Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Wyrm was alone, and the Wyrm was dead.

And in its death it dreamed.

The Wyrm dreamed that it was floating. Like a leaf on the surface of a calm lake, it was drifting atop a sea of darkness, one so vast and deep that its own pale light was almost engulfed, flickering weakly like a dying torch. Not moving, not breathing, there it floated alone, with no one to accompany it but the darkness. All around it, flakes of ash fell from the inky blackness like snow. Lightly, quietly, they drifted down from the sky and fell into the sea, where they lay dormant like a thin layer of dust. The Wyrm watched, slowly and quietly as how most Wyrms did, as its corpse slowly crumbled, faded, and turned to the ash that fell and layered the sea of darkness. The ash then covered the sea, yet still it floated.

It was dead.

It no longer remembered how. All it remembered was that it had been alone when it lived, and it had been alone when it died.

It wondered whether there would be anyone who would mourn its death.

Probably not.

A crack appeared in the sky coated in darkness. Through the crack came more ash, and a glint of light. It watched as the crack grew bigger, and bigger, until the black sky split apart and it saw its old self crumbling away like sand.

The Wyrm rose, and exited the egg it had dreamed in.

It looked at its corpse.

It looked down at its now small figure.

Then it left its grave, lonely in its death, and covered in a thin layer of ash.

 ***

The Wyrm was going to build a kingdom.

It walked through the ash that now coated the ground in a thick, greying molt, its newly grown wings folded around its shrunk stature, and thought about its kingdom.

It was going to build a kingdom, because that was what Wyrms did.

It could see it, the kingdom it was going to build, with towering spires and lush vegetation. Winding paths and bustling crossroads, a capital with rain that continuously fell from the top of the caverns. A White Palace of glistening stone, a luscious garden filled with sweet smelling blossoms. A kingdom filled with bugs of all species and tribes, brought together to form its being. Somewhere, underneath this unforgiving wasteland, amongst the wind and the ash, it would build an eternal kingdom, where it would live, and it would die, and where it could have a place of its own.

Yet for there to be a kingdom, there must first be subjects. The Wyrm could hear the skittering of cautious bugs that had come to investigate the tunnels it had burrowed out as its old self went on its rampage to its grave, could see their eyes as they surveyed its now humbled figure. Running on raw instinct, that was how they were. The Wyrm reached out with its mind and probed into theirs, finding only hunger.

There was a screech, and then it was surrounded.

It looked at the bugs, their mandibles clamping open and shut. Their skittish steps, hungry gazes locked onto their prey. Mindless in their hunger and wild in their instincts.

It supposed that this was a good enough start. It reached out a hand, and gave away a piece of its light.

The mindless bugs hesitated, stopped. Then they bowed.

It was then, that the Wyrm died for good, and the Pale King was born.

 ***

It was dying.

The Pale King could see it, faint, but without question. Like a small spark that starts a bonfire, it was there, drifting among the peace of his kingdom, the tiny flash of orange that signaled the beginning of a nightmare. Orange pustules filled his sight, ebbing and fading as if with a life of their own. They sprouted from the minds of bugs, their eyes clouding over as the orange spilled out through their sockets, consuming their minds and bloating their heads. Their bodies swelled, thick with infection, and throbbed to the beat of an unheard drum, till their shells split apart, filled with nothing but that bright, bright orange. And at the heart of it all, was a Light, a Light bright and radiant like the rising sun, that spelled the dawn upon the fall of his eternal kingdom.

The Pale King blinked as the orange faded into the blue of the rain that came down from the tops of the caverns, washing away the remnants of the vision his foresight had shown him.

His kingdom was dying. It would be long in the future, that he knew. A long time, after his kingdom had grown and expanded to one so vast that all the world would marvel at its creation. It would be a long time of prosperity, but it would not last.

The Pale King sat upon his throne, crudely carved out of the bedrock, and surveyed his faithful knights as they saw to the construction of his city. The capital city of his eternal kingdom of Hallownest. An eternal kingdom that would, one day, fall like so many others created by his kind. From dust it was created, and to dust it would return. Just as how the laws of nature commanded it.

Fallen to a Light that challenged his own.

No.

His grip on the arm of the throne tightened.

No, that could not be allowed to happen. He refused. To his followers he had promised, higher thought, and an eternal kingdom. A safe sanctum from the wilds of the world, respite from their untamed, beastly selves. To them he would deliver, and to them he would give, in return for their reverence and their loyalty. 

Yet now, he could see it clearly. His kingdom would fall. His children would die. His subjects would be robbed of his gifts and become mindless slaves to the bright, blazing light. A light that seemed peaceful, but would spell the end to everything that he had worked for.

And he would die, his flames eaten by the one who came for fallen kingdoms.

Once again, he looked over the small bugs that toiled below him, working cheerfully to build what would soon be the looming spires and arched doorways of the City of Tears. How simple they were, despite having been granted gifts of higher thought. How happy and blissful in their ignorance, pleased just to be able to break free from the dangers of the vast wasteland beyond, and to build a home to call their own.

No. His kingdom would not die. It could not be allowed to die. It would remain unwavering, though ages and eons pass.

His eternal kingdom of Hallownest.

***

“Forget the Light in your dreams, and come to me,” he had told the Light’s creations, the winged moths with fuzzy collars and beady eyes. “It blinds you, and stops you from seeing beyond what is before you.”

