Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The spider had grown tired, haggard. Lace's blood rushed, keeping aching muscles taut and her reflexes sharp. So close. So close, and though she too bore wounds, soon it would be over.

And it would end in her favor.

A misstep, on the gravelly ground they battled on. The perfect opportunity. As her pin, gilded and sharp, honed and pretty, the perfect extension of herself, slipped between carapace plates, skewered through organs, Lace could not help but laugh. She laughed like tinkling bells. A pretty sound. A delicate sound. The sound of work and duty and now, victory.

The spider's eyes grew wide. They brimmed with pain, even as she glowered and tried, tried so very hard, to raise her needle. Her hand shook, her life flowing out of her too fast for her to counter it, or to take Lace's with hers. Where there had once been energy, a tight coil of desperate survival, too desperate, too naive, so unfitting for a place such as Pharloom, came a dullness.

It was sad, almost, watching the spider die before her, impaled on her blade. But Lace knew. It was for the better. In whatever afterlife spiders went to, she would be thanking her. Or perhaps she wouldn't, if she never learned what Pharloom would have done to her. It would have crushed her, as it did all others, between the clapper and the strike point. Surely the spider had seen. It did not surprise Lace, that she would be too arrogant to think the same wouldn't happen to her.

Almost all of the life was gone, now. The spider's eyes were hazy. She coughed, pathetically.

It ended with an unexpected flash, a weight falling from her pin. Lace shielded her eyes from the brightness - the darkness? She could not tell, the opposites had become as one.

It cleared, and Lace could taste Soul heavy in the air.

And before her laid a cocoon, bound up in silk, clung desperately to the floor where the spider had fallen.

She poked it, like a child pokes a dead creature with a stick, and found herself satisfied when it proved light and likely hollow. Spiders' magic was a tricky thing, one never knew what clever, horrid ways they would find to use their silk next. She'd rather not be swarmed by some last act of vengeance, magical constructions bursting free in a sick parody of birth after death to tear into her flesh until she, too, bled out on the floor. Perhaps the spider had tried, and the spell failed. Impotent! Lace laughed again. Pharloom truly would have destroyed her. It was for the better that Lace got to her first.

She wiped her pin on it (was that black, dotting the blue of blood?) and, with a well-trained delicacy, called down her butterflies, playing conductor with her pin. She'd always been fond of music, though it was a warrior's path she received.

She hummed to herself. One tune, and then she would go. After all, she had to wash her vestments. Blood did stain so easily.

Her pin swung, her butterflies danced, and she approached a grand crescendo, one too great for humming alone, and she opened her mouth to sing-

A knife buried itself in her shoulder and the note became a pained cry.

She turned, grinning wickedly through the pain and numbness in her wielding arm.

The spider, back again.

Red cloak, needle, and all.

The spider slashed the cocoon open, the silk glowing bright before flowing into her. Trinkets, rosary beads, spilled onto the ground.

"How-" Lace could not even get through her disbelief before the flat of the spider's needle crashed into her head. She stumbled. A line flew out, razor sharp as it dug into her ankles and pulled her down onto the ground. Her breath hitched, nausea burning in her throat and the back of her mouth as the impact pushed the knife in her shoulder deeper. The world grew hazy, and she could not find the strength to lift her pin.

The spider pressed a knee to her thorax, planted her needle beside her exposed throat.

"Because," she growled, like an animal would, sprung free from its cage to tear apart its captor, "My father was a god, my mother a Beast. And if there is anything-" The needle tilted, cut a thin line into Lace's throat. "-Your rotten, gangrenous kingdom has taught me, it is that I do not die unless I will it."

A hand ripped at Lace's head, tearing off her crescent-shaped headgear. Exposed. Her vestments mocked. The hand came down again, grabbed onto her antennae and forced her head back, the sensation flooding her aching, foggy head. Shrieking did nothing for it, but she did it all the same.

The needle's point pressed under her chin, dancing across her carapace as Lace shuddered and gasped.

"But you?" The spider pressed it in, until her carapace cracked and a rivulet of blood sprang free, "You're as mortal as the rest. And if you do not use your one life to answer my questions, I'll bleed it out like I did to all of them, too."

Chapter Text

It was the child’s first time going to the City of Tears.

The Pale King had insisted it be the two of them; a father-daughter trip. No, he did not need one of the Great Knights, thank you, and not The Hollow Knight.

(It would have been nice to bring The Hollow Knight with, and that was the problem. The child would certainly fawn over her sibling, and play with them, and it hurt to stop it, but he had to. For everyone’s sake. Oh, how he needed his child to find more friends.)

She had marveled over the umbrella he handed to her on the way up to the city, giggling and playing with it after he showed her how to open and close it. She had nearly swung it into his side a couple times, his foresight warning him to dodge just in time. He had corrected her, told her to stop, and perhaps someday she could listen.

The King’s Station drew her curiosity; he had almost expected her to be afraid of it, overwhelmed, like he often was. And yes she had patted at her mask at the noise, but gazed on in wonder, and he’d had to grab the back of her cloak to keep her from running off. Right. She wasn’t a being of the White Palace, she was a being of Deepnest, and he recalled the noise there, everything moving and burrowing and killing.

“Hold my hand,” he told her, slipping his grip from her cloak to her hand. She had wriggled, but relented with a sigh. He’d not be losing her like this; his heart iced up at the idea of her getting lost in the crowd, her bright red cloak disappearing into a throng of bodies. Someone could hurt her. What if they knew who she was? Would that make her even more of a target? Or would it be worse if nobody could tell, and she was just some kid who wouldn’t be missed?

Maybe he should have brought one of his Knights along. He wasn’t sure if he could handle this, this one outing with just him and his child.

People noticed him, of course. Even if he dimmed his glow, and wore different robes than usual, in a light blue for the City instead of his usual white, and kept an umbrella low over his head, people knew him. They stared, and some bowed, others backing off and some starting forwards as if to ask him something. None dared to touch. None looked him in the eye, though a few curious gazes found his child. She didn’t take well to the attention, almost hiding in his robe to keep people from staring at her.

They focused on the back routes, the walkways, the sorts of paths he knew Lurien to take when he wanted to get out and about. The Watcher valued his personal privacy, and the Pale King had planned for it.

There was a gallery, a beautiful one, not too far from the King’s Station. Perhaps he would stop by there, not to go inside, not unless she wanted it, but to at least demonstrate culture to her. He had seen her running around, twirling about in her cloaks and robes and dresses and giggling, then stopping to pet the fabric or read the stories in the hems. He knew she liked pretty things.

When they were clear of other people, she darted away from his side and squeaked when the first raindrop hit her head. Frozen in surprise, she stared up, up, until he thought she was going to fall on her back and soak herself. One small arm extended from under her cloak, pointing up at the ceiling far above. “Dada?”

He paused, waiting for her to articulate herself. She would get there, eventually. Her words were still uncertain, waiting for her mouth to move wrong and for it to hurt.

“Dada,” she insisted, straining to stretch herself further, “Why’s it wet?”

“Come here, and I shall tell you.” He gestured for her, and the promise of a story brought her running over, clutching his robes. Big, dark eyes, eerily close mirrors of his own, stared up at him, hopeful and waiting.

With her in place at his side, he continued on, making sure she at least held onto his hand while they walked. “There’s a lake above the city. During initial planning, we expected the cavern ceiling to hold, but over time it began to leak. It reached the point where everyone started calling this place the City of Tears. However, the cavern has shown to be structurally sound otherwise, through all the tests anyone has devised. It just appears to rain.”

“Rain,” she breathed, sticking out a hand past the umbrella’s boundaries. She gasped when a drop hit her palm, shaking it all about and flicking water all over. At least it was just water, it would dry harmlessly.

About half of the walk went like that, with her occasionally running out to splash in a puddle or get a better look at something before he called her back. He, in turn, tried to set a steady pace and keep her on target. He wasn’t about to lose her in the City, and if she wanted to see something they could loop around later, on the way back home.

Around the halfway point, though, he felt her clamber, damp and cold, onto his back, holding on tight. The cold didn’t bother him much, he ran cool on his own, but he suppressed a shudder at the rain seeping into his robe.

At least, if she was sitting there, she couldn’t go too far, and he would certainly notice if she left. He had long accepted this would be how he carried her sometimes; he had seen Herrah with her little girl on her back countless times, and the first time the Gendered Child climbed onto him she had laughed and explained that was just how spiders did it, carrying their children around on their backs, and he would have to live with it.

Relatively, his daughter was much more cumbersome for him than she was to her mother, but she didn’t seem too concerned about that yet. Perhaps she would be when she inevitably outgrew him.

For a while, he thought she had fallen asleep, with how the rainfall calmed her. When they reached the gallery, though, she perked up immediately.

“Oh! It’s so big!” She reached out for it, brushing his wings in the process. He flicked them up and out of her way, as best he could, and she mumbled an apology.

“It’s quite impressive, is it not?” The calm of his voice did not betray the flip his stomach did. She’d never be interested in going inside, where she would be made to sit still and walk in order and be quiet. She needed somewhere she could run around, and enjoy a simple zest for life.

He had no idea where to take her.

She seemed interested enough in the art installations outside the gallery, though, hopping off his back to run for the nearest one. She was not yet so fast he couldn’t keep up, his multitude of legs flowing under him to keep pace with his child, but the two had to dodge through the busy paths, and with the number of canals, well, what if she tripped?

“Dada! It’s so big!” The Gendered Child waved her arms with great delight at the statue she stood before, a curving, gnarled still life of Greenpath. It felt strange, seeing the lush foliage rendered in stony gray, even in detail exquisite enough to make you practically able to feel the breeze.

He recognized the artist. It was one of the ones he’d considered for carving The Hollow Knight’s memorial statue, currently a work in progress. Their designs were beautiful, yes, but they lacked something. They lacked a soul.

“It’s very big, child.” His back itched, and not just because of the wet splotch his child had left. Out in the crowd, even near the statue, he felt vulnerable. Wyrms were massive creatures, but often lived their lives underground and alone, with any rooms made to sustain no more than a few at once. It had taken him so long to adjust to the White Palace, and that was with his wife at his side and the number of staff carefully curated so it didn’t get too crowded.

He didn’t want to be out there. However, his daughter was already running off, jumping and pointing at the next statue.

He followed along; if she led the way, she kept entertained, and she stayed within his line of sight. The last thing he needed was her crying because he wasn’t letting her have fun.

So he stood beside her, holding her hand so she didn’t try and get too close and touch the statue, or worse, climb on it. He listened as she told him a nonsense story about it, making up elements he couldn’t tell where she got them from. But it made sense to her, and that was enough to make her happy.

“Pale King!” a voice boomed, bitter and hurting.

The child turned first. He gripped her hand tight, too tight, tight enough she squirmed and whimpered, but no matter how much he knew he needed to loosen it, he couldn’t. Not as he turned around, and not after, as he stared at this warrior, clad in red, a cloak of ribbons draped over his shoulders.

His eyes glowed bright. Too bright, moreso than any mortal bug’s would. She had gotten to this warrior, and whether or not he thought his mind his own, he had been rendered nothing more than a puppet.

Two blades flew into the air, accompanied by the nail gripped in the warrior’s hands. Oh. Oh, this was an assassination attempt. This was a fight, in the middle of the city streets, with civilians screaming and running from the sight, or frozen in place. The guards - the guards were missing. The warrior had already gotten to him, the Pale King realized, as flashes of broken bodies, stabbed through, littered his mind.

Xero, whispered his foresight.

He held his child close-

No.

His child.

She didn’t want to be pushed away, hiccuped with fear when he tried to do so, his eyes locked on those of this traitor. “Child,” he warned, giving her an extra shove when she dug her fingers into his robe, “I need you to go stand by the gallery door. Do so now.”

Xero’s eyes fell to the girl, too, and for the briefest moment the Pale King saw conflict. The Princess of Deepnest wasn’t a threat to him, or shouldn’t have been. She had done nothing to him, and she would be just as much a victim to his plans as the Radiance was. She would suffer, and be hurt, and if that fueled this warrior’s anger, so be it. But it was the Pale King’s burden alone to bear.

“Go, child,” muttered the warrior.

She clung to her father’s side, her eyes shining and damp. She sobbed, tangling handfuls of his robe in her fists, wetting them not with the City’s tears but her own.

If she stayed, maybe Xero would back down, refusing to hurt her. But all the more likely the Pale King’s old enemy would rise up and, in her anger, strike down the both of them.

He caught her wrists in two hands, grabbing his robe with another. One sharp tug, and he pulled himself away from her, and he flew.

Rain washed down his back, dripping from his wings. It weighed down his robe as he flew clear of his child, up above the street that was about to become a battlefield.

He focused his Soul, letting it flow from him into sharp points more furious than he’d ever let anyone else see him be, and with a flick of his wrist sent spears driving for Xero.

They clanged against a floating blade, those that got too close parried while the others drove into the ground. The blade, in turn, shot up at him.

He dove out of its way, readying a barrage of Soul daggers. They were faster, easier to form, but he had to concentrate, keep them on their target. Not focus on his daughter, frozen by the statue, shaking.

Do not.

Do not.

Do not-

He grunted as a blade stabbed into him, biting deep into his side, just under his thorax. Pale blue blood sprang free, pouring down in thin rivulets. His daggers flew wild. What little crowd remained fled one that flew for them. Most of the blades hit the ground. One nicked Xero’s leg.

With a jab a spear manifested, throwing itself at Xero. It clanged off his armor, pushing him back but doing damage to nothing but his cloak.

One of the floating blades jabbed at him as Xero himself darted in, his nail glinting as it sought the King’s heart.

It wasn’t dignified, but dignity was a rare gift in battle. The Pale King hit the ground, rolling under Xero to pop up again behind him. But the warrior was quick, too, to turn and ready a strike. He had physical weapons. All the Pale King could do was focus and summon a spear on the chance he could drive it into Xero’s eye.

Xero, intent on the King, readied his arms.

Rapid footsteps pattered behind him.

Xero moved faster than his mind worked, but realization shone in his eyes after he’d committed to the attack.

Small hands clutched the Pale King.

He turned, trying to wrap around the girl, but the wound in his side slowed him.

Two blades connected, one for the father, one for the child.

The next thing the Pale King knew, he stood - not above, on top of Xero’s corpse, panting, his voice raw. His robe clung to him, soaked with rain and blood, the mixture pooling in the street as well. Puncture wounds marred the corpse, but he knew the killing blow - or blows - had come from a near complete decapitation, Xero’s head only attached to his body by straggling flesh and cracked carapace.

He turned. He stepped off the corpse, catching himself as he hit the ground. One step at a time, he walked the yawning distance between himself and the little red-cloaked form on the ground.

She whimpered as he scooped her up, turned her over. Her eyes were glassy, and almost shut. Her breaths came shallow and rapid. So, so much spider-blue blood darkened her cloak, speckles of black seeping further than they had any right to. How did she have that much in her?

But that was not what mattered. What mattered was she was alive now, and he needed to keep her that way.

And so he held her, and he focused.

His natural glow brightened, fuzzy globs of white drifting through the air. He pulled them, one by one, into the girl. He had learned to work with others’ natural magic, between training the Pure Vessel and living alongside his Root. It was easy, almost too much so, to seek out the magic within her (she would have died without it, her clutch failed just like the last one) and feed it, strengthen and use it.

Thin, silken lines, pale and bright, reached between the edges of the gash in her carapace. With his focus, his attention to detail, his experience, they reached deeper than the chitin, linking flesh to flesh, vessel to vessel, nerve to nerve.

In a flash, the threads pulled taut, closing the wound as suddenly as she’d gotten it.

He focused more, willing his Soul to rush through her veins, to keep her heart beating. He felt the prickle of Void trying to dig into it, this new life-force, only to be driven back by his Light.

She was stable. That was all he needed. And as his mind returned to him, as he looked out and saw a crowd gathered, staring silently at the corpse, the king, and the child, he held his daughter tight and turned, hurrying for the quiet alleys and back paths.

Fast as he could, he ran through the paths, the rush of the fight still buzzing within him. But he felt it coming down, felt the impending crash.

A few minutes into flight, pain throbbed into his side, his own wounds stinging with contact from the straggling threads of his robe, cut and buried in the wounds, and from the rain, and from exposure at all.

He slowed to a crawl as he tried to focus, to lash everything together long enough for him to get home. It hurt, and the world wobbled, and each step felt like too much. The pound of rain drove into his skull. Had he never known how loud, how disruptive rain was?

About the time his wounds patched, his daughter’s breathing hitched, and she woke from her daze. With pitiful coughs, she began to cry, her voice shrill and childish. Infantile. She pawed at the healed wound and screamed.

He rested her on his shoulder. He patted her back, rubbed small circles under the plates he suspected hid wing buds. He whispered to her, unable to summon up anything but tired shushing.

And he wept.

Exhausted, and bloodied, and low on Soul, he turned away from the King’s Station and sought an alternate route back home. He knew there was one. One close enough, anyways.

He couldn’t take her on a stag, not like this, and the thought of being on one himself filled his throat with nausea and made his head swim worse. He would have to walk the majority of the route, but one- but one elevator ride would have to be okay.

Near Lurien’s spire was an elevator, generally locked up and used only for official business, that went down to the top of the Basin. He knew a quiet route to it, though it took him into the city center.

Even at somewhat of a distance, the bustle around him dug in worse than Xero’s weapons had, amplified by his daughter’s continued wailing. He ducked his head, tried to steady his breathing, kissed the Gendered Child’s head in an attempt to soothe her and found he left bloody marks.

Memory clarified, clawing at Xero’s face and, when he failed to get a good hold, shoving the warrior’s chin up. His throat exposed, the Pale King opened his mouth and-

The quickest way to the elevator involved ducking inside the spire. Lurien wouldn’t mind, he knew, the bottom levels were open to the public, anyways, though generally only a smattering of nobility and Lurien’s workers were ever there.

This time, though, as the door creaked shut behind him, the Pale King found himself face-to-cloak with the Watcher.

Two of Lurien’s knights waited in the background, the big beetles shifting uneasily. One watched the King, one watched the Princess, both of their expressions broken. Vaguely he recalled Lurien’s visits to the palace, and the child dragging the knights into her games, making whichever ones accompanied the Watcher into her playmates for the day.

“My King,” Lurien said, his voice soft but solid, “You should dry off.”

The Pale King took the towel Lurien gave him, rubbing his face dry before wrapping his daughter up in it. Her cries slowed into hiccups, too tired to fight him as he scrubbed her and resettled her, swaddled now, against his collar. One hand poked out of the towel and grasped it, pulling it to her mouth so she could chew on it like she was half her age.

“How much did you see?” He knew Lurien was particularly sensitive to his magic, and could track it easily on the occasions he came to the City. Of course his loyal Watcher would be interested in his goings-on, especially when it left someone dead in the streets.

As the two walked, joined by the knights when they passed them by, Lurien spoke. “I saw the child, fallen, and you tackling a warrior twice your size. I saw the spears, and daggers, and I saw you mangling him with your bare hands.”

“He hurt her.”

Lurien sighed. “I presumed so. And, when I saw you flee, I presumed you would find your way here, and you would be, quite frankly, a mess, so I met you at the bottom of the spire and brought a towel for good measure.”

“You are wise, my Watcher.” The Pale King kept close to the others as they emerged from the other side of the spire, and went down the short distance to the elevator’s entrance.

One of the knights had a key, and unlocked it, ushering the others inside. Oddly enough, Lurien joined- no, wait, Lurien had an appointment with him anyways. For later in the day, but still.

The elevator jolted when Lurien hit the switch and the Pale King winced, the Gendered Child whimpering again. One of the knights circled around, hesitantly reaching out, unwilling to touch either royal but called to fuss over the girl all the same. Perhaps some other day, he would have been lax enough to hold her out, let her decide if she wanted to visit with the knight, but today he pulled her close on instinct and bit back a defensive hiss. The small sob she made ripped into his heart.

“Lurien?” He couldn’t stop the slight wobble in his voice.

“I can meet with the Lady instead. I’ll tell her what happened.” The elevator hit the bottom of the shaft and the door swung open. Lurien led the way out, one of the knights hurrying to catch up with him while the other kept behind the Pale King.

They’re safe, he reminded himself. I’ve met all of them, they’ve all been in the palace, the one wouldn’t even touch me. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It was slow going, the trip back to the palace grounds. Normally he liked to take in the scenery, ensure everything was as it should be, but today the only thing he was concerned about was its beautiful marble, everything about it that made it home.

Kingsmoulds opened the doors for them and he rushed inside-

It was bright. Too bright, for his already upset child. She cried again, covering her eyes and sobbing into his chest. His cloak wouldn’t suffice to dim the world, not like how Herrah could drape hers over her child. Even if he did take it off, that would leave his natural glow, and agitated as he was he couldn’t bring it down very much.

So he ran, as quick as he dared, though the world tilting about didn’t help. He heard one of the knights following and his wings flared; he didn’t have it in him to beat them and take off but they were warning enough.

Focused as he was on getting his child somewhere more comfortable, he still was aware when he passed by Ogrim. The Great Knight was quite impossible to miss, even without looking at him.

“Ogrim!” the Pale King snapped, voice raising as he walked. “Bring a message to Herrah, tell her to come immediately for her child.”

“Is something wrong?” he called.

“She didn’t lose anything!” Well, blood. He needed to keep an eye on that. That alone was enough to send Ogrim running, from what the King heard, so that was that.

...He couldn’t bring her right to her room. The both of them were filthy. With a tired sigh, he detoured, patting the girl’s back in the hopes that would at least hush her for a moment.

His and the Lady’s room, not meant to be occupied at the moment while business was underway, was blessedly dark. All he needed to do was let his glow, and the window, light the space enough for him to maneuver, and it was a good light level for the Gendered Child to be in. Already her sobs had slowed, the tears still flowing and breaths still heavy, but the shrieks had quieted.

The bed didn’t even sink under her weight when he placed her on it. She laid still as he unwrapped the towel and pulled her cloak off over her head. The fabric itself wasn’t going to get very clean at all, the Void was sure to leave permanent stains, but more concerning was the blood drying on his daughter’s shoulder.

He dumped the towel and cloak and wet his thumb with spit, checking to make sure that wasn’t bloody itself before scrubbing at the stains. It did little, and he picked up the towel again to try and get some more off. That, too, proved only marginally effective, and with a sigh, he gave up, dropping the towel again. “Stay put,” he said, turning to go for the closet.

The doors thumped into place as he shoved them aside. Most of the clothing inside was his; the Lady preferred decorations added onto whatever she wore that day, her stature making her notably difficult to clothe. It was an issue they faced with The Hollow Knight as well, the tall Vessel necessitating far more fabric than any other bug in the kingdom besides their mother. (And perhaps Midwife, if she were inclined to more than a mask.) He shrugged his robe off, unable to summon up more than a frown at the torn, stained fabric. He couldn’t keep wearing it, though.

He picked through his things, seeking out something… something nice. Not fancy, but pleasant.

Ah. There.

The robe was of a thick, soft material, and very plain. It had sleeves for all of his arms, whereas most of his only had sleeves for two. It was purely for comfort, and that was all he needed right now.

As for the child… He had to have some of The Hollow Knight’s things around. He kept them, stowed them away. At first he said they would go to some nebulous project, and when he found himself a father again, he changed his tune so the clothes would go to the spiderling as she grew into them. It wasn’t like The Hollow Knight would do anything with them.

One box - yes, one box was stashed inside the closet. It didn’t take much digging to find one of the smallest robes, hidden at the bottom, perhaps once folded neatly. Oh, well, the child wouldn’t mind wrinkles. He pulled it out and with a sharp snap, unfurled the fabric.

“Little one,” he called softly, closing the closet door. At first glance, she didn’t seem to be anywhere, but a moment of closer observation and he saw the pulled-up blankets (they had been tucked so neatly) and the small lump under all the layers. He lifted the part that was pulled up, peering underneath.

A small, pale face stared back, tears drying around her eyes. With her horns obscured, and with her lit by his glow, reflecting it in a way that made it easy to miss the already mostly hidden black body, the resemblance struck him. Even if it was mostly in the eyes, and perhaps a bit in the shape of the face, it was so close to what he saw in the mirror. Of course it would be; her blood was, in part, his, and it had shaped her accordingly. Did he look that scared and upset to her, too? Did she see everything he saw in her eyes, but in his?

He pushed the robe under the blankets with her. She was old enough to dress herself. If she wanted a challenge this way, so be it. Maybe it would keep her mind occupied for a while.

She took it, and the lump in the blankets squirmed and warped as she put it on. Maybe he ought to just let her stay in here, stay under the blankets. His office wasn’t too far from here, she knew where to find it if she needed him. Or, even, he could take some of the reports and requests he needed to catch up on and bring them here.

“Child,” he asked when her head popped out of the gap she had made, “Shall we go to your room?”

“Mm.” She reached for him, small hands grasping for his robe, seeking him out. Did she really want him? She had only recently begun coming to the palace to stay, she had only visited with her mother beforehand, when she was so young she just spent most of the time cuddled against someone.

Sure enough, he held his arms out and she clambered into them, holding on tight to his thorax. She was only slightly warmer than he, much cooler than her mother, or the other mortal bugs he knew.

She hid her face when he left the room, the brightness of the palace flooding over her again. She had wailed, when she was small, and came to visit in Herrah’s arms, alongside a retinue of Weavers preparing the spell that would one day bind her sibling. The light had been too much, compared to the darkness of Deepnest, which was everything she had known before that day. The noise echoed through the palace, setting everyone within on edge. How tiring that was.

There were no more tears, though, not by the time the Pale King reached his daughter’s room. It was similarly dark, though the mushrooms in a small glass jar continued to glow. Herrah had brought it from Deepnest and set it on the dresser, saying it was a piece of home for the girl.

He set her down on her bed, fluffing the blankets around her to form a rough nest. Long ago, his mother had built a nest of her own, and he had occupied it, buried within the plant clippings and swathes of moss and anything else soft she had been able to find. It had been where he learned to burrow, and where he listened to his mother’s stories, and where he had been when she curled around the nest for the night, with him safe and sound in the pile of fluff kept between her long body’s loops. And while he certainly hoped his child wasn’t going to grow and grow and grow into a full-sized wyrm, he could not help but wonder if she, too, held onto the same instincts he had.

When he started to straighten up, she whimpered, and clutched fistfuls of his robe. She hiccupped when he covered her hands, uncertain whether to force her to release or to let her grab on. He couldn’t bring her to keep working, not with how the light upset her.

“Dada…” Her voice was too hoarse, too dried out for tears. But it was thick and warbly all the same; her exhaustion rang clear, all her nerves frayed to the breaking point, and so it seemed he was the only one who could stitch them back together.

And, perhaps, he needed the quiet, and dark, and company of only himself and his child, too. So, tired, he let her pull him in and he clambered onto the bed with her, winding around her nest as best he could, securing it with his arms and many legs while she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and snuggled into his chest.

Had this been how his mother had felt? Calm, and warm, and devoted to the idea of keeping her son safe? How often had she, unbeknownst to him, fended off would-be attackers and came back to nest with him, this anxiety prickling up and down her back? He had so innocently rested with her, and here he was, his own child not given that luxury. Her breaths panted and shuddered, her eyes wrenched shut, and all he could do was curl his tail tighter and rub her back. He had failed to protect her.

(A scream echoed. He knew it was his. Why else would his throat have been so raw?)

Now she was safe, he reminded himself. Now they were home, and all she needed to do was nestle him as long as she wanted. There was no merely returning to work, giving his wounds some closer attention, perhaps. Not when everything felt too strong to fit in this body, better suited instead for his huge, vastly powerful form, dead and gone and rotting in the physical realm, but all too alive in him. All his effort into keeping separate from the child to tamp down these feelings, this drive, only for them to veritably explode out of him, ripping through his carapace and all he could do was rest his daughter’s head on his shoulder and try to shield her with gossamer wings.

She began to nod off, a small blessing. He wasn’t sure if she was still of the age where she took naps, she certainly spent all her days at the palace running everywhere and getting into everything she could, and he had not been sure if that was the novelty of it or not. He wasn’t prone to midday naps himself; the days were too short as it was. Rather, the time between days was too short. Between watching the infection spread, and watching her grow, and not knowing how old she would be when he had to seal her mother away, time was too rare a commodity nowadays. There always needed to be more, and there was none to be found.

At some point, she fell asleep. He shuffled back, until he leaned against the wall, his back facing the door, just in case an intruder broke in, his child was shielded. He shut his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the blankets, his child’s movements, that proof she lived on, the quiet huffs as she breathed.

He woke with a start when someone knocked on the door. The child stirred, pulling her limbs in closer, scrubbing at a closed eye.

"What?" he hissed, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to hopefully not wake the child.

It was a retainer, not Herrah, not his wife, nor anyone else. "Ah, sir," the bug said, almost squirming under his glare, "You've got a midday-"

"Cancel it." He turned over again, back to the door. "And any others planned for the day. I have other matters to tend to, and if they take issue with it, they can bring the matter to myself or Herrah the Beast."

The name alone made the retainer squeak in fear. The nobles, no matter how pompous and overconfident, wouldn't wish to cross Deepnest's queen, either. They would survive one day of him taking care of his child. She deserved his time more than they, considering how pushy and stubborn they could get.

The door shut, and he was again alone with his daughter. Resting a hand on her cheek, he focused, seeking out any other major damage. He found nothing, thankfully, and so readjusted the blanket around her shoulders to make sure it kept her warm and comfortable.

He felt… settled, holding her. The day’s stresses were one thing, but he had spent so long avoiding anything to do with the child, anything more than the bare minimum needed to keep Herrah from stealing him away to bond with his daughter. But now he knew she was okay, and he did not have to worry about entertaining her (seeing as she was asleep), and perhaps her weight in his arms and against his chest was comfortable, not so foreign as it was before. She had felt safe enough to sleep, she would be okay.

He should have retrieved a report, or something else to work on, he supposed. But the thought of it made his mind buzz and carapace itch. Moving would disturb the child, anyhow, and the last thing anyone needed was her crying more. She had already lost far too many fluids due to her injuries.

So it was just him, mulling over business as best he could, his workplace replaced with a nursery, him holding not a report but his child. Sometimes she moved in her sleep, limbs and face shifting against him, buffered by soft fabrics. Her fingers curled up, grasping his robes. A sigh much too heavy for her small frame blew against his collar.

He dozed off again, shaking himself awake to find the Gendered Child squirming, rubbing her eyes. She yawned, jaw hitching when she dared to open her mouth up wide. With a slow blink, she looked around, pausing to stare up at him. Did she so believe he would have left her, or not been there at all?

Apparently so, for she pushed into him all the harder, her chin jammed into his shoulder and her hands gripping him tight. She whined when he rubbed her back in hopes of getting her to loosen her grip.

“I’m thirsty,” she said, a notable rasp in her voice.

That came as no surprise. Her body would process the Soul he put into her eventually, and seeing as she had her own magic, it might have already been repurposed. Besides, magic would not change the fact that even full-blooded gods needed something to drink sometimes, even uninjured.

But when he tried to get up, even holding her, she whimpered. She pressed her forehead into his collar, her horns against either side of his chin. “Dada, no.”

“I cannot simply wish you a cup of water. At the very least, we need someone to fetch it for you, and shouting in hopes of somebody hearing through the door would be inefficient and immature.” Ah. But she was a child, a small one at that. He had seen this in the retainers’ children, the unwillingness to choose between two conflicting desires, the inability to see logic. “We can nest again shortly.”

It did not quite satisfy her, earning him an angry ‘mrrr’ as she huffed and pouted. Small chelicerae uncurled from where they hid on the underside of her face and she took to chewing on his robe.

“Don’t,” he said as he pulled the fabric free. “It will just dry your mouth more.”

It quieted her long enough for him to peek outside. Nobody was passing by, but a wingmould had been stationed by the door. Good enough.

“Bring one of the retainers here,” he told it, and he watched the small flying automaton flutter away.

It must not have needed to go far, coming back only after a few rounds of him trying to persuade his child not to try and chew on fabric.

“My king?” the retainer asked, failing to hide his amusement as he watched the Pale King roll up his sleeves so the spiderling couldn’t try and bite them now that she was turned around, her back against her father’s chest. Yes, he was one of the ones who’d brought his family, nothing more than a young child a mere couple years older than the Gendered Child, the sole survivor of an otherwise failed clutch, his partner dead before the child even hatched. He would, at least, understand the predicament.

“Could you - stop squirming, I am trying to get you what you asked for - could you get her some water? Possibly something to eat, too.” She would be hungry, right? By the timepiece sitting on her dresser it was not yet time for dinner, but he had planned to get her lunch in the city and that plan had been ruined quick.

“Of course. Do you require anything yourself?” It seemed to be a bit of a game among the retainers, seeing who would be lucky enough to get the Pale King to confess he, too, had mortal needs. But the Pale King was not interested in the game of it.

Hot, coppery blood gushed into his mouth. Some escaped, spraying in an arc. Chitin crunched between his mouthparts, clinging to strands of tough viscera. Soul flowed into him, faster than it could be regenerated. For a brief moment, he was a predator again, unrestrained, savoring in a meal, uncaring of the crowd beyond.

“...Water,” the Pale King said, his tone dead as could be.

The retainer saw himself off, and the Pale King shut the door. Right, yes, now all he had to do was return to the nest.

The Gendered Child happily pulled the blankets up on top of her the moment he sat down on the bed. He tried to keep up with the growing bundle, until at last only her eyes peered up at him.

“I’m thirsty.”

He shut his eyes. “You’ll get water in a few minutes.” He should have asked for a cup earlier, he could have at least kept it at her bedside.

She tugged on his robes with a sudden desperation. “Dada! I slept, but you didn’t tell me a story!’

He blinked.

“Mama, Midwife, and the Lady tell me stories, then I go to bed,” she explained, as if he could not understand the concept at all. “You didn’t tell me a story.”

“Do you wish for one?” She had been the one telling stories earlier, with how she ran between the statues and tried to explain each one. He had not realized that was one of his duties.

She nodded.

What stories did he have to tell? He did not keep himself familiar with children’s tales. He only had his past to draw from, for he doubted she would not be interested in the sorts of stories his mother used to tell him. “What do you want a story about?”

“Hollow,” she said, and pulled the blankets tighter around herself. She stared up at him; if he could not give her water as soon as she wished it, certainly he could give her something, and that something was a story.

There were issues with this, though. For one, The Hollow Knight, being devoid of mind and will, did not get into situations that produced worthwhile stories, and to make one up for the child would be misleading.

Even the one story he could think of weighed on his heart as he began to tell it. "Your sibling was hatched in a nest far below-"

It had not been a nest. Not in any sense.

"And they climbed up from it to come meet me when they were ready. They were not much larger than you at the time. Considering the circumstances, their mother's blood must have already been at play to give them what little height they had at the moment."

The Gendered Child had not been too small for a hatchling, though he did not know any newly hatched spiders of her mother's species to compare. He may have miscalculated when he created himself, made him prone to siring larger offspring than proportionate to his new size. The Hollow Knight's stature at that age could have been his fault.

"Did they have really big horns?" the child asked, smiling.

"Yes." He supposed they had. "Though theirs were not as dominant as yours."

"Huh?"

"It is impossible to delineate where your horns end and your face begins." He traced the air before him, creating the general crescent shape of her face. To contrast, he then outlined the young Hollow Knight's mask, with the flat plane between the two thick horns. "It was clear on them, where their horns ended and face began. Not that it is any more."

She giggled. "I like sitting up there. I like to be so tall-" She threw her arms into the air, cutting herself off with a pained gasp. Tears threatened to spring to her eyes again, but were unable to overcome her slight dehydration.

He eased her arms down. He had healed major damage, anything that would become permanent, but the minor things, he didn’t have time to handle. It would still hurt, and likely bruise under her shell. A lesson for her, not to get in the middle of a fight. Not that he expected her to be present for any future assassination attempts.

Not until she was older, and she became a public figure in her own right. Then they would be against her, not him.

The thought felt like he’d swallowed ice. She was an incidental casualty in this. There could well be people out there, now or in the future, who made her their primary target.

For a brief moment he imagined himself as a gargantuan wyrm again, with her safe in his coils, all snug and protected by his armorlike carapace. Surely he could have kept her safe then. Now, all he could do was curl tighter, his new form unable to loop around like his old one could.

“Dada, I’m thirsty.” She kneaded his side, claws digging in. When one of his legs twitched she grabbed it, predator instinct lighting up her gaze. If the Vessels had not been made for their purpose, if he had an heir instead of a prison, would he see that light in the Pure Vessel’s eyes, too? Would they take after him in that respect, or their mother? With the Gendered Child, it was impossible to tell, her parents being what they were.

It at least distracted her for a moment, and she giggled, tugging on his leg. Carefully, he pulled back, and almost found himself hissing at the sudden spark of pain. Good to know that he had overexerted himself. He pushed past it, letting her play tug of war. It kept her busy, and it wasn’t her grabbing at his wings.

He could not, however, deny his relief when he heard a knock on the door and she let him pull away to get up. He held his aching leg ever so slightly above the ground, compensating with his other limbs to keep from limping.

“My King,” the retainer said, passing him a tray loaded with a plate of food and two glasses of water. After all, he was blocking the doorway, refusing to budge. “The White Lady wishes to know if you and the child are well.”

“We’re fine.” His voice dropped; if his child heard what he had to say, he would either have her all wound up and excited or upset, he was not sure which and not in the mood to test it. “Additionally, the child’s mother is coming to pick her up. When she arrives, bring her here.”

“O-of course, Your Majesty.” The retainer looked terrified, like he wished to sink into the white scenery. It would not be very difficult, not for bugs styled like him and the other retainers. With a bow, he scuttled off. Likely going to tell the other retainers the same order, in hopes someone else would encounter Herrah the Beast first.

That was not his concern. So long as she was brought here so she could see her child and he could explain what happened, it would be fine. For now, he needed to see to his child, and ensure she ate and drank. He shut the door and turned.

There were no tables. Of course.

The Gendered Child hopped off the bed and approached, reaching up towards the tray. He passed her one of the glasses and, much to his surprise, she just sat down on the floor to start drinking.

“Dada,” she said, somewhere between a question and a command, “Tea party?”

He blinked. He only knew of such things via the Lady’s activities. He had never been much for them, making it an extremely rare occasion for him to join in. He didn't even have tea at the moment, it was water.

She patted the floor in front of her, as if he were missing something obvious.

With a sigh, he set the tray down where she indicated and settled himself on the floor, legs tucked in. What did his beloved Lady do when she met the nobility for tea? He didn't even know what she did when she and Herrah had tea together, though she gave him summaries of the conversation afterwards.

He picked up his cup, watching his daughter for social cues. He knew some already - small bites, delicate sips, as if the food and drink were not necessary but merely a pleasantry. Also, you generally did not eat on the floor, but they were lacking in tables and he was more loathe to let her eat on the bed and make a mess.

She watched him, too. Unlike the Lady, or Herrah, or the Hallownest nobility, she said nothing much, and her manners quickly devolved as she dug into her meal, feet kicking and bouncing idly. With propriety a foregone conclusion, he drank much more readily, relishing the soothing properties of the cool water, though with it came a renewed bite of copper.

She tried to get up, but he grabbed her arm, readjusting her to hold her face with two hands and use a third to grab a napkin and wipe the crumbs and other detritus off. "You're a mess," he told her.

"Let me!" She grabbed the napkin from him and made a quick swipe of her own, before dropping the dirtied cloth and running off to go poke through her toy chest.

He set the tray and dishes on the dresser, to be removed later, and followed her to see what she picked. Her toy chest had been a communal effort, to his surprise; not only had Herrah and the Lady added to it, and he had crafted a few things in his workshop to keep her busy when she got in, but the Great Knights in particular were fond of bringing back toys and games and trinkets for her.

She pushed aside most of her things, though she grabbed a toy Weaverling and set it on the ground. When he peered over her shoulder she ignored him, letting him watch unperturbed. What could she be looking for?

The answer to his question was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He rustled his wings, ready to tell the retainers to either leave him alone or bring a report from his office-

An angry, deep growl cut that thought off. "Pale King-"

"Mama!" The Gendered Child abandoned her toys, running with open arms for the spider storming into the room.

Herrah's demeanor melted. She scooped up the child, stroking her cheek and back as she nestled into her chest. Instead of pursuing the Pale King she sat on the bed, gesturing for him to join her. There was, after all, much explaining to do.

He took his time approaching, letting Herrah get distracted checking over her daughter for injuries. She playfully nibbled on the girl's fingers, tickling her stomach and toes, relaxing as she giggled and squirmed. She eyed him as he pulled himself onto the bed, laying out the blankets he had bundled into a nest so he had room to sit.

"So," Herrah said, calmed but no less angry at him, "What happened that you sent Ogrim into Deepnest alone, babbling about my baby crying her heart out and you saying she hadn't lost anything?"

He tucked his wings close to his back, fully expecting her to grab at him. This was bound to be miserable, he ought to get it over with, minimizing distress to the child currently draped over her mother's elbow. "I-"

The child whined, patting the side of his head and reaching for him. He unlatched her fingers as she tried to grab one of his horns, letting her hold his hand as he processed what she wanted. To cuddle, he was certain, but Herrah was not about to let go and he could not blame her. Which meant he either stole the child from her mother for a moment while he soothed her (and hoped that didn't cause more trouble), or he cuddled with the Beast, too.

...If he was attending to his child, maybe she would be less inclined to snap at him. Awkward, uncertain about what Herrah would be okay with, he pushed in closer until the Gendered Child could loop an arm around his neck and rest her head on his shoulder, while her mother still held her. Sitting this way, he was forced to lean in to Herrah's side, her heartbeat echoing beneath her carapace. She laid an arm around his shoulders after a moment, instead of letting it get pushed back behind her, or pinched between them. It had been years since he had any prolonged physical contact with her; even when he stayed the night after the child hatched, they more of happened to be in the same room, with the child's cradle between them. And before that was, well, a business transaction. A business transaction and nothing more.

"Wyrm." She hooked her fingers into the hem of his robe, peeling the fabric away. It stuck, and he winced when she tore it free, revealing his wounds. "You're bleeding."

It stung, now uncovered, and his daughter hid her face from the sight of her father's torn flesh, the pale blood oozing from it. It had pooled and seeped into his clothes, and now the wounds filled again like hot springs. Besides a few scrapes from the pavement, most were clearly nail cuts, precise and sharp.

"We went to visit the City," he started, keeping his voice low in the hopes she would, too. His daughter nuzzled him, fear and stress growing in her eyes, driving her to tighten her grip around him. He sighed, closing his eyes. "We went to visit the City of Tears, and found an outdoor exhibition at an art gallery. There, I faced an attempted assassination. She was caught up in the fight."

