?" he asked, his voice but a quivering caricature of his usual cold, stern sureness.

Ghost shivered, picking out the next card.

"Light", it read.

He noticed how the vessel chose not to use the "Dream" card. He wanted so badly to overlook it, but he couldn't - not with how Ghost had shown that it- they- chose the cards very precisely and deliberately .

While he pondered, Ghost had slid another card to him, the one with "Soul" on it. He looked at the vessel in confusion.

A cold trickle ran down his spine when Ghost hunched its- their- shoulders, imitating focusing.

That was the way he'd designed for the Pure Vessel to take in the Old Light.

How did Ghost know? How did this vessel manage to do such a thing and still be alive to tell the tale? Did Ghost know of the Pure Vessel's purpose, did it- they remember the words he'd said so long ago, looking down at the small white shells trying and failing to ascend to him?

The contents of their nightmare unusual enough to warrant my venture to you.         

Ghost knew more than any vessel - save for the Pure one - was supposed to know. Ghost had just told him that they'd taken in the Old Light and survived, and were uninfected-         

He remembered what Ghost told him the last time he'd interrogated it- them.

The small vessel's shade broke out of its shell.

The world around him wavered ever so slightly. He shook his head vigorously, willing the panic away - he still had questions to ask, he had to know.         

"How did your shell break?" he asked, unable to stop his voice from faltering. Ghost didn't look much better, he noted, shaking as it- (they, they, Ghost was not pure and suffered for it at the hands of the Old Light-) jumbled the cards again, the vessel's hands nearly unsteady enough to drop the cards as Ghost held them out for him to see.

"Light" and "Break".

He hissed, not able to suppress a shudder.

She'd broken the vessel, and done so thoroughly, judging by the scars on Ghost's shell and mask.

(He already knew an impure vessel would suffer this fate.

He had no reason to be scared, for his vessel was perfect and thus suited for the task better than the vessel in front of him.

Accept the failure you've denied for just about too long, Grimm's words echoed in his mind.)

Ghost was looking at the Pure Vessel again. He didn't turn around to check.

(He didn't want to look at the Pure Vessel.)

There was the question of how, still. No one had seen the vessel going into the Temple, somehow taking in the Old Light, breaking under the strain and then rising back from the strange state of undeath that vessels fell into upon their shells breaking.

"How did you get into the Temple?"

He didn't like how he sounded - however much he struggled, the words came out as strangled half-hisses as he fought to keep his voice from breaking.

("What are you afraid of," his mind mocked him, "isn't your plan the salvation, your foresight infallible?")

Ghost's shoulders slumped as the small vessel slid two cards to him, keeping them on the floor - with how Ghost's hands shook, he wasn't surprised at the choice.

"Break" and "Seal".

He stared at the words in disbelief.

There were no seals to break on the Temple.

(There will be.)

A nagging thought, an idea, a realisation awaiting to form swirled in his mind.

He stuffed it down.

"Why did you enter the Temple?" he settled on asking, the inquiry slightly different. He'd expected Ghost to search out the "Light" card to add to the "Seal" one already out, or possibly make some other combination alluding to the ultimate purpose of all the vessels he'd created.

To seal the burning light that plagues their dreams, as he had said so long ago at the peak of the Abyss.

To his surprise, the vessel took a long time thinking, searching through the cards. Ghost's hands shook to the point of being unable to move the cards around properly, its- their- breathing ragged and shallow. The small vessel laid out a dozen cards, not sliding any towards him, glancing between them. The cards did not make any sense together - Ghost had picked out all of the longest words and a few of the shorter ones, but made no effort to piece them together in an approximation of a sentence, as it- they- had done prior. Instead, Ghost reached for the quill again, dipping it into the inkwell. The vessel turned one of the cards over to the blank side and set to scribbling, glimpsing at all the other cards every so often.

When Ghost was finished and turned two cards upside down for him to see, he'd already started becoming restless.

One of the cards read "Find". The other, however, didn't have a drawing on it.

The vessel had parsed together the letters which formed the other words and had written their own.

"Find" and "Sibling", the latter written in a messy script, each letter a different size, some of them nearly indiscernible.

He looked at Ghost in disbelief, refusing to take in what it- they- had just done. He distantly felt his own shell click together as his entire body shook, distantly felt a pang of pain where he'd ground his claws into his abdomen.

Ghost returned his gaze and set to scribbling on another card, its- their- hands still shaking violently, their posture screaming of determination, leaving him to the whirlwind his thoughts have become.

This was impossible. There was no one in the Temple, save for the workers and sentries from the Silver City - there was no one Ghost could possibly look to find. Did the Old Light lure the vessel in, showing it- them- dreams of a sibling inside the Temple, needing to be found?

There was no sibling for Ghost to find in the Temple.

(There would be.)

This time, Ghost slid the cards to him slowly, one by one, as if fighting to move, gaze averted - not even looking at the Pure Vessel, which still stood at attention behind him.

"Void".

"Time".

"Here".

"Now".

"Infection".

The last card did not contain a word, but a drawing. A drawing made with rough strokes, with blots of spilled ink and botched lines where Ghost's hand shook too much for the vessel to still.

A drawing which was still recognizable, still as clear as could be as to what Ghost tried to depict.

A drawing of the Pure Vessel's form, head hung low, chains connected to its shoulders and woven around its body.

He met Ghost's gaze for all of a fraction of a second before he heard tapping.

The vessel pushed forth the "Infection" card and the drawing, tapping at the word furiously.

No.

He jerked back, turning to look at the Pure Vessel in shock. It stood as still as ever near the door, hands folded over the hilt of its nail. Yet at his sudden movement the Void inside its eyes seemed to twist and recoil, swirling rapidly after.

No.

(Yes.)

He had to confirm. He couldn't trust the vessel this easily.

(Could it- they- had constructed such a thing? Even he didn't know all of the Void's potential.

Ghost's terror was not a lie, not a mimicry.)

He didn't have time earlier, to consult his foresight at Grimm's bidding.

(He had been too afraid to do so.)

He had no way to back out now.

As he let his inner gaze wander far, far into the future, he saw the exact reenactment of the small vessel's drawing, yet the terror that gripped him was far greater. This felt too real. The glowing orange eyes of the Pure Vessel following him, the mixture of Void and infection seeping through the crack in its mask, forming globs that streamed down its face in a mockery of tears; the pustules on its form pulsing, throbbing with the heartbeat that filled his ears; the sound of chains digging into its body as it convulsed in its bindings; the sound of its ragged, torn-through breathing; the faint whispering of the Seal of Binding that flared to life over its mask sending his entire being into a state of panic.

He pushed further, unwilling to let his fear stop him further; and, sure enough, there was the small vessel - Ghost - not even struggling, hanging limp in the chains as the infection seeped out of them and hit the ground with a splotch.

Turning his gaze outward, away from the confines of the Black Egg Temple, he saw naught more than death. Empty valleys full of vines and globs of infection, the air losing its faint musty smell it always had - replaced by the sweet odour of decay; lesser bugs turned husks, some still shambling around, others laying prone save for involuntary jerks or shivers of their limbs. Loyal sentries of the Silver City still patrolling their former quarters, the emptiness of the place not deterring them in the slightest; and down to the Ancient Basin-

The Palace was gone as if erased from existence - only the bridge to the main gates remaining, one broken Kingsmould collapsed near where the entrance would be. He noticed solid black vines connecting to it from somewhere below.

Shadows enveloped the construct, slowly slithering towards him; they hissed, ever so faintly, reaching his legs, circling higher up and wrapping around his form, bringing him down, down, down-

He tore himself away from the visions, back to his trembling body now facing the Pure Vessel, the image from his foresight fusing together with what he saw before him now (their arm was gone, replaced by a cluster of acidic cysts-), back to the awareness of being unable to draw a deep breath, to flare his Light, to do so much as move.

He heard himself speak, the sound foreign and muffled. He was looking at the scene and his own form from somewhere higher up, watching himself turn his head to face Ghost again.

"It- you- the Pure Vessel- they aren't pure?" he stuttered, struggling to find the words to encompass the depth of this fact, unsure how to refer to the vessels, trying and failing to keep his voice from fading to a whisper on the last part.

Ghost nodded. The small vessel had moved, now standing between him and the Pure Vessel, glancing between the two of them, whole body tense, one hand absent-mindedly reaching for a nail they didn't have.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed in these positions - time has ceased to matter, ceased to exist; the world faded around the corners, a thick film falling over everything else and blurring it; everything narrowed down to the fact that he'd failed, that it all was for nothing, nothing mattering but the afterimage of the Pure Vessel, broken and dying (unable to die), burned into his mind.

He was brought back by the sound of something heavy collapsing onto the floor.

He watched in mute horror as the Pure Vessel fell to its- (their, their, they were not pure-) knees, their arms outstretched palms up, their nail fallen to the side, and brought their head down to the ground, baring their throat, shivering minutely.

In a position the traitors to be executed were to take before their death.

—

( Shame that we chose obsolescence,

We couldn’t see what’s in our presence)

—

Chapter Text

( Waiting for change patience expired,

Hearts rearranged, forged in the fire-

We believed we were so clever

Eternity has turned to never )

—

Ghost knew they would have to hurt their sibling again.

They knew it from the very beginning - from the moment they pushed their resolve onto the Abyssal Sea; from the moment they found themself at the Temple once again; from the moment they saw their sibling stand guard by the door of the room they were taken to.

They stuffed it down, fighting the guilt with determination; fighting the voice that screamed at them for hurting their sibling again with the knowledge that they would have to, in one way or another, if they were to save the taller vessel from Her .

They would choose to bear their sibling's hatred over bearing the sight of them at Her mercy again and again without a sliver of hesitation.

As they watched their sibling fall to their knees, surrendering their life to the Pale Light, all the logical conclusions went out the window.

Ghost stood between their sibling and the King, their arms spread out - for they had nothing to shield their sibling with, save for their own body.

Their Void sang, asking them to listen, to find safety and power in its call. Their form dissolved at the edges, small tendrils lashing under their torn cloak.

The Pale King jerked backwards, crawling across the floor to-

To get away from them?

No.

He didn't spare them a single glance, instead staring at their sibling with what could only possibly be horror; his eyes wide, his entire body shaking as he scrambled to the farthest wall as if attempting to vanish straight through it. His light was barely visible, even in the shadowed room they were all in.

They changed their position slightly so that he would have to look at them and bristled, opening their mouth and baring their fangs in an attempt to hiss.

They didn't trust him. Even as the shadows in the room whispered to them, even as they felt his fear and guilt take form, phantom black streaks on his mask (just as it would be in the future, where he'd hide in his palace, guard himself from the world and silently succumb to his regrets - coward, coward, coward) visible only to them. They hated him, for they had every reason to do so; they reveled in the sight, in their ability to inflict a fraction of pain he'd made their sibling go through; they feared him, not because of themself, but because of the vessel behind them and the power he held over them.

After what felt like an eternity, but in truth was likely no more than a few seconds, he moved.

Ghost tensed, the tendrils extending from their body to shield the taller vessel which still laid unmoving save for the trembling wracking their body.

He extended all of his sets of arms (gosh, they could've never guessed how many he had), setting himself upright on his knees and bowing his head to look at them. He visibly fought his voice, inhaling and exhaling deeply and shakily before speaking.

"Ghost-" he started, his voice cracking after he'd said their name, "I will not harm you or- or them," he managed to croak, the shadows around him coalescing as if waiting to strike; waiting patiently for the regret to become too much.

He didn't speak in royal anymore. He didn't look like a king anymore; didn't emit his Light anymore. All they saw before them was a crumpled being taken over by emotions never allowed to be felt, by a burden too heavy to carry.

By a truth too painful to realise.

Slowly, carefully, Ghost willed the tendrils back into their body, their Void churning unpleasantly at the action. They couldn't be the one judging his actions or deeming his punishment sufficient - they were not the one hurt most by his actions.

(Even as the Void inside of them twisted, filling them with an almost primal hunger and fury.

Even as their inner voice cried that they had to kill their sibling.)

Ghost half-turned around to face their sibling, watching the Pale King out of the corner of their eye. The larger vessel hadn't moved an inch from their position, their shaking becoming more and more unbearable; becoming reminiscent of sobs as they gasped for air.

Ghost didn't want to touch. It was their fault - even if it was for the better, they still told the King that their sibling wasn't empty, wasn't pure, wasn't what they knew they had to be to make him proud -

They looked intently at the Pale King, motioning with their hands. Another flash of terror crossed over his face as he understood what they wanted him to do.

He stood up on unsteady legs, still holding all his arms out for Ghost to see, and inched closer towards the two vessels; still letting them remain in between himself and their sibling.

Ghost's chest tightened even more, eyes traitorously stinging around the corners, at how their sibling's breaths condensed into the shallowest of gasps the closer the King came.

Your fault. Your fault. Always your fault.

"Pure Vessel," the Pale Light whispered, intangible shadows of regret drawing in closer to his form; Ghost noticed some of them writhe, filling the ambience with his hatred. For a moment, they tensed, before listening closer and hearing an almost exact replica of their own self-loathing.

Their sibling's mask snapped up in an instant, locking their eyes onto the King. For a fraction of a second Ghost could've sworn their sibling looked at them as they still stood between the two, still tense and protective.

Before they could react or even comprehend what was happening, their sibling moved , curling their claws around Ghost's body and attempting to move them out of the way.

The world faded to nothing as Ghost found themself swept up in what felt like a tidal wave of emotion not theirs; they lost their balance and stumbled forward, instinctively reaching out to their sibling's mask.

A wave of fear fear fear and shame so deep they wanted to scream enveloped them, drowning them in its intensity, mixing together with their own regret, shame, guilt-

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-

They knew not whose emotion it was - perhaps, it was both of them; perhaps, it was two lifetimes of suffering, spilling over the edge all at once.

Sibling! they cried out into the Void link, unable to move away, unable to shut off the downpour of emotion theirs and their sibling's, unable to stop distressing them further.

They wanted to wrap the word in love, in fuzziness and welcoming, in softness and acceptance - to let their sibling know they cared for them and they would never fail them again.

Instead, the fear and regret took over, pushing emotions and memories Ghost never wanted to share through the link.

A second heart pulsing beside their own Void one, radiating searing pain through their body.

Their sibling, following their movements with eyes glowing bright orange; their breathing strained, loud enough for the sound to drown out even the ever-present heartbeat .

Their sibling, crumpling down to the floor, unable to hold themself upright; infection shining bright through their cloak, which fell uneven around their shoulders.

Their sibling, screaming in pain with a voice not theirs.

Their sibling, swinging their nail at Ghost, movements stiff and abrupt like a puppet manipulated by strings.

Their sibling's entire body seizing as they fought to turn their nail the other direction-

No!

They panicked, trying to shut the link down, to not let anything more slip through, they didn't want them to see this-

The faintest flicker of an answer got to them - an image of themself, looking up at their sibling, begging silently for help as their hand slipped from the edge of the platform.

Sorry sorry sorry, echoed in the Void and they knew now that this was not just theirs, or just their sibling's - they knew it now to be the same guilt twofold, fading in and out of itself, drowning both of them in its intensity.

Sibling! Ghost tried again, focusing on their unwavering determination to save them, on their wish for their sibling to live, on how much they wanted to cup the bigger mask in their hands and will the pain away.

Shame welled in response, threatening to drown out anything Ghost might have to offer.

Sibling-loved! they sent through the link, trying to overpower the tornado of fear, guilt and shame that swirled between the two vessels; trying to replace those with an emotion no less powerful, yet so wildly different.

They were met with a wave of confusion blooming into guilt again.

Sibling-forgiven! Ghost answered, hoping to tone down the overwhelming guilt guilt guilt, trying not to lose themself in all the impure impure failure failure let them fall that flowed back through the link; trying not to let any of the pure fury they felt at those emotions echo back to their sibling.

Sibling-alive, they settled for, showing all of the warmth and the overwhelming relief and hope they felt at this thought. All the happiness it brought them.

The emotion came back to them, ever so faint. Ghost made a double and triple-take at that, their own bewilderment most likely seeping through. It came back again, stronger now; they fought to not let any of the emotions they felt at their sibling not hating them for what they've done (and they knew now, knew what Ghost did, knew they'd killed them) get back through the link. After a second they decided to let a fraction of the emotion that they had no name for, the one that made their eyes fill with tears and their heart skip in their chest, the one that made their mind repeat over and over and over that their sibling didn't hate them-

Why would they love me? Why would I ever hate them? beat inside the Void from both of them like a bird struggling to break free from its cage; the answers of overwhelming, undemanding, unconditional love love love fluttering inside, brushing over Ghost's mask. They embraced it, letting it drown out any doubts they still had; if not for their own sake, then for the sake of their sibling. They hoped their response was strong enough to scare away the guilt and shame, to shield their sibling from the world that was too cruel to them; hoped it felt soft and warm and velvety with specks of red like the love Ghost once knew.

As the storm calmed down enough for them to become aware of the world again, Ghost sent one final sibling-loved and carefully closed the link, though still listening should their sibling choose to reach out again.

Ghost wanted to let them have the choice.

They found themself pressed to their sibling's form, both hands thrown over their neck, body against their shoulder, hidden under their mask. They wanted to recoil, to step out of their personal space - surely they shouldn't stay, just like they shouldn't pry into the taller vessel's mind further.

They found themself unable to move, held fast by a hand big enough to cover their entire body.

Ghost wiggled, experimentally, noting that their sibling still shook, still gasped for air though not as desperately as before. They were also more upright - they'd be sitting were they not curled over Ghost. Their hand held still, not letting go.

Did they want this?

The link was silent. Ghost probed at it gently, getting no willful answer; only the remnants of the storm of emotion their sibling was still trapped in. They didn't let themself get swept in again, drawing back. It was not their place.

They had no sure way of knowing if they were welcome - for all they knew their sibling was just frozen in place, unable to reject them. However, when they loosened their grasp on the taller vessel's neck, they felt the shivering redouble and breath catch in their sibling's throat.

They couldn't really make it worse after all they'd already done, could they?

Ghost dug their mask into their sibling's shoulder and gently caressed what parts of them they could reach. They were afraid to make assumptions, but they felt as if their sibling's shaking slightly abated, as if their claws grasped at Ghost and ever-so-faintly pressed the smaller vessel against their body.

They couldn't stop the shivering as they curled up small, as small as possible, hidden away between their sibling's hand, mask and shoulder.

They couldn't stop the whimpering from surfacing as they held on tight, fearing that any moment, their sibling would disappear and they'll be left all alone once more.

They couldn't stop the sibling-missed from slipping through the Void link as they lost control over the longing they now realised they'd felt for their entire life.

Their tears finally fell as they heard a faint repetition of their sentiment on the other end of the link.

---

He ran.

Cowardly and childish, running and hiding from his problems as he'd done so often before.

He didn't make it far, slumping against a wall just outside the room the Vessels were still in.

His claws shook as he looked at them, the upper two sets stained black; the proof of his sins forever marking him.

What had he done?..

His uppermost set of arms crawled with a faint sensation of tremors against them; an image of the Pure Vessel, laying prone and bound tight to the workshop table as he etched countless lines into their shell, only ever stopping to order them to heal surfacing at the feeling.

They felt it, they felt every moment of it and had been too scared to react, too scared he'd throw them back, kill them for being able to feel pain-

He doubled over and retched, nothing coming up. He grasped at his shell with his lower sets of arms, fighting against the urge to tear himself apart. The world faded in and out of itself, spun as he tried to focus on something, anything but the realisation of what he'd done-

Part of him wished to break the sigils, to heal the spellwork over; he knew he could not do so, knew that even if he could it'd mean nothing in the face of what they had to endure.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the sight of them kneeling low and trembling violently all over; how with the truth of their impurity laid bare their first instinct was to let him kill them. To let him dispose of them, as he did with any other faulty automaton; yet unable to hide their fear anymore, finally reaching their breaking point. How even anticipating their end they still thought not of themself, trying to get Ghost- their sibling out of harm's way.

Their sibling.

His child.

They were all children, his children-

Were they all scared like the two vessels that yet lived? Scared of falling, scared of dying, scared for their clutchmates? What would they be like, had he not been cruel enough to kill them before they could even live?

He wanted to vomit, yet he couldn't. He wanted to cry, yet no tears fell. He wanted to scream, to tear into himself; wanted to let the little shades from the Abyss come and take him, for he would not resist - for he deserved it.

Were it not for Ghost, would he have gone through with the plan?

Were it not for Ghost, would it be the Radiance who'd look upon the Pure Vessel's broken, shaking form silently begging for mercy and an end all in one?

(Would she feel delight by making his child suffer for his sins? Would she triumph as Hallownest would fall, as the shadows would come to take him?)

Yes.

Yes, it would.

(Yes, she would.)

A sudden realisation dawned on him, making him gasp desperately for air and try to curl further into himself; try to dig his claws even deeper than they already were, searching out the soft flesh in between his hard plating.

Ghost took the Hollow Knight's place.

Ghost had to kill their sibling (to put them out of their agony) and hold the Radiance for an unknown amount of time before breaking too.

Ghost went through the suffering he couldn't even imagine - all because of him - and yet they chose to warn him, to tell their story; their resolve to protect the Pure Vessel stronger than her and his lights both.

A pang of pain somewhere around his midsection did nothing to stop the onslaught of memories.

Ghost, mask cracked in two, their entire body a mess of boils and scars, tensing - angry - at him ordering the Pure Vessel.

Ghost, shivering at his prodding about their experience with the infection, staring intently at the Pure Vessel as if afraid their sibling would disappear if they turned their gaze away.

Ghost, hands barely able to hold still, drawing an image of their sibling's suffering - of the first and last time they'd seen the Hollow Knight, yet the picture evidently burnt into their mind forevermore.

Ghost, shielding their sibling with their own body with no nail or spell to defend themself; getting over their distrust and contempt to let him come closer, for it was what they believed to be the right thing to do for the Pure Vessel.

What has he done to both of them? What has Ghost suffered through, how could they still be selfless and brave enough to keep going, keep fighting?

He would've given up a thousand times over were he in Ghost's place. Would've let his regret and pain fester, let them slowly overtake him and drag him to a place where he would be no more.

They were his children; he'd subjected one to a lifetime of fear and pain at his own hands, and the other to murdering their sibling and suffering in their stead.

(Was this what haunted Ghost in their nightmares? The helplessness, loneliness, guilt? The tall, elegant mask with three-pronged horns, cracked open, infection oozing out?)

What had he done to them?

They were both pure in so many more ways than he'd created them for; their selflessness, love and life so much more than empty automatons he wanted them to be.

How could he ignore it for so long?

Visages from the future he'd just seen broke through the fog he found himself in. His own shell burned with the feeling of filth at the images of the vessels, restrained tightly by chain and spell; given no voice to scream with, given no outlet to cry out their pain; only an eternity of being outlets for her rage.

Their arm was gone, their entire front and side eroded-

Their mask was cracked down the middle, deep scars like tear trails persisting through time itself-

He wanted to leave; wanted to hide; wanted to bury himself in his workshop, the table and the research on the Vessels and the Sealing permanent reminders of who he was and what he had done to them; wanted to work on something, to occupy himself with anything until he wouldn't be able to feel or think anymore.

Slowly, carefully, he stood up and sneaked to the door, peering inside.

An undignified whimper accompanied the sharp pain that tore through his heart at the sight of the Pure Vessel, curled over Ghost protectively; still shaking and gasping for air as Void gathered in the corners of their eyes and slowly slid down their mask; holding their sibling close, hiding them from the world beneath their mask, their cloak no longer pale silver, stained with Ghost's tears.

They had someone to comfort them, something he'll never be able to do.

Not after what he'd subjected them both to.

(Did those scars still burn?

Would they ever not?

Would the painful memories ease with the presence of the Pure Vessel, alive and unbroken?)

His breath caught in his throat. He'd never loved the Pure Vessel (lies, lies, lies- he loved them and he still tortured them, body and mind alike broken to pieces-); he'd never loved any of the vessels he discarded and left to rot behind closed doors (lies, lies- he'd discarded Ghost too, yet Ghost came back to fix everything; yet Ghost never gave up) ; and still the pain was raw and scorching, the guilt overwhelming and smothering.

How did Ghost feel?

He'd hurt the Pure Vessel willingly; they had no choice but to do so.

He couldn't- wouldn't- imagine the pain of putting a loved one to rest from a lifetime of suffering; of freeing them from a duty that brought endless agony, only to take their place.

He ripped himself away from his thoughts once again, looking at the vessels, focusing on them in the here and now. Focusing on how they both trembled; on how Ghost nuzzled their mask into the Pure Vessel's shoulder, burying themselves into it as if fearing the Pure Vessel would disappear any second; on how the larger vessel's claws held their sibling tight and secure, yet gently, as if afraid to break them.

The siblings didn't notice him. He crept out the doorway even slower than he came inside, leaving them to their feelings.

It was not his place to interrupt their moment.

(He was relieved he didn't have to face them.

He could hide from the world once again.

Coward, coward, coward.)

---

It was getting later into the cycle.

The traitor mantises had ceased their attack after suffering significant losses - many of those at her own hand.

Dryya never quite liked the state she would be in anytime someone dared endanger her Queen. She'd long since learned to overcome the emotion, to not let it sway her blade or cloud her judgement; long since fought to repress the forbidden affection she held for the White Lady.

The White Lady leaving the White Palace - for good, she'd said, not able to bear the guilt at her part of the Vessel plan - and, thus, taking her personal Knight with her, did not help. The sight of her Queen, caught in both missing the Wyrm and loathing him; in longing to return and pretend, pretend like he did , but forbidding herself to do so, was nigh-unbearable to witness.

And then, there were the mantises.

Traitorous lot, who'd thrown away everything they had for strength; forsaken their kin (and she knew well just how much this meant to the Mantis Tribe), surrendering their minds and bodies to her .

They were still no match for her and for the sentries that were stationed here.

Dryya's keen eyes searched the surroundings, looking for signs of an incoming attack or an ambush. She found nothing; she did not let herself relax at this realisation.

A sentry intercepted her as she was walking back to the cocoon her Queen had embedded herself in, repositioning to check the alcove high above in the overgrown vines.

She held the sentry's gaze, expectant.

"The White Lady wishes to speak to you, Fierce Dryya," the sentry reported, standing at attention, voice almost mechanical; raspy and rough from the long unuse.

They didn't have much to speak of here, after all.

She nodded curtly, changing her direction to duck through the opening in the cocoon instead.

She was greeted with a sight she considered most beautiful - a tall figure made almost entirely out of long, elegant vines; eyes, blue like the sky on a cloudless day, shining ever so softly, hypnotising. She noticed the sorrowful expression that the Lady held since what seemed like forever had abated slightly. Was she going crazy, or did the Queen's eyes flicker slightly as if with hope?

The vines slithered across the ground and the opening in the wall she came from, closing it off.

This was a private matter, then.

Dryya bowed deeply, her horns almost grazing the floor. She held the position before uncurling gracefully, now standing at attention; ready to hear what she was called here for.

"Fierce Dryya," the White Lady began, her voice little more than a rustle of the leaves, a whisper of the wind, "long it is since I've left the Palace; yet my roots still remain, listening closely to the happenings of this world.

I do not know nearly enough as to what came to pass; I know only that the world's balance had been upturned, a great power awakened. I know only that my roots relayed to me an appearance of another of my spawn; I know not its intention or how did it manage to live. I know only that it suffers, and that its suffering has roused something better left forgotten; something that threatens to smother my light and my Wyrm's light both.

My Knight, you are to relay this order to all the sentries stationed here: we are coming back to the Palace, for I fear the entity I'd felt; for I fear my Wyrm's stubbornness will lead to our demise; for I believe it is still not too late to salvage what we'd done."

Dryya's eyes widened slightly at the order given; she believed she'd stay here, at her Queen's side until the very end.

Whatever that end might be.

The Lady's eyes still glistened with that foreign hope; hope no one has allowed themselves to feel since the outbreak, since the horrible doubts about the Pale King's plan had gnawed their way in. Could she allow herself to feel that, too?

No, she thought to herself as she bowed again, accepting the orders and slowly forming the words with which she'd relay them to the sentries.

She did not allow herself to hope; did not allow herself to fear what was to come - for it was something her Lady, a Higher Being nigh-unkillable, was fearing.

She drowned out anything other than cold, calculated determination.

She had her orders.

Chapter Text

It had failed.

It knew this, it knew knew knew and tried so hard to conceal it, to reach the blank state it was always supposed to be, to smother its god-forsaken mind and feelings-

(It tried, it tried, it tried so hard, it was so tired-)

It did not see what the smaller vessel ( its sibling- ) said, which cards they used or what they drew with the ink that its Father King had brought with.

(It wanted to see.

It wanted Him to talk to it like He did to its sibling.)

It got all the information it needed when its Father- Creator- flinched away, eyes wide with terror and disappointment, His next words tearing it apart, burning, stinging-

They are impure.

Failure failure failure failure-

Why did He not dispose of it the second its failure was brought to light? Why did He put distance between Himself and it, as if afraid?

Was He afraid of the small vessel?

Did He deem it prudent to dispose of it, not wanting to waste time with the endeavour?

(It had tried, it had tried so hard and it still couldn't be enough, and it still disappointed Him-)

Why did its sibling shield it? They were in the way of its Father's Creator's judgement, of Him executing the traitor that it was-

(Please don't kill them, they did nothing wrong, please-

Please sibling get away, run away and save yourself-)

When He finally came near, ready to cast His judgement, He commanded it once more. 

(Why was His light so dim, why did His voice shake as if on the verge of tears?)

It did not want to look, did not want to move (do not wish) ; but all it saw from its position on the floor was its sibling, unarmed and injured, protecting it with their own body.

Why why why why-

Sibling, run, get away-

(It was afraid to look, afraid to meet those eyes narrowed in disappointment and disgust; afraid to be disposed of.)

The smaller vessel did not budge, did not run; they only stood in determined silence, defensive.

Why would they protect it when it let them die let them fall down down, down into the unending sea of broken masks?

They did not heed its silent pleading, did not heed the look it cast them for the briefest of moments; they did not move, they were still in the way, still in danger; if its Father King broke its shell, its Shade would lash out and hurt them-

It did not want to kill its sibling, it did not want them to die for its mistakes-

What was one more drop in the ocean of its impurity?

Its hand moved without its bidding; its control over itself well and truly shattered as it reached out to get its sibling out of harm's way.

The torrent of emotion that came over it at this action tore the ground from under it. It did not see Him anymore, it did not know , did it save them or did they die again because of it-

When the awareness finally came back to it, it was curled over and into itself, body contorted in a distinctly uncomfortable-  inefficient- way.

Its Father was gone.

Why did He not end it, not dispose of it? Why did He leave it behind to float aimlessly, its purpose torn away from it?

Why was it spared?

(Come back, come back, please, come back, Father-)

Its entire frame shook with silent sobs. It felt liquid coalescing in the corner of one eye; the sensation sending searing waves of shame shame shame through it.

Do not feel, do not feel, do not-

Another sensation momentarily took over its attention, as it noticed the smaller vessel ( its sibling ) releasing their death-grip on its neck. Breaking the embrace, pulling away from it-

(They hate it and that's how it should be.

Didn't they say they didn't hate it? Didn't they say they loved it, even?)

Involuntarily, it tightened its claws around their sibling's (Ghost, they had a name and it was happy for them-) body, trying to keep them from going.

(Don't leave, don't leave, please don't leave-)

As if able to hear (they were able to hear, they knew, they Saw and they Knew- failure failure failure) its plea, Ghost shifted their grip and gently, ever so gently, petted its shoulder, nuzzling their mask against its cloak.

It was unable to stop the surge of relief and love from surfacing.

It knew not how long it stayed like that, holding its sibling close, unable to stave off the overwhelming waves of softness and warmth its own and not its own that were washing over it. It knew not how long it would've stayed like that (forever, it wished it could stay like this forever, to hide them and protect them from the world ), had Ghost not stirred and pawed gently at its claws.

Fear surged through it. Had they decided they'd had enough? Had they finally understood the extent of its failure, of its impurity? Had they recognised it was its fault they'd suffered at the hands of the Old Light, for had it been pure it would've been able to hold her indefinitely?

(It was terrified of doing so, after seeing Ghost's memories.

It was terrified of how far the Pure Vessel that Ghost knew had fallen.

It was terrified of the glimpse of suffering Ghost had shared.)

Ghost wiggled their way free, dropping down to the floor but not letting go of its hand. Its claw, really, both of their hands just barely able to encircle two of its fingers. They met its gaze, the Void inside calm, almost relaxed. The Void link trembled with a sibling-loved and not-leaving Ghost pushed at it.

(They were not leaving, they would not leave it even after all it's done-)

It struggled to not let any of the relief that felt like once again knocking the ground off from under its feet seep through the link.

Maybe if it tried hard enough, there would be some use left for it.

Do not hope.

Their sibling cocked their head slightly to the side before opening the link again, carefully skirting around the edges of its mind, not prying inside.

(It was grateful for that.

They left it a place to hide.)

Ghost's mind felt sharp, jagged at the edges and torn through. It would've called the sensation uncomfortable or even painful, were it not Ghost talking to it.

For its sibling, it would endure anything it would be ordered to.

(It shuddered at the memory of blazing, scorching, rippling waves of pain surging from a heart not supposed to be there.)

It grounded itself in the sensation of Ghost's paws stroking the claw they were wrapped around, sending tingling electricity through its entire body.

Why did they comfort it?

(It didn't want them to stop.)

Ghost radiated a combination of sadness, longing and fury before communicating again.

(Were they furious with it? Would they punish it for its flaws, would they leave now?)

(don't leave don't leave don't leave-)

Sibling-loved, echoed inside the Void. Ghost seemed to collect themself before continuing, possibly thinking or preparing for what they wanted to convey.

Loved, loved, loved, they wouldn't leave, they weren't angry-

Sibling-they, Ghost pushed through the link, the not-words wrapped in softness, acceptance and sadness so deep it wanted to wail.

The realisation of exactly what Ghost had just not-said almost made it double over with a sudden sting of emotion.

It was not a they.

It never was to be.

It was not a person. Not a sibling. Not something worth referring to as if alive -

Ghost cherished the fact that it was alive.

Why, why, why, why did they care?

Why did they insist on calling it a person?

The Gendered Child did so too.

She'd even given it a name.

Ghost tugged at the link again, sending enveloping and crushing hope, longing, love, relief.

And just as much grief and pleading.

They wanted it to be alive. Ghost wanted it to betray everything it was ever supposed to be, to stretch its failure failure failure even deeper, to admit it out loud.

Had it not already been admitted out loud?

Why did they grieve for it?

For them, it would endure anything.

For them, it- they?

(It- they- had already failed their Father- King.

It- they- had already failed Ghost twice.

They would not do so again.)

They would try.

After all, what was one more drop in the ocean of their impurity?

---

They would've been content staying like that for all of eternity.

It was just them and their sibling in a dimly-lit room where no one dared to come near for quite some time.

The taller vessel (Ghost really ought to try and give them a name - they desperately needed one) hadn't really moved much from where they'd first settled, save for adjusting their position when they seemed to fall asleep.

It must've been overwhelming and exhausting, the last cycle.

(Or was it the last cycle? Was it more? Ghost's perception of time felt distorted after their time with Her.)

Just as Ghost's emotions finally began to settle into a weird mix of grief and happiness; of guilt and relief; of love and anger, their sibling let themself rest; and by this time Ghost didn’t pick up quite as much of the fear, guilt and shame - though they did hear what felt like unending confusion flowing through the link.

Wrapped in something soft, too.

They were afraid they'd break their sibling with their wish for them to accept that they were a person.

It seemed Ghost had, indeed, done so - but perhaps not in a bad way, if the confused dazzle was anything to go by.

They wanted the taller vessel to love themself just as much as Ghost loved them; but for the time being they could settle on small steps, on steady progression.

(And on loving them twice as much to even it out.)

Ghost had noticed how every time they'd move away in the slightest, break the tactile contact or sometimes so much as look away, the taller vessel would go rigid and stiff, their breathing shallow and desperate.

They hated the implications.

They hated the Pale King for what he'd done to their sibling - the contempt ever-present, bubbling underneath their shell. It grew stronger when they noticed his absence (he fled once again, leaving to drown himself in his regret; they knew he would - coward, coward) and came close to lashing out when their paws felt weird edges to the bigger vessel's carapace. 

The discovery made all their thoughts come to a grinding halt once they understood exactly what they'd just noticed.

Once they traced a pattern around their sibling's hand as they petted it; the lines coalescing into convoluted forms, all smooth and perfect, quietly thrumming with power under the touch.

Sigils. Etched directly into the hard chitin plates, reaching every crevice, stretching up to their sibling's clawtips.

The blinding fury that threatened to swallow them whole made Ghost withdraw their paws, refrain from touching, afraid they'd project the emotion over the Void link.

The way their sibling's hand twitched as if to follow after them did nothing to dissipate it - it only added a layer of sadness so overwhelming they wanted to wail over the already unpleasant emotional state Ghost was in. They fought hard to stuff all the emotion down so that they could touch again, so that they could offer comfort again.

They still did not quite understand why their presence brought their sibling comfort.

Maybe, someday, they'd get an explanation.

Focusing hard on the softness of being wanted, they squirmed closer and tucked themself under their sibling's chin as they slept, inadvertently bonking their horns against the underside of the taller vessel's mask.

Their breath seemed to catch ever so slightly at the action.

Mildly confused, Ghost repeated the motion, nuzzling their mask into the bigger vessel's one. They felt a faint rush of warmth flow through the link and their sibling curled into themself and over Ghost - an almost imperceptible movement they wouldn't have noticed had they not been searching out any clues as to whether or not they did the right thing.

It seemed so.

Ghost knew their mission was far from over. Knew their time was running out, knew they had to move and do something; knew that what they'd achieved thus far (if it were to be called an achievement at all) was nothing, was not saving their sibling - not while She still lived.

They would have to make sure that was a temporary state of things.

They made a promise to the Void, too, after all.

A promise they were eager to fulfil.

But as their horns tickled at their sibling's steady breaths blowing air over them; as they reached out to stroke a spot under their sibling's mask they knew to be sensitive and very pleasant to be stroked at ; as they wiggled closer and closer, bumping their back into the taller vessel's shoulder, feeling safe and hidden and warm , Ghost could not focus on what they had to do next no matter how hard they tried.

They wanted to stay like this forever.

They knew it to be an impossible wish, a childish desire brought forth by a reunion they'd longed for for so so long ; hidden down below, scabbed over because of the sheer impossibility of it ever coming to pass.

But, perhaps, a little bit more would be okay.

Chapter Text

They were not here.

It was early into the cycle, the time Isma and the other Knights were scheduled to spar with the Pure Vessel, to hone their combat skills for the upcoming battle.

She knew nothing of what she was supposed to prepare them for – such details were not something that the Great Knights were privy to, however high their position in Hallownest's hierarchy.

Was it five cycles, or six already? She sent retainers and then messages through the wingsmoulds for the Pale King, yet no answer came. He did not show up for all of these cycles, either; there were no orders given to them, no whispered gossip spread around the Palace by retainers.

Something was amiss, and neither she nor any of her comrades knew what. They'd gathered here each morning all the same, growing more restless and worried with each passing cycle.

There was no reason for the Pure Vessel and the King to both be missing for so much time, but if something truly did happen, there was no sign of what.

Isma had a nagging suspicion that all of it was connected to the small vessel she'd led them both to all those cycles ago.

A soft, gentle touch of claws on her shoulders took her attention back to the present. She craned her neck, turned her head and smiled at Ogrim, who seemed to have come to fetch her.

"Your smile is ever so beautiful, love," he said, voice low and comforting. It was drained of his usual booming, overflowing happiness.

"And your compliments are ever so heartwarming, dear," she answered, her smile widening, "Have you come to fetch me, so I would leave the training grounds?"

He frowned before answering.

"Yes. However much I understand your concerns - we all do, really - we both know the vessel won't come if it hasn't already. And there's nothing to be gained by standing here and musing all by yourself, Isma."

She mulled his words over in her head before she talked, for he was right - there was nothing to gain there and everyone was back at the Knights' quarters. And yet… she didn't feel quite like leaving yet, didn't feel like she'd done enough. Instead she felt like this, somehow, was partly her fault.

"They seemed unfocused the last time they were here," the words were quiet, sadness soaking through the warmth of her tone, "I fear something has happened; something big, possibly unfixable.

I dread that everything has gone wrong, just like I've always feared. No mindless thing would've been able to perfect combat to this level, would it?"

Ogrim sighed at her words, deep and resigned, and shifted his claws to embrace her instead of just holding her by the shoulders.

"You know that is not our concern. The Pure Vessel is not something we can understand, love," he whispered, though the words were shaky, as if he didn't quite believe them himself, "Now come. I can't stand this sight of you, sad and isolated. It won't come this cycle."

Isma sighed, too, her own rippling with concern. She knew him to be right, and so she let herself be gently coaxed back through the rooms and corridors of the Knights' quarters - back to where her friends were gathered, eating and tending to their weaponry.

The Pure Vessel was knighted, too, she remembered. Yet they were never allowed (allowed? Ordered .) into the Knights' Quarters, their room nowhere near those or the Royal Wing - it was, instead, by the Servants’ Quarter. Marking, distinctly, what they were and what they were not.

Isma despised the distinction, though she never let the feeling fully surface.

It was none of her concern, was it now?

She focused on laughter and banter around her as she sat down to eat, the voices of her fellow Knights serving a very welcome distraction from her thoughts.

Yet, even here, there was something amiss.