He knew what the Light was, how it would doom his kingdom. It dwelled in Dream, and ruled over Dream, a Higher Being dreaming peacefully with her moths, who lived as long as she was remembered. She might be peaceful now, but the Pale King knew. He knew that she would be the cause of the damnation of his kingdom, no matter how docile she may seem. His foresight had told him this, and he was certain of its truth. The Light would grow to hate him, to hate his kingdom, and would go great lengths to destroy it, even long after he had died. Potential threats to his kingdom were to be eliminated, the innocent culprit snapped out of the picture before the crime was committed. All to ensure the survival of his kingdom.

No cost too great.

“The Light is our Creator, how could we forget her radiance?” they had asked.

He did not excel in Dream, nor did he have great control over it. Unlike the light of the Radiance, the light of Dreams and illusions, his was the light of higher thought, which only served to enlighten and nothing else. He could not eliminate the Light in Dream, and he could not hope to best her in her own domain. Yet he did not have to. For at its core, Dream was the mind given form. Any subject the mind thinks would find itself into Dream, in one way or another. That was how the Light had been born, after all. Born from the dreams for a light of hope in the darkness. As such, the state of the mind affected the state of Dream. If the Light no longer existed in her people’s minds, then she would cease to exist altogether.

“Her light has blinded you, left you blundering as if submerged in darkness. I will show you a more mellow light, if you follow me.”

And so they did.

And the Light was pinched out.

***

It had been about a year after the construction of the capital that he had found his Root. His foresight had not warned him of this. He had ventured into the mossy overgrowth beyond the Fungal Wastes, with the intention to negotiate with the slumbering Higher Being that rested within the depths of the Lake of Unn, that dreamt of greenery and all things beautiful.

Then amongst the green, the Pale King saw her, a pale light similar yet different to his own. While his light was like a sharp chisel to shape creation, hers was more mellow, a light of growth and gentle lullabies. It had charmed him, greatly, and he had found himself calling to the great, white root that had nestled herself into a corner of Unn’s dream.

She had stared at him, her quiet eyes speaking of the marvels she had seen and the ages she had borne witness to. Immediately, he had known that in his current form, he had nothing to impress her with.

So he just stared back.

There had been a long moment of silence, the white Root staring at him with a gaze like lakes of crystal water. Then her eyes had shut, and she chuckled.

“What an endearing form to have chosen, Wyrm.”

Then she retracted her roots and followed him back to Hallownest.

 ***

“The Stagways are successful, my king,” Lurien the Watcher bowed to him. “The Stags are glad, and the citizens of Hallownest may now travel wherever they wish in the kingdom.”

“Mmm,” the Pale King nodded. This was as he foresaw.

“The mushrooms in the Fungal Wastes are willing to live under your rule, under the condition that your foresight will keep them safe. The Hive and her Queen agree to submit to Hallownest, but they claim they wish to play no part in its perpetuation. The Mantis Lords of the Mantis Village have denied our offer, and I fear that, with their affinity for combat, forced submission will only lead to more losses. There have been no objections from Unn or the creatures molded from her dream.”

The Pale King nodded again. The Mantis Lords were strong minded and kept to their ways, and might need a bit of convincing. Perhaps he would allow them to keep their territory, and hope to strike a bargain in return for benefits for Hallownest. As for Unn, she was of no harm to his kingdom, unlike the Light that he had banished when the kingdom began. She would continue to dream of lush vegetation, and so long as he allowed the Law of Unn to remain untainted in Greenpath, there would be no quarrel with the other Higher Being.

“Herrah the Beast and her followers remain hostile, and refuse to acknowledge Hallownest. The plan to connect the tramway to Deepnest has failed, and all workers were found dead at their positions,” Lurien concluded, then glanced up unsurely.

He waited.

Lurien shuffled uncomfortably.

“That is not the end of your report,” the Pale King stated, a sense of uneasiness growing deep within his shell.

Lurien looked down.

“There have been signs of an undocumented infection among a small minority of bugs,” he said quietly. “They seem to be uttering nonsense about dreaming of light, and attack any that attempt to approach them.”

***

“Oh King, how brightly you shine,” the noble bug before him sang, her head bobbing to and fro. “How noble your presence, how strong your aura. I am honoured to have been blessed with your image.”

No, those words of praise he did not deserve. He had been careless, and now the Light was back, no longer peaceful and serene as she had been before. Revenge, she wished for, and revenge she would get. Vengeance for how he had tried to erase her from the minds of her own people. He now knew why his kingdom was doomed to failure, and yet still, he did not wish to merely sit and wait for the fall.

If even a Higher Being were to despair, then how would his subjects fare against the inevitable end?

“Remember my image well, Emilitia, as you remember the rest of Hallownest,” he told the noble bug that continued to sing praises at him from below his throne. “For you will be alone, for a very, very long time.”

*** 

“No,” he said firmly, as the master of the Soul Sanctum groveled at his feet. “That is my final word.”

“But King,” the master whined, his swollen head bent so low that it touched the ground. “We are so close –”

“How many sacrifices have been made for your experiments?” the Pale King roared. “I have told you that soul is not the way. Your shells are too fragile to carry so much of it within them.”

He knew, deep down, that sacrifices would be many, should he want to contain the infection, and the Radiance along with it. But meaningless sacrifices in the wrong direction… Such were mistakes that had to be corrected and avoided.

