Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No mind to think.

The Vessel knows their life will be short.

No will to break. No voice to cry suffering.

The mask that encases their shade would've held in their cries, anyway. The only sound that escapes them is a faint whoosh of air, as they trot along behind the King. Their father. When he picks up the pace, so do they. If he were to dismiss them, they would leave. It's the same with the royal knights, the queen, the guards...

The Vessel was born for one thing, and there's no reason to resist. Every moment they spend alive brings them closer to their fate. No one thinks they've actually alive, but they are. That's their secret: they're good at pretending. Their mercifully blank visage protects everyone else from their thoughts.

No mind to think. Ironically, the Vessel probably thinks more than any of their siblings would have. There's an awful lot to take in. Their thoughts are occupied with today's training, and the hum of anticipation in their chest. That new bodily sensation of theirs worries them, but they have no one to ask. They can't ask.

Do not question. Do not fear.

The inside of their carapace thrums as they step into the arena. They are a blot of ink on the cold floor. Buzzsaws hum along the perimeter.

Do not fail. Do not let him down. You were made for this.

A pair of Kingsmoulds drop into the arena, and the Vessel springs into action. They weave around the constructs' attacks, taking little more than a graze against their cloak. Their nail, though as diminutive as they are, finds its mark between the gaps in polished armor. The Vessel leaps back. Just in front of them, the floor drops into a pit of spikes.

Out of the corner of their eye, they see that the King isn't their only audience. Other knights--real ones, not trainees like them--have gathered. The Vessel's attention leaves them for warped battlefield they've found themselves upon. Those flying constructs, they don't remember their names. When their nail connects, its shell splits and comes right back together. They go tumbling towards a bramble of thorns, and just barely catch themselves by scrambling up a wall. More Kingsmoulds are coming; they can't falter for even a moment.

Does he really think you can do this?

They dash from one platform to the next. Focusing on both the enemies and the little slabs of rock feel nigh-impossible, and each step makes them feel like they'll slip. Surely the King knows that a pure vessel shouldn't be able to calculate their own movements? Even muscle memory involves...well, memory. Some form of thought. If the King wanted that kind of martial precision, he was better off making an automaton, not a vessel.

The brambles break their fall, tattering cloak and piercing soft carapace. The Vessel's body lurches. The enemies disperse at some unseen command, and the arena flattens into harmless stone. Ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed, give or take.

You failed. You had one job, and you failed. How many injuries are safe to endure before he becomes suspicious? Before he sees your hesitance?

But they get up. The room rocks from side to side. They look towards the King to gauge his reaction. Impassive. The knights and especially the other nobles in attendance whisper askance to each other. A round beetle in gleaming white armor leans down to say something to the King. Is he disappointed? It's a little hard to tell with him, but...

Something inside their body thrums with each step they take. After every training session, return to his side and await further instructions. Oh, but it hurts. It feels like the void will keep flaking from their body until only their empty shell is left. The nail clatters to the floor, and they soon follow. Their vision erupts into stars.

The last thing they see is the King abruptly stand, and then everything goes black.

---

--

-

What is purity? The King defined it as being thoughtless, voiceless, with no free will. A pure vessel might as well have no consciousness at all. If the King had never bestowed his gift, then...no. Even the mindless creatures that never accepted his gift fell to the Infection. But then again, even those willed to live.

The raised voices around them sound murky and far away. For a moment, they can pretend they're sinking back into the sea of Void. They had only seen the shoreline, but always desired to go deeper. They had not wanted this from the moment of their birth, or they would've joined their thousands of siblings. An entire cavern had been made of their discarded masks as they flung themselves back into the shadowy depths. Once, the Vessel had lacked that desire, and that's why they were chosen.

When did they start to want things? At first they indulged themself in a little thing here or there. They wanted to run their fingers along the silver leaves on the castle walls. To read all the tablets in the King's study, to go out for one more walk among the kingdom they so found themselves desperately wanting to protect. They wanted to be truly hollow and to succeed. Only then would the Vessel be deserving of the King's love.

That was the one thing they were good at recognizing. When someone softened up to them, it was so obvious, lovely and warm. To be cared for made them feel in turn. Once they started feeling, they couldn't stop. They try to remember when they first started to feel. Was it the kind gaze of the White Lady, her roots stretched throughout the castle? When they were first introduced to Hallownest as its future savior? No, they go back further.

The first time they felt was when they looked back at their final sibling, hanging over that ledge. They were still pure, but they were alive. When did they first love?

The plant-covered ceiling of their room swims into view. A breeze from the open window stirs the iridescent silver leaves, and casts light on the Pale King's shell. In their periphery, they see him seated by their bed. He glances up from the tablet he's holding, just as the Vessel stirs.

"Be still," he instructs when the Vessel sits up. They obediently lie back down, but keep their eyes on him. The King scoots his chair closer, and sets the tablet aside. A heavy silence falls upon the two. the Vessel waits for him to express his disapproval. After all their rumination, his words come as a surprise.

"The training regimens proved to be...too ambitious for you. Your body has become strained," the King explains.

Why is he talking to you? He knows you can't reply.

If their body has become strained, though, that means it's just as impure as their mind. A pure vessel shouldn't be unhealthy, especially with the task ahead.

"We will have a short adjournment, and resume your usual schedule the following week." The King's neutral tone is juxtaposed by the white hand resting on their head. This simple act of affection freezes the Vessel. Beneath the blanket, they clutch their cloak even tighter than they would a weapon. The King should know better than anyone that a Pure Vessel has no need for affection.

Maybe the Vessel isn't as perceptive as they thought they were. The King's gaze softens as he rubs his thumb against the bone-white of the Vessel's mask. His hand lingers longer than all the times he has touched their back or shoulder, usually to direct them somewhere. The Vessel still couldn't remember when they learned what love was, they could always use this moment as a substitute. They can pretend that when they first saw the King, they hadn't immediately seen him as a figure of guidance.

The Vessel cannot reciprocate his affections, out of fear of rejection. He's only being nice because they're pure. They've seen what happened to the rest of their siblings.

They say that the man who takes care of you is called a 'father'. The Vessel would call him that, if they could speak.

Chapter Text

The entrance to the Abyss is a brisk walk from the White Palace. Climbing up to the entrance from the bottom takes a while, and climbing up the rest of the shaft takes far longer. Those who are still alive take the latter route. Most of them fall back, and crack their heads open.

The youngest sibling doggedly climbs towards the wall. They've lost track of how many times they've plummeted onto a lower platform. They owe it to a miracle that they've caught themselves just before the fall could become fatal. Such a clumsy creature would've been cast down by the King himself if he saw it, surely.

The sibling leaps at the wall, and finally succeeds in holding on. Some distance above them, one of their kin scampers along at a much faster pace. The darkness above swallows them up. Once a sibling reaches that point, they don't come back down. They've seen it. The sibling steels themselves continues their climb. The higher they go, the fainter the sea's call becomes, until it is only a whisper of a memory in their mind.

The Vessel expects to wake up in a bed of bones, and is relieved to find themselves in their shell-shaped nest. This is followed by guilt; they are being well taken care of, while their siblings fight for their lives. But it was just a dream, right? They were all dead, they saw it. Even that last one fell.

What they're certain of right now is that they can't go back to sleep after that. They get up and open the curtains, spilling pale light over the nursery floor. It's the dim light of an early morning that the Vessel rarely sees, which they pause to take in. It is usually brighter by the time the King or an attendant comes to wake them up. Even the flowers haven't fully opened.

They swap out their training cloak for a fresh one, and leave their room. There's nothing on their itinerary today, but what else is the Vessel to do? They feel more comfortable with their nail in hand, which clangs against the floor with each step.

First thing's first: they stop by the King's room, and then his workshop. It comes as no surprise that the latter is empty, but doesn't their father ever sleep? They've never seen him do as much as doze off. But, if he didn't, he wouldn't have a bed.

The Vessel ponders on it, and realizes how bored they are. If they had more to do than train, they wouldn't be thinking so deeply about this. But, if they had other things to do, they'd be thinking about them. Being left alone with their thoughts feels like being bound wrist-to-wrist with some loathsome creature. It makes their insides squirm, and they hope they're not getting sick again.

Don't hope, even for something small.

Sound is supposed to bounce well off hard surfaces, but the voices in the long room sound far away. The Vessel stops just outside the doorway. Despite the size of the table, only a few people are present.

Don't be curious. This doesn't concern you.

"...but the entrance through the mantises' territory is currently inaccessible," says a bug who looks more plant than insect.

"How so?" the king asks. The Vessel perks up when they hear his voice.

"There is civil unrest amongst them," continues she, "and Dryya and I have seen infected in their ranks. Do you foresee an outcome to this conflict?"

The King leans forward, elbows on the table. He remains deep in thought, then says, "The uninfected will prevail without our interference. Have the Watcher keep an eye out, just in case."

The plant-looking insect writes something on a slab of stone. "There is one other way into the Beast's domain," she adds, but seems hesitant to continue. A rotund beetle with pure white armor comes to her rescue.

"An entrance in the Queen's Garden's," he interjects, lifting a claw. "And what lucky coincidence--her majesty has requested an audience with you."

Concerning the White Lady, there's little that the Vessel recalls. There was light--always light, wherever the pale beings were--but self-contained, a small aura around herself. In the same vein, she liked to keep bugs close. It was both for her failing eyesight, and to keep her voice soft. Her sinuous roots still stretched throughout the castle, though her person now higher up in the kingdom.

She loved the King very much, in the way that makes children certain nothing bad could happen to their relationship. She was their mother, but they hadn't spent much time together before she retreated from these white halls.

The King looks troubled at the idea of meeting her, which is why no one really brings her up. The Vessel, still unnoticed, looks back and forth between him and the bugs present. During the Vessel's entire reverie, the King hasn't moved or spoken even a bit.

All eyes turn to him when he finally answers: "No."

No one dares to murmur, or to disagree with the highest authority, but the discomfort is clear on everyone's faces. The Vessel would share the same expression if they could emote, even though they know not what drove the two higher beings apart. The Vessel would be devastated if they couldn't see the King anymore. Wouldn't he feel the same for the White Lady?

Without thinking--mindless, that's a good thing--they enter the room and are finally noticed. Now everyone is staring at them, which they're not used to. They are a stranger to this meeting, an unwanted eavesdropper. They don't understand outsiders' conflicts and other sovereignties, just that other people are upset and they don't understand why, exactly.

"Mind your posture," says the King, not unkindly. The Vessel straightens up from their slouch, which they had not even realized. When they're close enough, the King lifts them onto his lap. The Vessel could rest their chin on the tabletop, if they so wished. They don't, because fidgeting could indicate restlessness, which is a feeling, which they technically shouldn't have. Having to monitor themselves constantly is exhausting!

The two decorated bugs, and a few other attendants, have broken into discussion about the mantises again. The plant-looking bug dismisses herself, presumably to find this 'Watcher' person the King mentioned.

The Vessel looks back at the tabletop, which they now see is decorated with a map of Hallownest. Pins mark various points of interest, though the Vessel can only recognize a few places. It would take several lifetimes to explore everything. Lifetimes they don't have.

Don't be anxious.

They watch as the King unspools some thread, which he uses to draw a path between several pins. Those present, including the Vessel themself, watches closely. "The Pilgrim's Way will be the official trade route for the Crossroads, and starting from the entrance closest to Queen's Station..."

He affixes more pins, and loops thread around them to lead to an entrance towards the lower lefthand corner of the map. "From there, the tram will take merchants to the drop point below the Root's gardens. The path is straightforward from there. Ideally. Ogrim?"

The round beetle points to a spot on the map, the significance of which goes over the Vessel's head. "Going through here, we wouldn't have to worry about bothering the mantises."

"Hm." The King's eyes open a tad wider as he re-routes the path. "While a longer path, it is closer to what residents are used to. I see, I see."

The Vessel tries and fails to keep up with the back and forth between the everyone present, debating the safest and most efficient trade routes to and from Deepnest. Not a single bug has yet to mention the significance of this location. It must be important if even the King mentions an interest in going there.

It's seemingly irrelevant to them, so they allow themselves to doze off. They are jostled back into wakefulness when the King finally adjourns the meeting, and carries them out of the room.

The Pale King waits until they are alone, before speaking to them.

"I foresee another five years at most before the Infection reaches its peak. We must make every moment count." He strides down a long corridor that is blanketed by plants to the point of negligence. At the end is a flight of stairs, the size of which intimidates the Vessel.

"For the time being, you needn't do anything, but do not stray from my side when we leave the Palace. You are not ready to contain the Infection. She will kill you if she has the chance."

She? Who is 'she'?

If you cling to him, he will know you're nervous.

The Vessel folds their hands under their cloak as the King descends. The walls are lit intermittently with Lumafly lanterns, which are unnecessary with the King's glow. The strange thing is that any light that hits the Vessel's body is absorbed, allowing no detail of their joints to show.

A pair of Kingsmoulds open a pair of iron-wrought gates for the King to pass through. The ceiling here is domed, and the floor is cut through by a deep rut. Several stag beetles with well-fitting saddles thunder in and out. Despite the number of them, and the number of benches, the station is completely empty.

It's worth mentioning at this point that the Vessel has been holding their nail this entire time like a security blanket. A stag beetle trundles over, inquiring about the King's destination and how lovely it is to see the little one again. The Vessel's grip is so tight on their weapon that the King must wrest it out of their hands.

The seat affixed to the stag beetle's saddle is cramped, and the King must curl his tail so it doesn't hang out. When he sets the Vessel next to him, they wish he didn't. It is always such a dreadfully bumpy ride. This is apparently the best transportation you can get in Hallownest, second only to the recently-constructed trams. They find that hard to believe.

"You have been to the City of Tears before, my child," he reminds the Vessel. That they have. They did not enjoy the ride any more than they will now. "We will not be long, and the Watcher has something for you."

HIs reassuring tone makes the Vessel wonder if he knows. They can't dwell on it long, though, because the stag has started to move. Equally fearful and anticipating, they've started their journey towards the City of Tears.

Chapter Text

The City of Tears was fed by a lake that leaked through the ceiling, and that lake was fed by a river that flowed all the way from somewhere beyond Hallownest. The point at which the river connected to the lake must have been either very small or very hidden, because no one had ever seen it. It kept flowing forevermore, even ages past when the kingdom finally fell. Not even the youngest Vessel, who was currently somewhere in Deepnest, would ever find it.

The King valued education in various areas. As such, there were maps of the city's geography and information about the water system scattered along the city. Bugs were better off well-learnt, as he always said. Even the supposedly mindless Vessel was not spared from having to know the basics of the Kingdom. This tied into their training, somehow. The Vessel still doesn't know how this all works into their fate, only that it's supposed to be 'enriching'.

The royal stag beetle comes to a stop at the end of a round, dripping tunnel. Water churns up on either sides, and it is by good reflexes that the Vessel keeps themselves from flying forward. When the wake settles, they follow the King out. This station is just as empty as the one before, but the myriad of color makes it feel more alive than the palace. The stones are blue, with vibrant green mosses clustered wherever they can fit. There's even a damp cushion of it over the iron bench, which the King walks right past. The Vessel would've liked to jump on it.

Past the station is an elevated walkway of the same blue stone, and glass windows. Rain blurs the far-below city into a wash of blue-ish grey, streaked with yellow and white. Ornate glass lanterns house bundles of lumaflies that swirl around endlessly. The Vessel feels like they're walking through a painting, which is appropriate: the Watcher is an artist, supposedly. Maybe he painted all these stones himself. What a funny thought.

The Vessel feels a pang of guilt for finding anything amusing, feels sorry for feeling guilty, and so on. Outwardly they are as quiet and expressionless as ever.

The walkway ends in an arched door with a point at the top, through which is a large foyer, perhaps a waiting room. The furniture is varied and scattered with such clutter that the Vessel can't tell what its purpose is. There aren't even any other bugs to tell them. The King must know, because he walks through with such purpose.

Don't be curious about it. It doesn't matter.

They keep their head down and follow the King, who has clearly been here many times before. They pass through various rooms and hallways, lushly decorated with thick carpets, paintings, and chests. The bugs here are dressed in robes of maroon, navy, and emerald. Everything here bursts with color; even the metal of the elevators have a bluish tint.

Bugs--servants? Or nobles?--in embroidered frocks approach the two, and bow deeply to the Pale King. The light around him seems all the brighter, when there are other bugs to disappear into it.

"Your Majesty," one bug all but stammers. "We welcome you, on behalf of His Vigilance and the City of Tears. Allow us to take your coat and the little one..."

"Oh. No, no." The King lifts a hand to stop them from advancing. "They are coming with me."

Nonetheless, he removes his outer cloak and hands it to one of the bugs, who might as well have been given a brick of gold. He then leads the Vessel to the final elevator, which is quite large and next to a rain-streaked window. The view they saw from just outside the station is now magnified to a staggering scale, dizzying the Vessel. They sway as the elevator lurches upwards, and the King must put a hand on their head to keep them from falling.

The Vessel is put in a trance by subterranean landscape below. Just beyond the rain, they can see bugs in the streets. They've never seen so many in one place! Under different circumstances, they could see themselves and the King strolling along in the rain just to see what's down there. A further stretch of imagination brings the White Lady along, with her roots stretching to drink up the rain. In a different reverie, a lost sibling hides in an alley, concealing their identity with a rugged traveler's cloak.

Any surviving siblings will never make it to the capital, remaining scattered throughout Deepnest and the territories above it. The Vessel does not know that those places will actually be safer for them in the coming years.

The elevator shudders and comes to a halt. The Vessel turns from the window and allows themselves to be led away. These rooms are clean, and appear to be someone's living quarters. The air smells of paint, and the King offers his thoughts on that: “I wonder what he is painting this time.”

The Vessel wouldn't have been able to tell him, even after seeing the canvas. Nor would they ever discern what kind of but the Watcher is. He is tall and lean, covered from head to toe in a navy blue cloak. On his mask is but a dark hole that couldn't be mistaken for an eye, but the Vessel can still feel his gaze on them when he looks their way. They stand still, and pretend they're not bothered by it.

“You're early.” The Watcher pinches the edge of his cloak and does a sweeping curtsy. Both his voice and gestures seem soft and reserved.

“Lurien,” the King responds with a polite nod. “Isma has reached me with the news. Show me your documents for the tram.”

The two seat themselves at a small, round table. Lurien calls someone's name, and a small beetle with a red-painted shell hurries in. The Vessel can't help but stare; it is like looking at a brightly-colored version of one of the King's court members. Lurien dictates some instructions, and then sends him off again. The Vessel knows they have no place in political or economic discussion, so they meander away to explore Lurien's quarters.

A bug's home says a lot about its occupant. A portion of what the Vessel knows about their father comes from how he maintains the palace; it is sterile and orderly and refined. The Vessel has never seen nor been allowed to make a mess such as the tablets and scrolls spilling from Lurien's shelves. The great canvas beneath the easel looks like it has never had a wash, which is an impressive feat with all the water in the city. Warm candles offset the cold blue wall, which feels papery under the Vessel's fingers. Towards the back is a small kitchen, and beyond that, a humble bedroom belonging to the butler.

If Lurien had a bed, it has been replaced by a stone platform slightly longer than he is tall. It looks so heavy that the Vessel has to wonder how it was brought up this high. The elevator is sturdy, but made for people. They suspect a service elevator, or a dedicated pair of bugs going up a long flight of stairs.

The Vessel goes to one of the shelves and picks a tablet at random. It's a report of expenditures from last year. They are immediately bored by this, and go to the next one. This tablet is from the same year: a list of grants bestowed to a place in the heart of the city, called the 'Soul Sanctum'. The names of the grants suggest research in Soul-based magic. The Vessel was until now under the impression that Soul was commonly understood. The King was going to work that into their curriculum, once they got the hang of their nail.

To put it simply, it seems like an awful waste of geo. The Vessel puts the tablet back, and goes for a scroll. It feels as creamy and reminds them of a silk dress they own. Instead of reading, they rub their mask against it for a few moments. Soft.

They look to the other room, where the King and Lurien are. They are relieved to find that the two are still deep in conversation. Neither of them notice how curious the Vessel is acting, something that makes them feel mischievous rather than guilty. They've even forgotten to feel bad for, well, feeling.

The Vessel moves to the next shelf, and finds correspondence letters between Lurien and various people of importance. A natural-born eavesdropper, they read through several of these with gusto. There's a stack of tablets from Isma regarding a greenhouse project, utilizing natural flora from all over Hallownest. There's also a letter about the luminous properties of the fungus in Deepnest. The Vessel takes note of this in particular.

When they've had enough of reading, they move on to peruse the Watcher's paintings. This brings them back towards him and the King, still deep in conversation. As with most conversations, they feel inclined to listen. Their feigned inattentiveness, they notice, makes people ignore them. Sometimes, in their mind, they pretend to chip in on the conversation. Here they have nothing to add.

“And what does your foresight say about it?” Lurien is asking.

“That there is a high chance for failure. The Beast has many a reason to be uncooperative,” answers the King. His tail and many legs swish between his garb, which the Vessel takes as agitation. “My past actions did not take into account that we might need her assistance.”

“What of your consul?”

“They have nothing useful to provide.”

The Vessel stares intently at a painting of a butterfly, but they're focusing on the other two's words. This is what the King was so worried about: the 'Beast' that Isma mentioned. She must be the one who's in charge of Deepnest, and the King is trying to go there to talk to her. But he can't, because that's not his domain. They wonder about the value of this other kingdom, and what about it would make their father worry so much.

“If I may suggest a few things...” Lurien pauses to take a tea tray from his butler, who retreats with a humble bow. He bows over his teacup, pensive. “But it's quite a conundrum: you can't please both Deepnest and the mantises.”

“The mantises won't leave,” the King says with confidence, “but Deepnest would spread their territory if given the chance. They're more important right now.”

If the King himself says it's important, it must be. The Vessel meanders across the room, careful to look aimless.

“If that's so, then we can't waste any time with this tram.”

“I'm starting to realize that.” The King's tone hardens, and Lurien wilts apologetically in his seat. The teapot between them remains untouched. He tilts forward in his seat, white fingers steepled conspiratorially. “First she demands I lift the economic sanctions. So I lift them. Next she agrees to the tram. Then she does nothing to hold back the creatures that continuously interrupt its progress. Herrah is stalling me on purpose.”

“W-with good reason, sir,” Lurien mumbles at the tabletop. “But has she not granted you an audience?”

“Yes. If it were only me, I would be unworried of her domain's dangers, yet she refuses my presence without the Vessel.” The King pinches the space between his eyes. The Vessel, upon hearing their 'name', turns their head. Behind their mask, anxiety wells up. One of the downsides of appearing mindless is that no one tells you anything important. Their week of repose suddenly feels like something to dread, if everything they've heard about Deepnest is true.

“You've been training it. It might be able to fend for itself.”

The word 'it' stings more than they thought it would, worse than the prick of thorns.

“With but a novice's nail and no spells? If anything happens to them, I--”

The King and Lurien look in unison at the Vessel, who has just tripped over a paint can. The Vessel lies face-down, completely still, afraid that even the slightest reaction would give them away. The Void in them swirls in discomfort, as if they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't have.

The King lifts the hem of his robe, so that his many legs do not get caught when he leaves the chair. Firmly but not unkindly, he uprights the Vessel and straightens their cloak. “Uncoordinated.”

Back at the table, Lurien lifts his mask a tad so he can drink. The Vessel thinks they see mandibles, or the fine hairs of antennae, but his body blends in with the dark of his cloak. Fitting to his title, all he does is watch as the King has the butler bring up a third chair. The Vessel must sit on a cushion as well, if they want to see over the table. There they can see some documents the adults have been discussing, but they've already learned enough just from listening.

At least when they're training, they feel like they're making themselves useful. Here, all they can do is be fussed over. Uncoordinated, clumsy, stupid. Burning with shame, they hang their head.

“My King,” Lurien says at length, “How long has it been since you chose the Vessel?”

“Not long.” The King's eyes glaze over in concentration. After a brief moment of silence, he physically relaxes. If not for his vanity, he would've slumped in the chair outright. “We still have time.”

He had obviously counseled with his foresight many times on the matter of the Beast, so that he could have an answer ahead of time. The subtle process becomes obvious if you know what to look for. In this case: a slight rigidity, a bowed head, and a grey sheen over his black eyes. The pounding rain fills the silence of the table's occupants, until the King speaks as though he hadn't ever been upset.

“It has not been long at all, which is exactly why I must take precautions.”

But why? Must the Vessel not be the perfect knight? They are meant to contain and combat the Infection. To be protected makes them feel like they've failed in some way. The clutch their hands beneath their cloak, once again grateful that their mask cannot convey their distress. If it weren't for them, going into Deepnest wouldn't be such a problem. They are not even allowed to train right now, not until they've fully recovered. So deep is their wallowing that for a minute, they don't notice the cup of tea in front of them.

“Drink this,” the King commands as he drops in two sugar cubes. The Vessel obediently takes the cup, and immediately feels soothed by its sweet, floral taste. The other two have returned to conversation, but they don't feel keen on listening in this time. With enough concentration on their own thoughts, they were able to tune out the voices above them. How easy it would be if they truly were pure. They wouldn't be able to worry or feel fear, nor sadness and frustration.

Their pedipalps tap against the outside of the cup, drawing the attention of their father, who gently tells them to not play with their drink. The Vessel, upset with themselves, is tempted to disobey. They are stopped by the thought of the King's look of horror if he were to discover they had a will of their own.

They've emptied their teacup twice before the King sets a small, flat box in front of them. Its wrappings are simple but elegant, and touching it sends a spark of energy through their being.

Without prompting, they peel open the paper to find what appears to be a small mask. It is the smallest they've ever seen, but before they can wonder what it's for, it begins to glow. The Vessel levitates off their chair, much to their surprise and only their surprise. The mask is absorbed into their being, with only as much pressure as the touch of a fingertip. They do not feel it inside themselves, like an object to be stored within their Void. When they land on their chair, they feel strangely invigorated. Physically speaking, of course. Emotionally, they are not sure what to feel.

“An entire mask,” the King murmurs, unsurprised. It's likely his foresight saw that. “It is harmless, my child. It makes you more resilient to injury.”

“I'm glad they took to it,” Lurien says, with a hand over his chest. “There is still so much we don't know of Void; I was afraid of it worsening their condition.”

Condition?

“'Tis but a temporary ailment, nothing more,” the King reassures him. “I did not foresee any complications.”

The Vessel sorely wished—though they shouldn't wish for things—that someone would explain this to them, or at least provide some comfort. Hearing the word 'condition' sounds like something serious. 'Condition' is reserved for something serious, like the Infection. They bow their head and try to sense anything off, but they feel no unnatural heat, nor do they feel especially lethargic.

The King glances at a timepiece on the wall and, after exchanging formalities with Lurien, departs with the Vessel treading close behind. The colors that the Vessel had thought were so beautiful now feel oppressive, like the depths of the lake that feeds the city. The weight of their duty would crush them if it were physical. Not only are they unfit, they are also ignorant.

Before returning to the Stag Station, the two rest on a bench facing one of the tall, rain-streaked windows of the Spire. The King stares ahead, not even fidgeting, while the Vessel sits with their head lolled forward. Through all the water, they can see bugs in the streets far below. Each is no bigger than a pinhead. They lean forward to try and get a better look, and this curious movement draws the King's attention. In their lapse of vigilance, they do not notice him watching them.

The Vessel perceives it as a stroke of luck when, upon reaching the Stag Station, the King requests that their stead not run so quickly this time.

The meeting had taken less time than it felt; daylight still holds strong over the Palace. The King leaves the Vessel to their own devices, and they don't know whether to be displeased or relieved. They wander along the bridge connecting the palace grounds to the rest of the basin, running their hand along the iron rungs. Only the Kingsmoulds, truly empty beings, serve as witness. It is hard to believe they are made of the same substance. The Vessel is alive, feeling despite everything, and these guards might as well be made of clay.

They stop at the end of the bridge and turn their mask towards the ceiling. White motes rise and disappear into the rugged rock. It is the same as always. What they are more interested in is darkness beneath the bridge. It is not Void, but sometimes bits of it float up. They count them like shooting stars, and every time, their number grows.

A 'star' is a small, luminous thing that they've only seen in their storybooks. And, according to these books, they can grant wishes. The Vessel clasps their hands together and wishes on each speck of Void they see. Please let them return to training soon. Please let the trip to Deepnest go well. And please, let the King spend some more time with them before they must fulfill their duty.

Chapter Text

The youngest staggers out of the tunnel's mouth, and collapses on something soft and green. Their first time seeing grass and moss is sweetened by having just escaped the mandibles of death. Many of their siblings disappeared into dark, narrow tunnels. Still others were too fearful to move on, but the youngest couldn't help. They were in just as much danger.

They roll onto their back and look up at the cave wall, lush and bright. They'll allow themselves a repose before continuing their journey.

The Vessel awakens not on their back, but face-down and in black dirt. Gravel showers down onto their back. Sensing that something is about to fall, they roll to the side. They're just in time: the remains of a chair crash into the ground. The frightening crunch it makes could have been their shell, if they had been a moment too slow. For several moments they lie trembling in a fetal position. They've got no light source, and it's very dark. Some creature of the Void they are.

Faint scuttling noises bring the Vessel to their feet. They feel shuffle around until they feel their nail, which they quickly equip. They're still alive, and their weapon is intact. That's two things they've got going for them. The bar has never been lower.

You're going to face worse than this. Stop acting like a little grub, they tell themselves as they feel along the wall. The scratching against the walls has gotten closer, and when they turn, they see the glow of six orange eyes. Their reaction is immediate: a swing of their nail dispatches the creature, whatever it was. All that matters is that it was infected. That's what orange means, apparently. Otherwise, they've just killed an innocent bug, and how could they?

The Vessel moves blindly from room to room, following a faint blue glow somewhere north of them. It is much to their relief that the light is coming from fungi that unevenly paper the walls. Now they can see themselves clearly: if not for their thick traveling cloak, they would've been in a much worse state. Their body aches with bruises, and Void seeps from one of their eye sockets. In that eye, their vision is blurry. Otherwise, they are uninjured.

The King had the foresight, or rather the common sense, to equip them before they boarded the tram. Their training nail is made of sturdy stuff, and survived the fall without a scratch. They use it now to sever a mushroom from its stalk, in test of its luminosity. To their relief, it stays lit even when cut. They slice a posy for themselves, tuck it into their cloak, and retrace their steps. Since they fell straight down, they should be able to climb back up. Apparently not—the walls are covered in spikes further up than they can jump.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy. The Vessel goes back to the fungi-laden room, and proceeds onwards. The ceilings are low, and the walls narrow. They've lived underground their entire life, but not like this. They're used to wide open caves and organized tunnel systems. This is a claustrophobic maze of a wilderness. The only traces of civilization are the occasional wooden beam, propping up a ceiling or a makeshift wall. The Vessel finds that if they destroy these, the dirt caves in and opens up a new path. So they proceed in this fashion for quite some time.

Their nail sees frequent use. Pale bugs with fierce, orange eyes burst from the ground one after another, forcing them to stop and fight. Running does no good; they try many times, but the creatures are always in dogged pursuit. They fight, stop and heal, and continue tunneling. The geography of the place is uneven, with rocky hills suddenly dipping into spike-filled valleys. And, of course, more infected bugs.

The Vessel pulls their nail out of a dead spider. They've lost count of how many they killed so far, but it never gets easier looking at their bodies. For whatever reason, the King seldom taught them about the Infection. They know they're meant to contain it, but they've never seen what it does. The King's retainers and the Great Knights have spoken amongst themselves about it, recounting vague horrors of bugs who sleep themselves to death; bloated bodies that have to be popped, drained, and deflated just to fit in their graves; hot orange puss that eats through even the toughest carapace. The Vessel themselves has already been burned by these globs, spit from the mandibles of infected spiders.

They inspect their arm, which is littered with bites and burn marks. They've lost most of their mushrooms, and continue on in search for more. With each step, their legs scream for rest. The vision in their damaged eye has only worsened, and they fear it'll go completely.

Once they're sure they've dispatched all the infected in the room, they huddle into a corner to rest. In their pain-fogged mind, they try to remember anything useful the King had taught them. All that comes to mind is rudimentary self-defense techniques that have seen much use already. He said that advanced material would come after they've mastered the basics, but they might not live long enough for that if they can't heal. This is also the first time they've been thrust into such a situation, so they can't judge if Lurien's gift is of any help. Useless, clumsy, weak thing. With their fists clenched and head bowed, they start to Focus.

Focusing is hard to explain, but it's a combination of Soul and Intent. Soul, the King had explained, is a manifestation of energy. All living things have a base amount of soul, but excess may be obtained to heal wounds or cast spells. Focusing, he had continued, is to adjust's one concentration towards a single point. Concentration is necessary because it is the basis of focus, therefore one must know exactly what they want to do with their Soul. Otherwise, Soul is wasted. Also, a break in concentration will cause the Soul to dissipate, useless.

The Vessel had thought his explanation was an excellent use of the passive voice. They also thought the technique needed a lot more thought than the King assumed them capable of. In the first place...No. They can't let their mind wander. They want to heal up, so they can keep going and reunite with their father. The last they had seen of him was in the tram. He was about to say something to them, but the car jolted violently, and that's all they remember.

With their wounds healed, they gather more mushrooms and forge ahead. The ground begins to even out into deliberately-placed stones that form a path towards a small settlement. Yes, they're sure that is an encampment they're seeing. The fungi and webbing in the area have been cleared out for a circle of tents, guarded by spikes around the perimeter. The Vessel clears them in one jump, and takes a look around. In the center of the camp is a long-extinguished fire pit, with a cooking pot lying in the ashes. Each tent has a few storage shells in it. There are bedrolls, some with husks still curled up in them. The Vessel approaches one and pokes it with their nail. It must have died a long while ago.

The Vessel carefully pulls the bedroll out from under the husk, and drapes it over top instead. Once it has done this with all the corpses, they turn their attention to the storage containers. Most contain expired provisions, but there are also mining tools, coils of rope, and...and…

They stab their nail into the dirt and heave their chest. Who goes spelunking without a map? These poor bugs must have forgotten or lost theirs, got lost, and starved to death. On the other hand, they don't recall the King having any maps of this area. Eventually, someone has got to make one. Maybe that's what these ones set out to do. Or maybe they were simple miners, looking for Geo deposits.

The Vessel taps a finger against their shell and wonders what they could make use of. Their nail functions better than any common pickaxe, and they don't take much damage jumping from great heights. If there was something they could climb with, though…

They take a coil of rope and two pick-axes, which they lay on the ground in front of them. Using their nail, they pry the picks from their handles. Then, they lay them in a cross shape and thread one end of the rope through their centers. The rope is thick, but not too much for them to tie an improved clinch knot. It's a simple, sturdy knot, but they need to test if it'll hold. The Vessel swings their new grappling hook above their head, and launches it at the far wall. The rope whistles through their hand, and goes taunt. The picks made their mark!

It doesn't take much to yank them out of the wall, though. The Vessel pulls the rope back in and gets to work sharpening the blades. While they work, they hear a scuttling sound. They look over their shoulder and see that one of the bedrolls is moving a bit.

The Vessel leaps up and rushes over. They're alive! Oh, the poor fellow has been left all alone by their comrades. They tear the bedroll away and lean in, ready to welcome the bug back to the land of the living—

–And a claw tears across their cheek.

They stumble and drop onto their backside. The bug lurches belly-up from its resting place. Spindly legs erupt from its sides, and prop its body in the air. In an instant it is upon them, pinning them to the ground by their cloak. Their nail flies out of their hand and slides a couple feet away, forcing them to fend the Infected off with scratches and kicks. The Infected keeps its legs driven into their cloak. It tears when they struggle away.

They run for their nail, and are knocked onto their stomach—but their hand closes around the handle just in time.. The Vessel whirls onto their back and drives the point upwards. The tip of their nail surges through the creature's underbelly, and out of their back. Bits of shell rain onto the Vessel. They don't relent until it drops upon them, dead.

The monster's final shriek echoes and dies. When the cave has faded into silence, the Vessel pushes it off, and pulls out their nail.

They rise to their feet, trembling from head to toe. All around them are more corpses, deceptively still. They go to the nearest one, and plunge their nail downwards. Bedroll and husk both are shredded. Residual globs of infection drip from the carcasses and sizzle away. They repeat this process until they're surrounded by not whole bodies, mangled parts that couldn't possibly reanimate.

They pick up their grappling hook and put it into their torso, where it disappears into the Void. With their nail held tight, they race out of the camp and through the next five chambers.

The series of tunnels they find themselves in must have been carved by the massive, elongated bugs that inhabit them. They crawl in predictable, linear paths with such thunderous sound. But it cannot be as loud as the Vessel's heartbeat—if there is even such an organ in their carapace. They slay several of those pale, burrowing bugs, jump over a pit full of writhing, hissing spikes, and promptly huddle in a corner. Their mushrooms do not feel like enough to illuminate the tunnel they've hidden in. No, they miss the reliable light of the Palace that never runs out.

Their body trembles from something stronger than the earth's rumble. If they stay here, they will die, and no one will find their body. But there is nowhere for them to go. These blasted tunnels have no exit, and they don't want to retrace their steps. They'll be just like those husks at the camp. One of those spiders will come along and puppet their corpse, until some other explorer comes to kill them. If the King's sigil is still pinned to their cloak, it'll be taken back up and...and how will everyone react, then? Their eyes feel strangely full, and wet.

The Vessel presses the wall, and to their surprise, it depresses under their weight. Bits of dirt and rock fall under the pressure of their hand. They press again, harder, and the wall gives. It's too good to be true. They've found a secret passage! This must have been the exit this whole time—they just needed to look a little harder. Frantically they scrape the barrier away with their nail, and hold a mushroom through the gap. The exit drops quite a ways down, but not too far that they can't see the bottom. With shaking hands, they dig the grappling hook into the dirt and shimmy their way down.

Where they land, it is so dark that they can only see a few meters ahead of them. The ground is rockier here, more solid, but the structure of the tunnel is like what the bugs above were carving. The Vessel listens, in case one comes barreling through, but it is quiet down here. There's an absence of spiderwebs and an eerie coolness that makes them think they've neared the Abyss.

They can't say why they think that. The only logical explanation would be that they've come so far down. The dreams they've had of their siblings, trying to escape, refuse to enter conscious thought.

The Vessel pulls their grappling hook down, rolls it up, and moves on. Perhaps they found an opening to the Abyss, and entered the Ancient Basin that way. Except the door has been sealed. They'd effectively be stuck, with no way out than back into Deepnest. And that would be after they recovered from the fall. Their body aches no matter how many times they sit down to rest. Adrenaline kept them going this far, but they're running on fumes. No amount of determination will return them to their father if their body gives out.

They're bound to find an incline eventually. They put Father out of their mind: thinking of him makes them homesick. Onwards they go on their endless hike, at some points needing their nail to push them up over ledges. The grappling hook reveals itself as a better investment than anticipated. Stretching it taunt over bug-filled pits, spikes and other rough terrain creates a makeshift bridge for them to climb across.

These obstacles eventually cease, but the journey is no less easy. The corridors they stumble into are maddeningly empty, with only a few husks and spider webs for company. The ground has become softer and easier to walk on. They suspect they've been going east, but they now fear they've gone in a circle.

The Vessel falls to their knees, unable to keep themselves from rest any longer. Easing their weight forward takes some of the burden off of their legs, which feel swollen and tender. They have no excess Soul to relieve their pain, and as far as they know, there's nowhere to get any more. There are infected bugs to...to extract it from…but there is a familiar-looking totem nestled in a corner.

They don't know why it looks familiar. Not even in their birthplace have they seen such a strange creature. Its elongated body suggests a Wyrm, but it has a distinguishable head with horns. The Vessel crawls over and places a hand against it, surprised at the chilly stone.

It's the same material found in the Abyss. They must be close after all. As if comforting a crying grub, they rub their thumb over the surface. As if the Void itself has taken pity, they feel Soul rush into their body. Only when the flow has stopped do they pull away, looking down at their hands in wonder. That's another thing they'll have to look out for.

When the light from the totem fades fades completely, they hear something skittering in the darkness. It's the sound of a bug with many legs. The Vessel jolts up and brandishes their nail. The sound stops. Then it picks up again, further away. It is not the erratic movement of the afflicted, but steady and purposeful. The Vessel proceeds with caution, mushrooms held at arm's length like a ward. At the perimeter of their vision, they see a white tail disappear into the gloom.

The Vessel can scarcely believe what they've just seen. They start to tremble again, but this time it's out of excitement. Down the tunnel they sprint as fast as their injured legs can carry them. Even when they stumble, they do not stop to rest. The other bug always seems just out of sight, but the few glimpses they get show a familiar face. Before they know it, they've emerged into a wide cavern. Yet it feels claustrophobic. The webs strung along the walls are dingy and rope-thick. They are crowded with husks and other dead bugs, but it is a sight the Vessel has sadly gotten used to.

They stagger forward, and the bug turns around. The hems of its gleaming white robes are dirt-stained and ragged; not even the King is immune to the environment of Deepnest. Seeing him agitates their void, which starts leaking from their bad eye. It's him, it's really him. He was looking for them all this time. The Vessel, forgetting their supposed purity, drops their light and reaches out to him.

Father! I was so afraid. I thought I'd—

The King meets them halfway and takes their hands in his. The Vessel wishes more than ever that they could voice their gratitude. They don't notice that the King lacks his aura, or how empty his eyes look. If they had embraced him, they would've smelled something sickly sweet on his robes. They are too beside themselves to do more than hold onto their 'father's' hands.

They would tell him everything they had to go through, and he would say, 'It's alright now, you don't have to be afraid. Let's go home'. When the King doesn't say anything at all, they start to suspect something is wrong. The King's stare is flat, and when he looks down at them, his head lolls like a puppet's. There's a loud snap, and suddenly. His head. It's upside-down.

That is not the Pale King.

The Vessel lets go of his—no, lets go of its hands, and scrambles backwards. The mimicry of their father lurches forward as a sinuous black body erupts from its spine. It is some awful chimera of a centipede and a spider that twists around the cavern. Hanging from its underbelly is a pulsating sac of orange. The smell of plague chokes the cavern with a heady mist. The Vessel's head spins. The creature's maw drills into the earth, barely missing but still sending them flying.

They are quick to regain their wits, striking the wall with their nail and using it to slide back down. The creature soars up and thrashes against the wall, sending them down with a shower of debris. The mushrooms the Vessel dropped have been scattered, casting an uneven blue light in the dirt. With the Vessel's eye losing its vision, they feel positively dizzy. The light—they need to get in the light and regain their senses.

But when they step into the ring, the beast is upon them, snatching a plate of chitin off their arm in one quick snap. Void gushes from the wound, trailing behind the Vessel as they flee. They remember their weapon, and leave a mark of their own against the beast. They huddle against the far wall to heal, keeping an eye on the beast all the while. It is on the ceiling, shrieking and spitting infection to the ground at random intervals. The Vessel has managed to heal the worst of their wounds before it comes at them again. With their regained energy, they leap upwards and slash downwards at the beast's head. Another downward slash propels them away from it, and into the light of another mushroom cluster. Again, they are spotted easily, and the beast is quick in its pursuit.

The Vessel runs parallel to them and strikes their side, missing its fluid sac but getting between its chitin plates. Nothing they've learned in training has prepared them for this: before coming to Deepnest, they've only fought against the King's predictable automatons. They've not even reached the level of sparing with the Great Knights, which might have helped them here.

They have, however, spent at least a few hours in this terrain by now. They made a grappling hook, and found light sources. Most importantly, they are desperate. And desperation can drive a bug to do things they normally wouldn't—or couldn't—do. Through their trembling exhaustion, they start to notice their invisibility within the shadows. Though the beast is a cave-dwelling creature themselves, it only attacks once the Vessel steps into the light. Its movements are frantic and feral, but aside from size, how different can it be from the others they've fought?

The Vessel takes a deep breath, and storms into a patch of light. When the creature follows, they leap up and strike it with a downwards slash. This is a clumsy strategy; they fall onto one of its spikes and injure themselves again, but they're getting somewhere.

The problem lies with the creature burrowing. The whole room rumbles when it moves, so detecting where it'll strike feels impossible. The best they can do here is to keep moving, and try to sprint away when it resurfaces. When it goes to the ceiling, they cower in a corner and heal. Thus the process repeats. If only they had more openings to strike it…! As they side-step some infectious bile, they notice the mushrooms. Some have been put out by the fight, but they've proved instrumental in allowing the Vessel to hit the creature.

There's no time to come up with a strategy, with the speed and strength of this enemy. Its body courses against the walls and through any obstacle like water, and at a frightening pace. The Vessel is already injured enough, and is not getting enough Soul from their adversary to fully heal themselves. They could risk trying a spell, but they don't know any. Their confidence from before is starting to wane as the tides turn in the creature's favor.

If there is at least the slimmest chance for survival, though, they will take it. The Vessel darts out of their hiding place and lunges into a ring of light. They snatch up the mushroom and run with it, prompting the beast to chase them. The Vessel runs in a zig-zag, hoping to make themselves harder to catch as they go to the next light rings. Soon, they've got a bundle of mushrooms and one large ring of light, with them at the center of it all. They've made themselves a beacon for the creature, so they'll have to move fast. If they could just use the light as a lure, without putting themselves at risk…Aha! The Vessel sprints to the far side of the arena. The distance between themselves and the beast is rapidly closing, but gives them just enough time to tie the mushrooms onto the business end of their grappling hook. They leave that on the ground and run with the rope trailing behind them.

The beast stops, as if perplexed that its prey suddenly disappeared. The Vessel is about a few meters away, and close enough to see the details in its carapace. They'd like to get as far away from this thing as they can, but being this close allows them to swing the grappling hook, and flail it in the opposite direction. Their attempt at fooling the beast falls flat, however: when it turns to follow the light, the Vessel enters its line of vision. Now they must run again, while trying to gather the rope at the same time. One of the beast's legs trips them up and stabs through their arm. Their back arches; they'd howl in pain if they could. No voice to cry suffering.

Their nail swings upwards to catch in the beast's maw before it can land the killing blow. Drops of bile sting and sizzle against their shell. This is it—they can't hold such a huge creature away with their little arms. Their grip on their nail loosens from fatigue, and the beast lurches forward. First it screeches like a proper predator, but it devolves into a shriek of pain. The Vessel has struck their nail forwards, digging past its mandibles and into its soft throat. They drive their nail in deeper despite the burning pain in their arms and hands. When the creature rears back, they run to gather the rest of their hook. If the creature was mad before, it is furious now. It does not even wait to recover before charging after them again.

The Vessel flings the sharp end of the grappling hook forward, and it catches in the creature's open maw. The only light in the room now comes from the glow of its underbelly. With the other end of the rope, they run towards the creature and weave through its legs. That only enrages it further, but the few seconds it gives them by tripping on the rope are precious. The Vessel's nail plunges easily into its fluid sac.

The effect is immediate on the both of them. The Vessel is showered with viscous bile that sends them stumbling away, half-blinded. The creature howls in agony, and takes off into some deeper cavern with the grappling hook still caught in its throat. The earth steadily stops rumbling, and descends into dark quiet.

The Vessel hunches against the ground, groping for their nail while also trying to scrub themselves off. Even their thick traveling cloak is in tatters, and burns have been gouged into their soft carapace. They are completely blind in their right eye, and the other stings something fierce. Everything hurts. It takes considerable effort just to stand up. Despite everything, they are alive.

But what now? Do they just keep walking? They don't have enough Soul left to heal even their minor wounds, and they lack the strength to fight for more. There's no guarantee they'll find any more of those totems, either.

They feel too sluggish, both mentally and physically, to think of a plan. They can only think of going to bed, but that requires finding one first. Half-delirious and shaking harder than ever, they totter back to the cavern's entrance, only to find that it has been blocked off by debris. The other way, then.

They stumble and slide down a small incline, and at the bottom is a pit of webs. One of them catches their eye, because the bugs in it are alive. They count about a dozen or so baby spiders, uninfected, crying and struggling in their bindings.

In a nearby web, they see a few bugs not unlike themselves: bone-white, horned shells, and lifeless black bodies. The Vessel feels sick. The shock is worse than the deception they faced at that wretched creature.

With a tired slash of their nail, they cut their departed siblings from their cruel prison. There is nothing more they can do, being in no shape to dig them proper graves. More importantly, there are bugs that can still be saved. When each spider is cut free, they cluster around the Vessel's legs and cling to their cloak. The youngest are small enough to fit in their palm, and they find themselves with an armful of them. Even the oldest-looking ones only come up to their knee, and can only speak in frightened chitters.

The Vessel leads the children back the way they came, as the pit has no other tunnels or openings they can crawl into. In fact, the only way out is above their heads, and that's where their captor went.

The only other option they see is to go to their initial point of entry and start digging. They use their nail to move the rocks out of the way, so they may start the laborious process of tunneling. The spiders unintentionally impede their progress with their frightened huddling, and soon the Vessel gives up and huddles on the ground with them. They can't anymore.

“...was right beneath us. How did we not notice this?”

“Because it was under several layers of rock.”

“Shh. I think I hear something.”

The Vessel lifts their weary head, and sees a few figures moving along the ceiling. So they've had one last bout of luck...Thank goodness. One of the voices crescendos in excitement, and the others follow suit. The Vessel sees now that it's a group of orb weaver spiders, fully-grown and dressed in dark tunics. One of them has left the party to go back up the way they came. The other two quickly approach the children, most of which run to them with loud wails.

“This one isn't part of the brood.” The spider reaches for them, and they recoil. “By the Beast—look at their injuries! Come look!”

The other spider leans over them, sounding less surprised. “Let's not overwhelm them, now. Little one, can you speak? What is your name?”

The Vessel stares mutely at the two, barely able to hold their head up. Void is flaking off them again, and puddling around their knees. Their name? No, they've only been called 'the Vessel'. Did the King ever…?

The ground pitches sideways, and the first spider cries out in alarm. Just over the ringing sound, they can catch snippets of the spiders' words.

“That pin on their cloak is—“

“Is she here yet?”

“The tram was so far away from here. How—“

“There she is! Quickly, over here—“

Several masks swim in the Vessel's vision. They stubbornly hold onto consciousness for a few moments, and then black out.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the Weaver's Den is not far above where the Vessel fought the creature. From what they've overheard, it is one of several settlements throughout Deepnest, and the most important one. The Vessel awakens surrounded by curious spiders, who are shooed away by a bug that is somewhere between a spider and a centipede—an actual species, and not just the imagination of their previous foe. Their temporary chambers are covered wall to ceiling in webs, and inhabited by dozens of baby spiders.

They could not glean much about the Weaver's Den, except that the spiders are called 'Weavers', and that children are raised communally. The centipede-like spider, the 'Midwife', is the one who takes care of them. She was apparently the one who dressed their wounds, and put a glob of webbing over their injured eye. If their vision has returned, they don't know it yet.

