#giftcorner

( @reverieriver​ )

“Feral one.”

Herrah’s voice, calm as it was, immediately had their attention. Ghost wouldn’t say they were afraid of the Beast, not by any stretch of the word--but they also weren’t inclined to go against her lest they get on her bad side. They’ve seen her bad side. It wasn’t something they wished to inflict on even the Radiance.

“Come with me. I need to speak with you in private.”

Respect, that was it. Everything about her presence demanded respect. That wasn’t something they gave freely, but they respected her. They nodded in silent affirmation, and followed as she led them away.

It was only when the both of them were settled in a quiet room away from the bustle of the Palace that Ghost noticed the tiny, red-cloaked form of a familiar spiderling clinging to her mother in her sleep. Their heart did a little jump inside their chest. It was still difficult to imagine this adorable being as the cold and stern sister that tried to kill them twice.

“Ghost.” Once again, Herrah’s voice redirected their attention at once, moreso now with the sound of their name. So she did know it. Father or Mother must have mentioned it in passing. Why did she need to talk to them, though? They watched her with intent curiosity. She said nothing at first, taking the time to contemplate her words before she spoke again. “You know what is going to happen.”

They tried their hardest to tamp down the sudden surge of panic that threatened to rise up. What did she mean by that? There wasn’t any way she could know, right? There might have been suspicions, of course, but they thought they were pretty good at hiding the whole “I’m from the future and know everything that’s going to happen” deal.

“You know of the plan the Wyrm has for us.” Oh. Right. That. That was something they knew anyway. Of course they did, they were technically part of it. But why bring it up now?

They watched as Herrah gingerly plucked her daughter from her cloak to cradle in her arms instead. The hatchling fussed for only a moment, scrubbing her eyes with tiny hands before nestling against her mother and settling into sleep again. There was a look in Herrah’s eyes that Ghost wasn’t sure they’ve ever seen before as she gazed down at Hornet. A certain softness, a mother’s affection... but also, fear. Uncertainty.

“I...” She faltered, and took a deep breath before continuing. “One day, I will enter an eternal slumber. On that day, and all the days after, I will not be able to care for my child. I will not be able to raise her.” She hugged her daughter a little closer. Her voice wavered in a way that made Ghost ache to the very core of their void. “I won’t see her grow up.”

Finally she looked at Ghost again, after collecting herself. “Someone will have to look after her, in my stead. Someone I trust enough to hold my child’s life in their hands.”

She moved in close to them. Something shifted, and their arms reflexively curled around a gentle weight placed in their grasp. Herrah pulled back, and Ghost realized with a start that Hornet now rested against them. The hatchling’s eyes blearily blinked open, looking up at Ghost... and then she nuzzled into them much like she had with her mother, and went back to sleep.

They looked up at Herrah again. There was something like a sad smile in her eyes. “Out of everyone here, I trust you the most. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Their gaze dropped back to the little slumbering spiderling in their arms. She was so small. So light, she barely weighed anything. But the gravity of the situation sat heavy in their mind, as they remembered again that she was one day going to grow into the Hornet they knew. They remembered again how she looked when they returned from the dream realm after breaking Herrah’s seal. They remembered her grief, and their own guilt.

They wanted more than anything to change that; to see her grow up with her mother; to see what kind of bug she would become if she never lost her, and never closed herself off to the world, cold and bitter. If they succeeded, and the Dreamers never had to Dream.

But if they failed, if they didn’t find a way to get the Dream Nail or some other means to fight the Radiance, then what would all this be for? Hornet would still lose her mother, their sibling would still be sealed away, everything would continue to fall apart in slow motion and there wouldn’t be anything they could do about it.

Ghost wanted to protect their family, but as things stood now, they couldn’t even protect them from their fates. Couldn’t even protect the spiderling in their arms, so small and so vulnerable, from the pain they knew she would suffer in the future. Vaguely, they were aware of Herrah beginning to say something when--

“No cry!” a tiny voice squeaked.

They looked down, startled. They hadn’t even realized that Hornet had awoken at some point. Worse yet, they hadn’t realized the moment that tears began spilling down their mask. But she had. “No cry,” she pleaded once more, a tiny hand reaching in their general direction as though trying to offer comfort. They dipped their head towards her, and she pawed at their tears.

It almost made them want to laugh, that their baby sister of all bugs would try to comfort them right now. They carefully shifted her weight to one arm so they could have a hand free to wipe their eyes.

“You... don’t have to, you know,” Herrah offered. “I simply thought that, considering how I trust you and how she adores you--”

Ghost raised their hand with a quick motion to say, stop. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to, that much was certain. But their resolve was set now; they were going to do everything in their power to make sure that they wouldn’t have to. Not that they could tell her as much. So they gave her a nod in answer. If, and only if, they did fail after everything was said and done, then they would take care of Hornet in her mother’s stead.

Herrah nodded in turn, and her relief was nearly tangible. They could only imagine how she must have worried for her daughter’s future. “Thank you, Ghost. Now, if I may have my child back?” She reached for Hornet, only for the spiderling to scuttle straight up Ghost’s head to settle between their horns in an attempt to get away. “Little one...”

“Wanna stay wif Ghos’!”

Herrah laughed softly. Ghost did as well, if only silently. “Well, alright, then. I suppose I can let you watch her for a while. I trust you’ll take good care of her.”

They nodded. No matter what happened, they promised: They would take care of their sister.

( @philliaesaya​, https://twitter.com/ArtistPhillia )

( @ofstormsandfire​ )

If Ghost could speak, they’d have to say they very much underestimated just how high-energy their sister would be. But then, who would they say it to? They certainly wouldn’t admit it to the Pale King, who likely isn’t even aware of their current whereabouts, never mind Hornet’s. Herrah is a possibility. Their mother is also a possibility.

But due to a particular monarch’s insistence on his perfect vessel having no voice to cry suffering, Ghost is as voiceless as the day they were hatched. Never mind that they are, by choice, nearly as far from being that perfect, impossible vessel as anyone can be without actively colluding with the Radiance.

(That wasn’t a choice Ghost had ruled out, upon waking up in their past. They haven’t entirely ruled it out even now. But to do anything concerning the Radiance, Ghost would first need the Dream Nail. To get the Dream Nail, they first need to find the Seer. And, unfortunately, their drawings of moths when shown to others are always mistaken for surprisingly non-insulting caricatures of the king.)

“Ghostie! Be tall!”

Out of nowhere, Hornet leaps all the way from the ground to cling onto Ghost’s mask. She hangs there and giggles. Her giggles only intensify as she starts to slip.

If Ghost could smile, they would. As is, they catch her with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, and deposit her once again in the space between their horns. Hornet grabs both of them with a tiny cheer, and they start walking again.

They still can’t quite decide what is stranger: Hornet being this small, or Hornet being this friendly. This is a Hornet long before her life and her family fell apart, before any of the things that make her who she becomes go horribly wrong. But they still see the Hornet they know in her own, clumsy attempts at pranking the king, attempts that are slowly but surely getting better and better.

The Pale King blames Ghost, as he does for even the smallest and fully unrelated inconvenience. Ghost strongly suspects Hornet would have turned out like this with or without their influence.

Their wandering takes them to the Resting Grounds, as it often does. Never before has it been with their sister in tow. They pass the space where Xero’s grave will rest, the not-yet-built memorial to the Dreamers. Both are reminders of time running out.

Xero did not turn against the king for no reason. He has not, yet. He will not until their sibling is sealed away, and it is becoming clearer and clearer that the desperate plan the king pinned everything on has failed.

There were Six Great Knights, once.

And the Dreamers… Ghost cannot speak for Lurien, as the Watcher is conspicuously absent from his Spire whenever Ghost comes around. Perhaps he knows, somehow, that Ghost would exact revenge for his knights in prank after prank after prank. Perhaps he doesn’t, but merely suspects what Ghost is up to and hides himself away in preparation. But even he does not deserve to sleep forever, no matter how many times they were reduced to shade and broken shell attempting to reach him.

They have met Monomon and Herrah, however. Monomon automatically earns a place on their List Of Bugs They Like, Actually by sheer virtue of unintentionally assisting them in their sacred quest of vengeance (and on one notable occasion, very intentionally assisting them.) Quirrel had already been there, and nothing short of him attempting to kill them would take him off that list. Their opinion of him had shot up with his involvement in the Unn Incident, however.

Herrah is so much like the Hornet Ghost remembers that it’s painful. They’d overheard her, once, saying that a large part of why she’d agreed to this was so Hornet wouldn’t have to go through the things she had.

There had been no crimes committed against the king that day. They had been too busy crying somewhere no one would find them.

Lost in their thoughts, they almost miss the flash of movement up ahead. Almost. They do not, however, miss the gasp, nor the… was that a purple cloak?

It might have been. It was certainly some dark color. The Seer wore a dark purple cloak, or perhaps those were the wings they never saw her use outside the realm of dreams. That might not be the Seer. That could be any other bug, or even just a figment of their imagination.

But if it is her… why would she be hiding from them?

The answer is so obvious, Ghost could kick themself for not realizing it sooner. Of course the Seer would hide from a vessel, now. For all she knows, they could be their sibling, but even if she has no knowledge of the Pale King’s plans, of course she’d hide from someone close to the king.

They have no voice to explain otherwise. Somehow, Ghost gets the feeling she won’t stick around long enough for them to sign anything, and even if she did, she wouldn’t know their signs! Only they, their sibling (who Ghost stubbornly refuses to refer to even mentally as Hollow, because they are not) and to a limited extent, their mother understand their signs.

They can’t exactly write an explanation, either.

Maybe they can steal the Dream Nail? They would feel kind of bad, but it’s for a good cause and they can always just give it back once they’ve dealt with the Radiance, however they’re dealing with the Radiance. That might be their best option at the moment, actually, but what if the Seer attacks them?

What if she attacks Hornet?

They reach up to their horns, disentangling the tiny presence there that had just begun to purr. Internally, they apologize for setting her down.

“Ghostie? Where you going?”

I’m sorry. I’ll be right back. They pat her on the head and pull out a charm: Nailmaster’s Glory, no longer in Sly’s possession and unlikely to be returned to Sly’s possession anytime soon. Ghost places it in her tiny grasp and closes her grip around it.

“Keep dis safe?”

Ghost nods.

“Like Ghost keep safe?”

Their shoulders sag, but they still nod.

“I’ll be right back,” they sign, even though it will be a very long time before she understands half of what they say around her. Somehow, somehow, Hornet seems to understand.

“Back soon,” Hornet says impatiently. That, Ghost nods to much more forcefully, and then they turn and run.

They do not find the Seer, though not for lack of searching. Unfortunately, they cannot fit into all the tiny spaces they could when smaller. After they’ve looked through what feels like the entirety of the Resting Grounds, they eventually give up and return to where they left Hornet. They can’t help but be relieved when they see her there, sitting on the lip of a tombstone, swinging her lowest set of legs back and forth without a care in the world.

“Ghost!” Hornet cheers once she sees them. “Wanna show something!”

Ghost nods wordlessly, and kneels in front of her. Hornet chrrs in concentration. She reaches back into thin air, but there’s something shiny in her grip. The charm they left with her, perhaps? No, that’s in her other hand, and honestly, Sly never kept it in as good of condition as they did.

Then pink light erupts from her back hand. Familiar pink light, in the unfamiliar form of a needle. For a few, brief moments, Ghost is the closest to truly hollow they’ve ever been from the utter confusion radiating from them.

What the fuck, they think as Hornet swings.

The Dream Nail—Dream Needle now, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, passes through them harmlessly. It tickles, actually. Apparently learn what the Dream Nail feels like on the receiving end is something they can cross off their bucket list, although there’s a distinct funny feeling after. If they didn’t know what it was and what it did, they would have assumed the Dream Needle was merely a trick of the light.

But they found the Dream Nail. Hornet has the Dream Nail. Needle. Of course it would take the form of a needle for her. Has she even seen a real needle yet?

Hornet blinks innocently up at them and says, cheerfully, “Fuck!”

Their sibling finds them on the outskirts of the City of Tears, nail strapped to their back in the same way Ghost’s stick is. Free from prying eyes, they cross their arms and tap their foot impatiently, as if expecting an explanation.

Ghost signs, Not sorry.

“Holly!” Hornet crows from her perch atop Ghost’s horns.

Holly… that’s actually a name Ghost can get behind, for their sibling. As usual, Hornet is the best at names, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

“Hello, little sister,” Holly signs back, having apparently deemed Hornet safe enough. Even if she isn’t, who would look at Holly next to ghost and honestly assume that they weren’t hollow either?

The Pale King sure wouldn’t, and right now, that’s all that matters.

Hornet doesn’t understand a word they’re signing. Dream Needle tucked carefully in her dress, she proudly proclaims, “FUCK!”

Holly looks at Ghost. Ghost shrugs helplessly.

“We don’t even have a sign for that. How?”

Ghost shrugs again, because they don’t have a sign for the explanation either.

Holly sighs. They resume their typical, supposedly hollow stance. “Let’s go home.”

The White Palace is not home to Ghost. It never has been, and it never will be. But when Holly extends a hand to them, they take it.

The Pale King’s reaction, once they return, is glorious. And he can’t even really blame Ghost, because no fucking voice to cry suffering, asshole! No voice to teach their little sister to curse, either! Of course, he blames them anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter.

And no matter who he blames, it doesn’t change the fact that Hornet has a new favorite word, and it’s going to be echoing through the palace for weeks. Maybe it’ll drive him crazy. Maybe it’ll distract him from Hornet’s newest toy.

Ghost knows where the Dream Nail is now, but that’s just the beginning. They still haven’t seen anything of the Godseeker. Without the Godseeker, how the—to quote their favorite sister—fuck are they going to find the Radiance?

There’s much to think about. And they’re slowly, oh so slowly yet oh so quickly, running out of time.

At least they have Hornet scandalizing nearly every adult in the White Palace in the meantime.

( @tangelojack​ )

( @idiotjuicyy​ )

( @dovalore​,  https://twitter.com/dovalore )

( @lesiasmadness​ )

Lullaby Lament

Nothing was ever off limits to the princess of Deepnest. The fact that she hasn’t grown to be spoiled rotten was great testament to her graceful and collected nature.

“Only proves that she does take after my dear Wyrm,” thought the White Lady as she gently cradled Hornet. A little while ago the Gendered Child was carried by her collar into the garden by the Pale King, after an adventurous day in the Palace with her half brothers. The King didn’t give his wife many chances to figure out what exactly transpired that finally got all the little ones in trouble, but it definitely involved Grimm’s spawn setting something on fire and sweets. The queen allowed herself to giggle softly now that her sweetheart was out of sight, her branches shaking a bit, causing the child in her hands to move a bit in her sleep, only having drifted off recently. Silence finally filled the White Palace, a rare occurrence nowadays, as Hollow was sent to his fathers office to wait for his disciplining, Grimmchild was tossed into the troupe masters hands like a naughty kitten to his owner, and Ghost ran off somewhere, no doubt to resurface soon and unite with his new found nightmare spawn friend. But for a short while, all was quiet.

Hornet brought a new kind of chaos to the Palace. Something the White Lady should have expected, but couldn’t have predicted the feelings it would invoke. Hornet was an actual kid. Unlike the two vessels who could, as soon as they hatched, climb their way up the ledges most adults would struggle with, the Gendered Child needed to be cradled and fed, supervised at all times. In other words, she was vulnerable. Anything happening in her sight left a mark on her, and seeing those changes filled the queens heart and mind with fascination and worry at the same time.

The first time Herrah brought her little one to a meeting, the baby wouldn’t stay quiet, and despite all the disruption it caused, the White Lady wanted them to stay for as long as possible. For the first time in many years, she heard a child’s laughter. Ever since that day, any time Feral shook his shoulder indicating a mischievous chuckle, the queen's mind goes back to that moment.

Not a sprout of envy ever rooted itself in the White Lady’s heart. It didn’t even cross her mind until Dryya asked if she might be resentful of the Deepnest’s queen for getting to hear her daughter’s voice, while she didn’t even know how it felt to hear “mom” once. Her answer was that Herrah would never feel the same euphoria that came over White Lady when she finally figured out how to speak to her child with their hands,

seeing them sign, “happy! happy! happy!” over and over. The joys of motherhood came in many unpredictable ways, and the journey would never be the same for any two families. But despite the differences, and despite almost never speaking to each other aside from diplomatic affairs, the two queens understood each other in the feelings that plagued them at every waking hour. First, it was a desperate desire to have an offspring of their own. Perhaps that understanding was why, upon hearing the request to have the king’s child, the White Lady agreed even before her husband did. Then, another feeling resonated between the two. Constant, cold dread. Dread of their time with their children running out. It might take years before the time came for Hollow to step into his role of being a sacrifice to the kingdom. But even now, there wasn’t a moment when Herrah’s heart didn’t ache, not for herself being deprived of both life and death, as a Dreamer, but for her daughter being left on her own. At least White Lady will get to nurture the feral vessel even after Hollow is reduced to a living gravestone. But even then, the queen would soon lose her only link to the child. As every new sign they learned together only reminded her of how fast her vision was weakining...

“Root lady!”

The queen’s wandering thoughts scattered like a flock of startled maskflys. She hadn’t noticed Hornet opening her eyes a few moments earlier.

“Have I disturbed your slumber with my light, little princess?” “Nu! I’m not sleepy. I didn’t sleep! Imma go play with Ghost.”

Ghost tried to pull the same bluff sometimes, as if the letters on his paper didn’t trail off the borders, turning into a crooked line ending where his quill lay as he dozed off right there on the table, sometimes right in his mother’s lap.

“Oh? You’re not sleepy at all? Goodness, Ghost must have been running way more than you today” - The queen made an exaggerated confused expression.

“No! I run more! And faster! Ghost can never catch me.”

To much of Hollow’s confusion, Ghost often play-raced with his little sister, and always lost on purpose. Something he suspected was that she didn’t get much slack back home, as it wasn’t customary in Deepnest to go easy on anyone, even if it’s to humor a child. No doubt once she’s old enough to train with a nail, she’ll know just how much building character is prioritised over mercy in those lands.

“That can’t be right,” - The White Lady put a hand to her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. - “They surely are more tired. How can it be that Ghost is already asleep, but Hornet isn’t even sleepy?”

