Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quirrel woke up.

That in itself was a surprise. He hadn’t been expecting to.

He cracked open his eyes, squinted over to where he’d left his nail in the ground some way further around the lake—the dead shouldn’t be burdened with such things, he’d told the little knight once, and he’d not wished to be so burdened either, happy to greet old age with open hands.

It seemed that old age was not yet ready to greet him.

He took a deep breath, and his throat stung with thirst. Crawling to the water, he dunked his head in to drink—undignified, perhaps, but there was no one to see. He emerged to take another breath, the air heavy and slightly warm in his lungs. Over where the passageways above the water led back up to the Crossroads, he could see the sickly orange of infection in the air.

Ah yes.

It would not do to lay down and die here, not where his body would be offered up as a ghastly puppet to the derangement of the furious light. Better for him to make it back up to Dirtmouth before his final rest—a gloomy place for it, not nearly as lovely as the lake, but clean and clear and peaceful.

Groaning a little, he hauled himself to his feet. Each one of his limbs ached, moving stiffly as if his joints had rusted through while he was sleeping. He stretched and twisted a little, feeling the plates of his shell grind against each other in an uncomfortable fashion. Resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to feel much better any time soon, he began the long trudge around the lake towards the Crossroads.

As he climbed up to the abandoned village, it became quite clear that the infection in this place had worsened since his initial descent. The shambling husks that had been easy enough to avoid the first time had a wilder air about them now. Quirrel gave them a wide berth, no longer trusting in his own agility to keep him out of danger, and his nail left long behind him. Orange veins threaded through the stone of the walls, faintly glowing and pulsing slightly upon close inspection, congregating in horrid, bulging pustules of fluid that he had no desire to approach near enough to inspect any further. The air itself was thick and almost damp, and the inside of his throat seemed to grow claggy as he breathed it in.

Quirrel wondered if he had made a mistake, whether he would lose himself to the infection before ever reaching the town again, but he was committed now. Too late to turn back. He pushed his aching body onwards, pausing to cough up little wads of phlegm from the back of his mouth, trying to ignore an increasingly painful roiling in the pit of his stomach, like some creature was scraping away at his insides, trying to get out.

It seemed to take an age to climb up to the level of the Temple. He remembered his previous arrival there—not long ago and yet an age away, chattering away in the cool light of lumafly lanterns about the mystery of the Black Egg inside, all to a little knight who hung intently upon his every word. That light was gone now, replaced by the sickening orange glow of infection, clouds of it pooling out of the temple doors into the crossroads.

He couldn’t help but stop for a moment to stare at it in horror. He wasn’t quite sure how long it was he stood there, catching his breath, mesmerised by the thick, smoke-like billows dissipating into the air, before he was brought back to himself by the rapid patter of footsteps. Too swift and sure to be the shambling of a husk, he looked to see a familiar shape in a red cloak approaching, her long pointed mask and needle glinting a welcome cold amidst the dank warmth.

“Princess-Protector,” Quirrel murmured as she approached, raising a hand to tip in greeting a mask that was no longer there. He returned it awkwardly to his side.

For her part, seeing that he was no mindless husk, Hornet loosened the grip on her needle and gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Apprentice of Monomon,” she called out. “You have done your part. There is nothing left for you here. You should leave.”

Quirrel nodded. She wasn’t wrong. But something compelled him to linger a little more. “That little knight…” he began. He’d tried to avoid thinking about it, but now that at least some memory had returned to him, it was hard not to. This had always been how it would have to go, hadn’t it? For a new vessel to emerge, break the seals, and take the place of the broken Hollow Knight, sealing away the infection once more.

But he knew that knight. It hadn’t spoken a word to him, but it had listened intently to everything he said, splashed him playfully in the hot springs in Deepnest, reached up to hold his hand in encouragement before leading the way into the Archives… the little knight was no hollow vessel. It was alive and as much of a person as he was—and perhaps the same had been true of the Hollow Knight this entire time. The thought of what it had been subject to all these years, the thought of what its successor might take on in turn—it threatened to turn his stomach were it not already roiling. Did this dead place really deserve saving, at the cost of such suffering?

“I imagine that little ghost will arrive here soon,” Hornet replied. “I will await it.”

“It shouldn’t…” Quirrel tried, struggling to get the words out. “It wouldn’t be right, for it to take the place of the Vessel. I know that knight, it wouldn’t… it mustn’t…”

Hornet’s grip tightened on her needle, almost imperceptibly. “It knows the secrets of its creation now, I’m sure of it,” she declared. “If there is another way to be found, then maybe…” She gave a sharp sigh. “It will make its own choices. There’s nothing more you can do for it. You should leave,” she said again, a little more insistently.

“I… all right,” he conceded. What help could he be, after all, unarmed and dying, in danger of doing nothing but adding another body to the population of mindless husks? “When you see the knight, could you tell it…” He cut himself off with a tired sigh. “No. We have said our farewells already. Never mind that. You stay safe. Goodbye.”

He left the temple behind him. It wasn’t far now to the well, and the air seemed almost cleaner already as Quirrel approached the shaft of moonlight that reached down into the tunnels of the Crossroads. He took the well chain in one hand and gave it an experimental tug. One last challenge before he reached the surface. He could manage that much, he thought. He began to climb.

Not long ago, he knew that he would have been able to scamper up without difficulty. Now it seemed that everything was fighting against him—his stiff and aching limbs, his raw and twisting stomach, the cold bite of the metal chain. Nevertheless, the end was in sight. He could hold out just a little longer.

Sound drifted down from the town above him. Simply the roar of wind at first, but as he climbed he also began to hear voices—or a voice, at least, a droning sort of thing the words of which Quirrel couldn’t quite make out. And then… was that music? Yes, it was—a waltz of some kind, played on what sounded like a maggordion. Not a terribly lively piece, but with a steady beat, played with light and skillful fingers fond of flourishes. Quirrel’s heart lightened even as his body ached. It made Dirtmouth seem so much less of a dreary place to die.

Quirrel found himself matching the pace of the music, reaching up a little higher to each one-two-three of the bass line, breathing steadily in and out with the ponderous rhythm. He lost himself a little in the melody as it steadily grew louder, letting the complaints of his beleaguered body fall away from his awareness, letting it propel him the last few grasps of the journey, until he heaved himself over the lip of the well and collapsed to the ground, utterly finished.

On the edge of his awareness, as he sank into the soil’s embrace, he heard the hurried patter of feet and a high, wavering voice raised nearby.

“O-oh…! Look it’s… someone’s fallen. Oh dear, I think… I think they need help. H-help?!”

The last thing that Quirrel heard, as death claimed him, was the music from the maggordion coming to a stop.

Chapter Text

Quirrel woke up.

Once again, this was a surprise.

He didn’t move, wondering at first if this was some minor hiccup before consciousness left once more, this time for good. Against all reason, consciousness remained. That said, his surroundings had changed—he gradually became aware that he was lying in a pile of blankets on a bed, sheltered from the wind. There were soft voices nearby. He lay still and listened.

“... a-and, well, since you’re new in town as well, I wasn’t sure if you had much in stores just yet so I thought it might be helpful… anyway, here.” It was the same voice he had heard earlier, Quirrel thought to himself, soft and a little uncertain.

“That is so very kind of you, Bretta.” Another voice, this one a little lower, and with a rather charming warmth to it. “This soup looks lovely. I’ll keep it warm on the stove—this fellow’s not woken up yet, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate it when he does.”

There was the soft shuffle of footsteps towards him. “Oh, I do hope he’ll be all right,” said Bretta. “You know, I always found myself waiting for a hero, but there’s something rather romantic about being the one to save someone else, don’t you think?”

Quirrel, at a loss at how to react to that statement, intensified his pretense at still being asleep, while the other person chuckled lightly. “Let’s allow the poor bug his rest before asking him what he thinks about that, shall we?” came the gentle reply.

Bretta gave a squeak. “Oh! Yes, I suppose you’re right.” The footsteps shuffled away again. “Well… I won’t impose further. Have a good day and, um… yes.”

“No imposition at all, dear friend. Thanks again for the soup. I’ll see you soon!”

A door was pushed closed, and presently there came the sound of the clatter of a pot gently placed on a stove, and the soft, under-breath kind of humming done by someone barely aware they were doing it. Quirrel decided that it was as good a time as any to open his eyes. He hauled himself up to a sitting position, blinking blearily around at a poky little Dirtmouth dwelling, barely more than a single room, sparse but neat and clean. On the other side of the room, a stout bug with a tall mask was busy lighting a stove.

Even the small action of sitting up sent Quirrel’s vision shimmering into a woolly haze, and though the ache had dissipated from his limbs somewhat, his insides seized up in pain. He was unable to stop himself from letting out a soft groan and, thus announced, supposed that he should announce himself properly. “I’m awake?” he managed to croak out, the statement emerging so pitifully from his mouth that it became a question.

The bug in whose house he was presumably residing turned from the stove with a friendly tilt of their mask. “Ah, hello! So you are.” The stranger pulled a small wooden stool up beside the bed and sat down. “Is that a surprise?”

Quirrel winced. “I’m supposed to be dying. I think.”

“Oh! No, I don’t think you are, and I may not be a terribly well-educated man in these matters but I’m quite sure of that. You certainly seem exhausted. And possibly half-starved. But I’m almost entirely certain that some good food and rest will make you feel better. Here, one of my neighbours brought over some soup—let me get you some.” Presently a bowl and spoon were pressed into Quirrel’s hands. He tried to make some sort of protestation, but something almost feral within him took over, and before he could quite comprehend what was happening, the bowl was empty.

“Did I…” he began to ask, but the thread of his thoughts was already slipping out of his grasp. The stabbing pain in his stomach had lessened, replaced with a soothing sort of warmth that travelled up his carapace and filled his head with a soft, fuzzy darkness. He felt the bowl gently lifted from his hands before he lost himself to unconsciousness once more.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when he next awoke, but the light through the windows had changed, and the other bug had moved from the footstool to a large, squashy armchair where he seemed to be reclining quite comfortably, though he noticed very quickly when Quirrel stirred.

“Ah, welcome back!” he said cheerily. “Would you like some more soup?”

Quirrel had questions, such as where exactly he was, what time it was, whose house he was in, why he still wasn’t dead, but to his surprise they were all overruled by the realisation that he was, in fact, ravenous. “Please,” he replied, his voice still dry and croaky, hoping that he didn’t sound too desperate. He made to tip up his mask a little to eat, only to find it already perched on his head from when he had apparently taken it all the way off the last time and passed out before he could put it back on.

Any embarrassment he could feel at being bare-faced in a stranger’s home was short-lived as he was brought another bowl of soup. He tried to pace himself this time, trying to appreciate the flavour of at least some of the spoonfuls, but mostly it was just hot and hearty and the most welcome thing he could ever remember eating.

His host perched back on the footstool by the bed, seemingly content to watch him eat. “Our Elderbug thinks he recognised you when we picked you up outside the well,” he remarked as Quirrel continued to eat. “A travelling sort who went down into Hallownest some time ago, went by the name of Quirrel. Would that be you?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Quirrel replied between spoonfuls. It was rather touching to have been remembered, even with how breezily he had passed through the first time.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Quirrel—properly, that is! I’m Nymm. I’m sorry for not introducing myself before, but you hardly seemed awake, you poor thing.” Quirrel finished off the rest of his soup while Nymm busily answered the questions he hadn’t even gotten around to asking yet. “Let’s see… you’re in my house in Dirtmouth, right now. Hopefully that much isn’t too much of a surprise—you seemed rather determined to get up here, so I’m happy to say you made it. I’ve not been in town terribly long. I must have arrived after you first passed through. I moved into one of the abandoned houses and tidied it up a bit. It’s not much, but it’s got the potential to be rather cosy, I think—ah, there you go,” Nymm said happily once Quirrel had finished, relieving him of the bowl and going over to the sink to wash it. “It’s nice soup, isn’t it? I should ask Bretta for her recipe when I return the pot.” He returned to the bedside stool. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

Quirrel gave a deep sigh. The pain inside of him had finally settled, and had been replaced with a rather embarrassing realisation. “I thought I was dying,” he confessed with some reluctance, “but it turns out I was just tired and hungry, and had forgotten entirely what that felt like.” He buried his face in his hands. “I feel rather foolish, my friend.”