“But King, just a little more, we will be able to focus soul, and transcend the minds of mortal bugs,” the Soul Master protested. “With greater minds, we will be able to resist the mindlessness of the infection.”

“It is because of your minds that the infection would reach you,” he snapped, and turned away from the groveling bug. “Do not let me find you doing such things again.”

***

“I, Xero, challenge the King of Hallownest!” a bug in a suit of red armour stood in the doorway, his eyes sharp with determination, a grim expression etched into his face. The Pale King sat upon his throne. Looked up at him for a moment. Then returned to reviewing Lurien’s reports.

The intruder, (Xero, was it?) did not seem to enjoy being ignored, and, eyes narrowed, leaned forwards into a combat stance. His cloak billowed, four gleaming nails produced from within its folds. Immediately, his Great Knights sprung into action.

“Traitor and fiend!”

“You would dare turn against your king?”

Reading through the report, the Pale King could hear the sounds of battle, the clashes of nail against nail, then an outcry from the warrior in red.

“My eyes are opened to dream! The strength in my nails will bring us a new hope! She promises our freedom for the king’s head.”

“Stop!”

“Look at his eyes, he is infected!”

“Hold him down!”

“My nails will cut you down, and we will be freed!”

The Pale King sighed.

“Your majesty, look out!”

A whoosh of wind, the sound of metal tearing through the air. Then crisp crack of something splintering. Xero’s four nails arced through the air and shot towards him in a trail of stardust, running through him like a knife through butter. A nail cracking his skull. A nail torn through his wings. A nail in his chest and a nail at his hip. Shards of chitin fell as his shell broke and gave way to the soft flesh beneath. There was a gasp. One of the royal retainers fainted. He raised his eyes to stare at the nails, then returned to his report.

“King!”

Xero crowed in triumph underneath the grip of the Great Knights pressing him to the floor, the orange glint in his eyes flaring brightly as the sun.

“The King is dead!”

“Shut it, you!”

“The King is dead! Through strength in combat our freedom granted! She draws back the infection! We may hope once more! Long live the Light of Dream! Long live the Light! Long live the L-”

For a brief second, the world froze.

The warrior choked, the orange of the infection spilling out through his visor in a gurgling, hissing stream. Puncture wounds blasted open his armour, stabbing through his body and to the other side. One cracking his skull, one tearing his back. One in his chest and one at his hip. Pieces of broken armour, pieces of broken shell. Tiny flakes of ash drifting down from the air, a slight stench of damp earth permeating through the room. The traitor was shredded apart, and the floor was drenched in orange.

The Pale King calmly sat atop his throne as the nails clattered to the ground, his robes no longer torn, no wound to be seen on his body.

The throne room was silent. He raised his head.

“Cursed are those who turn against the King.”

***

“They can store infection,” the Pale King marvelled as he stared up at the floating oomas and uomas of the Fog Canyon, artful results of Monomon’s craft. They hovered in the air, their tendrils lazily trailing through the mist and the haze, translucent shells like a thin sheet of silk. At their core, he could see a pulsating mass of infection, throbbing aggressively, yet harmless while the shells held.

Monomon, their minds clamoured in a loud chorus. Monomon .

“Store, yes, but only in small amounts. Any more and the shells burst. Then they die, and the infection in the released cores causes an explosion,” Monomon the teacher hovered next to him, her mask tilted upwards to gaze upon her creations.

“Die? Were they ever living in the first place?” he questioned.

“The shells are moulded from my shed tentacles, and the cores are unhatched eggs,” Monomon sighed. “The Old Light spreads her infection through Dream, and the ability to dream must come from somewhere. Living enough to contract the infection, and dead enough to be unable to think for itself. That way, they will not be able to cause any harm unprovoked, and won't go anywhere without orders.”

There was a long period of silence before he finally spoke.

“Where are the eggs from?” he said softly.

“Offered by volunteers,” Monomon wrung her tentacles. “The mothers did not wish for their children to grow up in a world of plague and suffering.”

“I see…” he stared at their soft shells, the pulsating infection caged within. “Can you make one large enough to contain her?”

“Calculations say no,” she shook her head. “A stronger, more complete shell is required, and the capacity to hold a vaster Dream. A living mind so empty that it could make room for the universe and everything beyond it.”

Eggs, a stronger shell, emptiness, containment.

“A capacity such as Void?”

Monomon turned to stare at him, her tentacles stiffening in shock. Then she laughed.

“If Void could be contained, then yes,” she mused. “Like Void.”

***

The Pale King stood before the door to the Abyss, the cold seeping out from beyond the barrier and permeating through his shell. It had been a while since the deed had been done, yet the weight of it still crushed down on him, a sick feeling rising in his stomach as he stared up at the seal he had placed on the door. He hated it, but there was nothing else he could do.

It had to be done. They had to be his own. He couldn’t bring himself to demand for his subjects to hand over their children, so they had to be his. He’d made sure they hadn't suffered, that they were too young to know suffering. It was the best he could have done.

He wondered how many of them had survived. He could only afford to raise one to its prime, so that meant that the others would…down in the darkness...

No.

It was for his kingdom. He could not falter now. No cost too great.