“Ghost sleeps now? Bleh, baby.”

“Maybe little Hornet should sleep a little too. Your mother is talking to the king about important things, but they are taking a longer time because, can you imagine? While they were having a meeting, some kids made a fire in the palace!”

The humm of the garden filled with Hornet’s chiming laughter, as she flailed her tiny feet a little bit in amusement.

“That’s Ghost! Me, too. We made sticky sweets!”- the little spider announced proudly, showing her hands, still covered in bits of burnt marshmallow.

“Really?” “Ye! The flying... The flying bug... Lilpet made fire with his mouth!” “Lilpet?” “Ghost’s Lilpet. They can fly and have pretty eyes.”

After a few seconds, the queen deciphered that Hornet gave Grimmchild that name hearing her mother call it “Ghost’s little pet.”

“Ah, I understand. Do you like them? “Lilpet makes soft sounds. I like them more than sounds at home.”

From Dryya’s tales, the White Lady knew that from every tunnel in Deepnest you could hear the hissing of its wilder residents. Although she’d expect living there would make one numb to such sounds. However, the only noise in the White Palace was the one kids caused. Perhaps the difference is playing with Hornet’s ears. Hornet liked it in the Palace. So many spaces for her to climb and stick her silk to, and brothers to look after her, who would always find a way to catch up, even on the ceiling, getting them to chase her was almost its own game. Besides, she’s never forbidden from doing anything, as Herrah wouldn’t let the king boss her child around, thus White Lady being the only one he cpuld turn to to tame the rambunctious child. At home, she’s probably running wild as well. Herrah had no reason nor will to restrict her child from anything that’s not dangerous. She wanted to spend what little time she had left seeing her little daughter curious, free, and happy. So causing chaos at home wasn’t nearly as fun as raising the roof of the palace, though, as she won’t get the same reaction she gets from the Pale King. And having an accomplice in Ghost makes it double the fun.

The noisy mischief those two cause amused the queen every time, but the moments of quiet the two share are much more precious. Ghost would often try to teach their sister their signs, and being young and clever, she picks them up no problem, although the learning process resembled charades. Hornet is often Ghosts voice, and she cheers as much as the vessel does once they manage to communicate something to servants in the castle or the knights. Watching her child indulge in the process of teaching others the same way she does warmed their mother’s heart.

“...When will mom co-...?” - Hornet yawned mid-word.

“They need some more time, little princess. But I heard sleeping makes time go faster.”

“You made that up!”

“My-my, you are a clever child! People can tell you a lot of lies, but you can ask your mom if what I said was true.”

“I can’t ask her now.” “We’ll just have to wait then, huh. ... Or you could try and see for yourself“ “But I can’t sleep. I’m not tired!”

“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?” “What is lulby?”

“A special song they sing to princesses when they can’t sleep.” “You made that up again!” “Well, I won’t sing it then.” “No, I wanna hear!”

“Lie down and close your eyes then.”

The queen wrapped her hands around Deepnest’s princess, dimming her glow, and a soft hum soon crept just at the edges of Hornet’s hearing. It grew into a melody, and somehow, a song, although the sounds weren't like words at all, they resembled ringing, resonating with the sound of the garden, and the specks of white glow seemed to dance to their tune. The pale beings song was not in any language, but the meaning of its lines Hornet would carry in her memory long after, and years later she’d put them into words she could actually sing herself.

Twist the spindle Round and round Princess sleeps Don’t make a sound Born of three

And left with none Stop the spindle thread is done.

In the darkness

Far below

Wishing star

Is born to glow

Thread by thread

The star has sawn Silky web

they’ll call their own

Soon came spring To be her guest

Gave her life Then left to rest Summer came Was brief and sad left behind

A cloak of red Autumn took The lone star in Made her strong Fit to be queen Winter shook The web star made Soon two bugs Came for her aid Hide the bugs

In her cocoon Safe from winter

Pale as moon Twist the spindle Round and round Princess sleeps Don’t make a sound Born of three And left with none Stop the spindle thread is done.

To the gentle hum of the song Herrah found her daughter sleeping in White Lady’s hands. No words were exchanged between them as she gently took Hornet and held her close, the little princess will soon be home.

( @huntersapprentice​ )

( @astronomicartz​ ) 

( @brimal-baspid​ )

( @a-hollow-vessel )

Time travel was something finicky. Something that they didn’t quite understand. The vessel would pace the hallway, mind buzzing with a million thoughts. Each and everyone reminding them of how different they were from their sibling, the Pure Vessel.

...Seeing them up close, seeing how their eyes did not yet dance with orange.. It was surreal, something to get used to. Though Ghost knew that their time here was… Limited, at least with their sibling. Their sibling was still to be shipped off to their fate. Nothing they did seemed to stop it. They were a piece of this complicated puzzle now, more than before, and yet, they were oh so helpless.

Their sibling trained, sometimes sparred with them. Did not show a wink of feeling, despite Ghost knowing that it was there. They knew that it had to be. This only stirred the animosity that they towards their father.

They made it their goal to make their father’s life a living hell. And, whilst they mostly succeeded, it was growing difficult to plan their shenanigans. Something felt off. They.. Could feel the presence of Her. They started seeing orange in their usually mundane dreams. Heard that chime in their head.. Which, well, set them on edge certainly. Sleeping now would be dangerous. Sleepless nights became commonplace, each rest they saw more and more of the same dream, felt a sick sluggishness in their chest. Perhaps they had bitten off a bit more than they could chew, stepping in between two higher beings in their strife. The Radiance must have caught onto whatever had caused this.. Time leap, they supposed. They would huff in frustration.. This was no issue that a nail could solve. …

Hollow witnessed their sibling spacing out periodically. They did not acknowledge it, not purposefully. They were the Pure Vessel, after all. To do such a thing would be… Inane. …

This was the longest they had witnessed their sibling stare out into space. Four minutes, 33 seconds. Counting was an impulse, one that they reluctantly allowed themself to keep. It felt like the only thing that kept them from thinking about other things, which strictly was not permitted if they wanted to be of any use. Concern, that was what they were feeling. It brewed inside them like an awful sickness that they wanted to be rid of. They would clutch at their chest beneath their robes, not wanting the sign of imperfection to be seen. But something with Ghost was wrong. And they did not know how to fix it, rather, they could not. Their father could… But their sibling seemed to have a very big dislike towards him, for reasons that Hollow could not fathom.

Their sibling showed this through the pranks they seemed to pull, even when they seemed to droop from tiredness. Why were they so tired all of the time? It was a question that plagued their supposedly questionless mind.

…

Ghost tried to ignore these things. They didn’t have a dream nail, which they viewed as their only way to fix anything relating to the Radiance. It was much more fun to make the Pale King’s life hell. Whilst their sparse dreams grew more and more like what they had heard the infected dreamed of, before it all went downhill.

===

A few weeks into this dreary routine, they would awaken from a slumber with a start. Ghost blinked, letting out a silent breath. Their dream, orange and yellow and full of sickeningly warm light. Yet, yet, yet, their vision was still tinged with it. Their head ached dully, their hands shook. Sluggishly, they would bring themself to their feet and slide out of bed. Ghost landed on the cold floor and would lean one arm against their bed.

Their vision burned, they would blink and stare at the orange. A cold panic coursed through them as they realized that, indeed, the orange tinge was not going away. Ghost would reach a hand up, ghosting it over their vision with a trembling sigh.

This was outside of their control, they felt so helpless. It was.. Hard to focus, but they knew that they couldn’t stick around any longer, risk getting anyone sick, despite how much they despised them. The retainers and citizens did not deserve to be infected and die because of their stubbornness, even they knew that Ghost would lift up their nail, and stare down at the orange tinted metal of it. They felt the weight of it in their hands, before casting it aside. No, no, they did not want to.. Accidentally harm anybody. They took nothing with them as they fled from their room, down the long halls and the courtyard. Out. Hoping that no one had seen them. They would… They did not know, there was no plan in their mind other than not spreading the infection from inside the very palace.

…

Where did they go? Another question that they could not stop thinking about. Why did their sibling suddenly leave in the night?... What was that orange glow in their eyes? Hollow would stare down the hallway they guarded, waiting for their father to come back.. They needed orders to go, didn’t they?.. They could not go without prompting, they were the Pure Vessel. Even if the concern they held for their sibling weighed even more heavily on them than the cloak on their back, even holding all that it signified.

They mustn’t. But… They were to protect their family and the king. And all of the citizens of Hallownest. That order, it extended to their sibling, did it not?.. Who were they to question…

They would leave, clutching their nail tightly to provide themself the slightest bit of comfort. Their mind was surprisingly.. Not empty, as they tried and strived for. Only, worries for their sibling. This was so out of character, clearly they needed their help. Hollow would provide, it was their duty to do so. Hollow took a breath, not visibly moving outwardly. Then, they would begin their march out of the hallway. They did not know where Ghost had gone, but they had to look for them. To find them.. This entire situation was giving them a bad feeling. How they.. Wished. They wished they had a voice to call to their sibling…

Farther and farther they walked, guided namely by the faint presence of their sibling. Some sort of connection between the two of them.. Something that they thought disproved their emptiness.

…

…

…

Ghost walked, until they felt too dizzy to continue. Their limbs felt sluggish. They were so.. tired, and perhaps a bit overheated. A fever swirling in their head, yet they felt oddly… Clear headed. In such a way that made it hard to think. It was an oxymoron of sensations that they couldn’t describe. They would collapse into a sit, right next to the hot spring which they had subconsciously guided themself to. They listened to the sound of water gently swaying, trickling around rocks. Vision focused and unfocused on the steam.

Thud. They fell onto their back lightly, hitting the back of their head against the stone floor, but they really weren’t bothered by this.

They supposed this was the fate of someone who bent the rules of the very world. Not change that they sought, but the fury of gods. Ghost would adjust themself a bit, into something that made a mockery of comfort. Their hazy gaze would focus on the ceiling above, which lightly dripped water from some unseen source above.

Bright…

Maybe a rest would do them some good, they thought. There was nothing better to do, and they were so, so, so so tired from their self imposed sleep deprivation.

They would close their eyes, body relaxing further with the gentle sounds of water, right next to their head. Ghost would close their eyes, faintly wondering if their parents would miss them. An odd thing to think, they thought, as sleep took them and they drifted into darkness.

Or, not so darkness.

...

A platform floated amidst yellow fluffy clouds of dream, Ghost stood atop it in their slightly taller, ironically past form, holding nothing. No nail, as they had arrived to the spring. They looked up, wincing slightly at the bright light, almost blindingly bright. But, soon it became inviting. They would tilt their head slightly, looking up to the sky up ahead.

The air was still and warm, comfortable. The space became filled with light chiming sounds. Bells, enchanting sounding, dreamy.

Ghost was silent as they walked the gray and cream colored stone path. They had seen scenes such as this before.. Although the memories associated were not the most pleasant, they felt an odd sense of security. They knew that they should not feel this way, but it was a hard thing to combat. They felt as if someone had stuffed cotton into their mask.

The light only seemed to grow more and more blinding, the warmth more scalding but they didn’t care. They had been here before. But they couldn’t find it within themself to care, step, step, step. And in front of them, the platform opened into a circle shape, and then ended. Something akin to where they had once fought her. A faint voice in their head voiced wary concern, warnings. They wanted to reach for their nail, but they knew it was not there. It was not there. It was not there.

They did not need to fight, anyways. They were safe, they were safe, they were.

A pair of hands were on their shoulders and shaking them. Ghost startled awake, slightly panicked for a moment as they tried to figure out what was going on. Hollow gave a worried, half chirp that sounded strangled. A sound that should never have been heard, and yet they.. Had..?

Ghost squinted.

Their sibling?

They would blink, vision still hazy but they were awake now. Their head would tilt slightly, as their bigger sibling would grab the side of their face and tilt their head up with a confused, concerned look.

Hollow watched as the orange swirling in their pitch black eyes finally shrank away, and their sibling looked at them, actually looked at them, for the first time in what felt like eons.

No words were exchanged, there never were. Hollow was not the Pure Vessel. Ghost had known, but they could finally.. Truly know, as their sibling wrapped their arms around them in a tight hug. And they could feel the cold drip of tears on their shoulder.

...They probably weren’t out of the woods, not yet, maybe not ever, but they had their sibling. Not a husk who only followed commands, who never batted an eye to anything despite their best efforts.

Maybe things would be alright now, though.

( @deltaetalan )

( @spiralraven https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/spiralraven )

They found a secret in the mind of a locked up bug. She was lying in the deep stomach of the kingdom, discarded with other hidden treasures. Her mind housed the warriors and higher beings of Hallownest, and Ghost has a terrible, fantastic, awful idea. 

If they are all in there… Could they defeat her? Without facing their sibling?

They have to try.

They face their friends, and the first time it happens, they are frozen. Their void is slowly beading up into the air, dissipating as it rises. Their mentor faces them, and for a split second they think the mind-palace made a mistake, it must have.

Oro releases a great big bellow, one that rattles their shell badly enough that his attack catches them off-guard. 

They don’t feel their shell split, but they wake up in front of the golden door, unharmed and whole. They get up from the floor and dust themselves off. 

They have no lasting injuries, and their soft void doesn’t even ache with the hits they suffered. They glance at the door again.

There must be something very important at the top, if it’s this well guarded.

They take the challenges, opening the golden doors over and over again. It makes the void inside them tremble something terrible as if by taking each challenge they are changing themselves too. 

They try and try and try again.

They slowly, painfully, climb up. 

That’s the only thing, really, that they can do. That’s how they started, and that’s how they will end it. Their determination fuels them more than anything, their thoughts a swirl of emotion. 

They face Oro and Mato. It kills them a little inside when they see their mentors on their knees, knowing that they were the one bringing them down.

They bow as a goodbye, and they leave, the dream arena dissolving into golden clouds.

They shake a little, their void trembling. It is worrisome, but they refuse to stop. They challenge the next door and fight and win. 

Facing Hornet once again, without the recognition in her eyes is more painful than they imagined. The fight is over quickly, but they ache inside, not unlike when they take a savage hit from the infected husks. 

They stop to rub at their chest, a tight, uncomfortable feeling coiling in them. They don’t want to hurt their friends and fighting this long is taking its toll. But the nervousness drives them forward further and further. 

They can’t afford to waste time. This is for their sibling.

They march on determined. They must win, they must fight. No challenge this bug can imagine would ever stop them. None and nothing will.

The final arena is dark. Their soul trembles and their pure nail shakes in their grip. They don’t want to believe what they are seeing. They don’t want to recognise the kneeling figure, and they shake their head in denial.

It can’t be. Their sibling is locked, chained, hidden away.

Their mind goes blank, and only their sharp reflexes save them from the first hit. Their sibling, tall, lanky and grown swipes at them again. Ghost evades the hit and prepares to retaliate. 

They fight. Their heart is bleeding with every hit they land on their sibling, and they want, more than anything, to stop. To hug them, to comfort them, but this is only a parody of their sibling. An illusion, a facsimile of a memory that was just as wreathed in darkness as they are right now.

With the last slash, their not-sibling falls to their knees. They look straight at Ghost, and Ghost sees a spark of recognition in their eyes. Ghost approaches, gently laying their hand against the white mask of their sibling. It almost dwarfs their hand, and for a split second their sibling lays their head against them. 

The ceiling splits open and Ghost is dragged upwards.

No. No!

They reach back to their sibling, desperate to cling to the sense of comfort for just a second more, but the fake sibling-shape dissolves into motes of void and Ghost is yanked up.

They turn and face the Radiance. 

She is an angry god, a screaming ball of fury and flame. The light of her hurts, burning their arms as they challenge her. They stand in front of the onslaught, their face turned up in defiance. 

One of them will not leave the arena. And they can’t afford to lose. 

As they fight, the void rises. Ghost doesn’t even realise as they grab at its power, pulling it up from the abyss between the dreams and waking thought. Its black liquidy mass rises and the Radiance flees up and up higher, but Ghost chases her. They evade her attacks as the onslaught grows more and more desperate. They arrive at the top of the pantheon, as they have defeated every single warrior left in Hallownest.

They ascend.

As The Void rises to devour the Radiance, Ghost desperately searches. Their sibling must be in there somewhere. They saw them turn back into the void the rose from, and all of The Void is now here.

They descend into the swirling mass of regrets, their nail slipping from their grasp, as the Void eats it. They twist around in the angry waves of the rising Void, looking for a flash of that blindingly white mask. Just a sign of life, just a second to see that they are free. The darkness obscures their vision, as it pours through them. Pressure builds behind their mask, and it spills out from them, but their tears are dark and it swirls easily with the rest of the terrible ocean.

A light catches their attention.

It is not the same burning glare of the Radiance, it is much more subdued. It is pale and white, almost silver, sharp and unfamiliar. 

Ghost turns and swims towards its source. The current drags them away, angry and lashing out as they push against it. It doesn’t want to let go, and the moment suspends itself, frozen in time before Ghost crashes through it.

They hang from a platform, its cold metal edge painfully familiar. They hold it, straining against releasing the edge. They pull themself up, their new soft claws scrabbling against the smooth metal surface.

Someone is already there.

They see the bright light of the king and a lonely little silhouette against it. They don’t think, they don’t consider anything other than that their sibling is there. They grab their shoulders and crush them into a hug, their nails clutching at the sibling’s cape. They don’t want to let go.

They know what will happen if they let go.

[ Bonus content:

The King marches them both out of the Abyss, his cold light cutting a sharp line straight ahead. Ghost clutches at their sibling’s hand, refusing to let them go. The king watches them both, Ghost knows this, but they can’t make themself release the limp hand from their desperate grip.

The king leaves it without comment.

The Ancient Basin is just as bleak and lifeless as it was before, although its impressive architecture is a lot less… crumbly.

As they make the journey across to the White Palace, Ghost’s urge to kick the king grows. 

They look at his stupid crown, and his stupid palace, as they clutch the claws of their sibling. With a growing sense of satisfaction they slowly realise that they could.]

( @couchcat or @couch-cat )

( @solara-nightshade )

Favoritism

The feral vessel is in the garden practicing different signs when they spot Hollow.  They look up from where they had been documenting which of their signs meant what and feel nothing strange upon sensing their presence.  It isn’t until Hollow comes into view that Ghost feels anything amiss.