"You did what?" Herrah exhaled sharply, moving in closer to better cuddle her child without forcing said child to let go of him. She pushed his hand away from the wound in his side to examine it for herself. It was a large gash, even with him having closed it enough he didn't need to fear bleeding out. It throbbed and stung as she tested its edges, tried to smooth it together. "They hurt her, too? Is that why she's in Palace robes?" She nudged the child. "Honeycomb, what's hurt?"

The Gendered Child pawed at her shoulder, solemn. Herrah pushed the robe off to see, humming when inspection and probing turned up dried blood, but no injury besides soreness.

"I healed her, there should be nothing that lingers beyond a bruise. But-" He ran a hand down his face. He was exhausted. When did he become so exhausted? He had been sleeping most of the afternoon. "There was a significant amount of blood. She shouldn't be too active while she recovers. Her cloak is not salvageable. You know why."

Why being because the Void's stains never left. It had not left him, it had not left her, and anything she bled on, no matter what was done to treat it, had small dark splotches.

"Yet you still bleed." Herrah ran a finger along the length of one of the wounds. When he hissed she hummed, holding her daughter steady through his labored breath. "Did you manage to neglect yourself, Wyrm? Or do you lack the Soul to heal?"

He shook his head, a slight movement that would not disturb the child. He had Soul, he had absorbed almost all of Xero's, in addition to his natural reserves replenishing as he rested. It was only a matter of using it, but he was tired. It could wait. "I can survive far more grievous wounds than she."

"And then you'll go get blood on everything. What's your wife going to say when she sees you?"

That was a matter for later. The White Lady was bound to be upset over the development, and they would have to discuss what led up to the assassination to prevent further attempts. For now, he could rest, and know that, most paradoxically, his daughter would be safe in Deepnest by nightfall. Even if he felt gnawing dread at the concept of this room quiet and unoccupied, with nothing more than the vague imprint of her life in the scattered toys and messy blankets. Walking in the next morning to find it dark, no sleeping form curled under the sheets, no overenthused peeping as she came to breakfast. Yet he had planned to send her home with Herrah, and send her he must.

The big spider rubbed his back, edging close to his wings, but never quite touching them. "Thank you," she said, "for taking some time with our daughter today."

Their daughter. Right.

His eyes drifted shut, and he nodded. Their daughter ought to get a makeup day out to see the city. But for now, she was alive, and well, and she had time with her mother to look forwards to.

His breathing steadied, and the Pale King fell asleep, Soul mending his wounds as he rested.

Chapter Text

Hollow, for having been raised among the royal family, surrounded by nobles and courts and knights, was not terribly fond of politicking. Nor were they much good at it, though on occasion Hornet asked for their advice, and she seemed to make good of it.

Really, what they preferred were those days they assisted Midwife, or, while in the City, served alongside those watching the nests that day. It reminded them of when Hornet was small, and would try and drag them away from training to play at any opportunity she got. Except there were a good couple dozen Hornets, and they had no training to do. They could let the children pull them into and teach them games to their hearts’ content, and in turn, teach the younger children the games.

They had learned so much, in the years since they agreed to become Midwife’s apprentice. How to ensure everyone got all their food on time, and took bathroom breaks in the right time and place, and how to soothe a child upset from being separated from their home, or parents, or other comfort things. How to introduce themself so they did not intimidate others. They had accompanied Midwife to a few egglayings and hatchings and learned they still had much to learn about not intimidating someone already in such a vulnerable position, but the medical information was invaluable, and truly, there was a magic to it.

(Midwife insisted she would bring them along more often, and some time let them lead the proceedings. She wasn’t getting younger, she said, and she wanted to see how they would do. She had already watched them learn their own style to care for children without the use of a voice, when she used hers so much in all her work. No doubt she would want to see how they took the rest of her duties.)

This day in the City had been… normal, thus far, insofar as it could ever be normal. They sat by the window, listening to the rain patter against it as they stitched up a blanket that had torn during some rough play. One of the guards told the children a story; they had already gotten a snack, and enough were getting crabby that Hollow had deemed it naptime.

The guard wound down the story, his voice dropping into a slow, sleepy tone as he told them of the Little Mosscreep finding their burrow, and getting all warm and cozy and safe inside, and going to sleep after their long adventure going all the way to the big lake. A handful of kids chorused thanks. The guard said they were welcome and chuckled at a couple who had fallen asleep. He fluffed the blankets around them, accepted and returned kisses from some of his brood, and told everyone to be good for Hollow.

They set aside their sewing, stretching as they stood. As they approached more of the children ducked into their blankets, peering out at them. A few blinked sleepily, snuggling up together. They knelt and secured the blankets around them, shooing the others towards the open spots.

Someone tugged on their cloak. They turned to see one of the older kids, Wikka. He stared up at them with big eyes, a soft green unusual to the sentry bugs.

They stared back, waiting for his request.

He shuffled on his feet, wringing his hands. His eyes fell from them, roaming around the room. “Hollow? I- uh, could we have another story?”

They started to turn, only for Wikka to pull on their cloak again.

“Oh! No, um, could you tell us a story?”

Oh, dear. Storytelling was not their strong suit. On the rare occasions being that communicative didn’t stress them, they needed prep time. Props, and a story to tell. Yet someone always asked them for a story, every once in a while. Often when there was a new batch of nymphs who had just come of age to come to the nursery.

Still, they cocked their head. What exactly did Wikka mean? He was old enough to know they didn’t tell stories on the fly.

This only served to make the poor boy more shy. He sort of curled up, rubbing his arms. The other kids, those still awake, watched him, waiting to see what happened. “My mom,” he said, pausing to take a deep breath, “My mom said every scar has a story.” He glanced up at them, eyes so full of awkwardness and uncertainty. “I’m real sorry, but your arm- is that a scar?”

Okay. Well, that wasn’t an unfamiliar request, either, as strangely as it was worded. The story itself was… not one they were willing to tell. Not to children these young, ones who had never known the Radiance’s influence, nor lived under their father’s reign. Still, they had found it useful, to let the children see.

They unclasped their cloak and shook it off. The children’s eyes blew wide, some gasping or mumbling. One squeaked and hiccuped like she was about to cry.

It had never been a pretty sight, and never would be. Their carapace remained warped and deformed, dented inwards in places. Their arm itself remained a lumpy, useless stump. The overwhelming darkness of their shell served to hide some of the scarring, but it was still plain as day.

A couple of the children reached out. Wikka grabbed their hands, hissing at them that they had to ask first, don’t be rude.

Hollow, careful not to accidentally kick or otherwise run into anyone, laid down on the ground, where the children could reach. They gently disentangled Wikka from the other kids and gestured towards the scarring. Yes, you can touch.

Small hands, warm against their cool carapace, was still unfamiliar. At least, where it pertained to their shoulder. They did not often get asked, and even then, on occasions they had to turn the children down, when the idea of being probed and prodded and reminded of what had been done to them hurt too much.

They were gentle, sort of. This small, most did not have very good fine motor control, but could do little that was actually painful to the big Vessel. They did their best not to poke and pinch. A few patted them, recoiling at the still-sharp points of their carapace, or marveling at how the stump of their arm sank under their hands, like a soft toy. One pressed into the indentations. Wikka stroked their back, where the damage stretched all the way around. Or, in the case of the indents, had pierced all the way through.

“Did it hurt?” one asked.

They nodded. Yes. It hurt so much. It hurt nowadays, sometimes. There were occasions they worked so hard to mask the pain so they could help their charges, and mornings where they awoke with Hornet or Ghost (or both) curled up with them, having spent part of the night trying to ease pain both physical and emotional.

One child’s hands came to rest on the stump of their arm. It was a strange feeling, having it squished and mashed. Not necessarily bad, so long as it was not painful that day. It helped that the children didn’t do so maliciously. They were just curious. “Can you move it?” the child asked.

They had tried countless times, consciously and subconsciously. They did so again, and got the same result: nothing. The child made a disappointed sound and patted it again. “It’s okay. It’s still yours.”

If they could have laughed, they would have, a surprised and appreciative sound. That was one thing they liked about the small children. They were honest, once you knew how to understand them. And they loved it when you understood them. So did Hollow. They thought it a fun puzzle, trying to figure out what they meant, as long as nobody was getting frustrated with each other. And there was little Hollow did better than not letting their frustration get in the way.

Hornet had congratulated them on it. On taking the skills Father put upon them, and turning it around to be soft, and patient, while unlearning enough that they weren’t tearing up internally. They had nuzzled her in thanks for helping them learn, tugged on her horn to say they were proud of her, too. Then Ghost had come and tapped their mask against their siblings’, without need for an ounce of context.

A small kiss on their shoulder caught them by surprise. They jerked, shuffling so they could stare down at the clump of children gathered by them.

One child, Ruki, stepped up to their injured side again. “Kiss it to make it better?”

...Oh. They had seen this ritual before, passed from parent to child, from one child to another. Their posture softened, and they lowered back down.

Ruki gave them another kiss. Another child added another. And another. Some settled for a pat. Some whispered, “Be better, okay?” or things along those lines. But, of those charges who did not sleep, they all gathered to try and make it better. To at least mitigate some of the damage done years before their hatching.

Wikka sat beside them. “Did your mom and dad not give you a kiss when you cut your knee or anything?”

They shook their head, accidentally bumping one of their younger charges.

“Not at all?” Wikka’s voice filled with horror.

They shook their head again. Falling to injuries was nigh unacceptable. Anything they did sustain was quickly patched with Soul and, if it got too severe, a good rest. Never physical contact beside the occasional examination of the wound. Something so sentimental as this was right out.

The White Lady, they could see doing it, but barely. She would hold them, they suspected, and press a kiss to what hurt, then set them down with a brief hug if they stretched their imagination far enough, and send them on their way.

The Pale King… he would fuss. He already had been like that, pulling the Vessel aside to check their wounds and determine how much Soul they would need to regenerate, or whether they ought to be sent to their room to rest. Anything for them - yet they could not manage to picture him kissing a cut better, or cuddling them after they got hit particularly hard. They had never even seen him do so for Hornet, though they recalled him taking the time to bandage up what injuries she did sustain, and check in to make sure they were healing well.

Wikka’s arms wrapped around one of their horns (as far as the boy could pull off such a feat) and he squeezed them tight. They leaned into him, careful not to add too much weight.

A blanket draped over their back and a small form jumped onto it, whooping. Wikka hushed them, gesturing towards all the other sleeping kids. Whoever had jumped on Hollow mumbled an apology, then leaned out to help others up onto their back. One by one, they piled on, throwing on more blankets to serve as barriers against their cold carapace.

“Wikka! Get the cloak!” one kid hissed.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Despite the bit of attitude, he giggled as he threw Hollow’s cloak over them, covering up the children on their back. Snickers sounded as the children readjusted the cloak, until only its edges brushed them and a good dozen pairs of eyes peered out from under it.

They listened to the whispers, the yawns, the slowly quieting sounds. A few stretched against them. Others curled up into small, dense weights. One played with the seam between their back and their neck, the movement growing less careful as they nodded off.

It took a while, but Hollow was left surrounded by their sleeping charges, with more piled on their back, a welcome weight and warmth.

They covered their eyes with their arm and sighed, content.

Chapter Text

It was far too late at night for Hornet to be awake, really. Too late for anyone to be awake. She needed to be up early in the morning, to go out, to hunt, to attend to her people, to ensure the crops grew in. She should have been sleeping.

She couldn’t sleep, and so she wandered the halls of the Den like a ghost. Presumably, she was going to the kitchen to fetch a snack, or perhaps to the bathroom. Yes, that is what she was doing.

But as she passed the main room, she paused. Someone was in there, talking.

She crept closer, the silk construction of the house muffling her footsteps, preventing creaks and groans from the wood bracing it.

She recognized it, the deep whisper, almost a rasp. The sound more thought than heard. Her sire’s voice, alone.

Unless one of the Vessels was in there, but they’d been good about sleeping through the night. They often slept right through until morning, when she would check in and find them tangled up together, Ghost sprawled out on top of Hollow or hidden under their cloak.

After they had pulled the Pale King from the dream realm, he had been an awkward addition to the home. He alternately fussed over her and her siblings, and secluded himself for days on end. Some days the thought of seeing him in the Beast’s Den made her wish to run him out. Others, she could think only of how lucky she was, to have a relative survive. Even if it was him. He would lecture at length about the intricacies of some governmental system or another, then refuse to be involved in any of the actual leadership.

He’d hardly been in the main room since he came home. When he was there, he studiously did not look at Herrah’s shrine, central as it was. So when Hornet peered in from the doorway, she found herself searching the ceiling, the walls, everywhere else before her eyes landed on the shrine.

His back was to her, thankfully, she didn’t know what she would tell him if he spotted her. (The odds were good he would know she was there, anyways, his foresight much more functional in the short term.) He’d sat down right beside the shrine, not leaning on it like Hollow or Ghost or even herself would when they needed a moment of contemplation, but he was still hunched over, wings limp against his back, tail curled around himself.

“-children are as lost as I am, so it would seem. Hollow spends most of their time here, so we see each other the most. I suspect I hinder their progress, even when attempting to encourage all I sought to hide before. But consistency with the past would be far more harmful than all this confusion. Their clutchmate, Ghost, readily dismisses me. I was never a presence for them, when I was removed from the dream realm and the remnants of the Palace were destroyed, they wrote me a note saying it was because I was a disturbance in their new realm. Rather, that is what I gather of it. This I understand. So long as we leave each other be, and I am not hostile, all remains well.”

He sighed, shoulders hunching. “Your daughter... to put it simply, I am continually surprised she permits my presence here. Perhaps she saw a shattered fool with no survival skills and took pity on me. Or perhaps she is keeping me here, where I can provide information she is quickly making outdated and attempt to make up with her siblings, because she knows I would go to my Lady otherwise. She is all too like you, as sharp as she is smart, already a force to be reckoned with despite her youth and inexperience with-” He gestured at some unknowable, invisible thing. “People.”

And whose fault is that? Hornet thought bitterly. Who brought the kingdom to ruin and fled?

“I told her about-” Was his voice wavering? She’d never heard him get anywhere near choked up before. He stopped emoting when things got intense. “The other clutch. The first attempt.” His hand came to rest on the curve where his upper body transitioned into his tail, as if he had been the one to carry a clutch.

"I've not thought of them much." It sounded more like a confession than a statement. "But now, everything has stopped. There is no more infection, there is no being trapped in the dream realm. I have relinquished my duties as king, and I doubt Hornet would let me take up Monomon's role as teacher and scientist."

...Actually, that wasn't the worst idea, if he had boundaries placed on what experiments he could run and any power he wielded. It would get him out of the den, and give him an official title she could address him by. It wasn't like "Pale King" was all that accurate any more, calling him "sire" just made everything awkward, and just "Pale" felt like giving him a name; she would much rather keep that to her siblings, not him.

The thoughts faded, leaving Hornet with ice in her stomach. She had grown up knowing nothing of this failed clutch, how close her mother came to dying just so she could eventually be conceived. The idea of her mother, brave and strong and indomitable, brought low by her own body, and to then hear from Midwife that this was hardly the first time?

It made her think that maybe, she ought to go back to bed.

But she was frozen in place, rapt as he spoke. She could hardly breathe, lest she make too much of a sound.

"I have lost - no, I destroyed so many of my own children. Not with my hand around their necks or a nail piercing through them, but my own negligence. I watched them die. They just wanted freedom. Some, I am sure, just wanted their father. Yet they were condemned, through nothing but the circumstances of their birth." His wings flickered.

"Was Hornet not, too? And, before her, our… our other children? You must have known. You must have known I did that to you, too. Not consciously. Not with any intent to kill you. Your Midwife, I went behind your back and approached her after we conceived Hornet, to get further details.

"No mortal should be able to do that, Herrah. Even the White Lady would suffer, if we tried for more children. No creature of flesh and blood should be able to birth Void and survive."

The chill reached through Hornet and became a full-body shudder. How could he hurt her mother like that then go to her shrine?

Then again, Ghost went to the shrine, too.

But they had only done what had to be done, thanks to his plan.

"I do not know how rare godhood is among hybrids. But one, between two clutches? Herrah, how many did we lose because of what I had done? Even our little survivor is stained with regret and cruelty. She never should have been. No child should look in the mirror and see the manifestation of their parent's mistakes. How do you raise a daughter to not hate herself then? I hurt her, I hurt you, before any of us even knew we would have to bring a child into this forsaken world."

Hornet slid down to the floor, tilting her head back to rest it against the wall. He had explained Void to her when she was young. Told her to be careful when she cut herself, because the little black "ladybug dots" in her blood could hurt people if she wasn't careful. He explained how he used it in the wingmoulds and kingsmoulds. He had, when she asked about Hollow, explained her siblings and the merging of Soul and Void to make a Vessel. She'd had to find out about the regret, the emotion, herself.

"My blood runs black, Herrah. That is what I did to you. To all of them." He paused, fingers drumming on the side of his tail. "Perhaps it is not my place to mourn them. It is by my careless hand that they met their demise, and you suffered so. I have left so many more to their deaths - ought I to be numbed to it by now? I sired them, but as Hornet will tell you, I am no father. Certainly not hers. You and I were never close. I never even saw the miscarriage itself. And they are one clutch. You never saw the Abyss, Herrah. One clutch of spider eggs would not make a difference in the depths I filled with my hatchlings' corpses."

Hornet pulled her sleep shift tighter around her shoulders; it did little to ward off the sudden chill in the air, one she felt deep within, almost like when she had been in the Abyss.

"But they have been all I can think about. I know I said it myself, how little difference would a few weeks have made, but I cannot help but wonder what has been lost. Though, the end would have been the same. I would not parent. They would resent and reject me, with full right to do so. There would have been no grand revelation in those few weeks. And they were nothing - should be nothing to me. An abstract at the most. A failed attempt to fulfill a contract. Nobody would mourn for a mass of geo or a pile of raw ore.

"And yet." A scratching sound indicated he was scrubbing his face. Hornet heard him sigh again, long and drawn out, like it would be his last. "I feel like I should apologize to them. Which is pointless, they never would have been alive, maybe at the most they were Void clumped into something vaguely resembling an embryo.

"Setting aside the fact that as both god and royalty, one is expected deep and perfect knowledge of all scenarios in all applications, I am certain you would understand this, what is there for me to mourn or give thought? We were rivals. It was not I who carried them, I did not have to suffer the pain of my body rejecting them, nor fear my life was draining out as well. I did not have to live with the knowledge I may have to go through that again, or- no, I suppose I have been thinking about it as replacement, fertilizing more eggs so they could quite literally take the place of the failed clutch. What was my body but a thing, a machine I used to create more like itself? What were they but a-" His breath hitched, and so did Hornet's. "A defect."

Distantly, feeling the thought the way one may watch an aluba drift by, Hornet considered hitting him in the face.

"They were potential. That is, in the objective sense, all they were. Potential. A chance that did not make it to fruition. And yet here I am, I entered this room and felt so strongly this need. Some irrational, pointless need to have held them, to tell them I am their sire and I am their downfall, to tell them I did wrong and to tell them goodbye. That I have faced death, too, and that it will be okay, that it is a place they will not suffer. But they never lived. I was only their sire, and what is there to tell a sire how to grieve for children that never could have drawn breath?"

Midwife would know something. She had to. She had done so much in her work. Hollow was bound to learn it, too, but the last thing they needed was to try and learn on their own father.

And Midwife would know how to comfort in cases where nobody was at fault, or the harm was intentional, the miscarrying parent abused until they lost the pregnancy. The Pale King and Herrah might not have gotten along, but no. They had respected one another. Yet his experiments with the Void had done this.

"I never told you how I wanted it. Not the miscarriage, no. Being a father. Which, if I wanted a child I know the White Lady had wished for them, too. But you asked. It was foolish of me to think I could handle fatherhood, I realized that the day Hornet hatched. Other gods are potential threats to one's territory. I never planned to abdicate the throne, so an heir with a potential claim to it was a threat to Hallownest's rulership. I had to ensure these caverns were safe from the Old Light. By all rights, being a father should have been the last thing on my mind. I knew it. I knew it was dangerous to want it. It was pointless to want it.

"They should have been a temporary setback. Lost resources. Hardly any, at that, considering all I had to contribute was…" Thankfully, he trailed off; Hornet did not want to hear him complete the thought. "That is all they should have been. That is all I let them be. So why is it now, where I have fulfilled our contract, to your great detriment, and have failed utterly in that selfish desire to become a parent anyways, that I find myself unable to sleep and talking to a decorated plinth in the dead of the night? Why this one clutch, when there are so many more children I have failed? Or when our next attempt was successful, and you bore a daughter? One who never would have existed if this first clutch succeeded?"

The scraping of carapace against carapace began again. "It should not matter. There is nothing I can do about it. It is said and done. It is absolutely pointless to daydream about telling them I'm sorry and, if not raising them like a proper parent, like I failed to do for our living, breathing child, then letting them pass away in my arms instead of during an unexpected, premature laying. The one thing I could maybe have done is let their younger sister feel loved, cherished, like she mattered to me. And I didn't. She was my baby." Another sigh, this one deep and rattling. "She was my baby."

Hornet glanced back to see the Pale King tilt his head back, two hands pressed into his face, one steadying himself on the plinth, the other still cradling children he had never borne.

"I am sure someone said it in this shrine's presence. She disowned me. The one child I did not seal into the Abyss, or kill via my own monstrosity, and she disowns me." His head fell forward again. "I cannot fix that, either. I understand the actions she took, I can see how I have been utterly unfit as a father. You knew how I treated her. Distant. Closed off, save for the most cold and factual of information. I hardly even knew what to do when she was small and wanted Daddy to make it better when she had a nightmare. All I needed to do then was tell her she was all right, I was there, and cuddle her until she fell asleep again. That was it. I could not even manage that.

"I tried to distance myself and said it was for her sake. Was there any right answer? Should I have held her in my arms, kissed her head, and told her it was okay while I killed her own mother and dear sibling?" Whether the disgust in his tone (only growing with every word he spoke) was real or some imagined thing, Hornet could not help but hear it, not any more than she could stop her fingers from tightening on her head. "She freed herself from me, when she could. She was right to do so. All I can do for her is haunt her. She only grew up once, and I dashed it on jagged rocks and infected corpses. Neither of us will ever get it back."

He went quiet, flaring and resettling his wings before lying down on the coil of his tail. Hornet pulled her knees in close. Ought she to go to him? Or just get some water, go to bed, dismiss this as a dream? He would never do such a thing, talk to anyone, certainly not her mother's shrine. It had to be a dream.

She did not get up. She listened to the den's silence, the constant roll of Deepnest's life beyond, the quiet puff of her own breaths. Maybe he had more to say. Maybe she wanted to kick him, right in the stomach, as a shadow of the pain and misery her mother must have gone through. Maybe she wanted to tuck her chin into his shoulder and let him try cradling her and telling her it was okay until she fell asleep.

Her eyes started to shut, though her mind still buzzed. What had she walked into? Had he been doing this in previous nights?

"I would tell her I love her, and her siblings," he said, barely more than a whisper. "But I find I do not know how. Nor do I see the point. It is far too late for me."

It was. It was much too late. It was pointless. Meaningless. He could never have loved her, with what he did. Hornet scrubbed her eye, forced her breath steady. He was a mistake of her biology, an unfortunate necessity for her to hatch. There could be no love in that, and he ought not to lie to her, her siblings, or himself.

And now he was defiling the sanctity of her mother's shrine with his presence. She, so poor at her duties as family, had done nothing about it.

She couldn't even tell herself to get a glass of water and go.

"You don't have to sit there. You are free to move about your own home. Come in if you must. Or go to bed, like you should."

His voice did not echo, not with the spider silk. It was so different from hearing it in the White Palace, where any noise would echo on and on in the tall, imposing halls.

She stood, on mechanical, unfeeling legs, and walked in.

She sat beside him, close enough her back tingled uncomfortably with the knowledge his wings might brush hers. She had molted since Ghost first brought her into the Palace, and now she looked down at him, and her wings were almost full grown.

"How long did you know I was sitting there?" she asked.

He did not look at her, his face hidden away. "I saw what I would have seen if I turned around. I know not what you heard."

"Everything from the children being lost." She knew he was a god. She knew he was far older than anyone else she knew, besides perhaps his wife. But the small snap couldn't be stopped.

He nodded slowly. "Most of it, then."

"I thought you were not given to lying. Yet you claim to hold some affection for me."

A sigh, strong and exhausted. "Do not place feelings into others' hearts. Or a lack thereof. Believe me, it does not work."

She shuffled her feet, thoughts whirling on what to say. A rebuke, maybe, but she didn't want to get into a fight while everyone should be asleep.

"Did you truly want to be a father?"

The words didn't feel strong enough for anyone to hear, like the air itself would dissipate them. Yet she knew he'd heard him anyways.

Another nod. His hand tightened on the shrine's fabric, working it in a way that would likely wrinkle the silk. It would have to be fixed in the morning, this evidence of his presence. "You would not remember your earliest days. You were my world. Under better circumstances, you likely would have grown to toddlerhood in a nest, and my time would have been dedicated to taking care of you."

"Under better circumstances, I would not have been born." The reminder fell heavy from her mouth. She existed out of tragedy. She always had. It was her heritage, perhaps moreso than being half-spider or half-wyrm, or some little upstart of a godling. Born for a sacrifice, growing up around death and ruin, all of it deigning to take away everyone she knew and loved. That she had begun getting people back still did not feel real, some days.

His head sunk down. "In the temporal sense. In this idealistic exercise, you would be there."

"What of my siblings? The ones you killed while my mother still grew them?" The words were harsh and she knew it, but there was a satisfaction in seeing his shoulders tighten. Like the taste of one's enemy's blood during a fight.

"Perhaps you would have been among them. And the clutch would have succeeded." He sat up with a heavy exhale. His gaze remained downcast. "Which, Hornet…"

"I have nothing to say on them. I never met them, either." She sought the shine in his eye, something to tell her where he was looking, and above that, if he was looking at her. He had always, always seemed so preoccupied with something or another. Reports. Projects. The nobility demanding time and attention.

"No. It's - you are far too young for this I know, and may not even wish to consider it for a time, but know that may affect you, too, and any children you may have. That, on top of your status as a hybrid-"

"Pale." The name did feel strange. "Stop. I'm not here for you to tell me I may be effectively infertile-" Why was her voice wavering? "You were sitting here talking to my mother's shrine. You were just saying all you ever gave me was facts."

His shoulders fell, and he studied the floor all the more intensely. "That I did. Old habits prove difficult to break."

Silence reigned, for a moment. Just the two of them, the silk hiding away their breaths.

"What is it you want from me?" he asked. "If that is my departure, I shall take it."

"I don't know. I wish to be rid of you at the same time I wish I could see you feeling something, anything. You are right, my childhood is forfeit." The pressure on her head grew tighter. She had a thought, but she could not chase it fast enough, and it faded into oblivion along with whatever else she may have had to say.

She rubbed an eye. She thought she caught him looking at her, and held his gaze as best she could. Studied him back. "Do you really bleed black?"

With a shake of an arm, the sleeve of his robe fell back to his shoulder. A flick of a hand, and he held a small, glowing Soul dagger. After a moment to find an ideal angle, he pressed it into his wrist until, as promised, black beaded along its edge. He dissipated the dagger, pressed on the edges of the shallow cut so more blood welled, and held it out before her, rolling his wrist back and forth so the droplet moved with it. "See? Not even a shine to it, any more."

She pushed his arm away, heart thumping right below her throat. "I did not ask for you to harm yourself."

A brief glow, and the cut sealed, leaving only a smear of black. He wiped it onto his stomach, and let the sleeve of his robe fall back into place. "No, but we are similar in a way. We both seek proof. You would not be satisfied with words."

No, she supposed she would not be. But in a strange way, it made her feel small, seeing the wound he made, inconsequential as it was. So many things about him said he should not come to harm. But she knew he could, she knew he had, she knew he would.

"Does it scare you? Or make you feel anything at all?" She felt drawn to it, even with his arm hidden away. The sharp contrast of black on dimly glowing white. The fact some of that ran through her veins, too.

Of all things, he nodded. "There is fear. Slowly, I approach acceptance. This is the fate I bear for my actions. I would begin to fade anyways, without worship."

"The White Lady has gone blind," she said, aware that she had done as he did and stated a fact rather than a thought.

His mouthparts worked, but his tone kept steady. "Her eyesight was poor beforehand, that it would be the first sense to go is unsurprising. That will likely happen to me, too. As a naturally sightless creature, it will be an adjustment but not a stressful one. I spent a lifetime relying on scent, touch, and hearing. I can do it again."

It would be strange, though, seeing his eyes clouded like the Lady's had become. What would he be, without that piercing black gaze, the one that could always lay someone's life bare? The one she saw in the mirror?

"I don't recall anyone worshiping her." When the White Lady left the palace, there had been some upset, but above everything Hornet remembered people watching the king. What he did. Whether he would snap without her presence.

"No, you likely wouldn't." The Pale King had begun to examine where the wound was, even with it fully healed. "While I was the focal point of Hallownest's religion, she paradoxically was more social and not nearly so commonly worshiped. Most of those who followed her primarily were her gardeners and others specifically on her staff, Dryya included. Most of the actual worship came from myself."

"You?" She could not help but scrunch her face.

"Yes. The worship of a popular god is powerful." Their eyes met again, and she swore she saw hers reflected in his, almost identical in shape. She knew this similarity, but she could not break her attention from it. "I love my wife. That is the long and short of it."

Hornet frowned. But she had left him. And all her staff were long gone. She had to have known he was her main dedicant.

"You said you wanted to apologize to them. To my… my siblings."

He shut his eyes and nodded. "It's unfulfillable, just as much as wishing for your childhood to have been different. What I did to them is not something that can be imagined away."

"You're grieving."

Those two words made the air feel like water. Hornet forced herself to take one breath, then another, to not look away when a tired old god's eyes stared into hers.

His gaze averted, and the air began to clear. Each breath came easier, the world did not crush her so. "That would be a reasonable assessment of the situation."

She shifted, sat cross-legged and perpendicular to him instead of parallel. She leaned her head in, tried to make out his expression. "Midwife has helped plenty of grieving parents before. You could talk to her, or I could suggest she speak with you."

His gaze turned to steel. Her shoulders stiffened.

"Hornet," he said, in the way he had warned her of dangerous tools or potential injury, "None of this leaves this conversation without my saying it first. Not to your siblings, not to Midwife, not to anybody. Understood?"

She hissed a sigh. "I know. But you should consider it. We all just spent all this time convincing Hollow not to bottle up their feelings."

"I will." From his tone, she could not tell if he was lying or not. He may well have been. If he was, well, she wasn't going to be the one he placed this burden on.

...Not that he had intended to, had he? She was the one to eavesdrop.

He tapped along the side of his tail. She watched, not quite able to pull herself away from the movement. She was the child of two predatory species, after all.

When she was little, she would swat at his tail and wings, or try to grab his legs. She had fuzzy memories of a few of these instances, and Midwife had told of many more. Had it been a game to him, too? Or an annoyance? Had her silken cloaks and cradle made up for the nest he claimed to have wanted to make? Was she enough? Did she make up for her full-blooded siblings, never to have lived?

She could not ask.

It would be pointless.

Meaningless.

"What has you up so late at night? You should be asleep, with how early you rise." There was the stern edge she remembered. Almost. Perhaps he was tired, too, and needed sleep as much as she.

She drummed on her ankle.

She was a creature of curiosity, but also skepticism. Proof meant everything. Evidence above all.

"...If it was a nightmare?" she asked.

Without a word, his arms slipped around her. Despite his smaller stature, they were heavy, and his carapace ran colder than hers. She knew it did, yet she stiffened. Her wings flickered, and he readjusted his grip. One hand cradled her head, brought it down to his shoulder. She could hear him breathe, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest under her cheek. It was… familiar, in a way, and she found herself pressing into it.

Two hands began to rub small circles into her back, like she had seen Hollow do with some of their charges. One above her wings, one below, with just enough pressure for it to rock her back and forth.

She closed her eyes, and she swore he began to hum. His voice, deep and quiet and just a little raspy, was not quite her mother's, but it carried this gently rolling, implacable melody all the same.

Chapter Text

It's dark, wind whistling through the windows. It's warm, though only within the safety of the bed, of the press of bodies.

Quirrel's not sure how he got here. But he doesn't mind.

At some point, the invitations for tea became invitations to stay the night, too. Staying the night came to mean slumbering with an arm around his shoulder, a face against his chest. It meant a too-small, cramped bunk, warm and cushioned with three bodies and well-loved blankets. It meant someone cooking breakfast - he had become as familiar with their larder as they were. It meant coming back later, with the understanding this was the closest thing an adventurer with ragged memories had to a home.

He thinks, vaguely, to breakfast again. Well, future breakfast. He paws through a mental inventory of what's around. What to cook, when to be up to start it. How nice it would smell, crackling and as spiced as one could get anything under the circumstances, with brisk and bitter tea brewed off to the side. The anticipation of the taste, the simple process of setting it out between three plates. Maybe four; sometimes, one of the siblings stopped by. But, beyond the siblings, sleepy morning greetings and soft kisses of thanks for making food, for brewing tea.

He wasn't sure when the kisses started, either.

It all feels like it's always been.

Yet, at the same time, as the one behind him sighs and leans his face into Quirrel's back, between his shoulders, it tingles with novelty. His heart quickens, then slows back near the lull of sleep with heavy thumps. He wraps his arms tighter around... Around...

Since when was he smushed into Iselda's abdomen? He'd had his head practically against hers earlier. Hmm. Strange. But not uncomfortable.

Cornifer yawns.

Quirrel does, too, after a moment.

His antennae brush her carapace, and he shivers. It's still so strange, to have them uncovered. But if he sleeps in his bandana, it's almost impossible to find the next morning. One time, it was wrapped around Cornifer's leg. So it's on the counter, he knows. But it's not on his head. Part of him still wants to readjust the knot that isn't pressing against his chin.

How funny, to be in a proper bed, not nodding off on a bench somewhere, or a particularly cozy pile of leaves. He blinks slowly, and relaxes into the mattress and the arms around him. It was a nice change of pace, really. He remembered all the times he'd come up short on money and couldn't afford an inn, or found himself in the ruins of a kingdom already dead. Not much hospitality to find there. Hallownest, for everything it was, had been rather welcoming.

Though, these two were not of Hallownest. They'd been to so many places before it, and there were so many more for them to go see.

But those were future adventures.

The dark got heavier, a blanket of its own. Quirrel's head bobbed with his own heartbeat. Yes, those were future adventures. He'd be happy here now.

Chapter Text

The polishing cloth dropped to the floor, her thoughts too numb to pick it up, put it away properly. There was no more time. She latched her armor around her thorax, tightened the buckle as she walked. She drew her nail from where she had set it after inspection.

As she stepped into the hall leading to the bright, bright space before her, she realized how hard her heart thundered. It beat against her carapace, the armor protecting it. It roared in her head, sent blood rushing through her limbs.

The last stage of the tourney.

She had made it.

She might not make it farther.

Even if she proved victorious against whatever, whoever, came her way, she may still not be chosen. That was the way of things. That was how the tourney had gone for years, from before she had gained any scars outside training accidents. No knight, no warrior, had proven worthy.

The king was wise. The king knew many things, things beyond what a mortal bug ought to know.

The king had rejected them all.

The tourney had drawn hundreds, thousands even, to watch their potential new Great Knight. Even if it had ended in loss so often, it was still entertainment. She had ignored the crowds. They mattered not to her.

But today, she knew, her audience of one would be more pressure than the largest throngs.

She stepped into the arena, glanced about to ensure nobody waited in ambush. She kept her eyes low, away from the light glowing before her.

Once it proved safe, she dropped to one knee and bowed.

"Your name, warrior?" asked a voice deep, whispery. It came from before her but all around as well, and most strongly, from within herself. It promised something she could not name, but which she wished for, she needed.

"Dryya," she said, hand tightening on her nail. She had to look. She could not look. The light, so bright, her very soul begged to bask in it. But she could not.

"Stand, Dryya."

She did, readying her nail. She never knew. This could be a way to draw her into complacence. A way to leave her vulnerable.

She swept the room again. The temptation grew, pulled her, screamed at her.

She looked.

Her audience of one, she realized with a sharp breath, was not so.

The king stood above her, where he could watch the proceedings. His crown grew long past his face, longer and sharper than the most painful of thorns. Dark eyes, serious eyes, shadowed by some great weight, bore into her. Everything she did, every twitch and breath and perhaps even thought, would be known to him. Fine robes hid the rest of him away, and perhaps that was for the best.

Beside him, though…

She was tall. Plump, body rounded and heavy with curves. One layer of fabric, light as a breeze, showed another underneath, one that hugged her body so close Dryya swore she saw every detail. Even then, she wished to find what was under it, explore, and shed her armor so this incredible being could do the same to her. Tangling roots spread from below her dress and crowned her head, sparkling with ornaments. Dryya wished for nothing more than to be the one threading them into place, whispering secrets back and forth.

And her eyes. Strange, colorful, the only color she had seen in the entirety of the Palace. The blue of an oasis when you had naught a drop to drink.

Why did everyone make idols and prayers to the king when this was their queen?

Her stomach and heart ached in tandem. She swallowed hard. She would never win. She had to win.

The king gestured, and her opponent strode out. Shorter than Dryya, she appeared to be made of vegetation rather than flesh and carapace. A Mosskin? Some other strange being of Unn's? Either way, this had to be Isma. She earned the epithet of Kindly for a reason, and even now she wore a soft smile on her face, but to wrong her led to not only falling to her weapon but being covered in acid burns. The last one to fight her for the tourney had been blinded, limbs constricted with scarring. He would never do any sort of manual labor again, let alone fight. Dryya heard only rumors of what caused Isma to wound him so. None were pleasant. Some may have been true.

Isma bowed to her. She bowed back. Her jaw worked, her tongue sought words she didn't know.

It found them before her mind knew what she was doing. "Honorable Isma, my king and queen, I thank you for this opportunity. However…" What was she doing? What was she doing?

Isma tilted her head, blinking slowly. "Do you forfeit?" she asked, in a way that made Dryya feel as if she could, and it would be okay. Everything would be okay.

"No, I-"

She turned to the king. Again, she felt his eyes on her, and more than that, the queen's gaze. Her own eyes lingered on her, drinking in the sight. Something bubbled up in her, the desire to protect, to defend. To prove her own honor so she may be worthy of standing beside the White Lady herself. The queen deserved only the best. She understood the king's refusal to choose now. To settle. The queen deserved nothing less than perfection in her court.

"If I am to be a Great Knight, surely I must be prepared to face any challenge. The Knights are strong, and I am honored to be here as their potential equal. But I am not here to be a Knight. I am not here for a title or glory. I am here to defend the kingdom from even the strongest of threats." What was she doing? How many before her had tried this and failed? She was nobody special to these people, who had seen the best Hallownest had to offer. She was another overconfident fighter.

"Such as Higher Beings," the Pale King concluded.

She nodded.

"Do you challenge me, Dryya?" He watched her with… something. Some sort of emotion. Dryya could not tell if it was disinterest or intrigue. How did he make them sound the same?

She nodded, bowing low again. Again, her eyes flickered to the White Lady. "If you will let me borrow him, my queen."

She laughed, and Dryya knew she would do anything to hear the sound again. She spoke, and Dryya wished to hear everything she had to say. "Of course, fierce knight."

Quietly, the Pale King stood, and shrugged off his pure white robes. Underneath, he wore thin armor, the metal bright but unable to compete with the pallor of his own complexion and glow. He must have been wearing it this whole time. He had known. She had not, thus far, proved much of anything.

His wings fanned and, with a whisper of a rustle, he glided into the arena. With a gesture he dismissed Isma, who disappeared back from whence she came, only to reappear beside the White Lady a moment later.

"Are you certain," the Pale King said, "That you wish to do this?"

She nodded.

A burst of light, and she dodged to the side, the air whistling behind a Soul spear. The second was nowhere near so flashy, but she ducked under it, too.

Too distant now for a strike. Dryya lunged in, nail aimed for where his stomach would be, and a gap she had seen in his armor.

A flurry of daggers met her, forcing her to the side again, but not without taking a swing. Her nail met something solid, but it did not dig deep.

Light beamed from the ground, harsh and bright. How she wanted to find it, bask in-

No.

She slipped into a shadowed spot a moment before massive spears erupted from the ground, more bursting from the ceiling. The one above her scratched her middle horn as she ducked.

As they dissipated, her heart thudded in her chest.

Another barrage of daggers. To the side again. He needed a moment to prepare his next spell, all four hands working. She ran in, nail drawn.

It came down on a spellwork shield. Another strike dissipated it and cut through clean air as he moved aside. But his spell was broken, Soul fizzling out through the air.

She pressed on.

Another stab. It hit armor. A spear flew at her. She deflected it, arm wavering at the force of it. Stab again. Flesh this time, eliciting a mad beast's hiss.

Her heart beat nausea into her throat at the sight of a pale blue rivulet dripping down. More than nothing. But not enough.

The next spear slammed into her breastplate, driven up from the ground. She stumbled, recovered just in time to hear a dagger fly behind her. It would have buried itself in her side. So close. So close to the end.

She drove in, slashing and stabbing until she was a whirlwind, her nail whistling with the storm of her. He didn't like close combat, he was vulnerable there, she could take advantage, force him back-

Something struck her back, a sharp pain. She gasped; the inhale made it worse, the exhale was no relief.

Snarling, she dove for him.

Another slash on her arm. It didn't matter. Her nail's point found his side. He scowled.

Something, some new weapon, screamed as it flew for the back of her head.

She dropped her nail and pulled him with her to the floor.

Not knightly behavior, she found herself thinking. It didn't matter. Knightly behavior wouldn't win every fight.

As she proved by punching him in the throat.

He coughed and hacked, wings buzzing wildly. His rows of legs scrabbled against her, digging in and drawing cuts where they could.

She punched him again, this time in the temple.

Someone was shouting. That was all she knew. Not who, or the tone, or the words. Just shouting, and the tinge of blood in the air.

She drew her fist back again.

Brought it down, hearing the snap of a thin crack forming.

Drew back-

She couldn't.

It took a moment to realize. Another for the pain to flood her, sending her onto her back on the floor, a heavy weight on her thorax. Someone screamed. No, she screamed.

She could see through her arm. She had to hold up the remnant with her other hand or it would fall. Blue smeared her armor, her flesh. It pulsed from the wound - the gap in her forearm. She couldn't feel her fingers. She couldn't move her fingers. Everything past the missing part was slack and either numb or burning in agony.

Blue coated the Pale King's face. In his mouth, being shredded and devoured, was the missing chunk of her arm.