Nymm laughed, though kindly rather than mockingly. “Well, not to worry. You’re in good company. I seem to have recently forgotten a lot of things myself.” There was a slightly self-conscious wobble to his voice that suggested that it was no exaggeration made in jest.

“Oh, you don’t say? Amnesia, is it?” Quirrel felt a bit of a pang of kinship at Nymm’s affirming nod. Travellers approaching Hallownest through the Wastes would tend to keep their memories where Hallownest citizens would give them up as they left, but perhaps the magics at play occasionally took other casualties. Or perhaps he was a Hallownest bug himself, returning as Quirrel once had without memories of the place he had come from, though he would have to be rather improbably old to have lasted this long away without the kind of magical protection Quirrel had been under. The little knight must have been through the same thing as well, come to think of it, the traces of the divine in its nature sustaining it through the long years until it was called, just like Quirrel, back to Hallownest. Could something similar have drawn Nymm here as well?

“Amnesia… That was me too—until quite recently, at least,” Quirrel shared, refusing to let himself dwell on what may be happening to the knight at this time. “It’s a strange thing to experience. I hope it hasn’t caused you many problems.”

“No, as a matter of fact. It does help that I remember the important things: my name, how to speak, how to play music, how to do a range of practical things around the house. I just don’t remember learning any of it, or how and where I learned it. Or, indeed, where I came from, before I arrived here.”

“Oh my. So, quite recent, do you think?”

“I suppose so. But it’s not caused me much distress.” Nymm cocked his head thoughtfully. “On the contrary I feel rather… light and unburdened. As if… forgetting was something of a relief.”

“Oh, how interesting.” Quirrel leaned back and thought for a while. “It was rather like that for me as well, I think,” he murmured. Nymm gave him an encouraging nod and he summoned up his thoughts. “I was a Hallownest bug to begin with, but I lost my memories of where I came from when I passed through the Wastes for the first time. All I had was a delight in travel and discovery, in seeing new places and meeting new people. Experiencing the wide world without a care, with nothing tying me down and nothing… to regret. I was very happy, back then.

“I also happened to be under a kind of protection at the time that kept me safe. A sort of stasis, I suppose. I didn’t age, you see. Even weariness and hunger couldn’t really touch me. Oh, I ate and slept when I felt like it, but it wasn’t out of any particular need. I was that way for rather a long time. After it all wore off—no more than a few days ago now—I suppose I expected that it would all catch up with me right away. I felt this unfamiliar ache and weariness, and interpreted it as the sudden onset of a long-postponed old age.” He gave another deep sigh. “Turns out I simply had to re-adjust to the normal needs of a body affected by time again.”

Nymm chuckled. “And do you feel better?”

“Much,” Quirrel replied wryly. “Though my voice is still all hoarse and scratchy. And I’m still rather tired, I think.”

“Then sleep some more,” Nymm said. “Get yourself back to feeling normal.”

“Aren’t I in your bed?” Quirrel asked. “You don’t seem to have another one. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here—I’m awfully sorry, I should—”

“Oh, please don’t concern yourself. I have a very comfortable armchair. I assure you it’s no trouble at all.” Nymm leaned in very slightly, as if to block any attempt Quirrel might have made to politely leave the bed. There was a warm whuff of air from the holes of his mask, the gentlest of laughs.

Quirrel knew when he was defeated. He lay back down, settling in amongst the blankets. He had to admit it was terribly comfortable. “Then, let me just say thank you,” he said softly. “You’ve been very kind to me.”

“I don’t intend to stop, my friend. I’ll be here when you wake up. Get some rest.”

Quirrel pulled his mask back down over his face with a smile, and did so.

Chapter Text

Quirrel woke up.

He supposed this would be a regular occurrence from now on. It would be rather silly to be surprised by it. And yet waking was, if not a complete surprise any more, still something that felt strange and bewildering. It still took a few long, disorientated moments for his consciousness to climb back out of the foggy gloom of sleep and regain its bearings.

It was dark in the room, the lumafly lamps covered for the night and the only illumination a grey twilight ghosting through the windows. True to his word, Nymm was snoozing curled up under a blanket of his own, seemingly quite comfortable in the armchair. Quirrel considered going back to sleep, but now that he was awake he was all too aware of being thirsty and itching to get up. Quietly, he burrowed himself out of the pile of blankets and experimentally lowered his feet to the cool flagstone floor. He was still a little stiff, and his legs gave a mild achy protest at supporting his weight, but that might have to be his new normal from now on. Either way, he could work with it.

He began to tiptoe in the direction of the kitchen sink, hoping that he could stealthily manipulate the tap into a quiet trickle so as not to wake Nymm. But as he passed the foot of the bed, his plans were foiled by a sudden unholy wail, with all the discordant volume and timbre of an organ whose keys had been rudely sat upon. With a hoarse yelp of surprise, Quirrel fell to the floor in a heap and came face to face with an enormous maggot which stared at him in offended consternation.

“Oh goodness!” Quirrel exclaimed very quietly, shuffling himself into a slightly more dignified sitting position. “Where on earth did you come from?”

There was the sound of cloth being snatched away and a sudden bright light from behind him. In a momentary flash of red, a sinister horned shadow appeared on the wall. Quirrel whipped his head around to see just Nymm, who had gotten up and taken a pink cloth cover off one of the lumafly lanterns.

“My apologies,” he said gently, offering a hand to help Quirrel back to his feet. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce you to the third member of our little household here. You must have given each other quite a fright. This is my maggordion. Here, take a look.”

In the pale light of the lantern, Quirrel could now clearly see an open, leaf-lined crate at the foot of the bed, where it would have been out of his view lying at the other end of it. Inside the crate, the giant, segmented maggot eyed him suspiciously, though Nymm’s hand stroking over its textured surface seemed to discourage it from making any more of a racket.

“Oh, marvellous,” Quirrel cooed at it. “Did such a large sound really come from you?”

“It was a defence mechanism against predators at first, I think,” Nymm said. “The maggot’s body is full of air sacs and it has a multi-layered exoskeleton with all these holes in it so that by squeezing itself up it can make a very loud noise. If they’re cultivated properly, with holes carved in the right places—it doesn’t hurt them, it just mimics their natural patterning—they can be used as musical instruments. Thankfully I haven’t forgotten how to take care of it, though I can’t remember if I ever gave my maggordion a name. Sorry, little friend.” The maggordion leaned its head affectionately into Nymm’s hand, apparently unbothered by this.

“Ah… so you were the one playing music before, when I climbed out of the well?”

“Oh yes, that was me! And this little fellow.”

“Then I must thank you once again, my friend,” Quirrel murmured. “Your music very much helped me to reach the top, exhausted as I was.”

“I’m so very glad to hear it. Come on, eat your leaves, little one. Don’t be afraid.” Nymm gave the maggordion a final pat before getting back to his feet. “I’ll show you it working at a slightly more sociable hour. Sorry again for the fright. Did you need anything?”

“Ah, just some water,” Quirrel began, waving a hand. He was interrupted by a loud growling from his stomach. “Um. Maybe also something to eat.”

Nymm laughed. “I think there’s just enough soup left for a portion each if you’re not tired of it yet and would like some…” He glanced at the window. “...very early breakfast.”

“Please don’t feel like you need to get up on my account!” Quirrel protested.

“Nonsense. We haven’t eaten up at the table together yet, and I think that would be nice.” Nymm went to pull out a small wooden table and a pair of chairs from where they were tucked in against the wall. His hand lingered on the table’s surface. “I like having a house guest. It feels right to have company, somehow, though you’re the first I can remember having.”

“I’m very honoured, then. You’re a lovely host.” Quirrel helped Nymm to set the table, and presently they were both seated with a bowl of soup, the maggordion chewing half-heartedly on a leaf in its box.

Nymm reached a hand up to his mask, faltering slightly before he could remove it. “I keep meaning to ask, what’s the done thing with masks, here? I’ve noticed not many people in town wear one, though I seem to, and I’ve been a little too embarrassed to ask the Elderbug about it yet.”

Quirrel paused in the process of nudging up his own. “Oh! Well, I can only speak for Hallownest in the old days, really. Generally I’d keep it on in public and in polite company, and while out on my travels. At home and among friends it’s optional. But this is your house, and it doesn’t seem like they keep to the old customs in the same way up here in Dirtmouth, so you should do whatever you like. And as for me, well, you’ve already seen my silly face. And I hope that we can call ourselves friends at this point?”

“Of course, of course!”

Quirrel slid his mask up to sit on top of his kerchief and gave Nymm a warm smile through his mandibles. “No pressure. Do whatever feels right to you.” He set to eating without any further ado, not wanting to make Nymm any more self-conscious, though he couldn’t help but continue to ruminate. “In Hallownest, I suppose masks were a symbol of civilization and citizenship—of our connection to the Pale King, the one who had granted us our personhood. I still don’t have strong memories of that time, but I also don’t think I gave it a great deal of thought back then. Come to think of it, though, almost everyone who was anyone had one, and you were never properly presentable without one, though there were… exceptions.” A flash of memory—a sight from a crowd of the Five Great Knights passing by one day, Ogrim rather rakishly bare-faced. Quirrel smiled at the image. “It varies from place to place and from tribe to tribe, though. On my travels I saw plenty of societies who used masks differently, or not at all.” He chewed thoughtfully on a stewed piece of root. “Even close to here, the mosskin on Greenpath, uplifted by Unn—though that wasn’t orthodoxy in Hallownest—they never wear masks.”

After a few spoonfuls’ worth of quiet thought, Nymm removed his own mask and placed it to one side. “I wonder what god I belong to, then.”

Quirrel couldn’t help but feel a little pleased to catch a glimpse of his new friend’s face, and glanced up. Nymm’s tall and double-pointed nose horn, similar to the Nailsmith’s if a little wider, was not much of a surprise given the height of his mask. More surprising was the wide, folded pair of nostrils at the base of his stubby snout, and instead of mandibles, a hinged jaw containing several pairs of sharp teeth, which he bared in a slightly nervous grin. “I don’t suppose you ever saw a bug like me on your travels before?” he asked.

From his jaw down, Nymm sported brown, fuzzy hair like a spider’s, and what Quirrel had taken at first to be some sort of cloak around Nymm’s shoulders was actually a ruff of his own long fur that Quirrel had to resist the temptation to reach out and touch. Below, his more familiar-looking beetle’s shell, with gorgeous reddish-brown wing-covers and a more muted blue-toned underbelly, was still rather shiny and fetching. The overall effect was quite striking and a little otherworldly.

“No, I haven’t seen a bug like you before, but please don’t take that to mean anything in particular,” Quirrel replied. “I may be well-travelled but I can’t claim to have seen the entire world. Wherever I went, even coming back here, I was always seeing something new. And that’s always lovely, to see something new. Hmm, given your thick fur, I wonder if you came from somewhere cold…”

By the time they had finished eating, cleared away the table, and washed up Bretta’s pot, the light outside had shifted once more into a grey and washed-out morning.

“How are you feeling?” Nymm asked. “I thought maybe we could venture outside today, show you the rest of the town. It’s a bit dreary, but the people are friendly, few as they are. And we’ll need to return Bretta’s pot to her. It’s a shame to part, though,” he added, holding the shiny vessel up to the light. “I really need to get one of these for myself at some point.”

