Chapter Text
‘The Sealing;
It heralded a significant change in Hallownest, but it is a very controversial topic. Accounts speak of it with equal amounts of hope and hatred.
I can speculate that it was a grand event tied to the Hollow Knight and the Black Egg Temple, but I cannot find any information regarding what it was and the reason for the mass dissent afterward.
The most I have are some personal accounts gathered from Cityfolk and the Memorial plaque.
What I can find in those old journals indicates a plan to contain an infection—maybe the thing that animates the bug shells in the Kingdom, perhaps some form of Fungal infection or mind-controlling agent? Nothing is clear on its cause. All I have is speculation.
So far, I have not been inflicted by such illness, even after proximity. Hopefully, it will stay that way.
—
From what I’ve gathered, the Hollow Knight made some kind of ‘sacrifice’ up above in the Black Egg Temple (evidenced by the fountain made as an homage to his image).
There was is?... Anyways, some kind of disease seems to still linger in Hallownest to this day (1926 on the Epharix Calendar). It was depicted as a disease that caused a bug to go mad. Some symptoms include hallucinations and sickeningly sweet-smelling orange cysts appearing on their bodies and spreading to others quickly (evidenced by some stone records from a few low-income healers in the slums).
It’s still unclear if the infection I saw personally is the same as the one from all those records. I have personally witnessed a plethora of infected bugs in my time here, investigating the relics of Hallownest, but contrary to the information I found, the only symptoms they displayed were those orange-tinted eyes. They seemed unfocused on the present, moving in repetitive patterns, almost mechanically, and unable to die naturally (by starvation or dehydration). They also seem only to attack when I get into their direct path. So far, none have tried to communicate, and my attempts have ended in violence, with no words coming out of their mouths.
—
Only Wyrm knows how long it’s been since those infected sentries started marching around the City, to and fro their posts, following orders from long-dead supervisors . A year? A decade? A century?
What did they see during that time? What are they hiding behind those unthinking eyes of theirs?’
~Lemn, Relic Seeker
Guided by armed sentries, Cityfolk and other commoners alike whispered amongst themselves. After years of suffering at the hands of the Infection—thousands, if not millions, of deaths—the Pale King had finally presented a solution—a plan decades in the making to end the Infection once and for all.
A Pure Vessel had been created. According to their monarch, it was a being that resembled a bug yet lacked a mind to think, a will to break, or a voice to cry suffering—a container for the Infection, meant to be sealed away, taking the plague with it.
The procession moved toward the newly constructed temple erected just days prior. The site had been built at an astonishing pace, with sentries and even the Five Great Knights protecting its construction around the clock. The Pale King Himself had overseen every detail. In less than a month, the behemoth of a structure had been completed, reinforced with Soul Magic to aid in containment. Today, the Pure Vessel will be sealed inside.
Those left alive, those brave enough to witness history, followed the sentries to observe the momentous event under their protection. Above the Capital, husks of the fallen still roamed the caverns. Almost half of Hallownest's population was gone, and those who remained still lived in fear and grief.
But today, there was hope.
Their God-King had promised them the Eternal Kingdom, and He was delivering on His ancient oath.
“Is everything under control?” Ogrim asked as Isma approached him. Her squadron of sentries had positioned themselves near the entrance to Dirtmouth, patrolling for infected husks or any planning to sabotage the Sealing.
“It’s going smoothly,” she replied. “I took Ze’mer’s warning to heart, don’t worry. I was careful.” She reassured him. “It wasn’t much trouble anyway. Your regiment already came through before mine. They did a good job clearing out most of the husks. My sentries handled whatever was left quickly.” She chuckled softly. “I told them it was a training exercise—competing with your regiment to see which could clear out the most husks. I would’ve had to teach them how to handle the Infected in small numbers without my support at some point, regardless. They took the challenge head-on.” Pride laced her business-casual voice.
“That’s good.” Ogrim nodded, sighing contentedly as Isma lightly leaned on him, his gaze shifting toward the tunnels.
