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Quirrel dreams of orange light
He wakes up panting, head spinning, as he reorients himself. Dread settles heavily in his stomach as he remembers that he’s home, he’s in the archives, and the orange light is never just orange light.
He walks, doesn’t run, because running is for people who are panicking, and though frantic energy buzzes deep under his carapace, he will not panic. If he freaks out, Monomon will, and the last time that happened a dozen uomas were exploded in the worlds worst game of ping pong. It’s a long story.
He walks.
Monomon is already awake, diligently recording her notes on the acid tanks that decorate the archives. She is stressed, Quirrel knows, knows in an instant. The past few weeks have not been easy on either of them.
He sits down next to her, reaching for one of the tablets to categorize. She yawns, and it feels so domestic that his chest jerks in mourning. What he mourns for, he doesn’t know yet, but he understands intrinsically that this normalcy will dissipate in a short while.
Quirrel contemplates not telling her about his dream, contemplates letting her believe that he simply came down at this hour to finish lingering tasks. She can tell something’s wrong, though, her head tilted ever so slightly, always studying, always learning.
“I dreamt of the light,” Quirrel says, in one breath, as if it would hurt less. With the words verbalized, he realizes the energy within him is fear.
Monomon stills, and she stays silent for a while. The only sound is the gentle hum of electricity, and the burning behind Quirrel’s skull.
“Do you retain yourself?” She finally speaks, words as carefully crafted as the ones etched into the acid tanks.
“I believe so, Madam. I haven’t killed anyone yet.” He shrugs. It’s a horrid thing to joke about, and he almost looks around, as if the Pale King were to materialize and execute him. Monomon laughs, slightly, exhaustion radiating off of her every movement.
He understands, implicitly, her thoughts. They are both too afraid to sleep.
“The scariest part of this infection is that it is completely incomprehensible,” she almost whispers, in that special tone of voice that holds secrets and words only for him, words that, as her closest archivist, he holds tight to his chest. There are no things unsaid. “We’ve had plagues before, hell-you remember the dancing disease in Greenpath a few years ago. Those all had reasons…”
“Gulka seeds do cause…interesting behaviors.”
“Indeed. But this isn’t because of some seed, or some bacteria, or even a contaminant from the surface, my dear archivist.” She sighs. “An infection that kills through the host’s dreams…what a horrible fate that has been thrown upon us.”
The longer he stays awake, the more the light fades from his mind. Almost, almost enough for him to forget about it. If he is infected, which is likely, these are the earliest stages, and he will have control of his mind for a little while longer.
[He considers throwing himself into the acid below. Years worth of urges compiled into a single justification. If he were to, Monomon would only have to mourn him once. He’s seen families get ripped apart by the light, seen people slowly lose themselves to infection, treated warts and bulbs of orange pus that never heal, seen the desperation, read all of the history of light he could find, he knows, he knows, to stay alive means to succumb, to stay alive means to force Monomon to watch the degradation of his mind, and without his mind he is nothing.]
[He looks at her, sitting in the acid, and she looks at him, and he knows he would never forgive himself if he followed through.]
The bell rings, the other archivists and students begin to flow out of their sleeping quarters.
“I will see you tonight?” The infection doesn’t sleep. Neither will they.
“Of course, Madam.”
***
Quirrel hasn’t slept in a week, and he succumbs.
The infection has progressed, slowly, a seed within his mind. Staying awake doesn’t prevent the development, but it does slow it. Every day is valuable.
Two days ago, they received word that the Pure Vessel has been found, and discussed it into the deepest hours of the night.
[“5 million children. All to save this kingdom.”
“Do you think it's worth it, Madam?”
“I do not believe I could ever find a justification for such a slaughter.”
“Especially not for this place.”
“You know I agree with your opinions of this kingdom more than most.”
“It's a horrible fate.”
“5 million is such an impossible number. Where could He possibly have put the bodies?”]
Even if he wasn’t trying to stay awake, Quirrel suspects he wouldn’t have been able to sleep that night.
They have spent the last week thinking of what to do post the sealing of the vessel. They are both in agreement that there needs to be a further level of protection, but the question of what is where the disagreements have started.
Quirrel falls asleep in the middle of his research, and the orange light consumes him.