The Knights never got to speaking of Dryya's departure, her absence weighing heavy on all of them. It was not something to be discussed, for each of them knew just how much it impacted the others; it was something to be buried, sealed away never to be spoken aloud of - a deafening silence.

But as she let herself sink into the comfort of what was left, into the comfort of what was left. Let herself be carried away by Ze'mer's wispy voice telling of things far beyond Hallownest; let herself smile at Hegemol's comments on the story.; into the warmth of Ogrim's embrace as he sat near her, his laughter booming and echoing across the chamber. She felt like everything was normal, like everything could be alright once again.

Footsteps echoed outside the chamber they were all in, growing louder, coming closer.

The Knights shot each other puzzled looks. 

The owner of the footsteps came in without knocking, barreling the door open as if in a hurry.

Isma's heart skipped when she saw Dryya standing in the doorway, her eyes stern, scanning - searching for something.

For someone, perhaps?

"Dryya?" Ogrim breathed out, not quite believing his eyes.

Dryya's gaze softened ever so slightly as she nodded.

"I am back here on the orders of the Queen," she rapported. "The White Lady commanded we go back to the Palace, for there is a great dangerous power lurking inside. She's sent me here to ask you where the King is."

Isma noted how her friend's voice was rough and hoarse, as if gone unused for too long. She was happy enough to see Dryya again that she almost missed the words that left the Knight’s mouth.

A great dangerous power lurking inside.

Suddenly, her suspicions about the small vessel no longer felt like something to brush off as paranoia.

---

The stack of letters and rapports brought in by the wingsmoulds and slid under the door by scared retainers seemed to have accumulated far more than he'd expected.

It made sense, he supposed - he knew not how long it had been since he'd fled the medical wing and ran, ran across the shining white corridors and rooms and staircases as if pursued by something.

(Pursued by the weight of his guilt, perhaps.

They were children-)

He sighed, looking intently at the stack of correspondence he had to read, and then respond to… as if hoping that if he'd looked at it hard enough, it would disappear.

He made a point not to look at the workshop table he passed on his way to the letters-

(His child, willing themself still even as he'd made the carvings deeper, even as their Void pooled under the table-)

-nor at the shelves, containing his research on dreams and seals, one book still open from the last time he'd left.

(The next time he was supposed to imbue their shell with magic was interrupted by Isma, as he was preparing to, this time, etch a seal directly into the inside of their mask. )

He set aside any and all letters stamped with crests of noble families - he was in no mood to read any of their demands, any of their pleading, any of their stupid assumptions and accusations based on nothing. Instead he picked out those containing the Watcher's crest, the Great Knights' engraving and the Deepnest stamp.

(He knew already what he'd find in each of those letters.

He did not want to look.

Coward.)

The Pale King (a title marred by the blood of thousands-) braced himself as he opened the first missive from Lurien. Just as he'd expected, it contained a report on the infection's spread; the numbers growing higher with each passing day.

Their time was running out, and fast. He was so sure, just a few cycles ago (or was it more already? He couldn't tell anymore), in his plan; in his enemy's inevitable demise at the hands of his perfect creation.

(Molten gold dripping from his child's frame, their jaw unhinging as they struggled to breathe-)

He rubbed his temple with his free hand. Now, he found himself without a plan; without a direction which to take; without hope.

He was almost ready to give up - to run, hide, pretend – just as he'd always done.

He couldn't do that to them.

He wasn't entirely sure who exactly they were - his subjects, the denizens of Hallownest? His loyal Knights, always by his side ( they knew, they knew, they didn't overlook or choose to ignore- he'd shut them down too many times to count) ? His Lady (had she known as well, had she distanced herself from the Pure Vessel for that exact reason ?), long since gone from his side - choosing to repent in her own way for the sins they shared? The Dreamers, choosing willingly to sacrifice themselves ( his child had done the same thing ) for the future of a kingdom that wasn't, in one case, even theirs? His daughter ( he didn't deserve to call himself a father), who would have no future, were he to give up?

His other children, left behind in a dimly-lit room in the medical wing, trembling, embracing, shielding each other from the world ( from him )?

All the empty, broken white masks and all the small shadows with bright white eyes?

(All of them.)

He had to find a way, had to give all of them a chance to live. It was the least he owed each and every one. It was the least he could do to atone, before leaving himself to the mercy of those he'd hurt the most.

(The shadows, slithering, smouldering with hatred, reaching for him and dragging him down-)

He did not know where to start, who to ask, what to do. His mind refused to cooperate, worn thin from all the sleepless cycles since he'd left the infirmary; willing only to replay, over and over, the evidence of his failures.

He stored the letter away for the time being, far enough so that he could open another one, but close enough so that it was still in his view, haunting. He opened the newest message stamped with the Great Knights' sigil, intending to skim through and set it aside. The contents of it made him pause, though; his mind finally clearing of the fog that befell it.

The letter was from Isma, though she alluded to the contents being agreed upon by all five- no, four Great Knights left. She'd asked the Pale King for the whereabouts of the Pure Vessel. They had not come to their scheduled training for any of those six cycles, she'd written.

All his thoughts came to a grinding halt, only to slam full-force back into him a scarce second later.

Where were they?

The last time he'd seen them was with Ghost, hugging their sibling and holding on to them for dear life after he'd-

After they-

After they offered their life to him.

(Had they taken it themself after he'd fled?)

The flash of fear the unbidden suspicion brought forth with it took the breath from his lungs and sent the world careening off its axis before his eyes.

No. No, Ghost was still with them and Ghost would not let that happen.

Ghost was so much better than he was.

He had to know. Had to see, had to confirm, before he could hope to set his mind to anything else: to devising a new plan against the Old Light; to reading any of the remaining letters; to meeting the Knights; to attending to all the other pressing matters.

None were as urgent as the fear clawing at him from the inside at what he could find back there in the infirmary; at what he had to do, were his paranoia confirmed untrue.

He didn’t want to face them.

(Was he afraid of them hating him?

No.

He was afraid of them loving him, still.)

He had to.

He rose slowly from the chair that he was slumped in, willing his limbs to still, to not shake; willing himself to, once again, not look at all the things tainted in his workshop.

He felt as if all said things bore their non-existent gazes into him.

He left the room, heading in the direction of where he'd last left the vessels- his living children.

He did not open the very last letter delivered to him, the one written in Dryya's handwriting, telling him in stern words and spiky glyphs that he was to expect the Queen's return.

---

Missing for six cycles.

Were she not following her Queen, her fellow Knights by her side, Dryya would've loved to scream out loud all the profanities that rose in her mind at the useless, cowardly Wyrm that had, for sure, holed himself up in fuck-knows-where once again.

But the White Lady radiated concern that was impossible to overlook, the speed at which she moved through the pristine, white-and-grey halls of the Palace betraying her worry.

The distress was highly contagious, judging by the Knights' faces.

Dryya's own was tightened in a deep frown, her own unease great enough for her to be unable to drown it out with frustration.

She wasn't scared for him; she would never be. She never held him to a high esteem, her only authority her Queen. No, she was scared for the White Lady and, as the White Lady was clearly scared for him , Dryya found herself wishing all was well and the ominous awoken power hadn't yet found a way to truly harm anything.

After all, that'd most probably mean the fall of the entirety of Hallownest.

Dryya's grip tightened on the hilt of her spear as the group came to a stop near the Pale King's workshop. Sideway glances told her that all of the Knights tensed the same way she did.

The White Lady came closer to the door that separated the workshop from the rest of the Royal Quarters. Before she could open the door herself, Dryya interjected.

"My Queen, allow me," she said, bowing her head for a fraction of a second in a display of loyalty she didn't truly have time for. The White Lady hesitated for a moment before gesturing, with one of her roots, at the door.

Dryya pushed it open, spear at the ready, carefully glancing inside. Nothing seemed amiss; just the stacks of books, tables and chairs, unopened letters strewn haphazardly across the floor, half-assembled wingsmoulds and kingsmoulds set unmoving on tables and near the walls. She scanned the room carefully, turning her gaze back and nodding afterwards.

Her Queen moved into the room, looking around in search of something. She sighed to herself, the motion unnoticeable were Dryya not looking at her closely.

The Knights did not come in - they were not allowed to do so, the King's personal workshop outside their jurisdiction. They looked inside from the doorway, scanning the room, nevertheless.

"It's… darker," Ogrim mumbled quietly to himself. Dryya cast another glance across the workshop, noting that yes, it was indeed darker than it ought to be. Moreso, the darkness left an oppressive, almost smothering , feeling in the air.

She shuddered.

Was this why they were never allowed inside? Was this the result of the experiments that the Pale King conducted there?

It was not her place to ponder, she knew, but places be damned if they posed any danger to the Queen or to her fellow Knights.

The White Lady was still searching for something, her roots moving over furniture, grasping books and scrolls to skim through them. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, lingering on one of the tables and the stack of letters.

Over to her left, Dryya noticed Isma move to come inside. She frowned minutely, though the Queen did not seem to mind.

"The open letters," Isma said quietly, her usually warm and soft voice now laced through with trepidation. "One of those is the letter I sent mere hours ago."

She bent over to pick up said scroll, holding it up and passing it over to her Queen. The White Lady read through it, her glow wavering and then flaring in a clear display of urgency.

Her voice was never truly able to be demanding, but as she spoke, the Queen's words felt like jagged thorns, like gusts of wind powerful enough to tear down anything in its path, "Where did you last see my spawn, the Pure Vessel, Kindly Isma?"

Isma met the White Lady’s gaze before speaking, her answer just as worried and intense, "In the medical wing. Th- it followed me and my King as I led them to an injured vessel appearing seemingly out of thin air. I was to keep quiet about this - I shall gladly accept punishment due for breaking my King's direct order if deemed necessary."

She bowed deeply, her crown of vines nearly grazing the ground. Dryya felt her heart pounding in her chest.

She knew already about the vessel - the White Lady had told her as much when explaining the reason for their return. She knew not that it was injured. She knew not that it appeared "seemingly out of thin air,” the phrase indicating greater meaning behind it; reeking of something big , something important , something earth-shattering almost with how Isma said it.

She was not afraid - could not be. This might be the time she, and all her fellow Knights, would be needed just as much as they were all those uncountable years ago when the kingdom needed protection against the Blackwyrm.

She had a feeling Hallownest would need their protection once again, and very soon - not from the Old Light, for they were helpless against the deity; from something else , something that made her skin crawl and her insides twist.

When she looked at the White Lady again, the expression of fear was what she saw; her Queen's light still shining bright, though quivering ever so slightly.

Without a word, she went out the door, speeding towards the medical wing. Dryya clutched her spear close, readying herself for anything that might come to pass; and in her peripherals she saw the other Knights do the same as they all followed the White Lady across the pristine corridors of the Palace.

Bring it on, great awakened power, Dryya thought darkly to herself. You shall be met with the best this kingdom has to offer.

Chapter Text

( We’ve always dreamed passionately of family,

But now it seems we will not be, unfortunately-

The home we made a place of harm,

Now it’s too late for an alarm

No turning back, can’t halt the clock

It never stops)

— 

Tension was taut like a string waiting to snap.

The time it took the group to reach the medical wing was short, in reality - no more than a few minutes of almost-running through the White Palace. And yet… 

It seemed too long - like hours, cycles that wore on them, whispered to them of their inevitable coming too late.

Dryya paid the paranoia no mind, moving by her Queen's side, on the lookout for a threat she was sure would await them at their destination.

When they'd finally reached the medical wing, the string snapped.

The group came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the Pale King, light dimmed to the point of being almost imperceptible as he stood in front of the infirmary door and took long, shaky breaths. At their arrival he flinched, jumping and flaring his wings; his eyes locked onto her Queen and widened in an expression of pure disbelief.

"Root?" he breathed out, a whisper that could've gone unheard at all were it not for the weighty silence that settled onto the group.

"Wyrm," the White Lady answered in her almost-usual rustling voice, "I believe we have much to speak of."

The Pale King glanced at the Great Knights, their stances screaming apprehension.

Dryya stared right back at him, hoping her expression conveyed just the right mix of disgust, disbelief and anger.

"You are all dismissed," he commanded, his voice weaker than usual. Dryya did not budge, even as the other Knights obeyed, postures slackening; they shuffled as if ready to leave.

At least until the White Lady raised one of her roots in a gesture that relayed an order to halt.

"There is great danger lurking just behind you, my Wyrm," the jostling and the jagged vines back in her voice. "Surely it is inefficient to dismiss the Great Knights, protectors of Hallownest, just yet."

The King's shoulders slumped. He seemed at a loss for what to say - he hissed softly, opening his mouth as if wanting to talk but never quite finding the right words.

Dryya had never seen him like this.

It only added to her unease.

"It would lead to much worse consequences to let them in, armed and ready to fight like this," he finally landed on. "They- I- much has happened, my Root. I need you to trust me once more."

Her Queen hummed softly, considering while glancing back at the Knights. Just as the silence seemed to stretch on forever, she lowered the vine with which she held the ‘halt’ sign.

Dryya looked at the White Lady, not relaxing in the slightest.

"You are to stay outside the room, Great Knights," her Queen finally spoke. "I trust myself and my Wyrm to resolve what is to pass peacefully - though should we fail, you are to protect the Palace and all of Hallownest from what lurks beneath, within."

Dryya noticed the King's shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh; noticed his claws tremble as he fidgeted with his robe; noticed him closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if steeling himself for what was to come.

Her Queen might trust him.

Dryya did not.

She bowed deeply to the White Lady, taking up post to the right of the infirmary door. The other Knights shuffled, forming a defensive half-circle enclosing the exit from that room - weapons lowered, though still held to be poised at any given moment.

She managed a quick glance into the room before her Queen and King entered it, the door slamming shut behind them.

And she thought she saw two pale white masks and the familiar glint of silver armour.

---

There was someone- a lot of someones, actually– just outside the room they were in.

Ghost tensed, wiggling their way from under their sibling's mask (though leaving one paw on it, stroking in small circles absent-mindedly) and stood to face the door.

Had they heard a familiar voice?

Did he return?

They did not know.

As the door opened, the first thing Ghost noticed was light. Pale white, shining brightly - though not the King’s.

Their paw came to an abrupt stop and they bristled at the figures that had entered the room, once again attempting to hiss. No sound came out, but Ghost hoped their bared fangs were warning enough.

Their sibling froze under their hand, starting to tremble. After a tense moment they cast Ghost a glance; something like resignation mixed with shame swelled in the Void link. And then they stood to their full height, head bowed, hands at their sides. Still like a statue.

Ghost dashed to stand in front of them, once again feeling the Void inside sing to them.

They did not heed the call.

Even as they saw the Pale King and the White Lady stand before them.

They only hissed again, clenching their hands into fists. The Pale King's glow was still muted, almost invisible; the White Lady's gave a shuddering waver, her eyes widening in shock as she looked at them.

Ghost stared back, defiant.

The feeling of abandonment, the memory of her cold, detached, calculating stare boring into not-them, sent hot ripples of anger through their shell.

The shadows coalesced, dripping from the corners. They slithered across the floor, lazily lapping at the two Pale Beings' legs; they whispered in a not-voice only Ghost could hear. Telling of regret, guilt, sorrow - once again returning as phantom teardrops running down the royal couple's faces.

Was this enough to make Ghost trust them?

Absolutely not.

Even though they knew, knew with a certainty unmatched, that the Void did not lie.

It never did.

"My spawn…" she began, her voice fading after the words. The King drew one hand out and before her, as if barring her to move any closer, as if protecting them.

"Their name is Ghost," he whispered, shadows threatening to choke him - or were those tears waiting to be shed that made his voice so? Ghost wasn't sure.

She flinched, glancing between him, Ghost and their sibling.

They still stood unmoving, though Ghost could hear the ever-so-faint clacking of their armour caused by them shaking. They could feel the shadows rising up their form, locking their mask in place, singing of fear, shame, guilt.

Ghost's Void churned, as if wishing to come undone, to unleash their power.

(They hungered.)

"Ghost?" she spoke again, her voice little more than a summertime breeze, than a drop of dew falling from a leaf.

They nodded, stiffly.

She flinched again. Her roots extended across the floor, coming near them.

Ghost frowned, looking down at the roots and then at her again.

They did not trust her. They could not, even if they knew the shadows' grim song - even if they saw tears forming in her eyes.

Their sibling– what of them? Ghost looked back; they stood as still as they did before: shivering, waiting for something ( to be punished, Ghost knew -), gaze locked on nothing.

Ghost could allow this, could allow her to see exactly what her and his actions wrought. They were more than able to defend themself if it came to that - their tendrils already extended out and to the sides, shielding their sibling, coiling and uncoiling slowly.

They slumped their shoulders and cocked their head, staring at the White Lady expectantly, arms spread out in an inviting gesture.

Come. Witness your folly.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her roots encircled Ghost - the touch light, gentle even. Her expression was one of horror as her vines dipped lightly into the mangled harder not-yet-chitin on their body, as they crossed over the deep crack in Ghost's mask.

They revelled in the sight, in the whispers of terror and soul-crushing guilt.

(She had taught them well, it seemed.

They felt sick at the thought.)

As the White Lady’s roots retreated, she looked almost helplessly at the Pale King. He met her gaze for a split second before turning away and closing his eyes.

"Infection," he forced out of himself. "They held the Old Light."

Her eyes widened impossibly further, darting between Ghost and the taller vessel. Ghost felt the overpowering surge of emotion that tore through their sibling after those words; disregarding the hot spikes the words sent through their own body, Ghost shuffled backwards to gently stroke their shin.

There was no need to try and give the comfort and acceptance and love Ghost sent through the Void link any form close to words.

Words could never encompass the depth of what they wanted to convey.

They felt the storm settle the slightest bit, watching with wary eyes as the King once again held all his hands palms up out to them and stepped closer.

They did not bristle again. They hoped the narrowed eyes and the tense posture were enough clues for him to understand.

If he'd raise a claw to hurt their sibling-

(They hungered.)

"Pure Vessel," he called, his voice faint and mildly soft - the phantom streaks on his mask almost, almost real and tangible; Ghost was sure that if they’d squinted, they would see the crack splitting his own mask in two.

The shadows around their sibling's form pulled taut. Ghost did not need to see to know that they were suffocating, the guilt, fear and shame of their sibling given almost-solid form. Still, their head snapped to look down at the Pale King in an instant; their breathing, once again, reduced to shallow gasps.

(They wanted him to suffer for what he did.)

Their Void squirmed as though it tried to nudge at them, insistent.

They ignored it.

"My child," his words naught but a whisper as he visibly forced himself to meet the taller vessel's eyes.

Ghost’s Void churned, pulling, urgent. The darkness encircling the Pale King did not shift, did not change - and so they turned, just enough to look-

They froze, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch . The phantasm twisted and roiled, spilling out of their sibling’s eyes.

It left black trails in its wake. Macabre teardrops, drawing their gaze to it like gravity, until their own paws felt damp, until they could make out the inside of the Temple-

The visage wavered. Void streamed down the taller vessel’s mask and dripped lazily down onto the ground. More of it oozed out of the crack that ran through their eye, splitting their face in two.

The ichor pooled underneath Ghost - they were deathly still, one hand still running circles into what they could reach of their sibling’s shin mindlessly. The puddle was growing larger, larger, larger with each moment that passed them by.

The Void’s call became more and more pronounced. There was less sensation now - it slowly coalesced into something resembling words.

They could not make out the meaning - could not concentrate on anything but the miasma that cascaded down, down, down from the taller vessel’s body.

Everything ceased. The entire world plunged into darkness, only the white bone marred by black blood staying steady. Unfaltering, glowing faintly, more and more Void gushed out in sharp, throbbing bursts.

They were not- could not be-

Ghost reached out, grasping at the link - it was still there, it was thick- 

Why was their sibling bleeding then– 

Why was what they felt so contrasting to what they saw?

The pooled darkness rippled, and, before they could react in any way, it surged to them- into them. It thrummed deep within their shell.

In mere moments, it was gone - the crack fading out of existence, the trickles of Void down the taller vessel’s mask evanescing and the world fading back in.

And then the link between the siblings stopped vibrating with fear, shame, guilt from the taller vessel. It was replaced instead by confusion , soft and quiet - just like when Ghost had asked them to stop thinking of themself as an inanimate object.

Just as bewildered, Ghost looked at the Pale King again, his voice still wavering and wet with unshed tears; the shadows still encircling him up to the tips of his crown, still singing of regret and guilt and hatred.

"-no execution to be had, for you are no traitor," they heard once they became aware of the world again. They glanced over to the White Lady, who'd retreated when the King stepped forward; tears still running down her cheeks, the shadows still present around her form.

Ghost frowned internally.

They did not like to not understand, yet they couldn't come to a plausible conclusion as to what happened.

Were they hallucinating, perhaps? Was their mind more damaged than they'd thought, had She broken them beyond repair?

They shuddered at the thought. No, it didn't seem a delusion - not when the Void inside them settled into what felt like content purring, sending calming waves of power through their shell; not when they still didn't catch the overwhelming pressure of the emotions that their sibling had been caught in before. Only the residual confusion and apprehension remained, soft and slightly fuzzy.

They didn't seem distraught, at least; Ghost was happy for that. Whatever happened erased the panic, swallowed it whole into itself - and that was enough for right now. They'd ponder the specifics once left alone with their sibling again, when there would be no need to be as much on guard.

"Ghost?" they heard the Pale King ask. They looked up, boring their gaze into his. Still mindful of what they felt through the Void link from the taller vessel, still tense and defensive.

"I shall need to come back here, to talk to you again in the future," he began. Ghost noted how, while the shadows hadn't dissipated - hadn't abated even slightly, the Void’s call was not nearly as strong as prior to- whatever it was that happened.

It was… trilling, almost, instead.

"Would you allow me to do so?" the Pale King asked, words falling heavy like rocks from his mouth. For a long while Ghost stared, processing the question.

Was he trying to be considerate?

They nodded, slowly. They still needed him - they were still limited to one room in the Palace; their goal far from achieved; their promises far from fulfilled; their enemy still alive - and he was their best shot.

He sighed, the sound more like a held breath released in relief, and turned around to leave, taking one of the White Lady's roots into one of his hands. She let herself be led out of the room, looking solemnly at the two vessels - her cheeks still damp with tears, her form still enveloped by intangible shadow.

Ghost did not trust them.

They thought they would never trust neither the Pale King, nor the White Lady.

But, for now, they could perhaps hear them out and offer their aid against a common enemy.

Their Void swirled inside, lapping at their thoughts like waves at a shoreline.

They would, if it meant that their sibling would live.

---

It- they- were confused.

It was not something the Pure Vessel should have been able to experience, they knew. And even though their Creator (was it okay to call him Father now? He called it- them- His child. It did not understand, having no mind to do so) said that it was not a traitor - said that the failure that it was would not to be executed, they did not notice the suffocating pressure. Or the gnawing fear. Or the crushing weight on its- their- shoulders.

Only the confusion.

And the soft thrum of power that it could feel through the link from its sibling.

(They, they, they were asked- no, ordered by their sibling to refer to themself as such- yet they were failing even at such a trivial task.

They would not fail their sibling again.

They did not want Ghost to know of their struggle at something so mundane; they did not want more of their imperfection laid bare.)

A tinge of frustration joined the confusion - yet no matter how deep the Pure (it was not pure, was not what it had to be-) Vessel looked, it could not find the ever-present fear or shame.

It was weird to exist without those, they noted.

It was weirder still to sense puzzlement and concern from Ghost; weirder still to feel the gentle touch that never seemed to cease, almost making it- them- melt into the sensation and purr.

(Why was the part of their mask that would be behind a hearing apparatus in a normal bug sensitive and so pleasant to be gently scratched at? They did not know; they did not want the scratching to stop, either.)

Sibling-alright? Ghost inquired through the link, the not-words slightly concerned.

A baffling question. The Vessel blinked, assessing the state of its- their- body; searching for damage and finding none.

What did it mean to be alright? They were not injured in any way; they were at full strength, having gotten a sufficient amount of rest. They were being caressed and petted by their small sibling, and they did not find the usual painful sting of shame that they expected to come at this thought.

At any thought, really.

(Their Father did not think them a traitor; perhaps there'd be some use left for it; perhaps, they could still make him proud.

They would do everything and anything to make Him proud.)

Ghost tugged at the link lightly, clearly expecting an answer.

They were not damaged and were being hugged, so, yes, they were alright.

Still confused greatly; though confusion was certainly not an unpleasant emotion, at least not right now.

(They found themself wishing for the moment to last forever; the usual rebuke of do not wish faint and faraway, easily ignored.)

They allowed their body to curl over Ghost protectively, with one hand placed in between Ghost's horns with the thumb running up and down one.

Ghost's perplexion melted into theirs at this action.

It- they- felt awfully content in this position; they sent the warmth over to Ghost through the Void.

(Do not feel, some far part of its mind scolded. The reprimand was stuffed down immediately.)

Ghost sent the contentment back, though still tinged with a great deal of bewilderment. What were they so confused and concerned about? Was it the lack of the Vessel's usual fear, accompanying it- them for as long as they could remember?

(It was strange. They chose to ignore it, instead relishing the brief respite.)

The silence, dimness of the room they were in, Ghost's neverending gentle touches and their weight in its- their hand lulled them to sleep.

(The vessel had already rested not so long ago. It should not need more.

It- they- did not care.)

---

Ghost was confused beyond words.

Did they break their sibling?

They listened as closely as they could without invading their sibling's mind, but they didn't find any trace of fear, shame or guilt. It seemed the taller vessel was completely unable to feel any of those at this moment - but why?

Was this something to be concerned about?

They had told Ghost that they were alright, after all.

And then they'd curled over Ghost and petted the small vessel's horn, all on their own - when just scarce hours ago they wouldn't move more than a few inches, wouldn't show more than almost imperceptible shifts of weight or tremors.

Ghost had definitely broken them.

For the second time already.

Was this a record of some kind?

They seemed to fall asleep, right after sending a wave of contentment - almost happiness - through the link. Ghost had, obviously, returned the sentiment, but that didn't mean they understood what was going on.

It must have been connected to what happened with the shadows. Ghost looked around, as much as they could from their position, trapped between their sibling's hand and mask once again, searching for shadows that seemed to never leave the taller vessel.

Except they weren't present now.

Looking around was an instinctive response - Ghost knew they just had to listen closely, to focus on picking out the familiar weight, the familiar hum of the Void. And it was nowhere to be found.

Their own Void was still. It had stopped purring and rumbling some time ago, yet it was still silent - something, Ghost noticed with a shudder, they didn't remember happening ever since before they came here.

Did they consume the Void that spilled from their sibling?

Their shoulders shook with a disbelieving chuckle; the absurdness of them eating their sibling's bad emotions catching up to them - they fought not to laugh hard enough to wake the taller vessel. Yet, however absurd, it seemed the only explanation - Ghost knew what the shadows were and saw with their own eyes how the darkness disappeared into their form. Knew with a clarity unmatched - like they knew how to breathe or how to move their limbs.

They did not know they could do this.

They would do this any day of the week if it brought their sibling respite from the all-consuming storm they seemed to be perpetually trapped inside of.

They would have to keep close watch for the next few hours, it seemed - their sibling was laying fully limp and Ghost could not sense anything save for the fog they had learnt to recognise as sleep in the Void connecting the two of them.

That meant they had a chance to savour the moment.

Ghost wiggled around until they were comfortable and had access to the underside of their sibling's mask: them touching the bigger vessel helped to ground themself, to drown out the screaming in their mind that any moment they'd wake up and their sibling would be gone.

They also seemed to like Ghost's clumsy petting, before - now Ghost felt nothing at all from their sibling.

(They were tired, too. They knew they had no reason to feel like that.

It did not matter, now - their strength would surely return soon enough.)

Time felt non-existent as they sat by their sibling and listened closely to the Void - both the one within them and the one linking them to the taller vessel.

Silence was all that they heard.

They were not sure if they were relieved or disheartened by the fact.

Chapter Text

The trek back to the workshop was way longer than it ought to have been.

The two Pale Beings walked side by side without a word, Fierce Dryya tailing his Root and casting him very expressive sideways glances. The silence between them was so unlike what he was used to; was not the warm silence of understanding without words. It was the suffocating silence of a trap waiting to snap shut.

Dryya's glances did not help in the slightest: he found himself wanting to bark at her, to tell her to mind her own business - but wasn't she? This, unfortunately, was her business, just as much as any of the Great Knights', just as much as the Dreamers'.

(He did not know what to say to his Root, to his soulmate, the one that understood him more than anyone else, the one that loved him even after all he'd done. How could he hope to notify the others of his failed plan?)

(The thought terrified him.

Coward.)

When they'd finally reached the workshop, he found himself at a loss for words still. The path to here felt endless, yet too short at the same time. He knew he had all the time needed to think of a way to explain himself, yet the words eluded him and he felt as if his chest was encircled by a string rapidly squeezing the last of his breath out.

Dryya stilled by the entrance with her hand on her spear. She cast him one final glance before bowing and turning away. Standing guard.

He let his Root go in first, slowly closing the door behind them as they entered. His hideout, the place where he'd always felt the safest, now weighed on him; for a split second he thought the Void had already risen to take him, but no - this was the usual darker ambience, the result of his experiments and research.

(Was his child's blood still lingering there, just as it did on his claws?)

The White Lady stopped by the main workshop table and scanned all the clatter that lay on it. Scrolls, books, inkwells gone dry, quills both broken and in one piece. He made a point to not look at the outlines of the Seal that would hold the outer door of the Temple, drawn on one of the scrolls. Not at the mind map he made for the process of the Pure Vessel taking in the Old Light. Not at the Soul-rich words of the incantation he'd meant to use to put the Dreamers to eternal sleep.

He'd have to clear all of that out once he talked to his Root.

(Burn it, burn away the evidence of his sins. Maybe that would erase the visages stuck behind his eyelids, maybe that would drown out the heartbeat of the infection throbbing in his ears.)

The White Lady was looking at him, her expression sombre. Waiting for him to talk. He had a lot to explain, after all.

He found himself unable to do so, gasping shallowly for air, incapable of finding the right words. The Queen's expression softened ever so slightly and she rose a vine to gently touch his cheek. Not caressing, not holding - just that. A simple touch.

(Why did she still love him?

Why did his child still love him?)

"My Wyrm," she prompted; her voice lacked the usual warmth but was still tender, "I believe myself to be needing an explanation. What have we done - what fate have our actions bestowed upon Hallownest?"

We. ‘We’ and not ‘you’.

(Why would she try to ease his guilt, why would she try to bear the burden belonging only to him? He’d persuaded her to go along with his plan; vowed that it would yield a desired result.)

"My Root," he answered, the words rough and jagged in his throat, "I have made an irreversible mistake."

"That, I noticed," she hummed softly, almost amused.

"Our children have paid for my failure." He fought to keep his voice from shaking. "Ghost has done the impossible to try and save their sibling."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to say, the images of a future hopefully avoided surfacing once again.

"The Pure Vessel would have failed and would have broken at the hands of our enemy." The pitch of his voice climbing up, up, up. "Ghost had to take their place- to try and hold the Old Light in their stead, before failing, too.

"None of them were hollow," he breathed out each burning word.

His Root mused to herself before answering, the words carefully chosen.

"I suppose you have checked this to be the truth." Did he imagine it, or was her voice laced with venom? For how many times had he disallowed her to act as though the Hollow Knight was alive? How many times had he prevented her from extending a gentle touch as they staggered, leaking Void after a long cycle of training?

(How many times did she do it anyway?

Too many.

She was not as blind as he.)

"I suppose you also recognise the small vessel - for it truly is a vessel, harbouring a power unthinkable - to be dangerous," she continued. Her eyes glistened with concern and fear.

"Yes, I do," he confirmed. "I have been told as such by the Nightmare Vessel the night of their arrival; he'd also told me to try and gain their trust, for my power would not stand a chance against what they are. For he- and I, myself, believe there to be a way to salvage this. Neither I nor you, my Root, are their enemy, however much they might hate us."

"Since when do you take advice from the Terror of Sleep, my Wyrm?"

He frowned at her and sighed deeply.

"Since the moment I realised him to be frightened of Ghost; he believes their power greater than any of us creatures of Light," he answered, unable to hide the frustration that rose up, "and since the moment they let me approach the Pure Vessel, even though they don't trust me, just because they believed it to be the best for their sibling."

The White Lady tilted her face to one side, searching something out in his eyes.

"Do you believe yourself- and, by extension, myself- to be able to gain their trust? Do you believe them in control enough so that they will not lash out and destroy everything that we've worked so hard to build?" Her gaze hardened and so did her grip on the side of his face. "Do not drown yourself in guilt mistaken for loyalty for our children; do not forget your duty to our kingdom. To Hallownest."

He stuffed down a remark wanting to surface at how she was the first one to isolate herself and leave Hallownest to its own devices. At how she was the first one to drown herself in her guilt.

Perhaps this was why she felt the need to remind him so.

He carefully touched the vine on his cheek with one of his hands, not daring to caress it.

"I believe not that they would ever trust us, my Root, for they have every reason against doing so. I believe that we can show them that their enemy is our enemy, that we can work together, that we will not hurt the one that has their unending loyalty. I believe this loyalty to be something they will never break; I believe they will do anything and everything to not allow harm to be brought to their sibling again."

He gathered himself for a moment before continuing, the next words bitter in his mouth.

"And if they are to lose control, I shall not hesitate to protect Hallownest first and foremost, my Root."

(What was one more broken mask when there were thousands upon thousands of them; when they made up the entire lower part of the Abyss?)

She mulled his words over, silence once again falling between the two of them; though it was not as heavy as it was before he'd started to explain. After coming to a conclusion, she shifted the scrolls on the table with one of her vines.

"And what of the Old Light?"

His shoulders sagged. This was not a question he was ready to answer… nor he had an answer for.

"I know not yet, my Root," he admitted. He did not know - he had no backup plan, no safety net to fall onto, his conviction in the Hollow Knight absolute and unwavering.

(Did they doubt themself? Were they afraid of what was expected of them?

Did they blame themself now that the plan was aborted?

Yes. Yes, they did.)

A stray idea of going through with the Sealing anyway, if only to buy time, if only to prolong Hallownest's life, came unbidden. He shot it down, unwilling to even consider it, the sensation of filth returning with a vengeance.

He would not subject them to this.

He would find another way.

"Have you thought of speaking to Ghost? For are they not the one who knows the Old Light best?" The White Lady asked. Judging by her expression, she had the same idea - the same urge to hide and pretend, pretend that nothing was wrong, pretend that their worlds didn't just fall apart.

No. No, he hadn't, not fully - he was too busy disintegrating, holed up in his workshop, too afraid to face the gravity of consequence.

"No, but I certainly will," he answered truthfully, adding it to his list of urgent matters to attend to. He'd left the cards back there in the infirmary, he remembered, so he only needed to take an inkwell and a quill with him.

But first he had to speak to the Pure Vessel. Not just tell them that they were not to be executed - not just give a half-hearted apology - but to truly convey that he wasn't disappointed and that it wasn't their fault.

He knew his way with words, yet this task seemed insurmountable.

(It would've been so much easier if they hated him.

Why did they love him?)

The White Lady’s voice returned him back to the workshop.

"There is another matter to be dealt with, my Wyrm." She began. He would've been lying if he said he wasn't afraid of another big task falling onto his shoulders. "We have to summon the Dreamers, have to tell them of the plan's abortion and parse other ways to defeat the Old Light. I believe they might have very useful insight. The Teacher in particular is knowledgeable about the infection."

Oh.

Oh, he'd forgotten to open the letter from Deepnest, forgotten about his last encounter with Herrah and about her threat.

It would seem she would carry out the threat to rescind her services as a Dreamer, although now he agreed with that decision.

He sighed and reached for his quill, dipping it into one of the inkwells.

"You are right, my Root. I shall attend to this right away."

She moved toward the door. Before leaving, she turned to look at him, her eyes glazed over with sorrow.

"I have much to atone for, my Wyrm. I shall attend to trying to establish something resembling trust with our children. Perhaps they'll be less apprehensive if we don't come together again," she whispered. He'd forgotten how much he missed her voice, her appearance, her gentle touch until she was departing. And even though he knew it to be temporary, knew her to be right, his heart still sparked with pain.

He did not want her to leave again.

(Was that a fraction of what Ghost felt when reunited with their sibling?)

"I love you, my Root," he forced out; his voice threatened to betray him. "I love you and I am sorry for what I have wrought."

She smiled ever-so-faintly in response. "I love you, too, dear Wyrm," her voice was a whisper of the wind.

And with those words, she was gone.

He had letters to write.

---

The spell seemed to break bit by bit.

Ghost spent some time listening closely to their sibling's Void, hoping to understand fully what exactly they'd done.

It was silent, inert, up until the taller vessel woke. 

Ghost scanned their body language, noticing how tense they’d become - their former ease all but erased. Their hand was still between Ghost's horns, though not petting anymore - just scraping ever-so-gently, the movement unnoticeable had they not felt the touch. 

And they felt the familiar fear, guilt, shame mix return to their sibling, slowly growing stronger.

So what Ghost did was, indeed, a momentary reprieve. They were glad it was so: they did not want to change anything irreversibly, did not want to invade and change their sibling's mind in this way.

(Was She able to do something like this, too?

No. No. No, don't think of that-)

Ghost didn't hear any footsteps, yet the presence of someone else tore them away from their unpleasant musings. The shadows whispered to them, the rhyme not belonging to their sibling, but to someone else they knew.

They bristled at the door before the White Lady even came in. Their stare made her freeze on the doorstep, eyes sorrowful and wary.

She never cared. Ghost didn't meet her themself in their last life, knew not what became of her; they only knew their mother from memories not theirs, memories they never wanted, but possessed anyway.

(A cold, detached stare as she scanned not-them from the tips of two almost straight horns down to the short, still malleable legs after not-they had emerged from a moult-

Her vines, slithering away from not-them, taking her light with her as she walked away. 

Her, avoiding to come near not-them to the point she would leave His side for the whole banquet...)

(Abandonment, fear, shame-

It deserved this: it was never supposed to have those feelings, this was just another vestige of its failure to be expunged.

And who would ever want to spend their time with a mindless automaton?)

Ghost shook with silent anger.

The Void sang to them. The shadows around her form seemed to fade in, to become almost solid.

How dare she- how dare she come here with nothing to give save for empty, soulless apologies? How dare she come near the child she'd abandoned and near another she'd left to die? How dare she look at them with sorrow, with pain in her eyes?

She knew nothing of pain!

In that moment, Ghost wished to have a voice to scream and kick and cry, to spend the pent-up fury and the understanding that their sibling cared about her.

But they had none of those things. 

Ghost settled for lowering their head and boring their eyes into hers. They never moved away from their sibling or stopped gently touching their shell.

The shell, which trembled silently under Ghost's hand, making the task to not transmit their emotions through the Void a nigh-impossible task.

The White Lady visibly stifled a gasp as she moved slowly, inch by inch, towards them; her own eyes damp, her light almost as dim as his was when they'd last seen him.

"My children." 

they were not her child, she had no right 

"I mean you no harm." 

you've already done all the harm that mattered 

"I only wish to talk; only wish to atone for what I've done to you."

Their sibling's hand left its position on top of Ghost's head and, instead, curled over their body as if to shield them; the taller vessel trembled violently at the action.

Ghost pawed at their sibling’s claws, but they refused to budge, seeming to curl over Ghost and inwards again; the Void between them was thick with shame, but even thicker with fear.

Fear that was wrapped in something smelling of metal and blood.

Was their sibling being protective? Did they break everything they thought they had to be, to protect Ghost, again?

The dam broke.

Ghost found themself gasping for air, sobbing like a grub left out in the cold; Void ran down their mask, making them acutely aware of the scars beneath their eye sockets. They grasped the taller vessel's hand, holding on to it like it was an anchor in a windstorm; sending a muffled sibling-loved through the Void, the not-words no longer warm, stained in their tears but tender and welcoming nonetheless.

The link jerked, throbbing with dread, threatening to drown them in its intensity.

Ghost panicked, trying their earnest to stop their shaking, to settle their breathing, lest they make their sibling think that they’d done something wrong, that they were unwelcome-

Sibling-loved, they sent through the link again, again, again; desperate to help, to calm their sibling from the distress they'd caused. The not-words echoed back to them, still wrapped in that steely, sharp shield of protectiveness.

Sibling-alright, they tried, struggling to give form to the sentiment they wanted to convey. They were terrified that if they let the full scope of their emotions through, they'd make everything worse.

What could they say? How could they admit to harbouring resentment for someone their sibling trusted? How could they admit to said resentment sprouting from a memory they should not have even possessed?

In their struggle, they didn't notice a singular root encircling them both, touching Ghost and their sibling. A second one soon joined to gently, as though afraid, wipe the Void tears from their cheeks.

When they did notice, they almost flinched on instinct, before seeing a third one  slithering up their sibling’s frame and settling on their mask. Tension bled out of their frame and the distress transmitted through the Void ebbed as she did so. And Ghost could not bring themself to show her that she was unwelcome, that she was not to touch them.

Not when it brought their sibling comfort.

They would not make her leave, not now; they tried their earnest to focus on their sibling’s touch and not on hers. They sent more reaffirming not-words through the Void and slowly, ever so slowly, their breaths settled back to a normal pattern and their shaking abated. Love and relief thrummed in the Void, weak to the point of being almost silent.

Mercy, they really were afraid for Ghost more than they were afraid for themself.

Ghost stuffed all the self-loathing that surfaced at the realisation down, focusing on the sharp claws holding them like they were the most fragile thing in the world, focusing on how warm and loved they felt, held close like this. Focusing on how happy they were to have their sibling near.

