Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yah.

Chapter Text

Her exhaustion, her priorities, the sheer insignificance of it compared to the infinitely more urgent battle; there were so many reasons Hornet should have forgotten something so trivial. And yet she couldn't. The memory haunted her, persistent, stubborn.

They'd won. So why did her mind keep dragging her back to that scene?

She'd caught glimpses of the fight through that infection-tangled hallway. The Knight, steadily chipping away at the Hollow Knight's defences, landing precise strikes intermingled with wild blasts of magics that Hornet had no clue from where they had learned. They were doing well — as well as she had hoped. Their previous victories against her had been no coincidence.

(And yet—)

She'd known her moment to strike as soon as she'd seen it. Her thread snapped taunt as she bound the Hollow Knight. The crack in its face gushed with liquid infection, almost resembling ichor. It would not be enough to simply kill their corrupted sibling. They needed to eradicate the source. Hornet's needle pierced the crack. Prying, pushing— anything to reveal the stolen mind within. To expose Her.

This was it. The Knight's chance. To fulfil their duty. The very purpose of their conception.

Hallownest could see an end to the infection for good.

Hornet could feel her heart pounding like a caged beast. The crushing pressure of the Temple was starting to dig its claws beneath her shell, tightening, siphoning away her vitality. She had felt something similar as she had peered over the Abyss, but not nearly this strongly. They had seconds before she'd black out. Never before had she placed her own life in the hands of another. The Knight had to act fast.

(And yet—)

The Ghost of Hallownest withdrew the dream nail.

(And—)

And yet they froze.

A single pause.

(A hesitation?)

Then The Knight struck their sibling.

Hornet couldn't recall clearly what transpired afterwards, assuming she must have finally succumbed to the oppressive air of the Temple. When she woke, all that remained was herself, the bisected mask of a warrior, and a motionless husk.

The memory of the moments just before would always company her whenever she’d visit the Hollow Knight’s body.

Miraculously, it seemed to have kept its shell intact despite the prominent crack crossing one of its empty eye sockets. Hornet scanned them for the thousandth time for any sign of something amiss. As expected, her investigations were fruitless. A rag resembling a cloak hung from her half-sibling’s shoulders, not even the Hallownest seal acting as a clasp spared from becoming greyed and scarred. And then beneath it, the Hollow Knight itself, utterly motionless.

There was no gentle rise of breath, no steady thumping of a heart, no flush of blood beneath its shell. That was to be expected from a being of void. They had no internal organs, blood, nor soul of their own, to Hornet’s understanding. Void was not a substance that ‘lived’ in any traditional sense. What was unusual, however, was the fact it still had a body at all. Beings of void left no corpses. No matter how clean the fatal injury, that inky substance imitating a carapace would simply melt, leaving only the being’s corporeal elements behind.

That’s what Quirrel had explained when The Knight left no body, only two pieces of that pale shell of a face. But he’d struggled to explain why the Hollow Knight had not joined its sibling in death.

There was an irony to it, one worth a grim laugh, how the King had thought the Hollow Knight a perfect vessel, yet one that could not even obey the expectation of death.

With blessing from the village’s Elder, they had buried The Knight in Dirtmouth. According to the older bug, it had been a common frequenter and an eager listener among the few remaining locals. Hornet hadn’t corrected Elderbug that The Knight couldn’t speak even if they had desire to. Perhaps he realised though when nobody had known a name to put upon the grave.

A visiting Nailmaster had insisted on housing the motionless Hollow Knight, claiming to be certain they were simply unconscious. This confidence persisted for a day, then a week, then near a month. Every time Hornet visited to see her half-sibling, the Nailmaster's conviction never seemed to waver. Not even as there was never a single stir from The Hollow Knight. Sometimes she would walk in to see him dusting down the cloak of her half-sibling. Perhaps he was a master in both the nail and in hiding doubts, or if he in fact was truly incapable of feeling them.

The Nailmaster's home among the Howling Cliffs felt fitting for its final resting place. It was an old training ground, with bold stone walls and an imposing entrance. The interior, however, the Nailmaster had clearly aimed to convert to something more homely, furnished with the essentials for independent living, including a raggedy hammock for himself, and a pile of crates topped with cushions to imitate a bed for The Hollow Knight. Scarlet curtains, once intended to muffle the clangs of nails clashing, now invited a claustrophobic domestic quiet.

Ultimately, no matter how much the Nailmaster attempted to dress up the structure, the walls would remain scratched by the battles it was meant to house. It was simply a vessel puppeteered into performing a perversion of its intended duty.

Hornet looked blankly over the body of The Hollow Knight. The scene repeated. Wild orange eyes, a straining pull desperate to snap her binding silk, her own breathing growing shallower by the second.

And yet there was The Knight, utterly still.

(A being without mind, stopped to think?)

