Chapter Text
They're just a kid when they meet the Nightmare King for the first time, and it's every bit as frightening, confusing, and exhilarating as one would expect meeting a fae to be. Every bit as dangerous, too - but they aren't quite aware of that just yet. It's a dark and cloudy evening, and the ruins scattered across the Hallownest's Crown loom ominously over their head as they collapse to their knees in the grass, staring down the cliff at the city sprawled below. They’re oblivious to the tension in the air, the strange silence that seems to have made its home here. They have never been here before. They weren't planning on coming here today. And their mind, well, their mind is not here at all, stuck instead in reliving the argument that prompted them to leave the house in the first place - that made them realize, for the first time, what sublime snare they were born into. They know now what their father sees when he looks at them: a failure. A mere reminder of hopes unfulfilled, certain to never bring anything but disappointment... yet doomed to try regardless, try and try again, until they scrape themselves raw against the insurmountable wall of his expectations. The realization made something within them crack and bleed liquid darkness. Rather than allow their father to see it, they chose to run, wander aimlessly until fatigue numbed their pain - until their thoughts could scream themselves hoarse and fall silent.
It didn’t work.
They are here now, exhausted, but the pain did not cease; and as they gaze upon the tiny lights of Hallownest below them, as distant now as they are likely to ever get-- it occurs to them that it never might.
They wish, then, with the fervent sincerity of a child, that at least it didn’t have to hurt this much.
Right then-- a crack of flame, and red light bursts to life in the encroaching darkness. The Nightmare King appears in a cloud of smoke, cloak billowing feather-like around his willowy frame. He's all long lines and slender limbs, bows, flourishes, and smiles as sharp as shards of broken glass. There's a fire-crowned staff in his hand that he doesn't seem to know how to keep still, twirling it in his fingers until the flame dances and hums. They should be frightened, probably. They are not. They have never seen magic, but know of it; have gleaned it from the way their mother's garden sprawls in gentle waves, from how shadows deepen and stick in the corners of their father's study. Magic is the only thing that fits into the empty space sketched out by the unexplained that surrounds them daily in abundance. A mysterious being appearing out of thin air among the ruins of an old place of worship is less a revelation than a foregone conclusion.
Perhaps that is why they do not question the Nightmare King when he offers to grant their wish. "A simple exchange," is what he says. "You are in pain and wish for it to cease. My domain lies over things feared and abandoned; my nature is to devour and burn. It would not be difficult for me at all to take away your suffering. But what would you offer me in return? A proper rite must be observed for this kind of thing - no magic can be given away without a price."
They consider this in silence, watching the flame dance in the Nightmare King's eyes. They know now that they will be forced to face their father's disappointment for years to come. Yet they will have to be strong, unwaveringly so - for their siblings to rely on, for their mother to draw hope from. It would be so much easier without the tumult of emotions churning in their core, that anger-sadness-pain that scrapes against their throat, the backs of their eyes. Yes, the fae's offer is a tempting one. But what of the price? They have nothing to offer. They call nothing their own.
"How about a name?" The Nightmare King suggests when they turn the question on him. They think it a strange choice. They don't know enough to think it threatening. Yet the trap springs twofold, for without understanding the fae's goal they cannot warn him of its unattainability. Though they were given a name, they have never embraced it, and when they offer it now it rings hollow: a false coin, a forged deed. The Nightmare King stills, and the world stills around him. For a few seconds, everything is silent.
"How very clever," the fae eventually says, shifting away in a flurry of flame, a wisp of smoke escaping his ever-smiling mouth. The heat that surrounds him turns stifling, and with a sudden flash of clarity, they recognize that he is angry . Their body knows the danger before their brain has a chance to process it; they throw themselves backward, stumbling over the crystals peaking through the grass and barely catching themselves before they fall, scrambling to get away in mindless fright. The Nightmare King does not pursue them, but his silhouette seems to grow taller and darker, the way a shadow would against stark light.
“Oh, but you must think yourself very brave, do you not?” he croons, deceptively soft. His eyes are burning coals in a sea of darkness. “Is this what you came here for, to try your luck in a game against me? My, but I can do much more to entertain.“ A shape stretches itself over his shoulders, a pair of shadow-woven wings unfolding against the night sky-- and then at last they turn away and run , flying down the overgrown path towards the foot of the mountain. All the while, the fae’s voice reaches them as if speaking over their shoulder right into their ear.
“You may slip away today, little Ghost, but a name is always a name, and a deal always a deal. Mind what you have bought for such a price, for a wish is only ever as good as what was given in return.”
The voice fades away by the time they burst back into the house. But the fear remains. Their mother, ever worried, gathers them in her arms. They curl there shivering, both unwilling and unable to answer her questions, until at last sleep comes to claim their consciousness.
When they wake up the following morning, they no longer feel fear, or pain, or sadness, or joy. Only void, and a vague taste of ash at the back of their throat.