It is blinding and it is infinite. Orange fragments glisten in the unseeable sun and he is so deeply afraid. It screams at him, desperately, clawing at the inside of his mind, full of rage. He sees his family in the orange and as he reaches they shatter away into starlight. He reaches for the blinding light but knows, somehow, that such a thing would cause nothing but pain. He wills himself to get out of this abyss, and the light screams, and screams, and screams, a name which has been forgotten.
The Radiance.
He wakes to Monomon clutching his face, calling his name. Orange light swims in his vision as the voice in his head shrieks
KILL-MAIM-KILL-HURT-KILL-FIGHT-MAIM-HURT-KILL
“Don’t touch me,” he yells, and Monomon jumps back. He keels over, blinded by the light behind his eyes.
He throws up.
It’s orange.
Monomon calls his name.
He can’t succumb. Not fully. He needs to retain his mind.
He can’t succumb.
He can’t succumb.
He wakes up again in one of the medical cots he and Monomon set up in their haste to care for the floods of infected bugs. The voice-The Radiance screams in his mind, but it is muffled, somehow. He finds he’s still able to think, albeit slowly.
“I gave you some lifeblood,” Monomon whispers. She’s sitting next to him, holding his hand, lightly enough that he could pull away if he needed to. “I know you hate the taste, but…”
His mind is cold and sluggish, but not orange.
“Thank you, Madam.”
“Does it help?” He considers, for a moment. The light flashes behind his eyes, shooting pain traveling up his skull. Not gone, but muted.
“It does. Madam, I am quite unsure of what happened when I awoke the first time.” All he remembers is light and an all consuming pain in his mind. He spares Monomon those details, though.
“You were screaming in your sleep.” Her hold on his hand tightens. “I ran to see what was happening, and you were…jerking. I called your name, trying to wake you up, and you did, sort of, but not fully.” She shudders, briefly. “Your eyes were orange. I-I thought you were gone.” She whispers again, “I thought I was going to have to kill you. I realized that I could never. Then, you yelled, and you were still here, and I have never felt relief like that, my dear, never.”
[”My dear” “my dear” “my dear” “my dear”. Not “my dear archivist” or “my dear assistant”. Just hers.]
Despite the circumstances, Quirrel smiles.
“Then you passed out and I brought you here.”
“Thank you,” he says again.
***
It has been a month and Quirrel sits at the blue lake.
His mind remains, though only in fragments. The blue lake helps him think. The screaming is less piercing.
[KILL-HURT-MAIM-KILL-KING-KILL-REMEMBER-LIGHT]
His motor function has decreased significantly. He no longer walks, he limps or shambles. On bad days he cannot do either unassisted. His hands shake and twitch and jerk, he is unable to write.
[He is unable to use his sword, and that fact fills him with an ice cold fear. No matter how many years it has been, he is still, in his heart, Monomon’s guard.]
The lake provides lucidity. Though he jolts and trembles, though he smells of sickness, though his legs fail to cooperate, he can think.
The progression of the disease has led him to some unnerving revelations. He will lose control of his body before his mind. Is this how it was for the others? Were they still conscious as they killed their families, body moving as if a puppet, mind screaming to stop?
He can’t have that happen, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he-
[LIGHT-SEE-REMEMBER-KILL-HURT-KILL-MAIM]
Monomon appears next to him, holding a glass of lifeblood, and he remembers that they went here together. He takes the glass, nearly spilling it, and misses his mouth twice. Monomon spares him any comments.
A flash of light bursts behind his eyes and he cringes, dropping the now empty glass.
“We figured it out,” she says. She’s rubbing his back. “My dear, we found a solution.”
As the infection progressed, Quirrel had been removed from the discussions of what to do with the Hollow Knight. Monomon had wanted to spare his mind, and though he had been initially upset, he finds he agrees with her decision.
“Tell me,” Quirrel says.
“Three dreamers will be chosen to seal the vessel inside of its confinement. They will be put into eternal slumber. The only way the seals can be broken is if they are killed within the dream, and such a feat is near impossible. The light will not be able to harm the dreamers from the inside, and the dreamers cannot be attacked from the outside.”
“The vessel can only be tampered with if someone enters the dreamers’ minds.”
“Precisely.”
“Have they been chosen yet?” Monomon hesitates, and cold blossoms in Quirrel’s chest.