Sibling-thankyou, they sent through the link. They were met with a not inconsequential amount of confusion; though it did not bleed into something worse like it did the last time around. 

The White Lady was still caressing their masks, Ghost realised.

It seemed to bring their sibling a great deal of calm, and so they didn't move, didn't indicate displeasure. 

(They still didn't trust her.

Their sibling did.)

They knew not how long they stayed like that - maybe it was hours, maybe it was just a few seconds - before she spoke, soft and weak. 

"I am sorry," she breathed out, two teardrops following the words. "I know these words mean nothing in the face of what I have done to you, yet I dare hope you shall allow me to prove them with my actions, my children."

However much Ghost wanted to be angry at her, to recoil, to bring her pain, they could not find it in themself to do so. They felt drained, hollowed out from everything except the all-encompassing exhausted sadness and love.

And that was far worse than being furious, for they now saw her words for what they were: an apology, meaningless. A plea to try and make at least some of the wrongs right.

They looked at her, then lowered their gaze back to where they were gripping their sibling's hand.

It was not their decision to make, not their answer to give, just as much as it was not their pain to be cried out.

Let-her? Ghost asked into the Void. They caught a faint flicker of something in response, yet were not quite able to make it out.

Let-mother? they rephrased, the not-words bitter and sharp; they dug into them with the gravity of what they'd just said. That time, the answer felt like something warm and soft brushing over Ghost's form, settling into the soft hum of a yes. It was faint and faraway, as if their sibling wanted to not-speak but forbade themself from doing so.  

(She was not their mother and would never be.

She was their sibling's mother.

They could bury their disdain for her if it brought their sibling peace with the decision they wanted so desperately to make.)

Ghost looked at the White Lady again, noting how she never ceased the petting. How she never came too close, only using the two of her longest roots to touch the siblings. How she lowered herself to the floor, contorting her body to be on Ghost's eye level and how she looked up at their sibling.

They nodded.

The faintest smile crossed her face as she sighed, withdrawing her vines just as slowly as she'd approached before.

"I am eternally grateful to you for accepting my wish, children." Her voice now laced with warmth, "I shall impose myself onto you no longer, for I have an urgent matter to attend to." She stopped for a few seconds before continuing, "You should not be made to stay in this cramped room any longer, for I do not see any injuries on either of you. It would be only logical to prepare rooms for you to go to once you feel ready. Worry not, the rooms will be in close proximity to each other and I shall help you find your way around the Palace, Ghost," she stopped somewhat abruptly, almost as if realising something, "once you feel up for it."

"Be well, my children," the White Lady wished softly before standing to her full height and turning to leave. She cast them one last glance, checking their reactions, before closing the door behind herself.

Ghost's head hurt. They wanted to feel something, preferably to feel angry at her, but the emotions didn't come forth, only lapping at the edges of their consciousness like calm waves. They were awfully tired, even though there was no possible reason for it. They still settled themself against their sibling's thorax, letting the heartbeat they could faintly hear and the gentle rise and fall of the taller vessel's chest calm the aftershocks of their panic.

They checked the Void link for any signs of distress, for anything like they'd felt from their sibling when they broke down in their embrace.

Ghost found nothing of the sort, only feeling the warmth and protectiveness, still.

Weren’t they the one supposed to protect their sibling?

The faint negative thrum of the Void between them only made Ghost's love deeper and their not-smile wider.

They hoped the sentiment was clear.

Chapter Text

Why would someone want to comfort a mindless automaton? It did not need comfort. Did not need the gentle touch; was not the one alive to be hurt . 

Its sibling was. 

It took all it had and more to move, to try and protect Ghost from- from the White Lady?

What was the cause – what were the glimpses it got from its sibling but could never quite make out?

It did not know. 

It had comforted the Gendered Child in this way before, when she was small and scared of the bright white lights. When it was ordered to look after her and she'd stumbled, fallen and cried. It knew the course of action it was to take to calm her down; would it be the same for Ghost? 

Its sibling was not a child like she was. The touch did seem to help their distress, however. 

And yet it felt useless , in a new, terrifying way. This was not the usual knowledge of itself (themself?) being a failure: this was its small little sibling, crying, and it could not move, could not bring them the relief needed.  

Something like it could bring no one any comfort. 

It was failing even at this.  

Failure, failure, failure-  

(The Gendered Child seemed to disagree with this sentiment.

Ghost, seemingly, did so too.) 

It had thought the root on its mask a mistake, made while trying to get to its sibling (for they were mostly hidden away beneath its hand) and comfort them . 

When it noticed the second vine gently wiping the tears off Ghost's cheek it understood that the White Lady was caressing both Ghost and it.  

Why?

Why now, after the revelation of its impurity?  

It needed no reassurance, for it had no feelings, for it had no mind to understand and accept the sympathy. 

Why was Ghost thankful to it? It had done nothing to help, the movement to hide its sibling in its hand surely more of a nuisance than anything remotely helpful-

Then why did their sobs ease, why did their shaking abate? Why did they clutch its claws in their paws, nuzzle gently into its hand? 

This was all its fault - how could its touch help?  

Why did the White Lady refer to it as a child? Why did He refer to it as a child the last time it (they) saw Him? 

(It wanted them to see it as their child so much it burned and it wanted to wail.)  

Why did Ghost want its- their- opinion on whether or not they should trust the White Lady? Were they not the one distressed by her presence, were they not the one that suffered - because of its failure?  

(Surely its imperfection was not as absolute as it'd first thought: for if it really had a mind, there wouldn't have been so many questions with no answers for any.

The overwhelming love they felt when Ghost scurried close and settled by their thorax, pawing lightly at what they could reach of it, proved that sentiment to be just as faulty as it- as they- were. 

They realised they felt the same way about the Gendered Child for as long as they’d known her. 

They wished for the strange state they were in before to return. 

Failure.)  

They kept close watch of the door. Their sibling was so small and vulnerable and hurt, already - of course they would feel protective. 

Ghost seemed amused by that fact. It- they- found nothing deserving of mirth in it.

They were a weapon, honed to perfection by years upon years of training and if anyone so much as dared to think of harming Ghost, or the Gendered Child, for that matter… 

That seemed like something worth throwing their purity away for.

It- they let themself bask in the happiness that radiated into the link (shameful: it did not need to feel loved, for it had no feelings - for who could love something like it?).

Their focus was scattered enough to almost miss the creaking of the door as someone entered. Just a split second of delay before all their senses targeted the sound, the movement, the light-

It was not just someone.  

Him.

The beacon in the darkness of its existence- the King, whose orders were absolute- the Creator, infallible, spending countless hours attempting to lead the vessel to perfection-

Its Father – the singular word a testament to how flawed it was, to the extent of its failure.

He stood in the doorway, gaze dropped down to the floor, posture screaming of uncertainty; of fear, almost. 

Why would He be scared? 

The idea was absurd, unreal – He had no reason to be afraid, to be-

Its sibling? Was the Creator, perhaps, apprehensive of them? Else why – why would He leave, why would He not act on the knowledge of His creation’s inadequacy immediately?

Maybe, He’d needed time to prepare the seals meant to contain its shade once He’d crack its mask open.

Its sibling, Ghost- they protected it, the last time He was near. Put themself in danger- they- it had to, had to act, had to bar them from interfering with His judgement-

It could not.

(The light, shining onto the vessel – too-bright, painful to look at. His light. Prying deep into its mask, struggling to uncover its flaws, to find a mind within.)

The same light was before it now – and it could not will itself to use the link, could not warn its sibling-

It could only cower beneath His glow, just as it was supposed to. Painful to look at – its shell crawled, the Void inside it recoiling as though attempting to hide.

He knows, He knows, He knows. There was nowhere left to hide, all its defences broken down.

Useless, it was useless now - would He finally dispose of it?  

It would not resist. Would not shift, would not interfere.

Sibling, please- please, do not defend it-

He was infallible. His actions were absolute – and what He’d come here to do was necessary.

It felt oddly calm at the thought.

It did not move from its position on the floor, frozen in place. His gaze was gravity, pulling it down, down, down-

"Child," He whispered, looking intently at it.

No. 

Surely, He'd referred to Ghost, who was still in its lap – surely, that could not be meant for it; surely- 

Surely- 

It wanted - a childish, sinful desire it should not possess - for Him to see it as His child. It hoped - just another of the ugly faces of its failure - that He would talk to it like Herrah did to the Gendered Child, like the bugs that it had seen in its scarce moments out of the Palace talked to their children. It shuddered - no, do not let Him see, do not, do not - at the meaning of the words, not believing itself to be deserving of such things (it should not need such things). It felt - do not feel, do not feel, do not feel - the remnants of its control slipping away as it lowered its mask and grovelled under His light. 

He flinched.  

"I am sorry."

no

"I am so sorry for what I have done."

He had done nothing wrong, all the failure lay within it

(Why did His voice quiver? Why were His eyes glistening – why, why did His body language betray-

He could not be distressed – could not be close to tears, close to breaking-

The notion was senseless. There was naught to provoke such a reaction – it had no recollection of Him ever responding like this to anything-

It saw in front of itself the reality – or were its senses damaged, too? Were it blemished enough for its perception to warp, to twist the truth according to its treacherous desires?)

"I cannot hope to ever right it."

He had no wrongs to right

"But I want you to know it- it is not your fault, never was, never will be-" 

Hope squirmed deep within its mask – extinguished just a split second too late, the dam already broken-

What the vessel was hearing could not be true. What He was saying was against everything that it was supposed to be – against His own orders, against His own words, repeated over and over and over again until everyone understood-

It is not something alive.

It is but an automaton, designed to bring an end to the infection.

A thing unfeeling. A thing unthinking. A perfect construct.

He had done naught but invent – naught but create it, but give His own Soul and time to enhance its shell. What had He to be sorry about?

How could He say it was not the vessel’s fault? It was imperfect, tarnished, impure-

The weak, almost imperceptible warmth that settled into its thorax each time He’d cast it a slightly less stern look. That same warmth coming from its sibling – taking the form of a word. Loved. Loved.

It loved Him.

It failed Him. It was never what He desired to create. Why- why would He talk to it, why would He-

not your fault. not your fault. the phrase was sacrilege – the meaning behind it-

It wished, wished so much to trust Him.

It could not. Those words were incorrect- but that was the vessel daring to question, daring to doubt its Creator-

It shook its head before it could regain control, its whole frame trembling once again (how could it allow its control to be shattered so thoroughly, how could it be reduced to such a pathetic state?). Rejecting His words - for if it was not faulty, imperfect, worthless, then what was it? 

What use could be possibly left for it? Why did He insist on keeping it alive, on trying to say- 

Was He trying to say it was His fault? 

It continued to shake its head in a vigorous ‘ no, no, no’ motion; its whole world crumbling down on it and taking it down with. 

"I should've never burdened you with so much."

it was merely the entire purpose of its existence, not a burden

"I should've seen, should've known my plan to be impossible."

no, no, do not imply that it was not its fault

"I- I just wish for you to live -" 

What did it mean to live? It was alive and aware, yes - but His tone alluded to something greater behind the order- no, behind the wish-  

Was He begging? 

Why? 

Why would He care? Why would He call it His child and act like it was a person, when all the times others did so He'd prohibited such? 

(It wanted, it wanted, it wanted so badly for this to be true, to be genuine- )

A touch on its mask jerked its awareness back to reality. It shifted its head up from where it hung, just the slightest bit; was it Ghost, extending an offer of comfort to it? 

No. No, it wasn’t, it seemed: Ghost did not move at all. Their paws were on its thorax and not on its mask – the only action they took was transmitting love and acceptance to it through the link in warm waves. 

Was it- was He- 

He fell to His knees and came close, trying to caress it - moving as if unsure, as if waiting for it to flinch away. 

Was that a test? Did He wish to see the extent of its impurity, how far had it fallen, how useful it could still be made to be?

It froze.

(Please, don't go away, don't leave-

It can be useful still, let it try, give it a chance-)  

His hand on its mask froze, too. 

(No, no, no, stay, please stay- ) 

It noticed shaking. 

It knew it was shaking, however hard it tried to still itself, to will itself blank and unfeeling, but that was not it. 

That was His hand trembling as he rested it, gently, under its eye. He scraped ever-so-slightly at the bone of its mask, leaning His weight against it. 

It did not recoil, did not draw away. Instead, it felt its traitorous body lean into the touch, unable to stifle the urge. 

Now He has Seen it, now He Knows. Will He leave it, will He throw it back in the Abyss for the extent of its failure?  

Pathetic-  

He did nothing of the sort, gasping as if trying to stifle a sob and rested another hand under its other eye, rubbing at its cheeks. 

Why? 

Why, even with the scale of its failure all laid bare before Him, did He comfort it?  

It should not need such a thing-  

It wanted the calming, gentle touch to stay nonetheless.  

"Child-" He cut off as if realising something (don't leave don't leave don't leave), "please, accept that you will not be punished in any way for- for being alive - please, accept that I will never hurt you- anymore." The last word was but a faint whisper. His breath hitched; His voice broke every few words. 

It did not understand. 

It did not want to understand. 

Why was He pleading it to accept its failure, to accept that it would not be punished for its impurity, for its lie?  

It had lied to Him - it was its fault that Hallownest would fall, that Ghost would have to contain the Old Light, that Ghost would die for it-  

Sibling-loved, echoed inside the Void, its sibling giving the still present emotion form.

Why was Ghost insistent on it understanding that they loved it? Why did they love it in the first place, when all it had ever brought them was death and suffering? 

Sibling-faultless, reached it - the not-words almost amorph, as if not really sure what they wanted to be. All wrapped up in warmth and fuzziness, in acceptance and forgiveness. 

Why did they forgive it?  

Why did He forgive it?  

It did not deserve forgiveness; should not need it, for such a thing was useless for a mindless automaton.  

Sibling-they, the not-words tinged slightly in frustration. It felt as if Ghost didn't quite want to state this, as if they didn't want it to doubt such a statement. 

As if it being a person was an obvious fact which it, for some reason, did not want to accept. 

(Ghost might be right about that, for if it was not a mindless, empty automation, then what was left?

A failure.) 

Sibling-alive, Ghost sent. It was sure they knew of its inner turmoil, its emotions and thoughts too loud for it to still, to snuff out, its control broken beyond repair.

Yet still they insisted on it being valued, insisted on being grateful and relieved for the fact that it was alive, that it was everything it was not to be.  

It could not find it in itself to reject what they and He wanted it to hear, the traitorous longing betraying it - them? - and leaving them shaking on the floor in a world that suddenly seemed too large for them. 

The gentle touch never ceased, now with both Ghost and Him (was it okay to call Him ‘Father’? It seemed a blasphemy, yet He wanted it- them- to live, a blasphemy far worse than that single word) petting their mask in long, calming strokes and tender little circles. It melted the tension its- their- body held, making them give up and try to follow this new, strange order. 

For it was an order, was it not? Wrapped in pleasantries and tears and pleading; yet still an order. 

It knew how to follow orders. 

If this is what was expected of it- them- then they would try and they would succeed. However much turmoil it would leave them in, however hard and unnatural the task. 

They would not let Him and Ghost down again. 

(They wished this was the new use found for them.) 

---

It was just as awful as he'd dreaded. 

At least he didn't seem to do more harm than good, though he suspected that to be largely Ghost's achievement. 

They were still expecting him to hurt them.  

They were still afraid of him, afraid and unable to defend themself, only cowering in fear before the pain they knew would come from him.  

He'd hurt them so many times - that wasn't surprising.  

Then what right did he have to feel as though he was stabbed right through the heart at the sight of their rigidness, their trembling, their fear?  

He had something else to do there, before he could hide again. Bury himself far away so that no one would see and let the thoughts and images swarm him, let the emotions rage until the world would fade to nothing. 

Not yet. 

"Ghost?" he spoke, careful to not let his voice falter again. He'd had enough of that already.

Ghost raised their mask to look at him, paws still on their sibling’s cheek. 

(They needed a name. 

Did they? Or did he need a name for them, to stop calling them the Pure Vessel, to further try and erase the evidence of his sins?  

They already had one, given by their sister. Would they use it, or would it be a painful reminder of the impossible task he'd bestowed upon them?) 

"Would you be willing to talk to me?" he asked, choosing his words carefully so as to try and emphasise that he wanted them to be comfortable in doing so.

(They could not talk. They were stripped of such, he’d taken it-)  

Ghost was not the Pure Vessel. 

Ghost did not need such reminders. Ghost was able and willing to disobey, to voice their opinions and emotions. 

Perhaps the tone would make them less apprehensive of him. 

(Was it just the fear of them leading his actions? Or did he fall prey to something so simple as caring about the Pure Vessel and them both? 

Why did it hurt to know they didn't trust him and, likely, would never do so?) 

Ghost nodded, looking him in the eyes. Did he imagine things or were they less tense than when he'd first seen them? 

They stood, turning their gaze to their sibling. He could not hear, but he was sure they'd communicated something before raising their paw, ceasing the tactile contact. Still, it made the taller vessel stiffen, their breathing quick and shallow, their claws twitching towards Ghost. 

He added another of his arms to those that were already occupied with caressing their mask. That seemed to calm them, at least a little bit; their mask turned slightly to follow Ghost with their eyes, shivering minutely at the action and leaning into his touch at the same time. 

(How touch-starved must they be, after a life of being treated as a thing? 

How desperate must they be to be comforted by his touch? 

His touch had only ever brought them pain before. 

It would never do so again.) 

Ghost fiddled with the cards that still lay strewn around on the floor; searching for a good while before picking out one and stepping closer to him, holding the card out. 

It was the ‘Write’ card, though after he'd read the word Ghost dropped it to the floor and motioned with their hands in a way unlike the one they'd used the last time around. 

So they didn't want him to give them the ink and quill. They wanted something different. 

They flailed their paws in the air, motioning between themself and him, opening their maw and making weird motions with their fangs. 

Did they try to imitate speech? 

"Do you want to be able to speak?" he asked, hoping this was not the exact case. The vessels were all voiceless - the only part of their design that held true to his expectations. 

( How could he think them mindless for so long?  

He’d pried, countless times, into the Pure Vessel’s consciousness – and found nothing.

They were scared of him to the point of shutting off their own mind, drowning it in Void to not let him see-) 

Ghost nodded, then shook their head in rapid succession - their paws moved in a motion he would guess meant ‘ so-so’.  

"Do you wish to be able to communicate, but not through speech or writing?" he tried again, this time getting an affirmative. Ghost shifted closer to their sibling again, resting one of their paws on their mask again. 

It seemed to calm them greatly. Though still they did not relax, still they held somewhat of a rigid position. 

(They loved their sibling and Ghost loved them.  

Thousands of cracked white masks, thousands of little, defenceless shades boring their bright white gazes into him-  

Were they all as selfless and full of love for each other as Ghost and the Pure Vessel? ) 

Focus. 

A means of communication that did not require speech or writing. 

He knew of one. He also knew of someone who'd be more than willing to teach a vessel. 

No, he had no time to spare waiting for Monomon to come to the Palace. One of his retainers will have to do, then. 

If they wouldn’t, he’d make them. 

"There is a sign language that would suit your needs, Ghost," they seemed to perk up the slightest bit at this, "would you like to learn it?" 

They did not wait long before nodding; their head cocked slightly to the side as if sizing him up. 

Were they not sure if to trust him? 

He didn't fault them. 

Ghost stilled for a while, probably deep in thought. Or, possibly, speaking to their sibling again, the tension in the taller vessel's body slowly, ever so slowly receding. 

He waited patiently for them to move, to look at him, to indicate something. 

When they finally did, they were once again apprehensive - their posture conveying something like hesitation.  

Ghost reached behind their back with their free hand, mimicking unsheathing a weapon and shuffling their weight to a battle-ready stance. They glanced back at him, their head lowered, right after. 

They wanted a weapon.  

Would he be a fool to give them one? 

Was it worth the risk? They would, likely, approach something resembling the belief he needed them to hold: the understanding that he'd help them against the Old Light, that he'd help them save their sibling. 

At the same time, it would be him arming an already extremely dangerous being. 

Do you believe them in control enough?  

It did not matter what he thought, did it? 

They were able to smother him and the entirety of Hallownest even unarmed, should they wish to do so… at least, according to the Nightmare King’s words and his own senses. What difference would it make, were they to lash out, if they had a nail or not? 

They glanced at their sibling and back at him again. 

"Yes, that would be possible," he answered their unspoken query, his voice level, but not cold. 

(At least he hoped so.) 

Ghost seemed slightly surprised by the answer, giving that impression of narrowed eyes once again. 

(They probably did, really, narrow their eyes - he could faintly see their third, thinnest, eyelids drawn halfway over their eye sockets.) 

"Though not immediately," he corrected himself. "I would choose a day to venture into the Silver City and have a nail forged to suit your needs." 

The taller vessel shifted slightly under his hands, giving him a look - one that lasted a fraction of a second - before turning their gaze back to Ghost and going rigid again. 

Oh. There was a nail suited to Ghost's small form in the Palace. 

The Pure Vessel's first nail, given to them just days after their ascension. 

(They were a child forced to learn combat-)  

No. No, no, no, he would not give Ghost their old nail. He did not know if they truly wanted to convey something, for all he knew they just shifted to a more comfortable position and went stiff, realising they'd just openly expressed a desire.  

(He wished for them to be able to express themself openly. 

He knew it would be a gruelling process to get to that point. 

He knew it was his fault.)  

A few days would not mean the end of the world (They well might, judging by Lurien's correspondence and the steady rise of the infection.) and Ghost seemed okay with waiting, too. 

And he had one more thing to tell them. 

Both of them. 

"Children," the word scraped in his throat, unnatural and jagged; he did not deserve to be called a father, "your rooms are ready for you to move to them." His Root made a lovely job of repurposing two of the Royal Quarters' rooms, all in record time. "There will be a retainer outside of this room. He will not enter, only wait for when you're ready to go - just step outside and get his attention, he has his orders." 

The Pure Vessel tensed, their breath catching in their throat. Ghost stared at him; he was almost sure that was an expression of annoyance, ranging with anger. Their paw moved, hiding underneath their sibling's mask and rubbing them there. The Void in their eyes twisted, not fast but not slow either - an abyss he knew not the meaning of. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

All three of them looked over, and even if he didn't see the siblings, even if he knew their masks to be expressionless and motionless, he knew them to be surprised and on edge. 

Not unlike what he felt at the interruption. 

He stood, slowly, giving a gentle long stroke to the taller vessel's mask (they still trembled when he lifted it) before turning to answer the knocking. 

He flared his light and crossed his uppermost set of arms over his chest, showcasing his irritation for whomever dared to tread here. 

It was his Root, he realised upon opening the door. 

"My Wyrm, I apologise for the rude interruption," she spoke, one of her roots touching his cheek tenderly, "but the Queen of Deepnest is demanding to see you, and I found myself unable to dissuade her." 

"I believe her to have a valid reason, though," she added thoughtfully after a brief pause. 

Yes. Yes, she had a very valid reason, he thought upon remembering their last encounter. 

Another urgent matter to attend to. 

He sighed, shoulders sagging. Then he turned to look at the siblings, who were still watching him intently. 

"Children," he really had to think of another way to address them; one less imposing, one less disrespectful, "I shall take my leave now, for there are matters to attend to; I shall see you later." 

It felt so unnatural to try and speak to them as to his children.  

Though not entirely unpleasant, reminiscent of something that could've been. 

He remembered the sickening crunches of shells breaking and the nausea pushed away any trace of a pleasant feeling. 

They stared. Ghost nodded, their paw still on their sibling's mask. It could be wistful thinking, but he thought he saw the taller vessel almost relax at something Ghost did (or said? He knew not). 

He cast them a smile, hoping it didn't feel forced, before leaving. 

He had other affairs waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Ghost was sure that they never opened that door. 

Ghost was sure that they never heard anyone come close to open the door, either. 

Yet, there was a third bug with them in the infirmary room. 

Their sibling's Void had first conveyed confusion, then fear and now it was settled into some kind of resignation. Not the sort that they’d felt from the taller vessel when the Pale King entered the room again, though.

Ghost shuddered at the memory. At the numb, detached feeling of surrendering mingled with fear that their sibling was unable to fight back, transmitted to them through the link. At the image of the taller vessel, on their knees with their mask bowed and throat bared.

Fury, white-hot, boiled underneath their shell. They blinked, struggling to return to the present.

They focused on the ever-so-slight softness of their sibling’s emotion. On something that felt a bit like the feelings they got back when the taller vessel’s barriers faltered.

Affection?

The small figure froze, just as hesitant as Ghost themself was. They looked up and to the side to meet their sibling's eyes and sent their own uncertainty through the link. 

The answer they got was still a whisper, as if the taller vessel was afraid of someone hearing them. It sang of love nevertheless. 

Ghost did a double-take at the child - they looked like a young adolescent, slightly taller than Ghost themself. The child bristled in return, baring a (frankly, impressive) set of chelicerae and emitted a long, shrilling hiss. 

They raised their free paw, gesturing defeat. Their sibling's affection for the small spider (as they looked closer, the glimmers of recognition flickered in their mind) seemed overwhelming. It was growing stronger until it overpowered their fear, at just about the same intensity that the love they sent to Ghost before was. 

The child slowly crept closer from their position in one of the upper corners of the room (seriously, how did they even get in?), moving slowly, as though apprehensive. 

As the spider got close enough for Ghost to make out their face, they finally recognised who it was. 

Hornet.  

The one who named them.  

The one who challenged them, attempting to cut them short in their path to their sibling’s rescue. They had won – and after that, she’d disappeared.

Only to meet them in the city, near the-

The monument-

She’d asked them to come to Hallownest’s outskirts and they-

They did not heed her call to the Kingdom's Edge. There was no time to spare, Ghost knew. They felt the Void linking them to their sibling thinning out, weakening. They feared they'd come too late, were they to venture to the other side of Hallownest to meet her again. 

Too late, too late, they came too late anyway-

Was there another way? Was this the mistake that led to them failing, to everything that came after?

It was. It was and they-

Their fault, it was their fault- they just did not realise the true scope of it, did not-

They could’ve prevented so much more. Could’ve saved their sibling and they-

Dampness on their paws. Void and infection, running down between their not-yet-fingers. Freezing and scorching-

They could not breathe- and why, why was it so when the heavy wheezing breaths that they heard did not belong to them? When-

When it was not them, dying on the floor of the Temple- not them, not them, not them- 

A steady weight between their horns.

The darkness that surrounded them gave way.

The loud, deafening scraping of air that accompanied each breath not theirs dissipated.

They were- they were not-

Not there. Not there, not there and they lost control and they were transmitting the memories-

No, no, no-

Worry thrummed in the Void. Strong, much stronger than anything they’d yet felt from their sibling.

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, how- how could they-

Their paws clenched shut over the taller vessel’s fingers before Ghost could stop the motion. Before they could think, before they could realise that they were still distressed and-

They would- they would upset them, too-

They were shaking. They- they could not reject the touch, either. Not only because everything in them screamed to stay, to take in every last bit of sensation that got to them but also because if they moved away, their sibling would think that they were unwelcome. They would never- they were always welcome, always needed and loved and how could Ghost help them understand that-

Stay. Stay. Please stay.

Don’t leave me again-

They nuzzled into the taller vessel’s hand, still holding on like they were an anchor in a windstorm.

Deeper. Deeper inhales, steady exhales. Love. Gratefulness. Relief. Concentrate, they had to focus on those, had to transmit those back to their sibling.

Sibling-loved. Sibling-alive. Sibling-loved-loved-loved.

The worry did not fade, no matter how many times Ghost repeated their sentiment. It lapped at their mind. Gentle, soft – just like the touch on top of their mask was.

They blinked again. The world regained its steady outline.

The spider- Hornet- had inched closer and was now standing right in front of them. Her expression was tight with fear.

"-you okay?" they heard. Muffled, faraway still.

Now. They were in the now. They would not drag their sibling down with them. Not again. Focus. They were okay. They were okay.

They nodded. She didn't seem to believe them, judging by her expression, but turned her gaze to their sibling anyway. 

"Hollow? Who are they?" she asked, fearful, uncertain. 

Hollow? 

The bewilderment jerked and planted them firmly back in reality. The awful sensation on their hands ceased – everything snapped back into focus.

Ghost willed one of their paws to unclench and tug lightly at her shawl. She nearly jumped out of her shell in surprise, giving them a cut-off hiss. 

"Don't scare me like that!" the spider reprimanded them sharply. 

They lowered their mask in an apologetic gesture. She seemed to take it well, coming closer again, looking intently at them. 

Ghost pointed at her, then at their sibling. She frowned, trying to decipher what they meant. 

"Um- something about me and Hollow?" she guessed unsuccessfully. Ghost tilted their mask to look up at their sibling. The link was still brimming with worry. It receded, ever so slowly, letting affection back in.

(They did not upset them. Did not, did not-

Did they not hear, not see?

Ghost hoped that was the case.

They would not allow the same things to happen again.) 

Did she also name their sibling?

She was someone dear to their sibling, Ghost understood as much. Otherwise their love wouldn’t have battled the still present shame.

It seemed their sibling- Hollow, as she'd called them- was also dear to her. 

Was she a sibling, too? She looked similar to the taller vessel, her shell obsidian-black, her mask curving up in two round, sharp points they knew would grow to be sleek and elegant like their sibling's. 

The Void was silent when Ghost tried to reach out to her. 

Sibling-another? they asked the taller vessel, giving up on trying to understand who, exactly, she was and why, exactly, had she come in here. 

The Void hummed in agreement almost unnoticeably. 

Sibling-named? Ghost inquired next, unsure whether or not they even should. 

Fear and shame once again came in response, though not nearly as strong as they were prior - both nothing but a sharp sting of emotion followed almost immediately by another approval. 

Hollow. 

Ghost-use-name? they requested. They caught something that felt a bit like a flinch before the answer came in yet another consenting hum; this one stronger, fuzzier and warmer, tinged with small sparks of love.  

A name that meant everything their sibling was not , but it was not Ghost's place to judge, not Ghost's place to choose if to use it, anyhow.

Perhaps, it was something that carried enough affection to drown out the original meaning. 

They shouldn't pry into the specifics; they'd gotten permission to use the name, however unfitting they thought it to be. No more information was needed.

(Ghost knew they would use "sibling" instead of that name nine times out of ten; though Hollow didn't seem to mind Ghost referring to them like that.) 

Hornet was tugging at their cloak. 

When Ghost turned their mask back down to face her, they saw her cross her arms and scowl at them. 

"Whatever you were doing just now- were you talking to them?" she asked quietly, sadness lacing her words. They nodded. 

"Oh- are you their sibling, too, then?" 

They nodded again. 

She lowered her mask, her shoulders hunching slightly. 

Ghost got an idea; possibly a bad one, born out of sympathy for someone they knew very little of and about, but- 

She loved their sibling, and they loved her back, right? 

Will-return, they sang through the link, carefully untangling themself from under Hollow's hand and going for the cards that were still in the room. Ghost searched through them, looking for a few specific ones. They noticed her come closer to their sibling. Slowly, apprehensively, as though unsure. 

As she bumped her mask against their wrist (she could not reach any higher with how small she was- Ghost could not, either, though), Hollow scooped her up in their other hand, raising her to their shoulder. The Void was full to the brim with affection, love, uncertainty, sadness.  

Their sibling did not want Hornet to be disheartened was what Ghost picked up from those feelings. 

Well - it meant that what Ghost was about to do should be- if not well received, then maybe not badly received, at least. 

They came back with the three cards they chose - ‘Vessel’, ‘I’ and ‘like’ - tugging at Hollow's free hand - they could not reach their sister high up like that and they needed her attention. 

Sibling-up-please? they clarified through the link.

The ground went off from their feet - they found themself level with Hornet. 

If the Void was full to the brim with warmth, tenderness and protectiveness before, now it for sure overflowed. No worry was left in it, now. Ghost sent a wide smile back to their sibling, basking in all the fondness shrouding the link, letting it soothe the last remnants of fear still squirming underneath their shell.

They were here and now. Not- not there. Not then.

They shuffled a bit, freeing the hand with which they held the cards and extended it to the spiderling. 

She seemed happier now, at least, all huddled up and nosing into Hollow's embrace. She shot them a confused look before speaking. 

"What is it?" she asked, her voice still sorrowful, but not nearly as close to tears as before. Ghost showed her the cards in response. 

"Vessel?" She read the first one out loud. "so Hollow has another sibling... He told me they were the only one," she mumbled, confused; her eyes darting between Ghost and their sibling, who'd lowered their mask to see both of them out of the corner of their eye. 

Ghost nodded and then shook their head, listening closely to the Void. They did not catch any leftover fear or shame - it seemed there was simply no place for those, given how much affection was still flooding the link. 

They added more from their side of the connection.

Sibling-loved. Sibling-needed.

Hornet clicked her chelicerae together in a disapproving sound, air hissing in and out softly between them. "I always knew he lied about Hollow," she snapped, the sound soft but angry nonetheless. 

Ghost held up another card, the one they'd tried to draw their name on. 

It also read "I" on the other side, which they promptly showed. 

She squinted and then frowned - Ghost could practically see gears turning in her head. "Is this your name? Did you try to draw a ghost or-?" 

They nodded, gesturing at themself for good measure. 

"So, Ghost?" her expression brightened. "A pretty name. Nice to meet you, Ghost, I am the Gendered Child, Princess of Deepnest," she exclaimed, practically beaming with pride. 

She didn't get her name yet. 

Ghost wasn't sure they would remember not to use the name they remembered. They would try, though. 

They inclined their head, leaving it lowered for a few seconds before showing her the third, final card they'd taken. 

"Like?.." she paused, clearly confused. They spread their arms outwards (exactly enough to bump into Hollow's shoulder with the right one), leaving them like that for a second before hugging themself tight and rocking slightly from side to side. They pointed at their sibling after, leaving one hand on the underside of their mask and starting to gently scratch again. 

"Do you mean that you love me?" she asked, confusion still strong in her words. Ghost paused, unsure how to respond.

They settled for casting an expressive glance at Hollow and adding their free arm to the one already petting them. 

"Do you want to say that Hollow loves me?" she confirmed, quiet and almost disbelieving - though most of all tearful and relieved. 

The Void between the siblings shifted, a sharp pang of fear and guilt almost immediately drowned out by something that Ghost couldn't quite place. Something that was wrapped in relief; something that felt like a warm embrace. 

Were they thankful?  

Sibling-loved, Ghost sent almost absent-mindedly through the Void. They did not expect anything in return, except the still-present affection that filled the link. 

The response stronger than any other they'd gotten yet - the not-words almost taking the form of ‘ love you, too’, made them pause. 

They’d-

Ghost had slipped again, had upset and scared them again – and yet-

Yet Hollow answered. Broke another barrier that held them back and it was all-

For them. They knew.

Something pulled taut in their chest.

No, no, no, they couldn't and wouldn't cry because of this, however much they might want to. 

When they nodded at the spiderling, confirming her statement, she sobbed. 

Then another time, and another, and another - soon she was full-on bawling, clutching their sibling's cloak and burying her mask under one of their pauldrons. 

Ghost felt the worry rising in the link; they sent a happy-alright-crying-love to Hollow, colouring it with their own emotions on the matter. They relaxed as they felt the concern dissolve back into nonexistence, as Hollow gently shifted their hand closer so that Ghost could bury their mask in their cloak, too. 

It seemed they would, indeed, cry because of this.

They had no strength to resist the tears falling.

---

Herrah the Beast was many things. 

Cunning, dangerous, clever, vicious - The Pale King also thought her infuriating at times. 

As she stood before him then at her full, imposing height, without the Dreamer mask - her many eyes boring into him, her fangs slightly bared in a display of power – the Pale King wanted to be furious, or, at the very least, annoyed with her. 

He could not be. 

Not when he knew that Herrah the Beast was not dumb; when he knew her to have a very good reason to stay in the Palace for all of those eight cycles (had it already been so long?) and seek him out, demanding an audience as soon as possible. 

He'd told her he would answer her questions, the last time they met and exchanged threats. 

He hoped words would find him easier, this time. The memory of the Pure Vessel- of his child cowering before him- trembling beneath his hands, leaning into his touch was still too fresh. The emotion accompanying was still too raw. 

Perhaps this was for the better; perhaps she would see right through him, as she had so many times before, and understand that he was not lying. 

(Not this time.) 

"Herrah," he started; his voice, thankfully, was back to its usual cold and devoid of emotion state, "you requested - very insistently, might I add - a meeting." 

He chose not to speak in royal to her, for it would do more harm than good. He needed her to trust his words, after all. 

"Wyrm," Herrah addressed him back, her own voice laced with venom, "I believe you have some very important things to tell me. About the vessel." 

She glanced behind him; as tense and defensive as she was, the brief movement betrayed her surprise. "The vessel s , I suppose." 

Yes. Vessels, plural, indeed. 

"However much I would've liked to tell you of this in a meeting with the other Dreamers," he began; her eyes narrowed at the words, "you shall get your answers here and now." 

Herrah let out an exasperated sigh, almost a hiss. 

"For all that is holy, Wyrm, can you not speak clearly?" 

Yes. Yes, he could and yes, he would. He pressed his thinnest eyelids together for a second to calm the remnants of apprehension (fear?) that he felt at what he was about to say (that was becoming a tradition, it seemed; and he still had to speak to all the other Dreamers).

And then he spoke, as plainly as possible. 

"The plan is aborted." 

Herrah flinched, taken aback by his words, and let out a gasp. "What do you mean, aborted?"  

"They are not hollow," he explained. Two bright orange eyes stared at him accusingly from the outskirts of his consciousness at the words. "The plan will fail; it has already failed, and I was fortunate enough to have someone show it to me." 

Herrah stared at him for a moment which seemed to stretch to eternity; and then, she laughed.  

She laughed like his words were the funniest thing in the world. Perhaps, they were, to her in this moment.

Her eight eyes were watching him with something resembling pity.  

He bristled. He did not need her pity. 

(Did not deserve any.) 

After she finally stopped, she glared at him as she spoke again, "The small vessel, am I right? What have they shown you to make you see, I wonder?" 

He did not want to answer. He knew he would have to - the most he could delay this confession being the upcoming Dreamer meeting. He still did not want to. 

What was there left to fear? 

(The memories, the images, the knowledge, the feeling of Void blood on his claws, the bright white eyes-) 

"The future," he admitted flatly. At her perplexed frown, he added an explanation, "they have done something unthinkable; they have returned here from the future." 

"Why?" Herrah demanded, rough and low, almost a growl. "Why did they do such a thing? What had happened to them; what have you done to them?"  

She could still see right through him, it seemed: skipping the most obvious question of how and jumping to the reason, knowing it to be important enough to make him believe the vessel. 

He ground his mandibles together and took a deep breath before answering. 

"They are here to save their sibling." The foreign heartbeat thrummed in his ears right beside his heart - the vision almost fading in again. "They have replaced the Pure Vessel in their time.” 

“She broke both of them," he added after a pause. 

(Was it still them struggling against the chains in his vision, or was it her?  

Perhaps it would’ve been a mercy if it was her.  

How much agony did she inflict on them, to make them struggle? They never fought against his hands as he carved magic deep into their shell- ) 

Herrah looked at him in disbelief.

“And what made you believe that? Do not say that it was just their insistence on the vessel’s impurity- the Gendered Child has been saying that ever since she learned to speak.”

And you dismissed her each and every time, was left unsaid. 

She was right in her distrust.

He needed her to believe. That entailed telling her the truth. Letting her know just how much of a coward he’d been - and he did not like the idea.

“I have confirmed their words myself. I have seen them, both of them, in the future, with my foresight.”

He knew her answer before she spoke. Saw it in the tilt of her head, heard it in the low growl that she emitted.

“Do you mean to say that you haven’t verified whether or not your plan would work on your own?”

The Pale King looked her in the eyes. He did not confirm; he did not need to, her expression shifting slowly to one of fury.  

She was significantly taller and, in that moment, he felt short, small beneath her gaze.

A pathetic sight.

(Coward, coward, coward.

Now she saw, too - the one he’d wanted to know the least.)

Would it save Hallownest? Would Ghost save Hallownest, or would everything be for naught, anyway?

“So they convinced you to look, Wyrm, am I right? How so?” Her tone was mocking. There was a snarl, underlying - making her speech less intelligible.

(Chains digging into carapace. Cracked masks, bright orange eyes, burnt-through chitin. 

His imagination provided the accompanying smell.

The sound was still there, pulsing in his ears.)

“They have shown specifically the process of taking the Old Light in - no one, except myself- and the Pure Vessel- knows.”

He did not break eye contact, staying there with his head tilted slightly back.

There was nowhere farther left to fall.

He refused to do so, regardless.

“They have also drawn the Pure Vessel. How it- they would be in the Temple. That was enough to make me verify.”

Herrah hissed at this. Shrill. Furious.

"At least someone was able to prevent you from doing it, Wyrm," she shot at him, her lower set of arms quivering slightly, "at least now we don't have to die for nothing." 

Yes. Now they might all die for nothing, were he not to find a solution to the infection still running rampant. Still leaving nothing alive in its wake.

He noticed the Beast stepping closer to him, giving him an accusatory look. 

"Don't you dare lay a claw on them, now that you know them to not be your perfect tool," she hissed. "They are my daughter's sibling, whom she loves dearly; and I shall not tolerate anything that might hurt my daughter, Wyrm." 

"I shall not do anything like it," he answered her threat truthfully. 

(They were his child.  

They were all his children; he'd killed far too many, already.) 

"They are free to do what they see fit; I have spoken to them," as they cowered in fear, awaiting more pain from him, shielding their small sibling, "and I shall not impose my will on them any longer." 

Herrah startled at the words; her expression shifted to one of distrust turning to disbelief. 