Quirrel stretched, feeling his shell creak a little, though without more pain than a dull lingering ache. “I feel much better, certainly up for a stroll. Though I don’t think the croaky-old-man voice is ever going away at this point.”

Nymm snorted. “You keep talking about being old, but you hardly look it.”

“Perhaps I don’t, but I’ve been around far longer than I have any right to have been. I’m definitely way older than a handsome young man like you.”

“Oh hush!” Nymm exclaimed, a little flustered, before tying his mask back on. “That may be a bit much. I have no idea how old I am, so I could hardly claim to be young.”

Quirrel laughed as he replaced his own and straightened his kerchief over the top. “Well, we’ll both be men of mystery, then, with our incongruous masks and ambiguous ages. Now, come on, let’s…”

He opened the door and trailed off as he looked out upon the well that led into Hallownest.

Oh. He’d almost forgotten.

In a daze, he found himself wandering towards the mouth of the well, looking down into its shadowed depths. He’d left those depths not expecting to survive another day, but here he was now, alive. What was he doing up here? When down there… who knew what challenges the little knight faced in its grim task?

But that was a silly line of thinking. Even now, back on his feet, it was hard to imagine what use he’d be if he did go down there looking, even if he did make the trek back to his nail, still abandoned by the Blue Lake. He’d been able to help with Uumuu, but for the most part the knight had fared just fine without him on its travels. All he’d been was a friendly face in the midst of danger. He desperately wanted to see it again, but would that be helpful to the knight, or was it just a selfish desire on his part? Would it—

His spiral of thought was interrupted by a gentle hand on his arm. “Quirrel?” Nymm asked softly.

“...I’m all right,” he replied.

“Is there someone that you miss, down there?” Nymm’s words, far too perceptive, lanced him through like a nail.

“Yes.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. He thought of the knight, and remembered that Hornet was down there too, ready to lend whatever aid she could. He thought of Monomon, dear Monomon, never more to awaken. He ought not be burdened any more, neither by nail nor by duty. There was nothing left for him to do in Hallownest, so why did it still draw him so? “But… I’m not needed,” he forced out.

Nymm squeezed his arm comfortingly. “Then come, dear friend. I would much appreciate your company up here.”

Quirrel smiled, and allowed himself to be led away from the well.

Chapter Text

Their first stop in town was Bretta’s house, just up the steps from the well. Quirrel held the pot while Nymm rapped briskly on the door. After a few moments, the door was cracked open by a short blue beetle, who squeaked upon laying eyes on her visitors and turned a little pink in the cheeks.

“Good morning, Bretta,” Nymm said affably. “We’ve come to say thank you for the soup, and to return your pot.”

Quirrel stepped up, pot outstretched. Bretta took it from his hands with a wobbly, “O-oh, thank you.”

“Bretta, this is Quirrel. Quirrel, Bretta’s the bug who first found you when you climbed out of the well.”

Quirrel gave a gallant bow. “Then I’m very much in your debt, madam. Both for the rescue and your lovely cooking.”

Bretta squeaked again. “O-oh, it’s no trouble, you’re very welcome. Um! I’m sorry, I’d invite you in but, um, my house is very small and messy! I’ll see you a bit later?”

“Of course!” Nymm replied cheerily as Bretta hurriedly closed the door. Quirrel suspected that it was less to do with the state of her house, which looked just fine from his glance inside over the top of her head, and more to do with a series of intriguing artworks pasted up on the walls featuring a bug that looked awfully like himself in various scenarios of distress being rescued by a familiar-looking blue beetle.

“She’s a sweet girl, I promise,” Nymm teased, as they walked on.

“And, ah, very imaginative, it seems,” Quirrel remarked.

They next called in at the map shop.

“If you don’t have the geo to make a purchase, just don’t let Sly onto it,” Iselda remarked dryly. “Though I imagine what we have in stock won’t be much use to you up here anyway.”

“It wasn’t much use to him down there either,” Cornifer chortled from the back, where he was curled over a bowl of breakfast. “Hello again, traveller! I believe we ran into each other in the Fungal Wastes?”

“Ah yes, that’s right,” Quirrel replied, rubbing the back of his carapace awkwardly. “Your work is genuinely marvellous—I hope I didn’t come across as too dismissive at the time.”

Cornifer turned to Iselda conspiratorially. “He told me that he didn’t want to buy a map. That he, quote, ‘prefers to go where his whim takes him and discover his own way through the world’.”

Nymm glanced at Quirrel with amusement so barely repressed that it was obvious even through his mask. “Ah, I did say that, didn’t I,” Quirrel admitted. “No hard feelings, I hope. It really was just for the joy of exploration for me back then.”

“Hah, not at all,” Cornifer replied. “I wouldn’t be a cartographer myself if I didn’t understand the appeal of finding one’s way from scratch. It looks like you made it back out in one piece, anyway, if only just.”

Quirrel tapped the base of his mask thoughtfully. “I suppose I was operating with unfair advantage in the end. I only discovered later that I had already explored much of Hallownest myself before. I still don’t remember most of it, only flashes, but much of it must be ingrained in my subconscious.”

“You must tell me all about your travels sometime,” Nymm chimed in. “It’s rather dangerous to enter now, but it sounds like a fascinating place from what I’ve heard from Cornifer.”

“Of course! And you know, I’ll bet the Archives down in Fog Canyon have all sorts of records on the local geography as well. It’s funny, in my previous life—or perhaps I should say the life before that—I was an archivist there. Had I met you back then, Cornifer, I would probably have bought every map you made as a record to compare with those made by the locals…”

“Well, there’s still time to change your mind,” Iselda said, tapping the pile of maps on the counter.

Their call in at Sly’s was brief and they left swiftly before he could become too irate at their lack of intention to buy anything, although Quirrel made a mental note to drop by later to see if he could persuade Sly to sell him a pot as a thank-you present for Nymm. After that, with the day seemingly done with getting any brighter than the gloomy grey it had begun with, they set up in the town square. Nymm took the maggordion from the sling on his back in which he had been carrying it and settled it on his lap, offering it a sprig of greens. The maggordion took a dutiful nibble but turned away from the rest, to a dissatisfied hum from Nymm.

“Not hungry today, are we? Are you still up for a tune, little one?” After a little fussing and cooing, Nymm satisfied himself and played a few notes, showing Quirrel how he inflated and deflated the air sacs, and how pressing certain parts of the head caused different holes to open and close throughout the creature’s exoskeleton. Quirrel watched, fascinated, as Nymm’s fingers moved nimbly over the forbearing little creature’s head and singular notes emerged at first, clear and robust, and then chords, sounding like the very wailing of the wind through the cliffs had been harnessed and put to the service of music.

Nymm then launched into the waltz that Quirrel remembered from before—perhaps not a terribly cheery tune, but it made the town feel just a little less grim. At a slight loose end, and with no particular skill for singing along, Quirrel instead stayed on his feet, running through nail stances—to the extent that he could without a nail to wield—and trying to time them with the music, turning them into a little waltz of his own.

It felt good to be properly back on his feet. His body may not be entirely free of aches and pains, but his balance and posture seemed unaffected by his recent travails, and it seemed that he would be able to keep up most of his skills if he made sure to practice.

Quirrel didn’t mind the thought of Nymm watching him one bit, though as he spun himself to a stop at the end of one set of steps, he saw that they had been joined in the town square by the Elderbug, and also Bretta, who was watching him from the bench. He gave a little wave to her. Bretta made a wobbly, high-pitched sound and looked straight ahead.

Feeling like he ought to make up for the multiple times now that he had left a less than shining impression with the town elder, Quirrel went up to introduce himself to the Elderbug, who greeted him cordially if a little pointedly.

“I’m glad you’re up,” the old bug remarked. “I was getting worried that we’d lost our new musician to becoming a doctor. You’re on your feet—can’t be too bad then.”

“Oh yes, I’m feeling much better,” Quirrel replied.

“Rather nice to be seeing folks come back up out of that well these days,” the Elderbug added. “Even travellers like you. Are you staying in Dirtmouth for good, then?”

The question gave Quirrel pause. He’d not given any thought to what he would do with his new and unexpected lease on life. On his boundless, thoughtless travels he had inadvertently arrived back to what had once been a home to him. What was he supposed to do now? Stay, long after the home he’d known had fallen into ruin? Leave, and return to aimless wandering? “Well, maybe,” he answered, ambivalent.

The Elderbug gestured out at the town beyond the square. “There’s a lot of abandoned houses here. You should take a look. Maybe you’ll find somewhere you want to stay.”

Quirrel could clearly imagine a time in which he would have laughingly shrugged off the recommendation to stay in a drab little place like this. But Dirtmouth had started to grow a community for itself again, and Nymm’s music was taking the edge of the gloom. And it would be some use to put his restless feet to. Quirrel shrugged and began to investigate.

Despite the strains of the maggordion making their way from the town square, though, there was little else to help the rather sad state of the place. Many of the small, round dwellings were beginning to crumble at the walls. Peeking inside the doors of the more robust-looking houses still revealed messy and abandoned rooms coated in a layer of dust. They looked as if their owners had simply walked out of them one day and not returned, not even boarding them up, though there was occasionally some evidence of later visitors entering to relieve the houses of various useful possessions. The dead shouldn’t be burdened with such things, after all.

Quirrel supposed that he could imagine himself cleaning and tidying one of them up, making a little place to stay. It felt hard to imagine himself being stationary there, though. He wondered why. Certainly, as a wanderer without his memories he never stayed in one place for very long after exploring it thoroughly, but now he could remember bits and pieces of before… surely he lived somewhere while as an archivist working for Monomon? Surely there was a house which he had called home? Somehow he couldn’t quite picture it. Perhaps he’d done exploration work for Monomon. It would explain his endlessly itchy feet, his obsession with discovery.

Perhaps he should go, then—resume his travels now that his work was done here. But that didn’t feel right to him either. Even though he’d played his part in the things that had to happen in Hallownest, he had a sense of something left unfinished. Like he couldn’t rest until… he didn’t even know. It ate away at him like grit in his shell.

Quirrel returned to the town square feeling somewhat dissatisfied. Nymm looked over at him as he walked back into view. Quirrel went to sit on the ground at his side, resting his arms on his knees.

“Were you exploring?” asked Nymm. “Find anything interesting?” Ah, Nymm. That was the other factor. Even with everything else down that well put behind him, he’d just made a new friend—multiple new friends, in fact, who had each played a part in saving his life, but it was Nymm especially who had welcomed him into his home and treated him so kindly. Surely, out of gratitude, he could stay at least a little while, while he figured out what he wanted to do with his life next?

“Hmm,” Quirrel responded, noncommittal. “I was looking around at houses. I should maybe see about moving into one of them. You know, let you have your own house back.”

“Oh, there’s really no hurry!” Nymm replied quickly. He didn’t miss a beat, though his tune developed a brief arpeggio embellishment in its melody line.

“You’ve been very kind to let me stay, but I should probably get out of your space soon,” Quirrel insisted. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“You’re not a burden.” There were a few beats of quiet, filled in only by a fluttering descant over the steady chords of Nymm’s song. “Actually I… I feel like there’s some part of me that was missing close company, somehow. I don’t think I realised until you showed up. Even then, it was me who took you in just because I had a bit more room in my house and a chair I could sleep in at first, but then… suddenly you were there, being close company, and it somehow felt right.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose what I’m saying is that I’d like you to stay. If you want. It would be quite the opposite of a burden. I think it would make me very happy.”

“Oh.” Something inside Quirrel seemed to flutter with the flourishes of the music. “You know, I spent so long perfectly happy as a solo traveller. But now, having recovered some of my memories of the Archive, of my mentor, Monomon the Teacher, and with the connections that I’ve made while back here in Hallownest…” He thought of a little knight, always catching up to him and then running on ahead, lively in mutual joy at seeing one another again, safe in knowing that their paths would cross again once more… at least until now. Quirrel swallowed. “I think I also miss close company. Maybe the road might call me again at some point, but for now…” He looked up to meet Nymm’s eyes. “I’d love to stay. Thank you for having me.”