Was this real? Surely this was fake. She was watching this strange tableau, not in it. This was a dream. This was not the real Dryya on the ground without a piece from her arm. The real Dryya was observing.

Four hands clasped her arm, two above the gap, two below. A rush of cool, soothing tingling rippled through the wound. Flesh slowly reformed. Ropes and threads of nerves and vessels reached from one end to another. Her hand began to crackle with sensation, cold then hot then painful. The flow of blood slowed to a trickle.

With a crunching noise, her carapace began to reform, as if nothing happened. As if it was all a burning, throbbing fragment of her imagination. Real-Dryya knew that of course it had all been fake. Fake-Dryya was heaving in breath after breath.

How un-knightly. Surely this would fail her. Look at her reaction, after one wound. A few. But this one left her on the ground screaming. Disappointing.

Her carapace closed as much as it could, leaving an X-shaped crack where the healing parts met.

“Get her somewhere to recover,” someone (the King?) said. That was the last thing she remembered with any sort of clarity. She had been moved, she presumed, or picked herself up to follow someone to the bed she had found herself in.

It had to be a guest room of some sort, not often used. The walls held little decoration, besides the silvery leaf filigree that seemed to be everywhere. Still, a small vase of flowers sat on an end table, along with a cup of water and a small pastry.

She turned her arm over, prodding the new flesh, pinching and wiggling her fingers. It ached, but she could feel and move just fine. That had all happened, right? Already the memories felt fuzzy and faded, like she had read about them or something.

The water was nice and cool; she sipped it carefully, in case her body had some other negative reaction hiding somewhere. When the water settled well, she nibbled on the pastry. Was this all consolation, or some kind of victor’s prize? No, no, she had been no victor.

That got her stomach tightening, and she slowed on the pastry, consumed by these thoughts instead. What had disqualified her? Surely something had to have. One did not win tourneys by needing to be carried away while your opponent stood mostly unwounded. She would have failed, but at least she would have the clout of having come so close while she next searched for work. She had to be getting a reputation by now.

Finishing the pastry and the water, she stood, taking a moment to sway on her feet. Oh. The world was a little wobbly. She would need some time to recover.

It had actually happened, then, and she did lose all that blood. Of course. No wonder she felt lightheaded. She needed more water. Yes, that would help.

Taking the cup with her, she strode out of the room as best as her lopsided gait would allow, and into the bright, gilded hallways.

Shit.

Where was the kitchen?

She didn't know.

Her brow furrowed, and she picked a direction to walk. At the very least she could find someone to ask. There had to be people around here somewhere. Maybe they just blended in to all the cool white architecture.

Resisting the urge to call out like some kind of lost grub, she watched out, examining each patch of leaves and every hallway, as if they could hold some sort of answer. Or at least, someone who could give her one.

She did hear the skitter of footsteps behind her, despite the thickness that had settled over her head. She stopped and turned, unable to stop herself from leaning-collapsing against the wall. Where was-

She looked down. Ah.

The Pale King stood before her, holding a full glass of water. His face and robes were not bloody, which was nice. She was perhaps a little miffed with him for taking it when she so dearly needed it.

She jolted into a bow. A rough one, nowhere near what was proper, she was sure. "My king. I- hm." What would she say? Sorry for punching you? Why did you bite me? Did I win?

He nodded to her, and offered up the glass. Wordlessly, she took it and began to sip. Oh, that was nice. And slightly floral, hm. What was this infused with?

"Dryya." His tone was soft, serious. Like a parent telling a child their relative had passed.

She lowered her head. "I understand the inadequacy of my performance. I could not defeat you as my opponent, thus showing I lack the strength for the fiercest of foes. In addition, a single wound felled me. On the battlefield, such behavior would cost me and my fellows our lives." Perhaps best not to try and frame it as some noble thing. Kept the wrestling and punching to the side. Though he was the king. Noble things were, well, his thing.

He shook his head and shifted. A flicker of a tail snapped from under his robe as he wrapped it around himself, forming maybe a single coil. "You underestimate us both. Myself as a god, and yourself as a warrior. Others have fought me. They fell to the first couple strikes, and almost none dared to approach and fight. Certainly none thought to tackle me."

"...My apologies," she muttered. She was not sure what she was more apologetic for.

He waved the words away. "No need. Though I am certain you understand now why I kept my distance."

A scoff, and she found herself rubbing the once-wound in her arm with the back of her wrist. So that had been it, not a weakness to close combat? He had been sparing her? Truly, she had been shortsighted and arrogant. "It was a foolish assumption, that you could not handle close combat."

"Foolish to think I could not do it at all. Though if you had not placed yourself in range of my greatest, though most barbaric, physical defense, you would have lasted longer."

Her fingers drummed on the glass. Not observant of anatomy. A definite difficulty for her to overcome.

But it was too late for this position. She would take her lesson and leave. This one encounter with the royals of Hallownest, with the queen, would be her last. Something to haunt her dreams. To have gotten so close, and yet to fail? She could already feel the ache forming in her gut. A longing she did not often feel. Yet one she had no place to act on anyways. It would have stayed that way no matter what she did. After all, here she was talking to the king. Her queen would have no eyes for a mere mortal.

She gulped down the rest of the water and pushed off the wall, taking a moment to let herself stabilize before bowing again, slightly better than before, but now burdened with two empty glasses. "I shall take my leave, then. I thank you for this opportunity."

With that, she turned, and started on her way.

"You have not yet heard my verdict," he said. Despite the growing distance, his voice did not raise at all, and she still heard it clear as could be.

Her shoulders fell. Must she go through this? "I have taken my critique, I know my performance was inadequate. Is it necessary to make such a thing official?"

"Only if you presume I do not wish to offer you a place among the Great Knights."

She paused.

What?

Was she hearing that correctly?

Images flooded her mind. Herself, training with Isma. Eating meals alongside the Great Knights - her fellow knights - as one of their own. Standing beside the queen, ever vigilant. A cherished defender. Invaluable. Beloved, if she dared.

Could she?

She frowned. She had failed so. Should she?

"I do not see what you see in me, my king." He had the gift of foresight, she understood. But it had to have its limits, it had to tell him she was not yet ready.

He uncoiled himself and began to walk. As he passed her by, he motioned for her to follow beside him. She did, any other possibility sliding out of her thoughts like it was nothing. Entranced, lightly so, she recognized deep down, but with how mild it was she could hardly bring herself to mind.

His hands folded behind his back and under his wings. (The upper two, anyways. She did not see the second set. He didn’t even have sleeves for them.) “You are intensely driven and, unlike many warriors, I can see that being an asset for you rather than a hindrance. Perhaps with some additional training, but each has their flaws. This falls within acceptable margins for the Great Knights. As you would have found, even they have their weaknesses, despite their renown.”

“Yes, but ‘adequate’ does not fill positions such as these.” Her mouthparts worked. What was he getting at? Had he finally tired of the tournament so much that he decided to just pick her and be done with it?

He muttered something mostly under his breath. It seemed to involve some of the nobility. In clearer, more formal tones, he said, “It does not.”

“Then I continue to fail to see what interests you in me.” Her hands tightened around the glasses she held. Could they get this over with already? She ought to just go home. Maybe pass out for a couple days. Visit her sister or parents for some condolence sweets.

“It is simple, and twofold. One, you perform more than adequately. I do not aim to dismiss the skill of the other would-be knights who have stood before me and fallen to my spells. I have seen our future sparring sessions. This was no mere stroke of luck.”

He slowed, turning his head ever so slightly to look her up and down from the corner of his eye. His judgment prickled down her back, up her limbs.

“Second,” he said, “You care for my wife.”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no. “You could tell?” she asked, the words thick on her tongue.

His nod just about broke her. He knew. The king knew. The queen’s husband knew. The woman she’d fallen for, her husband, knew. “It was quite clear, once you looked at her. Simple infatuation will only get you so far, but with time, deepening the relationship would make you better-suited to this role than any else we have seen.”

“My- my king?” He wanted her to develop feelings for his wife? Longer-term, deeper feelings? Something actually loving, not just a daydream of it?

What?

“I have been searching for a knight for my queen, Dryya. Specifically for her. To that end, her knight must be devoted to her beyond a doubt. It must be someone who will appreciate her, care for her, treat her as the divine being she is. Someone who will be as devoted to her as she is to them, and as she is to the people of Hallownest.”

“And none of the others were so taken by her?” Had this one factor been what kept the tourney going so long? Nobody had loved the White Lady enough?

He shook his head. “Most were not. Some did not find her attractive, in mind or form. Others wished to exploit, not to assist.”

“Does she-” Dryya coughed politely into her hand. “Does she know this is one of the criteria?”

“We decided on it after the first few failures. She and I spoke while you rested, and she is most amenable to your service as well. Fierce Dryya, she already calls you.”

Her heart skipped and stuttered, and she had to rest against the wall again as the world whirled. She liked her? The queen of Hallownest liked her? The thought reduced her to a grub in a schoolyard, giggling about a crush. “Surely you jest,” she managed to say.

He shook his head, continuing on when she regained her composure and her balance. “I do not. I make you my offer: we would like to have you in our employ, as one of the Great Knights. You shall serve us and Hallownest as a whole, for the kingdom is nothing without the populace. While there may be social and material boons, it is not a position of nothing but luxury. There are threats. There are struggles. You may not always be called upon as a warrior, but as a beacon of hope, as an authority, or as a diplomat. In these roles, you shall be just, honorable, and fair.”

Stopping, he turned to her. His wings slowly rose, fanning out to form a glowing halo behind him, dimming the world in comparison. “Do you accept this offer?”

Her eyes fell from him to the cups in her hands. Awkwardly, face burning at how undignified she was, standing before a god and king and looking like a fool, she tried to kneel. “I do, my king.”

“Rise then, Fierce Dryya.”

She found her footing again, standing up straight and tall. A soft exhale left her. Fierce Dryya. She was a Knight. A Great Knight. Not some angry, determined nobody scrabbling her way through the tournament. Not an apprentice who may well become a vagabond rather than anything to be admired. “My king, I-”

A wave cut her off. Or, no, he was waving over a mechanical curiosity, small and round and flying. But he took her silence as a chance to speak anyways. “Worry not on ceremony. That will be handled later. Take the day to recuperate. There are plenty of other matters to discuss first, such as living arrangements and schedules.”

She glanced down at the cups in her hand. Thirst prickled at the edge of her throat; she had really fucked herself up there, didn’t she?

“The kitchen is two halls down, three doors to the right.” With that said, he split off, his eyes already storming with some sort of mysterious god-thoughts. She had a feeling she would not be seeing much of him, even if she did end up living in the palace. Or near it.

She sighed, letting her arms go lax for a moment.

She was a Great Knight. One of the mightiest warriors in Hallownest. Already, she had made a name for herself as fierce, testing herself against a god.

Direct servant of the queen, too. The most beautiful soul Dryya had seen in her entire life.

And she had moving logistics to arrange.

Chapter Text

"We heard there's a hatchling?"

Herrah looked up, breath hitching for a moment before she calmed, smiling at the armored figures and the speaker's soft tone. Against her thorax she felt squirming and she readjusted the bundle in her arms.

"That there is," she said. "You can come meet them if you would like."

The White Lady must have told the Knights; the child's father hadn't been around all day - busy in his workshop, according to one of the staff. Herrah bit her tongue for now, saving the words she had for him for later. First order of business was her first meeting with the other Dreamers, her future fellow prison wardens.

She did not know the Great Knights personally, though she had heard tales of their great renown. Perhaps they would make for fun sparring partners, had she not been busy with a newborn. They would, however, be the child's companions in the future, once they began to live in the Palace. The idea of losing them made her ached, and brought a bitterness to her eyes as she watched the Knights creep in, enamored by the mystery of what she held.

They gathered around her, barely maintaining a respectful distance. She could see the faces on all but two, one armored and the other hidden under thick hair. Of those she could see, even Fierce Dryya's eyes glittered with interest. Her heart tore; they were armored strangers, so close, but they did find her baby adorable.

She turned the little hatchling outwards, smiling softly down at them as they blinked, puzzled by the change. Their eyes, big and dark and full of life, met the Knights’, and for a beautiful moment nobody dared to breathe.

Not until her hatchling opened their mouth to let out a long, loud squeak. Fangs the size of dewdrops glinted in the low light. As their voice died down and they ran out of air, they shut their mouth and blinked up at their visitors.

The Knights, in turn, chortled, ranging from Ze’mer (right, with the melancholy demeanor and the unusual accent) and Dryya’s amused hums to the two males’ guffaws to the smaller, leaf-covered female (Asthma? Isthmus?) who leaned in closer and cooed.

“Who’s a cute little ba-by?” the leafy Knight (Isma!) singsonged, squishing her cheeks in delight. “Oh, you’re so tiny! I could just- I could just put you in a basket.”

The taller male, the one with his face hidden away, elbowed the shorter one. “Isn’t this worth being subjected to a bath?”

Ah, right, the one was a dung beetle. He sputtered and glanced away, crossing his arms. He could not commit to saying no, though.

“Ogrim, look at the tiny baby. Aren’t they cute? Ogrim!” Isma leaned up against her fellow Knight, mirth in her eyes. One of his arms went around her waist and she stage whispered, “Cute little baby, Ogrim.”

A couple, then? It was Herrah’s turn to laugh as Ogrim hemmed and hawed, the warmth to it all betraying a deep desire to agree, but the game could not be won so easily. Certainly not in front of others.

“We can try babysitting first,” Ogrim suggested. He too leaned in, smiling at the hatchling who pawed at the air, trying to reach him. "Then, once Hallownest is more stable-"

He choked on his own enthusiasm, his words cutting off as his eyes met hers. Right. Yes. Hallownest's stability depended on her sacrifice. The same one that had brought this hatchling into the world.

"I'm sure there will be plenty of time for such things," Herrah said, as warmly as she could make it. She bounced the hatchling, holding them so they were closer to sitting upright. They chirruped, swatting at Ze'mer as if they could actually reach the Knight's long hair. They may not have been very mobile yet (she blamed their father) but they were not short on hunting instincts.

Ze'mer, obligingly, separated out a few strands and dangled them in the child's reach, wiggling them, lowering them, pulling them away as the child tried to grab them. "Che' finds them not much like your nieces, dear Dryya. Look at them on the hunt."

Dryya huffed, rolling her shoulders. She, too, wore armor, though not as extensively as Hegemol, and Herrah found herself pondering her fighting style while she spoke. "My kind are herbivores, very unlike spiders. Though…" Dryya frowned, eyes narrowing as she studied what of the hatchling was visible instead of hidden away under a gown or blanket. "Are they a different color morph from you, if I may ask?"

How did she answer? It would be so easy to reveal the child's heritage, though even then, their father did not have a black shell, either. Did the Knights even know the Pure Vessel shared a sire with her hatchling? That the Pale King had sired any children at all?

“No,” she said at last, drawing out the sound, “There’s not color morphs like this among my kind. We’re unsure what caused the coloration.”

It was a lie, but the truth stung more. The Pale King had admitted everything the night the baby hatched. His words had been so awkward, so mechanical. Emotionless. Herrah almost wished she had seen this mighty god sobbing into his newborn’s swaddling blanket instead of listening to words that gave the same air as a puppet jerking about.

“They’re very adorable, either way. Hello! Hi! You are very small.” Hegemol either had forgotten his manners or his suit of armor made him daring; he reached down into Herrah’s arms to tickle the baby’s tummy with a finger. Luckily for him, they shrieked and wiggled, delighted. Encouraged, he continued on, his words devolving into excited coos and laughter.

Herrah couldn’t help but chuckle with. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of the Great Knights - they were mighty warriors, she knew, but it seemed they could be rendered useless at the sight of a baby. Not that she could blame them. The Palace was not yet a very child-friendly environment. (Though, perhaps, she could convince the five of them to help her with that task.) Hatchlings must be a rare occurrence, unless they either belonged to one of the staff - which seemed unlikely but the odds were also good they hid their children from her and thus her count was off - or were here for a court case.

“So small,” Isma echoed, though Hegemol’s statement had long passed by now. She looked to be on the verge of tears, if plant beings like her could do such a thing.

“Oho, but not for long, I am sure!” Ogrim beamed and, as Hegemol pulled his hand away, slowly reached a claw up. It was a thick, tough thing, its edges more worn than sharp. These were used for manual work, not for slicing and cutting. “I’m sure you’ll be as big and strong as your mama some day, little thing.”

“I’m sure.” The words felt flat, though aloud, they’d been rounded and warmed by the adoration bubbling constantly within Herrah’s heart. She wanted it to be so, but she could not deny the place their sire’s blood had. Already, it had done so much more than give them the sort of lineage necessary to maintain Deepnest’s throne. It may yet leave them small and, well, she was not certain she would describe the Pale King as petite, he had a certain delicateness about him when disrobed. Particularly in his limbs, thin and fine.

Once the hatchling had caught their breath (being tickled was such an exertion), Ogrim rested a claw on their blanketed tummy, gently petting their thorax. They reached out, grasping the upper edge of the claw, and leaned forwards to try and nip him.

"Ah!" Herrah tilted their chin away, prying their fingers off so they held her instead of him. When they whined, she rubbed their cheek. "He is being nice, no biting him."

Looking over to the Knights, she added, "They are too small yet for their venom to be a danger, but good behavior and all."

They all nodded, Hegemol humming something about spider etiquette.

"Are they going to come to future meetings?" Isma asked, her hope loud and clear. Well, the hatchling would have at least one dear friend in the Palace. Five, more likely. But if Isma and Ogrim were willing to babysit, perhaps Herrah could convince Hallownest's royalty to let them.

After all, it was not like their sire was trying to be involved. Herrah nodded, tucking the child against her thorax again. "They will be. And-" Fuck it. She might as well tell them. They would find out sooner or later. "After I sleep, they shall be coming to live here until they are of age to be trained in the Hive. I am sure you all will see a lot of them as they grow up."

Quiet reigned for a moment as the Knights puzzled this concept. Ogrim, Isma, and Hegemol all seemed delighted, then one by one slowed down to think.

"Ah, they are learning here as part of the Dreamer deal?" Ogrim suggested. She had to credit him, he was not far off, and blatant accusations of their paternity would make things awkward.

"In part. They will be living here with their sire and stepmother, with all that entails."

The Knights' shock was palpable, the silence heavy. All of them stared at the child, scanning them for anything, any little sign of their father's lineage. Isma started to speak up, tone full of uncertainty, but caught herself.

Herrah patted the child's back, as if to spare them from it. All this judgment, perceived or otherwise. They were only a child. Their father's place, what he had done, what she had done, was not on them.

“Hallownest’s royal line…” Ze’mer leaned in, picking up a few strands of hair to dangle for the child again. They squeaked, and batted at it, while she observed.

“Hardly.” The word came in a scoff, and Herrah slowly let her arms slacken enough for the child to reach more easily. “They were barred from the throne before their conception. They’re Deepnest’s heir alone. Not that they care yet. You just want to play, don’t you?” She scrubbed their cheek, chuckling when they started to turn their head towards her, fangs uncertainly bared. “You just want to play.”

A shriek, perhaps frustrated, perhaps hungry, perhaps just fussy, and the child tugged on Ze’mer’s hair. To her credit, the Knight barely grunted, extracting her hair from the hatchling’s grip.

"Che' will be quite busy keeping you safe, certainly," she said with a sigh. Beleaguered, but fond. "And entertained."

The other Knights, still reeling from their shock, were slower to relax, to become animated like living things, rather than the kingsmoulds stationed about.

"The king never mentioned a… a hatchling," Ogrim mumbled. His claws began to scrape against each other. The noise wasn't great, not by far enough to cause a disturbance.

"So this is what the Deepnest business was about. I thought it was extended negotiations." Dryya's eyes were narrow in thought, but otherwise she stood straight, tall, and generally at attention.

"Technically, you would be right." Herrah watched their reactions, amusement bubbling under a heavy surface as she watched them all go through the process of mulling the statement and trying to hide their horror as they, one by one, came to realize its implications. Not an activity they enjoyed picturing their king in the middle of, certainly.

"And the White Lady knows?" Ah, there was a hint of betrayal in Dryya's voice. Interesting. Herrah knew her reputation as the queen's knight; how far did that relationship go? How few secrets did she expect a god to keep from her?

Herrah nodded. "I only introduced them to her earlier today, but yes. She has known for a long time. Their sire wouldn't agree to the idea without her blessing. I think they have planned to keep the matter private."

Private for now, anyways. The child's resemblance to their sibling and, likely, their sire, would be noticeable as they grew up here. She could already tell they had his eyes. The White Lady had pointed it out, too, with the child cuddled against her collar. Herrah had given them her horns, her chin, the strength of her voice, but they had their sire's eyes. It would be clear to the other Dreamers as well, at some point, if not immediately. The retainers were too scared of her yet to get a good look, but someday her child would be alone.

They squeaked again, tiny claws seeking her out and kneading away. She stroked their head, smiling softly as they nuzzled her. Their breath puffed into her cloak, accompanied by a small whine.

“I think they need a nap,” she said, her voice low, an affectionate purr.

The Knights nodded slowly, and began to back away. Isma lingered a moment longer, Ogrim’s eyes following her gaze back to the child, even as her hand wrapped around his claw and they moved closer to the door than to Herrah. She waved, and, just for fun, picked up one of the child’s chubby hands to waggle it and wave goodbye to the Knights.

Isma giggled. She and Ogrim waved back, Hegemol following suit when he turned and saw.

Quietly, they slid the door shut, leaving the room dark and peaceful.

The child cuddled in her arms. They didn’t protest when she plucked her cloak free from their mouth, what with their breaths steady and eyes shut in sleep already.

She may leave them, but they wouldn’t be alone. Already, they were so loved.

Chapter Text

The little spider was a determined creature.

This was a good change. Many of the pilgrims were weak-willed things. Good prey, provided they had not gotten themselves too diseased or injured, but far too weak in mind and body to survive their pointless ascent. That they were plentiful enough for now, she appreciated, but there were more satisfying things about. Both as hunts and as conversation. The spider, perhaps, would make a good hunt, if the need came, but her strange scent was buried under the toil of hard work and desperation. She'd be tough meat. Good organs, but tough meat. If too few pilgrims came, perhaps she would have to hunt the spider. For now, though, she was content to let the spider hunt, and bring food. It was a good deal they had. The spider hunted, the Huntress spoke.

She could not deny the chance to simply sit vigil was nice. She had hunted restlessly while her eggs grew within, until she could not do so any more, and it was safer to stay inside her den so that none saw her so vulnerable. Nesting tired her, her body foreign to itself and her gut heavy so even though she stayed in such a small space, the very act of living drained her low. Even after all the effort of laying, she had only stayed long enough to eat a meal for strength before she wobbled out of her den to seek prey again. She brought it back, prepared it, hung it from the ceiling to wait.

And she had done as such, going out, eating enough to sustain herself, then bringing back what else she could find for her brood. Prepare them, package them, string them up. Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

She'd come to ache less. In body, that was. Her heart couldn't stand the wait. She looked the eggs over for cracks every day now. None so far. But the little spider had found her, familiar yet not, and offered to bring her prey in exchange for not becoming prey herself, and for information. She was not a pilgrim, she insisted, and her questions did not betray a pilgrim's quest. This had all been well; now she could stay here with her brood, and the spider was a prolific hunter in her own right. Incredibly skilled, for one as young as she. She was so small, she may well have been the size to curl up in one of the eggs if it were not for her long horns. Her voice was sharp and hard but it lacked an adult's depth. Gangly thing, anyways, as far as could be told from the puff of her Weaver-red cloak. Not Weaver-horned, but Weaver-cloaked.

Some prey she brought had been caught in traps, but not webbed. More, skewed through by her weapon. Not a web hunter, one of those patient creatures. Strange. A half-breed? It would explain the odd scent. Whatever the other half was, it muddled the familiar side until the Huntress couldn't place it. A spider, yes. But what spider? She fought one once or twice, maybe, something with horns like that. Big things. Big, solid, strong things. Not small and scrawny, even in adolescence. A runt, one that hadn't outgrown her smallness? The product of a clutch with a smaller, weaker creature?

No, not weaker. Not with the way this spider hunted. Or, if it was, she'd not known it, and learned only this practical viciousness.

Fierce creature. Tireless creature.

Though, as the day waned, sharp breaths huffed at the den's entrance.

The Huntress turned to scent the air as the spider approached. Blood, much blood. The spider's and not. Effort-stench. Damp musk - the spider had fallen in water? Her cloak did look darker than usual, maybe. It wasn't easy to tell. Not with her eyes.

"I bring prey," the spider said. The words were a tumble, but she could tell the spider tried to sound less tired. Strength, always strength. The Huntress understood this. These lands didn't take kindly to vulnerabilities. It was hard, to find a space to be hurt yet also safe.

As promised, the spider produced her day's work, bundled in glowing silk. Humming with approval, the Huntress began to string them up on the ceiling, awaiting her brood and their birth-hunger. She counted them, as they went up, tallying how many the spider brought of each kind. She still needed more (always more, her brood hungered, their eggs' sweet yolks would mean nothing once they hatched) but it was enough for some answers.

The spider still stood, watching. The Huntress squinted, trying to make sense of those dark eyes. They blurred even at their clearest, but they pierced. Even injured, hiding her gasps, they dug into her. She knew she was owed answers.

"Ssssit." Pharloom's tongue, so bothersome. She waved to the ground before her.

The little spider eyed her, arced away from her as she found the spot and sat, legs folded under her. Her hands worked her cloak, black kneading red. Good. Good and right. Like an errant hatchling returning to the nest, but no. This one hunted. This one fought. This was no hatchling.

Not quite. Still young. Still the size of something that would cry and squall, if it was hers.

The spider ran free, wild. Motherless. She was a strong thing. Too strong. Strength broke you, if you didn't have a place to relax its grip. The Huntress could not have gathered prey right up until she laid, this spider could not run everywhere in this state.

She shifted, nudging her eggs out of the way until she could lie on her belly. Doing so, she saw the little spider better. The little spider which had tensed up, cloak ready to flare, hand frozen in its path towards her needle. Waiting for aggression. Too smart to fight in a brooding mother's den, not unprovoked, too nervous to discount this as a potential threat.

The Huntress reached out, slow. The spider's breath quickened as she wrapped an arm around her back, pulling her closer to poke at. Wounds marked her, all up and down her limbs. The blood smelled sweet, strong.

"You're hurt." As if this was news.

The spider squirmed in her arms, starting to stand. The Huntress, on instinct, set a limb on her shoulder and pushed her down again, gentle but firm as she could. That would not do. She would not lose her hunting spider to adolescent arrogance or distrust.

"I shall gather Soul and heal," the spider said, pushing back. The words ground out, tired and frustrated. "I've no time to rest, I shall hear your words and go."

The Huntress scoffed. Adolescent arrogance it was, then. Well, maybe distrust. Distrust in the Huntress, though? In everything? In herself? She had seen this spider's work. This was not the sort that became apathetic and dismissive with a moment's break. "You do," she insisted. "Stay here, ressst. Night fallssss and your answers wait. Ressst begets sssstrength. You need that."

"I need to leave!" The spider shoved at her, but there wasn't enough force to it, tired as she was. Not that she'd admit it. She snarled as best she could. "I need to go home!"

Home?

She knew the spider was a foreigner, with her accent and how she spoke of Pharloom, of the Citadel, of the pilgrims. The Huntress had suspected her a traveler. One of those wandering bugs, here on some quest. But no, home brought desperation to her voice.

"Home is here, for the night." It was easy enough to scoop up the spider, as much as she squirmed, and deposit her on the other side of the nest, hidden away by eggs. Again, that rightness. The need to brood didn't limit itself, it seemed. Still, the Huntress laid down between the spider and the eggs, one arm looping around the former to keep her in place. Her breathing pulsed now, like she'd burst of nerves and die. The Huntress had seen things panic to death before. Not spiders, though.

"Let me go." The words weren't strong any more. Too scared, too tired. Not yet willing to be hidden and held.

"Is your home in Pharloom?" the Huntress asked.

The spider shook her head. "Hardly-"

"Then sssleep. You'll not be bitten or ssscratched." The Huntress nibbled a horn clean, to demonstrate. Even at that simple grooming, the spider tensed.

The Huntress still did not let her go, waiting patiently until the spider's uncertainty lost to exhaustion.

One more to her nest, then. A growing brood.

Good.

Chapter Text

Mato was the first.

They had walked in, head high and footsteps rapid, ready for more training. They’d found Sheo and learned from him! They wanted so much to show Mato what more they knew. He would be excited, they knew.

Big hands scooped them up as they walked in. They squirmed, kicking and trying but failing to wiggle their arms free. What was happening? Who was attacking? Had Mato been infected-

He pressed them to his carapace, a strange sensation. Very heavy, very pressure-y. But… soft? It didn’t hurt, nothing stung, nothing ached. The ruff of his cloak tickled, and they shook their head. What was happening? Why didn’t it hurt? What was Mato doing?

“Did I surprise you? I’m sorry.” Mato laughed, and they couldn’t just hear it, they felt it. It bounced and rumbled all through his thorax, and they could even feel it over his armor. “Here, I’ll just-”

He set them down on the floor; it was such a strange thing they didn’t think to actually use their legs, sinking down until they sat there, confused. What had just happened? Why didn’t their shell ache? No bruises or crushed parts or cuts. Just the pressure and the soft.

They needed to get to the bottom of this.

They reached for Mato, and could only hope he understood the message in their outstretched arms and grabbing hands. Just in case he didn’t get it, what with his eyes all wide so maybe he was confused too, they wrapped their arms around their body and rocked side to side.

“Oh, did you want to be hugged?” Mato laughed again, bending over to scoop them up. There! They were on their back like this, helpless, the floor replaced by one of Mato’s nice, warm arms. And it didn’t hurt? It was strange, moving at the whims of another, and a little scary, but still.

His big hand slipped between their nail and their back, cupping them and holding them against his thorax again, their head lost in the fluff of his collar. They couldn’t move much, but that also meant they couldn’t tilt back and fall on their head. Everything around them was warm, their head surrounded by slightly stiff but still so very plush fur.

They couldn’t help but rest their hands on his cloak and slowly, rhythmically, squish it. They’d never really gotten to touch anyone before, unless it was to strike them with their nail. Even Hornet kept herself at a distance whenever they met, and they were fine enough with maintaining this. She scratched and bit whenever they got too close in fights, anyways.

But this?

They could just sit here, surrounded by another person’s warmth, hidden away from the world with how small they were in his arms, feeling the texture of his cloak not just with their hands but with their cheek and stomach because he was just holding them.

And then.

And then.

He tilted his head to the side, so his jaw rested on their temple, his cheek against their horn. He took a deep, deep breath, so deep they felt his chest rise, and then it fell as he exhaled, the air blowing across them, warmer and far less harsh than the howling gales outside, or the frigid gusts of the Kingdom’s Edge.

“Have you gotten many hugs before?” Mato asked, and they could feel the vibrations of his voice.

They shook their head. No, they remembered no hugs. They remembered no kind touches. There was Quirrel sitting beside them on the bench, but that was not touch. It had been wonderful in its own way, sharing that trust they were building, listening to the rain, but this was something new.

Mato shifted his hand, patting their back as much as he could with their nail in the way. It, too, did not hurt, as much as it felt like an incoming strike. Instead, it just made a hollow thump and then he held them steady again. “Well then, my child, we’ll just have to make up for that.”

-

Midwife had held Hornet many times, starting from when she was just a little spiderling, newly hatched and learning that there was a world outside her egg.

Despite this, when the old centipede emerged from her den, winding lengths drawing out of the hole in the rock, Hornet’s hand found her needle and her Soul pulled taut, ready to spring free as razor sharp thread. Anyone could be infected. Even Deepnest, which had touted its strength, had fallen. The Devout, the Weaverlings, they proved it. Nothing lasted.

Midwife laughed, the deep, full-bodied laugh that she gave everyone, insolent hatchlings and worried patients alike.

Hornet hissed in response. Her cloak flared. She would not let the Old Light win this easily, even if she got chased out of her childhood home. She had just lost her mother in the pursuit of the infection’s defeat, she would not succumb to it now.

“Is that how you’re greeting people nowadays, Child? I can’t say I blame you, look at this awful mess all strewn about.” She clucked, leaning from side to side to get a better look at her charge. “You’ve not joined their number, have you?”

“Never,” Hornet snapped. Her stomach coiled at the thought, at getting this far only to become infected herself. Or that it could be getting to her now, tainting her words and acts without her knowing it. She’d seen Vessels fall to the Old Light, she knew neither her father’s light nor Void could save them, so what hope did a half-mortal have? “And if you have then I shall strike you down.”

“No need for that. Such horrid thoughts could never stay. Nothing that would threaten the nest.” Midwife’s voice grew stormy and sharp. Despite it, she continued around, until Hornet was contained in one of her loops.

The spider’s heart hammered, so fast she started to feel ill. Would Midwife call her bluff? Strong as she was, with a god’s blood in her veins, Midwife had never taken more than the shallowest scratch from a blade, and even Hornet’s own thread, when she was young and it ran errant and out of control and it struck Midwife’s face once, did no damage beyond a short stinging.

That mask, with its eternal smile, lowered, and Hornet backed away, until her back pressed against the wall of Midwife’s carapace.

And, with a hum, Midwife nuzzled her, cooing as she pressed her cheek to Hornet’s, bumping her up against her side. Like she’d do when Hornet was small, and Herrah would laugh as her little spiderling tried ramming into Midwife’s cheek to return the affection.

Though Hornet had long accepted she’d never hear her mother’s laugh again, the thought stabbed her in the gut anew. She’d never hear her mother’s laugh. She’d never get another weaving lesson from her. She’d never even see her again, she had dissolved into glowing Essence on the plinth, leaving no trace. Not even her cloak. Not even her mask.

She forced herself to take a breath, to let it out, and do so again, without gasping, without choking on it. Even, measured breaths. Like how her father taught her, when she learned how to do Soul magic. Even breaths. Don’t let your emotions overcome you, they will ruin your focus. Vespa had, in turn, told her it was normal to feel, but those earlier lessons and habits ran deep.

“It’s been so long since you’ve come to visit. Look at how you’ve grown.” Midwife sat up enough to hold Hornet’s face, squishing her just a little bit. “What brings you back? Saying hello?”

Another steadying breath. And another. “The seals have to be broken. Mother is gone.”

A long, drawn out pause. Midwife did not look at her, rather looked right above her head. What was she thinking? The queen of Deepnest was no more. Her dear friend was dead. Truly, really dead.

“What do you mean, gone?” she asked, quiet with shock.

“I mean that if you went to her plinth, you would see nothing. I know this may sound like that horrid illness but a sibling- my sibling - has to take down the seals to face the infection at its source and I must let them do it.” The bite in her words were one she’d never directed at someone of Deepnest before. Certainly not for a serious matter. “I had to, Midwife. And I cannot even apologize for it.”

“Oh, Child.” Limb after limb found Hornet, touching and pulling and cradling, until Midwife had coiled up as high and tight as she could and rested Hornet on top, face against her side. Putting her hand down, Hornet could feel the seams in her mask, the mechanism that opened and closed it.

And that’s what she did. Sat there, Midwife as steady and weighty as ever, perfect to lean on and be leaned on. Her fingers toyed with the seam in her caretaker’s mask, a habit that had been discouraged in the nursery but nothing was said of it now, in this sacred, horrible, pain and silence.

“I know it hurts, to lose a parent. It’s different, isn’t it, her sleep and now this?”

Hornet could do nothing but breathe. Just breathe, as normally as she could, even as her thorax began to shake despite herself.

“Let it out, dear. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t cry. Her face warped til it ached, her mouthparts curled and spread and she doubled over on herself, but even then, she could not cry. Only suck in her breaths, and let Midwife nuzzle her until she remembered what being cared for felt like.

She turned, clutched her caretaker tight, and pressed her face to her back, fingers tightening and tightening.

One of Midwife’s many limbs rubbed her back, rustling the fabric of her cloak. “I’ve got you.”

--

Everything hurt, and it was hard to be.

Every breath wheezed and whistled and ached in their chest, stretching parts that had for so long done nothing, only to be ripped apart by pustules and pierced with a greatnail. Even lying there, they were all too aware of their ragged shell, broken and healed over by Soul, pressing unevenly into the floor. Their single arm ached, as did their legs, overexerted beyond anything their training had ever done to them, weak beyond when they had first emerged from their egg. The stump of their other arm had healed as unevenly as their carapace, lumpy and so sensitive they had kicked and writhed whenever someone tried to touch it. It hurt if it touched something, it hurt if they turned on their side and it was forced down.

Life was pain. Life was failure. Failure was pain.

Everything hurt, hurt, hurt.

Voices around it picked up. The air grew warmer. A small argument. They ducked their head, and their neck and shoulders ached.

Long claws pressed their legs together, then lifted them. So much pressure, the relatively dull points like knives against nerves that hadn’t known touch in-

In-

In however long.

Small hands found their middle. A second, larger set joined them. Strong arms repositioned their head against a barrel chest and furred ruff, then looped under their shoulders shifted the stump it hurt it hurt it hurt-

More noise. A raspy noise, a sharp, bright noise, something nasal, something gruff. So much noise. All the world was noise noise noise and pain pain after an eternity of silence of suspension of nothing but feeling themself rot from the inside out. Only their gangrenous arm hitting the floor below, only their scream and the crack of their mask. Squirming hurt. Lying still hurt. Every step and bump and pause hurt. Their vision blurred, and they willed it dark.

The noise continued, the pain continued, until with a crescendo they were lowered into liquid warmth. Their body pulsed, expecting the Soul of a hot spring but no it was just heat and water. Their legs didn’t fit in, but they tucked their arm in beside their thin body.

Slowly, words began to coalesce, becoming solid against a backdrop of snow.

“Careful with the neck, there. They’ve yet to repair that tear and I am certain we’d all rather they not inhale anything,” said the rasping one.

The remnant waves lapped around their body before stilling.

“Grimm, I think you should step out. Considering, you know…” the nasal voice said.

“Of course. One thing first.” A warm - not damp, just warm - washcloth pressed around their neck, tight but not constricting. The air leaking from their breaths fluttered against it, cooling it bit by bit. Those big, warm hands tucked it in in the back, between their carapace and the tub. And then the hands retreated, as did their owner, from the sounds of footsteps.

“You gonna be okay there, sweetie? Brumm and I can handle this.”

“No.” That voice. Their heart fluttered. Their breaths quickened. That must be their sister’s voice. They’d heard it, and then she’d buried her needle in their head. But it was her. She was here. Their little baby sister. She sounded so distrusting, so steeled against the world. Yes, the world hurt. The world was hurting. Life was hurting. But that was their baby sister and how dare the world make her hurt enough to sound like that?

Her hands (still so small, but bigger now, much bigger than when they left) found theirs, her thumbs massaging the back of it. It pressed and bumped across their carapace. “It’s all right, Hollow.” Even attempting to soothe like that, there was an edge to her words. “I want to help. We’re going to get you clean, do you understand?”

They couldn’t bring themself to nod, but their hand twitched, giving hers a tiny squeeze.

“Yeah, sorry darling, but you reek. You’re a lot of work on the old senses.”

“Divine,” the gruff voice chided.

“Oh, Brumm. It’s just the truth, it won’t hurt.” A claw patted their shoulder and they flinched from the sudden sensation. “Oops. Well, darling, you’re going to smell wonderful by the time dear old Divine is done with you. Just trust me.”

Some rustling about. The pressure of the water was beginning to feel normal. They remembered baths. It had been so, so long. But they remembered baths.

A cork popped. Something splashed into the bath. Glancing down, it seemed to be purple. “A little something special. Could one of you suds that up for me?”

Cautiously, Hornet stuck her hand in the water and waggled it about. Bubbles began to form, mounding on each other in a glistening, clear, floral-scented pile. It spilled out throughout the tub, and for a moment their breath hitched, but these tiny, transparent, ephemeral things were nothing like the pustules that had covered them. They stuck, and popped when Hornet’s fingertips pierced them.

“Here.” Brumm passed Hornet a washcloth. They both dipped it into the bubbly bathwater; the warmth temporarily rose, just a little bit higher but now it covered the sharp edges of some of their thorax’s pockmarks, water and bubbles lapping into the depression.

Then they removed the washcloths and it was gone, back down to the edge.

Divine reached for some other bottle, her claw tapping alongside a row of them in all shapes, sizes, and colors. She muttered to herself about the red one being Grimm’s favorite, about how much of a pain in the ass one was to get, all these odd little details.

Finally, with a huff, she popped open the first one in the line and held it out to them, right under their mask. They’d not quite inherited their father’s keen sense of smell, but they had gotten his and their mother’s indifference to many of the odors Hallownest’s bugs found repulsive. This one, musky and strong, felt like it would straddle that border, from what they had learned of bugs giving Ogrim a wide berth.

“Not to your taste? I understand completely.” Divine tucked the bottle under an arm and, with a few quick snaps, closed it again.

“I doubt they will simply indicate a preference,” Hornet said. She squished the washcloth in one hand, glancing down at it. It did not matter if it grew cold. However cold it got, they were colder, and that was the state of things.

“Let’s just clean them,” Brumm muttered. He glanced at them through the corner of his eyes, and past his mask, there was a tired softness to his gaze. They’d become very good at spotting well-hidden expressions, but that wasn’t one they’d seen often. Not until Hornet hatched, and she would get it from her mother, the White Lady, the Knights, most everyone. (Once, when she’d spent the day in their father’s workshop, Hollow found him to deliver a report on their training and she’d fallen asleep in his arms. It was the only time they remembered him giving her that look.)

Divine scoffed and stuck the next bottle under their mask. This one was fruity but sharp, very clean, like someone had distilled the essence of yellow and mint and poured it into a bottle. “They’re already getting a bubble bath. Why not go all in and actually pick a scent instead of just choosing whatever one is closest without any mind for what fits their natural musk like certain people do?”

Hornet sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“Anyways, next!” The bottle got swapped out for the red one, Grimm’s favorite. Spicy and smoky, strong to the point even they started to turn their head away, but not before they caught a sweetness underlying it all.

"Not your favorite? That's all right. It really only suits Master anyways. It covers up that cooked meat smell and complements the rest of his… particular aroma." Divine chuckled to herself and put the bottle back, reaching for the next.

It continued on like that. A scent reminiscent of Greenpath and all its moss (without the acidic overtones), a couple more like the Queen's Gardens, and at last a mellow, not quite warm, scent made them tilt their head forwards in an attempt to get a better smell.