"I would've never guessed you to be someone willing to so much as admit your faults, let alone try and set things right," she jabbed at him, the words piercing his being, for was he? He would've gone through with his plan were it not for Ghost, would've continued to turn a blind eye and pretend in a desperate, foolish hope. "Perhaps you would even be willing to-" 

She cut off suddenly, as if realising something. 

Then she reared back on her last set of legs and glared at him. 

"The small vessel," the words almost unintelligible, "are they dangerous?" 

Yes. Yes, they were - they were the most dangerous creature in all of Hallownest, if he were to believe the Nightmare King and his own senses.

He could not admit it like that to Herrah. 

"It depends on whom to, Herrah," he chose to say instead, trying to get the reason for her sudden fear out of her. 

"The Gendered Child is searching for her sibling," Herrah told him, fangs still half-bared, posture still speaking of fear. "She will find both them and the other vessel, am I not right?" 

"If anything happens to her, Wyrm-" she added, already turning on her heels to go search for the Gendered Child. 

He sighed in relief. He was certain nothing would happen to her; neither Ghost nor their sibling had any reason to harm her. 

(He suspected that the Pure Vessel might harbour affection for the small spider - he'd left her in their care for too much time. She was too insistent on calling them her sibling and even naming them , even though he'd tried so hard to shut that down. 

She was not as blind as he was.) 

"They are not dangerous to her," he tried for calming, but it still came out emotionless. "The Pure Vessel is to protect her, and Ghost- the smaller one- will not do anything that might upset them. Plus, they are not the one to lash out at someone undeserving- even at someone deserving, for I am still alive," he added bitterly. 

His words did little to calm Herrah down: she'd stopped moving to leave the room, but still stared at him intently, waiting for direction. 

"They should both be in the infirmary." Or would they move to the rooms prepared for them? He, for some reason, doubted it. Ghost didn't seem to mind their surroundings, only asking for a weapon and a means to speak. Their sibling would not openly express any desire, were it to stay in the medical wing or to go to their chambers (his fault, his fault, his fault). "I shall lead the way there, so you can see for yourself." 

Also, to try and diminish the stress that Herrah's appearance would surely cause. 

Ghost's sibling knew her already, and had accepted orders from her on numerous occasions - he hoped it wouldn't be a shock to see her, especially if the Gendered Child really was with them. 

Ghost, however…

He remembered that Herrah was to be a Dreamer. That the Dreamers were to be an impenetrable seal guarding the outer door of the Temple, never to wake up, never to falter. If Ghost had entered the Temple- 

That meant they had taken the Dreamers' lives. 

Oh. Oh, he did not like the prospect at all.  

"Herrah," he began warily as they rounded a corner leading to a staircase that would set them in the direction of the infirmary, "the small vessel-" 

"Do you think me stupid, Wyrm? I know I was supposed to be one of the Dreamers; I know of the seal we three were supposed to create," she sighed, not slowing down. "I understand what must've been done to break that seal and enter the Temple." 

He paused, not knowing exactly what to answer to that. 

(What possible answer could he give in a situation like this?) 

He chose to say nothing, heading in the direction of the medical wing. 

There was nothing anyone could do for them. 

"They shall know from me that there is no ill will harboured, if the Gendered Child is, indeed, safe," she said instead of him. 

He could only hope they'd receive it well. 

(He did not doubt the Gendered Child's safety; not when she was, most likely, with the Pure Vessel. 

If only they understood he trusted them, more than himself in certain matters. 

Perhaps they will. 

One day.)

Chapter Text

A name. Something given to a person loved, a descriptor, a way to address someone— tenderly and lovingly. 

Something it should not need. 

(They – Ghost and He both wanted it to be alive – to embrace the impurity tarnishing the vessel. They were to refer to themself as such, then surely it was alright to accept a name? 

They wanted, so desperately, to have one since what felt like forever. Since they'd first met the Gendered Child, a small spiderling yet unnamed, yet her moniker said with so much love it nearly broke them in two.

So unlike its- their- own.

Pathetic, for the Pure Vessel to be yearning for affection.)  

Ghost had asked them if it was okay to use the name that the Gendered Child had given them. Why wouldn't it be? She was the first and only one to look at it and see them . She was the first (though not the only one now) to refuse to refer to it by its titles, instead shortening one in an approximation of a name, pronouncing it with her childish lisp and filling it with so much affection and adoration . 

It did not matter if the name was reminiscent of one of its- their- titles, for it never was hard to bear. Unlike the Pure Vessel, unlike the Hollow Knight. 

Just Hollow.  

It was something she'd stubbornly hoped they weren't (and she was right, she had seen it so early on), the name carrying the weight of her expectations, so wildly different from what it was supposed to be. 

She'd wanted it- them- to be a big sibling. Something they could now do, something they longed to be—the emotion spilled over the edge at every silent puff of air tingling their shell softly, at every little shift and nudge their siblings would give them. At the way Ghost caressed them. 

They had answered their sibling's call and, for the first time, they didn't feel the overwhelming, swallowing shame run through them. 

They knew already that they'd throw their supposed purity out the window to protect their siblings. 

Now Hollow felt they'd found something worth being impure for. Perhaps it would be okay; perhaps the soft embrace of love would hold the guilt at bay, at least for a time. 

Once the Gendered Child had stopped crying (such a weird notion, crying out of happiness- Ghost's explanation and subsequent demonstration not really helping their confusion) she'd curled up close, holding on to their claws. She'd whispered, faintly, "I love you too, I hope you noticed." And at that moment, Hollow wished to have a voice, to have any way to tell her that yes, they'd always known. 

All they could do was gently scrape their claws against her mask, hoping it would get the point across. Ghost never stopped petting them, their paws not staying on one spot either - searching out other places pleasant to be touched at. How did they even find all of those? 

(Trial and error. 

Ghost had never had anyone embrace them, never had anyone touch them gently. They had no way of knowing the touch to be pleasant, and they tried nevertheless, figuring it out as they went.) 

Their distress seemed to die down. The blurred flashes of experiences and sensations that slipped through the Void clung to Hollow nevertheless. 

(How bad must it have been, to live those memories?) 

Disregarding that, they would've been content to stay like this forever. With the Void link thick with affection, flooding it from both of them. With both their siblings (living siblings- thousands upon thousands of their kin abandoned, left to die) held close in what approximation of a hug they could manage when their sizes differed so. 

The Gendered Child squeaked, twitching in their grip. The faint sounds of footsteps outside the room caught their attention—it seemed someone was coming closer. "Oh. Oh, I'm in trouble, you're in trouble," she blabbered, patting at Hollow’s hand, trying to get them to put her back down. 

They obliged, however much they did not want to do so. 

The sound came closer, now very easy to hear and distinguish: there were two someones, footfalls rapid as though in a rush-

Oh. 

They- it froze when the door opened, the King and Herrah the Beast scanning the room, searching for something. Or someone. A very guilty-looking someone in a red shawl, mask lowered and gaze boring into the ground. 

"I apologise," the Gendered Child whispered, not looking at anyone in the room. 

Ghost squirmed in their hand, turning to see the commotion. They froze in place, going rigid and unmoving once they saw the figures standing in the doorway. 

The Void jerked, sending through guilt in sharp, staccato bursts. Another image almost slipped through—a figure in red sitting with their head hanging low—before Ghost, evidently, took a hold of themself and shut the Void link off entirely, jumping down from where Hollow held them. 

They shook violently enough to nearly overbalance and topple forwards. Hollow held out a hand, not touching but being there in case their small sibling really did fall. 

They were not the only one to notice Ghost's distress. 

Herrah did not answer her daughter’s apology. Instead, she looked the Gendered Child over with keen eyes, the tension that the Beast’s frame held lessening at the sight.

No reprimand for the child came as she lowered herself to her knees and held out an arm to where Ghost still stood, hugging themself and gasping for air. 

"Ghost," they tilted their mask at that, looking upwards at the Beast. She paused, continuing to speak only after their acknowledgement. "I harbour no resentment for what you had to do." They flinched at her gentle, soothing voice. "I understand your choices; would you allow me?" 

Ghost stared at her held out hand and inched closer, millimetre by millimetre, before holding their own hand out. Slowly, painfully slowly, as if their body was made of lead.

It- Hollow took their hand away so as to let Ghost move; keeping it close enough should they decide to touch again. 

(They were terrified of the rejection: did this mean Ghost didn't want to be close anymore? 

Don’t leave, sibling, please- ) 

It was not Ghost who took its- their- hand, and it was not the one that they held out. The Gendered Child grasped at the claws of their other arm, her eyes wide with fear and- 

Was that pity? 

(She searched it out, sook out the comfort of its- their, their, their- touch. 

Ghost was distressed and they didn't want their emotions to flow through the Void via touch; they did not intend to leave. 

Selfish , thinking of themself now.) 

Herrah's gaze softened as their small sibling carefully touched her arm, tensing as if wanting to flinch away. 

Why were they feeling so guilty at the sight of the Beast? - 

The realisation dawned on them, drowning out all of the unnecessary panic of their own. Ghost had broken the seals holding them- holding the Hollow Knight. The seals could only be broken if the Dreamers were to die. Ghost killed all the Dreamers to get to them- to the one they wanted to save, locked deep within the Black Egg- and how could Hollow not realise, not understand the source of their sibling's terror? 

Was the figure that they saw through the link the Gendered Child?  

She still watched in fear, eyes locked onto Ghost, who seemed to relax bit by bit, painfully slowly, at the Beast’s words. 

Hollow did not miss the glare that she cast Him; did not miss how He deflated under it, His light dimming and shoulders sagging. 

Dread welled, heavy and nauseating, when they realised that they were fully on her side in this. It spiked, almost knocking the ground off from under its- their- shell when a wish surfaced at the sight of their sibling, still shaking, breathing still uneven.

A wish to level Him with the same kind of a stare. 

(It was His fault that Ghost suffered. 

It was their fault that Ghost suffered.) 

When the smaller vessel finally calmed enough for the trembling to cease fully and take full, deep breaths, they turned to Hollow and took the still extended hand. 

Sibling-sorry , they whispered through the Void, more guilt thrumming in the apology, though not the same as they'd shown at Herrah's presence. No, this was something deeper, something far less jagged and sharp - more like a large, calm wave of emotion. 

You have nothing to be sorry about, Hollow wanted to say in response. They did not manage do so, the sharp sting of fear once again making them freeze.

Do not. It was never to speak, never to act on its own, never-

The words it had almost shaped its emotion into faded before it was able to send them through. 

Sibling-loved , Ghost reminded it- them- the not-words sorrowful and hopeful all at once. 

(Once again, it was Ghost who needed the comfort and yet they could not accomplish such a simple task.

They had vowed to never fail Ghost again.) 

Hollow focused all of their attention into the phrase they'd almost managed to transmit before, ignoring the nauseating shame and horror they (they!) felt rising at the notion of communicating . 

(A little nausea was nothing compared to what Ghost had lived through because of them.) 

You have nothing to be sorry about. 

Ghost's side of the link throbbed, sending forth warm and enveloping waves of relief mingled with delight. Their sibling was happy they'd managed to talk. However short the phrase, however simple the sentiment. 

That was enough to keep all the shame at bay. That was enough to let themself lower their mask to the ground and impact it ever so gently against Ghost's in a gesture of affection taught to Hollow by the Gendered Child. 

The Void between them purred, undiluted joy reverberating, sinking deep into their core.

They tugged lightly at her shawl, coaxing her to come to where their mask was. She let them and they led her slowly to their cheek that was currently unoccupied with lightly nuzzling into Ghost. The Gendered Child seemed to understand the sentiment, her mask clacking against Hollow's with a dull clunk. 

"I see you are very much unharmed, child," Herrah spoke again, voice soft; they'd never heard her sound like that. "We shall have our talk about sneaking out later."

She sighed, long and heavy. "For now, I suppose, you are content here, are you not?" 

The Gendered Child did not speak; Hollow only felt her mask bump into theirs again as she nodded. 

"Return to our chambers when you've had enough time with your siblings, then. They won't be going anywhere, honeycomb; you shall be able to part and return back to them exactly as many times as you'd wish." 

At this, the small spider perked up and Hollow's heart fluttered—not the familiar frantic beating it gave in response to fear but something softer, almost like the gentle light of His wings. 

"I can- they can be my siblings, now?" she asked, gaze darting between her mother and their- her Father. He stood unmoving, His light still dim, His upper set of claws trembling. 

(They could still not fathom why.

Why, why would He act like that? Why would He be distressed, why would He allow everything that had been a taboo for so long?)

"Yes," He answered, before Herrah could speak. "Yes, they can. I apologise for denying it for so long, child." 

Hollow had seen Him break down two times in the last few cycles. Even though the reason was elusive, they knew that He was on the verge of tears, knew His words to be the truth. 

(Live, live, He had ordered them to live.

Was it all an elaborate punishment? Was it a deceit, after all, would their siblings be taken away again?

No. No, that was too unlike Him. Too inefficient, a waste of time aiming to cause suffering and naught more.)

Sibling-loved.

Ghost pushed into its- their- cheek. The not-words were sharp, powerful, echoing in their mask.

They had heard-

Their sibling sent forth more love, more acceptance, obviously attempting to drown out their doubts. Hollow focused on those, grasping at them, holding on, claws tightening ever-so-slightly and scraping against Ghost’s back.

They tore their gaze away from Him. Just in time to see the Queen of Deepnest level Him a look —and was it surprise, disbelief that they caught in her expression? —as she stood up and turned to leave, motioning for Him to do the same. 

"You two are always welcome in my den," she said before leaving, "for you are the Deepnest's Princess' siblings." 

The Gendered Child sobbed into their mask; at this, Hollow realised they wished for that connection they shared with Ghost to be applied to her, too. Wished to know what emotions swirled beneath her mask, what her tells were. Did she cry in pain or in delight, were her hands shaking with fear or relief as she stroked their mask? 

They would need to learn normal bugs' means of expression. 

They did not find the expected sting of shame and fear at the thought. They only felt contentment finally blooming into full-blown happiness as the Gendered Child's whispers intertwined with Ghost's—one that of speech, the other that of Void. Both stating one simple thing, over and over again. 

I love you.  

(Don't leave me.)

---

Herrah the Beast was sure of a lot of things in her life. 

She was sure of her unwavering loyalty to her people. Of the love for her daughter, strong enough to accept the sacrifice she would have to make. Of her closest friends, the spiders, weavers and devout making an approximation of a court. Of Vespa, who would take the Gendered Child into her care once Herrah fell to to endless sleep. 

She'd been sure she would never feel sympathy for a vessel, for were they not just mindless constructs, made to be used for a singular task? 

She'd let her daughter refer to them as a sibling, entertaining the delusion, the sweet lie. She'd thought some of the things the Pure Vessel did to be warm , affectionate even—before realising that it had, most likely, copied her actions when hiding the Gendered Child under its cloak as she cried; that it had, most likely, followed the orders given to it when shielding the spiderling from harm.

And then she had shut all of that down, buried it deep enough so that it would never reach the surface—for if she was right, then she would march into an eternity of watching a child suffer at the hands of a furious god. 

She was, indeed, right. 

And, most importantly, she was not the only one seeing it. She doubted that the Wyrm would listen to anyone— it was a damn miracle he’d heard the small vessel out.

And the Gendered Child was never in danger, all because her sibling loved her. Loved her so much that the sight had nearly split Herrah's heart clean in two after seeing what had become of the smaller vessel- of Ghost. 

(They were a child when they'd had to kill three innocents; had to kill their beloved taller sibling and endure what seemed like decades of deliberate torment, their body a testament to their resolve. 

She tried hard to not think of the most prominent scars—those like tear trails, burnt deep into their cheeks—and tried hard to not think of the implications.  

Tried to not imagine the Gendered Child, forced to endure the same.) 

How could she ever hold it against a child to wish to save their sibling, no matter the cost? 

Herrah was prepared to threaten, hiss and growl at the Wyrm when declaring the vessels her daughter's siblings and welcoming them into Deepnest. It turned out there would be no need for such, with him answering the Gendered Child's plea first. And with an answer she would've never expected to hear from him . 

There were things unforgivable, sins irredeemable, and his were of this nature. How many more vessels had once existed- how many more experiments had he conducted- before, for some reason, deciding the Pure Vessel to be the one , she knew not. Did not wish to know, not now and not ever. 

Just the same as she never wanted to know exactly what the grooves etched into their shell were, that she'd noticed as they held out their hand for Ghost to take. 

(She knew, deep down, the answers to both of those questions, and the knowledge made her haemolymph boil.) 

And yet, he seemed to try. While Herrah was not foolish enough to miss the presence that Ghost had, their proximity oppressive leagues above what she'd ever felt from their sibling, she also didn't miss how his voice changed when talking to the vessels. How his light dimmed and hands shook—she'd never seen him like that before, and she'd seen him quite a lot of times in quite a lot of different circumstances. 

Was he terrified of the power that Ghost possessed? Yes, yes he was.

But Herrah believed him to also be horrified at the realisation of what he'd done, unable to hide from the truth anymore. Believed that he knew not what to do next, after all his perfect plans crumbled down on him and left him stranded in a land of emotion and care , something he was never able to understand. 

She could not deny that she felt protective of the vessels, even though she did not have any reason to feel that way, she knew. Yet… they were her daughter's siblings and she would not allow any harm to come to them—for she knew it would break the Gendered Child, were anything to happen to them. 

She would not see her daughter hurt like that. 

Herrah hoped the promise would be enough for the Gendered Child to be able to leave them and come back to their designated chambers. They were away from Deepnest for six cycles longer than expected already. And would be away for even longer, it seemed. 

"Wyrm, when is the Dreamer meeting that you'd mentioned?" 

He stared at Herrah for a long second before answering, voice monotone. 

"It is set to be after four cycles." 

"Then I shall write to Deepnest that they are to expect me back within seven cycles. They were not informed of the matters that led to me staying longer than I planned to." 

He gave Herrah a nod, visibly still lost in thought, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe, mandibles clicking against each other faintly. 

"I am planning to take Ghost to the Silver City tomorrow, to forge them a nail. You-" he cut off, clearly uncomfortable - what did he want to say? 

"Thank you for comforting them," he forced out, the words strained. 

Huh. Would you look at that, the Wyrm was distressed and knew not what to do with his children. Herrah scoffed before giving him an answer. 

"There is nothing to thank me for, Wyrm. I did nothing spectacular or deserving of awe- they are my daughter's siblings and they have my loyalty." Not you, though, she left hanging in the air. He seemed to understand anyway, sighing deeply. 

They spent the rest of their way in silence. Their paths diverged, with him taking back to his workshop (hiding again, how surprising) and her going in the direction of the Royal Quarters where her and the Gendered Child’s chambers were. 

"I shall see you in four cycles, then," Herrah said, instead of a goodbye. He gave her a curt nod, vanishing into the shadows of another corridor. 

She hoped the Gendered Child wouldn't return too soon; she had too many thoughts of which to clear her head, and wished to do so before she'd have to provide answers to her daughter's questions. 

The spiderling deserved to know what really happened—and Herrah would hate to show just how much the sight of the vessels broke something in her. She found herself wishing for Midwife to be here, to be able to listen to her grievances and offer, just as always, practical advice. 

She would have to make do without her friend.

---

"Don't you two have any rooms to go to?" 

It was painfully obvious that the Gendered Child wished both to leave and to stay: leave so that she could process (and, possibly, scream and hiss at someone) and stay in fear the spell would shatter and she'd find herself all alone again. 

Ghost knew the feeling all-too-well. 

They also knew the spell would not break and she would be able to return any time she’d wish to do so. They'd make sure of that. 

Hollow would, too, Ghost knew. 

And yes, they had chambers to go to, the retainer still stationed outside the infirmary—if what the Pale King had told them was true. 

(Why wouldn't it be? 

Ghost still did not trust him. They doubted they ever would, doubted they would accept anything he said without any suspicion.) 

They nodded, shifting their mask to look at their sibling. Rooms? they asked simply through the link, listening closely for an answer and carefully stepping away from Hollow's mask when they heard an affirming hum come in response.

Ghost looked at the spider, motioning to the door with their paws while walking over to it. They didn't quite want their sibling to be the one to ask (did just showing up count as asking?), and so they were the one to go.

They looked out into the large corridor beyond the infirmary, searching out the retainer. 

He was there, staring at them, posture apprehensive. His eyes widened once he noticed the Gendered Child looking out from behind them.

He whispered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘not you again, for fuck's sake’ before bowing deeply and adding in normal volume a, "Do you wish to be shown to your chambers?" 

Ghost tilted their head and nodded, turning back and waving for their sibling after. They stood up, slowly, as if weighed down by something (no, they are not limping, not struggling to stand, not gasping for breath, collect yourself) and closed the distance in just one broad step before bending over to pick Ghost up and place them between their large horns. They unfolded just as slowly as they did before, staring straight in front of themself and shuffling to that perfect, stiff pose once again. 

Sibling-loved, Ghost told them, holding on to the lowest prongs of their horns - sending through the enjoyment of being so high up, feeling small between Hollow's horns. 

(They hoped theirs wouldn't be so ridiculously big. That looked uncomfortable.

Were they even able to grow, after-

No. It did not matter.) 

They didn't get a wilful answer, only the abundance of shame wavering slightly. The Gendered Child hugged their sibling's shin (she also did not reach any higher) and whispered a, "I'll be back- good night, siblings." Then, she dashed along the corridor's length and vanished in the shadows. 

Ghost motioned with their paw (they didn't want to let go of their sibling's mask, but the retainer stared at them, not making any effort to move). The movement made Hollow shiver almost imperceptibly and the retainer finally started to lead the way. 

Ghost did not like the White Palace—it was too bland, too lifeless for their taste. They stared disapprovingly at all the white and grey, at all the identical rooms and hallways and staircases. 

Perhaps they hated it because it had tried to make their sibling the same, they thought. All perfect, polished and rigid, not a single flaw to be found, not a single order disobeyed: Hallownest's salvation, the King's greatest creation. 

They felt nauseous at the thought—though only vaguely, careful to not let their feelings and thoughts slip back to their sibling. 

To their sibling, who radiated off waves of shame and guilt so strong that they felt nauseous anyway, even their constant reminders of sibling-loved, sibling-accepted, sibling-alive-needed-needed not helping to dwindle the emotions any. Their sibling, who moved in unnatural, just a bit too mechanical and sharp, jerks of their limbs—as though willing themself to do so, weighed down-

(The all-too-familiar images threatened to surface from the back of Ghost's mind. They fought hard against those, holding on tight to Hollow's horns. 

Were they to lose, they'd jump down in an instant.) 

The retainer, mercifully, did not speak for the entire trek to… somewhere.

Ghost lost their sense of direction somewhere around the fourth staircase that led to yet another pristine white hall. Hollow, however, seemed to understand where they were going—more shudders running through them the nearer the group was to their destination; the emotion tearing through them strong almost to the point of becoming another storm. 

They came to a somewhat abrupt stop in a corridor that looked exactly the same as the medical wing's one. The retainer presented to the siblings two neighbouring doors. 

"Here you go, have a good night." He forced out before turning and leaving. Nearly running, as though chased by something. 

Ghost had never had a room before. 

(They had a small section in the back of the largest tent of the Troupe, covered in fluffy pillows and soft blankets, with a small fireplace crackling nearby. That was just as good—perhaps, even better than anything the White Palace might have to offer.

Only by the merit of Hollow’s presence was it not that way.) 

Their sibling stood stone still, the shame rising to a nearly unbearable level. Ghost tugged gently at the link, sending forth their memories of a home , of something theirs , in hopes it would help Hollow calm down. 

It did not, not fully—but they moved, taking Ghost off of their mask and carefully setting them before one of the doors. 

Ghost came inside to be greeted by a sight of their sibling's greatnail, propped up on a weapon rack near the entrance. There was a large bed covered in blankets that looked silky and smooth. A closet, doors half-open, showing them glimpses of cloaks, all in varying shades of grey. And, the last thing they noticed was a window covered in tender white vines, flowers not yet blooming but present nonetheless—the view outside one of a garden of some kind. 

So, this was their sibling's room. 

It looked like something personal, Ghost noted. It seemed the White Lady tried her earnest to make something that would suit them, that had all their things and added gentle touches to make it feel more alive. 

(It was hard to do so, when all of their sibling’s possessions screamed perfect, flawless, pristine, lifeless.)  

Hollow went in after them, still moving with those stiff, stilted steps, and sat down on the bed, staring outwards with their gaze focused on nothing. With their fear and shame strong enough for Ghost to hear even without touching. 

They didn't know how to reassure their sibling, and so they settled on coming close and wiggling their way into Hollow's lap. On sending warm acceptance and love through the Void. Which seemed to help, if only a little—the distress slowly receding, their sibling's hand coming closer to Ghost and encircling their upper half, allowing them to lean against it and pet the sharp claws that held them so so gently. 

Sibling-loved, Ghost repeated again and again. Sibling-alive, they sang—the relief overwhelming after the visages that plagued their mind on the way here. 

Sibling-rest, they prompted after the storm seemed to calm enough for them to feel the familiar affection lapping at their Void. Fainter than ever, but still there. At the inquiry, Hollow raised their second hand to unclip the heavy armour from their shoulders and chest, putting it away on the floor near the bed so as to not stand up and let Ghost go. They settled down, then, curled around Ghost with their back to the wall. 

Ghost was curious about their own room. 

That could wait until the next cycle. 

They squirmed until their back was pressed to their sibling's chest with the large hand still hugging them, holding them close.

They sent the love and relief and the feeling of being safe to Hollow, adding a wide not-smile upon receiving the familiar steely-sharp protectiveness back. 

It seemed they were stuck here. 

They didn't mind.

Chapter Text

They woke up to knocking. 

Ghost stretched sleepily, accidentally elbowing their sibling, who was still curled up around them with their hand still shielding Ghost from whatever it would be they'd need protection from. 

They shut their eyes tight at the sight of the familiar pale light, visible before the King entered the room. They did not want to move from where they were, did not want to tear themself away from the comfort of Hollow's sleepy contentment lapping at the outskirts of their Void. Did not want to wake their sibling up when it took so long for them to fall asleep in the first place. 

"Ghost?" he called them, quiet; did he, too, notice the taller vessel sleeping soundly and didn't want to rouse them? 

Had Ghost had a voice, they would've probably groaned at him. They were so terribly content here- 

"I promised I would take you to the Silver City to forge you a new nail," the Pale King spoke again. "Would you be willing to come today?" 

He seemed awfully considerate, always asking each of them for permission , for what they wanted or did not want. He was trying to gain their trust, was he not? But they would never trust him. They would only tolerate his and the Queen's presence both, because it wasn't for them , it was for Hollow . Would only be his ally should he be helpful against Her . 

Their Void squirmed at the mention of Her, churned at the fury and hatred the mere thought caused. 

Ghost sighed. 

It seemed they had to go: after all, they needed a nail - they were behaving as if there was no threat, as if their mission was completed. They had grown complacent in the last few cycles, surrounded by their sibling's love and acceptance and by all the familiar-yet-not faces of their past making appearances one by one. They could not allow themself the comfort, the rest. They had to keep going, the only refuge being after they would kill Her . 

They would have time to spend with their siblings once they'd saved them. And right then, the first step to achieving that was going to the City of Tears for a weapon. 

(Ghost was pretty sure they didn't need a nail, not with the whispers and the thrumming of power inside their Void never subsiding, promising them safety in its embrace. 

They did not want to heed the call.

They did not know enough about what had happened to Hollow, back in the infirmary. Back when they had listened to the Void, albeit unwittingly.

Ghost was not willing to risk—not when there was another way.)   

They rose, careful not to wake their sibling, and made their way to the door to where he stood. 

His light seemed bright today, brighter even than how they'd seen it be since their first cycle here, when he knew not yet what they were and what news they brought. His robes were pristine, upper set of arms folded neatly over his chest, the tips of almost ethereal wings peeking out from under his cloak. 

Ghost looked themself over critically—they were not in their best shape: their cloak in tatters, with patches of orange tarnishing the once-blue fabric, their mask cracked and their body marred with scars. 

Reminders lasting through time itself, each pockmark a lost battle, each rupture Her claws, digging in and spreading the not-chitin to get out, out, out-

Each layer of their mask scorched another of the countless times they’d watched their sibling die and were powerless to stop it-

No more, no more, no more-

They did not care about appearances.

(They hoped Hollow hadn’t seen the scars. Ghost had already shown them far more than they ever wished to.

Their sibling need not know everything.)

They did not care about appearances. 

They let him lead the way, even though they knew where to head. Where to find a big elevator that would take them up to the city and where to go when they’d reach it: turning left, passing the statue- 

The statue of their sibling-

Was it there, already?

(They did not want to see it, not again, not again, not again-)

A macabre reminder of what would’ve come- of what would not come anymore-

A mockery, the stone counterpart of Hollow left to weep in the empty city forevermore.

It would not happen this time-

Ghost's head shot up to look at the Pale King. He noticed, giving them a sideway glance as they passed a group of nobles whispering amongst themselves. 

"Yes, Ghost?" he asked once they were alone. They didn't find the quiver, the dampness in his voice. It was only flat and perhaps trying to be… warm? 

Pretty words and intentions would not make him their father , no matter what Hollow had to say about the matter. 

Ghost knew not how to convey their question. They had not yet had their first sign language lesson—it was scheduled for later today– they did not have ink and a quill to draw the fountain in a silent inquiry, either. 

They lowered their mask, admitting defeat. They'd have to see for themself. 

They passed over a shiny white bridge (it would fall, pieces of rubble with Void tendrils slithering along them the only reminder of the White Palace). Then upwards through the Basin, by a small fountain with a likeness of the Pale King holding up a cup, water streaming out of it (dead nobles lay strewn around on the ground, their hands still clasped together in a silent plea). Up, up, up into the big, noisy elevator with intricate carvings on both the cabin and the doors (it lay collapsed on the ground, chains rusted and snapped, the once-intricate design lost to time and decay) and into the Silver- into the City of Tears- proper. 

The expected rain did not come. 

Ghost blinked at the cityscape they did not quite recognise. It looked the same as they'd remembered it, yet so wildly different. 

Perhaps, it was the absence of the rain and its blueish ambience, but the city gleamed pale silver, its spires stretching so high up that Ghost couldn't make out where they ended. Silver, just like the Palace; silver, just like the Pale King was. 

Silver, just like Hollow’s armour was.

(chains around their sibling’s form, around their form, were silver too. Him, him, it was always him-)

He'd noticed their hesitation and stopped a few steps in front of them, following their movements with wary eyes. Had he seen what would become of the city, should he go through with his plan? Did he know of the collapsed towers, of the shambling husks still patrolling empty alleys? If he did, his expression betrayed nothing. His light stayed unwavering and his posture stiff and perfect. 

(It reminded them a bit of how their sibling held themself when stressed.) 

Ghost moved, joining the King as he led them through the city's centre, taking in all the life that seemed to boil around them, so unlike what they'd remembered. They flinched away and cringed inwardly each time bugs would drop to their knees in a deep bow, wide eyes looking up at him in awe. 

They could not look at him and not see Hollow's shattered form, hanging limp in the chains, hissing quietly with the infection dissolving their armour, eating through their carapace.  

Ghost did not want to relive those memories, and so they did not look at the Pale King, choosing instead to focus on the streetlamps, on the big round windows, on the carts taking cargo up to the storerooms. They focused their gaze elsewhere until there was nowhere left to run from their past. Until they stepped into the Fountain Square. Their gaze darted to the middle of it, where they remembered the fountain standing, in spite of themself.

The fountain was not there.  

Ghost turned around, searching out anything alluding to such a thing being constructed, and found nothing. The square was full to the brim with bugs, benches barely visible near each of the four buildings encircling the plaza. 

They stopped dead in their tracks, staring out in disbelief. 

That meant- 

No. No. This could not mean what they'd just thought, that could not mean that the fountain was a testament to his grief, made after- after- 

After what? After the infection seeped out again (after She tore away their sibling's arm-)? After the fall of the city (after She'd uncovered their dearest, most guarded memory-)? After it reached even the Basin with nowhere left to hide (after their sibling cried out for him-)?  

(No, no, it could not have been the last two-)

What did it take, for the Pale King to realise that the end was coming, that their sibling had broken- to realise what he had done ? 

(The end was coming for him , their sibling denied even that mercy.)  

Ghost stared and stared and stared until they were sure they could make out the outline of the statue, could make out the teardrops running down the Hollow Knight's mask as the rain pounded down on their stone counterpart. Until they saw their own small form, standing before it and weeping , and screaming into the Void link, trying to get through- trying to let their sibling know that they were coming-  

A light touch on their shoulder. They jerked back, still shivering, the corners of their eyes still stinging and their paw clutching the soft not-yet-chitin on their thorax that seared with a pain not entirely physical. 

(His - their fault, their fault, their- his fault, how dare he- ) 

He did not reach out further, keeping one of his arms outstretched for them to take, should they decide to do so. 

And the crowd stared at them and him both. 

Away away away get away-  

Don't stare, don't look, leave them be-  

Ghost dashed, unthinking, the shadows around closing in on them (were those his regrets, or were those their own ones?), making their way to where they knew the Nailsmith resided. They only stopped once far away from all the prying gazes and the awed faces, hidden behind a corner, in a dark spot behind a cargo cart left unattended. 

Weak, selfish and scared, Her voice resonated inside their mask with a chuckle they knew all-too-well, will you stay here, cowering in the dark, until they die, again and again and again because of you, my little shadow?  

No, no, no, they shall not- 

They have to- 

They willed their shaking body to move , the empty, scarred craters in their Void throbbing out of time with their heartbeat at every motion, tears slowly beginning to coalesce just behind their eye sockets. 

No. They must not let him see them like this. They must not fail again, must not be weak and scared again—not with so much on the line, not with Hollow's (and Hornet's) life depending on Ghost and Ghost alone . 

Move. Move, they had to move.

The world stabilised, slowly, painfully—regaining more and more of its lost sharpness with each deep breath.

The sound faded in again, together with the sight of soft silver glow.

Did he see? Did he know the reason behind their blind panic, behind them running off on their own? Did he understand?  

It would seem so. The Pale King’s expression was tight with worry as he looked at them. 

"Ghost," he called them, voice as flat as when they'd just left the Palace, "are you able to continue?" 

Their Void roiled. They did not need his worry. They did not need his pity.  

They rose to their feet and nodded sharply, starting to move in the direction of the Nailsmith's hut before he made a step. Ghost found themself even less willing to look at him than before. 

It was not far to the destination anymore: they only needed to traverse one long alley and take the path up to reach the hut.  But no matter how hard Ghost tried to focus at their surroundings, the images never truly disappeared from their mind. Floating before their eyes—their sibling’s form, bleeding into the stone statue intertwining with the flashes of memories Ghost's and Hers both. Two bright orange eyes, slowly weeping infection, following them with an accusatory stare. A long nail marred with acid and Void both. Armour melting into wounds fresh and scarred over alike. 

They wished fervently for Hollow to be here with them instead of the Pale King; to be able to ground themselves in their sibling's gentle touches, faint hums of the Void and deep, calm breaths. 

They would have to make do without them.

---

The world felt strangely empty without Ghost nearby. Without the Gendered Child. 

( It should not need anyone to stay close to it-  

No. It was okay to feel , was okay to wish for their siblings to be near.) 

It- they- found themself without direction, without anything to do, and the new sensation like itching beneath their shell left Hollow fidgeting with their cloak. One of the inside folds, those not to be seen easily, should anyone enter. 

They were used to all their waking hours spent on a tight schedule, training their body and Soul alike, accompanying Him to wherever He deemed necessary or being stationed on guard wherever needed most. And without the comforting bindings of orders, Hollow was well and truly lost. 

He had told them that He wished for them to live; did that mean it was okay to seek out something to spend time on, all of their own volition? They did not know what they'd like to do; all the things familiar and comforting turned to disquieting and alien. 

It would mean to be Seen, to have their impurity admitted out loud once again. They were ordered to live, yes. The world was suited to thinking of them as a thing unthinking, a thing unfeeling, an automaton. 

( Like it should've been- empty, pure, hollow .) 

And so they stayed in that strange limbo of wanting and not wanting at the same time, sometimes almost finally deciding to rise, but cutting themself off immediately after. 

It had not been long since they woke, either.

(Pitiful.)

Someone knocked gently on the door of the room they were in, scattering their thoughts. 

Raising, instead, a question.

It could not be Ghost: Hollow felt the Void link between them, stable and thick yet faraway. That, subsequently, meant that it could not be Him, for He was accompanying Ghost to the City; and just mere two hours that had passed since their departure would not be enough to go all the way there, back, and have a new nail forged. 

They remembered theirs taking several cycles. Remembered being taken to the Nailsmith shortly after their last moult ( too shortly after, its- their- body still weak and shaky, their balance still thrown off) and remembered leaving shortly thereafter, for there was no sense in staying to wait until he'd be finished with their nail.

Well, there was only one other bug who'd not only seek them out, but also knock . 

Hollow shot down the disappointment rising at the realisation that it was not the Gendered Child coming to visit them. 

(It shouldn't have felt that way anyway.)  

The White Lady came in, cautious. Her light was dim, though they felt that was more to make herself less distracting and not necessarily because of any emotion wracking her, as they'd seen back in the medical wing. 

"I apologise for the disruption," she spoke, her voice soft and gentle. "I am heading in the direction of the Knights' quarters; there is much to be explained to them. I feel they would be happy to see you again—would you wish to come with? Perhaps share a meal or a spar with them?"

Hollow froze. 

It did not know what to do with an inquiry like that, did not know what to do with the fact that the Queen had asked for it to make a choice —and, most importantly, did not know what to do about the nauseating realisation that the Knights would Know, would See. 

‘I feel they would be happy to see you again.’  

Why would they? They had each other, a comradery of the deepest level shared between them. It had seen how they'd changed, after Dryya's departure, and it knew it was not something- someone- whose absence was to be mourned in the same way. Not something to seek out if it didn't come, not something to share a meal with. Perhaps something to spar with, yes, for it needed to be ready to carry out its ultimate purpose. 

( They, Ghost's not-voice echoed in its- their- mind.) 

Isma had always called it a them . 

It never understood why. Never, until meeting Ghost and receiving their input on the matter—stern, reprimanding almost– but so full of love mixed with grief . 

Did she feel the same way? 

Why would she? Why would anyone? Yet He and the White Lady both did, the Queen going as far as thinking of it , giving it a choice on the matter that it- they- should not have any say in. 

They did not wish to be Seen in this way. Not yet. Hollow didn't feel ready to stand before the Knights, the protectors of Hallownest, and admit to their failure, admit that they hadn't carried out the one duty they were assigned- for were they not a knight, too? 

(Not anymore, perhaps. Perhaps He would rescind its status, reduce it to something more appropriate.) 

They shook their head ever so slightly, everything inside of them protesting the movement with waves of shame that made Hollow want to bury themself somewhere deep and dark, never to be seen again. 

(Something inside of them keened with a childish voice, the memories of the Abyss at once comforting and revolting.) 

"It's alright." The White Lady smiled, in a way that suggested she'd liked what they did. 

(What could she like in their actions? Admitting their failure out loud, being everything it- they- were not supposed to be?

Making a choice?)  

"You can come anytime. I am sure they will welcome you once you feel ready," she said, giving them a gentle stroke on their mask before turning and leaving the room. 

Hollow was not so sure of that, was not sure they would be welcomed by anyone.  

( Accepted. Ghost's not-voice was real enough for them to look deeper, to search their surroundings. They did not find their sibling and the Void linking them stayed in that same dormant state.) 

As quickly as the White Lady left, they wished for her to come back. Some part of them was screaming to go after her. 

What constituted ready? Would it- would they- ever be? Hollow knew not, choosing to not even ponder, continuing instead to stare at the door. Half-wishing (do not wish-) for it to open again and for the Queen to come back, to give them an order so that they wouldn't have to deal with its- their- wretched feelings and thoughts .

They were not supposed to have those in the first place anyway. 

When Ghost had asked them if they wanted to move to their designated rooms, the answer was easy enough. Their siblings both wished for them to do so, and so they did. The White Lady, however, gave no indication of what she'd desired to hear and they were left drifting once more, the open ocean that the world now threatening to swallow Hollow whole under its tide. 

They wished for Ghost to come back, wished to have the comfort of the love and the knowledge that their sibling was safe (with them).  

Selfish.

---

The rest of the trek went off without a hitch, thankfully. 

The Pale King did not know what distressed Ghost enough to run away and would prefer it not happen again. While he was sure they would find their way in the city, he wasn't quite so sure he would be able to find them afterwards. 

(He was worried for them. They had flinched away from him. Was it another memory, another terror of his make? What would be there, on the Silver Plaza, centuries later?) 

Ghost wouldn't look at him, visibly uncomfortable—they had stood stock-still while the Nailsmith took their measures and went out of the hut as soon as they could. He'd stayed to answer the craftsman's questions. 

The Nailsmith was visibly disappointed when the Pale King told him of the time constraint that they had, asking him to alter one of the smaller nails he had rather than forge an entirely new one.

And as the King left the house too, he found Ghost sitting down on the precipice near the hut, looking out at nowhere in particular. 

They were also dangling their legs. 

He blinked, forcing away a small smile at the behaviour.

(Their limp form hanging in chains of his make, legs dangling, dangling-)

They had calmed down, at least, tension leaving their frame. Perhaps, they were reliving a kinder memory than whatever it was they had relived at the Silver Plaza. 

Did they know the Nailsmith? Not this one, of course, but maybe one of his successors? Would anyone be left alive still, after Hallownest’s fall? It was useless to wonder, just like it was useless listening to the Nailsmith's work.