They do not feel any more secure here than they did in the wild tunnels. They are unaccompanied by their father or any of the royal knights, and that's as good as being alone for them. The Midwife fawns over them, changes them into a red cloak, and fastens their pin onto the front like a brooch. Their apprehension about this place and everyone in it makes them feel undeserving of this treatment, but hours pass and no one comes for them, so they reluctantly adjust themselves. They are resting in the crook one of her many arms, when a Weaver stops by the entrance of the den.

“Ma'am!” The Weaver bows hastily. “We've just received a telegraph from our messenger. She's on her way back with the King now.”

The Vessel's heart leaps. He's alright, and they're going to be reuniting with him soon. They clutch their hands together under their cloak. Perhaps the Midwife senses them shaking anyway, because she idly pets one of their horns.

“Perfect. How long do we have?”

“An hour or so, ma'am.”

“Thank you kindly.” The Midwife looks down at the Vessel, who pretends not to see her. Don't react. Don't react. “I'm going to send this one to Herrah, so if you'd wait around to escort them...I don't want to leave the little ones alone, you see.”

She speaks as casually as anything, as if the Vessel weren't about to meet the most important bug in Deepnest. It's a shock at all to know that she's so close by. They'd been expecting to meet her under different circumstances, and had rehearsed appropriately. Now there is no one to distract from their presence, which they realize is why they're so afraid to be alone. It's only a matter of time before they slip up.

The Midwife is now fussing with some loose webbing on the walls. Through a hole no wider than a dinner plate, they see a room packed with huge spools. A Weaver skitters in, picks one of them up, and leaves. And then the hole in is closed up. They're currently in a nursery of some sorts, and the adjacent room is a storage. Which means there's a room nearby in which the thread is put to use. If the Vessel were not exhausted, they'd want to explore. For now, they are limited to what the Midwife sees, as she does not put them down once while they are in her presence. She keeps to the nursery, for the most part, but ventures to other rooms for materials, and to have another Weaver hem the Vessel's cloak.

They haven't realized it until she puts them down and they try to walk: the cloak they've been lent is too long, enough for them to trip over it. The Weaver attending to them clucks in disappointment as she tucks the hem under. It's such a waste of fabric, she complains, and the little grub looks like it's hitting a growth spurt soon. The Vessel wonders about that; not even the King knows how a Void creature grows up.

The Vessel is secretly in awe of this room. Weavers diligently work the looms, humming to themselves and conversing amongst each other as they thread the weft and work the shuttle. The clacking of wood and chatter of spiders sounds like a symphony, allowing them to stay patient as the Weaver sews in their hem. The Midwife is speaking to a handful of women about replicating a certain pattern. It has nothing to do with them and could even be seen as boring, but the scene of daily life is refreshing after their jaunt in the caverns.

It takes half the time it would have in the Palace to hem the Vessel's cloak. They are taken away from the lovely scene of the Weavers and their webs and looms, much to their disappointment. In another life, on a whim, they decide they'd want to work with them themselves. In a few years, unbeknownst to them, there would be no more Weavers to spin webs, and no looms to weave colored tapestries. There would be no one to negotiate with Queen Herrah, and she herself would be unable to be negotiated with or awoken at all. The Midwife accompanied the Vessel halfway to her chambers before turning back, leaving them with the even less familiar Weaver messenger. She, like everyone who thinks they are a mindless vessel, speaks not to them, and even stares rudely at their eye patch. Just because they're used to being goggled at doesn't make it any less demeaning.

Of course, there are some who they don't mind staring, because it is done so in a careful and concerning way. Then there are those who seem to be sizing them up, and others still who glance out of their periphery, as if they feel ashamed to look at the Vessel.

Queen Herrah is neither ashamed nor careful. She sits tall and stately on her throne, which is so covered with webs that the Vessel wonders if there's anything beneath it. She's the biggest spider they've ever seen, maybe a head shorter than their mother. She is covered from her vast horns to her chest in a navy blue wimple. The only thing they have to parse as a face is a six-eyed mask of a similar ivory to Lurien's. However, they sense none of the his timidity, nor White Lady's gentleness. In the wild place that the Weavers have chosen for their kingdom, they wouldn't begrudge any hostility (though it would make them more nervous than they already are).

Herrah lurches off her throne, and stalks a circle around the Vessel. They stand unmoving, even when her claw goes to the bandage over their eye. Their body screams to flinch when she tears off the silk. Horror dawns upon them when they realize there is no sight in their injured eye. But Herrah does not leave it at that. She sticks her claw through the socket, which has crusted over in a hideous scab. What happens next is thoroughly gruesome, though it results in some vision returning to them.

Staying still during the ordeal is by far the worst they've endured in Deepnest. When they were alone, they could react in an appropriate manner. Nothing is worse than being in pain, and being unable to express it. Beneath their cloak, their hands are tightly clenched, as if that pain will distract from the reopening of their wound. They do not bleed, but their Void feels raw and over-exposed.

“Such strange things the ocean bequeaths unto us,” says Herrah. Her voice is a warm rumble the earth, as if she had found it in a more peaceful cavern. “That one of its nymphs would be strong enough to survive the wilds.”

She lifts her claw, and the Vessel prepares for the worst, but her claw ascends further and plucks several threads strung taut along the ceiling. Their hum subsides, but moments later, a similar tune plays on its own. Herrah folds her topmost pair of arms, and leans forward slightly.

“I've called your lousy, fretting king to this den. You've done more for the Weavers in one afternoon than he has in his entire rule. The creature you've fended off is known to us as 'Nosk'. It searches the memories of its victims, and lures them in with a facsimile of those which we hold dearest.”

The Vessel's heart sinks. Surely those Weavers saw Nosk flee. They—and by extent, Herrah—will know.

Whether or not the three Dreamers knew does not change the fact that they all, in the end, chose to go to sleep. Now was the moment of truth for Herrah. The fact also stands that she is in a very desperate position. The layers of her anxiety are wrought with the resignation that Deepnest as it is will not last, and that life will never be easy or peaceful for a spider.

The Vessel's understanding will only ever go as deep as a territorial dispute between her and the King.

“Now that we've found its den, it won't be so brazen as to camp so close to the Weaver's Den. Your actions today were commendable,” Herrah declares. “You're still a scrap of a thing, but I see the beginnings of a capable knight.”

The Vessel ought to feel happy about her approval, but they feel the weight of expectation coming down upon their shoulders. The defeat of Nosk was accomplished so narrowly that it feels closer to a failure than a victory.

Herrah tilts her head to the side. “I see my compliments are returned with indifference. I should have expected as much from—Oh, he's coming.”

Among the scurrying of spiders, the Vessel hears the familiar tapping of a dozen legs. Herrah settles back into her throne; both she and the Vessel now watch the entrance expectantly. The dark foyer alights with a pale glow that had been missing when they were deceived by Nosk. Looking back on it, they feel ridiculous for letting themselves be deceived like that. They take a step forward, remember their supposed emptiness, and stop themselves.

The King who appears in Herrah's throne room is, astonishingly, disheveled. The hem of his cloak is ragged and stained, and his many legs are dirty. A smudge of silt runs a line along his otherwise flawless mask. A tear in one of his wings suggests a skirmish, but not one that ended badly for him. It's the worst state they've ever seen him in, but it's hardly a 'worst'. At most, he looks winded and alarmed. The Vessel, had they not known better, wouldn't have guessed he had been in the tram accident that left them half-blind.

They've never seen him move so quickly before. Within seconds, the King has them in his arms, hugging them so tightly it almost hurts. The Pale King, the one who is obsessed with appearances, who would probably rather jump into the Void than stand in front of a crowd, is holding and stroking them as if comforting frightened grub. He brings with him the scent of someone who has been half-buried, the tight grip of someone who has been searching to the point of fatigue and then past that. The restraint he had in even his most affectionate moments is gone, gone, gone. The Vessel starts to leak from their eye sockets, thanking the stars that their arms are pinned. They would have flung their arms around the King if they could, damning themselves to show their gratitude.

They can't see, but they hear Ogrim lumbering in with the rest of the party the King had departed with. The Midwife and Herrah are whispering to each other conspiratorially; it speaks volumes that the King doesn't tell them to stop that. He's too busy checking the Vessel for wounds, and furrows his brow when he sees their injured eye. That look makes them wonder just how grisly their wound is. They haven't looked in a mirror since before they departed for the tram.

The Vessel has already been cleaned and bandaged, but the King still takes time to brush the wrinkles from their cloak and straighten their brooch. He does not put the Vessel down, even when he finally turns his attention to Herrah. Only now has she ceased her quiet conversation with the Midwife, who is on her way out. The King's procession is standing on one side of the room, and the Weavers the other.

“You're welcome,” says Herrah. The King, even when being looked down upon both figuratively and literally, stands as tall and proud as ever.

“I extend my gratitude to you for your kind deed.” The King maintains unbroken eye contact with Herrah, even as he folds one of the Vessel's hands in his own. “Yet I must ask: what role the Vessel could possibly take in this meeting, that is so important that I had to go to such lengths to—”

“Am I not entitled to their presence?” Herrah interrupts. The bugs on the Kings' side look at each other, astonished by her impudence. No doubt the lesser retainers feel validated by her being a 'common beast' after all: something they have no trouble whispering to themselves in the safety of the Palace.

“You who have forced us into the corner of our domain, starved us for supplies, armed our enemies and only grant the smallest of mercies when you think we can be useful to you,” says Herrah, lifting several of her arms, “You, who asks me to make the ultimate sacrifice, remains stubborn in allowing me to see that which I will be guarding? Certainly you won't be questioning my demands as well?”

The King waits until she's finished to finish what he was saying. “Even with the measures I had taken to ensure their safety, they still came to harm and it was in your domain, as you have said. Have I not a good reason to question you?”

“Perhaps, but remember that while you are in Deepnest, it is I who has the greatest authority. You will remember that. Now, if you've got the capacity to treat another bug as your equal, I am ready for negotiations.” Herrah settles into her throne and folds her claws. A Weaver in the background has been furiously transcribing the whole exchange, and takes a moment to catch their breath. Ogrim, normally an open book, stands still and impassive. Retainer and Weaver alike are silent, waiting for the King's response.

“I acknowledge that my actions have been contradictory; the affliction had not yet entered my foresight. You assume correctly of all my intentions, as I act plainly and without ulterior motive, yet is this negotiation not to amend these faults? Even the proudest may recognize when he has done wrong, and what you request of me henceforth I shall do my best to accommodate.”

The King does a half-curtsy, tail curled demurely in front of him. His hermeticism has not diminished his speech, with which he is careful and does not give freely. He goes on to add, “I do not require your forgiveness for my transgressions, only your cooperation as an equal.”

He lifts his head. Despite these entreaties, it he is not begging at all. Rather, he poses this as a suggestion, or an appeal to Herrah's better nature. The Vessel does not understand the intricacies of this diplomatic waltz, whether it is simple politics or something intimate beyond their understanding. It is neither condescending nor prostrating, neither manipulative nor truly humble. Herrah rubs the back of one claw in silence, considering his honeyed words. At the very least, the Vessel understands that they are seeing the tip of a long conflict, and that whether Herrah consents or not will have been the result of many similar correspondences. And that is really all they need to know.

“Hmhm. Good to know you're not an idiot.” Herrah's laugh rumbles quiet and deep beneath her mask. “Among my requests is one that takes precedence above all else. I shall save it for last, because I have been so patient in waiting for your cooperation.”

But didn't the King say to Lurien that Herrah was the one stalling? The Vessel does not sense any confusion from anyone present. It's none of their business, and they shouldn't even be wondering about things anyway, but their curiosity is as much of a persistent sickness as the Infection is.

“My first request is a Stag Station to connect the Distant Village to the rest of Hallownest. The second is knowledge, pertaining to your Seals of Binding, and all other spells.”

Herrah glances at the transcriber, and waits for her to get caught up. Then, she turns her attention back to the King.

“My final request is your child.”

There are actual vocalizations of confusion this time: the transcriber, with a hearty 'What?', looks up from her scroll. Ogrim uncrosses his arms and exchanges a glance with one of the retainers, whose mouth is agape. The King holds the Vessel to his side protectively. The Vessel is catastrophizing a scenario in which they are torn from their father's arms, and forced to live in Deepnest until they're ready to complete their duty. The King is holding their hand so tightly that he doesn't realize they're clinging back.

The Pale King's voice cracks: “The Vessel is already—”

“No.” Herrah's simple command and a raised claw is enough to force the room into stiffened silence. “I wish for you to sire my child, not to hand yours over. If you can promise me this—if you can guarantee it—then I lie on my plinth as a Dreamer, with no further qualm towards you.”

“I accept your terms,” says the King, “If it will guarantee your cooperation.”

“Then we have a deal. Now come. We have much to discuss.” Herrah leaves her throne and makes for the door, followed closely by her followers. All the while, the Vessel's heart is racing. They're going to have a new sibling. A sibling, one who won't be cast into the Abyss, one who won't suffer like the countless others. They can hardly breathe. An impossible thing has come to pass.

The procession stops at another room, with a map of Deepnest made of individual silk threads spread across the wall. There are landmarks at the edges denoting where Deepnest territory ends, and other lands begin. At the southeast is the gate protected by the Mantis Tribe, and to the northwest is an entrance to the Queen's Gardens. There was talk of an elevator being put there, but the terrain proved too winding to be of any use. The Vessel studies the map, and realizes why they couldn't have just used that entrance: it would've taken them even longer to reach the Weaver's Den, with twice as many dangers to tackle along the way. On foot.

Much time is spent arguing over the precise location of the Stag Station, which is all very dull business to the Vessel. They doze off on the King's shoulder, and wake up abruptly to the loud, rude voice of a retainer. Herrah admonishes them sharply, and banishes them to the hallway. The Pale King studies the locations proposed, and expresses favor towards the Distant Village: it is closest to the station in the Queen's Gardens, he explains, and tunneling there would take the least amount of time. Deepnest would effectively be connected to Hallownest, starting with its most exclusive networks.

The Pale King and Herrah go off by themselves to discuss the matter of spellwork and silk. Ogrim, as his most loyal knight, lumbers behind like a third wheel on a shell cart. He has a surprising amount to offer on magic that would be most useful to Deepnest, citing that its tunnels are not so different in structure than the Royal Waterways. The three speak at length about drainage and irrigation, and the Vessel enjoys an uninterrupted nap. The King gently pats them awake a half an hour later, to help them show Herrah a basic spell with which they have not had much practice. The Vessel's right hand glows white as they conjure up a magic circle.

They couldn't have done this without careful assistance, but Herrah seems impressed. She cites the magic of her homeland, and how reliant it was upon spider silk. Magic based on Soul alone would increase the amount of silk available for other projects, though there are some things they do that Soul could not substitute for. When prompted for details, she refuses to elaborate. That which can be replaced with Soul she explains in detail, and the King imparts a great deal of information about his own workings. The Vessel listens with rapt attention, eager to add more to their meager skill set. A pang in their injured eye humbles them to the idea that they've still got a long ways to go.

The Pale King and Herrah, by this time, seem to have forgotten most of their animosity towards each other, though it rises again during a conflict in opinion. The Vessel is soon reminded of their mother, and realize that they miss her sorely. The White Lady comes up a few times in these long conversations. The Pale King seems reluctant to speak of her. His surly tone, despite his efforts at composure, suggests that he's not taking her separation from him as well as the Vessel thought. Ogrim, who has regular contact with the Queen, reminds him that she's still waiting for a visit.

It is the mention of the Queen that segues them into the subject of Herrah's desired child. For this they retreat to a small sitting room, outside of which Ogrim and a Weaver guard keep watch. Herrah props her elbows on the table and leans forward expectantly, while the Pale King sits stiffly with the Vessel on his lap. He has been carrying them tirelessly the moment they were reunited, which has not escaped Herrah's notice.

“Let me hold them,” she coaxes. “If we're going to be getting to know each other, I'd like them to get used to me.”

“They don't 'get used' to anything. They're perfectly hollow,” the King retorts, but hands them over. The Vessel, true to the King's word, doesn't react to being passed over. Not by his knowledge, at least. After her meddling with their eye wound, they're afraid to be touched any further. Once they're settled, though, they wonder what they were ever afraid of. Despite Herrah's intimidating appearance, she cradles them in her arms like a grub without a shell, even rocking them a bit as she strokes one of their horns. It's a completely different feeling from being held by their mother's vast roots, or their father's close embrace. Yet they feel as comfortable as if they had always known her.

“They made it from the crash site to Nosk's nest all on their own. That's getting used to something. Are you sure they're pure?” Herrah asks, with a tilt of her head. The King bristles.

“You still doubt me, even after all I've shared with you?”

“Of course I do. I've seen many a spider die from blind trust.” Herrah waves one of the Vessel's little hands for them. “You can't make something living and expect it to be like one of your automatons. But this isn't what we're here to discuss. Now that we're in agreement, I'd like my egg laid as soon as possible. I'd like the Stag Station completed first, and a meeting with both you and the Queen. I want the latter to be done by tomorrow's end.”

The King clasps his hands on the tabletop. The glow around him seems to grow duller as he explains his end: “That can be arranged—I only request that I speak with her alone, first. There has been a disagreement between us concerning…”

“Concerning what?” Herrah is counting and recounting the Vessel's fingers.

The beleaguered King confesses, “Concerning the creation of the vessels. To put it lightly, she was demoralized.”

“Ahh. I recall you had yet to find your 'pure' one, during our earliest correspondences.”

The Vessel stiffens. Until now, they had no idea why the Queen had left. Now the awful implications have come to light: it's their fault. Not just them, but all of their siblings, have driven the Queen away. All they can assume is that something about them was so unbearable that their own mother couldn't stand to look at them.

“It is up to you, then, to sort that out before I speak with her,” says Herrah. “Though she has no say in our agreement, it would be in bad form to proceed without her blessing. There's also the matter of the child's upbringing and training, both of which I would appreciate her involvement, depending on the circumstances.”

“You'll be disappointed: she has as little experience in raising children as you do.”

“Then you've been taking care of this one?”

“Of course I have.” The King keeps looking at the Vessel, as if he wants Herrah to hand them back over.

“What have you named them?”

“I have not.” And to this, Herrah makes a low, disgusted noise. The Pale King is unmoved. “There are many others who go without, myself and my wife included. Let us not go off topic. This is about the child that is yet to be, not the Vessel.”

Herrah looks as if she wants to say something else, but relents. “Very well. Then we've decided you're not going to be in charge of the naming. I will see to that, and the rest of the child's needs. You will only be involved with my permission.”

“And when you are no longer around to give your permission?”

“...I will need to think more on that,” Herrah says, with a strain in her voice. She rises from her seat, and returns the Vessel to the King's side. And so, after more discussion, the following is arranged: the Stag Station and the meeting with the White Lady will happen in tandem. The King sends Ogrim to gather workers almost immediately after they've decided upon this, and the knight is swiftly off.

The child-yet-to-be will be raised by Herrah herself, pending involvement from other parties. The unresolved issue of what happens later hangs above everyone's heads, except for the Vessel, once they remember they won't be around by then. When the King suggests taking custody, such a lengthy and heated argument ensues that the Midwife comes to collect the Vessel, fearing a fight might break out. Herrah accuses him of meddling, the King accuses her of the same, for wanting to involve herself with the Queen. Ogrim returns to the scene with a cluster of Menderbugs, who must be quickly shuffled away to the work site.

The Vessel collects their nail and sits in the safety of the nursery. The tears from their injured eye are interpreted as bleeding, and the Midwife dabs them away accordingly. All the while, they are homesick for the Palace, the bridge, and the motes of Void that float up from the Abyss. There they felt they had some measure of control, of the virtue that a familiar environment is predictable. They feel as lost as they did in the wilds, wandering from cave to cave without knowing what to expect. As powerful as the Pale King and Herrah are, they are still vulnerable to conflict and strong emotion. The break in the King's composure, which they've always viewed as a stronghold, rattles them.

The weaverlings, too young to understand that the Vessel is 'pure', scamper around their mysterious guest and endeavor to lift their spirits. Being near bugs around their own age emboldens them to, and when the Midwife's back is turned, they clap soundlessly or hold the hands of their little playmates. This distracts them for a time, until their father returns to collect them. His light is an angry flash in the doorway of the nursery, and the Midwife snaps at him that he'll blind them all. When the Vessel goes to him, he takes their hand and leads them away without another word.

Along with the Menderbugs came other workers laden with carts and supplies, stag beetles, and guards to protect them on their way to the Distant Village. The Vessel decides that the King is truly out of his mind, when he requests a stag to go to the Queen's Gardens himself.

“Your Majesty, might I not go with you as guard?” pleads Ogrim.

The Pale King shoots back with, “Do you think me incapable of protecting myself and my charge? You are to oversee the building of the station. Do not step beyond your orders.”

This silences Ogrim, whose rotund figure returns to the work party with slumped shoulders. The Vessel can only take a moment to feel sorry for him, because in the next, the stag beetle trundles away. The bright light the King emits illuminates the path several yards ahead, giving a clear view of obstacles and adversaries. The infected bugs they do happen upon skitter away from fright of an angered Higher Being. Those foolish enough to hold their ground are struck down with a spear of light. The King does not deign to give them even a cursory glance as they travel in silence.

It takes almost an hour to reach the Queen's Gardens. The King has enough sense to apologize to the stag for forcing them through such rough terrain, and sends them back on their way. They exit that final damp cave, and come into the gardens, which in comparison are not only well-maintained but ornamental. There's none of the disarray of Deepnest. While the flora is the same as Unn's territory, it is all kept from looking too wild, too forested. Smooth stone paths and stairs of twisted iron cut through it all.

They follow behind the King and try to remember when they've last been here. It must have been shortly after they were plucked from the Abyss. They remember little of her, except for her glittery blue eyes and monolithic frame. They can't convince themselves she'll be happy to see them.

“Are you aware of the means of your creation?”

This catches the Vessel off guard. They falter, believing that he knows, but he doesn't turn his head. They continue to follow him up the stairs, hurrying to catch up with him.

“Do you remember your hatching? When the Void filled your egg to bursting with itself, were you in pain? Do you feel pain, as we do?”

I think so. I don't remember. I'm sorry.

“All three Dreamers are aware of the sacrifices made to bring you here. My Root, the Queen, was closely involved in the affair, though she could not steel her heart against each egg I left to the Sea. For every bug in Hallownest, there are a hundred failed vessels.”

But there have to be at least a million bugs in Hallownest.

“Thousands have unwavering faith in me, yet when I suggested to Herrah to help care for a single child, she condemns me. A single rejection sings louder than a thousand praises. You are lucky to not feel indignation or doubt, or to understand what I am even saying. You will not suffer as your siblings have.”

He now leads them up a winding path, with two streams on either side that flow down a short hill. The Vessel's legs are tired, but their heart is at rest for the ease of the land they now travel. After Deepnest, everything else feels simple to navigate. But the King is wrong—they do suffer, they feel indignation at unfairness, and they constantly doubt themselves.

“There should have been none to suffer after you. I promised myself that after choosing you, and yet here I am. Am I truly doing what Hallownest needs?” He puts a hand on his chin, pensive. “In these times, my foresight is unreliable. I no longer see the future as clearly as I once did. Like my Root, I become blinded, though in a different sense.”

The Vessel's injured eye throbs. They keep their hands at their side, and grip their nail tight. Their own eyesight has been hindered as well. All the while, they have to take special care not to trip or stumble. They think they prefer that to having a crisis of faith. If nothing else, their resolve is intact. Right as they're thinking this, they tumble over a root and face-plant into the grass. The King lifts them upright and is about to sigh, but his breath catches when he sees their mask.

“Your eyes are leaking again. We are going to have a look at that when we return to the Palace. Then again...” He takes his hands off their shoulders, and turns around. “Come. We are almost at the Lady's residence. Perhaps we have chosen a good time to see her, after all.”

The Vessel, full of questions, totters along. The path they traverse is lined with moss that barely depresses under their light weight. Pollen and burrs cling to the King's robes, making him look even more disheveled. Right outside the gates—laced with vines and white flowers—he stops to brush himself off. Past that is a mound of twisted tree roots, though there is no tree in sight. A gleaming white knight stands attentive at the entrance. The King exchanges only a few words with her before proceeding inside. Fierce Dryya, the queen's knight, is never much for conversation.

The King gestures for the Vessel to walk behind him, so that he may enter the Queen's chambers first. The smell of pollen tickles them behind their mask, and petals settle atop their head. The Queen's roots have grown since they last saw her, filling up just about the entire room. The pale light that emanates from her is different from the King's: it does not travel far from her body. The room is dappled in equal parts light and dark.

She lifts her head when the two enter, and blinks her watery blue eyes. When the King hesitates to step towards her, she speaks. “My Wyrm,” she begins, and then chokes up a little. The Vessel's heart breaks for her. She who they remembered as warm and happy now hunches in a dark room, far away from the Palace and her family. The Vessel stays obediently by the door, giving the two monarchs some space. The King neither flinches nor leans into the touch of the roots that caress his shell. He kneels by her side, and puts a hand to his forehead.

The White Lady leans down and whispers something to him, to which he responds in kind. The Vessel can only hear bits and pieces. The King is relaying the journey to Deepnest from the beginning, including details that the Vessel did not know about. They find themselves clinging to every word. The White Lady nods every so often. Eventually, she taps one of her roots to the King's shell, quieting him. He takes this root in his hand, and the two exchange a meaningful look. The room is now light enough for the Vessel to comfortably pretend that they're back in the Palace.

“My Root, I will not begrudge you if you choose not to come back,” the King is saying. The Vessel snaps their head up in attention. Fortunately, no one notices.

“Then I must thank you for accepting my decision. I withdraw on my own terms. Otherwise, the tragedy that drove me away shall...” The Queen quickly stops herself. The King does not press her, though the Vessel wishes he would. They wish she'd ask about them. The whole time they've been here, she hasn't looked at them once. When she finally does, the Vessel feels themselves wilt. Is this the same mother they remember? Her brow is furrowed, as if the very sight of them saddens her. Will she not beckon to them? Will she not…

The White Lady lifts her chin. “The Vessel is injured. Allow me to heal it.”

It.

The Vessel drags their feet all the way over to her. Even Herrah was more affectionate when she held them in her arms. The only comfort they have is that she can still cry over them. Tears of Lifeblood drip from her eyelashes and onto an extended root, which she tips into the Vessel's bad eye. Slowly the pain dissipates, and their vision fully returns to them.

Such is the power of a Higher Being, to be able to sense and heal wounds. But not even the White Lady could heal the hurt in their heart, and their bitter disappointment.

Chapter Text

Subsequent visits to the Gardens reveal to the Vessel a rift that has opened between themselves and the queen. She is not only indifferent but despondent, having rooted herself so thoroughly into her abode. Though attentive during all conversation, her speech towards even the King makes him feel like an outcast, as he has relayed to the Vessel on several different occasions. The Vessel is merely a silent witness to the crumbling, idealistic fantasy that nothing could drive their parents apart. It comes as a great relief when the King deemed them well enough to return to their usual training regimen.

Much to the Vessel's secret delight, the changing platforms are shelved. Their inexperience requires a more predictable training ground than before. This causes such an improvement in their performance that the King decides it's time to teach them spell work. Of all their lessons, this one is their favorite. The King does not sit and watch, but instructs them himself on the various spells both offensive and defensive. All of these, he tells them, are different types of focusing. The more they learn, the more they see what could have helped them in Deepnest.

Fortunately, Herrah has not requested their presence since that first disastrous visit. The memory of it weighs heavily on the Vessel. When they are alone, they try to make sense of why they're feeling this way. The silent halls of the Palace become their favorite 'thinking spaces'. At last they understand why their parents seclude themselves so often. But to be deprived of their presence for too long pains them. On days when they've got little to do, they become the King's little shadow. The perceived rejection from the White Lady and the ordeal in Deepnest has stricken them so deeply, that they feel the need to make up for it with the Pale King.

It is a truly awful thing to suffer over something, and be unable to do anything about it. The Vessel, who once felt comfortable in their role as a mindless, silent thing, feels constricted in both mind and body. Their shell and carapace both feel too small, and their Void itches to leave it. The Vessel has what can only be described as an instinct regarding this, with no explanation. One restless morning, like a bug possessed, they prowl around the Palace, looking for a place they like. They don't care for the gardens or the bridge, which are too out in the open.

They end up in the King's study, the walls of which are stained with Void. On the shelves are tablets and tools they don't recognize. The tables are filled with empty armor. There's a small basin with a grate around it, both still leaking Void. This is the only messy place in the Palace. The retainers had tried and failed to clean it, but only ruined several mops and irreparably stained their own skin. They had later disappeared, and from then on the King forbade anyone but himself to enter. This excludes the Vessel, who is of the Void.

They drag a chair under a hanging lamp without a light bulb. With a single, swift jump, they slap a glob of Void onto its underside. Getting themselves to hang upside-down is more of a challenge, but they manage. The focus required for this task is comfortably mindless. They don't think about their parents, nor the Infection, or even their siblings. They haven't dreamed about them in a long while. In this Void they spin around themselves, will they dream?

About two hours later, the Pale King enters his workshop to take a look at the chrysalis that sways gently from a ceiling lamp. He foresaw this down to the minute, and is not surprised. In fact, he would have been worried it if hadn't happened. When he approaches, he sees a familiar face just behind the frosted shell. There is his Vessel, bobbing harmlessly in a Void soup. He sighs, and puts a hand to the surface. Behind his eager anticipation of the chrysalis lies a bog of dread that he can't quite place.

“What was it that drew you here?” he asks. “Was it the call of the Sea? Instinct? Or something else?”

The Vessel does not respond, nor give indication of hearing him. The perfect confidant. He sees no fault in them, but understands why their presence upset his Root so badly. The few who know of the Process have all had that reaction, except for him, because he can't afford it. Yet there are some days when he looks at them, and sees in their empty eyes the rest of their siblings peering back at him. There are days when the Vessel doesn't feel entirely his, or the Lady's.

“The Void works one mystery after another. I initially thought you would molt. Now I cannot tell if you are awake or asleep.” He strokes the chrysalis absentmindedly. “In three day's time, the child of Herrah the Beast will come into the world. You shall emerge seven days later, taller, but not by much. Your horns shall have an extra prong...”

The Vessel touches the chrysalis wall where the King's hand rests. This is but a reflex to seeing light, he tells himself. He should feel disturbed that they've reacted to him at all, but he doesn't. When he moves his hand, the Vessel follows. They don't have much wiggle room, but they press themselves so earnestly against their confines that the King allows himself to think that it's cute. Yes, it's adorable. And a private thought never hurt anyone. Sometimes, though, his thoughts feel so loud that he thinks everyone else will hear them.

He resolves to write of this to the Queen, if only to catch her up on the Vessel's development. Herrah he has not spoken to for the past week; she is too busy preparing a nest for her child, and only wants the company of her Midwife and fellow Weavers. Explanations for her can wait until after the birth. The three days ahead will be long ones.

The King then notices the chair that the Vessel had used to reach the lamp. That indicates at least a basic level of problem-solving, which worries him. This Vessel isn't like a Kingsmould. They're independent enough to do things like dress and feed themselves. Does that not require some level of will and mind? When the King thinks into the intricacies of the Void, he feels out of his depth. He can't afford to feel that, either. There's too much at stake, he thinks, as he watches the Vessel. It will eventually fall to this tiny thing to save Hallownest where he could not. What a burden he has settled onto them.

“You shall not be disturbed here, my child,” he tells the chrysalis. “I am going to leave now, but I will back back to check on you periodically.”

The Vessel is unresponsive. The Pale King, feeling as though he has lingered enough, leaves them to their rest.

The first thing he does is locate Ogrim, who has just returned from the City of Tears. At the sight of the King, he bows with a sweep of his claw. Residual raindrops drip from the floor, and a put-upon servant bustles away for a mop.

“Your majesty! I've returned with a report from the Watcher.” He hands him a sealed parcel that is heavy with stone tablets. “We also have applications for tram passes, a message from the Lady, and correspondence from Ze'mer in the Fungal Wastes.”

The King sighs. Being as high up in power as he is means the mail never ends. However, anything from his Root is welcome. It's a good sign that she contacted him first. Outwardly, he looks as placid as ever. That's one thing the Vessel inherited from him. He tries not to feel proud of the fact. He fails. What a fine mess this is turning into.

“Thank you, Ogrim. I have one more task for you today: guard the entrance to my workshop.” No one is allowed in there, but he doesn't trust anyone to be completely obedient except for the Five Knights. “The Vessel has begun their first metamorphosis inside. I do not want anything or anyone disturbing them.”

“Of course! Goodness, they grow up so fast,” Ogrim laughs. With a wink, he adds, “Watch out if they come out with wings. They'll be too excited to fly to come back down!”

The King considers reminding Ogrim, for the nth time, that the Vessel doesn't feel anything. He decides against it. Attending to these letters and assuring the child's safety take precedence.

“We'll see about that,” he says. “As you were, then.”

The way the Vessel had been acting up until now, he's certain they wouldn't lift an inch off the ground without being asked to. Again he ponders the intricacies of the Void that hollowed out their child. How hollow are they truly, if they can have changes in behavior? No, he can't think of that. He's too far into this plan, and can't back out now.

With those parting words to Ogrim, the Pale King retreats to his chamber to look over the notes. No one disturbs the peak of the castle unless called for, so he is confident in his seclusion. At his desk, he lays out each letter, and reads them each from left to right.

Lurien's report is the standard fare, but with an undertone of worry. The Infection has spread in the western half of the city. The entrance to the Fungal Wastes has been cordoned off. Piled by the entrance are the corpses of bugs who had tried to scratch their way out. The Watcher Knights have cleared them all out, at the risk of getting sick themselves.

The King consults his foresight on the situation. In one year's time, the Infection will have spread further downwards, and north into the Crossroads. The best he has been able to come up with is ordering families to sleep in shifts, to forbid bugs from living alone, lest they fall into one of those deadly sleeps with no one to wake them up. Over the years, however, he has found that this just delays the inevitable. Those deadly sleeps come more and more frequently, until a bug cannot sleep without a burning bright dream coming to them.

The onset of the disease is not physical in nature, but its later symptoms are. Medical aid can delay its progress long enough to quarantine the patient and prevent it from spreading. Thus the Fungal Wastes being blocked off. The Infection is airborne in the way of spores; it is spread through carapace-to-carapace contact; bugs have contracted it after coming in contact with infected fluids causing open wounds into which the sickness seeps. The King feels as though She is playing with him, drawing out this epidemic slowly, keeping him thinking that maybe the research being done will be enough, that he won't have to go through with this last and most desperate resort.

But at what cost, to those thousands of little bodies in the Abyss? The eggs he deliberately laid had so often merged into round masses so swollen with Void that he felt a disconnect, hardly believing they had come from his own body. It was not until he had seen those little white shells and Void-black bodies that he knew they were still his. They had come to him on trembling legs. Many of the ones from individual eggs had fallen apart and died as soon as he saw them or even before he saw them. So many of the earliest ones could not withstand the entity that had tainted them. The very first eggs had shriveled like raisins before they could grow larger than his palm. The first ones to survive that stage were malformed, and only lived for a few minutes.

In the shadows beneath his desk he can see them. In the shadows of his mind he remembers how first there was the shock, then the revulsion, then the resignation that preceded his mind growing blank at the sight of his children. 'His children' became a foreign phrase, he could not bond, he merely scattered thousands of his eggs like marbles into the Abyss. He read his foresight like postcards, eating the way a miner shovels coal into a broiling fire just so the next round of eggs would be strong enough, perhaps, to make it past the neonatal stage.

His mind hits a block at the point where the vessels survived long enough to develop personalities they shouldn't have had. How long had it taken for them to reach that point? Days? Months? He snaps back into reality with a gasp, head in his hands, forehead almost against the tabletop.

The Pale King straightens up, and turns to Ze'mer's letter. Its optimistic opening lines distract him from the little bodies littering the floors of his memories.

Three days later, he visits his study. The chrysalis has grown and hardened since he visited it last. He can no longer see the Vessel inside, but wonders if his light reaches them through the darkness. For a time this place has become their nest, and until they are ready to leave, there is no work to be done with the Void. It would disturb them too much. All efforts have been concentrated on aiding Ze'mer and the Mantis Lords who have not taken to the infection, even though he knows nothing will come out of it. The mantises are too wary of him to make concessions for anything, even with his help. As such he has not graced them with Ogrim's aid, instead sending the dung beetle to the City of Tears.

“Your mother,” he begins, and then pauses. Without thinking he has rested one of his many hands against the chrysalis. He folds it back into his robe, and continues. “My Root and I have been corresponding, and she has expressed her concern over the state of—the state of—”

He sighs and puts a hand to his forehead. He is merely distracting himself with this. The Vessel does not care. They will not understand, and even if they could, what use would they have for any of this? Theirs is a predetermined path, and telling them how the White Lady is worried about the Palace gardens of all things is a waste of time.

The Pale King's train of thought is halted by hurried knocking, and his foresight catching up to him. With a sweep of his robes, he glides out the door and speaks to the frantic retainer before they can speak.

“Prepare a stag at once,” he commands. The retainer bows and leads the way, but not before pushing a letter into his hands. It is still warm from the printing press, and must have traveled faster than any postage in Hallownest. Though it contains a summons of utmost importance, the Pale King will never even break the wax seal. He already knows where to go, and what to do.

The Weavers speak in such hushed voices that they sound like the wind in the tunnels, and tumble of pebbles over hard earth. The Pale King enters the den perhaps faster than is necessary, casting an authoritative and announcing light wherever he steps. There are no retainers and no knights for his aura to create shadows of, only the stag that waits obediently at its post. Alone, he scales the wall with his dozen legs to enter the chamber in which Herrah is resting. The Midwife lurks on the ceiling above her protectively, and regards the King with a shift of her mask plates. When the King approaches, she backs off, and he is given sole audience with the Beast Queen.

Herrah is crumpled in one corner, broken and exhausted. She had been prepared for laying an egg, not for an egg that would feed off of and then hatch inside of her. The other Weavers have made her comfortable; that is all they could do for her. Even the Midwife had little knowledge of handling a life birth that didn't involve thousands of hatchlings bursting from the corpse of some unfortunate outsider. Herrah, when asked later, would say the pain had been about the same level as that.

The King feels a lump in his throat when he sees she's holding a bundle of layered silks. Pure white, the darkest violet, and bright red that immediately catches his eye. Herrah silently beckons him with a free claw, and he comes over foolishly, obediently.

“You really hustled over, didn't you?” Herrah laughs weakly, too tired to bother with formal speech or contempt, too joyful to want to. She tilts up her mask to look tenderly into the bundle. “Look at her. Look at her...”

The King leans forward. The first thing he sees is her eyes, black and barely-opened, but with his distinctive shape. Her ivory shell tapers off into two tiny horns. One Void-black hand pokes out of the blankets and grasps the air as the babe starts to mewl. She is diminutive and simple in every way, but possesses such a strong presence that he forgets how to breathe. Here is a child so similar to her thousands of deceased siblings, so completely separate from the Void. The King has damned her just by bringing her into existence. What cruel circumstances she has been born into. What suffering she has been guaranteed, before she has even been named.

His mind, laden with butterfly nymphs that died before their larval stage, is overcome by the immense life emanating from this little thing. Herrah concedes her to him for minutes that feel like hours. It had been agreed upon, with mediation from the Lady, to grant him the basic dignity of seeing the child in the sacred hour of her birth. The Pale King is no stranger to holding children after all the time spent coddling his Vessel, but the Vessel had never grasped his finger the way this infant does now. They never cried, barely reacted to being picked up or embraced or rocked. This one huffs, and begins to keen in a shrill tone that makes him feel like he has committed some heinous crime just by holding her. He brushes a finger along her shell and she turns her head to follow it, still whining until he shushes her.

He returns her to her mother, feeling terrible and elated all at once. A thousand adversaries, or even death itself, would be easier to bear than being emotionally ruined by this child, and the one waiting for him at home.

Several days later, the shock of the Princess's birth has worn off, and Herrah is well enough to spend the weekend with the White Lady—an event that is described in great detail to the Pale King. The letter arrives shortly before the Vessel is due to hatch from their chrysalis, and they are ignorant to what has happened during their metamorphosis. They have heard their father's voice, and have seen his light pass them by, but only as something far-off and dreamlike. It is the closest thing they've experienced to a dream, in this state. Their sleep is an all-encompassing oblivion in which they see no visions of their wayward sibling, nor the mundane dreams and nightmares experienced by all bugs.

Their return to full consciousness comes like waking up on any other morning, with light spilling through their window and beckoning them out of bed. The Vessel tears through their chrysalis with ease, and tumbles onto the floor in a gush of Void. Before they can get their senses about them, they are swaddled with a thick towel and lifted off the floor. Their head feels heavy and their limbs so ungainly that they stumble forward.

“Move slowly. This new form will take some adjusting to, at first,” they hear a familiar voice say. Their vision focuses, and the King's face swims into view. To their dull surprise, they only have to tilt their chin to look up at him, whereas before they had to crane their whole neck back. Before what? They remember coming in here and climbing up onto something. It is not unlike, they realize with clarity, when they had first been born. It comes rushing back to them: their frustration, their instinct, the feeling that they had been growing beyond what their shell could contain. Though they are now trembling and ungainly, they feel settled, content.

They are whisked from the study and taken to have the Void cleaned from them, to be dried and dressed in a cloak that brushes against their ankles. The King sits them in front of a mirror, and they see for the first time their slender limbs and the visible segments in their joints. Their shell has become a crescent moon folded in on itself, elongated but still with a childish roundness, childish and wondering almond eyes that have divorced from their siblings' round ones. Their horns have an extra prong and sit at an angle behind them. They are taller, but still small enough to be carried and coddled, but this growth bears the promise of further change, greater heights, promised by the Higher Beings that brought them into this world.

The King puts a hand on their back. “Mind your posture.”

Some things are still the same.

It doesn't take long for them to get used to this new form, and to adjust to their nail no longer being half their size. They hold it experimentally in their preferred grip, where the blade faces away from them instead of towards them, the back of their hand facing upwards. It is only a couple of hours after their father has returned them to the world of the living that he tells them to sheath their weapon and accompany him to the Stag Station.

The Vessel follows, brimming with curiosity. Somewhere along the line, they've given up trying to be empty, and now focus on containing it instead. They allow themselves to feel regal, holding their chin up as the embroidered hem of their cloak swishes around their ankles. They forcibly maintain this even as they board the stag beetle; they have not yet overcome that fear of theirs, and dig their fingers into the seat. Some things have not changed: the King still has to have his arm around them so they don't go flying when their stead charges down the tunnel. Perhaps seat belts are in order?

They arrive at the Queen's Gardens, which have gone through marginal changes since the Vessel last visited. They know not how long they've been asleep, but it can't have been that long. Only long enough for the glowing mushrooms of Deepnest to have been mixed with the flowers, cross-bred for glowing blossoms and spores that float over the streams. Fungi and flowers do not take long to grow at all, especially with the White Lady presiding over them.

“It has taken you ten days to undergo your first metamorphosis. This shall be par for course for subsequent ones. You...” They stop just outside of the Queen's abode. The Vessel notices both Fierce Dryya and a Weaver soldier standing guard. The King lifts their chin to inspect their shell. The Vessel appears to stare through him. “...You, my child, you are as presentable as I could have made you, but that slouch of yours has gotten worse. No matter. I suppose it could be worse. You must have been stuck in that position the entire time.”

They turn and enter the Queen's private home, and the King stops just outside the door to the innermost chamber to knock. There is conversation and laughter inside that fades out at this sound, and the Queen's voice answers: “Come in.”

The Vessel is surprised to see Herrah not only in the Queen's home, but seated next to her, arm to arm. There is a bundle of blankets in her uppermost set of arms, and the two women seem to have been inspecting it before the King's intrusion. He guides the Vessel forward, where Herrah moves to stand before them. The Vessel does not suspect what the Beast Queen is holding, and it takes everything they have to force down their surprise.

“Say hello to your sister,” the Pale King says. Herrah tilts the bundle towards them.

When the King had first seen his daughter, he had been hesitant to call her as such. The weight of his sins held him back and tarnished his joy with despair and guilt. The Vessel, though impure, has been blessed with an unfettered view of all things beautiful in Hallownest.

The baby's eyes have opened by now, allowing her to stare up into her sibling's eyes. The wrigglesome little thing, deciding that the Vessel is of no consequence, turns her head and sighs. A sibling. Their sister. Theirs. The abstract responsibility of protecting Hallownest has suddenly taken physical form in this strange little soul. That she will grow up as flawed as anyone else is a given, but is that not the nature of a bug? In this moment they have ceased to become just a Vessel of the Infection—they are a Vessel of Dreams, of Future, and of Love. This is what they are protecting.

To protect—that is new to them. They love their parents dearly, but never once felt protective, for they understand the power of Higher Beings. This changes everything.

“Look at how they're staring at each other,” Herrah tells the White Lady. “Here, try holding her. No, not like that. Wyrm, has this child ever held anything besides a nail?”

“Now listen here—” the King starts, but is interrupted by the White Lady pulling his arm.

Herrah settles the baby into the Vessel's arms but stays close, expecting them to drop her. They do not. In fact, they're too afraid to move. Looking at their sister is one thing, but holding her is another. They're used to being the smallest one, and now here they are. The Princess, warm beneath her blankets, breathes audibly up at the Vessel. It must be strange for her to look into a face of her likeness.

The Vessel is only permitted a minute more of this before Herrah takes her back. Their sigh of relief goes unheard.

“Have you named her yet?”

“The Weavers have many titles for her, but no names. Princess, Pale Gift, Gendered Child—all splendid, but she needs a name.” Herrah taps a claw to her mask. “Your Lady has suggested many, but none are to my taste.”

“If I may—”

“No,” Herrah interrupts, and the King narrows his eyes. “I have already made arrangements for consultation. I do not need the suggestions of one who has not even named their other child.”

“Neither my Wyrm nor I have names, either,” the White Lady reminds her. The Vessel interprets this as her defending not only herself and the King, but them as well. They tilt their chin down, ever so slightly, as one of her roots brush against their shoulder.

“That aside, this child...” The King furrows his brow uncertainly at the Pale Gift, who gurgles quietly at him. “At this diminutive size, I have my doubts about her constitution...”

“If you remember, dear,” says the White Lady, once again coming to the rescue, “Our spawn had also been this little, at hatching.”

The Pale Gift—the Princess? The Vessel can’t settle on a title—begins to fuss and cry, drawing Herrah’s attention a way and distracting the others from their conversation.

Hours later, when the Vessel s hould be asleep, they instead sit at their window and watch the dull grey nighttime. The Princess has a strong presence, and they wouldn’t be ashamed to admit this was purely their bias. Perhaps it was the novelty of a new baby, but the Vessel could hardly keep their eyes off her. She had been so distracting that they hardly picked up what the King and Lady were talking about. And they’re always on top of their eavesdropping.

The Vessel leaves the window, and returns to their new bed. It’s about the same shape as their cradle, but large enough for them to stretch in comfortably, and closer to the ground. They tuck themselves in and stare out the window until they can no longer keep their eyes open.

That night, they dream of spider silk and wind chimes.

Chapter Text

The clash of metal against stone reaches outside of the arena, and into the adjoining hallways. It’s a quiet Saturday morning, and the sounds of battle stay sounds for the servants who bustle about, getting ready for the day ahead. One of them, curious enough to spy on the Vessel’s training, slows and stops just outside one of the doors. Despite the King’s prudence in keeping the Vessel separate from most of the castle, any onlooker would be able to watch them fight. If not an enemy, than a constructed environment. The floor has mostly disappeared under the sharp up-and-down of spears, and crisscrossed with saw blades.

The Vessel leans into each jump, and lets gravity do its jobs. About a foot from the spikes, they slash downwards to propel themselves back up. A sawblade passes beneath them, and they ride it out with measured strikes from the flat of their blade. The metal of both weapon and obstacle whine from the pressure. The precision with which they dash onto their destination—a static platform—is mechanical. A Kingsmould assails them the moment both feet land. One, two, three. Parry. Four, dodge. Five. The construct goes down.

Three more of them pursue the Vessel as they ascend the moving platforms. They fend them off with some difficulty, and must resort to a spell. Their left hand glows white, and a blast of Soul shaped like a blade knocks one of their adversaries back-first into a spinning sawblade. The last two they manage to push back, just in time to reach the switch on the ceiling. They yank the lever towards them with both hands, and the clockwork around them grinds to a halt.

The Vessel drops to one knee, and waits for the arena to shift back into its blank slate shape. When the floor has returned to seamless white, the Vessel exhales. They rise, sheathing their nail behind their back and hiding their trembling hands beneath their cloak. The applause of the knights is barely audible over the residual screech of metal on metal, and the tinny ringing in their tympanal organs. Their stomach roils with each step, but they manage a steady pace to the seating area. Ogrim and Isma rise to meet them, praising their progress like a pair of excited parents.

The rest of the small crowd disperses, though Hegemol the behemoth stops by to slap the Vessel on the back, sending them tumbling forward. They catch themselves with their nail, and look on helplessly as Hegemol and the other two knights exchange hearty greetings. Because of his sporadic appearances, the Vessel hasn’t gotten used to him yet. With everyone’s attention diverted from them, they march straight past and out into the hall. After the intensity of training, the rest of the Palace feels like a different and serene world.

The leaves and vines grow healthily on the columns and the arched ceilings, varying from the palest ash to charcoal grey. The delicate flowers are uniformly white, and the Vessel absentmindedly picks one as they walk along. It has been a year since their first metamorphosis, and in that time, they’ve improved in leaps and bounds. Literally. Above all else, the King has praised their ability to navigate any environment he puts them in.

The King hasn’t been around yet this morning. The Vessel twirls the flower’s stem in their hand, and presses their face into it. A day or two’s absence of his makes their gut twist. The White Lady’s visits are even more irregular than Hegemol’s, and they only see Herrah once in a blue moon. From what they gather, the Pale King has just been busy with something, but they’ve got no confirmation that he’ll return to his normal schedule. If he becomes scarce like the rest, if he’s not there to see how much they’ve improved, then what’s the point?

The Vessel sulks down the hall, picking at these dark thoughts like scabs. They look up suddenly, realizing they’ve gone practically halfway across the castle. The nursery doors are half-ajar, inviting them to come in and change out of their training cloak. There’s that gentle, familiar aroma of ferns and other grasses that blanket the walls and ceiling. It’s all overdue for pruning. They swear half the royal retainers are just glorified gardeners.

Something catches their eye: a patch of red, bright against the whites and greys of the foliage. The Vessel pushes their hands past the vines and rummages around. A small white face comes into view, blinking at them with comedic shock. And then, as if the Vessel were the funniest thing in the world, she giggles, and then squeals when they pluck her from the wall.

Her attempt at escape is valiant, but she is no match for the Pure Vessel. They wrap their arms around her torso, keeping a hand on her shoulder so she can’t slide away. In the year that the Vessel has been training, the Princess has been making improvements of her own. Like most bugs her age, she has achieved full mobility and is taking advantage of it to escape her caretakers. The Vessel technically counts as one of them, by virtue of being her older sibling. Many times the King has put a baby sling over their front, and let them roam supervised with the infant princess. They’ve only held her when necessary, and have been very careful to not let their personality show.

