Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sixty-three days after appearing in the past, Ghost kills the Radiance.

It has far less fanfare than the first time around. There is no Godseeker watching on, no choir lifting ever higher, no thrilling surge of excitement from the unknown of such a battle. 

Instead, they slip out one night, when the constant eyes on them grow a bit more careless, and slink through the shadows until they reach the long-forgotten Crown of Hallownest. 

The Dream Nail sits heavy in their grip, Awakened and ready to cut through the veil. It traveled back with them, bound to their being as surely as the Void Heart is, which pounds within them as they strike the last statue of the Radiance, carving a path into the Dream Realm where she dwells.

For all that the fight is quieter than the first, it is not an easy one. That is not to say it had been before, either, but at least then she had been contained in some way beyond lost memories, even if that was within their Infected Sibling. Here, she is free, and her power unbound.

“A Pale Child?” She has no mouth, and yet her words reverberate in their mind. “The Usurper grows quite desperate indeed. He truly throws his spawn to the Light in the hopes that one will dim it? Dim me?”

Ghost does not answer, even though they know that they could. They have consumed her once before, in a future that will never come to be, and they can remember the few brilliant moments in which they had not just been the God of the Void, but of Dreams. Though the power is no longer theirs—not yet—they still understand dreams far better than ever before. In such a place as this, they could answer her, if they wanted to.

It is not something that she deserves.

(She doesn’t even recognize them.)

(But once…)

“Nothing to say?” She hums. “All the better. Let the Wyrm see how even his own Pale Light will not be enough to temper the flames of the Dawn.”

Her words are a song, far more alluring than any mortal could hope to make. Overtop her melodic tone echo the voices of those that Ghost loves. Their friends, their family, try to whisper to them and call them closer—call them home. It is one of the truest ways that the Radiance has been able to take hold of the minds of Hallownest. She digs within their dreams, finds the tunes of those they care about most, and weaves the voices in with her own.

It is her fatal mistake.

Because Ghost’s dreams are not filled with voices that can fool them—not here. They are the voices of those that they love, and they are voices that will find home only in Ghost’s mind. Some do not yet live, some are a world away, and the ones that are still here do not know them—will never know them as surely and truly as they did.

(Once, they opened their eyes for the first time, and saw a bug that looked just like them. Once, for the briefest moment before the Pale Light broke through and beckoned them up, they felt what could only have been love.)

It is the weight of a sacrifice that Ghost did not even know they were making until it was done.

The reminder burns hotter than Radiance’s damned Infection ever could. Anger rushes through them, and they can feel the Void roar back. Even for something so soundless, the pressure rumbles through the Dream Realm, and the Radiance finally falters—finally senses that she is missing something. It is already too late.

They fight. As they do, Ghost watches the Radiance grow more and more aware of who—what—it is that she is truly facing; that ancient enemy of hers, long forgotten, but never gone. They are quite similar in that way, aren’t they?

Ghost gives chase, the Void rising at their command, and the Radiance flees into the depths of the Dream, but there is nowhere that she can go that Ghost will not find her. She struggles as the Darkness pulls her down, but she cannot hope to match their strength, born of fury and love and her own devoured Essence in a future that will never be.

The Old Light burns until she no longer can, and screams as she dies.

Ghost allows themself to sit in the Dream for a long few minutes—for control of it is once more under their Will, and time in this place will only pass as they permit it—and simply breathes. 

(Once, Mato showed them the value in taking a moment to just meditate and feel nothing but the air and the rock.) 

(They do not need to breathe, and yet they do, and the lesson sticks with them more than others.)

Ghost feels the air around them and the rock below them, and in the same breath, they bring the Infection to heel. Those too far gone drop as lifeless husks. For many others, bright orange eyes fade to clouded ones, and sickness begins to run its course. It will take some time to truly disappear, but no more will die than already have, and no Dreams will again be haunted by the Light.

Before the night is done, they return to their shared room with Hollow—for why would Vessels need rooms of their own—and wait. 