The Pale King remembered that the last time he was there, the craftsman took an entire week to finish the work, sending the nail to the Palace afterwards.

(The last time he was here was with the Pure Vessel, right after they had moulted for the last time. 

He remembered the doubt— was it concern? — when he saw them struggle to keep up with his pace. When he noticed their chest rise and fall faster than it should've as their new measurements were being taken . Too soon after its moult, he'd told himself then; and while now he knew the statement to still be true, he also understood the amount of emotion beyond their condition.

Perhaps, they weren’t just exhausted. Perhaps, that was yet another case of him putting them through unnecessary pain. He wished he didn't understand, in the corner of his mind.

Coward.) 

There was no dawn or dusk in the Silver City, for it was built underground, with no way for the sun to reach it. Ghost didn't move for the entirety of their wait—something the Pale King would guess took around five or six hours—they were staring out with their inscrutable, bottomless eyes and sat almost completely still, ceasing swinging their legs. 

When the time came to take their nail, they cast him a glance, distrusting, almost daring.

(Another sharp reminder that Ghost would, likely, never trust him and had every reason not to do so stung, just as it always did.

Just as it always would, perhaps.)

After that they turned away, almost flinching again, and did a few test swings; evidently satisfied, they nodded vigorously at the Nailmaster and sheathed the weapon across their back. 

They were right-handed, he couldn't help but notice. Another discrepancy, another proof of individuality, just like their preferred moves and grip. All differing so wildly from their sibling—but how could he be surprised at such a small thing now; how could he notice those things only now?  

(Coward, shutting his eyes on an obvious truth, denying something that was right under his nose.) 

Ghost stared at him, expectant, as he thanked the Nailsmith for the work and went out of the door. The Pale King would lead them through another route to the Basin: he didn't want them to pass the Silver Plaza again; the loss of one hour was insignificant in the face of their prior panic. And that would still allow them to come back to the Palace in time for their first sign language lesson. 

An idea occurred to him. He looked back at Ghost and their new nail. 

"Would you like to spar with the Great Knights, Ghost?" The Pale King asked before even thinking of the circumstances of the Knights not knowing Ghost (his Root promised she'd talk to them today, while he and Ghost would be away). The Knights might be apprehensive of them and disagree with his choice of giving the vessel a weapon. 

He didn't really care much. They were to follow his orders and they ought not know of Ghost's true nature—and they trained Ghost's sibling well. 

Oh. 

The Pure Vessel was also a Great Knight; he'd done the ceremony as a way of explaining their sacrifice later on, and now- 

Would they like to stay as one of the Fi- Six? Would they want to continue their training, for even as good as they were (better than any other Great Knight- better than anyone else, save for him, both with nail and spell) there was no limit to what they could accomplish? Or would they like something else, perhaps changing their life entirely and choosing to be- whatever they wanted to be?  

(They wouldn't choose, not yet. They wouldn't answer any of those questions, no matter who asked them, and it was his fault.  

The only thing he could do was let them know they were to do anything they desired. As many times as it took for them to understand he wasn't lying or testing them. 

They also didn't trust him—and their suspicions cut much deeper than Ghost's.) 

Ghost nodded as an answer. They gave nothing more as he turned a corner leading away from the Silver Plaza. Gave no indication of their thoughts as they both descended back to the Basin and into the Palace proper. They didn't even look at him as he led them to their room, where an enthralled retainer was waiting with a stack of books, but they did spare a glance to the neighbouring door. Did they want to go check on their sibling? Were they talking to the taller vessel or were they too tired and emotionally exhausted to learn today? 

The Pale King didn't ask them. He knew Ghost was fully able to make decisions for themself and, if they wanted to, they would’ve left already.  Instead, they went in after the retainer, not giving him any semblance of a goodbye. 

Not that he needed (deserved) one.

He stood alone in the corridor, a brief thought to visit The Hollow Knight arising in his mind and fading back out again. He wouldn't impose himself on them. He'd vowed as much.  Instead, he sighed and took to his workshop. 

There were preparations to be done before the Dreamer meeting in three cycles: much was to be discussed and much was to be explained. 

He wouldn't stumble upon his own words the next time he had to explain Ghost's appearance and the reason for aborting the plan.

Chapter Text

He'd asked Ghost if they wanted to spar with the Great Knights. 

They had mulled the question over for an entire evening, during their sign language lesson and as they’d returned back to Hollow’s room.

Was he not afraid of them? Did he, too, grow complacent with the brief almost-comfort of the last days? Had he forgotten that their loyalty would never be to him or to his court or to Hallownest, for it always was and always will be to their sibling (siblings) and to them alone? 

They did need to spar, though; their skills had surely diminished after the eternity they'd spent hanging limp. It was a wonder they didn't forget how to hold their nail altogether. 

(Some part of them keened at the thought of taking up their nail again, the feeling of dampness on their paws and the sickening wet snap of chitin surfacing and choking them enough so they'd left Hollow's side for the night. Their sibling let them, though Ghost could feel the worry thrumming in the Void as neither of them slept. But all Ghost could focus on was the steady, silent rise and fall of the taller vessel's chest. 

How could they stand any chance against Her, how could they hope to save their sibling, when just touching their nail had left them feeling nauseated and disoriented? 

Weak. Always too weak.) 

They'd left fairly early into the next cycle, waving Hollow goodbye with a soft sibling-loved-will-return through the link. Listening closely, Ghost could almost make out something resembling a ‘ be well’, getting to them in response. 

The monochrome whites and greys pressed on them, making their shell crawl, their shade squirm and their Void fill with an almost instinctual deep hatred for the place. They quickened their pace, hoping they wouldn't get lost. They needed to get away from here, away to where the suffocating perfection and revolting in its brightness pale light were not the only things around them. 

Thankfully, they did not lose their way. 

Ghost heard the Knights before they saw them—the cheerful laughter, the words, filled with fondness, thrown out for the others to catch.

They did not belong. They never would, probably.

They needed to go, needed to get themself back into form. 

They knocked, announcing their presence, and then entered. The Knights froze at the sight, all five pairs of eyes boring into Ghost; though not in a distinctly uncomfortable way—the green Knight's gaze in particular scanning them with a layer of softness to it. 

They felt like they'd seen her before. They could not put their finger exactly on where or when.

She was also the first to speak. 

"Ghost, am I right? Would you like to join us?" 

Ghost nodded, shifting their weight slightly. It was... unusual, to be regarded by a stranger without hostility or fear. 

(They barely remembered being regarded at all: most of their memories before Her were scattered and fuzzy.) 

It was even more alien to be treated as an equal; all the other Knights gathered together, close but not too close to Ghost, heads bowed to look them in the eyes as the green one spoke again. 

"We know your name, but you do not know ours. I am Isma," pronounced with an accent Ghost couldn't quite place and a motion of her hand across her chest, "and this is Ogrim," she gently nudged the big, round beetle that stood by her side and he smiled at Ghost, wide and sincere. 

As they looked him over, a feeble echo of booming laughter surfaced from their memories. Their eyes stopped at his claws, shoulder throbbing faintly in recollection.

Isma fell silent, letting all the others speak for themselves. 

Dryya, for the tall and sleek one with pointy horns and a spear. 

Hegemol, for the one fully coated in heavy armour, with a mace by his side. Ghost looked at him with curiosity, wondering how the bug looked  underneath.

A hazy, unsteady memory fluttered beneath their eyes—the heavy armour that he wore broken open on the ground, a white maggot fallen right beside it.

And Ze'mer, for the one who looked like no bug that Ghost had ever seen. Who emitted a strange pale glow, though not of the same origin as the Pale King's Kingslight—Ghost's Void stayed silent, coiling into itself as if trying to hide, at the presence. Who spoke in a weird mesh of the language Ghost knew and some other one—they probably couldn't even pronounce the words like she did, wispy and fleeting. 

And each of them looked dangerous, deadly; their weapons of choice held lowered but ready to spring to action at a moment's notice. 

Ghost's Void thrummed when they took their hand to their nail. They cast a meaningful glance to the Knights, holding their weapon like the others did, slightly lowered but still at the ready. 

"Would you like to have a spar, Ghost?" Isma inquired at their movements, her smile wavering the slightest bit. 

They nodded and did nothing else; they had no preference who to challenge.

The Knights seemed to come to an unvoiced agreement as everyone except Isma left the training ring, settling outside the perimeter and speaking to each other in hushed tones. 

Ghost held no expectations of themself. They knew better than anyone else just how much they'd deteriorated in the decades that they hadn't touched their nail; still, some shy feeling of rightness that the memories of their last battle couldn't stifle rose forth as Ghost held their nail and bowed their head to Isma. 

This was polite. They remembered being told as much, though they couldn't place who exactly did so—but the teachings and the warm, reprimanding voice telling them that a spar was not a battle to death, remained. 

“Go!” she ordered sharply, signalling the beginning of the duel.

Isma did not use a nail, or a needle, or any other conventional weapon. Instead, her vines lashed, going for Ghost. They evaded to the side, ducking and rolling.

They were in range, and they went for a sideways slash.

It made a shallow cut in Isma’s soft carapace. She recoiled immediately, sending out a volley of jagged thorns.

(Not orange, these were not orange-)

On instinct, they jumped to the side and attempted to beat their wings.

They did not have those anymore.

The sharp point of one of the barbs found purchase, grinding into Ghost’s shell as they dashed again. Something spread, from the spot where it dug into their shell.

(Caustic liquid, spilling from Hollow and seeping into their soft not-chitin, heat spreading from the places of impact-)

They had no time to spare wondering as to the cause: a vine lashed, going for their mask from the side.

They rolled, evading downwards and dashing to Isma immediately after. Nail dragged across shell, the sensation reverberating through Ghost’s entire body.

(Chitin parting under their blade.

Pustules bursting open at the slightest touch, the Void link jerking in agony-)

They dodged backwards as Isma counterattacked, jagged edges of one vine digging into their side. Several motes of Void rose up.

Ghost’s instincts screamed, the air around them suddenly feeling too thick.

(Cloying. Invasive. Wrong, wrong-

Not real. Not now.)

Another dash. Another dodge, another lunge and slash and swing, movement fading into movement and the world dimming-

Another vine, cornering them with no space to evade-

Ghost parried, gritting their fangs together. Just slightly too much, just slightly too slow—they were being overpowered, their grip faltering.

(The world blurred, edges plunging into darkness. Weak, always too weak, their knees trembling with both exertion and horror-)

Isma cut off their only way out with another barrage of projectiles. 

Soul welled.

Void twisted.

The two coalesced, intertwined into a blast of energy Ghost did not know they were capable of releasing—and flew out from their shell.

(Their sibling’s shell, caving in at the pressure of their spells, not even cracking anymore-)

It tore the projectiles apart, not leaving a single trace of them; had Isma not reacted to retract the vine it would've been torn clean off.

The Void within their body churned unpleasantly. For a split second, the world lost its steady outline.

They panted, meeting Isma's widened eyes. Was it surprise they saw, or was it fear?

The colours snapped back in. Ghost’s breathing settled.

They dashed forward again, using their weight and momentum in a single wide swing. Nail met carapace, haemolymph splattering. Ghost danced backwards immediately, knowing a counterattack would come.

She chained several strikes, meaning to corner them. They jumped over the first one, slashing downwards for added height.

They evaded, successfully, the attack coming from their right.

The one on their left, however, left them little avenue. Instinctual, they called Soul forth again.

Only for their senses to answer with yawning emptiness, spreading through their carapace.

They were not fast enough to react, did not manage to coat themself in shadows in time.

The force of the blow knocked the air out of their lungs. Ringing filled their ears, the impact not really registering.

Ghost scrambled to rise again. All the small, shallow wounds Isma had inflicted flared to life and burned and they-

They skidded and fell to their knees, breath fast and shallow, gulping down the air after the shock of the impact a few seconds prior. Isma made no move to attack again, instead watching with wary eyes and- was that worry Ghost saw? 

They didn't need her worry . They didn't need her pity . 

They forced themself to stand, to raise their nail again. Even as everything protested the movement, even as the memories floated before their gaze—reminding them of the last time they'd fought like this —they stood. The world keeled to the side. Their limbs shook. 

Isma did not move.

She watched with keen eyes, searching them for something as they held still, maw slightly agape to breathe, with their vents not providing enough air. What was she looking for, why did she stop? 

"Match," she called, bowing deeply and moving closer to them afterwards. 

They returned the gesture, however much something in their shell twisted (weak, weak, weak- she'd stopped because they were as good as dead , because they'd lost), however much the reality of their faded strength stung. 

The Void crooned, inviting them to use its power, to find comfort in its safety—for why did Ghost need a nail when they had it?  

They ignored the feeling, blinking away the specks that floated before their eyes and sheathing their nail (even such a natural, small movement made all the wounds sear).

"There is a Soul totem behind you and to your right," she spoke, not touching them but holding one vine close by. Was she afraid they'd collapse? Was their form truly this bad? 

(It probably was, if the pain was anything to go by; Ghost was used to far, far worse, and yet this was distinctly discomforting in a way they'd long since forgotten.) 

They nodded, turning to step to said totem. The world spun dangerously again. They fought to move as gracefully as they still could, to not limp or drag themself-

They weren't sure if they'd succeeded. 

Once Ghost reached the idol (carved in the likeness of the Pale King; the sight made them slightly nauseous with disgust) they took their nail again. They ignored Isma's (and the other Knights') surprised gasps, they struck the statue, feeling the familiar cold, enveloping pressure of Soul stream into their body.

The mere presence of it made the world stabilise, Ghost's breathing settle and the slight tremor of exertion in their limbs cease; they hunched their shoulders and focused, healing all the wounds inflicted by Isma. 

They were all surface-level and shallow, Ghost noted. There were just a lot of them—but as they turned around to look at Isma, they saw that she wasn't in a much better state, covered in shallow nicks and cuts they'd made with their new nail. Ichor seeped out of the wounds lazily. 

She didn't shake, though—only followed Ghost with expression betraying worry. 

"Ghost," she began; Ghost realised that the other Knights had joined them in the training ring in the meantime, though with all their weapons sheathed, "are you alright?" 

They nodded in response. Yes, they were alright, as much as they could be. The light-headedness from the Void loss was still present, the soreness in their entire body making moving an uncomfortable endeavour—but those were things Soul couldn't fix. 

"It was a pleasure to spar with you; your skill is immaculate, only yet exceeded by your sibling's." 

It was, most likely, supposed to calm them, maybe even make them feel honoured, happy, to be compared to Hollow in this way. Praising their skill and their sibling's skill both at the same time. 

It did not; it only made the old wounds flare to life as Ghost remembered the fight with their sibling—their movements stiff and abrupt, swings too narrow, balance off-thrown. They stuffed everything down. Isma didn't know- didn't need to know. 

Instead, Ghost bowed their head again, indicating the same sentiment that Isma had just said out loud. She looked them over, evidently pleased with what she saw, before continuing. 

"Would you like to join us for a meal, Ghost?" 

Oh. 

Ghost glanced at the other Knights to search for disagreement, for the usual apprehensiveness, for something to indicate they weren't comfortable with a vessel invading their space. They found nothing of the sort. 

They did not need to eat, not like normal bugs did, but consuming food was enjoyable and Ghost wanted to accept the invitation. 

They looked Isma in the eyes and nodded. 

"Let us go, then," she spoke again, voice returning to something like it was before their spar—warm and soft, without a hint of worry or fear. 

(It was foolish of her to not fear them. 

No. They would never hurt someone undeserving. Would not lash out on someone who was not a threat to Ghost's siblings, and the Knights were not only not a threat but an active help . 

Their Void twisted within. 

They ignored it.) 

She stepped out of the ring, joined by the other four Knights, and waved at Ghost before leaving the room. 

They were curious as to what was here in the Palace; they wished to get to know the life in between the perfect white tapestries. 

So they followed.

---

Ghost reminded Isma of the Pure Vessel. 

She and the other Knights had trained them ever since their arrival to the Palace. She remembered well how they moved and fought when they were as small as Ghost now was. 

It was nothing alike. Where Ghost relied heavily on their connection to the Void, coating themself in shadow and firing off spells tinged black, the Pure Vessel had always used their immaculate skills with Soul; where Ghost used speed, darting around her and using mostly the sharp tip of their nail to inflict wounds while staying out of range of some of her vines, the Pure Vessel had always been leaning into heavier swings and, as they grew, their style shifted to that based on strength; where Ghost was almost reckless at times, the Pure Vessel was always calculating, only using the sure openings and not falling prey to impatience. 

There was a saying, that a bug can get to know one best through combat—and Isma found that to be true. All of the Great Knights spoke fluently the language of body and weapon. 

And she found Ghost and the Pure Vessel almost like two sides of the same coin - the two of them so alike yet so wildly different. 

When Ghost pushed themself up despite the exertion and the pain, she, for a brief moment, saw their sibling in them, bloodied and weak, standing up in spite of there being no real danger , for it was just a friendly spar.

Both of the siblings unable to accept their limits, both pushing themselves until there was nothing left. 

What had the Pure Vessel been thinking, the last time she'd seen them? The day they seemed awfully unfocused, the day she was able to bring them to their knees, after losing to them steadily ever since they'd reached adolescence? 

When the Queen had told the Knights of what transpired since Ghost's appearance, when she'd said that the Pure Vessel's hollowness was misjudged, all the gazes in the room turned to Isma. 

And she was happy that she'd never relented, never stopped seeing them as someone , instead of something . She preferred to not think of their fate, had Ghost not come; she'd seen herself what the infection did to bugs, seen the ruin it left in its wake. 

And now she saw it right before her eyes and felt it with her vines during the spar. Ghost's body seemed unwilling to listen to them, their skill far greater than their current limits, almost every inch of it scarred over, some even multiple times. She'd also seen them move in a way that suggested they wanted to fly, or at least glide—yet they had no wings. 

(The Pure Vessel also didn't have wings, though they never indicated that they should have. Had they also had ones that were now lost to reasons unknown to her? 

She preferred to not think about possible causes of such a thing.) 

Ghost seemed unsure of the Knights in a way that felt like they were waiting for something . They glanced to their side—where Isma was—and glanced back and to their other side—where the others were—every so often. Were they waiting for someone to take out a weapon and attack them? 

It didn't seem so, their body language conveying a want to make themself smaller, to hide away (Isma just now realised just how many times she'd seen the same in their sibling), the sideway looks unsure and scared. 

Once the group reached the small (by the merits of the rest of the White Palace) dining hall, Ghost stopped dead in their tracks and looked intently at Isma while the other Knights took to other activities, some tending to their weapons, some vanishing inside the kitchen and coming back with meals. 

Six meals. 

"Take a seat," she invited, finally getting an idea of what exactly Ghost was so afraid of when they shuffled awkwardly in place in response. "I am unsure of what you'd find tasty, but I hope today's roasted tiktiks at least won't be unsavoury." 

Ghost took a spot at the very end of the table, settling and gazing around themself—waiting for the others to start eating, she'd guess. 

Her speculation turned out to be correct: once her friends all took a spot and started eating, Ghost did the same.

(She’d been told that the Pure Vessel didn’t need to eat. Were they and Ghost different in this regard, or was Ghost eating just for enjoyment?) 

It was unusually silent today. No one particularly wanted to address the garpede in the room—but before Isma could, once again, take the matter into her own hands, she heard Ze'mer's voice. 

"Che' has watched you fight," she spoke directly to Ghost, the latter perking up and meeting her gaze. "Skilled warrior, but lacks proper routine. Would le’mer grant che’ the honour of a spar, tomorrow, the next day, soon?" 

Ghost nodded, relaxing slightly. Were they afraid they'd be shunned because they were not of the Five- Six- Great Knights? 

Before Isma could decide what to do about this new information, she heard Dryya answering Ze'mer; the long-gone friend's voice filled her with warmth, though the tone was stern. 

"Not only proper routine—it looks like their style is something learned without proper aid," the reprimand did not have Dryya's usual steeliness to it. "Should they wish to do so, I could train them to perfect their movements and attacks." 

She hadn't heard Dryya sound like that in forever; did Ghost evoke some kind of protectiveness or pique her friend's interest in another way? 

Looking at them, Isma could see why; they were a very interesting individual, just like the Pure Vessel was. 

Ghost tilted their mask slightly in thought, absent-mindedly taking another piece of their tiktik and stuffing it in between their fangs (midnight-black, just like their shell was) as they did so. After some time, they, evidently, came to a satisfactory conclusion, though it was not communicated in a nod or a shake of their mask. Instead, they extended a hand in Dryya’s direction, pointing at her and then slowly forming a word letter by letter in Hallownest sign. 

‘C e r t a i n,’ they motioned, getting stuck for a while on the ‘r’.

"Are you asking me if I'm certain I would train you?" Dryya spoke again, frowning. Ghost nodded. 

Yes, it did, indeed, seem that they felt they would be rejected by the Five (Six? Were they six, or would Ghost's sibling like to surrender their title?). They wouldn't; not until they did something explicitly against Hallownest's wellbeing. The Knights had agreed as such before taking the request to train them, should they want to be. 

"Yes, I am," her friend’s answer pulling Isma back to the present, "I am not the one to throw around meaningless or empty promises, Ghost. Remember that." 

The small vessel finally relaxed almost fully at those words. Did they also feel the bite? Isma had a feeling they did, but there was no way to tell. 

At that, the Knights relaxed too, settling into their usual routine.

Ghost did not make another move, did not try to communicate again, or to express anything at what was happening around them. But they were still relaxed, seemingly content to be a part of this something but not actively participate. 

"Ghost," Isma regarded them after a while, words coming out before she could properly think them through (though what more was there to think through? She'd thought of this for the last nine cycles, ever since seeing the Pure Vessel last), "would you, please, invite your sibling to also come visit someday?" 

They tensed slightly, then hunched their shoulders as if unhappy before nodding. They looked at their hands, then back at her. Did they want to add something, their current vocabulary not allowing them to do so? 

"Thank you." She smiled at them anyway. 

She could only hope Ghost's sibling would accept her offer. For hadn't she always offered them being alive, despite what the Pale King told her they were? 

She was worried for them—if Ghost's arrival was earth-shattering enough for them, how were they taking the revelation of their aliveness? They might not want to come, might not want to be there anymore, might be too afraid to do so—and they had a very valid reason for each of those things. While Isma knew the Knights would accept them, they themself didn't necessarily know that, so having Ghost relay it to them would, at least, be a step in the right direction. 

She wanted them to choose. Her job was to give them, directly or indirectly, all the information required for such a choice. 

As the hour stretched on, her comrades started leaving to their duties, one by one: Dryya to take her place by the Queen's side (telling Ghost to meet her at the fourth hour of the next cycle before doing so), Ogrim and Hegemol setting out of the Palace to patrol and deal with any infection flare-ups in the Silver City and Ze'mer leaving in a direction unknown even though she was not on duty that night.

Ghost was the last to leave. They cast Isma one last glance before doing so—and did she imagine it, or did they really look content, almost thankful? 

They waved her goodbye and vanished, turning a corner that would lead them back to the Royal Quarters. 

It looked like Ghost and the Pure Vessel finally got to be at the place where they belonged by their birthright. 

The thought warmed her as she also left. She was on duty today to guard one of the Palace Grounds' exits.

Chapter Text

Ghost was gone for longer each time they left in the last several cycles. 

Hollow knew that they had no right to complain about that, yet their sibling's absence weighed heavier on them than it should. 

(Maybe if they weren't so scared, they could interact with the Palace more too. 

Failure .) 

They also understood that their sibling couldn't spend each waking moment holed up in this room, like they did back in the infirmary. Ghost didn't seem like someone who'd be able to stay in one place for too long, who'd be able to let the things run their course, who'd be able to give themself some well-deserved time to rest . Their sibling seemed like someone to put the whole world's wellbeing on their shoulders. 

(Weren't they like that, too?) 

When Ghost did come back, they shared images and emotions tied to the past day. How they were learning to sign, how they were exploring the Palace, how they were training with the Five. 

The Knights had accepted Ghost; those memories were drenched in something soft and mellow—something like enjoyment. Ghost was excellent with their nail and Dryya's training regimens clearly did them a lot of good, even in such a short time; the spars with the other Knights went better each time. And yet their sibling chose to be distant, almost never truly participating in the rest of the Knights' routine, save for sharing meals with them. They never communicated out of their own volition, though they had some vocabulary to do so now, if the other memories they shared were anything to go by. 

Their sibling chose to be distant. They, on the other hand, felt like they had no other option. Ghost being accepted was not a guarantee the same would apply to Hollow—Ghost was not at fault for Hallownest's state, was not someone who'd failed a single simple task.

The only task required of them in their entire life. 

(Some part of them wanted , so much that it ached, to try and come out of their room, to try and visit the Five, to try living , as they were ordered to do. They could not. Would not. 

What constituted being ready?   They were scared of rejection, just like they'd always been.) 

After that first night which Ghost spent shivering in the darkness, not daring to come close—everything in them betraying fear and guilt even without the Void link—they'd spent the next two right by Hollow's side. Once again gently petting, or hugging, or just huddling up next to them. 

It was… enjoyable, almost too much so—for when Ghost would inevitably leave early into the next cycle (Dryya's regimens were always early; they never understood the purpose)—they would be left alone with that gnawing feeling they learned to name boredom.

And with the no less powerful longing for the cycle to come to a close earlier, so that they wouldn't have to be alone with their thoughts. 

(Pathetic.) 

By the third cycle since moving to their room, Hollow could almost believe the White Lady's insistence on letting them choose to be an elaborate punishment for everything it- they- were, in spite of everything they should've been. 

Why couldn't she just have given it an order? Following instructions was the only thing it was good at (lies—it- they- could not follow the latest command given by the King Himself-), the only thing working in it like it was supposed to.

The only thing not tarnished, not defective . 

There was no further use found for the broken tool that it was yet; neither He nor the Queen have visited it anymore (it shouldn't need that, shouldn't want that-), no more orders were given other than the confusing one that went against every prior direction Hollow had ever received before. 

Perhaps they chose to not interact with it anymore, to keep it out of sight.

(The idea should not make something in its thorax pull and sting.)

Or maybe the rulers were busy with trying to soften the blow dealt by its inadequacy. Attempting to make a new plan from scratch, only several weeks away from the Sealing nonetheless.

And that was its fault. What were its feelings in the face of what it had caused?

It had no right to hurt or wish for them to visit it again.

Maybe if it had stayed calm and not given in to panic, back then—if only it did not react to Ghost’s accusation-

(It would’ve gone through with the Sealing, then. Would’ve kept up the lie and now it knew where that would’ve brought Hallownest.

Something within it keened. It sounded eerily like Ghost’s not-voice, despite the fact that their sibling was far away and the link was still.)

Then what?

Ghost had shown it glimpses of the future that they came to prevent. Fragments, dispersed and torn, that flew by too fast for the vessel to make them out.

Its own body, littered with infection growths and bound tight by chain and spell, was burned into its mind. How far had it fallen?

A feeble, weak echo of a scream. It had no voice-

And what happened in the last memory, the one that made their sibling’s panic flare bright and that they’d cut off before it could play out?

It made Hollow’s Void freeze and its- their- claws quiver. The horror of a strength unmatched by anything that their sibling had shown both before and after-

No. That same dread was in the link, back when Ghost returned from the Silver City with their new nail. What could it have been?

Hollow wished to know.

At the same time, the idea of knowing made their own fear swell, mingling together with the remnants of their sibling’s.)

Oftentimes Hollow would find themself on the brink of moving , of deciding, all before cutting themself off abruptly, fear or shame paralysing their body and mind alike. 

What were it- they- afraid of? They were told by their Creator Himself that He wished for them to live; there was no order to stop them, there was no punishment coming for its- their- failure. And still the terror did not abate, the chains did slacken in the least.

(They shivered at the memory of the real chains that would’ve bound them and Ghost both.) 

Was Hollow afraid of being seen for what they were? The Five knew already, told by their Queen; there was nothing more to show, nothing more to fear, nowhere deeper to fall . 

(Isma in particular had always referred to it as a person alive— was the first one to see, to understand the extent of its failure —and was that not right? So why would she be disappointed with the truth she'd pushed and received countless reprimands from Him for? 

The Pure Vessel should not be scared of rejection. The Pure Vessel should not have been scared at all. 

Failure.)  

No, they were not ready to go. Not in the slightest. 

(Ghost was so much better , so much braver than they could ever hope to be. 

They were happy for their sibling. 

But they were jealous of how easily and naturally that seemed to come to Ghost.) 

It- they- would just stay here, unmoving, until their sibling came back and talked to them, made them feel like they were wanted again (it should not need such a thing-); until, one day, they would find it in themself to stop hiding. 

They were not sure that day would ever come.

They were not sure they wanted that day to come. It would mean all the attention brought to their failure—and uncertainty was far preferable to disappointment.

---

The Dreamer meeting loomed in the nearest future- the next cycle- like a guillotine waiting to execute him. 

The Pale King did not include any details in his letters to Monomon and Lurien, for the fear that those could be intercepted or read by a butler or an assistant: he only wrote a short summon of utmost urgency, stating the date of the audience. 

Both of them should arrive sometime that day. Then, the next morning, the meeting would begin. 

He was apprehensive of it. All his preparations felt useless, all the pretty words he had woven seemed too heavy and awkward. 

And he still had to ask Ghost to attend. 

He did not want for the Hollow Knight to come. Did not wish for them to be stared at, to be prodded at, to be the centre of attention the second he announced the plan's cancellation. 

Would they wish to come? 

Would they express that wish? 

He would ask Ghost for their opinion on the matter. 

(Coward, coward, coward.) 

The Pale King stared absently at the scrolls that laid strewn across the workshop table before him; he had spent the entire time since returning from the Silver City in the room, trying to think of something, anything to solve the problem in front of him. 

Said problem felt as unsolvable as it was huge, with him lacking so much information. He had wanted to talk to Ghost, to ask them to tell him everything they knew about the infection and about the Old Light, but discarded the idea—his entire being freezing at the thought of asking Ghost to tell him about their tormentor.

No, that would not be of any use, not with him as unproductive as he was, not with him unable to drown out the emotion and focus. No matter how he exhausted himself, no matter how hard he fought his own mind, the usual state of unwavering, determined concentration he would retreat to so often eluded him, faded beneath the glimpses of the future he had caught back then. 

He would let the Dreamers add their insight tomorrow; even though he knew that would be hard and painful for Ghost (for his child-), at least it would be fruitful—both Monomon and Lurien would surely have much better, pointed questions to ask than the ones occupying the forefront of his mind. 

(They weren't even struggling anymore-)  

Herrah had seemed just as distraught as he was the last time they met (the time she'd seen with her own eyes just what he did to them-); despite that, she would surely be more helpful, too. She would not let herself drown in regrets like he had. For what she had seen was not her fault. 

(She would still have to come to terms with her sudden absolution.)

Everyone would be more helpful than he was. More helpful than the one who had devised the plan, who should have known most about their enemy. 

(The one who had nearly sent three innocents to stand in endless vigil by the side of his child whom he would have sent to an eternity of agony-)  

He scoffed at the irony, rising from the table and stretching limbs sore from two cycles spent nearly without moving. Hunger gnawed at his insides and exhaustion draped over his mind, but there was a more urgent matter to attend to. 

How long into the cycle was it? Would Ghost be at the Knights' quarters, or would they be in the Royal ones - either in their room or the Hollow Knight’s? 

The Royal quarters were closer. Still, he chose to check the Knights' first. 

(He did not want to see the Hollow Knight without an explicit reason. 

Coward.) 

Judging by the sounds he heard, his choice was correct; the clangs and thunks reached him far before he arrived at the training grounds. 

The Pale King entered without knocking. He was greeted by the sight of Ghost, paused mid-strike and Fierce Dryya, watching him with narrowed eyes. 

After the tension of the sudden intrusion lifted, Ghost returned to their practice; Dryya bowed fleetingly and reprimanded Ghost for shifting their weight a certain way, impeding their momentum. And, suddenly, he saw not Ghost but the Pure Vessel, practising their swings and parries for hours stretching to cycles, never stopping—what he had taken for mindlessness then most likely to had been unwavering determination to perfect themself. 

Looking closer, though, the illusion shattered. Ghost's movements were wildly different, their nail held in their right hand instead of their left, used as an extension of the limb in contrast to the Pure Vessel's reverse grip. 

That, for some reason, sunk the deep, freezing weight even further into his chest. 

Loath as he was to interrupt their training (Dryya had decided to ignore him altogether—not that the Pale King could fault her, when he had come so many times to watch over the Pure Vessel's training and just stood by, observing) he waited until they finished a set and broke the silence. 

"Ghost?" 

Their head turned to him, slightly tilted to one side. Dryya's did, too, her expression vaguely surprised. He didn't let that deter him, instead continuing, "Would you be able to spare a moment to talk?" 

Ghost nodded in response, looking up at Dryya and slowly, as if struggling to remember, signed to her. 

“Sorry,” they said. Dryya cast the Pale King a glance—one of her more exasperated ones, though tinged in disgust (and she was right to be disgusted- she had, now, too, seen the ruin of Ghost's body, and that was, in a large part, his fault-) before answering.

"It is alright, Ghost, return once the King's finished talking to you—you still have eleven sets to finish this morning." 

The Pale King noted how Dryya's voice changed: she spoke to Ghost like they were her favourite student, talented but in need of careful guidance, like she saw them, in some capacity, as her charge. 

It would seem they were fitting in well.

They nodded vigorously, dipping their mask in a small bow before leaving the training ring. They came closer to him and bored their bottomless gaze into his face. 

(They seemed fond of Dryya. 

He ignored the awfully bitter sting of emotion that thought sent through him.) 

Dryya left the room, her footsteps fading in the direction of the Knights' personal rooms. He, suddenly, wondered if he should have designated one of those for the Hollow Knight—if nothing else then to show them that they belonged to the Knights just as much as they belonged to royalty. 

(That would've been making them face a bigger choice than anything he had forced them to do since the revelation of their impurity.

He knew, deep down, that they would be unable to make it and would shut down instead. He did not want that to happen. So, for now, showing them that they belonged to royalty, showing them that he saw them as his child, had to be enough.) 

Ghost tugged on the hem of his robe lightly, tearing him away from his musings. 

"Yes, Ghost," he answered their inquisitive gaze (how easy it was now , when he was not purposefully blinding himself to it, to discern the vessels' body language), "I wanted to speak to you of a matter of utmost importance." 

Ghost shot him an almost exasperated look. The Pale King was sure that, had they the vocabulary to do so, they would sign something to the effect of ‘speak clearly, goddammit’.  

"Tomorrow, there will be a meeting held with the Dreamers," he started, noticing how Ghost tensed almost to the point of freezing at his words; and as much as the sight shot a pang of guilt through him, he could not back out now.

"I am asking you to come, asking you to help us, for you are the one who knows our enemy the best." 

Then they froze, their breathing quickened and uneven.

The Pale King had no idea what he was asking them to relive. Still, it made haemolymph freeze in his veins—and he was not the one that had to go through that.

The silence felt like stretching on forever, long enough for him to start doubting, truly doubting his idea of interrogating them again.

Never again would he not hurt his children, ever would they suffer for his mistakes-

Despite everything, Ghost nodded. Sharp, resolute. 

(They had to kill their sibling-)  

They were visibly forcing themself to take deeper breaths, to still the slight quivering that settled into their limbs. All before raising their arms to sign—slowly and shakily, letter by letter. 

“H o l l o w?”  

(So they had decided to use the name given to them by the Gendered Child. 

However unfitting the name, it would haunt him nevertheless. 

He deserved it.) 

"I know not yet. I wouldn't want to force them to come; yet I do not know how to ask them, how to give them the choice." 

The words stung and burned , heavy like lead; never would he have imagined himself to be as terrifyingly powerless as he felt right now. 

Ghost's shoulders sagged at his response. Was it disappointment, or was it relief? 

(Maybe it was a mix of both.) 

They looked down on their hands, then back up at the Pale King. He could swear he almost saw the gears behind their mask turning as they thought, could almost hear the frantic buzzing of their mind. 

(Similar to how his own sounded when lost in deep thought.)

“Unsure,” they signed to him after some time spent in silence, “and unsure of the k n i g h t s, too.”  

He sighed. Ghost curled even further into themselves—he felt like they wanted to make themself small, to disappear from the clutches of a problem too daunting to consider, too difficult to solve. 

(Just like he did, so often lately. 

Another small sign, another small admission that they were his child.)  

He had never felt so useless before: all his former struggles included mechanics, inventions, politics or economics, never this, never feelings. Having to repair automatons or infrastructure was natural, never scary—just mundane, sometimes irritating.

Having to repair his child from the ruin he'd left them in- he'd broken them - was something that the Pale King had no idea how to even approach. 

How could he repair a mind wilfully stifled? How could he repair decades upon decades of treating them like an object, of denying them even the basic decency? Decades of perfecting (torturing-) them with sigils never designed for bugs' carapace, decades of his own ignorance? 

He did not know.

Ghost tugged at his robe again, turning his attention to them as they raised their paws to sign. 

(He wished their sibling- Hollow- would, one day, speak in this way, too.)

“Talk to H o l l o w,” Ghost told him, and before the panic at their request had crashed down on him, they pointed at themself with their hand. 

"Thank you, Ghost," he answered before thinking, before the relief threatened to tear the ground from under his feet. 

(Coward.) 

They nodded curtly. Then they tilted their mask to the side, as if inquiring about something. 

Oh. He had forgotten to tell them exactly when they were to come, had he not? 

"Tomorrow, six hours into the cycle. The meeting will, very likely, be long—I shall inform the Knights of this." 

Ghost shook their head at that, once again pointing at themself. Were they saying they would notify the Knights of their absence? 

(He was glad they wanted to, was glad he would not have to look at Dryya and meet her  gaze again. 

Coward.)  

"You will talk to them?" he clarified his guess, relaxing at Ghost's affirmative. 

"Thank you," escaped him again, almost without his consent. The Pale King had not thanked someone so many times in his entire life, prior to meeting Ghost, and the words felt bitter in his mandibles. 

(But did Ghost not deserve as much? For defying time itself, just to come back and show him the extent of his ego, of his failure? To save everyone where he couldn't, where he had doomed them?) 

They cast him an almost bewildered look and then tensed. 

(They probably thought this to be a ploy, a way to gain their trust, and they did not want to give it to him. 

Even though he knew their feelings to be justified, it still hurt.) 

"I shall deter you from your training no longer." The Pale King felt the urge to, once again, run and hide, to leave them be and not impose himself on them, despite knowing it would be inevitable as soon as tomorrow. "I shall see you tomorrow, at the meeting." 

Ghost nodded one last time before vanishing deeper into the Knights' quarters - presumably, to go find Dryya and do the rest of their stretches. 

They did not say goodbye. 

He did not deserve to be hurt by that fact nor did he deserve to wish for them to, at least, give him one small glance before they departed. 

The Pale King turned on his heels and left the Knights' quarters. The two Dreamers would be nearing the Palace, and it was his duty to welcome them. 

The factual knowledge did nothing to battle the cloying fear he felt at the prospect of them asking questions about the preparations for the Sealing and having to wave them off for today. Only to say, tomorrow, that the plan was cancelled altogether.

(It was to be enacted nine cycles from now. 

He suddenly felt sick– even sicker than before. 

Would he have spared the Pure Vessel one last glance before leaving them? Would they have cherished that glance like a possession most prised? 

It was of no substance to think of a future no longer possible—for he would not repeat the mistake, would not make them do that. But the visages of that future floating before his gaze were not deterred by that fact.)

---

It was not Ghost who came into the room next, but it was someone Hollow was just as pleased to see. 

The Gendered Child well nearly radiated happiness as she fell down from the ceiling and scurried along the room's length, looking everything over and finally coming to a stop by jumping into their lap. 

"Hi, Hollow," she chirped contentedly once she settled, leaning her body against theirs and tilting her head so that she looked them in the eyes.

“How are you doing?"

After a few seconds and a frown, Hollow realised that they were supposed to answer, that they were now allowed to respond to questions like that one. 

They couldn't say they were doing well . Though they certainly couldn't say they were doing badly , either (a shudder that it- they- didn't manage to suppress ran through them at the memory not theirs, at the foreign wrong wrong wrong heat eating away at not-their shell).

What were they to do, then? 

They settled on a tilt of their mask and a hand over the Gendered Child, cradling her close. She let out a squeak and, after a moment, bumped her mask into their claws. 

"Mother has told me about- about everything," she whispered, wrapping her hands around their claws.

A brief flash of fear flickered at the thought of being Seen once again (but hadn’t the Gendered Child always Known, always Seen deep beneath the surface, right through its lies?)

"I am so happy he finally realised." 

She hissed, low and angry, at the words.

Hollow nudged her. It was not His fault; it was never His mistake, for had it- they- been what He intended them to be, there wouldn't have been any problems. 

(They would’ve never known the Gendered Child. Would’ve never known Ghost. Would’ve never known Him, were they truly pure. 

It wouldn't have been worth it. 

Selfish.)  

The spiderling nudged them back, still sitting, content, in their lap. "I'm also happy I can see you more often, now!" she exclaimed, the words making that familiar sweet and tender feeling of being wanted surface, drowning out the shame threatening to burst. 

They lowered their head until they were able to rest the tip of their chin between the Gendered Child's horns. The position they found themself in was uncomfortable but manageable. 

If it would bring their small sister happiness, they would gladly contort themself as much as needed. 

She laughed, high and content, the sound like a melody played on crystal chimes, before nuzzling back. 

"Do you have any clue how much I wanted this, Hollow?" the spiderling inquired, trying to meet their gaze out the corner of her eye, as she was now stuck in between their thorax, mask and hand. 

