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There was a wingmould lying on the floor outside of his room. The Pale King considered its broken metal shell with distant interest. Void spilt out in a pool under it, staining the floor. An unforeseen change in the timeless routine of his surroundings.
He looked around, past the Pure Vessel in its silent vigil. The corridor was empty, with no possible culprit in sight. And besides, who would be foolish enough to tamper with his creations? The Pale King frowned, thinking about the Gendered Child. But, she was in the Deepnest, under Herrah’s request. With the sealing so close, the queen wanted to spend the remainder of her days with her daughter.
He leaned down to examine the wingmould, moving parts of the armour to the side. His claws immediately stained black. A familiar sight, the one that came often to him in dreams - only then his arms were black to the elbows. He’ll have to take the wingmould to his workshop. It would serve as a distraction.
The Pale King gestured for the Pure Vessel to follow.
The castle was quiet. An uneasy stillness had smothered the entirety of his kingdom those days. As if it was a wounded beast, crawling into the darkest corner it could find and waiting for the fever to break or for death.
It wouldn’t have to wait for long.
The sound of their footsteps only served to highlight the silence.
He hadn’t had a reason to visit his workshop lately. A layer of dust settled over the desk, covering his notes. The Pale King pushed them aside and set the wingmould down.
The work was familiar. It wouldn’t have really qualified as a distraction if his mind didn’t feel so dull lately. He took apart the shell, taking care to examine each component. There were no faults in them, as far as he could see.
The Pale King stared at the laid-out pieces, willing himself to focus, willing himself to find that spark of creative desperation that always drove his experiments.
He felt nothing.
He put the wingmould back together.
At the touch of soul, the dots of eyes appeared in the void. With a whirring noise, the wingmould lifted into the air. The Pale King watched as it hovered steadily in front of him, before suddenly spasming, the little wings flapping erratically, and falling down. The void splattered onto the desk.
Time passed.
The Pale King reassembled the wingmould again with the same results. He made a new one from the spare shell in his workshop and watched it flicker and fall as well. He ordered a functioning wingmould brought and tried to compare them. To his growing dismay, once reassembled the previously fine wingmould met the same fate.
It felt, in some morbid way, like they simply didn’t have the will to function anymore. He shook his head at the thought. His mind was still sluggish. The wingmoulds in the other parts of the castle still worked, didn’t they? Was it a local effect? Something in the workshop disturbing the void? But that couldn’t be it considering where he found the first one.
He turned around to survey the surroundings anyway. The workshop had grown darker, shadows eating at the corners. It was late, but he often stayed in here through the night. No one would disturb him here. The Pure Vessel was standing in the corner, its eyes blank.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
He turned back to his desk, considering bringing one of the wingmoulds outside to see if the effect would last. The light flickered. He tapped the lumafly lamp with a claw.
A wave of force shook the air. The lamp shattered, scattering the lumaflies.
The Pale King startled from the chair. Another wave vibrated through the ground. Without a single sound, all wingmoulds shuddered, dripping void.
What was causing it?!
He whirled around and willed his light to shine out brighter. The darkness gave way with reluctance. As the third wave swept through the room, he turned towards its centre to see…
…His Pure Vessel, two streaks of void running from its eyes down the mask.
Questions bubbled up in the Pale King’s mind.
Was it affecting the vessel too? Was it the source? But how?..
He stepped towards it, gesturing for it to kneel. The Pure Vessel folded gracefully. He reached his hand to its mask, absentmindedly wishing to wipe the void away as if it was just dirt that it wouldn’t know to clean itself. His claws touched its chitin and he almost recoiled in surprise. The Pure Vessel was shaking, imperceptible tremors running through its body. The waves of silent force rippled around them.
The Pale King cupped its mask with two arms, reaching the others to examine it for injury or any other explanation. He couldn’t find any.
With a frown, he peered into the Pure Vessel’s eyes, as if an answer could be hiding behind them. Void stared back at him, vacant.