And here she is, still clinging to them, still complaining when they set her down and go for a fresh garment. In a rare moment of compliance, she stays in her cradle while they pull a floor-length dress over their head (a moment of silence for the one they outgrew in their metamorphosis, please). When they return to pick her up, she practically leaps into their arms. She is small, soft-shelled, and warmer than any bug they’ve met. In this Palace of white, silver, and black, she is like a little flame. They walk back and forth, rocking her gently, and set out when she has relaxed. The flower they had picked is now clutched in her tiny hand.

Their silence and her inability to form words does not stop the Princess from mewling and making spider sounds all the way across the castle. Again they see Isma, who puts a hand to her mouth and giggles at the royal siblings. The servants simply breathe sighs of relief, knowing that the Gendered Child is accounted for and not getting into trouble. They stop by the kitchens, and one of the cooks feeds them both a spoonful of honey. Hollow as the Pure Vessel may be, they need to eat as much as the Princess does.

These little encounters tell the Vessel how the Princess is handling her weekly visits. The fussy servants she hisses and claws at. Those bearing food learn to be wary of her little hands and hungry eyes.

They walk with purpose to the elevator, which takes them up and away from prying eyes. As if the Palace wasn’t private enough already, the King has a residential area separate from it all in the upper floors. The timepiece on the wall indicates that it’s late morning, which gives the Vessel little hope for his presence. He has taken to holding court as early in the morning as possible, and these meetings have been known to last into the afternoon. The Vessel has spied on him during the brief intermissions, and to their shock found that even during breaks the King was still working.

What could be so important that the King would strain himself like this?

The Vessel stops outside the ornate doors leading to the King’s study. The Princess, recognizing where they are, begins to chirp. Her little arms stretch out for the door handles, which are bigger than she is. The Vessel cradles her in one arm, and stands on tiptoe for the knocker. Bang, bang, bang . They stand back and wait for an answer.

About a minute passes, which is enough for the impatient Vessel to wonder if they should leave. The door opens before they can, flooding the hallway with light. The Pale King stands with a noticeable hunch in his posture, not unlike how the Vessel stands on a daily basis. He rubs under his eyes and, when recognizing his little visitors, straightens up.

“My children. Come in.” He puts a hand on the Vessel’s shoulder and leads them inside. The study is well-lit and well-used. End tables groan under the weight of tablets and scrolls, and the sofa cushions are saggy from overuse. Gilded lumafly lanterns give ample light to the desk at which the Pale King has evidently been spending most of his time. The Princess stares in awe at this ordered chaos, and then at her father. She strains in her sibling’s arms, holding her little arms out and crying until the Pale King takes her from them.

The Vessel shuffles closer to him, which is the closest they can get to touching him without looking suspect. His little shadow, that’s what they are. They follow him all the way back to his desk, where he gives a once-over to the scroll he was writing on. He lowers one of the lamps over the wet ink and returns his quill to its ink pot, all while holding the Princess in one arm. Before following the King back to the sitting area, the Vessel catches glimpse of what he has written. Words such as ‘void’, ‘shell’, and ‘birth’ stand out to them, giving them a guess at the scroll’s contents. But there’s one word, capitalized, that they’ve never seen before.

‘Radiance’.

This word, which has something to do with light, has never been used to refer to the Pale King and the White Lady. Unless…? The Vessel decides not to worry about it; the information they seek always comes to them eventually, but now is not the time. They follow the King back to his armchair, which he sinks into with a sad sigh. When he snaps his fingers, the high windows open and let in a cool breeze. The six-winged bugs that often stay outside sail into the study like maple seeds, settling on the backs of furniture and the tips of the Vessel’s horns.

They do not think it would be strange to look up at this, so they do so. The Princess, squealing with delight, tries to reach for one perched on the King’s horns. It flits away, and she is not to follow: the King is one of the few people who can hold her and actually keep her there.

“Hornet, your ceaseless energy tires me,” the King tells this hapless infant. “You should have been named ‘Thousand-legs’.”

Hornet coos and wiggles her four limbs, but stays put in his arms. The Vessel stands still next to the armchair, watching them from their periphery. For the first time they feel like they’re not supposed to be with their father right now. Perhaps he would rather spend time with his other child, with whom he will have more time with. The typical jealousy one feels when presented with a new sibling is monstrous, when forced to bear it alone. The Vessel doesn’t even know that this is a common occurrence in families.

The King keeps Hornet, now quiet and wide-eyed at her ethereal surroundings, in his foremost pair of arms. A third arm goes for the phone, and the fourth pats the Vessel on the back. “Your posture,” he reminds them, but as soon as he takes his hand away, they slouch forward again. He shakes his head, bemused. “Sit down, then.”

The Vessel seats themselves on the chair adjacent to his, and watches as he spins the dial left, right, left again, punching in numbers until the receiver starts buzzing. The noise makes Hornet cry, but only for a moment: the static quickly replaced by a muffled voice on the other line. The Vessel watches her sniffle, wondering if maybe they could hold her for a bit.

“Yes. Bring up my meal, and two for the children,” the King is saying into the receiver. Between sentences are pauses of varying lengths. “No, they came alone. I see. I shall inform Herrah of your incompetence.”

Hornet, recognizing her mother’s name, lifts her arms and coos. The King distracts her by waving a stray leaf just out of reach.

“...Ah, very well.” The King holds the receiver away as it starts to buzz again. At length, a different and distinctly feminine voice comes from the receiver. The Vessel recognizes it as their mother, and strains their tympanum to hear.

“My Root? Yes, I am well. You? I am glad to hear that. Yes, they are. I see.” The King relaxes in his seat, and listens for a long time. He goes as far as closing his eyes while she speaks. If not for his foresight, Hornet would’ve succeeded in her escape attempt. He instead uses a third pair of ‘arms’ to keep her still, but these are actually just his first pair of legs—just longer than the rest, and able to send the Princess into a giggling fit.

The King sighs and holds the receiver to Hornet, who tries to grab the cord. The Vessel hears the White Lady laughing on the other end.

“I am taking a brief recess from my work. I know. What a surprise.” The King makes a face. “All intelligence we have gathered about the Infection and my methods of combating it. To be honest, I am loathe to share that information, but she refuses to cooperate without it. You do make a solid case.”

‘She’? The Vessel tries to think of who the King could be talking about. They easily rule out Herrah, whose attention is solely on Deepnest, and Hornet’s well-being. Isma’s interests might coincide with the Infection, since it affects plant and insect life, but she doesn’t demand much in return. The White Lady tells Dryya just about everything, and Ze’mer has had firsthand experience with the plague.

Therefore, this must be someone they have yet to meet. If the King is willing to part with valuable information for this mystery woman’s cooperation, then the Vessel concludes that she is a Dreamer. By the time they’ve deduced this, however, the King is almost done with his conversation, and they’ve missed a lot of what he said. They’ve potentially missed something important, they realize, and exhale in disappointment. This goes unheard, as they are incapable of even breathing audibly. They may have failed in regards to thinking and free will, but at least they’ve got no voice.

“...however, nothing is stopping you from coming over yourself. Come next evening, I shall be ready to depart for the Archives.”

The King hangs up the phone and pushes it away, as if having just completed something long and difficult. Though he had been content to sit down before, he gets up again, and trails back to his desk. The Vessel watches him lift up the lamps, and roll up the scroll beneath them, now dried to a papery rustle. Hornet’s whining goes sadly ignored; her father, distracted, barely seems to hear her as he gathers and organizes everything on the desk. Tablets are stacked, scrolls are tied off with bits of leather and stowed into tubes.

His back is turned, and Hornet is leaning over his shoulder—crying, of course—and the Vessel risks beckoning to her. They return to their statue-stillness when she scampers down his back and over his tail. The King can’t ignore that . He half-throws the tablet he’s holding back onto the table, and nearly trips over his own tail trying to catch her. He ends up having to catch himself on the arm of his chair, while Hornet sits smugly in the Vessel’s lap.

“Wauh!” the Gendered Child crows, throwing her head back to laugh. The insult to injury is that the Vessel doesn’t even have to hold her to make her sit still.

The Pale King puts a hand to his forehead, and groans.

This isn’t the only problem the King has with her. When lunch arrives, the Gendered Child decides that it would be fun to refuse everything on her plate. The Vessel, demurely picking at their fried maggot, watches as she turns her head and pushes away a spoon of savory jam.

“Did she already eat?” the King demands of a servant, who lowers their head nervously and says something about hatchlings not having a fixed feeding schedule. He coaxes her into eating a few spoonfuls before he can finally turn to his own meal, which has gone cold. The moment he starts eating, Hornet picks a slice of meat from his plate and shoves the whole thing into her mouth.

There is no danger of her choking: even the youngest of spiders can dissolve their food safely. Therefore, the King can afford to be a little angry when she scampers up the wall to eat. He glares at her with the sternest of disappointment, but the Gendered Child is unmoved. She is the only bug in the castle who doesn’t care to respect the King: concepts such as obedience and nobility are yet beyond her. The King still endeavors. The Vessel had started their training almost immediately after their ascent from the Abyss. It is never too early to instill manners, apparently. A child should not steal their from their father’s plate and get away with it. When the servant returns, the King requests of them to take Hornet’s tray away—her tray which still has an untouched cup of beetle jelly.

This is all well and good, but when the Gendered Child sees the servant leaving with her dessert, her little face crumples, and she howls with such volume that even the Vessel’s tympanum hurt. The King has the look of someone who has made a great mistake, and puts his face in his hands. Neither he nor the Vessel know it, but they’re both asking themselves the same question: Why? She didn’t even want to touch it earlier.

All in all, a typical weekend.

The Vessel pretends not to be bothered by all this carrying on. They’ve just finished their meal when the door opens. Before the White Lady enters their field of vision, they know it’s her. Wherever she goes she brings with her that soft light, and the scent of earth: heady pollen, damp dirt, moss and grass. The construction of the castle had occurred with her great height in mind, so when she passes under the doorway, she need not even bow her head. Her blue-grey robes rustle from the multitude of roots hidden beneath.

“A typical weekend, I see,” she says, taking a look around. The Vessel notices her squinting, but in the way one does when they’re without their glasses. Like a guardian angel, she reaches all the way up the wall to pluck the Gendered Child off the top of a bookshelf, and while another root twirls around the King’s shoulders. He takes his face from his hands to behold the thick tendril resting, like a worm, against the back of his neck. He takes the end of it in his hand to kiss it in greeting.

“I should have foreseen your early arrival, my Root. Forgive me,” the King murmurs. The White Lady shakes her head and approaches. The Vessel cranes their neck back to look at her in all her resplendence, but find themselves stricken with jealousy to see the Gendered Child cradled in her foremost arm. The White Lady bounces her a little bit, easily soothing the cries that had so troubled the King. She finds a seat next to the Vessel, who immediately looks down at their lap.

T he Lady spreads her roots comfortably throughout the room as if it were hers, but the King voices no protest. In fact, he is visibly relaxed at her presence. His correspondence and meetings with the Queen have all happened without the Vessel’s knowledge, forcing them to piece things together with no context. The two are now close enough to sit in the same room together and share gestures of affection, but with more formality than is needed.

“The Vessel was never like this as a hatchling,” the King is telling her, while she laughs smoothly into her hand.

“That would be because of its unique nature.” ‘It’. ‘It’ again. They wish she’d stop that. “The Gendered Child is not hollow. She needs attention, and a more thoughtful approach to her upbringing. If you simply leave her with the servants because you are too busy, that defeats the purpose of Herrah sending her here each weekend. That is unfair to the both of them, is it not?”

But why, the Vessel thinks, would it be unfair?

Though observant and clever, the Vessel has yet to understand these ominous statements. The reason that the Gendered Child visits every weekend, but forbidden otherwise, is that she needs to spend time with her mother ‘while she still can’. They are so deep in speculation that their posture gives out.

“Again,” the King sighs, shaking his head. The Lady follows his line of sight, and smiles.

“Does it matter? It is only family here.”

“That posture is not good for their back.”

“They will be fine.” The White Queen unloads Hornet into his hands, before he can get up and fix the Vessel’s posture. As if nothing had happened between them, Hornet curls against the Pale King’s chest and yawns. In silence he gazes at her, holding one of her little hands and pressing his thumb into her palm. The Vessel remembers this same gesture from their earliest hatchling days, when the Pale King was still getting used to their presence.

They’ve been doing everything perfectly since then, haven’t they? They’re doing everything right. Their training…Their spells…

They start to wish they were truly hollow not only for Hallownest’s sake, but theirs.

Chapter Text

The Vessel pitter-patters down the hall after the Pale King. Their new cloak, delicious silver silk, swishes behind them with each step. It is the dim grey morning of the King’s mysterious departure, and the Vessel has just learned they are to be going with him. The depression that sank with them into slumber last night has been lifted by the chilly breeze.

The King strides along at such a pace that the Vessel has to walk as fast as they can just to keep up with him. In his hands is a thin stone tablet: notes from last week’s training, normally written by the King himself, if not for his sudden preoccupations. The Vessel managed to sneak a peek at Ogrim’s notes, finding them a little more flattering than how they actually performed.

The two stop just outside the workshop, and the Vessel catches their breath.

“You’ve made progress.” The King rests a hand between the Vessel’s horns. “Commendable.”

Commendable! They wish they could hug him.

The King snaps his fingers, and the workshop interior lights up. The Vessel has not been in here for a year, and is impressed by the change. What was once a room full of clutter is now at an acceptable level of cleanliness. There is so much to look at: Kingsmould and Wingmould armor, ready to be filled; shallow basins mounted on curling metallic fixtures; vats with Void streaking down the side, barely contained by ceramic lids. Jars of specimens, artifacts, and tools they don’t know the names or purposes of clutter the shelves, but are organized and kept separate from each other.

The Vessel tries to swallow down their excitement as the King pulls up a couple of chairs. All the Void in this room must be making them giddy. They’ve got to stop that; the King wouldn’t bring them in here unless it’s important.

“Take a seat,” says the King, who disappears into the back and returns shortly with a metal cart, not unlike what the Vessel has seen the servants use to transport food. This one is Void-stained and clatters with jars and other small containers. Among them is a vial of a familiar orange liquid. Its sickly light commands the Vessel’s attention, throwing them back into their trials in Deepnest.

The stronger they grew, the more they would think about how easy Deepnest would be for them. Confronted with the Infection, even a little bit of it, makes them doubt themselves.

“This needle is very thin, and should not hurt beyond a brief pinch.” The King produces a syringe, which he proceeds to fill with the Infection fluid. The gears in the Vessel’s mind slowly turn. “The symptoms of the initially-infected are drowsiness, photosensitivity, a burning sensation under the shell and in the eyes…However, the Void cancels these symptoms out.”

The King pushes the Vessel’s cloak back, and starts feeling around the crook of their elbow and the inside of their wrist. Whatever he’s looking for, he finds, because he takes an alcohol wipe and swabs the inside of their elbow. The Vessel keeps their arm out, and finds that they don’t feel anything at all. This is one of those situations, they believe, that comes so unexpectedly that there’s no way to react. Which is how it should be, really. They’re not supposed to feel things, and to their credit, they do not flinch when the King inserts the needle. They feel the thin metal drive into their carapace, and then a rush of something sharp and hot.

The effect is instantaneous. Their body prickles with heat, causing them to seize up. A pinprick bubble of orange wells up at the injection site, which the King cleans and bandages. He is just in time, too, because the Vessel lurches forward and empties their stomach. Their vomit is predominantly black, but with swirls of Infection.

The Vessel sways, and would have hit the floor had the King not caught them in time. In their sickly haze, they can only lie limply and guess what’s going on. A second wave of nausea hits, and while they are dry heaving, the vision in their right eye is replaced by searing light. It is every shade of the sun above ground and commandeers their attention, drawing them away from consciousness, drowning out the Pale King’s natural aura.

Their carapace splinters and falls away from the waking world. When they come to, they are lying face-down on a bronze-colored floor so shiny they can see their reflection in it. Their right eye drips orange, and burns cover their body. Frightened, they sit up and pull their cloak around themselves. The heat here is blisteringly dry, with not a spot of shade to be found. There are no walls, no ceiling. The Vessel recognizes it as the sky from their picture books, but the golden as if aflame. A disk of scorching light hangs on the horizon; they look into it by mistake, and double over to rub their eyes. Spots dance in their limited vision, and they resort to just covering their eyes to spare themselves more pain.

This is antithetical with their very nature. This is hell. This is pure hell. With their eyes still shielded, they look in the direction of a low thumping sound. That damned light shines right through their hands, forcing them to look down again. The swelter crescendos to a boiling point, and the Vessel cowers. Somewhere on thigh they hear a crack, and Infection oozes out of the wound.

They don’t need to look to know that someone is approaching. That thumping becomes louder, and they now recognize it as the flapping of wings.

ANCIENT ENEMY.

The voice not only projects itself into the sky but their mind as well. It is the voice of their father. Their mother. Herrah, Lurien, the knights. It is the Vessel’s voice. It is the sound of thunder, a primal roar, a physical force that makes them shudder. The ground shakes. The Vessel tries to peek through their fingers, but there is nothing but light, light, light.

YOU ARE BUT THE PENITENCE FOR THE CRIMES OF A DYING KINGDOM.

The Vessel shakes their head. They don’t understand. Penitence? Crimes? That can’t be.

It’s too bright. It hurts. Father? Father?

PATHETIC CREATURE, THE WYRM USHERS YOU TOWARDS YOUR FAILURE. YOU ARE NOT THE SAVIOR, BUT THE HARBINGER. THROUGH YOU I SHALL BRING ABOUT THE END. AND I WILL ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF IT.

Please, please, stop it. That’s not right, the Vessel pleads, holding their head. Their shell feels like it’s about to split. There is no darkness behind their closed eyes, only burning brightness. Their breathing comes quick and shallow, until their chest tightens and they feel like they’re going to suffocate. In this blinding field they no longer feel solid and steady, but a single ember in an all-consuming fire. Everything that makes them what they are has burned away; only their fast-receding mind remains.

They do not know how long they spend in that nightmare. Whether they open or close their eyes makes no difference: all they see is unforgiving light. For ages they stay in the same curled up position, deprived of all but light, a low hum, and their own burning body. Yet this is nowhere in the physical realm, which is where the Vessel ultimately belongs. Guided by their Void, they return to the waking world where they can exist without pain.

The stomachache from their recent bout of nausea is nothing compared to what they had endured. Their vision takes a while to focus to the Palace, so dim compared to their nightmare. There is no pain, no noise, only the sensation of floating. The world comes back to them in bits and pieces: a glow, familiar arms bearing them away, voices arguing just outside the nursery door. The indifferent leaves rustle on the ceiling; one falls, and lands on their face. They do not shake it off.

The Vessel is not sure what to think, so they don’t. This is one of those rare moments when they are able to suppress themselves, to actually be what everyone thinks they are. Be calm, be still. They do not need to spring out of bed right away.

“—will have to do it eventually, whether we like it or not,” comes the Pale King’s voice, trickling in from the hallway.

“But not now! You could have caused an outbreak. It’s not ready,” the White Lady pleads. The Vessel holds their breath. “What would you have done if the Infection had overtaken it?”

“That has never been in my foresight. Their Void has canceled out any trace of the Infection. This will work.”

“And if the dosage was too high?”

“They would have recovered.”

Through the crack in the door, the Vessel sees the White Lady put her face in her hands. “Please. I thought we were past doing these things.”

“It was a request from—”

“She would not have begrudged your refusal!” The White Lady throws her hands out.

The Vessel can see her tears, blue as her eyes, from here, and it makes them freeze. The rest of the monarchs’ words are lost to them; their expressions of grief say enough. Their gut seizes up, and they turn over facing away from the door. Rolling over in their nest is what they consider a ‘safe’ action, one that doesn’t arouse suspicion, but it today it turns out to be life-saving. Swaddled in blankets next to them is Hornet, yawning and stretching one of her arms out. The Vessel hesitates for a moment, then pinches her hand between their thumb and forefinger. As if noticing them for the first time, she turns her head and giggles at them. She takes a couple of fingers in both her hands, and shoves them into her mouth. As if her boundless energy wasn’t enough, now she’s teething .

The Vessel allows this, because Hornet’s chelicerae are too dull to pierce their hand, and because they do not want to pay attention to what’s happening outside. When the White Lady finally storms away in tears, they sigh noiselessly, relieved. The only sounds now are the Gendered Child’s coos, and the King’s many legs against the marble floor. The Vessel goes back to playing dead, just in time for the King to sit by their nest.

Hornet watches him with thoughtful eyes, still chewing on the Vessel’s fingers. The King gently pulls them out of her mouth. “You will disturb their sleep, child.”

He adjusts the blankets around her, until she is naught but a bundle with a head poking out. She chirps at him once, but is evidently too comfortable to argue with him.

“For goodness’ sake, infants are such a handful,” the King complains. He dries the Vessel’s hand on the blanket, before tucking them back in. The Vessel is the perfect picture of slumber; even when he places a hand on their head, they don’t stir. Familiar, mundane. Their nightmare fades into the back of their mind, with the rest of their unused memories.

“This will work,” the King murmurs to himself. He brushes his knuckles just under the Vessel’s eye, bidding them further towards sleep. “I have no other options.”

The Vessel recalls the voice from their nightmare: you are the harbinger . But the King’s conviction to his cause eases their discomfort. It was just a fever dream, a byproduct of the injection. Nothing more. Yet they do not realize the feat they have accomplished: they are the only one to have been survived the Infection, to have woken up after what should have been an eternal sleep, and to sink into dreamless slumber without fear of relapsing.

The King, foolishly allowing himself to prescribe the Vessel emotions, notes that they look peaceful in their sleep.

It is Monday when the Pale King visits the Archives, a day later than planned. The Vessel, fretting that they’ve caused him a delay with their illness, is relieved to hear that it was a problem on the Archives’ end. It is only a small bit of relief, however, since the King hangs up the phone with a rather pinched expression. Amplified, this would translate as an offhand complaint, maybe an exchange of words with one of his fellows. His argument with the White Lady has impressed upon the Vessel that he’s not as impassive as he leads everyone to believe. That he is incapable of emotion is not the argument: the Vessel is keen on his moods, even if they can’t react to him. But to say that he is emotionally unaffected by what goes on around him would be a lie. It would be that affliction of feeling, for example, that led him to birth the Vessel and their siblings.

They have a lot of time to introspect over this, and their analysis becomes a way to cope with the dreaded stag ride to the Queen’s Station.

The Queen’s Station, being connected with the City of Tears, is one of the busiest in Hallownest. Even before the stag reaches their destination, they hear the toll of bells and a chorus of voices in conversation. They have seen crowds from a distance, but this will be their first time being among so many strangers. The Vessel digs their claws into the seat, and tries to stave off their nausea. Oh, to be the Princess, whooping and cheering as if she were on a carnival ride.

The King does not make the journey with them to the Queen’s Station; when offered a ride, he bluntly stated he did not wish to appear in public, and departed by himself. Now that they’ve arrived, the Vessel can see why. There are so many bugs here that they feel claustrophobic. Beetles, flies, crickets, ants, butterflies…The station is cacophonous with every manner of hum, buzz, and chirr. If not for Ogrim and Isma, clearing a small path, the royal siblings would have gotten lost the moment they stepped off the platform.

Well, the Vessel is the only one doing any stepping. Hornet is bundled up in a baby sling strapped across their chest. She stares wide-eyed at her surroundings, decides she doesn’t like them, and starts to fuss. The Vessel cannot comfort her: there are too many people about who would see them. As a result, the poor thing is forced to cry it out. Ogrim and Isma stand on either side of the siblings and lead them not towards the city, but further north. They pass by a dead-end road full of merchants, and climb upwards into a forested area that the Vessel thinks as Greenpath.

At once, they see they have been mistake. The atmosphere is warm and thick. Not in a humid way, but as if they were underwater. It tastes sharp, almost sour. Pink bubbles with varying resilience float lazily. Most pop upon contact with the group, but others merely bounce away like balloons. The best way to describe it would be Greenpath during a bubble bath, but before being rinsed off. Isma and Ogrim, making lighthearted banter, sound far away. Muffled. Pendulous vines sway from foliage-papered walls of the cavern, all narrow vertical shafts and precarious landings, studded with ponds of acid.

The strangest part about this place is the bugs, if they can be called that. They are gelatinous, floating things with loose appendages, and bluish cores. When the party passes through, they give no indication of awareness to their presence. Several of them are almost as long as Ogrim is tall, and some longer. The smallest ones are the size of Hornet, whose arms the Vessel must pin so she doesn’t touch anything. At a glance, the understand the appeal of these balloon-like creatures. However, even Ogrim is walking with his shoulders hunched, and his claws together. The familiarity of Greenpath juxtaposed with its alien inhabitants creates a sense of uncertainty and caution. It cannot be called Greenpath.

“What a well-contained biome,” Isma remarks. She strolls with her hands behind her back, keeping a polite distance from the jellies. The Vessel will refer to those floating creatures as that, they decide. To continue using other descriptors would be tedious, so as a shorthand, they go for the resemblance to a dessert.

“It feels like it ought to be underwater, don’t you think?” Ogrim asks. “Why, I’ve heard about stories of an ocean, at the furthest edge of the world—this is all trickle-up from travelers who speak to merchants and so on…”

“It is very humid, but it wouldn’t do well in the city. There’s no room for anything to grow there. Even the Palace has its own garden.”

That much is true. The gardens, once tended to by the Queen but now by an impersonal staff of gardeners, is a favorite of Hornet’s. It has a big gate in the front and stone walls artfully decorated with vines and hedges. The Archives, the Vessel assumes of the domed building they approach, also has a gate but no walls: only a lake of acid, a natural mote to protect it. There are lanterns on pedestals, a stone facsimile of a mask on the archway, and greenery draped over the tunnel bridge. The glow from the lake gives the Archives the sheen of a soap bubble. Through its tall windows the Vessel sees nothing but green, with just enough of a blue tint to keep from looking sickly.

“This place feels more like a castle than a college,” says Isma, and confidently crosses the bridge. The doorway is narrow enough to force them all through single file, but widens past that, with handsome arches and glass between the columns, purposefully designed to evoke a foggy morning.

“Isma, have you been here before?” Ogrim asks, to which she nods.

“Not many times, but the scholars here know me by sight. Here’s one now. Young man, excuse me!” Isma breaks from the group to approach a passing pill bug, blue-scarfed and pushing a dolly of glass vials.

The Vessel, used to borderline geriatric population of the Palace, is shocked to see this adolescent. They stare blatantly, ignoring how Hornet struggles in their arms and the sling. Letting her down is out of the question, with these dangerous chemicals around. They’re not even sure if it’s save to breathe in here, what with the acidic odor and all of these tubes, but if the King deemed it alright for them both to come along, then they will trust in that.

“This way, Knight.” Ogrim beckons to the Vessel. Their group has expanded to include several scholars and students, including the pill bug. His voice, high and excited, carries over to the back of the procession.

“...which means we can use the acid from the lake to power the Archives, similar to a water wheel in function but not in construction, you see,” the scholar explains as he leads them further in. A few students giggle behind their hands at Hornet, but because of her status, they do not approach.

“I see,” Isma is saying to the pill bug in polite interest. She walks with her hands behind her back, striding along at the front of the group. Any unrelated parties are forced to part at the elevator, which can only carry so many people, plus the scholar’s cart. The Vessel’s heart nearly stops when they go down instead of up, clearly below surface level of the lake. The windows and walls down below are industrial, reinforced with steel, but nothing can stop the them from imagining some horrific accident. A broken window, a ruptured pipe. All of them dissolving helplessly in the acid, screaming. When no one is looking, they hug Hornet closer to themselves. If it were up to them, they would have stayed on the ground level.

Unfortunately, they have no choice but to step out onto the bridge. They follow the others rigidly past glass tubes inscribed with unfamiliar writing, some in the process of being assembled by worker bees. A tank of lumaflies light up one room, and another has two of its walls replaced by tanks of jellies, each no bigger than the Vessel’s hand.

“Has his Majesty arrived?” Isma is now asking the scholar.

“Not yet.” The scholar leads them across path that dead-ends over a pool of acid. He gestures for the others to wait, and goes to the edge with the cart. The Vessel doesn’t dare look over the edge, but they swear they hear something from below. A voice. A song? They hear it just over the crackle of electricity and the bubble of acid. What were frightening noises become acoustics for the lady singing below. The dare to look through their periphery, and catch a glimpse of dark blue cloth, but nothing more. Then, from below, a thin tentacle rises to collect the vials and tubes, apparently left for it.

Not a single insect nor arachnid has tentacles. A centipede, which may move like one, nonetheless has no physical similarities. The Vessel has not seen anything like this since they were in the Abyss, but at least the Void is familiar, comforting, and harmless. Here, they might as well be watching the lake of acid come alive.

“Thank you, Quirrel,” hums a low, melodious voice—the same one that was singing. “I see you’ve brought in our guests, but the king is not among them.”

“Yes!” Quirrel responds brightly. “No sense in keeping them waiting. And I’ve brought the things you asked for!”

An ovoid mask with four eyes peeks up over the edge, bordered by that dark blue the Vessel had seen. Before they can see the rest of her, they tilt their head down and focus on Hornet. The warmth of the Archives has put her to sleep. Her forehead is pressed firmly against the Vessel’s chest, and she makes little snuffling sounds every time someone speaks too loudly. The Vessel holds her closer while no one is looking, patting her back beneath her cloak. The others had handed her off to them as if they were a baby carriage, assuming they wouldn’t be affectionate with her. Is it simply out of convenience, or a misunderstanding of the comfort an infant needs? The Vessel is happy, though. If they hadn’t been holding her, they don’t know how they would have coped with the alien nature of the Archives.

That is all interrupted by Ogrim gesturing for them to step forward. They do so, and he bows with a sweeping gesture. “Lady Monomon, we are humbled that you allow us into your sanctum. Now allow me to introduce to you the Hollow Knight, accompanied by the Princess of Deepnest.”

That is their name, or rather, another one of their titles. Much like Hornet is often referred to as ‘the Princess’ or ‘the Gendered Child’, the Hollow Knight is often referred to as ‘the Pure Vessel’ or simply ‘the Vessel’. Hollow Knight. That name doesn’t suit them just yet, since they’re more of a squire than anything. They keep their head lowered even as Monomon lifts herself from the acid lake. A gelatinous, gently-stinging tentacle lifts their shell to meet an equally inexpressive mask. Monomon is huge, easily dwarfing both Herrah and Lurien put together.

The Vessel recalls something the King had said a while back, about a woman whose cooperation he needed, and information about the Infection she wanted. They remember the test with the syringe, and their parents’ argument.

They quickly piece things together, and are again grateful for their inability to make facial expressions. In lieu of shaking their hand, Monomon offers a tentacle to Hornet instead; she is met with a little palm pressing against her gooey appendage.

“Well, well. It is nice to meet you to, Princess,” Monomon chuckles. Her voice has all the emotion of any other bug, but her body...it is impossible to tell what is and isn’t body language. She greets Ogrim and Isma in a similarly cordial fashion. To her scholar, she suggests, “Quirrel, please show our guests to the break room while I prepare for the King’s visit.”

“Yes, Madam.” Quirrel bows to her, hands clasped.

On the way out of Monomon’s chamber, the Vessel looks back and swears they see her dissolve back into the lake.

Chapter Text

The Pale King spends much time speaking alone with Monomon, about matters that are apparently so sensitive that not even Ogrim and Isma are allowed to listen in. As knights they are accustomed to battle, less so diplomatic affairs, so the Vessel senses some discomfort from them. They do not seem any more patient than Hornet, who is growing tired of being held and wants down. Did the King, perhaps, forget that he was to take her back to her mother? The Vessel has half a mind to let her go and see what havoc she causes, if it means they won’t have to wait any longer. The waiting area, enclosed and used to the presence of common folk, would not cause her harm.

Coincidentally, absolutely not on purpose, the Vessel loosens their arms, and Hornet springs free. At the same moment, the door opens. Isma and Ogrim cry out in unison, but the Princess slips over their arms, and right onto Quirrel’s mask. She’s too light to knock anything over, but Quirrel is so startled that he just falls backwards anyway. Without a care for his well-being, Hornet crawls off of him and into the hall. The part of the Archives they’re all in serves as a miniature campus, located on the upper floors. Naturally, it is teeming with bugs from all over Hallownest, with the exception of Deepnest (this is what the Vessel has gleaned from their visit so far, but does not know the details or future arrangements).

Hornet, now secure in her freedom, would have toddled right into the crowd, had Quirrel not reached back and grabbed her hand. One moment he was on the ground, and the next he’s kneeling by her side as if nothing had happened. This is such an offense to Hornet that she yells at him, though it comes out as an indignant squeak.

“That was close! She would have gotten trampled out there...” Quirrel sighs. He then turns to admonish the Vessel as if they were just any other child. “You need to be more watchful.”

Isma frowning, puts a hand to her cheek. “Scholar, it’s not going to understand what you’re saying.”

The Vessel is glad they are incapable of facial expressions.

Quirrel looks around at the group, still holding Hornet’s hand, and it occurs to the Vessel just how young he is. The Vessel could have been him, under different circumstances: earnest but simple, intelligent but with little understanding of the politics surrounding the gentry. Little does the Vessel know that they are just as naive.

“Well...” Quirrel’s voice cracks. “What about you two? Pardon my manners, but have you ever taken care of so young a child?”

How bold! Lesser bugs are more likely to prostrate themselves before the Great Knights than criticize them.

“We have tutored the Pure Vessel.” Isma folds her arms, no longer looking so kindly. “Have you come here to tell us how to do our jobs, or was there something else you needed?”

“...The Madam suggested I give you a tour ‘round the Archives,” Quirrel stammers. He stands up, holding the Princess in the crook of his arm. She hisses and knocks her face against his mask ineffectually. “I’ve got loads of little siblings, see, so I knew the Princess would be bored sitting in one place all the time. That one, too.”

He gestures to the Vessel, who has not moved an inch since letting go of Hornet.

Isma’s face crinkles up like she’s about to scold him, but then it softens. Her hands move to her hips, twiddling with the leaves about her waist, tugging at the sprout on her head. “You are correct about the Princess, but the Vessel...It cannot get bored.”

They’re bored out of their mind right now, actually.

“It does not think, nor does it feel,” Isma continues. Behind his mask, Quirrel’s face is surely lighting up in understanding. “Anything that could be construed as an emotion is merely a simulacrum, a misinterpretation from any observing bug. It is pure.”

Ogrim gestures to the Vessel, who obediently follows the party out of the waiting room. They lag along at the end of the chatting group, watching as Hornet whines and squirms and reaches for them. They want badly to have her back. If they could, they’d break their vow of purity, and rush forward to grab her from the scholar’s arms. They can imagine the horror that would ensue from this brazen display of emotion, and it scares them into complacency.

If they absolutely had to reveal themselves, they’d rather it be in front of their father. The punishment would be swift.

Fate, having mercy on them, has Hornet finally break free of Quirrel and rush back to her sibling. The Vessel kneels mechanically to collect her, and she shoves her face into their chest, sobbing. The others pause and watch the Vessel rise, with the Princess sniffling on their shoulder. Quirrel rubs their arm, and speaks up.

“My apologies. I just...”

“I won’t hear a ‘sorry’ about it, my lad!” Ogrim laughs heartily and slaps Quirrel on the back, sending him stumbling forward. “She’s just shy, is all. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

The Vessel, who has had enough, simply stops listening. What good is it to listen to this banter, which has no importance and only serves to disquiet them? These bugs don’t know anything about them, or Hornet. They want their father. They want to go to the Weaver’s Den, they want Herrah, they want the White Lady. Neither of the royal siblings can even ask for that.

This frustration spoils the Archives for them, which is a real shame, because it really is beautiful. It’s an inverse of the Palace: colorful and rounded, but with all plant life sequestered away, contained, organized. At Isma’s request, Quirrel stops by a lab with rows and rows of fruit-bearing plants, attended to by robed scholars. They visit quiet classrooms, and a giant library creaking under the weight of hundreds of stone tablets. A great staircase winds through it, keeping close to the wall; apparently, it goes around the perimeter of the building and leads all the way down to the boiler room. The Vessel is grateful that they’re going up, not down. The acid would have worsened their mood, and in any case, they’ve begrudgingly admitted that the Archive is a fine place, as long as they don’t listen to the other bugs.

An interesting snippet they can’t help but overhear, though, is that on the surface the dome would have been an observatory. They would have looked at the stars, which entices the Vessel to listen further. They’re not really absorbing the information so much as fantasizing about the idea of it. Seeing the sky at any time of day isn’t anything they’ll experience in their lifetime, but it does not stop them from conjuring vivid canvases of blue, streaked with somber gray clouds or burnished with the gold of a sunset.

They never do see the inside of the dome. Looking back on it, they can’t remember if it was Monomon’s personal quarters, her study, or something else of equal importance and privacy. Quirrel takes them as far as the second highest floor, where they can see the past the acid lake and as far as the walls of this particular subterrane. Through the tall, clear windows, the Vessel sees a handful of bugs stalking the edge of the lake. They lean closer to the window for a better look.

They only catch a glimpse of them before an unfamiliar bug ascends the stairs, and bids the group to come back down.

The Vessel, holding Hornet on their back, strides forward when the Pale King gestures for them. The entity they now recognize as Monomon levitates next to him. Unlike the jellies outside the Archive, she is massive, with a lower body that fans out at the bottom. The rest of her is hidden by a navy blue shroud, and a four-eyed mask. Her tentacles undulate beneath her; they notice a glass tube being passed around between them.

They do not stare. They cannot look, should not be afraid. They keep their eyes forward as they stand by the King’s side. He hands them their nail, and pats them on the back. With Hornet clinging to them, it’s no wonder they were slouching.

“We must take our leave,” the King is saying to Monomon. He’s really the only one the Vessel wants to listen to right now. “Herrah expects us to deliver the Princess before the noon.”

“You will stop by on your way back?” Monomon asks, leaning forward. Her many limbs curl around each other. “I simply regret that we must part ways so soon. Perchance you might permit the Kindly Isma to stay behind? It should not take you long to return? The Vessel—”

“I have already told you,” the King says, lifting a hand to silence her. “Now, allow me a moment with my knights.”

He guides the Vessel back to Ogrim and Isma, and proceeds to speak with them in a low voice. Now would have been the best time to listen in, but as it stands, they’re sick of being here. Their initial annoyance has only grown and grown into an uncomfortable, sick feeling in their gut. For the first time, they feel frustration towards their father. Why bring them here?

Ironically, it is when they are at their most heated that it’s easiest to look composed. Their worst moods mean that they don’t want to pay attention to their surroundings. They push away anything that could get inside their head, and for the most part, look and act truly hollow. Their facade becomes effortless all the way out of the Fog Canyon and into the Queen’s Gardens, where Isma parts ways to backtrack. They are not the least bit sad to see her go.

I shouldn’t care either way , the Vessel thinks. They pay no mind to Hornet, who digs her little claws into their shoulder. They haven’t had to support her weight; she holds on just fine on her own, as all spiderlings do. Her breath comes out in excited little puffs when she sees a flower, or a feral yet harmless insect. The White Lady has allowed those mossy, flying things to take up residence in her garden, even after her retainers kept insisting they were pests. If anything, they’re pollinators. One flies over the Vessel’s head, shaking spores onto the siblings and making them both sneeze.

It flies away, and Hornet drops into the grass to chase after it. The Vessel, having learned their lesson at the Archives, follows her off the path. Deep into the underbrush they go, where the vines grow thick and thorny. They push these aside with their nail, and easily catch up with Hornet. She has found a cluster of her beloved bugs in a small clearing, and predictably, they scatter when she approaches.

The Vessel strides over to her, panting slightly, and something crunches under their foot. They look down, and what they thought was a twig turns out to be a bug’s leg. Another crunching sound, and they see that the Princess has trodden on a wing. They step forward to guide her away from what they realize is a half-eaten bug’s corpse. The first thing they do is to frantically check her for grime. With no one around, they can afford to show their panic. Hornet’s just a baby, she doesn’t understand that dead things can carry the Infection...They wipe some scales off her foot, before guiding her behind them.

The bug before them is called an Aluba, which they remember because the White Lady is especially fond of them. The King had mentioned so in their entomology lessons. They are fragile creatures, prone to accidents, but never have they come across one so thoroughly mangled. It’s as if something had sliced it apart.

They hear the Pale King calling for them. Eager to be rid of this awful sight, they hoist Hornet onto their back and hurry away.

The King is not looking for them when they return, and in fact seems to have expected their disappearance. When they and Hornet return to the path, the King turns to Ogrim and says, “See? Only a minute.”

He gestures for everyone to follow him to the end of the pathway, just before a tall room of platformed steps. Curiously, his glow begins to diminish, until he’s hardly illuminated at all. The group forms a semicircle, with Ogrim kneeling to keep from bumping against the ceiling. As the Vessel is wondering what this could be about, they hear something up ahead. At first, they don’t believe it. It’s the Queen’s Gardens, one of the safest areas in Hallownest. What could possibly…?

They hear it again: a belligerent hiss. Everyone freezes. Hornet starts to make a sound, and the Vessel instinctively puts a hand over her mouth. Either no one sees this as strange, or they’re too distracted by the imminent danger. Ogrim peers around the corner for just a moment.

“We should not have let Isma leave,” he whispers to the King.

“Do you not trust my judgment?” The tip of the King’s tail lashes noiselessly against the moss. “We need Isma at the Archives right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the Archives, she will call for the other knights. Our job right now is to ensure that the Vessel and the Princess reach Deepnest.” The King holds up a hand before Ogrim can protest. “That is why I had her stay behind. This ambush would not have been prevented.”

To the Vessel’s surprise, the King takes out a scroll and spreads it across the ground. Hallownest in miniature is mapped out on the silk, with one white claw pointing to the Queen’s Gardens. Specifically, the area between two vertical subterranes.

“It is not far from the Stag Station. Do you think we could make it?” Ogrim asks.

“Yes, but consider our adversaries following us to the Distant Village.”

Ogrim taps one claw against the other. “A diversion. If an ambush of our own were set up at the other end...But we would need some way of contacting Isma, wouldn’t we?”

Both of them look at the Vessel, who is frankly intimidated by this level of strategizing. They want to know how long the King knew about this, and, if it had been for a while, why he decided to walk them into danger anyway. The future is a strange thing, and the only thing the Vessel knows to be set in stone is their ultimate fate. What happens to them and their family in-between is all up to chance. They think they prefer it that way, though. Knowing everything bad that’s going to happen would paralyze them.

“Our other option is for you to go further north, and seek Dryya’s aid, unless she has accompanied the Lady...Of all things I had to forget, it was when she was to visit the Hive.” The King rolls up his map to stow away who knows where. “No matter. Even if she has not left yet, Dryya shall protect her. Ogrim, I want you to lead the mantises to the Stag Station and lead them to Pilgrim’s Way. It is not ideal, but has the least traffic, and is already fairly inundated by the Infection. We cannot risk them getting into a populated area such as the City or the Crossroads. As for these two—”

The King takes out some paper, upon which he scrawls a note with a metal quill. The Vessel could swear up and down at this point that the King is hiding a pocket of Void somewhere in his robes, in which these items could not fit comfortably otherwise. Just their guess. The King folds the note as small as it will go, and tucks it into the Vessel’s cloak.

“The Vessel shall deliver this to Herrah, when they reach Deepnest.”

“And what of you, your Majesty?”

“I will be covering their escape.”

The Pale King then approaches the Vessel, and puts a hand on their forehead. They are confused, at first, but then images start filling their mind: a path leading through the adjacent room. There are twisting vines and infected bugs, but at a safe distance.

Then comes a transition from verdancy to dark, familiar tunnels. The entrance of a dwelling, to be ignored. Straight down, and into an open cavern where the Weaver’s Den is.

There is comfort in being told exactly what to do, in an otherwise unpredictable situation. The path to safety has been engraved in their mind, and with the King’s magic, there’s no chance of forgetting it halfway.

Ogrim moves out first. With a battle cry, he launches himself out of hiding and right into the pack of Infected. They are swift and many, but Ogrim is hardy, with plenty of obstacles to bounce off of. In lieu of dung he rolls up balls of dirt and moss, lobbing them with athletic precision at his foes. During the chaos, the Pale King moves out next, with the Vessel carrying Hornet close behind. The Vessel keeps to the walls at first, but once they’re spotted, they have no choice but to sprint for it.

In the safety of their cloak, they hear Hornet whimper as they pick up speed. The best they can do give her a comforting squeeze as they run. It’s a good thing they do, because a something sharp and spinning nicks the tips of their horns and sends them stumbling. They catch themselves with their nail, spring back up, and slide down into some undergrowth. Brambles and thorns snag on their cloak, but the thick, tough fabric holds. They yank themselves free and crawl under the thorny vines, rather than jump over them.

It takes a lot of finesse to do this one-handed. Hornet is clinging tightly enough that they don’t need to hold her, but there are Infected about. They don’t want to take any chances. The Infected hiss above them, thrusting their scythed arms through the gaps in the thorns. Without fail, a flash of light always follows, and the attackers go limp. A dismembered arm falls into their crawl space, twitching and oozing. The Vessel hurries onward, and when they finally emerge, they look back to see what’s happening.

It is carnage. Ogrim is taking his exit, followed by a crowd of infected mantises and other bugs. There had only been a few mantises before. The sudden influx in Infected shocks them. All over Mother’s garden their corpses are sprawled, bleeding Infection like acid into the soil. If she’s here, they hope she’s safe.

In the midst of it all stands the Pale King, picking off the last of the reinforcements as if they were weeds. A husk lunges at him, but an explosion of soul sends it flying in pieces. The Vessel then notices the gleaming white swords and spears impaled in the bodies of the dead and dying. The magic circles that appear under the still-living. This is Soul magic, and it’s all happening too quickly for the Vessel to comprehend it.

Hornet starts to wail, jolting them back into reality. They clutch their nail tighter, and dive into the shadows, following the path set for them.

It seems that the Infected bugs were lured in by the King’s light, allowing the Vessel to proceed unhindered. With no one to witness them, they sheath their nail and set about comforting the Princess. The rough movement and sounds of battle have deeply upset her, and dark tears streak down her white shell. The Vessel wipes them away, and feels the familiar chill of Void.

So she was one of them all this time, even if only in part. For some reason, they can only feel pity for her. She could have been any of their other siblings, cursed to the Abyss or scattered to the four winds.

The Vessel continues at a brisk walk—they cannot afford to go any slower—while rubbing Hornet’s back. Noise recedes, and only the rustle of undergrowth remains. Every so often, they see the glint of orange eyes peering at them from behind vines or a mossy rock, which disappears when the Vessel hastens. They walk and climb and jump until their legs ache, and lo and behold, they see a bench up ahead.

The Vessel stumbles into the small glass building, framed and roofed by metal, where a phonograph hangs from the ceiling. A gentle but grainy melody accompanies their rest. Outside the ornate windows are clusters of what they recognize as the Queen’s favorite plants: broad leaves, curling ferns, bulbs tipping stems. Aluba glide by, uncaring of the tragedy that unfolds above.

The Vessel holds Hornet facing the windows, and points to one of these drifters. She sniffles and, once having scrubbed her eyes, watches the bug pass them by.

“Ahh,” she says, tugging at the Vessel’s cloak. Her pedipalps come out, tapping gently at their hand, which takes both of hers to lift. The Vessel wonders for a moment, but all doubt is erased when the hear her stomach growl.

Of course. When was the last time the poor thing had a snack? The Vessel doesn’t carry food with them. However, the bulbs on the plants outside might be edible. They’ve once seen the Queen pick one off, and eat it.

I t’s just a quick diversion. It’ll be safe. They’re almost to Deepnest.

The windows don’t open so easily, but it doesn’t look like there’s any other way outside. They resort to breaking one of the locks on the window frame, and the glass swings open like a door. The fragrance is immediate, and intoxicating. Spores cling to the wings of the Aluba, one of which glides down to inspect the young visitors. Hornet takes advantage of the Vessel’s wonderment to wiggle out of their arms. She falls onto a wide leaf and slides down into the center, where the stems are clustered. She bends one to her, and gnaws at the bulb like a piece of candy.

The Vessel picks a stem from the same plant, and gives it a taste. Rather than the sting of pollen they expected, their mouth fills with watery sweetness. It’s like a fruit. It is a fruit. Hornet is already on her second one, and with much amusement, the Vessel notes that she has wrapped it in silk like a bit of prey.

This lighthearted scene doesn’t distract them from the very real danger they are in. The Vessel stays close to the hungry princess, ready to scoop her up at any moment. At a glance, this part of the garden is peaceful and untouched. Hornet fills her stomac h with the delicious fruit until she slides into the grass, sleepy and content. The Vessel puts a hand to their mouth and giggles soundlessly, endeared by her antics. She’s not a difficult child—the others just don’t know how to take care of her. They lift her into their arms, and as soon as she is settled against their chest, she falls fast asleep.

They glance around the area once more, and head back into the glass room. Because they don’t see anything, they assume that there is nothing there. But there is, only they don’t realize until they hear it. Its footsteps land heavily against the earth, and even its guttural growl has weight to it. The Vessel turns around just in time to intercept a blow from a massive, blade-like arm.

The foe they see before them is not as big as Nosk had been, but in strikes just as much terror into their heart. Whereas Nosk had been feral, acting on instinct, this mantis looks like someone they could have known. Its cloak hangs ragged over its body, which is bloated to the point of tearing. These seam-like rips ooze the plague. It dribbles from their mandibles, flows freely from their bulging eyes. It’s a wonder they haven’t popped like a balloon.

The mantis thrusts their head forward. and bites at the Vessel’s nail. Their arm shakes from the pressure of holding them back. They focus as much strength as they can into their arm, until it turns white all the way up to their elbow. This keeps their foe at bay, but then they feel their feet sliding back. It’s only a matter of tripping backwards. They break out into a sweat, and feel no relief when the mantis leaps backwards. There’s only a moment to prepare themselves, before it lunges at them again. It goes against all their training to just run away, but they’ve not forgotten their destination.

So, before the mantis’ body connects with the ground, the Vessel turns heel and runs. Hornet, at some point, has jolted awake, and screams when the Vessel plunges the both of them down the shaft. Much to their horror, the mantis follows. Despite their size, they move with a spider’s sprightliness. The thorns, which the Vessel has to dodge, don’t even scratch this monster.

The Vessel digs their nail into the wall and slides down until they’ve reached a landing. Their right arm is still white and tingling with Soul. They fling their hand up and shoot a volley of gleaming daggers, most of which miss or are knocked away. A lucky few dig into the carapace, sending showers of putrid, orange rain. As the Vessel shields the both of them with their cloak, Hornet wails loudly enough for the both of them.

The Infection burns holes in their cloak, forcing them to take their nail and move. They’re just in time; the mantis’ claw sticks into the ground right where they were. It lunges forward, slashing with each step. The Vessel parries each time. They’re driven to the edge of the platform, forced to leap to the next. The mantis follows with frightening speed, and the vines the Vessel is grappling with fall away.

