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He turned the key once again, winding it till he feels resistance, and white claws let go.
A silvery box is opened up, revealing a small mirror and room for a few small trinkets. In its own little corner of the container, a small music box begins to play. Gently, it's tines twitch against the brass barrel rotating, producing a singular let sweet lullaby. The notes were short, but still meaningful as the song rotates. He watches the song continue to play, listening in silence until at last the music dies down.
The Pale King gently closes the box, then placing his hands behind his back, leaves his Queen's room.
Hallownest's monarch, their king, hidden away from the world deep within a dream version of his White Palace, alone. The retainers there were mere illusions conjured up to fill space of what was. A few of his creations patrolled the halls, the Kingsmoulds on guard and the Wingmoulds surveying for any intruders to this secret realm. Only he was real, silently walking the halls he could imagine before they dissolve behind him, bypassing his maze of traps.
Yet one thing he could not seem to let go was the Queen's room below the throne room.
Again, he finds himself later returning to the room. He stares inside, at the empty chair he would witness his wife rest in, staring down at the cradle, empty of any offspring she had hope to nurture. He had his reasons for denying her this need, reasons the vessels were created and discarded till one was finally found, raised and trained to perfection. Now it stands watch within the Black Egg Temple, containing the infection. So why was he in here of all places?
Failure.
His Pure Vessel was not so pure as he anticipated, and he'd never admit his mistake. He couldn't, not how he trained the knight, watch it grow in stature and strength. The moments the king would share with the vessel alone, where he could imagine the fate of the kingdom wasn't at sake, that the vessel was not a tool or weapon, but a living creature to call his own. His own child, even.
Yet the Pale King failed. Nothing he tried worked in the end, and stricken with the realization his kingdom would possibly disown him, discard him maybe, tear him apart and call him a false king, it frighten him and so the wyrm locked himself away in a dream so he could feel safe from his mistakes.
The king enters the room again, turning the key on the music box till it's round tight and opens the lid again, hearing the soft melody play.
Such a tiny item, whatever trinkets his wife once kept within had long since been taken away. It never crossed his mind why the music box was forgotten, only the sweet melody enough to drown our his eternal silent domain. Of course there was the maze, an elaborate construction of metal wheels with teeth, humming with anticipation for any who trespassed into this precious, perfect... prison of his.
Yes, his prison, his cage, his coffin.
As the metal tines pricked against the keys, each note just as gentle as the last, it allowed the pale monarch to reflect. A plan, on top of more failed plans, in hopes by sealing himself away in this dream bubble, he could hope to lure out the Old Light and finish her off at last. A plan he saw and thought flawless this time, as it was no secret the moth goddess's seething hatred for the wyrm. Now in her domain, surely she would come for him now?
A failed plan, all because she never came, and she damn well knew it.
The Pale King felt his jaw clench at the sensation of memory pricking inside the confides of his private mind. The Radiance wasn't stupid, she knew a trap when she saw one. Instead, it would seem she elected to rather be absent from his waiting jaws of power, as gaping as the corpse of his previous form, waiting for a strike that will never come. She must be giddy with delight in watching the wyrm suffer in silence, trapped within the walls of his dream palace with only shadows for company and a sterile sensation, lacking in tastes and smells. It would drive any mortal bug insane from such lack of sensory. The Pale King took a long while to reach similar results.
A deep growl manages to escape from his thin throat and without meaning to, the king slams his clawed hand against the lid of the music box, silencing the melody of his wife's, his beloved Root's, song. The hand quivers all but a moment before he forces a breath of air to escape from his middle, returning to his royal composure and turns to leave the room once again. He won't let the Old Light win, not like this. Surely, he could out wait her? Patience was key to winning this fight even if it seems like a hopeless endeavor.
Traversing through the halls, he would be greeted with silence once again, the mechanical nightmare of his concoction turned off for the time being to make adjustments to the path at a later time. All that he could hear now was the faint rustling of the silvery flora that grew without reprieve against the mild cool wind. His Lady's absence even in the dream realm allowed the plants to take on wild masses, adding to a eerily semi-abandon appearance to the White Palace.
Even his footsteps were far too silent to his liking, but the Pale King always had strides barely audible to mortal hearing. If he desired so much, a heavier stamp of a foot might offer a whisper of a muffled sound and soon he finds himself pressing hard with each step, filling his hearing with the muted taps of his feet. Anything to break the silence nibbling away in secret to his sanity even if it mean walking harder and further aching his joints just for a meager pattering of sound.
It would be some unknown time later of aimless wanderings to clear his head and adjustments to his traps before the Pale King stepped foot inside The Queen's Room yet again.
Once more, his vision immediately rests upon the small music box, and again approaches silently. White claws tenderly crank the key, winding it till it held some resistance against another rotation. The king opens the box, releasing a gentle sigh from his shell as the sweet gentle melody trickles back into his consciousness. He rests both hands on the shelf, leaning forward to listen closer as if trying to burn the song into his being. How many times has he heard his wife hum this song? Something that came from her being, her own godhood from a time long forgotten by any creature, be bug or living wyrm, would remember. A melody as old as the tree spirit herself. The same melody that drew the Pale Wyrm to her to start with.