No. No, they didn't - for it- they- were never supposed to, never should have known an answer to such a question.

(They knew all-too-well. They had felt the same way ever since first holding her close, hiding her from the bright lights, feeling her sobs cease and her breathing settle underneath its- their- cloak. 

Failure.) 

Hollow didn't move, didn't answer in any way or capacity. Still, their small-sharp-smart sister somehow realised what they've been thinking, nuzzling into their chin. Or were they imagining things, perhaps?

"I always knew you weren't empty," she mused, voice both sorrowful and joyful (how could one combine the two?), "because you would not care for me if you were." 

"Mother said as much, too," the spider added after a brief pause, her voice wavering, as if unsure. Unsure if she wasn't crossing some kind of boundary, unsure if she was allowed to say that, or something else entirely?

Herrah had always scrutinised it- them- way too much, after all. Enough to figure them out, enough to see through their lie.

(Hollow didn't mind; not after seeing the Beast comfort their sibling where they couldn't. Not after the truth was revealed anyway.) 

They sighed, quiet and deep. The motion sent a sharp pang of shame through it- them. 

(Truly pathetic, for the Pure Vessel to find comfort in its Creator's child.

For it was not a child, not a sibling, only a monstrosity claiming the body of what could've once been one.) 

The Gendered Child said nothing for a long while, only the minute shifts and occasional nuzzles saying that she hadn't fallen asleep. 

Even if she had, they would’ve been content to stay like this. No matter the ache that had started to settle in their back and neck; no matter if it would be hours or cycles spent in this position. 

It wouldn't be hours. After only a few minutes, the Gendered Child nudged them and craned her neck even more (they were worried for the integrity of it; that pose she was in looked painful) to search their mask. 

"I'm going to start training after a few cycles," she said to them. They had a nagging feeling that it wasn't all she'd wanted to say—that she would ask for something it- they- couldn't grant-  

"Could you- would you like to go with me?" the spider cut herself off, like she'd decided to change her wording at the last possible moment. 

As if she'd abruptly realised her request sounded a lot like an order. 

She was giving it a choice, wanted it to be something it should not-  

It was not to like, not to choose, not to watch the Gendered Child train because of interest, not to be proud of her-  

And yet it wanted, wanted so much to be everything it should not, was it not allowed this, did He not say as much? – 

Do not wish. Do not feel.

Do not react.

Do not-

The Pure Vessel. Hallownest’s salvation. His perfect creation.

It was not to give an answer. It could not give an answer. Could not give the Gendered Child what she sought in it, could not-

Not a sibling, not a sibling, not a sibling.

A monstrosity possessing the shell of something that once could’ve been.

Not someone alive. Not someone able to make a choice.

Not someone able to long for such.

Not someone at all.

"-rry, sorry, I'm so sorry, Hollow," it surfaced to the sound of her distress – crying, scared. It- they- realised that their shell was trembling, that they'd curled even more into themself and were gasping for air through their opened jaws as their vents refused to inhale enough.  

(Pathetic, its control shattered like this.  

Failure.)  

They willed themself back to the comfortable, measured breaths they were so used to, willed their limbs to still. The Gendered Child fell silent, clutching their claws tightly and looking up at it- at them- with her face tight with fear. 

Such a simple request, such a simple order, such a simple choice. There was nothing else to answer her request with except yes. Nothing else mattered except their siblings' happiness—why did it send them into that shameful state of drowning in their fear again? 

(Sibling-loved, their mind reminded them in Ghost's not-voice. Hollow was infinitely grateful to it, for the reminders felt so much better than the rebukes they were used to.) 

They nuzzled the Gendered Child, their chin colliding with her temple with an empty clunk. That seemed to calm her down, if only slightly. 

"You don't have to, it's okay," she blabbered, bumping her mask back into theirs, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" 

Hollow moved their claws, dragging them gently across her shell—not with the sharp tips, but with the blunt joints connecting their knuckles together, in a soothing gesture they remembered Herrah doing. Their sister calmed, almost fully relaxing. 

"I'll just show you what I'll learn when I come to visit you," she finished. 

She was giving it- them- an out, was helping their overwhelming shame at their inability to give her what she'd asked for (even now, even after the confusing order to live). She was helping them hide, hide, hide, their failures and imperfections buried deep within, not to be Seen by anyone, and their small sister was protecting them where it was them who should've been protecting her.  

“I thought the older siblings were supposed to cover for the smaller ones, Hollow," she'd told them once before.

And yet, now, there wasn't a single trace of that betrayal, of that discontentment she'd shown back when she was hiding in its- their- room last. 

They were the one supposed to protect their siblings, yet they found themself being protected, be it literally, as in Ghost's case, or figuratively—from their emotions—as was the case with the Gendered Child. 

(Failure.) 

The realisation stung. Hollow knew they were strong, were a deadly weapon honed to perfection; they knew themself to be able to shield Ghost and the Gendered Child from physical threats—yet their uselessness in the face of emotion, choices, following that strange order seemed to outweigh their physical strength by a margin that felt insurmountable. 

(They weren't able to protect Ghost from Her. Their sibling's suffering was their fault, for had they not failed in the only thing that mattered, everyone would’ve been safe. 

How was Ghost brave enough to be willing to fight again?) 

They had to —had to try, had to overcome the paralysing fear and shame that tailed them each waking moment.

They were interrupted in their musings by Ghost's arrival, their sibling's Void thrumming softly with fear. 

What were they afraid of? 

Had something happened? 

Suddenly, all of Hollow's own fear and shame stopped mattering entirely.

---

Ghost delayed until they could do so no more. 

They delayed fulfilling the promise they'd made to Isma on the first day of their training—delayed it for two full cycles, until there was another urgent and uncomfortable matter to be discussed and they could dally no longer. 

That didn't mean Ghost wasn't afraid to do so, wasn't frightened to distress Hollow with the requests. 

(That also didn't mean Ghost themself wasn't terrified of the meeting with the Dreamers, wasn't terrified of all the questions, of all the gazes, of all the memories.  

They didn't want Hollow to come, didn't want to lose control over themself and send unwanted memories through the link, as they'd done the first time.

But it was not their choice to make.) 

Hornet's- the Gendered Child's- presence only added to the difficulty of what Ghost had to do. And they would not send her away, however easier it would’ve made the talk they had to have with their sibling. 

They waved, coming closer to where Hollow was curled over the spider (that position looked uncomfortable-) to settle down near them.

Not touching. 

Their sibling understood; they extended their free hand and turned their mask to look at Ghost, the Void link shimmering with worry.  

(They were making Hollow worry again. 

Ghost had sworn to never harm their sibling again; yet they were doing so, still. 

The thought hurt.) 

Sibling-hello! Ghost sent through the link, trying for a careless and light tone. They were not sure if they'd succeeded. The sentiment echoed back to them, regardless. 

Where did they even start?

The question about the meeting was more pressing. However, it was also potentially much more distressing. They could ask about visiting the Five (Six, counting their sibling) later if it came to that. They could not afford to do the same with the meeting.

Dreamers-meeting-tomorrow, Ghost whispered through the Void, noting  that their not-words were almost as quiet as Hollow's usually were. Did their sibling notice? 

No. Focus. Send the memory of the Pale King's voice, asking them to come and stating the time they should arrive. Transmit the apprehension about the whole thing, for Ghost did not want to lie to their sibling, not in a matter this important. 

Confusion flowed back through the link, stained greatly with shame and guilt; something that, were it given a form approximating words, would probably amount to a ‘why would you ask me this?’  

Perhaps it truly was approximating that shape—Hollow's not-words were distinctly different from Ghost’s and they were never sure if their mind was playing games with them, finding words where there were none, or if their sibling truly had started to re-shape their Void-communication slightly to their comfort. 

Ghost did not know which feelings exactly they should transmit together with their question. The only thing they did was snuff out all of their own displeasure at the thought of their sibling coming with as they asked, sibling-go-with? 

Hollow shivered all over, the link nearly flooding Ghost with that same fear-shame-guilt mix they'd gotten so used to hearing back. They sent a sibling-accepted, marginally stronger than their previous Void not-words; that, however, helped only somewhat, the tidal wave of emotion still present and threatening even to them. 

They reached out, slowly—wrapping both of their hands around their sibling's extended one (still barely able to encircle two claws) and moving their thumbs in circles. Touch seemed to help, seemed to weather the storm before, and Ghost hoped it would do so now, too. 

It did not, not fully. But Hollow carefully curled their fingers, closing in over Ghost's paws, and their quivering abated slightly. 

That was not an answer, though. Ghost did not want to push, did not want to rush the decision—so they stayed almost still, putting all the gentleness they had into the small touches, sending sibling-loved and sibling-faultless through the link every so often. And, slowly, ever so slowly, the answers stopped being the overwhelming shame or disagreement (Ghost seethed at that one- how could Hollow disagree with them loving their sibling, with themself being worthy of such love?-) and leaned more towards the soft confusion and affection again. 

The Gendered Child was silent the whole time, only moving to bump her mask against Hollow's, or to reach out and unsurely, as if afraid, stroke their cheek. 

Ghost found themself very comfortable in the approximation of a cuddle pile; they wanted to stay like that forever, to ignore the world outside, to run and hide, taking only their siblings with. 

(They would not. They could not. They had to finish what they'd started. 

Their Void churned.

They ignored it once again.) 

They had fallen so deep into the comfort provided by their siblings' closeness that they'd almost missed the ever-so-quiet tremble of the Void link. 

Once they focused on it, Ghost heard it thrum with a faint “yes.”  

Their heart dropped to their heels; they did their utmost to not let that feeling seep through the Void, did their best to not give Hollow any reason to think their decision was wrong or unwelcome.  

Some of the worry must've slipped through, though, for their sibling lowered their mask (how could they even contort themself like that?) and gently nudged Ghost in between their horns. And Ghost could've sworn they heard the Void whisper, “I'll be alright; worry for yourself.”

They sent a weak not-smile; no matter how warm it felt to be cared for, it was their job to protect Hollow, not the other way around. 

They could manage their bad memories, if it meant that their sibling would live. They would endure just about anything, if it meant that their sibling (siblings) would live. 

(Some far part of their mind wailed like a lost grub at the thought; they shot it down before it could echo back to Hollow.) 

Ghost nuzzled back, suddenly exhausted. Did the long cycles (two, it was just two cycles- they'd been able to stay on their feet and fight for so much longer before- weak, weak, weak) spent training and learning finally catch up to them, or was it another, more profound resigned exhaustion at what was inevitably to come? 

They didn't like either of the prospects—both of those screamed of their inability, of their weakness. 

The Gendered Child moved closer. Now she could reach both Ghost and Hollow—she put one hand on the taller vessel's mask and the other on Ghost's right horn. 

"Everything will be alright," she whispered, a half-question coated in childish naivety that made Ghost freeze and their heart skip in their chest. It seemed like the Gendered Child herself wished fervently for those words to be true, yet was sure that they were not. Like something to calm them and Hollow, to give them comfort where she found none. 

And, at that moment, Ghost looked at the spiderling and saw her as they remembered her. The tall, unbroken warrior, challenging them to judge their strength; the stern, cold not-foe-yet-not-ally they'd met in the City of Tears; the small, huddled figure sobbing quietly into the emptiness of the Beast's den. 

They blinked furiously, willing away the memories, for they were still in direct contact via the Void with Hollow—and freed one hand to sign a shaky thank you. 

She smiled, wide and bright, and the illusion shattered. 

"You've nothing to thank me for, dummy; of course everything will be alright, you and Hollow are so strong!" she exclaimed. There was no hesitation in those words; they were something she truly believed. 

The Void between the siblings throbbed with quiet, staccato bursts of affection mixed together with amusement —it would probably be something like a laugh, were it to be said normally and not through the Void. Ghost had no way to convey that to the Gendered Child, however, and so they settled for gently bonking the side of their horn into her mask, bending nearly parallel to the ground in the process. 

Oh, they now understood why their sibling loved the small spider so much. 

Rest? they asked, seeing how Hollow was still in that uncomfortable-looking bent-over position. This time, the warm thrum was more defined, louder; it would seem their poor sibling was sore after sitting like that for- however long the Gendered Child had been in their room already. 

Hollow slowly uncurled themself, laying down instead of sitting on their blankets, both hands held invitingly out for their siblings to take. 

The Gendered Child smiled so wide her chelicerae peeked out of the corners of her opened jaw; Ghost abruptly wished to have a mask with the capability to do the same. 

‘Everything will be alright.’

Yes, yes it would be. 

Ghost would personally see to it. 

For now, though, they needed rest, their body screaming at them to settle down and sleep. The dreadful anticipation of what was to come tomorrow waned too, drowned out by the warmth flooding the Void link. 

They let themself drift away and, for the first time since arriving, nightmares didn't haunt them.

Chapter Text

The meeting was set to begin at six hours into the cycle. 

Herrah could not fall asleep; she only moved around on the uncomfortable bed (the Palace’s bedding had nothing on the spider-silk she was used to from Deepnest), her eyes picking out every detail in the small chambers she and the Gendered Child were given in the Palace. 

Everything was so nauseatingly pristine.  

Just like his lies, perfect on the surface—the infallible King of Hallownest with his gift of foresight, leading the population to the bright future.

The future carved in shell and haemolymph. The future that would’ve stolen everything from her daughter.

The Gendered Child went to look for her siblings the evening prior, wanting to stay the night. She would not participate in the meeting, though, and so the Beast had to retrieve her and take her to the retainer assigned for today. 

The spiderling wouldn't appreciate that, but Herrah knew there would be things said, written and signed that her child should never hear. 

What mother would allow her child to listen to their sibling speaking of centuries of torture? 

(She felt sick for Ghost, recalling how they'd reacted to her presence. Would they be able to answer the impending questions about the future they’d lived through?) 

It was half past the fifth hour into the cycle, the small clock on the wall showcased. It was time for her to rise, to move deeper into the Royal Quarters and fetch the vessels. 

And so Herrah rose, head heavy from lack of sleep and anticipation. 

Herrah made her way through the White Palace, stopping near the two identical doors she knew lead to the vessels' rooms. She knocked on the right one. After getting no answer she peeked in.

The room was empty. There were books and scrolls laying on the floor, a small inkwell and a quill on the bedside table, and pale vines encircling the single big window with flowers already starting to bloom. The bed looked like no one had ever slept on it. 

So this was not the room.

She closed the door and knocked on the left one; this time, she heard a sleepy squeak from inside the room, undoubtedly one belonging to the Gendered Child. She opened the door and went in, finding her daughter with her back pressed to the Pure Vessel's thorax and her shell covered by the vessel's hand from the other side. Ghost was in a similar position, huddled under their sibling's large mask. They were the first to rouse fully, blinking sleepily at Herrah. 

(Cute. 

How could she ever believe the damned Wyrm's lies? She had almost served as a jailor for his child, sent to an eternity of torment-) 

Ghost freed one paw from under themself and waved at her. The spiderling also woke, grumbling—and however much Herrah would've loved to just leave them all be, she couldn't. 

(Was Ghost's mask somehow conveying resignation and fear, or was she imagining things?) 

"Child," her daughter buried her face even deeper into the Pure Vessel's hand at her words, "there is an important meeting to be had right now. I am afraid you cannot come and I need to steal Ghost from you." 

It wasn't the Gendered Child who gave her a reaction; the larger of the two vessels shifted, turning their mask to look at her. 

She'd scrutinised the Pure Vessel for as long as she could remember—being the one under Void scrutiny was, however, very unpleasant. Even so, the Beast did not break eye contact, tilting her head slightly downwards. 

If they noticed something important in her eyes, they gave no indication. 

Ghost wiggled their way free from under their sibling's mask (they were not thoroughly trapped anymore, after the Pure Vessel turned to look at her) and stood to their full height, stretching their limbs. She noticed minute shivers wracking them as they tugged on their taller sibling's free hand. 

They rose, slow and careful, after gently releasing the spider from the embrace they’d held her in. The spiderling’s expression tightened, almost turning to pouting, as she watched them take their nail and sheathe it over their back. It faded, turning to a fearful frown when they stood, tall and proud. Just how Herrah remembered them doing prior to the revelation. 

If she hadn't looked at them intently, she might've missed the small tremble in their right hand as they hid it underneath their silver cloak.

Great. 

"Are you coming with us, too?" she asked, just to be sure she read their intention correctly. 

They nodded, the motion as small as it could be, and went rigid again. 

Ghost looked up at them, then to the side at Herrah—apprehensiveness practically radiating off them.

"Okay," she said absent-mindedly, turning to the Gendered Child, who stood near her siblings. Did she understand?

"I know I can't go with, mother," she answered Herrah's look, craning her neck to look at the taller vessel afterwards.

"Good luck, Ghost, Hollow. It- it will be alright," her daughter added, the words naught but a whisper. Ghost came closer to bump their mask against the spiderling’s and the Pure Vessel broke their stillness to gently pat her in between her horns.  

"Let us go," Herrah beckoned, frowning at the way Hollow shuffled behind her. "You don't need to follow me, you can walk beside me - I'm not your queen, and I think of you as an equal." 

They cast her a glance and adjusted their steps to stay beside her instead of behind. Stiff, calculated, mechanical.

(She’d been just as complacent in treating them like an object. What right had she to seethe at how they attempted to hide, to go back to the only way of living that they knew?)

Ghost clutched their hand tightly. That did nothing to diminish the faint quivering in their limbs. 

(How could they, all of them, ask this of Ghost? Had they not suffered enough, had they not done enough? 

There was no other reliable source of information.) 

They reached the audience hall fast, almost too fast for her liking. She didn't knock, instead just opening the large, heavy doors and going in, and gestured for Hollow to do the same. 

All three gazes focused on the group. The Pale King's light dimmed as they entered. Monomon's expression was inquisitive, looking over Herrah and the Pure Vessel and pausing to gaze at Ghost. Lurien's eyes widened as he noticed the smaller vessel, turning to look at the King in disbelief right after. 

She took a seat; Hollow stilled by the Pale King's right-hand side; Ghost stayed in their sibling's hand, the shivering wracking them growing stronger. 

Oh, it was not her place to explain. 

The Wyrm had made his bed; now he would get to lay in it.

---

It took everything and then a bit more for Ghost to not let their emotions swarm the link. 

They held on tight to Hollow's hand; their sibling went rigid, breathing fast and shallow. The link thrummed with fear, with nauseating shame, with guilt-

Sibling-loved , they reminded, the not-words fainter than usual but warm nonetheless. 

It didn't really help. Not that Ghost expected it to. 

Their sibling had made the choice themself; they knew what the meeting would entail, knew of the risks and of the unavoidable staring (though, thankfully, the gazes of the Dreamers were boring into the Pale King - not into Hollow). They knew and they still chose to come.  

(Ghost knew the reason very well.

They couldn't allow themself to dwell on it right now.) 

"-plan is aborted." They surfaced from their thoughts to the Pale King's voice; he was desperately trying to keep it level and cold, but Ghost noticed how it wavered. 

"What do you mean ‘aborted’?" the Watcher demanded, eyes (eyes? Eye, his mask only had one eye) now darting between the Pale King, Hollow and Ghost; he'd risen a bit from his chair and now stood leaning his weight on his hands. 

"It is not to be done anymore, Lurien," the King answered; and, for a second, Ghost could very much understand the silent seething of the Watcher - they, too, would like to hit the Pale King over the head with something heavy for those avoidant not-answers.

Especially with the rising tide of dread that swelled in the Void between them and their sibling.

"It was ill-judged; the new information We got from a reliable source showed that no creature can hold the Old Light indefinitely." 

He skirted around the edges of the topic, did everything in his power to not say the damned words—and Ghost could feel the paralysing fear and shame taking hold of their sibling, growing ever stronger. 

They cast him a glare. He didn't notice. 

"And your reliable source is?" Lurien countered, rising even higher up, looking at the Pale King from above. 

"My reliable source is by my right side; my other reliable source is my foresight," he hissed, slipping away from the royal We entirely.

"I assume you are not talking about the Pure Vessel as your source," Monomon intercepted while Lurien was gathering his breath—emphasising the pure in a way that told Ghost that she knew.  

She was looking at the Pale King, head tilted to the side, tendrils undulating hypnotically slow. It reminded Ghost of home.

The Void inside them sang, whispered and thrummed; the shadows gathered over the King once again, threatening to choke him like they did before in the infirmary. Some of them slithered over to Hollow, encircling the taller vessel's shins and moving higher up, up, up. 

Ghost glared at them, trying to will them away. 

It did not work; neither prodding deeper into the Void nor shuffling closer and trying to touch them brought any result. 

(How had they managed to consume those the last time around?

The Void was not silent now, and yet they couldn’t repeat their previous success—what were they doing wrong?) 

"-about the small vessel, Ghost," all the gazes in the room fell on them after the King's words. Ghost's shell crawled under the scrutiny. It was not important, not when they knew that their sibling was just about to be choked by their shame. 

Sibling-faultless, Ghost tried, not really hoping for anything. The Dreamers could wait, everything, everything could wait. To their surprise, the tight knot of emotions holding the Void link hostage slackened and Hollow's claws gave Ghost a gentle, imperceptible from the outside, squeeze. 

The link hummed faintly with gratitude.  

"And what about them, my King? What have they told you, what have they shown you, to change your stance so drastically?" Monomon inquired, looking intently at Ghost, still searching them for something only she knew of. 

"The future," he answered simply, his light dimming once again. The phantasm that encroached him whispered to Ghost; they ignored the call. 

The Watcher looked at the Pale King like he'd grown another head; Monomon did not break eye contact with Ghost, inching closer to them. 

"Don't tell me that the vessel knows of the future—how, does it have foresight?" Lurien asked, disbelieving; Herrah clicked her fangs together in a display of displeasure, earning herself two wide-eyed stares, and shook her head. 

"And you know already, Beast?" Now he was shocked, turning to stare at her. 

"Yes, I do, Watcher, and your guess is incorrect," she said with a grim smile; the shadows tensed, ready to strike. 

"My King, forgive me my imposition, but why does the Beast of Deepnest know more than we all do?" Lurien looked to the Pale King again, his voice conveying utter confusion and irritation. 

"She was simply here when Ghost arrived, and no, they do not have foresight; they simply came from the future, seeking to rewrite it." 

The faint click s of Hollow's armour grinding together as they shook were deafening in the tense silence that befell the room at this statement. Ghost nudged the link again, sending warm affection and reassurance through.

Nothing. Their efforts amounted to nothing, their sibling gazing out in front of themself with unseeing eyes.

"Impossible," the Teacher broke the ice first. "How were they able to do so?" 

"I know not of the specifics, but they have drawn a visage later confirmed by my foresight - they have... They knew of a fact that eluded even me. Of a fact that made the plan impossible." 

Sharp shots of fear and guilt pierced the Void link between the siblings. The shadows once more came up to hold Hollow's mask locked in place, and Ghost could do nothing , just like before, nothing to shield their sibling with from what would be said next-  

"And that is?" Monomon asked, her voice betraying impatience at the King's delay. 

"The vessel is not hollow."

---

What constituted being ready?  

It was never going to be ready to be seen and known like this. 

(It was never supposed to be ready for anything save its ultimate purpose—and that meant not its readiness, but the end of its Father's- of its Creator's- work on it. All the sigils imbued, the armour finished and its body moulted into an adult form.) 

The Teacher cast it a fleeting glance—and it was thankful, relieved she didn't linger, didn't stare, didn't search it for other signs of its failure -

Do not feel.  

The Watcher didn't even turn to look at it, instead staring at its- their- Hollow's Creator with shock and- was that disgust?- somehow bubbling through even though he had his mask on. 

It looked distinctly like Herrah's body language when she got to know of its impurity, when its failure was laid bare before her. And yet, the Watcher was not looking at it— no, he was looking at Him. 

It wished (do not wish-) to have a voice, if only to tell Lurien that the fault lay within it , that its King had only fallen for its lie. 

"So, are you telling me,” the Watcher began, slow and steady, as if searching out the correct words, "that you nearly sent us three to jail a living someone , able to feel pain as they'd try and fail to hold the Old Light?” 

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving hiss, "and I- I condoned it, I would've gone without hesitation-" 

It- they- tried to suppress a shiver, memories not theirs still fresh in their mind. 

Ghost shuddered in their hand, holding on to their claws like they were an anchor in a windstorm. The Void between the siblings was thick with fear , filling it from both sides. 

Lurien sagged back into his chair; he stared off into the distance, visibly processing what he'd just been told. 

"And the other one? Ghost, I believe you called them?" Monomon inquired, her voice unwavering, only the rapid coiling of her lower tendrils betraying some kind of emotion. 

"They came from the future, as I have already said, Teacher; they have seen with their own eyes the ruin that would be left behind, were we to go through with the plan, and came here to prevent it," He answered, His words skirting around the subject at hand. 

Ghost shook in their claws, still; faint echoes of their overwhelming guilt flowed to Hollow through the Void. 

Monomon hummed, but before she could form the next question, Herrah spoke. 

"Goddamnit, Wyrm, for once speak clearly—don't pretend you won't say it anyway, not when it's the entire reason you've made Ghost come," she growled, low and angry. It- they- felt at once uncomfortable and comforted by her action. There was no need to try to soften the blow, not with their small sibling shaking violently in their hand, not with half-faded memories reaching Hollow through the link. "Ghost took the Hollow Knight's place in holding the Old Light—and suffered for it, because, of course, they were not cut out for such a task." 

Ghost's mask sagged, their shoulders hunched as if they wanted to curl into themself and disappear, the sharp, jagged staccato of their guilt banging on Hollow's consciousness. 

(Was theirs the same, scarce few moments before? 

Ghost was not afraid —they felt only guilt and regret for what they've done, what they've had to do; they feared not the Radiance, feared not the Pale King, feared no one.

They only feared losing Hollow.  

Hollow did not know what to do with this information; it- they- stored it away for later use, like they did for their entire life.) 

A tendril came close to the siblings. 

"May I, Ghost?" the Teacher asked quietly. At Ghost's sharp nod, she touched them, gentle as if they were made of porcelain, and traced the crack in their mask; the tear trails burnt into their bone and the mangled Void on their thorax. 

Ghost did not move, did not flinch, staying tense and still. And, for a painful second, Hollow understood all the scope of their sibling's emotion, their reason for staying unmoving, however much it must've hurt. 

Ghost was always putting themself second, always wanting to shield them from harm first and foremost. 

Hollow did not know what to say, or what could be said in a situation like this. So, they settled for sending affection and gratitude through the Void, gentle but firm—and, miraculously, Ghost's shaking abated slightly and tension bled out of their frame. 

"Mercy," the Teacher breathed out, taking her tendril away from their sibling. 

Herrah scoffed. Lurien rose his mask-covered face from his hands, body language betraying absolute horror at what he was seeing. 

Hollow understood all too well. 

(Searing-scorching-burning Light, boiling inside not-them, trying to get out-  

Chains digging into not-their shell, melting together as acidic liquid spilled from a burst cyst in a flash of white-hot agony-)  

Ghost jumped down from their hand, landing on their feet. They staggered, but regained their balance quickly enough so that Hollow didn't manage to extend their hand to catch them in time. 

"And what is there to be done now, with the plan failing?" Lurien whispered, his voice almost quiet enough to go unheard at all. "Is there another way to deal with the infection?" 

(It was not the plan that had failed.

Where was the disappointment? The anger? Anything but acting as though none of this was the vessel’s fault?)

The King sighed deeply, air hissing out between his mandibles.

"I know not yet, but I meant to dedicate today's meeting to parsing ways of dealing with the infection—I wanted you and myself to talk to Ghost, for they understand it the most." 

The fear was practically palpable in the air, in addition to reaching them through the Void. Their sibling was frozen in place, no longer even trembling.

Hollow wished they could take Ghost in their hand, embrace them and run, far away where no pain would be able to reach their sibling. 

Ghost had chosen this themself; they knew what they were in for, knew what questions would be asked—and they still chose to come. Still chose to fight, even if they deserved rest the most. 

(How were they so brave?) 

Their small sibling nodded, taking out an inkwell and a quill from under their cloak. 

Hollow did nothing except stay close. 

It was not their choice to make, not their pain to fear and not their place to interfere.

---

The Pale King did not want to interrogate Ghost again. 

He did so regardless: asked the questions he knew to be painful and made them to relive decades- decades- of agony .

Monomon helped him formulate the questions they needed answers to; Herrah and Hollow kept watch over Ghost, staying near enough so that the small vessel could ask for comfort any moment. Lurien watched from afar, documenting everything Ghost signed, wrote or drew. 

The image they drew of Her and the Dream Realm taunted him as it lay on the ground, in the pile of finished answers. 

He'd expected them to panic, like they did in the Silver City. Expected to see their hands shake and the Void behind their eyes to swirl, rapid, betraying-

Something. Anything at all. 

Instead, there was nothing. Their paws stayed steady. Their answers were short, concise, all of them following a large delay.

The Hollow Knight did not touch them or move closer. They stared, frozen in place—though behind their stiffness, he could make out fear.

He did not get to know anything new. He only got to, once more, confirm that the Old Light hated all things Void and tortured them deliberately.  

(Except further confirmation that they had killed the Hollow Knight and focused the infection’s heart into themselves.

Except further confirmation that the siblings shared a bond and were able to communicate even when far apart.

Except the fact that Ghost knew everything about him and the Hollow Knight both. A twisted way of torture—making them live through memories not their own.)

When the time came to ask them how they had come back, the room dimmed. Or was that his own light?

They shivered all over, one hand coming up to clutch their thorax where their heart was; he ignored the sharp sting of emotion he felt at the movement, letting them slowly, ever so slowly, draw and sign. 

“The Old Light (they'd devised a sign for Her on the fly—pushing one's palms together and then outwards in a crude approximation of wings) made a  b o d y.”  

Herrah hissed at the sentence, her own hands clenching into fists; Hollow trembled, ever-so-faintly and brought their hand even closer to Ghost, curling their fingers slightly in. 

He did not understand, not straight away—the long day catching up to him, the future he had only half managed to avoid flickering beneath his eyes. 

"A physical body?" Monomon clarified, even her voice tight with- something. Ghost nodded, not looking at anyone in particular, their gaze faraway and the Void inside their mask almost still. 

The realisation set in slowly, crept up on him from the depths of his mind. It was entangled with the image of the Pure Vessel - of Hollow- malevolent gold dripping down their frame. 

No. 

When it fully settled in, he very narrowly pushed down a retch. 

She'd used them to form a body . 

So that was what the infection did. That was what the acidic juices inside the pustules were. 

Monomon and Lurien did not look a lot better than he felt, both of them frozen with the same expression of disgust mixed with fear . 

Ghost ignored it, showing them the drawing they had made; it depicted them, black all over except their eyes, and a title written in slattern letters. 

‘Void.’ 

They had said as much the last time he had interrogated them.

What did it mean, that one scarce word a description for their experience? 

Monomon was, once again, sharper than he was. "Does your birthplace have something to do with your journey, Ghost?" 

They nodded, raising their hands to sign again.  “Asked V o i d to go b a c k.”  

(Their vocabulary, however lacking it was, was still much more than he had imagined them learning in just three cycles. 

They reminded him of the Pure- of Hollow- in this regard.)

The meaning of their signing sunk in slowly.

Asked? The Void? That was impossible. 

The Pale King gazed at Ghost, scanning them. Distrust rose forth until the familiar voice rang in his head, reminding him of an encounter he had nearly forgotten in the heat of the last nine cycles. 

‘The thing able to be roused has slept for an amount of time unimaginable—and for a good reason.’  

What had Ghost done?  

What were they? 

He noticed the room becoming dimmer, as if the shadows hiding in the corners were living, thinking things, waiting for a moment to strike. Herrah tensed, looking around. Lurien's gaze was locked onto him—the Watcher let go of the latest drawing, the piece of parchment slowly floating to the ground.

Before he could do anything, the moment passed and the room returned to normal. Monomon spoke yet again. 

"So, from what we've gathered until now we know the Old Light to be unreachable by usual means—even with your power, Majesty. And now we need to devise a way to retaliate, to somehow interact with her." 

Ghost tugged on one of the tendrils nearest to them. Did they have an answer to that? 

All the gazes in the room focused on Ghost as they drew, slowly and cautiously; the finished image was one of a nail with a circular hilt. 

He shot them a glance of disbelief. 

There was no way Ghost could have obtained an artefact like that. Not the Dreamnail, not the most prised possession of the Moth Tribe.

(How ironic, that even after Hallownest fell the moths were the ones that remained.)

But they had to have, somehow, broken the seals holding the outer door of the Temple—the Dreamers were supposed to be immune to any kind of physical harm. 

"I do not know what you depicted, Ghost," the Teacher admitted, visibly uncomfortable about the fact. 

Herrah frowned, not making any move to indicate she knew what was going on. The Pure Vessel- Hollow- lowered their mask, eyes boring down into the ground—had Ghost told them pieces of their story? Did they recognise the Dreamnail from their sibling's drawing? 

Ghost's gaze settled on him, mask tilted to the side expectantly. It seemed he was the only one who understood what they meant, save for Lurien—but the Watcher was not keen on elaborating, on explaining the nature of the artefact. 

Even if they had somehow gotten the artefact in the future, now they would not be able to do so. The scarce remnants of the Moth Tribe would not give such a thing to a being of Void, Wyrm and Root, would not give it to anyone —he was convinced of it, and thus never cared to explain to the other Dreamers the existence of such a thing. 

"Ghost has drawn the Dreamnail: an artefact able to cut the veil between waking and dreams. It would allow them to dive into the dreamscape, and, theoretically speaking, find the Old Light." 

Ghost slowly raised their hands, as if they were made out of lead. Hollow's mask dipped even further down, their breathing strained. Their extended hand inched closer and closer to their sibling and the other one tightened, fingers drawn into the palm. 

The air in the room felt smothering, suffocating. The ambience dimmed again, stronger this time; the shadows coalesced and slithered closer from the corners. The Dreamers' gazes were darting around the room, glancing at him, at the Hollow Knight, at Ghost-

“K i l l,” Ghost signed, letter by letter, leaving their hand in the air and continuing to stare the Pale King in the eyes. The Void was feathering in and out of their mask's eyeholes. 

He wanted to move, wanted to break this strange limbo, but he found himself unable to, held tight by something.

(Was that the same darkness that would come to take him in the future, that had tried to take him even in a mere vision?)

He was unable to flinch, to speak, to do anything but look.  

Four pairs of eyes blinked lazily, pair by pair, at him in return.

Chapter Text

The world sang. 

Hollow felt like they were being drawn in by a soft lullaby promising them the safety of home.

The world dimmed—or was it their vision? Reality flickered in and out of view, unstable, wavering, reducing itself to fuzzy blobs of colour that they could not give any meaning to.

The Void link was thick, pulsing with something sweet, soft and comforting. Whispering of love, power, protection. 

It was not Ghost. Their sibling’s love was never heavy, never threatened to split their shell apart with its intensity.

For a brief moment the world went completely dark. Loud, high-pitched ringing filled Hollow’s hearing and they were sure the bone of their mask should’ve started crackling, coming apart at the seams-

The Void crashed into them, knocking them off their feet and dragging them farther and farther away. Each throb bent carapace plates wide open, boiling beneath chitin and bone.

It was gravity, pressing them down and squeezing all breath out from their lungs. Something was bubbling up from within, spreading out from their chest and pushing upwards, closing their throat-

Reality flickered before their gaze. They managed to gasp before their thorax tightened again.

Black ichor oozed down the walls of the hall, out of Ghost’s body and their Father’s eyes. Freezing chill creeped up their own body, locking them in place, seeping into their open maw and running down, down, down-

Hollow struggled to move. Closer to their sibling, closer, they had to-

They blinked furiously, trying their hardest to surface, to make it to where Ghost stood and where their sibling’s hands formed letters they did not know how to read.

The meaning thrummed in the Void, all-encompassing and weighty, so that they needn't know anyway. 

“Kill.” 

Their surroundings blurred. The black miasma covered their sibling’s entire mask now, seething and hissing.

Their own Void churned, pulling from the inside out. Nausea ground into them; they twitched weakly in place, trying and failing to breathe-

Hatred throbbed in the link. Fury boiled beneath their chitin; they felt as though it would warp and melt their plating any second.

Their head swam. Was there truly no sound in the world around them, or could they simply not hear anymore?

Fear lanced through their mind, prying into its deepest reaches. Hollow gasped; their chest seared, refusing to take any air in.

Their vision failed again. They scrambled.

A familiar sting of pain jerked them back to the present: doubled-over with one hand reaching out to their sibling and the claws of the other embedded in the soft palm pads. The Void roiled again. The ichor was overflowing, slithering closer, closer, closer, enveloping everything it could. It coalesced atop Ghost’s mask and seethed with power, calling out to them.

(They remembered the sensation-)

There were not-words said. They could not make those out, the high-pitched ringing still filling their hearing and the Void still struggling to bend their shell open.

There was hatred, throbbing in the Void link still. Hatred far greater than what they'd felt from Ghost in the scarce moments their sibling would share.

It didn't feel like Ghost at all anymore.

Hunger, all-consuming, joined the contempt. It hummed, vibrating; it drew their own Void in, closer, closer, closer…

Where was the familiar presence right beside their own consciousness?

Where was Ghost? 

“Sibling?” The Void recoiled and lashed back. Their shell went numb, everything but the shadows and the eight eyes dispersing.

“Ghost!” they tried again, forgetting the ever-present shame of communicating in front of their Father and the Dreamers. It did not matter, not when He stood behind them, frozen in place, His light unable to stave off the darkness- not when their sibling was not responding to them- 

“Sibling, come back,” they pleaded.

The link thickened, but instead of another pulse it jerked. The ringing cut off; the whispers and the emotion ceased entirely; the world stabilised.

Sibling? Ghost's not-words flickered weakly at the outskirts of their consciousness. Hollow answered immediately with all the relief, both emotional and physical, that they could muster—they no longer felt like they could shape the feeling into the likeness of words. 

The shadows that had enveloped their sibling before snapped back into place, the eight narrow eyes fading out. They heard movement, coming from behind them: the soft brush of fabric against the floor.

Gasps, shocked and strained both, sounded from their sides. The others?

Sibling-alright? the Void thumped with Ghost's worry. Why were they, again, worried for Hollow when it was them who'd nearly lost themself?

Did it feel like drowning to them too?

(Or did they feel like Hollow themself did, all the cycles ago in the infirmary?)

“Yes,” they pushed back to their sibling. The reprimand of “let me help you, for once” was left unvoiced. 

They were afraid, not for themself, but for Ghost. Their Void was still uneasy, shooting spikes at nausea up their throat and their sibling was still tense and unsteady on their feet. 

They knew not the words able to convey the meaning of their fear—things like "are you alright, too?" or "I worry for you" felt insufficient. 

It did not feel like Ghost for a brief second. 

They tried anyway, the emotion not taking any form close to words but present nonetheless, and they were met with frustration. 

There were not-words, faint and scattered, more alike to a stream of consciousness. Rebukes, their sibling telling them they were okay and there was no need to worry, tinged greatly in the guilt of made them scared for me, again. And it stung, the unwillingness to let themself be helped, the distrust in the whole world, the absolute conviction that Ghost and only Ghost could salvage the dire situation they all found themselves in. 

Their own irritation surged forth to answer. Their claws tightened, drawing more Void.

They wished to help their sibling, to share the burden in any way. Ghost need not carry the whole world on their shoulders—and Hollow didn't know how to convince them of that.

They had a nagging feeling that their sibling wouldn't be convinced by anything they might have to offer. 

A small paw touched their mask, moving in those long, gentle strokes, claws scraping lightly. It was soon joined by another one, lighter and warmer, which only stayed in one place. 

"Are you alright?" asked a voice, entirely physical, low and soothing. After a long moment they realised Herrah had come close and carefully laid a hand on both their mask and Ghost's. 

They nodded, searching out their sibling again and relaxing when Ghost made the same affirmative gesture. 

Still the worry lingered, gnawing at their mind. They did not know what to do about what had just happened, not with Ghost refusing to let them help—just like when they'd spent the entire night shivering and awake, the Void transmitting fear unlike anything Hollow had ever known.

The terrifying feeling of uselessness ground into them, only strengthening the already present nausea. 

"Do you need someone to help you back to your chambers?" the Beast inquired, scanning the positions they and Ghost were in. They didn't fault her: their sibling still looked somewhat unbalanced. 

Ghost shook their head and cast her a glance. Bewilderment flowed through the Void. 

"I believe there is more to be discussed between us and the Wyrm, but all of it is something you both know already. There is no further need to keep you here. It's been a long day and you surely need the rest." 

Commands laced underneath concern and offer of comfort, of refuge—Hollow knew those well, especially coming from Herrah. She'd spoken like this to the Gendered Child enough times so that even it- they- understood. 

They scooped Ghost carefully in their hand and set their sibling on their left shoulder. Standing up proved to be a feat—they struggled to not let the quiver in their limbs show as they uncurled and bowed their head to everyone present. 

The King looked at them, face tightened in a deep frown. Was He against them leaving? 

It made them- it- freeze in place, gaze locked with His. He hissed, a low sound of distress, in response. 

(Was its Creator angry at it? Had it made matters even worse by interfering with whatever happened to Ghost? 

Even now, all it could be was a failure.) 

"You may go," He whispered, strained as though the words burned Him. "You need not wait for my approval." 

(It always had. It always would.) 

It- they- nodded and turned to leave. The gazes of the Dreamers felt like burning holes in them. 

Ghost needed rest; Hollow would see to their sibling getting it. 

It was the least they could do.

---

They looked unsteady on their feet. 