The siblings, one of them screaming, the other flailing helplessly for their nail, drop down into the darkness.

The Vessel thinks they’re dead before they’ve finished falling. It happened to the rest of their siblings. It was bound to happen eventually.

Poor Hornet is in hysterics. If they weren’t holding her, she would’ve flown out of their arms. What is Herrah going to say, when she finds their broken little bodies outside Deepnest’s door?

They don’t see that mantis anymore. Please, please let it leave them alone.

The light from the Queen’s Gardens becomes the size of a postage stamp, and then disappears. This must have been what their sibling saw, when they fell.

Why does Hornet have to share their fate?

The Vessel explodes their left arm into strings of Void that spread across the shaft, looking for anything to cling to. The first strands catch onto the sides of the shaft, but are ripped off by the Vessel’s acceleration. More Void streams out of them, scrambling for purchase on the floating platforms and walls until the Vessel flies upwards instead. They bounce jerkily up and down, until they’re finally left dangling by one arm. Their nail is caught up somewhere in that mess.

Hornet is miraculously unharmed, but is sobbing so hard that she’s starting to cough.

It’s not helping that the Vessel is literally stretching themselves to the limit. Their arm is split apart and strung out like taffy, and as it grows thinner, they drop further downwards. It is fortunately at a slow pace, but it would only take a few strings snapping and all that effort would be for nothing.

For a long, tense while, they descend, not knowing if or when their supports will snap. It feels like their insides are leaking out through the hole in their shoulder, but they can’t take their eyes off Hornet for a moment. She’s terrified enough as it is, even when they finally crumble to the ground.

Thei r path surfaces in their mind. During their scuffle with the mantis, they had fallen right into the entrance of Deepnest. With difficulty, they retract their arm until it has returned to its original state. This doesn’t make it feel any less painful and strained. If they hadn’t used their Soul reserves on that attack, they would’ve been able to heal themselves...Oh, well.

They look to the side and see the entrance of a dwelling, to be ignored. Right. Only a little closer to the Weaver’s Den. As they walk past it, however, Hornet cries out and points over the Vessel’s shoulder. From where they fell, debris showers down. That awful roar echoes from a distance. If they keep moving, that mantis will catch up to them.

The Vessel slings their nail across their back so they can hold their sister with both arms, and ducks through the side tunnel. Curiously, they see the same motes of Void that they so often watch outside the Palace. They start to wonder if there was a reason the King specifically said to avoid this place.

But they have no choice. It’s that, or being caught outside. They’ll take their chances with this.

Chapter Text

The house the Vessel has brought Hornet into is safe, and somehow familiar. The corners are so dark that the Vessel thinks it’s Void, and the dark particles floating up from it support this theory. However, they are now in the presence of another bug, and cannot risk showing their curiosity.

Strangely enough, this bug—they’re not sure what kind, aside from long-bodied and many limbs—doesn’t seem that interested in them. They’re completely engrossed in the mask set in front of them, unpainted and still being chiseled away at. At the same time, they’re painting a second mask, and applying polish to a third. When they’ve finished carving a mask, they sand it, and then transfer it to one of its many other hands for these finishing touches. It all happens so swiftly that the Vessel can’t keep track of it.

Hornet, thankfully, has calmed down. They take this moment of quiet to check her for injuries, relieved when they see she’s still well. They’re still unsure how they didn’t realize her kinship with the Void. Hatchlings can cry a lifetime’s worth of tears in one day, they swear. How many times has she wailed for food, cried when being delivered to the Palace and then crying again when she has to leave, sobbed because she accidentally broke a toy or tore the page of a picture book? Her dark tears and chilly body were so familiar and comfortable to the Vessel, that they hadn’t thought anything of it.

Now she sleeps in the crook of their arm, while the Vessel sits stock still and waits for the mantis to leave. They hear them at the end of the tunnel, struggling to fit their bloated body through the narrow opening. They’ve been at it for a while, with no sign of stopping or tiring.

The Mask Maker, as he has introduced himself, sets his work down. “You know, I’m starting to think he’s not here for a mask.”

The Vessel would have glared if they could.

“And you two already have masks—or are those your faces?” he asks, leaning over his counter. “The only difference between the two is whether you’re born with one or not, you know.”

He says this with a chuckle, and taps the side of his own mask. The Vessel wonders how he can be so calm, when there’s a deranged mantis trying to break into his home. It takes all they have not to jump and jolt, every time it sounds like their adversary is closer to breaking in. They dare not get closer, in fear that those claws will strike home, but they see the foundation of the tunnel mouth crumbling bit by bit. It’s only a matter of time, and they’ve gone and cornered themselves, and an innocent bystander too.

As they waste their time worrying, the Mask Maker crawls over the counter, down the tunnel and towards the entrance. The horns of his mask scrape against the ceiling, showering dirt upon him, but he does not seem to even notice. The mantis screeches when he approaches. Orange froth bubbles from his mandibles and sizzles into the dirt. Instead of fleeing, he pushes himself against the entrance until his carapace starts to split open. The Vessel cannot bring themselves to watch.

The then hear the sound of stone grating on stone, and look up to see the Mask Maker rolling a wheel in front of the doorway. The mantis’ screams grow muffled, and then die down. The entrance has been sealed off, for now.

“I’m sure that was a respectable fellow once. What a shame that even the most powerful would fall to the Infection...” The Mask Maker shakes his head, and returns to his post. “You two have been lucky so far, but there will be no leaving here without having to pass by that brute.”

The Vessel stays quiet and still. There’s so much they want to say about their ordeal, but they’ve got no voice to speak. They shouldn’t even want to talk about it, but it’s too late. Still, they wonder: would they have had better luck with this problem, had they been truly pure?

“Well, you know what they say: maskflies of a wing come together to sing. The fellow might be more amiable if you two were mantises.”

But they’re not. The Vessel isn’t even sure what to classify themselves as, or if they count as a bug at all. When the Mask Maker beckons for them to come over, however, they do not hesitate.

The Mask Maker strokes his chin thoughtfully, and then whisks out a roll of measuring tape. He holds it against the Vessel’s jaw, along their horns, across the width of their shell, and even each eye. He does the same with Hornet. It takes only a moment for them to realize that he’s going to make them disguises. Uncertainty washes over the Vessel. There’s no way that the mantis, reduced to primal instincts though he may be, would fall for such an obvious trick.

The Mask Maker, on the other hand, is humming and bustling about as if he were making costumes for a play. He sits the Vessel on a stool behind the counter, giving them a full view of their workplace. Their father’s workshop is the paradigm of cleanliness compared to this mess. Neither the shell material, paints, nor chisels seem to have a space that is wholly their own. Beneath the layer of shell fragments and dust on the floor are years’ worth of paint stains.

From here, they can also confirm that the dark pockets in the room are in fact Void. They’re close enough that they can touch it without being noticed. Hornet, when she rouses into wakefulness, paws at a the Void particles that float around them.

Because the Mask Maker is so busy, he does not notice the Vessel bouncing Hornet in their arms. They are playing a dangerous game, showing personality when someone else is so close, but in a moment of naivety, they think that it’s safe. After all, no matter how smart they are, they are still a child. And children often make mistakes.

It is nothing short of a miracle that the Mask Maker does not see their folly. So obsessed with this craft is he that he almost forgets who he is making these little mantis masks for. The material used to make them is quite hard, yet he chips and sands away at it with strength and ease. Hornet watches with starry-eyed fascination as the uneven chunks of shell are whittled down into egg-shaped smoothness. Once painted, they have the gloss of eggs, too.

The Mask Maker curls his fingers under the Vessel’s chin, turning their head this way and that. He slides the mask on, and the Vessel becomes someone else. That’s how they feel, that is, when the Mask Maker holds up a mirror. The holes of the mask through which their child-round eyes peer are sharp slits, as are Hornet’s. He has even gone and sculpted little antennae for the two. They are less than royal children wearing mantis masks, but mantis children wearing the bodies of different bugs. All that’s missing is their wings, which the Mask Maker sadly cannot provide. He is a sculptor, not a seamstress. That would be best left to the Weavers, but their disguises shall be useless by them.

“Now, I simply must wait until you’ve safely made passage into Deepnest proper. I seldom see my masks doing their job. I never leave here—” He babbles on as he ushers the two towards the eerie and silent door. The moment he removes the wheel is the moment the Vessel anticipates an attack. Though their hand is on their weapon, their legs are frozen.

The shadowed corners between the Gardens and Deepnest are empty both in sight and sound. The mantis could have easily hidden himself. And just as they’re thinking that, they see a pair of horns and glowing eyes watching from beneath a bridge. The Mask Maker does not give them an opportunity to hesitate or turn back: he gives them a push, and they stumble out into the open. Hornet puts her arms around Hollow’s neck, and whines softly.

The Pure Vessel, without looking back, steps forward. The wood is steady and solid beneath their feet. In their distressed state, they hadn’t seen it before, but this in-between area is crossed with bridges and stairs. Their width and girth makes them wonder if it’s for their mother that this was constructed. If so, why not clear out those thorns above them?

They cross the first bridge, and as they’re going down a set of stairs, see the Mask Maker watching them from the safety of the tunnel. With a pinch of resentment, the Vessel tromps down the stairs and makes it to the second landing. It must be easy for the Mask Maker. Their world, it appears is that single Void-saturated room with naught but mask-making as their responsibility. Ignored by the kingdom, free of expectations.

The note from their father crinkles in their pocket. They clear the second bridge, and the Mask Maker is swallowed up in darkness. The last thing they hear from them is a startled yelp, and the Vessel, unable to hold back their curiosity, looks up. They just barely see him, leaning out the tunnel and calling to them with genuine dread. They can’t hear him over the hissing.

The hissing. Oh.

The mantis’ bulging eyes are inches from the Vessel’s mask. They balk, and in a knee-jerk reaction, leap over the steps. They land heavily onto the next platform, and dart across it. One more set of steps. Just one more, and they’ll be safe. Just when had Deepnest had become as safe to them as the Palace?

They are fast, but the mantis is faster. He catches up easily, swiveling in front of them with his claws dug into the wood. The Vessel skids to a halt, and reaches for their nail. A thick, scythe-like arm smacks it away, sending it careening into the darkness. Hornet’s crying is muffled beneath her mask, and the Vessel, certain the Mask Maker can’t see them, rocks her soothingly.

They back away from the mantis until they are practically against the wall. The dirt is cold and gritty behind their back, having never known a ray of sunlight. The mantis lumbers closer, cornering them, and brings his face close to their mask. Each breath of his is hot and reeking of plague, so much that the Vessel feels their stomach churn. It smells like he’s already dead, like he’s decaying, like his body is just barely holding together.

The mantis huffs, and brings a claw to the Vessel’s chin. As he is inspecting them, Hornet lets out a distressed wail.

His head jerks downwards with a sharp crack . During the moment in which he stares at her, the Vessel’s heart stops beating. There’s no point in shushing Hornet when they’ve already been cornered, but her sobs might agitate him. They best they can do unarmed, without the Soul to cast spells, is to kneel with their body curled over hers. If they are to die, they’ll at least go out protecting her.

They tremble and wait for the end to come, but instead feel a gentle claw on their back. An unfamiliar sound reaches them: a guttural and despairing moan. The mantis paws at the Vessel’s arms as gently as he can muster. Infection streams from his eyes like tears, threatening to burn through the children’s carapaces. He does a most curious thing: he runs the flat of his claw against Hornet’s mask whilst churring. The Vessel has heard this before, from Herrah of all bugs, when she is holding them or Hornet. Even more curiously, said princess is starting to calm down.

The Vessel looks into the mantis’ running eyes, and sees a light different from that of the Infection. With much trepidation, they lift their hand and settle it between his eyes. With the heat he’s emanating, they’re surprised he’s not steaming or melting. He rears back at their touch at first, but the lack of reaction from the Vessel seems to reassure him.

Perhaps he was once a mighty warrior, or at least someone who the mantis tribe looked up to. What life he had before this has been stolen, and despite the grief he has put them through, the Vessel’s heart aches for him. Now he is nothing more than a beast.

Something huge and sharp whips through the air, piercing the mantis’ neck. The Vessel covers Hornet with their cloak to keep the splatter of Infection and gore from tainting her. They can only watch in horror as the mantis shrieks, claw over his spilling wound and launching himself away. Smaller needles fly after him like arrows attached to threads, and one or two Weavers chase after him with spells in their hands.

The Vessel is frozen on the ground, allowing Hornet to crawl from their arms and towards the largest spider of the group.

“Ma! Ma!” The youngling throws herself into Herrah’s arms. The Beast Queen is reeling back her needle, almost as tall as she is, and holding a much smaller nail in another hand: the Vessel’s weapon. The several Weavers and Devouts in her company are quick to dote upon the princess, while ignoring the Vessel. It is Herrah who turns her attention to the Vessel, taking them into her arms as if they were one of her own. She hands them their needle, and churrs softly.

It is the same noise as the mantis was making.

“Got yourself a souvenir, did you, my little spider?” Herrah coos to Hornet. “You make such a pretty mantis, you do. Where is your father?”

The Vessel, feeling their fear and anger dissolve, wishes they could embrace Herrah the way Hornet clings to her veil. The congregation turns and descends into Deepnest, and it is then that the Vessel remembers their letter. The relief they feel when it is still in their pocket is indescribable. Then, they see faint symbols between the paper and the fabric: the King must have put a binding spell to keep it against their clothes.

They hand the letter to Herrah, who reads it as she walks. One of the Devouts takes away the mantis masks to inspect. The path the King set into the Vessel’s mind slowly fades away, now having now reached their destination. The Weaver’s Den is as lively as ever, with many spiders bowing deeply to Herrah as she walks by. The difference between her and the Pale King, however, is that she greets many of them by name.

“I’ll have that fool’s head,” Herrah snarls to the Midwife. She hands the Vessel over, but keeps Hornet secure in her arms. Despite her mother’s frustration, she is the very picture of contentment. “How dare he. How dare he send the children alone, and have the gall to ask for reinforcements—he tests my patience. I made it clear that I would follow through with his initial requests, nothing more!”

“Why, I thought you had lost your patience a while ago,” the Midwife chuckles. On her back are several Weaverlings, who are soon joined by the Vessel. Unlike Hornet, they can speak in full sentences, and inundate the poor Vessel with inquiries of their adventures.

“However.” The Midwife’s voice grows serious. “I advise you to be careful. If you give him an inch, he takes a mile.”

“I know that,” says Herrah. She sighs deeply. Perhaps worried about the little ones eavesdropping, she shoos them gently off the Midwife’s back, and requests they return to the nest. The Pure Vessel follows them, but at the last moment, hides around the corner.

“He doesn’t realize that we are still recovering from those sanctions, no matter how long ago they were repealed. Or he doesn’t care. I’d put my Geo on the latter. Am I looking too far into this?” Herrah puts a hand to her forehead. The Midwife squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. “Have I gone soft, Midwife?”

“I’d say you have, but so has that old Wyrm. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. You’ve just gained a new perspective, thanks to this little one.” Midwife pokes the sleeping princess’s cheek, chuckling low and soft as the youngling swats her claw away. “Are you having regrets?”

“None.” There’s no doubt about Herrah’s confidence. “This child has only strengthened my conviction. You needn’t ask again: my answer shall be the same every time...”

They’ve heard enough. Not wanting to intrude any longer, the Vessel treads away. These contentions between Herrah and the Pale King should have been more obvious to them. Their role in this conflict ends here: they’ve delivered the letter and Hornet to Herrah, who has made her choice to stay uninvolved. There’s nothing they can do.

There really isn’t a single thing they can do.

Every single Weaver they’ve seen so far has been hard at work, spinning thread, going out to hunt, guarding the Den, and so on. It occurs to them just then that they’ve hardly seen these spiders at rest. Herrah herself has refused every invitation to come to the Palace, as of late. The Vessel realizes that they’ve been so caught up in reading individuals, that they haven’t bothered to look at these bugs as a group.

They don’t know what the word ‘sanction’ means. With much thought, they remember Herrah’s accusations towards their father, during the initial negotiations. Specifically, ‘starved for supplies’.

No matter how much Hornet is fed at the Palace, she’s always begging for more.

The horrible epiphany sinks in that the spiders are struggling to get enough to eat, and no one outside of Deepnest seems to care. As the Hollow Knight, doesn’t their duty—however passive it may be—extend to this corner of the world, too? How is it that the King treats them as someone important, but never lets them do anything to help anyone? In fact, he seems determined to keep them away from everyone outside his social circles. Herrah allowing them into the company of common spiders appears to be her own decision.

Between the inflicted mantis, and these harsh truths of Weaver society, the Vessel begins to feel confusion about their own role in the bigger picture. Yet for all of their questioning, they cannot bring themselves to doubt the Pale King. Surely there are answers; it’s just that they’ll never be able to ask. He provided them safe passage to Deepnest, didn’t he?

The dealings of Higher Beings, or at least those in power, are beyond the Vessel’s comprehension. They join the Weaverlings in their nest, consoling themselves with the company and carefree chattering of young spiders. They sit by themselves in a corner, quiet and thoughtful, assuming that the Pale King will pick them up by the day’s end.

The bell tolls night time, and their father does not come to pick them up. To their surprise, the Midwife plucks them from the Weaverlings’ nest, and takes them to Herrah’s chambers. Hornet had apparently requested their presence, and soon the two siblings are tucked up in blankets. The Beast Queen herself is a slumbering mountain beside them.

Of all the ways they could have spent their day, they could never have guessed it would end up like this. Such a sleeping arrangement is comforting, especially after the danger they were in, but it’s not the same as their home. They know not when the Pale King is going to come pick them up, if at all. The last time they had seen him, he was fighting strong but outnumbered. The God-King of Hallownest is supposed to be invincible, but then again, the Vessel was supposed to be empty. And look how they turned out.

The Vessel rolls onto their side, and sees Hornet’s wide black eyes staring them down. Their eyes are already drooping shut, but she’s apparently tireless. One of her little paws settle between their eyes, and just like Herrah did with her, she chirps gently at them. Though her voice is soft, it is enough to wake her mother. Herrah rolls onto her side, and shushes the little one with a finger to her mouth.

“It’s bedtime now,” Herrah whispers. “Let them sleep.”

“But Ma,” Hornet whines feebly. After a few soothing pats to her belly, however, she is yawning and curling into a ball. The Vessel would like to nestle against her, but as Herrah is still awake, they settle for keeping still on their back. Their position, with their hands folded across their chest, is not unlike the sleeping princess from one of their favorite story books. All they need is a posy. They wouldn’t even have to leave the Palace to find the flowers they want.

For the first time in quite a while, they dream of their youngest sibling. Not just them, but all of the others, too. With bent backs, they push against the wind and struggle further into the empty wastelands. The Vessel, standing apart from them, sees a tiny figure among them. Her red cloak is like a dot of blood against the sea of dark cloaks. Hornet! The Vessel surges through the snow, the sand, the ash—they’re not sure which—and into the procession. The little Vessels grasp at them, with the same desperation the Hollow Knight remembers from the Abyss.

The call of the ocean feels so far away now. No longer does the roar of the waves take precedence over their thoughts, but rather the gentle rustle of plant life and soft clothing. The Vessel appears in a place similar in structure and color to the Palace, but much smaller. Dreams have a way of shifting settings like this, which is still new and novel to the Vessel. Their nights are, for the most part, dreamless.

The alabaster halls are glowing and silent. What was once colorless blends in with creamy gold, and then deepens to a rich orange hue. The Vessel reaches for their nail, and realizes with a start that it’s not there. They look down at themselves, and see not a training cloak or even armor, but one of those soft, ruffled gowns their mother or the retainers put them into on their off days. The rustling skirts drag across the floor, and they must lift the hem so they do not trip. They do so anyway, but the King catches their arm.

“You are still uncoordinated.” The Pale King helps them to their feet, and pats them on the back. “And you’re slouching again. No matter. Come walk with me. There is much I must show you.”

He offers his arm, and leads the Vessel along the corridor. Just when they thought it would stretch forever, it opens up to a wide balcony they don’t remember the Palace having. The air is hot, dry, and tinged with a sickly sweet smell. The stars convulse, afflicted and pained. The Vessel remembers this. Was it a memory, or a dream?

“As your capacity for Soul grows, so does your ability. That I may meet you in my dreams is a sign of your progress.” The Pale King leads them back inside, into a tall, cold room. Two chairs sit facing each other, casting shadows all the way to the other side of the room. The Vessel takes a seat, while the King draws curtains over the windows. The Vessel isn’t sure which part of the castle this is, or if they’ve ended up somewhere completely different. From what they can tell, it’s a simulacrum of the King’s workshop. The walls are the same Void-stained slate grey from their memories, but the room lacks its usual furnishings. Without its clutter, they can see the engravings on the floor. They are not the typical symbols of Hallownest or even the Pale King, but of something unfamiliar.

“That I may draw you into my dreams is a good sign, but there is work left to do.” The King sags into the chair across from them. His tail, longer here than in waking, lies limp. “The False Light has encroached about the Lady’s Gardens from the Pilgrim’s Way. The Mantis Tribe, because we are outside of its territory, refuses to assist us.”

He puts his elbow on the chair arm, and leans his head heavily against his fist. “Had you responded well to your first injection, I would have been able to take you to the Temple, or so I thought. My people look to me for guidance, but I lead them blinded. The darkness into which I birthed you is unfathomable. Come your final metamorphosis, you will be on the level of all other Higher Beings. Only then shall you contain that which plagues this Kingdom’s sleep. But you do not understand any of that, do you…?”

They do. They finally understand what the purpose of all their training was. As they are now, they’re too underdeveloped to fulfill their sacred task. Knowing the reason behind it all, they feel a surge of hope.

Do not hope.

“Return to the Queen’s Gardens, my child, now that the Princess has been returned to the Beast. The path is safe.”

The dream was so vivid that when the Vessel’ s eyes pop open , their surroundings confuse them. A soft snuffling noise jolts them upright. Much to their embarrassment, they realize they’ve been startled by Hornet mumbling in her sleep. They put a hand to their mouth to stifle their silent laughter.

T hey leave the nest as silently as a ghost, and fetch their weapon and mask from the far wall. The Devouts must have placed them there . The path the King imprinted in their mind is no longer fresh, but they remember enough. It is not even needed to leave Deepnest, which is starting to feel like a second home to them. Their sister lives here, and Herrah and the Midwife have been so kind. It’s funny how the place grew on them. Being so deep underground, it’s the closest they can get to the Abyss barring the bridge just outside the Palace.

I n the dark of night, the path to the Gardens is all the more visible. Motes pour down from the tunnel like snow, and upon approach, reveal themselves to be spores. The flowers near the entrance must be in bloom, but it’s off season. The unusually warm color of the spores hint at what is happening above. What constitutes as a ‘safe path’ in an infected area might be more dangerous than what they’re used to, especially if that mantis is still lurking.

T hey fit the mask back over their shell. With their weapon resting on their shoulder, they begin their ascent.

Chapter Text

The Queen’s Gardens are, at the very least, recognizable. However, there are some concerning differences. As they suspected, many of the flowers have gone into bloom. They stand bright among the verdancy in all shades of orange, some of which the Vessel has never seen before. They know that plants are alive, but these ones feel almost conscious as they hike towards the path. At a stroll, they realize just how far they had to go from the trimmed, neat trails they’ve so often walked upon.

Being at the very edges of the Queen’s territory, it makes sense. They are no less relieved, however, when their feet find steady ground.

The Aluba must have all fled at the first signs of conflict. Same with all the usual bugs that inhabit the gardens. The only ones they do come across are dead. Mostly mantis corpses, but some bugs in traditional Hallownest armor. The first time a bug’s leg crunches under their unknowing step, they reel back with a hand over their mouth.

The mantis they stepped on has been cleaved in half. Their insides are just a mash of orange-gold ichor, so thick that it’s still oozing out of their bloated shell. Right next to it is a Hallownest soldier with a scythe lodged in its neck. Bugs left in that state are the lucky ones. So many have been left in an indescribable state that the Vessel cannot tell where one body begins and the other ends. They have no choice but to wade through this sea of gristle and viscera, gagging at every turn. The moment they reach the shoreline, they lift their mask and vomit.

Much to their horror, the black vile they spill forth splatters onto another body—friend or foe, they can’t tell which. With their hands over their mouth and tears in their eyes, they race up the stairs and higher up into the gardens. They are met with an identical aftermath. The brambles that curl around the gardens now bear orange thorns, and tangled in them are remains that cannot be looked at without turning the stomach.

The Vessel’s legs shake with each step. The natural fragrance of the gardens has been overtaken by sickly sweetness and the reek of rot. A loodle with tangerine eyes looks up from the carrion it is partaking in, and lunges. It is cleaved in half. The Vessel wipes their soiled blade off and continues forward. The living bugs they see now, ones that they had loved to watch when they were younger, now stumble around with clouded eyes and unsteady gaits. The mossflies no longer bob about harmlessly, but hone in on anything that moves.

If these bugs live, they’ll spread the Infection and leave more bugs like the ones at their feet. They slice down everything in sight. In their mind, they are back home with their parents. When they step over another body, they are sitting by the Pale King’s desk to study while he works. When a thorn punctures their palm, the White Lady is introducing them to some nobles who have come to visit her. They trip, and they’re all the way back in Deepnest with Herrah and Hornet.

If they had no mind to be distracted, they would have reached their parents by now. They instead come to their senses in a part of the gardens they have never been to before. Before them is a pagoda with no glass, with vines—now infected—wrought tastefully around its architecture. Only the Lifeblood cocoon within, pulsing like a heart, has remained untouched by the rot.

With no infected around, there is no reason to dip back into their reveries. The Vessel is confronted with the reality that even this peaceful, quiet place has been tainted.

They don’t need to concentrate on the King’s instructions to understand that they’ve veered off their path. That is understandable for any other bug, but they’re not supposed to preoccupied by anything. The reality is that they are, and that they need to stop and rest. The pagoda provides the shelter they need, and when they sit at its center, it is the safest they’ve felt since they came back into the gardens. Cloak and carapace both are muddled with gore, which they do not even attempt to scrape off. They’re too disgusted with it and with themselves. Killing those infected bugs, even in self defense, even in the preservation of a greater whole, they feel as though they’ve committed a grave sin.

They put their face in their hands, waiting for tears that never come. This comes as a relief; they would not want to start crying when they see their father again. If they just keep acting the part, it’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

A crashing sound in the underbrush dries any tears they might have shed. They jerk their head up to see a familiar bug slashing their way through the vines, heedless of the minute cuts the thorns give them. The Vessel soon recognizes them as the mantis who had pursued them and Hornet all the way into Deepnest. With his injuries, he should be dead by now. The wound Herrah had given him is swollen and oozing. His thorax is concave, as if he had been punched with great force. One of his legs is bent the wrong way, and his left arm hangs limp. Despite the mortal state he is in, he lumbers forward with a hoarse shriek.

The Vessel backs away, not out of fear but to give him wider berth. They hide behind a tangle of ivy, and watch him collapse where they had been sitting moments before. He lands with wet squish , and blood—or Infection; they can’t tell at this point—spills out like yolk from a broken egg. With negligence or violence, he shall be reduced to the same state as the corpses the Vessel was forced to step through. The Mantis, running on instinct and not self-preservation, swings his good arm at the cocoon that is just out of reach.

There’s no question about it: the Vessel must help him. They’ve had enough of cutting down everything in their path. Taking a deep breath, they climb up into the dome, and create an incision in the cocoon. The Lifeseeds inside wiggle, and it is with a heavy heart that the Vessel is forced to skewer a good few handfuls of them. Maybe after enough rest, their mind will dull to the idea of killing. The intensity of their own revulsion frightens them. It could lead them to hesitance in a crucial moment, such as this one.

The wounded Mantis spits and snarls when they approach with the medicine, but there is little he can do to resist. He is so covered with wounds that the entire cocoon might need to be drained, but for now, the Vessel tends to the worst of it. They slather a thick helping of Lifeblood around his neck and the craters on his thorax, and all the while he screams and screams. It gets to the point that the Vessel fears being discovered, and they pause in their treatment to put a hand over the Mantis’ face.

Of the most dangerous things they have done, this is pretty high up on the list. The Mantis could have easily bitten their hand off. They credit their survival to the mask they’re still wearing, and silently thank the craftsman who gave it to them. The Mantis clicks his mandibles angrily, but quiets down after a pat between the eyes. The Vessel, keeping a wary eye on him, continues to dab Lifeblood onto his wounds.

Now that they’ve gotten a closer look at the Mantis, they realize just how much the Infection has become a part of him. His blood and what little viscera they can see is entirely orange. The Vessel gets the sense that the Mantis has not only succumbed to his illness, but has been transformed into an unfamiliar, alighted being in a bug’s shell. They cannot save him from this fate, but he is lying still and that is enough for them to dress his wounds and preserve his dignity.

The other infected are too violent and too contagious. The Vessel’s heart sinks when they are reminded of the fact. Or perhaps they are trying to rationalize why they’re giving the Mantis preferential treatment. A Pure Vessel mustn’t prefer one bug to another. This is about as bad as it gets.

They’ve patched him up as best as they can. Having a body lacking wounds, or having healing wounds, is about as healthy as he is ever going to get. For good measure, they slather Lifeblood on his good claw and tear up some of the vines. Let anyone who finds him think he did this himself, before collapsing from exhaustion. The wounded creature huffs and wheezes from pain, but he will live.

There are no grand goodbyes, no parting words, because neither of them can speak, nor should they. The Vessel simply lingers for a few minutes more, gives them one last awkward pat on the arm, and then disappears from the clearing.

For the rest of their trek, the Vessel is conscientious of their surroundings. They rely on their stealth rather than strength to get past the infected. This leaves them bruised and battered, as they do not fight back, but they prefer this to the alternative. Their accursed mind swims the length of an ocean, wondering what could have been, and what is to come from all of this. In less than a day, the Queen’s Gardens have ceased to become the place the Vessel knew them to be, and there is nothing they can do about it. They feel more helpless about it than ever.

Throughout all of this, they’ve forgotten that they’re still wearing their mantis mask. This is why, when they reach the gates of the Queen’s abode, Dryya stops them.

“Halt. No citizens are allowed past this point. Turn back, and one of the City’s guards shall escort you to...” Dryya leans forward with a squint. The Vessel holds their breath. “Oh. Why is it wearing that…? No matter.”

She shakes her head, and herds the Vessel inside without another word. She is one of those who does not even bother to address them, believing that their supposed mindlessness makes it useless to converse with them.

Inside, no one else seems up for talking, either. Ogrim is slouched on a chair too small for him, bound in bandages and looking worse for wear. The White Lady is tending to Isma’s injuries. Hegemol is cleaning muck off his weapon. Sitting beside him is a tall, silvery bug who immediately steals Dryya’s attention, for she is quietly weeping. The Vessel stays in the doorway in silent awe of this gathering. They do not remember ever seeing all five of the Great Knights in one room. Though under poor circumstances, it is a sight to behold.

The Vessel quickly realizes that the Pale King is not present, and clenches their fists under their robes. They cannot ask for his whereabouts, or if he is safe, and it feels like a lumafly electrocuting their heart. That these are the only ones who have gathered speaks volumes of the piles of corpses they had seen. Surely there are more where they haven’t walked.

Ogrim limps to where the Vessel is frozen in the doorway, and takes the mask from their shell. “A souvenir, eh? Why, this craftsmanship seems familiar…Come this way, little knight. It’s about time you rested up.”

He rests a bandaged claw on their shoulder, drawing them into the circle of knights. The White Lady collects the Vessel into her arms, and holds them as if they were freshly hatched. They remain as limp as a doll, ever conscious of their own movements. Ogrim sits by the Queen’s right side, and Isma at her left.

“We have kept the sick from entering Pilgrim’s Way, but at the cost of many brave soldiers,” Ogrim explains to the Vessel. “Our victory is a Pyrrhic one. With our forces halved, we—”

“It does not understand,” the White Lady interrupts, with a thorny point to her voice. She lowers her head, and the Vessel sees tears in her eyes. “It cannot comprehend such things. That is not its duty.”

“But they’ve taken orders from His Majesty. Surely...”

“That is enough, White Defender.” The White Lady straightens her back and glares at him. He falls silent, and then the only sound is muffled weeping from the silver knight. With a dull shock, the Vessel realizes that she must be Ze’mer. A broadnail, longer than she is tall, rests against the bench where she mourns. Her wilted antennae flinch with each soft sob, and it moves even the Fierce Dryya to keeping silent vigil at her side. No one seems to know what to say, except for the Queen.

“When you leave my Garden come morn, burn its image into your mind, for it will be too dangerous for you to return,” she tells the knights. Dryya, who the Vessel has never seen outside of the Queen’s Gardens, does not question the implication that she is to leave. They do notice, however, the way she clenches her fist.

It is Ze’mer who lifts her head and protests. “My Queen! At least let che’ give che’s lover a final resting place! T’would be cruel to let mel’departed lie where vermin could pick away at her!”

“You have until dawn to do so,” the White Lady responds, almost immediately. With a sharp wail, Ze’mer takes up her nail and flies from the room. Dryya follows, calling her name. The Vessel, feeling slightly ill, turns their head from the sight. No one takes notice of this small movement.

“My Lady,” Isma speaks up, “what do you intend for the fallen, infected or otherwise?”

“Those who have...enough left of them to be moved...shall be moved to the Resting Grounds. The rest I shall decompose myself. The soil is already tainted; I can feel it. I shall do what I can to siphon the Infection from these gardens, but it may only slow down the process.”

“But Milady, if you take the Infection unto yourself—?!” Hegemol interjects. For someone so big, he sure has a soft voice. “We cannot afford to lose you!”

“We need you with us,” adds Ogrim. “We have lost enough bugs tonight!”

“If it has the slightest chance of helping our situation, then it is a risk I am willing to take.” The White Lady rises, and shifts the Vessel to one arm. “Mighty Hegemol, please see to it that the carriage is prepared for your departures. Ogrim, please stand guard. And Isma, if you could kindly look for any survivors?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Understood, Milady.”

“...As you say, my Queen.”

“Thank you. Now, please allow me a moment alone.”

One by one, the knights filter out, leaving the White Lady and the Pure Vessel alone in this oddly-lit room. She sighs and puts a hand to her forehead, which has wrinkled with worry. The day’s events have left her looking withered and ancient. Even her blue eyes seem to have lost their shine.

“Oh...” She starts to say something, but the words die in her mouth and she swallows them back down. She paces around the room, still holding her child but not really holding them, just supporting their weight so she has something to do with her arms. At least, she takes them through a door in the back of the room, down a short corridor, and into a small chamber where the Pale King is asleep.

The Vessel is awash with relief. It takes every ounce of their willpower to stay in their mother’s arms, and not rush to the King’s side. He lies with his tail curled around him in a perfect, still circle. The glow around him is diminished so; they would have known he was here otherwise. What wounds remain on his body are in the process of sealing themselves up, until not even scar tissue remains.

The only sounds the White Lady has made are soft footsteps, but the Pale King’s eyes blink open as soon as she steps into the room. He sits up with his hands folded on his lap, and with a faint incline of his head, beckons her to sit by his side. She does so, allowing the Vessel to stand off to the side.

“Will you not try to stop me?” The White Lady’s voice has softened. She places a hand over the King’s.

“When have I ever? We both know that you shall always do as you wish.”

“This time it is a matter of necessity. Will you miss me?”

“Oh, my Root. I always have.”

The King presses a kiss to the back of the White Lady’s hand. Tears well up in her bright eyes, which she swiftly wipes away. “You know things cannot go back to how they were, right?”

“I know.”

The White Lady takes her hand from his. “Then, for your own sake and mine, please do not return to these gardens. If not my responsibility towards them, I too would depart.”

“You would not return to the Palace with me,” the King states. The White Lady shakes her head.

“No, I would not. I really have tried, my dear, but the weight of our sins is heaviest in those halls. Please forgive me.”

The Vessel waits for another tender moment between them that does not come. The Pale King walks to the doorway without a second glance, and beckons for the Vessel to follow. Against their will, they leave with him, without looking back. They understand now that this might be the last time they see their mother, who is still little more than an acquaintance to them. And what of the knights, who see her as a guide, or even a friend?

What baffles them the most is that the King will not show an ounce of emotion, even though there is no punishment for him in doing so. The Vessel, if allowed to, would have clung to their mother’s knees, crying for her to come back with them. Despite all of the pain she had caused them, all by accident, they never stopped craving for her approval deep down.

When they reach the end of the corridor, the Vessel dares to look over their shoulder. They see her, still in the same spot, watching as forlornly as she always does. For just a moment, their eyes meet. It is the first time the Vessel has made eye contact on their own volition; it almost freezes them in their tracks. The White Lady lifts her chin, looking as though she wants to say something. But the Pale King is already on his way out the door, and the Vessel prefers him to her.

It does not make them feel any less awful when they step out into the courtyard, where a stag beetle and carriage await.

To no one’s surprise, Dryya returns to her post in front of the Queen’s retreat, while the others pile into the carriage. A scant few soldiers have returned with Isma, most in such poor shape that it’s uncertain whether they’ll survive the ride or not. Seated to the left of the Vessel is Ze’mer, who sways to and fro as the stag pulls them out of the gardens. No longer is she crying, and curiously, there is a small drawstring pouch on her lap.

To their right sits the King, who has an arm around the Vessel’s shoulders so they’re not jostled about when the stag passes over bumpy terrain. Conversation is quiet, but the King never speaks a word. A change has settled over him. His facade of a proud king has been stripped away, revealing the feeble old man beneath.

Chapter Text

They had once, while resting after training, overheard Ogrim refer to the palace as ‘a place of dreams’. Without the White Lady, that statement no longer holds water. Her personal gardeners still inhabit the White Palace, but a number have become bereft in her absence. Those ones have taken to wandering, dazed, letting the flora around the castle to wilt. The King evicts them, and promptly hires new help from the City of Tears. The Vessel, on their way from training, watches these starstruck beetles exchange their dark city clothes for the white robes worn by the rest of the staff.

Other small changes infiltrate the Vessel’s daily life. No visits with their mother opens up a slot of free time in their schedule. When no one is checking up on them, they read. They hide away in the nursery with a storybook propped open on their lap. They’ve learned, fast, how to put away the books exactly as they were. It is far too often that they’ve almost been caught in the act. On the occasions that they’ve been interrupted before they could finish a story, they think up continuations of their own imagining. Many a dinner has been spent daydreaming at the table, hardly touching their food and making the King and his knights wonder if they’re getting sick again.

They do not get sick, not until immediately after their second metamorphosis. They emerged from their chrysalis a head taller than the Pale King. One look in the mirror was enough for them to decide that they are a gangly beast, and they fainted on the spot.

The good thing about staying in bed is that they don’t have to face their increasingly rigorous obstacle courses, which leave them shaking and leaking Void. The bad thing is that they can’t do anything. They watch their bookshelf longingly, and when no one reads to them, they sleep. The only time they ever dream is when the Pale King needs to speak with them about some matter or the other considering their education.

“On the morrow you will go to the City of Tears, and I shall remain here,” the King says one night, after they have recovered.

The Vessel awakens early in the morning after receiving that message, before one of the servants can come wake them up. This is unprecedented. The Pale King, teased for being overprotective, always wanting to know what the Vessel is doing at all times, is sending them outside the Palace grounds without him. They put a hand over their chest to feel their racing heart.

Of all the changes to their life since returning from the Queen’s Gardens, this one is the most dramatic. They are so rarely trusted to go off on their own, especially if they’ve just been sick, injured, or tested for immunity against the Infection.

That the King hasn’t explained to them why they’re going to the City of Tears doesn’t bother them. They remember the city as one of the safest places in Hallownest, and they haven’t seen Lurien in who knows how long. It seems like a lifetime ago that they were a hatchling, poking through his belongings.

They don’t want to waste time with the servants fussing over them, so they get up and dress themselves. Their new clothes are flattering, taking into account their increasing height, but looking in the mirror still feels like stepping on a pin. Their limbs look too long for their torso, which has narrowed at the waist. Their once smooth body is now segmented at the joints and ungainly. Pulling their cloak around themselves just makes them look like a column.

The worst part about all of this is that their horns have grown huge and heavy. It makes their head look too big for their body.

They look ridiculous.

“You look dashing!”

The Vessel look to the doorway, and sees none other than Ogrim, in his polished white armor. He lets out a belly laugh, and beckons them with a swing of his claw. “Why, you look more like your mother with each molt!”

Oh, they don’t like that. Out of the corner of their eye, they see their profile in the mirror. It’s a far cry from the round-faced little one they used to be, but they don’t look very much like the White Lady. They don’t want to, anyway.

“I actually came here to wake you, but it seems one of the retainers got to you before me. If you’re ready, we shall go to the capitol break our fast, and meet with the Watcher.” Ogrim steps to the side as the Vessel exits their room. He then sees the nail on their back, and says, “Why, that nail is as small as a paring knife on you. A visit to the blacksmith is in order.”

The Vessel gives no indication that they’ve heard, but the thought of a new weapon is a little exciting. Like most bugs, they enjoy receiving gifts, even if it’s something practical. They begin in the direction of the Stag Station, expecting faster transport, until they see Ogrim headed in the opposite direction. They twitch in surprise. Is there something else they can use? A tram, perhaps? The Vessel has heard of it being faster and smoother than the stags.

They are joined presently by Isma, who strikes up conversation with Ogrim. The Vessel eavesdrops idly, but hears nothing of importance. Still, they get lost in listening to their light, personal matters, and even imagines themselves interjecting with a comment or two. They come to their senses when they reach the palace gates, where a cold draft scatters motes of Void along the bridge. Then they realize that the journey to the city will be made by foot, and their stomach flutters. Is it excitement or nervousness that makes their legs shake? They’re amazed that the King let the knights bring them this far outside the castle grounds without him.

Yes, they had been sent alone in the Queen’s Gardens, but that was different, because he had been in the same area, and had been giving them instructions every step of the way. They are actually relieved when Ogrim and Isma give orders: follow them, stay close, don’t brandish your nail unless told. They repeat those things to themselves, all the way out of the Palace grounds and to an elevator. When Isma and Ogrim aren’t looking, they stare at everything with rapt fascination. They knew the White Palace was in a remote location, but there’s nary a sign of life here aside from sentries, all wearing the same white armor.

They arrive at an elevator with a silvery-blue gleam. Years after the Pure Vessel is sealed, the foundations will crumble from disrepair, causing this elevator to crash, thankfully empty, but forever unusable. Today, it carries two of the Great Knights and their charge up to the City of Tears. Shockingly, they catch a glimpse of utility tunnels leading into the Waterways—something they only know about as per the King’s instruction. They figured their father would want to hide something like that. But the rest of the shaft is so immaculate that they figure it doesn’t matter.

As they elevator rises, they hear something that sounds like a strong wind. They realize it’s water. Rainwater, rushing in from a sluice—ornate, bearing the symbol of the King—near the very top. They must have been so nervous that they missed the drain collecting the water at the bottom, didn’t even hear the sound of this artificial waterfall. From an open archway above that, they see only a blue, watery haze, and the shadows of bugs moving to and fro.

The elevator comes to a stop. This is it. They’re about to enter the City of Tears, and though they’re coming up from beneath it and out through an inconspicuous tunnel, the sight is no less breathtaking. Being in the city, under its endless rainfall and the glow of lumafly lamps, is a completely different beast from watching it from the safety of the Watcher’s tower. And, oh, there are so many bugs. Beetles, worms, butterflies with leaf umbrellas, pill bugs in groups of half a dozen. Hulking armored guards, nobles in finery, parents pushing their hatchlings along in prams.

And the buildings! They stretch impossibly high up, dotted with windows that shine like candlelight. There are bridges connecting buildings, spires and glass walkways and domes. Blue is the dominating color here, as white rules the Palace, but everywhere the Vessel looks, they see so many different other colors that their head spins.

Because of their supposed mindlessness, no one is surprised when they walk right into a lamppost. Ogrim puts a claw on their shoulder and leads them back onto the right path. His and Isma’s presence is enough to draw the city folk near, to greet them and express gratitude for their service to Hallownest. Any questions about the Vessel, however, are politely deflected. According to the two knights, the Vessel is a squire from the Palace, who they have accompanied to the city. Who they are training under is to be decided at the Watcher’s tower.

It sounds like a cover story to the Vessel, who knows their situation is different from the alleged nobles’ children who have accepted as pages, and later squires. A lot of said children end up as sentries, or bodyguards for other nobles. Allegedly. The Pale King has taught them the basics of socioeconomics; they haven’t lived it for themselves.

A group of armored bugs—sentries? Soldiers?—march past, each of them carrying a polished lance. The Vessel suddenly feels self-conscious about their own nail, which is too small and sort of battered. It’s alright. They’re only here to see Lurien, and to get a new weapon. It’ll be alright.

In all the excitement of just being in public, they’ve forgotten that breakfast is in order. They’re surprised when a roasted clam is thrust into their hands. It’s hot enough to require being wrapped in a leaf, which Ogrim is eating along with his food. Isma, on the other hand, seems reluctant.

“Were we not going to eat at the Spire?” she asks.

“Yes, but it’s not a bad idea to get some food in the little one here. Even they’ve got to eat.”

The meat of the clam is tucked into the shell. The Vessel timidly bites off a piece, gnawing at it while they look at and listen to their surroundings. It’s all almost too much, and they’re starting to feel a headache coming on. But it’ll have been worth it.

The mounting pressure in their skull is made worsened by heavy footsteps, and a hearty greeting from several knights at once. They are unlike any other bug in the city, dwarfing even Ogrim in height and girth. The only thing Ogrim has on them is his seemingly endless enthusiasm. They slap each other’s shoulders, exchange pleasantries, and then surround the hapless Vessel.

“It is smaller than we expected.”

“Actually, I believe it is larger. The Watcher described a Vessel the size of the Gendered Child.” Said child is at the Watcher’s Tower, as per the word of one of the knights as they bustle off of the main street and through a tall archway. The side road is wide enough that three of these massive bugs can stand side by side with room to spare.

“Did his Majesty really permit you to bring it out in public?”

“Yes, but I deeply regret having to lie about their identity.”

“I didn’t know it could eat.”

And so on. Such comments poke at them like pins, but both Ogrim and Isma come to their defense. In Ogrim’s case, this means a supportive claw around their shoulder. Guilt that they shouldn’t have swells at the fact that they can’t lean against him. The elevator they’ve mounted doesn’t even give them the excuse of a bumpy ride. Everything here is well-oiled, despite the constant rain and threat of rust.

“You can’t expect a growing bug to survive on nothing,” Ogrim argues with one of them. The Watcher’s knight informs them that the Vessel—to their horror—is not a bug and that them needing to eat is more like recharging a Kingsmould that ran out of energy. Even Isma, who also refers to them as ‘it’, seems taken aback, but does not debate with them the way Ogrim does. How exactly the Pure Vessel functions is allegedly a source of contention between those in the King’s inner circle.

The truth is simply that the Vessel is a bug who has wants and needs like any other, but it’d be unwise to say that. They’re sure if they were physically able, they’d end up blurting something out in their defense. It’s fortunately very easy to tune all of them out, what with the rain and the elevator creaking to a stop. Ahead is a hallway that leads to some arched doorways, not unlike the training arena in the White Palace. They hear the clanging of nails and shouts of bugs engaged in combat.

The Watcher Knights depart here, and to the Vessel’s surprise, so do Ogrim and Isma.

“His Majesty specified that the Vessel not be left unattended,” Isma reminds the others. One of them says something they can’t make out, just her reply: “Just an elevator ride up? Very well, then. There’s nowhere it can go in there.”

Isma punches the ‘up’ button on the elevator, leaving the Vessel to watch the others go off to train without them. This isn’t at all what Ogrim said. What admiration they felt for him is quickly becoming frustration. In company, they are at the mercy of what other bugs do or say. Even Ogrim, kind as he is, seems to have taken this for granted.

There’s really only so much they can blame someone who doesn’t know, but they still feel inexplicably frustrated as they are whisked up and away.

They emerge at the top of the Watcher’s Spire. The clutter they vaguely remember from last time has been tidied up, and there are multiple, familiar voices coming from the end of the hall. It takes a moment to recognize which one is Lurien’s, and they realize how long it has been. A year, perhaps? They near the door, but before they can even touch the handle, it swings open on its own.

They see the inside of the room, and the three Dreamers, and a wave of nostalgia rushes over them. But they are all seated. So who opened the door?

“Howl!” a little voice shrills. The Vessel looks down to see Hornet. She had opened the door by putting her full body weight against it. She makes grabby hands at them, but seeing as she’s too short to hold their hand, she grabs a fistful of their cloak instead. They are pulled rather ungracefully into the room, with her loudly announcing their presence.

“Howl’s here!” Hornet leads them to the table, where the Dreamers pause in their conversation and turn their heads.

“Yes, we see,” says Lurien, sounding exhausted. “Goodness, it has become quite tall.”

“You haven’t seen them since they were a hatchling, have you, Watcher?” Herrah inquires. “Just the size of Hornet, here, but twice as fierce. They fought off a monster that had been plaguing us for some time.”

“I’ve heard about that, but it was incapable of such feats when I first saw it. How old is it now?”

“Mm, I’m not sure.” Herrah taps a claw to her mask in thought. “Less than a year older, I believe? Perhaps one year? The Pale King has been stingy with information regarding them.”

“Daddy coming here too?” Hornet pipes up.

“No, sweetie, he’s busy today. Why don’t you go play with your sibling?” Herrah coos at her. Hornet, satisfied by this answer, toddles off with the Vessel in tow.

Monomon, who has been quite so far, speaks up. “I’m surprised he allowed it to come here without him.”

“As am I.” Herrah leans against the back of her chair. “He refused to send the Vessel over for Hornet’s naming ceremony, even with supervision. It could be his relationship with the Hive that influenced that, but still...”

The Vessel does not get to hear any more of the Dreamers’ personal and political gripes, because they’ve been taken into the Watcher’s personal kitchen. The only other occupant is a small, timid-looking beetle who soon leaves, balancing a tray of drinks in their hands. Hornet is more interested in the pantry door that has been left ajar, and pays them no mind.

“I’m hungry,” she informs them, squeezing her way through through the small opening. Like a mountain climber, she bravely ascends to the top shelf, and returns with a colorful box that is as big as she is. She drags it by one of its flaps out of the kitchen and past the distracted conversationalists, leaving a trail of crumbs for that poor beetle to sweep up.

“Sit!” She plops herself behind a curtain, and smacks the ground in front of her. They’ve taken refuge in the windowed room where Lurien keeps his telescope, with the city’s trademark weather on full display. They can’t recall having ever been in here, but either way, it’s a wonderful view. The glass used here is so thick that everything outside sounds a mile away.

They tear their gaze away from the window, and back to Hornet. Even in a safe space like this, she’s bound to get herself into trouble. Fortunately, for now, she’s occupied with stuffing cookies in her mouth. In typical toddler fashion, she has crumbs all over her face and down the front of her dress. She doesn’t wait until she’s finished chewing, before getting started on another piece.