He opened the great door before him, the King’s Brand glowing brightly before the sealed entrance as it opened with a thud. The Pale King stepped onto the landing platform, that marked the entrance to the gaping abyss that stretched below him, housing the sea of Void that stretched throughout the darkest depths of his kingdom. Standing at the edge, his pale light radiated down into the darkness below, casting over the rough edges and blackened trails of floating structures, left behind from a civilisation that had fallen long before the rise of his kingdom. At the very bottom, he could faintly see several specks of pale light, accompanied with the dull glint of something that looked like skulls.

He felt faint, whether it was from the stifling presence of the void, or from his own imagination of what was down there, he knew not.

He steeled himself.

No cost too great.

His pale light flared, and the darkness shrank back as if burned. Then, slowly, it reached out with flailing arms and grasped away fruitlessly at him from below. He turned away from it and focused on the glowing specks at the bottom of the Abyss. He reached out his hand.

Come, he commanded.

And the Void came.

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then came the sound of pattering feet, as the Vessels began their climb. Slowly they climbed, their hollow eyes staring up at the light, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Despite the great distance, somehow, the Pale King could tell the flickering lights apart from one another. He would watch as, occasionally, one of the Vessels would slip, and fall back to the bottom, their light fading from sight. Sometimes, the lights that fell never reappeared. The Vessels were immature, their limbs had yet to develop (would never develop), and were stocky and unsuitable for climbing the long distance to the top of the Abyss. Yet still they climbed, mechanically, unfaltering, seemingly never growing tired no matter how many times they fell.

Finally, after a long, agonising wait, one of them reached the top, its small hands clasping the edge and peering up at him. Standing atop the platform, with the stench of Void threatening to extinguish his light, he felt a sense of relief, that he could finally leave this place. Then he remembered that it was not yet the end. This Vessel was strong enough to make it up, but there was still its purity to be questioned.

With a heavy heart, he probed into its mind.

Immediately, a crashing wave of longing hit him, the Vessel’s thoughts washing over him, not in the form of words, but in feelings. They were raw, powerful feelings, untainted by external concepts and unrefined by words, but the meaning behind them was still clear as day.

Light , he could hear it say in flashes of blue and white. 

Light light light light light-

He dropped it back over the edge, feeling his hands shake uncontrollably.

There was a soft sigh from the Vessel as he pried himself away from its mind, its hollow eyes staring up at him as its light fell to the bottom and disappeared.

They were his children. They could think-

No.

He forced his trembling hands to still as he awaited the next Vessel to ascend. They were not his children.

Another hand on the platform.

These were not his children.

Another small figure in his hands.

This was the Void in a bug’s shell.

Another voice in its mind.

These were monsters that he had made.

Another Vessel cast down.

They were not his children.

Another light extinguished.

They were not his children.

His hands were shaking again.

They were not his children.

They were not his children. For his children were dead.

They had been dead ever since he first abandoned them down in the Abyss.

***

He didn't remember how many Vessels he had thrown back down into the darkness. He didn't want to remember. Hundreds? Thousands? With the number of skulls at the bottom, he could never be sure which ones had been there before he called and which ones were his doing.

He was beginning to think, with a growing dread, that they were all impure, and that all of this was for nothing, when finally, a Vessel with curved horns reached the top.

He picked it up, and once again wearily poked into its mind.

To his immense relief, there was nothing.

He put it down, and it stared expectantly at him, not thinking, not moving. Just waiting for an order, like the Kingsmoulds and Wingsmoulds he had experimented on in the White Palace. Just like what he had wished for.

No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry suffering. Born of god and void. You will seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams. You are the vessel.

You are the Hollow Knight.

He was about to leave with the chosen Vessel, when another small hand appeared on the edge.

Another Vessel pulled itself up, its body trembling with effort. This one had pronged horns, and was slightly smaller than the rest.

He waited.

The chosen Vessel looked back.

Don't look at it.

The small Vessel’s stare bored holes into his back.

He forced himself to take a step forward.

Don't look at it.

The small Vessel keened in his mind, with a feeling so pitiful that it took everything he could to keep walking.

Go back, little ghost, allow my crimes to be buried. Let me see the likes of you no more.

The small Vessel silently released its grip on the platform and fell down, just like all the others.

He sealed the door to the Abyss, and no longer sensed its light.

***

He stayed far away from the Vessel, leaving it to train on its own in a room with Kingsmoulds. With his power to grant thought, the Pale King didn't want to taint it. That, and the fact that every time he looked at it, he would see, in his mind's eye, the darkness flailing, the skulls in the Abyss, the Vessels in his arms, then the small Vessel that let go and fell down with the others. He told himself that he had to check on it occasionally, to ensure its purity, but somehow, he could not bring himself to look.

Once, he had tried to test it by sitting with it in a room without instruction. They had sat there on the balcony, overlooking the shining banisters and sprawling courtyards of the White Palace, him on the right and the Vessel perched quietly at his side.

The room had felt cold, and despite the visible light shining in through the windows, seemed dark as the Abyss itself. Those were the effects of Void, he had mused to himself, it sucked the life out of things and left them empty. His was the power opposed, the power to create worlds from wasteland, but in a way, it too was replacing the present with something else.

They had stayed there for several hours, the Vessel unmoving, as he sat and thought about everything he had done, and everything he would have to do. He thought about the Radiance. He thought about his promise. He thought about the Vessels.

He felt lost.