Nymm’s eyes were bright behind his mask, and while Quirrel couldn’t see any more of his face, he knew he was smiling.

Chapter Text

Because he couldn’t quite help himself, Quirrel indulged his itchy feet once more, taking himself up to the broken bridge to the King’s Pass and back. It was a desolate path, but still bore the evidence of the considerable traffic it had once sustained in times long past, worn down by countless wheels and footprints. Quirrel strained his mind to try to picture how it had looked back then, but he couldn’t match anything he saw to any particular recollection. If he had ever borne witness to the caravans of visitors from beyond making their way to Hallownest, the memory was proving elusive.

As he turned to head back, he noticed that at some point Bretta had left the bench and was lingering a little aimlessly around the outer dwellings of the town. Perhaps waiting for him to return? It did seem like there was a certain conversation lingering over their heads. Maybe better to have it here, a little out of the way of the rest of town.

Bretta looked pointedly at the ground as he approached. Quirrel stopped not too far away. “Hello, Bretta!” he said in friendly greeting. Bretta made a small muffled sound but her gaze remained fixed on the ground. Perhaps she was rather shy.

Quirrel also looked at the ground. The vegetation in the area was rather sparse in general—where did Nymm get the greens for his maggordion? Quirrel wondered. Perhaps he went a little further afield for them—but that aside, in this place in particular… “There aren’t many plants here,” he noted aloud, “and the ones that are seem to have been flattened.”

“Oh, yes,” Bretta replied, latching onto the prompt like a lifeline, her voice wobbly and very quiet. “There was a camp here recently.”

“Oh, how interesting!” Quirrel replied. That raised all sorts of fascinating questions, although it seemed to be the full extent of conversation that Bretta was prepared to have in that moment, as the beetle immediately scurried back to the town square. Quirrel followed behind her, a little amused.

Before Bretta could reach the bench, though, she was intercepted by a new arrival in the square—a short, squat figure with a battered mask that seemed rather too big for its head.

“Good, you’re here,” the figure told Bretta, to the slight wilting of her antennae. “We only reviewed up to Precept Twenty-Seven yesterday. Let us resume from Precept Twenty-Eight. Precept Twenty-Eight: Don’t Peer Into The Darkness…”

“Oh… all right, then,” Bretta said weakly, and settled in to listen, though the short figure didn’t seem to even notice that she had spoken. There was something familiar about the way that he talked—in a sort of constant drone that Quirrel had to think for a moment to place before he realised that he had heard it while he was climbing out of the well. The contents of the droning had been drowned out by the music back then. Now, Quirrel was in close enough proximity to hear every word over the top of Nymm’s playing.

“Memories are to be avoided, as per Precept Four!” the figure declared. Quirrel’s antennae twitched in morbid curiosity and he settled onto the bench to listen further.

“Precept Twenty-Nine: Develop Your Sense of Direction.” Quirrel nodded to himself. That one seemed sensible. Though Precept Thirty: Never Accept a Promise gave him pause, and he twitched a bit at Precept Thirty-One’s insistence that those staying at someone else’s home must demand the highest level of cleanliness from their host. By Precept Thirty-Two, he noticed that Bretta’s antennae had wilted to almost horizontal and she had gone a little glassy-eyed. He cleared his throat.

“Precept Thirty-Three—”

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met! I’m Quirrel,” Quirrel said quickly, standing up from the bench and striding over with a proffered hand. The droning individual started and drew himself up to his full height, though it was about half that of Quirrel’s and had none of the intimidating presence of some of the more dangerous small bugs.

“Another resident of this ghastly place? Do you not know who I am?” he demanded, as though trying to channel such intimidation anyway. “I am Zote the Mighty, a knight of great renown! Begone, lanky fool, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Oh, a knight!” Quirrel replied brightly, ignoring Zote’s last comment, having just been granted an ideal method of diverting his attention. “Perhaps you’d like to spar?”

Zote gave a small shudder, then tilted his chin even higher. “Pah! Why would one such as I lower myself to fight an unarmed bug such as yourself? What sort of a coward do you think I am?”

“Oh, no such thing,” Quirrel assured him. “I just don’t have my own nail any more. I can borrow a nail from someone—I’m sure there must be one around.”

“Here, you can borrow mine,” Iselda said, emerging from her shop surprisingly quickly with an old but seemingly well-cared-for nail in hand. “It might be a little long for you but see what you think.”

She handed it to Quirrel, who gave it an experimental swish and tested the grip. “I’m used to a long nail myself, so this seems perfect. Thank you kindly—I’ll be sure to be careful with it.”

Iselda folded her arms. “My pleasure. This I’ve got to see.”

Quirrel turned back to Zote. “How about now, then?” He flipped the nail into his preferred reverse grip, taking a defensive stance.

Zote gave an indecipherable grumble but he stood across from Quirrel and drew his nail. It didn’t look terribly strong—Quirrel was not entirely sure that it was even made of metal, though perhaps that was just the poor daylight showing it in an unflattering light. Nymm and the Elderbug shuffled closer to observe. Bretta, who had been quietly watching the entire exchange with very wide eyes, let out a nervous, “Oh-h…”

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it, Quirrel?” Nymm asked. “You’re only just out of bed—you shouldn’t push yourself.” All the same, he wound up his previous tune and began to play something brisker—not a great deal livelier than the other piece but suitably dramatic, just perfect for having a duel to.

As it happened, Quirrel wasn’t sure that he was entirely recovered, but it would be useful to find out just what his limitations were right now, and the music was certainly encouraging.

“I’ll be fine!” he replied blithely. He faced down Zote’s nail, now outstretched and wavering up and down, perhaps as if seeking an opening? Oh dear—to Quirrel’s closer inspection it definitely didn’t seem to be made of metal. A little concerned at what he had gotten them into, Quirrel began with a slow, broad sweep of his nail towards Zote’s side. He’d expected it to be an easy first move to parry, for their weapons to get a feel for each other, but to his alarm the blow hit Zote square in the side and the bug, light as mothwing, flew from his feet to land face-down in the town square dirt.

Bretta squeaked.

“Erm,” Quirrel said.

The music came to a deflated halt. Nymm stowed his maggordion and hurried over to where Zote lay. “I say, Zote, are you quite—”

“Hmph! I shan’t lower myself to striking a recovering invalid!” Zote’s muffled voice came from the ground.

“I’m not—” Quirrel began to object, but then caught himself after exchanging a quick glance with Nymm. “Ah, you know, that’s very noble of you, perhaps we should do this another time. After I have recovered. As you say.” He gave Iselda’s nail a final rueful swish before returning it to her. “My apologies, that wasn’t much of a show after all.”

“Oh, I saw everything I wanted to,” Iselda remarked in a deadpan before disappearing inside the shop.

“A reverse nail grip? How unusual,” came Sly’s voice from around Quirrel’s elbow, where he had silently managed to appear while he wasn’t looking.

“Oh, yes,” Quirrel replied, a little flustered. “I suppose it must be a rather out-dated style. I don’t really remember much about my initial training though…”

“Ah. Do tell me about it if you remember, and if you actually have any Geo to spend in my shop.” And Sly disappeared almost as quickly as he had appeared, before Quirrel could even find out why he was interested.

Quirrel sat himself down on the bench, suddenly feeling rather tired. He was joined presently by Nymm, who sat at his side with a soft huff of amusement.

“Zote…?” he asked. He surely couldn’t have hit him hard enough to do any significant damage.

“Has wandered off to sulk somewhere, I imagine,” Nymm replied. “Don’t mind him too much. No real harm done, I think.”

Quirrel noticed Bretta still perched nearby, seemingly doing her best to watch while not looking like she was watching him.

“I think I caused rather a scene, if nothing else.”

“And I think this town benefits from a bit of excitement every now and again,” Nymm said cheerfully, nudging Quirrel’s elbow with his own in encouragement. “I shouldn’t worry. Now let’s see, I think you’ve met just about everyone. Oh—well there is one you haven’t met yet, though it’s not really a resident so much as a regular visitor.”

“Oh? Who might that be?”

“It would be—well, actually, I don’t know the name but I don’t think it really goes by one, as such. Not a talkative type at all. About Zote’s height, though rather more charming looking. Has a serious, almost formidable air about it but somehow…” He gave a slightly frustrated sigh, as if the right words were eluding him. “It’s hard to explain, but I just know that it is my friend. When I see it, I feel such a sense of warmth and gratitude. Oh, I’m not sure that I’m making much sense…”

Quirrel clutched his shoulder in excitement. “Wait, are you talking about the little knight?”

“Oh! So you’ve met as well?”

“Yes!” Quirrel’s heart swelled. “Oh how delightful that you have befriended each other, that makes me so happy to hear. We ran into each other a great deal during our respective travels down in Hallownest. We weren’t travelling together as such, but we encountered each other often enough that I very much considered that knight a companion on the journey. We even fought side by side at one point…” He caught himself before delving too far into that, returning his musings to the knight itself. “What a fascinating individual. A quiet and solemn sort, yes, skilled and single-minded in a fight—but also very inquisitive, even playful at times. It’s as you say—it didn’t have to say a word for us to strike up a friendship. It was always a delight, every time we met.”

“O-oh, really? I never knew…” Bretta hesitantly interjected.

“Ah, did you meet as well?” Quirrel asked her excitedly.

As she began to respond, Bretta was cut off by a faint rumbling beneath the ground. There was a crack like wood splintering in the distance, and then a scream—a violent, otherworldly shriek so horrible that Quirrel felt his insides curdle at the sound, which didn’t seem to echo through the air so much as directly through his head, as if his own mind too were screaming in sympathy. He bolted to his feet, pierced through by an inexplicable agony that faded moments after it arrived, though his body trembled with the fading reverberations, like the shiver of a bell long after it was struck.

Quirrel took several steps towards the source, even as Bretta and Nymm exclaimed in distress at the sound they too had experienced, wondering where it had come from and what had happened. He already knew what had happened, as he staggered weakly back towards the well.

The Black Egg had been broken open.

Chapter Text

Quirrel wasn’t sure how long he sat on the ground by the well, but it was long enough for his legs to start feeling stiff, and the cold of the ground to start seeping into his shell. He didn’t move, though. He felt paralyzed, unable to go down there—(what could he do? There was nothing for him to possibly do)—but unable to draw himself away either. Just stuck up at the top of this well, a useless witness to nothing. He put his head in his hands, rolling halfway into a ball of distress, unable to break out of the cramped circle of his thoughts.

A gentle hand landed on his back, and there was the soft scuffle of someone sitting down next to him.

“Are you all right?” Nymm asked softly. “That was horrible, wasn’t it? I think we’re all rather shaken.”

Quirrel forced a smile back into his voice. Chin up, he told himself. “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right. I’m just…” He hesitated, having no intention to lie but barely able to give a coherent answer to himself, let alone anyone else. “...reflecting,” he concluded eventually.

“You know what that was down there, don’t you?” Nymm said, without accusation but without any doubt either. “It was so awful. You know, I’m quite sensitive to such things. I don’t know whether it was a cry of pain or rage or something of the two but… it seemed like something out of a nightmare. Won’t you tell me what it was?”

“You don’t want to know,” Quirrel replied darkly.

Nymm gave a small, dissatisfied sigh. “I know you to be a boundlessly curious person, Quirrel. Would you fault that curiosity in me?”

His words felt like a needle through the gaps in Quirrell’s shell. “Of course not,” Quirrel answered hurriedly. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He always found it so easy to speak what was on his mind, to explain anything he wanted to anyone who wanted to listen—so why were words failing him now? “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“All right.” Nymm patted Quirrel’s back and withdrew his hand. After a moment, he shifted, taking his maggordion out of its sling once more. The tune he began to play was slow and stately, a mournful sarabande, the chords as heavy as the feeling inside Quirrel’s thorax. They were soon joined by an ever-rising melody, the notes growing in despair and desperation as they rose in pitch until the climb could no longer be sustained and they crashed down in a grand climax and faded into an unresolved chord, a lingering uncertainty.