The howling winds almost masked a set of footsteps approaching. For a moment, she was underground again, fretting the worst for daring to take a moment of respite. But no, she knew the sound, heavyset with a metal clunk from a pair of rusty sabatons. 

The Nailmaster wasn't someone that necessitated vigilance around... for the most part. Hornet was not so ignorant as to ignore that a person who had earned the title of Nailmaster deserved an amount of respect, but his optimistic nature was irrational. How could anyone who had lived through Hallownest's fall remain a naif? There had to be some strategic reason behind the act, maybe to lure in more students, or deceive potential opponents into dropping their guards. Trust was not a resource to give away so flippantly. But there was little reason to attempt to uncover the mask. Hornet knew he would not attempt to ambush her. The Nailsage, while retired from combat, lived in Dirtmouth, and retained the right to strip a Nailmaster of their title if they acted unlawfully, a title the Nailmaster did not declare without pride.

A stovetop crackled alight. Hornet heard a rush of water followed by a kettle set in place atop the stove.

"I'm making tea."

Beside the mask of optimism, the Nailmaster exhibited some... peculiar behaviours. For one, he frequently declared each of his actions allowed to anyone in near vicinity regardless of their participation or interest, was often surprised to find cupboards he himself had left open remaining such, and he would talk to anyone—including strangers—as if they were close allies already. He was a Nailmaster, a warrior of refined skill and duty to the nail, deserving of honour and respect, yet insisted that everyone call him Mato.

A strange strain of humility, befitting of a strange Nailmaster.

When Hornet didn't immediately react, he repeated himself louder. He likely sought an acknowledgement of some kind then. "Okay."

He was smiling, at the same time his brow furrowed. He was... confused? Had she misspoken? "Would you like some, kiddo?"

"No." Hornet's response was immediate, before she recalled the proper etiquette a knight should be beholden to. "Thank you."

He continued. "Any for them yet?"

Hornet's answer felt obvious yet left her with a pang of guilt. "… No."

Not a single sign.

In far younger days, Hornet recalled how her mother had described death to be like a dream, but one where its dreamer would never wake. While Herrah would be alive in some sense as a dreamer, it was best to see her as dead. There would be no waking. Not a single stir. Never again they would share a soft lullaby or warm embrace. Never again would Hornet see her mother without the mask of a dreamer.

Perhaps that was where The Hollow Knight was now. Not death, but its equivalence. Perhaps in destroying the plague within its mind, The Knight had also destroyed any remnant of mind to begin with. And what was left was a husk. An empty vessel. An imitation of its former purpose. And perhaps that was for the best. With their duty fulfilled, what was left for it now? What was the point in existence without a cause?

The kettle screamed a long whistle.

Hornet swore she could feel eyes on her back, but when she turned to the Nailmaster, he was looking at The Hollow Knight.

Something seemed to make him pause before he broke the silence, glancing to her. “It’ll be alright, kiddo.”

…?

“I know.”

Strange Nailmaster, indeed.

Another pair of footsteps echoed from the entrance, similarly heavy like Mato’s but carrying a softer edge of bare chitin, with a slight irregular rhythm.

Cloth greeted the Nailmaster by clasping hands with him before pulling him into a tight embrace. She greeted everyone as such, only with exceptions for those who openly objected such as Zote, sometimes before Cloth had even acknowledged him. She’d never offered it to Hornet, however. She couldn’t recall ever rejecting it in the past, yet there seemed to be an impression somehow that she was unapproachable.

(Hornet didn’t think about it much. Why would she? Cloth still talked to her with the same politeness as anyone else. Did Hornet scare her somehow? But such an idea felt impossible. Hornet didn’t need to think about it so much.)

Cloth offered a two-finger salute instead. “There you are. Elderbug was getting a wee worried you got lost.” She had a voice Hornet wouldn’t normally expect from a warrior, carrying a slight softness incompatible to make war cries.

Hornet answered simply, “A fool’s idea. I could navigate the kingdom blind.”

Cloth giggled, an airy noise that made Hornet's insides do things they realistically shouldn't. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, especially around fellow women adept in combat… just an unnecessary feeling.

(Act proper. Be a knight. She had greater purpose than to dwell in old childish instincts.)

Mato chimed in, “Better not test it for the sake of his heart.”

“He’s lasted this long seeing Tiso and I act a-fool. Another joining us surely wouldn’t be the end.” Cloth’s expressions were never easy to decipher under her burlap mask, but she seemed to find other ways to show her joy. Animated hands, a bounce in her stride, a quickness in her voice.

Hornet cleared her throat and prepared to leave. “For his sanity, we’d be best to not see what could be worse than caving Quirrel’s roof.”

“That was one time!”

With a goodbye from Mato that felt longer than necessary, the two stepped outside.