"This one? All right." Divine held it out to Brumm and Hornet, who re-warmed their washcloths in the tub before accepting the body wash Divine poured on. All the while, she explained, "I picked this one up in a little kingdom quite far from here. Not one of our best performances, but so many good smells. This one in particular, oh I cannot remember what they called it, but it's something they used in lots of sweets. It comes from some kind of flower? Either way, lovely stuff."

Brumm and Hornet maneuvered around each other. A warm washcloth pressed against their face, small fingers easily felt under it. Short, firm strokes cut through the grime on them, all the pus and dust and other things, leaving a trail of sweet bubbles and the ghost of the cloth's nubbly texture in their wake. Their head bobbed gently with the movement, too tired to either hold still or press in to the touch.

Brumm lifted their hand up, holding it while he scrubbed away. The cloth dipped into all the joints and the spaces between their fingers, and pressed hard enough to massage away the aches without causing more. It felt practiced, calm, with a sort of understanding to how soothing it was, versus Hornet's determined, rough but cautious strokes.

"Here, sweetie. Gentle little circles, like this." Divine's claw found the cloth on their head and demonstrated the circles she meant, slower and softer and almost hypnotizing in their movements, how it felt against their cheek and horns. "Those strokes will be fine for that crack but you look so desperate."

"I have been protecting a dead kingdom for ages and the past couple days have been a matter of life or death for the only family I have left." Hornet took the cloth back, and while she switched to the circular motions, they were tight and… scared?

"All the more reason to take it easily and calmly. Oh, don't give me that look. I know exactly what I'm talking about. Do you think the Troupe is welcomed with open arms everywhere? Grimm's gotten in more than his fair share of fights to defend us, Brumm and I clean him up afterwards every time." Divine sounded absolutely unfazed by Hornet's tone. Which, even when she was little, people would flinch at anger coming from the little half-spider demigod. People in Hallownest, anyways, unnerved by her spiderishness and tendency to bite.

Brumm, meanwhile, moved up to their wrist and then their forearm, swiping back and forth.

How long had it been since anyone groomed them? The Pale King had bathed them a couple times to demonstrate how it was to be done, then left them to their own devices. On the rare occasions they were in a hot spring or otherwise sharing a bath with others, such as post-training with the Knights, sometimes they would get groomed in hard to reach places, but never for long. Never more than a shy and clinical touch on the rare occasions it did happen.

They laid still, and let the others scrub them. It was not like they had much choice. It was not like they would choose otherwise, if they did. This was how it was to be. Them in the tub, covered in benign bubbles, with more dripping down their face and, as Brumm moved to clean the gunk from their legs and feet, off their limbs as well.

Grimm reappeared once or twice, offering buckets of fresh and warm water. One became what they dunked the washcloths in. The other, once some of the dirtied water was removed from the tub, got poured in with a renewed burst of heat. And, of course, as Divine insisted, more bubbles.

He never stuck around, but once they felt his hand cup their face and his thumb stroke their brow. He cooed and called them relaxed, comfy, and in far better shape already. He whispered about how strong they were. Their mangled insides twisted at the thought, but when he left the words played over and over in their head.

Hornet, not long after that, finished cleaning everywhere but around the crack in their mask. She sponged around it at first, the pressure threatening to make the broken carapace shift.

And then she moved on to those short strokes. It stung, and pulled, but not for long. Only a little at a time. All the way from their eye socket up to the curve atop their head, with her arm wrapped around them and their face against her thorax, where they could hear and feel her breaths. How funny. She used to cuddle them for the same thing, tucked up against them, cradled in one hand, and listening until she fell asleep.

She finished as soon as she could, and while Brumm scrubbed more stubborn streaks and spatters of pus from their abdomen, cutting through to leave a raw cleanness, Hornet wiped away what had leaked from their eyes and trailed down their face. She was so little still, her hands together were smaller than a single one of their eyes. She had grown so strong, too, look at that. Their little baby sister. They never would have expected to see her again.

Their hand wobbled as they tried to lift it. Brumm took it gently, inspected it for any wounds, anything that could cause discomfort.

"If you clean their neck," he said, "I will handle their chest."

Hornet nodded, and slowly peeled the washcloth covering their unsealed wound to the side. She scrubbed around it, under it, up the underside of their jaw and chin. Precise work. Careful work. Steady work.

Brumm, like Hornet, started by using his cloth as a sponge, scooping into the sealed holes in their chest, cleaning up the sharp edges. Each touch, no matter how gentle, seemed to fight their breaths. He paused every now and then to let them be, and they would catch their breath, let Hornet hold their head and inspect them for further wounds, or for anything opening up.

As he worked, he began to hum. They could not place the tune, but it reminded them of a lullaby, or the sort of thing people sang about long rains and lost loves. Something from another land, then.

He paused to say simply, “I have to clean your shoulder.”

They kicked at the first touch, water splashing everywhere as they spasmed, anything to get away from the burst of pain. It hurt, they wanted (wanted?) to cry, for they had learned how it felt even when it was a foreign voice ripping out of your throat. To be able to plea, scream, sob, in the hopes someone would hear and care enough to attend to the pain.

“Hollow!” Their sister grasped the sides of their mask. They trembled in her grip, even as she snapped at Brumm to stop, he was hurting them.

“Two more strokes,” he promised. Two. Just two. They had endured far worse.

One, and they curled their legs in.

Two, Hornet reached out to grab their arm as if they would strike.

And then it was over, just as promised. Their head swam, their torso sung with pain, but it was over. Sister was shouting, barking something that sounded like questions. Brumm and Divine answered in much flatter (calmer?) voices. A claw pet their horn.

“-should be healing properly. Well, as much as it can. They did kind of Soul heal it before anyone could take much of a look at it, so it’s not like anyone got a chance to clean it up. Plus it looks like whatever flesh is left is the real sensitive stuff.” Divine kept talking, but her voice faded into unimportance.

Exhaustion rolled in, and left them huffing and puffing. How could a simple bath drain them so? They were not even the one to have walked to it. No, they had to be carried. Could they not just sleep? Sleep, and be in nothingness? Or, at the very least, that too-hot red realm, familiar and yet not? Sleep long enough they awoke when it did not hurt any more?

“Let’s get them out. We can put some ointment on that shoulder and let them rest. Doesn’t that sound nice, darling? Here we go.” The arrangement of limbs found them again, almost. Someone called out and soon enough Grimm’s warmth was there, too.

With a slosh, they were raised from the tub, their long, lanky body guided through the tent. Each bump still hurt, but the touch was marginally more familiar. It had been so, so long, but they recalled their parents’ fussing over them as they dressed, Hornet climbing up their back and into their arms, the Knights’ careful adjustments of their stance.

“I freshened up the nest,” Grimm said, right before the four of them lowered Hollow into the pile of pillows and blankets, soft and warm and plush. The lumps were not yet even under their body, but as soon as they started to readjust, everything got moved around to cup their body and carefully support their head.

There were so many textures. Softness, dominant among them, velvety blankets surrounding them. A few silkier sheets, reminiscent of the blankets Hornet used to bring to the Palace. Thick yarn-made things, too, knit or crocheted they could not tell. Pillows ranging from firmly overstuffed to almost flat.

Someone offered Hornet a jar. She knelt in front of them, scooping up some of the off-white ointment and carefully, ever so carefully, dabbed it onto the remnant of their arm. It ached, but they couldn’t twitch away, any muscle left in the soft stump having long been rendered useless.

She retreated, the jar snapping shut. The ache faded, replaced by an icy coolness. It was a little much, a little too noticeable, but nothing like the tenderness and pain.

Brumm slipped their head into his lap and tucked a blanket around them, one of the softer ones. It only covered their body, but that mattered little, especially as Grimm covered their legs with another.

“I’ll check in with dinner,” Grimm promised, as Divine pulled him away for some task or another.

Brumm sighed, and readjusted their mask so their chin wasn’t digging into his leg, instead tilting to the side where they could watch Hornet as she paced. A strong arm draped over them, another slipping under their cheek to hold them more comfortably. His ruff tickled against their horn, right where the carapace grew unfeeling.

He ran a hand up and down their back. Even as it passed over the scars, it didn’t hurt. It made everything draw upwards, like he had them on a string and slowly pulled their back towards his knuckles when they passed over.

Before they knew it they were pressing their head into his stomach. They snapped out of it, pulled away from such a blatant display of feeling, but he clucked and rubbed under their jaw until the effort of being tense and at the ready left them shaking and they melted into the touch. His hand returned to their back, kneading away anywhere that still held tension.

Was this how Hornet had felt when she was little and upset over something, and someone snuggled her until she felt better? They had seen Herrah do this with her, especially when she was a new hatchling and didn’t know what to do about the Palace lights besides cry. The White Lady, too. It never failed to soothe her.

They could see why. After everything, the simple feeling of soft, from the blankets, the flickering lamps, the predictable sensation up and down their back, Brumm’s own warmth and solid body holding them steady… If only they were still small.

“What should I do?” Hornet asked, her voice frayed. Oh, how her mother had sacrificed everything to see her little girl never had to sound like that. Certainly not for them.

Brumm leaned forwards, squishing Hollow’s head the slightest bit. He patted next to them, and said, “Come sit.”

She shook her head, eyes on the ground, the tent walls, the lanterns, everywhere. Her hands worked, as did her chelicerae. Her needle gleamed in the low light. “I don’t- there must be some action, some necessary task-”

“There is.” Brumm patted the nest again. “Come sit.”

She sighed and rubbed her temple. But her hand found her needle’s grip, thumbing the metal as she debated.

“The Troupe is not familiar to them, but you are. You’ve hardly sat down since bringing them here. Both of you need some rest.” The emphasis on ‘both’ was subtle, but undeniable.

Hornet began to speak up, as if to protest, but she sighed and shook her head before she could come up with whatever she was going to say. She set her needle at the edge of the nest, eyeing Brumm as if he was about to strike her now that she was unarmed. (As if she was ever truly unarmed. They remembered Father having to heal necrotizing bite wounds on more than a few retainers and nobles that had gotten on Hornet’s nerves. The nobles theorized Herrah was directing her on whom to bite, as if Herrah would be the one with a constant Palace presence and personal reasons to dislike them. The retainers, though, were all Hornet.)

Tentatively, she stepped back into the nest, as if the pile of plush could be holding some sort of trap. Just as awkwardly, she lowered onto her knees, then turned around to rest her back against their abdomen. Her fingers drummed against her leg, which slowly began to bounce. Her shoulders tensed when Brumm hummed in approval.

They reached back, hand trembling as it curled around the upper half of her body. They tugged her down, letting their weight do the work when she protested and gave a halfhearted attempt to fight back. Long ago, Herrah had ordered them to protect the heir of Deepnest, and quite frankly, if she needed to be protected from herself in order to calm down, so be it.

She gave in at last, glancing at Brumm all the while. As if he was going to judge her for needing a rest. He was the one who told her to sit with them, after all.

“I’m not a spiderling,” she mumbled, as they wrapped their arm around her and tucked her against them. Everyone said she was cold, but to them she was warm against their Void-frigid carapage. Warm and full of motion and life. Even now, as she pushed against their arm in an attempt to regain some semblance of dignity, that thing bubbled up, that thing full of shine and shaped like medals and kind nuzzles. It had happened every time she grasped their fingers and played with them, every time she climbed all the way up to their shoulder and butted her head under their jaw, every time she woke up from a nap in their arms and stretched against them.

Their breaths steadied, and they felt it as hers did, too. Their head began to weigh heavier against Brumm, sinking deeper into him. He never protested, never said they were too much, that this was not knightly behavior.

Everything still hurt, and ached, and the ice feeling had not yet faded from their shoulder, but now the world was scented with spices, smoke, and flowers, they were cocooned in blankets, their head resting against this calm, steady soul while their little sister fell asleep in their embrace.

Maybe it would be okay. Maybe the pain would end, and they’d be left with this heavy softness lulling them to sleep.

Chapter Text

She washed up second, spent too long staring at her bleary eyes in the mirror. He would, most likely, be asleep already, or at least feigning it, hidden under the sheets either way. He was strange like that.

Instead, Herrah crept back to her room to find the bed bafflingly empty, but the quiet rasp of someone else’s breaths still filled the silk-padded space. The musk of their activity - business exchange, he called it - rested heavy in the air, as it likely would for some time, making for quite the strange scene.

She bent down, peeked under the bed, and saw a glimpse of bright white on the other side. Despite everything, her heart stung.

So she rounded the bed and settled beside him, folding her long legs underneath her abdomen, hooking her arms together so that, even though she blocked off the one path (though he could still fly, or dart out under the bed), she didn't look too threatening. He lifted his head to glance at her with a wary eye, and folded his wings tight against his bare back. How funny it was, to see his plating. He always wore those heavy robes.

"You didn't like it," she said, a statement, not an accusation, not a plea for pity.

"I do not make a habit of trading my body for political favors," he snapped back, then hunched his shoulders, hiding his face away as best he could.

"Neither do I, but these are strange times." Herrah shifted her weight, sighed. She couldn't believe she let this being inside her.

"Did you want to say no?" She had asked, repeatedly, and slowed down, and he had responded by growling, rutting harder, and at one point she'd felt his mandibles desperately seeking purchase on her carapace. What if she hadn't been paying attention, nor reading the cues the right way?

"I have a duty to my people and if this is how I fulfill it-"

Her grip on her own arms tightened. Her fangs bared; her mask covered them most of the time but thankfully now, with it off, he wasn't looking. "Enough about your people for two seconds. You. Did you want to say no?"

His head raised again, and she forced herself to a neutral expression. What did she do if he said yes? If she had hurt him? They may not be fond of each other but she would never, in her lifetime, want to do that to someone.

"No," he said, his tone not quite flat. Mostly tired. "No, I wanted to continue."

She frowned.

"Truly, Herrah. I did."

She shifted closer, just a little. Searching for a tremor, for him to shy away, something to tell if he was lying. But either he was honest or was too good at hiding it. So instead, she found herself studying his carapace, his wings. So pretty, in a strange and delicate way, one she would not expect of a god. When she spoke, it was soft, warmed by her concern. "What's wrong, then?"

He looked away. A deep breath warped his chest, and she heard the resulting exhale not just as a sound but as something in the back of her head. "What does it matter to you? Our duty in this shared bed is to conceive, not be partners."

She scoffed. "For starters, we are on the floor, not in the bed. Second, we are in this together whether you like it or not. Third, even if we hadn't done this, as your host I would want to ensure you were all right. And seeing as I am the more experienced in this realm, I want you to be all right. I'm not here to breed you and ignore you afterwards. You're not some plaything. So, what's wrong?"

She waited, and let him gather himself. He rubbed his face, curled his legs and tail in, then released them.

"I am under great pressure. If I fail in this, I have brought my kingdom to ruin. I will have strayed as my Lady's husband for nothing." The admission was quiet, but sharp, angry. And, for once, she doubted he was mad at her.

"I know." She doubted he was angry at her because she knew that anger, she knew the rage and sorrow of failure. It was more familiar to her than hope. "My husband and I spent years trying for an heir. Just one. One survivor."

She pressed her abdomen against her legs. It was, by now, a relatively familiar sensation, growing heavy with eggs. Never too heavy, though. Never to term. Mortals, so it seemed, had stricter bounds on hybrids than she heard gods did.

(And, if Midwife was right, and this strange thing, this Wyrm, had bred a Root, then a Beast should have been a simple task.)

"You shouldn't be stressed during this, it's supposed to feel good. Enjoyable. We can try some different things, if you'd like. Take it slow. Do you need me to be gentler on you?" She thought she had been quite careful with him, but he had worked fast and hard, and she had gotten caught up in the pace he set.

"No, there's no need." He paused, and she saw him tense for a moment, heard the quiet taps of fingers against carapace. Maybe he would admit to not wanting it now? What with time to process and all.

"Could you-" A sliver of his eye appeared, focused on her. One hand drifted towards his shoulder. "Ah, hm."

"Hold you down?"

He shook his head.

She had not signed up for a guessing game, but if this was how he communicated, it was better than nothing. "Press you against the wall again? You didn't seem to like that."

He did not make a face, but his eyes grew stormy. "No. Hm."

She watched his mouthparts work as he sought the words, how they flexed and reached. "Do you want me to bite you?"

If his carapace had not glowed so bright, she would have sworn she caught a blue flush to his shell. "Yes. It's- it is something male wyrms usually do to the dames. A control bite. Maybe it would help… affirm intentions, and make the act easier. I should be able to heal any venom that-"

"I can dry bite." She looked him over again, fascinated by this little biological twist he had shared. What a strange bedfellow she had found. "Wouldn't you want to bite me, though? You were trying to do that, weren't you?"

His mouthparts worked again, more akin to some odd grooming behavior this time. His voice whispered more strongly in her mind, his spoken words garbled. "It is the likeliest conclusion. In this instance, as I am a god and you are a mortal, I think the control bite would be more reasonable coming from you. Despite the size difference."

She scoffed. Size difference. Mortals and gods. He really ought to learn not to try and make excuses for himself. "Likely conclusion, yes."

"It's not like I've bitten a dame before," he grumbled, only for his eyes to go wide. Oh, funny, didn't expect to share that, did he?

"I thought when you said it would take some time to figure this out, you meant because of your new body." Wyrms were old creatures, rare creatures, but the Weavers had tales of gods beyond Hallownest, and she too knew the stories of the gargantuan things, devouring all in their path.

He covered his face with a hand. "I did not want to sire a child, there is far too much to explain there for some post-"

"It's fine. You're fine. You don't have to be embarrassed." Her surprise, made reassuring, cut through and cut off his frustration. His tail flicked, and went still, save for the odd twitch. It was tempting, the idea of reaching out to stroke his cool back, to feel the tension in him. “I know it’s different with your Lady, I wasn’t expecting experience.”

“It is.” He sighed. Maybe she ought to pull one of the sheets off the bed, push it under him so he’s at least not on the floor. Though, with as much webbing as there is on it, it’s fairly soft on its own. “She needs a full connection with my soul, not some…” He waved a hand, one of the lower ones. They’d surprised her, the ones he hid under his robe. “Primal emission.”

“Us other beings are full of emissions, aren’t we?” Herrah said, dryly.

“You are.” The sincerity in his response almost made her cough on nothing. What, had he decided he was some kind of exception? She didn’t fill the room with musk on her own.

The two of them rested there, letting that comment hang in the air. There was not much to say to it, not without starting an argument. Which, really, neither of them needed. Especially if they were to try again tomorrow.

The Pale King blinked, slowly, his eyes narrowed more in thought than anger. “I understand it, in theory, the growth of the eggs and embryos within. Monomon and I have performed many a dissection, in pursuit of further knowledge. In practice, the act of pressing bodies together until fluids pass from one to another feels too simplistic.”

Herrah huffed; ever scientific, so it seemed. Always looking to analyze his way out of it. Would her child do the same? “Are you nervous?”

Another pause. His eyes fell on her, scrutinizing. “Nervous?”

“About being a father.” As if there was much more to be nervous about. Well, the infection, she supposed, but he wasn’t talking about that for once.

He sighed, as if he had not done that enough times. Or maybe he had been yawning, and needed his sleep. Surely that much anxiety had to wear him out. Or everything they had gotten up to that day. She knew he was a god but in total honesty his stamina had unnerved her. She and Vespa could go on for a time but her husband had needed to rest, or continue in other ways.

“Is that why you’re on the floor?” she asked, nodded towards the bed. “You got worked up?”

He made a face, sort of. His eyes narrowed and his mouthparts curled, but it was still not as expressive as she would have thought from any other being. “No, that is not why I am not on the bed.”

“Why not, then?” It was a perfectly fine bed, after all.

His hand came to his face, fingertips pressing in. “I just washed, Herrah, I am not going to lie in the sheets we dirtied.”

“Then strip them off. Come on, let’s do it.” She stood up. She only realized she had reached out to tap his lower back when she made contact and he jerked. But he got up anyways, and followed her lead in pulling the sheets and blankets off. Even if he held them more delicately, further from his body, as if it would burn him, or infect him.

Herrah did not care much for looks at the moment; she let everything get piled across the room, not quite where the laundry was but close enough. It didn’t do much for the overall scent, but the bed smelled marginally cleaner now.

The task done, she pushed him onto it, chuckling at his scandalized, undignified shout. She climbed in as well, lying beside him while he flipped onto his stomach and held onto a pillow like a lifeline.

“Additionally,” he ground out, “Wyrms burrow. The further down, the safer.”

She eyed him. He did seem tense now, but she had shoved him. “Did you want to be on the floor? Or under the bed?”

He shook his head. “No. I simply thought I would let you know. Considering-” He forced himself to relax, melting down onto the bare bed. “It seems like a better idea to inform you on the child’s heritage than leave you guessing on it.”

"Hmh. All right. Watch for burrowing, give them some space to hide under things. What else? Soul magic?”

The pillow scrunched as he nodded into it. His arms tightened, his wings began to spread, and then he pressed into the mattress again. “Almost certainly. It starts young. Aggression, too, and territorial tendencies. The latter intensifies upon nearing maturity, and leads to the child being pushed out of the nest to find their own home. Which-” He gestured around them.

Right. She wouldn’t be there to see the child grow up, in all likelihood. She would not have to worry about them trying to fight her for the land she was raising them to rule some day. They would be a little thing, young, innocent, when she left them.

All for their sake.

Everything, now, for their sake.

She laid there, watched him. All tense, this god who’d found his way to a godless land, and begged her for her favor. Years ago, it would be her and her husband, cuddled together, basking in the afterglow, whispering prayers for their ancestors to guide their children’s spirits to life.

“Will you be alright with it?” she asked. He would be their biggest competition. He would raise them, and they would rule neighboring kingdoms. Their peoples would not understand each other.

That gave him pause. Enough so that the tension in him eased, for a moment, as he mulled the thought. “It’s hard to say. Hybrids are not a topic spoken of among wyrms, except in disdain. There is, at least, this land to send them to, should their presence become too much, and despite everything, I do have more amicable relationships with other gods than adversarial ones.”

He folded his wings tight and rolled onto his side, his back to her. “Hallownest was founded on overcoming instinct to expand the mind. If it does become a struggle, it shall be overcome.”

“You say,” she said, letting the words roll languidly off her tongue, “While you seek me to join you in a territorial battle against another god.”

His shoulders arched. “That is different. The Old Light is all instinct and suppression of free thought. Our methodology is fundamentally opposed. A hatchling of my own brood, raised in our own lands-”

“And the Hive.”

“-and the Hive, is less likely to create such an issue.”

Herrah’s pedipalps waggled, and she laughed. Whether he heard the bitter edge to it or not, he showed no sign of acknowledging it. “I see you have not heard of rebellious adolescents.”

“I’ve ruled a kingdom for far longer than any family you know has been alive, Herrah. I have heard of the matter. Considering their role in the proceedings, I expect it.”

“What?” And now the bitterness was on full display, the venom on a barb. “You don’t think making a child’s mother sleep forever will endear them to you?”

“I was not the one who proposed this, may I remind you.” His response was just as dry as hers was sharp. His tail twitched, tense as if ready to lash out. “The greatest variable in the dynamic is how long you and them have together.”

It was. It always would be, and the painful part was Herrah had no way to answer how long she would have awake. It scared her, twisted her insides into cold knots, not that she would ever show anyone. She had agreed to her own death - no, eternal imprisonment. She would be very much aware, far beyond any mortal life.

Perhaps it would be long enough for someone to find a way to break the spell and free her - for no spell could be made that was not unbreakable in some way - but she doubted that would be in her child’s lifespan. Unless they, too, achieved godhood.

She could be needed to Dream before they even hatched. They’d never know her; their family would be the Pale King and the White Lady. Or maybe they would be a child, old enough to be aware, too young to understand what was going on, why this was necessary. Maybe then they would hate him, but would they not hate her, too, for leaving them? Or, in some distant dream, the infection spread slowly, and she raised her child to adulthood, where they would mourn her, and perhaps it would still hurt, but they would know why she had to do it.

For her brood.

For her child.

“I wonder what their favorite color will be,” she said. Her eyes traced patterns on the ceiling, the way the silk woven all over it crossed. How often would she have to tell her hatchling to stop climbing up there, they had lessons to complete?

She nudged him with her elbow, marveled in how this recluse was letting her touch him. Even after (hopefully) fertilizing her eggs, something about this casual touch was much more intriguing. “You claim foresight. What’s their favorite color?”

The low hiss he made did not feel at all a real threat. “It doesn’t work like that. We are not even done with-” He waved a hand. “All this effort to ensure you’re gravid. Hatchlings are difficult to foresee the future for with any clarity, there is too much possibility in their life, and too many expectations placed upon them by their parents.”

She did not ask if that affected The Hollow Knight. She had not even said anything about how much they resembled him.

Instead, she asked, “Do you think they’ll have foresight, too? They’ll be half wyrm, after all.”

He did not answer for some time. Perhaps consulting that mysterious gift, despite what he had just said.

At last, he admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Because there’s no hybrids.”

A slow, defeated nod, and he curled up the slightest bit tighter. “There’s no hybrids.”

A slight smile found its way to her face. She was glad he could not see it; she herself was not sure what the feeling behind it was. “Look at that, Pale Thing. You’re a pioneer. Blazing a new trail with every thrust and each moan you won’t commit to.”

“Herrah.”

The sheer scandal in his voice made her laugh, genuine and loud. As the sound died down, that worry grew again, that she had hurt him and he was trying to hide it, that her joking made it worse.

“Not interested in talking about it?” she asked.

To her surprise, he flipped over, his dark, so dark, eyes boring into her. Two of his hands pressed into his abdomen, one into his thorax. The other reached out and grabbed her wrist, held on tight. He spoke, and the seriousness in his voice made her tongue feel thick and clumsy. “No. Herrah, that’s not the problem.”

“What is?” By some small miracle, she still sounded like herself.

He dragged a hand down his face. “When I said what happened in my first form was not a story for post-coital chat, it was not to dismiss you. No, I never sired children of my own kind. I could not bring them into the world I lived in, to become victim to it one way or another. Or, worse, perpetrator of its cruelties.”

She let his fingers entangle within the short fur on her limb, aware of the sensation but intent on hearing more of whatever he was trying to say. “And what of it? If hybrids are a taboo, then-”

“No, it’s not-” He sighed, pressing his hand between his eyes and scrunching them closed. “It isn’t that hybrids are disdained. They are. I doubt a dame would care but if a male dared show face-”

“You’d fend him off?”

His head tilted towards his collar. “Yes. I normally would, but with a hybrid child, I don’t know what would happen. He would hurt them, but how is…”

She squeezed his hand, and prayed that such a thing didn’t happen. That the Battle of the Blackwyrm she’d heard of - it was impossible not to - had been a one-off incident and perhaps now this Blackwyrm would be the one to intercept any errant males. Not that, thinking of, she knew whether or not the Blackwyrm was male itself.

“It’s domination,” he said, and the rest came spilling free, like when one of the Weavers was trying to explain a concept but instead of passion, fear fueled the stream. “Life as a wyrm is hunger, and domination. The dames are treated as conquests, as uncivilized creatures who must be conquered, placated long enough to breed and to take the promising children, the male children, from them, because daughters only exist for someone else to breed later, once they’ve grown. And mortals? Mortals are animals. To desire them, to sire children with them, is laughable, a taint upon the bloodline, but-”

He paused to catch his breath, and she swore she saw him shudder.

“There were always rumors. Whispers. That some of the males, those who had shed their first forms or otherwise… had their way with mortals. Forced themselves upon them. They were mortals, so who cared if they were injured, scarred physically and mentally, or even died? There was one, the son of one of the males who raised me since my sire passed, who tried to be a- a friend, I suppose, you would call it. He shed his form younger than usual, he had some wounds he could not heal and were beginning to kill him. Some time after that, he found me, and we began to talk. He told me, with this horrid glee, about what he was doing to this mortal he had enthralled. Soft earth to harden stone, Herrah. He sired clutches, and wyrms are bigger than most mortals-”

“Most wyrms,” she said, and blinked when she realized she spoke.

“Most wyrms are bigger than most mortals.” He hissed, though there were all manner of things he could have been hissing about. “So when the time came-”

That was definitely a shudder. He did not speak again; his eyes seemed unfocused, too much going on somewhere else in his mind.

It was then that Herrah realized one of her arms had come to wrap around her abdomen. Was this it? Was this the real problem that had him so worked up?

“You’re, what, half my size?” she said to him, a reassurance for the both. “I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. He still wasn’t looking at her. He was facing her but he wasn’t looking at her. “I could have misjudged. The ratio of egg size to adult size could be wrong.”

It was her turn to sigh, narrowing her eyes slightly, though she could not say she was mad at him. “Even if you did get it wrong, I’m not alone. I’ve got Midwife, she’s had to deal with eggs too big to be laid before. Am I going to think of some way for you to make up for it if the egg is that big? Sure, but neither of us is being foolhardy about this.”

The chitin of his palm ground against the chitin of his forehead. His eyes shut again, and that was marginally better than the elsewhere-ness. “I cannot believe you are trying to comfort me after…”

She sat up, staring into his eyes as they cracked open to peer at her. “Wait. You thought you had taken advantage of me?”

“Despite all the time I have spent trying to break that socialization, I cannot deny its possibility.”

She shook her head, exhaling in a rush. “I was trying to figure out if I had done that to you and didn’t realize it. When I came back and you were lying on the floor of all things, I thought I’d hurt you.”

Pale lids slid over dark eyes, and retreated just as slowly. His hand worked, kneading her wrist. “Oh. No. It’s a complicated matter is all.”

“Obviously. You didn’t seem too enthused about it, either.” Not that she could imagine him acting enthused about… anything, really. He was a rather dour bug.

“It was business. Not business I performed well at, at that.” He was beginning to frown, mouthparts drawn close to his jaw, eyes cast downward, narrowed with some feeling she couldn’t discern.

“You’ll get better, don’t get too caught up in that. I wasn’t good at first.” She’d had a few embarrassing incidents herself, and a couple more upon taking new species as lovers, her husband and Vespa included, but he didn’t need to know those. “Look, I know what works for me, so we can figure out what works for you.”

And then his back was to her again, though he was closer this time, almost close enough she would consider wrapping around him, like she and her past (and current, counting Vespa) lovers would do together. Though, thinking of, she didn’t want to risk him panicking with his wings pinned against her front.

“I love my wife, Herrah,” he muttered, and she was not sure if it was something he hid in his often flat tone, or something whispered into her mind alongside his words, or knowing how it felt herself, but she understood. A softness, an almost giddy thing, and the ache of being apart, the yearning for reunion. And a sorrow, too, for not being able to be there.

“I know,” she whispered, and she thought of her husband, sitting beside him, kissing him to comfort his passage from this world to the afterlife. She thought of Vespa, growing, always growing, both of them aware of her coming death but determined to make the most of what she had left. And she envied him, for a moment, for a life eternal, one he could share with the person he loved. “I’m sure she knows you love her, too.”

His hand came to his collar, closed around a small thing on a chain. He’d refused to remove it, she had paid it little mind. Ornamentation was no problem. But now, as she watched, she noticed a light spilling from the gaps between his fingers, and wondered just what sort of magic it held.

“I don’t think she would want you to be miserable,” Herrah said and, having not met the White Lady, wondered if her words were true.

His shoulders fell. Slowly, the light dimmed, and he let the chain go. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t.”

“So, was there anything you did enjoy?” She reached out, found his hand again, and held it, intent on the cool, smooth chitin.

“Herrah, it feels like we’ve talked about a lifetime’s worth of things.” The admonishment was tired, and he didn’t pull away from her.

“If you can think of anything else to talk about, some interest we both share, go for it. But unless you want to hear about how I am troubleshooting a weaving project I am working on, we might as well figure this out.”

He sighed, and brought his arm down, bringing hers with it, so hers laid across his, all the way up to the shoulder. “Fine. You… you smell nice.”

“Good work. See? You were able to think of that pretty quickly.”

“I spent a lifetime relying on scent over sight. It’s a natural focus.”

She patted his hand. “And we can use that. Here, we can come up with some ideas. I’ve got a few, myself.”

“They’re all going to sound weird.”

“We can test them out if that would help.”

His brow knit. “We already stripped the bed.”

She scoffed, and chuckled. “I’ve got a tub,” she purred, leaning in.

The way he squirmed made her laugh more. “Herrah,” he hissed. “Just- start talking.”

Chapter Text

He’d asked everyone else before he asked her.

That was what he said, anyways. Ghost was uninterested in the journey, and Hollow, while interested, was busy. Being Midwife’s apprentice had many duties attached to it, after all, and not ones they could easily give up. Especially since Midwife had sustained an injury last time she went garpede hunting and was too stubborn to let him help heal it for her.

For all Hornet knew, he had ‘asked’ through foresight, and avoided the two rejections. Though if he had, she was, in hindsight, mildly surprised he ended up approaching her anyways.

“Hornet,” he’d said, as serious as ever, “Would you begrudge me a journey?”

“You don’t have to ask my permission for your comings and goings. I am not your minder,” she shot back. The last thing she needed was her sire asking her for everything, like some kind of hatchling. Some of the council members were bad enough about that already.

“I do not ask about myself. I ask if you would accompany me.”

She’d sat there, leaned back in her chair, and puzzled the request. On many levels, it confused her. Why would he want her to go somewhere with him? Why did he think she would say yes? Where was he going? Why would he want to go somewhere - he had admitted he still saw Hallownest as his territory, even if he guarded it in the more abstract sense, rather than taking direct action and ruling the place. If he was going to be some old guardian spirit, only called upon on the off chance one of his kin showed up and wished for war, and the rest of the time he puttered around the Archives, that was all well and good with her. So long as he didn’t start picking fights with any of the other gods, his children included.

“Why?” she had to ask at last.

He stated, not quite meeting her eyes, “Because I thought it would be of interest to you to visit your grandmother’s grave.”

It was a strange feeling, the one that hit her. Shock mixed with an equal hit of mundanity. Of course he would have a mother, but he had a mother? She, in turn, had a grandmother? He had mentioned her all of twice in all Hornet’s memories. She’d figured someone had to bear him (though in all honesty she had no idea who could have borne or sired beings like Unn or the White Lady, but he’d looked like a bug and he was her sire) but never had she thought much of who.

“You do not have to, but I will either way,” he said when she hesitated too long. His wings rustled and resettled.

It was like a hand on her back, gently urging her onwards. A whisper in her ear. Go.

With a sigh, she said, “Fine. I will accompany you, once we discuss arrangements.”

Which was how she found herself two weeks out from Hallownest, her thickest cloak held tight over her shoulders, steadfastly following her sire’s bright glow. He’d said it was close. That it was somewhere in the broken mountains looming before them. If he was wrong, she was going to kill him, and this time, she would ensure it was permanent.

It wasn’t the first frustration she’d met on the path. He was, at least, a quiet companion, and a good hunter when he put his mind to it. Well, a savage one. He’d thoroughly coated one of his robes in bloodstains, and it was when he took down a massive wild beetle that had attacked that she found herself torn between awe and horror and the way his mouthparts unfurled and he bit through the creature’s back to sever the nerves before stepping back to let her finish it off, as if the chunk he tore out of it was insufficient.

But still, he had his moments.

Primarily in the evenings. Apparently in the day he focused on getting to the grave too much to be a bother. The awkward attempts at conversation were bad enough, but after the first couple nights, without fail, he’d tuck one of their blankets around her, curl up on his stomach with his side arced against her back, and drape the second blanket over them both.

She’d originally protested he ran cold, to which he responded he was there more as a windblock than a heat source. He’d added in that it meant she had both blankets, instead of them having one each.

Next she had protested she did not need defense, and that he was rather in the way. He tucked all his limbs under himself so there was nothing for her to get caught on if she had to get up.

At last, after a few days of this, she had told him she was not a child any more. Certainly not his to fuss over. Of all of them, that got the most reaction out of him, as far as a slight narrowing of the eyes could be deemed a reaction.

“Stop,” she’d said, pushing him away. How funny, that she could do that now, shove him around. Not easily, but still. “There is no need for you to brood over me. I am more than capable and self-sufficient, thanks to your abandonment.”

It took him a moment to respond, in his usual flat drone, “If you were a full-blooded wyrm, you would still be a child.”

“You forfeited my childhood long ago.” It had been snappier than she consciously intended, but she was tired.

He curled up on his own after that, layering on his spare robe rather than taking a blanket.

If only her siblings had come with. She could at least huddle with them; they may have been cold, but she didn’t mind their chill, they were her siblings, and they had slowly won her over to their cuddle piles. She didn’t spend every night with them by far, but she’d stopped minding when Ghost decided to be a stubborn obstacle until she picked them up and brought them both to Hollow’s bed, where the bigger Vessel could easily hold them like stuffed animals. Or when Hollow scooped her up against their chest like she was a spiderling again, rocking her on the way to the nest.

“Hornet.”

She inhaled sharply, coughing when that led to a bit of dust finding her throat. She’d let herself get distracted, and the shame burned. Had she let her skills slip so soon, relative to all the time she had spent guarding Hallownest’s ruins? What was she if she let herself slip into trusting another, especially one who had proven himself so unconcerned with others?

Just in front of them and to their side, a cavern cut into the rock, the air swirling through it, bringing all too familiar ashy flakes with. Like the ash, she recognized the too-smooth texture of the cavern walls, and caught remnants of a familiar spiraling bore. She’d explored tunnels like these as a child, though those were smaller in diameter than this, and found gaps and entrances into them around Hallownest. But those had all traced a single path, a dying stagger to the Kingdom’s Edge, and she’d never used them to go further than Hallownest’s bounds.

“Did you dig this?” she asked, hurrying to catch up so he could hear her voice. The wind blew sharper, howling across jagged rocks, screaming over the end of her question and forcing her to try and hold her cloak closer than she already was.

He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he thought the answer would be revealed soon enough. Either way, she struggled to picture the creature who’d died in the Kingdom’s Edge taking the time and effort to carve out a grave. What had it been besides a mouth that could carve through rock and a simple body that did little more than drive it towards the next source of food? For all she knew, the culture her sire alluded to sometimes was little more than a fantasy to convince people - and himself - that such a thing could be anything but brutish and animalistic. He’d certainly spent plenty of time imposing moderation into her when she was young, projecting some kind of distaste for an instinct to devour - food, knowledge, attention, anything. As if he himself were one indulgence away from a slavering beast.

The wind died down some as they entered, though she could feel it swirling around them yet. Erosion had taken its clear toll, wearing down the bore marks to little more than subtle dips and rises as they walked. Perhaps it had widened the cavern, too? She turned her head as far back as she could, trying to gauge just how high up the ceiling was. Higher than the ones in Hallownest, certainly. And there was much less ash, too, despite this also being a wyrm’s grave. Though, it was older. The ash had likely blown out already.

Instead of coming across a marker or a corpse, the floor began to slope, rising upwards. The daylight grew further and further behind, leaving Hornet to rely upon her ability to see and sense in the dark and the Pale King’s natural glow. Though he had dimmed even that, providing slight illumination but certainly not lighting the area up.

Her face began to draw into a frown as she looked around again. Would a living wyrm, in their first body, need any sort of light? With their massive bodies, certainly that would-

Right. No eyes. Blind save for foresight and enthralled mortals’ senses.

But still.

“Does your kind glow, before the rebirth you went through?” she asked, as the slope grew steeper, the steps needed to scale it more strenuous. Pebbles tumbled down with each step. At least he was likely to simply answer her question then go silent again, instead of drawing out a conversation. Or perhaps he would go on a long tangent about his biology. Or perhaps he would hush her, for daring to speak in a sacred place like a god’s grave.

“Not much, unless we are actively attempting to entrance mortals or fend off opposing Higher Beings.” The slope became a cliff, and slid his pack off to hold to his front and rustled his wings as warning, giving her time to cover her eyes before he flared them out, bright even behind the crook of her arm and closed eyelids. They dimmed, and with a sharp flap he launched himself towards the cliff face, pushing off of it with his free limbs to flutter higher again, zig zagging towards the top.

Her own wings remained underdeveloped, and would stay so until her next molt. So she drew her needle from where it rested behind her pack of supplies, already secured with silk, took aim, and threw it.

It clanged off the rock and she scowled, reeling it back in and stowing it again. This was no great impediment - she may be only a half-spider but she retained that innate ability to climb - but he was already going higher and higher, and she was not about to let him leave her behind.

Her back began to ache first, perhaps a quarter of the way off the ground, with the pack’s straps around her shoulders and secured around her waist. She ignored it, pressing onwards. It was, all in all, perhaps a bit higher than the height of the cavern her home village was located in. She made that climb all the time. But there she could use her needle, and there were more outcroppings to hold onto.

But she needed to be at the top, and so she would climb.

Her arms ached next, shoulders protesting all the pulling, fingers finding the edges just that little bit sharper than they ought to. Clearly she needed to be bringing back heavier prey, if a climb like this with camping supplies (only half, too, and they’d elected not to bring a tent or anything) was beginning to tire her after a morning’s walk. She refused to look down, but looking up, she seemed to be halfway there. Her sire was already at the top, watching her.

Three quarters of the way. Would she have to ask to stop and rest when she got to the top? How much further to the actual grave? At least this would be easier going back down.

Her foot slipped. Her heart jolted as she began to drop, silk whirling and lashing to the cliff face. Her descent stopped short, leaving her with her heartbeat thundering in her head and her breath struggling to grow steady again.

Something began to lift her pack and she almost turned around to strike before she realized her sire wasn’t at the top of the cliff any more, and she could hear him murmuring behind her, broken by the flap of his wings.

“Lean back, take your hands off the wall, let me take this.”

After almost falling, Hornet’s stomach turned at the idea of letting go of the cliff she clung to, but her silk was strong. She did so, leaning back and holding her arms up so he could fly upwards again, taking her pack with.

She let out a long exhale and settled herself on the wall again. The silk began to dissipate as she checked her hand- and footholds, and once it dissolved completely, she climbed again, freed from the pack’s weight.

Still, her arms shook more than she would have liked when she reached the top, and she had to pull herself away from the edge and take a moment to sit, watching her sire for the slightly disturbed rise and fall of his chest. So it seemed godhood spared neither of them from overexertion.

He approached her, not with her pack to tell her to continue, but with his arm outstretched. She eyed him, already expecting it but not quite believing it when he commanded, “Two strikes.”

Now that she was not dangling precariously off a cliff face, a little bit of attention did make her realize she felt a little drained. Not enough to stop her from magic entirely, but she had used more than necessary. It certainly was not enough effort to call for him to ask she take some of his own Soul. “I’m fine.”

“I taught you how to use your magic, I know how you are when you are low on Soul.” His arm bobbed. “Two strikes.”

She scowled at the reminder of how she behaved when she had been unintentionally drawing upon too much of her own Soul, or how she acted after lessons and before she could get a snack, bath, or a nap. There hadn’t been an angrier spiderling throughout the kingdom, and she was already prone to biting and fighting people. Midwife had, upon recollection of those times, wistfully called her a “little monster” and in Hornet’s opinion, that put it too lightly.