The King had chosen a direct route to the Grand Crossroads, avoiding areas heavily influenced by the Hateful-Light’s presence. Ogrim shuddered at the thought of those places—infected cocoons sprouting grotesque orange growths, pulsing with a sickly sweet glow. The heat they emanated was nauseating, the scent rotten and cloying. It whispered to the mind, promising power and grandeur.
Avoiding those accursed places, the King’s charted path allowed them to pass through abandoned villages, gathering survivors—bugs not yet overtaken by the Infection but lost in memories of the past or illusions of the future, unable to leave their homes.
It wasn’t long before Hegemol arrived with his battalion, leading a group of Commonfolk from all around Hallownest, who had gathered to witness the event. He oversaw their organization, ensuring a clear path to the Black Egg Temple for the Pale King’s arrival.
The largest of the Great Knights approached, nodding to Ogrim and Isma, but still somewhat sour with them. Though Hegemol had initially opposed Isma’s plan—believing it reckless to do this in such a public setting—pressure from the other knights had swayed him in accepting her words even without agreeing with it.
Isma is grateful Hegemol has kept quiet about it so far. She surveyed the sentries, ensuring they were alert and on duty. As she confirmed their positions, her mind drifted.
In any other case, she would have agreed with Hegemol. The bugs of Hallownest needed closure, not spectacle. It had been promised—by the God-King Himself—that this plan was the solution, that the Infection would end today. Seeing the King enact the plan in person would boost morale and kick-start the revival of the kingdom.
A few months ago, she would never have questioned Him.
She had believed in His words without hesitation and accepted whatever He deemed the truth. After all, He was a God. But now… Now, she knew better.
They had all trained the Pure Vessel since it was but a grub. And this exact topic—whether it was truly empty—had been a constant source of conflict between the Monarch and His Great Knights.
At first, none of them could believe it. That wasn’t the right word. They simply couldn’t accept it.
They did not want to accept that the Vessel—that small, stubborn creature—was nothing more than an object. A thing without a will, a tool slightly more advanced than the Kingsmoulds or Wingsmoulds, capable only of learning through trial and error.
All so that the true cause of the Infection—another God, long forgotten—could be sealed away inside it, trapped for eternity within the Black Egg Temple.
How could they accept that when they had seen it fight? Seen it learn, adapt? Seen it hesitate?
How could they accept that when they had watched it strategize, choosing who to strike first when faced with multiple opponents? How could they believe it had no will when they had felt the sheer want it radiated whenever it faced one of the Great Five in training?
How could a construct, claimed to lack a mind, do any of that?
They had all tried—each of them—to make the Vessel reveal itself. To stop its dangerous game of pretend. They had promised to help, to show the King that it was alive, that it could think and feel and choose. They had spun tales of a future where it could live alongside them, a future where it could be the Sixth Great Knight.
The King had humored them, at first. Had performed tests at their request, trying to prove that what they saw was nothing more than illusions. Tricks of the mind, desperate to see a mind where none existed.
One such test had yielded a horrifying discovery—one that haunted Ogrim’s nightmares.
If the Vessel’s shell broke, it would return from the shadows, attacking its own Lingering Shade as though it were an enemy to be struck down.
The King had deemed it too uncertain, too dangerous to investigate further.
After that, the Knights had stopped asking. They had stopped pleading. They had turned instead to berating the Vessel, demanding it stop pretending. Demanding it admit the truth.
But it never did.
Not when they offered kindness. Not when they scolded. Not when they tried to spirit it away from the palace under the guise of training, asking it to run. To escape.
And so, one by one, they had given in. They had accepted that the Pure Vessel must be what the Pale King claimed. One by one, they had started to treat it as an object. A tool. Another nail to be wielded against the Old Light.
Isma had been the last to yield. At the King’s request, she had buried her kindness and had stopped showing 'it' affection.
Because impurity could not be allowed to exist in the Pure Vessel. And if she continued, she might ruin everything.