The scent of petrichor lingered. Shallow puddles decorated the ground and covered every rock with a slick sheen. Heavy clouds still hung low in the sky, foretelling the brief shower earlier was far from what they had to offer. Hornet sighed. For all she could dislike about the City’s constant downpour, at least it was consistent. But on the surface the weather seemed to change with its own fickle whims.

As they walked, Hornet realised why Cloth’s stride had sounded uneven earlier.

“You’re limping.” Hornet stepped forward, however hadn’t expected Cloth to step back in turn. Had Hornet spoken too fast? Concern should be expected though. An injury warranted immediate response, lest it succumb to infection, wound rot, parasitisation—

“Huh?”

“Stop. You’re injured.”

Cloth raised her hands as if in defence. “— no, no. I’m just tired, you know?”

Hornet felt obliged to believe her, even if she knew to trust her own eyes. After all, it was Cloth . She was one of the strongest bugs around, and wielded a club as large as herself— a club made from a fang ripped from a much larger creature. Surely, she wouldn’t sustain an injury so minor, but even if she did, would she not heal fine on her own? Hornet corrected herself and stepped away.

(Act normal, Goddamit.)

When faced with silence… and potentially Hornet forgetting to emote like a normal person, Cloth pushed to fill the sudden quiet. “Nymm had another vengefly infestation. One of the crafty bastards bit me while I was occupied.”

The profanity wasn’t shocking to Hornet, but each time she heard it used so casually by non-natives to Hallownest, it reminded her of the chasm that was truly between her and the others, even while walking side-by-side. While Hallownest had rotted in stasis, the rest of the world had grown as normal, and language had changed with it.

Hornet pushed out a response. “It seems we should better reinforce his basement then.”

They slid down the rope she had secured to allow slightly easier travel between Dirtmouth and the Howling Cliffs for Mato’s sake. The old town was in sight, a silent crowd of rubble leading to its inner heart—the village square, and where the majority of the residents lived, both old and new. The sluggish dusk basked the remaining unpopulated houses in an orange glow. Even with the few bugs that had taken residence, including Hornet, they couldn’t come close to matching the numbers of the town’s prime. Their presence did little to resurrect its corpse. But Dirtmouth was safe. Not a home, but safe.

… For the most part. One could never be completely safe in Hallownest, of course. Even when upon the surface.

Hornet nearly flinched when Cloth suddenly spoke up. “I appreciate the concern. It’s nice knowing you look over us.”

What.

“What—“ Hornet cleared her throat, suddenly feeling like she was teetering on a thin line of silk. She swiftly caught herself. “What did Quirrel want us to catch for dinner?”

Cloth faltered, looking at her blankly. Why? Who knows. Hornet had reacted very normally. “Oh— I’m not sure. He’s still underground with Lemm.”

”Still?” Quirrel had been there all day with the Relic Seeker, researching a bunker of sorts they’d uncovered near the White Palace remains. Hornet gave a sigh, already planning their next steps.  “We should go down and remind him time still exists. He said he was cooking tonight.”

Someone interjected. “If I walk in on them investigating each other, I’m starting a fight.”

Tiso on the village square’s bench, looking as if he was competing to take up as much room as possible. He stepped on the rim of his shield, flinging it, cleanly catching it midair in a single motion. It was a unique contraption, seemingly made of multiple sharpened plates that could sit compact as a simple shield, that, according to Tiso, could become a bladed weapon with the pull of a small lever on its internal side. If true, it would be a curious contraption, one similar to Hornet’s own crafted spike traps, designed to be compact and harmless until triggered, flaring out blades with deadly speed. She had yet to see proof of the shield in action.

Hornet couldn’t remember a time she had seen without the shield, his armour or his hood. He wore them like a second shell.

Cloth must have seen him already as she forgone a hug for a wave. It seemed to be a gamble if he would accept a hug anyway on a given day. Most days he would reject her upfront, and then on others he would loudly complain, but only after letting Cloth proceed, as if he had obliged a favour for her sake reluctantly.

Hornet looked at Tiso, deadpan. “No need to hurry yourself to join. The reinforcement would be a redundant effort.”

If he caught onto her hint, he didn’t acknowledge it. “No need to humble yourself, princess. I’m bored, anyway.”

He strode ahead.

Great, now Hornet was going to be overseeing Tiso’s safety. She knew he could protect himself, sure, but knowing how to handle a weapon did little to satiate his thirst for blood and glory. Cloth, as reckless as she equally could be, at least had the sense to de-escalate conflict where possible. She knew combat was not a means for celebration, rather a means to an end. Tiso preferred to jump into conflict like a beast freed from a cage.

Cloth had stopped suddenly at the edge of town. Hornet stepped aside to see why; Bretta was looking at Tiso expectantly. Hornet must have missed her speaking. Even with senses as keen as Hornet’s, Bretta’s soft-spoken tones were easy to miss.