It haunted him then as it haunts him now. The notes of the song wrapping his body with invisible vines and threads, leashing him like a pet for that intoxicating affection, that devotion and loyalty the likes of which he thought no other wyrm or dragon could feel. In a doomed effort, the king tries in vain to inhale that sweet earthy aroma that once lingered in this very room. It should of smelled of old growth forests, of their sickly sweet sap, the dew from a morning fog, things he once saw, once felt, in another more bestial life.
Now only sterile, scentless air filtered through his nostrils and he allows another growl to escape his throat. It would seem they would repeat his last frustrations, slam the box lid down and leave to mull over possible failed plans or make more adjustments to his layer of traps. Instead, the monarch reaches for the box, turning the key again and proceeds to play the melody again.
The Pale King turns around, his back to the music box while his vision stares upon the empty chair and cradle. A slow, deep breath enters into his small body and finds himself concentrating, watching as spheres of essence and dream materialized before the king, clumping and shaping together till a familiar shape of a figure sat before him. It was his dream bubble after all..
His hands clamped onto each other as his envision of The White Lady appears before him, sitting contently in her chair, staring down at the empty cradle. Her form was elegant, graceful, shrouded in deep blue robes and bindings as beautiful as her eyes. The hems decorated in white silvery embroidery mimicking swaying vines with leaves that intertwined in a delicate pattern.
"My... Root.." Whispered the wyrm.
The vision of the Queen leans upwards, staring at him with those dark blue eyes, full of hope and faith in him just as he remembered her. She smiles back before returning to her empty gaze towards the cradle.
"To think my Beloved... a little one of our own to love and cherish. The Palace would come to life with their laughter, their joy. Such sweet memories we could share time and time again. Would you give me this gift, my Wyrm? Give us a chance to be truly happy?" Her words felt empty, merely reciting conversations the king once knew in the past and it pained him from reliving them once again.
"You know we can not... There's no room in this kingdom for an heir we are likely to outlive. Nor could we hope to look after one too vulnerable from the infection..." He whispers, reciting his own conversation he once had, though it pained him deep down for repeating this long ago memory.
The White Lady releases a sigh, her gaze on the empty cradle unwavering as she reaches with one unbound hand to gently rock it. Hopes and dreams, dashed away from the storm of uncertainty. Even if the infection didn't exist, the king had no interests in siring something that would never fully gain the same powers as he or his wife's. A demi-god at best, possibly still mortal with merely an extended lifespan. Still too short for the lifespans of the Pale King and the White Lady. No parent should have to be burdened with burying their child.
"Is the Vessel not our child, still?"
"It's merely the form of one that could have been, but serves to protect Hallownest..."
"Do you love it all the same?" The White Lady suddenly asks, peering back up to stare at the king.
The Pale King stiffens, this wasn't part of the memory. He stands still, the memory of his wife taking on a more concern but serious appearance in her face, staring not just at him, but through him.
"Do you love the Hollow Knight?" She presses.
"I..." He staggers, what sort of scheme was this? Memories do not warp and change, not in his mind. Yet here it plays out as if this conversation had always been held, feeling invisible threads start to pierce through his shell.
"No.."
"Yes.. you did! You loved them and you doomed us all! This is all your fault Wyrm! That's why you're hiding. This isn't a plan to lure the Old Light out to meet you in combat. You're here because you are ashamed of yourself!" The White Lady snaps, looming over the King, a mere tiny creature before a giant of great power.
He backs away, unable to process what was going on. His wife would never shout at him, raise her voice like this. Sure they had small couple squabbles in the far past but nothing of this caliber. It was as if it wasn't really her at all, instead it was more like...
"Coward! You're a coward! Admit it Pale Wyrm! You were born a coward unable to take on your siblings in combat and so you ran and now here you are running away again from something you are weak against! Hiding in your eggshell of dreams!"
The king raised his hands, the tips of his claws glowing bright white as he focuses Soul into them.
"Stop."
"Coward! Coward! You're a coward!"
"I said... STOP!"
With a hard flick of his wrists, the monarch fires off a pair of daggers comprised of his own Soul energy, launching them into the image of the White Lady. A look of disappointment was the last thing she held before the daggers cut through the mirage, causing the illusion to disappear back into the dream essence. The king takes a few short, shaky breaths to calm himself down. The words stung, staying with him in a echo of his mind.
The music box finally finishes its song and with it, the Pale King makes his leave from the room once again.
He had to clear his head, had to find some solace, anything to make himself feel better and focused back on preparations to fight The Radiance upon her arrival. He'd wait, oh he would wait all of eternity if he must to fight her. There was no means to escape this dream world, not while he still breathed.
The Pale King would eventually find his way up on a mimicry of his favorite overlook balcony. With a deep sigh of relief, he takes to staring out into the dream world's edge, barely mimicking his wife's deeper roots swaying in the breeze in the distance. It's quiet up here, and at last and alone, he feels safe. The king watches the illusion continue, he could if he wanted to, squint his eyes enough to pretend the edge of the bubble wasn't there, that what was beyond was the vast cavernous network of the Ancient Basin, areas cut through by his own handiwork in Wyrm form during the events in which he claims this territory for his own, to change it from mere dark and damp caverns for some savage bug to swell into sprawling settlements, marvels of engineering. Life in a form of elevation of the mind, a world bugs could only dream of made real.