 Hollow steps around the flowering shrubbery along the cobbled path to the courtyard, carrying a sword in each hand.  One is their usual large pale sword, intricate designs carved with precision, made to perfectly fit them and their size.  The other is not nearly as elegant- only half the length, standard, and perhaps slightly better material; a sword meant for an elite warrior rather than soldier.  

Before Ghost can even ponder where Hollow obtained the sword, and had started to sign the question, Hollow is thrusting out the extra sword towards them.  Message clear.

Fight me.

Fighting Hollow had not been on their list of things to do today, but they figure they can accept the Hollow Knight’s offer, emboldened by their brave show of individuality.  The courtyard offers enough space for a good duel, and as long as they don’t destroy the surrounding shrubbery, no one should object to their fight.  

With the tingle of excitement, they get up and take the sword.

No sooner had Ghost tested their grip had the Hollow Knight crouched with sword at the ready.  Ghost barely has time to adjust their stance before Hollow pushes forward and swings their sword.  Ghost is only able to parry by guiding Hollow’s blade upward with their own.

Ghost quickly goes onto the offensive and goes to give a good slap to Hollows side, hoping to move the duel to their favor by giving Hollow a weakness.  Hollow is forced to evade and back away before going in for another strike, this time with more force.  Knowing their smaller stature will not win against Hollows strength, they quickly maneuver to miss Hollow’s blade.

As soon as the blade passed Ghost goes in for the win, using the time it would take Hollow’s giant blade to make its way back to go in for the kill.  Blade ending at the skin of Hollow’s throat.

Ghost cannot help but smirk in triumph.

Ghost feels Hollow’s body go rigid, frozen in their stance.  However, something flashes in the corner of Ghost’s eyes and that is all the warning the feral vessel gets before ducking away to narrowly avoid the soul daggers aimed at their back.  The soul daggers dig into the ground and disappear, leaving cracked notches in the stone pathway.

Ghost feels anger briefly course through them, seeing as how they thought this was a sword duel.  However, they can adapt.  There was no need to stand on the traditions the pale king called acceptable for a sword duel.

With the knowledge that soul attacks were on the table now, Ghost sends a punch of soul towards Hollow, which Hollow side steps to avoid, then sends a wave of soul daggers back towards Ghost.  Ghost jumps into the air and swipes at one of the daggers, pogoing off towards the Hollow knight, and fling their sword in an arc above Hollow.  

Hollow quickly teleports away and lets loose a whip of void which Ghost tries to avoid, but gets nicked in the side.  It stings where the void touched but they ignore it and get back into a defensive stance.

However, when Hollow doesn’t make a move, Ghost takes the chance, switching to offensive, to send another burst of soul towards Hollow which hits Hollow straight in the chest.  The power behind the soul attack causing Hollow to slide a few feet backwards.

Hollow looks stunned for a moment, before gripping their sword tightly and teleporting above Ghost and thrusts downwards.  Ghost leaps out the way and has to avoid Hollows follow up thrust by dashing through Hollow as soon as their foot hit the ground, turning into intangible void for brief seconds.  Turning back around, they plan to hit Hollow again when they see a tell-tale sign of glowing from the Hollow Knight.  Knowing what this means, they immediately dash backwards to avoid the explosion of soul around Hollow.  Careful to avoid the lingering explosions, they dash back forwards to slap Hollow with their sword during the cooldown they know this spell has.

They don’t expect Hollow to physically grab their blade, causing liquid void to glisten down its length.

It is at this point Ghost starts to worry about Hollow’s intentions behind this fight.

Hollow forces the feral vessel’s blade away and follows up with a broad swing.  Ghost feels the wind from the motion just millimeters from their face, followed quickly by swing after swing.  Each a strong and powerful stroke, but slowly becoming more and more predictable.

Careless.

Ghost notices they are being backed up onto one of the moss covered walls surrounding the garden and looks for an opening in the swings.  When they spot it, they quickly swing in tandem with the offending blade and throw it off course and away.  Hollow’s large sword clinking along the ground as it comes to a halt several feet away.  Instead of aiming for what should have been the end the first time they did it, they swing themselves onto their siblings back and forced Hollows head upwards, hoping to unbalance him.

The sudden change in scenery caused Hollow to stagger, and with the sudden weight behind, gave enough force to make Hollow fall backwards.  Ghost quickly swings back around and thrusts Hollow’s chest to the ground.  They follow by digging their blade into the ground just inches away from Hollows neck.  

They stared at Hollow.  Hard.

When Hollow got over whatever dazed state they should have been in from the sudden vertigo, and noticed Ghosts stare, they looked away.  When Hollow ceases to desist, does Ghost finally relax.  Knowing Hollow has conceded the fight.

“Well done, my child.”  A whispery voice descends upon them from behind Hollow.  Ghost looks up and sees the White Lady descending into the courtyard from one of the paths that lead to higher ground.

Ghost, with incriminating evidence of a sword still in hand, quickly drops it and backs off of the Hollow Knight.  Quickly signing hello to get the Lady’s eyes off of the sight in front of them.

“Quite the accomplishment, defeating the Hollow Knight.  An impressive battle.”   She says as she floats into the garden, Dryya following stiffly behind her.  They could feel Dryya’s eyes on them like a hawk.

Hollow, on the other hand, was quick to stand and give the White Lady a bow in greeting.

The White Lady simply moves past Hollow and comes to a stop in front of the feral vessel, “I am sure my Wyrm will be quite impressed by the results.  Such a talented child for your age.”  She praises.

 Ghost cannot help but feel embarrassed by such kind words, but signs back, ‘Watch, all?’

“I know of the events, yes.  I could feel it through the plants.”  She gestures towards the damage they had inflicted to the courtyard and surrounding plant life.

Ghost, who really cares less about the plants, still signs a ‘sorry’ for her.

“Surely, with all the other damage you have inflicted upon my Wyrm’s palace, you cannot claim differently here.  I will pardon it this once, but please do try to keep your tendencies away from my garden from now on?  I have duties to attend, but I just wanted to stop by to see what was going on.  I will see you later, yes?”

At their signed affirmative she gently floats away from her garden down a different path from which she came, garden repairing itself as she goes by.  Ghost takes a look towards Hollow, only to find their head bowed and fists tightly clenched.  As soon as the Lady is completely gone, Hollow collapsing onto the ground with the thump startles Ghost from their thoughts.

Black tears start to cascade their way down Hollow’s face.  

Ghost approaches slowly, not really knowing how to take this sudden change in Hollow’s demeanor.  However, once they get close Hollow only pushes Ghost away before turning away from them.  Desperately scrubbing the tears away from their face.  Leaving black stains to mark Hollow’s face.

Ghost wasn’t about to let Hollow push them away and quickly marched over and grabbed their face, forcing them to look at Ghost.

“Wrong, what?”  They sign, taking one hand away to finger sign.

Hollow stares at them for a moment, before carefully signing back, “White Lady.  Hollow.  Hello. No.”  Their sign is basic, most likely learned from watching Ghost, but Ghost understands it nonetheless.

They hadn’t really been focusing, but they do remember how the White Lady had walked right past Hollow to give Ghost all the attention.  Ghost hadn’t thought anything was strange at the time, they having very little knowledge of social customs, but did find it weird that the White Lady had completely ignored Hollow. They tried to think if they had ever noticed the White Lady give the Hollow Knight any attention, and couldn’t think of any examples, and how how she had talked about Hollow in the future-

She had called them Vessel.  It.  Tarnished by an idea instilled.  Considered a blemish.

Perhaps her feelings affected even before their duty was to be fulfilled.  Knowing how a simple touch from the King affected them, having to watch as their mother ignored and went on to praise and give love to their sibling…

What a horrible sibling they have been.  What little attention they could have gotten, stolen away by their presence.

Wanting to fix this mistake of theirs, they quickly pull Hollow into a hug in apology, before taking their hand and forcing Hollow to their feet.  It only takes mere seconds for Hollow to find balance due to their training, and Ghost runs off with Hollow in tow.

They can feel Hollow tugging, trying to get their hand free of Ghost, but Ghost will not fail here.  They run down the hall that the White Lady had gone towards, and upon finding her and startling Dryya, they use their momentum to thrust Hollow in front of her.  Hollow almost collapsing into her by the sudden loss of momentum.  Hands, attempting to find balance, grab onto the White Lady’s robes.

The Hollow Knight lets go just as quickly as if burned.  Returning them to their sides.

The White Lady, predictably, looks to the feral vessel for answers, “What is it, my child?”

Ghost pointedly signs, ‘Hug.  Hollow.”  They circle their arms, finger points touching followed by a single hand with three bent fingers.

The White Lady looks hesitant before looking down at their sibling.  Her eyes widen at the sight of black streaks down their face, evidence of tears.

At her hesitation to move, Dryya speaks from her side, “Surely, you do not have to follow the whims of that feral creature, my lady.  It is no more than the same thing as this one in front of you.”

Dryya’s words caused the White Lady to freeze.  She seemed to think over Dryya’s words.  

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, with Hollow looking resigned just in front of her, she whispers “Dryya, vow that what I am about to do will stay here?”

Dryya looks taken aback, but immediately takes to a knee and swears, “Anything for you, my lady.”

With that, the White Lady bends down and carefully wraps her arms around the vessel in front of her.  Catching said vessel off guard.  

She feels their shaking and when she feels a cold wetness at her front she replies, “I am sorry.  There is so little I can do for you.”

Ghost can only hope this is a step in the right direction.

( @plyushh​ )

( @confusedhost​ )

( @artisticdragons​ )

( @loops-for-soup https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/loops-for-soup )

( @babystag )

( @meatbunattack​ https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917989 )

Pale Jester’s descent They had been called to this old, forgotten kingdom when a flame was lit. The troupe had yet to meet their summoner but they would arrive in due time, they could feel how the summoner scurried down below among the caverns. Until then, the troupe would remain at the surface and provide entertainment for those who wished to visit the troupe during their performance nights.

Pale Jester, one who created the props for the show, stood in his workshop that had been provided by him by Master Grimm. Very generous of the Master to entrust the Jester with his own space.

This place, this kingdom of Hallownest. It made something uneasy stir in the Wyrm’s chest.

As he tried to focus on his work, he continued to get fleeting images on what he imagined the kingdom below to be like. It was in ruins, of course since they were called, but he could imagine buildings that reached far up into the sky, roads that stretched far and wide, a network of tunnels. 

Whenever he thought of the name of the kingdom, another vivid imagery entered his mind. It was like the name of the kingdom brought out a sense of adventure that he never believed he would’ve been capable of. He wanted to see what was down below, how glorious of a kingdom it could’ve been in its prime.

It felt like he had heard of the name, and that must surely mean that it was once a great enough kingdom for the name to spread far and wide! 

Despite his curiosity there was still something in him that made him stay in his workshop for the day.

At least, most of the day. For when he noticed how many deadly contraptions he had created rather than the simple set he had hoped to create, he knew that his mind had been taken by the prospect of exploring this kingdom. These were too dangerous to use in a proper performance, unless the person who performed had experienced the Jester’s ire enough to experience such. He would need to dismantle them later.

For now, he grabbed his coat that hung on the wall and put it over his shoulder as he walked out. If this Hallownest kingdom were to occupy his mind enough to distract him from his work, then he would need to take a small peak at the kingdom. Enough to satisfy his curiosity!

His gut twisted uneasily as he walked towards the exit.

He stopped briefly as he passed Brumm, who was ever so faithfully playing his accordion to fill the air with music, and gave him a cheerful wave.

“I will be out on a walk, it won’t take too long I’m sure.”

Brumm stared at Jester while he continued to play his instrument. He was about to say something, but before the quiet man could do so, Jester had already walked past him towards the exit of their tent.

The white charm in his pocket pulsed briefly.

Jester Walked confidently through the town of Dirtmouth towards the well that would lead into the large kingdom down below. Of course, he could take the stagways that had opened but he would rather walk on foot. He gave an extravagant bow towards Elder bug as he passed, simply to be polite of course. He knew other bugs found the Grimm troupe unnerving so Jester wished to display they weren’t as bad as they might believe.

A polite gesture could go a long way, and it was his job to bring people towards their troupe for performance nights. Perhaps Elder bug would decide to join in seeing their performance from such a simple gesture! If that was possible then he would, of course, bow to anyone he came across.

The caverns below were… different than what he expected. He expected to see rows of cultivation or houses, signs of life at least. But this, this was a desolate road. A road that stretched as far as he could see in the darkness below to both the left and right.

Perhaps the road would lead to something more extravagant. So he turned left and hummed softly as he walked along the path. If he had brought his trusty spire with him perhaps he could’ve practiced his performance as he walked. Alas, he forgot to bring it in his haste to venture down. 

But no matter, he could still amuse himself by watching his surroundings with one pair of his arms clasped behind his back while the other pair was used to closer examine the few curiosities he came across. At least within that area. It all became a lot more interesting when he ended up by a shaft with platforms that were held aloft by metal wires. 

He easily conjured a small red dagger to pierce the small bug that wished to attack him. A vengefly he believed it was called. Details didn’t matter for there was a certain doorway that peaked his interest in this shaft. An opening that had vines growing out from its entrance.

The charm in his pocket pulsed once more.

Seeing the green foliage as he entered this new air brought him a sense of nostalgia. What for? Well he certainly had no clue! But it was enjoyable nonetheless to walk through this green landscape with no destination in mind. Simply letting his feet take him wherever they wanted to go. 

He traversed downward through the green landscape and came upon strange moss creatures. All of them plagued by this orange disease his Master Grimm had told them all of. It was an easy task for Jester to dispose of them if they came in his way, they were all just small fry and he wished to enjoy his walk. This is so far the most interesting area he had come upon so far and he was eager to see what else there was.

Blooming flowers, thorns, bushes, no matter the greenery Jester immensely enjoyed walking amongst them as he hummed a happy tune to himself. It all felt really calming, he had never been around nature before. At least as far as he could remember. Which truthfully wasn’t much! But that hardly matters, what does matter is how much he was enjoying his walk. Yes, he certainly was.

The charm visibly glows in his pocket.

No no not now.

Jester let out a soft laugh as he rode on the mindless spiked bugs that traversed back and forth across the sea of acid. It was very handy to have such bugs who just went back and forth back and forth! With no other goal in life than to travel back and forth. It was easy to shift around the spikes on their backs and traverse from bug to bug to get across. He even struck a pose! These creatures might be useful for their performances, yes, certainly. Perhaps he should tell Master Grimm about them once he returns.

Despite being mindless, Jester still gave the bugs a bow of thanks for bringing him across and he continued on his way with a wide smile.

Too wide. Too wide. Calm down calm down calm down.

His surroundings had now changed. There were more solid structures than there were greenery and soil alone. A nice change of pace, why he was getting tired of the uneven paths! Even though the metal platforms fell under his weight he was quick enough on his feet to jump onto the next one. The bugs in his path were just as weak as the other ones from prior, one knife and they fell from the sky. 

It was laughable how weak they were! Laughable! Why did the Troupe Master even warn him from traversing down here? They were all feeble and weak, nothing he wouldn’t be able to handle on his own. Why, he was doing perfectly fine! It was a simple, comfortable walk for him, really. 

When did he start running? Why was he running?

Where is he running to?

Then came a difficult predicament. A barricade stood in his path that he hadn’t seen before, a wall of pure black energy. After observing the contraption for a while-

His hands were shaking. Where was he going?

Before he found a hidden switch and quickly pressed it to turn off the wall of void that stood in his way. He stood up and stepped through, no he wasn’t rushing, why would he do such? No, this was simply because he was excited to see whatever could lie before him. Surely.

Surely that was it.

He jumped from platform to platform and climbed up down up past thorns- 

They caught on his cloak and made rips in his clothing a few times. He needed to get there he needed to get there.

and gracefully landed at the very top of this thorn maze with a pose befitting one of the troupe. That was when he allowed himself a brief pause, chest heaving-

Why was he breathing so hard, he didn’t run that fast did he?

from excitement as he looked at the room he now stood in. Glass lined all walls and it allowed the beautiful greenery to be seen from inside this building. It was a beautiful sight, truly. Truly! 

But he couldn't stay and admire it forever, no, he had places to be! New sights to see. A whole kingdom to explore and this was only his first location!

…

He slowly took out the charm that had been glowing in his pocket for a long while. His hands were trembling as he stared at it, he felt a sharp pain in his chest but he couldn’t understand why.

He clutched it tightly in his hand and walked forward, down the hall with his back straight and faced forward. He could not shame the troupe by looking like a grub scrambling in panic. No! For he was the Pale Jester, whatever laid before him, wherever he wished to go, he would not make himself seem as if he was desperate to see it. That would be more like Divine! Not Jester, surely.

He stopped briefly as he saw a large circular structure. Almost like an egg with beautiful roots that sprouted out from it.

Roots. Roots. My. My… My…

Before he could properly prepare himself he had already entered the hole that led deeper into the egg. Surely it was out of excitement, yes. Surely. He wasn’t eager to see whatever it was. No, why would he be eager to see something he didn’t know what it was or why he was even there or what he had come running to see.

But no. 

His chest hurt as if his whole being had shattered once he laid eyes on the being before him. His body ached and his limbs trembled.

This being, this-... Her roots spread out into the roof above her and into the ground below. Her body had cloth around her, cloth that Jester could immediately tell was a seal. 

And it. Hurt.

Like any time he hurt for no reason, Jester started to chuckle softly, which brought the woman’s eyes towards him. They were a deep blue, the most beautiful blue he had ever seen. Now that he was noticed, he stepped further into the room with that glowing charm still clutched in his claw. Still letting out a sound similar to a giggle, he bowed low towards her with two of his arms spread out behind him while the other two rested on his chest. 

He was shaking. He was shaking so badly the clacks of his shell echoed throughout the room. And his voice had a similar wavering to it as he spoke to the being before him. The woman before him. The most beautiful and wonderful and generous and loving and-

“Greetings! Terribly sorry to disturb you. haha. It seems I have completely forgotten the reason I even came here. May I know your name, my lady? It would be an honour to know the name o-of someone who holds such beauty.”

The woman kept quiet for a few brief seconds. And when she spoke, something broke inside of him. Her voice was soft, like the smoothest of silk. Her tone was soothing like the feeling of a warm flame during a chilling night. Her eyes, even if they were clouded, shone with such kindness and- and-

And sadness.