Tiso crossed his arms, stiff as a board, leaning back in an imitation of himself in a more relaxed state. “Duh.” A falter betrayed his sincerity. “But feel free to tell the others so they don’t feel left out.”

Bretta gave a quiet sigh. “You said you’d let me teach you how to sew tonight.”

Ah, likely due to Tiso’s habit of ignoring new tears in his hood, to the point of fraying. No matter how many times Bretta had offered to fix it for him, he always refused. Hornet assumed the cause was likely an ego issue. Or maybe a simple refusal to be seen unhooded.

(Maybe he had an embarrassing birth mark. That would be funny.)

Tiso cursed as he fumbled for an excuse, bravado in pieces at his feet. Cloth giggled, earning herself a light whack to the arm. “Reschedule?”

Hornet couldn’t quite understand why Bretta agreed, even reluctantly. Would it not enable people to be fickle in the future if they saw it held no consequence?

Cloth stretched with a yawn, in the same motion stretching an arm around Tiso’s shoulders. Suddenly she was pulling him into a headlock and ruffling his hood. “Better not let that thing fall apart then, ey?”

Tiso’s string of curses received him no assistance.

Someone snorted, an unseemly noise endeared by its clear amusement. It took Hornet a moment to realise it had been from herself. Cloth’s face shot up, stunned and wide-eyed, just long enough it gave Tiso a chance to grasp his vengeance.

Hornet looked away from the two wrestling like children, quietly clearing her throat. Something must have caught in her airway, assuredly. Immaturity was a figment she’d left long in her past.

“Remember only warrior women can see me unmasked—”

“Cheater—!”

Bretta yelped and covered her eyes.

Cloth had mentioned, briefly, a tradition from her homeland where their warriors remained masked as a sign of humility, and only their fellow female warriors could witness them unmasked. Hornet had assumed it must be following an archaic matriarchal standard, but had never found the excuse— no, a purpose—in inquiring further. If the answer did not assist their survival, then there was no reason to seek it.

Hornet gave a sigh and turned to Bretta. They were wasting time. “You may look. They are simply acting like fools.”

Neither would truly unmask the other. For those not blessed with a pale mask, cowls of the cloth often bore equal weight to their identity.

Bretta peeked from behind her claws, and exhaled with relief, seeing Tiso and Cloth still masked, though still engaged in a mess of limbs and childish insults.

Bretta’s mandibles opened to speak, yet the words seemed to fizzle into a squeak when she accidentally made eye contact with Hornet. It wasn’t the first time she had seen the beetle grow suddenly awkward around her. Maybe it was due to Hornet’s relation to The Knight. When searching for the beetle, Hornet had stumbled into Bretta’s basement once, a tiny room full of canvases and sewn dolls bearing both The Knight’s and Zote’s likeliness, stacked with great care yet hidden like a shameful secret.

Hornet decided to speak up, plainly. “Yes, Bretta?”

“I, um… I suppose I’m free now then. Can I go with you guys? I wanna see what Lemm has been researching.”

Tiso muttered something along the lines of it starting with a ‘Q’ and ending in an ’irrel’ that Hornet felt it best to interrupt. “I don’t believe that would be wise, Bretta.”

Cloth pried herself free from Tiso, who readjusted his hood with a fluster. “Well, it’s not like anything is infected anymore.” She paused. “Right?”

“The wildlife of Hallownest is not to be underestimated.”

Bretta’s face fell. “I suppose…”

Tiso barked a laugh. “Yeah, I hear tiktiks are especially vicious. Come on, princess.”

Hornet’s eye twitched. It felt like a miracle that Tiso hadn’t met the same fate as the many, many other careless fools who’d travelled to Hallownest. Some of her frustration melted when she saw Cloth sling an arm around Bretta’s with a reassuring shake. “She’ll be alright. Beetles are the beefiest species, aye Bretta?”

Hornet heard the tail end of something about generalisations as she jumped down the well.

Her eyes darted down each dusty corridor. No husks. No predators.

Withered vines of infection hung from the ceiling lifelessly. Following the fall of the Hollow Knight, she had made efforts to clear as many of the corpses in the Crossroads as possible, letting the once animated bodies lay at rest, and away from further desecration. Most hadn’t survived the infection. The corridors appeared safe… at a glance. Hornet narrowed on a small patch of dry grass that wasn’t quite swaying as it should. Something was inside.

The breeze was moving from the well, behind Hornet, meaning she couldn’t smell whatever was inside it, but it wouldn’t take long until it would be able to smell her.

Her needle flew into the grass. She heard the sickly crunch of carapace before she felt resistance from her thread, a new weight. She yanked it back to her hand.