Yet, despite everything, despite her own compliance, that bitter taste had never left her mouth.
And the sensation—deep, unshakable—that they were all making a terrible mistake had never faded.
Something would give and;
the biggest mistake of their lives would be allowed to pass.
“It’s Ze’mer,” Ogrim murmured. Isma turned, watching as the newest of the Great Knights approached.
Ze’mer directed her sentries into position, guiding the last of the arriving commoners. A sentry wearing green approached, snapping into a salute.
“Ma’am.”
Isma nodded.
“Unit four reporting. We have returned from our scouting and confirm no husks in the adjacent areas. Units two and three are securing the entrances to Dirtmouth. No unusual movements have been reported.”
“Good,” Isma said. “Return to your station. Keep your unit alert. We cannot let any of the citizens be harmed by the Infected.”
The sentry saluted and marched away.
Another excuse. Another lie.
Not many know about the real cause of The Infection, as that could instill more power to The Old Light, and consequently, more death.
They do not need a cult for her spreading; that would be catastrophic.
Officially, the sentries were here to protect the citizens witnessing this grand event.
In truth, they were here in case the Old Light attacked.
And Isma could only hope—desperately—that the Hollow Knight would prove its impurity now, before it was too late.
This is the whole point of her doing this plan right in front of the temple—of everyone. They would be nervous, so they might make a mistake, and she would jump at any mistake to make a scene.
Better to stop this craziness now, when there is still time to do anything, than for the stubborn Vessel to be sealed away, and they all discover that the plan has failed when it is too late to change anything.
Although many have died The Infection has not invaded The Capital City. Hallownest can survive a few more decades if only sentries who go out of the Capital are the ones Infected. They can survive this long enough to hatch a new plan. To tackle The Infection differently.
There has to be a way to kill a God. Even if their form is not physical; inhabiting the Dream Realm.
If there was only a way to get there, then maybe—
“How is Che’s flower?” Ze’mer asked approaching them, startling Isma away from her line of thought.
“So far so good” Isma replied, showing the Delicate Petals hidden away under the Ceremonial Pale Cloak she was wearing; her Pale-Ore Armor hidden beneath it.
“Such great care of Le’mer’s creation. Che’ has never seen such a Fragile Flower before; in Lands Serene, even if Che’s seed if from Che’s land. Bloomed in Le’mer’s garden as Che’ tried to bloom one for meled’paisan—as Che’ thought about a promise to meled’paisan” Ze’mer spoke.
When the flower first bloomed Ze’mer had showed it to Isma and Dryya, finding it beautiful but also disconcerting—whenever one’s gaze fell upon those Frail Petals, they felt a great grip fall unto their hearts.
A lingering feeling that something bad would happen, and they all would quietly let it.
As if Death was lurking just around a corner;
a great mistake about to happen.
Regret inevitable.
The Five of them had the same feeling.
Memories running in their minds upon seeing the flower—memories of The Vessel training under them. Since the day that little grub had arrived in the Castle Grounds to the last time they saw them; training endlessly while the Pale King finished the final touches in His plan.
They grew all the more aware of the Vessel’s subtle impurities. A fighting style change of fluidity to sharpened. From gracious to methodological. A previous care for their opponent’s safety completely to disregarding of it.
Thus, a long-forgotten fire that had faded to ash reignited in their minds as they all looked—truly looked at The Pure Vessel.
There was no more hesitation. No more flinching. No more attempts at creating new and unconventional openings.
Every fight was the same. The same pattern, same opening, same attack, and same counter-attack.
No creativity.
No strategy.
No thought.
No mind.
No soul.
It was as if The Pure Vessel was trying to convince itself that it could not think. Could not strategize. Could not do anything that would sow a single droplet of doubt in their purity.
And yet, this was what reignited that long-forgotten idea that the Vessel wasn’t pure in the Great Knights' minds.