“Wyrm…?”

The white charm piece in his hand pulsed once more.

( @lidijadraws​) 

( @payasita​ )

The path was all uninhibited vegetation and gnarling, thorny overgrowth, twisting in its conquest of all the still-shiny metal and delicate machinery below. Nature had long since won its battle with what was built by mortal hands, and rendered the walkways here mossy-soft. Foliage grew unchecked over yet more, ever creeping, clutching whatever was in the way in roots and brambles while plants outpaced other plants in their bid for space. The former garden now only had itself to be at war with, near silent in its ongoing, wild expansion.

But there was something more here, hidden away in its depths. He could feel it.

Something that shone bright enough to cut through the comforting haze of percussive red that filled his dreams and pacified his thoughts. Something that pulled at him from deep deep down, like it too had taken root and clutched him tight enough that the stem could pull him about like a leash. Like a weed, invasive, choked around one of the many, funny little pieces of him loosely strung together. 

A piece that the Heart would not take from him, no matter how he asked. Perhaps severing those tiny roots would simply cause what was inside to crumble, like old, packed soil. Thoroughly reclaimed by nature. 

How lovely, how lovely, the way these plants might burn. There was so much green here, and so many thick tangles of bark and dry nettle that would make perfect kindling. The Master and his kin could play to the crackling tempo of it, could dance and laugh and sing along to the ecstatic roar of that cleansing inferno until there was nothing left but ash; until the land was left warm and desolate and sated.

The thought made him want to vomit. It made him want to tear his eyes out, pry his scales, to reach a claw down his throat and yank, spill his own heart, burn that instead, how could he do that, how could he hurt her?

Her?

...Who?

Already the thought slipped away like fine sand. Already it dissolved just out of reach when he tried to chase it. He did not try very hard. It was easier, so easy, to let it recede from his mind. To listen to the throb of the Heart so much louder in his skull, comforting like a lullaby. He listened, felt it under his shell, until the pain ebbed. 

And when the pain ebbed, he could not particularly remember what in the world had caused it. He thought, maybe, he'd been thinking of someone. He supposed it didn't matter. But whatever it was, it had certainly made the pretty red haze so very bright in his mind. 

The Jester stood with an airy giggle-- When had he fallen to his knees?-- and advanced. Past the nettles, past the remnants of glass and machinery, and past the feeble critters that hopped and flitted about unsteadily. Many were still clumsy for their rocky recoveries from that peculiarly angry disease that had all but ruled this land a short time ago, if they were lucky enough to survive it at all. He passed the old, brittle husks of those who hadn't, and of other long-fallen, one of which gave and cracked easily under his feet and nearly tripped him. 

Bother. He often envied things that could fly, whose wings were not just costume. Certainly they could get around much more easily. And wings themselves were so pretty on a bug, so enviable on their own. Had he been lucky enough to have any of his own, he would have liked them to shine, he thinks.

He was snapped from his daydreaming at the sight of a roughly globose structure, and at the huge, snaking branches that burst forth from it, all dug into the surrounding rock and soil. Not branches, then. Roots. 

So very many corpses lay scattered about in front. Something awful must have happened here. It was a shame he hadn't brought his lantern, and so could not collect the nightmares that must linger from the strife. Nothing wrong with a bit of errand-running while he was away from home, after all. But strangely, the thought of doing so, here, had felt… wrong. And so, on a whim, he'd left it.

He spared a jolly salute to the white warrior's corpse guarding the structure's entryway, and went inside. 

Down he went, into the dark. The fool on the card, finally falling off the cliffside, trusting that he won't be impaled by something in the drop. But the Pale Jester fancied himself a rather more professional fool, and so knew very well the proper time and place for a prat fall. When it would be funny, first of all. And secondly, one should at the very least have an idea of where they'll land before they attempt one. And as the Jester did not know where he might land, or if he'd do so with safety, he elected to venture carefully. 

Very carefully. The pulse racing under his shell, now, was only his own. And it just about sent his blood scrabbling to his extremities, his movements growing frenetic. He felt half mad. Desperate. 

Why? Calm down, breathe. Whatever was at the end of this nerve-wracking knotted knoll, it would never be more important than the burning embrace of what he served. Even if he was a fractured thing, even if he was in pieces, the shards of him ultimately still belonged to the Heart. To the Nightmare King. He belonged to the Master.

And then he saw light. White, cold, gentle light. It squeezed him inside, not unpleasant, and slowly he entered the chamber that housed its source.

And there she was. 

Bathed in the enchanting light of her own soul, bound in wrappings of cloth, and further imprisoned by a crushingly powerful magic seal all around her body. Eyes closed, silent and serene. For whose protection was his sleeping beauty sealed away? 

Oh, no, not his. Her magic pulled strong, but he'd never even met her before. How horribly rude.

But by the Heart, she was beautiful. Unbelievably so. A being like her couldn't be of this world, was clearly something so much more. A being like her could easily be someone's entire world. He stepped forward, and as she opened her eyes, he had that same thought again, nearly breathless.

"One approaches," came her voice, like a knell. He shuddered. The sound set him alight.

"One is approached," he took the opportunity.

She did not say anything else, for a few seconds. Only stared down. From the tracking of her eyes, and the foggy blue he saw there, he guessed she was at least mostly blind, and perhaps hadn't always been. He spoke again, if only for an outlet for the near manic energy roiling in him from shoulders to tail. 

"Do pardon the intrusion, madam. But I believe I was searching for something. I pray you take no offense."

"... No," she began, slowly. "For I know your kind, and the paltry morbidity of their goals. Your clan and kin exclusively go where they are unwanted, and do not heed the bids of any local sovereign nor law."

The Jester's head tilted, just so, as he considered her, feeling safely anonymous behind the mask while he mused.

"... Sovereigns and laws. Had this weeping land either of those before, it certainly does not, now."

"... It does not," she assented, equally unreadable.

He had the sense that this creature must have once been someone very important. It was the least he could do to respect that, even for how fate had clearly laid her low. The Master found most observances of status unnecessary, and even sometimes enjoyed poking fun at him for being prim. But the Jester found propriety comfortable, and so swept back into a scraping bow, demure and proper, and she watched him.

"May I know your name, my lady?"

Another pause. 

"... There is nothing left to know. Once, I had those who would fear me, and they called me as a Pale Being. Once I had devoted, and they called me as the White Lady. Once I had a husband, and he called me his Root." 

He listened, not noticing how his arm listed down from where it was extended to her. 

"But in this place, there is little use in a title, and none in a name."

"It is a pleasure, my lady, either way," he implored.

"One defiled has already completed its business with me. Would that the second might now make his known."

Another "one defiled"? A previous visit from another troupe member, perhaps? Though, that didn't make much sense. Either way, how quick to dismiss him. He supposed he did have very little to offer, and she must have known that in an instant. A fool before a goddess, before a lady, before a prisoner. 

"...As I said, I believe I had been searching, perhaps," he hummed, "though I could not say for what with any certainty. I would say for answers, my lady, but that would require questions, on my end, would it not?" 

The Jester's fingers tapped together to a familiar beat, restless, while he blathered on.

"And I even had little in the way of those, my lady, before I found you. A few come to mind now, though. If you would be so kind as to forgive a poor fool his curiosity, my lady."

So few things outside of the circus ever felt right to him. But calling her "my lady" did, and so he would continue to indulge. It sounded so suitably silly in a place like this, anyhow. 

She said nothing, only waited. Even if he preferred hearing her voice, at least he hadn't been told to just bugger off. 

Maybe she found him entertaining. He hoped she found him entertaining.

"What has made you a prisoner here? The old laws of the land? Perhaps a great beast to be slain, for the fair maiden's freedom?" He spread two arms, with the others' hands clasped under his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. 

"By my hand alone, I have ordained my own sealing," she tolled. His arms fell.

"... For what do you wish to atone?"

She took another moment to think, or maybe to word it right. Or maybe however many years of silence and introspection she'd been here had simply slowed her reactions to outside requisitions for her attention.

"... No atonement shall be found, for my part in facilitating the ancient sins of this kingdom. Nor do I seek it. My fate is penitence and precaution, only."

"But what was your crime?" It was barely above a whisper.

"The scope of some actions can be vast enough to transcend laws, wretched one. Ruin such as this goes beyond crime. I am no convict, for the word would be too trivial. There is no name for what we wrought, though the closest I can offer you in definition would be 'sacrilege'." 

She spoke so softly, almost kindly. But too far away for that. Too lonely.

And she'd said 'we.'

"...You had a husband, you said," he realized. "What of him?"

"... He was to be locked away in a similar fashion, though less permanently." She shifted a little under her bindings, a faint rustling of bark, and spoke slowly.

"Though a recent transaction has led me to understand that my beloved ultimately chose escape from the regrets that plagued him. Opposite me, he chose to ensure that he no longer had to suffer his own mind."

Oh, dear. How unfortunate. What nightmares that couple might have offered. 

And what a stupid, selfish creature the other half of it must have been, to abandon his wife to now bear them all alone. And to force her to suffer even more by choosing to die at his own hand. That was not the sort of nightmare that ever truly left a person. And to inflict it upon a goddess, who even diminished felt like home and hearth and sweetest sanctuary?

Good riddance, then, the Jester privately thought. Callous thoughts spared for some callous corpse. 

"... I am sorry for your loss, my lady," he offered out loud.

"Your offer of pity is an unwelcome one," she intoned. Her voice was gentle, quiet, and cold like fine jewelry. "And I bid you cease pretending your propriety. I am no one's lady, now."

The Jester brightened.

"How very fortunate, then. For I happen to be just that: a no-one!" He waved his arms out in a flourish, fabric wings bouncing with the motion. "A jester is meant to be a mirror to reality, you see-- a funhouse reflection of polite society, and all the frightfully frivolous foolishness found therein." 

He held up a finger, triumphant, and took a step forward. 

"Ergo, I believe I definitively possess little enough identity of my own, that by your own words, I can call you 'my lady'."

Her silence was a bit different this time around. It wasn't contemplative, nor dismissive, nor even angry.

Only sad. 

Silence and sadness. He stood watching it on her for only a second, and was struck by the urge to scream. He didn't. But how long must she have been living in only silence and sadness? It oughtn't matter to him, but she had such a lovely voice, and he bet her smile might be a thing that could light up the whole damned kingdom, should it ever grace the world again.

He couldn't imagine her laugh. Seeing her now, bound and bemoaned and bereaved, it was difficult to imagine that she even could. 

But the Jester looked at her, and he bet it was a sound like bubbles and bells. He bet it was like coming home, like coming warm together under the covers and healing. He bet it could doom any poor fool hopelessly into her possession, heart and soul, with no effort on her part. 

He needed to hear it. He needed to make her laugh. He was a clown, that's what he's for. He needed to hear her laugh.

"I've a riddle for you, my lady," he blurted, all in one breath. "Forgive the banality, my lady, but I promise I am rather good at those. I can sometimes be something of a riddle myself, you see."

He placed a hand over his heart. The Master would chide him for improvising like this-- the Jester was, admittedly, not terribly good at it. But practice makes perfect, does it not? 

And either way, the Jester found his mouth was running just a bit faster than his brain, at the moment. Nothing for it but to go along for the ride, then.

"How many pieces does it take to put together a fool?" He peered up, trying to glean anything from her face. She seemed vaguely surprised that he'd spoken up so abruptly, at least. He held out a finger.

"Here are your hints. A big piece of him belongs to what he serves, and remains safely tucked away in its possession. One is held by a grave-eyed, broken toy soldier, who comes 'round to see him sometimes. One was taken by a quiet little shadow, who won it with force. One is found near the nimble warrior in rose-red garb, who eyes it rather rudely with distaste. And one is held by the land's fairest mourning damsel, who pulled him to her, by it, on strings of plant fiber."

The Jester had long since learned that he had a mysterious talent for oration, and it always served him well. No one would guess from his declarative diction that he'd no idea where he was going with this. And yet on he spoke.

"Those are not all of them, my lady, he's quite sure there is more to him than just those few shards. But perhaps, my lady, the answer to their number can be found in why those pieces in particular seem so very important. 

Why is it, my lady, that the toy soldier fusses with him so? Why, my lady, did what the little shadow took hurt so horribly to give away, even if the trinket had always pained him to look at? Why does the rose-red warrior avoid him, my lady, and why should that disquiet him? Why, my lady, does the Master seem to have so much trouble deciding whether to laugh at the fool, or comfort him as if he were grieving?"

His hand trembled where he held it aloft, and the one at his heart now clutched the ruff of his costume like a lifeline, tight enough to poke holes. The other two, at some point, had wrapped around each other in a bruising grip. And the Jester smiled through it all, delivering his terrible joke of a riddle with a taut, warbling brightness in his voice.

"Why is it, my lady, that I know for a fact-- my lady-- that you, my lady, are the most beautiful creature that I will ever lay eyes on, even if I were to live for a hundred thousand years more? Why, my lady, why do I want--"

His voice finally broke on the last word. He hiccuped, and wrapped all his arms tight around himself in earnest, now, holding himself together. He bowed his head, not seeing how or if she had any reaction to him. 

He took a few sharp breaths, until his words could again come out beyond a choke. The result was little more than a slow, pathetic rasp.

"...I can almost feel it. I do not know … I do not know it, but... I can…" a shuddering sigh, while his tongue searched for something just out of reach. 

"You… My… my rhh… my..."

"I have given you the word. You do know it. Or else the chains around your mind are so strong that you will remain shielded from any core memories, no matter the reminders."

The Jester slowly looked up, and found that he still couldn't see her expression. He tried to blink away the tears to see a bit better, but made little progress beyond just making his eyes sting.

"... You said it…?"

"I did."

"... Tell me again. Please."

"... I do not know that it would be of any help, my Wyrm. You have accepted the Nightmare's call so thoroughly into yourself. You have given it your soul. What once beat for your people, your own dreams, and for me, cannot be heard under the beating of its loathsome Heart."

"Please," he repeated. He wanted to beg for so much more, but he had no idea what any of it was.

"... I was your Root, when you were my Wyrm. But the being I sense before me now, I do not know. I do not recognize any of the familiar light that once shone so beautifully within you."

"My Root," he breathed, mind buzzing, shoulders aching. "My Root. My… my Root. My… rh... my…" 

"One defiled, who are you now?"

"...My... My what…? My…? What was I…?"

"...So indeed, then, he did take his own life."

"I… I had it, did I not…? I had… something... Hadn't I…? What was… My…?"

"Servant of the Nightmare. Tell me your name, that I may preserve it as the site of his grave."

Confused, dazed in scarlet fog, and barely processing anything beyond the thundering heartbeat beneath his mask, he had to think very very hard in order to obey her.

"...My kin call me as the Pale Jester. I… I serve for the Heart... And I play for the Master," he mumbled out, at length, feeling just a bit of strength returning.

"... Then go. Return to your play, and to what calls you to its domain. There is no sense in allowing yet another sacrifice to go in vain."

Slowly, legs numb, he stood up from where he'd again collapsed to his knees, and cradling his head. The haze beckoned him out, beckoned him home. 

A voice that was like stained silk sheets, that was like a warm body pressed to his on a freezing night, that was like a lingering hand on his cheek, followed him in a vague echo.

"... My current state bars me from visiting any tomb of my own volition. So I thank you, wretched one, for allowing me this final opportunity to say goodbye to him. It is more than I ever would have hoped to have."

The Pale Jester shuffled out, lured by the gentle thrum underscoring the crooning of an accordion, that together scrubbed his mind mercifully blank for a time.

The first sober thought he had was about halfway to the surface. He remembered meeting someone unbelievably beautiful, and he remembered bits and pieces of their talk. 

And he remembered trying to make her laugh, but instead, having made her cry. That pretty voice, and how it went thin and quavered, as she tried to keep it level. Low and all alone, with no comfort ever again to be offered. Lost to him.

His own heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

The one he served gentled it back together, threaded it with its own patchwork arteries and cauterizing flame, now finally taking care of it where he no longer could.

And the Jester felt fantastic.

( @cataegus-draws​ @cataegus​ )

( @a-mild-case-of-eccentricity​ )

Darkness.

Then… a light. A… white light?

The jester opens his eyes, suddenly wide awake. That’s… odd. The last thing he remembers was turning in for the night after a rather grueling performance. His tail was nearly sheared on one of his new buzzsaws. Perhaps a few adjustments are in order, he thinks idly. 

But for now… where is he?

He looks around cautiously; a forest, it seems. Ancient, looming trees stretch above him for what feels like miles, casting dappled patterns of sunlight against the lush foliage below. They join together high above, creating a sort of sheltered dome. Flowers of every size and shade carpet the forest floor, swaying in a gentle breeze. This place radiates life, he can feel the strength of it thrumming in his core. In the quiet, he swears he can feel the space breathe. 

The jester suddenly feels very, very small, but somehow in the best of ways. Like being held in the embrace of a loved one. It feels… familiar.

Surveying the rest of the room, he finally lays eyes on her. He doesn’t know how he missed her; she’s seated in the center of the garden, bound by vines but oozing elegance nonetheless. She is pristine, ethereal, and positively radiant, both literally and figuratively. She is the source of the soft white glow illuminating her hideaway. The jester is starstruck, speechless with the beauty of the being before him. He steps closer.

The woman raises her great head with her crown of branches, sitting upon her head like a halo. She had started at the sound of foliage rustling beneath the jester’s footsteps; she hadn’t heard such a sound for some time now.

“Hello? Who is there?”

Gracious, that voice, those eyes. Her shimmering blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight, but the jester feels his heart ache upon seeing how fogged over they appear, and how she struggles to stand with her restraints. Something deep within him whispers.

This is wrong. It’s not supposed to be this way.

“Hello?” She calls out again, louder this time. Her sights narrow onto his blurred form. “Ah, there you are. My apologies, my eyes are not what they used to be. Who are you, little one? How did you come by this place?”

He draws in a sharp, shaking breath. Touching his face beneath his mask, he’s startled to find his hand stained with black tears. The sight is beyond unsettling; the growing pit in his stomach becomes a void, threatening to engulf him completely. He raises his head, forcing a smile behind his painted visage.

“I am a jester with the Grimm Troupe, and I am afraid I do not know how I stumbled upon this oasis.” He spreads his arms with a painful laugh, more tears beginning to stream down his face, dripping past his mask. “What an odd situation we’re in, my Lady!–”

He freezes, jolting as if someone impaled a lance through his thorax.