It takes some time, but just about two cycles later, it starts to become clear throughout the kingdom that the Infection is gone. There is caution, but if it holds, the Pale King promises to lift the quarantine, eases restrictions for the time being, and vows to his citizens that a close eye will be kept to ensure that it does not return.

Only four days pass before—while intense discussions are taking place over what to do with two Vessels that are no longer needed—Isma turns a corner and catches Ghost and Hollow locked in a hug of mutual reassurance. All of a sudden, those discussions end. 

Ghost and their sibling are brought to the throne room. It is empty, save for the King and Queen. Not even the Great Knights stay, bowing quickly and closing the doors behind them.

The Pale King stands from his throne and approaches the two of them. The White Lady is a small step behind him. 

“Pure Vessel,” he says, looking at Hollow. His eyes dart to Ghost, and he corrects, “Vessels. We are going to ask you a question. You must answer as truthfully as you can, to the very best of your knowledge. Do you understand?”

Ghost nods. Hollow does, too.

“Good.” The Pale King looks nervous now—it is a strange look on him—as he crosses a set of hands in front of him. The White Lady’s face is carefully blank. “Now… Are you—either of you—truly… truly hollow?”

It does not seem as if Hollow knows how to answer, uncertainty ringing from the Void within them. That is fine. Ghost can handle it for both of them. They shake their head. Hollow glances at them, and then does the same.

“You can think?” Their father rasps. “Feel?”

The Void Heart pulses within them, unified for the first time ever with Dreams and Light beneath Ghost’s own Will, and they think that it would be very odd indeed if they could not. They take Hollow’s hand, hold tightly, and nod.

The Pale King lets out a shaky sort of breath, stark in contrast to the White Lady’s heaving sob. Ghost and their twin are wrapped in an embrace by their parents—the first one they’ve ever gotten—and the world shifts more than they ever imagined it could.

A gathering of the Dreamers is called. They were already on their way, and thanks to the quarantine still in place, the paths are clear, and it does not take them long to arrive.

Ghost stands near the throne and watches the Dreamers enter. They feel as if they know each mask as well as they know their own—whether from the entrance to the Black Egg or from the bugs that slumbered away in their seals. Ghost did not kill them, in the past, though they knew that they were meant to. They are even more glad for it now. It might be even harder to look at them, otherwise.

Lurien moves with fluttery steps, as if his feet are unsure if the ground will be there each time they land. Monomon, comparatively, slides forward with such grace that Ghost is almost jealous. Herrah is as imposing as they would expect, but they have little time to think about it, as a flash of red shifts behind her.

“Queen Herrah,” the Pale King says, and sounds like he’s grinding his teeth. “You were not meant to bring a guest.”

“‘A guest,’” Herrah scoffs, her voice the oddest mix of gravel and velvet. “My heir, you mean. And your child, as little as such a thing means to you.”

Hornet does not look as they remember. She is far smaller than in the future—obviously young—but still taller than either Ghost or Hollow, even if it is only by a smidge. Her horns are shorter. A needle is strapped to her back, though it must not be the one that she wielded in the future. She bounces a bit in place, head twitching as she looks around. There is an innocence to her that Ghost never got to see—one that she will not be forced to lose so quickly, now.

“Does she have a name?” The White Lady asks.

“Not yet,” Herrah says, far more kindly. “Though her training will begin soon, in both Deepnest and the Hive; she will earn it then.”

The Pale King inhales to speak again, but the White Lady lays a delicate hand on his shoulder and murmurs something low enough that Ghost cannot hear. The Pale King sighs, but acquiesces, and turns to address the room once more.

“I’ve called you all here to inform you that your services as Dreamers will no longer be required.”

The shock is palpable. Lurien gasps; Monomon stills; Herrah stiffens. Hornet—or Not-Yet-Hornet—falls into place and gazes up at her mother in wonder. Already, she knows what sacrifice would have been made, and rewrites what must be imaginings of a motherless future.

“Then… you truly believe the Infection is gone?” Monomon asks.

“I do not know for certain,” the Pale King says. “We know nothing about why it has gone, nor whether it will return. Regardless, even if it does still linger yet, we shall not counter it with the Pure Vessel Plan.”