The change happened simultaneous to the King’s absence—to the declaration that The Vessel Plan had entered its final stages.
A tool acting like a nervous cadet. That was not something a being with no mind would do. It was as if the tool was trying to convince itself that it was a tool.
This left a bitter taste in Isma's mouth.
So, Isma went digging, uncovering dirt from under the King’s nest. Finding concrete proof of their impurity—of their existing mind and feelings.
Their Sixth Great Knight.
And she could not let herself abandon them—abandon Hallow.
They deserve so much more than this, but in that fateful night, they showed their decision. Their love for life and their unbreakable will to protect it—protect Hallownest. Accepting such a wretched fate just so they could live another day, fight another day.
They have run out of time, and Hallow is the one who has to pay for it.
And Isma cannot let them do it without offering a chance—a last opportunity for them to escape, flee away from such a pitiable ending.
She steeled her resolve. She cannot let herself falter and lose this last opportunity to give them a final choice—for them to act one more time. To show their impurity to the King.
But she can only hope they will take this chance and run.
Far away from here.
Far away from such a heavy burden imposed on them before they were even born. Too heavy of a burden for a God, let alone a mere grub.
She looked towards Ze’mer, her face a mask of her feelings. Well polished. Unlike Isma, who felt like a criminal and hoped nothing showed.
Ze’mer had told her a few weeks prior how something had to give.
But how would they make two immovable objects recognize they had to move?
The King was too damn stubborn and too deep into his plans to listen to anyone. Even His relationship with the White Lady, something that had been stable for millennia, had started to deteriorate amidst the chaos.
And The Hollow Knight? They had faked all their life, so why would they change now?
“It’s the Royal Guard,” Ogrim whispered, and Isma’s eyes flew to Dryya, who was leading the Royal Knights—dressed in all white glinting armor—inside the cavern. Towards the Black Egg Temple.
Following them, a song filled with hope and greatness started to play, as the The Eternal King’s Melody; a national anthem created long ago, played in the background.
The Royal Guard gave way and stationed themselves alongside the lines of sentries, separating commoners from the path the entourage was to follow.
Dryya approached them and positioned herself near the Black Egg’s entrance, nodding quietly to Isma.
She could hear the animated whispers from common bugs, how they were laughing and joking. Hopeful for a better future. Letting go of their grief and loss for a single day so they could commemorate the end of The Infection.
The musicians started to appear and also soon fell back, giving way for a figure that moved alongside the Pale Ivory Glow that His body produced.
The Pale King has arrived.
His Ivory Light enveloped every insect, his stance dignified—proudly walking between armed sentries and knights who saluted their Monarch. Without words He proclaimed;
His Kingdom Will Remain Eternal.
No one is to deny Him. It’s an impossibility for this plan to fail and He shows it in His stance alone. Repeating a declaration from long ago—boldly stated in front of Root and of meager settlement.
A boldness He has lost in recent decades, but still displays magnificently in His Kingly Facade.
The entourage kept moving, bugs watching in awe as they saw their King for the first time during their lives. Monarch leaving His Pale Castle for the first time in centuries.
Behind His Pale Light Isma finnaly saw them.
Proudly walking in the Temple’s direction for all to observe the object that would seal The Infection away. Head tilted upwards, no muscle moving without need—a mirror of the Pale God’s own stance.
Just like He had taught them.
They towered over the King with huge white pronged horns and elongated black limbs; inky darkness hidden away under a White Cloak and Pale-Ore Paldron which reflected The King’s Ivory Light magnificently.
A long Pale-Ore Nail glinting viciously in the white hot glow of Soul Magic strapped on their back, Condensed Soul infused in intricate Soul Channels in the most perfect weapon Isma has ever laid her eyes upon.
The ideal automaton.
The perfect tool.
Their salvation.
The Pure Vessel;
Now knighted and officially titled The Hollow Knight.
Overdressing for the occasion just to simply hide from view the blemishes that Void has caused in their slim and unproportioned body.