“I am a terrible father,” he had remarked to it.

At that, the Vessel had turned to look up at him unprompted, but to his relief, stiffly resumed its initial position when he turned away.

Its eyes were always staring.

His Root seemed to be taking it better than he was, and he was glad that at least one of them was composed.

“It is empty, and no child of mine,” his Root had said while rocking the cradle the Vessel was lying in, her voice lacking the softness that it usually carried when she spoke to him. The Vessel had stared blankly up at the ceiling, its nail clutched in its stubby hands. “You are far too soft, Wyrm. It is nothing but a tool now, remember? That was what you yourself said.”

“Yes,” he had replied half-heartedly. “Nothing but a tool.”

Fortunately, even without his presence, the Vessel grew stronger, its nail becoming like a fifth limb, never leaving its side. When the Vessel grew too strong for the Kingsmoulds to be useful, he assigned the Great Knights to it, and when they could go head to head with even the Knights, he trained them himself, teaching them to focus spells and to withstand the force of light. He knew that his own pale light would not be able to fully prepare them for the blinding glare of the Radiance, but he still wished to equip them the best he could, to further ensure their success. In between training the Vessel, preparing for their sealing at maturation, and handling administrative work for his kingdom, he found that he barely left his workshop anymore, working when he was awake and plotting when he was asleep.

Some days, he would find himself thinking of things as he worked. Dangerous things, that would jeopardise everything he had worked so hard to maintain. Would it be boring stuck in the Black Egg Temple? Perhaps he could find a way to allow the Vessel to see the state of Hallownest while in captivity. What if they were attacked by someone trying to enter? A few extra seals to protect them. They seemed to quite like their old nail, perhaps he should send it to the Nailsmith for a polish. Would the Vessel be lonely while sealed away alone? Perhaps he could commission for them to have some idols of the bugs they knew, to keep them company. They had been wearing those rags for far too long, perhaps some new clothes? He thought of the Vessel wearing a suit of shining armour.

Every time, he barely managed to stop himself. What was he thinking? The Vessel was an it. Th- it was empty. It didn't like anything, it didn't get bored, it wouldn't care about clothes, it wouldn't be perturbed if it was attacked, that was what he had trained it for, after all.

And it wouldn't be lonely. It would continue unperturbed with its duty even long after he had died. That was how he had made it.

He allowed himself to indulge in the armour, at the very least.

To provide anchorage for the chains, so that he wouldn't have to puncture holes into its shell when it was sealed, he had told it when he dressed it in the new armour.

It didn't respond, but that was to be expected.

***

After what had happened, he didn't expect to have another child.

He had been looking for seals, Dreamers to act as a shield for his Hollow Knight against external threats, when it happened. Lurien had been most happy to take on the task, and Monomon had assured him that she herself would take extra measures to ensure that the seal held. Then, he had gone to Herrah, and after a long and somewhat humiliating process, ensured her role as a Dreamer.

“Anything I want?”

“Yes. You may ask for anything as payment for your services, as long as it is within my capabilities.”

“Then I want a child.”

“Of course. There are some delightful children waiting for adoption at our orphanages. I’m sure you will find one-”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“I want your child.”

“I’m afraid I cannot let you have the Pure Vessel, but I suppose I could retrieve one from the-”

“Why would I want that horrid, empty thing? I want to birth your child.”

“...”

“Wyrm.”

“How about something else…?”

“Then go find another Dreamer.”

“...”

“No cost too great, that's the line you like to say so much, isn't it? Well, a child of noble born. That's what my services will cost you.”

The trip to Deepnest and back, as well as the process itself had made him feel a good deal more pitiful than he already did, and he spent a long time in silence with the Vessel before he could bring himself to see his Root again. Ironically, it was Lurien who had produced the reaction he’d expected from her, while the Root herself just seemed amused.

The exchange resulted in a small weaver child in red skirts, that bore pointed horns foreign to her kind, with wide eyes and a fierce temper. Hornet, she had been christened, and Herrah spoke often of training her to wield a needle and thread when she was older. With the hostility of Deepnest’s residents towards him and his kingdom, he hadn't been able to see her until Herrah deemed her old enough to visit the White Palace. The first time they had stood in a room together, she had thrown a fit and attempted to trample over his wings. From the treat sneakily handed to the struggling weaverling as she was carried away by a Weaver servant, he was almost sure that this had been Herrah’s doing.

Hornet was terribly energetic, and, whenever she visited the White Palace, made it her ultimate goal to be as much of a menace as possible. He would hear reports of her terrorizing the royal retainers by leaping at them out of dark corners and running around the corridors draping layers of crudely woven weaver spells all over the floor. Sometimes, she would directly come down to his workshop to pester him with questions.

“Why are you shiny?” she waved her wooden toy needle at him.

He didn't quite have the patience to explain the concept of Higher Beings to her.

“Because that was how I was born,” he answered.

“But why?”

“There is no why.”

“But WHY?”

“Because there just isn't.”

“BUT WHY?”

“Well why can you produce silk?” he threw back at her.

That seemed to shut her up. She scrunched up her face as if in deep thought, then marched over to the corner where his Vessel was standing to think.

A few minutes later, he could hear her squealing with delight as she clambered all over his Vessel and stole its nail. His Vessel seemed a bit more lost than usual as she ran out, happily dragging the nail four times the size of her behind her as she went.