“Would you rather hit me, or would you rather I hold you so I can transfer it myself?” he asked, and she swore she could have heard the slight strain of his patience wearing thin. He was one to talk about being crabby after exertion.

He did have a point, though, She gripped his wrist in one hand, holding his arm out straight and steady, and balled up her other hand into a fist. Raising it up high, she brought it down as hard as she could, carapace cracking against carapace.

Crack!

She focused and took in the white globules beginning to float free.

Crack!

As she released his arm and watched him inspect it for potential wounds, she found herself feeling more like, well, herself. When he turned to her she held her hand up to her face, turning it back and forth and probing the carapace. Nothing more than the most superficial of scratches and cracks.

Satisfied, she stood, and gathered her pack again. Striding forwards, she looked over her shoulder at him, letting him pick up his supplies and come up beside her before she continued on.

Before long, the two approached another slope, this time leading downwards into a sharp drop. It was far enough, and dark enough, she couldn’t quite see the bottom, not until her sire leaped off the edge and glided down. About as deep as the climb had been high, then. Great. She’d have to climb up such a slope again. Maybe she could make him carry her pack the entire way up this time.

As it was, descending proved far easier than climbing. She scrambled down, letting herself get faster, faster, until the floor was coming up and she leaped, using just enough magic to flare the fabric of her cloak so it slowed her descent, letting her land with dignity instead of crashing onto the rock. A handy little trick she had learned in Pharloom, and one she certainly was not going to forget any time soon.

“So,” she said with a sharp exhale once both of them were on the floor and peering ahead showed no signs of yet another rise, “What was that for?”

“It serves a dual purpose. Coming in from outside, the climb deters intruders. From the other direction, it provides containment. This is hardly the only method of accomplishing the task, the other most common being to cover the entrance in some manner, but it is the one used here.” He slipped so easily into a lecturing tone - not the kind where she was in trouble, but more of a teacher before a class. Strange, she was pretty sure he wasn’t serving as an educator in the Archives, instead partaking in his nature as a loner and working behind the scenes to keep the place running and do research. Had he become more permissive with strangers’ questions in general, then?

However, the use of containment made her frown.

He anticipated her question, answering it before she could form the words. “Your grandmother did not have time to create a new form.”

“Then who was-” She cut her question off when the echo to her voice grew louder, reverberating from further away. The two of them slowed as they emerged from the tunnel into a cavern like that which had contained the Palace, or the City of Tears. No, smaller than those, but of a similar principle.

The ceiling was not all that much higher, but glowing moss, mushrooms, and lichen dotted it, creating living constellations that showed just how large the place was. Big enough to house a village like Dirtmouth, but despite all the space, there was nothing but silence. No skittering, living creatures. No hearthfires, no cooking food, no people bustling about and chatting. Just a massive, empty space, filled with nothing but the scent of loam, rock, and dampness. If she didn’t speak, she swore she could hear each rasp of her sire’s breaths along with her own. In a silence this great, she could practically hear the beat of her own heart.

They stood there, for a moment, doing nothing but staring, listening, scenting. Such a space, to be called naught more than a grave. Such a space, to have one’s corpse rest eternal. The stillness of the air, the lack of footprints, remnant supplies, anything to suggest anyone else had ever been here, was a stasis in and of itself. A natural one, with the only magic being its history.

All this, for one wyrm.

People could live here. An entire little population, living in this singular grave. It would be well defended, though they would have to be self-sufficient unless they set something up for easier travel up and down the bend, so they could trade.

Yet it stood empty save for, somewhere in here, a corpse. Certainly it had to be well degraded by now; the one in the Kingdom’s Edge had collapsed after her sibling was branded, and this wyrm had died long before, and much more violently as the story went, than that.

They began to move again, and each footstep felt like a quiet blasphemy of the silence.

It was not far before they came across another downward slope, relatively short and shallow. It stretched as far as Hornet could see to either side, encircling the space. The initial level they’d been standing on was just a ledge, slightly curved to account for a body constantly, or at least consistently, moving around it.

She took his lead and slid down the slope, pausing when her feet hit rich soil. The earthy scent grew all the stronger, and she cautiously tapped her foot around. More little mushrooms and patches of lichen and moss dotted the space, a reflection of the ceiling above. Her sire eyed them as if they were suspicious, unfamiliar.

Her frown deepened. Something about this place itched at the back of her mind. This huge… bowl, it really did resemble a bowl, provided there were no more slopes hiding in wait to throw off the shape. This huge, open bowl, did not feel much like a proper grave. Not that the Kingdom’s Edge was much of a grave either, so perhaps wyrms had a different understanding of them than most mortals, but no. There was something else. The shape, perhaps. Or the scent.

“The body itself is on the far side. What remains of it, that is.” The sudden speech made her jump, the soil thankfully muffling the noise. He didn’t look back, either, though rather than intently focused on his goal like she would have expected him to be, his head turned slowly as he took the space in.

“This entire space, and the body is kept to one side?” she asked, keeping her voice low. She stepped around a patch of mushrooms; in the distance, she thought she spotted a jagged shape. Part of the wyrm’s carapace?

“No. She would have looped around this space-” He drew a circle in the air with a finger. “But over time, the corpse has decomposed. Even the molt everyone refers to as ash has melded with the soil. However, the mandibles and some elements of the facial structure are much hardier, so they should still be intact. Those are on the other side.”

“Buried beneath the soil?” There was certainly a generous amount of the stuff, but was it enough to completely cover mandibles like he’d had, once upon a time? “I cannot imagine how you brought all this in, considering your old shape.”

“I didn’t bring it in,” he answered, plain and simple. “She did, as plants, primarily, with some other organic matter. Which-” He stopped, and tapped her shoulder, pointing once her attention was on him, rather than the dirt. “There.”

Her eyes raised, and sought, until they settled on long, curved forms, dusty and worn but with spots that caught the low light of the glowing things around. No longer were they held in the shape of a mouth, but it was impossible to mistake the distinct outlines for anything but what they were. Not after a childhood of trying to climb up her father’s back to tug on his horns, or an era of guarding his grave.

Wyrm mandibles, fallen, broken, and scattered. And, overall, much larger than the ones in the Kingdom’s Edge.

She had never admitted it to him, how when she had first seen his old body’s mandibles, big enough to shear through a building and sharp as any nail, she’d been in awe, and perhaps a little afraid. The shape, size, the power that she knew was behind them, served well to intimidate. It was the face of death, driven by a hunger so deep, so insatiable, that a mortal bug on its own was hardly noticeable as it was swallowed whole.

And those were small, compared to this.

She could not take her eyes off of them as they approached. They grew closer, their size grew all the more apparent, until they stood before the closest one.

At its widest point it would have come up to Hollow’s thorax, and drew outwards into what had once been a sharp tip, now weathered and broken. Thin cracks drew across its length. Its base flared, ragged where it must have once fit together with its fellows to form the maw as a whole. Scattered about were the thornlike protrusions she had seen on her sire’s corpse, longer and more burled. But, of course, also much more degraded and decomposed.

Long, long ago, before her mother’s bloodline had existed in any form that could possibly be recognized as hers, before her sire took the form that she was conceived with, this was her grandmother.

The thought stole her breath. This pile of bones, remains that barely looked like they’d belonged to a living thing any more, rather than being the remnants of some malevolent architecture, had been her grandmother. She’d been more than a corpse. She’d borne a hatchling, she’d grown up on her own before that, with a mother of her own. Had she loved the wyrm who must have been her grandfather? Or had he simply been an incidental requirement for her to lay an egg? What had she known? What stories would she have told, were she alive?

She realized there was something cool beneath her palm, and a moment later found that she’d rested a hand on the mandible before her. As if it was some kind of comfort object, something that this creature, this alien beast, her grandmother, would have used to nudge and nuzzle her. Though, with how small she had been as a spiderling, and how big her grandmother had been, she was certain even the slightest touch would have knocked her down.

She pulled her hand away, looking to her sire as her face started to heat. Had she done wrong? Was there any proper etiquette to be observed? If so, why would he not have briefed her before they entered the cavern, or approached the corpse?

He nodded to her, and slowly, she replaced her hand, stroking the mandible in broad sweeps that, with how small she was compared to it, hardly covered anything at all. It still had an edge to it, but was rough above all else, and felt almost more like metal than shell. Small dents and pocks marked its surface, with occasional, short smooth stretches.

Part of her wished to wrap her arms around it, as best she could, positioned carefully so as not to let the edge cut into her. Just sit there, holding it, and fantasize about what it would have been like, if her grandmother had still lived. She’d be reborn well before now; would she have taken Hallownest? Founded a nearby kingdom? Would mother and son have retained a positive, or at least neutral, relationship, or would the two have gone to war, one destroying the other? What would her life have been like, with a kingdom of her family nearby? Would she have traveled there regularly? Would they have sought her out when she was stolen away to Pharloom?

Her grandmother must have used this cavern, if she’d been bringing plants into it, enough to line the floor thoroughly enough to leave a covering of soil. From the size of the mandibles, it must have been her to carve the cavern itself, and the tunnel leading out of it. The tunnel meant for containment, and this cavern shaped like a tub, or-

Or the birthing nests in Midwife’s den.

“This wasn’t a grave,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. She pressed in as she stroked the mandible, its texture fading into a regularity as her thoughts began to swirl.

“No, it wasn’t,” he confirmed. He’d come up to the mandible, too, rested two of his hands on it and bowed his head. “It was her nest. I was hatched and raised here, until the males deduced my existence.”

She couldn’t hold back a short chortle. How strange it was, to imagine him as a child, a small, fat, grublike version of the creature of the Kingdom’s Edge, rolling about in the veritable forest of plant clippings that had long since decomposed into the soil under her feet. He’d hatched under the glowing lichen above, and his first cries had echoed through this long-silent space. Once upon a time, there had been a little family here, mother and child. No community, no friends and visitors and neighbors, just the two of them. Quiet, intimate, alone.

He’d not have had any playmates. Just him in the nest. How did he keep himself entertained? Did he have much need to? It wasn’t like a limbless creature could learn to weave, or do other hobbies. What was there other than sleeping, eating, and burrowing?

A giggle escaped, louder and clearer than before. “Did you ever try to climb out? Up that slope?”

He paused, and blinked. How far back did he have to recall? But, slowly, his eyes returned to his mother’s mandible and he said, “A few times. More as I grew older, most likely. I recall her grabbing me by my tail once and dragging me back into the nest, when I was more interested in the outside world than in dinner.”

“So you too had your mischievous moments.” And he had, all that time ago, perhaps behaved like a normal child. Like something she would recognize, though perhaps not as who he was today.

“As any child did, save for your sibling.” He didn’t have to specify which one. Anyone who’d met her and her siblings would immediately be able to guess which he meant.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh, one she could imagine had happened many times before in this cavern. “I, however, was relatively calm, even for a male. By wyrm standards alone, I should have known you would grow into a girl from the first time you tried to bite me.”

She eyed him, her hand stilling. She shifted her weight, ever so slightly. “Were you hoping for a son?”

“I was not hoping for anything in particular. I knew you would grow into yourself, if given the space and chance to learn what that was, and that was the important part. No, it’s just that among wyrms, the women are, well, larger, more aggressive, and more territorial on average.” He gestured to the mandibles, to their full length and how much greater it was than what his had been. “If the Blackwyrm, if you remember that story, has taken this land as her own, the likeliest reason we can still find this nest undisturbed is that even with my mother long deceased, she still sees it as another woman’s land.”

She did remember the Blackwyrm story. Ogrim especially had always been happy to tell the tale again and again, with great grandeur, and she’d gotten a great laugh out of it when she was older and, when he was starting to retell it, the Pale King had summed it up as “An adolescent girl strayed from her mother’s nest and we forcefully informed her that Hallownest was occupied.”

“She would have liked you, I think,” he said, more of a murmur, a tentative thought, then a statement. His lower arms had looped around the underside of the mandible, hugging it to his torso. “Provided someone explained that the spiderling was her grandchild, though your status as a natural born Higher Being would have been a good clue.”

“What makes you say so?” That statement, that her grandmother would have liked her, was the only clue Hornet had ever known to the dead wyrm’s personality. Though, having heard of her so rarely, Hornet had hardly had a chance to try and construct an acknowledgement of her existence, let alone her personality.

(And, of course, her mind wandered to Herrah. Sometimes, at night, she couldn’t fall asleep, mind preoccupied with worry about what her duties as queen entailed. If she didn’t bear an heir, it fell to the next highest caste to produce one. Perhaps Herrah had intended for Deepnest not to fall apart; if the caste system was intact, then Hornet, with godsblood in her veins, was automatically the highest caste, and her bloodline was secured as ruler unless another demigod was born. Which meant she’d have to have an heir of her own blood. But the caste system had been on shaky ground since Hallownest fell, even after she brought the Weavers back from Pharloom. Midwife and Hollow had both assured her that she was certainly not to pressure herself to find a mate and produce eggs. In fact, she was pretty certain Midwife would give her the worst lecture of her life if she tried, especially before she was done with her adolescent molts. Still, she’d clutch her blanket close and try to imagine what Herrah would have been like as a grandmother.)

She only realized he’d gone quiet when he said, more of a whisper in her mind than anything said aloud, “I don’t know.”

(Herrah, at least, she had evidence of. Memories, jumbled and faded they may be. Weaving projects. Her office. Her needle. Stories from Midwife and the Devout. It had made it easy to picture, Herrah sitting in the middle of the Den’s living room, laughing and playing with little spiders, calling herself Grandma.)

She sidled closer, looking him up and down. His eyes were glazed over, his gaze distant and entirely not in this world. Not in the manner of foresight, either. Just introspection.

“Pale?” she said, and the name-title still felt odd in her mouth. But she doubted anything would feel right. “What do you remember?”

When he hesitated, she reached a foot out and began to make a crude sketch, giving rough form to the mandibles (they looked more like four vaguely triangular blobs), and then a long, winding body. How long was right? Were there features she was missing? Scars? “What did she look like, for example?”

He scoffed softly, his grip easing on the mandible as he turned to examine her attempt at a drawing. She didn’t see him frown, but she doubted she would have even if he meant for her to see it.

“I was blind,” he said at last, “I don’t- I don’t know what she looked like.” His eyes turned back to the mandibles. Was this the first time he had seen them, then? “There is vague memory of her voice, or how it felt to be pressed against her side.” He paused, and she noticed his mouth was ever so slightly open. “If I could smell her scent again I know I would recognize it in a heartbeat, but-” He closed his mouth, swallowed hard. “It’s gone. Time has since faded it. I could not even describe it to you.”

It stung. The idea of it pierced her heart and pulled at her thoughts, seeking for what was lost. Little things she’d never have thought twice about as a child, while Herrah could hold her in her arms, sing to her, kiss her and tickle her until her belly hurt from laughing. All of it felt like frayed strings now, tapestries full of holes with faded colors she would never be able to dye back into their full glory. “I know.”

She crossed her arms across her stomach, trying to find that sensation again, her mother’s lightly furred limbs holding her close, listening to her heartbeat under her carapace. Had she been warm? Were there scars she liked to trace? She didn’t know. She used to. “I often realize I am forgetting things. Like her smile, or her voice.”

She’d never been able to pry the mask off, once Herrah began to Dream. It stayed put, locked in place by the spell. All there had been was the outline of her eyes, shut in eternal sleep.

“You shouldn’t have lost her,” he said. He didn’t even look at her while saying it. The words made her mouth curl.

“We have long since established that.” She kicked her drawing into oblivion, placed her hand on the mandible again. “At least you have a corpse to mourn.”

His wings flared for a moment, not to full spread, but enough that she knew he wanted to do so. Then they tucked against his back, as tight as usual. “I am sorry.”

“Just-” She held a hand up, between the two of them. “Don’t start. We’re here for your mother, not to argue or make more apologies that don’t change anything. For our ancestor’s sake, what do you remember about her?”

He took a deep breath and sighed, rubbing his forehead. He leaned his weight on the mandible and, despite only the base and widest point touching the ground, and how far they were from the fulcrum, it didn’t move at all. The two of them could practically use it as a bench.

“She was everything to me. The male who stole me away, he was the second person I had ever met. She- she told me stories, ones her mother had told her, ones that sons never got to hear because they didn’t stay with their mothers long enough to understand them. She brought back food. She was there when I started trying to burrow. She cleaned the nest, and when I tried to copy her, she praised me for it. She taught me language, and how to control my magic. She told me about the children stolen from their mothers, about the rivers and mountains and meadows and a far-off place called the ocean.”

He blinked slowly, resting two elbows on the mandible now, the broken piece of what had once been the person he spoke of, his head propped in his hands.

With what she would have called an edge of desperation if it was any louder, any more prominent, he rasped, “But what did she say?”

She nodded. Her stomach ached at the idea that this was it, that her grandmother was nothing more than a pile of mandibles and a vague impression her sire had left over from a long ago childhood. All this journey, all this time, and this was it?

Then again, if someone asked her to describe Herrah as a person, what would she be able to say? What was there, that he had not taken from her as a young spiderling, when he put her to sleep and damned his child to know her from then on as a sleeping body on a stone plinth?

Here he was, trying to recall the stories he had lost, standing beside the person who he had stolen those sorts of stories from.

“Did she tell you anything about your sire?” She couldn’t say her grandfather was anything more than a slight curiosity. He’d be even longer dead than her grandmother was, and he’d had no impact beyond fertilizing an egg once. Which, well, she wasn’t sure no impact was all that much worse than her experience with her own sire.

He shrugged. “That he was dead. In complete honesty, I could not say whether she knew him as a person at all. It could be they only met to breed. Then he either died or she killed him.”

“Killed him,” she repeated, more surprised by the ease with which he said it than the idea of the act. Had the mandible underneath her palm once been coated in her grandfather’s blood?

“It’s not common, but certainly not rare. One wrong step, and you could be deemed a better food source than a mate. Or mate first, then be killed and eaten. I suspect he died of other causes, they would have known sooner to check her nest if he disappeared after going to breed her.”

Hornet hummed. Midwife had spoken to her about it before, the urge to eat one’s mate. Understandable for a spider, she’d said, but best avoided unless the mate ought to be dead anyways. Apparently she had to watch for that from both sides of the family.

“What would you have done,” she asked, “If you hadn’t been stolen?” Would he have returned to these lands and then Hallownest anyways, when his mother passed? She’d not be born, she doubted, in most any timeline he came up with. If he hadn’t come here, fought with the Old Light, failed to destroy her the first time around, and accepted Herrah as Dreamer… So many possibilities. So many points where she could have not existed.

Something seemed to fade out of him. Like he went limp a little bit, or hunched some. He shook his head and muttered, “There’s no point to it.”

“No, I want to know. You brought me here, I wish to hear it. Even if it is naught but speculation. It’s my heritage, too, as much as any weaving I’ve learned or my mother’s altar back home. Do you wish for me to start? I shall if I must. I would grow up in Deepnest and be a more proficient weaver, but I suspect I would still learn Soul magic under you-”

"Hornet.” He held up a hand as she started to count up the events on her fingers. The hand he had on the mandible started to curl. “I understand. One moment.”

She gave him that, watching as his eyes shut and he pressed his head into his hands, tail beginning to twitch as he thought. A leftover instinct from his wyrm days?

“I’d have started venturing out of the nest soon. I’d stay with her and learn to hunt that way - it’s how I learned from the males who found me novelty enough to keep around. I’d stay with her until late adolescence, when territorial instinct becomes too strong. She would chase me out, and I would find somewhere to call my own. Likely nearby. From there… I might have begun to socialize with other males. Learned their ways. When the time came, I might have sired hatchlings of my own, if they would not be taken from their parents, or left to live in fear of that. I do not know if I would have been involved in raising them, or if I would know how to do so.” He paused his story to let Hornet scoff. “I’d have grown old, passed, and gone to find followers who would worship and sustain me, and I them.”

His voice faded, and the silence reigned again. Just that. Just that, over so long a life. Hornet found herself leaning against the mandible, tapping on her elbow. Truly, by the birthright of her sire being an old wyrm, a transformed wyrm, she had escaped a literal lifetime of dullness.

Though, the lifetime she did have was rather the wrong kind of exciting. It pressured her, forged her into a skilled, tough thing, but even at rest, danger whispered threats to her.

He was watching her. Her brow furrowed at him. What, was he expecting her to continue his story? To react to it? She had no particular input for him.

“What is it?” it came out more of a snap than she intended, but not more than she minded.

He nodded to her.

“You are the reason why I have to speculate on what my life would have been like.” Despite the bite in her voice, he didn’t flinch. He’d gotten used to it, she supposed. She’d need to find another way to dig at him, to let him know just how much he’d hurt her.

“I know.”

She crossed her arms, the tapping on her elbow becoming easily audible drumming. She shot him a glare, just so he knew. “I think you’d have been primarily uninvolved, except to teach me what magic the Weavers could not. Or perhaps, if my mother had backed out on a deal with you, there would be war. Perhaps my people would have evacuated, and I would have lived with them all in Pharloom. I would grow up, I would be Princess, I would learn politics and history and etiquette without interruption from your failure. I’d remember my mother’s face with clarity and she’d have been there as I learned to use a needle. Someone would comfort me when I was sick or could not sleep and I would not feel out of place for it. I would not know my siblings, but I would not know that they were anyone to miss, or mourn.”

She stopped herself with a hiss. It wasn’t worth it. They had to travel all the way back together, she needed to be in the mood to stand him all that time. Why had she agreed to this again? Some little voice in her head? An urge to step away from her duties? What had she been thinking?

And, of course, he was still staring at her, that wet glint in his eye. She sighed, and shifted her pack. Probably him trying to use foresight, and her struggling to see it well in the cavern lighting. It was a subtle thing.

She marched past him, and said, “Let’s just make camp.”

They did, and they managed to do so with little fuss. In the end, they elected to set up on the ledge surrounding the nest, so as to not cover everything in dirt. She set out their blankets, he set up the small cooking set he’d come up with. Wood for fire was not a guarantee in the wastes, especially up in the mountains, and so he’d rigged a small hot plate to a crystal. A small jolt of Soul, and the thing heated up. Odd as it looked, Hornet had to admit it was convenient, and the discussions around how it had worked while he was building it had some ideas lurking in the back of her mind.

Just to get some space, to cool down, she stepped away and tended to her needle. Cleaned it, oiled it, muttered to herself. She had to get through this and the trip back. If she wanted to have problems with him, they would have to wait until they were home and it wasn’t just the two of them stuck together in the wastes. She was not dealing with that long of an awkward silence, or that many worthless apologies.

Maybe… maybe he was trying. Badly. But if she let him try she could at least entertain his attempts like one entertains a spiderling’s ragged first attempts at a web. A spiderling, at least, would get better, and there was no harm done before that web was made to necessitate its creation.

Her needle cleaned, she stood, checked that the silk holding it was still strong, and began to step through the forms she’d learned from Vespa and the Hive Knights. It kept her sharp, and she had found it required just enough effort to maintain form that it forced her mind to focus on the present, to attune, to let go of nagging thoughts.

And so she followed them, keeping her back straight, her limbs steady, her angles perfect. Each move accompanied by the right sound to lend force, to announce intent. Precise, perfect, with a flow as smooth as a stream.

But, as all things, they came to an end, and she was left with nothing more to do to avoid him. Besides, perhaps, prepare an offering or some small ceremony for her grandmother, but to do so without him would be unspeakable.

He didn’t go far, not that she really expected him to. Once camp had been set up, he’d sat at the edge of the nest and stared out into it. What occupied him, she did not know, it was still somewhat odd seeing him without a tablet or scroll in hand, or if not that, an engineering project. If neither of those, he was being forced to socialize.

So, she sat beside him, feet perched on the slope into the nest. He glanced at her, so at least he was somewhat aware of the world around him. The world beyond his mother’s remains, that was.

“You nested here,” she said, somewhere between a statement and a question. If it was all he remembered, then it was the only place she could really explore if she didn’t want to have him drag her into her own hypotheticals.

He nodded with a short hum. One hand traced the perimeter of the nest, and he said, “As I mentioned, it would be filled with plant clippings. The hatchling stays in the center, and the mother curls around it at night.”

“Another security thing?”

Another nod. “Indeed. Intruders first must deal with the adult wyrm, and if the child is in distress, they are easily in reach. In that manner, it provides emotional security as well, for both parent and child.”

If she hadn’t known better, she swore she could hear a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Like he was longing for it, or something. “Do males build nests like this?”

That made him go still. Not for long, more so he could think some more and narrow his eyes some more and seek out whatever information he’d stored away to retrieve should he be asked such a question, than out of any surprise at it. “Some do. They tend to be simpler, and smaller, since there’s no guarantee of a hatchling occupying it as well.”

“Do they curl around it, too, if there is?” She made a spiraling motion with one hand. She’d come here to learn about her wyrm side, and she would drag the information out of him if she had to. Every bit she could get.

Now he just didn’t respond. Not for a while, and rather than thoughtful he almost looked lost. His eyes fell on the mandibles again, that had once belonged to the person who’d cuddled him to sleep. Would it ever not be strange, to think of him as a child? It was not as if he had been an old man forever.

“There is the instinct to,” he said, so quiet she could hardly hear him, even in her mind. “Socialization can overcome it, no doubt, but there is the instinct.”

After a moment’s pause, he added, “What did you think I was trying to do at night? You’re inefficient as a heat source.”

She shrugged. That… had kind of explained it in and of itself. “I would not put it past you to be an unusual specimen possessing heretofore unseen instincts in male wyrms. Your example overall makes it difficult to believe you come from a terribly cuddly species.”

“We’re blind and noise attracts attention. Touch and scent are important to us.” He paused and, after a moment’s consideration, added in a much less confrontational manner, “If I had not been trapped in the Dream realm, I likely could have tracked you to and through Pharloom.”

“Is that how you always knew where I was in the Palace?”

With a sigh, he said, “No, that was foresight. The way the Palace is - was - designed stimulates sight and, when other people are around, hearing enough that it’s near impossible to focus on a particular scent, even my own hatchling’s. Additionally, I had adjusted to requiring foresight to find your- to find Hollow to the point it was habit to do so for you, too.”

The conversation died down, as uncertain and awkward as it had begun. She mulled questions to ask, things that wouldn’t make it even more awkward. Was there anything? Getting him to fall back on knowledge, that had been fine. But graves were not just about knowledge and neat, pretty fact. They invited the past into the present, with all the messy feelings and uncertain truths and all that came with.

They were not here on a research expedition. They were here for her grandmother, his mother.

“Do you miss her?”

The question hung in the air like mist, suspended by the crushing, deafening nothingness. The stillness only they disturbed.

(He was going to ask her the same, she knew it. She had to be ready.)

He opened his mouth, closed it again. He tapped on his tail, an absentminded click that filled the air.

“Sometimes.” He stopped tapping to slip his fingers beneath one of the plates on his tail’s back and pull on it, back and forth like it could be pried free. “When I recall her, I will find myself wondering more about her, or wish I had grown up here. When you hatched, I wished for her advice. I find that what I never knew is worse than what I had and lost."

"I could not imagine not missing my mother every day." Even when she was exhausted, the day long and survival harsh, Hornet had always found her mind returning to Herrah. How it would be different with her there. How she would know what to do, and be able to keep Deepnest strong.

"That is understandable," her sire said. His gaze began to drift, seeking something out on a far wall. "You had no choice. I let myself be taken."

The words brought an immediate and deep frown to her face. What weird psychological twist and turn was he unearthing? "What could you possibly mean by that?"

He found whatever he was looking at, she guessed, his eyes locked on some patch of darkness. "It had been a lean year here. I was hungry, and needy. My mother was gone much of the day, likely just as tired and her nerves as raw with hunger as mine, and I was still confined to the nest despite coming of age to want to go out. The male who did find me snuck me food, just enough to quell my hunger until my mother came home. He promised a full belly, a reprieve from her stress, and to experience the world outside. I had heard of their trickery and cruelty, but he fed me." Under his robe, she swore she saw his lower arms shift to cross over his front. "He fed me, and called me smart, and strong, and capable. My will was weak, and I gave into temptation."

His breath hitched, then he exhaled and it steadied again. "I barely woke when she left that morning. It's almost gone, has been for centuries, but the last thing I remember of her is her brushing me on her way out to hunt. She came back and I was gone, never to see her again. I do not even know if she knew I left her willingly."

Hornet could almost hear it, the cries of her grieving grandmother when she could not find her son in the nest. The material within would be scattered about, she bet, thrown around in a desperate attempt to find him, or his body. She must have been terrified that he had starved, or some predator snuck in and killed him. Or, exactly as had happened, he had been charmed away.

Which… "Is it possible for an adult wyrm to enthrall a younger Higher Being?"

"Theoretically. I've never tried it on you or your siblings. Even when they attempted to ascend from the Abyss, it was-" The next part was only a rasp. "It was in search of their parent."

"So you could have been enthralled?" From what little he had told her, she did not put it below the male wyrms to try such a trick so as to get their sons.

He shrugged. "It is possible. But the heart of the matter is I still made that decision-"

"How old were you?" she pressed, leaning in the slightest bit.

He leaned a little away in turn, eyes beginning to narrow. "Perhaps the age you were when Herrah began to Dream, in equivalence. It does not-"

"That young? Pale, you're blaming yourself for being a hungry child? What decisions did you let me make at that age?" She pressed a hand to her chest for emphasis, tilting her head to try and meet his eyes. He avoided her stare, but she refused to drop her persistence. "I certainly was not deciding who I stayed with, or what I was tutored on, or even what was for dinner. I was too young to make an informed decision."

"That does not change that I still made mine." The edge to his voice threatened to grow sharper. Had he believed his fault beyond youth, hunger, and magic for so long he felt threatened by the idea he did not have to suffer the full blame?

She shook her head and huffed, sitting upright again. "I do not even see why I say such things. I am your child, it should not be my place to fix your problems with yourself and others."

"I have not asked you to." Now his eyes found hers, his jaw set but not tight. "I answered your questions. That was all."

Her eyes slid away from him. She drew her knees up and rested her cheek on them, hard edge on hard edge. It wasn’t worth it. He wouldn’t learn. He’d sit there, and blame himself, and maybe he blamed her, too, for her childhood. For all the little things she suffered.

“I am not surprised others would suffer around you.” It was counter to the plan of being able to stand him on the way back, but when had he ever stood up for himself? There would be no fight, no argument. He’d not have to sit there and fume over his self-righteousness, only give in to his self-flagellation.

He inhaled sharply, mouthparts working as if he was trying to defend himself. But to her utter lack of surprise, he let the breath out, and his fleeting burst of upset faded.

He knew what he had done. Hardly just to herself or her siblings, either. They had not started a god's war.

"I'll make dinner," he conceded, standing and taking a moment to reposition his robes even for the short jaunt to the camp.

Hornet did not follow. She did not turn to look. Only listened to the clatter of camping cookware and him preparing whatever he had found. Likely more of the beetle that had attacked them; they'd gotten a fair bit of meat out of it.

If she had more culinary skill, she might have entertained the thought of going over to critique him as he worked. She had spent a long time surviving off of what she caught and prepared in the field. And even with a full kitchen, he had started out as an abysmal cook, forced to prepare his own food. When he remembered to eat, that was. But he had gotten better, and there was not much to say of what either of them could prepare in the wastes.

Besides, she had seen that glint in his eye when he bit into a still-living thing and tasted blood. She knew both of them preferred their meat fresh.

She couldn't even tell him, as the two dished out their portions, that she preferred her mother's cooking. Herrah hadn't been much for cooking, either. Too busy running a kingdom. Same excuse he had, really.

"There should be a small stream," he said when they finished and gathered their dishes. They hadn't used the dishes much on the trip, not while out in the wastes. Too much dust, too little opportunity to clean them, too much fresh prey around they could eat directly from its carapace, though they kept some preserved items on hand for the sake of variety and nutrition.

But here, with no prey and apparently, access to water, they could clean things.

The stream was little more than a small bend of water curving in from elsewhere in the mountain, likely on its way to a waterfall further down. It, too, hardly made any noise. A rounded jag cut into it, a matching notch in the rock wall across.

Her sire stared at it for a time, before thumbing the notch. His eyes narrowed, and he pressed his fingers in again. They scraped and scratched against the damp rock, until finally he stood up straight and, illuminated by his kingslight, held out a small piece of something shiny, hard, and just barely grey.

On reflex she accepted it, frowning as she pinched it between two fingers and turned it back and forth. "Is this part of a mandible?"

He hummed an acknowledgement and folded his legs under him to begin washing the dishes. "Mine, in all likelihood. From the size of the gouge in the floor and the wall, it's far too small to belong to my mother, and I am certain that if you searched, there would be similar, if shallower, marks on a much smaller radius. While attempting to free myself, I would have broken off that small bit of mandible, as I was yet too young to have developed the full, hardy covering they have."

"Why would you have rammed into the wall that hard, then?" Her grandmother must not have been at all pleased with the event.

"I must have been trying to drink the water."

She eyed the wall, seeking out any signs of those gouges. But it was not task enough to keep her from kneeling beside him and starting on her own dishes. "And to think the silly little hatchling trying to drink the water grew up to murder other gods, steal a kingdom, and commit mass infanticide."

That got him to bristle. Just barely, just a little more tension than usual. The sort of thing that made Hollow look expressive in comparison. And it was likely because she dared allude to his enemy. "The hatchling didn't know," he said, "of the cruelty he'd prove capable of."

Under his breath, though he had to know she would hear, he muttered about how murdering other gods was just business for their kind, and how Hallownest was in his territory even before he died there. She let his defense fizzle out; they could argue semantics some other time, as impossible as it had been to resist the temptation to needle him.

The dishes were cleaned quickly, and even though the stream was small and cold, Hornet had to admit it did feel nice to wash herself, too. The frigid water shocked her out of the day's melancholy, filling in an icy energy to finish up, to plan for tomorrow, and in the end to tuck herself into the nice, warm blanket she had. Even better, there was enough room for her and her sire to both wash at once without elbowing each other too much, brushing wings, or him hitting her with his tail.

It was a rare occasion he had ever bathed with others, but even as a young child who'd wheedled the Great Knights into joining their practice and he sparred with them, too, and they all took a bath after, she had always been extra grateful to resemble her siblings more than him. She didn't have to practically tie herself in knots to clean the joints in her back, and cleaning four wings was bothersome enough; she probably would have outright killed him if she inherited the full set of six. By the time she was washing some spots of grunge from her cloak, he was still dealing with his underbelly.

She, however, tucked her arms close as they returned to the campsite, and he looked like he could not have been bothered less.

There was not much for them to discuss, as they settled in for the evening. Hornet curled up in her blanket and other cloak, pulling it up to her chin and then over her horns.

She arched her shoulders up when he came up and draped the other blanket over her. "If there are any particular ceremonies or rituals you wish to conduct, let us discuss them in the morning," he said, and for a moment his voice, low and close, made her eyes droop like she was little and he was reading his formwork to her to put her to sleep again. It had been so easy, back then, to find rest in it. "I trust your understanding of the matter."

"I'd like to explore the nest a little more first," she responded, already beginning to mumble. "See what else we can…"

As she trailed off, she frowned. She pushed his hands, and the blanket, away. "Stop."

"Is something wrong?" He did, to his credit, not try to push back against her.

"You're making me fall asleep." The accusation didn't have much bite to it. Maybe the day had been more draining than she thought.

All she got in response was a deep, almost inaudible rumble that lasted until everything was dark.

That morning, she almost could have forgotten that she was the second farthest she had ever been from home. The cool cavern air, the rasp of rock under her shell, it was so familiar. It could have been the Crossroads, it could have been up high where Greenpath met the Howling Cliffs, it could have been the Resting Grounds or Crystal Peak. It could have been a particularly quiet corner of the City cavern, or the Ancient Basin. Even the stillness and silence, though so different in practice, reminded her of the stasis.

The only difference was the two blankets she’d wrapped up in.

She sighed, pulling the one blanket off to glare at her sire’s still-sleeping form. He’d curled up into a tight ball, spiralling around his tail so his horns stuck out, just in case you happened to try and sneak up on him from that particular angle.

She bit back a hum so as not to wake him. With his face hidden away, and his numerous limbs hidden under his robe, he almost looked like his old form, albeit much tinier.

A thought struck her. Slowly, she reached for her other cloak, the spots she’d cleaned having dried overnight. She rolled it up, tucking a spool of thread in it for heft, and ensured it wouldn’t fall apart as soon as she let go.

It was a slow process, creeping up to him. One never knew what would trip his foresight, or just startle him; she had not known him as a particularly light sleeper, but she could feel her heart hammering. Pranks and trickery hadn’t been her forte. She had always been direct in her mischief, escaping and sneaking into places more than setting up tricks.

But he didn’t wake, even when she stood over him, carefully standing away from his wings. He didn’t wake as she rubbed the cloak-bundle to give it some semblance of warmth. Nor did he wake as she lowered the bundle bit by bit towards the center of his coil until it touched his side.

He shifted, legs stretching, and she let go of the bundle as he pulled it close. He tucked it into the coil and resettled, legs twitching as if to stroke and soothe, mouthparts waggling as if to groom. He took a deep breath, and sighed it out.

She stifled a giggle and backed up, slipping her hand into her mouth to bite down on as she sat and gathered the blankets around herself again. He did not even look terribly interesting from the side, save for the barest hint of red peeking out from all the white, but the fact he was still holding it, nothing more than a cloak and some thread, made her struggle not to burst out laughing.

The first sign he’d woken was some shifting, two arms raising as he looked down to see what the intrusion was. His legs worked to pass the cloak up and she buried her face in the blankets, muffling any sound she dare make while she peeked at the unfolding scene.

He sat up enough she saw him blink slowly. The bundle reached his arms and he cradled it like an infant, even as he began to frown. Whether it was angry, or confused, or what, she couldn’t tell.

“Hornet,” he said, still bleary with sleep, “Why?”

Well, there was nobody else to pin the blame on, she supposed. She could not try to deflect onto the cave moss. “You accepted it.”

"If I had not taken it you would have simply poked me in the side with it?" He did not sound angry, at least. She knew his stern, punishing voice well, though as she had grown he used it less and less. He stopped bothering to emote for things that would have once drawn his ire. Or, perhaps, his joy, though once the White Lady left it had been impossible to prove that.

"Yes, and that would have informed me in its own way." He would likely accept scientific inquiry, at least. She sat up prim and proper, as if to be even more convincing.

From the "Hmm," he made, it did work. He got up and, as he walked past her to get to the food and hot plate, passed her cloak back to her.

They faced into the cavern as they ate their breakfast, staring out at the arching mandibles and empty nest. Between bites, he offered a brief explanation of how wyrms, big as they were, sustained themselves without wiping places clear out of their territory. There was nothing else for her to pay attention to, so she listened to him talk about Soul and worship and how wasteland villagers were generally scared enough about being eaten to offer prayer and other things to keep a wyrm away.

"I do remember you'd stop eating and sleeping, sometimes," she said at one point. She eyed him. "I suppose it should not be surprising you can't cook, under that circumstance."

"It's hard to learn when you stand out horribly anywhere you may try to go for lessons, and anyone you ask is too entranced to offer critique." He chased a stray piece of meat with a utensil, hissing at it when it evaded him yet again.

She huffed. "What great misfortune, being a god."

"Look where it got all of us. Misfortune indeed."

She could not disagree with him.

They finished their food soon enough, Hornet finding the small tin of herbally fresh-smelling, crunchy tablets that she'd packed, passing one to her sire while she sucked on one she picked out for herself. They had recently come into production, and even after a lifetime of living without and never considering the matter unless she had just eaten something awful (in which case, water existed), she'd grown terribly fond of them after breakfast. Besides, they were small, so it was easy to pack some.

Once their dishes were washed and put away, the taste of coolness and herbs lingering on her tongue along with a slight chalkiness, they stood at the edge of the nest and peered into its vast expanse.

"You wished to explore more?" he asked.

She nodded and, with a glance to see that he wasn't about to try and stop her, slid down into the nest.

She was not sure what she was looking for, as she poked around the soil and flora. A more intact part of her grandmother's carapace, perhaps. A patch of molt that hadn't completely degraded into dirt. A scratch. Something, anything, that would prompt more history out of her sire.

Her hand slipped into her pocket and she pulled out the piece of mandible he had given her yesterday. It had a solid weight to it, even without the hardiness that let him shear through rock when he was older. Someone like Lemm would lose their minds over this little bit of history, and all it had been was an inconsequential tale about a young child who overestimated his ability to drink from streams. Something akin to the stories Midwife told about her, to anyone that would stay put long enough to hear them. Yet she was certain this would end up in the Archives, or the City's burgeoning natural history museum. It would come with a short description of the species, of the creature's age when the incident occurred, and perhaps tie it back to the god-king who had ruled, once, and whose children now guarded Hallownest.

For a moment, her heart ached to study her mother's family instead. It was bigger, more complex, but at least it operated on normal timescales before her birth, and nobody cared to put spiders of low caste in museums. It only had to be her family history, not a story for someone else.

Her sire hadn't decided to join her in her search, instead curling up by one of his mother's mandibles. He may have been talking, she couldn't tell. But she did wonder how he felt about the whole affair. Whether he wanted to retire more fully, cutting those last strings until he was free to fade away, forgotten save for his family. Whether he had planned to ever let himself die, or whether they ought to forget him entirely at all, lest they brush over the pain he had wrought.

She turned the piece of mandible over in her hand. Here was a hatchling who'd lived with his mother until he was too starved to resist being taken away. Here was a hatchling who would grow up to murder thousands because he didn't completely kill his last godly victim, who in her vengeance decided to destroy the very population they warred over.

Shaking her head, she tucked the piece back into her pocket.

Her search continued, as aimless as before. Really, she ought to have stopped, turned around, and gone to talk to him about what he wanted to do at this grave. But there was that itch again, unmissable and unrelenting, telling her to keep going. Just like it had told her to sit vigil by her mother, or to stand close to Hollow on the increasingly rare occasions they stumbled and fell.

Fear rose in her throat at what it might be driving her towards.

What else could this cavern possibly be ready to offer up?

There. A groove on a wall. Perhaps something to ask about, perhaps the answer to this itch. She could ask who made it, or where it was he snuck away from the nest, being too small to escape through the rise and fall of the main tunnel.

She strode for it, head down, business on her mind.

Something jabbed her foot and she swore, pausing at the echoing sound. Slowly, she lifted her foot, found blue and black blood beading at a wound. She brushed off what dirt she could and, balancing on her other foot, healed it in a flash of silken Soul.

She set it down, knelt in the dirt, and dug.