M-my… my Lady? No, my... Rr… M-my R-Root… My Root…

The pain that shoots through his head is excruciating. He cries out as his upper set of limbs grip the edges of his mask; his weeping only serves to stain his hands further, irreparably. The lower set squeezes his middle, desperate for something solid to cling to. He can barely make out the frantic calls of the woman as she cries out for her “Wyrm” and strains against her bindings. Her cries drive the lance deeper into his heart, and he swears he feels his mask crack.

It’s that deafening crack that finally rouses him from his slumber; he bolts up in his cot with a scream. His face is damp with tears that only grow as the pain from his dream settles into reality. Grimm is bursting through his tent curtains before he can blink, rushing to his side as the smaller bug hunches over and cradles his head, struggling to subdue his pained gasps.

“Jester,” Grimm starts calmly, the barest hint of urgency in his tone betraying his worry. “You must calm down, I promise you’re alright. It was only a nightmare; it wasn’t real…”

“I-I…” the jester barely chokes out. “I f-felt her… M-my… I-I don’t understand, master… I-I don’t understand…”

The troupe master gazes at his jester with a gentle, pained look. Grimm knows. Of course he knows. But he cannot say, for the king’s sake.

He resigns himself to stroking the back of the jester’s skull, murmuring little nothings to try and calm him. When the smaller presses closer, Grimm allows him to crawl into his lap. He wraps him in his cloak, settling the jester against his warm chest.

–––

After many moments of soft words and gentle touches, Grimm finally manages to lull his jester back into a fitful sleep. He shifts in the other’s meager cot, settling onto his back; he might as well stay, he thinks. He’ll do his damndest to dissuade any further nightmares from his jester’s subconscious, even if it means losing sleep himself. He nuzzles the edge of the smaller’s mask. After all, Grimm reasons as he closes his eyes, no one likes a sad clown, now do they?

( @sweetdreams-hollowknight​ )

( @monomon-s​ )

The Pale Jester might not know much about the troupe, but he did know this: they traveled. Traveled far, and often, too. Grimm always told them it was places that ‘needed the Troupe’, though that was vague if you asked PJ. He knew he’d be there to entertain, of course, and help with the flame, as he had to. Part of being in the Troupe, essentially, was helping with the flame. 

PJ also knew this: compared to other troupe members, he had not traveled many places. Maybe in comparison to the bugs that he saw in dying places, he could say that he’s been everywhere, but that would be a lie. 

So, whenever the troupe traveled, he felt that odd ache of familiarity that he didn’t particularly enjoy. How could some foreign place be familiar, when he had so much yet to see of it?

And that familiar feeling didn’t ever go away.

When he was tasked with capturing flame from the kingdom below— how novel, a kingdom below ground— that ache, and feeling like he’d seen this all before did not leave, no matter how he tried to distract himself, and, when he reached where the flame was supposed to be, that tug on his mind only grew stronger. 

A lovely garden, flushed with vibrant colors; greens, whites, blues, a whole spectrum of pretty colors that met him and made him feel just a little out of place in his stark red troupe attire. Everywhere he looked was beautifully alive, and yet somehow filled him with some terrible dread. How was this kingdom dying, when it contained areas which looked like this? Why did this feel so familiar, so comfortable, and yet so very unfamiliar and uncomfortable at the same time?

PJ didn’t get very long to dwell on it, not before something would pull him from his musing reverie. What looked like a root, white and winding, curled at his feet. Had that been there when he had stopped? When had he stopped? The white root trailed, and when he followed it, it only led to more and more, leading to the seeming heart of the garden and all of its greenery. He did his best not to step on any of them, even as it became harder and harder to do so, some distant part of him deemed it rude.

In the center of it all, a tree. Or, what looked like one. It was wearing some sort of sweater, which was odd if you asked him— 

And then she turned and looked at him. He didn’t know how he knew that she was a she, but he knew. His heart stopped and all at once that familiarity-turned-dread turned into what felt a little bit like loss when she looked to him. 

And she spoke.

And it felt like he could feel her pain. 

“My wyrm?”

It was painfully familiar like he’d heard it a thousand times before, and yet he’d never been here before, never heard it before, couldn’t remember. He didn’t know how to respond. He might have formed some kind of response, but something cold and wet and horribly bitter was on his face and oh, he was crying, because liquid couldn’t get under his mask and yet, here he was, and she was crying too, a white root catching his tears, but nothing to catch her own. 

The way she looked at him hurt, all of this did; these tears, seeing hers, the lingering feeling like she was mourning and that he was blind as to why. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her as she most dearly needed, because that was what she was doing for him and he felt like he needed to return such… affection. So much of him felt like he should know more, and his mind only drew up a blank, aching in the way he’d begun to find familiar. 

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to say, but almost reflexively he stumbled and stepped forward, holding the stained root at his cheek like it was all he knew. And when he did his best to hug, he felt her return it, and the embrace felt like a certain kind of peace finally settling over him. 

Distantly, deep within the nightmare realm, the Nightmare King realizes a slight oversight in his plans. The wyrm, in his old territory, in the garden. Where the wyrm’s wife lives. Where the wyrm will most certainly dredge up old memories. Ah. 

( @darkautomaton​ @darkautodraws​ )

( @tornbutterflywings​ AND @confusedhost​ )

The leaves of the healthy brush blew lazily in the soft breeze, uncaring for the events that would transpire in the middle of the clearing. Light left bright splotches of colors splattering across the dirt flooring. The two in the clearing were locked in an intense gaze with the other. The gardens silent before a soft voice broke the silence, her words digging deep grooves in the jesters heart that left him more confused than anything else he could quite remember.

“I know you,” the woman he recognized whispered. “I know you, and I have missed you so much.” 

She knelt down, pressing her head to his, hands coming up to curl around him. “I’ve missed you so very much, my wyrm.”

The white shelled bug felt roots curl around him in such a familiar way, as if calling out for him; as if searching for something that was lost long ago. He couldn’t place where these new, strange feelings were coming from, though tears slipped down his face. Absently, he recognizes that he should feel something more when looking at this odd creature.

Before he could stop himself, his hand had grazed her cheek, before he jumped in his shell and flinched away. The creature's expression shifts from a soft and happy smile to unreadable.

"I… Apologies, I do not think I know you-" His voice is a tad higher pitched than usual as he steps away from this strange creature.

“You are my wyrm,” she whispered, putting emphasis on a word he didn’t know, but recognized so clearly. 

The Jester laughed, the sound echoing throughout the large clearing, as it was all he could do when faced with this idiocracy. “I am not a worm,” he said, ignoring the lump in his throat. “I am the jester to the Grimm Troupe, and that is what I’ve always been.”

The woman looked down upon him as if she could see through his soul. “And yet you are so familiar to me,” She whispered, pulling one of his arms into her palm. “You look much like my husband,” she explained, running a delicate hand over the fabric of his sleeve. “Four arms, like him. Your mask, like his.” Her voice could have lulled him to rest. 

She pressed a finger to his crown. “A crown of horns.” She peered down at him, white eyes blank from any emotion. “Much like his.”

His migraine that had been just shy of being a bother, broke through the barrier. 

"I am not your husband." He stated with a certainty he didn't feel, even as his throat tightened around the ball from before. Was he even breathing anymore? "I already told you! I am the jester of the Grimm Troupe, that is what I shall always be. It's what I have always been." He couldn't keep the distaste out of his voice as his eyes narrowed at the lady in front of him.

The look that crossed the White Lady's face made some part of the Pale Jesters' heart yearn to reach out and comfort her, yet after a moment the feeling seemed to be erased from existence. He pulled his arm out of her grip and stepped away from her. Every step away made his heart call out in pain as he kept one of his hands to his chest.

(The Jester didn’t like how he noticed the tension in her knuckles around her fist and felt a need to stop and please her. He didn’t like how he saw her lean forward and wanted to move to meet her, to cup her head in his hands and whisper something, like a small secret between them, like lovers would.

He didn’t like how he knew her without knowing her.)

He stopped, a ways away from her, yet close enough to feel too close. Close enough to talk. 

“Your name,” he said, voice quiet. 

This was a bad idea, this was a horrible idea, he should stop, he should stay away. Or tell the master. Or-

“You know who I am… So, out of curiosity, I demand you tell me who you are.” How strange of him to wonder. Very rarely did he care for another’s name. The troupe had little time for connections. It was as if a part of him thought that she knew a part of him that he, himself, did not. 

And perhaps there was a part of him that wanted to listen to that little call.

Her voice was almost a breath of wind, all too soft yet noticeable nonetheless, “You have called me your White Lady." The name she gave him echoed in his head, burning him. Her eyes had a twinkle of hope, a soft shimmer, and below that, something deeper that the Jester couldn't place. 

Her expression turned crestfallen when he had yet to speak. She sounded on the verge of tears, her voice shaking and oh so quiet in the wind that he almost didn't catch her words,"I... Oh, my love, whatever did he do to you? Why couldn't you have simply come to me instead?”

Any sort of sympathy the Jester held for her disappeared, eyes wide with hurt shock as his heart, beating side by side with the Nightmare heart pulsed with rage. “Come to you? For what? For assistance? For help? For freedom? To get me out of a situation that I am perfectly fine in? I do not need you,” The Pale Jester roared with a voice that felt less like his than ever and yet more like his than he could remember. “I do not need you. I do not know you! I have never met you before and I have never been here before-” 

Lying, you’re lying, stop lying-

“All I need,” the jester hissed, words low, tired, forced. “Is my master.” 

The white lady didn’t make a sound for a long moment.

The silence that fell over the clearing was suffocating as the Lady stared at him with what could only be described as disbelief and hurt. Her light eyes looked over what had become of the man she loved. She felt sick. 

"Is..." A hard swallow,"...Is that what you truly believe, Pale one?"  There was a harshness to her voice, the tone falling cold in a way that only put him on edge.  She felt the sadness wash over her, however she couldn't show that here. Not yet.

No, The Pale Jester thought.

“Yes,” he said, voice leaving little room for argument. “I am of the Grimm troupe and I don’t-“ He choked on a sob, but pushed it down. He was a jester, and jesters do not cry. “I do not need anyone else.”

The white lady stood to her full height, and the Pale Jester froze as she towered over him. “Then why did you come to my gardens,” she took a step forward. “Why did you come to me...” The Jester took a step back, “if you do not need me.” his chest clenched with fear of what she might do, mind screaming at him to scramble away, yet he was frozen in fear. 

The root stepped forward, softly cupping his face and leaning her face next to his own. Her soft voice, filled with pain and care, whispered into his ear,"Come back to me my wyrm." She closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to escape.

She missed her husband, it was clear. From her soft tone that trembled, yet still held so much love, to the tight squeeze around the Jester’s mask, not enough to be painful, but from a need to hold on to something, someone. Even if it was just a scrap of the man she missed so dearly. Her palms curled around his face in such a familiar way. In a way that, at one point, must have filled someone with comfort, and yet all the Jester felt was fear.

He shuddered, trying to keep as still as possible. It was cold. He was cold in a way that felt so familiar, and yet it gripped him in ice claws and froze him to the core. “Please,” he whispered, taking a step back, a step away from her and her warm hands. “What’s wrong with me?” He bent down claws gripping the sides of his head. “Please...Please, I just want to know what’s wrong...”

The While Lady had taken some paces back, and her gaze had hardened. 

If the king was cold before, then white flash of mortification that ran through him only served to make him freeze.

"That is for you to find out. Return to me when you are finished playing this game." And with that she was gone, and the hole that started worrying itself in his heart only widened. His gaze followed her retreating form without a word escaping him. He watched her walk away as tears raced down his face, and even the burn from the Nightmare Heart was not enough to warm his cold heart.

The pale jester tucked his head in, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh. (Not a sob, no, not a sob. Jesters do not cry.) It’s not funny, none of it is, and yet he cannot stop. His chest hurts as he cackles, he feels numb. 

Still, he continues. 

There’s nothing else for him to do, anyway.

( @jklpopcorn​ )

( @stareeveecat )

"Vessel..." A voice called out into the darkness. The little vessel turned their head, confused.

The voice sounded femmine, echoing gently through the never ending darkness.

The vessel held their nail in their hand, trembling lightly. A sinister undertone filled their body as beams of light slashed effortlessly through the darkness. "Come closer." The voice cooed sweetly, the vessel felt heating surrounding their icy cold body.

Their legs began to move forward, despite their mind's protests to stop. They planted their nail into the ground, hoping to stop their body's defiance.

"How cute..." The voice teasingly said, the vessel's legs buckling as they were dragged forcefully into the searing, blinding light. They began charging a crystal dash, the rosy crystals appearing at their feet. Summoning all their willpower, the crystal dash fired, the vessel speeding off faster than a bullet as crystals flew behind them.

Feeling confident that they escaped the scorching light, they failed to notice the rapidly approaching thorns until...

SMACK!!

CRACK!

They rolled to the ground, a mask snapped in half by the wretched thorns! They tried to heal, feeling waves of dizziness and fatigue crash over them in the process. They hadn't replenished their soul.

"That was pitiful, little vessel." The voice taunted as the vessel climbed to their feet on trembling legs. Their throat began to burn, stomach twisting into knots. Their mouth opened, the bright orange liquid they had grown to loathe gushed out. 

They realized why that voice sounded so familiar...

"You recognize me!" That sick voice bellowed, cackling in delight. Scalding hot tendrils coiled around the vessel's body, dragging them into the blinding light. The vessel squirmed violently in the grasp of the goddess, orange vile lazily running out of their mouth, leaving a white hot sting in their throat.

"I know who you are! And I know why you're here!" The light screeched, the poor vessel suddenly falling to the ground. They hit the ground with a loud smack, two more masks breaking away. Their shade hissed, wriggling around furiously in the damaged shell.

"Why are you resisting? Don't you want that blasted wyrm to pay..." The vessel opened their eyes, scrambling backwards at the morbid sight of what their landing pad was.

The shattered mask of a sibling.

Thousands upon thousands more lay cluttered together, all littered with cracks and the stench of death. More rained down from above, hitting the platforms with sickening cracks as their masks shattered or necks broke. Many were dead when they flopped over the edge of the platforms, joining the ever growing pile of innocent lives extinguished before they had even begun.

Liquid ebony spewed out of the fresh corpses of the tiny children, coating their once pristine pale masks the pallet of the void.

"Look around..." The goddess whispered, her voice taking an unusually solemn tone. "So many pitiful little children slaughtered. Already having been murdered by the suffocating void, at the hand of your sire. Did they deserve such a merciless demise, to be discarded like broken tools?" The vessel screamed, a silent wail that shook the walls of the abyss, rattling their kin's masks together.

"Why are you even trying to change fate's design?" The vessel began to ascend where their kin had failed, the blinding pale light beckoning to them to come closer. Just as they reached the top they clung to the platform. Their precious sibling stood at the edge, eyes locking with the vessel. They turned around, scampering quickly after his majesty.

"They left you to perish...They do not care about you. Why should you care about them?" Their grip slackened, gravity ripping their body down into the darkness.

After a moment, and only three masks left unbroken by the fall, they curled into a ball. The glowing ooze came up yet again, this time leaving a large puddle instead of a few meager drips.

Their body ached in agony, every subtle movement sending shockwaves of agony coursing through their carapace.

The ground beneath them rumbled, heat swirling around them. They looked up to see thick metal chains snapping apart, releasing the supposed prisoner to their fate on death row. Long pure nail drawn, cracks littering the ancient surface. The lanky figure drew their head back and screamed, orange puss leaking from their eyes.

The Hollow Knight.

They slashed violently at the small vessel with their gigantic nail, failure was not an option. The vessel scrambled away as the blade of the nail sliced effortlessly through their fragile shell.

Another mask shattered, two remaining and no soul to restore them.

"Your time is ticking away little vessel...you better hurry if you want to save your sibling." She teased as the worst sight imaginable, the event that drove them to go against destiny and defeat the old light, happened.

The Hollow Knight suddenly plunged their nail into their lower abdomen, infectious blood gushing out violently from the other side. They ripped their nail out and plunged it in again, tiny whimpers fleeing from their maw. Over and over they impaled themselves with their own weapon, while their sibling stood helpless.

The vessel began to weep, inky void and orange goop mixing together in their tears. The Hollow Knight trudged over, bleeding out heavily from the self inflicted wound. Their singular hand was trembling, grip on their nail loosening.

"You better hurry little vessel...the time draws near for the end of your sibling." The voice taunted. A loud smack echoed through the vessel's mind, the old light smirking at them before they lost consciousness, welcoming the comforting darkness.

The vessel sprung up instantly, chest quickly rising and falling as they panted. They turned their head to gaze at the adolescent Hollow. The future Pure Vessel was fully intact, no limbs reduced to rotting flesh, no gashes in their lower abdomen from the blade of the Pure Nail being driven through their body by their own hand. No orange eyes...

The Feral vessel all but tackled their sibling in a hug, sobbing violently into their chest, clutching their gray cloak for dear life. Hollow rubbed their sibling's back, silently trying to soothe them. The orange plumes that had surrounded their sibling were no more, she had ceased her attempt at rendering the vessel into her puppet.

Feral wiped their eyes, dry heaving into a nearby bucket as the last of the orange ooze exited their burning throat. Their sibling carried them bridal style to the local hotspring, where they could soak up the soul rich water and restore themselves, as they were on their final mask.

Once they would focus soul and heal their shattered masks they would begin a new mission.

Find the Seer, and acquire the Dream Nail before the future could become the present...

( @tomatotimes )

( @artificial-radiance, https://twitter.com/CosmicNerdpaw )

The hollow one stood tall, taking careful and quiet steps through the palace. They were specifically in the hall that had doorways to bedrooms, specifically their king and queen, Hornet’s whenever she visited, and the one that the feral one took up and invited them to stay in. Their steps hardly made a noise, but the construction of the palace made even those faint noises echo.

As they passed Feral’s room, the void in them trembled. They froze in their walk, slowly tilting their head to look at the door. They could feel something was intensely wrong right behind that door. It was night, their sibling should be asleep. And yet they could… hear something happening. They could sense something was wrong. Internally, they hesitated, fighting with instinct for an unknown reason. A clatter made their mind come to a conclusion, and they quickly made their entry.