It takes him far to long to realize his hand was being held.
With a small jerk of his head upwards, he turns just fast enough to catch his heart from leaping out of his throat. The Pure Vessel.. or at least what they once appear to him as a small, child-like appearance, stood next to him, still holding his hand. Never in all its existence once reached for such affection, never told to do so or allowed in the first place. Nobody say for the Queen, was allowed to touch the King. Yet, for all those rules and demands, the Pale King finds himself unable to pull away, at least at first.
"What are you doing?" He asks, as if the vessel could speak back. No it shouldn't, it was made that way. Obey and listen.
The child vessel does not waver from staring off, hand still clutching the king's hand as a normal child would when afraid, not wanting to let go for the sake of comfort. The Pale King knew this was an illusion yet again, though one possibly formed from the back consciousness of his own mind. However, the biggest question was simple.
Why?
Finally, as if taking a moment to process the question, the young vessel turns to finally meet its empty gaze into the king's. He felt his heart attempt a second run to escape out of him, to which he forces himself to clear his throat, to calm down and compose himself. It's fake, an illusion, a conjuring from his own mind brought on by remaining in the Dream World. He could do anything he pleases to this false vessel. Destroy it, send it away with a wave of his hand, fire more Soul daggers into its being till nothing but dream essence remain in the air. In fact, the king feels his free hand slowly rising, hand flexing his claws inward, intending to dismiss this illusion with a simple swipe.
Instead, he's frozen in place as the vessel lets go of his hand at last, only to turn to face him finally and stare up in silence. What did the illusion want of him? What did... he, want of it?
Two tiny black arms hold out from beneath their cloak, waiting as they stare at their king, their father, desiring nothing more than a simple hug. Or perhaps, in truth, the Pale King wished to hug it back.
No, no this was not right! He can't give in, not even to an illusion his mind decided to conjure up. He was better than this, he was king! A king has no time for such little fantasies, not when he had better things to attend to, a kingdom he was trying to save. He feels his jaws clench, pain rubbing into his head as he lifts his hand up.
"Begone shadow!" He shouts, slipping forth a snarl and swipes his hand across the vessel.
The vessel does not move, still holding their arms up in waiting as the claws come for its mask. They swipe through, smearing the image before it goes solid white, disappearing into orbs of essence. Once the illusion was completely no more, does the wyrm release a held breath he didn't know he had withdrawn. Turning back to the edge of his balcony, he reaches with both hands to grasp the banister, hunching over to collect his thoughts all the while fighting against something stinging his vision and forcing his jaw clenched. Over and over again, he whispers to himself, just an illusion. It wasn't real. The vessel was fully grown, locked away with the infection to hold it back best it can till the Radiance could be defeated for good the moment she decides to humor herself and peek into this dream vision of the White Palace, only to find an angry and poised Wyrm ready to attack back.
Yet the image of it, so small, so innocent in appearance. It brought something deep from within the king's shell and shudders with a shaky breath. His attention turns to the balcony, staring at it as if the world was about to collapse and this location was the final spot of solace. A precious memory, of him starring off into the world with the vessel by his side, only for him to turn to face it, and they back to him forever tampered by a secret bond formed in that moment. Now it only brought him pain. Yes, that was what he felt in his chest... pain from the conjuring of memories. He draws up one hand, pressing it against his chest, feeling his brand through the delicate fabric robes.
Too precious this location, one he did not want intruders to recall what secret and sacred memories laid upon this balcony. The Pale King tries to calm himself down, and with his hand, waves about the area. Silvery vines lined with deadly thorns slithered and snaked their way in, wrapping around in areas not meant to be traveled. He continues to conjure up the area with his magic until he felt it was enough.
It was never enough.
From the ledge, the pain still ate at his core, and the Pale King falls downward, wings outstretched to slow his descent. His magic still strong, he pulls what essence he can, even so much as the pain from his own will, and a horrible path he creates. If anyone was determined to seek his secrets, this would be their test as his machines and traps came to life to his command. Spears shooting upwards, thorn vines grew in massive clumps, sticking to anything in their grip, Wingsmoulds hovering in places only the skilled could use. The wheels of teeth.. his sawblades, appearing to his command, turning a normally peaceful ascent towards his balcony from the outside into a deadly maze to test only the brave, those seeking the same goals as him to know the deepest, most cherished secrets. A pair of Kingsmoulds to guard the entrance to his cherished secrets.
His Path of Pain.
At last his feet land on the edge of the bottom and the king turns back to marvel at his creation. The saw blades already screeching loud, rotating back and forth on metal paths or held in place, a deadly maze only the most determined could hope to claim victory at the top. Feeling all was set in place, the Pale King turns to his right, holding a hand up.
More essence to change and warp the surrounding area to his whim, and forms a tablet to warn any who dare challenge themselves should they enter this bubble of dream.
"To witness secrets sealed one must endure the harshest punishment..." He reads aloud, and folds his hands together, sealing the Path of Pain to the White Palace eternally.