His Root seemed to enjoy her company much more than he did. He would occasionally find her resting with the weaverling on her lap, giggling and waving a silken thread.

“How very lively,” she’d murmur as Hornet swung from a makeshift silken swing tied to her branches. “It has been a while since I’ve been in the presence of a real child.”

He’d mostly left the two of them alone after that.

***

The Dreamers in place, his Vessel in its prime, there was nothing else left to do than to finish the deed. Yet still, as he stood before the entrance to the Black Egg, the Hollow Knight stationed rigidly by his side, he hesitated.

He could see the place where it would be sealed. He could see where he would anchor the chains to the ground, and where the Hollow Knight would hang.

He stared.

His Hollow Knight stared.

The Dreamers were waiting. His people were dying. All he had to do was command his Hollow Knight to stand in place and then seal it away. But somehow, he could not bring himself to say anything.

After what felt like centuries, there came a rustle by his side. The Hollow Knight moved in slowly through the entrance, its footsteps silently tapping against the floor.

He still couldn't move.

It turned, stared at him blankly, then, slouching slightly, walked to the empty space between the chains. Turned. Stared at him from between the chains.

He had not given it any orders.

The scene on the balcony, his Vessel by his side.

“I am a terrible father.”

The unprompted glance.

An idea instilled.

“Father…?”

He opened his mouth.

“You are not hollow.”

The Hollow Knight bowed their head, but did not move from their spot.

It was tainted.

His Root in the nursery.

His Vessel in the crib.

“It is nothing but a tool.”

He could feel his hands shaking again. “It won't work if you aren't hollow.”

The Hollow Knight knelt.

His Vessel hugging their nail.

His Vessel clinging to his side.

“She’ll break you,” he stepped closer to them, the Void permeating the air in the Black Egg searing burns into his shell as it attacked his light. “You can’t have a mind, she’ll break you eventually, and this will all be for nothing.”

The Vessel in his hands.

The skulls in the Abyss.

The Hollow Knight slammed their nail deep into the ground and stared.

“You will suffer for having a mind,” he found himself pleading as he laid a hand on their mask. “We… I didn’t want-“

A Vessel in his hands.

Light light light light.

A Vessel falling down.

Inside their mind, he heard their voice.

Do not think.

Do not speak

Do not hope.

He did not know what to do.

“Please,” he heard his voice cracking. “I’ll find another way.”

The cold of Void in the room.

His Vessel always staring.

He did not know any other way.

Still, the Hollow Knight did not move.

Father.

In the end, he sealed them away.

He could hear their voiceless screaming in his head as the door shut.

***

They had failed, just as he had feared they would, and just as his foresight had told him. For a while, it had been fine. The infection had subsided, and his kingdom was beginning to recover from the disaster. He had ordered the building of the Memorial to the Hollow Knight in the City of Tears, in the plaza that separated the aristocratic part of the Capital from the commoners, so that his Vessel would be remembered by the bugs of Hallownest, regardless of age or status.

Then, after a short period of peace, it had come again. It had started in the middle of the night, with a scream from above, an ear piercing roar echoing from deep within the Black Egg Temple. A scream, then silence. Then, sleeping bugs rose from their beds, their eyes glowing with an ancient rage, spitting a bright orange.

It was as he had foreseen, but the knowledge didn't lessen the distress of it in the slightest. One by one, his people fell to her Light. One by one, his guards were replaced with Kingsmoulds. One by one, the survivors fled Hallownest for the emptiness the wilds beyond offered. Where to, exactly, he knew not, but he did not quite seem to care anymore.

He ordered the lockdown of the City of Tears, its great gates shut and sealed by mighty Hegemol, so that none would enter or leave it again. He commanded the Mantis Lords, their proud four dwindled to three sisters, to shut the entryway to Deepnest, and sent Ze’mer to see that it was done. He sent Isma and Ogrim to Kingdom’s Edge through the Waterways underneath the City, to see that the Fools in the Colosseum would not attempt to claim his kingdom after he had gone. He visited the Black Egg Temple and sobbed at the door. Finally, when all other preparations were complete, he told his Root to flee with Dryya, to take root in the Queens Gardens where he had first found her.

Before she left through the door, she stopped.

“Just as flowers fade and mortals age, all kingdoms fall eventually,” she said quietly. “Do not think too bitterly of it, my Wyrm. Despite all our regrets, we did our best.”

No, they hadn't, he thought to himself as he watched her go. There was one more thing he had to try before he could say that they had done their best.

With everyone but himself and his Void constructs evacuated, the White Palace felt much more empty than usual. The Pale King walked to the balcony and stared out at his kingdom, his great, dying kingdom.

No cost too great.

Then he lowered his head, and Dreamt.

He Dreamt of a Seal of Binding, a Kingsmould falling, his Palace disintegrating, then his Palace in Dream, floating amongst the turning wheels of Dream essence.

The Seal of Binding to stop anyone from stumbling in, a Kingsmould to house his Dream. The Palace to make a big enough presence in the Dreamscape, one so big that she could not miss.

He opened his eyes. Stopped. Fidgeted. Waited.

Then in a flurry of feathers, the Old Light came.

***

“YOU,” she hissed, her voice echoing in his head, laced with anger and a hint of something else.