He’d have to look into his notes, figure out a probable cause. This couldn’t be allowed to go on… He moved to step back, but hands held tight onto his robes. And with a sudden, slow lurch, the vessel’s body collapsed into his arms. The Pale King froze, shock and terror both vying for attention, but leaving his mind blank. The Pure Vessel’s mask pressed into his shoulder and it clutched at him, silent shudders racking through its body. He felt himself wrap his arms around it, more on instinct than conscious thought.
For a long silent moment, he held them.
After a time, the vessel’s body grew still. He let go of them slowly, and they scrambled back, pressing their body against the wall. Their mask was turned to the side, so, he guessed, they wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.
He paced around the workshop.
There was no denying what just happened. Mortals might shy away from the truth in fear and weakness, but not a god. The Pale King told himself that, while his thoughts rushed past the revelation not able to acknowledge it, desperate to find a semblance of a solution to cling to.
Was there still time to get a new vessel? Could he face Root with a new request? The thought made him shudder. There was barely any warmth left between them as is, to think…
And would he even be able to tell if the new vessel was pure? He was so certain… How could he not notice? How could he?…
The Pale King sunk his claws into his forearm, trying desperately to drown out the howling in his head. A shuffling noise came from behind him and he whirled to look back.
The vessel was extending a hand to him. The sudden movement made them flinch and shy away.
He felt like a monster.
No, he didn’t deserve to hide behind a simile.
He was a monster.
An old revelation, but the one he had never before felt so acutely.
A new thought struck him.
He had been going to seal them. Would have done it if they didn’t… Would have walked them to the temple, seen it shut… To watch his kingdom suffocate once again under a plague that couldn’t be contained. To know… To know that he did that to them…
The sharp pain pushed through the whirlwind of thought. The Pale King looked down to see that his claws had scraped raw marks across his chitin. With a hiss, he flicked blood and soul away.
But the pain brought sudden clarity. There was still something he could do before the weight of his kingdom and his mistakes came crashing down on him.
He turned to the vessel, who had their arms wrapped tight around their knees.
“Can you walk?” he asked, trying to sound gentle. He was never good at that.
The vessel drew themselves up, unsteadily. All of their poised grace was gone now. He wondered how long they had been keeping themself together by the sheer force of will. The will he thought to deny them.
The Pale King turned around, trusting the vessel to follow.
The corridors were deserted, the late hour dispersing those few who stayed out. It didn’t matter, as his light would shield them both from unwelcome eyes. He walked forward, hearing the sound of their feet behind him. Almost as if nothing had changed.
He led them out of the castle, past the kingsmoulds on guard.
The trek was long. He only made it once before. He hadn’t planned to go back.
Oblivious to his plans and desires, the cliffs of Kingdom’s Edge greeted his return with howling wind and specks of moult. Soon the place would be covered in white, his old form forever changing the landscape.
They climbed on through rock and fossilised shells. The Pale King had to use his wings, but the vessel's height let them follow him.
Not far now.
When they finally arrived, he was tired. The exhaustion sipped into his mind, making the world fray at the edges. He would do this still. He had to do at least this.
Even now, his corpse reached out to bite the emptiness with its maw. The shadows were dark within the crown of its teeth.
“Here,” he said to the vessel, “is what remains of my old form. This cast-off shell is the only reminder of my previous life. If you walk inside it you shall find a pale egg. Touch it and you will wear the brand that marks you as my heir. That is your right, as–” his voice faltered. He didn’t deserve weakness at this. “–As my child.”
The vessel looked at him wide-eyed. And then they looked past him, into the Wyrm’s maw. The darkness within it grew darker still.
As they looked, eight white eyes opened up inside the shadow. The giant void-black shape emerged from inside the shell, its form unfurling slowly to take up half his vision.
The Pale King recoiled, trying to summon his light, his weapons, anything, but the being simply looked past him.
“And so you were right, Sibling,” the low voice vibrated through his mind. The shade folded their arms and rested their head on top to peer at the vessel. “Although I don’t think even you quite believed it.” They flicked one of their arms in his direction. “You can have him if you want. Just make sure our Sister doesn’t throttle him first.”
At that, his world grew dark.