Before she gave the signal if the path was clear, the chain jangled with a new weight. Tiso descended with far too much flare to be practical, spinning around the chain as if trying to join a circus. He kicked off it, flipping over Hornet midair, before landing in front of her. Gloryhound.

“You can’t be that hungry.”

Hornet looked at what was skewered halfway down her needle. A crawlid.

(Higher Beings damn her, she hated it when he found reasons to continue being so flippant.)

Cloth was next, seeming to attempt a similar manoeuvre to Tiso, however accidentally catching her foot in the chain halfway, and instead of it stopping her, the chain fell with her.

She landed on the floor with a thud, face down, and stayed there. Hornet would have been concerned if not for the snort of laughter from the cicada. She wasn’t so weak as to be doomed by such a fall, but for a moment the panic had seized Hornet. Just a momentary caution. Nothing more, nothing less.

Hornet let her disapproval known with a scowl. “Stop jesting. Both of you.”

“You could at least pretend to be impressed, princess,” Tiso said with a grumble. He started walking.

Why? To feed an already bloated ego barely contained inside his silly hood?

“Wait a moment—!” Bretta’s voice echoed down the well. Soon after, a buzzing followed, as she slowly descended, elytra spread wide to allow the delicate wings underneath carry her down.

(It was irrational, but hearing the buzzing of wings felt… safe, somehow.)

Bretta bent down beside Cloth. “Are you alright?”

Cloth gave a thumbs up and jumped to her feet to catch up with Tiso. “Never better. Onwards!” 

Bretta was soon to proceed afterwards, allowing Hornet to guard the rear of their group. 

Lest they wanted to disturb The Old Stag’s retirement, Hornet would make them fix the chain later… Though maybe after making them wait underground first. Just for a little bit.

Chapter Text

Looking over the bunker, the possibility of mould wasn’t surprising. Papers laid strewn across the floor, stained with age and toppled pots of ink. Tables had been upturned and shoved to the sides. Lemm’s eyes traced down the marks marring the formerly pale walls, the trails of moisture that had dripped down them, leaving dirty trails in their wake. Despite the evident dampness, charred marks clung to the scene, obvious signs of a fire in its past. Each breath and movement, even Quirrel simply dragging a finger along the shelves, seemed to erupt a new cloud of dust and ash. Given that the entrance had been heavily obscured under rubble, it was highly likely they were the room’s first entrants in a long, long time. Maybe even since the stasis started. Now that would be a treat.

Undisturbed historical sites had grown to be a rarer occurrence the longer Lemm had stayed in Hallownest, not entirely by his own fault, and especially in recent times. Of course, Hallownest had always attracted its share of travellers, wanderers, vagabonds and nomads alike, but with the disappearance of the Infection also disappeared a major obstacle that had deterred most looters for nearly a century. Anything, whether it be a journal left like litter by an adventurer, or a soul totem older than the kingdom itself, suffered a higher risk than ever by being tainted by some careless individual’s grubby little claws. Even if Hallownest was infinitely safer without rotting husks crowding its tunnels, Lemm still found himself wishing he could block all the other travellers somehow; let himself and himself alone be the one with his grubby claws on the artefacts first, let him archive and preserve them as they deserved.

… Though perhaps he’d let Quirrel remain. Even while cursed with butterfingers, at least Quirrel knew the importance of protecting history.

Perhaps that is the reason Lemm felt comfortable allowing Quirrel to enter the bunker first. Or maybe it was the fact Quirrel could defend himself. Supposedly, he had experience with a nail, and Lemm had found no reason to doubt such, though had never seen Quirrel so much as carry one with him.

Lemm usually performed such excursions alone, as rare as they were. He wasn’t one for fieldwork. He knew his place was in an office, away from danger and people, a controlled environment where he could indulge in his passion in peace. But when Quirrel had suggested he join him exploring an abandoned bunker he’d found deep beneath the city, who was Lemm to refuse? It was easier to split work between two people rather than attempt to tackle it alone, after all.

Yeah, that was why he agreed to join Quirrel. Work.

(Just work.)

Lemm pulled a ribbon from his wrist. As much as the room was in dire need of sweeping, he wasn’t about to let his beard suffer that job.

“Would you like it braided?” Quirrel called back to him.

Lemm’s answer was immediate. “I’ve got it.”

It was a snap judgement he immediately regretted saying. Braiding it would be far more convenient, yet he hadn’t even thought about his response, as if it was instinct. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d rejected the offer. He knew Quirrel wasn’t about to start yanking chunks of his fur out for whatever reason… probably. 

Lemm bound his hair with a tight bow and tossed it over his shoulder.