“Mmngh.” Hornet holds out a cookie to the Vessel. They do not immediately respond. “Choccie chip,” she coaxes, leaning forward. Their mandibles, when fully extended, tickle her hand. She squeaks with laughter and draws away. “See? You like it?”

The Vessel freezes mid-chew. She wants them to respond. But they can’t. Or rather, they shouldn’t. But she’s holding up another sweet, and they have no choice but to accept it. They’re surprised at the toffee, melting in their mouth. She must have squirreled away other candy before they had gotten here. Their suspicions are confirmed when she moves the curtain a tad, revealing a stash of snacks. They’re crowded on a dish that they’re sure someone gave to her, not knowing what she was capable of. So, basically, anyone except for Herrah.

Hornet picks away at the food, alternating between eating it herself and offering it to the Vessel. She flattens each candy wrapper and puts it in a steadily growing pile, even as she starts to grimace and hold her stomach. The Vessel, sensing danger, stops her hand before she can reach for another piece. They expect her to scream in protest, having been denied any more food, but she instead curls her fingers around their thumb.

The Vessel then does something very dangerous. They lean around the curtain, and point to where the Dreamers are seated. Without words, Hornet seems to understand what they’re communicating. She takes the plate, wrappers and all, and brings it back to her mother. They wonder if maybe Herrah will keep her at the table, depriving them of company, but soon Hornet comes back with a sippy cup of something clear and carbonated. For her stomach, definitely.

They expect the Gendered Child to go wandering off again, but she instead crawls onto their lap and stays there. There’s only the muffled rain outside and the soft, suckling noise of Hornet drinking from the cup. The Vessel had communicated with her. They had suggested she do something, when they should not be capable of it at all. Their stomach roils, and they wish they could take it back. Now someone knows how impure they really are, and in the most unceremonious fashion, at that.

But then Hornet grabs one of their fingers, and coos at them. And they remember she’s still just a baby, who isn’t concerned or even fully aware of the state of Hallownest. She is the only bug in their life who they don’t need to be cautious around. For the first time in their life, they don’t need to be on edge. It is like a flood gate breaking, and they pull their sister into a brief but tight hug. She makes a sound like a squeaky toy.

When they let go of her, she beckons them further into the curtains. They follow her until they reach a wall, surrounded on all sides by deep blue drapery. Here, she puts a finger to her mouth and reaches into her cloak. She emerges with a drawstring bag, half-full of strange black shells and other oddities from Deepnest. She places a smooth stone onto their outstretched palm, and where her fingers brush against their hand--

It is a winged husk with a familiar, four-pronged mark on its leather armor. It has been dead for long enough that even the corpse creepers to deem it unworthy as a host and look for fresh bodies. The Devouts catch her touching it and shoo her away, but not before something small and shiny catches on her palm. She closes her hand into a fist as she darts away, in search of somewhere safe to hide her new treasure.

The Vessel blinks in surprise, and Lurien’s quarters come back into view. Hornet is lining up her treasures in order from largest to smallest. She does not seem to mind when they touch another one of them, but it does not provide the same vision that the scale did. Perceptive as they are, it does not take long for them to figure out what had caused that phenomenon in the first place. They point to a whelk shell, and when she holds it out, they cup her hand between both of theirs.

Her claws are sharp enough to poke a hole at the skinny end of the whelk. Blowing through it produces lovely whistles and chirps. It sounds like the call of a maskfly, and she attracts several into her web with her instrument. She is wrapping up the last of them when her mother approaches. Herrah has no shortage of praise for her daughter’s ingenuity, and wonders if replicas can be produced.

Hollow brings the whelk to their mouth, and the resulting sound is wavering and timid. Hornet giggles and claps her hands, as if applauding a symphony.

Hornet then holds her hands out. “Story!” she pleads, once the whelk has been returned. “Please?”

They look down at their own hands, which until now they’ve thought of as nothing extraordinary. If they share too specific a memory, she might repeat it to the others and draw their suspicion at her knowledge of such events. Fortunately, they can think of an alternative.

And so, holding her hands, they begin to tell their story.

Chapter Text

The darkness is a tangible thing. It swathes the Pure Vessel and its clutchmates in a cold, suffocating embrace. A sibling next to it has asphyxiated for real, crushed to death by the pressure of too many siblings in one egg. It is the first thing the Pure Vessel sees, when the shell cracks and the faintest of lights shines through. The first sibling to push its way through the hole gets stuck, and in the ensuing struggle, cracks split further across the shell. Other siblings, roused by the strained squeaking and scuffling, push against their confines as well.

The Pure Vessel struggles too, but only out of the primal instinct that urges bugs out of their eggs at all. One particularly energetic vessel kicks it by accident, sending it towards the back. This doesn’t arouse any particular feelings in it. It just waits.

By the time there’s enough room for it to leave, there’s only one other living sibling in the egg. Yolk and blood, both jet black, mix at the bottom of the shell with broken masks.

The other sibling is strikingly similar to the Pure Vessel; the only difference in their horns is that the sibling’s are pronged at the top, rather than the sides. It also happens to be highly alert. Rather than leave the bodies of the fallen in the egg, it lifts the shards out and tosses them over the edge. Then it wiggles through the hole itself, kicking its little legs furiously.

The Pure Vessel waits for an opening so it can leave itself, but when it steps forward, its sibling’s mask pokes back through the opening.

It offers a hand.

The Pure Vessel ignores it, and climbs out of the egg.

The world they have been born into is all jagged rock and bone. The floor is more vessel masks. If there were any other eggs here, they have already dissolved. The one the Pure Vessel came out of is perfectly black, multilayered, and stuck with tendrils. More of these strange vines carpet the ceiling and thread through the plain of corpses that stretch on and on.

The sibling crouches on the unsteady ground, examining a pebble here, a handful of ground shell there. When it runs out of things to look at—very few, in this mass grave—it approaches and takes the Pure Vessel’s hand. With its birth being so recent, there are no memories to share: only vague somethings that will one day become its thoughts. It shares with the Pure Vessel a deep vibration like the cavern itself, but at a faster pace.

The Pure Vessel has nothing to offer in return, not even an opinion on what the sibling has shared with it. As soon as its hand is released, it leaves.

Discerning which way is up and getting out is difficult for something that has just hatched and cannot think for itself. It operates on instinct alone, following sounds and going every which way. Even when its body grows dirty and its cloak grows ragged, it does not stop moving. Empty shells are packed as tight as bedrock in some places, and tumble like sand in others. Dark shadows with bright eyes dart away when it gets too close, though some linger out of curiosity. These too are ignored.

The rest of the siblings must have already left, or died, in the time it took to escape the egg. The Pure Vessel, which has no concept of time, cannot ponder that. It does not marvel at the vastness of the cavern in which they emerge, nor the faint glow of blue light further up. It is not bothered by the sight of its siblings in their dying throes. A sibling falls from a great height and smashes against the ground next to it, but it does not even flinch.

The only thing that catches its limited attention is a bright glow at the very top of the shaft. The sea is calling for it, but the white light has a louder, more commanding voice that drives the Pure Vessel to ascend.

No cost too great.

It does not see the sibling who had tried helping them out of the Egg . It must still be doddering behind. The Pure Vessel waits no longer than a few minutes before the Voice compels it , and it goes forth.

No mind to think.

No will to break.

The climb up is worse than hatching. It see its siblings slip off of ledges, crash into silver thorns, and slide helplessly down walls. It stops seeing living vessels halfway up the shaft, only long-abandoned masks. Others who had made it this far, only for their bodies to give out from exertion.

No voice to cry suffering.

Born of God and Void.

At the topmost ledge, the Pure Vessel thinks it’s going to go blind. The bug that is the source of the light comes closer, examining it with eyes as dark as its own. He is quite tall, compared to something as small as the Pure Vessel, and has even more horns than its siblings.

“You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams,” he tells it.

What is ‘seal’? What are ‘dreams’?

The white bug carefully brushes a claw against the Pure Vessel’s mask. It does not react to this, nor to its head being tilted from side to side. The bug even holds one of its hands, much like its sibling had done, but it doesn’t react.

“You are the Vessel. You are the Hollow Knight,” he continues. “Now, come here. Let us leave this midden...”

He turns away, and the Pure Vessel follows.

Then it hears a faint scrambling sound, and turns around.

There, clinging to the ledge, is its sibling. The Pure Vessel, between the precipice of light and dark, watches it reach out, silently pleading. The Void pleads, too, but the Vessel has already made its choice. It burns the image of its sibling into its mind, and leaves.

Chapter Text

These days, things never go according to plan. Ogrim had received an itinerary from his Majesty just this morning, detailing where he would be taking the Vessel and what exactly they would be doing. Ogrim was supposed to have accompanied the Vessel throughout their stay in the city. Instead, they are immediately separated, with the Watcher Knights whisking him and Isma away.

He is consoled by the fact that all three Dreamers are in the spire, which is being guarded by a squad of Kingsmoulds the King had sent up just last week. Herrah in particular seems fond of the young knight, treating them just like any of the other Weaverlings in Deepnest. So he has heard from Isma, who has heard from Monomon, who has been keeping in contact with Herrah and Lurien.

He was supposed to be there with them. The King was very specific about information he was to distribute to each Dreamer, and the location of the nailsmith who would forge the Vessel a new nail. Isma in particular was supposed to discuss something medical-related with Monomon, but she now walks beside him, sullen and sulking, in the wet streets. The Watcher Knights walk with them, weapons lowered so as not to frighten the city folk.

Bugs, recognizing the knights, greet them as they pass by. In an instant she regains her cheerful demeanor, but Ogrim knows better than anyone that she’s as stressed as any of them.

“During a routine maintenance of the Waterways, a pipe had been found rusted and leaking. That’s typical wear and tear, but it was close to the Fungal Wastes,” one of the Watcher Knights murmurs to him. They’ve passed out of the rain and into one of the many towers, this one host to many a business. A group of shield bug nymphs run by, shrieking with laughter.

“Mm.” Ogrim nods gravely. Even the general population knows how lethal that place has become.

“You remember that exit from the Waterways into the Wastes, yes? The King had ordered it sealed off, but all of the evacuees were sick. It could have been residual spores from them, or cross contamination, but...Well, you’ll have to see for yourself. We were going to take Hegemol with us, but he and Ze’mer are preoccupied with Quarantine Block 1.”

“My grove is down there,” Isma pipes up. “Has it been damaged? It can withstand any acid, but if it was...tainted...”

She dares not say the word ‘Infection’ aloud, not with so many people present. Any mention of the epidemic strikes fear into the hearts of many a bug, and parts of the city have already been hit.

“Worry not. The King himself assigned our most skilled menderbugs to upkeep your grove,” the shiest of the knights answered. “and stationed Kingsmoulds outside the entrance to keep infected bugs out. It’s in safe hands.”

“Thank goodness.” Isma puts a hand to her chest and sighs. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my work. With everything going on, I’ve been kept away from my projects. It’s making me antsy.”

“Worry not, Isma. If the King sees enough value in your work to protect it so, then surely he means for you to return to it soon.”

“I hope so.” Isma throws her shoulders back and lifts her chin. The group has rounded a corner and now approaches a wide lid in the ground. A sentry stands guard, but her posture is lax: no one would willingly go into the sewers unless they had work down there.

“Are all of you going down?” she asks, stiffening to alertness when they approach. Two of the Great Knights themselves, as well as all six of Lurien’s personal guards going down into the Waterways, could very well mean an emergency. Ogrim internally curses himself for failing to realize this until now.

“We’ve come to account for some infrastructural instabilities,” Isma explains, stepping forward. The sentry brightens at her presence.

“Lady Isma!” she exclaims, all hesitation gone from her voice. She swings open the lid, and gestures downwards. “Right this way, madam.”

The knights descend single file into the Royal Waterways. Long after the fall of Hallownest, it would become the refuse-filled domain of pests like the Flukemons and Pilflips. Pipes would leak and burst, and acid from Isma’s grove would spread unchecked. If the little Ghost had seen it today, they wouldn’t recognize it. Aqueducts funnel water to and from filtration systems, and, all things considered, it is relatively safe to travel.

The otherwise orderly atmosphere has been soured with unease. Menderbugs, the primary population down here, can be seen in worried clusters here and there, though they are carrying out their tasks as usual. Further in, the number of bugs seems to thin, until finally they reach a road block: a hastily-erected barricade with chains in front of it for good measure, and a warning for workers not to go past this point and to wait for assistance.

“Oho, what is this?” Ogrim scratches his chin. He knows damn well what this is. “We’re the ‘assistance’, are we not?”

The Watcher Knights are visibly uneasy. Isma sniffs the air, and comments, “Something reeks.”

Ogrim makes a small, embarrassed noise. “Goodness. Kindly Isma, I would have taken no offense if you wanted me to clean my armor--”

“At ease.” Isma settles a hand on his large claws. “You smell awful, but it’s that odor that has prohibited you from smelling it. Look.”

She points to the top of the barricade. In the narrow space between it and the ceiling, Ogrim sees a foggy orange miasma seeping through. Now he’s really embarrassed, but his humiliation is overshadowed by something horrible and curling in his gut.

“The report said it was just a pipe,” one of the knights is saying, his voice pitched in alarm. “How could it have spread so far already?”

Isma is already picking apart the barricade, and the process is like picking blocks out of a Jenga tower. Ogrim and the other knights move to help her. They’ve dismantled about half of it, creating a space wide enough for Ogrim to ease on through. Someone else tries to go ahead of him, but he shakes his head and gestures for them to wait. On the other side, the air is thick, as if in a deep smog. He puts a claw to his mouth and coughs, but he still feels as well as he did when getting up this morning.

“Steel yourselves, my knights,” he says to the others, still waiting on the other side. “The situation has taken an unexpected turn, but is it not our duty to face the unknown head on?”

The Watcher Knights are visibly uneasy, but the boldest of them steps forward and joins him on the other side. “You’re right,” she says. “The Watcher is counting on us.”

“I’m ashamed to have been doubted for even a second,” quips another. “What we find past this point could be valuable in calculating how fast the Infection spreads.”

The rest murmur agreements and shamble through the opening. Isma is in the middle of it all, pushing her way to the front of the line, even past Ogrim. Little is said as they proceed, keeping an eye out for Infected along the way. There are signs that bugs had been here: tools thrown down in a hurry, a lost helmet, and a Lumafly lantern. Isma stoops to pick that last item up, giving them some much-needed light as the darkness expands around them.

It is less like they’re in just another tunnel, and more like they’ve walked into a crypt. The lamp sways uneasily in Isma’s hand like a nervous child. They reach a point where flat ground ends, and the path splits into two. A channel, feeding into an upright grate, interrupts the floor and forces the group onto either side. It’s generally not a good idea to go splashing around in the Royal Waterways; you never know if the stream you’ve stepped in is on its way to someone’s faucet. There’s nothing covering this particular one, so Ogrim guesses it’s going the other way. Still not a good idea to step in it, especially with him being a dung beetle.

The hallway yawns into an open room with a high ceiling, crisscrossed with pipes. There are ladders, ledges to climb on, and the beginnings of the fungal growth on the walls. Mushrooms contract and expand, exhaling bright spores into the air with each puff.

It’s not hard to find the broken pipe: Ogrim’s eyes follow a waterfall up the stairs to a thick pipe. The same rust that has chewed a hole out of it flakes off and into the water and towards a drain. Something must have backed up, because instead of being sucked down and out of sight, the cloudy water pools lazily around the drain. Among the debris lays the face-down corpse of a Menderbug.

“Oh, no,” says someone from behind him. Ogrim, used to all manner of putrid scents, wades through the water and towards the unfortunate bug. He turns their bloated body right side up, and is met with eyes bulging out of their sockets, cloudy and orange. At the slightest movement, the same colored sludge oozes from between their plating.

A couple of the Watcher Knights pile up the stairs to inspect the pipe—the best they can do in place of the poor soul who had succumbed to the Infection.

Ogrim brings the bug’s corpse out of the water. He has nothing with which he can cover them. He can’t even close their eyes. The best he can do is get them somewhere dry. He and Isma venture further in, checking every nook and cranny until they’ve come up with several more bodies. They’re all similarly swollen and leaking, save for one whose body had been washed up against a lever and ruptured. They are like a deflated balloon next to their fellows.

Nobody says a word as they work. They came here because it’s too dangerous for anyone else, but they were too late. Isma pulls a lever, intending to clean the floor, but the water that comes out is just as murky and discolored.

“His Majesty must be informed of this at once,” Ogrim finally chokes out. He clears his throat, and continues, “We need to send craftsmen down here—bugs who know these tunnels inside out, preferably the ones who worked on its initial construction. You three go inform Watcher Lurien at once. Have him write to the King.”

Three of the Watcher Knights depart. Ogrim turns to the remaining half and says, “We need litters for the deceased, and sentries to keep other bugs from coming down this way.”

“And what will you be doing, Ogrim, sir?” asks the most timid of the knights.

“I will be accompanying Isma to her grove.” When he says this, Isma lets out a soft, surprised ‘oh’. No doubt she thought she wouldn’t get the chance after what they found. “There is no guarantee that the east half of the Waterways hasn’t been tainted.”

It pains him to leave the deceased behind like this, but they’ll be in good hands soon. One of the knights is already standing in front of the row of bodies, protecting them with his bulk. Right now, he needs to do what he can for the living.

“Wait, Ogrim. The Pure Vessel’s nail,” Isma reminds him. He feels her hands on his back, giving him a light shove forward. “We might need it for this. If you can take it to the nailsmith, that would be a great help for us.”

“Would his Majesty even allow them down here?” Ogrim can only imagine how angry the Pale King would be, at having his most prized knight being taken down into the sewers, even Isma’s grove.

“In the past, probably not. But the Vessel allegedly held its own against the infected Mantis Lord. Any threat down here will be far less aggressive.” Isma gives him another shove. “It’s alright. Go on.”

“If you insist.” Ogrim does a half-bow, and departs. He may one of the highest ranking knights, but he still defers to Isma. If something were to happen to her...no, he mustn’t think such things. They only have to hold out for a little while longer, and then the Infection will be sealed and Hallownest will be safe. The King’s plan is infallible. It has to be. He has to be, too. Bugs are relying on him.

But when Ogrim rounds a corner and meets the sharp end of a nail, it just feels like everything he sets out to do goes awry.

Chapter Text

The hours crawl by in the Watcher’s Spire, long enough for Hornet to drag the Vessel around through its lower levels, ever under the watchful eye of Herrah. The Vessel follows her dutifully as she scales bookshelves and babbles at every painting. She harasses the staff at every turn, stealing food and hissing at them until Herrah creeps in from the shadows and asks for some lunch for these two and herself, please? The Princess has a big appetite and we don’t have enough at home to sate her. Herrah has a commanding edge to her voice that makes one of the cockroach maids whimper.

But with the siblings, she softens her voice. She doesn’t talk about the Infection, or the failed tram in Deepnest, or the nail that the Vessel should have gotten replaced by now. She tickles Hornet until the spiderling shrieks, and they both laugh when Lurien tells them, in his put-upon way, to keep it down. The Vessel is sat at a separate table and given a meal the same as everything else they’ve eaten at the Palace, but there’s conversation and laughter that they suddenly realize has been missing from their father’s table. They’ve never once heard the Pale King laugh, and Herrah is comparatively full of mirth. With a pang of sadness, they wonder if their own mother would have been the same towards them if they were more like the little girl cooing in Herrah’s arms.

But even with themselves being the way they are, the King still bothered to dote on them, and pick them up when they were still smaller than him. That has to count for something.

When mid-afternoon rolls around and the Vessel’s thoughts start going in circles—they’re not used to having so much idle time—Hornet grows sluggish and cranky, and Herrah instructs Lurien’s butler to bring over a cot and bedclothes. Conversation between the Dreamers grows hushed, plates are cleared from the table and replaced with steaming cups of coffee. The Vessel has already given up on doing anything productive, and does not mind at all when they are tucked into the blankets with their sister.

Sleep comes to them in fits. The White Palace and even Deepnest are quieter than the spire, which is constantly accompanied by the patter of rain, and the occasional burst of windy gusts from who-knows-where. They catch snippets of conversation that they later wonder if they’ve dreamed. Hornet is a warm bundle at their side; every so often they place two fingers to her pulse, afraid that she has slipped away in her sleep. They place a finger in her tiny hand, relieved when she grasps it.

It’s at some point during their nap that three of the Watcher Knights arrive at the spire, breathless. The Vessel lifts their head and sees Lurien and his butler hurrying out the door. They can scarcely hear what’s going on over the rain. The Waterways. Infection. Ogrim, injured. The Vessel sits up, too fast, and holds their head to stave off the sudden vertigo. Thankfully, no one is looking their way.

They get up and fold the blankets around Hornet, who scrunches her face and turns her back to them. Closer to the door, they hear the details: Ogrim was finally on his way back to the spire to take the Pure Vessel to the nailsmith. He had been waylaid by an unknown assailant while leaving the Royal Waterways. How long had he been laying there? An hour? Two hours? Was he infected? Yes, from the water, but not the Infection. He is lucid and awake now. Where is he now? Which hospital?

The Vessel’s heart pounds in their chest. The delirium from their uneven sleep has left a membrane of confusion and fear over them. It’s because Ogrim came back for them that he got hurt. It’s because they got so stupidly tall, and outgrew their child-sized nail. They feel sick, frozen in place even when someone puts a hand on their shoulder.

“Do we even know what we are sending them against?” Herrah’s voice cuts through the others. This starts a fresh wave of conversation, about the Vessel this time. The Pale King obviously chose the Dreamers for more than their power: they are all clearly heated, but calm as they discuss what to do with the Vessel. No decisions can be made for sure without their father’s approval, though no one actually refers to him as such. No one asks the Vessel what they think, not even well-meaning Herrah.

The Vessel balls up their fists beneath their cloak, willing themselves to block out the noise. Everything they’ve been hiding bubbles acidly in their stomach, coming this close to eating through their carapace. They don’t want to go fight whatever attacked Ogrim. They don’t want to go all the way to the nailsmith’s. Their only job is to be empty and to be sacrificed for Hallownest, and they’ve already messed up the first part.

They want to go home. They want their father.

Later it occurs to them that, up until that point, that was the closest they had come to revealing themselves. In their late-night ruminations, they had always imagined that it would come at a quiet moment with their father. Something heartfelt and tragic, before they were deemed impure and disposed of. It would have been truly awful to have an outburst in front of the Dreamers and some knights they didn’t even know.

What instead happens is that Hornet, disturbed by the noise, sits up in bed and wails. Herrah, despite the urgent situation, immediately breaks from the group and goes to comfort her. Her leaving seems to unravel a thread between the other two Dreamers, who wander away from each other and leave the butler to deal with the Watcher Knights.

The Vessel remains right where they are, afraid that they’ll explode if they move even an inch. Herrah comes back—Hornet in her arms, whimpering—and brings the Vessel over to sit on a chair. They can’t believe they used to be intimidated by her. The nonchalant way she straightens the Vessel’s cloak while comforting her daughter (oh, to have many arms) gives the whole thing the feeling of an interrupted play date. She winds some silk together into a makeshift sling for Hornet to rest in, while she goes to bother Lurien.

“Give me the phone, Lurien,” she pesters, jabbing him in the shoulder until he relents with a, dare they say, immature noise. Monomon, ever light and airy, giggles.

“Yes, it is I,” Herrah is now saying. She glances over at them. “They have been here this entire time, with Hornet. I have been taking care of them, I assure you. Mhm...”

She paces across the floor, with Lurien in pursuit. Three of his harried steps for each of her long strides. “It would be in their best interests if you took them home right now...We don’t even know what it is,” she adds indignantly. She rubs her temples. “I don’t want to hear that from you.”

The Vessel can just barely hear the King’s voice coming from the phone, but no matter how they strain, they cannot understand a word he’s saying. To make matters worse, Herrah has wandered into another room, and they can’t just follow. She has even taken Hornet with her.

They want to go home. Maybe if they wait, if they’re good and still, then someone will walk them home.

No one does.

They don’t want to hear what anyone is saying, on the phone or to each other, so they turn inwards and pretend not to hear anything. It’s easy to do, when they’re all caught up in their thoughts. As they have never been considered for creative pursuits, they do not have much of an imagination to keep them company, not the way other bugs do.

For once, everyone else is worrying, and they are the only one dreaming.

Chapter Text

The nailsmith is on the opposite end of the city, squeezed against the very edge of the cavern. It is close enough to the Fungal Wastes that if one presses their shell against the wall, they can practically hear the drone of the fungoons and the squelching of the sporgs.

The Vessel has never seen the Fungal Wastes and likely never will. It is notorious for being the hardest hit by the Infection, so much that walking in there is a guaranteed death sentence. The once docile mushrooms now spew toxic spores that can turn even the healthiest bug in a matter of hours. The Vessel remembers the infected Mantis Lords, and shudders when no one is looking at them.

Why the nailsmith has ignored orders to evacuate is anyone’s guess, but the city guards and the Great Knights and the Watcher Knights all have their hands full, so no one can be bothered to force him out of his workshop.

Lurien asks his servants about the nailsmith, or rather, the Nailsmith, and the servants respond that yes, he is available but you will have to go past the quarantined areas to reach him, and are you sure you want to do that? The Vessel hears them gossiping after Lurien leaves, about how the Nailsmith is probably infected already from being in close proximity to the spores.

His work is touted as the best in the city, though, or else no one would even consider asking him to craft the Pure Vessel’s nail and armor.

The King would have relocated him to the White Palace long ago, if not for the threat of contagion. The Ancient Basin has been clean so far, and the King wants to keep it that way, at the cost of very few people allowed in and out, tram passes no longer being handed out, and so on. The Vessel thinks they’re the only one who isn’t in danger from getting sick, but the three Dreamers seem invincible, unbothered, almost.

“Is there anything we need along the way?” Lurien is asking the other two. His butler has a pad and pen in hand, prepared to write.

“My scholar,” Monomon says at once. “He’ll be a valuable asset in treating the White Defender.”

Ah. Ogrim’s knight title.

“The storerooms, remember?” says Herrah. Lurien makes an ‘oh!’ sound of surprise.

“Ah, of course! In all the excitement, I completely forgot. My apologies.” To his butler: “Put down three cases of emergency provisions, and three of seeds, and—how is the soil in Deepnest?”

“It’s arable.” Herrah is swaddling Hornet in a red blanket.

“Very good. Anything else? Both of you?” Lurien looks back and forth between Monomon and Herrah, who in turn look at each other, confused.

“What could you mean?”

“Um,” Lurien coughs uneasily. “It is not every day you ladies are in the City of Tears, and the little miss has been here at all, no? Surely she would like to see...”

“Are you asking for an excuse to go shopping?” Herrah asks bluntly. Lurien squawks. The Vessel is sure that he’s blushing beneath his mask. “Is that wise to do in the middle of an emergency?”

By ‘emergency’, everyone—except Hornet, sucking her thumb—knows that she means the Infection, not just Ogrim. Silence hangs in the air. It doesn’t take an observant bug to know that they’re wondering if it’s right for them to enjoy themselves. Even Lurien looks guilty, all hunched shoulders and hanging head, for even suggesting it.

“When this all blows over, then yes,” says Monomon. “After we’ve gotten things sorted out today, I mean.”

The Vessel supposes that after the Infection is over, the Dreamers—and later, Hornet—will be able to go to the City of Tears and shop any time they’d like. It’s odd to think that their sister might one day be able to come here by herself, because they can’t imagine her as anything older than a baby.

They’ve arguably got the biggest responsibility out of all of them, but they are still disappointed when the Dreamers agree that they’ve all got way too much to do, and have already spent a lot of time sitting around waiting already. The novelty of the city’s beauty hasn’t quite worn off from the first time they had ever visited, when it was just them, their father, and Lurien. They like watching the bugs go about their business, and even wonder what it’d be like if they weren’t too nervous to join them, and if their father wasn’t so stringent about keeping their identity a secret.

And so, everyone gathers their umbrellas and heads out into the rain. Someone hands the Vessel their own umbrella, a heart-shaped leaf with a precarious handle, one that droops under the weight of the water.

The Vessel watches a steady stream flow between the two halves of the wobbling leaf, and decides that it’s going to break, soon.

They can’t really hear the others talking over the roar of the endless downpour, so they wonder what kind of umbrellas their parents would carry. In the case of the White Lady, being a root, would she prefer to have nothing between her and the rain? They could see that, though it would certainly ruin her fine gowns. The King, who is a very picky bug, might like an umbrella made from the plants in the Basin. Once again, they’re struck with the urge to return home.

They crane their neck back to look at a tall, stained glass window depicting a myriad of jewels. Figures move back and forth through the glass; in an unstained window, they see a froghopper bundled up a thick blue robe, watching the streets with a wary eye. Not far from where they are walking, a masked cricket whistles and sweeps soggy trash into a pan. A stag trundles by with a cart.

To the Vessel, who has grown up surrounded by royalty and other important bugs, the lack of decorum is shocking. Bugs yell at each other from across the street, and shoulder past each other without a second glance. At the same time, there’s a sort of familiarity that everyone has with each other, the kind that doesn’t require manners or over-the-top formalities.

Lurien leads the group through the crowd like a fish, every so often steadying the Vessel with a hand on their shoulder, before they can wander off or get shoved. Like with the Great Knights, bugs move out of the way for him, but not with the same reverence as someone from the Palace. It is simple respect.

The Vessel wonders what it would be like to hurry through a crowd with no one sparing so much as a glance, without Monomon and Herrah shielding them with their far larger bodies. What of traversing the city without a guide? It sounds like an adventure in theory, but the reality is that the crowds are making them shiver. Their umbrella shudders above them, looking at any moment like it may snap.

“I don’t believe their cloak is warm enough for this weather,” Herrah is saying to Monomon. Both women glance in unison at the Vessel, who marches along dutifully, albeit with quivering legs. “And that umbrella.”

“His Majesty didn’t account for it walking outside like this,” says Monomon. “On the way back, we’ll stop at the tailor’s. Lurien, what do you think?”

“If it is necessary, then yes,” the Watcher sighs. Sounding annoyed, he goes to Herrah’s side and lowers his voice. “You really shouldn’t baby it so much...”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Herrah’s fangs poke out from beneath her mask, which quickly shuts Lurien up.

The Vessel, again, wants badly to go home. Wet footsteps and a friendly, familiar voice bring them out of their misery. It’s the pill bug, Quirrel, who the Vessel recalls meeting once, but can’t remember. In lieu of an umbrella, he is wearing a banana leaf over his usual head scarf. Monomon breaks from the group to approach and coo over the little shell-shaped carriage he’s pushing. Inside, a pack of squishy white grubs mewl and wiggle around.

Come to think of it, Quirrel mentioned he had younger siblings, and he had done a good job of keeping Hornet from wandering off in the Archives. Could these be them? The Vessel strains to listen, and is shocked to hear him referring to them as his children. Children! He’s so youthful himself. The Vessel would never marry at such a young age.

They won’t be marrying at all, they remind themselves. Their life will effectively end when they come of age, so things such as starting a family is wistful thinking at best. Purity doesn’t involve romance, or wanting to care for others...but then they wouldn’t want to take care of Hornet. They wouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to meet and become close to another bug, or even what it would be like to wear a wedding dress.

Their heart sinks. How are they going to be pure, if they can’t even stop thinking? Or if they’re so sad and irritable all the time?

They’re so caught up in their own thoughts that they don’t hear Quirrel wheeling up to them. “Goodness, they’ve grown taller than me,” he remarks. He uses his hand as a visor and pretends he’s looking up at a great height, making the grubs laugh. “And the Princess is as tiny as ever, I see.”

Hornet tries to grab the leaf off his head, nearly tumbling out of Herrah’s arms in the process.

Monomon laughs. “I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off, but something has come up. Could you come with me to the hospital?”

“Yes, ma’am. Um...” Quirrel adjusts his hat gestures to the carriage full of grubs. One of them is trying to escape. “I’ll need to take the little ones home, first. No, don’t worry! A couple of my siblings are home right now. They’ll understand.”

“Thank you.” Despite the polite tone of their conversation, the Vessel can hear anxiety straining their voices.

Of the three Dreamers, the Vessel is the least acquainted with Monomon. It’s just their luck, then, that she takes them with her and Quirrel. The two of them lean towards each other to whisper, but the Vessel does not mind being the third wheel. They’re disappointed to have parted from Herrah and Hornet, but the City doesn’t grow a bit duller for their absence.

Quirrel fills Monomon in on all the mundane going-ons in his life, while Monomon explains the not-so-mundane circumstances that Ogrim has found himself in. That kind of conversation seems more appropriate for a meeting room, not a hasty walk—in her case, float—down the streets. Quirrel leads them over canals and through narrow streets where they have to go single file. He takes them up a set of stairs guarded from the rain by a glass overhang, unintentionally drawing the stares of pedestrians when he folds up the wheels of the carriage and carries the whole thing up by himself.

“Oof. Don’t worry, Madam. I’m quite used to heavy loads,” Quirrel chuckles as he brings the wheels back down. They’ve reached a street of houses, all wedged together and mostly conforming to the aesthetic of the city. However, there are personal touches to every building: woven leaves and bunches of flowers over rooftops, tapestries over windows, and so forth. Quirrel is fumbling with a ring of keys.

“I won’t take long, I promise,” he reassures Monomon when she begins to rub her tentacles nervously. “I’ve just got to get my toolbox. It’s a good thing I didn’t leave it in the Archives—Goodness!”

One of Quirrel’s grubs has tumbled out of the carriage. He catches them before they hit the ground, and breathes a sigh of relief. It’s strongly reminiscent of all the times Hornet has tried to make a break for it. With the child cradled in the crook of his elbow, he opens the front door.

The first impression the Vessel has is that it’s crowded, what with the little bugs running up and down the stairs. A handful of adults are seated at a round table with a deck of cards. One of them gets up to relieve Quirrel of his burden.

“You’re back early,” she remarks. “Is everything okay? Who’s that with the teacher?”

“Hello, Widget,” Monomon chirps from outside.

“Oh, just an apprentice from the Palace. I’m going right back out in a minute—where’s Liri?” Quirrel calls as he retreats into the back of the house.

“She went out shopping, and to pick up the eldest few from school. It’s all half days now, can’t imagine why they bother keeping the school open at all...” Widget sighs and goes to collect a large, padded basket. “Sorry you had to come in to such a commotion, Teacher. Their mother said she’d bring back a special dessert tonight, and you know.

Monomon nods politely. “That must be a lot of trouble.”

“It’s gotten to the point that we’ve considered a daycare, but yesterday we got notice that the schools are all closing next week,” says she, leaning against the door frame. “Everything and everyone that comes in from outside the city is so heavily scrutinized, too, so it takes a while for shelves to be stocked. It’s very troublesome...”

“I can imagine, but this is the most heavily-populated area in Hallownest. Those kinds of precautions have to be taken,” Monomon muses. “I think we’ve been too lax up until now.”

“Well, it wasn’t so bad one or two years ago.”

“That’s true, but...”

Something brushes against the Vessel’s cloak. They look down to see a little pillbug girl half-hidden behind a stuffed toy, staring wide-eyed through the holes of her painted mask. When they make eye contact, she quickly looks away. A slightly smaller child lingers just behind Widget, sucking their thumb. Widget acknowledges their presences with a glance, but doesn’t pay them any mind beyond that.

Thanks to all the time spent with Hornet, the Vessel knows how to handle small, shy children. However, they do not interact with these ones beyond just looking at them. They were not given any orders to. The King would not approve of them interacting with bugs outside the Palace. Their duty to the general populace, he once told them, is to protect them from the Infection, and nothing more.

So, essentially, they are meant to be a stoic, distant protector. They’ve already messed that part up as far as their sister is concerned, but they can still do well here. If they just focus on one spot, then they can clear their thoughts and not mind anything else. They’re not even supposed to be here; the King would throw a fit if he knew his perfect knight was out in public, where they could be gawked at or injured or whatever else.

“What kind of bug are you?” she asks. They couldn’t answer that even if they had been born a normal bug. They are not a Wyrm, like their father, nor are they a Root, like their mother. This is one of the few things they’ve never once questioned. There’s no point in it; they don’t need to know to fulfill their task.

The child is unsatisfied with their lack of answer, and wanders off. She nearly runs underfoot of Quirrel, who is hustling back with a box strapped to his back.

“I’m sorry for taking so long—Ah, careful, Nia.” He puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and steers her away from him.

“Are you going out? Can I come with you?” she chirps. A couple of other children come over, drawn in by the sight of their father and the Teacher in the doorway.

“No, not this time. You’ll miss dinner!” Quirrel wades through the crowd with ease. “Be good, now!”

“Bye-bye!” The children follow him onto the street and keep waving until he’s out of sight. It’s like having a dozen Hornets...the Vessel hadn’t much of an opinion of Quirrel before, but today they’ve gained a newfound respect for him.

A clock tolls somewhere, and the walk to the clinic becomes a brisk jog.

“It’s already this late? Goodness! Sorry, Quirrel—hang on tight!”

With a swish of her tentacles, Monomon lifts off into the air and over the rooftops—but not before gathering up Quirrel and the Vessel. The rain pushes against their shell and bends the stem of their umbrella, until they fear it’ll snap. They themselves would have snapped from the rain, if not for Monomon’s cloak shielding them. The city recedes from beneath them at a frightening speed. Even the maskflies are beneath them.

Monomon doesn’t skip a beat when floating between the spires. The downpour is heavier up here, closer to waterfalls than rain. They’re traveling far too fast to properly enjoy the view, and are in fact feeling quite dizzy. One moment they’re holding their umbrella, the next moment they’re not.

The descent is far slower. When Monomon lands, she sets the Vessel on their feet. The world might have stopped moving, but they haven’t adjusted: they take one step and fall face-first into a puddle. Their now broken umbrella floats to the ground beside them.

Well, they hope they don’t need to fly again anytime soon.

Chapter Text

They were meant to wait outside at first, but Ogrim insists on seeing them. Just to make sure they’re okay. They’re shuffled on in with a blanket around their shoulders, in lieu of the cloak that is currently in the hospital wash. The White Defender looks far smaller without his armor, and smells much cleaner. The nurses have wrapped bandages around his torso and treated his minor wounds with disinfectant. The kind that takes care of minor infections, that is. They heard the hospital staff fretting over this and that, and they learn that development on a potential vaccine has been halted. It would not cut to the source, anyway.

To think that just this morning, Ogrim had been so jolly and carefree. He looks like a different bug in his hospital bed: weary, and old. The Vessel had gotten the impression of him being a youthful bug, but more of an older brother than, say, an uncle. Other bugs continue to surprise them.

“Goodness, no wonder his Majesty wanted you supervised. You’re a mess,” Ogrim chuckles, but not with his usual energy. Sighing, he continues, “I wonder if you even understand what I’m saying. Perhaps it is because you cannot that I find it so easy to speak.”

They do, but the hard truth is that they don’t trust him enough to let him know. His loyalties lie with the King first and foremost. He would not keep anything from their father, especially not the Vessel’s ability to think or communicate.

“That thing...I know not what it was, but it was uninfected. Ah.” Ogrim runs a claw down his face. “I should have just taken you straight to the nailsmith from the start. Should have waited and brought Hegemol or Ze’mer with me. I could have used their watchful eyes. The sentries have turned the Waterways inside out in search of my assailant, and fear it has escaped into the city. I am wary of sending you after it, but his Majesty would say I underestimate you. He would not be wrong.”

That their father has some faith in their abilities makes the Vessel’s heart swell. It makes it all the worse that they do not fit his idea of ‘pure’. Here comes an awful thought: they should make it known to him themselves. But then what? Would he have an alternative?

“I’ve rung up the nailsmith,” Ogrim is saying. He starts to say something else, but trails off. He holds up one of his claws and peers closely at the square bandage on it. Several emotions cross his face in the span of ten seconds, landing squarely on mild distress.

“This substance…?” He mutters to himself, picking at the bandage. Around this time, a nurse enters the room with a tray of medicine, and shoos the Vessel out.

The hospital is built like a cathedral and reminds the Vessel of home. Therefore, they do not feel out of place standing in the hallway. They’ve found a wall to lean against and have been there for a while, hands behind their back, deep in meditation. They’ve found that with few external stimuli, or a single stimulus to focus upon, they are able to clear their thoughts somewhat. It is in this manner that they spend what feels like a long time in such a blissful numbness that they have not known since they were newly-hatched.

They’re curious about who—or what—attacked Ogrim, and eventually they become so restless that they simply just walk away. Monomon and Quirrel are who-knows-where, Ogrim is recovering, and Lurien and Herrah are nowhere near the hospital. Their father is at home, and not expecting them back for a while. The Vessel fights back their instinct to return to him, as they have always done when outside of the Palace and alone. They shouldn’t want to walk around and explore...but wandering aimlessly is not exactly an act of free will, is it?

And so they slink away. They are not afraid that someone will find and scold them, no. Definitely not. No one spares them a second glance, however, and before they know it’ they’re out the door. They’re not on the street, but in a courtyard with a glass roof. Patients trundle about either by themselves or with nurses attending to them. The flowers here were absolutely, undoubtedly taken from the Queen’s Gardens. They can imagine their mother donating them, and there being a little ceremony because she, like the Pale King, likes that sort of thing.

They can’t remember the last time they saw her. They can’t remember what she said, or how she looked, or if she even acknowledged their presence. The grievous, raw yearning makes their stomach twist.

Thinking back further, before they can stop themselves, they remember some things their father had said to them. The memories have faded so that his words are no longer verbatim, but they remember talk of sacrifice, no options left. This is a world that has been forced into a bottleneck. If the quarantine zones Lurien mentioned fail, then everyone they see here could be dead in the next week at the earliest. They don’t need to eavesdrop to understand the precarious circumstances in which Hallownest has found itself—just the details of it.

But despite everything, they still do not understand why, exactly, they are needed to stop the Infection. Maybe that’s not the right question to ask. What is the Infection, and why is it so different from a cold or the flu?

The question is the big, shiny geo piece that they’ve thrown into the metaphorical well of their mind. Of all the observations they’ve made and the things that they’ve overheard, not a single piece of information has pointed towards the answer.

They head for the nearest bench, because they need to sit down. With their blanket and their shaking legs, they look for all the world like any of the other patients here, taking solace in the courtyard. The gardens these plants came from are likely overrun by now, but there hasn’t been any talk of it among the townsfolk. Maybe their mother is keeping things under control. They don’t know. It’s not like they’re expected to pay attention to everything, but there is really nothing else for them to do besides getting dragged around by the adults, and playing with Hornet—and even the latter has to be done in secret.

They sit in the courtyard for a long time, with their knees to their chest and their chin tilted towards the ceiling. The thick, soundproof glass above obscures both sound and sight of the endless downpour. The result is a fishbowl environment. A terrarium might be a better descriptor, devoid it may be of maskflies and the lesser bugs that make up the wilds in Greenpath and the Queen’s Gardens. They doze intermittently, about ten minutes at a time, and wake up each interval feeling drowsy and contented. Once a geriatric patient offers their silent company on the other side of the bench for about twenty minutes, before just as quietly retreating.

They’re twisting a small flower between their fingers when they hear Herrah’s voice, faintly, from the other end of the courtyard. In a panic, they shove the blossom into one of their eye sockets. Their Void sucks it in like a vacuum, leaving them with the feeling one might experience when they’ve got a pebble in their shoe.

“Yes, I believe a bug of that description...” The Vessel strains to hear what the hospital aid is saying. “…courtyard...closest to the west wing...their mother?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Herrah nods, and goes to collect the Vessel. Hornet is fast asleep in a sling on her back, and anyone who so much as looks her way earns the spider queen’s warning hiss. To the Vessel she simply offers her hand and helps them up. “A blanket,” she says, sounding tired. They don’t blame her. “Come along, then. We’ll get you dressed and take you to the nailsmith.”

Finally! The Vessel stands in a slow, practiced motion, but had they been allowed to express emotion they would’ve leapt up. The nailsmith! They’ve been waiting for this all day.

Later, inside, Herrah puts an oilskin cloak over one of their training garments from the Palace while muttering about this and that, definitively pinning it shut with a brooch. She wonders aloud whether ‘that Wyrm’ really needs to have his knight so decorated for every occasion. Hornet stirs, paws at her closed eye with a fist, and settles back down. They stop by Ogrim’s room again and the Vessel catches a glimpse of something black staining the bandages the nurse is bringing out. The detail seems far more important for them to just walk past it, but Herrah does not notice and leads them onward.

“This has all been such a mess,” Herrah complains as they walk to the nailsmith. “The Weaverlings are more organized than the best the Wyrm has to offer. One has to wonder if he ever led a kingdom before this.”

The Vessel wonders, which they shouldn’t, but even under different circumstances they’d still feel like they were prying. Their father’s origins would make for a lovely creation myth, but they aren’t surprised to learn that he hasn’t taken advantage of that. He’s a very private bug, after all.

“He treats his kingdom like a toy.” Not true. That implies a sort of childishness that is absent in the King. The Vessel themselves would’ve gone their entire short life without knowing what a joke was if they hadn’t been around the Great Knights, and to a degree they believe they’ve inherited their father’s humorlessness. This they do not regret; it would have made them more impure than they are now.

Herrah puts a hand on their back and steers them away from an oncoming wagon. Aside from those few quips, she is silent for the remainder of the journey. The Vessel finds some comfort in this, that she doesn’t feel the need to inundate them with any more information than they’ve already gotten. As if going to a sanctuary, they follow her up a hill to a remote smithy that overlooks the lowest level of the city.

The inside of the smithy is torrid from the furnace, but well ventilated so that in certain spots they feel a cool breeze. They position themselves next to the doorway, for once standing with good posture. The Nailsmith, a rhino beetle with the beginnings of what will one day be a bushy beard, is hunched over his anvil. Herrah announces her presence and her intentions, to which the nailsmith grunts in response. He is in the presence of royalty, but can’t seem to break his focus from his work. A breastplate, of sorts.

“I’ve heard of your work, of how exacting you are with high quality ore,” Herrah muses as she looks over his shoulder. Hornet is chewing on her veil. “I cannot stay in here long; the fumes shall irritate my young daughter. However, I trust that you should not need guidance in your task.”

“No, none at all.” The nailsmith pulls up a box that emits light from the cracks. “Then I shall begin presently, once I’ve taken measurements.”

“Very well. Child, stand over here. Keep your chin up, like that. Good.” Herrah lifts their shell just a bit, pats their back to straighten their posture—they had slid back into their characteristic slouch—and finally, finally removes their old nail. She hands it to the Nailsmith, who regards it with faint praise.

“Mm. The pale ore has serviced this weapon well.” The Nailsmith lurches to his feet. He lumbers to and fro around the Vessel with a measuring tape, quite in the same ponderous manner that the retainers have when fitting them for new clothes when they’ve reached another instar.

“They’ll grow yet, I assume,” continues the Nailsmith, naive to the Pure Vessel’s identity, or lack of thereof, and fate. He goes on about measurements and materials without ever really acknowledging that the King himself had commissioned this. The Vessel had seen, in the city, a number of King’s idols and small shrines that indicated regular worship. The Vessel, shy at heart, squirmed with secondhand embarrassment but at the same time would’ve liked one of those idols—each a poor replica of their father—for themselves.

The technicalities of nail-making is far less interesting than the artistry in the act itself. The Nailsmith comes to life like one of Hornet’s wind-up toys to draw his hammer back and strike at the length of pale ore on the anvil. Hot little stars fill the smithy to witness the birth of this long, celestial body, that starts out as a clumsy lump, seemingly impenetrable by any outside influence.

The Pure Vessel’s old nail had grown scuffed over the years, but will likely remain serviceable for quite some time, but they do not know what its fate will be when it is replaced. Their new nail will be going with them into the Temple. It must be built to last. Herrah sits outside under her umbrella, her back to the cosmos exploding inside; she is more interested in Hornet, who has woken up and started crying for food. The Vessel just barely hears her over the rhythmic clash of metal and hiss of steam. In a year’s time, unbeknownst to them, a similar show will take place in Deepnest to invest in Hornet’s future: a shimmering needle with red twine around its handle, that will later dull and lose its decorations not long after it is finally put to use.

A nebula of steam clouds the Vessel’s vision and pours out into the open, where it is extinguished by the rain. The ore has taken shape into something that can be called a ‘nail’: long and sharp, with a mirror surface and markings akin to the etchings of the White Palace. Light and lethal in their hands. It is longer than they are tall, with a weight as comfortable as their old nail had been when they were a hatchling. They are holding the sliver of a star, the closest they can get to touching the sky.

Chapter Text

It had taken many failed clutches before the resulting Vessels could survive outside of the Abyss. Only then did the White Lady request to see her children. It was very much like ordering a package, except it was a living thing that her husband would personally deliver.

The day of, she had canceled an outing with some of her noble friends and sat expectantly in the White Palace. She had lied to them easily, saying that her Wyrm wanted to spend the afternoon with her. Her roots had trembled with anticipation, and she tried not to squint when the door opened to her chambers opened. She was a goddess, but forcing her eyes to focus just made her head hurt.

The Pale King had brought to her a single hatchling in a grubby cloak. The sight of it made it all so real to her: that she was finally getting the child she wanted.

She had held her arms out to it, cooing and coaxing but it had lurched away from her with a shudder of revulsion. It struggled when she picked it up, lolled its head backwards when she tried to give it a kiss. The White Lady asked if maybe it wanted its father, but the Pale King shook his head and said that it had reacted a similar way towards him. It was frightened by the unfamiliar environment.

The White Lady was overall nonplussed by the situation, but kissed the Pale King ‘thank you’ and set about doting on her grub. She tried not to let it show that its total lack of affection hurt, nor that she was discomforted by it not breathing or having a pulse. The image she had fixed in her mind of a happy child and an attentive husband seemed increasingly foolish and naive with each passing day. The White Lady knew not if the Pale King was disturbed or too absorbed in his task, but he did not approach her once while she had the hatchling. His silence effectively said, ‘this is your problem, and I don’t want anything to do with it’.

T hat, she thinks, was the first crack in their relationship. That he would not see it through with her or even warn her what was to come. It would’ve been enough to put an end to the whole Vessel business, had she not been so on board with it already. But, please, she would have liked to keep just one.

It had warmed up to her, little by little, but her own fondness remained a stagnant, emotional arm’s length affection that she hated. It wasn’t the pure, maternal love she had expected to feel. A dull cloud hung over her each morning when she dressed it in finery and took it to her G arden , where it had picked a flower to tie around its horn.

It was a total failure as a Vessel, and therefore had no rights to be at the Palace. It had been born for one purpose, which it could not even fulfill. This was the White Lady’s opinion, and she had never once asked her Wyrm if he felt the same. She was afraid of him agreeing with her. That would have validated every awful thought she had.

T he hatchling was oblivious to all of this, and in fact appeared to be embroiled in some difficult feelings of its own, if that was possible. If the White Lady was not directly interacting with it, it would hang its head and grow listless. It was impossible for her to debate on the emotional depth of the hatchling when she was struggling, herself.

It acted more like a wind-up toy than a child, she would later tell herself when the memories were particularly painful. The Void had hollowed it out. It wasn’t really a bug anymore.