It started as a small point, almost akin to a spear. Pulling at it revealed more of its shape, and between that and brushing the dirt away she yanked free a small, dirty thing.

It was just bigger than Ghost's nail, somewhat smaller than her needle. It settled easily in both hands.

The base was broken off, leaving only a stump of the thin section connecting it to the larger, sharper flared part just above.

It had weight to it. Turning it, she found the leathery, tough remnants of matter within. This was no shed molt. This wasn't something that had lingered over centuries of nest cleanings, long after its original owner had been taken.

"Dad!" she shouted, the word as foreign in her mouth as the high pitch was to hear. Like it wasn't her speaking.

Her hands had not yet begun to tremble when two cold hands pressed onto her shoulder, a familiar-unfamiliar form up against her side, pulling her close. "Hornet, what's-"

He looked down, and saw.

The breathy rasp was no word she could recognize, or even a comprehensible sound.

He knelt beside her, pale robes folding haphazardly into the dirt, and slipped the mandible into his grasp.

She let it go without protest, slowly scrubbing her hands together as if to rid them of the discovery. She watched his eyes as they grew wide, stared at what was reflected in them.

"This isn't mine," he said. This time, the flatness was different. Wrong. Numb, but not, thick-tongued and clumsy. The sort of way people talked when they were staring at a weapon buried in their gut. "This isn't mine."

She huddled in on herself, back and limbs prickling with the wrongness of it all. She wasn't supposed to hear anything in his voice. She wasn't supposed to find a tiny mandible in what she had been told was a grave for one soul alone. The itch abated, and she hated it for it at the same time she thanked it for not daring to imply there was anything more to be found. Not after this.

He had to gasp in a breath to speak, his tangled mouthparts taking the time to separate out only to become more caught up in each other with every word, more garbled until he only spoke in her mind, an insistent press of impressions. "She was nesting when she- when she-"

She almost spoke up, but he cut her off.

"When she was killed."

Tentatively she reached out, settling a hand on his arm one finger at a time.

"Pale…?" she asked, the title even stranger in her mouth than Dad had been to shout. Something in her, some remnant of the little spiderling she had once been, cowered in her. The little spiderling had never seen him hurt like this. Angry, insofar as he ever felt anything. Comfortably in love, when she caught him with his wife. Wounded, even, when the Knights were strong and lucky. But even watching rivulets of blood pour down him, she knew he could heal. Even when she had grown older and watched him struggle to mourn, or do much of anything really, she had known the pain he faced was old.

Never was he shocked. Never horrified. Never anything like this.

"Hatchlings are bigger than this, they never would have survived outside the egg at this size." A hand swept desperately through the dirt, sending clumps flying. "The shell would have decomposed into the soil, if the egg had even been laid yet. She was mangled, I could not enter the nest without tangling myself in her intestines. If she hadn't laid they could have torn it out. If she had-"

The heels of two hands pressed into his temples. "That's why she died here. She had to defend her egg. She lost me, and then my sibling never even had a chance to hatch."

He shuddered, tensing under her touch. She almost pulled away at it, let him collapse in on himself over there where she could see and hear him but not touch him, not catch his scent, like he was more an illusion than a bug.

"I would have had a sibling."

She didn't know what to do when his breath hitched, and the only thing he could do was cough it out. His sleeves hid his face as his upper hands raised to rest his head in. The lower two cradled the broken mandible in his lap.

That would have been her aunt, or uncle, or-

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It shouldn’t have, right?

What was one more dead family member to either of them? Children, siblings, parents’ siblings, grandparents, cousins. They’d never even met this one, just like how neither of them knew most of the corpses in the Abyss, just like how Hornet would never meet her grandmother. Someone had killed all of them, and what was one more corpse to the pile?

One more dead wyrm, in a grave already made for their mother.

But here she was, realizing she was trying to crane her neck to get a better look, unable to back up even as her mind screamed at her to do so. Here was her sire, all hidden away, and under a steadying hand she placed just above his wings’ base she could feel, with great clarity, the unease to his breaths, how much effort each one took.

He pressed her away, one hand on her shoulder. Even though he turned his face away she could see the distance to his gaze, how he seemed to stare at nothing at all.

His touch was foreign on her carapace, despite all the attempted nesting, all the putting blankets on her, everything. He did not quite knead her but the pressure on her shoulder increased until her hand hovered above his, waiting for the right cue to pull him off.

“Hornet,” he said, and there was nothing to it. No strength, no godly power, no feeling. Nothing but an empty echo as he tried to push her away, or at least off of him. “Don’t try to fix me. It should not be your place. Certainly not after what I have done.” He shook his head. “I’m not… Hm.”

“I’m not trying to fix you.” Now she pulled herself free of him, only to grab his arm. He stiffened, mouth barely opening with the mandibles drawn back in what she knew was the precursor to a hiss. She mirrored the expression, even as he turned away. She would not give in so easily. She would not simply accept his word and let him go. Had he not already gone unchallenged too long? Hadn’t letting him say and do as he wished without question led to a shore covered in her siblings’ shells, while he was sitting here mourning one of his own?

Her tongue tripped over her next words, her mind stumbling after. She sat back on her ankles, legs folded underneath her, fists clenched so as to hide their slight tremble. She could call him unfixable. It may well be true. Certainly there was no undoing the harm he’d caused. She could say it was as she would do for anyone newly aggrieved, but she had not been much for standing by them and bowing her head in respect. She could say it was because that was her family, too, and she had as much right to mourn as he did.

She could get up, leave him alone, go about finding her supplies and wait for him to calm down enough to decide on something to do to honor the dead. Both of them. Then they could pack up and leave this cavern, leave behind the pit in her stomach. Morning was still new. They ought to finish and go.

Guilt stung. This was- these were her ancestors, too. Even if they were not spiders, even if they would not know the ways of small mortals, the sorts they would devour carelessly, they did not deserve such an insult as that.

She stood, staring down at him for a moment. She was taller than him now, but she had never expected her sire, untouchable, pristine, a literal god, to look so… frail. Broken.

She glanced back over her shoulder as she trudged towards her grandmother’s remains. As she watched, he drew in such a sharp breath she watched his back rise with it and it sputtered out as he buried his face in his hands.

The massive mandible did not yield as she leaned against it. So massive, compared to the tiny one she could hold in her hands, the size of a weapon more than a tool of destruction. Marked and scarred by a long, long life. Perhaps its owner’s spirit had not stayed, not after all this time. Or perhaps, being a god, she was all the more primed to listen.

Hornet tilted her head back, back, until the top of her forehead met the cold carapace underneath, the back of her neck compressed while the front was left exposed to the cavern’s nothingness.

“Why did you try again?” she asked, voice nothing but a whisper, “With what happened to the one before?”

She paused. She thought.

“Were there others?”

Silence.

“Did you try and protect them all?”

She breathed in deep, the scent of wet rock and dirt filling her lungs, undercut by the distinct smell of the long dead. Her eyes roamed the landscape, but found little other than a light smudge to indicate her sire. He barely glowed any more, less than even the mushrooms back home, but as she watched, the smudge dimmed, dimmed, until it was nothing.

He had been without it before. She’d never seen a glow about him in the dream realm. But there, he had been in the White Palace, and though it may have been hard to see him, it was more for his blending in than… disappearing.

“Why is he upset over his one sibling than-” She swallowed hard, steadied herself. “Than any of mine?”

He’d never been upset. He hadn’t gone dark like this for her siblings in the Abyss. He hadn’t sat there and mourned his daughter’s mother when he had to seal her away. He hadn’t mourned his favorite child when he trapped them with the angry moth he’d pissed off in the first place. He hadn’t even done anything when the White Lady left. All he did was work, work, work, either in meetings, in his office, or in his shop. Anything besides work had been nothing but a bother, and she’d been left adrift in the middle of it all.

So why did he do this now? Why did his sibling matter more? He’d grieved the hatchlings he lost with her mother, but that had been nothing more than some ranting, then quiet contemplation, and an offering to Herrah for her pain and suffering. That she led, because Hallownest didn’t care about ancestors. They put them all in the Resting Grounds and that was it. He and the White Lady hadn’t taught them how to care for those that came before.

She glanced at the tip of her grandmother’s mandible. Maybe he hadn’t learned. For the White Lady, death was part of life, and everything was so ephemeral that to mourn was silly, really, for the dead leaves would help next year’s blooms be even brighter, or something like that. She knew they’d talked about it when she was young, but then she’d bound herself into her retreat out of regret and grief. For him… one death had been change. She knew that. He didn’t care about his corpse, unless it was to keep people away from it.

But these corpses mattered. His mother’s managed to draw him away from territory he’d long held. His sibling’s did something to him that left Hornet feeling lost and small, like they’d gotten separated on an outing to the City of Tears back when she was little, even though he was right there and she could take care of herself now.

What was the difference? What held such sway over him?

By the time she caught sight of his approaching light, or he sat beside her with his sibling’s mandible still in his arms, she’d slid down to sit on the ground, mind abuzz with thoughts she couldn’t discern.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at her. He’d uncovered his eyes, though, and it stunned her to see how tired he was. Something greyish stained his cheek, streaking across his snow-white shell. The sight of black blood beading on his wrist flashed through her mind.

“D-” She took a breath. “Pale?”

The light of his eyes shifted, and she got the distinct impression, honed by so long living with him, that he was looking at her.

Her mouth opened, but she hesitated. For a moment, rather than speak, she dragged a finger down from the corners of her eyes to her jaw. “You have something on your face.”

“Mm.” He bunched up the sleeve of his robe, scrubbing along the marks and leaving grey smudges. They wouldn’t come out of the fabric, she knew. No matter how much it was washed, it never came out.

They sat there, in the silence, neither daring to break it. She wasn’t sure he could; he certainly was not focusing on the world around him, save for perhaps the texture of his sibling’s mandible as he idly stroked it. Her back twitched as she watched, as if she knew what the back of his knuckles drawn down her spine like one soothed a hatchling felt like.

The part of her that had grown used to Hollow and Ghost, and how touchy and fond of cuddling and nuzzling the two Vessels were, wished to reach out, lean on his side, wedge her head between his shoulder and jaw. Like Ghost did to her and Hollow, or how Hollow would lie down and, if their siblings didn’t pile with them, their charges would. There had always been something soothing about it. Not something she could name. But even now, having gone only two weeks without, she found herself wishing for it. She wasn’t a spiderling, though, seeking her parents’ affection, or a favorite blanket. It was only those two weeks, and two more. He was no substitute. He’d never liked touch, anyways.

The watery grey stains had reappeared on his cheeks. With a gesture, she let him know, and he wiped them away again. More stains. Her Deepnest heritage balked at the same time it considered how good of cleaning cloths the robe would make, how one could probably cut a hatchling’s cloak from the clean parts.

Thinking of, they did have business to do. She tapped his shoulder, pulling back for a startle that never came.

Their eyes locked on each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. This wasn’t right. The wrongness chewed at her sides and limbs and mind, refused to relent. This wasn’t right, but she could ignore that. She had to continue. Both of them had to move on.

“What do you want to do for them?” she asked. Her eyes flickered to the mandible in his grasp. She didn’t have to say anything about her grandmother. There would be no ignoring, no forgetting, no losing what was left of her.

He opened his mouth, but all he let out in the end was a long sigh. He pressed the heel of his hand above his eye and mumbled, “I don’t…”

She gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, but none more came forth. To think he had once been king, that he had once been making decisions that affected the lives of all in Hallownest.

She shifted uncomfortably. It was not as if she had been quick to give her mother any sort of memorial, either.

“We could set up an altar, like we did for-”

"No.”

It took a moment for Hornet to realize he’d grabbed her wrist, and she’d ripped his hand off of her, the two of them now frozen with her shoving his arm back towards himself, his hackles raised and her chelicerae flared.

She let him go, one finger releasing at a time. He tucked his arms in, hiding them all away in his robe. Bit by bit, the two eased out of their defensive stances, until all that was left was a memory of a surprising and somewhat embarrassing flash of panic.

Once they were both as back to their usual state as possible, he spoke again, the fabric of his robe wrinkling as he grabbed a handful and squeezed. “No altar. Nothing permanent.”

“Surely if she was going to be brought back, she would have been already, you’re the only one who remembers her.” And nobody had any memory of her fetal hatchling.

He shook his head, his grasp on his robe tightening. Surely he was going to poke a fingertip through the fabric or something. “My memory alone is not strong enough, no. Myself, my lady, the Troupe Master, many people remembered the Old Light, and with greater clarity than I do my mother, and she remained in that deathlike state. It was when the statue on the Crystal Peak was discovered that she returned, strengthened by the physical representation and the crystals’ particular qualities. Had it been anywhere else in Hallownest, it likely would have done nothing.”

She looked around the cavern, but there was nothing save for the glow of the mushrooms and dull, dark rock. Certainly none of the crystals’ glow. “Surely there’s nothing here to power it like that.”

“There’s us.” He dragged his face upwards and out of his hands to peer out at the cavern, too, as if searching for a threat. “As Higher Beings, we must be cautious about how we use our power. Intentionally or otherwise. The odds of an altar or memorial being discovered are low, but its strength would remain until we both fade. My strength may wane, my peak long past, but you have a long life ahead of you, Hornet.”

Long enough for the cavern to change, she wondered? Would the entrance collapse in her lifetime? What about the side of the mountain, or the peak? More likely, she was sure, the interior would be destroyed, smashing the remains and anything that could have once resembled a nest under a mountain’s worth of rock and rubble. Would she die surrounded by an unrecognizable geography, all those she had ever known long gone save for, perhaps, her siblings, or any offspring and other descendants who inherited the divinity her sire passed down to her?

It sounded like a terribly lonely existence.

“There are other methods, then,” she said, as much to come up with something as to get her mind off of watching the world become alien around her. “We could sit vigil. Some speak to the dead, or leave temporary offerings. Candles, food, I could use my silk.”

After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “You speak to your mother, at times. Tell her about what’s been happening. I’ve seen your siblings at the altar, too.”

And Midwife, and the Devout, and the remaining Weaver. Many people sought to offer Herrah the news (or gossip) of the day. “You have, too.”

He nodded. Granted, she had only caught him the one time, and led him back to it once more to make his offerings, all in the dead of night where nobody would hear. “Maybe it would help her to know what came of her son, after he left her. And about you, and your siblings. And…” He ran his knuckles across the mandible in his lap again. “They’d never seen the world. Surely they should at least hear of it.”

She nodded and, briefly, contemplated if once they got home again, she ought to try and bring him to the Abyss, so he could tell her siblings of all they’d missed. A bedtime story, for all the little ghosts who were already at rest.

It was lost to time, how long it took between him deciding that and actually beginning to speak. It was quiet, in both voice and mind, more of a whisper of wind through the still air than language.

She settled into a more comfortable pose, and listened to the stories her sire had never told her.

He never named any of the wyrms he’d met, she noted. The one who took him was always referred to as such. There were older wyrms, younger wyrms, a new father who’d overestimated his capacity to brood over multiple hatchlings and, not long after settling her sire in his nest, chased him out while screaming with hunger and malice and defensiveness over the young son cheeping off to one side. None of them had names, even the eldest of adults.

Perhaps that was why Hollow suffered without the dignity of a name for so long, only titles.

The memories he recalled were spotty, interrupted by bouts of hunger or hazes of isolation, and what did remain were almost all moments of conflict and danger. Lots of being chased around. A couple near-misses of approaching kingdoms and angering their local gods.

There were other, softer memories, rare among a wyrm’s brutish life. Sunning in a meadow, the flora ticklish against his carapace. A male who saved him from an earthquake and nestled him until he calmed down. Little things, here and there.

He gave great detail to places, things. What different rock types felt like, how they broke apart. The scent and feel of soil and loam. The taste of different magics, how Soul crackled through your whole body when put to use. Things Hornet would not give a second thought.

She eyed the small mandible. Unless she never got to experience them, she supposed.

He trailed off around an explanation of how he heard his mother had been killed. How, due to being smaller and less territorial, the males had quite the social life (distant and limited as it was) and thus a gossip network spanning territories. It was inescapable, but useful. Not that he had ever been good at using it.

She stood while he thought and promised to come back with lunch.

The camp was not far from the mandible they had seated themselves by, but still, she did not hear him begin to speak again, no matter how hard she strained to pick up any of his words.

It had all felt so… mundane, she realized, as she started the hot plate. Here was information perhaps no one save for the White Lady knew, secretive as her sire was, but still. She had it now. And it all felt like something so plain. A retelling and nothing more. She'd struggle to remember it by the time they got back, unless she got him to recount aspects.

She rested her head in one hand, elbow on her knee, as she stirred the food around. The scent hardly evoked much of a reaction either way, vaguely meaty and salted, as much as she tried to focus on it to keep from falling into her own mind. It had been like listening to any family story. Something Ogrim recounted about her, or Mato said about Ghost, or Midwife had to say about most anyone but Midwife expected Hornet to remember her tales and by now whenever she heard that particular storytelling tone, she paid close attention whether she was all that much interested or not.

What would she even do, once he got to the part she knew? Simply nod along? Add her side of things? Did she take over to describe the ruins he left behind when he died - or rather, hid away? Was she supposed to speak fondly of him? Let her anger reign? Did she have to introduce herself or something?

It all felt so silly. So… hyperrealistic. Her, sitting there as she poked at some cooking meat and some of the dried mushrooms they had brought, in a giant cavern weeks away from home, with a bunch of remains behind her. For that moment, she struggled to recognize that they were a god's bones. They just… existed. In the physical space. With her. With her sire. Who was also here, and very much physically present.

She couldn't shake the feeling. Not as she finished her cooking. Not as she dished out two servings - it was not like he was coming up any time soon - and not as she walked back, the slope drawing the threat of an ache from her legs, the dirt squishing underfoot.

He wasn't talking. He had gone quiet again, all huddled up and staring at nothing.

Her hands occupied, she nudged him with a foot. "I have lunch."

He did, to his credit, turn to look at her. Even if it was only for a moment before his attention faded away and he tucked himself tighter between his mother's body and his sibling's, still in his arms.

"I'm not hungry." He nodded towards her, sort of. "You should eat."

"Nobody's here to worship you. You need food as much as I do. Eat." Hornet nudged him again. She doubted he would starve to death from one missed meal, but she made the food, it wasn't going to waste. Certainly not because of him.

"I'm not hungry," he repeated, drawing out the pause between each word.

Her sigh hissed between her chelicerae. Why did he have to be difficult? Did he forget he had needs?

It wasn't worth a fight. "It'll be at the camp."

On the walk back, she found herself recalling the days after the Sealing, and the anniversaries thereof. Midwife and the White Lady had spent so much time worrying after her, telling her to eat up because they could tell she was tired, angry, and struggling to think straight. But even when she knew better, they practically had to fight her to make her eat something, anything.

She still returned to his side to eat her lunch, though it had cooled.

He didn't speak again.

The entire day, he didn't speak. Hornet finished her lunch, waited with him. Went to wash her dishes and scrub some of the dirt from her cloak. Returned to him. Sat there, and contemplated her grandmother and her sire's sibling, as was the way of mourning.

She had never known them. She had grown up just fine, hardly knowing of their existence, but deep down she found a small weight of loss, tangled in her guts.

What would it have been like, to discover her mother brutally murdered? It left no corpse, but in some ways, Herrah's death had been a mercy. To have passed in her sleep, and dissolved peacefully into Essence, with no sign of the slightest hurt. To not have a corpse that would rot and bloat and stink and potentially be mistreated.

What would she have done to have entered the Den and found her feet tangled in her mother's innards?

She was a warrior. She was of Deepnest. She was a survivor. Weakness was unforgivable, a moment's vulnerability could kill.

But still, her mind latched onto the imagined sensation of soft spidergut around her ankles and underfoot, of blood smeared, the metallic, fecal stench of it all, the image of her mother on the plinth, torn open and desecrated. It forced and forced and forced her to think on it until the pressure of tears behind the corners of her eyes was almost unbearable.

All she could do was remind herself she had been there. She had watched Herrah dissolve into nothing. She had sat there among the musty sheets and beeswax candles and held her mother's hand one last time as she faded away.

She wished Hollow were there. Soft, kind, patient Hollow, who would hold her and let her try to hold them in turn. A perfect mourner, though Ghost had that eerie knack for changing on a pin's head from energetic to thoughtful and stoic.

She had mourned so many things. Often on her own.

Why did she still feel so lost every time?

He didn't eat dinner, either, when she made it. Hissing at him did not perturb him, even when he left the grave to clean the camp and get ready to sleep. She itched to push him away, to demand he keep his silent, starved vigil over in what had been his mother's nest. She hated the concept as much as she indulged the daydream of him being elsewhere. Both of them were here to mourn, but anger came too easily.

She didn't fall asleep easily, the day's events tumbling around in her head. Her father's sibling, the vague attempt at mourning, how he just sort of collapsed in on himself. She closed her eyes, got comfortable, looked as asleep as she could, but it danced on the edges of her consciousness while everything else pushed it away.

The weight of the other blanket draped across her. Knuckles brushed her arm as her sire gave her the blanket she had specifically taken along for him. Again.

She didn't hide her sigh, tinged with back-of-the-throat annoyance. He skittered back, hesitated.

Her hand came up to the blanket's edge, holding it tight. She could throw it back, snap at him to stop. Maybe she ought to; he had been pointlessly stubborn about this. Maybe it would be better to let it slide, because at least he wasn't nesting her or talking or making that weird rumble, all he was doing was giving her a blanket he insisted he didn't need. If he was cold at night, wasn't that his problem, not hers?

She turned her back to him and let the second blanket's weight ease her to sleep.

When she drifted awake again, she knew it wasn't morning. Her mind had that blurriness to it of a too-early wakeup, the air had that certain dewiness and unnameable quality it gained in the deadest hours of the night.

She sat up enough to peer over her shoulder, rubbing a bleary eye. He wasn't in his spot. Where was…?

Oh, there he was. Sitting at the edge of the nest, staring into it. Had he slept at all? He wasn't a god any more, how many times would she have to beat that into him? He needed sleep because when he was asleep he couldn't do anything.

She should have rolled over and gone back to sleep.

She told herself this as she sat up, as she carefully tucked a blanket over her shoulders but under her wings, as she gathered the other in her arms, as she stepped over to him and dropped the other blanket on his shoulder.

He startled, but even then, with his wings flared and his body tensed, his glow wasn't the almost painful thing she remembered when he dealt with people too long. He was, at worst, like Greenpath's soft daylight.

"You should be sleeping," he said. He held onto the blanket like he wasn't sure whether to take it or give it back.

She sat down with a thump. "So should you."

He sighed a tired, defeated sigh.

But he wrapped the blanket around his waist with slow movements, held it loosely with his lower arms. His light dimmed to almost nothing, duller than even the mushrooms back home.

"I can make some tea," she offered.

He eyed her and she thought she saw him nod.

Good enough for her. She got up again and went to go put some tea on.

A burst of Soul and the hot plate clicked on, the crystal providing a slow pulse of pink light. Their travel pot clunked onto it, and the water she'd filled their canteens with from the stream glugged in with deep, bubbling noises.

Their tea brick was thin enough now that all she had to do was break some off by hand; it had seen plenty of use on quick trips, and simply because Hollow enjoyed the flavor. Most importantly, it spared her having to go to him to have him pry some of the leaves free with Soul weaponry. She had never managed the summoning tricks her father and older sibling used regularly, let alone the precision with which he could shape his Soul creations.

She dropped the leaves in the pot and, listening to the water warm and begin to bubble, she searched around for something to serve tea in.

The tea grew dark, as best could be told from the dim mushroom light, and its earthy smell wafted about in trails of steam. A quick tap with her needle pulled the remaining Soul from the crystal and the water's low roil died down. As she ladled tea into the bowls they'd brought (mugs took up too much space for a limited purpose), she shut her eyes to let the scented steam caress her face.

She returned to him, holding out one of the bowls. He took it, and both of them held their tea close, warm against them, against the cool, dew-laden night air.

"This is hurting you," she said. What other way about it was there? When he so easily dismissed matters - when she so easily dismissed them, and both festered like wounds? He made it all too clear where she and Hollow picked up their worst habits, after all.

She kneaded the edge of her cloak, the prayer in its hem warping between her fingers and palms. To a good hunt. To strength and cunning.

What help would that be, in the dead of night in a lonely world? Just the two of them.

He thought about it, raised the tea to his mouth. Did not sip, between its heat and the need to speak. "Do not burden yourself with my troubles."

Perhaps it was the air, perhaps she was still tired, perhaps it was how he spoke, but even in this grand cavern, the words were close. Intimate, in that way of midnight philosophy and hopes and fears.

Her fingers tapped on the bowl. She let her anger at his behavior simmer, looked past his lessons to find the ones Vespa had done her best to instill. Acknowledge it. Let it pass.

With a steadying breath, she said, "Pray tell what you are doing about it yourself."

While his eyes narrowed and mouthparts scraped over each other, she pulled the blanket tighter around her, feeling it press against her back. On her legs, face, forearms, everywhere it did not touch, the cold air seeped into her.

He did not respond, of course.

"Pale."

He hissed out a breath, shut his eyes, let his head droop. In the low light, he was no king, no god. Just a tired old bug who'd lived far past when he expected to. "My place in your life is not one to be pitied or forgiven-"

"Pale."

"After what I have done, there is no rebuilding, no chance of peace-"

"I know that." Her snap silenced the both of them. Her heart beat in her chest and her throat, and had not yet faded down to something tolerable when she continued, "We have gone over this time and time again. But you brought me here so we could mourn. Even then, with a purpose so explicit, you're avoiding it."

He paused. His eyes opened, barely, and he studiously avoided her gaze as if he were an animal being punished rather than her sire. She didn't even catch the glow of the mushrooms in his eyes, almost like her siblings'.

"My presence should not impact you, or your relationship to the long departed found here," he said. It didn't feel right, to only hear it aloud, without the component whispering in her mind.

More than that, he wasn't listening. She wanted to pull her horns apart, scratch up her mask, scream in frustration pent up over years of living with him and his damnable stubborn follies. He never listened. All he could do was observe and think and come to conclusions he never let others have input on. How many times would she have to watch him destroy himself to uphold some ridiculous standard he locked himself away with? How many times did she have to stop and realize that is what she had done to herself, too, the flaw passed from parent to child the same way she inherited his eyes or wings?

He wasn't listening. And here, in this close and careful darkness, the one she rent asunder with every word she spoke as he tried all the more desperately to pull it over himself, she said the one thing she could think of to break his spell. "Father!"

It bit into him like a blade's point. He stiffened and blinked and stared at her, something incomprehensible swirling in that ink-black gaze.

She could not break away from his wide eyes, no matter how much she told herself to. So she just spoke, drawing out the words with as great clarity as she could, steam from her tea curling around her tongue and chelicerae. "I have mourned alone too many times. For everything that has happened, it is only recently that I have found the comfort of sharing one's grief. If I must drag you to it by the collar, so be it."

He opened his mouth, the various fangs and other wicked things he so often hid away spreading to a painful-looking stretch. His voice crackled, providing nothing understandable.

In a flash, he threw his head back and downed half his tea, coughing and gasping as he dropped his head and set his tea aside. He hid his face in the elbow of his sleeve, but not before she saw steam rising from his mouth.

"You old fool," she muttered, one hand hovering behind his back in case he started to choke.

He recovered his breath, though it rasped and shuddered longer more than she bet he would have liked it. (In his ideal world, he showed less feeling than the kingsmoulds.) It still took him a few gasps, his fangs slightly spread, to manage to say, "A far fall from a king."

The scoff came automatically, as did, "You were a fool then, too."

"Fair enough."

Before he tucked his fangs away, she glanced between them and their far bigger counterparts, strewn about the nest. A little bit of heritage she didn't get. Fine enough with her, she'd had enough trouble with speech as a child, by Midwife's stories.

She let him get away with being quiet for now, as she waited for her tea to cool. When she blew on it she swore he looked at her askance, as if he thought she was making fun of him. If he chose to interpret it as such, she wasn't going to stop him, no matter how practical the act was.

It was an earthy tea, strong and astringent. Some bitter notes had escaped her tending, the tea slightly oversteeped. It hit like a warm punch to the throat and shook you awake. Perfect, for her purposes.

"Remember," he said, slowly picking his tea up again and huddling it against his thorax, "when you were small, and you would ask for sips of my tea?"

The sentence did stir some old, almost forgotten memories, of something horridly bitter that made her pucker at the thought of it.

"You didn't like it," he said. She could not tell if he had seen her face and thought to attempt a joke, or wasn't looking at all. His voice betrayed nothing. "But you kept trying it, as if I would suddenly think to steep it properly instead of extracting all its energy, or at least add honey."

And now here she was with her dark and unrelenting brew, a far cry from the syrupy sweet, honey-laden herbals she preferred as a child.

Perhaps a bit of honey would still have been nice.

"Do you think you'd be different, as a grandfather?"

His expression was certainly stunned, with no shortage of concern as he looked her over anew. "Hornet-"

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "No, the closest things you're getting to grandchildren for the foreseeable future are Hollow's charges. But I- I am queen of Deepnest, and that comes with certain duties, and if you won't talk about past family, we might need to start at the future and work our way back."

"If you need to talk about something-"

She tapped her fingers against her bowl, staring into the liquid within. She could hardly see her reflection. "I do need you to understand that I say this because I am trying to talk to you. You are simply refusing to hear it because it involves yourself. Let me try again. If you will not acknowledge your grief in my presence - again - then tell me. What would you do as a grandfather?"

Gods' wars were not easily won, and she knew all too well how even gods diminished, gods on the brink of death, fought. But her sire only sighed for the thousandth time and hung his head.

"I would-" He waved a hand in small, circular motions. "If you or one of your siblings had children, be it by…" His voice began to warble. He paused, breathed, but when he spoke again it was hardly a whisper. "Birth or adoption…"

He said no more. He couldn't say any more, not if the hitch in his breath and the way he pinched the inner corners of his eyes were any indication. His wings tucked closer against his back, not just held but pulled in tight.

Hornet, holding her tea as if to drink, feeling it ripple against her chelicerae, watched as her sire began to cry for the second time that day, after a lifetime with nary a tear.

"Pale?" she said, when he seemed to slow. He did not answer, and so she sipped her tea, attempting to quantify its flavor so she did not have to sit and watch and think about the notoriously cold Pale Wyrm breaking down beside her. Again.

What had this cavern done to him?

She startled when he spoke, all his words cracked and warbly and pinched. "It shouldn't have been like this."

By all the gods and her ancestors, how much fell under that particular umbrella? She shifted closer, enough to catch the thin rainbow cast to his wings, enough to struggle and find the hint of her reflection in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" What wasn't wrong? What, in the entirety of her life, had not been wrong with him? What little interaction, what little word between father and child, had not gone wrong?

One of his hands curled into his face; she hissed when a finger slipped into a seam between carapace plates but he ignored it, only tightening his grip. She wedged her hand between his palm and the side of his face, yanking it away before he could free himself from her grasp.

"Hornet!" he protested, tugging at her hands even as she turned his palm up and examined his fingers, at the black smeared on the one that had hooked in his face. "It is not your place to-"

"Don't you think I know? Do you think I have not learned that it is not a parent's place to burden their child with their struggles? And yet you would say so over and over while I have to sit here and watch you waste away and-" She shook his bloody hand in front of his face. "Watch you rend your very flesh? What am I supposed to do with you if I cannot provide some sort of outlet, but you hurt yourself when left alone?"

He pulled his hand free, choked on a breath, and turned away to scrub furiously at the grey stains on his cheeks.

"I don't mean to burden-"

"Father." She hissed to herself, at all of this, at how easily the term came after all he had done to earn the rejection and disownment she had rightfully given him. She rested a hand on his shoulder, tried to tug him back. "This is about both of us, isn't it?" Damn it, her voice was cracking, too. "Can we at least talk through this together?"

He paused in his scrubbing. The tension left his shoulders, his wings drooping. "We should."

He nodded, slowly, defeatedly. In the same manner, he turned to face her, or at least somewhat face her way while staring into the nest.

He reached out a hand, letting it rest between them. Not touching her. Just there.

She set her hand beside it as she sat down and swirled her tea. Not touching him. Just there.

"So," she said, sipping her tea as if it would disguise the way her pitch raised an octave in the middle of the word, "I suppose we can start with what we know."

Her words trailed off, her mind stilled. She swirled her tea again. Again. And again. It held no answers.

"Between losing a parent - our mothers in particular it seems - and all the-" She coughed. "All the isolation after, I suppose we're not so different. In the realm of-"

"I'm so sorry."

She stopped mid-sentence. It was like a spell put on her, grinding her mind to a halt. An apology. From a god.

No matter how many times he said it, she didn't think it would ever feel right.

"Pale," she said, the words strange as she shaped each one, "It's a bit late to apologize." And pointless. And repetitive, if she took his forlorn demeanor and how little fight he put up to be its own form of apology, plus the rare, sad little "I'm sorry"s he occasionally said but never felt sincere enough to consider.

He ignored her, of course, caught up in whatever he was trying to say. "It shouldn't have - I could have done it all so different."

"Yes?" Her voice wavered. They had acknowledged this before, it was established fact how miserable a parent he was, and that it all could have been different. For better or for worse, considering what he did to her mother, her siblings, and eventually himself. Why would he reiterate it now?

"It wasn't right-"

"We both know." She shifted closer, holding her hand close enough to his back that she felt the crackle of what godly power he had left, the strength of an immortal's Soul. Not touching. The little spiderling part of her heart ached to rest her hand on him, to cuddle the way she would do to her mother when it was late and there was nothing to do but be held. But she wasn't a little spiderling. She had grown, and he had done what he did, and her carapace crawled at the idea of putting a hand on him and offering him comfort. He'd never given it to her. Never earned it.

"It wasn't right. It wasn't-" His fingers dug into his face again, and this time he did not budge when she hissed and pulled at his arm. All he did was bleed and hunch in and bleed and ramble. "It wasn't right. It wasn't right, it wasn't normal. How could I? How could I do that to you and ever think myself different from any of them?"

She flinched her hand away, curled it close to her chest. He was not an affectionate creature. She was not a child. A touch would be pointless. "Pale?"

She pressed her thumb into her chest, until the pressure hurt. She was princess, she was protector. She was strong, for the world was unforgiving, and would destroy anyone who thought otherwise. Like this pathetic mess of a wyrm, steeped in his own regrets, a dead god without the dignity to fade away. Nothing but a miserable echo of the creature who had taught her to bury her heart in pragmatics and stoicism.

(But the world had given her siblings back. The world had spared her caretaker. The world had urged her towards people who saw her as a peer, as a friend, as someone to call their own. The world grew flowers each spring, and showed them starry nights. It gave spiders their webs and prey to hunt. It gave, and gave, when it did not take.)

He couldn't steady his breath any more. He sounded like he was choking. "It wasn't normal."

Something made a hollow in her stomach and pressed her, pressed her, until her heart was so small it could be cradled in her palm and so weightless it felt like nothing in her chest. "Pale?"

Black and grey beaded down stark white cheeks. It trailed down stained claws onto stained robes.

(It stained her, too, in the egg. She'd hatched with it, marked with his regrets.)

"I'm just like them." The words blurred together, hardly intelligible. "I was always just like them."

It had worked once. She leaned in, not touching him, one hand raised and waiting, uncertain, between them. "Dad?"

Cold against her face, around her shoulders and back. Tough yet light fabric wrinkled between her cheek and his collar. Her fingers dug into it, dangling from the loose cloth hanging from his shoulders. Her breaths puffed fast and shallow; under her cheek, she felt and heard the heavy rattle of his.

His jaw bumped against her horn, tucking her head under his. Two hands clutched her close with a desperation that ached in her heart. Another rubbed up and down her back, knuckles and claws dragging more harshly than Herrah's ever had, but as much as they threatened to, the passes never stung. The last gripped her head, held her where she felt the tremble of his pulse and each rush of his breath.

Fabric rustled, carapace brushed carapace. He tucked her closer, tighter, his hand came to rest on her cheek. One of her arms folded against herself, the other looped around his shoulders.

As her breaths slowed, she heard his heartbeat, all too fast, all too thready, all too like hers. And yet, in the dark, her gangly limbs tucked in tight, her head under his chin, it still sounded like the twinkle of a music box, it felt like the soft yield of a plush chair and familiar arms holding her safe and secure.

(Wyrms were blind creatures, attuned to every little vibration of the earth around them. Their world was sound, scent, touch. It was the jolt of goring rivals. It was the careful coil around a nest and the pressing body of the hatchling within. It was how loved one had to be, to find safety and even protection so near fangs that carved through flesh like water.)

She hardly realized she nudged him until after she did it, and his arms tightened around her in response to the touch of her face against the vulnerable underside of his jaw. Something cold dripped onto her horns - black or grey she could not tell, but her fingers arched into his shoulder all the same.

"I ignored you. I left you to suffer and spoke of duty, of what must be done. I thought you would simply get over it, because that is what I had to do. And-" He cut himself off with a choked noise, the cold spilling freer down his cheeks and onto her head, trailing frigid little pathways.

She thanked the nest and its silence. The silence that would keep this moment alone, that freed her of the binds of hunter and protector and princess, with no prey or predators, no clamoring citizens, nothing but family long gone.

(Curled up against his thorax, cradled under his chin, she wondered if he knew his mother's scent like she knew his, familiar enough it was nothing, leaving only an impression of his presence.)

She glanced up, but could not see him. Only feel his cold, and what more spilled down her horns. "Did you ever get over it?"

His breath hitched, and she rocked with the force of it in his thorax.

"No." He shook his head. "No, I never did. Did I?"

He drew her in, as close as he could. "You never did, either."

"I didn't." She had mourned for her sibling and her mother. She pushed through growing up, learned to ignore the loneliness, the isolation. She was a princess, and princesses were not like anyone else. Especially not demigod princesses.

"I should have listened." He should have. He hadn't. "I could have been caring for you instead of this."

He could have. He hadn't.

He sighed, cold air breezing past her. When she sat up a little he readjusted, kept her supported without so much as brushing her wings. But she kept her head under his chin, by his collar, and listened as his heartbeat slowed into heavy, mournful thumps.

"My mother would have loved you," he said, the words rumbling in his throat like they had when he read her to sleep, "because she loved her children such that she fought and died for them."

The hand that had been running up and down her back slowed, stopped, started again. But gentler this time, slower. "Yet I abandoned her, and I abandoned you."

"Stop." Her own voice stunned her into brief silence. She blinked, worked her mouth, found her words again. "Yes, you abandoned me. And I was scared, and alone. But stop treating yourself like you weren't stolen."

His fingertips tapped against her shoulder, buffered by the Weaver-silk of her cloak. There was no music to it, no hidden tune. Only the thk thk of it.

"It wasn't fair to you," he said at last.

She shook her head, her cheek rasping against his collar. "It wasn't."

His fingertips dug in for a moment. Nowhere near hard enough to wound, or even leave a lingering mark. "I can't fix it," he said, somewhere between a warning and defeat.

She shook her head again. "No changing the past."

Neither spoke for a time. Her arm began to ache and she unwrapped it from around him, brought it against her thorax. She drew her legs in against her stomach and he tried to wrap his tail around her. She had outgrown him, but he tried nonetheless.

They sat there together, in that long-unused nest, before the bones of family they would never know. They sat there in that cavern that had known the joy of new life, the rage and fear of cruel injustice, and now found again the ache of mourning.

But that night, unlike all before, none had to mourn alone.

Chapter Text

“I hope none of my Troupe bothered you.”

It was routine by now, but Herrah still startled a little at the voice behind her, a quick gasp and a small jolt. But it soon melted into a smile she turned towards the person approaching behind her. “No, of course not. I hope none of mine bothered you.”

A laugh, gravelly and rough. “Of course not.”

Grimm sat beside her, wings flaring to wrap around the both of them as a warm, heavy blanket. He leaned into her, and she into him, his hot carapace warming her upper body’s coarse fur. Comforting, in its strange, unnatural way. How easily she had grown fond of it, the touch of the Nightmare Heart’s vessel.

One long, pointed fingertip touched the point of her mask, hooking in the gap between it and her chin. His eyes and the tilt of his head asked that now-familiar question.

A hum marked her assent. As he lifted her mask, she leaned in. Chelicerae met the delicate plating around his mouth, clicked against his sharp teeth. His hand cupped her cheek, and she shut her eyes, content to taste his smoke and spice and that savoriness lingering under it all.

He leaned away and she removed her mask entirely, setting it aside on a crate.

She slid an arm low on his waist, under his wings, and hummed again as he rested his head on her shoulder. Beyond them, far across the sky and the horizon, stars glittered throughout the night sky, and little gusts made eddies in the Wastelands’ sand. A lovely night, by the Wastes’ standards. One that promised to grow cold around them, though the Grimm Troupe always staved off the chill. It bit at you, sometimes, particularly if you strayed, but in the way the cold lurked around a campfire, never able to get too close.

A sigh interrupted Herrah’s slowing train of thought, and she peered down at Grimm’s front. And as she looked, a smile broke across her face, wide and adoring.

“Hi, sweetie,” she cooed, quiet so as not to disturb the child.

The little spiderling was all bundled up in a blanket, one spot on it wet where she must have been chewing, and her head rested on Grimm’s thorax. At her mother’s voice, her eyelids fluttered, but she shifted in Grimm’s hold and settled again, nuzzling him. Her chelicerae worked, awkward and clumsy and just too cute.

He chuckled, smiling down at her, his eyes half-lidded as her cuddling dragged him closer to sleep, too. How many times had Herrah found them together, her daughter atop the Troupe Master while he sprawled out on a caravan’s floor, or snuggled in his arms when he was suspended upside down? She often joked that his Heart called upon him to supervise the child in the nightmare realm before she wreaked complete havoc.

(As a mortal, she struggled to approach the realm like Grimm or her daughter did, she found. All she recalled upon waking was vague red blurs and the Heart’s beat, whereas the vessel and demigod would chatter on and on about whatever they’d been up to at night, learning spellwork and dancing and tumbling about, all sorts of little tricks. The rest of the Troupe and the few Deepnest survivors had nodded understandingly with her, left with only as much as her.)

“She must love you to pieces. Her father never held her like this.” At least, not when anyone else could see him. All he ever did was push her away, under his shoddy excuse of sparing her feelings during the Sealing.

Well, perhaps it had worked, albeit not in the way he intended. He had been expecting his daughter to lose her mother and sibling, after all, not her father and stepmother.

Or maybe it would be better to just call him her sire, for how little he had done.