Before Hallownest, his first step would typically be organisation, categorising documents by chronology, author, format, or purpose. Within Hallownest however, the task could range from troublesome at best, to impossible at worst, due to the illegibility of so many artefacts. Despite intending to stand eternally, Hallownest had not been very prepared in preserving its written documents. The rain had reduced piles and piles of weaversilk parchments to mush in the city. The language of the Hive’s texts had been wholly lost, up until a handful of hivelings survived the infection. Many of the petroglyphs of Greenpath bordered on illegibility due to the acidic humidity’s erosion. It seemed that the bunker’s challenge was having half its writings be piles of char and ash.

Lemm sifted through one of the piles of cinders and white for anything readable. Among scraps of gibberish, some scraps bore large, inked boxes, evidence of a retroactive censorship. It was a messy job, though due to a lack of care or due to a lack of time, he could not tell. Combined with the sign of fire, however, it’s possible the formerly blocked entrance hadn’t been coincidental.

A faint jingle drew his attention to the other side of the room where Quirrel had taken a seat by a desk, seemingly the only upright furniture in the room due to the fact it was fixed in place. Hung upon the wall nearby were multiple strings of bells, reminiscent of ones the moths had crafted in a more fortunate era of Hallownest. Strange, not just by the presence there, but the fact they were fixed to a wall instead of the ceiling, as proper practice would dictate. Supposedly, the bells would ring if a malicious figure entered someone’s dream, waking them and saving the dreamer from harm. Placing them against a surface of any kind would completely nullify the intended purpose. However, Lemm would save Quirrel that seminar, knowing the scholar was already as aware as he was about the nomadic moths’ practices. (Though Lemm had a suspicion Quirrel would have pretended otherwise, just to hear Lemm ramble about it to him.)

Quirrel must have felt himself being watched as he glanced over to Lemm, causing the relic seeker to at once snap back to his own devices.

(Work. He’s here for work.)

Miraculously, he was able to find something salvageable. He pulled out an envelope, one only slightly blackened at the corner with its contents still safely stuffed inside. He flipped it over and found it addressed to one “Lady Marissa”, with the sender’s address messily painted out. With deft hands, Lemm cautiously extracted the letter and smoothed out the parchment.

From the first sentence, it was obvious the writer was quite fond of Marissa, gushing over her music and beauty like a desperate suitor. Lemm would have thought it quite genuine if the writer didn’t then immediately start begging for funding for… some sort of project they were very reluctant to clearly define. They just kept rambling about hope, future, legacy— oh!

“Seems the writer of this knew about the Hollow Knight plan but didn’t believe it would work. Looks like they claimed to have an alternative as well, though they’re not entirely eager to specify how or what.”

Lemm wished he could capture Quirrel’s face in that moment like a pressed flower, the immediate spark of ideas, the sudden rush of theories. “Quite the rebel involved here then. Could that be considered heresy? They are undermining the power of the King, after all.”

Defying the Pale King in any regard seemed to have been a great taboo in Hallownest: soldiers were beheaded for deferring, wars were waged for resisting the Pale King’s demands, citizens were arrested for voicing doubts of his absolute rule. Some records even seemed to imply the kingdom had been straying dangerously close to monotheism, in spite of the multiple Higher Beings also holding dominion in Hallownest.

“Could be a reason why this place is so ransacked, and why someone was very eager to destroy anything written here.” Something else caught Lemm’s eye further down the letter. “… ‘Tis Hallownest’s vested interest to cease all contact with the beasts immediately, for they have misled our King. In exchange for the weavers’ magics, they have tricked Him into believing He has no choice but to submit to their common-blooded Queen. This plan is tainted and will doom Hallownest’— good grief.”

Quirrel gave something of a macabre laugh. “Well, technically the right conclusion, just based on all the wrong reasons.” He took a step back, admiring the bunker in its entirety. “I wonder what they believed could fight the infection.”

“That, or what they believed they could sell to others.” Grifters and scam artists weren’t an uncommon occurrence in any civilisation suffering an ongoing tragedy of any kind. Lemm had found evidence of Hallownest’s own share of them: the self-proclaimed Soul Master and his cult seeking immortality under the guise of finding a cure, complaints about quack apothecaries with (usually expensive) preventatives, attempts of self-inoculation that typically went sour. Desperation was a breeding ground for exploitation and rash decisions.

Yet, looking around the room, there didn’t seem to be any traces of such. The Soul experiments notoriously left an insurmountable number of bodies in their harvesting of soul, and one could not concoct a medicine from thin air, even a fake one. Perhaps those bells were a sign they sought a cure in the moths’ practices, though clearly without the benefit of an in-depth source. Still, the fact they were investigating the moths at all could be evidence to indicate they were wise enough to understand the infection as not an ailment of the body, but one of dreams.

Lemm scanned the letter again, up until its conclusion where a black box obscured the writer’s name. Alas, missing names wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in the pursuit of lost history. It was the fate of most bugkind, to be forgotten, reduced to, at best, a statistic or witness.