“Yes, me,” he stared up at her from the balcony, her looming stature dwarfing his own as she towered above him, her wings stretched out as far as horizons. “I… have come to negotiate.”

“NEGOTIATE… EVER THE WORKAHOLIC, WYRM,” her eyes blazed like the heart of a bonfire. “CAN’T EVER HOLD STILL, CAN YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU COME TO STEAL AWAY FROM ME NOW?”

“Nothing,” he held out his hands placidly. “Just to talk.”

“WHAT ELSE WILL YOU STEAL AWAY?” she raved on, as if not hearing his words. “YOU WERE JUST ITCHING TO GET RID OF ME BACK THEN, WHY THE CHANGE IN ATTITUDE NOW?”

He could feel her rage seeping out into the Dream, the blistering heat from its intensity sending an uncomfortable sense of smallness through his shell.

He stared up at her, diminished but still far stronger than he was, now that she was in her element, and knew.

It would not work.

He then thought of his Hollow Knight crying out in the Black Egg Temple, the only thing stopping her from moving from Dream into Reality.

It would not work, but he had to try.

“You are angry, and you have every right to be,” he said imploringly. “Our battle has waged long. I have lost. That is why I am here.”

She said nothing. He felt a twinge of hope.

“You have destroyed my kingdom, you have killed my people, I have tried everything but nothing would work.”

“That is why I am here.”

“TO FIGHT ME?” she snarled.

“To beg you,” he slowly knelt.

“Your pain was my deed and mine alone. Kill me if you wish,” he lowered his head. “But please, spare my people.”

He had never bowed to another, after all, he was a Higher Being and a king.

But his status weighed lighter than his dying kingdom.

No cost too great.

What was a king without his people? He had nothing left.

For a few moments, the Radiance was silent.

Then a flash of light, and a searing pain in the back of his neck. A blade through his skull, tearing through his windpipe and stabbing the floor through his chest. He could feel her rage burning through the blade, the heat of a blazing sun simmering under his shell.

He was a Higher Being, something feeble like that should not have hurt him. But this was Dream, she ruled over Dream. And in her Dream, he could be hurt. He choked and fell, the white of the soul leaking out of him hidden against the white of the tiles.

“YOU WYRMS HAVE A SHARP MIND AND A GLIB TONGUE. I SHALL FALL FOR YOUR RUSES NO LONGER,” the Light glowered at him, as he struggled to pull himself upright.

My kingdom, he tried to say, but the nail embedded in his throat prevented him from producing anything more than a whisper.

The Radiance spoke.

“I WAS WILLING TO SHARE, WYRM,” he could feel her blazing eyes on him as he struggled. “TO SHARE THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE YOU STOLE FROM ME, WITH I IN DREAM AND YOU IN REALITY.”

“I HAD DONE NOTHING TO YOU, I HAD BEEN WILLING TO WELCOME YOU, YET YOU. SHOWED. ME. NO. MERCY,” she leaned closer. “EVEN IF THE LYING THIEF YOU ARE MEANT WHAT YOU SAID, I NO LONGER HAVE SYMPATHY FOR THE LIKES OF YOU. NOT YOU, NOT YOUR KINGDOM, NOT THE LIVING CAGE YOU MADE OUT OF YOUR OWN SPAWN.”

“THEY TURNED FROM ME, AND THUS SHARE IN YOUR CRIME. WHEN I BREAK FREE, YOUR KINGDOM WILL DIE, AND YOU WILL ROT HERE IN MY STEAD.”

Then the Radiance vanished, and for the first time since his rebirth, he was well and truly alone.

***

He didn’t know how long he spent in Dream, how long he spent in the remains of the White Palace that he had brought with him. Thinking, reflecting, regretting. Those were the only things that he seemed to be able to do nowadays. He would find himself staring blankly at a wall for hours, days, and occasionally, he would bring himself to walk around a little, half-heartedly try to find a way out, but always to no avail.

Ever since he’d arrived, his hands had never stopped shaking.

As he changed and grew more pathetic with each passing day, the White Palace seemed to change with him. It had started with the white sheets, that one day appeared and covered all the furniture, leaving them only as blank silhouettes standing in the corridor. At first, he had tried to get rid of them, but they just kept coming back, and so he left them be. Soon, everything but his throne had been covered up, concealed under the blank, empty sheets.

He would never have thought that having a mind would be noisy, but that was how it ended up. Constant buzzing, angry thoughts that chased him round and round in circles that would seem as if they were going somewhere, but often ended up back where they’d started. He would find himself thinking and thinking about how he had failed and ruined everything, how he shouldn’t have indulged himself in this kingdom nonsense, how he had murdered so many children, his own children, to save the people. The worst part? He hadn’t even been able to save them, not when they’d trusted him, relied on him. And because they were affiliated with him, they had died. He had made sacrifices because he wanted to save his people, but the sacrifices were what had caused him to be unable to save them.

Poor judgement, selfishness, a disgrace to Wyrms, the thoughts would grind away inside his head, the screech of metal ringing in his mind and throughout the blanketed silence of the White Palace.