Grimm laughed; she doubted he was entirely oblivious to her thoughts and concerns, skilled as he was at picking out anything that could resemble fear, but there was so much he wouldn’t know until she said it. And it all sounded genuine, anyways. “Call it millennia of paternal instinct, and a performer’s love of a child’s joy. And she’s such an adorable little creature, isn’t she? Look at that sweet face. I would say she stole my heart, but - well, the Heart is fond of her, too.”

The laughter turned into a soft sigh, and he nuzzled under her jaw, eyes shutting for a brief moment. She really was putting him to sleep, wasn’t she? In Herrah’s mind, it was relatively early in the night. Late enough for her daughter to go to bed, sure, but usually the adults would be up for a couple more hours.

“I’ve never raised a child this early,” he mumbled. His wing tightened around her, and his chin pressed into her shoulder. “What a wonder, to be able to watch her grow up.”

“It’s…” A miracle. A price paid in blood, that of gods and mortals. A thing to look forward to as Herrah searched for her scattered people. So strange to think about, after resigning herself to death just so her child could live a safe, healthy life. “Wonderful. Truly.”

“Just like she is!” He tickled the tip of the child’s mask as he cooed, his words dissolving into meaningless mush as she yawned and squirmed slowly in his arms. Her fingers grasped his and she pulled his pointer finger - prime offender of the tickle attack - into her mouth to gnaw on. More of drool on.

Herrah took up his spot, scritching her child’s mask for a moment before letting her hand fall aside. Just in case it all woke her up.

Would she know what she was born for?

Certainly she would know that her mother, as lowborn queen, needed an heir. And Herrah would have to teach her of her godsblood, more than what she had learned in Hallownest. She would need to find some way to teach her about the wyrm side of her heritage, considering she had lost the one person who could possibly explain it.

(She had asked Grimm before, whether he knew about wyrms. He smiled sadly, said they were destructive, territorial creatures, that the Pale King had been so incredibly tame compared to his kin. The most he had spoken with any others had been the shrieks that preceded a fight. The most he had learned came from travelers’ tales and what he gleaned from their dead kingdoms.)

How much would she have to explain to her daughter when she was older?

How hurt would she feel, how betrayed, by the mother who would have left her alone, even out of love?

What would she think of the sire she never got to truly know? Not that Herrah had known him much herself, but that left the child with so much of her life unexplained. But even with that, what would she think of him as a person? Would she miss him? Hate him for leaving her in his death? Idolize this figure whose absence left so much to fill in on her own?

Her eyes drifted back to Grimm, resting against her as he cuddled her daughter, almost asleep on his own, to tell by his slow breaths and long blinks. Would the Pale King matter much to her, with him around? Maybe she would grow up calling another her father.

Grimm did take on the role far more naturally than the Pale King ever had, after all.

“Grimm,” she said. She must have caught his attention, for she felt him tilt his head up. Maybe this would be better done more formally when both of them were rested. Though at that point, everything was busy, with the Troupe, Deepnest’s survivors, and her daughter all running around.

“Hmm?” He tilted his head up more, when she hesitated.

She closed her mouth, opened it again. “If the child- if she called you, I don’t know, Papa or something, would you let her?”

He yawned, but his profuse nodding was answer enough even before he spoke. “Herrah, I tell you with the full backing of the Heart, I would be honored to rise to such an occasion. But in turn, I must ask you, if she did such a thing, would you wish for her to be our daughter or your daughter?”

It felt like it ought to be a simple question. The simple difference of one word, but the implications of it all sent her head spinning. Their daughter.

The Gendered Child had been either her daughter or the Pale King’s, depending on who spoke to whom. Each kingdom, quietly staking their claim. Even with Vespa, the child was Herrah’s. A shared responsibility, but at different times. But the wyrm king and the bees’ queen were both gone.

The only other person she had spoken of our child with had been her husband, now long in his grave. She had daydreamed of it, of raising a small horde of spiderlings with a woman she had dated before they split and she caught the King of Deepnest’s eye. But she’d not yet spoken of it by their separation.

And then her husband had passed, and all she had was an empty bed in her room, an empty seat at the table, an empty cradle in a silent nursery.

Up until the Pale King came, with his promise of death and, at her behest, a living heir. He’d left her with an egg in her belly, then a hatchling cuddled in the cradle, one who learned to crawl into Mama’s bed when she had bad dreams and who hadn’t yet fit in the old king’s chair when they had to leave.

Now look at her. She strung up her bed wherever she could fit it. Instead of a chair she squeezed in on a bench between raucous circus performers and her remaining people. Instead of a nursery she had an entire horde that had, with nary a word needing to be said, taken up care for the demigod princess and all the rest of Deepnest’s children.

“I would love it,” she said, each word thick and weighty on her tongue, “To call her our daughter.”

He laughed, soft and sleepy. She almost kissed him again for it. “You make even the Nightmare Heart skip a beat,” he rumbled.

“The Nightmare Heart has a soft spot for little half-spider, half-wyrm babies.”

He hummed, and readjusted, mashing his cheek into her shoulder as he rolled his head. “Mm, perhaps it does. Little Terror, it calls her.”

Herrah snorted, a grin pulling her chelicerae out wide. “Terribly fitting.”

“Oh yes. Now-” He yawned again, showing every sharp, snaggling tooth. “If you do not mind, I think I ought to go supervise them. Before they burn something down.”

She did kiss him again, where the black framing his face dipped into a point on his forehead. “You go do that. Take care of our daughter, would you? When I cannot.”

“As long as the Heart yet beats.” His smile was soft, peaceful. It lingered even after his eyes shut and he melted into Herrah’s arms.

She chuckled as her own eyes drifted shut. Romantic sap.

Chapter Text

The kid had, sure as could be, come back to him as broken as they said they were. Head cracked open so thoroughly he could see something sloshing within them, something so dark it had no shine. Shivering and shaking and disoriented. The trembling, tremorous drawings they made were all orange and blighted. Everything he got in them came back up, and this tiny, stoic little bastard had spent hours sobbing into his chest. All he could do was rub their back and hope the nausea and dizziness abated.

It had. Slowly. Almost too slowly, with them stumbling around and crashing into everything. Between their already lopsided head and awkward stature, he'd been surprised they were so steady on their feet when they first started haunting his place. After they came back, their head lolled and almost all their steps collapsed under them. He didn't know how many scuffs he had to buff out of their shell because they were too damn stubborn to rest. Gods, how many times had it taken for Sly to beat that lesson into his own thick skull?

(All right, there'd been no actual beating, but Sly never minced words when his trainees were doing something they shouldn't. Especially if it'd end with them hurting themselves.)

It'd been a breath of relief when they started to hold their head right, and could take a few steps without clinging to the furniture or his cloak. He'd told them once, when they'd fallen again and were too angry to get up, that the sooner they got back on their feet, the sooner they could leave his place and go back to whatever grand ideas they had. Go find Sheo, maybe. Goodness fucking knew his brother had always been the better with a nail than any of them.

He hadn't been able to meet the stare they leveled at him, and instead focused on hauling them up to standing.

It took a while for a warrior to feel right again, even if said warrior was a particularly stubborn adolescent. Even as they'd grown more steady and begun to wander outside (away from the hoppers, at his admonitions) they kept coming back. Maybe he'd made the place too cozy and inviting; they didn't even look to him for permission before crawling into the pile of squashed pillows and ratty blankets and hides that he'd given them for a bed. And he kept feeding them. What had he been thinking, feeding an adolescent? He'd never get rid of them now.

The funniest thing had begun to happen, though. He swore they took baths, and he personally had scrubbed at their cloak until he realized the dingy blue-green-grey was its natural color. It wasn't even a cloak, it was attached to them, with a strange texture somewhere between wings, fabric, and a fresh-picked leaf. They'd given him a look before he realized this, when he grumbled at them about how grungy it was. He'd kept from commenting about it after that. It wasn't like they complained about his nostrils or anything like that. Not like they could, either.

But then, it began to brighten.

It started at the tips. Just a bit of color, and he swore a hint of a shimmer. Of course, as ragged and long as they were, it was hard to notice at first. (That part legitimately did get dirty, and all the ash clung to it in a vaguely oily layer.) But, after a time, it was undeniable.

Their cloak was turning to a saturated, shimmering teal.

They swatted at the color at first, practically chasing their cloak in circles like a tiktik stuck in a loop. Despite their efforts to hunt it, or whatever they were doing, it spread up, and up, eventually merging with each other.

He'd checked - it wasn't hurting them, not that they responded to any prodding around their cloak unless they were sick of being held still. It didn't tear or crumble in his hands, and the texture felt the same. There wasn't any swelling or any other symptoms. Just a change in color.

It went up, up, all the way up to the base, around their neck.

He didn't quite remember what they did. But it had been stupid, and he'd scruffed them for it.

Tried to, anyways.

They proceeded to fall out of the cloak that had been attached to them and they'd sprinted off, wobbling this way and that while he swore, holding their now-disembodied cloak in his hands.

What else could he have done? He checked for blood - none, not even that dark stuff that sloshed in their head. Then he folded it up, set it by the door, and went back inside. He'd been telling them to leave, anyways. His place wasn't somewhere to come and be coddled. He lived out in the Kingdom's Edge for a reason, with only the Fools and the hoppers for company. Nobody cared if he was poor company if they themselves were worse. They could clearly move around better than they had been, and the little brat would find a nail somewhere and start whacking things with it. If they got themself hurt to the brink of death again, clearly they hadn't learned the first time.

Still, some knot unraveled in his stomach when his door creaked open and the little bastard crept in with a stance terribly familiar from his and his brothers' foolhardier nights out. They'd swiped the cloak, tried to wrap it around their shoulders again, and given him a downright pitiful look.

Why had he gone and found them a pin to hold it in place with? Why had he ladled a second bowl of boofly stew, not said a thing when they got up for another helping, and ignored the couple of geo he found on the counter later? They'd finally left, and now they had the gall to come back?

Little bastard.

More than that, they were frigid. They always were, but damn. They were downright freezing to the touch, no matter how long they sat by the fire.

One day, they went and got into some shit. Literally; hopper dens were messy places. He'd almost thrown them in the bath, and when their hands fumbled too much to clean their cloak properly, he grabbed it from them, dumped them out of the tub, and dropped his own cloak on them so they'd maybe warm up a bit while he scrubbed theirs clean.

When he'd finished, he couldn't see anything more than a couple long horns and a hand peeking out of his cloak, kneading the fur collar.

They were cold, was all. So, when they'd gotten dirty again (this time in a particularly disgusting pile of ash, half-rotten and swimming in rancid oil and acid), he'd booted them back in the bath, dumped his cloak on them when they were done, and this time, gone searching for a sewing needle and thread.

Thankfully, there was still a bit of fur left. It wasn't quite enough to go all the way around the collar, but if you brushed the fur right you'd never see it, anyways. While they napped, he took the thread and needle and began to sew.

Which was where he found himself now, sewing a fur collar to the little bastard's cloak because they were freezing and didn't seem to know what to do about it other than knead his. After all the effort he put into healing them, he wasn't going to let them freeze to death and get rid of all that hard work. Sly taught them all too much on investments for him to back out now. If the kid died, it was over his dead body, and not a moment sooner.

The daylight had faded, leaving him hunched over the cloak, his front to the crackling fire in an attempt to get some sort of lighting. Beside him was his own cloak, and the kid buried under it, sleeping soundlessly. They slept like the dead, he swore; he could have picked them up and used them to beat a rug and they'd not know the difference come morning. Sometimes a hand or leg twitched, but that was it, they were gone.

The effort of sewing through the material wore on his hands; even the specialized leather needle was a pain to punch through two layers of fur plus the cloak. His thread had broken a couple times and he had, to put it lightly, not taken that well, though the kid slept through his bouts of swearing. He wanted to get this done, and to get it done in time for him to go to bed, damn it, so he could put this behind him. He didn't need to start piling up projects around him at some whim.

The kid shifted, inhaling with a slight gurgle. He paused, watched to ensure they didn't awaken, and continued on. A little hand pain was nothing. He'd trained to become a Nailmaster, after all, he could handle the slow, repetitive poke-punch-pull of sewing.

And he did. For some time. Hours into the night, maybe. Much longer than it ought to have taken, in his opinion, but also, he didn't sew much. A bit here and there, enough to feel he could fashion himself a new cloak or repair his armor if it came down to it. It didn't help when he'd finished sewing the actual fur onto the collar, frowned at it, and found a strip of spare fabric to sew around the fur's base, so the raw edge didn't catch on everything. All this, just for the brat? All they did in return was menace him. That was all he was sure they knew how to do, really. Be a menace.

He'd been the same, at their age, and look where he ended up.

Maybe it was fitting, then, that they'd come here, too.

...Damn it, the world only ever needed the one of him.

The finishing stitches would probably have to be redone, he knew that as soon as he tied the thread off and cut it. When it did, he'd show them how to do it, then, so they could handle the matter themself in the future.

But it was done, and so he folded it up into a rough square, dropped it by where he presumed their face was, and stood.

He wasn't getting his cloak back. Not that night, not with them snuggled into it. He sighed as loudly as he pleased - it didn't wake them any more than the swearing did - and trudged off to go put his armor away. Useful as it was while going out hunting or training, or even while meditating, it didn't do a whole lot of good when asleep. Nobody thus far had tried to come in here and stab him while he slept. No, everyone in the Kingdom's Edge either had the chuff to face you head-on or was an animal. Even the little bastard slept through the night every night. (Or, if they woke, they didn't wake him.)

(Even he had nightmares sometime. And he wasn't the one who had his skull bashed in.)

The first thing he noticed that morning was scuffling. He groaned, rubbing his tightly-shut eyes. Did something get into the house? Had the kid snuck out and gotten in trouble with the wrong sorts of people? Was he finally about to be proven wrong with nobody here stabbing him in the back?

No. He cracked open his eyes to glare at the little bastard while they flailed about, their newly cleaned and improved cloak pinned round their collar. They hadn't even disentangled from his cloak, instead rolling about and not caring in the least when they got so wrapped up they'd fall flat on their face if they tried to stand.

All they did was pat their collar, their other hand tugging at clumps of his cloak's fur. Pat, pat, stroke, grab, then they balled their hands up into fists and waved them around with silent glee. If they heard him wake, they didn't act on it, too busy wiggling and grabbing and patting.

His eyes shut again, and he sighed.

He was never getting rid of them.

Chapter Text

Hollow was standing in the doorway when she got home.

Perhaps she could have slipped between their knobbly legs and go to bed if they weren't bent almost double, hanging on to the doorframe to support their weight what with their eyes almost level with their knees.

Okay, maybe not quite that extreme, but she really just needed to go to bed.

"Hello, Hollow." She scrubbed an eye, and poked around their rather solid defense of the entrance, seeking any gap she could use to get in. "I need to- Hollow, I have to go to bed. Move." Too like an order. "Please move."

They did not, in fact, move, eyes locked on her while they swayed in time to match her attempts to squeeze pass. All right, so they were deliberately blocking the way.

She pushed on their knee. It didn't budge; she probably could have pushed harder but that risked them falling. She could hardly peer past them to spot the glowing candles in the den beyond; had they stayed up? "Hollow, please. I have an early day tomorrow and-"

They shook their head.

She stopped dead and dumbfounded, mouth open, frozen in the middle of trying to get in. They had been doing better on communication, sure, but were they trying to make her do something?

"Hollow," she repeated, drawing the words out, meaner than she really had to be and she knew it but she couldn't stop it, "I have an early day tomorrow. Let me in."

At that, they relented, and stepped aside.

"Thank you," she snapped, the anger smoldering in her sparking. She slipped in, slapping dust off her cloak with a huff as she went for her room. Were siblings always like this, when their very will hadn't been flayed from them? She knew she should be happy but still.

A hand caught her cloak and swung her up into the air.

"Hollow!" she shrieked, squirming in their grip. She pounded on their arm as they settled her against their thorax, kicked them in the stomach, even tried to gnaw on their carapace as they wandered back through the door, swaying momentarily on their feet before they plunked down on the edge of the balcony.

They tucked her resolutely under their chin, pinning her between their jaw and chest, and drew her needle off her back, dropping it beside them with a clatter. She managed to pop her head out from under them but, to her misfortune, as she angled to bite their shoulder in revenge they grabbed her again, squeezing her tight.

"Hollow!" Her protest fell on deaf antennae, and her fists fell on unrelenting carapace. "I am busy! I need to go to bed, I have more council meetings in the morning, I have to be up early, so stop this!" Her breath hitched, and the beat of her hands against their collar slowed. "I'm tired."

At that, they nuzzled her, pulling her in close until she was curled up against them.

She tried to squeeze out from under their arm and head, but two tries and no avail stopped that. "You're cold, and I'm tired. Let me go."

It wasn't fair and she knew it. They could not help being cold, it was a part of them like every other trait their sire had damned them with when he cast their egg into the abyss. She didn't even mind the chill, and they knew it, yet she had still turned it on them. Of all the damnations they faced, surely one was having her for a sister.

But they didn't say a thing. Of course they didn't, but not even a huff or a frustrated waggle of their mandibles. Instead, they started to rock gently, back and forth. Back and forth, in Deepnest's cool air, the lap of the lake against the shore whooshing below. As her squirming slowed, their arm and chin became less of a prison and more of a weight, securing her to them, keeping her from falling. As the moments stretched into minutes, her heart slowed to match the peak and trough of each rock.

"I'm busy," she mumbled, as one last, weak protest.

They shook their head again. When she began to make an unhappy noise they took two fingers and tapped her chelicerae.

She pushed their hand away. "Don't bother with when I ate-"

She wasn't sure how they contorted themself to do it, but before she knew it they had tilted her chin up so she had to look them in the eye as they stared down, down at her, expression unchanged but somehow filled with great disappointment and concern.

"I'll get breakfast before I go," she promised, voice strained with the angle she had to keep her head at to look at them, and muffled by the fingers on her jaw.

The look continued.

"I didn't have time!"

Oh, now their head shifted slightly to the side, and somehow made the effect ten times worse.

Her face wrenched. "Hollow, I have to go. I can't sit around here, the people need leadership! I know I'm not Hallownest's heir, I don't have the brand, but I'm their protector. I cannot abandon them just to, I don't know, sleep in and eat snacks!"

The hand under her chin moved to cradle her cheek. Her hand wrapped around their wrist, what little she could manage.

"I have to-" She pressed her other hand between her eyes, but it didn't help the growing pressure in her head. Not in the least. "I have to be there. Things keep going wrong and I don't know how to fix it and-" She tightened her grip on both herself and her sibling. "I haven't been enough."

Hollow pulled their arm from her to sweep her into a close, tight hug, her arms squished between her thorax and theirs.

"Why can't I be enough? I always have to chase some lesson our parents never gave me, or Vespa didn't get to before she died. Everything goes wrong and I'm princess, I'm the protector, and I have to fix it. Again and again and-" She shook her head, carapace rasping against their scars. "I can't stop. I can't stop for a single second because if I do it's all going to get worse and everything is going to collapse again! But I can't do it. I'm not good enough."

The rocking began again, back and forth in long, slow swoops. She held them tight, dug her fingers in even though she knew they would never drop her.

The cold air stung her eyes. The grumble of burrowing animals grated on her spine. Hollow let her press her head into their chest and let her claws poke through their cloak.

"Why can't I be enough?"

The rocking slowed again.

Hollow leaned back, head cocked, looking her over. She felt tiny under the scrutiny of their broken gaze, and soon she couldn't meet it.

They sat up again, snuggling her against them. They leaned down and, as gentle as morning dew, nestled her, their cheek brushing hers, mandibles tapping her temple with the delicateness one used to kiss a newborn hatchling.

She snorted, letting her arms loop around their neck. "Of course you'd think I'm always enough, you sentimental sap."

They nuzzled her again, for good measure, and let her fall asleep in their arms.

Chapter Text

After so long under the stasis, it seemed almost unnatural for Dirtmouth to be anything but overcast and gloomy, chilly yet bare. From the remaining Hallownest natives' recounting, there had been no telling what season it was by the time the full stasis finally set in, a decade after the Black Egg Temple had been sealed. Everything had slowed down so much, hardly anyone realized it had ground to a halt until multiple years passed without aging, without chronic and terminal illnesses progressing or improving, and the like. The Old Stag, when asked, had faintly recalled families with squalling infants among the first to leave the allegedly eternal kingdom, having gone months and years without their child growing up. Others left one by one, then in droves, as the institutions that once held Hallownest together collapsed, and the royals' guidance no longer came.

Nobody knew what season it had been then, but now, winter had clearly come.

Snow crunched heavily underfoot as Quirrel approached the door and knocked. Each breath puffed into ephemeral clouds, and he could feel the chill beginning to settle into his carapace, waiting to work its way through his flesh and blood and organs til he was frozen to the core. Similarly, sleepiness lingered at the edge of his consciousness, tugging at him to lie down and take a nap.

In this new age, he likely could have taken the time to give into it without trouble; there was no such thing as jobs or an economy any more, not beyond pitching in to help one another and to do what you like best. Pleasant, in a way, if one that required much coordination to ensure every task was handled on time. Nobody would miss a single pillbug electing to hibernate through winter as he probably really ought to.

Then again, it felt rather nice to have more time to spend with friends, and not have to think about having another gap in his memory, something everyone else experienced but to him meant nothing. Besides, it was for the best to ensure the formula Madam Monomon had recorded for a drought of wakefulness still worked, right? Some day, someone might not have the choice to sleep through the winter.

"Come in! Oh, do come in." A moment after the voice called, the door opened, and Elderbug shuffled out of the way, beckoning his two new guests inside. Fire-warmth seeped out against Quirrel's face as he smiled and waved to the old bug, and further inside a couple more voices shouted their welcomes. "I'm so glad you could make it. Pardon me, are you the Lemm fellow I've been hearing about?"

"That I am," said Lemm from behind Quirrel. He'd braided his beard to keep it out of the snow and somehow, somewhere, found a berry-red cloak to complement the fur ruff around his neck and shoulders. "You'd be...?"

Elderbug waved and, with another gesture, finally got the two to come inside out of the cold. "I just go by Elderbug, these days. Though with the likes of the siblings and Mister Quirrel here running about, I suppose it's taken a rather ironic turn."

As Elderbug shut the door and made his way towards the main room, Quirrel couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. True; even he found it hard, sometimes, to remember that he was among the oldest whenever he came to Dirtmouth, and frankly whenever he was most places. The infection had taken so many his age and older, though it ripped just as violently, if not moreso, through the youth. Why, if he hadn't left, he may well have succumbed, himself. A morbidly lucky twist of fate, that one.

The cottage Elderbug made his home in was not a grand or even roomy place by any means, but it had more space to it than the place Iselda and Cornifer claimed. Old trinkets and mementos sat scattered around, on shelves that likely hadn't been dusted since Elderbug could comfortably reach that high, on cabinets, whatever spot they could fit alongside the more practical items such as faded blankets and chipped dishware. Generously, the stasis had preserved the furniture, though Quirrel bet the largely metal, shell, and wood construction helped. Sunlight filtered in through warped windows, and the slightest hint of the fire's smoke complemented the scent of freshly brewed tea.

Sitting among the old chairs and other seats were Cornifer and Iselda, sitting squished together with a teapot steaming on the low table before them. Each held a mug in hand, and three more awaited Elderbug and the newcomers on the table.

"It's good to see you!"

"Lemm? Nice to meet you! I'm Iselda, this is Cornifer."

"The tea's lovely, Cornifer and Iselda brought it over. Here, have a cup."

"Oh! Let me pour, Elderbug. The kettle will help warm my hands."

"So, you're the mapmaker, are you? Quirrel's been saying we ought to talk."

"I also say he ought to share his tea. Maybe by next season we'll manage that!"

It all fell together like this was how it ought to be. And maybe it was; Quirrel almost felt like the room's warmth started in his core, rather than the fireplace, and he found it so easy to relax against the wood bench he sat upon, cushioned by a folded-up blanket. Cornifer had quickly won Lemm over with discussion of the sights around Hallownest; the two's eyes lit up when one mentioned a site and the other dug into what it could mean. (How Quirrel wished he could help! His memory had much returned to him but it wasn't like he could explain the giant statue in the Queen's Gardens in any way other than "the royals were constantly making googly eyes at each other when they thought nobody was looking.") He couldn't even say what he was talking about with Iselda and Elderbug, only that it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

Every so often, he punctured the conversation with a laugh, or a pained "ooh," or other appropriate sound. Between those, he sipped his tea. It was lighter than much of what was left in Hallownest. Many of the brews, after all, had been aged more thoroughly, to better utilize their ability to keep people awake. (Not that, after a time, staying awake had worked.) Yet he could still taste a bit of delicateness in this, something more herbal than earthy. It was quite nice tea, in his opinion, and it helped that it wasn't as musty as a lot of what was left over around the kingdom.

He really ought to get Lemm to share some of what he had found. Some of those had added flavors.

They chatted while the sky began to turn from crisp, bright blue to a sleepier golden hue. Whenever a mug emptied, another filled it, and when the pot ran low, Elderbug put more water on. Distantly, Quirrel knew they'd have to head back to the Stag Station, and from there, the City of Tears, before it got dark, but, well, who could blame him if a part of him felt like he'd much like this to go on for as long as he could think?

He was in the middle of telling a story when a shadow passed beyond the window. He paused, watching the familiar shape, then the one following after it.

The others turned around to look, Elderbug leaning in his seat to see what was going on.

"Oh," he said at last, "It's the siblings. They've been up here more often."

"I imagine," Quirrel said softly, eyes falling to his tea as he swirled it in the mug. Their sister's trail had long gone cold, and his stomach knotted thinking of what could have happened to her. She was a tough thing, always had been, but it had been months. They'd searched every last rock in every last cavern and ravine in the area, only to come up with nothing. Not even a scrap of cloak fabric. It was as if she'd disappeared into thin air.

He'd spent much more time with the siblings at first. Primarily for Hollow's sake, as they slipped back into acting like a mindless automaton, and refused to do so much as lay a pen to the page unless asked. Even then, it took weeks to get a word out of them. Since then, he'd not seen Ghost apart from their remaining sibling, the once-habitual wanderer sticking to their side as if, if they looked away for a moment, Hollow would be gone, too.

But time passed without any sign of Hornet's life nor demise. Hollow began to open up again, and buried themself in their work alongside Hornet's equally aggrieved caretaker, now without the one hatchling she had left from that time before the fall. Quirrel didn't say a thing to the siblings about it, but he knew he had to make an effort to move on. Things happened, and they could happen to anyone, even demigods. He missed the princess, too, but there wasn't even a body to bury, only a mystery left behind.

Elderbug drew himself to his feet, tugging his cloak closer around him. "Would you all mind terribly if I invited them in for some tea?"

He was met with a chorus of "Not at all"s and "They're good company"s and "Please, I'd love to see them"s, and with that he made his way to the door, slipping outside and off to where the two Vessels tromped through the snow, Ghost pouncing at their sibling's ankles.

Quirrel heard Elderbug's muffled call, and everyone watched as the Vessels' attention snapped to him, two sets of impossibly black eyes trained on the old bug. Hollow was the first to respond, taking a half-step towards him before bending down to scoop up their smaller sibling, carrying them with their arm around their waist. With a stifled laugh, Quirrel realized poor Ghost had been flinging themself through the deep snow; what came up almost to his knee covered most of their body.

Moments later, the door opened again to the sound of Elderbug's chatter. With a thump, Hollow released Ghost and they dashed into the room, staring up at everyone else, dripping wet from every inch of their cloak and carapace, clumps of snow falling from where it had stuck.

"Hello, Ghost!" Iselda said with a little wave. She stood, setting her mug down and patting Cornifer's shoulder. "Elderbug, where do you keep the mugs? I'll get them and Hollow some tea."

"Third cabinet from the stove. Oh, let's get you a blanket, shall we?" Elderbug rifled through a basket now mostly emptied of its soft contents, pulling out a child-sized blanket and draping it over Ghost's shoulders. "There you go. Now, Hollow, I'm sure we can make this work somehow..."

"We can go over to them," Quirrel offered. He and Cornifer were already standing, and after a moment to eye the two of them, Lemm got up, too. Mugs in hand, they maneuvered around Ghost and back to the entrance, the cold air swirling about.

"I suppose that works," Elderbug muttered with a nod. "I'll go get myself a stool, I can't do much sitting on floors any more."

Quirrel leaned to the side to let him pass, and as soon as he lifted his mug out of his lap, found it filled with a rather damp and chilly Vessel.

"I see how it is!" he said, laughing. Ghost ignored his comment to mush their face into his stomach, squirming until they'd gotten comfortable, and he could lower his arms without issue. Their hands poked out of the blanket they'd wrapped up in, kneading its edge. They didn't seem terribly bothered by its presence; Elderbug had never mentioned children nor grandchildren, or how he had gotten the blanket that was now reserved for Ghost's occasional home visits. Then again, there were plenty of abandoned homes around Dirtmouth with things nobody used any more. Why not give them a new life?

Cold air whuffed against his arm, and he shivered at the chill. Hollow stared at him, their eyes somehow doleful despite the never-changing expression and the fact they couldn't even get their horns entirely through the door. Maybe it was the tilt of their head; he'd found them quite skilled at subtle, shifting expressions. They'd folded their arm under them, and as he and the others watched, they slowly lowered their head to the ground.

"Oh, are you jealous? Come here, I've got two hands." Moments after he said it, the tastelessness of the comment hit him, drying his tongue and smacking his brain. But, by then, he'd already set a hand between the Vessel's horns and begun to scritch them in that way they were terribly fond of, and they didn't make any move to indicate they cared, save to press into his touch.

Sometimes it was odd, to think the two were the same age. At a glance, none would guess it; Ghost looked all the child they must have been when they crawled up from the Abyss, and Hollow had clearly taken after their mother's stature and features, though they retained a youthful lankiness. Then again, sometimes Ghost was just as quiet and watchful as their sibling, and Hollow proved just as affectionate and playful. It was like watching two mirrored halves, running about as their own people.

"How are you going to drink tea like that?" Iselda asked as she approached, setting a mug brimming with tea before Hollow and reaching past Quirrel to give Ghost a mug. The latter took it carefully, eyeing it as if it would spill hot tea all over with the slightest provocation, while Hollow looked down from Quirrel's attention long enough to consider the mug before them.

There was no way to tell for sure, but Quirrel was certain Hollow kept their gaze on Iselda as they lowered their mask again and, slowly opening their maw, lapped primly at the tea. He wasn't even sure how they did it. Was it some kind of godly skill, to make such a thing look dignified?

No matter what, it did do the job of getting another round of laughter through the house, and the warmth returned as if nothing had ever changed. More parts fell into place, that was all.

"Corny was just talking about getting a game going, if you two would like to join-"

"So long as we don't have to bluff against these two. The littler scoundrel tried to bet for one of my artifacts and would have won it if I'd not refused to make it a prize."

"Really? In my experience, they start to wiggle when they get excited."

"It's all right, Iselda. I've got some cards, maybe we can find a game someone here hasn't played yet! We just have to support one, two, three... seven players!"

"Ghost and I can be a team, considering they don't seem inclined to get up."

"Six I can do. Where did I put the deck...? How does Pin's Tip sound, for a game?"

"I'll explain it. So, to play..."

Chapter Text

"Damn. I'm glad we brought dinner out with us."

"Is everyone all right?"

"The worst seems to be property damage, my Wyrm. All is well."

Slowly, the blinding glow faded, and the Pale King tucked his wings away. His hands trembled, all four of them thrown out from his robes like he'd tried to shove something away from all directions.

Which, in a sense, he had.

Above them, the dark grey of it all highlighting the lacy low glimmer of spellwork, loomed a downpour of rubble. Dust settled and stuck where the larger rocks slid off. Massive things, many of them. They'd certainly have crushed all those gathered in the Palace gardens. Maybe the gods would have recovered, or Monomon if she was lucky, with her gelatinous body, but everyone else would have been crushed. Quirrel, humming a tune while scouting out a good spot for dinner. Lurien and his butler, enamored by a flower and whispering to each other about its features to memorize and recreate later. And Herrah, bouncing her daughter in her arms before setting her down to run free and play. Maybe, maybe they could have run, and tried to flee when the first crack sounded. But it had all happened too fast, they'd never have gotten away from the rocks in time.

Instead, they were left under a spellwork bubble, and the only thing keeping them from hearing the pounding of their hearts were their uneven gasps of breath. Herrah clutched her daughter close. Lurien froze in a futile attempt to shield his butler with a cloaked arm. Monomon and Quirrel just stared at the ceiling's wreckage.

As the rocks slid aside, they revealed a gaping chasm, dotted with pinpricks of light, running across at a regular interval.

It didn't take more than two seconds to surmise that something had gone wrong in the King's attempts to expand his tram system. As Herrah thought of it, even, a mining robot commissioned from the Crystal Peaks slid and fell down, down, only to collide with the shield with a muffled thump. The spell flared and everyone below it winced.

But all words of condemnation, of how between this and the City of Tears' eternal rain for being built under a lake, the Pale King clearly had a bad taste in locations for his pet architecture projects, or of how this was why she didn't want one of those machines anywhere near the Village, died on Herrah's tongue. They'd almost died. If the Dreamers had gone out alone, they'd be dead. If she'd let her daughter loose as intended and she ran too far away, she'd be dead. If Quirrel went out to find somewhere to eat and the others followed behind, he'd be dead. So many myriad possibilities, so many ways they could come to harm. She could confront him about his poor planning later, once they were all safe and back in the Palace, which she hoped was far less suited to randomly collapsing.

(Since she'd gotten to know him as a necessary ally and her daughter's sire, she'd noticed his bouts of anxiety. Mostly she paid attention to them in case her daughter turned out the same, but moments like these... How many times had he seen the Dreamers and their companions die? Or the Knights, or anyone else he refused to admit he enjoyed the company of? For her child's sake, she prayed the girl hadn't inherited the burden of foresight.)

Besides, he was still standing there, stock still, maintaining the spell. His Kingslight pulsed and died down to a dim glow, to be better spent keeping the party's carapaces from breaking under a mountain of rubble.

"Here, Pale, let's bind that off." Herrah stepped forwards, patting her daughter's back. Each breath she felt under her claw was safe refuge, another piece of proof they'd made it through this.

And would, so long as the spell held, which probably required not making the Pale King concentrate on it until someone could clear the debris.

First, though, she approached Lurien, sidling up to him where he crouched in the soil and nudged him with a secondary arm. He startled a little, even having seen her approach, and the single eye of his mask turned balefully up to the six of hers.

Her daughter squirmed as Herrah settled her down with Lurien, the other Dreamer instinctively reaching out to take her as Herrah lowered her down. The girl whined, and reached back up to hold her mother's claw.

Herrah rubbed it and let it go. "I'm going to help Daddy. Be good for Uncle Lulu for a moment, okay?"

She didn't make it more than a few steps away before her daughter flung herself over poor Lurien's shoulder, crying out, "Mama!" over his shaky attempts at reassurance and cuddles. The cry repeated as Herrah walked away, shoulders tensing with each step. Tending to the girl had to come after maintaining the spell. A little loneliness was nothing compared to the risk of death.

Her understanding of the situation didn't stop her daughter's lack of it, but there was nothing to be helped with that.

The Pale King eyed her when she stood before him, his jaw (or whatever constituted it) set, eyes glazed with effort, hands still outstretched. He didn't move as she opened her own arms wide, nor did he shut his eyes, or hiss, or anything of the like.

Her clawtips touched his palms, and his magic surged through her, colder than the first running water of spring, sharp as her greatneedle's tip. She sucked in a breath and exhaled it slowly as she lifted her claws from his hands, arcing them down his front while, in turn, he moved his hands back.

She and her Weavers worked with him plenty to draw up the spells that would, some day, seal the Black Egg Temple and end her waking life. She may not have been one for magic herself, but she knew its warp and weft enough to work it, and even if working with his Soul was like weaving metal, he still let it be woven.

They muttered the occasional direction to each other, the Soul forming softly glowing lines between them. It attached to itself with nary any sign of connection, no knots or folds over or under. Back and forth, turning bit by bit, they created a net and the bottom rim of the binding, and with it complete, worked back and forth to strengthen it, to tie in additional prayers and commands. It began to hum, not in a way Herrah heard aloud, but more of one felt deep in the soul, where the ancestors whispered to the self.

At last, when it sang of its strength and endurance and willingness to dissipate at their command, their hands met at the top of the dome, clasped, then flung the spell far and wide. It flew past them, through them, stirring the grass and other plants and making the girl subdue her tears for the briefest moment. It clung to the barrier, held fast to it, and the song of strength dissipated into a soft background tune.

The Pale King dropped his arms with a near-silent huff, and Herrah breathed a much louder sigh of relief.

"Next time," she said, jabbing a claw close enough to make his mandibles flare but far enough he didn't make any sort of move to bite, "Think about where your fancy little pet projects are going before you actually kill all of us. Including your daughter, mind you."

"We thoroughly surveyed the cavern's structural integrity." His tone, as always, betrayed nothing, yet sounded like he'd carved his words from ice, like Herrah ought to look down and see the grass freezing where he stood. At least he kept his wings back, and turned himself towards the White Lady rather than try to face her head-on. "This event is unforeseen by magic and mundane measures."

"Yet we still almost died because you routed your tram directly above your palace," she hissed, quiet enough to hopefully keep the brief argument from worsening any tension. With that said, she turned and marched back for her daughter, now collapsed hopelessly in Lurien's arms while the Watcher patted her back.

Herrah's heart surged. Poor thing. How near a miss they'd both suffered, while they were hungry and excited to play in the gardens. The air under the shield didn't so much as hint at a breeze, either, which meant no rustling to catch the girl's attention and distract her from the fact that Mama had left her alone (well, with Lurien and his butler) after there'd been all that crashing about that scared even the adults. Now, who knew how long they'd be stuck under here? At least they could try to swing it into an impromptu sleepover.

Lurien tapped the girl's back, holding her up for her mother to take. When she squirmed at all that, he lowered her for another second to tap a kiss to the top of her head. She grabbed his wrist and mashed her face into his palm, chelicerae drumming on his carapace.

Herrah chuckled and clucked at the girl. As soon as her hands found her daughter's waist, of course, the spiderling let go of Lurien and scrambled into Herrah's arms, plunking down with all the drama and sadness she must have been feeling while Lurien held her.

"Did you give Uncle Lulu some good baby therapy?" she cooed, one claw just touching the tip of her daughter's mask. When the girl reached up to grasp Herrah's claw, she moved it up between her eyes for further scritches and to keep from being gnawed on or bitten. "Hmm? Were you a good baby?"

The girl paused, considered, and finally said, voice wet with the tears she'd been crying all over the Watcher, "Yes?"

Lurien laughed, quiet and flighty as he was about it. His butler, too, gave a soft hum, the sort of sound that betrayed a smile. At least if they'd heard what she had to say to their king, they didn't mind enough to be brusque to her and her daughter. Maybe Lurien would have some words for him, too, later. He and Monomon had likely been more invested in the tram project's branches in Hallownest than she was. Personally, all she'd ever seen it do was cause trouble, be it in Hallownest or Deepnest. Some days she was still tempted to throttle him for trying to build so close to the Village, if the loss of his entire construction crew and some of the passengers doing the first test run wasn't payback enough.

Maybe she ought to do it anyways, after this.

"Thanks for holding her, Lurien." Herrah readjusted as her daughter flipped over and crawled up her arm, wedging herself in the crook of her neck. With as small as she was, Herrah still had to tilt her head down for the edge of her jaw to actually meet her child's back. "Especially with how upset she was, and..." She gestured to the rocks overhead.

He shook his head, mask swaying gently back and forth like the flowers had, before they'd been either trapped under the shield or crushed as unceremoniously as Hallownest and Deepnest's most important bugs would have been. "Goodness, Herrah. I dare say she's the only one among us brave enough to speak her feelings on the matter aloud. Or-" He pinched the center of his robe and pulled it away from his body, inspecting the wet spot where the girl had mashed her face. "Express them in some manner, anyhow. Either way, I only hope I could provide some comfort to her."

He did have a point; Herrah's own heart still thumped and raced, an uncomfortable flutter that made her back itch. There was nothing here to hunt her, the threat had been dealt with, but still, her carapace crawled with how close a call it was and that instinctual fear that something was after her. As much as she was trying to measure her breaths, her daughter's came in short puffs.

"We're always happy to watch her," his butler said. The fellow's voice was subdued, beyond his usual unfailingly polite and even tone. His smile didn't quite seem real, his eyes reflecting stress and the brink of his own tears more than cheer, genuine or otherwise. Which, Herrah knew her daughter had a tendency to nip, especially when it came to Lurien, though he'd been a good sport about it since he first held her as a month-old hatchling and she set to gnawing on his wrist, fangs too small to even scratch his carapace, let alone properly sink in.

"How brave," Herrah said, nuzzling and cooing to her daughter. One claw rested atop her, keeping her from falling while her mother barraged her with kisses. "To watch the scariest spider in all of Deepnest. The scariest!"

The teasing would usually have elicited a giggle and a roll onto her back to let her mother plant kisses on her tummy, cheeks, and forehead, maybe a playful hiss or growl that Herrah would mock being afraid of, with how scary her daughter clearly was. But this time, it just got Herrah a cranky grumble and the girl curled up into a ball, hiding herself away even after the kisses and nuzzling stopped, and she was only held in place, a claw running up and down her back to soothe her.

Herrah sighed, resting her cheek on the girl again. "It's also getting to dinnertime, isn't it?"

Personally, she knew she ought to eat, but the scare of having the cavern collapse on their heads didn't do much to encourage an appetite. She knew she'd been hungry, too, as silly and far away as it seemed now. The White Lady had quite the talent for picking out dishes for everyone, and the Palace's cooks made it all more than worthy to salivate over. But all the same, she had the feeling she wasn't the only one uninterested in the food they'd brought out with them. Especially with the face Lurien's butler was making, subtle as it was.

"Let's get some food in you." She patted the girl's back and scanned the shielded bubble; there wasn't all that much room, she doubted it would take any longer than a minute to walk the perimeter. For her, anyways; the White Lady could maybe pace a bit. Which meant Quirrel was nearby, satchel slung over his shoulder, basket of food clutched to his front, with him curled around it as best he could. His eyes darted back and forth, even with Monomon floating at his side, talking to him in hushed tones.

She waved, and Quirrel and Monomon waved back, the former more reticent about it than the latter, though still perkier than Lurien's butler. "Mind if I get some food for the little beast here?" she called as she headed towards them, skirting around the White Lady with a quiet, "Excuse me."

Quirrel opened the basket and was poking through it when Herrah set her daughter down and the girl joined him, leaning her entire upper body into the basket. Monomon cooed and Quirrel smiled, patting the girl on her head, laughing when she held his hand in place while she reached around. Tiny chelicerae worked, deep in thought about what looked best to eat first. Thankfully, Quirrel didn't seem to be an option, with her avoiding his hand as he carefully lifted one thing after another free.