Lemm alerted to an unexpected sound. Quirrel was in the corner, crouched over a gramophone surrounded by a jumble of soul-batteries. He picked out one that seemed less eroded than the other and slotted it into the back of the machine. It wasn’t surprising to see so many ineffective batteries. In spite of its great power, Soul was difficult to ethically harvest and difficult to efficiently store. The only certain method of stored soul was within fossilised husks—a finite source impossible to recreate unless one had a couple millennia to spare.

It didn’t take long for the soothing melody of a trumpet to fill the air.

Quirrel hummed along to the dulcet tones of the feminine singer, stumbling on a few notes as if unfamiliar with the song, but then following the tune perfectly in other sections. Perhaps it was a song he’d heard outside Hallownest at some point. Or at least, that’s what Lemm could assume.

He could just ask him. He could ask Quirrel very easily. It wasn’t as if the scholar was a closed book in any regard, seemingly. His thoughts, his emotions—Quirrel had never seemed like one to keep them private before. He had nothing to hid… to Lemm’s knowledge. It was easy to forget sometimes that Quirrel was an amnesiac, one with no home or certainty, certainly not anywhere in Hallownest or near Lemm. Chances were Lemm already knew as much about Quirrel as the scholar himself. It would be pointless to inquire.

(They were acquaintances at best. Their bond was one built upon convenience and a mutual hobby. Imagining something meaningful between them would be pure, pathetic desperation.)

Lemm must have been glowering again, as Quirrel decided to drag him from his ruminations, saying, “Stop flexing your mind, or the rest of you will atrophy.”

Quirrel had crossed the room at seem point, seeming to be mimicking something of a dance. It was difficult to discern what style he had in mind, if any. The slow tempo of the song lent itself well to a form of ballroom, though Quirrel’s posture was far too lax for any sort of proper formal style, likely because his ‘partner’ was a wheeled chair that was half his height. The song was in a 3/4-time signature, ideal for a waltz.

Lemm folded his arms as he observed with cautious amusement. Quirrel was doing well to avoid disturbing their scene with the chair, but one misplaced step could quickly change that. “Your stance is off.”

Quirrel replied with a laugh, light like silk. “You’re the only one here who can judge me.”

“Then judge I shall.”

“Oh, the horror. I’ll never graduate from dance school now.”

Lemm rolled his eyes before walking over. “C’mere—” Confused, Quirrel looked at him blankly, as if Lemm had just yanked a rug from beneath his feet as he grabbed the chair and slotted it by a wall. Shoving down the urge to shy away beneath the other’s gaze, Lemm approached.

Hesitation made him falter as he tried to direct Quirrel on the correct posture for a waltz, a straightened back, the positioning, the closed strict hold. It didn’t take long for Lemm to realise he hadn’t a clue about any formal styles of dance, nevermind the specifics of a waltz. It hadn’t crossed the relic seeker’s mind that it wasn’t something common knowledge, held to the same importance as knowing how to speak, how to write, how to take care of oneself, how to perform appropriate social etiquette…

Lemm did his best to guide Quirrel, trying to at least not talk down to him as if the scholar was a child, and hoped the clamminess in his hands wasn’t noticeable when he directed the other’s hand to his shoulder.

(It was just typical of himself to start acting weird when in proximity to another bug, who, what, didn’t despise him? For all his love of learning, he really wasn’t very good at the act of learning, apparently.)

“— so, the box step is the foundation of everything that follows.”

“I see,” Quirrel paused, something still on his tongue. “It all seems awfully constrained. When does the flare come in? The— the…?” He tripped over himself searching for the right word. Lemm raised an eyebrow. “— The pizzazz! You’re a great teacher, I’m sure. I just think it seems so structured. Is the purpose of dance not expression?”

Lemm sputtered. “This is how it’s supposed to go!”

“Could the rules not be a guideline instead?” 

Lemm didn’t want to entertain that with a response. Of course the rules were meant to be followed. That’s how both participants synchronised. That was the whole point of having rules: harmony. A waltz wasn’t a waltz without any constraints, it was just two people holding hands in a ballroom.

Quirrel seemed only further amused by Lemm’s quiet grumblings. Then, he asked, “Where did you learn this?”

Lemm cleared his throat and freed himself from Quirrel, wandering to the old gramophone and setting its spindle aside. No need for it to speak anymore. “You realise there may be a corpse here we have yet to find, yes?”

It was an empty threat, one Quirrel could probably see through like polished glass. They would have smelled any death before they’d even entered the room.

“Oh hush. It’s not like they would judge us.”

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s the oddest way I’ve heard someone pronounce my name.”

Lemm’s eye twitched. It really felt like Quirrel was asking to get strangled sometimes. He should consider himself lucky that woodlice didn’t have defined necks.