Not even a week after the Pale King had brought the hatchling to her, it abruptly collapse in the courtyard and started convulsing. The White Lady had cried for her retainers to bring a nurse, but no sooner had the words left her mouth than the hatchling’s shell split open. Its body melted, leaving behind a stained, light green gown. The White Lady fixated absurdly on the detail of its dress, how she was under the impression that it liked that color.

The hatchling’s shade bobbed away from her as she leaned over the frills and broken shell and howled. It moved at a slow pace, eyes only leaving her when it was out of sight.

The ensuing fight between the White Lady and the Pale King was ugly.

How dare he lead her on like that?

She should have known that the child wouldn’t have long to live.

But she can’t know everything. She does not have his Foresight. Which he, by the way, hid from her.

He did not have the heart to break it to her.

“Well, you don’t seem to have a heart at all,” she had snapped, and stormed off in tears.

That particular argument comes back to the White Lady years later, probably because she’s sitting in her private home in the Gardens and faced with the chimes and ornaments that first hatchling had loved so much. It’s laughable now that she thought they were ever empty, when she has the Pure Vessel to compare it to. At first she had avoided it. The Pale King had borne it into the Palace, practically humming with excitement. All of those failed clutches led up to this moment.

The White Lady first felt relief. A Pure Vessel meant an end to the Infection. The Pale King would, of course, be its primary caregiver. It was such a relief that she wouldn’t have to be involved.

It only had to make eye contact with her once for her to become heartbroken all over again.

Chapter Text

Guards and soldiers of every rank came to the Watchers’ Colosseum to train and fight. The largest arena in the center of the building had no roof, forcing each bug to adjust to combat in inclement weather. The ground was forever slippery, whether it be from ice in the winter months or puddles from the rest of the year.

It is the third day of the Pure Vessel’s stay in the City of Tears, and the commotion from when they first arrived has calmed down. Whatever had happened in the Waterways is still unresolved, but the damage done to the environment has been stabilized, and it is safe to drink tap water once more. This was a huge relief to the majority of residents who couldn’t afford the special filter that made it safe to run their showers and baths. It had been patented by a noble and sold at exorbitant prices that resulted in a mob clustered outside his doorstep with makeshift spears and shivs.

The Vessel had no idea that the Infection could cause something like that to happen. That such a large population of the city is wanting for geo hints at a bigger problem that they’re sure someone else can take care of. They’ve never handled money in their life, and they don’t want to get caught going through Lurien’s finance reports or what have you.

Under different circumstances, they would’ve made a good diplomat. However, they are unable to reject the nail and the fate that has been thrust into their hands. The reality is that they’ve made a lot of progress in the past couple of days. They feel like a light yet sturdy piece of weaponry that is only a few hammer blows away from reaching the perfect shape. The sentries gather around to watch, mouths agape, as they use the watery floor to gather speed and their nail to stop themselves and pivot. Their foe, a winged sentry, startles back and up into the air when the Vessel charges forward. The longnail, a beast longer than the they are tall and made of pale ore, cleaves through the air and crashes into the other bug’s armor. They land with a pained grunt, and just barely dodge the weapon’s lethal strike into the concrete.

“That’s enough!” shouts one of the guards, a bulky beetle in red armor. He slams the tip of his shield onto the ground to get their attention. “This is a training session, not a fight to the death.”

The Vessel straightens, and a medical team comes to whisk away the sentry on a litter. Their heart is still racing, and they know it’ll take a while to calm it down. The fighting gives them both an outlet for their nervous energy, and a reason to become nervous. It’s a self-feeding loop.

“You’d think those palace types would know some restraint,” the head guard is saying to one of his fellows. The Vessel, walking by, pretends not to hear.

“You’re thinking of the retainers,” says the second bug. “The knights-in-training are the privileged brats who think they can get away with anything, as long as their parents’ pockets are deep enough.”

The Vessel lowers themselves onto a bench. Their hand is gripping their nail so tightly that it starts to shake. Getting used to the blunt honesty and oftentimes harsh speech of the city folk has been the most difficult part of their stay here. A lifetime in the White Palace, where everyone is formal to a point, has rendered them sheltered and soft. They think they should be able to take hearing this frankly confusing discourse. They can’t, actually. The worst part about it all is that they can’t just get up and leave or cover their hearing organs.

The Pale King likely hears these kinds of issues in his meetings: the uneven flow of wealth; infrastructure difficulties; the best ways to quarantine and prevent the spread of a disease that, in the beginning, spreads itself in the most insidious way possible. By the time someone is showing physical symptoms, it’s far too late. There are bugs who are too afraid to leave their homes, and others who go about business as usual because they can’t fathom anything bad happening to them.

The Vessel, as they are wont to do, tries to think of ways to solve all these problems, but it all makes their head spin. They don’t know what good it’ll do to keep practicing in closed spaces like this, either. If they’re meant to be the savior of Hallownest, they should be allowed to go outside and actually help.

No, no. That goes against their position as a sacrifice. But...the more they are exposed to Hallownest, the more problems they see, and the more they wish they could do something about it. This might have been their father’s worst fear: for them to be contaminated by the outside world. And, without realizing it, they’re completely right.

Any attempts at tamping down their thoughts are dashed when they hear Herrah’s voice, coming from the other end of the resting area. The Vessel’s head snaps up in recognition. Finally, someone they like! The Beast Queen is given wide berth by everyone, and even the bravest bugs are too afraid to meet her scrutinizing gaze.

“Ah. There they are.” Herrah approaches the Vessel. “I see you’re getting used to your new nail. It’s a shame they’ve decided to weigh you down with all that armor, though.”

Is it that obvious? They don’t like it, either.

Then they notice that she’s carrying her needle. They haven’t seen her fight since the incident with the mantises. During their visits to Deepnest, if Herrah had to attend to something, they and Hornet were always put under the care of the Midwife and not allowed to follow. Now she has appeared in the training grounds, armed, and singled them out. They’re smart enough to know what this means.

They lurch to their feet and walk out into the open, trying not to wince from the sudden shock of cold rain. One of the sentries starts out after them, weapon drawn, but Herrah stops them with a single look.

“I’d like to see how well you’ve trained them today.” Her voice has none of the warmth that she speaks to Hornet and the Vessel with. “Stand down.”

The sentry squeaks and scuttle away from her.

Herrah joins the Vessel in the arena. The rain plasters her veil to her head, revealing the contours of what she might look like underneath. The Vessel would have wondered about it if they weren’t already in battle mode. It’s a good thing they are, because the moment she’s across from them, she attacks.

The force of her initial attack would have cleaved an unprepared bug in two. The Vessel parries and just barely holds out against her. She’s using two pairs of her arms to brace the needle, and it has the effect of pushing back against a wall. The Vessel holds out for a second and uses the momentum of one weapon pressing against the other to launch themselves back.

They throw their arm out to launch a wave of projectiles, but Herrah closes the distance between them in a second and twists their wrist. She flips them, and they land hard on their back. The wind is knocked out of them, but they somehow manage to roll out of the way of her needle.

Their wrist burns and makes a crunching sound when they try to push themselves up, and that initial wince gives Herrah an opening to knock them back onto the ground. This time they don’t have the chance to dodge, and her needle goes crunching through their leg. The Vessel throws their head back, and the rain screams for them.

The rest of the bugs are cowering under the overhang. A single look from Herrah makes them flinch. In an instant, the fight is over.

“Their reflexes and coordination need work.” Herrah pulls her needle out of them and slings it onto her back. “Have them work on agility next time, instead of whatever it is you’ve been doing with them.”

She hooks her hands under the Vessel’s armpits, and stands them up. They’ve never felt this sore in their life, not even after hours and hours of training in the Palace. Void is streaming from both ends of their leg wound, and their wrist is hanging at an awkward angle.

“The arena is not meant for fights with the intent to maim,” croaks the beetle from earlier. He doesn’t look so confident or in control now.

“Do you think your infected brethren will care about those rules?” Herrah snaps. The Vessel’s legs quake with each step, so she resorts to carrying them as if they were a hatchling. For her to do so in front of all these other bugs is the most mortifying thing to happen to them. “They need to be prepared for those kinds of ruthless enemies. Reflex exercises.”

Herrah carries the Vessel inside, not minding that they’ve gotten blood on her. She does not speak, but something in her posture shifts, and the Vessel can tell she’s back to being her usual self again. They can’t stop thinking about her speed, and strength. She was ruthless.

When she bypasses the clinic and goes for the elevator, their apprehension spikes into panic. Where is she taking them? They were supposed to spend all day here. Losing to her in a fight must have been a test, and they failed spectacularly. The old injury in their eye begins to ache as they try and fail to imagine what’s going to happen to them. She was so proud of how strong they were in Deepnest and the Queen’s Gardens, and they failed her.

They assume a death curl while the elevator goes up. Staying still keeps their wounds from aggravating, but they are still aware of every twinge in their body. They hadn’t been hit in the stomach, but it still aches, and their mouth is watering.

Herrah sets them down on something cool and soft, and they immediately vomit on her.

“Oh.” She looks down at herself, and then at the Vessel, who is shuddering and shaking with their arms wrapped around themselves. She puts a hand on their mask, and they reflexively lean into it. “You’re still just a child. What have I done?”

Herrah draws away from them and goes off somewhere nearby, while the Vessel tries not to cry. To do so would reveal their capacity for sorrow, and unlike Hornet, Herrah wouldn’t keep quiet about that.

They think they do a good job of it as their armor is removed, and they are wrapped in a dry cloak that is far too big for them. Before changing out of her own veil, Herrah comes back with a first aid kit. Its contents are unlike anything the Vessel has seen. For one thing, it’s almost entirely silk. They don’t recognize the few medicine bottles they see, and the instruments appear surgical in nature. Herrah takes out a couple sheets of silk and binds their leg and wrist before they can blink.

The effect is like dipping themselves into a hot spring. The warmth emanating from the bandages has a numbing effect on their injuries. Their wrist snaps back into place, but it feels uncomfortable at worst. They try to test the joint, but the silk resists any movement.

“There we go. Better.” Herrah puts her hands on her hips. “We shall remove those bandages in half an hour. But after all that, it might not be appropriate to send you right back out there. What do you think?”

The Vessel, now the picture of calm, seems to be staring through her. She drops her arms and sighs. “Of course. I always forget that you can’t understand what I’m saying—or so the Pale Wyrm says. You seem to know enough to follow orders. Here, try putting weight on your leg, there.”

The Vessel does so, and to their surprise, it doesn’t hurt to stand. At worst, they feel a dull throb in their wound, but the silk is taking care of that. Now they should get their nail and armor and go back to training, but that would go against what Herrah said, and show that they have a will. Being alone with her when she’s probably already questioning their purity is a little too much for them.

She then looks down at herself, as if noticing for the first time that her veil is still covered in vomit. “I should change out of this.”

The Vessel got their agility lessons, and Herrah got to argue about them on the phone with the Pale King. He was furious when he found out she had injured them while training, in that icy way of his. He was angrier still when she pointed out that they had gotten bruised up in spars with other bugs, and how did she expect them to grow as strong as he needed them without getting hurt in the process? Neither of them raised their voices, not once, but Herrah oftentimes felt close to it.

She never had these kinds of problems with the late king of Deepnest. If she hadn’t taken up his offer to become a Dreamer, she wouldn’t be here right now. She’d be back home, watching over her people and weaving their spells. Probably preparing to hole themselves up, the way the Hive plans on doing.

But she also wouldn’t have Hornet, who is, as always, tucked in the crook of one of her arms and chewing on a soft toy. She’s growing, but not as quickly as the Vessel. They’re about a year apart in age, maybe less, but no one could able to tell anymore. When is their birthday, anyway?

“I must return to Deepnest soon,” says Herrah to Monomon. “Seldom am I parted from it for this long.”

“You could go right now,” says Monomon. The two are in the Atrium of Scholars, where the Teacher is patiently writing something into a glass tube. Of all the ways to write, hers is by far the strangest. “I know you’ve chosen to remain here out of concern for the Hollow Knight, but it will be fine under our supervision.”

Again with the ‘it’. Herrah has long since come to think of them as one of her own, and hearing them referred to in a dehumanizing manner doesn’t sit well with her. It makes her physically uncomfortable, in fact, and she shifts in her seat.

“Teacher Monomon,” she begins, “I understand that you were involved with this whole business before I entered the picture.”

Monomon looks up. Despite her mask, she appears puzzled. “I was. What brings this on, all of a sudden?”

“I’d just like to know the specifics of your involvement with the process. I know mine is to create the spells for the Binding, and the Watcher’s is to settle the affairs of Hallownest, in preparation for our absences. That leaves the matter of the Hollow Knight.”

“Oh.” A soft, squeaking sound, betraying Monomon’s status as the youngest of the Dreamers. Emotionally and mentally, only several decades older than her assistant and head scholar—that pill bug whose name escapes her. The Teacher fiddles with the tube in her tentacles, taken aback, definitely not expecting Herrah to deduce her job.

“Well, yes, but we must speak of this in private.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, and looks around nervously. “His Majesty is very hush-hush about it. We may stop by my Archives on the way back to Deepnest.”

It was the most Herrah had traveled in a while. She brought Hornet with her, of course, and the most difficult part of the journey was keeping her from running off into Fog Canyon. This had once been a part of Greenpath, part of the goddess Unn’s domain, but Monomon had laid claim to it when she settled into Hallownest. Herrah didn’t know how to feel about that. So protective over her own domain was she that hearing of someone stealing someone else’s land made her carapace prickle. The ancient belief held by the spiders, that land was meant to be shared, was held by few bugs these days.

Hornet pops a bubble that floated too close to her and giggles. The biggest fear Herrah has about leaving her daughter behind is how she will be educated in her absence. She is to be raised in the sheltered safety of the White Palace, and then returned to Deepnest as its new queen. The Pale King, probably immortal, would never cede Hallownest’s throne to her. But there would be no more conflict between her Weavers and Hallownest. That would be good. But she fears how much of their original culture Hornet will lose in the process. Will Hornet return to her people a stranger? Herrah wonders how to bring up this worry to the Pale King without showing the vulnerability of her anxiety. She does not regret her decision, but that doesn’t erase the very real problems her absence will cause for her child in the long run.

“We’re here.” Monomon leads Herrah into the Archives, but instead of going up to the dome, she leads them deeper. Here is the stronghold of the electricity that keeps almost the entire kingdom going. Whenever a parent plugs in a nightlight for their hatchlings, or someone needs to make a call, they have Monomon and her Archives to thank.

“We must go a bit deeper,” Monomon explains, sounding eager and anxious. She gestures for Herrah to come over to one of the many acid-filled tubes. Next to it is a tank buzzing with lumaflies. Hornet, disturbed by the light, whines and buries her face in Herrah’s shoulder.

“You keep your notes among the power generators?” Herrah asks, frowning.

“It’s very efficient, and it’s written in shorthand only me and my assistant can read,” Monomon explains, but does not go into detail about why it’s efficient. There’s probably a connection between the electricity and how Monomon makes her notes. “Anyways, I’ve dawdled long enough. What you’ve implied is correct. My contribution to his Majesty’s plan was to study Void as a means of containing the Infection. This led to the creation of the Vessels.”

Vessels, plural. The ugly, nightmare thoughts and imagery that Herrah pushed down so long ago surface once more. It is easy to pretend that there had only been one Vessel, one success, one try. She stays silent and lets Monomon continue.

“You see, Void is very peculiar in that it is a form of matter that represents a lack of such. It can be solid, liquid, and gaseous all at once. Think of what you find in living beings: oxygen, carbon, proteins…Think of these materials as things used to build things. Void is different. We initially thought of it as a potential energy source, but during our earliest experiments, we found that it naturally breaks down light.”

“The Infection works in a similar way, except it breaks down thought. Think of light—we’ll call it Old Light, because it differs from the King’s Light—and thought as separate elements, where the former extinguishes the latter. But if Void is introduced where this element ‘Old Light’ is present, it hones in on it and neutralize it.”

“I wanted to make a vaccine using Void,” Monomon says, becoming sober. “We did our initial tests on my Oomas and Uomas. The constructs you might have seen around. We created one with an infected core and introduced Void to it. Not only was the light consumed, but the entire Uoma as well. We might as well have injected it with ink. Hollowed it out, if you will.”

The unspoken: I think you see where I’m going with this . Herrah thinks of Hornet, who only has four limbs and a cold carapace that takes extra effort to keep warm. Hornet, who is sucking her thumb and being very patient, all things considered. She could have ended up like the Hollow Knight, just a shell of a bug unfit to inherit her own kingdom. Herrah holds her a little closer. The Vessel, in turn, could have been just as lively and vibrant as their sister. “I see,” she says, forcing out her words. “ It is curious, then, that my daughter can coexist with it in her blood.”

“True.” Monomon floats to another tube to read off of it. She has been paraphrasing her reports to Herrah this entire time. “True, it is very strange, but I do not wish to make a science project of her to find out why. His Majesty forbade any further research on the Void once the Pure Vessel ascended, anyhow.”

“Really?” Herrah now recalls the nights she and the Pale King spent together. The White Lady was likely the only other person to have seen him disrobed, and the state of his body, and the crude bandages he used before she substituted them with her own spider’s silk, suggested that he wasn’t quite done experimenting.

She keeps this to herself.

“I hope that answers any curiosities you had, unless there was something you wanted to know about the Pure Vessel in particular?” Monomon asks with the tilt of her head.

“No, no.” Herrah shakes her head. The way that child acts makes her doubt their emptiness, but Void is a still unknown substance that now has academic restrictions placed upon it. These notes date back to at least two years prior to when she believes the Vessel was hatched. Hatched, not ascended. The King liked to make everything sound grandiose, but she and a few privileged others were close enough to see that it was mostly just appearances. She could easily imagine him and Monomon, running on scant hours of sleep in the early hours of dawn, squinting over specimen tanks and poorly-written notes.

“Thank you,” Herrah says. For sharing her knowledge. For having contributed to the Pure Vessel’s existence. She feels like she knows too much now. Monomon walks her all the way to the edge of Fog Canyon, by which point Hornet is asleep.

The Void sea, which Monomon will never learn about again, ebbs and flows at the bottom of the world.

Chapter Text

Towards the end of the week, the Vessel is given time off from their arduous training sessions, so that they do not return to the Palace disheveled and tired. Lurien’s servants pack up their belongings and tidy up the guest quarters, making their departure feel all the more imminent. The Vessel feels terribly homesick by now, as is Hornet. Her abrupt tantrum that morning at breakfast convinces Herrah that she needs to go home to Deepnest now, and the Vessel is coming with her whether the other Dreamers like it or not.

Monomon is fine with this, but Lurien insists that the Vessel needs to stay through Saturday and that’s what the King ordered. He goes as far as to accuse Herrah of being unprofessional and letting her feelings get in the way of the sacred duty, which causes a very ugly argument that the royal siblings are quickly evacuated from. Quirrel of all bugs comes over to get them ready to go, which is a pleasant surprise. Their paths have rarely intersected as of late, and the Vessel now realizes that they’ve missed him. He has a jovial way of going about even the most ordinary of tasks, and is almost as good as Herrah at distracted Hornet from her distress.

“They’ve run you ragged, haven’t they?” he says to the Vessel. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to go home.”

They’re elated, in fact. They’re looking forward to returning to their own room and all other familiar sights, but Quirrel wouldn’t know it with how motionless they are. They button up their own rain poncho and pick up the small bag carrying their new effects. They’ve even got a sheath for their nail, to protect it during the trip. It hasn’t dawned on anyone that the trip is just an elevator ride down, and a short walk through the Ancient Basin—the safest area in Hallownest, while being accompanied by Herrah. After everything they’ve been through, it feels excessive.

That does not take into account how things almost always go wrong when they leave the Palace. They suppress a shudder when remembering those unpleasant experiences. The precautions of being supervised all the way home, having someone oversee their packing, and so on—they all seem reasonable now.

They have no choice but to sit with that foreboding while they wait at the base of the spire. Quirrel, keeping the siblings in eyesight, has gone to the phone and is speaking to who the Vessel guesses is his wife. They are not terribly interested and do not hear what exactly he is saying, but he sounds worried.

Call it foresight or just a hunch, but the Vessel just knows something bad is going to happen. They fidget their hands beneath their cloak and take deep breaths to calm the pounding in their chest. They look down at where Hornet is standing, rocking back and forth on her feet and humming. She catches them watching her and smiles. This does nothing to assure them, but it gives them resolve. If something does happen, which they know it will for some reason, their first priority will be to keep their sister safe.

At Monomon’s request, Quirrel remains with the siblings until Herrah returns. He practically skitters away, frightened by how she’s fuming, and doesn’t even give a proper goodbye. The Vessel wouldn’t have been able to respond, anyway, so they don’t begrudge him for it.

“The nerve,” Herrah snarls as she puts Hornet into her sling. “It makes me no less of a leader to ‘coddle the sacrifice’. I swear...”

And then she does swear, quite viciously, under her breath, which shocks the Vessel even more than her grabbing their hand. She leads them out of the Spire, down the elevator, and into the main streets. It is less crowded today, as the activity of bugs changes throughout the week. Do these bugs know the Queen of Deepnest walks among them? She is the only spider here, and her presence alone makes the sparse crowds part. For all the city dwellers know, she could just be a mundane visitor from Deepnest.

A commotion starts a block or so away, and almost immediately, a squad of soldiers runs by. The Vessel resists the urge to look for Hegemol, whose heavy footsteps they can hear even from down the street. They do not have to; Herrah stops and cranes her neck in that direction, but just for a moment. She squeezes their hand and begins to say something comforting, but cuts herself off with a sigh.

The entrance to the Ancient Basin’s elevator has just drifted into sight, when something small and fast darts into the road in front of them. Herrah’s fast reflexes stop them once again, but the abrupt halt draws a cry of alarm from Hornet. The figure, a chubby pillbug with a patchwork shawl, turns towards the sound like a spider does when a gruzfly lands in their web.

“Nia?!” the pillbug cries desperately. She meets Hornet’s innocent, confused gaze, and her drawn gray face becomes all the more anguished. “Not her. Oh, no, no. Nia!”

And Herrah, who had been so eager to return to Deepnest, detours to kneel at the bug’s side. “What ails you?”

“My daughter, I only took her eyes off her for a moment…”

The Vessel doesn’t hear the rest, because they suddenly remember who Nia is. She was one of Quirrel’s children, the one who had asked them what kind of bug they were, and had blended in so well with her siblings otherwise. She was the one who looked ready to follow Quirrel out the door, even though she had no idea where he was going. From that minute impression and her mother’s panic, the Vessel thinks she’s the curious, wont-to-wander-off type, not dissimilar to Hornet, who needs constant supervision.

The general panic is disproportionate to a single missing child, however. There’s something bigger than that, like the sound of waves trying to pull them out to see. That is what they hear in their shell, even with all the sound of the outside world crashing around them. There’s someone like the Vessel and Hornet out here.

The Vessel drops their bag in the street and takes off down the road. Herrah is shouting for them to come back, but they hesitance at this point would reveal themselves. It is better to let Herrah think they’ve gone faulty, or that they are instinctively following someone else’s cry for help.

They pass an overturned cart with its wares spilled out into the road, a door off its hinges, and a herd of unattended aphids that are bleating in distress. The Vessel keeps a quick but even pace, trying to ignore the dread building up in them. Not from the danger, but from the possibility of being exposed as having their own will. They ran off from Herrah, after all, and didn’t listen when she called for them. Even if they were meant to be a creature with a mind of their own, they would still get in trouble for disobedience.

Their path leads them to the Royal Waterways, curiously enough. They think of Ogrim, one of the five strongest Knights in all of Hallownest, in his hospital bed. Whatever hurt him must be in here.

Down below, there’s some kind of shifting, rustling sound. Then, out of the dark, a pair of bright white eyes blink open and stare up at them. The Vessel’s heart leaps into their throat. None of the agility training they went through took into account that they might be startled and fall forward. No one has explained why they shouldn’t just run off on their own, or what to do when something scares them. Still, when they fall and crack their shell on a rock, all they can think of is how stupid they are for trying to be a hero.

Chapter Text

The Pure Vessel wakes up with a headache so splitting that it almost knocks them out again. They don’t know where they are, nor do they remember what they were just doing. Wherever they are, it’s dark, cramped, and strangely smooth. They’ve been forced into a fetal position with their chin to their chest. It is reminiscent of when they had first come into consciousness: the squirming of their siblings’ bodies packed too tightly together, the struggle to free themselves from what had gone from a place of nurture to their prison.

The Vessel smacks their hand against the shell, producing a low, hollow thump. This isn’t an eggshell. It’s glass. They feel around, fingertips catching in holes at the top, grazing against ceramic just above their head. A jar. They’re in a glass jar.

They begin to breathe, faster and faster, until their throat is raw and their head is spinning. Someone forced them into a jar and they’re going to die in here, suffocated like their one unfortunate sibling or crushed because their body can’t wasn’t meant to be put in such a small space. The Vessel thrashes as best as they can, knocking the jar onto its side and upsetting them further. As they lay there crying, a pair of white eyes peer at them through the dark.

Now they remember. Something happened in the city, and they fell and hit their head while investigating it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They should’ve waited for a command. The owner of the white eyes rights the jar and lights a lantern. The room comes into dimly-lit view: the insides of a giant tree, a ton of jars, and the outline of a strange black bug. They think ‘outline’ at first because it looks like someone cut into reality with a pair of scissors, leaving behind a black shape. It has four arms and two legs, much like a Kingsmould, if a Kingsmould forgot to dress in the morning and was also able to laugh. The creature—for the Vessel doesn’t know if they can call it a bug—giggles serenely and strokes the jar. While they avoid looking at it, the Vessel notices its neighbors: a jar atop a pedestal, containing a dead sentry, and one right next to them with infected hatchlings. Most of them are laying limp, little chests heaving with effort, but a few still have enough energy to claw at their confines. The Vessel’s stomach lurches, and they look back at the creature.

It’s clearly Void, but the Vessel cannot fathom something—or someone—like them existing outside of their father’s attentive gaze. He’s the only one who knows about Void, and how to take care of it. That, and the only other bugs like them that they’ve seen were their siblings and constructs. This appears to be neither, and it is taking the lid off the jar and trying to touch them.

The Vessel shrinks away, but there is nowhere to hide in a glass jar. The creature yanks them by the horns, persisting even when its captive kicks and slaps. It would have stuck a finger in their eye, had the Vessel not bit its hand. For this they receive a slap to the head, and the lid stuck back on.

They’re left alone after that. They’d been in plenty of fights by now, but no one has ever slapped them. The Vessel holds their aching head and shivers. An escape attempt would be unwise with the Void creature still present.

Unfortunately for them, it stays around for a long while after. It moves containers around, pokes at dead bugs, and gibbers to itself. The Vessel holds as still as it can so as not to draw attention. The bugs around them moan, cry, and gurgle. Some scream when the creature, this collector, draws near. The Collector’s reaction to everything is the same pleased laughter that makes the Vessel’s chitin crawl.

To distract themselves from the noise, the Vessel measures their Soul reserves. They count to a hundred. They tap their fingers against the glass. When they grow bored of that, they try to unscrew the lid from the inside. The only way they’ll be able to escape is by force. The breaking glass would bring the Collector down on them in minutes, though.

They take notice of the holes drilled into the jar, each just large enough to fit their forefinger through. Once before they had distorted their body to save themselves and Hornet from a high fall. They could do it again to escape through a tiny opening.

This, unfortunately, has the effect of trying to fit into a too-small dress. They get their arm out up to the elbow before it becomes too painful to continue, forcing them to withdraw.

All of their spells are combat-based, except for one. Using it repeatedly would take a lot of Soul, too much for them to fight with spells if it came down to it. The Vessel focuses on a spot a few feet away from the jar. There’s a split second where they’re both here and there. They see their body, still imprisoned. The afterimage disappears, and it’s just them on the ground, disoriented and free.

The first thing the Vessel does is retrieve their nail. Now armed, they crouch behind a knot of branches and watch the entrance. Five, then ten minutes pass, and they still don’t hear the Collector’s laughter. With any luck, it won’t come back for a while.

The jars have neither locks, chains, nor seals. They simply have to unscrew the lid and pop it off. There doesn’t appear to be a pattern to how bugs are...stored, for lack of a better term. Bugs as large as they have their own jars, but so do lone vengeflies. At the same time, there are jars halfway full of small bugs, or packed so tightly that the Vessel is almost ill at the sight of them. It only takes one look to know that those unfortunate ones are beyond saving.

The ones who are still alive when freed move sluggishly. The Vessel helps them out one by one. They don’t know how long these bugs were here—it can’t have been long—but they all look awful. The jar of hatchlings, their neighbors in captivity, look the worst off. Their stomach lurches when they recognize several of Quirrel’s children. All tiny pill bugs, with soft round bodies. And there’s Nia, the one they remember by name, with an orange haze in her eyes. She’s still holding that stuffed doll they first saw her with.

There are those among the freed bugs who are alert enough to assist the Vessel. One assists them with the grubs. Another thanks them, and a third inquires about their nail. Could they be a knight? The Vessel remains dutifully silent and unresponsive as they go about opening jars and checking on the survivors. They wouldn’t speak even if they were able to. They can’t look away from these orange glowing eyes, the glossed-over eyes of the ones who didn’t make it, the hazy ones who haven’t fully succumbed to their illness.

The Vessel retreats to the back of the room, where everything is dark and quiet. They check for survivors, and hate themselves for being relieved that these ones are all dead.

They’re about to go back to check on the others when they hear little claws go tap-tap-tap on the glass.

There, in the farthest corner, half-hidden by a root, is a jar containing a sibling.

There’s a wide crack down the middle of their face, and each time they move, Void spills out. They are therefore trying very hard to stay still, to not jump up in excitement when the Vessel nears.

The Vessel’s hands shake as they remove the lid. The sibling reaches their arms to be lifted, and they oblige, taking their cold form into their arms. What a small sibling they are, merely the size of a grub, with a patchwork cloak and dried tears streaking their dirty face. Through this physical contact, the Vessel can see everything that led to this moment.

Chapter Text

The Pale King had never shone brighter than when he was in the Abyss. The Void, much like the first bugs who had fallen under his thrall, bowed at his presence. His light made it calm and pliant. When he laid his eggs there, in the darkest depths of the earth, the Void also became his child, or children. The eggs themselves were Vessels, made for the Void to inhabit. The Pale King sometimes wondered if the Vessels were his children at all, or just the shells of bugs possessed. Him being a Wyrm, territorial to the point of aggression, hoped it was the former. Every single one of these eggs belonged to him, no matter what happened to them. It was impossible not to feel broody after witnessing the hatching of so many eggs.

The little sibling, who is in present day slowly dying in the Pure Vessel’s arms, was among those who had survived their first perilous week of life. Their shade hadn’t been dragged back into the Abyss’ ocean. They hadn’t tried to climb out and fallen. They weren’t crushed to death by their siblings living or dead, nor had their Void been too unstable, nor had some other unknown creature taken them, nor had they passed in their sleep for lack of vitality, nor had their heart just given out, and so on…It was no place to be laying eggs, and the King knew it, but he kept going down there to lay clutch after clutch.

The sibling, who was feeling strong enough to move on their own, happened upon the Pale King while he was laying a clutch of eggs on one of the few patches of bare stone that remained (the rest was covered in empty shells). The sibling watched as the eggs came out pearly white. When the King was finished, he bent over, panting. As he recovered from his ordeal, the eggs began to turn black, one at a time. A few of the eggs simply shriveled up and dissolved, but the rest remained in tact.

The Pale King stood, and fanned his wings. The sibling got close enough to bat at the plume of his great tail, and he finally noticed them.

“A live one,” he remarked, and scooped them up. The sibling wiggled their stubby arms and legs at him. He sighed. “But you’re not who I’m looking for. What shall I do with you…?”

The sibling was still reaching for him when he set them down. Behind the two, a couple of the eggs were already fusing together.

“Come. We shall collect the rest of your clutch.” With that, the Pale King walked off. The sibling tottered after him, scaling piles of their siblings’ discarded shells. Little shadows with big white eyes trailed along after the pair, and although they were quite an interesting sight, the Pale King did not so much as glance at them. Still, they flocked to his light, only to settle down and drift away upon touching it. Can one touch light? It is an intangible thing, but it has a tangible effect on the sibling. Their eyes watered to look at him for too long, but at the same time, they struggled to look away.

Eventually, they reached a lighthouse overlooking a large, still body of Void. There were a great many Vessels gathered here (in reality only about ten of them), all with unique horns and identical faces. One of them was on the ground, limbs splayed in awkward direction and Void pooling beneath their shell. The Pale King approached that one first, and knelt before them. Lifting their head revealed that the back of it had caved in, and it became clear then that they had fallen from a great height.

“Not again,” the King sighed. He put his hand over the wound, and his light intensified. A couple of the Vessels put their hands over their eyes and fled, but the King was concentrating too much to pay attention. The sibling watched in awe as the wound began to seal up. What manner of magic was this?

But just as they were getting truly excited, the shell crumbled in the King’s hands, and the Vessel’s body disintegrated. A little shadow rose from the remains of the Vessel and soared up up up to the top of the lighthouse, out of sight.

While this was happening, another Vessel was toddling down the dock, towards the lake? Ocean? The King grabbed them by the back of their cloak and dragged them back, despite its wiggles of protest. Yet another Vessel pounced his tail and tried to sink their little fangs into his scales, with no effect.

The Pale King sighed again, and pulled that Vessel off of him, and how he was holding the two squirming little grubs at arm’s length.

“Enough,” he commanded, lowering them to the ground. The one who had gone for the dock put their arms around the other, and they tumbled down in a little heap. A third, one with an extra arm, joined them.

The sibling clapped their hands and went to join their hatchmates. The Pale King stood back and watched. With one final sigh, he turned and left, muttering to himself.

In the following days, the sibling would see the Pale King return to the Abyss multiple times. He would check on the eggs, lay another clutch, or go looking around for more Vessels. Each time, he would have some reason to sigh or shake his head. He never looked happy, even though the sibling and their, well, siblings, gallivanted around and had great fun.

There were, of course, casualties. The King was too late to keep that one curious Vessel from going right into the sea, and only their empty shell resurfaced. A couple others climbed as high as they could, curious to see what was at the top of the main shaft, only to fall and impale themselves on the silver thorns. The sibling’s clutchmates disappeared one by one in this way, until they were the only one left.

They didn’t mind, because they didn’t know anything else. There were still other siblings from other eggs who were lurking around. Not only that, but there was a batch of eggs ready to hatch. Well, they had all coalesced into one big egg. The sibling waited eagerly as the black shell began to rock back and forth…

The Vessel blinked in surprise. They had spent comparatively little time in the Abyss—they forgot what a hazardous place it was. To see their father in that memory makes them yearn for him all the more, and their sibling echoes the feeling. Like two stones dropped into one dark pool, ripples overlapping.

The city streets, from the diminutive height of a Vessel, were overwhelming. The sibling had never been subjected to such noise, and all the different sounds mixed together made their head hurt. The many bugs around them talked, shouted, coughed, cried, laughed, stomped around, pulled carts, scolded their grubs, and so on and so on and so on, with no end in sight.

The sibling put their hands over their head and ran, ran, ran. The lights here a ggravated their sensitive eyes, not at all like the Pale King’s soothing glow.

The bugs here were hostile. They made noises at the sibling and tried to grab them.

The Pure Vessel sees it differently. Those guards and city folk thought the sibling was a lost child. They meant no harm.

There was no getting through the sibling’s fear. It was too late to tell them that, anyhow . They had found shelter at the bottom of the city, where the rainwater gathered in the streets and bugs traveled in boats and canoes. The sibling stowed away among the cargo of a trading boat and sprinted down an alley to hide. The Pale King would not be in such a lonely, sodden place, but neither would anyone else. They just needed to hide.

There, hiding in the darkness with them, was a big shadow with glowing white eyes. It snatched them up before they could blink. With no voice, they could not scream for help. They were unarmed. They didn’t know how to fight like their siblings could. And then they were gone.

The memory ends abruptly. The sibling’s hand falls limply to their chest, severing the connection. The Vessel holds their hand, but they don’t get anything else from them. Their panic builds when the sibling closes their eyes; they rap their knuckles against the floor to bring them back to awareness. Stay with them.

The Vessel cradles the sibling to their chest and walks back out. They cannot stop themselves from shaking under their cloak. Soldiers from the Palace and city both have arrived in their absence and taken control of the situation. There’s no sign of the Collector, but given how elusive it is, it’s no surprise that it disappeared. Gone off to hide elsewhere, no doubt. What does surprise them is that not only Isma and Ogrim but also Hegemol are on the scene. They take a step forward, and hesitate.

Do they really want to hand over an impure Vessel to them? E ven after seeing the sibling’s memories, knowing that their father at least tried , they’re still hesitant. They don’t know what will happen to their sibling if they’re found outside of the Abyss. But what can the Vessel do, hide them in their cloak and sneak them back home?

The sick bugs, and there are many, are put onto stretchers to be taken out to boats that will carry them across the acid and out of the Waterways. The Pure Vessel stays where they are, trembling, as the room empties out. Ogrim catches sight of them and approaches, and they have no choice but to stay put. They shouldn’t be afraid of Ogrim. He has been nothing but kind to them. But...the sibling…

While they’re deliberating over this, the sibling decides for themselves. They reach for the white light that appears in the doorway. The Vessel sees it, too, and immediately loses their train of thought. It’s him. He came for them. They wanted him to come take them home, and here he is. Without hesitation, they walk forward.

Chapter Text

The Pale King had been deep in conversation with his advisors when he received the phone call from Herrah. Trusting his child to be in good hands, he had turned his attention to the state of his Root’s gardens and a possible spill-over into Greenpath. The White Lady, of course, sent Dryya to communicate in her stead. The futures where his queen would return to him herself were dwindling, and with it, the Pale King’s hope of reconciliation.

He had been careless, of course. Careless in his creation of the Vessels, in trying to manage the Infection, and his treatment of the Pure Vessel. Testing the Infection on them had been a necessary cruelty. So was their inevitable sacrifice. Seeing them in pain had finally broken the White Lady’s resolve, and she retreated. He did not have the luxury of doing the same.

He had also been careless in how he handled the mantises’ invasion of her gardens. Reckless use of his foresight in the old days had dulled it. Day-to-day decisions became difficult to make, in turn making it harder to steer away from the worst possible fate. As he sat in council, discussing preventative measures to keep an already bad situation from getting worse, he wondered why he had ever bothered.

The fact of the matter was that he was getting old, and his sight was failing him in a different way from the Queen’s.

And then an attendant came rushing into the room, interrupting the whole thing with news that the Queen of Deepnest was on the phone, and no, this could not wait until they were finished.

This is how the Pale King finds himself in Isma’s Grove, now that all the civilians have been cleared out. The gears of his Foresight creak and force themselves into motion, showing several futures all similar in their shocking natures. He has gotten over his surprise by the time he sees his Pure Vessel, so he shows no outward reaction to the sibling they carry over to him.

The Pale King looks down at the little thing, barely more than a hatchling and barely clinging to life. It tries to hold him and leaves a little black handprint on his cheek, a clear sign of Void failing to hold its shape. He breathes in and out and looks into the possible futures for this little one. All of the ways they could die, the few ways they could survive. The Pale King considers the more optimistic outcomes as he puts a hand to its shell and focuses. The moment the shell begins to stitch itself together, the Vessel winces and tries to push itself out of his arms.

He sees the Pure Vessel out of the corner of their eye, blank eyes fixated on their dying sibling. It is dying. The Pale King sees it coming inevitably. He still tries to hold its head together. Why does he bother trying? It’ll end up like all the others. And just as he is thinking that, it falls apart in his hands. Out of reflex, he grabs its outstretched little hand, and then there is just another black stain on his palm, down the front of his robes. The two halves of its shell tumble across the floor.

Somewhere behind him, he hears one of the Great Knights inhale sharply. The Pure Vessel’s focus has moved to one half of the shell that has rolled to a stop against their ankles. It’s debatable whether they understand what just happened or not.

No one moves or speaks. It frustrates the Pale King that he is to be the one to collect what remains of his child’s body from the floor. He holds the two halves towards the collective group, and Hegemol rushes forward to claim them.

“Take this to the Resting Grounds and prepare it for burial,” he orders. To Isma and Ogrim: “You two shall assist those who have been rescued…”

“Your Majesty--”

“Just go,” the Pale King snaps, and it’s not until the three of them have left that he feels like he can move again. When he takes his face out of his hand, he sees the Pure Vessel looking right at him. All they can do is stare, it seems.

“You have done the capitol a great service today. I commend you, my child,” he sighs, putting a hand on their arm as he walks past. Feeling for any sort of reaction. He gets none. “However, there is one you’ve missed. Come.”

He walks all the way past that empty jar in the back of the room, where one more sits hidden and out of sight. The lid pops off with a brush of his hand, startling its occupant. They squeeze against the glass of the jar, scrabbling and struggling when the King lifts their chubby black body into his arms. One of their three horns is far larger than the others, so their movements are lopsided and clumsy. The Pale King cups their head before they can tip out of his arms, apathetic to their silent protests.

“Well,” he sighs, “I am ready to go home.”

Chapter Text

The Pure Vessel wakes up in the nursery, mistaking it for a prison. They think that they’re in Isma’s Grove again, or somewhere worse: somewhere brighter, burning, tightly packed like the jar they were held captive in, or the egg they hatched from. Their siblings, squirming and fighting against each other. Their throat burns, and they cough noiselessly.

In their hazy, half-awake state, they are aware of something wrapped around them, keeping their body in a fetal position. They push against it experimentally, finding it to be comfortably solid, and—most importantly—warm. They huddle against it, working their mouth parts sleepily and letting their nightmare fade from their mind. Gradually they awaken to rippling white light and leaves swaying in a soft breeze. On mornings like this, they don’t want to get out of bed. And they don’t have to—not until someone comes to fetch them. Until then, there is no Infection, no studies, no training.

The light around them shifts and leaves. The Vessel squints their eyes open and sees the Pale King climbing off the bed, taking with him the long tail that had formed a protective wall around them. Exposed to the draft of the room, they start to shiver, but a thick blanket is almost immediately pulled over them. Placated, they close their eyes again and curl up. Acting in response to warm or cold stimuli shouldn’t count as having a will of their own. They’re still safe.

The door opens, spilling a bright ribbon of light into their room. The Vessel shoves their face into the mattress until it is dark again, and it stays dark for a while. They’ve dozed off by the time their father returns, bringing with them a small, wriggling bundle. That must be Hornet. Isn’t it too early for her to be here? If not for the King’s presence, they would sit up and greet her.

“Enough, now,” the King is murmuring to the little figure. There’s a strange absence of the beeping and bleating that usually accompanies their sister. “You need to rest. Look, there’s your sibling.”

He then grunts; whoever he is holding kicked him in the jaw. The Vessel is starting to think that this isn’t Hornet.

“You could learn a thing or two from them,” he grouses as he shoves the child under the sheets. “Stay there.”

Once the Vessel is sure that the King is gone, they prop themselves on their elbows and reach for the light next to their bed. Lying next to them in bed is the sibling their father had picked up from Isma’s Grove. They’ve scrunched themselves up into an angry little ball, face-down.

Of course it wouldn’t be Hornet. They only assumed so because this child had been in the infirmary ever since they returned to the White Palace. The Vessel has been spending that time in respite. They had roamed the halls aimlessly, restlessly, struggling to process what they had been through. Even now, as they put a hand on the sibling’s back, they worry. Leaving Herrah’s side was a risky move. Saving those kidnapped bugs came at the cost of possibly exposing themselves. Was that worth it?

As if noticing them for the first time, the sibling flinches and holds themselves tighter. The Vessel wiggles their thumb into the sibling’s balled-up fist. They’ve communicated with Hornet (they miss her, when will they get to play with her again?) in this way. Perhaps this little one will be their second ever conversation partner.

I’m so scared, so scared. Where am I? Where--

These are the first words the Vessel hears their sibling ‘speak’. It is not speaking the way other bugs do; it is more like thinking thoughts that don’t belong to them. The Vessel brings the sibling to their chest and tries to communicate a sense of calm and safety. They can feel their sibling’s heart pound furiously against them. Though their Void has connected, they don’t receive any memories. That part of the sibling’s mind has been buttoned up tight. There are only emotions and present-moment thoughts to go off of.

The sibling realizes what the Vessel is doing, and fights it. They put their hands to the Vessel’s chest and try to push themselves away. That fails, as does kicking their stomach. The Vessel sighs, both from exasperation and pity, and gets out of bed. They throw open the curtains, and sit on the windowsill with the sibling still straining in their arms.

Beyond their bedroom window is a view of the outskirts, bathed in the white light that naturally emits from the White Palace. Through the haze, they can just make out a great gouge in the distant cavern wall. Below that are leaves and white roots that are everywhere in the palace; only the tops of them are visible in the morning mist. The Vessel sits and contemplates the view. They try not to think about anything else, lest they spoil this moment of peace with their anxieties.

The sibling pulls at their cloak and thrashes back and forth, but the total lack of reaction from their larger counterpart takes the wind out of their sails. They open their mouth to scream as a last ditch effort, but at best, they sound like a kettle about to boil. The Vessel looks down at them, surprised, but merely pats them on the back.

The little one is clearly exhausted. The Vessel gets up and paces the room, rocking the sibling as they’ve done for Hornet when she’s being fussy. As the sibling’s guard lowers, bits and pieces of their memories become visible. Much of what the Vessel sees is similar to the deceased sibling’s memories. Then there is the King, and themselves. Next is a glimpse of Herrah, and the Great Knights. A white room with white light, needles poking into them, cold water being tipped into their mouth. Two pairs of hands dressing them in a flannel nightgown. Everything is big, loud, and far too much for them.

The Vessel, overcome by a tender ache in their heart, gives their sibling a kiss on the forehead. They cannot make words like this one can, but their gestures have always been enough for Hornet. The sibling understands this. They ball their tiny fist into the Vessel’s gown and breathe slowly and deliberately.

From what the Vessel has gleaned, their sibling has been receiving medical treatment all this time: hydration therapy first, and then being made to drink water when they were strong enough. They draw the conclusion that the sibling had been in captivity long enough to become severely dehydrated. Only now had they recovered enough to be moved into the nursery. The project to them memories of the meals and snacks they’ve had; it’s likely they’re hungry, as well.

The sibling asks them, ‘Which is your favorite?’

The Vessel is taken aback. They shouldn’t have favorites or have opinions on anything even as simple as food. But before they can stop themselves, they start thinking about the savory meat pies, small enough to fit in the palm of their hand, so often fed to them on cold days or after particularly rough training sessions. They think of beetle jelly, maggot dumplings wrapped in leaves harvested from the Pilgrim’s Way, and ice cream drizzled with fruit syrup or honey. The sibling, whose best meals were raw Mawlek meat, is entranced.

The promise of food keeps the sibling calm until the Pale King returns, upon which they bare their little fangs in a silent hiss. The Vessel notices right away that the glow around him is stronger than usual. The effect is immediate and noticeable: they are soothed, and a cottony sort of feeling settles over their mind. Their train of thought slows and dies on the tracks. This is as close to thoughtless as they’ve been since their hatching, but the vague excitement they feel means they are still not entirely pure.

The sibling fights the King’s thrall at first, kicking half-heartedly in the Vessel’s arms. Their struggles quickly subside once the King takes them in his arms and rocks them. Once certain that they are calm, the light around him dims, and the Vessel’s senses return to them.

“Have you not slept?” the Pale King asks with a frown. The sibling scrunches themselves into a little chubby ball. “You will tire yourself eventually.”

He gestures for the Vessel to follow him out of the nursery. “Today you are to keep your sibling company. Treat them as you would treat your sister. I will be with you for most of the day, but come mid-afternoon I will be called away.”

The Vessel takes, long strides to keep up with their father’s quick steps. Their sibling’s chin rests on his shoulder, mouth parts working at his robes. Instead of the kitchen, where the Vessel is accustomed to eating, the King leads them to his study—the one with his desk and books, not the workshop. Dishware and food have already been set out on the table, filling the room with a fragrant aroma. The sibling’s stomach rumbles audibly.

The King gestures for the Vessel to sit down and, still holding the sibling, fills each of their plates with a bit of everything. The Vessel is strongly reminded of when they were here with Hornet, and she had caused so much mischief. Would this new sibling be the same way?

Apparently not. The sibling is laser-focused on their food, and is making desperate grabbing motions at it. Their little legs peddle the air, and upon being set down, they start shoveling food into their mouth. The other two can only watch in stunned silence as the child clears their plate before the tea has even cooled. Finally satisfied, the sibling rolls onto their back and puts their hands over their swollen belly.

The Pale King puts a hand over his mouth and makes a strange noise—a laugh? He just laughed. The Vessel stares at him, awestruck. That’s the first time they’ve ever heard him laugh. But he’s not looking at them, he’s looking at the sibling.

Something hot and angry settles at the pit of the Vessel’s stomach, and their breakfast, though well made, feels like sand in their mouth.

Chapter Text

The Vessel chances upon their reflection in a window, and steals a glance when the Pale King isn’t looking. They’re no longer small and cute, like the new sibling who has stolen their father’s attention. When they were a hatchling, the Pale King would carry them everywhere and fuss over them all the time. Now he’s doing that with this new child with their mismatched horns.

They hadn’t felt this way when Hornet was born, because they were still little and still being pampered. That, and Hornet only comes over on the weekends. This new sibling takes up all of their father’s time and attention, and it makes the Vessel’s blood boil. They’ve worked as hard as they could to be perfect for their father, who now shifts his attention to the next small, cute thing that comes along.

Disgusted with themselves, they look away and march along down the hall. They avoid looking at the sibling, who is watching them from over the Pale King’s shoulder, which they are currently gnawing on. How could they be so ungrateful for their father’s attention? The Vessel would do anything to be held like that.

It is therefore easy to be standoffish towards everyone, because they weren’t meant to react in the first place. They ignore the nobles who have come to apply for tram passes; Ogrim, who tries futilely to get their attention; and an envoy from Deepnest, who did not know of the Vessel’s supposed purity and kept trying to speak to them until the Pale King shooed them away. By midday, they are so sick of everyone around them that, when the King dismisses them, it takes everything they have not to bolt.

They walk all the way to the courtyard garden as the picture of calm. Once certain that they are alone, they plunge their fist against a moss-covered rock. Their chitin cracks upon impact. Pain blossoms slowly, searing, across their knuckles. Holding their injured hand, they retreat behind an overgrown column surrounded by the Queen’s favored plants. Tears burn hot in their eyes, and stream down their cheeks before they can control themselves.

In the solitude of the courtyard, the Vessel thinks long and hard about what they could have done wrong, or ways they might have slipped up. They’ve been careless as of late, and the Pale King might’ve noticed or, Wyrm forbid, foreseen their failure.

The Vessel scrubs their face clean. Whereas before they would’ve gotten back up and returned to their father, now they sit with their arms around their knees. An hour crawls by where they struggle to hold back their tears. If they are to be discovered, let it not be while they’re crying. But if the Pale King were to find them, they don’t know if they could hold themselves back.