Quirrel felt a drop of water fall from the base of his mask, a tear he hadn’t realised he had shed. It came to him that, with the length of time he had been sitting here, whatever was going to happen had probably already happened by now. A conclusion as unknown as Nymm’s final chord.

“I don’t know,” Nymm said with a sigh, as if speaking directly to Quirrel’s thoughts. “I think I feel it too. We should go down there and find out what happened.”

“We… beg pardon?”

Nymm turned to fix him with a firm look. “You’re worried, my dear Quirrel. About whatever’s happening down there. It’s eating you up inside. It’s like I can see it crawling around in your head like a parasite. So, let’s go down there and find out. We’ll need to make some preparations—it’s a little late in the day to be setting off now, but we can leave in the morning. The Elderbug reckoned it’s something to do with a temple down there—it’s not very far away, is it?”

“It’s… you know it’s dangerous down there, Nymm,” Quirrel protested. “And there’s… Well, the forces at play are beyond anything we can help with now. It won’t be any use.”

“If it will put your mind at ease, that’s all the use it needs to be. We’ll be careful. We can turn back if we need to. But perhaps an opportunity to be helpful will present itself if we ourselves are present. And if not… well, at least you’ll know something.”

Quirrel sniffed. “You’re really quite something, you know that? All right. Let’s do that. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, dear friend,” Nymm replied, getting back to his feet and offering Quirrel a hand up. “Just come back in and have something warm to drink.”

Quirrel allowed himself to be led back to Nymm’s house. They hung up their masks by the door like proper cohabitants, and Quirrel pulled the dining table and chairs back out while Nymm put the maggordion back in its pen and attempted to feed it some more leaves. It demurred, and Nymm stroked his hand over its back with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Is it all right?” Quirrel asked.

“I think so,” Nymm replied. “Its shell is starting to harden. I think… well, we’ll see.”

Nymm put a kettle on the stove to make some tea and set some bread to warm. They sat in silence while the water boiled, Quirrel’s thoughts wandering away until Nymm placed a mug of tea and a plate of bread in front of him.

“Quirrel,” Nymm asked softly, uncertainly, sitting at the table across from him. Quirrel’s mind snapped back to the present, something in Nymm’s cautious voice that demanded his full attention. “The reason that you don’t want to talk about what’s down there… is it related to the memories you got back? Your… regrets?”

A prickle seemed to pass through Quirrel’s shell. He was discovering that Nymm could be scarily perceptive.

“I don’t want to pry,” Nymm added quickly. “You don’t need to speak of it. I just wonder… if I forgot something that I regretted too. Whether that’s the very reason I forgot. And maybe the reason that I feel so light and carefree these days was because I deliberately laid down a burden—maybe I chose to forget something awful. Maybe even something I did myself.”

He cast his eyes down, seeming for a moment to look smaller than he really was, hunched over his mug of tea with an air of misery.

“Hey,” Quirrel said gently. “You can’t know that. Whether you chose it or not, whether or not there was even something you wanted to forget—we don’t know any of that right now, so please don’t dwell.” He reached out to cover one of Nymm’s hands with his own. “For what it’s worth, in the short time I’ve known you I am already convinced that you are not the kind of person to deliberately do anything awful, and I’m sure that applies to the person you were as well. But either way, all you can do is live well now.”

Nymm nodded, tilting his hand to close it around Quirrel’s fingers in return. “I suppose so. Still, perhaps I should be looking for a way to get my memories back. Just in case.”

Quirrel smiled. “Remembering isn't all it’s cracked up to be. If you want to find a way, I’ll help you. But it’s all right to enjoy the life you have right now in the meantime. I’d hate to be the cause of anxiety for you.”

“Never, my dear Quirrel. I’m sure the thought would have occurred to me eventually. I’m just glad I have you to talk to about it.”

After eating, Nymm packed a small bag for the morrow’s excursion, and Quirrel cleaned up the dishes. Both of them flitted around the room rather pointedly avoiding the bed, until they ran out of useful little things to do and Quirrel put his hands on his hips.

“Look, I’ve monopolised your bed for the past… however long I was in there, in the end. At least a couple of days. You should definitely have it back now.”

“I couldn’t possibly consign a guest to the armchair, Quirrel!”

“Nymm, dear friend, if you would invite me to stay, I will insist on not being treated as a guest this entire time—I’ll take my turn with the armchair.”

Nymm placed his own hands on his hips. “Well look, I’ve had plenty of time in that bed already, you’d just be taking your turn still,” he insisted.

Quirrel shook his head with a smile. “What a silly thing to quarrel about. It’s not a small bed. I’m sure the both of us could fit, if you didn’t mind the thought of sharing with me.”

Nymm gave a short, surprised laugh. “No, not at all! Um, if that’s all right with you, then I’d be happy to. It’s an entirely agreeable solution.” He seemed almost a little flustered at the thought, but didn’t object.

Quirrel got into the bed and scooted over towards the wall, but Nymm was right, there was plenty of space in it. Nymm covered the lumafly lanterns and joined him. There was a little shuffling around to get comfortable and distribute the blankets between them, but not long until they both said a quiet “good night” and went still.

Quirrel idly wondered if Nymm was attracted to him. They had certainly gotten on well with each other right away, and Quirrel felt an ease in Nymm’s company that he hoped was felt in the same way by Nymm. There was something rather flattering about being found attractive, certainly by someone as handsome and intriguing as Nymm was. If only he weren’t so old and tired, if only he weren’t still thinking of someone else. Nymm deserved better than a sad, creaky old bug well past his adventuring days. Quirrel would need to let Bretta down gently at some point, but it would be harder to do so for Nymm. He hoped that whatever friendship they had now—close company, Nymm had said, and he rather liked that—could continue as it was, at least for the moment.

He settled, those worries and even the worries of outside seeming to fade into quiet amidst the peace he felt here, wrapped up warm in blankets, listening to the soft breathing of his companion. Sleep closed around him like an embrace.

For the first time since he had regained his memories, Quirrel dreamed.

Chapter Text

While a wanderer without his memories, Quirrel had dreamed often. The dreams had been fuzzy things, most times hardly remembered—and those that were remembered, he remembered mostly as hazy impressions, without context to identify person or place.

This was a dream he’d had often, he realised semi-lucidly, of wandering coppery corridors lit with a soft green glow, a soundscape of the quiet fizz of electrical pulses and vague murmurings of conversation from other rooms. He hadn’t known what the place was, back then, but he would usually wake in a good mood—feeling at peace, or perhaps particularly energised for the day of discovery ahead. Now, he knew himself to have dreamed of the Teacher’s Archives, and it was a comforting thing to know that the impressions of it had stayed in his dreams, if not his waking mind.

He wandered again now, with bursts of almost-familiarity at every corner. This… had been an acid-writing room, had it not? And this, a small lecture theatre, perhaps. This, a dormitory. This… maybe a laboratory. They blurred and merged in a twisting dreamscape that some part of him knew bore no resemblance to the actual layout of the Archives, but he was captivated with joy that he knew this place that had so often hosted his sleeping mind. This was a storage room for ancient documents. This was an office, and so was this. This—ah, this was Teacher Monomon’s office! His heart swooped, and his dream took on ribbons of white translucence and soft laughter, muffled as if through glass.

And then he was leaving. No. Wait! Why?—but against his will his pace quickened, taking him back through the corridors to the doors of the Archive. He tried to look behind himself but couldn’t, only knowing that at his back was something dreadful. He stumbled out into the lilac mists of Fog Canyon. Up. He needed to go up.

Quirrel crawled towards the surface in a panic, out of the canyon into the Crossroads, up the old cargo shaft, up to the well. He gripped the chain, hauling himself upwards arm over arm, but his pace became slower and slower, and he could feel the awful thing below him gaining on him, and the pale circle of the well mouth getting further and further away, the music distant and distorted and sinister, his breath in strangled gasps as his throat constricted around it—

And he was awake, staring into black beady eyes set in a warped and twisted face, sharp white teeth below glinting in the meagre moonlight. Quirrel blinked twice. Nymm was awake as well, watching him with a worried expression, the shadows across his face making its shape seem strange until Quirrel’s eyes adjusted and it became the familiar sight of his friend.

“You had a nightmare,” Nymm said softly. It wasn’t a question—it was like he’d already known.

“Yes.”

“You’re all right now.” Nymm laid a hand on Quirrel’s shoulder. Quirrel resisted the urge to shuffle closer and bury his face in Nymm’s fur and instead focussed on calming down. “Do you want to talk about it?” Nymm asked.

Quirrel nuzzled his head a little deeper into his pillow instead and tried to summon back the dream from the corners of his mind it had crept off to. “I was dreaming of a place that was very familiar to me, before I lost my memories,” he began. “Actually, I dreamt of it often, but this was the first time I remembered where I was.” Nymm gave an encouraging hum and also settled in a little more comfortably to listen. “There was someone important to me there. Teacher Monomon. She was my…” He trailed off. He had been about to say teacher, again, but that was redundant and besides it didn’t feel right. Employer? Factually true, but not at all accurate in implication. Friend? Too casual. “...mentor,” he said after a moment, aware that it still didn’t seem correct, but unsure in the moment of what exactly he was grasping for.

“My losing my memory wasn’t an accident or mystery,” Quirrel explained. “It was deliberate. I wasn’t particularly happy about the prospect, I don’t think, but it was in service to a worthy cause, or so I thought at the time.” He couldn’t remember the exact conversation in which Monomon had talked him around, but it had seemed at the time to be no choice at all in the end—a cause more important than any of them, a chance to seal away a plague upon their entire civilization. “It didn’t work,” he confessed quietly. “In the end, it was all for nothing.”

“I’m so sorry.” Nymm squeezed his shoulder. “Are you glad, at least, that you have those memories back?”

Quirrel paused to consider the question carefully. “I have mixed feelings,” he replied. “There are happy memories from back then, certainly. Now that I’ve recovered some, there’s a part of me eager to delve into them further, and piece together that segment of my past I hadn’t realised existed. But the circumstances around forgetting in the first place, then remembering again, the things that had to happen… I can’t help but think that’s haunting my dreams now. There are still details I don’t remember. Maybe things I don’t want to remember, deep down. But I feel like I won’t get a lot of choice in the matter, in the end.” He rolled onto his back, staring despondently at the dark ceiling. “Do you dream, Nymm?” he asked.

Nymm made a noise of assent. “Mm. In a manner similar to how you used to, I suspect. Vivid images without context, but similar motifs recurring all the same. Maybe it’s something from my past that I don’t remember. I see… red fire, hanging cloth, flickering shadows. Music, sometimes, though I think that’s just me and my maggordion.” He chuckled, but the laugh quickly slipped away. “This will sound strange but… I know it in my mind to be a nightmare. I know that the red flames mean distress or sorrow or pain of some kind. Sometimes I even feel it myself. But sometimes, even knowing all that, I feel… at ease. Maybe even happy. What do you think that says about me? Who I might have been?”

“Hmm.” Quirrel pondered a moment more, acutely aware that Nymm felt very vulnerable about this. “Well, I think dreams are a mystery, especially without the context of memory. The familiar place I dreamed of brought me a lot of joy, yet there was something there that caused me to wake in a panic. The place that you dream of was a place of pain yet somewhere in it you might have found joy… I think that just means that our pasts are complicated. Things both good and bad could have happened in places familiar to us. It’s no crime to find joy where you can, even in a distressing environment.”

Nymm gave a sigh, sounding relieved. “Yes, you’re right. Life is never that simple, is it? I shouldn’t let it worry me.”