Satisfied in his work after untold hours of waiting for his fate, the Pale King returns back into the palace... and ends up going back into the Queen's room.
The Pale King stood just outside the entrance, staring into the room in silence. Was it worth going back in? His mind ponders back on the last few visits, and wonders deep down why he suddenly formed this happen of entering in, only to come out feeling more disappointed than before? What drew him into this place time and time again? The king felt his jaw clench once again and forces himself to breath out, trying to find some logical explanation to his strange behavioral change.
He finds himself entering the room once again and at this point could walk in blindfolded his feet lead right to the same location as before.
His hands reach for the left open music box, claws scraping along the edges so delicately as if he wasn't touching anything at all. For a moment he questions himself if he should wind the key, play the melody that leashed him to this room, an invisible master beckoning its pet dragon to return home. Claws now begin to tremble, wavering on the edge of mindlessly listening to the music box and wanting to throw the thing across the room, destroy it in some shape or form and rid this invisible leash from his mind.
The key is gently wound till it can turn no more and once the lid is reopened, the melody plays just as softly as it always has.
The Pale King could only lean back, releasing a pent up sigh from his middle, eyes half lidded as he gives into the melody's haunting notes. Hands tremble as he draws them into the sleeves of his robes, watching the brass drum rotate and prick at each tine, the melody dancing into the air. He turns towards the empty chair beside the cradle and with his head hung slightly with shoulders slump, the king approaches from behind. He raises a hand, resting it to the backrest of the chair, feeling the craftsmanship that went into the seat even though this was all just an illusion.
Still, it was tangible for him to feel, drag his claws so gently across as he steps around, his hand now tracing over the indentation of his wife's image on the backrest. The hand slides down till at last it rests upon the seat. Fingers twitch, claws curling in to the touch and the king finds himself shuddering a long held breath. Something stirred within his chest, enough to feel a flutter that caught him off-guard. What was this sensation and... why did it hurt him from the inside out?
Despite his smaller size, the Pale King doesn't give himself a second to doubt his actions before climbing into the seat, tail curled to one side as he gets comfortable. He sits there at first, head hung slightly with his shoulders still slack, no longer in that regal position. Turning to face the empty cradle, he stares at it, not allowing his mind a chance to allow logic and rational thoughts to flourish in the small moment. His left hand reaches out, claws curling around the edge of the cradle. It would of been easy, to tear apart this room, to destroy the image and bury it in darkness forever. Yet the pain in his chest wouldn't go away, not even as the king gently begins to rock the cradle, pressing back and forth till he finds a rhythmic pattern. His other hand tucked between the folds of his robe in his lap.
It was just the King and his lullaby, swaying back and forth to a gentle sway.
Something stirs from within the Pale King, a sound he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. His mind, now clouded between focusing on the music and the persistent swaying with his hand, couldn't register what exactly this new cue was. It didn't sound threatening, if anything it was quite the opposite. If the king takes in a breath, the sound pauses only to pick right back up. At last his logical self finally catches up to determine what the sound was exactly and with it, brought in a sense of comfort at last.
The Pale King continues to hum alongside the melody, allowing the tone of his voice to carry just as softly as the music box till the pair were in sync. He imagines for a moment the tines of metal replaced with the soft hums of his beloved Queen, and the two of them humming the sweet melody together as one, him having never attempted singing or even humming to start with.
Time slips past the Pale King, between the hypnotic tones of the music box and his own deep hums beneath his shell, that it lulls him into a comforting darkness. Eyes grew heavy, the steady rocking slows till at last he submits his stubbornness away and yields to a dreamless sleep. His breathing is steady, as if finally able to leak out his worries and doubts with each exhale, drawing in only the sterile nothingness of the dream world as if trying to cleanse his insides as he slept.
Coward...
The whisper felt like ice so close that it alone snaps the monarch from his tiny moment of solitude and peace.
He leans up, finding his hand having release its hold to the cradle and looks around. At once his senses prick up, feeling his hands tense up. She was here at last, she had to be...
The Pale King slides off the chair, staring out the entrance, flexing his claws in anticipation. Dark eyes focus on the door, tensing his body up. Tail twitches in agitation under his robes, and he feels his own heart pick up pace, everything poise to attack. The palace fell silent say for the constant hum of the trap maze of his in the distance, offering no difference that it was being attacked or traversed.
"Reveal yourself!" He shouts, tiring of waiting for that god to burst through the door. If he must fight in the Queen's room, so be it.
Instead, he stands helpless as he watches the silvery vines sway back and forth from a wind that wasn't there. The room felt colder now, the lanterns dulling in light till it barely held a bluish glow. Something wasn't right. He could sense it but could not trace it back to the moth Goddess. Glancing side to side, the monarch stiffen as he watches a great shadow rise from below his feet, stretching over the marble floor into a great mass. It wasn't the Radiance looming behind him...
He whips around and his blood felt like shooting needles racing and piercing through every inch of him as he stands wide-eyed. Looming before the Pale King, stands the White Lady, staring him down yet again, aggression in her eyes.
"Coward..." She whispers with a hiss, her great branches and roots twist and turn about like vile snakes, each one ready to strike into the king.