“Did—Did something go wrong my King?” Lurien stammers when no other speaks.

“I suppose that depends on your perspective,” the Pale King replies. The White Lady whacks him lightly, and he clears his throat. “Ahem. Watcher Lurien, Teacher Monomon, Queen Herrah.” A pause. “Princess of Deepnest.” Hornet straightens. Their father places one hand on Ghost’s back, another on Hollow’s, and continues, “I would introduce you to Hollow and Ghost. Our children.”

Monomon leans forward with immediate interest. “The Vessels? They’re alive?”

“In every way that matters,” the White Lady says.

“The King and Queen’s children?” Hornet asks her mother not-very-quietly.

Herrah nods. “So it would seem, Daughter. They’d be your siblings, then.”

Lurien finally recovers, and manages, “Hollow and Ghost?”

The Pale King inclines his head.

“Rather interesting names,” Monomon hums.

The White Lady grins. “They chose for themselves.”

Things… change. 

Ghost supposes that many would probably say that they get better. 

They do get better, don’t they? Yes, they do. Things change, and they are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is happy and safe—having tea with their mother and trailing off behind their father—and Hornet has her mother and gets to keep her this time, and Ghost is…

Ghost is…

…

Days are monotonous. There is little to do, despite the skills that they have and the things that they know. Where once they might have spent time fighting in the Colosseum, or digging up relics to sell, or mapping out new tunnels with their quill, they now find themself… bored. 

They, like Hollow, are ‘too young for combat.’ “Children are meant to be children,” their mother says—their mother lies—and smiles gently. “And you will never have to see battle—not if I have anything to say about it.”

(Once, she looked at them through blind eyes and told them to supplant—to kill—their tortured, broken, never-pure and never-hollow sibling.)

(Spawn, she called them then.)

(Child, she calls them now.)

Their hands itch for a nail that is not there, one that hasn’t even been made . They fought for such a long time, that it is almost strange to not do it now. They wake from naps and reach out blindly for a handle, and it always takes a few moments to remember. When Hornet visits, she strolls about with her needle poking out over her shoulder. Ghost tries not to be jealous, and tries not to miss the trusty weight against their back.

It might be better that they don’t have it, anyway. One day, Ogrim manages to sneak up on them, and they spin into a Cyclone Slash—useless and pathetic without a weapon to complete it. He gives a booming laugh, tells them that battle might not be the call for them, and that the Queen can likely put them in dance lessons if they desire.

(Once, the Cyclone Slash defeated Ogrim, and the next time Ghost saw him, he said they were mighty, strong, honorable.)

(Knight, he called them then.)

(Child, he calls them now.)

It’s probably good, right? Things are better now, so they don’t need to fight. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is…

Ghost…

…

They think that they might be ungrateful. They’re alive, aren’t they? So many of their siblings cannot say the same. The people that they loved before are safe, and others still might yet be saved. They live in a palace, with any luxury they could ever want—everything they never had before. A lantern that may have once cost them every last piece of geo they had now comes in dozens, each lighter and brighter than the last, each available for them to take without question.

Their life is one that other bugs can barely even dream of, and they know it. They should be thankful.

It does not stop them from thinking of the Abyss, though. The doors are sealed tight, and the King’s Brand is no longer seared into their shell, but they can still remember its burn. They wonder if the Void can, too. Shouldn’t it, if it is united under their Will?

The Void Heart pulses within them at the thought, one of the few things that remained with them. It almost makes them feel vindictive, in the proof that it provides; a soul rests within them, despite all the best efforts of the world. Their thoughts are real, their feelings are real, they are real. 

It’s a silly thing. Of course they’re real. Everyone else thinks so, too. Their parents, for all their faults both past and future, think that they are real. The tablet outside of the Abyss’s entrance is changed barely a turn after that fateful day in the throne room, and it is different from what Ghost remembers. It speaks now of an eternal mourning, a grave for the King and Queen’s children that would forever remain undisturbed.