“The middle of the night is no good time to be worrying about anything,” Quirrel replied, turning back to Nymm with a smile.

“Very wise. How are you doing? Shall I get up and make some tea?”

“No need. I think I’m ready to try to sleep again, if you are.”

“Then good night once again, Quirrel.”

When Quirrel woke again, the watery light of morning was making its way through the windows. He had no memory of having dreamt further. He sat up in bed and stretched. Beside him, Nymm nestled further into the blankets with a soft noise of complaint. Then he stirred, his head emerging blearily. “Are you getting up? I can make breakfast, just give me a minute more to wake up properly.”

“Please, keep sleeping,” Quirrel insisted. “There’s one or two things I need to take care of before we leave. Get all the rest you need. We can eat just before setting off.”

“Mm, all right.” Nymm disappeared contentedly back into the covers, only the top of his horn emerging from the blankets like a small bare tree, and the soft snuffle of his breathing soon indicated his return to sleep.

It took a little delicate manoeuvring for Quirrel to extract himself from the bed without further disturbing Nymm or alarming the maggordion. It was already well and truly morning outside, though Quirrel could hardly blame Nymm for sleeping in. Who knew how much his usual sleeping schedule had been disrupted by Quirrel’s irregular waking and passing out over the past few days?

Quirrel first stopped off at Sly’s shop. He didn’t have many geo to his name but enough to mollify the merchant and to haggle for a sturdy metal pot. Sly grumbled a little about it being his personal possession rather than an item in stock, but didn’t seem too worried about having to replace it. “Remembered anything else about your nail training?” he asked while counting out the money Quirrel had placed down on the counter.

“Not yet!”

“Well, please feel free to come again soon.”

Quirrel’s next stop was the map shop, where Iselda greeted him with a sigh and a wave. “Just me this morning,” she said in greeting. “Corny’s decided to refine his map of the cliffs today.”

Quirrel waved back. “I’m afraid I’ve still not come to buy a map, although I’d like to propose a hire. Nymm and I are going down to investigate what happened at the Temple today, and I’ll need a nail. Hopefully I’ll be able to pick up one for myself down there, but in the meantime…”

Iselda brightened a little at the prospect of a side gig in nail hire, and they swiftly agreed on a rate as she took her nail out from behind the counter. “It’ll be better used keeping you safe down there than gathering dust up here,” she said. “You said Nymm’s going with you? Make sure you keep him safe as well.”

“He’s done so much to look after me—I’d be an ungrateful wretch not to look after him in return,” Quirrel assured her. “Actually… on the topic of Nymm, there’s something I’d like to ask.”

“I’m not sure I have a great deal to say, but ask away,” Iselda replied, casually but with an almost imperceptible increase in tension to her voice.

“Well… do you know anything of what happened to him before Elderbug found him on the cliffs? Any clue as to why he might have arrived here?”

“I’m not sure that it’s any of my business,” Iselda sniffed. “And I’m not sure that it’s any of yours either. If he doesn’t remember anything before then, I don’t think any of us should be going around digging it up.” It was rather nice to see her so defensive of him, though there was an edge to her voice that suggested something more behind her dismissal of the topic.

Quirrel rubbed the underside of his mask. “I don’t entirely disagree. But I don’t know how best to help him with the brief flashes of memory he does have, because I don’t know whether forgetting was something that happened to him against his will or something he chose for himself. I’d hate to accidentally undo something he had done for a good reason, or bring up pain from the past.” Iselda fiddled with her claws, looking uncomfortable. Quirrel pressed a little. “Did you ever happen to see… some kind of a red flame?”

Iselda stiffened, then relented with a sigh. “Look, I can only tell you what I saw, not what it means. Not long ago, some kind of travelling carnival passed through the town. I went to investigate, but if they were planning to put on a show, they didn’t advertise it. They mostly kept to themselves in their tents, but the few I saw, every now and again… there was something uncanny about them. Their camp in general seemed incredibly sinister. I can’t really explain it—we all simply avoided them as far as possible. They stayed a while, and then one day they just up and vanished. Nymm arrived in town not long after. I’d not think them relevant to him showing up, except…”

Iselda’s trunk curled a little in discomfort as she continued. “There’s two things. The first is the music. They didn’t put on any performances, but I did occasionally hear a maggordion playing from the camp when the wind blew from that direction. Again, I’d just put that down as a coincidence except… you mentioned a red flame. That’s the second thing. That’s how they lit their camp—with these strange torches, burning a deep crimson and seeming to give off barely any light at all. If Nymm remembers that…”

“You think Nymm might have belonged to that troupe?” Quirrel asked. Perhaps it was the same camp that Bretta had mentioned before.

“Don’t leap to conclusions. Maybe he was their prisoner. Or maybe he just saw them go by? Nymm’s such a friendly fellow. I can hardly believe he’d willingly be associated with such a crowd.”

“Hmm.” This was new insight indeed, but it only served to bring up more questions, not answers. Perhaps if Quirrel could find out more about the troupe, he could figure out its relationship to Nymm. “Do you know where they might have travelled on to?”

“Not a clue. They left very suddenly—no one saw them go. Only one person had any real dealings with them—the little knight who sometimes stops by this town. I saw it visit several times, sometimes with a bug in tow that looked like one of them. But I’m not sure even it would know where they went.”

The knight! Quirrel’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help but imagine seeing it again, joining forces to puzzle out Nymm’s predicament, following joyfully as it dashed swift and curious through the world in pursuit of its secrets. He tried to tamp down his runaway thoughts, but as he left the map shop, pot in one hand and nail in the other, he gazed at the well, picturing a familiar little shape leaping out towards him.

No. It was a foolish thought. The knight had its own destiny to face. Even if it had found some other solution than to take the place of the Hollow Knight, he couldn’t assume that their paths would cross again. Quirrel had played his own part in its story. It was time to let go.

He couldn’t. Even now, he could imagine the scuffle and jangle of chain as something climbed up through the well.

No—he wasn’t imagining it! Someone was climbing out. Moments later, there was a whistle of air and a needle shot out of the mouth of the well, embedding itself in the ground. With the sound of a winding spool, Hornet followed, landing in a flurry of red cloth, her breath heavy and ragged.

“Princess-Protector!” Quirrel exclaimed, running to her aid. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Hornet stood, and revealed what she had been carrying.

Like the two halves of a broken egg, sat in her hands was a familiar white mask, split down the center and entirely empty.

Chapter Text

“O-oh.” The sound burst its way out of Quirrel’s throat halfway to a sob. He was vaguely aware of both pot and nail falling from his numb grasp, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the knight’s broken mask, couldn’t stop his fingers from reaching out to touch the cold, empty remnants.

“What… what happened?” he rasped, the words sticking in his throat.

“It fought the Hollow Knight,” Hornet replied, her voice clipped and serious, emotions tamped down. “I… entered the Black Egg to assist it, and helped it to enter the dream. But I wasn’t able to endure that place. When I came to, the Black Egg and the Hollow Knight were gone, and this was all that remained of the ghost.” Her fingers tightened on the hollow shell, twitching with a suppressed tremble. “It succeeded though. The husks are no longer moving. The plague is gone.”

“Oh.” Quirrel took a shuddery breath, trying to make himself continue speaking, anything to stop the surging wave behind his throat threatening to burst out of him. “That’s… good,” he said. He’d never said a less convincing word in his life.

Hadn’t he accepted this as a possibility when he and the knight had parted ways at the lake? At the time, though, he had thought himself on the verge of death—as if dying were just another journey on which their paths would cross once more a little further along. But now the reality of living on while his beloved friend was dead came settling upon him like falling ash, gently and gradually crushing him alive. His legs began to tremble beneath him.

Remembering Monomon and what had become of her had been painful but distant, a grief muted by time and acceptance of her will and a sense that release would come soon. But this hurt like being impaled on a freshly sharpened nail, and there was nothing coming to take it away. He wasn't even dying any more.

“Why didn’t I die?” Quirrel gasped out, feeling as if his thorax were being crushed by a vice. “Why couldn’t I just lay down this burden? How much longer do I have to live with this pain?”

Hornet tugged the shattered mask back towards herself and out of his reach. “Pull yourself together,” she snapped, wrapping the fragments back in the cloth she held them in. She righted the pot Quirrel had dropped and placed them gently inside, before picking up the nail and thrusting the grip towards him. “Take it. We’re fighting this out.”

“...We are?” Quirrel managed, startling as she left the nail in his hand and darted backwards, holding herself in a ready stance, needle in one claw and a spool of silk in the other. Not a moment later he found himself instinctively darting away as she flung the needle into the space he’d been standing in, trying to put some distance between himself and the mask shards so he wouldn’t accidentally knock them.

Hornet tugged on the silk and recalled her blade as swiftly and surely as she had thrown it out, then followed up with a flying leap. Quirrel scurried out of the way once more, belatedly tightening his grip on the nail and holding it up across his body in a defensive stance. The last time he’d faced off with Hornet, he’d still had all his unnaturally youthful strength and Monomon’s protection—now he would have to be particularly careful.

His distress was drowned out by focus as he fell back into his body’s instincts and training, parrying Hornet’s next few strikes and then slashing out with his own nail. This was no fight against Zote—he knew that he couldn’t hold back, not if he wanted to hold his own with Hornet, even if she was exhausted and grieving. She dodged his strike easily in a flurry of her red cape.

Her shouts sounded pained and furious at first as she charged at him again and again from every which way, forcing him to spin on his feet and keep his guard up. But as their sparring wore on she seemed to relax just as Quirrel did. And those moments in which he saw an opening and lunged, while he was no longer as fast on his feet as he used to be, he found them punctuated with sharp laughter from Hornet as she darted out of his path, sparks flying from their blades as they clashed. Aches from the strain and impact bloomed in his limbs, burning away the numbness.

And so, when he finally stumbled and was knocked from his feet, the point of Hornet's needle stopped a hairsbreadth from the base of his mask, he felt lighter and emptier, the crushing weight crumbling away in some kind of a catharsis.

"If you’d fight death at someone else’s hands so fiercely, then don’t you dare consider inviting it with your own," Hornet told him, before offering him a hand up. He accepted, rising once again on feet that seemed steadier now, despite the exertion.

He hadn't noticed at the time, but while they were sparring, Nymm and Bretta had arrived, standing by the well where Nymm had carefully picked up the pot holding the halves of the knight's mask and was holding it solemnly. Quirrel had meant to give it as a gift, though the moment to do so had escaped him.

"So impressive…" Bretta murmured, mostly to herself, eyes darting back and forth between Hornet and Quirrel. Nymm just looked sad. Quirrel remembered that Nymm had met the knight too, had considered it a friend. He sighed.

"I suppose we should tell you what happened," he said.

Quirrel invited Hornet to take a seat on the bench in the town square, and at an impatient gesture from her sat down next to her. Nymm and Bretta had settled in to listen, and he was vaguely aware of the Elderbug lingering nearby, hoping to overhear. He glanced at Hornet, wondering which of them should start.

Hornet took up the task, beginning with the infection that had taken over Hallownest—the ire of an angry, forgotten god that invaded the dreams of those that lived in this place. Quirrel nodded along as he listened, interjecting occasionally in moments when he could talk from experience.

"Quarantine was attempted, but it wasn't enough," he explained. "It didn't matter if the infected were isolated—the plague could spread to anyone who dreamed." He shuddered at that half-remembered time, of frantic research and fear to step outside, or to sleep. "It was terrifying, and it couldn't be controlled."

"The Pale King tried so many things to save his citizens," Hornet continued gravely. "The plan he eventually landed on was desperate. A plan to seal the god inside something that would seem like a person but was empty inside—something that couldn't dream. A Hollow Knight. That… thing would be sealed away inside the Black Egg with the aid of three dreamers who agreed to go into eternal sleep to keep the prison secure. One was the King's closest aide. Another was my mother."