“Yes,” she says.
“Who are they?” He knows, he knows, he knows.
“Lurien volunteered himself. You know his opinions toward the King.” Quirrel nods, recalling the few times Lurien visited the archives. He does not miss those days.
“Herrah, from Deepnest, was more difficult. However, apparently the King has arranged a deal with her. I do not know the details of it.” Monomon stops again. She is guilty, and he knows.
“And the third?”
Suffocating silence.
“Madam?”
“...In an effort to preserve all of our research, I volunteered myself.”
[KILL-HURT-KILL-MAIM-BETRAYER-KILL-HER-KILL]
The Radiance screams. Quirrel looks at Monomon.
“No,” he whispers.
“My dear-”
“You can’t leave me like this.”
“Certainly you must understand my reasoning. I cannot have the infection take everything I care about.”
[It’s his fault.]
[If he didn’t get infected, if he didn’t succumb, Monomon would still be awake.]
“I would let this entire kingdom burn if it meant you and I could stay alive,” Quirrel says. “I can’t believe you will sacrifice yourself to this place born of deception. To our horrible ‘King’ and the wealthy, stupid bugs who do nothing but complain about the luxury they live in, while those in the Crossroads are left with nothing.”
“Do you really think that I’m giving away my life for those stupid City bugs?” Monomon hisses, but Quirrel knows she’s not angry at him. “I will sleep so that all of our years of knowledge can be preserved. So that those areas not under the King's rule, the Hive and the Mantis Village and parts of Greenpath, can thrive. For those people in Crystal Peak who sing their endless song, for the children like you, Quirrel, who were forced to go to the Colosseum at such a young age. All of them deserve a fair chance at life in a kingdom that isn’t overrun by dreams.”
They are silent, for a while.
“When does it happen?” He asks.
“Three days.” She looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Quirrel takes her hand. He understands.
“Okay.”
***
It’s the day before the sealing and Quirrel doesn’t sleep. His entire body vibrates with infection. The Radiance in his mind is an ever blooming cacophony, and he cannot think of anything else but
REMEMBER-LIGHT-REMEMBER-RADIANCE-KILL-MAIM-HURT-KILL
Monomon knocks on the door to his living quarters once, then walks in. He startles at the sight of her. She isn’t wearing her mask, and it’s evident she has been crying, acid tears dripping down her face. Despite everything, she is beautiful.
“Madam?” He asks, attempting to sit up. His arms do not obey him, though, and she rushes over to assist. The moment she touches him, the voice shrieks
KILL-HER-KILL-HER-KILL-HER-KILL-HER-KILL-HER
He tenses, but does not move. Every day the urge to kill grows stronger, and he knows soon he will not be able to control his body to resist it. His mind remains.
Monomon sits on the edge of his bed and he grabs her tentacle, clutching it with such desperation he fears he could never will himself to let go. She looks away, sniffles, covering her face with another tentacle.
“I am so afraid, Madam.” A few tears of his own slip through, and they burn. He knows that they are orange. She nods, turning to face him, finally. She wipes the tears from his face.
“I am too.”
They sit with each other, and a million things go unsaid. Quirrel doesn’t mind. If he were to tantalize himself with the hope of reciprocation, tomorrow would only be so much more difficult. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. He knows.
“I have a request of you, my dear,” Monomon speaks suddenly, jerking Quirrel out of his thoughts.
“Anything, Madam.” She pauses, contemplates, pushes forward.
“The seals can be broken. I only discovered it recently. You know I would have told you the instant I found out, I promise I did not keep this information from you.” He nods. “It is an unlikely, near impossible feat, but the chance is not zero…I put a seal on my mask.” She places it in his lap, and he covers it with a twitchy hand. “I want you to take it, and to go far away from here. Beyond Hallownest, beyond the Howling Cliffs. You are to keep walking as far as you can go. The seal will cause you to forget everything about your life here, you will remain in stasis. You will not age, you will not remember.” Quirrel stares at her. She speaks so quickly, as if she could never start again if she were to pause to breathe. “The seal will clear the infection alongside your memories. The Winds will cleanse your body. You will be whole again. It is a horrible task I ask of you.”
He considers. His body shakes.
He has startlingly little to lose.
“I will do it, Madam.”
The "for you" goes unsaid.