"Nn..No. I'm not... You're not real! My Beloved Root would never say..." He tries to fight past the illusion.
"Coward! Weakling! Runt of a serpent!"
Her words was as strong as poison tipped spears, thrown into his core and bleeding out his mental strain.
"I'm not!"
"Pathetic excuse for a king! You'll never amount to anything Wyrm! You are a.."
"Don't say it!" The Pale King shouts, feeling something stir from within him, something he thought died with his old form.
"FAILURE!"
At once the image of his wife goes black, say for her eyes, two glowing white beacons of light staring the king down before her roots and branches snap to attack. The Pale King leaps out of the way, falling to the floor before scrambling to get back up. His claws and feet slip against the polished marble, and lets out a feral sounding yowl as a shadow root grabs at a section of his robes. He pulls back, hearing the fabric rip and shred in his leap for freedom. With his robes in tatters, the king scrambles out the door and into the hallway, barely glancing back to see the black tendrils continue to follow close behind.
Unable to calm his mind to dismiss the illusions, the Pale King runs through the empty halls, only to witness more shadows rise up, taking forms of those he knew. Knights, servants, good people from the city. All black shadows with glowing white eyes, following behind the wyrm all the while he scrambles to make it to the one location he felt safest the most; the Throne Room. It felt as if the whole palace could be swallowed in this darkness, the Pale King having mere seconds to enter the royal room and slam the doors shut. Using his magic, he proceeds to lock it place and at last he lets out a sigh of relief.
His heart still proceeds to race even as he approaches his throne. At last he was surrounded by sweet silence. The king pauses to examine the strips of silken fabric trailing behind him. He was no tailor and there was doubt he could summon a weaver to repair the damage, not in this dream bubble of a cage. Letting out a displeased groan, he decides to shrug off the damage as remnants of battle from the Old Light if he ever makes it out victoriously.
The Pale King steps before the throne, eyeing it closely. How many times has he sat in this very chair, how many pleas and reports placed before him, unable to come up with a solid solution to tell his loyal subjects and ease their minds of the terrible plague that day by day ravaged through his kingdom? It was tiresome, heavy on both his heart and soul. Even now, he feels the shadows outside trying to get in, pry deep into his most deepest secrets and rip him apart shred by shred. A hand reaches out for the arm rest, his intentions on merely taking a seat to rest his still fluttering heart.
He tenses the moment he senses something behind him. A shadow looms before him and he recognizes the shape of the horns casting a shadow over the backrest of his throne. No... no it couldn't be. There was no way it could be...
The king turns around, and freezes in place as his mask comes mere inches away from that of his 'shadow', his grand plan... his Pure Vessel, the Hollow Knight.
Standing tall above him, the vessel leers downward to face their maker with those soulless, empty eyes. Appearing as they did shortly before their sealing away, it was an image that struck the Pale King to his core. He finds his whole body shaking, trembling even to the tips of his claws. Illusion or not, it was quite an intimidating sight. His breathing hitches, and the king finds himself backing away from the false vessel until the edge of the throne forces him to sit upon it. With nowhere to run, the king felt so small, so weak and unable to break out of this instinctual need of self-preservation. He felt cornered, half his mind screaming to break free and attack, that this was not the Pure Vessel, just an illusion conjured up from his memories.
The other half of his mind held fast, staring down as the vessel moves in closer, silent as always like a specter seeking the King to steal his soul into the afterlife. It waited, the void in their eye sockets feathering alongside the edges, as if seeking something from the wyrm. The stinging from before pricks into the king's vision and at last he is unable to hold back, feeling the small streams of tears finally push their way through down the sides of his cheeks. The Pure Vessel does nothing, merely stares and waits, never reacting to the small scene.
The Pale King had to do something, and at last he feels his heart give in to the feelings that had been suppressed for so long. He reaches with one hand, hovering next to the vessel's mask, trembling in the air as if debating on touching the side of that face. Breathing felt harder, unable to swallow down anything as the king attempts to speak.
"I.. My Pure.. Vessel. My Hollow Knight... " The king pauses, forcing himself to swallow down his now panicked mind.
"Please... f-forgive me. I only wanted.. w-what's good.. f-for the kingdom. I don't hate you.. please, I'm s-s-sorry."
The Pure Vessel remains unmoving, still starring at the Pale King, maybe even through him into his very soul. His hand continues to tremble, so close the tips of his claws could start scratching the side of the vessel's mask and yet they remained still as a statue, waiting patiently for that touch it clearly longed for.
Instead, the king moves his hand away, afraid to touch even a illusion of his vessel, his child.
A move that costs him dearly.
It comes swiftly not even the Pale King prepared for. His wrist becomes engulfed in a mass of black chitin and claws, gripping him roughly before he's hauled up into the air, the vessel now standing tall with the king dangling from their grip. The king could only let loose a painful whimper, forced to stare the vessel in the eyes again. In one quick motion, the vessel swings their arm around, sending the wyrm flying to the stone floor with a heavy thud to his back. He cries out, only to freeze in place.
The shadows were back, somehow slipped through the locked doors and surround him, all black as the void with bright white eyes.