"And the third was my teacher," Quirrel said grimly. "Teacher Monomon. She helped to develop the entire sealing procedure. And she had her own precautions in place to maintain control of things, should something bad happen." He looked down at his hands in his lap, taking a breath to steady himself. "That's where I came in. I went off into the wilds with her mask to keep it safe, knowing that I would lose my memories out there."

Nymm gave a little gasp. "Oh my dear, that was very noble of you."

"But it didn't work." Hornet's voice was tight through clenched mandibles. "Something bad did happen. The Hollow Knight was never truly empty, and the god was able to infect its dreams as well. And once it had, no prison could work. The infection spread once more."

"I wonder if that was when I was called back," Quirrel murmured. "When Teacher Monomon became aware that the prison had failed. I… wonder if that was when the knight was called back as well." He turned to Hornet. "The little knight… I only realised once my memories began to return, but it was a being like the Hollow Knight, wasn't it? Or… it was meant to be."

Hornet nodded. "It was created by the King and Queen in the same way, yes," she confirmed. "The Hollow Knight was selected as the best chance, but there were… others, that I came across, that emerged over time, maybe to the same call. I don't know how many there were. Only that I killed them, where I could. I couldn't risk them breaking the seals, making things worse, unless they were strong enough to maybe…" She trailed off, her gaze turning distant.

Quirrel grimaced behind his mask, and gathered himself to finish the telling. "The little knight might have been created to be an empty vessel, but just like the Hollow Knight, it was a person. You know that as well as I do. It could never have taken the Hollow Knight's place."

"I agree," said Nymm. "I only knew it a short time, but I know it wasn't empty at all. So the only option was to find another way to defeat the angry god, if the infection couldn't be sealed away?"

"Yes," Hornet said, her voice steely with victory and regret all at once. "And it did. It found a way into the dream, and enough power to kill the problem at its source."

It had won, and it had set the Hollow Knight, and Hallownest itself, free. But at the cost of its own life. Quirrel felt the pressure of grief well up within him once more. This time, though, he knew what he needed.

He got his feet. "Please excuse me," he mumbled, and left the town square.

He didn't have a particular direction in mind, only away, but his feet ended up taking him out to the road up to the ruined bridge. Large pieces of rubble were strewn across the landscape on either side of the road, and he tucked himself behind one of them, sitting with his back to the stone. Quirrel tipped up his mask, lowered his head to his knees, and allowed himself to cry.

It all poured out of him in an undignified fashion—first in great, wet, heaving sobs that wracked his body until he was too exhausted to sob any more, and then in miserable, sniffly whimpers, until even they exhausted themselves and the pressure was gone again, at least for the moment. Quirrel stared dully into space, his mind quiet, unable to imagine anything that might come next.

It was around then that Nymm's familiar presence sat down and settled next to him. Wordlessly, Quirrel laid his head against Nymm's shoulder, face half-buried in his thick ruff of fur. Nymm reached over to take one of his hands in his own and stroked it gently. Gradually Quirrel came back to himself.

"A part of me wishes I'd never remembered anything," he murmured, still a little muffled by the fur and voice hoarse from tears. "That the little knight had never had to face this. That we could have just spent our time exploring the ruins of the world without any duty to it." He let out a heavy breath. "I am glad that I played my part in helping it on its way, and that it was able to end things—that it didn't end up trapped like the Hollow Knight was. Maybe in some way that makes up for being a part of the failed solution to begin with. I just… wish things had been different from the beginning."

"Mm." Nymm nodded and leaned his chin against Quirrel's head. "I too am glad that it didn't take the Hollow Knight's place, I think. It could have become part of some horrible cycle, but it put an end to things instead. It's terribly sad, but still something to be grateful for. I… wish we could thank it. And say goodbye properly."

Quirrel scrubbed at the damp of his face and pulled his mask back down. "You're right," he said. "We should… do something for it, in gratitude. Some way of laying it to rest. It's the least we could do."

They got to their feet and dusted themselves off, and began to walk back to town.

"Thank you. For coming to be with me," Quirrel said. "Ah… you know, that pot, I got it for you as a gift. As a thank you as well. Sorry I didn't give it to you properly."

Nymm chuckled. "We figured out that's probably what it was. It's very kind of you."

"Right. Um. I just… I had things I wanted to say, and I don't—I can't… right now it's just—"

"It's all right," Nymm stopped him, very gently. "You don't have to say anything right now."

They walked back to town in peaceful silence.

Chapter Text

Hornet seemed receptive to the idea of doing something to lay the little knight to rest. Now back in possession of the shards of its mask while Nymm went to take the pot to his kitchen, she absently tilted them back and forth as they spoke, examining the way the weak light of Dirtmouth shifted over the lustre of its surface.

"I hadn't thought further ahead than bringing it back above ground," she told Quirrel. "I thought that perhaps I would know what to do after that, but I don't. What do you think we should do?"

Quirrel rubbed the underside of his mask in thought. "I suppose… I would want to take it home. But I can't say I know where that would be, for the knight."

The City of Tears came to his mind then—the rain-drenched fountain in the plaza where a noble memorial honoured the sacrifice of the Hollow Knight, when all the while that same Knight had been trapped and suffering in a dark forgotten temple high above. No, the very thought of it was awful—he could not bear the idea of anything similar for his own knight, even if it was now, as he hoped, free of pain.

Where might it have liked best, or considered home? It was hard to say—in every place that Quirrel had encountered it, it had shown the same silent curiosity about the world around it, though whatever delight it found in its explorations had not induced it to stay anywhere in particular. Even its visits to Dirtmouth seemed only brief and practical in nature, judging by what he had learned from the storekeepers.

"There is… one place that comes to mind," Hornet said quietly, and a little hesitant. "The place it was born."

"You know it?" Quirrel asked. If he gave it a little thought, the White Palace would be the obvious answer, but that place had long since vanished along with its King, and some small, unsettled part of him suspected that it wasn't what Hornet meant at all.

"I know where it is, yes," she answered. "The knight was a creature of the Void beneath the world. We could return it there. It had a grasp of those powers when it fought the Hollow Knight, so I know it had in some way embraced its origin, only…" Her grasp tightened on the mask shards ever so slightly. "I don't know if that is what it would want."

Quirrel gave an involuntary shiver, then caught himself. The eerie darkness behind the holes in the knight's mask might have unnerved him if he'd let it, but an instinctive reaction to it did not make it evil. It was hard to imagine the source of that darkness being any kind of a home, but who was he to judge the preferences of such a creature?

"We should try," he said decisively. "Maybe we'll know when we get there whether or not it's the right place. But we owe it to try."

"It's a long way down," Hornet warned. "And though it seems the Stagways are open again, I'd like to make the journey on foot and survey the state of things as we travel, now that the infection is gone. But even without it there are plenty of creatures in the depths that will seek to kill intruders."

"I think it would like that, if we took it on one last journey." Quirrel's hand strayed to Iselda's nail, now back at his side. "I made it into Deepnest and emerged alive. I may be an older bug now, but I still have my skills, even if they're not quite a match for yours." Hornet scoffed, though gently.

"I don't mind a hard journey either," added Nymm, returning from his house. "I'm not a warrior, but I'll pull my weight."

Astonished, Quirrel turned to stare at him. "My dear Nymm, this isn't just a morning's jaunt beneath the surface. This is days of travel we're talking about, through the most dangerous parts of the realm. I can't ask this of you."

"Ho! You suppose I think you're asking me? No, Quirrel, I'm insisting."

"I'm going to pack some supplies of my own," Hornet said quietly, and sidled away.

"Nymm, look—"

"Hush. I’ve made a nice enough life for myself in this town but in you I’ve found a kindred spirit. I won’t leave your side. Measured only by what I remember, my life has been so very short. You’re the most important person in it, by a long way. So if you're going, I'm coming with you."

Quirrel swallowed down a lump in his throat. This was what he had been dreading. "Your affection's wasted on an old, grieving traveller," he muttered. "Darling bug, I have no idea how many years I have left in me, and you're at the start of your life. I'm not worth your efforts. You should find someone else. Someone more suited to you."

Nymm gave an angry huff. "Might I remind you that neither of us know how long we'll live? I want to spend what time I can with you. I won’t accept a day less." Quirrel opened his mouth to respond, but Nymm wasn't finished. "And if you can’t accept that I’d go with you no matter the task, even if I had no connection to it at all, can you accept that the knight was my friend too? That I want to see it laid to rest and at peace just as badly as you do?" He moved forward to put a hand on Quirrel's shoulder. "I don't want to ask anything of you you’re not ready for, my dear. But please, let me support you in this."

Reluctantly, Quirrel nodded, and he knew he was just being stubborn at this point, but he couldn't help making one last objection. "Who will look after your maggordion?"

"It's pupating, silly," Nymm replied with a laugh. "I confirmed it just now, its exoskeleton is almost completely hardened. It will be at least a week, maybe two, before it emerges again. It's the perfect time for me to go travelling."

"Well, all right. It seems I've run out of excuses," Quirrel said wryly. "Thank you for coming with us." He let Nymm pull him into a hug, resting his mask against Nymm's and letting out a long breath. It seemed like things wouldn't stay simple between them after all. But it would be a lie to say he wasn't glad all the same not to have to leave Nymm behind him.

"Oh!" Nymm gave a soft exclamation and pulled away. Quirrel turned to look over his shoulder to follow Nymm's gaze. Standing a little way across the square was Zote, fixing them with a rather rancid stare. "Oh," Quirrel echoed.

"I should invite him to come with us," Nymm said suddenly.

Quirrel blinked. "Are you sure?" He tried not to sound too incredulous. "I'm not entirely sure he would want to…"

"It's hard to explain, but…" Nymm began to wring his hands. "Just like I know that it would be a living nightmare for me if I had to stay up here, knowing that you were braving the dangers down below without me… if we all go on a quest together and don't invite him along, I just know that it would be a nightmare for him too. That we didn't consider him worthy of it."

There was something so sincere about Nymm's words that quieted any other objection Quirrel might make. "You are very sensitive to these things, I suppose," he said. "And the alternative is leaving him up here to talk Bretta's antennae off some more. All right. Let's invite him, then."

Nymm gave his arm one last fond pat before puttering over to where the small, crotchety bug was standing. Quirrel turned away to see Bretta standing by the well, antennae wilting and a piece of paper clutched in her hands. Here was a goodbye that had to happen as well. Quirrel approached her side and followed her gaze into the darkness of the well. He thought he might have to prompt her to speak, but to his surprise it was Bretta who began, her voice quiet but somehow resolved.

"When I was first rescued, from down below, my rescuer was all I could think about. The White Saviour consumed my thoughts, waking and sleeping… And then someone else came, and it faded so quickly—he was all I could think about instead. And then the Grey Knight became faded and repetitive, and… I found s-someone I could save instead. I thought, maybe, that he would feel the same way that I'd felt when I was rescued. But seeing how brief, how faithless my own obsession was… maybe I shouldn't have wanted that for myself anyway."

Quirrel swallowed. "Ah. I suppose I didn't behave as you expected, did I?"

Bretta's antennae drooped further. "I was prepared for something very different. I never knew what to say. And… you didn't seem to need me."

Oh, Bretta. He could never have been what she wanted, but his heart still ached for her. "So, the bug in distress isn't all he cracked up to be either, then?" he asked, hoping to provide some levity.

Bretta gave a deep sigh. "Well, I finally realised I'm not in love with you any more. Not the real you, anyway. Just someone I made up in my head who fell for me instantly. But that just means I got it wrong, again. I don't know if I'll ever get it right. Even the White Saviour…" Her hands tightened on the paper she held clutched to her thorax. "I listened to foolishness. I misjudged it. It had always been a hero after all, but it's too late for me to apologise. So here. This is for you. You cared for it, probably a lot more than I did, in the end."