He could hear Quirrel laugh behind him, that wonderful noise cut short as he cleared his throat. “Speaking of… Is there something you could call me besides scholar? I know you don’t do it a lot, but, it— it doesn’t always feel right.”

Oh? Lemm had never thought Quirrel would take issue with an epithet of all things, but from the way he’d introduced the conversation made Lemm wonder if Quirrel had it on his mind for a while.

“... Archivist?”

Quirrel shrank into himself with a cringe. Oh, had Lemm said the word wrong? He was usually quite fluent in the Wyrm’s tongue, but perhaps he was still prone to mistakes. It was regrettably a language he’d learned from text before hearing it in speech. 

“Traveller, then?”

Quirrel considered it for a moment. “Well, I’m not technically travelling much while I’m here.”

“While you’re here, huh…” Too used to solace, Lemm didn’t realise his private mumblings were audible until they’d already escaped him. He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’ll see a thesaurus for something better.”

Quirrel let out what Lemm could only describe as an awkward noise with the rhythm of a guffaw, before falling silent. He decided he needn’t pay it any more mind than he already was and diverted his attention elsewhere. Ash, char, scattered furniture, bells, gramophone— oh, neither of them had yet checked the shelves.

Try as he might, even as he reached to the highest shelf where neither of them could see its potential contents, Lemm’s mind was a scrambled clump of thoughts.

It was an unfortunate thing, but simply the nature of bugkind. As much as history could wax and wane, at its core was people making decisions, the same decisions made by others before them, and others before them. Rulers always sought to conquer, lest they be conquered. People overlooked innovation for the familiarity of traditions. Common people, unless they happened to stumble upon or do something remarkable, became faceless statistics. And wanderers, most often, simply disappeared.

One could take a simple glance through Hallownest and see them everywhere, the decayed bodies of all species and sizes, spared from infection but not from the infected. Not even a name to mark upon their impromptu graves.

“You know, this is the longest I’ve stayed in a kingdom in a while. Hallownest always seems endless with what’s more to investigate.”

Someday, when Quirrel got bored of Hallownest, he’d move to another land and join one of their many, many unmarked graves. 

Lemm’s hand brushed against something hard and cold on the last shelf. Beneath its shield of dust, there was something metal, an ovule shape and embellishments leading into sharp points. Try as he might, attempting to grab it only pushed it deeper into the crevice.

Lemm quietly cursed his lack of stature before pushing a desk nearby and climbing atop it. It heaved beneath his weight. If the way he finally went out was doing something stupid to obtain a relic, then so be it. When he did manage to grasp the artefact, a slight resistance stopped him from removing it easily. With a determined huff (and a protest from his back), he yanked it free.

Something fell on his hand. He seized, releasing the relic with a yelp.

Quirrel was immediately at his side like a guard, alert, though it wasn’t long before he was smiling beneath his hand, smothering a quiet chuckle. 

The Hallownest Seal clattered on the floor. Attached to it by a withered line of silk was a small critter, some kind of arachnid. It didn’t take a genius to see it had been dead for a long time, body perfectly stiff and dried, with its legs curled into itself. It must have crawled in with the last of its energy and attempted to make a den for itself by the seal.

“Scared of relics now?”

(Lemm’s heart clawed to escape his throat. Who gave Quirrel the right to have a laugh that sounds so nice?)

What Lemm let show was a long, deadpan look. His response was dry. “Terrified.”

(Stupid—)

“Don’t worry. Any malicious artefacts would have to go through me first.”

(— beautiful smartass.)

Quirrel pulled the Hallownest Seal free from its webbed manacles and presented it to Lemm. He’s not sure why he hesitated before taking it, or cleared his throat afterwards as if he’d acted improper. 

“So we’d both be doomed.”

Lemm was a thousand miles away as he watched Quirrel return to his own investigation. Some part of the relic seeker wanted to laugh along, beam with a smile like some giddy idiot, melt into a pile of goo and drain into the cracked floor.

A fool’s instinct. No hairy sack of dry remarks and sarcasm would change who Quirrel was. 

Nor would any scholar… 

(Not an archivist.)

(Maybe a traveller…)

(… A wanderer?)

Nor could any wanderer change who Lemm was.

The Seal was cold in his hand.

Its surface was dull, more so than what was typical of the seals already in Lemm’s collection. Perhaps that was a symptom of the trace presence of void in the Ancient Basin. While the colour of seals usually faded with time, the tempered pale metal was uniquely hard to blemish without aid of incredible heat. Even the most volatile of Greenpath’s acidic lakes hadn’t been able to deform them. He’d seen one once, glistening at the bottom of the riverbed, and all he had been able to do was gaze from afar, the relic so close it was in reach, but too dangerous to ever attempt a retrieval.

Lemm was long aware he would become a nameless statistic someday, but he would not push himself to that fate prematurely by chasing something unachievable. He would not stoop to that level of foolishness.