Coward, they chant, forcing the king to huddle against the floor. He looks to his vessel, seeing it joining the others as a shadow of its form, only now he watches as a crack forms down their mask, ending at one of their eye sockets with the crack glowing bright white.
Coward!
Coward!
Coward! You're forever a coward!
Overcome by the shadows bearing down on him, the Pale King's fears and doubts finally take him, and he curls up on the floor, hands over his face in some pitiful attempt to hide his shame.
"It would of been so much easier if you remained a great wandering beast. Now look at you, curled up like some pathetic little grub with no one to come save you. How demorally you've come to this, your great plan was nothing more than a failed endeavor from the beginning. You thought you could rule this kingdom flawlessly, adapt and become one of these bugs that look up to you like they did to her. Now all that remains to your name is a dead kingdom and a corpse of what you should have remained as... You're no bug, Wyrm.. you were born a beast and you'll die again as one."
The Pale King shudders a breath, eyes teary but wide when he hears that voice. Slowly, he unfurls, looking up at the origin of that voice just so his body felt like dying again.
Standing before him, looking down with disdain in his eyes... was himself. His own reflection as an illusion amongst the shadows, only this version of himself was projected in distortion, what the Pale King saw himself as what he thought his kingdom possibly saw him as now.
The creature stood nearly as tall as the Pure Vessel, his crown of horns each spiraling like twisted thorns, the ends stained with void black. Instead of six beautiful shimmering wings, the copy bore blacken stained six dragon wings, outstretched with holes and scars on the membrane of skin. His tail was much longer, heavily armored with a deadly sickle attached at the end, scraping the floor with each lazy twitch. Instead of one pair of arms, there were two, and each hand bore scythe like claws, long and posed to snatch up the real king like an eagle to a fish.
Yet perhaps the worst of this twisted image of the king, was the jagged maw across his face, mimicking that to a certain Nightmare King. Even the robes were tattered and stained in black blotches of Void, representing the sins embedded into him and embraced. The moment the Pale King gazes upon his nightmarish copy, the creature merely laughs, maw opening with those razor sharp teeth, even so much as to let out a inky void black forked tongue.
"You're not real! None of you are! Begone and leave me in peace!" The king tries to shout back, getting up at least on his hands and knees.
"Oh but we are, we're all real to you! We're everything you failed to save, even yourself! No one will come to rescue you, this kingdom is dead! Die with it Wyrm, die with it and accept your sins!" The copy hisses back, stepping closer.
"No! No I won't give up! I'm not you!"
"Yet here we stand, looking down at some helpless little runt who thought he could take on the sun herself and proclaims to be a god and king! You've become your own Prometheus, Wyrm. Give up already, it's over. You lost."
The Pale King felt more tears trickle down his face. His mind playing a cruel and horrible trick on him like this, bringing forth everything negative he thought of himself, what he believed others thought of him. It weigh so heavily now, he could only lower himself to the floor, shuddering in his breath.
"No... No cost to great. No, cost to great... No cost to great...I can still save them. I can.. I must... I have to..." He mutters, his rational mind weakened so much, now the ancient wyrm instincts long thought dead with the rest of its old body break through, asserting itself back into the king's mind for the moment.
At once he feels his instincts kick up, feeling cornered like a wild animal all the while the shadows of faces and images continue to taunt him endlessly, chanting words he once told himself in his ancient youth before learning to grow and overcome those early years. His heart was a pounding drum, yet failing to drown those chants. Eyes slam shut at first, his mind clouded from judgement and animal instinct pours in, an effort to save himself from his own mental nightmare he created.
"It cost you everything, and now it will cost you your life!"
The shadows move in closer and finally, the wyrm couldn't take it anymore.
At once, he lashes out, intending to claw at the monster copy Pale King. Something catches his attention from the corner of his vision instead, interpreting as the monster attacking back. If he was of rational mind, the king would of summon forth his Soul-summoned nail or even flying daggers. Instead, the ancient wyrm instincts tell him to go for a more primal attack.
Open jaws under his mask met with something hard, and he bites down with a furious growl, only to hitch up in pain. Whatever he was attacking, it was attacking back and each press of his bite sent more pain in return. He had to fight back, had to kill this monster before him even at the cost of being harmed back. The king could just make out the crunch of shell, taste of copperiness with salt trailing down his tongue and throat. Still the pain was intense, the monster king must of been fighting back with all his might. Pressing harder, the wyrm clenches his jaws even as tears flow freely when at last he hears a sickly pop and his jaws slice through.
The pain screams in his whole body, even so that it shoves the animal instinct back into the box it should of stayed locked away, bringing back his rational mind. His vision finally clears, and the shadows all at once disappear, leaving the Pale King alone. Once he was brought to his senses, he cries out, rolling onto his back to be propped up by his arms, watching in horror of the aftermath of his actions.
There on the marble floor, was the end section of his tail, bitten through nearly a foot from the tip and wiggling about from dying nerve impulses, both severed ends oozing with godly opalescent white blood. The Pale King looks on, horrified of his actions even as he still tastes the lingerings of his own blood on his mouth and chin. Surely, if the Radiance entered the White Palace now and see him at this moment, she might of died of laughter at seeing how pathetic the wyrm had become. His body trembles, both from shock and pain that he nearly forgets he's alive for a moment, merely watching the severed limb continue to wiggle about on its own accord, mimicking a mere maggot.