She held the paper out to Quirrel, who took it from her gently. Turning it to face him, he saw a drawing of the knight, lovingly rendered by an artist who had, at least at the time, seen it in a fond light. He was glad for his mask, then, as he struggled to keep his composure beneath a flood of emotion.

"Oh. Oh, Bretta, this is lovely. Thank you. This means a lot to me." He folded it carefully to stow among his possessions. "You know, I'm terribly grateful that you found me, and got me help that first night. I was in an awful state, and I did need you then. And you were there for me, and I will never forget that. Being rescued is a lovely conversation starter! But it could have only ever been the start of something. I do wish I had been able to get to know you better in my time here. Without expectations. As friends."

"W-well… maybe I'll figure it out someday," said Bretta, a little forcefully, as if convincing herself to believe it.

Quirrel smiled. "I'm sure you will, Bretta. You're a passionate and creative person, and well worth knowing."

He knelt down and offered her a hug, which she accepted with a squeak, and emerged from speechless and a little pink—a somewhat more familiar state.

"U-um, I hope you have safe travels," she stammered, shuffling back towards her house.

"Thank you—I look forward to telling you all about them when we return. Oh, and could you do me a small favour while we're gone?" Bretta stopped her shuffling, looking wide-eyed back at him. "Could you look in on Nymm's maggordion for us? It should be just fine, but I'm sure he'll worry about it."

"Oh! Of course. Um. Goodbye, then."

Quirrel watched her retreat inside, then returned his gaze to the dark of the well. His task now would be more grim than the carefree exploration of his first descent. The shadow within seemed to wait for him, to beckon him back inside. It was a call he'd follow without hesitation.

Chapter Text

Of the four of them, Hornet went down the well first, sliding nimbly down the chain and calling up after confirming the coast was clear. Quirrel followed, a little steadier, and helped Nymm down the last few links as he came down after him. After a few seconds longer, there was a clattering as Zote followed last. Quirrel raised a hand to also help him down the last stretch, but he shook his head adamantly, clipping the chain with one horn as he did so and losing his grip, landing flat on the ground with an outraged 'oof!' Nymm offered him a hand up but he refused once again, hauling himself back up with a wordless grumble. He didn't seem to want to be there, scoffing when Nymm had asked him to join them, but neither did he decline the offer, so for now he was their reluctant travel companion entirely by his own choice. Quirrel decided not to probe too hard into that. Zote could make his own decisions.

The Crossroads weren't silent, the occasional drip of water and the scuttle of small bug feet echoing through the wide dim space, but it did feel quieter, somehow, than when Quirrel had last passed through. The air was cool and clean, and no longer stuck in the throat. Just standing there gave Quirrel a sense of relief he hadn't been expecting.

Their chosen route would take them towards Greenpath and the old pilgrim's trail to the City of Tears, but before they embarked, Hornet darted a little way in the direction of the Temple of the Black Egg.

"A moment, please," she requested. "I would have your thoughts on this."

Quirrel and Nymm followed her over to where she stood over the fallen body of a bug.

"Oh dear," Nymm said quietly, as Quirrel crouched to inspect it.

"They died not so long ago," he mused, studying the scuffed but intact exoskeleton, "though they don't seem to have suffered any severe injury." He touched the mask lightly, feeling a very slight tacky residue beneath the hollow eye holes. "I suspect this was an active husk, before the infection was vanquished. I suppose there was no living person left to wake. All that remains now is the body. A sad thing."

Hornet nodded, subdued. "I thought as much. It's good to have my suspicions confirmed. I found many such bodies on my way back from the Temple."

Nymm crouched down next to Quirrel and rested a hand on the lifeless mask. He closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking deeply for a few seconds before he withdrew. "There is no dream nor nightmare left here," he said gravely. "If any lingering infection remains, this one, at least, will stay at peace."

"That is also a comfort to know," Hornet said carefully, "although I do wonder how you know that."

It wouldn't do for their party to become suspicious of each other this early in the journey, and Quirrel was ready to leap to Nymm's defence, but the bug nodded amicably and seemingly unoffended, and answered before Quirrel could jump in. "Indeed, Princess-Protector, I wish I could answer you properly. Unfortunately, I have no memory of my life before a few days ago. As much as I am sure I am speaking words that we all understand, I am sure that what I told you is true. If more comes to me in the future, I'll be certain to let you know."

Hornet nodded. "I shan't scorn your gift, then, even if its origin is unknown. Thank you for sharing it. And…" She paused, seeming for a moment a little unsure of herself. "…If we are to be travelling companions, there is no need for excessive formality. Please call me Hornet, all of you."

"A pleasure to travel with you, then, Hornet," Quirrel replied warmly, tugging on his kerchief as he got back to his feet.

"It seems a shame to leave the poor thing like this," Nymm said as he also rose. "Is there anything we can do, do you think?"

"Mourn not the dead," Zote grumbled from where he still stood by the well shaft. "What good will that do? It will only make you feel better. Won't do anything for that wretched sod. Or me, for that matter."

Hornet made a very soft scoffing sound that Quirrel suspected she didn't intend for others to hear. "Zote isn't wrong," she said eventually. "Many such bodies line the Crossroads. It would take many more hands than ours to give them all the rites they deserve, and we have our own dead to care for. Perhaps, if there are survivors…"

"…then we'll find them on our journey, I'm sure of it," Quirrel assured her.

Their passage through the Crossroads was quiet and uneventful. Every now and again they would find the body of a husk still and quiet on the road. Where they could, Quirrel helped Nymm to move it into a sitting position, some last semblance of dignity for the long dead. Other carcasses of infection-bloated gruzzes littered the ground, their weakened shells already beginning to be gnawed upon by crawlids and tiktiks—simple, crawling bugs with minds too small for dreams.

Even amongst the grim state of the place, the Crossroads still possessed an echo of the grandeur it had once possessed. It wasn't that long ago that he'd laid eyes on the place for what had felt like the first time. It had awed him, despite its desolation. He could still feel it now, beneath the complexity of knowing the truth of what had happened here, though it was harder now to think about sharing it with another. Nymm noticed that he was uncharacteristically quiet and silently slipped a hand into his, weaving their fingers together as they travelled.

It was easier once they traversed the cargo lifts, stepping carefully from platform to platform while Hornet swung by on silk thread overhead, until they reached the passage into Greenpath. Quirrel took a deep, pleased breath as they emerged into the rich greenery of the wild caverns. The inhabitants of Greenpath had not escaped the ravages of the infection, but it had remained lush and verdant all the same, even as the King's roads had crumbled and given way before the encroaching overgrowth and acid pools.

"Look, isn't it magnificent?" Quirrel said to Nymm, squeezing his hand. "The road was a grand edifice to be sure, but all the greenery that has covered it now is awe-inspiring in itself."

"How beautiful!" Nymm agreed. "I think I'm starting to see why travel appeals to you so much, if seeing such wonders is a regular occurrence."

"It is beautiful," Hornet added, "but not usually this quiet. Be on your guard."

They were mostly undisturbed for the first part of their passage, though now alerted, Quirrel became aware of cautious eyes watching them from the deep greenery just off the road.

"Do you think the end of the infection caused the Mosskin Tribe to retreat from the road?" he asked Hornet softly. "Before, in the days of the Pale King's rule, they weren't known to be friendly, but they would allow travellers to pass, so long as they remained on the road."

"It will certainly change the balance here," Hornet replied, tilting her mask in thought. "Though it remains to be seen precisely how. The infection maddened the Mosskin, but they were not as overcome as some. Perhaps now they have a chance to regroup."

Quirrel gazed into the darkness of the bushes and vines they passed by. "I wonder if Unn never truly vanished, but was protecting her creations all this time, as best she could. Perhaps now it is safe for her to awaken and return once more."

Hornet gave a sharp laugh. "It is strange to hear such casual talk of gods other than my father and the White Lady. He would never tolerate it." Quirrel bowed his head but Hornet waved a hand before he could respond. "It is not unwelcome. He was a jealous god, but even he could not change the truth that he was only one among many creators. If Hallownest will go on from here, it will need to go on as a land under the gaze of many higher beings."

"Unn must have cared deeply for her creations," Nymm murmured. "It must be nice, to be so loved by a god."

Quirrel thought of the Pale King, the stories he had been told about him in his youth still a hazy blur in the back of Quirrel's mind. How he had rebirthed himself in the form of the bugs he'd uplifted, how he had built a palace in the heart of their lands and surrounded himself with the finest of courtiers returning the gift of their wisdom to him. Quirrel wondered if he had ever seen the King for himself, or if the image in his mind was just an amalgamation of the idols and images and tales he had absorbed. The bustling Hallownest of his memory had been full of bugs. Had the King even known he existed enough to love him?

He gazed at Nymm, so sweet and hopeful. "I can't imagine your god not loving you," he said.

Nymm gave a soft and bashful laugh, but said nothing more. Quirrel squeezed his hand again.

In old times, the pilgrim's way stretched the length of Greenpath before winding down to Fog Canyon in a ponderous loop via the Queen's Gardens. The road of today was too damaged to take all the way, and a shortcut off the path through a lesser-travelled tunnel would take them into the sparkling mists. Hornet paused at the place they would leave the paved surface. Quirrel could guess what led to her hesitation.

"They have let us alone so far," he said softly. "Do you worry that they will attack those that stray from the path once more?"

"Let them," Zote grumbled from somewhere a little behind him. "We'll just fight our way down."

"Perhaps it doesn't have to come to that," Nymm chided him gently.

"I agree," Hornet said. She hopped up onto the remains of some stone plinth along the roadway now crumbled into something almost natural-looking, calling out into the dense vegetation. "Inhabitants of Greenpath, the infection is over. Our party is on its way to honour the one who stopped it and to find out what has become of Hallownest. Whatever we find, this land is yours. In whatever form Hallownest continues, it will have to renegotiate further access. We ask only that you let us pass this way to Fog Canyon in peace."

For a moment, it seemed as though nothing had heard her. Then, with a stirring of leaves, what had seemed to be a mossy mound a little off the path uncurled itself into a tall Moss Knight, planting nail and shell firmly into the ground as they stood. Their voice was deep and scratchy, as if not used in a long age. Perhaps it hadn't been. "We remember you, red-cloaked spider, hunter of the empty ones," they spoke. "You will not be attacked on your way. Do not pass this way again."

Hornet bowed her head. "We are grateful for your kindness."

As promised, their party was undisturbed as they forged their way through the undergrowth towards the tunnels down to Fog Canyon. On either side, there was the faint rustle of movement as Mosskin passed close by and out of sight, guarding their passage. As tense as it was to be surrounded by creatures that were merely tolerant of their presence rather than friendly, it was still the most peaceful trip Quirrel had taken through the area.

That wasn't to say it was entirely peaceful—he found himself up front with Hornet as they went, cutting back some of the more aggressive plant life in their path. "It sounds like there will be a lot of work to do," he said, taking a breath after skewering a particularly vicious gulka plant, "not just rebuilding Hallownest, but working out how to manage it as a kingdom when its King is long dead. I suppose a lot of that will fall to you now. I… don't really know what I ought to do to help."

"We do not yet know what there is left of Hallownest to rebuild," Hornet replied grimly. "Though I must do what I can. At any rate, you owe it nothing at all. You have done your part for it already, apprentice of Monomon. You should be free to do as you please, whether that be here or elsewhere."

Quirrel gave a noncommittal hum, then smiled to himself as they cut through a further clump of vegetation to see tendrils of mist rising up from the gash in the ground that led down into Fog Canyon, a familiar ache inside of him drawing him down. "It's good of you to say so," he told Hornet, "but I think I will run that by Monomon first all the same."

"Hmm," Hornet agreed. "The Archives are not far. They would be a good place to rest, and for us to pay respect to the Teacher. Let's make that our camp."

"Thank you, Hornet."

Quirrel turned his gaze to the canyon. The mist was calling him home.