(How easy it was to notice now.) 

What had just happened; what had the Pure Vessel- Hollow- just done? 

Whatever it was, the relief was as immediate as if they'd hit a switch—the malicious shadows dissolving into nothing, the eight eyes fading out of existence and Ghost staggering on their feet. 

“Do you believe them in control enough?” He recalled the White Lady’s words, watching the vessels depart.

He did right until now. Right until the moment when Ghost seemed to lose control over the Void, to lose themselves wherever it had taken them. 

The power of not-Ghost was so great that it'd frozen him in place. All he could do was watch, struggling to focus enough to retaliate—and were it not for Hollow-

He did not wish to think about the outcome. 

(What was one more shattered mask?)

And bringing Ghost back seemed to have an effect on them as well. No, Ghost using the Void in this way seemed to have an effect on them, the Pale King corrected himself; he remembered how they'd slumped, doubled over and gasping for air, just seconds before the shadows encircled him and the room fell into darkness. And even now, as he watched them march away with those even, broad steps, he saw the faint signs of exhaustion: the slight bow of their mask, the faint wavering as if they struggled to keep themself upright. 

(He should check on them after the inevitable explanation he would have to give to the Dreamers. 

They said they were okay and did not need assistance. There was nothing to worry about.

Fear still weighed heavy on his mind, every thought somehow circling back to whether they were really alright.) 

"And you are, once again, not telling us the whole story, right?" the Pale King heard Herrah ask. Her voice was devoid of the usual bite, with only worry and resigned suspicion remaining. Monomon and Lurien watched him turn around to face her, intent but apprehensive, from their positions in the audience hall. 

He sighed and pressed one hand to his temple. Yes, he was not telling them the whole story. They needed not know it, he'd thought. 

Now he wasn't so sure, but he knew he had to give them something, after what had just transpired. 

Was he the catalyst? He'd explained their plan to the others, explained what they could do with the Dreamnail and they- 

They corrected him. 

All the haemolymph drained from his face.

The Void—antithesis to the Light, be it his or hers—given a vessel to control and a goal to fulfil; the Void, using the vessel's deep hatred for the Radiance to exercise control over them and they- 

They would accept it willingly, wouldn't they? No, they had already accepted it willingly- they'd said that the Void sent them back- and now, he understood how. 

Herrah called him again. The Pale King looked up, the world seeming faraway. 

What was he to do now? Now, when it was clear that Ghost's control didn't hinge just on him, when it was clear that even were he to gain their trust, it would be useless in the face of their fury towards the Radiance? 

(Could he blame them, after what they'd told of her treatment during this cycle? After she’d made them kill the Hollow Knight—their sibling—and after she’d wiped out nearly the entirety of Hallownest?) 

He couldn't tell the Dreamers the truth, couldn't risk them being suspicious and unwilling to help, couldn't risk them pushing Ghost further towards the edge. Not until he had a solution, a way to deal with the Void that Ghost was the vessel for. 

And for him to find that solution he had to be left alone, to bury himself deep into books and scrolls in his workshop and parse all the different information that buzzed in his head, search for leads and make something at least resembling a plan. 

"Ghost and the Hollow Knight are both beings of Soul and Void," he began from afar, hoping the explanation he thought of on the spot would satiate the needs of the Dreamers and dissipate the wariness in their expressions, "but where the Hollow Knight leans heavily into their other heritage, preferring Soul, Ghost is closest to the Void: shaping it, using it to suit their needs, using it in combat. Most likely, the distress of this cycle has caught up to them when they thought of meeting the Old Light again." 

"You've always loved to play with half-truths, haven't you?" the Nightmare King's words mocked him.

Herrah levelled the Pale King a look and let out a disappointed sigh; Monomon hummed quietly; Lurien's expression and posture stayed inscrutable. 

"And are you planning on doing something about them having such power but little control over it, as we all had the pleasure to see?" the Beast pushed. He had the impression that she understood far more than she let on. 

He did not like that thought. 

"Yes, I am. In addition to the training, both physical and mental, that they are receiving already, I shall research everything about their stronger connection to the Void." 

And find a way to neutralise them, if they become a danger, he left unsaid. It was not something that needed to be clarified.

(He did not want the situation to come down to that.

He would kill them with no hesitation if the situation required it, though.) 

The Beast sighed again, frowning at his words. "I suppose you do not know what happened to their sibling the moment the light faded, do you?" 

He had only wild guesses. He was not about to share those. 

"No, I do not." She nodded at the admission, visibly falling into deep thought. A loud knock on the door interrupted whatever question she had. 

The Pale King went to see the disturbance; he found a retainer, scared and shaking. 

What now? 

"Speak," he ordered. The retainer shuddered, gasping for breath. 

"Th-there's some- someone waiting f-for Your Majesty in th-the Royal Quarters. He s-said his name was G-grimm," he stammered out. "H-he asked me to s-say he would wait in the w-workshop." 

“I shall see you in the waking,” he'd promised, after all, the last time they met.

The Pale King turned to the Dreamers.

"You are dismissed. You are to stay in the Palace for at least two more cycles—it is possible your further help shall be needed." 

He did not look at them to see the expressions of varying degrees of exasperation written on their faces at the sudden interruption. 

They could find their way around the Palace; if not, then there were retainers whose job it was to help the guests of the Pale King. 

And he, himself, had more pressing matters to attend to. 

The scent of smoke was stronger the nearer he got to the workshop.

---

Ghost did not need to be carried back to their room. Especially not when it looked like their sibling would lose their balance anytime and crash down to the floor. 

(They also weren't feeling their best, but that was not the priority right now.) 

Ghost had tried nudging them, poking them, tugging on their claws and cloak. They got no answer except for the persistent worried thrum of the Void link. 

Some of their frustration must've slipped through: the next twitch of the link was tinged in shame, but the worry and the protectiveness did not waver. 

Why was their sibling worried for Ghost again, instead of worrying for themself? 

They did not quite remember what exactly had passed. They remembered only how their Void sung in perfect unison with their own hatred towards Her, intoxicating. The promise of power to protect Hollow (and Hornet) was nigh irresistible; the Void roiled and thrummed, swaying Ghost gently like waves. 

The next thing they recalled were Hollow's not-words reaching them, asking them to come back. 

They hadn't gone anywhere. They were still there. Why would their sibling call out to them in this way? 

Or had they gone somewhere? 

Something had clearly happened, for them to feel so ragged, but what constituted for Hollow's weariness? What constituted for the look of horror on the Pale King's face?

Surely it couldn't have been just their promise to kill Her, instead of just finding. 

Was it the Void inside of them? It rolled beneath their shell, whispering of power and safety—Ghost had ignored it thus far, never paying the mildly discomforting feeling much mind. It allowed them to feel the shadows of regrets lingering or appearing. Also, apparently, it allowed them to consume those, even though they were unable to replicate their first success. It was what had sent them back, what made their wish come true.

Ghost did not remember much of their encounter with the Void sea, either, only half-faded remnants of the unwavering determination to not die and to fix their mistakes.

They reached the room. After going inside, Hollow promptly lowered Ghost onto the bed, then propped their longnail up by the wall (their hands shook-) and sat down, looking them in the eyes. 

Ghost didn't miss the slouch in their posture, or the way their mask sagged, or the way they held themself, leaning their weight on one arm. 

They didn't feel half as exhausted—tired, perhaps, but not to the point of struggling to stay upright- or awake, possibly?

Did Hollow even sleep last night? It seemed like so long ago, yet it had been only a cycle since.

Sibling-alright? Ghost asked, coming closer to give their sibling a gentle nuzzle with their horns. The Void transmitted their worry, their fear. 

The link vibrated quietly with an affirmative, the answer as weak as when their sibling was still afraid to communicate in any way.

Like hell did Ghost believe them. 

They stared expectantly, sending a mix between fear and frustration to Hollow; the reaction came as a hand between their horns and faint not-words.

“Just tired.” 

Ghost sighed, unwilling to argue right now, though still letting a fraction of their emotions seep into the Void. 

(The storm that the memories of Her had thrown them into was settling, leaving nothing at all in its wake.

They’d struggled so hard to not let anything at all flow to their sibling through the link.

They would continue doing so, even though-

They were tired, tired, tired-)

Why was Hollow so stubborn? Why were they worried for Ghost?

(They would never tire of asking the same question over and over again in a hope that maybe, just maybe, the hundredth-and-first time would get them an answer.)

What had happened, to drain them so? Was it the Void, was it Ghost's fault again? 

“No.” Echoed back to them, a definite, harsh negative followed by an influx of frustration. 

Sibling-rest? Ghost asked, giving up on getting any good answer as to what exactly caused their sibling's weariness. At least not out of Hollow and not right now—they remembered the look that the Pale King gave them, remembered the tight frown. 

He wasn't afraid of them like this before. He was apprehensive of talking to them, yes. He was scared to talk to Hollow, yes. But not like this, not this much. 

They moved to give their sibling the space to move freely, so as to not accidentally hit them; once the taller vessel settled, Ghost carefully came closer, sending a mute Void inquiry. 

Can-stay?

The affirmative was the last thing that they heard—perhaps except for the still present worry—before the Void link sunk into a heavy state that betrayed sleeping. Unconsciousness, almost, with how deep it was. 

They came closer again, shifting around until they were pressed into-

Shining silver armour that their sibling hadn't taken off. Ghost frowned at that, choosing instead to move up and curl themself small under Hollow's mask. 

Their worry was still present, too, though it could not get to Hollow anymore. It was stifled a bit by steady, slow puffs of cold air that flowed over Ghost's horns—but not extinguished. 

It would have to do. The exhaustion finally shattered something in them, the remnants of their self-control gone and feelings no longer muted.

It hurt. They hurt. They could do nothing but shiver, pressing themself into the underside of their sibling’s mask and struggling to halt the sobs that broke free.

They must. They must be better, must be stronger, must not allow their fear to hold them down.

Their paws clutched the white fabric of Hollow’s cloak. They let themselves keen, a soft and pathetic sound that no one was able to hear now.

Ghost did not know how long it was until the tears stopped coming, until their body stopped shaking and until their mind quietened.

Until the pain grew fainter, back to a background hum that they were capable of ignoring altogether.

The exhaustion slammed down onto them anew. They moved even closer, trying to hug what they could reach of their sibling’s cheek.

The scent of smoke did not register as Ghost drifted off into sleep.

Chapter Text

Grimm looked different than his nightmare counterpart. 

Perhaps it was the shorter horns or the rounder mask. Or perhaps it was the absence of the fire which encroached him when they met last—he no longer looked unnatural, only too tall, and slim. 

He was leaning on the main workshop table, scrolls with information about the Sealing laid out under his palm; and, out of nowhere, the Pale King felt a hot wave of humiliation roll through his body as Grimm levelled him a stare.

The Pale King let the Nightmare King have his theatrics, watching in quiet irritation how Grimm slumped into the chair nearby, splaying himself all over the poor piece of furniture with part of his cloak still on the table. He did not speak, did not show anything at all, only standing and waiting. It was Grimm who had barged in unannounced (or, more precisely, announced in a very untraditional way): the Pale King would let him speak first. 

Grimm sighed. The sound was raspy—unlike in the nightmare, there were no flames crackling to mitigate this and add to his voice at the same time. When he realised that the Pale King was not going to speak first, he finally broke the silence. 

"Quite an interesting collection you have here, Pale Wyrm," the Nightmare King began, posture relaxed but eyes burning right through him. "There is little more to add to your experiments with the Void… but why, for all that is dear, do you have a sigil for disallowing someone- or something- to reform?" 

The Pale King blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected was definitely not that, definitely not a question he had a somewhat easy answer to. 

"'Rebirth', to be exact. That is a security measure for executing the infected, to let them rest without her being able to defile their bodies further." 

Grimm cocked his head at this, bringing one finger to his mask. "Oh, so that is to be a means of mercy, is it, Pale Wyrm?" 

He frowned, the first sign of frustration he had shown here today, and Grimm smiled, fangs almost bared, in response.

"Speak of the matter that brought you here, Nightmare King," he demanded, his patience worn thin and his body and mind exhausted after the last cycle. 

(He still needed to check on Ghost and the Hollow Knight.) 

"The matter at hand seems to be slipping out of your control, does it not?" Grimm asked, straightening up in the chair, all the ease, the wandering curiosity with which he had asked the prior question gone. 

"Ghost has lost control over the entity they are serving as a vessel for today," the Nightmare King’s eyes narrowed and the Pale King almost expected to see sparks, embers floating around, "and it is likely that their hatred for me was not the catalyst." 

"How?" Grimm asked; something in his gaze told the Pale King that he already knew the answer and needed only to hear the confirmation. 

"I was explaining the mechanics of the Dreamnail to,'' oh, he did not wish to expound on who, exactly, were the Dreamers and what was their role in all this, "my advisors in the matter of the infection. I told them that such an artefact can let its wielder find the Old Light." The Nightmare King’s eyes flared bright at the words. The Pale King ignored that, keeping his body still and voice level as he continued. "And they… they corrected me. They said 'kill'." 

Grimm scoffed, distinctly displeased.

"So it would seem my dearest sister has brought us all into quite a… predicament," he hissed.  

Silence, weighty and smothering, settled over the two. Grimm looked lost in thought, eyes darting along the room.

Had he felt Ghost’s outburst too? Had it frozen him just as it did the Pale King? Had the Void felt just as suffocating?

"The power they've shown- I am doubtful in my capability to counteract it, and it had an effect on the Hollow Knight," he forced out. Grimm looked at him with something that he assumed was pity. 

He did not need pity; he needed answers.

"The Hollow Knight? Ah, do you mean that perfect ‘pure’ vessel of yours?" The Pale King nodded stiffly as an answer. The Nightmare King glanced down to the scroll laid out underneath his hands before talking again. "Are they the one who resolved the Void vessel's outburst?" 

"It seemed so. And it left them weakened." 

Grimm sat upright, bringing both his hands up to link them together and put his chin on top. In that position, his eyes were on the Pale King's level. 

"So it would be safe to assume the Void is dangerous even—perhaps especially to those borne of it," the Nightmare King suggested, the idea making the Pale King's haemolymph freeze.

He needed to check on them. As soon as possible. 

"It is imperative now to find a solution, in case they are to lose control again - and they will, for their goal is to kill her,” Grimm’s fingers twitched below his head, diminutive sparks shooting out from the claw tips.

He did not answer. He had nothing to answer with. His silence did not deter the Nightmare King in the slightest, though—he spoke without waiting for the Pale King to say something. 

"Do not think yourself the only one in danger, Pale Wyrm. Do not think that the Void will stop only at her light, or only at your kingdom; it will devour everything, for it is in its nature to do so. For it is the antithesis to everything, to existence itself, not just Light as you foolishly hoped." 

He returned the gaze, steady, unblinking. More embers flew from Grimm's fingers, floating down onto the table.

(He hoped the scrolls would not catch fire.)

He had nothing to say, nothing to do. He understood the gravity of the situation they were all in.

A solution. He needed a solution. Holding Ghost back from killing Her (and he was sure that they could and they would do so) would only bring forth the disaster faster, only engulf the world in shadow earlier. 

His gaze wandered around the room. The once-comforting dimness now felt suffocating; all the tools and places marred by his child's blood mocked him as his eyes searched out a clue, a shape to give the idea that had first come back there in the audience hall. 

He found it, in the form of a scroll under Grimm's arm. The Nightmare King silently followed his movements with scarlet eyes as he came closer and straightened out the paper. 

It held the information on the Seal of Binding that would hold the inner defence, would hold the vessel's (his child's) body together (they would not be allowed to die-) in addition to the same design that he had planned to use on the inside of their mask. That was not important, not now; all it did was give him a loose idea, something starting to form. That something took the form of a question said out loud, even though he already knew the answer.

"Is it possible to bind the Void?" 

(It had to be; he had seen his designs working well, seen the ruin that She would make of the Hollow Knight's body and they would still hold, still live.

How did Ghost even manage to kill them?) 

A raspy laugh brought him back to reality. 

"Oh," Grimm sighed, once he had stopped laughing, his smile even wider, fangs clearly visible, "your ideas will never cease to amaze me, in ways both pleasant and not. It would seem you have a talent for recycling old designs and trying to make something new, better." The Pale King winced at the jab; Grimm paid it no mind. "But this one could, for once, be actually plausible." 

Something not quite daring to be hope squirmed in his gut. He stifled it, willing himself into the almost-blank, fully focused state he absolutely needed to be in to give the loose idea a form, to outline the design, to know exactly how much power such a spell would take. 

Grimm seemed content with staying there. He, once again, settled comfortably in the chair, looking down on the Pale King as he brought writing supplies to the ground. 

For some reason, he did not mind the intrusion. 

The Nightmare King gave him a low chuckle; he turned to look, slightly irate. 

"I am very curious to see what the God of Higher Thought will devise against an enemy like this. Perhaps I could even help perfect the design; my knowledge on seals is far greater than yours is."

Was he proposing to work together?

Was he ever planning on anything else when he had said that they would meet in reality the next time around?

The Pale King frowned in disbelief; the answer to that came in form of another scoff and a frustrated sigh. "I do not like to repeat myself, and I have already said that the Void is a danger to everything, including myself. This is not altruism." 

Something in those last words sounded bitter, but Grimm already broke eye contact, choosing to look at the ready design that the King left lying on the table. 

This was no time and place to ponder Grimm's deeper motivations.

(Some weak, meagre part of him protested the thought of creating such a seal. He stuffed it down, telling himself that the whole world's wellbeing was more than one vessel's.

Had he not already used up this excuse?)

He had to check on them, regardless of the smothering darkness being gone for now. Speak to them of their next step. 

Make a plan.

---

Ghost didn't know how long they'd slept. 

Too long was the answer, according to how their body felt—they knew that they shouldn't feel this heavy after waking up from a good rest. 

Their sibling was still asleep. They probed gently at the Void link and the only answer they got was the veil that shrouded it when Hollow slept. 

They felt disoriented; how much time had passed, where was everyone, what were they supposed to do now? Ghost frowned, trying to disentangle themself from cloaks both theirs and their sibling's. How did they even manage to get into this position in the first place? 

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The one entering caught them almost completely off-guard, balancing on one leg while failing to free the second one.  Their Void recognised who'd just entered faster than they could; it churned unpleasantly as Ghost stared at the shadows cloaking the Pale King. 

Those seemed even heavier than when they'd seen him last, and more real, to the point it felt like Ghost could extend their hand and touch them, interact with them. 

(It was possible that they were able to do so.

The hunger surfaced again at the sight; the urge to come near and try interacting with the shadows nigh irresistible.

They resisted anyway.) 

Ghost finally managed to extricate themself from the unseemly tangle of cloaks and limbs, not even waking Hollow in the process. Surprising—their sibling, like them, was a light sleeper. Was something going on? 

A cool wave of horror accompanied Ghost's guess. Ignoring the King calling them quietly by their name they leaned back down to the taller vessel, searching the Void out for anything that did not belong. 

And they found nothing. No sweet stench, no orange spots, no foreign emotion—only the dense thickness accompanying the deep sleep their sibling was still in. 

(The Void sang of promise. A promise to keep their sibling safe, a promise to smother Her light so that it would never endanger Hollow or Hornet again.) 

Then, and only then did they turn around to face the Pale King; he stood in the doorway, not fully in the room yet. He was following their movements with wary eyes and- 

Was that worry laced in his expression? 

All the sleepiness left Ghost in an instant. They didn't trust him, no, but they knew that expression was not fake, the shadows whispering it back to them. 

They could not stay idle, could not allow themself rest—they had to finish their quest.

(He smelled weird; his essence was mingled together with lingering remnants of something other- something familiar- something that Ghost knew all-too-well.) 

He was talking to them. 

"Ghost, I would like to speak to you if you are okay with that."

Again with those meaningless offers of choice.

Still, they nodded. The earlier they got rid of him, the earlier they could set out of the Palace to find the Dreamnail. 

(Some quiet voice, sounding a lot like their sibling's not-words, reprimanded them for leaving in a hurry like that. 

They ignored it.

Their Void gave a pleased purr.) 

The Pale King motioned for them to follow him out of the room. Did he try to not wake Hollow up with the talk that he wanted to have with Ghost? 

Trying to play considerate, again. 

Once they were out in the corridor, he closed the door soundlessly. 

"Ghost, are you alright?" 

They stared, dumbfounded by the question. He couldn't possibly think of fooling them into trust with such lazy tactics - with pretending to be more concerned for them than for himself.

The shadows sang to Ghost, revealing that it was, at least, a partial truth and that the worry intertwined with fear and regrets was, indeed, meant for both them and their sibling. 

They gave an affirmative, following his every movement, listening to the grim whispers of his regrets and guilt, coiled tightly around his form. 

"Do you remember what happened back there in the audience hall?" he asked next, visibly uncomfortable. 

Ghost, after thinking back hard, realised that no, they didn't, even the scarce remnants remaining before they fell asleep had since faded away from their memory. They shook their head, disheartened by the fact. 

The Pale King frowned. He mused to himself for a long minute (every second of which Ghost ached, ached to move, to do anything but stand there without purpose, without a goal).

His frown deepened even more. 

"Would you follow me to my workshop, Ghost?" 

Why would he invite them to come there? 

Ghost themself had not ever set foot in that place; they knew it well, too well, from memories not theirs. Knew of the Pale King, speaking to himself after a long day of tinkering and the warm feeling that accompanied his voice; knew of not-them, shuffling to prevent him from toppling over as he'd fallen asleep right where he sat, hands still laid over the scrolls and books on the table; knew of the ambient Void that stained the room; knew of the Kingsmoulds and Wingsmoulds, half-finished or discarded. 

(Knew of pain and fear, of the terror that sounded like “had He noticed?” stemming forth from every moment when not-they almost lost hold of not-their consciousness after a long cycle of being perfected.

The fury roiling beneath their shell at that particular memory was fully their own.) 

They levelled him a look and nodded. What could possibly be in there that he'd want them to see? 

He turned on his heels, silently motioning with his upper arm for Ghost to follow. 

They did so without delay; they wanted to finally get this all over with, to stop wasting precious time by staying in the Palace. 

The familiar scent almost tore the ground away from their feet as they'd reached the workshop door, memories of warmth and acceptance surfacing in immediate response.

So not a what, but a who, it seemed.

---

The vessel should not be capable of dreaming. 

Its design was absolute, its Creator's work perfect in every way—the Void inside of it barring it from seeing anything while it slept. 

Still, it did. 

(It? They-) 

It saw its siblings: the Gendered Child, Ghost. 

It saw both of them as they were in waking. It watched the Gendered Child swing her needle, showing off her new skills with pride in her expression; it watched Ghost come closer and hesitate, like they always did—the smallest fraction—before putting a paw on its mask. 

(The Void link was not there-)

Instinct screamed wrong. Screamed of danger. It tried to reach out to Ghost, attempting to communicate-

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the dream roiled, everything around it blurring and sharpening again. Its (their!) siblings both looked at it.

Their eyes were orange-

It tried to move, tried to get through to its sibling once more. Its body jerked in place, as though held back by something.

There was a strange smell in the air around it. The vision rippled again, for a brief moment dissipating entirely.

Its siblings collapsed to the floor—Ghost’s paw sliding down the vessel’s mask as they did so. Infection mixed together with haemolymph and Void, pooling beneath its feet.

Move, move, it had to move-

It could only watch, the struggle to shift meaningless. It heard something, a voice getting reaching it as if from miles upon miles away and it could not make out the words-

Were there any?

Failure. Failure, failure-

The Gendered Child’s breaths whistled. She coughed, spitting out blue haemolymph and orange infection, one hand reaching out for it and it was still frozen, still useless, still- 

There was a strange sensation in its limbs. Brushing over its chitin and moving, dragging something dull up its frame-

It yanked again, trying fruitlessly to do something, anything at all-

Ghost’s mask broke in two before its gaze, the sickening crack reverberating in its own head. Black lifeblood and golden miasma gushed out, streaming down its sibling’s cheeks, out of their eyes and the vessel grasped at the Void link again, trying to-

It did not know what it was trying to do, anymore. Its limbs were weak, it was too weak to move, to help-

The sound, the sound, the sound, gurgling and whistling and splotching-

The image stilled abruptly, before plunging into darkness completely. All sensation ceased and it could still not move, could still not open its eyes, could still not-

It gasped for air, shooting upright. The world around it was real, real, real-

It- they- were trembling all over. The room was dim and Ghost was gone from their embrace. How long had they slept? Where was their sibling, where was the Gendered Child? 

After an agonisingly long amount of time, they steadied their breathing and their frantic heartbeat returned to something resembling normal. Their siblings were safe and alive and what they'd seen just now was nothing more than their own fear seeping through the cracks in their mind and coalescing into- 

(Failure. Failure. What it had just seen would be real soon enough and it would be the vessel’s fault-)

It was not a dream: dreams, they knew, were sweet promises of eternity, of granted wishes and unlimited strength. 

This was something else. 

A nightmare, then. 

It was just a nightmare.

Chapter Text

(Beware of the thoughts that linger,

Winding up inside your head)

—

When Ghost had demanded to be sent back, they thought primarily of saving their sibling, their feelings towards Hollow turning into sharp resolve with which they'd fought off the Void sea's call. 

They did not think of another dear someone, not back then; they hadn't hoped to see said someone, were they to succeed. And yet, there he was, standing frozen inside the Pale King's workshop. The familiar scents of spice and smoke enveloped them as the bug they would've never dared expect to meet again looked down on them. 

Ghost could not suppress the shudder that ran through them, could not stop their breath from catching in their throat in an approximation of a whimper. The tidal wave of emotion swallowed them whole, drowning out even the sweet song of their Void and the itch in their limbs to act. 

This was not the time to be sentimental. This was not the time to fall apart, not the time to let him see how much they’d missed him-

They collected themself, restating sharply that he did not know them now. He hadn't met them; he was not the one who'd showed them what kindness and acceptance were, not the one who'd listened to them and taught them skills seemingly useless, he was not- 

He was not their Grimm. And yet he was Grimm, now contorting himself into a bow and staying bent over, his eyes level with theirs. 

He'd dispelled their nightmare on the first night that they were here, even though he could've left them there, could've left them all alone. And in his gaze now Ghost saw recognition mixed with soft sorrow. Did he know? Did he understand? 

If someone would be able to understand them, it would be him, Ghost knew that. 

If there was someone they wouldn't object to knowing, seeing their fears, it was him. 

(If there was someone they trusted, it was him.) 

He looked up at the Pale King, whose light still fell onto the ground from behind Ghost, and spoke. 

"Leave, Wyrm."

They realised She had burned away their memories of his voice, then. Searching further, they found nothing but fuzzy blobs of colour and emotion instead of all their memories of the time spent with the Troupe. It probably shouldn't have hurt this much.

The light streaming into the room wavered. Fabric rustled on the ground.

"Leave, and let me speak to them alone." 

His voice was flat and level, no emotion discernible no matter how much they searched. And, to Ghost's surprise, the Pale King did not refuse; he only stepped outside the room quietly, closing the door behind him. 

Grimm followed him with wary eyes and then settled into a sitting position, wings pooling around him. His hands came up to rest on his knees, the movements sparking Ghost’s memory of how he was in their life lost. 

They wanted to tense, wanted to be on the lookout for any possible danger, any possible betrayal. They did not at the same time, old habits carved deep into them: Grimm forever to be associated with warmth, hospitality and affection. 

He also stayed fully relaxed, his eyes slowly closing and opening in a gesture he'd taught them to mean comfort. Was that still true? 

They came closer, also sitting down on the ground. He made no move to recoil, no move to indicate discomfort, only lowered his gaze to follow their movements as they now found themself inches away from one side of his wing-cloak. 

"You have known me, before you travelled here." His words were not a question. Ghost nodded regardless. 

One of Grimm's hands came close to their mask, hovering but not touching. They did not move, did not flinch; they only stared, some kind of deep, profound emotion clawing at their heart. 

(They remembered the same emotion tearing them apart in Her care. 

Was it grief? How could they grieve for someone that was alive and here, sitting before them?) 

One sharp claw came underneath their mask, lightly nudging it; Ghost obeyed, raising their head up. The unnatural heat of the touch that spread through them was comforting and warming. Not painful—his presence was never painful. 

Grimm's eyes scanned their form. They did not resist—the uncomfortable feeling of being vulnerable and exposed was simply not present. 

He scoffed, the sound quiet, almost pained. 

"I have seen your nightmares and still I did not believe them. And still I did not let the knowledge of what she has become sink in." 

Grimm was not a being of Void. Ghost had no way of hearing his emotions, even the shadows' song falling silent in this brief refuge from the world, in this room of the White Palace where the two of them sat—both of them not belonging, both of them stains on the pristine perfection. 

And yet, they knew—they saw it in the waver of his flame, in the light slump of his shoulders, nothing exaggerated or theatrical in the motion, and in the deep sigh that escaped him—they knew he was grieving, too. 

"The Old Light," he elaborated. Was he able to hear them, was he able to know what they felt, somehow, still?

"She is my sister. And even though our parting was less than amicable, the hope to someday see her again as she was before never quite burnt out. Does that ring maudlin, I wonder?" 

Ghost returned the gaze, heart feeling too heavy, the blinding, furious hatred they bore for Her crashing into what Grimm just said. 

She had someone to grieve Her. It felt wrong, fundamentally and inexplicably wrong; yet it felt right at the same time, leaving a foul taste in their mouth that didn't feel like the aftertaste of the infection. 

When they'd met him in their last life, he'd never spoken of Her. He never told them She was his sibling, never showed any sign of emotion towards Hallownest and Her. Had the centuries dulled the pain, or did he not want them to see, to know? 

Siblings. That felt even worse, digging into Ghost's carapace and leaving burning trails in its wake. 

Hollow was a sibling. Hornet was a sibling. The thousands of cracked masks and the shades left behind were siblings, too. 

Did someone- did Grimm- love Her like they loved Hollow and Hornet and all the siblings killed too early, never given a chance to live? 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

Now they recoiled, scrambling to get away from the claw on their mask. Grimm let them, pulling away too. He was watching them with keen eyes and Ghost knew, understood that Grimm read them like an open book once again, that he knew exactly what his words meant to them. 

“Will you allow me to put your mind at ease, dear friend?” he asked quietly. His mask was completely inscrutable, but his eyes flared bright. He’d told them that was a display of emotion—was that still true?

Why wouldn’t it be?

An offer of comfort, completely meaningless but there nevertheless. And his words did not leave a bitter taste on their tongues, did not leave them wondering as to the hidden reason.

Maybe they should. He was a Higher Being; he was Her brother. Why would they trust him?

Why should the revelation change that? He helped them, breaking their nightmare. He came here, though for what reason they did not know.

Instinct screamed danger. It was muffled, overshadowed greatly by the almost senseless, sentimental confidence in him.

He would not work with the Pale King in an attempt to stop them. That was an absurd idea, a fleeting thought that made them huff out a sharp breath, almost a laugh.

They nodded slowly and stared at him. What was it that he wanted to do? How would he be able to ‘put their mind at ease’?

(They doubted that was possible before they finished their quest and before they were sure their siblings were not in any danger.)

He snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the silence that befell the workshop, and Ghost found themself surrounded by pillows and blankets of all textures and sizes and shades of red.

Familiar. A piece of home, brought into the pristine perfection of the Palace. Something bubbled up, bitter but grateful and carefully, ever so carefully, they moved to the spot where they'd be cupped by those.

The sentiment of letting them choose to come not lost on them. 

The fact that Grimm trusted them enough to tell them that he and She were siblings was not lost on them, either. He didn’t speak again—here they were, covered in warmth and softness, the Nightmare King extending an offer of comfort, of safety, of acceptance to them once more. 

They'd run through time itself; they still couldn't escape the familiar sharp sting of pain accompanying the thought. 

"I do not know you, Ghost," Grimm broke the silence. Their name sounded right, just as it did when Hornet called them by it or when Hollow cried out for them in the not-words of the Void the day prior, "nor do I know what history you have with the Nightmare King: what bond you have shared or what roles you have played in each other's lives. I am not who you remember," he was not and at the same time he was, was the same as the Grimm they'd known, "and I do not know what will become of me in the distant future." 

Nothing would change for them. 

"Would you trust me enough to let me help you, despite that?" 

Should they?

The Void lapped lazily at the outskirts of their perception. 

They wanted to believe. They wanted to be able to be weak and wanted to have somewhere safe to return to, to find momentary refuge in. 

Selfish. 

Selfish, selfish, selfish- 

There was no refuge; there was no one to trust; there was only them and the task they'd promised to see through to the end. They were the only one who could save their sibling, the only one who would care enough to do so. 

Grimm had no reason to care about Hollow or Hornet, no reason to help protect them, no reason to care about Ghost in the first place—gods did not concern themselves with the matters of mortals, or even godlings like Ghost and their siblings were. 

(And still, he cared for them in the last life.) 

They realised they were shaking in the pile of softness he'd summoned (for them, it was for them, there was no reason to do so save to bring them comfort- no reason to teach them to dance, but he did- no reason to make them hot, tasty tea, but he did- no reason, no reason, no reason-). Their fingers clenched one of the blankets as they fought against themself, against the selfish wish to let themself be helped and comforted and let themself relax. 

Grimm didn't move an inch from his position, not to touch Ghost in any way and not to prod for an answer, since they hadn't given him one. His eyes stayed focused on Ghost, overflowing with so much melancholy it made Ghost wince. 

Why, why, why-

Why would he care-

They curled up small in the cushions, as if that could do something, anything about the tightness around their thorax, about the traitorous sting behind their eyesockets. Grimm snapped his fingers again, and the next they knew he relaxed, now holding two small, steaming cups. He extended his hand, offering it to them. 

Did he know, once again, what they've been thinking of, what memory they briefly relived? 

They took the cup and stared, unseeing, into it. The liquid inside quickly cooled down in their grasp, a hue of rich red. 

They remembered the taste—it was one of the memories She hadn't managed to shatter and then remake to Her liking. 

They took a sip. It was richer, deeper than the one from their memory but still unmistakable. 

"Is it to your liking, Ghost? I was unsure what you would like, and so I chose one of my own personal favourites.”

They nodded. It would have been such a small thing, what he'd just said, if not for the déjà vu Ghost experienced at the sentiment. It was the same thing Grimm had told them in the last life when introducing them to the concept of tea, and his preferred flavour quickly became their favourite one. 

Was it sentimentality, or did they truly like this one best? They did not know. 

Why, something deep inside of them sobbed, why would anyone care? Why would anyone want to help them? 

They felt something damp on their face and then on their hand. It made a plip sound as it landed, and it took Ghost a second to comprehend that their hand was shaking and that the tear was real. 

And that it was not alone; it was followed immediately by another, and another, and another and they couldn't stop-

They buried their mask deep into the pillow nearest to it to hide, to not let him see how weak and pathetic they were- 

Another soft snap of his fingers, then they heard a quiet crackling sound and felt familiar warmth nearby. 

They closed their eyes, trying to will the bout of vulnerability away, trying to pull themself together. That only brought them back to the large tent, to the dark and gloomy evenings when they'd return, tired beyond words, and collapse into the heap of pillows Grimm had left for them. And listen to the soft crackling of the fireplace that never seemed to burn out and feel- 

It felt like home. 

It felt like safety. 

It felt like acceptance. 

It did feel like that now, too. They wondered if Grimm knew, if he'd read them again, if he did all those things because it was what Ghost thought of when seeing him again. 

They could not ask. They did not try, finally losing their battle with themself. They fell apart surrounded by the memory, the fleeting illusion of home made true. 

Some part of them hoped that Grimm understood that they trusted him, however much they hated that fact; they hoped that he understood that they would let him help them, however much they didn't wish to share their burden. 

He gave no indication, only staying as he was after taking the cup carefully from their grasp and setting it onto the floor nearby. Letting them cry, cry like a lost grub, cry like they'd never done and never thought themself able to. 

He stayed near and it was enough.

—

Did they know their form had lost its steady outline and started literally falling apart as they buried themself into the pillows? A fascinating sight it would have been, if not for their pain and the danger said pain posed.

The irony of the Wyrm’s supposed empty creation having willpower strong enough to command, contain and defy the Lord of Shades was not lost on Grimm. 

Their trust for him was palpable. Their fight both with themself and the Void entity they had become a vessel for to let themself be vulnerable, to let him help was, too.

The part that concerned him most was that Ghost did not understand that the stubbornness was not just their own, that their mind was being influenced by the Lord of Shades. 

He felt its presence keenly, its power lightly touching his flame as if getting a good look at him, as if assessing, though the entity recoiled as soon as he prodded at it in response.

Fire and shadow dance so nice together, he had always thought. 

Shadow did not seem to share his opinion on the matter.

Ghost did—he had caught remnants of memories they unwittingly transmitted to him, every which of those was broken, shattered into pieces, stained with sickly, infectious gold. They had entertained him, in their last life: gifted him a dance and their help with the Ritual. 

(The memories that they shared stopped, rather abruptly, there. Did they not complete it?)

And his weakness for them persisted, stubborn like a Void stain on cloth, through both of their lives. Grimm had not planned on getting involved more than was absolutely necessary, but after seeing their nightmares-

He was the only one, outside of their immediate siblings, that they trusted. He was the only one that could truly help them.

It took some time before their distress subsided and they raised their mask again, looking him in the eye. 

The Wyrm was afraid of them, just like his sister was. 

He did not share that weakness with the two Lights; instead, he let himself drown in those bottomless eyes, let himself get swept into the flow of silent communication that Ghost used. Their inscrutable mask did not do them justice in any way.

And he was childishly curious. Both of them and of the power that they’d awoken.

(Would the Lord of Shades be capable of erasing him, utterly and completely?)

And they needed guidance now more than anything—sheer willpower would not do them well if they did not understand what they had to resist. 

His flame flickered on the inside of their mask, throwing small, dancing glints of firelight onto it. Void did not reflect light—it only consumed it, swallowed it whole. Their mask, though, seemed organic, and so it was exempt from that unfortunate consequence of their body being made of Void. 

He would help them kill his sister. He knew already that he would. Their memories only shed more light on the monstrosity that she had become.

He would be lying if he said it did not hurt. The fact was that the childish hope he'd harboured, kept close for all the centuries apart, the hope to someday see her again and reconcile was now well and truly gone. 

It was a moot point, yet choosing to help Ghost over trying to help her felt bitter, felt like a betrayal. 

(She was family. How many times had she tried to use that against him?

Begging. Pleading. Demanding.

Come back.)

He had chosen his side, and that side was to not be involved in any way.

He had chosen to not engage in the war that the two Lights waged and now- 

(She was gone.

Maybe not yet, but very soon she would be.) 

He saw in front of him a vessel (his design, the Wyrm had used his design and made it into a living creature) that she had taken everything from, that she had tortured, taking pleasure in her actions, for decades, if not centuries.

Whom she’d forced to kill their sibling.

She was gone, gone, gone, and that she was yet alive did not matter.

And he would see to the world recovering from the loss. 

"Ghost." He was met with warmth again, as if they had nuzzled softly into his hand, however still they were in reality.

"You will need knowledge. You will need to be prepared for what is to come, for the dangers that lie ahead. You must listen to me." 

It was harsher than he would have liked. 

Ghost nodded regardless. 

(Did they not understand that there was no need for physical movements? That he felt their approval regardless, needing only to lock gazes with them? 

Perhaps they, too, found joy in playing their role to the fullest.) 

He flicked his fingers, letting the flames he had conjured dance. The feeling was comforting. The way Ghost followed his movements, spellbound, was too. There was no way to soften the blow he was about to deal, or to brace them for what was to come. 

He did not find lying by making the ugly truth prettier practical. He was a being of the Nightmare, after all. 

He leaned closer to them, still playing with the fire in his hand.

"Ghost. You have—inadvertently, I assume—become a vessel for the God of Void, Lord of Shades. It seeks to devour, to destroy all it can lay its claws on: not just her, not just Hallownest, everything." 

They shivered and recoiled, their fear strong enough that he needed only reach out to draw it into himself. It smelt of burnt pyres, of sweet sickness, of-

Of her.

(Even their fear smelled like her, after what she had made them go through.

It hurt to witness. Had he been the same way, centuries ago?) 

This was not a nightmare, and he had no way to dispel it, even if he would have liked to do so.

"Your unwavering resolve roused it from its sleep, and it used you as a means of escaping the Void sea," he added. Their breath hitched, once, and they went lax. The aura of fear diminished, instead colouring itself into deep, tired resignation. 

He did not like that, not at all. 

“Am I a threat to them, too?” Ghost's unvoiced question reached Grimm. 

He did not like that question, and he liked the answer he had to give even less. 

The flames in his fingers grew, changing their colour to a deeper hue of red. He rolled it in his fingers, curling them in and then out again.

"Yes," he said, "and they are, most likely, the only one able to help you." 

Grimm could hear Ghost, but he was not of Void. He had no place there, no influence on it and, subsequently, on Ghost. Their sibling, on the other hand... 

Their sibling was an individual most interesting, just like Ghost themself. They were a shadow unnoticed in the bright pale light, condemned to eternal pain before they were even born. And, in spite of that, they were able to survive. 

To hold on to themself. 

To defy her. 

To turn their nail on themself, their unwillingness to hurt Ghost stronger than her control over them. 

Not many creatures were able to stay lucid, aware of themselves, in the presence and under the direct command of a Higher Being. 

Ironic, how diametrically opposite the vessels were to their intended design and how different of a way to save the Wyrm’s kingdom they found. 

(The inability to accept the inevitable end that would come to claim all things seemed to be familial.)

The resignation grew deeper as Ghost's shoulders sagged and their head hung low. 

