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Prisoned in a slow and boiling hot pit, held up by the heavy chains of its sins, and forced to look down at the infection-stained ground and its pathetic, swaying body.
A lovely, well-crafted punishment for The Hollow Knight, it supposes.
It breathes in shakily, feeling the toxic, heavy fumes of the infection creep into its lungs, sizzling gleefully upon contact. The warm fumes were noxious, a sickly-sweet taste, like a backhanded compliment coated in sugary sauce, sprinkled with faint laughter of the imprisoned God sneering at its fate. They tickled and teased, as they drove up the humid atmosphere to mind breaking intensity mockingly.
Each breath was getting a little closer to being overwhelming – it cannot stand the torturous situation any longer. Every single exhale was so incredibly nauseating to comprehend, the fumes making its mind swim as if it was a lone survivor in an endless ocean, trembling in absolute fear at the sight of the roaring waves and the heartless cold. Each inhale, each exhale, each breath was like stealing the air in the lungs of Hallownest’s citizens, like a disgusting and wretched thief it was, dooming them to their fate from the infection.
It has failed. It has killed thousands, it has let down its dear Father, it has disappointed Mother, it has left its own dear sister in a barren wasteland to fend for herself, and it has left its beloved twin to waste away in the abyss, thousands of feet below where it hangs. How poetic, it must have been the karma chasing it for its cruel action, dooming it to a similar fate to its twin. It does not – it does not deserve to breathe, it does not deserve to live after causing the death of its homeland, letting the God flourish inside it as it loses control over its over body and mind. It –
A violent cough overtook its system, overriding every single thought it had. The feeble frame trembling with each heave, viscous ichor flooding down its sides. Everything burns. A sickening snap seem to resonate somewhere within its body – where? It can’t tell. Everything hurts too much to tell.
No. Do not think… do not…
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Yellowish-orange bile? Vomit? It cannot tell ––– drips down its body, viscous liquid reflecting its miserable body. If it squints hard enough, it can see a faint mirage of the God’s eyes staring back, curled into yellow crescents, giddy at the sight of Her prison suffering.
The Hollow Knight wishes to yell, to scream with vengeance, to curse the God that has doomed the kingdom. It wishes to cry, sob, grieving over the family and homeland lost to the God imprisoned. It wishes to feel the cathartic release, until its voice was hoarse, and its body gave out from sheer exhaustion, shaking feverishly.
No. Doing so is not justified of itself. After the grievous sin of mind, the poisonous plague of will that infected the Hollow Knight ever since its birth that devastated an entire kingdom and its family, it does not deserve that privilege. No, it does not. Thousands of unsaid dreams, hopes and voices were gone because of it. The golden age crashed down, like a burning building collapsing, heaving its last smoky breaths, each building block falling apart, losing its hold on each other, bringing along the dreams of people along with it.
Do not speak…
A chortle of sickly-sweet laughter danced around it, weaving in with the orange fumes, dancing gracefully in and out of the abyssal dark walls of the temple. Snickers swims sickeningly close to itself, snaking itself into its thoughts, whispering: Father…
Father… Father! Is He alive? Is He hiding away from the infection all along? Is He safe? Is Father hiding with Mother? What of its sister? Is she still alive? How old is she now? Oh Hornet, facing off the horrors of the barren wasteland, fending off the infected citizens, all by herself. Father must be strong; He must be devising a way to finish off the God! Surely, he must! He will come back and save me, sur–––
No. NO. Do not hope. It doesn’t deserve to. What HOPE does it have the right to wish for? What hope after the Kingdom had died, shrivelling into a barren wasteland, inflamed with the infection, moaning in the unresolved years of pain? What hope does it deserve to have, after it has stolen the hopes of many innocent ones?
Do not…
An infection bubble popped with a giggle in its body, flooding it with an all too familiar sensation. The God’s laughter frolicked around it, swirling around the spell bound chains, flowing around its rusted armour. She was thoroughly entertained by the tragic scene played out right in front of her, like a front row of seat to an award winning performance. The fumes rose with vigour, blooming within the confines of the temple. It suffocates and chokes, body bloating with gold ichor, joints eaten away from the acidic infection, mind melting away from the sheer overwhelming sensation. Its body twitches violently, chains clanging in a strange beat, like they were counting down to its death.
It lurches over, spewing out more bile. What can it do, other than chant the phrases in eternity, like a desperate follower grovelling before a God for forgiveness, clutching onto the worshipping chants like it was their lifeline? And what if the God was cruel, indifferent, and unforgiving, and instead, drank in from the fervent begging of Her follower?
Do not…
Do not…
Do not…