Yes, that's what he felt like in that moment, a dying maggot locked away in their own cage of their own freewill, with only their manifested dreams and nightmares for company. Not a king, nor god, or anything worthy to be looked upon.
So the wyrm curls into himself, one hand grasping the stump of his tail trying to focus on at the least sealing the wound close. He was no longer deemed in his own eyes worth trying to regenerate what was lost. This, he desires, a thousand times over he desires the pain. When at last the frail skin seals over the injury from Soul focused, the king finds his strength having left him and he lays on his side, curled up into a pitiful ball. One hand still clutching his injured limb, the other covering his eyes, no longer able to stop himself from flowing tears and chokes on sobs.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
It would be a long, long time before the Queen's room is visited again.
The figure standing in the doorway leans up against it for support, feeling weak in his legs. How long has it been now? Time stood still in the dream for so long, not even the king could tell. Not that he wanted to anymore.
With a labored breath, the Pale King in tattered robes, now sporting a limp from his own transgressions, enters the room. Every step was as painful as the last, but there was some desperate motivation in entering here. He pauses, leaning one hand, covered in shallow cuts and scars, marks he deliberately placed upon himself by trying to win at his own deadly maze, the so called 'Path of Pain' as some form of repentance, upon the shelf where a certain box still remains.
The shadows of his sins did not torment him now as they once did. Now, he accepted his failures, his regrets. All he asks for in return is one more precious moment, something to soothe his dying soul in this prison dream. So with shaking hands, he takes a moment to wind the key of the music box, only to carry it with him to the Queen's chair. There, the Pale King gently places the box on the seat, himself, kneeling with unsteady legs beside the chair. With one hand, he opens the box, and the gently lullaby begins to play.
Such a sweet, gentle melody as it always was that it was enough to soothe his aching heart. He leans up against the seat, resting his head down with crossed hands to feel the faint vibrations as each metal tine pricked against the posts on the brass drum. It felt like his wife was in the room once more, her imagined presence now just a gentle blanket of comfort. A slow breath of air escapes the king's lungs, feeling his body start to tremor again.
He no longer imagined the shadows of those he knew from memory. Instead he envisions what could of been, and watches as transparent figures appear before him. The White Lady, his queen, looking beautiful as always, standing now beside the cradle with a deep smile on her face. Beside her, the king sees himself, healthy, standing proud with a look of pride on his face and a warm smile, happiness in his heart. The king's eyes trail down to meet what the happy couple were staring at and within the empty cradle, the image of the vessel appears in their youth, but now a real child, not one hollowed out and filled with Void to serve a purpose of living death.
The Pale King's phantom image reaches out, the child reaching back toward his arms and the shadowy king easily picks the nymph up into his arms, cradling them close before nuzzling in affectionately. He turns to the White Lady, who wraps her arms around her husband and child, lifting them both up in a firm but gentle hold. Such warmth and happiness as the family all close in for a loving embrace, cuddling close.
The royal family remained in place, only to slowly fade away into nothing as the music box ends its song. The battered and dying Pale King held his breath for a moment, not wishing the image to fade away, longing to trade places with his phantom image for that scene to be real, to feel real. Live in a world where everyone was happy, even him.
So, unable to withstand it anymore, tears flow from the monarchs face as he leans his head back and releases a screeching bestial roar, pouring forth his pain, his sorrows, his regrets out from his bleeding heart. He would take it all back if he could, every plan that failed, every decision that lead down to some disaster for somebody or misery over all. He wanted peace, he wanted his kingdom to live...
He wanted a family, but a desire he finds, far too late.
It takes the withering king a moment or so, to rise back to his feet, knees nearly buckling to his limp and multitude of injuries he no long cared to heal. He pauses, looking to the music box. He reaches out, hand clasping around the trinket and winds the key again. This time, however, he removes the key entirely while whispering soft spells. The keyhole begins to glow white and fades with the spell in place. Now his focus was that on the cradle and the king places the music box inside. Opening it, the music box plays once again as it always has. This time, however, the spell placed on the box would ensure it would never go unwound, forever playing its sweet melody to any and all who finds this secret room.
The melody continues playing, even as the Pale King turns to leave, allowing the song to linger on without him.
He can hear it echo through the hallway, his footsteps barely heard as he takes in his slow stride. Now and then he would pause to lean against the wall, hand shaking as it presses to the side and struggles to support his weight. It wouldn't take him far before the sweet melody fades away from hearing, only the silence of the path to the throne room with a stale wind to keep him company. That was alright, he'd rather witness his passing in silent peace than tormented with the sounds of something terrible.
The throne room stood quietly, waiting for its monarch to rest his troubled mind and battered body. There would be no struggle now, no bouts of denial or protests to continue lingering on for a cause he knew at last was doomed, at least by his hand. The Pale King takes a few small steps, only to lean back up against the door frame. He just felt too weak to continue, legs feeling more like twigs not worth holding any sort of weight. With a few heavy breaths of air, it would seem the king would succumb to his weaken state right where he stands, hunching over as he feels his balance tipping forward.