They lift their head and watch the outskirts of the courtyard. They don’t want to follow the Pale King around like a helpless aphid. If he wants them, he’ll come and find them himself. Surely. He might be too busy with the sibling. But they will wait. They’re good at waiting.

They are also very, very tired of having to constantly monitor themselves while acting. Directly approaching their father or even embracing them would compromise their sacred duty. They cannot even initiate the simplest of gestures without it ruining everything. As they are, they might already be too tarnished to be of any use to Hallownest. Worse yet, their father may no longer love them if he finds out. The very thought of it brings a silent sob out of their throat, and they duck their head back down.

It is a long time before they are discovered. Their covering of leaves and moss rustle, and into their hiding space steps the little sibling. They pad over to the Vessel and climb onto their knees, only to be shaken off.

The sibling puts a hand on the Vessel’s arm, and sees everything before they’ve got the chance to close themselves off. The Vessel’s eyes burn with shame and anger; they turn away, making it clear they want to be left alone.

But the sibling, much to their frustration, is persistent. They grab the Vessel’s hand in both of theirs, conveying their confusion and desperation. Why are they being cold? They don’t understand why their sire has decided to keep them here. The Vessel looks over their shoulder; neither they nor their siblings can do much in the way of facial expressions, but the sibling looks afraid.

Is it not the Vessel’s duty to protect Hallownest, and keep those in it from fear? They hold out their arm, and the sibling leaps into their chest. Both their predicaments remain thorns in their sides, but connecting with another who is the same as them brings some solace.

The sibling ‘speaks’ to them, which feels very wrong. Vessels aren’t supposed to talk. But the sibling connects with them, and shares their thoughts. It’s neither a voice nor written words appearing in their head, but something in-between. They say, ‘Sibling should tell Him they’re lonely.’

They shake their head. On all levels, they cannot talk.

‘Why not?’

They can’t. They’re not supposed to have a voice, a mind, or a will. The sibling rightfully points out that the Vessel has the latter two. The Vessel’s heart drops into their stomach. Hallownest cannot be saved from the Infection if they are impure. The fate of the kingdom—this sibling included—rides on it. They’ve seen what happens to infected bugs. The image of the Mantis Lord flashes through their mind, stinging them like a paper cut. There’s the matter of the bugs the Collector had been keeping. What has become of them? Are they still languishing in the hospital, or have they succumbed? The sibling doesn’t understand. This is a matter of life and death.

Each breath the Vessel takes grows faster, making their throat painfully dry. Their head is filled with shrill ringing, and to their horror, they cannot move their hands. The sibling immediately slips out of their arms to instead take their hands in a firm grip. They open their mouth wide to take a deep breath.

‘Breathe with me,’ the sibling urges, and they do, until they’ve come back to their senses. After a little while, they can move their hands again.

The stretch of quiet is broken by the sound of someone walking through the grass. Light shimmers through the gaps in their hiding space, and the Vessel’s heart sinks. What will their father think when he sees them like this? Before they can react, he is parting the curtain of leaves and moss, calling for the two of them.

The sibling thinks fast and acts faster. The moment the Pale King emerges into their hiding spot, the sibling pushes the Pure Vessel right into him. They tumble over in a tangle of arms and legs, and the sibling takes advantage of the confusion to leap over them and sprint away. The Vessel, confused and panicked, clings to the Pale King as they try to keep their balance.

‘Sorry!’ the sibling projects to them, and with a burble of laughter, they dart around a corner and out of sight.

“You--!” The Pale King is the closest he has ever been to raising his voice. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder as the child escapes, brimming with indignation. With a flutter of his wings, he pulls the Vessel out into the open and helps them up.

The Vessel holds onto him under the pretense of balance. They obediently drop their arms to their sides while the King brushes leaves and bits of moss off of them, grumbling under his breath about rowdy children. He stretches his tail out and balances on his lower legs so that he’s almost level with the Pure Vessel, and checks their shell for cracks.

“I don’t know where they get it from. Certainly not me.” His gaze drops to the Vessel’s torn knuckles, from where they had punched the rock in frustration. “You’re injured.”

He takes their hand in both of his, and focuses. It’s as if the wound had never been there. But on the inside, the Vessel feels like they’re going to explode. That was the first time they were able to hug their father back. They want to do it again and never let go. But they can’t, and it’s killing them.

“I fear they’ll be rough with Hornet when they meet her,” the King frets, leading them out of the garden by the hand. The Vessel knows better: their sibling pushed them so they could have that coveted physical affection. After being shown such sympathy, it is hard to direct their anger at them. They are, however, still frustrated, and one hug won’t solve all of their problems.

It felt nice, though. In the coming week, they will cope with with the horrors of the Infection with these memories: the unexpected embrace, walking hand-in-hand with their father, squeezing his fingers without realizing it. The White Palace is bright and simple and a happy place in these moments despite the Vessel’s ever-present, ever-mounting fears.

Chapter Text

When the Pale King was young, shortly after his second instar, he traveled across what would become Hallownest, to see what would become his. There were far fewer bugs in those days, so he did not feel the need to assume a hermetic lifestyle. In fact, he was nomadic. He knew that wouldn’t last forever, and that he would eventually find his place towards the bottom of the earth. Thanks to his Foresight, he often saw the world as if the future had already taken place. This got him in trouble, and through trial and error, he learned how to live in the present. But sometimes his mind wandered.

That day, it had wandered into the far future, coming for the first time in his life to a dead end. His Foresight always showed him paths that trailed off down foggy roads that would become more visible over time. But this was less like a foggy road and more like a tear in space, if he had to visualize it: reality giving way to the star-speckled void of space, dropping off into oblivion. It was infinite nothingness, but at the same time as final as a solid wall. He saw himself, old and weary with tall horns and a long tail, falling alongside his kingdom. It would not happen for several centuries, maybe longer, but again: the Wyrm, who was not even the Pale King yet, was wont to live as if things to come were only a step away.

He was only a juvenile, but even if he were full-grown, he would have still been frightened. And so he was off, leaving the ashy cliffs of his birthplace-grave, seeking counsel. He would not speak to the Root, who was kind, but his peer, not a mentor. The Mantis Tribe was barely formed, and the governance there was messy. They would be no help. He did not feel powerful enough yet to face Unn; she was at the height of her power and might not take kindly to another god trespassing.

Deepnest was out of the question. The refugees from Pharloom had not yet arrived, and he wouldn’t dare tamper with the development of the Weaver Tribe.

That left the Fungal Core. He chose this out of convenience. He and the Shrumal Tribe held no love for each other. However, the Shrumal King had come to a wary peace with him, so long as he left the fungi alone.

The Wyrm shook his head in disgust upon recalling the conditions of their truce. He wanted nothing to do with the mushrooms and the fetid, acidic pit they called home. The spores clung to him, and he suppressed a shudder. He suppressed a lot of things. He could, theoretically, erase the Shrumal Tribe from the maps. With his thrall, he could have them do anything he wanted.

Relying on his thrall too much would lower his credibility, so his next option was to be as poised and dignified as possible. It was a big change from spending his days burrowing in the earth, thinking of nothing but his next meal.

So, he held council with the Shrumal King, the most intelligent of the mushrooms, and discussed his troubling vision. When it was all over, he was in an even worse mood than before.

The Pale King remembers that day while he stands and waits for Monomon to arrive at the White Palace. He hated the Shrumal King’s fatalistic attitude towards him and his kingdom, but that hatred wore down over the years and he was now able to look back on it as if the conversation had happened to someone else. He thinks about the bugs who were unhappy with his rise to power, and those who had welcomed it. He remembers his mistakes and triumphs, joys and regrets. At the end of it all is that indomitable abyss that scared him so badly as an adolescent that he sought out personal advice.

T he Pure Vessel staggers trying to parry Hegemol’s blade. The Great Knight would not cut down the Pure Vessel, not because it is training, and not even because the sovereign is here. He, like the other knights, has taken a liking to the young bug. The Pure Vessel will be fine. But when they stumble to one knee, the Pale King almost stands up in alarm. But then his child gets up and charges, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The Pale King does not want to admit that he is having doubts about the Pure Vessel, but with each passing day, that old fear from so long ago grows stronger and stronger. Somewhere along the line, he made a terrible mistake, but he was not gifted with hindsight. Was it letting the child out of the White Palace? What about his idea to lay his eggs in the Abyss? Or, going back further, angering the Radiance and causing this blight in the first place?

Everything mixes together until his head starts to ache, and he puts his fingers to his temples. This is a mess, all of it, but he could never regret his child. Before, the idea of the Pure Vessel was a weapon and an ‘it’: merely a concept with an undefined future, and his insistence on such had colored everyone else’s treatment of the Pure Vessel and their siblings. But then came that moment at the edge of the Abyss, where it was not a plan or an idea but a child.

The King knew from the moment he laid eyes on them that he was going to be soft. He was going to treat them less like Hallownest’s last hope and more like an ordinary child. He was going to decorate their nursery and gather books and toys they would never touch and speak to them as if they could understand.

After these scant few years, he should be proud that the Vessel has grown so much, and relieved that their Void has held steady and that they haven’t gotten themselves killed and that they are getting along with their siblings. But not only has that dead end gotten closer, but he sees doom everywhere he looks. No matter what path he travels down, he can only see pain for everyone and everything around him, with the Pure Vessel suffering at the center of it all.

He finally gives in to his nerves and descends upon the arena floor to stop the spar. Hegemol bows and says he will be back next week, schedule permitting, and departs. The Pale King takes the Pure Vessel by the arm and leads them away to be cleaned up and changed into a fresh cloak. They will be so much taller than him when full-grown, and it makes him yearn for the days when he could hold them in one arm.

It was so much simpler back then. Now, his anxiety and the weight of his actions are going to crush him. Acknowledging the fear that the Pure Vessel is not as ‘pure’ as he thought—or worse, that they have been tarnished—might as well kill him before any of those aborted timelines will.

Chapter Text

There is a great bustle of activity the day Hornet comes to visit, but for once, she is not the cause of such commotion. A great procession of bugs comes to set up a makeshift clinic in the ballroom. With the Infection spreading, very few nobility are keen on gathering in crowds, not even in the esteemed White Palace. The Vessel could only assume that the same was true for the City of Tears and the surrounding territories. According to the Pale King, the disease had spread as far north as the Crossroads, just beneath the surface.

The Vessel would’ve liked to go up there, but that would not be until they were ready to perform their sacred duty. Today they must content themselves with studying a map of Hallownest. As of late, they’ve been relegated to more ‘ordinary’ duties: less sparring, and more books, much to the chagrin of their sibling. The little Vessel has shown interest in wanting to face off against their taller sibling, but their father lectured them about the gap between their skills and how they needed to learn the basics first.

That, and the little sibling hadn’t received a proper education up until now. The Pale King was more interested in remedying that than letting his children clash nails, and what he says goes.

And so, today the Vessel is learning geography, separate from their younger siblings who are still learning the alphabet, and separate from the activity below. The Pale King sits next to them, grading the mountain of schoolwork they’ve already completed. Reading and writing is easy, even enjoyable, after what the Vessel has gone through. They’re not sure how any of this ties into their role as the Pure Vessel, but they like it: not only do they get to spend time in the Pale King’s study, but they receive his full attention.

That is, until something moves out of the corner of their eye. The Pale King looks down to see Hornet crawling under his robes. The other young sibling chooses to stand in the open and stare down Quirrel, who looks rather harried when he pushes open the door to the study.

“You!” Quirrel points to the sibling. “Don’t move another inch!”

The sibling moves another inch. Several inches, actually, right up onto the Vessel’s lap. The Vessel, the model student, doesn’t react. The sibling sticks out their tongue at Quirrel, who sighs and drags his hands down his face.

“Ugh...Y-Your Majesty.” His voice cracks when he addresses the King, and in that moment he seems more boyish than usual. “Where is the princess?”

The King lifts up the hem of his robes, and Hornet makes a noise like a rubber toy being stepped on. Quirrel groans. “I deeply apologize, your Majesty. I should be used to this by now, what with my little ones, but...”

Quirrel’s voice cracks again, and he looks inexplicably sad. The Vessel’s heart goes out to him: the Infection had spread rapidly through his family, until only a small handful remained healthy. They wish there was something they could do.

“Anyway, um...” Quirrel rubs his arm and looks away.

“No, do not worry about it,” the King says, answering some question that the scholar hasn’t asked yet. “Also, it would be the best course of action if you took the rest of the day off. You will need to prepare yourself, in the event that the worst case scenario comes to pass. I shall take things from here.”

“Of course, Sire. Thank you,” says Quirrel, fidgeting with the hem of his scholar’s cloak. To Hornet and the sibling, he says, “Be good, children. Well, then.”

“Bye-bye, Kirl,” Hornet squeaks, none the wiser to his sorrows. The King has kept the situation a secret from her, due to her young age, but was that the right choice? The Vessel just doesn’t know. They do know, however, that the King could’ve done a better job of comforting Quirrel.

The sibling climbs off the Vessel’s lap, but instead of going to their lessons, they reach for the box of toys under the desk. Those are Hornet’s, meant to entertain her while the Pale King is busy, but the spiderling is disinterested in joining her sibling. She clings to one of the Pale King’s legs, and starts to whine when he carries her over to the table.

“Traitor,” says Hornet, and as soon as she’s in her seat, she tries to flee.

“Where did you learn that word?” the King asks, stepping in front of the door. He pushes it shut with his tail, blocking Hornet’s means of escape.

“From Mama and Midwife. They were saying, um…mantis…”

The Vessel takes a chance and peeks over their shoulder, praying that no one will notice their piqued interest.

“And, um...” Hornet twiddles the hem of her dress as she fumbles for the right words. “Mantis...”

“And tell, me, little one, how do you spell ‘traitor’?” the King asks, straightening his back.

“Uh.” Hornet looks down at her feet. As far as the Vessel knows, she has only started learning to write simple words. The Pale King shepherds her back to the table, and this time she doesn’t put up a fight.

“Perhaps there are other words and names you know. At the end of the hour, show me a list of them.” And with that, the King leaves to fetch the other sibling. They cling to a Weaver doll and hiss, but the King is undeterred, and soon they have joined their sister at the table.

It’s hard for the Vessel to keep their eyes on their work. They haven’t gotten to play with Hornet in what feels like forever, and they’d give themselves away if they just got up and left. If only they could breeze through this last workbook, but it’s about which sections of the Royal Waterways are beneath which district, which they don’t know or care about. They don’t want to think about those damp, dreary tunnels ever again.

The best course of action, then would be to skip over those pages entirely. They flip to the next section and set to work explaining how Greenpath’s vegetation differs, depending on which other are it’s closest to. Open-ended questions intimidated them at first, but they quickly figured out how to write in as dry and matter-of-fact a way as possible.

“Is that the last one?” the King asks. The Vessel’s head twitches, and they stop themselves just in time from nodding. It felt like he was testing them just now. “Alright, you’re finished. Spend the remaining time as you see fit.”

He’s definitely testing them.

The Vessel runs over their options: get up and leave the room, go to sit with their siblings, go for the toys under the desk, study more, get up and pace aimlessly…Their head starts to spin. They wish they wouldn’t have to over-analyze every little decision they had to make. So they just sit there and do nothing, slouched over with their head down.

After several long minutes, the Pale King finally takes pity on them and leads them to the reading nook in an alcove near his desk. The Vessel had been surprised by the recent addition to the study. It’s clearly a place to relax, complete with blankets and a comfortable, stuffed armchair. They’ve never known their father to just relax, and every time they come in here, they’re the one who ends up tucked into that little nook in the wall. Like now. He drapes the blanket over their lap and a plush toy in the crook of their arm.

Normally, such moments would be accompanied by a kindly gaze or one-sided conversation, but today the King does not speak, and has an expression of worry. The lack of conversation they understand: there’s an ‘outsider’ in the room, and the Pale King only speaks in length to them when they’re alone. What he could be worrying over, though, is almost impossible to pinpoint. It could be the whole world, for all they know.

Even if they did know, they couldn’t do anything about it. They still want to, though. Their father has already done so much for them, and they haven’t done a thing to deserve his kindness. If only they could...but the chair is so comfortable, and their mind feels numb after an hour of books and papers. Their body feels heavy, and the blanket is a warm, heavy cloud pulling them down into sleep.

Their dreams come sporadically and with no discernible meaning. Here is the White Palace, full of thorns, spears, and whirring machinery. There is Deepnest, its tunnels rumbling and ever-changing. They hear the ringing of bells and voices they don’t recognize, speaking all at once in a great wave. Then the wave passes over them, and they are floating down, down into the blue-black water. At the bottom are thousands of winking stars. Is that the night sky?

At intervals, they rouse back into a half-awakened state, awoken by their siblings making noise or someone else entering the room. Each time, their heartbeat and breathing quickens. Is something happening? Do they need to do something? But each time, a white light washes over them, and they fall back into slumber.

Eventually, they awaken peacefully from a dreamless sleep. They hear calm murmurs of conversation, and feel a hand stroking their forehead. It is all so comfortable that they don’t bother to open their eyes.

“You’ve written quite a lot,” says the Pale King from somewhere to their right.

“Yeh.” There’s a rustle of paper, and Hornet’s small voice saying, “Look! Here’s you, Mama, Howl, Fern, Midwife, annnd...”

“Fern?”

“Sibling!” Hornet explains. “Like ferns.” The Vessel cracks an eye open and sees her pointing to the sibling, or rather, Fern, busying themselves with a toy stag. Fern is a good name, they think. It would be easier to have something to call them that wasn’t just ‘sibling’. They’re already the Vessel, and they’re all siblings.

This would be the first time, though, that Hornet insists on the Pale King using their nickname—or their proper name, as the spiderling insists. She crawls over the Pale King’s tail and onto the Vessel’s lap, whereupon she pats their chest and tries to wake them up.

“Howl,” she peeps, following up with some unintelligible toddler gibberish. It’s strange how sometimes they understand her perfectly, while other times she still seems like a baby. Meanwhile, had they been able to speak, they probably would’ve been using full sentences from their hatching. What would their voice sound like?

“It is a lovely pet name,” says the King, “but they are the Hollow Knight, the Pure Vessel. Nothing else are necessary. Many bugs eschew proper names in favor of titles.”

Hornet protests with a soft ‘no’, and uses fistfuls of the Vessel’s shirt to climb up their chest.

“Enough of that. You are disturbing them.” The King plucks her away, and she immediately starts to fuss. He takes her back over to Fern, and there she stays, cheeks puffed out in frustration. Fern leans over and nibbles on her horns until she calms down. The Vessel wishes they had been there to see the two meet for the first time. This is to be expected, though. They weren’t around when Hornet’s name was decided, nor when the Pale King decided he’d keep Fern in the White Palace.

The knowledge that they were not meant to live long, however, means that they do not want to miss any more of these precious moments. They’ve more or less accepted their transient existence, and yet, as they watch Hornet and Fern, the Vessel wonders how this new trio will fare when it loses its first member.

The Pale King has returned to their side, and puts a hand on their shoulder. “I know you are awake, my Vessel. I saw you open your eyes.”

When they do not respond, the Pale King sighs. “Howl, you must awaken.”

The Vessel lifts their head. Hornet is the only one who calls them that, but perhaps the Pale King has been paying attention and considering. He is not the type of bug to do things on impulse. Nor is he an inattentive parent. Even now, he keeps glancing back at the two little ones playing on the floor. The Vessel keeps their eyes trained on him, allowing his words to sink in. He called them by a name. They thought that their title as the Pure Vessel sufficed, but at the same time, their stomach flutters with excitement.

“So you do respond to that name,” the Pale King muses, stroking his chin. “Very well, then. Howl. I...I suppose there is no harm done by this. Come. We are needed at the medical wing.”

The Vessel stands. When Hornet called them Howl, they thought of it as simply a nickname. But she technically has named them, despite her young age, and now their father recognizes it as a legitimate title. If the Pale King agrees with it, then Howl they shall be.

Howl is both thrilled and terrified. Having a name is such a permanent thing. A name has a meaning that often says something about its bearer: if not the meaning, then the circumstances in which they received it, or the reason it was chosen. Howl is quite the name to have when they can’t make so much as a peep. It also means that they’re more than just the Pure Vessel, now, that they have meaning as a bug outside of the task they were hatched for.

It’s all too much for them to take in, so they try to clear their mind as best as they can and put one foot in front of the other. The King leads this motley procession, two unruly children and one peculiarly silent one, out of the study and down to the lower floors. Fern walks quietly, likely as shocked as Howl.

Hornet walks all of two meters before clamoring for the Pale King to carry her, which locks her out of the conversation her two siblings are having just by holding hands.

I have a name. I have a name! Fern chants. They break into a skip, pulling Howl along with them as they twirl and leap along the corridor. Howl trips over their own feet, and just barely manages to catch themselves. The Pale King stops and waits for them to regain their balance, and then gestures for them to follow. He seems preoccupied, now, as he leads them to the iron-wrought elevator.

The ride down is quiet. They would’ve expected Hornet to babble and make noise, but she’s chewing on the toy she brought with her and is therefore placated. The doors open to an orderly crowd of retainers and healers; those nearest to the King bow when his light touches them. They murmur their greetings to him, clearly unused to seeing him in front of such a crowd. Likewise, Howl is unused to being gazed upon by so many bugs. They keep their head down all the way across the room, until they see a familiar figure out of the corner of their eye. Two of them, actually.

Herrah goes still when she sees Fern, even as her daughter cheerfully calls out to her. Monomon gasps audibly, putting two tentacles to her mask. This new sibling, whom Howl had assumed to be energetic and bold, cowers behind their legs. A shared memory floats to the surface of their thoughts: Fern, always hiding and running away from other bugs. Their lively demeanor extends only to their other siblings and the Pale King.

“Finally come down from your ivory tower, I see,” Herrah quips when the group approaches. She tilts her head at Fern, voice taking on a far softer tone. “And who is this little one?”

The Pale King starts to answer, but Hornet puts one of her little paws over his mouth. “Fern!” she exclaims.

“Oh. Hello, Fern.” Herrah leans over and holds a hand out to the child, who hides their face in Howl’s skirt.

“Your Majesty, please tell me they’re not--” Monomon is whispering to the Pale King. He shakes his head, repeating ‘no, no’, looking equally troubled. Howl looks at the adults’ worried faces, and gets the feeling they’ve been left out of something important.

“Where is the Watcher?” the Pale King asks.

“Dealing with the fallout from that disaster in the Waterways,” says Monomon. “Everyone is frightened. Workers have gone on strike until conditions are safer to—”

“Ah, tomorrow’s reports,” the Pale King interrupts. Monomon sighs, and he follows soon after. “I would have preferred all three of you here, but...ah, it cannot be helped.”

Before Howl can eavesdrop any further, Herrah intercepts them. With that mask she always wears, they can’t read her face. But they’re sure she’s mad at them. She stands at full height with her hands on her hips. They fidget with the embroidered hem of their cloak, bracing themselves for a lecture or punishment.

It is a surprise when she instead puts her hands on their shoulders, and draws them in for a hug. “Do not ever frighten me like that again. Do you realize how worried we were when you ran off like that, and no one could find you?”

Howl blinks. Herrah’s embrace is soft and comforting, and they should be relieved, but mostly they are ashamed. She’s reminding them of one of their biggest blunders, and though it ended with Fern’s rescue, they had still acted recklessly. There was no guarantee that they would’ve rescued themselves from the Collector’s prison.

Herrah rubs their shoulder, then, and they practically melt. While they’ve gotten more than their fair share of affection from the Pale King, their mother was not nearly as cuddly. Neither was any other adult in their life. They need this more than they understand. Sadly, the hug ends all too soon. Howl hopes that they don’t look disappointed when she lets go, and turns her attention to Fern instead.

Fern has remained in their hiding spot this whole time, but when Herrah produces a handful of snacks, they lift their head. With some coaxing, she gets them to come over and eat out of her hand. Judging by the amused noise Herrah makes, she only expected them to take the food and leave.

“It’s a good thing I always keep some on hand.” Herrah waits a moment, and lifts Fern into her arms. They tense up, but she chitters at them, and they are pacified. “Alright. Let’s go see what the others are up to.”

Hornet, of course, wiggles out of the Pale King’s arms when she sees her mother approaching. There’s now a small group formed the King, consisting of the Dreamers, the children, and a couple of scholars from the Archive. Howl does not recognize Quirrel among them, but they have no reason to believe he won’t show up at some point.

They prepare themselves for some kind of speech, only for the King to lead them away by the arm. This confuses them. Why were they brought here, only to be taken away? But then they see a door, one of many that they’ve passed a thousand times before. As it is part of the medical wing, the furnishings are sparse: an examination table, a sink and cupboard in the corner, a desk, and chairs.

“Lie here,” says the King, patting the examination table. Howl does so, folding their hands over their stomach. To be honest, they’re a little scared.

Then they hear the door creak open, and Monomon’s voice asking if the King needs any assistance. He replies that he’s the only one who is familiar with Void, thank you. Monomon shoots back that they researched together and that the first vaccine didn’t work, anyway. The two of them bicker for several minutes over things that Howl doesn’t understand, nor wants to understand, until finally Monomon is sent away.

Howl is thus frozen with terror when the Pale King approaches with a syringe. There’s a small, thin tube at the end of it. Is he going to draw their blood? They won’t mind if it’s just that, but they can’t help but remember the last time he injected the Infection into them. It’s a good thing they’re lying down, because they’re getting dizzy.

The Pale King speaks as he prepares the needle. Rather than the little vial that Howl remembers, there’s a small bag at the end of the tube.

“I know we failed the first time,” he says, mostly to himself, “but I foresee the possibility of our success. There exists a slim chance that your sacrifice will be unneeded. I cannot rest until I know for sure.”

The needle slides in with an uncomfortable pinch. Howl sees the King’s hands shaking against their arm. They wish they could do something to calm him down, but how in the world would they do that? All they can do is stare at him helplessly.

“This will require more blood than you are accustomed to having drawn. Do not move until I say so.” After a brief pause, he sighs, and rubs his temples. “You may feel dizzy afterwards, but this is normal.”

The plastic bag is slowly filling with pitch fluid. It’s hard believing that this pitiful amount would help the thousands of bugs who have been affected. Howl doesn’t have enough blood. Does he realize that?

“Would this--” The Pale King lifts the tube, still flowing with Howl’s blood. “--make your siblings’ deaths meaningless, if it could have been any Vessel? My Foresight cannot be that cruel.”

The Kin g does not speak for a good while after. He rests his elbows on the table, with his forehead against his hands, while Howl’s heart grows sick on his words. The weight of their task has never been heavier. Worse still, they know that whatever the Pale King is trying to do, it won’t work. They can’t deny it any longer: they’re impure. That last little sibling, their hatchmate, would’ve been a better Vessel, but they’re long gone from Hallownest. They know that, too.

Howl puts a hand over their stomach in a pitiful attempt to quell their nausea. None of this is going to work, and their father is right: their siblings were born and died for nothing.

Chapter Text

Outside the room, Fern waits with rapidly diminishing patience. Before, they were either alone or with a sibling. Things have changed since the Wyrm took them from that awful prison. For the first time, they’re interacting with bugs who can’t communicate with the Void. They press their hands against Herrah’s arms, but she is oblivious to their attempts at telepathy. It is such a waste that she does not share their gifts.

Fern has not tried this with the Wyrm, but he is the Guiding Light and Creator. He’s probably better at it than they are. He might see their private memories! They want to go in and warn Howl, but being cradled in a pair of warm arms, after a lifetime of being afraid and cold, is a balm for the soul. Anyway, the Pure Vessel—Howl—is smart enough if they’ve made it to this point undetected.

They’ve gleaned from their siblings that Herrah is their mother, a title they recognize, and also a ‘Dreamer’, which they do not. There’s little to no familial resemblance. She seems overjoyed by their presence, anyway. Fern isn’t sure how to process this. No matter how much they fuss and scratch, no one here seems bothered by them. They were so certain that they would be seen as some sort of pest, and yet the Wyrm—their father, their siblings call him—has patiently introduced them into palace life.

“You’re just like that child was when they were a hatchling,” Herrah murmurs to them, “but they weren’t nearly as wiggly. Would you prefer to ride on my back?”

She hoists them onto her shoulder, but without a spider’s grace, they merely tumble down her back and onto the floor. She and the other lady, the one she called ‘Monomon’, gasp in shock.

“Are all Vessels this uncoordinated?” Monomon asks fretfully as she helps them to their feet. “Lurien told me that the Pure Vessel was like this when his Majesty brought them over.”

“Hornet has her moments,” Herrah sighs. Speaking of which, the spiderling has been scratching at the door this entire time, crying for the room’s occupants. Before anyone can do anything, Fern trots over and lifts her over their head and sits her between their horns. They’re used to crying siblings. There were lots of them toddling around in the Abyss. Once upon a time, they were one of those helpless little grubs. They are still the size of one, but they think themselves worldly and experienced compared to Hornet.

“Oh, they’re getting along,” Monomon giggles as Fern waddles back over. “I wish I weren’t so busy. I’d love to play with them.”

Herrah sighs. “I know. I feel awful every time I take time off, no matter how understanding the Devouts are.”

“Don’t be,” Monomon reassures her. “We don’t know how much time we have...”

They sound troubled, but Fern has no context for their anxiety. They’ve only just met these two today, and everything is going so fast. Hornet’s memories and emotions are unhelpful in getting them caught up to speed, and they don’t want to ‘meld’ too often, anyway. They’ve seen weaker siblings get stuck together that way. To be fair, they were too goopy and poorly-formed in the first place, but terrible things can happen to even the most well-prepared of bugs. Look what happened to them. They tried so hard to be careful, and they wound up stuck in a jar. The group of siblings they were traveling with...not a single one of them has reappeared in the White Palace.

Fern sits on the floor with their arms around their knees. Tears well up in their eyes when they think of the other Vessels. Where did they go? With Hornet stacked on top of them, the two look like a crying snowman. Herrah and Monomon’s worried voices come from above them, and the former puts a hand on their arm.

“Poor thing,” says Herrah. “Do the Wyrm tell you of their circumstances?”

Monomon shakes her head. “Nay. Only the simplest of details. And, unsurprisingly, he locks himself up with the Vessel before answering any of my questions.”

Herrah groans. “Then he is avoiding it. For the child’s sake, I’ll wait until he has finished drawing their blood before barging in.”

Drawing blood? Fern’s stomach twists and turns into little knots. Hornet had the right idea of trying to break in, after all. They give Hornet back to Herrah, and approach the door. With newfound resolve, and no patience left to give, they bash their head against it. Someone exclaims in surprise, another cries out their name. There are hands on them; retainers, dragging them away. What else were they to do? They were too short to reach the handle.

It simply did not occur to them to ask one of the adults for help. Now Hornet is crying in earnest. All the commotion draws out the Pale King with his wings flared and expression hardened. Herrah and Monomon back down, and the servants look downright terrified.

“What is the meaning of—” the Pale King begins, but Fern covers their eyes and runs through the door. When they’re sure that his light can’t reach them, they put their hands down.

The room is cold and sterile, like most of the Palace, but Howl has a blanket over them while they lie on the examination table. There’s a needle and a long tube coming out of the inside of their elbow, which connects to a bag half-full of black blood. Void. It’s all one and the same for the Vessels. Void is their blood, body, bones, everything. Fern ignores the Pale King’s re-entry into the room, and crawls under the blanket next to their sibling. They ignore the murmur of conversation. Unlike Howl, they don’t care what anyone has to say—unless it comes from their siblings.

“You can’t keep them for yourself all the time.” Herrah takes advantage of the King’s momentary confusion to deposit Hornet into his arms. “Nor are you the only one who cares about them.”

The Pale King looks stunned. He lowers his wings shamefully, left to comfort Hornet while Herrah berates him. It’s quite a sight to see. Under less dire circumstances, Fern would’ve laughed. Then they feel a rush of confusion, followed by gratitude. It’s coming from Howl. The so-called Pure Vessel hasn’t moved an inch, but Fern is snuggled up against their arm. They’re clearly relieved at the other Vessel’s presence.

Did he hurt you? is the first thing thing Fern projects—blurts out, really. More confusion from Howl. Why would their father ever hurt them? He doesn’t do that. Yet Howl’s mind turns to a single memory: an injection, searing pain, sickness, a nightmare. A fear of needles. Fern practically boils with rage, especially when the Pale King comes over to adjust the blankets. How dare he?!

The worst part of all is that Howl can only look at him with adoration and loyalty. They don’t blame him for their phobia at all. Fern piles on all the indignation they have, but Howl is steadfast. Stubborn.

He should apologize, Fern seethes as they watch the Pale King tickle Hornet under her chin. Apologize! Apologize!

Howl puts their arm around Fern beneath the blanket, and stares up at the ceiling. Hugs won’t make this better. It won’t be better until the Pale King says he’s sorry. But how? It happened during Howl’s last instar. Fern had socialized enough among their siblings—and eavesdropped among ordinary folk—to know that other bugs found it strange to bring up old grievances.

“Alright, we should be about done. It’s been a while, so I’ll take a small sample to keep.” The Pale King puts Hornet on his back, and switches the full bag out for a small vial. Fern crawls on top of Howl’s chest and hisses, but without an actual voice, all they can do is bare their fangs at him. But their hands are tied. If they scare the Pale King away, then his hands will flinch, and Howl will get hurt.

The Wyrm waits until the vial is filled, and Howl’s arm is bandaged, before reaching for Fern. “It’s alright,” he coaxes. “They’re fine. They just need to lie down for a while longer.”

Fern makes eye contact with Hornet, who is content and resting her chin against the Wyrm’s shoulder. They’re not sure what they want from her. Reassurance? Validation? And then the Wyrm is carrying them out of the room and setting them on the ground. Sweet relief. They are far too overstimulated to be cuddled right now. In fact, the very thought of anyone touching them is revolting. Shuddering with disgust, they dart behind a planter overflowing with vines.

“It has been done,” the Wyrm says, reaching behind himself to check that Hornet is still there. “Do you prefer a blood transfusion, or an injection? I would suggest the latter. There is less chance of failure that way.”

“I was about to say ‘blood transfusion’, but very well. If I might ask, your Majesty...”

While the King is distracted, Fern sneaks away into the nearest room. They immediately regret it: it is lined with cots, each one occupied and surrounded by privacy curtains. Each bug seems to be afflicted with the same illness: that mysterious disease that has choked Hallownest. Fern has seen it in all walks of life, and has learned to dread the orange pustules. The bugs would walk about in a haze, settle down to sleep, and wake up a monster. Sometimes they were still lucid, like most of these bugs were, confused and moaning.

They crawl about under the beds until they’ve spotted Monomon’s assistant, seated before a bed crowded with baby pill bugs. His head is down, so he notices right away when Fern is underfoot.

“Well, hello to you.” Quirrel forces a smile, and puts his head down again. He can’t bring himself to look at the hatchlings, but Fern can. They’ve all been swaddled in bandages, and are in various stages of lucidity. One of them is groping about for a plush doll just out of reach, and Fern pushes it back towards her.

Quirrel, touched by this gesture, mutters a ‘thank you’ and lifts his mask so he can rub his eyes. He looks the way Fern feels: overwhelmed and exhausted. They sit on the floor next to his chair and rock back and forth.

“This must all be a lot for you,” says Quirrel. Yes. Yes, it is. “You know, if—I mean, when my children get better, maybe I can arrange a play date for you all.”

His voice catches in his throat, and something awful settles into Fern’s heart. The mortality rate for the disease is so high that the infected are often treated as if they’re already dead. It is admirable of this pill bug to keep clinging to hope. He doesn’t sound sure of himself at all, but then Fern imagines it: they, their siblings, and these other children, all playing in the Palace courtyard together. It’d be just like when they were in the Abyss with their clutch mates, safe and surrounded by the Void.

“There’s a chance,” he continues, as if sensing Fern’s doubt, “that things could go back to normal. His Majesty says that he’s developing an experimental vaccine. The Madam expressed her doubts about the whole thing, but I think it’s good to stay optimistic.”

The Pale King, who has been the most ardent about a Void-based vaccination, is ironically the least optimistic about the results. He feels like a beached whale, struggling his hardest but unable to make it back to the ocean. This is like putting a bandage over a gaping wound. The only way to explain himself is admitting that he’ll try anything before locking his child away for eternity. Regardless of whether or not they have the capacity to suffer, he can’t do that to him. He loves them far too much.

And to think he was so committed in the beginning. He’s getting cold feet. Had he not tried all manner of remedies? That desperate search led him to the blackest depths of his soul, and now that he has seen what he is capable of, he tries to scramble back out. But the Dreamers have already made their pact. The White Lady has already left him. The Temple of the Black Egg is undergoing its first preparations, and his Vessel inching closer to their final instar.

That does not change the fact that they have still lived only a scant few years. Far too young to leave the nest, no matter how skilled they are. This is well beyond his initial brooding instincts. He already knows that this flimsy ‘vaccine’ is going to fail, but he’s still mixing in the Void with other ingredients and preparing syringes. It’s going to fail, and if it did end up working, there would never been enough Void blood to satisfy the whole of Hallownest—not to mention explaining where the components came from.

It’s going to fail, but he will exhaust every last option to justify having to resort to sacrificing his own child. All of those hatchlings who died for the Pure Vessel’s ascendance. This cannot be Her revenge for him usurping Her kingdom. In Her current state, She is as mindless and full of rage as the bugs She infects. She is not calculated enough to drive him into this corner. No. He has imprisoned himself in a cage of his own making.

Howl is propped up on some pillows and sipping juice from a straw; they are still too dizzy to get up, even to eat. They watch the Pale King work as if they were to learn something from it. In another life, he would have taught them applied sciences. They already get near-perfect marks on their schoolwork. Maybe they would’ve been a scholar, or a teacher. Perhaps an inventor, dreaming of things the Pale King would’ve never thought of. If they were capable of thought, they might’ve come up with a way to stop Her wrath.

And, if not a scholar, perhaps they’d one day leave the nest to find their own kingdom to rule. Or they’d stay here, at their father’s side, governing their own portion of Hallownest. He could easily see them leading a new generation of Great Knights. They might even want to live a common life, without the pressures of royalty weighing down on them.

All of these wasted futures. A tray full of syringes. He has finished.

The sound of air being sucked through a straw. Howl is struggling to catch the last dregs of their juice. The Pale King refills their glass, and he swears he sees their feet kick under the blanket. He’s not sure what he’d do if they turned out to be impure, after all. It’s not just Howl he has to worry about: there’s Hornet, asleep on his back. If he fails to contain the Infection, she and thousands of other bugs will die.

There is no cost too great for saving Hallownest, he tells himself. One life to save millions. To the attendant waiting outside he says, “Distribute these amongst the patients who have agreed to the experimental trial.”

“Yes, your Highness.” The attendant bows low and backs away.

The King turns back to Howl and folds his hands together. “Now,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “Why don’t we get you children something to eat?”

Chapter Text

Howl is kept in the training arena and away from the medical wing, and the saws and spikes don’t have any news of the patients’ progress. Their heart is restless, and they take it out on the obstacles and their opponents. Ogrim and Isma, the knights with which they have become most familiar, are once again a part of their daily life. There are two hours of training each morning, an hour break for lunch, and then two hours of training in the afternoon.

Their schedule had been leisurely before, so adjusting to this rigorous new routine has been difficult. They don’t know what their father is thinking. Are they going back out to fight, or is he just trying to keep them away? At the end of each session, they are so exhausted that they end up sleeping in the nursery until it’s time for their dinner and bath.

One thing they have to look forward to, according to Fern, is a play date with Quirrel’s children. The little Vessel had been in contact with him when Howl was off getting their blood drawn, and dutifully shared their memories once they returned. Despite Howl’s initial uncertainty, their siblings’ excitement is infectious. More playmates! In a familiar setting, with their siblings by their side, they would be less nervous about meeting other children. The only one of Quirrel’s hatchlings they remember by name is Nia, the girl who took a shine to them when they met in the City of Tears.

They wait for the Pale King to mention anything about this, but he doesn’t. The past week or so, he’s been quiet and tense. He only speaks to give orders, and the rest of the time he locks himself up in his study or workshop. He even takes his meals in there. Fern, ever independent, takes this in stride, but Howl cannot stop worrying. They come to the conclusion that there was something wrong with their blood, and now the Pale King is angry at them.

For the first time in their life, they confide to someone about their troubles. Of the three siblings, Fern knows the most about emotions and what they mean. In the evening, the two of them sit on the nursery floor, rolling a colorful ball back and forth between them. Their connection has grown so that they can ‘speak’ to each other from short distances, without physical contact.

‘What did I do wrong?’ Howl frets. Pushing the ball back and forth isn’t enough. They want to throw it around the room and bounce it off the floors, walls, and ceiling. But if something broke, Fern would have to cover up for Howl and take the blame.

‘Nothing.’ Fern takes the ball and tries to balance it between their horns. It falls behind them, and they scramble to catch it. ‘He’s wrong. He made you sad and should say sorry.’

Howl sighs. They’re still on about that? The current situation is far more urgent. ‘But what happened?’

Fern shrugs. They can’t know everything. However, they are certain of one thing: ‘Not your fault.’

Howl is not so easily convinced, but being emotionally comforted for the first time is intoxicating. They repeat the words ‘not your fault’ to themselves until Fern launches the ball at their head. In retaliation, Howl pounces. The two roll across the floor, playfully nipping and scratching at each other. Howl, with the advantage of size, pins Fern under their knees and tickles their sides.

‘Noooo!’ Fern struggles out from beneath them. They scrabble for the ball, and upon throwing it again, it gets stuck between Howl’s horns. They’re both so shocked that they stop roughhousing. This leaves Howl on their stomach, trying to dislodge the ball, while Fern leans against the bed and shakes with silent laughter.

‘Oh, it won’t come out.’ The absurdity of the situation has Howl holding back their own giggles. By instinct, they cover their mouth, even though they’re incapable of making noise. ‘What do we do?’

‘Let’s get help.’ Fern gets up and tugs on Howl’s arm. Then, with dismay, ‘Oh no. You’ve punctured it.’

Howl sticks their tongue out. ‘You’re the one who threw it.’

‘You tickled me!’

‘You started it.’ Howl stands up in a single, graceful motion. Keeping a straight posture is a conscious effort, but they have to look as dignified and unaffected as possible. Having a toy stuck to their horns is already suspicious. Imagine their whole facade crumbling because they were roughhousing with their sibling.

The hallway is quiet, with nary a retainer in the glistening halls. Fern, as always, stops by the windows to gaze into the courtyard. True to their namesake, they’ve become enamored with plant life. They would’ve loved the Queen’s Gardens, if it were safe to go there. The Pale King mentioned the place one time, and for a week straight Fern kept begging him to take them there, dangers be damned.

Howl isn’t as interested. They’ve wised up to the fact that the Queen excluded herself from the Pale Court not as a selfless act, but because she couldn’t stand to be around them any longer. Dryya, whom they seldom saw in general, has also disappeared, being more loyal to her Queen than the King. Ze’mer and Hegemol have kept their distance, too, but out of preoccupation with the situation in the capitol. Howl can’t remember the last time all five of the Great Knights together. They are supposedly the most elite of the elite, the kingdom’s greatest fighters, but circumstances seem to have broken them apart.

Fern is completely disinterested in matters of knights, only interested in the nail for the nail’s sake. They are single-minded in that way, which Howl envies. All they can do is worry and overthink things. It is up to Fern and Hornet to cajole them into playing, and to keep them from spiraling into further anxiety.

‘I want to go to the gardens after this,’ Fern tells them. ‘It’s warm, so I want to go in the stream.’

Howl nods. They project the idea of a picnic blanket and refreshments. They’d like to nap there and pick flowers. It would be a welcome break after the past couple of weeks. If only Hornet were with them, but a cold has kept her in Deepnest. Too many things in their routine are changing, and they need to decompress.

At this hour, the King is likely to be in his study. The two Vessels stand outside the double doors, straining to hear if there’s a visitor inside. If so, they don’t want to interrupt him. With how soundproof the doors are, though, it’s impossible to tell.

‘I could rub my horns on the wall,’ Howl suggests, losing courage by the minute. Fern puts a hand over their mouth, though no laughter comes out. Encouraged, they make a show of leaning their head towards one of the wall’s engravings, prepared to make like a shedding stag beetle.

All of a sudden, the study doors open. In an instant, Howl is straight as a pin at Fern’s side. They hear their father’s voice, coming from inside the room: “If there is anything else I can do...”

“No, it’s quite alright.” To Howl and Fern’s shock, it is Quirrel who steps outside. Being Monomon’s right hand, he is of high ranking, but not someone they would expect to visit the King personally. Howl was vaguely aware of some hall or room where visitors from outside the Palace were accepted. Something must have happened to elevate Quirrel to such status that he would be allowed here.

Quirrel’s appearance doesn’t answer their questions. He spares them an empty-eyed glance and shambles onward. The King exits soon after, wringing his hands as he watches the scholar go. However, he soon notices his children, and motions for them to come inside.

Howl twiddles their thumbs as the King takes the ball from their horns. As he assesses the damage to the toy, he scolds Fern. “You must be gentle with them. They will be the one to eventually stop the plague.”

He sighs and discards the deflated ball on the table. “What am I saying? Their training is far more harsh. Go on and play, and stay clear of the medical wing. I don’t want to hear of you causing problems, Fern.”

Fern puts their hand over the King’s, whose expression softens at this gesture. Then Fern bites his fingers, and he winces. “Enough, child.”

Howl has learned to expect this kind of behavior from Fern, so they are unsurprised. With bugs who aren’t of Void, their sibling still acts like a cornered vengefly. Not to mention they still haven’t fully warmed up to their father. It is a good thing he is so patient with them. Even when being bit or clawed at, the Pale King maintains his composure. He simply stares Fern in the eye until they give up and let go.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult.” The Pale King strokes Fern’s head. “Alas, I cannot join you two. Take care of your sibling, now.”

He sinks back into his desk chair. His desk is covered in stone tablets and paper, which makes Howl grimace in sympathy. It would be a bad idea to pull him from his duties, however, so they leave with Fern.

‘Garden?’ they prompt Fern, after several minutes of walking in silence. Fern nods. They’re holding on to the skirt of Howl’s dress, staring straight ahead. With their minds linked, Howl can see that they don’t know what to do with themselves. They are caught between their instinct to distrust and push away, and this new experience of having others care for them. They don’t know how to react.

‘Garden,’ Fern repeats. They race down the staircase and burst out into the courtyard, which despite its subterranean location is filled with light. Fern breaks from Howl’s side and rushes to the stream. The clear water winds like a loose thread through the garden, passing under a bridge and ending at a wide pond. Fern leaps in, cloak and all, and Howl puts a hand to their mouth.

‘Fern, your clothes,’ Howl protests weakly. Fern surfaces, arms up, and paddles to the edge of the water. ‘Father will scold you..’

Fern motions for Howl to join them. ‘But it’s fun. Have you ever gone swimming?’

Howl shakes their head. They figured that if they needed to know, then someone would teach them. They hadn’t thought to try it for themselves. Still, when they lift the hem of their skirt and dip their feet into the water, it feels familiar. They wade in up to their knees. The water here is different from the bathtub: it’s practically alive. It tugs at their legs like an impatient child. Howl dips their hands in the water, and resists submerging themselves completely. It’s not the Void sea, which they have never been in but have an idea of what it’s like. Every Vessel—and Hornet, even—seems to have an understanding of it.

Fern splashes them playfully. ‘Isn’t it nice?’

Howl nods. What have they been missing out on? It’s like all their worries are dissolving in the water.

Chapter Text

Howl had been hesitant to get in the water at first, but within the hour, the two Vessels are soaked. They swam back and forth under the bridge and dove to the bottom of the pond. Howl had never gone swimming before this, but it comes to them with such ease that they are surprised by themselves. Still, Fern is far more skilled. They know how to propel themselves forward even on their back, and how to skim along the bottom of the stream with as little disruption to the water as possible.

‘It works better in the mossy place. More places to hide,’ Fern says, imparting visions of what Howl recognizes as Greenpath. They’ve never been that close to the surface themselves, and they’re immediately curious.

‘Have you seen the sky?’ they ask. ‘Have you seen a star?’

Fern shakes their head. Then they duck under, and when they come up, water streams from the holes in their mask. ‘What’s a star?’

‘It’s a small, bright light.’ Astronomy is not common knowledge among bugs. It is an abstract concept even to most Higher Beings, including the Pale King, despite great advancements in other areas. The best example they’d have of a star is their favorite picture book, which is right where they left it in the nursery.

Howl rises from the water, thinking to retrieve their treasure. Fern nods in understanding, and ducks back under the water. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

So, they retrace their steps through the Palace, leaving a trail of water in their wake. They encounter no one, thankfully, so their trip is a short one.

They’re halfway back to the courtyard, with the book in their hands, when something strange happens. They see a flurry of servants rush by, one of them holding black-stained towels. Is that... their blood? Is there another Vessel here? Howl’s heart leaps. Fern will be so excited! And why didn’t Father come to tell them immediately? Perhaps he’s with the new sibling right now, tending to their wounds. They must be injured.

Howl goes in the direction the servants came from, and ends up in the medical wing. By this point, they’ve probably been gone long enough to make Fern worry. The thought nags at the back of their mind, but their curiosity is stronger. If their hunch is correct, Fern will forgive them.

Howl senses something from one of the open doors: the kind of pull that only Void has. They straighten their posture as best they can, and head on over.

Just as they’ve reached the doorway, they hear a muffled noise. It sounds like someone in pain, or crying. Howl, still thinking that nothing is wrong, peeks through.

It’s Quirrel. He’s sitting with his back to the door, holding a bundle in his arms. A small, black-stained bundle. Howl’s eyes move to the beds, and their heart drops into their stomach.

It’s all of Quirrel’s children. And some of his adult relatives they recognize from the City of Tears. Others they’ve never seen: sentries, Menderbugs, nobles, ordinary bugs. They’re all dead.

Void leaks from their empty, black eyes.

Where Infection once bubbled in their wounds, their bandages are now stained as if with ink. Their insides have melted away and come out through their eyes and other orifices, soaking through the white hospital beds. How l’s book lands on the floor with a thud . Bile rises in their throat.

Quirrel looks for the source of the noise with tears still streaking down his mask. This is when Howl should retreat, but they can’t move. They can only stare. As discreetly as possible, they take deep breaths. No, no, no. This isn’t right. They had only donated a little bit of blood, but somehow it multiplied itself in its victims, its victims —

Howl’s knees begin to shake. They did this. If they weren’t impure, all of these bugs would have lived. They may as well have murdered them. Their hearing is engulfed by loud ringing; they barely hear the voices or feel the hands on their arms, leading them away from the scene. No . The last thing they want right now is to be touched.

They forget their book on the floor when they pull themselves away and flee. Their gown, still wet, clings to their body. So cold. Where is Fern? Are they still in the courtyard? But if they go there, they’ll be followed, and then Fern will get in trouble, too.