Before them was Feral, fallen from their bed with a sharp crack in their mask, almost straight down the middle, with orange leaking from the split and their eyes for a moment. They were scrabbling at the ground, desperate to ground themself as the substance sloshed grossly to the ground like bile. This… that… it was.. was… No…

The vessel dropped down to their sibling, grasping their head in their hands. The orange had faded to black — had there been any orange to begin with? — as they wept. They kept them close as the void’s ebbing slowed to a soft drip. Feral grounded themself in gripping Hollow’s arms, teetering forward to rest their face against their sibling’s chest. Void was smeared on and stained Hollow’s white garments, but they did not care for the moment. Right now, they needed to tend to their sibling.

Slowly, they lead their sibling to stand, and helped them shuffle out of the bedroom. Hollow will see to the mess themself after their rebellious sibling was tended to. Their walk was a slow and careful one, and the hope of Hallownest was doing most of it. Their steps echoed softly, followed by the dragging sound of Feral’s feet on polished floors. Even at night, the palace had this ambient glow of soul sewn into the metal and marble of the walls and ceiling, and it made the walk to the bathing room all the easier.

Hollow lead Feral to the water basin, carefully removing their cloak and setting them in. Moments later, the feral one found a creeping, pleasant warmth of spring water and the feeling of soul slipping into their shell and allowing them to feel more at ease. They slumped backwards briefly, their horns coming into contact with Hollow, who began gently cleaning their face with a cloth soaked with spring water. They made sure the water soaked into the crack of the mask, ensuring that it would heal and the soul would bind the split for the most part. They feared what father — the King — would do. It wouldn’t be anything dreadful, the Queen, their mother, would never allow such a thing. But there would be some sort of investigation in their room, questions on the night.

…

They didn’t wish the Wyrm or Root to find out about this.

They applied a little more pressure to the crack, not a rough press by any means, but enough to get the healing water into the wound for certain. Satisfied, they spared a glance to their own cloak before they removed it and their armor carefully, body creaking with the relief of the weight being removed. Feral tilted their head to watch their sibling scrub their garments clean of void. They were not skilled with cleaning, but they were thorough with scrubbing the fine cloth. True, they may ruin the fabric, and get into trouble for it, but a cloak is replaceable, and they did not want the substance to be known.

Satisfied with this part of their work, the hollow readorned the cloak and armor before assisting their sibling up out of the bath, setting the basin to drain as they dressed the feral back up. After this, the trek back to the room was quicker, Feral more energized from the waters. The two vessels eyed the puddle of void when they entered, but before Feral could do much about it, Hollow sent them off to their bed. They watched the favored sibling set to work with clean the void, seeing them take it within themself and then wiping up any residue.

After that, they locked eyes, and, as the air grew less tense, Hollow witness their sibling drift back into a slumber. They steeled themself to standing watch now, to make sure their sibling slept through the night well enough, as they deserved.

And, of course, to keep watch for Her influence.

( @radical-mudkips )

( @tornbutterflywings )

The water slowly lapped at the edges of the pool. The water was sparkling with the soul infused, so why didn’t Ghost feel any better? Why wasn’t the hot spring working? They couldn’t wrap their head around it.

They could hear footsteps in the background, almost silent with an almost even amount of time between each footfall. Ghost knew who it was. It was their sibling, the fated one, the one that was destined to fail should they not interfere. 

They didn’t turn around to face their sibling, instead they had leaned back and moved their hands through the water to rest across the edge of the spring. Void leaked down their mask from the top where a crack laid. They could feel the hesitant worry coming from Pure, they could feel it...

And they hated it.

These wounds were nothing. They were nothing compared to what they knew their sibling would go through if Ghost couldn’t get their act together. It was nothing compared to having the Radiance trapped in your mind and slowly burning you apart from the inside out. It was nothing and yet Pure was worried for them. 

Pure should worry about themself, Ghost would be fine. Ghost would....

There was no longer just void coming from the crack in their mask. A claw came up and wiped a tear coming from their eye before flicking it away. They didn’t have time to cry they had to figure out what they were going to do. And yet the tears kept coming...

Ghost had moved their head when they heard those footsteps come closer. The other vessel had a cut off piece of cloak in their hands. It was coated in void. There was void on the gray floor, leaving dark stains that would be near impossible to get out.

Ghost had saw the hidden worry on their siblings face. A flash of guilt stabbed through them, they couldn’t stop the tears and-

The water swished around as another void body slipped into the pool next to Ghost. The light glinted off their armor as it rested on their shoulders and behind them outside of the pool. They were going to get it rusted if it fell in, but Pure didn’t seem to care. 

The armored vessel dropped the stained cloak into the water before dipping it below and then bringing it up to wipe away the dripping void. Every so often the cloak would be dipped back into the water then brought back up again, black swirling into the crystal clear blue until it was all the same color again. 

Pure did all of this with a blank face, but the care in their actions spoke thousands of words to Ghost that neither could even whisper aloud. The actions caused the blade of guilt to twist in their heart, their hands reaching up to grab the other vessels wrists as the front of their mask rested against their hands. 

And they cried, their shoulders shaking and void escaping through their eyes. They promised and promised that they wouldn’t let the kings plan to go through, they promised they wouldn’t leave their sibling to die. That they would do whatever it took to save them of that pain and that fate.

Even if they had to give their own in the process.

( @blazey )

( @red_vessel )

( @birthday-dunce )

( @bluwails​ )

( @komodensis​ )

( https://twitter.com/Perfidy19  )

Nothing lasts forever.

That was the last lesson the Hollow Knight received from their father upon being sealed away in the Black Egg Temple.

Nothing lasts. Not Hallownest. Not the Radiance. Not Father.

Not even the Void, as they had discovered during the time they were sealed away, watching as the Infection searing within their arm at last tore away the final, stretched strands. A silent snap, and the detached limb fell to the floor, sinking into the ground in a pool of writhing ink.

It was then that they had realised, finally, the irony of their predicament, the stump left behind burning with the searing rage of the Old Light.

If even the all encompassing Void did not last, then Hallownest’s perpetuation was truly an impossible wish.

They lamented the irony of it all once again, now as they sat hunched over in their current resting spot, in the corner of an abandoned village home. Ironic, how the very one who had wished the most fervently for an eternal kingdom, would also be the one to teach them the inevitability of the end.

The stump where the Infection had once burned now throbbed.

Yes. Nothing lasts forever. Not even the knowledge that they had once believed timeless meant much in the end. The court manners? Hallownest’s upper class was dead, rules hardly mattered anymore. The training their father, the Pale King, had bestowed upon them? Pointless. They barely even had the strength to stand up. The only, right way to deal with the Infection?

Clearly, that information had been wrong from the start, seeing as how their rejected sibling had found another way to do away with it entirely, while they had only managed to buy time.

“Do you want something to eat, Hollow?”

They raised their head at the sound. Hornet scuttled in through the door, her needle clenched in her fist, a bundle of… something wedged under her arm.

“I did not know what your preference was,” she tipped the contents of the bundle onto the floor. Two speared tiktiks and some baby gruzzers rolled onto a bed of dried nuts and grass. “So I brought a bit of everything. But the gruzzers need some treatment before they can be eaten, so-“

Hollow listened as she talked, her bustling, business-like manner reminding them strongly of the late Queen of Deepnest. Hornet had changed since they had last seen her. No longer the scampering grub that they remembered, she had grown up into a fine hunter, perfectly capable of defending herself.

To think that she had once been no taller than the hilt of their nail, wielding a toy needle made of shellwood. It had been amusing to watch her run around the White Palace, full of energy and free from the stiff formalities of the Royal Retainers around her.

Endearing. Inquisitive. A bit of a troublemaker, but her mischief never put anyone in harm's way. They fondly recalled the days when she would take their nail and attempt to swing it around in the same fashion as the Great Nailsage, her little legs teetering under its weight.

Father had never liked when she did that. While Mother merely watched in amusement, he would personally confiscate the nail, then proceed to sternly lecture her on the dangers of sharp, metal objects. Not that she listened.

Father had not liked it either when Hollow was about to learn the way of the nail. Clumsy, he had called them. Without a mind, he claimed, it would be difficult to teach them to properly balance and swing the weapon, let alone fight with it.

And he had been right too. A long time they had spent practicing alone in secret, repeatedly thrashing the heavy training nail up and down, up and down all through the night, trying to imitate the way the Great Knight Dryya had done it.

Up and down, up and down, the weight of the training nail dragging heavy on their arms, the pain of lifting it twisting at their spell hand, the strain tearing through their shell, through their Void, through the bright, bright orange light that-

“-can you even eat?”

Hollow twitched in surprise, shaking their head clear of the pained haze originating from the stump of their arm.

“No? Well…” Hornet stared down disappointed at the small pile of food she had collected for them. “I suppose I’d never seen the little ghost eat before.”

The look of hurriedly concealed distress on her face was familiar, and made them feel ashamed of worrying her. They raised their a- ... their other arm from where it had been resting on their nail, and picked up one of the nuts. Delicately, they pretended to nibble on it, then hid it away within the Void inside their shell.

Hornet visibly brightened up.

“Oh! So you can. I was worried for a moment there. I’ll go get some more supplies, make this place more comfortable. Then, once you’re well and rested, we shall find a way up the well for a more permanent residence.”

Hollow nodded, then slumped back into their thoughts as Hornet ran out the door.

Thoughts. It was frightening to think that they had been… well, thinking, this whole time despite trying their best to stay empty. The one expectation from their father had had towards them had been simple. Do not think. Yet the act of thinking had become so natural to them that the idea of not thinking had become a notion in itself.

Perhaps that was why their sibling had succeeded where they had failed. They had not been empty enough, not pure enough. Where the Radiance’s angry cries should have fallen on deaf ears, they had instead listened, endured, resisted.

And then when she noticed, oh, she had been so very angry.

And so very pleased.

They could almost see it now, the glaring orange dreamscape blazing with her ancient fury. The floating pavilions bathed in flames, the endless fall through the burning sky. Her booming voice screaming down at them from above, echoing through the infinitely stretching space. Cursing them for all the things their Father did, and Hallownest did, and the moth tribe did.

Through the burning hellscape, her cold, glaring eyes stared right into them, chilling like ice, bright like the lighthouse down in the Abyss. Her eyes shone such cold, piercing light into them, through them, exposing them and their falseness.

I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.

They lifted their arm to fight back, to chase her away. They conjured glowing daggers at their fingertips and thr- no, they didn’t throw the daggers. They tried again, but they couldn’t throw the daggers, the daggers were still there, at their fingertips, in their fingertips. They were right there, building up soul energy focused into their hand, but they couldn’t let go, and it was there, building up, that searing white bubbling to molten orange and burning and burning right up to their shoulder and the world was burning and they were burning a-

“Hollow?”

They were once again torn away from their thoughts and the pain in their stump by Hornet gently shaking their arm (Their sword arm. Their spell arm was still gone. Still gone yet it was still there hurting, but it was gone).

She was worried now, that was bad. How did she know, when they had never uttered a word, had never been able to utter a word? Their mask was still expressionless… perhaps their body language? They realised that they had been shaking this whole time. Simply distracted from that fact by the persistent, burning throb in their shoulder.

They dipped their head. How shameful. To think that they used to be able to wait through days of longing for Mother and Father’s company, without displaying signs of being anything but empty. To be able to continue through their training under a facade of normalcy, despite their mask being on the verge of cracking. They had been able to endure years of the Radiance’s torment, all her terrible dreams and her screaming voice.

Yet now? It was just a lost arm, an old wound nonetheless, but it was already tearing them apart to the point of showing such a weakened side of them.

“You seem upset,” Hornet’s voice was gentle, a tone that they had not heard in a long time. “Are you alright?”

They began to shake their head, then nodded. Then slumped over.

“Yes? No? I don’t know?” Hornet sighed. Then, to their surprise, came to sit down next to them. “Are you lost?”

A sigh.

“I certainly feel lost, Hollow. Hallownest was gone. Now so is the Infection. And the little ghost, I… I can’t find them anywhere.”

Hesitantly, they patted her back.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

Me neither.

A moment of silence. Then she glanced up.

“But you’re back.”

Hollow tilted their head.

“And that’s good, isn’t it?

Nothing lasts forever.

“You’re not the Pure Vessel, and I’m not the Princess of Deepnest.”

Not Hallownest.

“You don’t have to contain the Radiance anymore.”

Not the Radiance.

Her voice turned shaky.

“I don’t have to… put our siblings to rest anymore.”

Not… Father.

“We can do whatever we want.”

Nor the mindlessness of Void.

...

But none of that really mattered in the end, did it?

“That’s right. It’s alright. It hurts. All of it hurts, but...”

Hornet smiled, and put a hand on their shoulder. For a moment, it did not hurt quite so much anymore.

“We’ll work this out together, won’t we?”

( @hawaiianbabidoll​ )

( @alaska-ren​ )

Falling. Flawed. Forsaken. Forgotten. And that sickening, sweet glow of orange.

They deserved this punishment. Every damn second of this madness. It is their sin, it is their lie that caused all this. If they had come to their father and confessed, they would die. But death was a much better fate than ​this.

The irony. Their end was much like their other siblings’. Falling, eternal, until the inevitable crash.

They only wanted to save their father’s kingdom. Only wanted to make them all proud. Only wanted to be who they were supposed to be.

A failure.

It’s a sea. A constant sea of faces and expectations, with two becoming larger and larger as the years passed.

One pale shining light crowned with horns. One small shell with betrayed, black eyes.

It’s their fault. Gods, it’s their fault. It’s their fault they deserve this it hurts father pleaseithurtsIdon’twantthishelphelpfaultmyfaultmYFAULTIT’SMYFAULTFATHERIT’SMINEF ATHERFATHER F A T H E R

End        Me

                Fathe-

The Hollow Knight shot forward and reached for their nail, only finding a warm hand holding their wrist. Flowing, gentle red filled their vision and the warm hand placed theirs back on their lap.

“Sibling,” Hornet called out again, softer this time. “You’ve been dreaming.”

Hollow lowered their head, the void inside them pulsing and making their shell cold and trembling. Hornet hesitated, and with Hollow’s nod, sat beside them. Hollow stayed still, and would have placed a calm air if they could ever do it again at all. They had no more need to hide, so why...

“Sibling!”

“Troubled mind?” Hollow huffed and looked away when Hornet chuckled. “Care to let me in?”

My mind is a dark place, sister. I do not want you to be here.

Hornet’s eyes softened before crossing her legs and hugging her knees close. “Silent as ever, sibling.” The wind crawling through the dark caverns served as her only response.

“Do you regret this? All of this?” Hollow twisted their head and their wide eyes met tired ones. Their chest squeezed in anguish, sorrow, and grief. They were not the only casualty in this war between gods. They copied Hornet’s pose, and placed their head on their only arm.

... There are many things I wish I had done, but if I were given the choice to sacrifice myself once more for our future, I would do so in a heartbeat.

Perhaps it was their shared wyrm parentage, or their bond as siblings, or just pure intuition, but Hornet more than felt Hollow’s unspoken reply. “Oh, no,” she chuckled and shook her head, “No, no, no, I won’t let you do it again.” Hornet turned her body and fully faced the sibling she grew up with for so many years. “You will not sacrifice yourself again. Not to me. Not to any of us. Not to yourself.”

Hornet stayed quiet, eyes never leaving Hollow’s lowered head. Hollow didn’t have the energy to look at her anymore, to even lift their hand anymore. Both Hornet and they were born for a purpose. With that purpose stripped away, what are they?

“We were both children, sibling,” Hornet’s words carved through the silence, and struck right into Hollow’s soul. “Children are not meant to carry something as heavy as... this.”

“It is much easier to disappear, isn’t it?” Hollow’s eyes rose to look at Hornet’s cloak, too tired to look her in the eyes. They nodded, it is easier. If they disappeared, they wouldn’t think, wouldn’t feel. They’d be so much closer to being ‘pure’.

“You know, when you were sealed in the egg, when you disappeared... When... my mother disappeared,” Hollow swallowed a lump in their throat when a tiny crack shattered Hornet’s voice. She stopped her words and looked away. Hollow watched as she swiped at her eyes and took in deep breaths.

“I have watched this kingdom grow, fall, and die. I stayed when everyone left. I could have chosen to disappear as well, it would be so easy.”

“But that is not what it means to ​live.”​ Hornet moved and placed herself in front of Hollow, her red cloak billowing around her.

“Hollow, I want you to live.”

I do not know how.

Hollow’s silence was disturbed by the rustling of fabric. They watched as Hornet dusted herself off and in moments looked as the Princess Protector of Hallownest she always was.

“Then, do you think you can walk with me, sibling?”

The tilt of her head and bright determined eyes took hold of something in Hollow’s chest. Something warm.

I think... I can walk with you, sister.

Hornet stood and offered her hand, “Together?”

Together.

( @snakeyarts​ )

( @nonbinary-ghost​ )

Hornet let out an almost imperceptible sigh as they reached the hot springs, the damp air warm against her shell. The journey from the Black Egg Temple to the Crossroad’s Hot Springs was not a long one, but it had taken her more than a day to reach it given her… charge. 

Hornet glanced back at her sibling, something twisting in her shell at the sight of their battered form leaning heavily on their longnail by their one remaining arm. Their whole body shook as they panted for breath, bits of void leaking from the deep wounds in their side and the crack down their mask despite the bandages of webbing Hornet had applied. They way they slumped weakly, like an old rag doll with the stuffing worked out of its joints, made Hornet’s heart ache. They looked scant inches from death.

Hornet did her best to mask her worry, trying to exude an air of calm confidence as she stood upright, ever ready to dart forward to catch them if they stumbled. She urged them forward with a hand wave, hesitant to touch them for fear of causing them more harm. Sometimes, when hurt so gravely, it was best for one to move for oneself if possible, since one knew what ways would hurt.

The tension in Hornet’s shoulders eased only once she helped lower the once Hollow Knight into the warm waters of the hot spring, offering her hand for support as they unsteadily waded into the water. She watched in wonder as they visibly relaxed into the warmth, the flow of void leaking from their injuries slowing as white flickers of light began to float around them. Hornet was relieved to see that the graveness of their injuries did not render them completely immune to the regenerative properties of the hot springs and she finally allowed herself the tiniest glimmer of hope. Maybe…maybe they would be alright. 