Something moves for him, conjuring from the shadows of the room. It approaches silently, not wanting to disturb the wyrm at first. After a moment to catch his breath, the king slowly looks up, seeing an offered hand before him, tipped in black claws. His gaze moves at a slow pace, vision looking to the owner of that offered hand.
An illusion of the Pure Vessel stands before the king yet again, this time sporting the familiar crack down their mask, nothing else corrupted in their image. They stand perfectly still, waiting for a response from the Pale King, as if they always have in the past when they were real. One last precious moment.
This time, there is no hesitation from the monarch, his shaking hand reaches for the larger offered hand. His mind does flutter on the idea that the hand would faze through the other, but he presses on past that now. White chipped and scratched claws press into cold void-harden black chitin shell and the king felt like dying on the spot. It felt real, oh so real. His fingers curl around best he could, watching as the false vessel closes their fingers around his hand all the more gently. Carefully, they attempt to ease the king to press onward, only for him to stagger in his steps. He barely shakes his head, legs refusing to walk now.
"I.. I can't.." He starts, voice sounding drained before turning to his shadow vessel. "Help me?"
The Pure Vessel tilts their head slightly, but understood all the same. They felt so real, even as the king felt himself become surrounded in a pair of strong arms, lifting him up to cradle against their shoulder. Despite the cold sensations from the touch, it was perhaps, the most comforting feeling he's felt in so long. He didn't want this moment to end, feeling the swell of emotions run through him the likes of which he's never experienced before.
The pair approach the throne, to which the Pure Vessel eases the Pale King onto, slow and gentle to minimize pain. Now seated, the king gazes to the illusion, and reaches up with one hand. The side of the vessel's mask presses into that hand, and he finds himself stroking the cold shell, thumbing just below the cheek. A moment at last, he felt, that he needed to have happen.
"Vessel... Hollow Knight, stay with me until..." The Pale King requests, his voice barely above a whisper.
The illusion seems to stare with focus, offering a gentle nod before kneeling beside the king. Despite being nothing more than a dream version of the Hollow Knight, they felt real enough for the Pale King, their head resting gently into his lap all the while he continues to stroke that mask, bringing with it a sense of comfort. He could even feel cold puffs of air from them, as if they were able to breath that came in a steady, slow and calm beat.
Something nudges into the Pale King and he pauses long enough to reach into his robes to pull out something he completely forgotten was still with him. He examines his half of the Kingsoul charm, thumbing over the severed half and pondered if his queen still carries her half. Turning back to the vessel, he holds it for them to look at.
"If only... your mother was here. How she'd hate to see me like this.." He whispers, placing the charm into his lap with the folds of his cloak hiding it from plain view.
He hums softly as the illusion tilts their head enough to look up at him, nodding in response, still leaning into those gentle touches. A smile manages to creep its way onto the Pale King, enjoying this moment. He takes in a shaky breath, feeling his time drawing near. Those empty eyes continue to stare, waiting for those final moments. Instead, the king cradles the vessel's cheek again, and whispers out something.
"Vessel... my beloved child... Sing to me your mother's song."
The vessel stares for a moment longer, as if wondering if the king finally lost his mind. Vessels do not speak and certainly do not sing. Yet, the Pale King continues to smile on, watching as his knight lifts themselves up just enough. They cast their gaze at him one more time, before looking up towards the royal crest above their heads.
And for the first and only time, proceeds to hum out the song that brought comfort to the pale ruler in this dream prison.
Outside in the real world, the vessel would of been silent, unmoving to such an odd and useless request. Here, they carried a voice strong and sure, yet soft and gentle when needed, a perfect blend of their parents' voices how the Pale King envisioned what they might sound like if they had a voice. The sweet melody echoes off the throne room's walls, adding to a faint ethereal reverberance that relaxes the king, putting his mind and soul to ease. It was beautiful and he wish he had the strength to join in, content for what borrowed time has given him. He forces his body to push forward, leaning in to deliver a weak but loving kiss to his vessel's forehead.
"May Hallownest find a savior for all of them, for the kingdom, for us both... No cost too great.. ..."
With that, the Pale King feels his strength leave him at last. He leans to one side, his hand gently falls into his lap, robe sliding down to cover it. His eyes grow heavy, yet he tries to watch on as the Pure Vessel ends their song, gazing at their king, their father. Large hands reach out, shifting the robes to keep the king comfortable. They soon lean back into their father's lap, intending to stay till the last moment. It was the happiest moment the Pale King could wish for.
There's a long drawn sigh of breath, and the king's eyes finally close for the last time, his final resting place, with his child by his side. As for the illusion, they remain for a moment longer, head still resting in the old king's lap. They start to fade back into dream essence, all the while still humming that gentle melody from the music box. A song that draws forth a wanderer in from the waking world. Just as they sense the patter of soft feet to enter the palace, does the Pure Vessel finally disappear, leaving their father's body behind to be discovered by that very savior he calls forth.
Hallownest would be saved and the legacy of the Pale King would be redeemed, all while a sweet lullaby of a music box continues to play in the secret realm of dreams.
~FIN~