Isma shook her head carefully, holding back tears.
If not for her knowing what the final destination of this parade was, she would think this to be a celebration commemorating a heroic deed and their life!
Not a morbid display of their body before it was to be chained to that black coffin for eternity.
Even from here, she can see how bulky the robe is, how the Pale-Ore plates have convenient holes from where chains can be intertwined. How heavy it must all be with the sway of The Hollow Knight's body.
Unnatural in her trained gaze that has seen their fighting form improve over the years.
She saw Dryya going rigid in the corner of her eyes, and then Isma’s gaze fell upon the White Lady.
Her light was bright as ever, but her demeanor was stoic. Devoid of any emotion.
But deep under the surface. In the caverns, rumbling just below the dirt.
The Queen’s roots wept quietly in the background.
Her cries englobed every region of Hallownest and even further beyond. As long as there were roots, one could feel the saddened air, especially those attuned to plant-life like herself.
A mirror of her own emotions—confusing Isma profoundly. She always thought the Queen was indifferent towards the Pure Vessel, bordering animosity as the monarch always avoided being near it, opting to spend a great portion of Her time away in Her sanctuary near Unn’s Lands.
Yet, here she is, in all her glory, weeping silently.
Dryya shook near her, more attuned to the White Lady’s emotion than herself.
Isma moved her hand inconpicuously and touched Dryya’s hand with her little finger, providing what little comfort she could in the parade.
Her closest friend nodded mutelly, mouthing a ‘thank you’ behind her Pale Mask.
Unn’s child wondered not for the first time if the White Lady had also heard Hallow’s brief cries of pain those few times from when they were young and did not know how to hide it properly. If the Queen knew as certainly as herself about the Vessel’s impurity and chose to ignore it.
Rage bubbled in her chest, and Isma was quick to quench it.
It would be hypocrisy to accuse their Pale Queen of inaction when she herself was letting this happen. When she accepted Hallow’s will and did not force them to escape with her far away from this Kingdom.
From this madness.
The King had never imagined He could be betrayed so deeply by one of His Great Knights. As a result, there was no restriction for such an order.
This was a flaw in His plan, one that could have been exploited to avoid what is happening today. What is going to happen if they do not accept her help?
She shuddered at the thought of what they might feel once the Hollow Knight was sealed. Would Hallow be able to keep hiding it away, or would it all come flooding into the root channels—sharing their suffering to the point of forcing the Queen to shut them down so they all won’t grow mad.
The Pale King approached;
His presence was imposing.
Isma steeled herself, forcing back the growing sense of dread that threatened to consume her.
Once He was close enough, she, along with the other Great Knights, bowed. Then, she quickly stepped in front of the Black Egg Temple's door, partially blocking His path.
“Isma,” The Pale King said regally in greeting.
Not daring to break His confident facade or let any of the commoners watching the parade think anything might be wrong in the unscripted interruption of His pathing.
She could also feel the stare of the three Dreamers boring into her.
Monomon, the archivist;
Lurien, the watcher; and
Herah, the beast.
All three of them had individual motives to accept the morbid task of slumbering eternally. Unable to ever escape such a disturbing fate of being chained somewhere between the living and the dead, unable to wake up and experience the World of the Living while also never allowed to pass on to the Land of the Dead.
The Pure Vessel is not the only one who will suffer by being locked away for millennia...
There was too much at risk for her to be so careless, and they showed their animosity towards her. But the White Lady stood between them and the bold Knight, so they stayed put—watching what she wanted.
“I have something for The Hollow Knight,” Isma said, her face frozen. Refusing to reveal any of her emotions to the Wyrm.
“And what might that be?” The King inquired slowly, voice tinged with irritation—a subtle tone only Castle Staff would ever notice.
Isma moved her hands from beneath her robes and finally revealed the flower she had kept hidden all the way here.
"A... flower?” The King asked, voice now laced with confusion. “It does not need such a thing.” He tried to dismiss it with a slow sway of His hand.