Occasionally, amid the angry buzzing in his head, there would be another voice, that made bold remarks in the sort of self important way that reminded him nastily of how he had been, back when he had thought himself and his kingdom important enough to attempt to finish off the Light, when she still hadn’t even expressed malice. Why was he sulking? He hadn’t done anything wrong. What else could he have done? Nothing, that was what. Yes, thousands of his children had died, but they had died before they knew they were alive. That was better than forcing thousands of his unwilling subjects’ children, with mind and thought, down in the Abyss to be hollowed out by the Void. That was the best choice he could have made, wasn’t it? But eventually, that voice grew weaker, and less prominent amongst the angry drone, that it gradually faded out, and he couldn’t quite hear it anymore. He supposed that its absence was an improvement. After all, the absence of that voice meant that there was no longer a part of him trying to justify what he had done.

It was the day the voice disappeared completely, that the White Palace started to break. At first, it was just the connections between floors. The staircases would crack, and crumble away into fine dust, like how his old self had crumbled away to ash, and the lifts would crash and fall to the bottom of the elevator shafts. Then, whole chunks of corridors would go missing, rooms would reorient themselves in odd ways, and thorns would begin growing in places where plant life had never been present. He had once stepped out of the throne room after another long period of isolation, to find that the nursery where he’d kept the Vessel had positioned itself right underneath it. Even through the layers of rock that separated him and the old crib, even if she was no longer there, he could hear the sound of his Root humming.

His Root, what had she thought of all this? She had gone along with his plans, but was that really what she’d wanted? Had she really been willing to do the unforgivable with him? She had never been clear about what she wanted or didn’t want, after all. He hadn’t even spent that much time with her after he decided that the infection took precedence. Where had he been, when he stopped going to bed with her? In his workshop, making soldiers of Void. Playing arrogantly with something that wasn’t meant to be chained down and harnessed. She hadn’t expressed disapproval towards his actions, but she hadn’t expressed approval either. When had they grown distant? Had she been unwilling when he sent her into hiding in the Queen’s Gardens? Had she looked back? When had she stopped needing him?

Had she ever needed him?

His Root didn’t want him anymore, did she?

Time passed. The thorns spread. The buzzsaws were everywhere. The Palace was fragmented to the point that it was unrecognisable, but still he thought.

After a long time of thinking, staring, thinking again, his thoughts gradually began to focus on the Hollow Knight. He had doomed them, hadn’t he? They had been hollow, they wouldn’t have had to know or care about the fate that awaited them, but he had ruined it all. Somehow he had filled their emptiness and given them a mind. It wasn’t meant to be that way, they were meant to stay empty, yet they had turned out to be a child, a real child, that grew up and became a knight and was sent off to die. What did they like? Did they enjoy the suit of armour he had given them? What about their nail? Did they feel pleased whenever he taught them to do something new with spells and soul? Or did they dislike fighting altogether, and were just content to sit on the ledge staring in silence?

He did not know how to answer those questions.

“Do not think”, “do not speak”, “do not hope”. How long had they spent, thinking those three sentences, wholeheartedly believing it to be for the best? Despite all the wrong he had done to them, had they grown to love the kingdom? Their mother? Their life of endless training? Was that why they’d willingly gone into the Black Egg, wanting to be sealed? And knowing that, knowing all the suffering they would likely have to go through, he had still let them march off to their doom, like the terrible father that he was. And now they were broken, and it was all his fault.

A few days later, he found that the elevator shaft to his workshop had been replaced by a yawning chasm lined with thorns.

His activity grew limited to his throne room, and soon, he could no longer find the strength to leave anymore, and just sat slumped on his throne, alone with his loud, noisy thoughts. He missed his Root, and ironically, he missed his Vessel. He missed their quietness and their staring eyes. It was just always so noisy now, now that he was alone.

He thought of the cold of the Vessel, the cold of the Void, and the cold in his chest as the lights he had tossed down flickered and died. In a fit of pathetic reminiscence, he reached out his hand, just like he had done when he had committed the worst of his crimes.

Come , he commanded.

And, to his surprise, the Void came.

The Kingsmoulds had Void in them, that was right, he thought to himself as the darkness swept into the room and encased his pale light in a bubble. He ought to cast it out, but somehow, he could not bring himself to move. It was painful, it whispered, and it promised emptiness and respite from the noise, but most importantly of all, it was the same cold as his Vessel. It was familiar. It was choking him, and he could feel it gouging him out, but it was familiar.

He was going to die. He told himself that he should cast it out.

He thought of his Vessel, sitting on the balcony by his side, maskflies darting past low hanging vines. He thought of his Vessel, silently looking up at him, their hands clinging to the edges of his robes. He thought of his Vessel, standing with their hands on their nail, the light of the lumaflies glinting off of their armour and their mask, bending down to listen to him on his level.

No cost too great. No cost too great to pay for the crimes he had committed.

He ought to cast the Void out. But he didn’t.

And the Void pinched out his light.

***

The Pale King was alone, and the Pale King was dead.

And in his death he dreamed.

He dreamed of a wide field basked in light, the green of the grass swaying gently in the wind.

He dreamed of his children frolicking in the distance, no longer just skulls at the bottom of the Abyss.

He dreamt of his Root amongst them, leaning over them gently with her pale light.

He dreamt of the little weaver in red, waving her needle and rolling around in the grass.

He dreamed of his Hollow Knight, with a handful of flowers instead of a nail, quietly watching their siblings play.

He himself was on a small hill, far away so that he could no longer hurt them, his body lying dormant at his feet.

He looked at his corpse.

He looked at his family.

And for the first time in many years, he felt happy.