She glanced down at the hard, cloak-wrapped bundle clutched under her arm. Carefully, as if afraid she’d break it further, Hornet unwrapped the shattered mask from the tattered grey cloak she’d swaddled it in. That strange, twisting feeling again clawed at her chest at the mask cracked perfectly in half cradled in her hands.

Ghost…

When she had swooped into the Black Egg Temple to aid them against their sibling, Hornet had possessed little hope for any of them to survive. At best, she’d hoped to defeat the Radiance, to vanquish the infection once and for all. At worst, she knew a slow, painful fall to the void or infection would be their only end as the Radiance’s calamity continued to blaze through what little remained of Hollownest. To be perfectly honest, she had thought hardly anything at all. She only knew there was an opening for her aid, a way to give Ghost the chance they needed to enter the Hollow Knight’s dream as they had with her mother. Survival had been, frankly, the last thing on her mind. 

Yet, when she had awakened once more in that temple, soft white light seeping in through the shattered ceiling to replace the fading void and haze of infection, that traitorous emotion had crept into her shell. The veins of orange infection lacing the walls of the temple withered and died, fading to black before crumbling away. That almost painful stab of hope only grew sharper when she discovered her sibling, the Hollow Knight, sprawled across the cracked ground, void dripping from their missing arm and the deep pits in their shell, but somehow, miraculously, still alive. 

Ghost, however, had not been so fortunate, and the nail of remorse that had lanced through her at the sight of their shattered mask had nearly brought Hornet to her knees. It wasn’t fair. The three of them had done it. They had won. They had beat the Radiance and her infection. Together. So why, then, had she and the Hollow Knight survived, but Ghost had not?

Knowing it was futile but still harboring that foolish flicker of hope, Hornet lowered Ghost’s broken mask into a shallow edge of the spring. Maybe, if their mask was whole, Ghost could come back, as the Hollow Knight had.

The white shards stayed sharp and jagged in the murky waters, as inert and still as stone.

Hornet’s shoulders slumped and that childish hope sputtered and died in her chest. 

The quiet slosh of moving water brought Hornet’s attention up to the Hollow Knight, surprised to find them moving about already as they carefully, hesitantly, shifted toward her. She blinked at the way the glowing light of the hot spring coiled around them, and for the briefest of heartbeats she imagined that light held a more yellow tinge, splaying out behind them in the Radiances starburst. She could almost imagine their eyes again alight… but no. No, the light was white and wispy, nothing more than steam, and the Hollow Knight’s one uncovered eye was a steady, empty black. The Radiance was gone. Hornet’s sibling was cured. 

For a moment, Hornet put aside her disappointment over Ghost’s mask and allowed herself to revel in the relief and joy that zinged through her at the sight of the sibling she had long assumed lost to her alive, if not completely well. She searched their void-black eye for any flicker of light, as the mental image of their glowing-orange eyes seeping tears of infection refused to fade. She cringed as she recalled the way they had turned their nail on themself in a desperate attempt to cut that infection away, to prevent their body from being puppeted into hurting Ghost. She reached out a hand, not quite touching their white mask still half covered in bandages. She was not sure if her touch would be welcome, or if it would only cause her injured sibling greater distress. 

“Hollow –“ she choked, surprised at the tightness in her throat. She swallowed. What was she going to say? ‘I’m glad you’re alive’? ‘I’m sorry for everything that happened’? Somehow, everything that came to mind felt inadequate and she fell back on the security of practicality. “Are you alright? Do you still hurt?” 

Her sibling stared a moment, as if processing her words. Slowly, they lifted their sodden cloak to glance down at the bandages wrapped around them. Their right arm was still missing, long since eaten away by the infection and well beyond the hot spring’s ability to heal, but the dark void no longer bled from under the bandages. Hornet reached forward, intending to unwrap the webbing to take a closer look, to be certain they were no longer hurt, but the way their sibling went absolutely motionless at the movement froze her in place. She abruptly recalled that they were completely unaccustomed to such care, even prior to becoming the Hollow Knight, and the only sensation they had experienced for all this time since they was pain. Did they fear her touch, worried it would bring harm?

“I promise, I will not hurt you,” she assured them gently. “I wish only to remove the bandages. May I?”

Stare.

Then, ever so slightly, the barest nod of their mask.

Hornet carefully, oh so carefully, removed the bandages to reveal the scarred shell underneath. No longer open, bleeding wounds, the Hollow Knight’s injuries were little more than slightly duller grey scars along the perfect black of their carapace. However, when she unwrapped the bandage over the Hollow Knight’s eye, Hornet had to stifle a flicker of sorrow to find their mask still cracked. She gently cupped their cheek, staring into their eyes as a confusing swirl of emotions eddied through her. The sharp ache of hope in her chest was only sharpened by the dark coil of fear twisting and untwisting in her belly – the fear of doing too little, too late; of potentially discovering that her sibling was actually hollow after a fashion; the fear of them not. There was an uncomfortable itch of confusion somewhere in there too, at their shared survival, and a warm flicker of gratitude tainted with sorrow that they had, even if at Ghost’s expense, though it pained her to admit as much. But most of all was shame, and a steady, burning anger that pulsed in the pit of her belly at what had been done to her sibling, at what trials they had endured.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. For what, she couldn’t quite find the words to say. How did one apologize for anything that had happened to her sibling? She knew none of what happened to them had been her fault – she had been far too young, too small, to prevent their binding. But she still felt the deepest shame at her continued inability – nay her refusal -  to brake those bindings herself, at the role she played in even preserving them. A cold, fracturing pain broke her heart as she fully comprehended just how much they had suffered in all the time that had passed. How could one ever adequately apologize for that?

She could feel the Hollow Knight begin to shake slightly under her touch, their shoulders trembling as their breathing became labored. For an instant, Hornet feared something was wrong, that she’d hurt them somehow, that they might vanish in a cloud of void just as Ghost had. 

But when dark tears of void began to spill from their eyes, and their quick breaths quickly dissolved into silent sobs, she realized they were probably only just beginning to process what had happened to them. She went to withdraw her hand, intending to give them space, but their own hand quickly covered hers and they leaned into her touch. Surprise pulsed through her at the motion, at the clear assertion of want without her prompting. An instinct Hornet had long thought dead had the spiderling wading into the water with her sibling and wrapping her arms around their shoulders. They were so much bigger than she that she had to stand to give them a hug, even as they remained seated. But the way they clung to her as shuddering sobs raked through them made them feel so small and fragile in her arms, and she blinked away tears of her own. She gently stroked their back as they cried, holding them tight as if her arms alone could keep them from falling apart. She found herself murmuring that it was okay, that they could cry now, they could let themself feel. The Radiance was destroyed, her infection gone. They had done it - they had kept their oath despite it all. She promised them they were safe. They were free.

For how long they remained like that, Hornet could only guess. Her back and arms had long since begun to ache at holding her much larger sibling aloft, but she steadfastly refused to be the first to draw away. Her sibling needed her, and this time wyrm damn it she was going to be here. 

After a time, the Hollow Knight’s breathing slowed, and their shaking lessened. She let them draw away at the slightest tug. The last thing she wanted to do was make them feel trapped. Their white mask was stained with dark streaks and she retrieved one of the bandages to wipe it clean. Her sibling pressed their mask into her hand as she worked and she got the sense that they were trying to express a form of gratitude. Relief and joy had begun to overwhelm all the other emotions that still twisted in Hornet’s chest – not quite replacing them but at least quelling them. Her sibling was alive, and this time they were free. It felt a wonder that such a thing could be possible, and some small part of Hornet swelled with pride at the knowledge that she had helped make this happen, even if mostly unintentionally. She vowed that this time, she would make certain they got to live fully and freely. 

Her thumb brushed the jagged edge of the crack in their mask and Hornet’s mind began to search for ways to make things better for her sibling, needing to prove to them through actions that they truly were safe now. That she cared.

“I wonder if the Mask Maker could repair this,” she mused, her thoughts drifting to the strange recluse who lived above her home in Deepnest. She knew he had been the one too craft the Hollow Knight’s mask as they grew up, since the vessels were incapable of molting like an average bug. If he was still alive, maybe the Mask Maker could help heal her sibling.

A thought occurred to her with a cold prickling across her shell and Hornet turned to Ghost’s mask still sitting broken in the water.

Perhaps…

Hollow let Hornet pull her hand away and she carefully plucked those white shards from the water, re-wrapping them in Ghost’s old cloak. Her motions were quick with a new purpose and the Hollow Knight stared at her, their confusion clear in the tilt of their head. 

“I have an idea,” she admitted, tucking the bundle in a silk bag under her cloak. A fragile hope had begun to rekindle in her chest. “There might be a way to get Ghost back.”

She paused, then asked, “Do you want to come with me?” 

( https://twitter.com/RannHKnight )

( @enbeebo​ )

( @jenmodri​ )

( https://twitter.com/hakunoknight )

( @lickthejam​ )

( https://twitter.com/BerryCannibal )

Grimm let out a hum as he danced with himself, going through yet another imaginary routine as he allowed his thoughts to drift. The tent was unusually quiet without Brumm around - he was still surprised that his worried conduit had offered to take up a torch and pass out some of the scarlet flame this time around, perhaps he was finally warming up to the ritual? - allowing the perfect space for him to practice his final audience with The Pale King’s vessel.

He chuckled to himself at the memory of that wyrm... Always so frazzled, with his thoughts scattered all about, never in one place. He never did get to teach that fool how to relax before he up and disappeared, leaving this kingdom to be ravaged by Her incurable sickness. What a shame...

He was just coming out of a twirl when he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His knees buckled. He fell. Where were the Grimmkin when he needed them?

Letting out a faint growl, he tried to get back onto his feet as he clutched his- His... He looked down to where his hand was ​supposed ​to be touching the smooth, red carapace of his chest, horrified at the sight that greeted him. An open wound, leaking with bright, scarlet flame where the heart of any normal bug was supposed to be located. It was only after that first moment of shock that the pain set in.

Collapsing to the ground once more, Grimm let out a roar of misery and shock and anguish and pure, unfiltered ​agony​. It felt as if the fires that once kept him fed and warm as a child was now burning him up from the inside, taking every part of his body with them. Under his claws he felt his body coming apart, leaving less and less shell to grip on to as he was consumed by what once kept him alive. ​What was happening? This was not how the ritual went. This was not ​supposed ​to happen-

~ Curtains closed. Lights out. Our lead actor has disappeared. ~

Grimm jerked up into a sitting position, breath laboured and raspy as he clutched his chest. It was solid now. Ok. He wasn’t dead, at least. The legacy didn’t end with him as he had feared when... Wait.

He glanced around the room, feeling his metaphorical heart sink when he saw the stitched-together crimson and plum and wine-coloured fabrics that covered the floor, the ever-gently pulsing veins, the scarlet, firelit lanterns... He wasn’t in the physical realm anymore, he quickly realized.

Rolling over, he grabbed a small hand mirror from beside the bed, frantically checking his physical appearance. The ritual hadn’t failed, had it? No. It was still going if the coal colouring of his crescent-shaped horns was anything to go by. Then that must’ve meant...

Oh. Oh, that ​traitor.​

Grimm could feel a growl bubbling up from his chest as he considered what might’ve happened. He must’ve tried to stop the ritual ​early,​ perhaps even tried to ​kill​ the troupe as a whole by banishing them back to the dream realm. He must’ve manipulated Grimms poor co-actor in this important play into following him, they seemed so glad to help out with the ritual, after all...

Wait. The ritual. The child. Where was the child? Why hadn’t it called out to him yet? Where was the child?

Frantically, and yet gently, he began searching through the satin sheets of the bed he had woken up in. If the child wasn’t dead, it had to be there somewhere, right? Right? Ri- Ah. There it was...

He carefully picked up the limp grimmchild, studying it for a moment. It worried him how he could only barely see it’s chest move, and it wasn’t chirping or making any other kind of noise at him like it usually would, even in its sleep. Not that one could truly sleep in the dream realm.

“My child...” He rasped, quietly, holding it close to his chest, still feeling the gentle pulse of fire inside it. It was still alive, that much was true, but it would not remain that way for long at this stage of the ritual. It would need more flame, and quickly, but finding it could be difficult without his grimmkin to scour the vast wastelands between kingdoms for something worthy of the presence of the troupe in its entirety. Sighing, he cradled his child close as he sat for a long moment in hopelessness, considering his options.

“Marintide...” A voice murmured in his mind, the rasp undoubtedly belonging to The Nightmare King himself.

Right. Of course. They had received another call while performing their ritual in Hallownest. The other kingdom was far geographically, but travelling large distances had never been

much of a problem for the troupe. But then again, the troupe hadn’t been in this situation for several centuries. Last time they were banished was way back in-

A soft cough and whine of complaint sounded from the starving child. Right. Best not to dwell on that with a starving grimmchild in his arms.

Slowly, Grimm laid back down on the satin bed, still holding the child close to his chest as he focused on the brief glimpses he had been given of the kingdom when they had received their call. He admittedly struggled a little with remembering the less interesting details, such as the dying corals and thick bramble forests, but he managed none the less.

--

Waking up on cold, hard stone was not a welcome experience, but it was the best way to tell that they had arrived. Huffing as he got up, Grimm took a moment to look around. Without the Grimmkin to go before him and set up a comfortably warm tent, he was immediately exposed to the cold breeze coming in from the ocean and the sight of the beautifully ruined architecture that once was this great kingdom.

The stone beneath his feet was a brilliant cobalt blue, and he could see the sunlight reflecting off something gold in the distance. Sunlight? Ah. An aboveground kingdom, then. Something that looked like a lighthouse of sorts was off in the distance as well, just barely visible if he squinted through the gleam of gold from fallen pillars and monuments. The sun was glinting off the sea as well, the water so reflective that he almost missed the large, pale form that smoothly broke the surface and went back under in the same movement. A seawyrm, perhaps. He had been told of these before, though he couldn’t recall much...

Shaking his head to clear his mind of thought and clutching the grimmchild closer still, he made his way through the ruins towards the woods he had seen. Extracting flame from living creatures was a painful process for both him and the second party, but in this case, it would have to be done. The Grimm lineage would not end with him.

Stepping into the woods, there was immediate rustling to his left. He barely had time to think before a large, hunter-esque creature had him pinned to the ground, teeth bared, ready to end him.

He remained calm, though, reaching up and firmly placing his open palm over its eyes as he focused, sending into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep... Sighing, Grimm nudged the large creature off of him, finally untucking the grimmchild from his cape. His expression quickly dropped when he saw the state they were in, flopping over limply in his hands instead of flying up and readily feasting on the nightmares of the sleeping hunter.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Quickly, he crouched down by the sleeping hunter, carefully placing his child upon their head. “Sorry about this...” He murmured, though he knew his apology would never be heard, though he knew there was no forgiveness to be had for what he was about to do.

Then, he started chanting.

The words that spilt from his lips made the fire inside him roar back to life. It was painful, but he had to endure. For his child. For the troupe. He gritted his teeth together to keep himself from screaming, wanting so dearly not to distress his child...

“Ngahhh...”

Grimm glanced up at the noise, finally stopping his chanting, smiling when he saw his child just as lively as ever. But...

He brought his hand up, gently touching his left horn, quickly finding a large patch missing, replaced by openly roaring scarlet fire. He was weakening, he realized, tucking the child close once more. They would need to finish the ritual soon. He’d just need to find Brumm so-

Right. Brumm wasn’t part of the troupe anymore. That traitor.

He didn’t have a conduit now. And he didn’t have a helper either. As sure as he was that he could get the vessel to meet him outside Hallownest, the banishment ritual would not allow him within several miles of the place.

He’d have to wait.

Slowly wasting away into a fire ghost, he’d have to wait.

He’d be willing to make that sacrifice for his child, yes.

He’d keep them alive and safe until a proper ritual could be conducted again, or until he finally grew unable to help it and it’d have to starve.

He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

( donotgogently )

( @wasabi-arts​ )

Grimm pets the small creature in his arms, looking over Dirtmouth from the cliff. “What a shame for our little friend to abandon you in such a place,” he cooed, starting his descent down king’s pass, “ and a place so dangerous and cold. To think that vessel didn't even bring you back to our Trope.” The child purred in his arms, content with the situation despite the abandonment.

The trek back to the troupe wasn’t long, and Grimm made his way into the tent. “Good evening, Master.” Brumm said, already offering to take the torch from Grimm’s hands, surprised by the sight of the child, as well as Grimm’s damaged horn. “Master, why do you hold the child? And may I ask what happened to your right horn?” Grimm simply smiled at Brumm, dismissing Brumm’s second question while petting the child. “I hate to admit such a circumstance, but I do believe our little visitor has abandoned the child. Brumm was silent for a moment, looking at the child. He didn’t like the idea of Grimm dying for the sake of a ritual, and would much rather let the ritual die. At least for a bit longer, if it must continue.

“Why do you think they abandoned it?” Brumm asked, curious. “The traveler seems attached to it.” With a thoughtful nod from Grimm, he pet the child once more to hear it purr. “Maybe it has something to do with the roar heard earlier?”

“Roar?” Grimm asked, cocking his head with curiosity. “I heard no such thing.”

Brumm was surprised at this comment, stopping his music at the thought. “But Master, the roar was quite loud. It rattled the tents of our troupe and the homes of this here town. The bug near the bench described it as something akin to a cry.”

“I see...”

Grimm looked out of the tent in the direction of the crossroads. The abandoned Vessel of the Pale King himself had likely gone down below, Grimm thought. That ​was the location of the black egg that the king set up long ago to contain the infection. And since The Knight was a vessel themself, that is likely where they went.

“I don't think we’ll see them for a while, my dear Brumm.” The child snored in his arms. “May I ask why not?” “Well, do believe our small friend has gone to fight the creature inside the

crossroads.” “...”

Brumm looked back at Grimm’s shattered horn. “Master,”he asked,resuming his music,”May I ask what happened to your horn?”

Grimm turned away from the tent’s entrance to face Brumm.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” He stated, touching the broken spot with his hand.”I had gotten into a bit of a scuffle with the creatures up in the cliffs trying to obtain the child.” The spot hurt, yes, however Grimm paid it no mind. It was merely a minor injury, he was far more concerned about the child in his arms.