“Again, again, again,” they whispered. 

"You have to stay in control, whatever that entails, until we find a way to help you," his voice stayed level, the statement firm. He tried to not be too harsh again; he did not know if he succeeded.

“We?” Ghost asked; he blinked slowly in a calming gesture, looking them in the eyes in response. He felt enthralled by the slow twisting of the Void within: the coiling and uncoiling something that he could never hope to understand all that much more fascinating. 

"Me," that got no reaction, "and the Pale King." That got a flinch. They did not trust him and Grimm could not fault them for that.  

They looked at the ground, visibly tense and shivering. The several seconds before they locked their gaze with his again stretched on forever.

“Thank you,” they sent to him and turned away again. The flow of emotion, the communication stopped abruptly, leaving him to guess judging by the visible cues they gave. 

Which were still quite a lot. The slight quiver in their limbs, the hunch in their posture, their hand fidgeting with their cloak. How did the Wyrm not notice for such a long time? 

Wilful blindness, Grimm knew. He had done the same after seeing the not-so-pure vessel's nightmares, turning away and burying the knowledge, never to be used again.

But it was never his responsibility. Never his problem, never his place to interfere.

It wasn't up until the point when the Wyrm’s shenanigans resulted in the Lord of Shades’ awakening; now the point was moot, with all of them working towards the same goal. 

It took much to numb himself to the fact that he was actively working with the Void to kill his own sister.

(“Come back, come back, we can still fix this.”

The words were bright and sharp, as though she was in the room with them.

She was not. And he would not listen.) 

He did so regardless. 

Ghost straightened and looked at him—the slight quiver that ran through his entire body from the cold touch of the Void in their eyes remained uniform—and motioned to the door. 

Was the still waiting outside? 

How unlike him. Did he really take Grimm's advice to heart so much, or was he too afraid to leave, for that would entail going to meet either Ghost's sibling or his "advisors on the matter of the infection"? 

…That was very much like him. 

Grimm stood up and shrugged, relaxing against the nearest wall.

"Do you wish to tell him of your plans? You want to find the Dreamnail, is that correct?"

They confirmed with a small nod.

"You do realise that the moths would not give it up?"

(They were still loyal to her. They still loved her, no matter that they were the first to be razed by her fury.

He understood all too well.)

Nothing. Ghost turned their back on him and went to open the door, tense and stiff. 

He could only believe in them. Trust that they would be able to hold the Lord of Shades at bay long enough to let themself be helped. 

He did not enjoy being so powerless.

—

This would either lead to the best or the worst possible outcome—nothing in between. 

One of the Pale King’s legs started bouncing off the floor. His lowest set of arms was fiddling with his cloak. He was becoming more restless by the minute, staying just outside his own workshop and waiting for a cue that it was okay to come back in. 

(Why did he even leave? Since when did he listen to Grimm, of all people; since when did he fall low enough to be easily sent away from his own workshop? 

“Gain their trust.” 

He had already listened to Grimm, since day one of this whole ordeal he had done nothing but follow the Nightmare King’s advice.

Frustrating failed to encompass half of the intensity of his feelings on the matter.) 

He knew not how long he had stayed like that, the Palace around him quiet, his mind buzzing with figments that never quite turned into concrete thoughts. The boredom set in slowly, leaving him fidgeting. 

How long into the cycle even was it, at this point? It must have been at least twenty-two hours since the meeting started. The long hours of getting information from Ghost blurred into the long hours that he had spent awkwardly hovering around his workshop. 

He did not feel the oppressive presence anymore; the shadows weren't more than they were supposed to be; the eight thin, bright white eyes did not look at him from anywhere but his own memory. Grimm's talk with Ghost must have been going well.

What could they even be talking about for so long? Grimm knew their nightmares, knew what forms their fears took. He had seen it with his own eyes and it distressed, scared him enough to seek out the Pale King on his own. 

(The King also knew what forms Ghost's fears took. He half wished he did not. It was of no practical use to know the details. There was nothing in what they had told him and the Dreamers that they could use against the Old Light.) 

His restlessness grew worse. He itched to do something, anything but stand there without a clear-cut goal, with only his own mind to accompany him. 

It was better than it had been just a few cycles ago, though—had he come to terms with what happened, or did he just numb himself to it? 

(He needed to go check on the Hollow Knight. 

He could not leave now, not before Ghost and Grimm finished their talk—they would want to speak with him afterwards, would they not?

Why would they, though?) 

As if taking pity on him, the door creaked, opening. He came closer and peered in, noticing Ghost standing near pillows and blankets that were definitely not there the last he checked, and motioning for him to enter. 

The Pale King looked the vessel over, relieved to see them and not the four pairs of eyes. They tilted their head to one side. 

"I believe we should speak of the future," he said, glancing from Ghost to Grimm and back. Ghost nodded and looked up at the Nightmare King.

He had a nagging feeling that they were communicating in a way he did not understand. 

(There were two empty cups on the floor. Two, not one.) 

"Ghost wishes to try and acquire the Dreamnail," the Nightmare King spoke, an emotionless statement. His eyes, though, bored into his with an intensity unmatched.

So they did, indeed, communicate. How? How was Grimm able to hear, understand them beyond the simple body language they'd offered? There were no drawings, no pieces of parchment on the floor and surely, he did not understand Hallownestian sign?

Ghost nodded vigorously, standing up from the pile of cushions. Confirming Grimm's words. 

"If they wish to do so, then I shall not interfere," the King spoke, carefully choosing his words. They chose to disregard his warning, the knowledge that the moths would not give them their most prised possession—pushing them would be counterproductive.

Would letting them try and fail to acquire the Dreamnail be any better?

No right choice. There was no truly right choice—but there was important information for them to gather while simultaneously giving him and Grimm time.

"But I would propose they visit the Watcher Spire and the Teacher's Archives. There is useful information there, and Lurien and Monomon will help you, Ghost, with anything you might need help with." 

They tensed at those words. Distrusting? Were they worried about the prospect of meeting the Dreamers again? Did they think Lurien and Monomon would be unwilling to help them? 

Grimm cast them a look. With the next breath their tension eased and they nodded. Sluggishly, as if fighting themself to make the motion. 

Luck would have it that they trusted the Nightmare King so much.

"Will you go alone, or would you like someone to go with you?" the Pale King asked them next.

Maybe they would like to have their sibling with them. Maybe they would like one of the Great Knights with them. 

They shook their head no. Alone, then. 

"Do you know your way around Hallownest enough to be able to traverse the path you chose in the shortest amount of time possible?" 

(He knew the treks: it would still take Ghost at least seven cycles to travel, not counting the time they would spend in the Archives or in the Silver City.) 

Ghost looked at him and made a cut-off motion as if wanting to raise their hands but thinking better of it at the last second, instead simply inclining their mask. 

(They had had to traverse Hallownest when it was far more dangerous. They would be okay. 

There was no reason for the small yet annoying sting of worry at letting them go alone. It should have been fear, instead, fear of letting them wander away from where he saw them, from where he could- 

Could do what? Would he be capable of winning against the Void inside of them?

He wanted to avoid confrontation by all means necessary. He needed time—and this was his chance.) 

Grimm was silent throughout the entire one-sided convo, looking at the Pale King, scanning his form for something only he knew of. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, coming from a creature at least three times his height. 

Ghost moved to the door, evidently having all the information they needed before they went. He noticed the hurry in their movements, the slight bouncing that was not there before—were they, too, restless? 

He was not worried about them running off, not when their siblings were still in the Palace, their reason for fighting and the only ones dear enough to them to risk everything for. He was, however, worried about them realising that the moths would not help.

Would they lose control? He feared they would. 

But ordering someone to tail them was not the solution—so what if he did so? The said someone would not even make it back to the Palace. There was no need for that in the first place, for he was sure he would feel the presence of the Void entity however far it would be. 

The only solution was to perfect the seal design, to take the idea and shape it into a plan, into something he could use. And to do that, he would have to spend all the time granted working tirelessly.

He was used to such things. 

Before leaving, Ghost turned and looked at Grimm, then raised one hand and waved it in the air. They only spared the Pale King a fleeting glance before vanishing, closing the door behind themself. 

(They knew Grimm before coming here, did they not?) 

"Now," the Nightmare King spoke, sounding… not tired, but some kind of a deeper type of weariness, "shall we get to work? I fear we do not have much time to spare, though I might have won us some while talking to them." 

He did not specify what he meant. 

The Pale King had already relied on Grimm two times. He had already placed the fate of Hallownest (of the entire world-) into the Nightmare King’s hands, and it worked both of those times. 

Maybe it would work once more.

(It was not like he could have done better. It was not like Ghost trusted him at all.) 

He came over to the main table and rolled out the scroll with the Seal of Binding drawn in great detail.

Grimm was right. They had work to do, while they were allowed to. 

—

The restlessness returned as soon as Ghost left the workshop. The restlessness they now knew to not belong to them, not fully. 

Grimm trusted them far more than they'd thought first. Far more than he should, probably—a stark contrast to how the Pale King treated them, as if they were a spell triggered by the slightest touch, as if they would explode if he made a move wrong. 

(The Void sang, latching on to the hatred they still felt for the King. 

It was harder, now, to ignore it.) 

They came to an abrupt stop near where their and Hollow’s rooms were, unsure of what to do next. 

They were dangerous. It was them who was at fault for their sibling’s exhaustion and they did not want to know what would happen were they to lose control further. They were not sure they should come near at all. Would their mere presence make things worse?

(The call of safety, of protection that reverberated inside their Void felt fake, felt sickly-sweet in a way not unlike Her promises were.

How easy it was to notice now.) 

Ghost couldn't just up and leave without telling them anything, could they? Would the Pale King or Grimm explain to their sibling what had passed, why did they leave? 

Should they tell Hollow themself what they were and how dangerous for their sibling it was to stay close, or should they let Grimm talk to them? 

A skittering of small legs interrupted their musings, the familiar bright red flashing into view from somewhere higher up as the Gendered Child dashed to stand in front of them. 

"Ghost? Is Hollow in their room?" She hesitated before adding, sheepishly, a worried, "Are they okay?" 

Ghost noticed how she was scanning their form, her eyes lingering on their mask. She knew, didn't she? Did Herrah tell her? Did she forbid her from coming near them?

(In that case, she was right.)

They nodded to her and picked up their pace. It seemed the choice was made for them. 

(They wanted to say goodbye. They wanted to see Hollow again.

Selfish.)

You have to stay in control. 

They could do that. No, they would do that, wouldn't let themself slip away into the cool, comforting embrace of the Void again. 

Their sibling was not asleep when they entered. The Gendered Child darted to climb into their lap, the faintest pang of fear lacing through the Void link at her movement. 

(Fear that bled into the sharp twist of their own Void.) 

Ghost greeted Hollow by simply waving, staying a fair distance away. Was touch a threat, too? Was using the Void to communicate dangerous? They were afraid to come closer—they felt as if they could break their sibling by simply moving wrong and wasn't that the truth? 

The link swelled with confused worry, tinged with fear. Ghost carefully, ever so carefully, sent a sibling-loved to try and mitigate those. It did not help much, but the emotions Hollow was feeling right now most likely wouldn't hold a candle to the distress Ghost was about to cause them. 

Again. 

Hurting them again- 

Hollow tugged at the link, their hand absent-mindedly landing between the Gendered Child's horns, much to the spiderling's delight. Maybe her presence would help, at least a small bit.

Ghost focused on the rough, uncoloured facts—not letting any of their fear seep through—and sent through the link what they'd just been told. 

The reaction was immediate; their sibling froze in place, making a cut-off motion as if wanting to reach out for Ghost. The link thumped like a heartbeat, transmitting fear in short, sharp bursts.

Not the kind Ghost would've liked, but the kind they expected, deep down. Not fear for themself, but fear for Ghost. When would their sibling stop worrying about them and start worrying about themself? 

Not today, apparently.

“Will you be alright?” brushed over Ghost's perception, light as a feather. It almost made them lose it and scream into the Void that they were not the one in danger here. 

They toned it down and sent an affirmative, instead. It would be of no use to not-scream, to show the frustration: it hadn't helped the last time, it wouldn't help now. 

(Please, please stop worrying about them, damn it.)

They were still yet to tell their sibling that they were leaving, for some amount of time. They remembered the way from the Resting Grounds to the Fog Canyon as long and tiring, what they gained now in the absence of danger on the road they lost in their stamina. 

They didn't want to leave. 

(They did.

Not them, not them-) 

They had to. And so, they braced themself and communicated, this time in the not-words.

Leaving-will-return. Sadness enveloped them in response, like a shroud of sorts—they felt like they could hide under it and it would cover them gently—Hollow did not want them to leave. 

They understood that Ghost had to leave, though: there wasn’t a trace of protest in the Void between them, wasn’t a hint of frustration or that horrible fear of abandonment (perhaps having Hornet there did, in fact, help the matter). Only the sorrow and a quiet, mournful “take care of yourself.” 

They did not say that they'd be awaiting Ghost's return; they didn't need to, the sentiment carried within the not-words. 

The shadows slithered, coming closer to Hollow. Ghost took that as a sign to leave, leave before anything more could happen, leave before they could hurt their sibling further. 

The Void churned, urging them to move, to set out already. 

They stayed frozen in place, both in defiance and in wishing to formulate a proper goodbye, too. 

Sibling-loved-goodbye, they decided on. The not-words were harder to put together than the pure influx of emotion they would've preferred to use. It didn't feel right to do that, though, not when Hollow's took the approximation of speech. 

One last look. One last cut-off motion as if wanting to extend their arm and touch, and hug. One last heartbeat filled with worry and love, and Ghost slowly stepped outside of the room. They forbade themself one last glance back they so wanted to make.

(They would not be able to leave if they did so.

They had to leave. They had to get over themself.

They were not the one in danger.)

There would be time to spend together after this all ended, after Ghost fulfilled their promise. 

The stinging behind their eyes and the sharp, piercing pain not entirely physical were not deterred by that fact.

Chapter Text

Their sibling was stubborn, far too stubborn; they only saw Hollow as the one in danger, neglecting to think of what would happen to them were the Lord of Shades to be set free. 

They had pulled Ghost back once. Would they be able to do so again? Or would the Void entity bar them from interfering?

They wanted Ghost to stay.

(Would it be their fault if their sibling got hurt while away on their mission? On the mission to rescue them?

It would.)

They had to be able to protect Ghost and the Gendered Child. The spiderling seemed to fall into deep thought after they'd confirmed that Ghost was leaving, the contents of her musings something they could only guess at. They brought their mask low, connecting it to hers with an empty clunk of impact—that got a reaction, her nuzzling back into the touch. Their whole body filled with that warmth they'd already learned to associate with affection in response.

Ghost's departure weighed heavy on them. Their sibling wasn't even out of the Palace yet, most likely, and still they felt the gaping emptiness where there should've been their small sibling. Hidden in between their mask and shoulder, Void thrumming gently on the edges of their mind.

The link was silent now, and that same emptiness was also spreading frozen through their chest, aching and making their mind buzz.

They should’ve gone with. They should’ve accompanied Ghost, should’ve done more, should’ve- 

The Gendered Child shifted, moving her mask so that she could look them in the eyes and nudging them. They blinked, trying to make the racing thoughts stop.

(There was nothing that they could do now. The chance was already gone, they’d let it slip through their fingers-)

"Are you okay, Hollow?" she whispered as if afraid she'd be heard by someone, or something. Had the Beast told her of what happened during the meeting? Had someone else? What else could’ve caused the worry in her voice, the tightness with which her hands gripped the sides of their mask and the fear laced in her words?

They nodded.

"Mother has told me. Of what happened during the meeting." She sounded almost apologetic—they tried to make out anything else, but couldn’t, not with her face covered like this. 

So she was worried about that. There was nothing to worry, though—the too-long exhausted sleep chased the weariness away, made them feel like normal once they woke. 

(They weren't supposed to be able to have a nightmare like they did. 

It wasn't of importance right now. It was not something to be concerned about.) 

Hollow inclined their mask slightly, adding weight to the touch; they wished to communicate with the Gendered Child through sending imprints like they did with Ghost, once again.

This would have to suffice, in place of a warm affirmative, in place of offering enveloping, soft comfort. 

And it looked like it did, if only partly—the spiderling relaxed in their lap, though her face was still tightened in a worried frown. 

It was them who was supposed to protect her, the orders given so long ago binding them to shield her from any sort of harm. 

(It- they- were not bound by any orders, anymore. They still found it easier to fall back onto that comfort than try and make their own choices.

Was that cowardly? Perhaps it was.)

And, with Ghost away, with the King undoubtedly working on finding a solution to what happened back there in the audience hall, who was supposed to protect their sister, if not they and her mother? 

The White Lady had asked them to come back to the Knights when they were ready. 

Were they ready? 

No. No, they were not. The fear still gripped them tight at the thought, the shame still coursed hot and scorching through their Void. And yet now it was battled by determination, by the knowledge that nothing was over and they had to be able to protect their siblings.

Ghost shouldn't bear everything on their own, and so Hollow shouldn't dally any longer. 

Their sibling faced their worst fears, spoke of memories Hollow knew only partly of and was still shaken to the core by, all for them. What was a small rejection, an in-person admission to their failure (for the Queen had already spoken to the Knights) in the face of what their sibling did for them (and was ready to do for them again)? 

And the Gendered Child-

Hollow would personally see to her never experiencing any kind of hurt that they could prevent; they would see to preserving her happiness, would do anything to never let the half-faded image from Ghost's memories become true. 

And for that, pretty words and emotions were not enough. 

They straightened, unwilling to let the moment of resolve pass them by, unwilling to succumb to the doubts as they had done so many times in the last several cycles. The spiderling let them, her claws scraping gently at the sides of their mask as they raised it out of her reach, following their movements with keen eyes. 

She didn't protest, only asked "What is it, Hollow?" when they picked her up and placed her, carefully, onto the soft bedding near them. They knew not how to answer. They had no way of answering, even if they wanted one (they were not supposed to be wishing, even more so wishing to communicate-). So they settled for picking up their longnail and sheathing it across their back, the motion automatic, after so many years spent honing themselves to perfection. She jumped off the bed and went to retrieve her training needle, made of shellwood, not the sharp and dangerous thing she would receive when ready. And her chelicerae worked, peeking from under her mask as she smiled, wide and happy, at the sight of them clipping their chest armour plates on. 

They left the pauldrons. Those would only limit them, slow them down and hinder their mobility. 

(Those were not needed anymore, its- their- purpose failed and His ultimate order rescinded.) 

"Do you want to go with me to train?" she asked in disbelief. Hollow nodded, a motion that was as small as it could be—the fear clawed at them, tying their form tight with invisible strings. Some of those snapped, replaced by warmth as she squeaked and half screamed half sobbed a "Thank you, sibling!"

She stayed unmoving, waiting for them to make the first step (wrong, wrong, wrong- it was only to follow, never to lead, never to be capable of giving more than responses-). And so they did, lowering themself down and picking her up, keeping her suspended in the air for a brief moment. Their free hand tapped at their shoulder and then at their mask. 

The silent question was understood and answered by a laugh and a command. 

"Mask!" she exclaimed; they obeyed, perching her on top of themself, in between their horns where she could hold on to their lowest prongs. She let her feet dangle and one of her hands clutch them tight to hold on, small delighted giggles accompanying each broad step they took in the direction of the Knights' Quarters of the White Palace. 

Focusing on their small sister, happy and content and unreachable by almost everyone (save for Ze’mer and Hegemol; Isma could probably reach her too, with the help of her vines) helped to keep the dreadful anticipation at bay for the entire trek. That stopped working once they reached the large, heavy door to the training grounds. Their Void twisted itself into tight knots once again, freezing them in place and thinning the air around them out. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong- 

It should not be here, should not be anywhere, should not be accepted for the failure that it was- 

The Gendered Child moved, changing positions slightly on top of their mask; her feet stopped dangling and she held on with both of her arms.

"It will be alright," she spoke, low and soft. Her voice once again took on a sombre note and her words gave off a feeling that she knew exactly what the problem was, knew exactly why they'd stopped. Did she see right through them, as she always had? 

The swirling mess of dread faded ever so slightly. Hollow reminded themself why they were there in the first place: to protect her, to not let anything hurt her—and would they freeze like that when there would be real danger?

No. No, they wouldn’t. No, they could not allow that. 

Their limbs did not move like they wanted them to, each millimetre of motion hard fought over, the world shrinking more and more around them with each passing second until it was just their arm and the door left. And after what felt like an eternity, they finally reached out and knocked. 

It was early into the cycle, they knew by the patrols and guards they'd passed on their way here. That meant that someone would be there. 

The spiderling shifted again. Did she know that it helped, grounding them where they stood, or was she just uncomfortable?

She sighed and settled into a slightly different position again, claws scraping mindlessly against their horn. The door opened before they could ponder the meaning. They stood stock-still, both arms hidden under their cloak—the once-pale white one, the one that was a gift from Him and yet was unnecessary, only restricting their range of motion—as they saw Ogrim raise his head to look them over. 

It was not supposed to be here- 

He sees now, with his own eyes and not just by a second-hand retelling- failure, failure, failure- 

He smiled, bright and wide, and motioned with one of his claws for them to follow him inside.

(That was something they were good at. Following, not leading. Reacting, not acting. 

They would have to toss all of that aside, if they were to succeed in what they came there for.) 

"Hello, my friend," his voice echoed, bouncing off of the walls and the ceiling. "We'd started thinking you'd never come again." 

Ogrim gave them a nod; they did not know how to react, did not understand what his words of greeting meant. 

Was he unhappy that they'd decided to come back, or was he happy about that? Why did he call the vessel a friend? It was never able to be someone's friend, for who would befriend a mindless automaton?

"Oh, I see you've brought our charge back here," he continued, unaware or ignorant of the turmoil it- they- were in. The Gendered Child hissed softly, though not angrily, from the top of their mask. "You, young princess, have much to explain—but that you will do to Dryya. She was the one worried out of her mind when you didn't show up." 

Oh. Had their sister skipped her training regimen—with Dryya nonetheless—to come to their room? 

(To come see them?) 

"I am sorry," the spiderling answered, voice betraying genuine regret, not like when she'd apologised to Herrah for biting the retainers (it was not supposed to find the memory amusing-). "I wanted to go see Hollow and Mother forbade me from coming but I-"

Ogrim did not pay much attention to her explanations that sounded more like excuses, still glancing at Hollow every so often. They straightened even more, though, at the mention that the Beast forbade the Gendered Child from coming. Was she afraid of- 

She was afraid of Ghost, wasn't she? 

(Hollow couldn't fault her for her judgement, not when she'd seen what Ghost's outburst did to them.) 

Were they in trouble for letting her come? For letting her stay?

"Yes, you will tell all of that to Dryya, Princess of Deepnest," Ogrim interrupted. "And you,” he regarded the vessel next. “Do you want to hone your skills to even better perfection?"

The laugh that accompanied, genuine and loud, was just like Hollow remembered it sounding when he talked to the other Knights. 

To living, thinking bugs. 

(Wasn't it one, too? What good was it, now, to try and pretend further?) 

They nodded, carefully picking up the spiderling and lowering her to the ground. She squeaked in protest. 

The Knight smiled again. 

"Let us go to the others, then. And the Princess will go and await Dryya where she's supposed to be training right now, right?" He cast their sister a look; she nodded and left her gaze on the floor. Evidently satisfied, Ogrim led the way, with them once again falling into the familiar, comforting rhythm of measured footsteps, following behind him and to the right. 

"Isma will be delighted to see you," Ogrim mused as he neared the large hall that they knew to be some kind of a shared space, for feasts and spending time together with the other Knights. The words did not feel like rambling, though—the look he gave them made them feel bare, ripped wide open for everyone to stare at. Uncomfortable. The dread that they’d managed to stave off returned with a vengeance.

"She was worried when you'd stopped showing up, and even more so after the Queen told us of what happened,” he continued, turning away again. The pressure of shame gave way, though only for a brief moment, before the meaning of his words sunk in.

A cold trickle ran down the ridged plating on their back; Ogrim either didn't notice the small shiver that they didn’t manage to stifle, or ignored it as he spoke again.

"Worried that you'd feel like you would not have a place here, after everyone realised-" he cut off abruptly, stopping in front of the shared space he'd led them to. 

It wasn't supposed to be here. 

It wasn't supposed to invade spaces meant for friends, meant for living creatures spending time together—just like a Kingsmould wouldn't be welcome here, it shouldn't be either- 

The vessel froze too. Ogrim frowned as he looked it over—what did he see that distressed him so? Did he realise, finally, just how deep its treason stretched? 

He muttered a "seems she was right to worry so" under his breath and led them inside, not giving them a chance to respond in any way. 

He changed his demeanour and tone slightly as he saw Dryya and Ze'mer, the former pacing around the room, the latter watching from a distance as if deep in thought. 

"The Princess is waiting for you at the training area, Dryya," he told her. Dryya let out a low curse (they hoped she wouldn't teach their sister that).

"Thank you- she has a lot to explain," she answered, going in the direction of the training grounds. 

She stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed it- them. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she, too, looked them over. 

"So you decided to continue your training, is that right?" she asked in her usual stern voice. They nodded stiffly as an answer. 

"I shall see you at the fourth hour each coming cycle, then," she told them, more a command than a request or a statement. Then she departed, body language betraying frustration still, her footfalls just a bit heavier than usual and shoulders tense.

Ogrim sighed.

"Do you know when the others will return?" he asked Ze’mer.

The Grey Knight blinked slowly, glancing between Ogrim and the vessel, taking her time before responding. 

(Hollow was scared just how familiar the behaviours of the Five were; it was as if they'd always belonged there, as if they were always supposed to be there.) 

"On patrol, Isma, and Hegemol—aaa, Hegemol assists in the Silver City. Che’ has heard of an… outbreak there." 

A non-answer, this, but it served as one nonetheless. It meant that for the next couple hours the missing Knights will be away, only returning nearing the latter half of the cycle. 

(An outbreak? 

The vessel’s failure taking more innocent lives.) 

"Has le’mer not received orders to follow? Aaaa?" Ze'mer asked Ogrim. He nodded.

"I was about to go when they came. I will leave them to you."

He turned to it- them- again and gave them a bow before going. They stayed still, unsure of how they should respond to such a gesture.

Should they bow too? Should they do something else? Should they-

He did not linger, giving no indication that he expected a response. Their mind cleared enough for them to take in his words when they realised that, relief flickering deep inside. 

Leave them to you? 

He also referred to it as a living person now. 

(It was never supposed to be so.) 

"Has the Hallowed Knight decided to train again? Che' has duelled your sibling; so different from le’mer, both in character and in nail wielding," she mused, eyes scanning them.  

In character? The vessel did not have any; it was a thing unthinking, unfeeling, unliving- 

(They should stop with that. She and all the others already knew, had already seen the extent of its impurity, in the mere act of coming to the Knights’ Quarters on its own.)

Their head twitched, the subtlest motion up and down, before locking in place again. She tilted her head to one side, pausing for a long while.

“Aaaa. It would seem che’ is not alone on duty this cycle. Would it enjoy a spar? Boredom unbecoming, stagnation, idle. Practice a necessary evil for both of us, le’mer.”

Her voice trailed off; the intensity of her gaze only strengthened as met their eyes. They felt oddly small—though the feeling was soon extinguished by a warm wave of gratefulness.

(What constituted being ready?

They were ready now, whatever that meant.) 

They nodded. She stood up without another word, clearing the distance in mere fractions of a second and vanishing in the corridor leading to the training grounds. 

If they could have, they would have smiled; if they were ready to do so, they would admit they were excited to take up their nail, to feel like they belonged, again. 

Instead, Hollow only followed, their steps slowly becoming looser and more relaxed and their head clearing of everything but the task in front of them. 

They have failed egregiously already—they would not do so again. 

They would protect Ghost and the Gendered Child.

—

A rustle of fabric, a presence too familiar, tore him away from his thoughts. 

The Pale King raised his head from where it was, looking at the scroll as if hoping the seal would complete itself if he only stared at it hard enough, and was met with the sight of Grimm's wing. 

Behind said wing, though, there was the White Lady; she came in and closed the door behind her, looking inquiringly at him and humming softly to herself. 

How long had it been since he'd last seen her? Of course she would come here, just as she always had when he'd forget about time and basic maintenance, too busy working on some kind of a project.

"I knew I would find you here, my Wyrm," she spoke, her voice feeling like a balm after all the stress of the last cycles, "but to see the Nightmare King here, working together with you nonetheless? A curious occurrence, indeed." 

There was thinly veiled contempt in her voice.

Grimm scoffed and straightened from his position, where he’d leaned against the table and watched the Pale King transfer the Seal of Binding’s outline onto a new piece of parchment.

"What is it, to demand both of you so thoroughly? I dare hope it has to do with solving our… predicament, the surge of power I had felt the last cycle." She was looking intently at the Pale King as she spoke, slowly coming closer—until she was next to him, opposite from where Grimm stood. She gazed down onto the laid-out scrolls and open books. 

He didn't feel like she waited for an answer, not with how she murmured to herself as she scanned the table. He gave one anyway. 

"Yes, we are working on repurposing the Seal of Binding to try-" 

"To try and hold the Void entity?" she interrupted, glancing from him to Grimm and back to him again. 

"The Lord of Shades. Yes," the Nightmare King answered, tilting his head to one side and looking at the White Lady with a trace of interest. She returned the stare, steady and unwavering, expression not betraying anything, as blank as it could get. Her disdain for Grimm was palpable, tension thickening enough to feel like he could cut it with a nail.

She could be way colder than he would ever be able to, the King knew that. And now, looking at her, he didn't see the White Lady, the gentle goddess that gave him her heart—he saw instead the Queen of Hallownest, searching for a solution for a problem that endangered her kingdom. 

(He wondered, how much did it take for her to keep her composure, to not snap at Grimm—for striking in, for setting foot in the Palace…

How much did it take to not snap at him, the one that allowed the Nightmare King to come in the first place? The one that worked together with him?)

The Pale King envied her, oftentimes: how easy some things came to her, that he had no idea about, how readily she understood and used emotion to her benefit. She’d always given him a gentle laugh, like a chime of crystal bells, and said something to the effect of “everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, dear.” 

She hadn't called him that since before she'd left. The abyss that lay between them seemed uncrossable, the damage done irreparable, and it should not hurt this much, not when he knew he deserved it. 

"What do you expected to happen when the finished design is used?" the White Lady asked, pulling him from his thoughts. He let his shoulders sag and answered truthfully. 

"I know not, my Root." That earned him a small, resigned sigh. "The original was meant to seal the Hollow Knight’s shade inside their shell. However, we are trying to repurpose it in a way that would bind the Void, not seal it inside Ghost." 

He left out that they weren't making any earth-shattering progress and that both he and Grimm did not yet know how exactly to bind something to a place instead of to a person. 

Re-doing the central lines, the ones that took the form of the Hollow Knight’s mask, was the most obvious line of thought. What should they replace those with, though—Ghost’s mask? No, they did not want to lock the Lord of Shades in the small vessel. The eight narrow eyes? That seemed unlikely on first glance, using the entity that they wanted to seal as the main affix.

The place where the spell would be enacted? He did not yet know that, though. The Palace was the thought that came first, for it was already brimming with Soul and there were loops of other protective spells that he could interweave with the seal—but that would require abandoning the place, their home, completely and he was not sure it would be enough.

There was another idea, one that he did not yet state out loud. He needed to give it a bit more thought, and now was not the ideal time. He sketched blindly on another scroll that was close to him, so as to not lose the thought completely.

(The place, bigger than the Palace and desolated.

There was one such place.)

The original was partly done by Weavers. Would they be willing to help, if he explained what he was trying to accomplish? 

He didn't want anyone to know. Most importantly not Ghost, for that would mean the Lord of Shades knowing, too. He wouldn't allow any information to get back to them, and it was far easier to do if there were less bugs privy to it. 

He needed to relay orders for Lurien and Monomon to return to the Watcher Spire and the Archives accordingly. Ghost was going to start with the Resting Grounds, so they should have enough time to return, though it was still best not to delay.

(Would Herrah stay, now, after Ghost’s outburst? Or would she and the Gendered Child leave for Deepnest as soon as possible?

He would not send her a message. The Queen of Deepnest was surely able to make her own decisions.) 

The Pale King sighed, laying down the piece of chalk he’d used for sketching. He fetched a clean piece of parchment and reached out for a quill. He would task a retainer with delivering the message—every second spent not by working on the seal felt wasted, felt weighty and damning. 

Was it the truth, that they could not allow themselves even a small break? 

He would like to not find out the hard way. 

He finished writing and stood up. The White Lady gave him an understanding glance and Grimm did not react at all, scarlet eyes fixed on the outline they'd started. 

Just before he could go for the door, the Queen spoke. 

"Will you ask for assistance from Deepnest, my Wyrm?" she voiced the contents of his musings. 

"The Weavers? You really do recycle all the knowledge you come across and try to make it your own," Grimm scoffed. The accusation was not lost on the Pale King. 

Would he? Should he? Neither the Beast nor the bugs of Deepnest would obey his orders; if Herrah decided to tell Ghost or Hollow and the knowledge reached the Lord of Shades- 

No. No, it was not a risk he was willing to take, not unless he was absolutely desperate on how to make progress, and he would not be. 

"No, it is too big of a risk to take," he answered, ignoring Grimm's words completely. The White Lady hummed in understanding, once again. 

"You fear the knowledge will get back to Ghost." Her words were not a question, and so he did not answer. He finally left his place in the middle of the workshop and went to fetch a retainer. He found one almost immediately, stationed near the room’s entrance, and gave them the scroll. They ran off, nearly tripping while attempting to bow as deep as possible—their actions made frustration bubble under his chitin. What use had he of their court manners?

(He hated those. Always had—it was the White Lady who’d had to deal with the staff and the nobles before, more often than not, for that exact reason.)

"Shall I tell the Great Knights of the danger?" she asked him once he returned. The Pale King gave her an inquiring look.

"Fierce Dryya knows already, for I have told her of the threat the day I decided to return. Should the rest of the protectors of Hallownest know?" she elaborated, voice completely flat and expression impassive.

They knew, already: he'd told them titbits of Ghost's nature when he ordered them to train the small vessel.

"You need not to. They know already of all that they should."

Another understanding hum was the response he got. 

The White Lady moved away, in the direction of the exit. It seemed she had all her questions answered, and it looked like she wouldn't try to drag him back to his chambers, not today. 

Was it because of the gravity of the situation or was it because she simply wouldn't do so anymore? 

Perhaps it was a bit of both. 

There was something else, though, that the Queen did not yet know.

"Root." She turned to look at him, her expression still blank, still betraying nothing as to what she felt. An ache, dull and weak but irritating nevertheless, spread out from his chest.

She did not let her feelings show. He wondered if he managed to do the same, with the intensity of feeling that he’d experienced ever since the small vessel was found and the faults of his plan were revealed.

"Ghost's outburst had… an effect on the Hollow Knight. They seemed weakened—they were asleep when I had come to bring Ghost here.”

He had no time to spare now. He could not see for himself whether they woke and whether they were back to normal.

“Would you-”

"I shall check on them, then," the White Lady interrupted again. Her voice was still resolute, determined, though now he noticed the smallest quiver in it, the smallest frown on her face. Worry. Just like his own.

(The sins they both shared. The neglect, the coldness-) 

Grimm tapped one of his fingers on the scroll with the outline as she left and closed the door behind her. Looking at the parchment, the Pale King noticed small changes in the outer layer of the seal, made while he was not paying attention. 

"This should prove more stable," the Nightmare King explained. 

He frowned at how sketchy, unfinished the outline looked and at how much work there still was to be done before they could even think of counteracting the Void. 

The time felt like running out too fast, slipping through their fingers.

He stared at the design for a painful handful of seconds, his mind going terrifyingly blank, before shaking himself off and picking up the scroll he’d doodled on prior. 

There was a lot of work to be done and too little time—he better get to thinking of how he could encapsulate the place he wanted to bind the Void to, and quick.

Chapter Text

(Can I separate reality from what I taste,

From the conflict in my veins?

Why do I hesitate?)

 —

Hallownest was different from what they remembered. 

It was not just the absence of mindless husks infested with Her light. No, Ghost had expected that. The sheer number of bugs going about their days as they reached the city stunned them, though, and they had to take a small moment to themself.

Too many bugs. Too much noise, too much of everything. They were unused to larger gatherings of people—in fact, they’d never experienced one.

They breathed, in and out, deep and steady. Their paw wandered to the hilt of their nail, the familiar cool steel soothing them.

How could they even hope to see their task through if they were paralysed by something so simple and harmless as a big crowd?

Go. Go. Move. They had to move.

They stared intently at the cobblestone roads as they made their way through the city. When they nearly reached the second elevator that would lead them up to the Resting Grounds, they heard screaming. 

And then they smelled. 

The doors and windows significantly bigger than they were, with putrid, cloying scent escaping in waves, in tandem with the heartbeat that could be heard from the inside-

The thick fog threatening to choke them, the pustules squelching wetly at the smallest movement their sibling made-

The hot, burning liquid rising up their throat as She'd finally filled their body with it enough to do so- and they couldn't breathe couldn't hack couldn't get rid of the sweet smell of decay and rot-

Ghost’s body moved without their command, their legs leading them to the source of the screams and the smell. Their right hand curled around their new nail; power thrummed in the weapon, transmitting to their body.

(The absence of husks infected by Her was a sweet lie that they’d let themself believe too early.) 

Their Void swelled and swirled inside them; they ignored it. They would not use it, and especially not now, when they had their nail at their disposal. 

Common bugs gave them fearful looks as they rounded corners and ran to- 

Was it the King's Station? 

It was. They shuddered as the sound grew closer—they could see the long since dead nobles with their shells mangled by liquid light shambling around-

There was a small group of sentries holding back the husks with their nails and spears. Ghost dashed in, unthinking. 

Out out out get out get away- 

Their nail met flesh and infection as they slashed at the husk nearest to them. The awfully familiar sensation reverberated through their entire body, spreading nausea through them in waves.

Chitin crunched. Ichor spilled, running down their nail and splotching onto the ground with a soft hissing sound.

Not again not no they were not there they-

Keep yourself together-

The husk lunged for them.

(It squelched, it squelched, it squelched like back then-

Not now. Not now-)

They jumped to evade, trying on instinct to flare their wings. 

But they had none to propel themself higher up with. And they were going to land straight in the path of another husk that was charging for them. 

The reaction came automatically; they slashed downwards, splitting their adversary’s head clean in two and giving themself just enough avenue to dodge the next husk leaping for them. As they landed, they dashed again, coming up under the next husk. Their nail sheared an arm with which it tried to grab their horns off. 

Infection splattered, droplets cascading down onto them like miscoloured rain. They shivered as several of those landed into the mangled pockets of Void on their thorax.

(They had to keep it together. They had to.)

The second’s delay cost them: Ghost was surrounded, with at least five enemies closing in on them from each side now. They shifted their nail in their hand and prepared themself.

(Ignore, ignore, ignore the stench, the feeling, the burn-)

At the last possible moment, they whirled—their nail arm outstretched, the nail an extension of it. The world became a blur of colour as they spun. They did not see.

They did not need to see. They felt. Felt the weapon dig into hard chitin plates. Felt the weapon dig into soft flesh. Felt the weapon dig into thin membranes of the infectious pustules, bursting, acrid fluid spraying-

(Ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore-

The ones on Hollow’s body felt the same way-

Keep it together-)

The movement faded. Their head swam, and they were unsure if that was from vertigo or disgust.

(Not now not now not now)

Ghost jumped immediately after they stopped moving, coating themself in shadow. The husks were still there. Still alive-

(Alive?

No. Not anymore. Not for a long time.)

Still moving. Still dangerous.

Nothing, there was nothing left of the bugs, all scorched away, all taken taken taken- 

Their Void thrummed in excitement, in tandem with their own fury. 

(She wouldn't let them die, just like She didn’t let Hollow, just like She didn’t let so many others- 

They had to grant those bugs true death. 

Anything was better than being Her puppet.) 

The world wavered, cloaked in a haze of grey and sickly orange, rays of dawn illuminating the monochrome. Their breath caught, their pulse throbbing in their head.

Focus. They could not allow themself to fall apart, not now.

The moment passed between one heartbeat and the next, their surroundings snapping back into place. 

Ghost regained themself still in the air, momentum propelling them forwards. Up from their position they noted just how close the husks were to each other, and how far away they were from the sentries that held the exit. 

“You have to stay in control,” Grimm had told them before they left.

They would. 

(They should not-)

Their form dissolved into darkness, the world sharpening around them and they dove down, down, down onto the mindless remnants of once living bugs-

(Chitin splitting under the power of their spells. It did not crunch like it should’ve, their sibling’s body too overrun by the infection-

No. No, no, no-) 

The force of the impact tore the husks to pieces. Golden miasma and green haemolymph splattered, showering everything in sight.

More, more, more of the acid sizzling on their body, away, away, get out-

A tremble ran across their body. The ground felt unsteady as they scanned the place, searching out any movement from the infected.

None came. The orange glow faded out of the bugs’ eyes, slowly, bit by painful bit.

(Hollow’s had faded faster.

They fought back a choked sob. The next exhale rattled through their throat regardless, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt-)

Ghost’s arm gave out, dropping down like dead weight. The tip of their nail scraped against the ground, more acid running down, filling the engraved sigils—they watched in morbid fascination, unable to tear their gaze away.

The Void roiled. A nauseating wave of weakness spread through their body, making their mask droop. The world dispersed before their gaze, plunging into complete darkness for a brief moment—they gasped and got nothing, unable to take a breath-