So they keep running, until their clothes only feel damp, and they’ve stopped leaving a trail of water behind them.

Chapter Text

The trail of water that Howl made leads all the way back to the courtyard, where the servants find Fern bobbing around in the water. They fight off everyone who tries to collect them and flees to the nursery, where they remain so well-hidden that the King has to tell everyone to stop looking and leave them alone. In any case, it is the Pure Vessel that they should be looking for. With them missing and all the patients dead, the White Palace quickly descends into chaos.

The Pale King sits locked in his study, overwhelmed by the fretting nobles and parties of knights sent out to scour the Kingdom. This is technically his fault: he placed so much importance on one child, and everyone is acting accordingly. It has only been two hours since one of the guards came banging on his door, but Howl could be anywhere by now. They have been trained by the knights to be swift and strong, and by the Pale King to know Hallownest inside and out.

The Abyss? The Pale King’s stomach lurches. No, the entrance to that horrible place has been sealed off. Howl shouldn’t be able to get in.

The Pale King had assumed for the past couple of years that Howl just sort of did things arbitrarily, but today he starts seriously considering otherwise. If Fern can be an ordinary child, who’s to say that Howl couldn’t be? There are places in Hallownest they could consider safe, bugs they’d want to run away to. The Pale King, ill-prepared for the throes of adolescence, never considered that any of his progeny might one day just...escape. Not even Hornet, who is growing more independent by the day.

Whether Howl is really pure or not doesn’t change the fact that he needs to bring them home, as soon as possible. Howl left their weapon behind when they bolted, and Hallownest is getting more dangerous by the day. The ‘good’ paths the King foresees, the ones that stymie the plague’s spread, are rapidly decreasing.

There is the possibility that his child will never be found. No! In the safety of his own isolation, the Pale King allows himself to panic. He cannot, will not, go on if that happens. It would be worse than dying.

The Pale King takes ten minutes to collect himself.

Once Fern is certain that no one else is coming, they drop from the ceiling and land on the bed. They bounce up and down on the soft, springy mattress, where every night they cuddle up next to Howl (and sometimes Hornet). Howl didn’t come back from getting that picture book, and Fern never found out what a star was. One of the maids has returned said book to the room, but the little Vessel doesn’t want to read it without their sibling.

They land stomach-first onto the comforter. The bed is too big without their siblings in it. Vessels are social creatures, and thrive in flocks. It makes sense: they hatched in groups, from single eggs—or rather, from egg sacs. Fern’s earliest memories are of huddling in makeshift nests, surrounded by their squirming siblings. Alone their bodies were cold, but enough crowded together could generate some heat. Their eyes sting when they break from their reverie, and they are alone with no one to hold onto.

Could they...go to the Wyrm? If he had been present in their larval stage, it would’ve been his job to keep them company. They waffle back and forth on the idea, even now nervous to approach him. He’s likely to leave in search of their sibling, so they don’t have much time to decide. Before they can regret it, they throw on a traveling cloak and creep out of the nursery. They’ll leave their encounter with the Wyrm up to chance.

Chapter Text

Hornet is with the Dreamers when they assemble at the Watcher’s Tower. She has spent the past however-long in her nest at home, being tended to by her mother and a number of nervous Weavers. Spending almost every moment with her mother is a welcome treat, but comes at the expense of her father and siblings. Herrah refused to oblige her with their company, no matter how much she screamed. Eventually, she grew too tired to throw any more fits, and allowed herself to be taken care of.

The Weavers tried to hide their worry from her, but she picked up on it easily enough. They thought her to be far sicker than she actually was, and would come in, holding back tears, asking Herrah if there was anything they could do to help.

But Hornet has been recovering nicely, and her mother took her to the Weaver’s Den to pick out any toy she liked. Then Herrah received a phone call that made her want to leave Deepnest right away. And now here they are.

Hornet picks a loose thread out of her mother’s shawl as the adults talk. She’s bored, and seriously considering bursting into tears. Her mother promised that she could go to the White Palace when she got better, but they’re not at the White Palace! She kneads the wings of her new moth doll, and decides enough is enough.

“Ma,” says the little spiderling. She tugs on her shawl. “Mama.”

Herrah shushes her. “Not now, little shadow.”

“Listen,” Hornet insists tearfully. As always, Herrah pays no attention to her when there’s someone else to talk to—or so it seems. Hornet opens her mouth wide and prepares to scream.

“Herrah,” Monomon interjects. “May I hold her?”

Hornet’s scream dies in her mouth. Monomon is not unkind, but it’s uncommon for her to reach out an affectionate tentacle. Yet now her mother is handing her over, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She bounces her in her gooey arms, and Hornet can’t help but giggle as she’s tossed up and down. She waves her little moth toy around, now distracted as the adults return to their conversation.

“His Majesty wants me to send out the City Guard in search of the Vessel, but I do not know how to instruct them without jeopardizing the secrecy of his plan,” says Lurien. “Nor can I decide if it would be worth sending them into infected territory, with no guarantee that the Vessel would even be there.”

“I don’t know about that.” Monomon holds Hornet placidly in her arms, as if she already forgot that the child was there. Hornet feels a bubble of frustration rise up in her belly, and she squirms out of the Teacher’s hold. “It may feel an instinct to return to the Queen’s Gardens. Her Majesty has not moved from there in quite some time.”

“I don’t recall Howl ever being close to their mother,” Herrah corrects. She reaches down to brush a finger along one of Hornet’s horns in acknowledgment.

Lurien puts his face in his hands and groans. “Yes, because you were there to fill in for her. You’ve already had one child with his Majesty, is that not enough for you? The Pure Vessel is not--”

Herrah slams her hands onto the table, making Hornet jump. Her mother tries her best not to get angry around her, but it still happens. She puts her toy in front of her face and backs away.

Monomon half-rises, lifting a placating tentacle. “Herrah, I understand how you feel, but you have to remember that the Vessel is--”

Herrah’s voice is a low, dangerous hiss: “No, you don’t understand. I know, I know , I know that Howl is supposed to be a sacrifice, but have you paid any attention to them beyond what the Wyrm wants? You— neither of you have any idea.”

“No idea of what?” Monomon asks, instantly wary. Lurien is frozen in his seat, fingers laced as tightly as a vise. The tension between the three of them is palpable. Hornet is afraid that it’ll come over to her and swallow her up. She takes refuge behind one of the velvet curtains and watches helplessly.

“That child is not ‘hollow’.”

The words drop like a stone in the middle of the table. Lurien leans back in his chair with a hand on his chest, as if physically struck. Monomon falters. When she speaks, she sounds almost frightened. “Do you doubt the King’s design, Herrah?”

“Lady Herrah, of the three of us, I was the one who met the Pure Vessel first. I can assure you that your worries are unfounded,” Lurien squawks. “If something were amiss, our King would know right away.”

“And yet, is this not worth questioning?” says Monomon. “The safest course of action would be to prove its purity, and put this concern to rest.”

Hornet’s heart tightens. What does ‘proving purity’ mean? What does Mother mean by ‘hollow’? Are they going to do something to her sibling? She knows she needs to find them right away, but she is frozen in place. She pets the soft fluff of her toy moth, but it’s not enough to soothe her. The way the adults are talking about her sibling, it sounds like they’re sick. They might even have the sickness that everyone in Deepnest worries about, and worried that she had when she came down with a fever. They asked her all sorts of confusing questions, and even checked her tears and saliva for any signs of orange. Please don’t let Howl be sick.

She wants to go out and look for them right away, but when she rushes for the door, Herrah swoops in and catches her.

“It’s dangerous to go off on your own,” says Herrah. That’s one of her favorite sayings when Hornet tries to run off: ‘don’t go, it’s dangerous’. She’s so tiny that she could get trampled or eaten. Even in the Watcher’s Tower, apparently, where the biggest danger was her hot cocoa going cold.

“We don’t need you going missing, too,” Herrah explains as she brings Hornet back to the table. With Hornet inadvertently interrupting the argument, everyone’s tempers have cooled. They all sit back down, and Lurien calls for his butler to bring another round of tea.

The three Dreamers look at each other, likely with worried expressions under their masks. Hornet worries for her sibling, and imagines stretching her mind out to connect with them. If they’re nearby, they’ll be able to hear her thoughts.

“Say the Vessel is not pure,” Monomon suggests, while Hornet is distracted. “What does this mean for Hallownest?”

Lurien begins to mumble something, but stops himself. Monomon fidgets with the tablecloth, head bowed in contemplation. Herrah lets out the most tired-sounding sigh in the world. Although Hornet doesn’t understand the situation, she can tell that they’re all becoming upset. Whatever it is, they might not even know what to do. That frightens the spiderling most of all: the adults in her life always seem to know what they’re doing. It’s trouble if there’s a problem that not even her mother could solve.

Hornet wholeheartedly believes that if she just stretches her mind out far enough, she’ll find Howl, and they’ll come if she calls them. All she gets for her trouble is a headache. It’s just like pulling a muscle. She buries her face in her plush toy and whines as Herrah rubs her back.

“We shouldn’t talk about this in front of her,” Herrah murmurs. “Lurien, I’ll leave her to you while I go look for Howl.”

“Wh—what makes you think I wouldn’t aid his Majesty?” Lurien splutters.

“Would you leave your tower?” asks Monomon. Lurien hesitates, then shakes his head. “Besides, very few bugs know of the Pure Vessel’s existence. We oughtn’t arouse suspicion. I’ve already put my scholar on the case, with the excuse of researching the local flora.”

“On the other hand, I’ve left Deepnest enough times that my public presence is no longer an oddity.” Herrah hands her child over to the reluctant Watcher. “This is one of the many reasons I choose to mingle with my subjects. I’ll never understand why you two limit who may speak with you.”

“It’s complicated.” Lurien’s embrace is unfamiliar, and lacks the confidence that Herrah has. He’s awkward with holding Hornet at first, but settles with cradling her like a recently-hatched grub. She’s past the age where she needs her neck supported like that, but she’s fine with it. His robe smells like the candles he always keeps lit.

“You can tell me all about it later.” Herrah reaches down to stroke Hornet’s cheek. “Be nice to the Watcher, little shadow.”

Hornet sticks out her tongue, and Herrah giggles for the first time all day. She watches as the two women leave, completely forgetting their teacups. Hornet makes a grab for one, and the liquid sloshes across the tabletop.

Lurien groans. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Chapter Text

At the highest point of the City of Tears, Howl stops and looks back. They think they’ve heard Hornet calling for them, but there’s no way she would be at a place like this. They’re at some kind of storage place or transportation area, loaded with barrels and chests. The bugs here keep their products dry, but only their products. The few that Howl has seen here are in full armor, and care more about patrolling than keeping themselves out of the rain. Some of them even have rusted armor, which is inconceivable to Howl. Ogrim has always stressed the importance of keeping one’s armor clean, which Howl always thought was ironic for a dung beetle to say.

Howl’s awkward height, along with their massive horns, makes it difficult for them to hide. They move through the area as quickly as they can, hoping that no one will spot the strange creature in a sodden day gown and nothing else. A soldier lets out a phlegm-y cough, allowing Howl to continue on unnoticed.

The winged bug continues to cough even after Howl leaves. They feel especially vulnerable without a nail in hand. Loathe as they are to use it, they are pragmatic enough to know that they’re going to have to defend themselves eventually. It’s dangerous outside the White Palace. Everywhere they go, they’ve seen at least a couple bugs who have an orange haze in their eyes. These ill bugs always keep their eyes trained on Howl in the same way, until they all seem like the same bug.

This is not the only thing that discomforts them. They are cold and wet, with no resting place in sight. This isn’t the familiar chill of the Void, but an indifferent shower of rain that leaves them chattering and shivering. Howl wraps their arms around themselves and pushes on, even when their legs start to hurt. They don’t know how long they’ve been walking and climbing, nor when exactly they reached the elevator. Their geography lessons with the Pale King come to mind. Above the City of Tears are the Crossroads, the final barrier between Hallownest and the surface. This is the farthest they have ever been from home, and there’s no one to help them if they become injured or tired. When they were still little enough, their father would carry them everywhere. Who would carry them now that they’re growing taller? What if no one finds them?

For the first time since they ran from the White Palace, Howl considers turning around and going back. They would have to go all the way back down the way they came, without being noticed. In their condition, it feels like such an insurmountable task that they almost drop to their knees.

Before anyone can see, they rush into the elevator and pull the lever. They’ve come so far, and nothing good will come of them returning home. Their Void is tainted . It killed bugs. Never again.

The elevator comes to a stop, and Howl steps out into a low cavern. It is quiet, and most importantly, dry. In the distance, they hear the sounds of activity. Like the City of Tears, but subdued. While they’re listening, a couple of thorn bugs and a katydid emerge from the gloom. They’re all headed towards the elevator and deep in conversation, but at the sight of Howl, they go quiet one by one.

“Is that...a child?” the katydid whispers to their fellows. The three of them look at each other nervously.

“Do you think—”

“No, they’re not sick. I think they’re just lost.” One of the thorn bugs steps forward and addresses Howl. “What are you doing by yourself, little one? You’re soaking wet.”

Howl feels their heart rate spike. When the thorn bug gets closer, Howl runs past them . They dodge the other two bugs, who reach out to catch them.

Hollow keeps going until they physically can’t take it anymore. They run through the nearest doorway, and flatten themselves against the wall. This parallels the exertion they went through in the Queen’s Gardens. Though this was not an intense journey, it was an incredibly long one. Their legs and chest hurt. They haven’t seen any other bugs around, so they finally allow themselves to sit down.

The wall is smooth and cold against their back. They turn around, and realize that they’re leaning against a latticed window. When they poke their head out the door, they see that the structure was hollowed out from some sort of shell. The protrusions coming from the roof look very much like a beast’s horns.

Further inside is a raised platform, leading to a doorway into what looks like an over-sized egg. The outer layers have been chipped away, leaving a pattern of whorls around the opening.

It’s a completely unremarkable structure, but Howl is drawn to it. They approach and put their hand to the outer shell, and are surprised at how much the texture reminds them of Void. It has such an effect on them that they decide to sit down and rest at this doorway.

Having the opportunity now to rest, they drawn their knees to their chest to hide their face in. The hem of their dress is filthy from running all over creation the way they have, and they smell like grime and sweat. They must look as terrible as they feel.

Time slows to a crawl. The bugs they disturbed haven’t followed them, and no one seems to have entered this place. They’re sure that the Crossroads were meant to be a place of commerce, a link between Hallownest and kingdoms beyond, so they did not expect to find a moment of peace. Strange as it is to be alone, they are grateful for it. They would not be able to burst into tears if someone else were present. Howl buries their face in their hands and sobs, though the only sound that comes from them is the faint whistle of air passing through their mandibles.

All Howl wants is to go home and go to bed, but there’s sure to be trouble if they do so. They’ll be in trouble for running away in the first place. That time in the City of Tears, when they left Herrah’s side, they got away with it because they had discovered a swarm of missing bugs. Now, there are no such excuses. There’s no good reason for them to cause trouble now. But causing trouble was the reason they came here in the first place. They’ve ruined everything. They can’t be the Pure Vessel anymore,

I’ve ruined everything, they think as they cry into their hands. I’ve ruined everything.

Chapter Text

Howl has their head against the entrance to the Temple. For the first time in ages, they dream about their sibling: the one they left to fall into the Abyss. Yet another bug Howl has failed. In their sleep, they reach out in search of the little Vessel. Howl tries to imagine them. They only come up with a blurry white shape: round shell, two horns similar to theirs, vacant black eyes, and a cloak like a fallen leaf. Try as they might, they can’t bring that image into focus.

No matter how hard they think, they can hardly remember. They only remember the sibling’s outstretched hand, the first and last time they saw them. They wonder if their sibling would’ve been the one to make it to the top first, had they not stopped to help. Another sacrifice for nothing. Howl doesn’t know if that little sibling was swallowed by the Abyssal sea, or if they made it out of Hallownest entirely. Either way, they don’t think they’ll see them again.

They’re not sure why they’re thinking about that little ghost-like sibling now. Maybe it’s because they’re sitting outside of an egg-like structure, which jogs their memory. Or they just have more time to think. The quiet here feels natural, unlike the carefully controlled environment of the White Palace. It brings them a sense of calm they didn’t realize they had been missing. The whole rest of the world makes them dizzy with panic. Hallownest is far too immense, and they are just one bug.

The exhaustion of trekking all the way to the edge of Hallownest catches up with them, and they fall asleep scrunched up on the ground. Their sleep is a restless one, with a hard floor under their body and no comforts of home around them. They awaken several times, confused and feeling for their usual nest mates, before dozing off again.

Eventually, their sleep deepens in a way that they’re not sure they want to wake up. It’s so nice to just sleep. They feel themselves sinking through the layers of the earth until they’ve reached the Abyss, and then they go even deeper. If they hadn’t been whisked away by the Pale King, they would’ve eventually returned to the sea and what lies beyond. In their dreams they fall head first through suffocating blackness and towards a speck of golden light.

Howl jolts awake with a sore neck and back. They look around wildly, gasping and panting, but it is not long before they are dragged back into sleep.

Fern had been trailing after the Pale King, who they were certain was in such a panic that he wouldn’t notice them. However, not even ten minutes after they started their pursuit, the Wyrm turned around and reached for their hand, as if he had always known they were there. Fern was too stunned to move, and ended up being lifted into his arms. They had completely forgotten that their sire was gifted with foresight.

The Pale King gives them a pained look, as if Fern’s presence bothers him. That is, at least, the impression Fern gets, and they are offended enough to kick at him. The Pale King simply holds them at arm’s length, and with their short legs, they have no choice but to quickly give up.

Satisfied, he holds them under his arm and keeps walking. “Have you any idea where your sibling has gone off to?”

Fern shakes their head. Shouldn’t he be the one who knows everything? That’s why they followed him; they thought he’d have answers, but it looks like he’s the most upset out of everyone. The knights in the Palace were shocked, but they held their composure. The Pale King’s tail lashes under his robes, and his wings have fanned out in alarm.

“Are you sure? Is there somewhere you think they would want to go? Something they want?” he asks, and Fern’s blood goes cold—a feat, considering how naturally chilly Vessels are. Only Fern and Hornet are aware that Howl is the same as them. Everyone else thinks they are empty. A walking husk. Fern’s time in the Palace has made them soft and careless.

As they contemplate, they realize they do know what Howl would want. To tell the Pale King would likely shatter their trust, but Fern will risk it. They are fully aware that their sibling has seen battle, but combat experience doesn’t translate into surviving alone. Howl definitely didn’t take anyone with them when they ran away, and they were in a poor state, so Fern is anxious for news of their safety.

Still, though, they are reluctant when they nod. Howl is going to be so upset with them. They’re so certain the Pale King will be upset at the revelation, but his demeanor doesn’t change. He looks just as worried and upset as before when he calls a servant over and asks them to bring writing materials and to prepare a stag.

“Write down where you think they have gone, and we shall go there at once,” the Pale King urges, handing the parchment and quill over. Fern feels like they are signing a devil’s contract when they start to write. They and their late siblings had always protected and hid each other from other bugs, no matter the cost. This feels tantamount to dragging one of their fellow Vessels out into the street and throwing them in front of a waiting crowd.

While the Pale King reads Fern’s scraggly handwriting, he directs his knights to search the Queen’s Gardens and Deepnest. Still others he sends into the capitol, and a handful of scouts he has search everywhere else. He is surprised by Fern’s own guess, but to the Vessel, it’s obvious. Where else in Hallownest would Howl be able to find a star?

Chapter Text

Howl tilts their head back, shocked and amazed by the firmament unfolded before them. There is no ceiling, only a vast, deep black-blue without an end. They never thought the world could be this open . One wrong step, and they could fall into the sky. Dizzied by the view, they stumble and fall to their knees. Their eyes remain fixated still on the pinpricks of light, too numerous to count. So those are stars. And outshining it all is a brilliant, golden sun.

This gives them pause. In their favorite book, there was a moon in the night sky. It wouldn’t have hurt to look at it. Howl shields their eyes and turns away. Just then, they hear a soft voice that seems to come from their own mind.

“Why turn away from it? Look closer. See how warm and bright it is,” the voice coaxes. Howl shakes their head. They’re more comfortable with the cool, heavy blanket of darkness. The touch of a hand on their shoulder makes them turn anyway, instinct telling them to check who was there.

They immediately feel silly. Of course it was just be their father. Howl goes to him as lightly as if they hadn’t just traversed the length of the kingdom. They think nothing of the golden dress they are wearing, unaware as they are that they are in a dream. The Pale King takes their hands and leads them to the balcony. Howl can’t remember the last time they’ve gotten to just sit quietly with him in their favorite spot, so they eagerly follow.

“If you wished to see the sun, you could have asked. I would take you anywhere you want,” the King tells them. “Or, if you’re tired, we could sit for a while. You look exhausted, poor thing.”

He reaches out and rubs their head, between their horns, and Howl can’t hide their smile. How lovely it is for him to dote on them! A sudden burst of euphoria blooms in their chest, and they throw their arms around him. He holds them close and rubs their back, and they feel all of their anxiety melt away. They could stay like this forever.

“Of course you can stay,” their father coos. “Stay here under the warm sunlight with me. I’ll take care of you.”

Howl thinks for a moment that his voice sounds different and his hands are softer than usual, but he is offering them the respite that they didn’t know they needed. They’re tired. They’re tired of pretending to be pure and trying to be the perfect knight for their kingdom. They bury their face deeper into the Pale King’s fluffy chest and exhale softly.

Except...the Pale King never had fur or fluff on his carapace.

And the Pale King had a much deeper voice when he spoke. He was also never that much bigger than them. Howl looks up at the creature embracing them. It’s a type of bug they’ve never seen before, with radiant white-gold fur and a crown of spikes on their head. Howl looks into their black, heart-shaped mask and sees a pair of blazing eyes leering down at them.

The creature, seeing that they’ve caught on to their deception, bursts into harsh, ugly laughter. Howl rears back in disgust, but the creature grips their arms and forces them onto their back. They kick and struggle and try to scream, but their throat is tightened up with fear.

The bug laughs as they twist Howl’s wrists. A sound escapes them this time, a high-pitched yelp that sounds like a stranger’s voice. It invigorates them, and they try again to cry for help. The Pale King is the strongest bug in the Kingdom, and would beat their assailant back easily. The White Lady’s roots are dexterous, and she would easily ensnare her opponent. Herrah is vicious and would fight anyone to protect the ones she cares about. And the Great Knights would surely come to their rescue, especially Ogrim and Isma, who are always at the Palace.

On its own, their mind produces horrifying images. Their mother, wilting and covered in pulsing boils. She stayed behind in the gardens to try to control the Infection there, but was it right for them to leave her behind? Could they have saved her? Her blue eyes have become a sickly orange, and they truly believe then that she is dead. And Herrah? Gone to check on her, only to suffer the same fate. They see Hornet fussing in the Midwife’s arms as the Weavers anxiously await their queen’s return.

NO ONE IS COMING FOR YOU, LITTLE ONE. WHY WOULD THEY COME FOR A FAILURE?

Howl throws their head back and tries to call for help again. The voice that comes out—their voice—is much younger than they would’ve expected from themselves. In their peripheral vision, they catch a glimpse of their father’s tail. They twist to the side and stare at him with pleading eyes. The light coming from him is so intense that they think they’re going to throw up.

Something hot and sharp presses against their stomach. Before Howl can turn to see what it is, they hear their abdomen crunch as something punctures it. This time they really do scream, and they keep going until their throat tears and hot blood fills their throat.

WHY WOULD HE COME BACK WHEN HE KNOWS YOU ARE IMPURE? BETTER FOR THAT VILE USURPER TO LEAVE YOU TO ME, SO HE MAY START ANEW. I BELIEVE WE ALREADY HAVE A SUITABLE REPLACEMENT, DO WE NOT?

The image of their young sibling comes into full focus, as if it had only been yesterday. They see the little one’s pronged horns, and those tiny hands that reached to help them out of the Abyss. Their inquisitive eyes are now blank and boiling with Infection, their once energetic body held limp by chains in a room as dark as their shared egg.

THERE ARE YET OTHERS…

Then there’s Fern, taller now, limp on the ground with empty eyes. Their head has been blown wide open, with nothing for their shade to cling onto. How did they become lost? Who was watching over them?

OR PERHAPS…

Hornet has grown. She leans heavily against her weapon and weeps gold in some corner of the Kingdom, long forgotten. She is older and there is no trace of her innocence or youthful vigor. The world, in turn, has given up on her.

Howl chokes on their vomit. With a burst of energy and Soul, they twist out of the bug’s grip and roll to the side so they can empty their stomach. Their hearing organs ring and ache in their shell. It sounds like the world is exploding.

Whatever impaled them is still in their carapace, so they can’t even crawl away. The huge, bright bug laughs and kicks them across the ground. Is the Pale King not here? Will he not take them away from this torment? He is stronger than any nightmare, and despite the blinding pain, Howl still believes he will come for them.

“No!” the bug rages. Her voice is not in their head anymore but outside of it, somewhere behind them and to the left. “I am still stronger than him! Have you not seen my strength? Do you not understand that I am the mightier god?”

The bug grabs the front of robes and hoists their body off the ground. Howl dangles listlessly while the bug screams in their face. YOU ARE NOTHING! YOU WERE BORN FROM NOTHING, CREATED BY THE HAD OF A FALSE GOD! HE IS NEITHER ENTITLED TO FAITH NOR WORSHIP.

But what Howl feels for the Pale King isn’t worship. It’s when he was patient towards Fern, no matter how defiant and temperamental they got. It’s when Hornet was born, and he was so careful in holding her. And it was when they first emerged from the Abyss, and the Pale King was waiting for them, as if he always knew they’d come.

When other bugs worship the Pale King, they treat him as though he were as untouchable and far away as the moon and stars. To Howl, he is just one of their favorite bugs.

If they can endure this, they’ll see him again. He would never leave them.

Chapter Text

The Radiance, the forgotten goddess, beholds the pathetic little creature that the Wyrm set against her. It is bigger than its siblings, which were as numerous as stars in the sky and impossible to infect. Still, she tried. She would find a way to kill them, just as she has been killing bugs unchecked for the past several years.

She has never interacted with one directly, and she must say that she doesn’t like the experience. It is hardier than a cockroach, and no matter how much she torments it, it won’t break. Merely looking upon it fills her with revulsion. To her, this vessel represents everything she hates, short of the Wyrm himself. For him to think that this scrawny thing could contain her shows how arrogant he really is.

With she seethes and hates, the vessel twitches on the ground. It is still alive despite being impaled, but it’s not like she can do anything else. Without her physical form, she is limited to tormenting its feeble mind. And she is already bored. There are other bugs who are fully open to her influence and do not disgust her to be around. She leaves Howl where they are and thinks little more of it, which she will regret later.

The departure of the Radiance gives Howl the lucidity to know that she has left them. The pain wracking their body is unlike anything they have ever experienced, but it is nothing compared to their terror. Whatever that thing was, she might come back. And her voice. It sounds familiar . Try as they might, they can’t remember where they heard it before.

They don’t open their eyes, because they might see her. They block out all sounds, because they might hear her. And they try to think of anything but her, because they want to forget about her as soon as possible. However, there is no ignoring their wounds.

Somehow, they find their way back to the waking world and their physical body. Though they bear no physical wounds, they are so sore that just sitting up is a trial. Looking behind them, the temple looks like a gaping maw ready to swallow them whole. They limp away from it and sit just outside the building again. There are pale ferns growing out here by the thousands, and running their hands along them brings some peace. They’ve got to calm themselves before they go home, or before someone finds them. It’s all over if someone who isn’t one of their siblings catches them crying.

Just as they’re thinking ‘it’s all over’, a pale glow shines across them like a flashlight. Appearing like a ghost from thin air is the Pale King, flanked by his royal knights and holding Fern’s hand. They are all clean, perfect, and shining under the King’s light. And then there is Howl, crouched on the ground like a discarded piece of paper.

They instinctively hold still, so as not to give the impression of emotion. The Pale King exchanges words with one of the knights. He motions for them to wait while he approaches. Howl shifts uncomfortably as the Pale King wipes their cheek with the hem of his sleeve. It comes away stained black.

Isma, who has picked up Fern, is the first to break the silence. “It’s crying.”

Howl touches their own face. Of course they are. Their heart sinks so far that it drops out of their chest entirely and goes into their stomach. Maybe it’ll dissolve in their stomach acid if they’re lucky. The other knights, unable to hold themselves back, break into concerned conversation. The Pale King takes a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Use this,” he says. While Howl is cleaning their face, the King checks them for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

Howl, practiced in deception, pretends they don’t hear him. The King sighs deeply. “You’ve had me fooled for a long time, but there’s no need to push yourself anymore. I already foresee that you’ve been hurt, and telling me where and how it happened will help me help you.”

He cups their chin while he speaks, gently guiding them to make eye contact but drawing his hand away when they rebuff him. It is the first time they’ve refused his touch. That simple action reveals everything. Now the Pale King knows their secret for sure.

The King turns back to the knights. “Make sure no one comes this way, and prepare a stag to take us back to the Palace. Dryya and Ze’mer, please check the integrity of the Temple.”

But Dryya, loyal to the Queen first and foremost, doesn’t immediately follow Ze’mer into the Temple. She stops just before the doorway and faces the King, poised and confident. “What are you going to tell Her Majesty?” she asks.

“One thing at a time, Dryya,” replies the Pale King, dragging a hand down his face. She leaves him then, clearly dissatisfied with his answer but in no authority to challenge him further. The Pale King helps Howl to their feet and leads them away. Anyone who could have discovered them has been shepherded away with some excuse or another.

They pass beneath a hole in the ceiling with a chain dangling down. Howl stops and looks up. There’s a draft coming from the hole in the ceiling. At the top, it is strangely dark and empty. Howl lets go of the Pale King’s hand and looks up at it. The King asks them to come back, but instead Howl climbs up the chain and comes out on the roof of the world. There is no ceiling above them. The air is wild and throws the skirt of their dress around their legs. Most mesmerizing of all are the thousands of pinpricks of light that glitter in what they believe is Void above their head.

T he Pale King ascends after them and looks up as well.

“Is this where you wanted to go?” he asks. It takes a good minute for Howl to remember that they can respond now. They don’t know if this is really what they wanted—all they could think was that they wanted to get away. So they shrug, and then they shiver. The moving air is fast and cold against their thin body.

“That is the wind you feel,” the King explains. “You will be warmer if we go back underground.”

Howl keeps their eyes fixed on the firmament above them until they are back under the ceiling and the little lights are gone.

Chapter Text

Howl is up late tonight, because tomorrow they go to Deepnest and they are too excited to sleep. With a blanket around their shoulders, they roam the halls of the Palace like a ghost. At the sight of any other bug, they dip into the shadows and behind the sprawling architecture and out of sight.

Word spreads quickly through the White Palace. Almost everyone here knows that Howl isn’t pure. Those who don’t know yet have an idea that something is wrong. Bugs have reacted differently to the news, based on how much they know about the Vessel Project. An unpleasant change is that now the retainers and servants have started to gossip, and they avoid Howl when they see them. It is unnerving to them that the quiet Vessel they have been serving is sentient, because they don’t look sentient.

Howl is still in the habit of picking up everything around them, because they couldn’t properly interact with bugs and places before. They find themselves overhearing things about themselves, and about the White Lady’s and the Pale King’s separation. They hadn’t paid attention to these things before and wish they hadn’t noticed it now.

Everyone is under the impression that the King and Queen have separated because of Howl. Howl’s behavior was so stunted and odd that the Queen couldn’t take it, so she left. Worst of all, these bugs are slippery enough to avoid getting caught by anyone who could put a stop to it.

Speaking of which, Howl hasn’t seen Ogrim or Isma in a while. Those two would usually be the ones training them, but Hegemol has taken over that task. If he’s not training them on the Palace grounds, he is walking them through the City of Tears, familiarizing them with the capitol in a way that all of Howl’s geography notes couldn’t accomplish. No one recognizes Howl as the Princette of Hallownest when they are with Hegemol: they are just an ordinary young knight on errands.

It is during one of these patrols of the city that Howl comes across the Watcher Knights on the fringes of a quarantined area.

“Hegemol.” The six knights quickly hurry over and bow to the Great Knight, who returns the gesture. They then notice Howl, armored and dragging their nail along like a toy.

“Young Knight,” one of them says with a nod. “Is he taking you into the infected areas?”

Howl doesn’t respond at first, not until Hegemol taps them on the shoulder. Howl flinches and quickly nods. The only bugs they are used to interacting with are their siblings, and obviously, neither of them are here.

“Be careful in there, and watch your posture. A knight must be ready to strike at all times,” says another knight. They all have names and distinct personalities, but as Howl has never seen them out of their armor, they can’t distinguish one from the other. Was it the same knight who spoke first, or the one who greeted Hegemol? It doesn’t occur to them to ask until long after Hegemol has led Howl past the barriers, and the Watcher Knights are gone.

Perhaps because Hegemol has had little contact with Howl in the past, he easily adapts to Howl’s change in nature. He talks, jokes, and tries to get Howl to respond. Howl is reticent at first. They are more used to Ogrim, whose prolonged absence worries them. However, after a couple of days, they find themselves looking forward to Hegemol’s training. He doesn’t just teach them how to wield a nail, but how to properly be a knight.

“It’s not just about strength,” says Hegemol on their second day of training. “It’s also about how to reassure the bugs you serve.”

He then leans in and lowers his voice. “And, keep it between the two of us, but your father hasn’t done a very good job of teaching you the latter.”

Howl isn’t sure if this is an insult to them, the Pale King, or both. Feeling insulted on his behalf, they shake their head vigorously. Hegemol just laughs at this: “Trust me: the sooner you learn that the adults in your life aren’t perfect, the better off you’ll be.”

That makes sense. Howl thinks about the times they’ve felt frustrated towards their father: they were jealous, of course, at how quickly he warmed up to Fern. But what else? Hegemol’s words trouble them. Are they supposed to find something to be annoyed about?

They think about this, too, during their late-night roam, but it’s too easy to justify everything the Pale King does. Thinking about it makes them want to see him, so they backtrack to the elevator and go up several flights of stairs to make it to the throne room.

They visited the throne room infrequently in their short life. When they were very small, and could not be left alone, the Pale King would sit with them on his lap while he spoke to his subjects. His speeches bored them to sleep, but they will never forget how his arm cradled them closer when their head started to loll.

The room is just as massive as they remember it, even though they’re taller now. The ceiling looks like the ribs of a great beast dressed with silk curtains. The sheer fabrics billow when they walk past, and they appear as a silhouette behind them.

Howl sees their father sitting at his throne. Ogrim knees before him, but looks as though he could rise to his feet at any moment. He makes grand gestures with his claws and talks animatedly. The tip of the Pale King’s tail twitches with irritation. The young Vessel hides behind the curtains and watches the conversation unfold.

“Then why not abandon the Vessel Project entirely? We know that they are affected by Her light. To subject them to that now would be cruel.”

“It is not that simple, Defender. They show no signs of Infection after exposure. They might be immune yet. We shouldn’t write off the idea completely.”

“They are a child, Sire!”

“You were fine with it before.” The Pale King puts his elbows on the arms of the throne and presses his fingertips together. “They were a child before you knew they were not hollow.”

“But...but the whole point of the Vessel Project was that a Vessel would not be aware of what was happening! That their mind would be empty! And you want to put an impure Vessel into the Temple?!” Ogrim explodes. “They’ll be damned, and the rest of Hallownest will follow!”

Howl gasps. It sounds like nothing more than a gust of wind, but the Pale King somehow hears it. He looks in their direction, and Howl slaps their hands over their mouth. He looks back at Ogrim and says, very quietly,

“If you’ve somehow come up with a better idea in your absence, speak now, or else leave.”

His tail lashes against the ground. Howl’s heart pounds against their chest furiously. Would their father resort to violence? Before they can find out, Ogrim abruptly stands and storms out of the room. He moves too quickly for them to get a good look at his face, but they smell something else on him besides the usual reek: soil? Fertilizer, or mulch?

The Pale King waits until he and Howl are alone before he speaks. “Come here, little one,” he says. They walk up the dais with a lump in their throat. “Sit.”

They kneel before him with their hands on their knees. He beckons them closer, and when they have obliged, he rests their head on his lap.

“How much did you hear?” he asks as he strokes their horns. Howl waves their hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “Hmm. Why are you not in bed?”

It takes Howl a while to remember. Then put their hands together, thumbs pressed inwards, and wiggle their remaining eight fingers.

“Spider? Ah—Deepnest. That’s right. Herrah requested your presence.” He makes it sound so boring. In her letter, Herrah said she wanted to get to know them better and find out the kind of things they liked. It’s going to be fun.

“Are you excited?” he asks. Howl nods. The King scratches them beneath the chin, which they enjoy immensely. They rub their face against his palm, and he chuckles lightly.

“I had no idea you were so affectionate. It must have been difficult for you to hide that.” He gazes into Howl’s eyes mournfully, looking and sounding ready to cry. “...I’m sorry.”

Even if Howl could speak, they wouldn’t know what to say. They’ve never begrudged their father for anything, even if other bugs expect them to. They don’t know what the right thing to feel is. It’s funny—they can openly express themselves now, but they have no idea how to do it.

“I am so, so sorry.” The Pale King puts one of his hands over his eyes and begins to shake. Howl’s heart drops. They can’t remember if they’ve ever seen him cry, but the sound is gut-wrenching. They don’t want him to cry and be upset, no matter what he did. Invigorated by their capability to act, they climb onto the King’s lap and pull his hand from his face. Before he can ask what they’re doing, Howl bonks their forehead against his. The Pale King would touch their forehead when they were sleeping, and Howl does it now in hopes that they can give him that same comfort.

“Child?!” The Pale King reels back with wide eyes and wings flared in surprise. Howl pitches forward and rubs the sleeve of their nightgown against his face. He splutters and holds them by the shoulders at arm’s length.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not used to you being so forward,” the King explains. “I am fine. I promise. I should be the one comforting you.”

He pulls them closer so that they are cradled on his lap. Howl has always been self-conscious about their height, but the Pale King has no problem holding him in all four arms. This time, they can finally hold him back. Being able to hug someone back is the best feeling in the world. When they visit Herrah, they’ll be able to hug her, too.

“If I had known from the beginning that you were not empty, I would have never put this Kingdom’s burden on your shoulders,” says the Pale King. Howl is content to stay quiet and listen to his voice. “If only I had realized sooner. The path to the Infection’s apex is fast approaching, and I’ve yet to Foresee a way to save us all without your sacrifice. You were our very last resort, I swear on that with my life.”

Howl wants to tell their father that he doesn’t need to justify himself to them. They’ve been by his side their entire life, after all, and they’ve seen enough to judge for themselves. Maybe the others will think it’s foolishness and blind devotion, but it’s something they’ve cultivated for themselves.

“By bringing you into this world for a specific purpose,” he continues, distracting them from their thoughts, “I’ve taken away your autonomy. I decided your future for you, thinking you were incapable of doing it yourself. I can see a future where I let you walk away from this, but…”

He trails off and lets that sink in. For the first time in their life, Howl thinks about a life without their father. Possibly without either of their parents, or siblings. One where they’ve started anew somewhere else, if anything truly exists outside of Hallownest. No, no. Howl shakes their head slowly. They don’t want to be alone.

“I should get you parchment and ink. Or teach you how to sign.” The King taps their shell between their eyes. “In spite of your mental and physical capabilities, you are still quite young. And it is time for you to go back to bed.”

He rises and carries Howl out of the throne room. They stay clinging to him the entire time, and it dawns on him just how young they still are. He has seen how they carry themselves in training, but without the mask of indifference, they are not that different from their younger siblings. Not only that, but under the assumption that they didn’t feel, he has severely neglected their emotional needs. If only he had more time than he did to make it up to them.

“We’re here,” he announces quietly, opening the door to the nursery. Howl exhales softly and nuzzles against his shoulder. They’re asleep, he realizes, and they don’t immediately let go when he lays them into bed next to Fern.

“You have to sleep in your own bed, child,” he whispers as he pries their arms off him. Next to them, Fern makes an odd little noise and rubs their eyes. The King puts a hand over his mouth and adjusts the blankets over the children. When Fern first came to them and he had to wake them up for their medicine, they would pitch a fit. He doesn’t want them to wake up now and start crying.

Babies, both of them, and what has he done? With a heavy heart, the Pale King leaves them both to sleep.

Chapter Text

Howl realizes, one day, that they could just visit Deepnest by themselves. They wouldn’t have thought of it themselves unless Fern planted the idea in their head. Their little sibling was feeling cooped up in the Palace. As vast as it is, it seems small to anyone who spends enough time in there. This was always a comfort to Howl, having such a familiar place.

Before they were revealed as impure, Howl wouldn’t leave the Palace unless specifically instructed to or sent away. This led to long stretches of time wandering the same halls or staring at the ceiling of the nursery. They never tired of it, but Fern is different. More adventurous.

Take me somewhere, Fern begs, tugging on their arm. They fill Howl’s mind with visions of outside the Palace: tunnels, forests of moss, underground streams they didn’t know were there. I’m bored!

This is something Howl has to deal with a lot. Fern almost always comes to them when they need something, never to their father or one of the royal knights. It’s like they’re the parent, here.

The idea of going out without supervision makes them nervous, but there is one place they can think of.

Deepnest? Howl suggests. It’s been a while, and Herrah has been wanting to see them. Fern agrees instantly, eager to go outside as they are. However, Howl senses some reticence. Fern is thick as thieves with their siblings, but is shy of Herrah—as they are with any parental figures in their life. Howl can’t relate to that, the psychic link the siblings share helps them understand and sometimes even feel it as their own. Fern’s emotions can get particularly strong, and they can work themselves up in a heartbeat.

When they start bobbing their head forward and backward, Howl kneels down to cup their face in their hands. It’s okay. Herrah likes you.

Fern jerks out of Howl’s hands and continues bobbing. A quick touch to the hands tells Howl that they’re doing this to calm themselves, so they just let them do it.

Why scared? they ask.

Because what if...what if she doesn’t like me after all, and leaves me alone? Fern asks. The two share a memory of the Abyss: cold, dark, with a single white light. Fern struggles through the shells of their deceased siblings in a desperate bid to reach it, but the glowing bug spreads its wings and flies to the top of the chasm, leaving them alone.

The memory is not unlike the one Howl had witnessed from a dying sibling, back when Fern was first discovered beneath the City of Tears. Their hands shake when they remember that sibling’s desperation, how they only got a moment with their father before succumbing to their injuries.

As the Infection worsens and more bugs fall ill, it’s easy for Howl to forget these important details. There are thousands of siblings who never made it out of the Abyss and into their parents’ arms. Dozens more, at the very least, who made it out but met their end some other way. Howl always knew this; their first steps had been taken on the shells of their departed elder siblings. Hallownest is sitting atop a mass grave.

Howl blocks these thoughts from Fern, and in fact decides to put them in a box to deal with later. They’re supposed to be the responsible ‘older’ sibling right now—except they’re pretty sure that they’re younger than Fern.

Their delay in responding worries Fern, who by this point has withdrawn into silence. Howl squeezes their hands to get their attention.

Everything will be just fine, they reassure Fern. Deepnest is a good place.

With Fern riding on their back, they leave the White Palace. With the Pale King busy, the only way Howl can inform him of their departure is to have a handwritten note delivered by one of the Palace guards. Leaving on their own, without asking anyone for permission, is as harrowing as facing off against an Infected bug. Fern has no such reserves and taps their hands against Howl’s shoulders in excitement when they pass through the front gates.

There are bugs on the bridge today: beetles and butterflies, all dressed in the finery of the City of Tears’ nobility. They’re all speaking to each other in hushed, worried tones, but when the children emerge, they all go silent and straighten their backs.

“Those are the princettes, no?” one butterfly asks another. To Howl and Fern, they say, “Good morning.”

Fern hides their face in Howl’s shoulder. Though similarly caught off guard, Howl dips into a curtsy. Murmurs of ‘so polite’ and ‘what quiet children’ follow the siblings as they depart for the Stag Station.

They were nice, Howl remarks. Their sibling is looking back at the nobles, who the guards are escorting through the gates. I wonder what they’re here for.

Boring adult things, Fern scoffs. Can we hike to Deepnest?

No, it’s too far. We’re going by stag. Howl feels bad for shutting them down, knowing that Fern works off their anxiety through physical activity. There’s plenty to do in Deepnest that’ll wear them out, though.

Even though there’s plenty of room on the stag’s saddle, Howl sits the smaller Vessel on their lap when they climb aboard. With how fast the stag is, Fern would fly off their back and get lost in the tunnels.

“Beast’s Den?” The stag’s deep voice vibrates beneath them. This station in particular was built so the Pale King could travel to and from Deepnest, back when he and Herrah were still negotiating their alliance.

Howl nods in affirmation, and the stag takes off.

Chapter Text

Hornet’s siblings are staying the night for a sleepover. It wasn’t quite what she wanted—it’s not the White Palace—but she remembers that of the three of them, she’s the most knowledgeable of Deepnest. That puts her in charge, even though she’s the youngest. With an air of self-importance, she leads her elder siblings through the village and introduces them to everyone she sees.

The Weavers are more or less familiar with Howl, who greets all of them with polite little bows and waves. Hornet can feel nervousness radiating off of them every time someone addresses them, and she chalks it up to shyness. Because she has been communicating with them all this time, the extent of their social inexperience flies over her head.

Fern lacks Howl’s grace. They prowl in the shadows of their siblings and click in alarm when anyone comes too close. Hornet can’t see why they’re scared. The dark, narrow tunnels make her feel safe. Apparently, that’s not the case for everyone.

Eventually, they sidle up to Hornet and grasp her hand. Isn’t there a monster here? Fern asks. It stole other siblings.

Howl, who had been examining a spool of silk, looks up in alarm. Hornet considers. There are a lot of monsters in Deepnest that her mother scares her with to keep her in the nest after bedtime. Some of her stories gave Hornet nightmares that followed her when she woke up. Lurking in every shadow could be a corpse creeper or a grub mimic waiting to pounce. Now all three of them look over their shoulders nervously.

“Uh…” Hornet drags Fern by the hand and Howl by the hem of their cloak, back out of the silk stores. “Let’s go! Let’s go play somewhere else.”

The siblings, still jumping at every shadow, choose the crowded Weaver’s workshop as their playground. They all agree that they’re too big for the nursery, and they don’t want to be there when the new egg sacs hatch, anyway. The Midwife might try to rope them into helping her.

“We’re doing very important work in here,” says a Weaver. “This is no place for children.”

But because none of them are inclined to weave, the workers set them up with hand looms and yarn. Hornet feels more than a little bad about it, realizing that the Weavers are trying to keep her out of the way rather than entertain her. That’s usually how it goes when her mother isn’t around. No one wants to talk or play with her. There’s always something more important.

Hornet wants to know what’s so important that everyone but her family is ignoring her. It must be the long, white curtains that the Weavers are working on, a dozen of them for each length of silk. The cloth glows faintly as they work, which means that they’re putting spells into it. Hornet drops what she’s doing and wanders over to take a look. Even at her tender age, she has started learning magic: very basic spells to make fabric glow or change color. What her elders are doing looks far more complicated.

Hornet raises her voice to be heard over the Weavers’ murmuring. “Wassat?”

The most patient among them actually answers: “This is a spell cloth for the Temple of the Black Egg.”

“Uhh…”

The Weaver clarifies, “They’re tapestries that will go in the Temple, where the Pure Vessel will be sealed.”

Hornet already knows that Howl will be ‘sealed’, but she doesn’t really understand the implications. No one has explained to her that once her sibling is put into the Temple, they’ll never come back out. All of them, even her own parents, think that she’s too young to understand. They all assume that the process won’t go awry and they can explain Howl’s sacrifice when she’s older.

Howl, hearing this exchange, lifts their head. They’re making good progress on their hand loom—they’re practically a natural—but they’re only a beginner and thus naturally intrigued by what their elders are up to. They scooch closer until they’re almost right next to a Weaver who is growing increasingly disgruntled by their presence. Hornet follows in Howl’s shadow and sneaks right under the cloth. It’s beautiful.

Hornet only catches a whiff of fear from Howl before they shut themselves off from her entirely. She whines, tugging at their cloak and demanding to be let back into their thoughts, but they’re a perfect statue.

And then, after several minutes, Howl turns to her and asks, I’m getting a new room?

Chapter Text

Herrah looks quite tired when Howl sees her. A meeting has just adjourned, and when the Devouts and Weavers leave the room, she slumps on her throne. The weight of it all is finally catching up to her. The minute details of Deepnest’s politics are forever a mystery to Howl, but they’ve grown good at reading people without even having to ask what’s wrong. So good, in fact, that they forget to great her. They bound right up to her with the hand loom they clumsily finished. It is the first piece of art they’ve made, and they’re sure it’ll cheer her up.

“Did you make this?” Herrah asks as she settles Howl on her lap. “I had no idea you were such an artist.”

Hornet comes over and assumes her place atop Herrah’s head, between her horns. She attaches herself to her mother like a brooch every time she sees her. Given Howl’s devotion to the Pale King, they completely understand her behavior. Even Fern cannot resist Herrah’s presence for long, and sits shyly next to her throne. Howl, however, only has eyes for the Beast Queen.

“I only wish that we had figured it out sooner,” Herrah continues. “I would have had you learn alongside Hornet. So young and she’s already so talented. If only she would show the same enthusiasm for the needle.”

Hornet contributes to the conversation by nibbling one of Herrah’s horns. Howl wonders if they had ever been like that as a baby. They have trouble remembering their earliest moments. Surely there had to have been something to clue the Pale King in on their true nature. All this time and no one noticed until they cracked. They don’t notice their shoulders have tensed until Herrah puts an arm around them.

“You seem upset. Is everything alright?” she asks gently. Howl shrugs and leans against her. They don’t know where to begin. Sometimes they feel paralyzed by the knowledge and memories they have. A truly empty Vessel would not have past disappointments and troubles to get upset over. These thoughts upset them less and less every day. They might still be able to fulfill their sacred duty as they are.

Howl reassures her with a nod and a path on the arm. She’s already stressed out; they don’t want to contribute to it. It’s also just too complicated to get into. They worry that if they started writing down how they felt or were somehow given words, they would never stop. Rehashing everything they feel would be exhausting, and putting it on paper would only solidify it as real. But is it better to have it be real, or something that only exists in their head?

They’re still puzzling over it when they retire for the night , and they find that for the first time in a long while, they want to be alone. While Hornet chirps and chitters and tries to capture Fern in her web, Howl hides under the covers with paper and a quill. It takes a tremendous effort not to spill their ink bottle on the covers when the other two start jumping around on the mattress, and even more of an effort not to snap at them.

It’s their first time writing something personal. All their previous works have been for tutoring, and they’re surprised at how different their writing looks when they’re describing how they feel. Like it has a life of its own.

Howl sucks on the end of their quill. They’d been hesitant about writing down their thoughts earlier, but doing it now feels like a weight has been lifted from their shoulders. They take the tufted end from their mouth and set the nib to a new sheet: Dear Father…