The Queen looked with furrow bows at the inconspicuous little thing—unable to put into words a feeling, tilting Her head in curiosity.
"But we do,” Isma said.
Before the King could deny her further, she continued her trained speech, “We are mortal beings. We are used to dealing with mortality and losing others. We, the Five Great, have agreed that we must be able to mourn what we lose. And before you argue there is no need to mourn a tool, you have seen us do so before.”
Gathering her breath, Isma spoke again. But inside, her heart twisted—each word feeling heavier than the last as their veracity rang true to her heart.
“To Knights, tools can be as important as bugs. A tool can be our only companion in life-or-death situations, and a good tool being put out of commission means it has served its purpose well. While we understand The Hollow Knight will not be out of commission, we will never again spar, never see it, nor hear it walking to the training grounds every morning.” Isma stilled for a moment, her words grounding her on how truly desperate their situation was.
Gathering her breath, Isma spoke again. Inside, her heart twisted. Each word felt heavier than the last, their truth cutting deep.
A hopeless want for things to be different lodged in her chest. She willed herself back into the present, forcing resolve into her voice.
“ So, My King, I beg of you. Let us mourn.”
Her gaze locked with the Wyrm’s. Desperate. Daring Him to deny her. Daring Him to refuse one pure request, here, before all.
The Pale King’s eyes flickered. A second of thought. A silent calculation. Then—
“Pure Vessel, come forth.” The Hollow Knight stepped forward.
“Be quick, Isma. We cannot delay the sealing,” He said under His breath before allowing some privacy for the Great Knights and The Vessel.
The King retreated but never approached the White Lady or the Dreamers. His gaze fixated on them, waiting for a reason—any reason—to stop them from interacting further with His perfect little construct.
“Hollow Knight,” Isma barely breathed. Her hands trembled as she offered the Fragile Flower, her eyes pleading. Take it. Please. Choose life.
The other Great Knights watched intently. Their bodies tensing almost imperceptibly.
This is their last chance.
She might have spoken aloud to herself sometimes while they trained together these last few weeks. Speaking how Le’mer is growing a beautiful garden of flowers for a dear friend, how the Great Knights loved these little flowers and would do everything to protect them.
How they would spare no thought to help the flowers grow freely.
The offer made Isma could only watch. Begging—pleading with her gaze.
‘Accept to live.
Please!
Accept Your Life!
Hallow!’
Form never faltering.
The Hollow Knight remains unmoving.
Not even a twitch towards the Fragile Flower.
A crushing weight settled on Isma’s chest. Her final hope shattered like brittle glass. Still, she nodded, solemn. Behind her, the other Great Knights bowed in unison.
She had to respect their decision.
She had to respect their sacrifice.
“I thank you for your sacrifice, friend,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
“We thank the Pure Vessel for their noble sacrifice,” the other Knights chanted, saluting.
Isma followed suit.
The Pale King approached. His Ivory Light burned. Satisfied.
The Hollow Knight remained pure even after all the attempts the Great Five made to sow impurity into the tool. In a way, that was a test on its own, and He was pleased with the results.
“Can We commence the ceremony?” The God-King spoke, sentencing it as a question but wording it as a command.
Isma stepped aside, allowing the Pale King and The Pure Vessel passage.
Her hand tightened around the flower’s stem.
“Hollow Knight, ” A voice imbued with Soul-Magic spoke, “ Follow me.” The Royal Commandment was said.
The God-King ventured inside the mouth of the Temple;
and The Pure Vessel followed.
Fate Forever Sealed
No Turning Back
No Fixing it
With a shudder, she forced her body to be still. She cannot say if she will ever be able to forgive her inaction, but she would also never be able to forgive such disrespect on her part to a soul ready to die for them.
A knight through and through.
So, Isma did all she could.
She bowed lower, accepting their sacrifice, accepting their gift, and praying—hoping desperately that this was worth the cost.
Maybe they can complete the plan even when impure.
Hopefully...