“Well, Brumm, we should take care of the child in the knight’s absence, hm?”

Brumm nodded in agreement. “I do think we should take care of your injury too, Master.”

( @ouliarts​ )

( @null-icon )

It is the dead of night and the big top is quiet with the whispers of a phantomly audience. Your Master had told you to keep watch before he had rushed out in a hurry - the fastest you’ve seen him move outside of performance - but it is still the same dark, dreary town at the base of the looming cliffs off to the left. Winds still whipped about and crept underneath the tent fabrics, the scarlet haze of an ethereal presence flickers with the chill, and with a rumbling sigh gathered from the depths of your chest, you reach behind you to pull out your trusty accordions and begin to play a slow melody from something beyond your time as a Troupe member. It’s a delicate number though sharp and stuttered even to your skilled hands, suggesting that the you of another lifetime had not gotten to learn it well, but you are alone with your thoughts and the mumble of an uncaring audience so you practice and improvise in hopes of making it something worth playing for someone beyond deserving.

The tent flaps flutter open long after you’ve sat down with your legs crossed and your instrument falls silent. The winds outside had gotten stronger, but it was hardly an observation relevant when shortly after the flaps are sealed you feel your fur near singing from the blast of furious heat. Where you previously would have no need to look up at the looming figure that storms past, you can’t help but to draw your gaze upon him. His stance is proud and he glides elegantly through the entrance chamber, nodding to you his curt greeting as he adjusts something under his thin cloak. You would have assumed nothing was off if he wasn’t radiating the hellish heat of his rage, and when he exited into the main ring, one of the heads of his curving black horns snapped clean off bleeding an otherworldly vermillion that trickled into his wiry fabrics.

Sometime when the sun should have broken over the peaks, you decide to pay your Master a visit, your curiosity and concern uncharacteristically getting the best of you. You don’t get much more than a few strides into his secluded part of the big top when the maroon walls shudder despite his quiet rasp, “I do not believe I summoned you, Brumm.” 

“Mmmrr… So it may be. You are not well.”

“Is that so? What makes you question my state of being? What is it you find in the need to bother my rest?”

“The tent still simmers with your anger. My sight did not deceive me when I spotted your-” You are interrupted when the soft grizzle sounds, the pale pink of small irises blinking through where your Master is concealed. “... If that is all you dare approach me for, be on your way, Brumm. You have disturbed me, and now my child. Let us sleep.”

“Have you bandaged yourself, Master?” The hesitance you are greeted with tells you all you need to know, and you go digging in your fur for the roll of fabric you sew onto the shreds of your patchy sleeves. “Mmmh. Let me cover the wound, then I will leave.”

“I do not remember giving you permission.” “I do not require it for this.” Grimm uncovering himself enough for cat-like eyes to stare into your mask is simply affirmation to your statement. His horn had stopped oozing, now simply glowing dimly, but still you settle beside him to begin carefully swathing his horn in gray linen. “Did you fight, Master?” “Yes.”

“What for?” “My child. You must understand, the child is the future of this troupe. Of us.”

“Hrm. Why was the Grimmchild beyond the big top?”

“I do not know, Brumm, but it does not matter. Our caller approaches us soon, and the ritual will soon begin. That is what’s most important.” After the timbre of his voice falls out, you have nothing left to say and so you shift the rest of your energy into securing the wrap you have now made. “It will grow back, but thank you regardless, Brumm.” And when you turn to leave as promised, Grimm speaks up again. 

“Will you play me a song, musician?”

( https://twitter.com/Heck_Yena )

( tfwhynot)

The troupe was always on the move. When the ritual wasn’t in the picture they, for the most part, had to travel the old fashion way. The tents could be instantly packed and unpacked with a snap of Grimm’s fingers, coming in and out of the Nightmare realm with ease. The Grimmkin were a similar story, though they themselves were in control of which realm they were in at any time. It was the more unique bugs that couldn’t though, Brumm, Divine, and the Grimmsteads were anchored to the waking realm.

Grimm led the caravan on a wagon all his own. It held everything he needed to plan, maps, lists of supplies they had or needed, and written plans for performances of future and past. Brumm followed in the wagon behind. It carried all the other things that didn’t originate from the nightmare heart; containing currencies from lands of all sorts. Things to trade away for other things they may need or want, rations of food and water, and nicknacks collected for sentimental purposes.  In the very back, the strongest and most loyal steed followed, wheeling Divine’s wagon with them. Jars of the various substances she excreted were stashed, herbs, and remedies, each with their own uses.

Brumm’s music floated around the caravan, the familiar tunes of his accordion helping fight off complete boredom. Grimmkin popped in and out, joking and chatting among themselves. The newest of them excited to be on the road again, the long darkness to come not quite setting in on them yet.

The road they traveled slowly grew rough, the wagon wheels bouncing slightly on the rocks that were sprinkled across the road. Two mountains off in the distance came into view, a thin and winding path was carved through, old and uncared for; it was made a mess by time. It had been made by a kingdom long gone and forgotten. 

He waved down a few Kin that was chatting above him, “Explore the hills we are to tread,” He rasped out, “Report any dangers or curiosities you come across.” They nodded and dashed off, nothing but a rapidly disappearing blaze of scarlet fire left behind.

Time passed as Grimm waited, the steed pulling his wagon huffed at them, silently asking to rest soon. The road was still uneven, each wagon still bouncing off the occasional rock, tilting to and fro at the uneven path.

The Grimmkin still hadn’t returned as the wagons began to pull through the mountains. The walls of rock were high on each side, holes were mirrored on each side. A few old corpses could barely be seen, legs and arms of bugs both wild and sentient lay idle, their chests gaping open, innards long eaten by what lived here. He placed a hand on the child’s back where they were curled by his side in worry. They murmured in their sleep, still so small and weak. It’d be a while till the next ritual.

The walls were close together, they only just let the wagons pass without the worry of scraping the sides. There was no way to turn around once the caravan walked past the entrance, let alone run the other way if something happened.

“The path through should be short,” Grimm thought, “We’ll stop for rest and food on the other side,” he waved down more kin, a dozen more than last time, “If something happens we can deal with it,” He instructed them to carry torches and light the path, and most importantly, report back if they saw something, “We’ll always make it through.”

Music seeped through the artificial canon, echoing through the caves along each side. The old familiar tune felt uneasy, the vague feeling of nervousness permeating through the troupe enough to effect Brumm. The steeds began to slow, the sounds of their marching quieting as they pushed through the fatigue encasing their shells.

A puff of red smoke and a small novice was sitting beside Grimm. Their shrill and panicked voice woke the child, their words were spoken quickly, half slurred together, and hard to understand.

A sharp scree cut through all the noise, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake.

The Grimmkin immediately started to panic, “That’s the noise! Tha-”

A kin was slammed against the wall with a loud crack, their shell breaking on impact as a creature dug into them, shredding their garments as they fell, the Grimmkin wailing.

Jumping up Grimm tossed the reins to a nightmare kin. As he got on top of the wagon another scree rang out; the grimkin this time successfully dodging. Brumm’s wagon shook as the creature collided with it, the steed leading it letting out a panicked whimper.

The creature hissed on the ground, mandibles and legs flailing as for a moment before righting itself. It crouched down, ready to strike again when the wheels of Divine’s cart rolled over, only pinning it at first,  the steed struggling to pull over the living speedbump. A squeak and a squelch and their rigid shell shattered, Divine letting out a startled yelp as the wheel suddenly dropped back to ground level.

Another screech, Grim immediately aimed to intercept it when yet another rang out. 

It was like a domino effect, one after another after another screaming before leaping at the caravan. Grimm dashed, intercepting as many as he could before they hit, the air was just as full of fire as it was the creature as the kin attempted to help kill their attackers.

Still more kept coming, “Take them through as fast as possible,” Grimm barked at the nightmare leading them.

“Master?” Brumm called out, worry lacing his voice as much as panic.

“I’ll meet up with you on the other side, just go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice, the steeds immediately attempting to move as fast as their tired legs could carry them. 

Flinging himself into the air Grim puffed up with a loud scream, doing his best to draw all of their attention. Fire flung from around him, lighting the small canyon with fire. 

It worked, the beasts focusing on the largest threat. The wagons now having to deal with fewer things under their wheels could actually hurry, fear coursing through the steeds giving them new energy. The sound of Grimm’s fight growing more and more distant till it was nothing but an echo on the other side.

Once out the steeds couldn’t go any further if they tried. Their shells heaved as they drew breath, legs shaking as they unhitched themselves, collapsing on the ground with exhaustion. They huffed at the kin who immediately checked on them, shaking any attempts to get them to stand up, just wanting to be left alone.

With a grunt Brumm hopped out of the cart, afraid of what he might see. 

It looked like the fuckers had attempted to burrow through the wagons. Shallow divots in the repurposed shells that made the walls and ceilings were spread across all the wagons. 

He made his way to the front, seeing the nightmare doing their best to comfort Grimmchild as they cried.

“Mrmmm. Is the child hurt?”

They shook their head no, rubbing their back as they clung to the kin, “scared and worried for their father, but completely unharmed,” they rumbled.

Brumm nodded as he looked to the other kin. A few quickly busied themselves but most were unsure, not knowing what to do without instruction from the master. No one could properly hunker down for the night without him and there wasn’t really a second in command for situations like this.

“Try and get some to start repairs on the wagons,” Brumm told the nightmare. He shifted in place trying to figure out what to do, he wasn’t a leader, he hated giving directions to others. There was a reason he was the only musician, as the sole bug who composed the music he just could never direct others to play something right.

Walking back to Divine he could hear her talking, her airy voice louder and sharper than usual.

“Aaaah! Where’s the master? He said he’d meet us! I can’t smell him here! Where is he?” The kin outside her wagon shrugged.

“Mrmmm. How are you fairing Divine?” Brumm asked, already knowing the answer.

“Aaaahhhhh! Just terribly! What are we supposed to do? The master said he’d be here!”

“All we can do is wait. Master will come with time.”

Divine hissed in worry, she shifted and wiggled as much as she could, “But couldn’t he just puff back in any second? Why isn’t he here!” Her face was in a deep frown, something no one saw often, it made her smiling mask half look out of place and strange.

“Mrmmm. He may still be trying to buy time, he can’t see how far we are.”

“Aaahhhhh! But what if! What if…” She trailed off, not wanting to say what she thought. If she said it, what if it came true?

“Impossible, it’s never happened before. He’ll return. Master may come back hurt, but he will come back.” Brumm reassured.

Divine still wasn’t sure about that but dropped it, “What are we supposed to do till he comes back?”

“Mrmm,” Brumm had to think for a moment, “I don’t know. I’ll start getting food ready I guess. Keep medical supplies at the ready when he returns.”

“Ahh… But what am I supposed to do? I’ll worry myself into knots if I don’t do something!”

“You can watch the child. The nightmare caring for them now has more important things they can do. Just make sure they’re calm, try to get them to sleep.” Divine nodded at Brumm and he set off to try and put things together. 

As time passed though Brumm couldn’t stop worry from clouding his head. He kept a bag of medical supplies on him while he cooked while doing his best to focus on the task at hand, making a basic soup from what they had. Though the spot they were at wasn't the best, the kin were able to find a river, grabbing buckets to add to the cauldron and give to the steeds. There wasn’t any promise of something that tasted amazing but everyone would appreciate having something in their stomachs for now.

There was little conversation as food was passed around. Not even the novices, often cheerful and mischievous, found it in them to crack jokes. Brumm at least took the chance to fully get what damages were. The wheels would need to be replaced, many cracks and deformations from the blasted things would make it risky to set off too soon, they’d need some material to make some final repairs but the wagons were still okay enough that there wasn’t worry of them falling apart or rain seeping through, the steeds were tired and a bit scratched up but would be okay with rest, and while a few Grimmkin had been lost the majority were okay, shaken up, but okay.

The tents appeared in a flash, faster and more sudden than Brumm had seen in a long time. It was almost dizzying, everyone having to be moved and placed within different rooms.

“Master!” Brumm realized. He had to find him, figure out what happened, make sure he was okay.

Where was he even? A quick turn around and he was in the main stage with a few other confused kin, a few mourning over dropping their meal in their daze.

Master’s room, Grimm had to be there. He was quick to shuffle as best as he could in the darkened stage. 

“Master?” Brumm called.

“Come in Brumm.” 

Brumm tentatively moved the curtain, peering in. His mast was sprawled out on a fainting couch. 

“Master! Your horn-”

“I know Brumm, it looks worse than it feels.” 

Brumm couldn’t believe that. One of Grimm’s horns had been torn off, the thick shell left was jagged and cracked around it. The soft flesh within weeping blood now that it was exposed. 

Grimm had been injured before but this… This had never happened. Maybe a crack or scratch, but even during the ritual Brumm had never seen a piece of Grimm torn off.

“You-You need to get that cleaned immediately!” Brumm moved closer, trying his best to see if there was anything else.

Grimm chuckled, “I haven’t heard you order someone around in a long time.”

That made Brumm freeze, “I… Mrmm. I’m sorry master that wasn’t my intent.”

Finally, Grimm turned to face him, “There is no need to apologize, my friend, I was only teasing.”

Grimm had a tired smile, blood slowly winding its way down the side of his face. There were a few other scratches and cuts, small tears in his cloak, but nothing nearly as bad as his horn.

“I’m just glad everyone is okay,” He turned back looking down to what Brumm could now see was the Grimmchild. They rested their head on their father's arm, purring softly as Grimm’s other hand lightly scratched their head.

“Please master, let me dress your wounds. Even if it’s not as bad as you say it still needs to be taken care of soon rather than later.”

Grimm looked back at Brumm, seeing him fidget with worry, “Very well.”

He shifted into a better position, sitting upright with his cloak completely out of the way, much to the complaint of Grimmchild. Grimm shushed them as Brumm moved in front of him. Even sitting on a couch this low to the ground Grim was still at eye level with Brumm.

Brumm had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pulled out supplies to clean his master, “Mrmm. This is probably going to sting,” he warned. 

He poured a cleaning acid on a clean towel, it wasn’t strong enough to do much more than sting, but it still cleaned. He carefully dabbed at the wound, waiting to see if there was any reaction. Grimm’s eye twitched slightly but he kept calm as Brumm thoroughly cleaned his head. 

Placing the used rag aside, pulling a large pair of tweezers out. Grimm bowed his head slightly, allowing Brumm easier access. Carefully Brumm pulled bits of shell that had embedded themself in the wound. Grimm huffing as a large piece, roughly the size of a piece of geo, was taken out.

After cleaning it again Brumm placed a layer of protective shell over it, a large circular disk of shell cleaned and cut to help cover a wound till it healed so nothing got in. It was a bit big but it did the job. With some adhesive strips, it was secured.

Brumm stepped back, “It’s done, master. Mrmm.”

That same tired smile from before appeared again, “Thank you for caring for me, my friend. Tell me, was the rest of the troupe okay?”

“Yes, a few kin were lost but given some time to rest everyone will be okay. The wagons will likely need to be replaced soon though.”

Grimm nodded, “Rest, that certainly sounds nice. Would the troupe be okay if I rested for now?”

“Mrm. I believe so, though it would be a good idea to talk to everyone and address what happened.”

“Of course, of course,” Grim, let out a slow sigh, looking down as the child got comfortable again. “Could you leave me to rest then?”

Brumm nodded silently and left. As he lifted the curtain he turned again, taking one final look at his master. He was too tired to hang as he usually slept, instead opting to curl around the child on the fainting couch.

“Rest well master.”

( @kiwikoala​ )

( @vibeseeker​ ) 

Crimson flames slowly licked up the draping curtains, draining away all color except the ocean of red that surrounded the young king and the visage of the ever beating Nightmare Heart. The ever present silence within the realm was only pierced by the steady thump of the constantly beating object, joined soon by the child's own pulse.

That is until a sharp crack echoed through the red hued abyss, quickly following the noise the growing troupe master had been blinded by a bright light. He quickly beat his wings in an adrenaline fueled struggle to wipe away the blazing heat that seared into his retinas, only to be met by a new presence that felt somewhat familiar. However the very energy called out to him, drawing him to cautiously approach.

"So I see the mewling cub shows its strength, choosing to find me within my own realm," The figure slightly turned and with a snap set their hand alight with a crimson flame, unveiling the form of the Nightmare King "It's almost cute, though that won't prove you as a worthy enough vessel alone."

"I... I just... I wasn't trying too..." Grimmchild nervously spoke as he pushed off the larger beings baited words, fanning out his wings and drifting to the floor below "my... my father, he... where is he? I... I was just with him..." panic started to grip at the small things words, as his eyes darted around and finally took in the lack of a landscape around the pair "...where am I? Who are you? What did you do?"

"Hah, poor thing, did your father never tell you of your purpose?" The Nightmare spoke with a chuckle and slowly bent down to be a little closer to the child's level, the pinkish red of his eyes burning deep within "a shame then, a kin not properly warned will make the process far more difficult than it should be..."

"...kin? My... my purpose? Wh..what do you mean?" Grimmchild asked with a slight hitch to his voice, pulling his wings back as worry tugged at the edges of his mind "I... I really want to go home... where is home?" He asked again, not expecting a real answer but hoping that the strange 'kin' would take pity upon him.

The larger figure let off a deep sigh as it drew back up to its full height, looking away with an almost bored expression adorning their face.

"Fine, perhaps you were simply dragged here out of pure luck then, as I doubt a weakling could get here of skill alone..." The Nightmare King then lifted one of his hands before giving a simple snap that caused the child to burst into crimson flames, almost immediately cooking them inside and out as their skin was charred and reduced to ash.

Grimmchild awoke with a start, jolting up upon the soft sheets of a fine bed deep within the maze of tents that was the troupe. His breathing was laboured and irregular, and a tear was starting to build up on the edge of his eyes, that is until a black wing gently pulled him back into a kind embrace.

"Is everything alright little one?" Grimm spoke out with a softer tone, moving himself a little closer in order to better comfort his son.

"A... a nightmare... it... it felt s..so..." the child stuttered for a while, struggling to form words until Grimm tightened the hug a little further and carefully wrapped his wing around them. Laying the both of them back into the bed.

"Its okay little one, nightmares are just that, nightmares. Just try and get back to sleep, alright?"

"A..alright..."

( @doodle-chris​ )