Behind them all, the White Lady lovingly goaded her husband into eating, too. The stubborn old wyrm seemed to be muttering excuse after excuse under his breath, and Herrah smirked at how his arguments all seemed to crumble under the White Lady's rebuttals. It was dinnertime anyways, food helped even gods replenish Soul, he'd forgotten to eat all of that day anyways, and did he really think he and his daughter were going to have to compete for much food? She was only a few years old, after all, and there was supposed to be enough food for everyone.

She beckoned the wyrm over less out of a concern for him (though she'd much rather he have a healthy reserve of Soul right now, thanks) and more to help his wife win the argument. Which, judging by the put-upon, defeated look he gave her, he knew.

He sighed, kissed the White Lady's hand, and asked her if she wanted anything.

"You know," she said, in a manner that made it so easy to forget they were beings more ancient than the kingdom all around them instead of love-drunk adolescents. How the two managed any sort of dignity in public, Herrah didn't know.

Quirrel froze again when the Pale King approached, glancing from him to the hand on his daughter's head and back again. The wyrm didn't even meet his gaze, too focused on the packed food, which he picked up and set on the ground with a methodical rhythm.

"Could you pass me that- thanks." Monomon accepted a small tin, unscrewing it with a tendril. Herrah wasn't certain what was inside, she didn't recognize whatever shorthand had been scrawled on the tin's top, but it got a pleased burble from the jellyfish.

Next, the Pale King opened a different container, left down at the bottom, directly atop a hot water bottle to keep it warm. Stuffed mushrooms filled it, squeezed in so tightly some of them had been pushed up above the others.

He picked one and held it out to his daughter, at the exact right distance for her to grab it. Instead, with a delighted squeak, she lunged and ate it right out of his hand, little crumbles of the stuffing dropping to the bottom of the basket. It disappeared in one, two bites, big enough that Herrah considered serving her more whole mushroom caps to help her break the habits she'd developed before her mouthparts separated properly, because clearly the old expectation of pain was nothing compared to the desire to shove her food in her face.

Her sire sighed again and held out another, the other three hands occupied with closing the container and passing it up to Herrah. Just to spite his effort to close it, and maybe to see if she could whet her appetite, Herrah opened it again and popped one of the mushrooms in her mouth. However, it was a little hard to eat and keep from laughing at the god-king letting her daughter eat from his hand, or the way he almost tried to swipe his hand clean on his robe before he stopped and grabbed a napkin instead, cleaning both his hand and the girl's face, much to the latter's protest.

"Careful, now," Monomon said by way of friendly admonishment as she... ate? Yes, ate whatever was in the tin. A lot of very small somethings, it seemed. It looked like clumps of seedlings, or very tiny eggs. "I'm sure Lurien and... oh, who is he? I'm sure they want a chance at the mushrooms, too."

"I think-" Quirrel frowned, eyes drifting over to the two before coming back. "Ah, the butler likes them as well."

"What is his name?" Monomon asked, flicking a tendril so it slapped stickily against itself.

"What's his name, Pale Wyrm?" Herrah stared down at him, head tilted to indicate a question he damn well better have an answer for.

He blinked at her, unfazed. "I don't know all my subjects by name."

She scoffed. "You don't?"

He reached into a different container and produced a folded pastry, crust so delicate that a flurry of golden flakes fell from where his claws held it. "Do you?"

"Yes," she lied.

He didn't question her further on the matter, for he took another pastry and left to bring them to the White Lady, who thanked him by aceepting and eating the pastries, then picking him up to plant a kiss on his cheek. With how bleached his carapace was, the golden brown crumbs stood out even from Herrah's good few paces away. Upon seeing them, the White Lady smiled and brushed them away. She gave him another, less crumb-laden kiss, and let him on his way.

He returned to the basket, gave his daughter one of the pastries she'd decided she wanted enough to reach for, and found some other thing which he brought to Lurien and his butler. The three chatted for enough time that not only did the girl polish off her pastry, but Herrah had a couple, herself, and split a meat and vegetable skewer with Quirrel. She kept the meat, he got the vegetables. A most agreeable arrangement, if she did say herself. What a nice fellow Monomon had picked for her assistant.

When he came back, he stopped a few steps away from the basket, or anything that had been laid out from it. He'd folded his hands together under his robe, and spoke quietly, but decisively. "He says to call him Cee."

"Oh, wonderful." Was she supposed to have known the fellow's name the whole time? Then again, she wasn't the only one, so it seemed, from Monomon and Quirrel's visible relief. To distract from the idea of having known the bug for how long now? Years, it must have been, he'd been accompanying Lurien throughout this entire Dreamer business, and to keep forgetting his name like this? Either way, to distract herself from the thought, she grabbed another skewer and held it out to the Pale King. "Now eat, like you promised your wife to."

"I did not-" He must have realized it was a losing argument, for he cut himself off, and took the skewer.

He always held his food at an angle that made it hard to see his mandibles. Herrah split another skewer with Quirrel, and eyed the Pale King all the while, waiting for a glimpse of his mouthparts. Was it a bit odd? Sure, but gods in general were odd creatures, and his fussiness about who saw what of him felt so... out of place. Especially considering his people were hardly the sorts to adorn themselves in clothing, unless they were making an effort to imitate him in particular. She was pretty sure she'd seen him naked more than she'd seen his mandibles fully flared, be it in the face of a threat or while doing something so innocuous as eating. All she knew was that her daughter hadn't inherited the shape of his mandibles. Thank all the ancestors and their blood in her veins for that.

"We will likely be here through the night, as the rubble stabilizes and cleanup can begin. I understand that an overnight stay was not in anyone's itineraries, but it is unavoidable at this time. Monomon, do you require more hydration than what you've brought?"

The jellyfish pulsed thoughtfully. Quirrel, for his part, pulled a half-empty misting bottle and a small refill out from his satchel and showed them to her. She drifted down, spinning in the air as if it were water, and pondered what he had.

"I'll be fine," she declared after a moment's consideration, "Provided we're out by early morning. Thank you, Quirrel."

He stowed them with a quiet, "You're most welcome, Madam."

Herrah couldn't say she expected much else; they were, after all, stuck under a partially collapsed tunnel, and she could still hear rocks shifting and grating. There had been a couple instances of garpede tunnels collapsing in Deepnest, and she'd had to keep folks from rushing right for them to try and dig a path, lest it keep collapsing right on top of them, or something big rolling down. Being shielded by a god's magic, with (mostly) enjoyable company, not having to worry about any other potential casualties, also not having to worry about hostiles, food available, and in a place for people to respond quickly, all did add up to this not being the worst mess she'd been in, over her life. Deepnest was a dangerous place, after all.

She just had to get through this with her young child.

--

For what it was worth, dinner did lift the young girl's spirits. As soon as all her food was digested enough, she was up and running around every which way, asking her stepmother about every single plant there was to see (and a few repeats), play-wrestling with her mother, and dragging as many people as she could convince into her games. Lurien, Cee, and Quirrel all acquiesced to her enthusiasm (maybe with the foolhardy thought of tiring her out, too), and Monomon just seemed intrigued by whatever the girl came up with. Herrah was happy to watch from the sidelines, chatting with the White Lady while the Pale King... fussed, or whatever he did when he was both away from his formwork and his workshop.

(Herrah asked about that, at some point. The White Lady thought about it and then said her dear husband didn't know what to do with himself most of the time, but in this instance it appeared he'd snuck a metal puzzle cube in his robe and was using that to fidget when he didn't watch his daughter like a brooding belfly. He protested to being likened to a belfly, and didn't say a word when Herrah asked after his puzzle cube.)

The four did give it all they had, she had to give that to them. But, one by one, they needed to tap out, and the group beside the three royals grew, panting and staring at Herrah with horrified awe. Why, yes, she did live with the rambunctious spiderling all the time and still, sometimes, managed to catch some sleep. She had no partner beside her - not in Deepnest, anyways - but she did have Midwife's knowledge and occasional assistance. She'd never be able to thank the centipede enough.

Her husband would have adored the girl, though. Even if she had still been sired by the Pale King, after all their own futile attempts. It'd have mattered about as much to him as it mattered to the White Lady, Herrah figured. He'd play with her and teach her and dress her in the richest colors all the same.

She still used his recipes to brew dye for the girl's clothes. Especially the red - it was the slightest variation from the Weavers' more typical shade of it, and getting it just right had taken years. A little bit of love left from the spider who would have been her father.

It was the color she introduced her to Vespa in, and the Hive's queen had whispered a soft, "Oh," upon seeing it. She'd sat down to cradle the sleeping hatchling close, tiny fingers finding her fluff to knead away at, and looped an arm around Herrah, kissing the corners of her eyes until tears no longer threatened to fall. She'd always remember the way Vespa squeezed her claws, letting the action and the silence speak in her stead.

She supposed that Vespa and the White Lady, at least, were good options to leave her child with, whenever she was called to Dream.

The girl's sire...

"Daddy, please fix it," her daughter said, toddling towards the group and holding her hand close to her chest. Immediately everyone around her got up, Herrah included, heart twisting at the thought that she'd gotten hurt enough to need Soul healing. "Daddy, please."

"Let me see." He didn't sound concerned, not to Herrah's mind, or to the discomfort in her gut at the idea her child might be hurt. He stepped forwards, wings spreading just enough to warn the others off. Too close, and they'd flare into painful brightness, and nobody needed that.

"Daddy, please fix it." The girl didn't sound teary, either. She only fixated on her sire, keeping her arm close even while he reached for it. Shock? Gods and ancestors Herrah hadn't heard anything, what had happened?

Now, at last, he showed an emotion, in the slight narrowing of his eyes as he held her hand palm-up and examined it. With all the mud and dirt, Herrah had no idea if there was blood in there anywhere, or joint fluid, or something else. "What's wrong, I cannot-"

With a shriek and a giggle, she swiped her muddy hand across his face and pulled free from his grasp, darting away as fast as she could.

He startled and backed up a step, blinking twice before he gathered the mind to reach his hand up and examine the streak of mud. His shoulders fell, as did his wings, and he certainly looked tired enough to have been the one raising her all this time.

Around him, the group stifled laughter, Herrah included. On one hand, seeing the Pale King smeared with mud was quite the sight. Plus, the girl was okay, if a bit of a prankster already. On the other, damn if that hadn't been a terrifying few seconds.

"Here," she said, shaking her head. She held a claw out, keeping three eyes on the girl as she continued tumbling about the garden. At least, knowing they'd be outside, she'd dressed her in an older cloak that had a few stains on it. A little mud wouldn't hurt. "Can someone pass me a spare- thank you, Cee."

Napkin in hand, she went to hunt down her errant spiderling, while the White Lady passed her husband her own so he could tidy up as well.

Even with four arms, cleaning the girl made for plenty of effort. She squirmed and protested how the napkin squeezed against her hand, and face, and knees, and feet, and anything else Herrah dared to try and wipe clean. It didn't matter if Herrah took care to only squeeze as much as was necessary to get the dirt off, no, her spiderling had suddenly become a delicate doll, damaged by the slightest touch.

At least, after that, she didn't want to be put down, clinging to Herrah's front and eventually clambering over and on to her back, so maybe she'd go to sleep soon.

The adults didn't last for much longer, not after the day they'd had, and not with the promise that, if they slept, it would feel like less time until they were rescued. Monomon gave herself a good, all-over spritzing to last her as long through the night as she could, and let herself sink down, just far enough away from where the others had gathered to keep anyone from being doused in the acidic water she used on herself. The White Lady settled down, ushering the others to her sides. After all, it would get cold, and nobody had brought any blankets or anything. Might as well preserve what little warmth they might have left. And there wasn't much space anyways, unless you wanted to get uncomfortably close to the bushes designated as the bathroom.

Lurien ended up leaning against the White Lady on one side, Herrah on another. Cee squeezed in by Lurien, and the Pale King found a spot to rest in his wife's lap, though he did go put the puzzle cube on the basket rather than let it dig into her first.

Right as she got ready to go to sleep, Herrah felt the distinct sensation of her child crawling up from her back, over her shoulder, and into her arms to drape herself as best she could between her mother and stepmother.

Herrah sighed, the White Lady chuckled, reaching down to pat and then support the child's head.

For a moment, Herrah thought the girl was going to go to sleep that way. It wasn't a bad way to sleep, not for the child, even if it would mean holding her arms in place and the White Lady doing the same. Which, well, okay, the odds of the child slipping out of the pose were pretty good in the long run.

But it was not so. The girl moved again, using her mother's arms as a support to stand up so she could peek over the White Lady's bulk.

"Daddy," she whisper-called.

Herrah heard a shift.

"Daddy."

"You should be sleeping," came a mumbled response.

She reached a hand out, grasping at air. "Come here, Daddy."

"Will you sleep if I go over there?"

The girl rocked back on her heels, resting against Herrah's shoulder, while she mulled what would get her what she wanted. And then she got up on tiptoes again, rested her chin on the White Lady's... leg? and said, "Yes."

The White Lady shifted as her husband made his way over, peering down at Herrah and her daughter. Just like the girl had, he rested his chin on his wife, blinking slowly.

Apparently not impressed, the girl tugged on his robe. "No, down here."

"Your mother's there," he said. An astute observation from the wise wyrm, he who gifted all of Hallownest with the wonders of thought, knowledge, and free will.

"Please?" she asked. Just from the tilt of her head, Herrah knew she was giving him her most cutely demanding look. It was, admittedly, an easy one to fall for, and had cost Herrah the blankets on many a night after being asked to cuddle.

He sighed silently, then looked to Herrah, eyes locking with hers.

Well, he was an odd bedfellow, in all senses of it, but there were worse sacrifices to make. He, at least, didn't take up much room, and she'd shared a bed with him before. Granted, that has been preceding the girl's birth, but it still wasn't an unfamiliar fate. He was definitely cold, and a blanket or two of padding between them would have been ideal, but she'd never felt chilled. And who knew? Maybe having his wife by his side would keep him from doing all the tossing and turning he got up to. Or the fear of smacking his daughter would keep him still.

"You can come down," she said at last.

He climbed down, wedging himself between Herrah and the White Lady. Herrah's lower arm found a comfortable spot at his lower back, and he shut his eyes, sleepy or content. When the girl plopped down in his arms, he turned onto his side, curling around her and tucking her under his chin, one hand coming up to cradle her upper body. He must have been exhausted; between how curled up he was (she'd only seen him do that when the girl was a newborn and she could see the fear in his eyes over how he brooded, it was all so new and strong) and how, within moments, his breathing leveled out and he was, without a doubt, asleep.

"Wait," the girl whispered, "Uncle Lulu."

"He's over next to the White Lady, he's not far." Herrah stroked her cheek; the wyrm definitely had to be asleep, hard and fast. He didn't even tuck in tighter.

"Don't leave him out!"

"What about Quirrel and Cee?" Herrah asked. After a moment of staring at her daughter's confused expression, she added on, "Lurien's friend."

"Them, too."

Oh, dear.

"Well, I suppose, but I think they're asleep." She wouldn't protest sleeping alongside any of the others, she supposed. Well, Monomon, maybe, but as far as the girl knew, the jellyfish was already asleep, too. Not that she expected to sleep near any of them at all, even the Pale King and White Lady. If they didn't mind either, so be it, let them all try to make the best of the situation with a cuddle pile, if that was what would help.

And, of course, the White Lady turned her head to whisper a few questions to the bugs on her other side.

She turned back, asked, "Are you sure?" and when Herrah gave an affirmative, relayed the answer to the rest of the group.

Then they trickled over, seeking out their new sleeping spots at the behest of a young spider.

Lurien settled down first, managing to find a spot beside the Pale King. One of his arms rested over the wyrm, lying limp in the grass. All the reaction he got for it was a deep, slow breath, and a slight shift.

Quirrel plunked himself against the White Lady, shifting until he leaned at a fairly comfortable angle. His head fell to the side, and he gave Herrah a shrug and a smile. "Who am I to refuse the call of Deepnest's princess?" he asked, sleepiness blurring his words.

Herrah clicked her chelicerae together. "She's got you all like thread wrapped around a needle."

"I suppose there's worst spots to be. May I, Lady Herrah?" Cee gestured to the open spot next to her and behind the Pale King.

She nodded, and as he laid down, smiled at the address. Lady Herrah. Hallownest's rules of decorum were so strange. But it was rather fun to be called a Lady. It made her sound so whimsically froofy, delicate, and elegant. Nothing like Herrah the Beast. Maybe she ought to introduce herself as Lady Herrah, just to make people underestimate her. Ah, if only she didn't already have such a notorious reputation among the kingdoms and clans around her.

Though, more immediately, there was something deeply comfortable at all the shifting and snuggling going on around her. Quirrel fell asleep next, and ended up collapsing so he rested against her side, all without waking up. Cee's back against her side reminded her of young Weavers she'd bring out on some of their first hunts, and the White Lady made for quite the pleasant pillow. She could see why the Pale King had placed himself in her lap. Which, he remained not that bad of a bedfellow, especially with his daughter in his arms to keep him still. And Lurien draped across him was just too cute.

Herrah sighed, and rubbed her cheek against the White Lady. Her eyes shut, and she succumbed to sleep until someone deigned to get her out of this mess.

Chapter Text

"Mama?" the hatchling asked while Herrah tucked them into bed, pulling the sheets all nice and snug just the way they liked it, "What are you?"

She hesitated, trying to sort out an answer. She was plenty of things. Mama, for one. Herrah, for another. Beast, to her people and to Hallownest, for different reasons. Low-born. Queen. Warrior. Mother to all. "What do you mean, honeycomb?"

"Twine was talking about how she's a girl today. She said big kids pick!" The child squirmed, as if trying to wiggle their arms free to throw them in the air. It was about that time, from what Herrah had observed, that hatchlings got to thinking they had to be a big kid now, and became so desperately jealous of their older peers. Her heart stung at the thought of her little hatchling, once so new and tiny, growing up, but at the same time, each day together was a gift, wasn't it? "So are you a girl?"

"I am." She leaned in to give the child their goodnight kiss, chelicerae brushing their forehead.

"How do you know?"

At that, she sat back, humming. How did she know? She'd accepted it for so long, she hardly recalled the process of beginning to wonder and ask. She was older than her child was, certainly. Maybe not by much, but older.

"It's, um," She waved a claw, all her queenly eloquence lost on her. Nobody had claimed gender was a simple matter to explain in a long, long time, and she'd never really put words to it, had she? All the youth she'd been around for very long were old enough to figure things out, at least to some degree. None had bothered to ask her. But she knew it, same as she knew when she was about to molt, or when the Pale King had left her with child. "Hm."

Her child, uncaring to the complexities of the world, stared expectantly.

She shrugged, and decided to just let the words flow. "I liked my mother's strength, and the camaraderie between the women of Deepnest. I liked thinking of being addressed that way, as girl, then woman, and all that sort. There's something to it that feels right. Like... like being all tucked in bed, just as snuggly as you!" She leaned down again and nuzzled her child, chuckling at their laughter, ever so bright. A small, pale mask nuzzled into her fur, and she cupped the child's face in a hand, giving them a kiss on the head.

"There's so much to it, I dare say I'd never be able to explain it all," she said as she sat back and smoothed out the sheets. The hatchling wriggled, and Herrah gave them another goodnight kiss, stroking their forehead as their eyes began to close. "Think about it, dear. You can be anything you like."

---

The Pale King sat in his workshop, his hatchling in his lap, two hands holding them against his belly so they didn't fall off the chair while the two of them worked on a project. Just a small one, today. A little model bridge, made of various scraps he'd dulled down to something safe (safer, nothing was ever certain, anything could cause harm) so that they could discern what forms made for the strongest supports, the importance of flexibility, and what materials worked best where. He'd guide them, of course, once they began to figure it out. He had far more architectural and engineering experience than any in Hallownest, after all. But first, building a bridge according to their whims.

They paused in their work, fists gripping bundles of materials. A pause, then, "Daddy?"

"Hm?" He teased a shellwood piece from their grasp, and set it on the bridge for them to judge. After all, this was their bridge, not his. He was just here to help in the construction process.

"Are you a boy?"

The question pinged in his head, a bright bauble among the usual stream of thoughts, worries, minor visions that meant little more than getting a scrap of shell on his tongue at dinner and having to discretely remove it before it bothered him more. A boy. Hm. "What brings you to ask?"

The child's legs bounced against the coil of his tail. Just a single coil, he was too small to manage more (and how soon they'd outgrow him, and he'd be lost about this emptiness, this pull in his core, begging him to tuck them close and curl around them, safe yet not, for he was made to rend flesh, to destroy, how many of their siblings had he killed, how dare he pick this one to cuddle close, selfish, cruel-)

They wiggled, and pulled his shellwood contribution off the bridge, letting it drop to the workbench. "Mama said lots of kings are boys. And lots of daddies."

He supposed he'd never given Herrah reason to think otherwise or in favor of the idea. Not that she usually called him a king anyways; he was the Pale Wyrm to her, and it was as true as anything else. He'd not called her queen outside of formalities. But 'formalities' included anyone outside the royal couple, the Knights, or the other Dreamers being around, so frankly he was doing better at using her title than she was for him. Though he'd not deny he gave her plenty of reasons to discard his kingship. (Would he turn on his hatchling, as they grew? Take advantage of how small and young they were, destroy Deepnest like all his kind did? Like all he did, arrogant as he'd been to claim he was any better than the rest of his bloodthirsty, murdering, conquering kin? He knew he was right. Objectively, he conquered. Objectively, he was a monster. Objectively, his child ought to slay him, put him down like a rabid animal.)

He pulled his hand away as little jaws opened. He wasn't that far gone, not that day. He didn't need to be bitten into attention, though the soft grumble he heard indicated his hatchling wished otherwise.

"Gender is irrelevant to my rulership, or that I am your sire. When I gave the people of Hallownest their minds, they elected I was king of their own free will. The mode of address is no better or worse than any other." He wasn't entirely sure what made him a 'he' in their eyes. The voice? The stature? But there were bugs of all sorts with various voices and statures, though he supposed that to some, he was rather small. They couldn't scent him like another wyrm could, he was almost certain. In isolation, alone in his own territory, he'd never really cared about being male. Smaller meant he needed less food, and he wasn't nearly so driven to the frenzy the other males whispered dames doing when they so much as spotted someone else. It wasn't like anything put enough pressure on him to make him shift, either, so he'd never had to worry about eggs or hatchlings.

(Not until recently, and look at how he'd done with that.)

Really, now he was away from other wyrms, what did being male or female matter? If only the others would have realized how irrelevant it was.

"So," the hatchling said, "You're not a boy?"

He shook his head. There was some odd little spark at the thought, deep within, but not quite. Like looking at the concept through stained glass. "A boy, no. A king, yes."

"What are you?"

He sighed, and let his head and limbs rest heavy. "Tired, primarily. But in terms of gender, I find nothing appeals. I am addressed the way one sees fit."

"Can I still call you Daddy?"

The spot trying to pull to the child twinged, and he gave them a kiss on the corner of their brow to soothe it, and to make them giggle. "As you see fit."

---

"What are you?" the child asked. They'd been here overnight now, and the White Lady had busied herself with finding some clothes to dress them in. A chore a retainer could have accomplished, but there was a delight in picking out just the right outfit.

She slid open a drawer, picking through the garments within while she hummed. "A Root, dear."

"No-o." The child kicked their feet, thumping their heels against the oversized, overstuffed chair they sat in. "Mama's a girl, and I thought Daddy was a boy, but he says he's not, and-"

"Ah." Did children normally ask about gender at that age? She supposed there was no reason not to. She selected a purple cloak and pulled it from the dresser, unfolding it and examining the fabric. Somewhat wrinkled, but easy enough to fix. "An entertaining concept, isn't it? Gender? I have found enjoyment in all of them, in due time. Each has a certain appeal."

The kicking paused. "So... what are you?"

She turned around, and approached the child to dress them. "All I could be, dear."

---

"Hollow?"

The Hollow Knight turned their unwavering gaze to the child, dressed in purple with a matching bow tied behind their head. Cute, and proper, if not fitting in with the rest of the Palace. The child's gaze met the eyeholes of their mask without a second thought, and all they saw was wonder.

"What are you?"

It was no order, and they had no manner in which to respond. They maintained their stance, and listened for trouble. It didn't sound like they were being asked to hide evidence of wrongdoing, or to hide the hatchling themself. All seemed to be well.

"Are you a boy?"

Silence.

"Are you a girl?"

Silence.

"Are you neither?"

Silence.

"What about nothing?"

Still silence.

The child frowned. It may have been contemplative.

The mood passed in a moment, and acceptance settled on their face. It was, it seemed, not a matter worth being bothered about, or they'd already forgotten what upset them. Better than a fit. Fits created trouble, and upset the Heir of Deepnest, and they had an explicit order to keep them safe.

They gestured for The Hollow Knight to kneel, and so they did, bowing their head.

The hatchling stepped up, and planted a small and solid kiss to the middle of their head. A tiny hand patted their cheek, and they said, "That's okay. Hegemol said some people don't want to choose."

They flopped in their lap with a terribly world-weary sigh. "I get it. There's so many options!" They wiped a brow, and patted their hand. "It's making me tired."

Before they could move, the child fell asleep in their lap, and The Hollow Knight was rendered incapable while the child slept off their questions.

(Far later, when their missing arm ached and the crack in their mask throbbed and they nuzzled their adolescent sister to try and get comfortable enough to sleep, they supposed there were many options, but they'd been nothing all along.)

Chapter Text

“Ah! Governor, your, uh, your sister accompanies you.”

The little bug attending the stall made a commendable effort in not shrinking under said sister’s icy gaze. Between her dour demeanor, face set so close to a scowl, fingers laced behind a back so straight it put the finest nails to shame, the way she eyed everything going on, and her ghastly white carapace, Judge was midwinter walking amongst the summer festivities.

Her brother, his own ruddy red chitin flashing hints of crimson, his clothes edged in blue weaving, already had his mandibles sticky with cured noolie eggs, his tongue discretely flicking out to lick up the salty remnants.

“She does! She’s not all casework and mulling laws after all.” Gov elbowed Judge, humming in that particular way of one sibling pestering another. “Hmm? Are you going to pick something?”

She grumbled and turned her glower towards him for a moment before turning back to study the vendor’s menu as if it was, in fact, one of her legal texts. One of the particularly dense ones, too, from the way her one mandible was twitching.

The vendor took the chance to duck away from the two to poke at the grill and to rearrange the bottled drinks just right. The burst of renewed sizzling and spicy sharp smoke drew both wyrms’ attention, zeroing in on the food. Blessedly, the vendor wasn’t looking at the two predators drooling over the thought of lunch.

She turned back in time to see Judge hold out a hand, pointing at the meat skewers all charred and dripping nearly-clear juices. Her eyes flitted between the wyrm and the skewers before slowly, slowly reaching for said skewers.

“How many…?” she asked.

Judge held up five fingers. Her hands didn’t fall back to her side after so much as slowly drift down at a pace that made a glacier’s advance look blistering.

"The rarer, the better, yes?" Gov glanced at his sister, who nodded in turn.

"And anything for yourself, Governor?" She slipped into a smoother customer service mode bundling the least cooked skewers in paper, containing the dripping juice enough to not make everything sticky and wet. She and Judge exchanged food for coin, and the bug stepped back to the grill.

"Ah! You know me. Just two this time, though, I swear I've been sampling everything we've come across." Gov chortled and fished about for the correct coinage. In truth, he could have eaten his usual order without issue and happily kept on trying everything - but reminding the people of a wyrm's ceaseless appetite, how their hunger so quickly becomes destruction, didn't bode well for public relations.

The bug’s laugh came more easily than her posture would suggest. “This would be the time for it, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, yes! Everything’s been wonderful. Thank you. Have a good Summerfest!” Coins went to the vendor, sausages went to Gov.

“The two of you as well!”

With lunch in hand (the alleged main course of lunch, anyways), the siblings were off. They stayed close, tails flicking against ankles, elbows bumping together, as they wove through the crowd.

Here, food smells dominated, rich and acid-bright and spiced warm, all mingling with smoke and the tinge of every alcohol people could dig up. All of it overlaid the smell of the crowd, chattering and moving around like a particularly clotted river, groups gathering around stalls and entertainers. Various bug-musks danced about, along with perfumes and the sweetness of spring water.

Sometimes someone stopped to bow, or otherwise gesture their appreciation to their patron gods. Most got a return greeting from Gov, or a nod from Judge. But all of them, all of them, flowed around the two wyrms, a constant parade of chatter and footsteps and bodies bumping against each other.

Down the street they went, past bards warbling their tunes in competition with each other, vendors shouting about their wares, performers’ costumes and jewels clacking together. As they turned corners and wove through a small plaza, Judge held her skewers tight, only the potential discomfort of bumping the sharp end into her mouth keeping her from chewing on them.

Once the park was in sight, Judge finally overtook her brother, hurrying into the moss and grass in search of just the right spot.

Even here, away from the main celebrations, people milled about. Most remained too occupied with their lunches, families, or other distractions to pay much attention to the gods in their midst. Those who did turn to them usually landed their eyes on Judge, her brother being a much more common sight around the capital.

She beat him to a bench situated near a stream. Around them, the festival continued, a surrounding murmur of activity accompanied by the stream’s flow, but distant enough that slowly, ever so slowly, Judge’s hackles fell.

Gov let his sister claim the bench, and he sat beside it, careful not to catch his clothes underneath himself - getting told off for grass stains was not his idea of a good time.

The two unwrapped their respective lunches, Judge polishing off a skewer before Gov was halfway through one of his sausages. He opened his mouth to ask what she thought of it, but she was already digging through a second.

He’d finished one sausage by the time she took a breath, two skewers down. Juices dripped down both their mandibles, sweet, barely-cooked meat and fat melting on their tongues. Gov popped a seed open, overwhelming everything with herbal coolness.

“You feeling better?” Gov asked.

Judge’s eyes flicked to him, wild and hungry and monstrous.

She blinked, and was once again the socially awkward introvert who, somehow, trusted him and called him family. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you here.” He waved the remaining sausage towards the festival, in all its noise and scents and crowds. So invigorating, so full of interesting things to explore and people to talk to. Old friends, potential new ones, countless stories to uncover. Overall, a wonderful treasure of experiences, and such a far cry from a wyrm’s life, plagued with hunger, isolated from mortal and Higher Being alike. Here, he was not too dangerous, nor too pushy. Here, he was the Governor, enthusiastic and warm.

That wasn’t Judge, though. Judge actually understood how to be a wyrm, and in the process sacrificed the ability to understand mortal ways. Crowds and open air were threats. She paid no mind to her reputation. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. He could hardly remember a time she had anyone around as her friend - and she’d not admitted she had one then anyways. (Didn’t bode well for the friendship, but she never said anything about it ending.)

“I’m-” She held up a hand, as if he was trying to interrupt her. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.”

He hummed, and bit into the second sausage. No, she wouldn’t have. Why do something to please others? She was the one others had to prove themselves to. Even he had long since recognized the hierarchy of the lands, with her firmly on the top.

They finished their food without a word, even as Gov offered to take Judge’s trash and dispose of it. An odd contrast to the rest of the festival, like a textureless grey patch squeezed in a riot of colorful silks. Just the sound in the distance, the breeze, the rush of water. Fresh air and moss, with the lingering scent of lunch. The sun warmed their sitting spot, and soon enough Judge had melted into the warm bench, Gov plastered to its side to soak up the metal’s heat.

It was as if they were in their old forms again, drawn to the surface by the promise of warmth. Judge, he knew, had sunned only with their mother, her daughter, and him, while he’d often curled up with his foster family, her, or even males who knew about the over-loud, over-trusting wyrm they could sun with and bite whenever they felt, just as a warning. And when it was the two of them, well, by that time, he knew too well what happened to her son and daughter to protest when she curled around him like a mother nesting a hatchling.

(Not that he minded too much when she stopped. He did have limits for coddling. And he knew she had her limits for touch.)

“Was there anything you wanted to see?” he asked after a time. “I know some more good food stands.”

“I’m sure,” she mumbled, head drooping back, arms crossed, tail twitching slowly at her feet. As if it were the middle of the night rather than midday, and he was bothering her in her sleep.

He sighed as quietly as he could. Maybe it’d be for the best to sit here, let her rest. Then either they could both go home on their separate ways, or she’d leave and he’d stay and continue the festivities on his own. With some fellows, if he tracked them down, but certainly not with her. He didn’t need foresight to tell him that.

He shouldn’t have offered. This wasn’t her sort of thing, she’d probably be more than happy holed up in her home trying out whatever the most recent hobby he’d suggested was (it’d been so long, he had no idea what it could be), or in his library reading whatever she pleased, if she felt particularly social.

There had to be a way to slip away. Something casual, unremarkable, to politely let him continue what he wanted to do and let her go home in peace, without making it obvious he knew she didn’t want to be around him any longer. Spare them both the trouble, let them do as they wished. If only he’d picked up some new reading material recently, and could offer her the chance to check it out before him.

Oh, how he itched to join the festivities. To surround himself in color and scent and joy, and stumble home drunk on sweet wines and the feeling of everyone coming together to make something wonderful.

Oh, how he wished he hadn’t put his sister through this screaming, crowding mess.

Her brother was not supposed to be quiet. He was the noise of families and friends gathered together, he was the comforting words shared between survivors of travesties, he was the breathless exuberance of finding someone just like oneself. When she’d found him curled up in a makeshift burrow in her land, nursing wounds that would have made him so easy to strike down, he’d talked instead of hissing and fighting. As if nothing was wrong. As if being in her space was the most normal thing in the world.

Her brother was supposed to be everywhere, chatting with everyone, happy and cheerful and loud . And after, when the celebrations simmered down, he’d offer to let her read in his library, and she’d sit in the nice, cozy space he curated, reading whatever he recommended this time. He’d likely have some new tea to try, and she’d have to pick him up from whatever random place he passed out and drop him in his actual bed. Then she’d take her sweet time walking home to enjoy the night air.

That sort of twilight, with him comfortably coming down from the energy rush of people and her gathering herself up again after a day like this, was supposed to be the perfect time. He’d be settled enough not to bump up against her boundaries just for the sake of getting the interaction he needed, and she’d welcome his presence as someone she could trust while she rested.

He wasn’t supposed to notice how tense she was, or how the sights, scents, and sounds drowned her. He wasn’t supposed to take a break now, pleasant as it was.

Then again, she wasn’t supposed to notice the way he squirmed and tapped and huffed when they read together, or took walks through the plains. She probably wasn’t supposed to ask him questions until he raved about stories, or nudge him to frolic in the grass.

He’d been so excited about the festival. He got so excited every year, without fail, about all of the mortals’ celebrations. It was something to put all that energy and need for stimulation to, and even if something happened and there couldn’t be a festival, he’d be right there organizing an effort to help whatever stopped it from going on.

He began to hum to himself, under his breath but still another rock on the day’s pile. And, from the ripping and popping sounds, he had a handful of moss to shred. It made her mandibles twitch.

She turned her head away as slowly and lazily as she could, trying to make it look like she was sunning herself rather than avoiding the bothersome noise.

(Every time she asked how he handled it, he laughed and asked how she handled the silence.)

What was she supposed to do? Gifts were easy, gifts made sense, but he didn’t get the same spark in his eye when she gave him something as when she agreed to go do even something banal together. As a first-form wyrm, he’d been so easy to please. So little as sharing a sunny spot made him happy.

She wanted to be angry with him, for being more difficult with mortals around. But she knew he’d been just as bored and lonely then as she was tired now. 

“Is there anything you want to do? Judge?” he asked, edging towards a murmur. A rip, a few pops, as he tore up more of the flora.

She should have said something. Anything. There was plenty going on, goodness knew, she could probably name something random off the top of her head and they’d be able to find it around here somewhere. He’d be so happy to go somewhere and do something with his sister. The sister he sent every hobby thing he saw, so it felt. And who he got books for, and who was always welcome in his home’s library, a quiet bubble in the middle of his headache-inducing social life. But all she could find the will to do was hum.

More rips and tears and pops. She couldn’t truly call it silence that hung over them, for all that.

Her stomach sank; he had no reason to stay with her. What was she being, but dead weight?

“I can head out, if you want to go home.” His voice stiffened as he stood, and he brushed his hands free of the plants he’d shredded. “Don’t be uncomfortable for my sake.”

And don’t be bored for mine , she wanted to reply. But, aloud, all she gave him was a quiet, “Mm.”

He started away, the moss crunching underfoot.

She had one chance to try and salvage this, before he left.

She rapped on the bench and held her arms open, waiting.

Her brother slid into the embrace with an awkward caution he never showed when it was him hauling her into his arms. But it was him nonetheless, his cool weight, the curve of his cheek bumping against hers. And when she rumbled softly, he sighed and insisted he wasn’t a hatchling. Then, just to prove it, he nudged her forehead with the tip of his face until her horns were tilted out of the way, and plonked his head down on hers. A laugh rolled through his thorax and he muttered, “I win.”

“Not-hatchlings don’t win hugs,” she retorted, humming as his laugh clicked through his mandibles.

And he let go, releasing her, leaving her be. He did raise a hand, though, hesitating before he could pat her shoulder, the crackle of that alien, friendly something sparking against her carapace.

“You can come to my place later, if you want.”

She shook her head. “Come to mine. I’ll cook, or something.”

“Oh? Which one of your five recipes?” He laughed again, but this time in a manner that made her want to bat at him.

She couldn’t help but make a face at him and hiss, too quiet and short to be at all committal or angry. “It’ll be a surprise. Go on, go have fun with your friends.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll see you later, Judge.”

“Later,” she mumbled, and crossed her arms, turning back to face the sun.

At least, being gods, they had time to find a compromise.

Chapter Text

“Am I a monster?”

Seer eased herself down onto the rocky outcropping. Immediately, she wished for one of her pillows; the stone ached against her aged carapace, and it would not be any easier to rise again than it was to sit down. The payment for valuable wisdom and hindsight, she supposed, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

The moth beside her hunched over, fists on her cheeks, golden eyes narrowed. Her copious fluff laid still in the Resting Grounds’ air, which was fine by Seer. All the movement that wind and rain created made one’s fur look like it had a life of its own, beyond the controlled forces of flight.

“That depends on what you think a monster is, doesn’t it?” Seer reached out to pat one of the old god’s hands, her knuckles sunken and colors dull against those of her kind’s mother. Her heart ached, and a certain tightness gripped her throat. But her hand lingered.

She knew this conversation would come, there was no avoiding it. There was no avoiding repeats of it, she bet. The Radiance had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the effort of cleaning up her mess, out all day and exhausted by the time she returned, falling into deep slumber shortly after dinner, only to rise again in the early morning and be out. In her downtime, she puffed and pranced and cawed about how she had taken her responsibility, and the damn wyrm was nowhere to be seen. He’d abandoned them all, as the flighty coward was bound to do as soon as he learned what it meant to care for others.

Seer could not say she held a particular fondness for the wyrm. He, after all, saw the moths’ shallowness, how easily they were swayed by the intrigue of a new light, and took advantage of their shortcomings to kill their creator and wrest them from her nest. Perhaps it was childish, to blame another for how quickly her people forgot. Then again, from the siblings’ tales (mostly Hornet’s; the adolescent had no love lost for her father, but she knew him, unlike Little Ghost), she had plenty of solid reasons to dislike him. Hate him, even.

But at the same time, she had watched people die in droves. Mourners would come to bury the dead, and then they themselves would be buried the next week. She heard from them, from the stags, from the few other straggling moths, how this illness created a frenzy, and even among unaffected individuals, hoarding became fighting became unrest, with some electing to chance the Wastes rather than wait for their king’s planned salvation. She had seen The Hollow Knight, carved from a child to a weapon, but then turned into a doll to be savaged.

Each time they visited, their personality had blossomed more. She did not know if they were gentle by their nature, or by learning to be as unobtrusive as possible. She did not know if they were cautious and protective or anxious and guilty. She did not know if they were thoughtful, or playing at thoughtlessness. She did not know if they were awkward, or too scarred to move properly.

All of it, perhaps. Inextricably linked, throughout all they had experienced.

And she knew the Radiance had seen it, too.

Seer joined her, when she pooh-poohed the wyrm for his treatment of his children. She could not in good conscience defend what he had done.

But the Radiance went so terribly silent when she brought up the missing arm, or cracked mask, or the care they had needed to simply walk again.

Seer did not know what secrets they all held. What the Radiance had done to their mind. What the wyrm had done to their body. Some stories were not hers to hear.

But she’d heard what she heard, and she heard the silence, too.

“So,” she repeated, when the Radiance only stared into the distance, all tense, “What makes a monster?”

Some time passed. How much did not matter. It passed nonetheless, and lent itself to a loud, loud silence.

“Someone who hurts others. Deliberately.” The Radiance paused. “Carelessly. Selfishly, even.”

Seer hummed, and let her continue.

Their eyes met, for a long moment. Long ago, when she was the sun, Seer’s eyes would have begun to ache, and she would have been forced to choose between blinding herself on something so entrancing and the regret of looking away. But they were both mortal now, and she could look as long as she wished, feel whatever she felt.

(She heard the wyrm had such effects, too, but he was a reclusive sort by all accounts.)

The Radiance looked away first. “Everything I did not want you to be.”

Seer chuckled tiredly, and patted her hand again. “Your brother’s tales touch on that. The Troupe has so many stories of parents becoming everything they tell their children not to be.”

The Radiance scoffed. If it were possible for her to look puffier, she’d managed. “My brother, or the vessel?”

“They’re rather the same, aren’t they?”

“One’s my brother. One’s an equal but unrelated bother.”

Seer threw her head back and guffawed. Her other hand flew to her chest, jumping with it with each laugh.

The Radiance’s frown grew deeper, more annoyed. Slowly, Seer regained her composure, until she wiped an eye and, her hand moved to the Radiance’s shoulder for stability’s sake, gave her a bemused squeeze.

“You were saying?”

A roll of the eyes, and she said, “I’m saying there was some… suffering… from what I did, but not by my hand alone. Nor did I start it.”

Well, it was progress, even if it tasted bitter in her mouth and weighed heavy on her heart. “The two of you actively chose to harm a- a child. Torture them, even.”

Oh, now she’d fluffed up. “He created them, and sent them to me,” she spat.

Seer hummed a low note. “And once they were under your purview, you tried to destroy them. You didn’t have to.”

Her eyes narrowed to blazing slits. “They’re Void.”

Seer kept her chin up, face and voice as even as she could. “They’re a person. Someone’s family. They loved, and were loved. And you knew it.”

The silence stretched on, but something crackled in the still air. Something new, something electric with potential change.

Next time. Maybe next time, it would spark.