They go to see it the first night that it is there, and have to hide away as the Pale King approaches. They watch his Light dim not from the weight of the Void, but the weight of his grief. He places a hand against the door, claws digging into the grooves, and tilts his head toward the ground. “Rest well,” he whispers to nothing, and Ghost’s Void Heart tries to thrum the same somber tune. They sit in the shadows until he leaves, and for hours more after.

(Once, the Pale King cast his unborn children into the Void below, and left all but the most worthy and most doomed behind to rot.)

(Vessels, he called them then.)

(Children, he calls them now, and weeps.)

As time passes and they settle into the past, much of the hatred Ghost feels toward their father fades. It had been easier to despise him when they did not know him. Now that they do, the hate bleeds into something more akin to bitterness—or maybe to bitter understanding. 

When they first arrived in Hallownest, the Infection had been nothing more than the way things were; certainly not something that called for the Hollow Knight—sealed away in body and mind—screaming—to be subjected to such a fate. Then, though, there was Myla, slipping away no matter what Ghost did. Her singing grew quiet and shattered, her body stilled to twitches, until eventually she hurled herself at them and her carapace split along their nail, Infection and blood spilling as one, staining the crystals.

She was the only one that they actually watched succumb to the Radiance’s twisted Dream, and it haunts their thoughts. They can’t imagine making the same choices as their father, but they can understand why he did. Hallownest was full of the dead, brought back by the Old Light, and if Ghost had watched thousands of those they were meant to protect fall just as Myla did, they think they might have become desperate too.

As it is, many of the Pale King’s mistakes have been made, and some never will be. 

Hollow will stay free and happy, and if that is all Ghost can do, then this will have been worth it. 

Things are better here. The Infection is gone, and Hollow is happy, and Hornet is safe, and Ghost is…

Ghost is…

…Ghost…

…

They are left alone more often than not. Or, perhaps that is not quite right. They are not brought along, and refuse to join without an invitation just as staunchly as they refuse to ask for one. It doesn’t matter much. They were alone rather often during their travels as well. This is not so different.

Hallownest is strange, now. It is lively in a way that Ghost never saw—full of bugs going about their business, gathering in trams and stag stations, hurrying down roads that haven’t had the chance to crumble. Areas that had once been dangerous are laughably safe now, with spikes covered by bridges and sound-minded guards posted about. 

Ghost wonders if the whole kingdom is the same. They have no way of knowing. Along with Hollow, they are not permitted to wander—not without an escort. They would laugh at it, if they could; Ghost can probably traverse the caverns better than any guard that could guide them through. That doesn’t matter, though. They are the child of the King and Queen, young and untrained, and in this strange, once-forgotten world, that means something. Ghost has defeated Gods, has ripped through the Dream Realm and torn the Radiance to shreds and wrested Divinity from her fading corpse, and they are no longer allowed to hold a nail. Funny.

It doesn’t matter. They don’t need to travel. They don’t need company.

Everything is as it should be. The Infection is gone. Hollow is safe and happy. Hornet is safe and happy. And Ghost is…

Ghost…

…

Oh.

And Ghost is no one’s favorite.

It is a strange thing to realize. It does not come as a revelation—a shock or an explosion or a nail through the back—as much as a steady understanding. Suddenly, they simply know that it is true, as if they always have. There is not one single moment they can point to as much as a million instances, catching on a web—tangling in a dreamcatcher—folding in on themselves as easily as the future did.

Hollow readily spends time with them until the moment the Pale King appears, at which point they peel away to patter after him, and leave Ghost alone in a courtyard. Hornet gives them naught more than passing acknowledgement when she visits, and they think it’s just how she is, until they watch from the rafters one morning as she flings herself excitedly at a delegation coming from the Hive. Their father tries to show that he cares, but the affection he so long harbored—harbors—for the Pure Vessel often takes precedence over the one that simply appeared one day, and so it always a case of ‘next time,’ of that patient and endless waiting for an invitation that will never come. The White Lady is free with her love, but it is the same she gives to the others—because her children are all equal in her eyes—and for all that the love is welcomed, it is not unique to Ghost. It is not unique to any of them.

The realization settles in a way that makes them double-check it; that rests so easily it might have been there all along. Ghost turns it over in their mind—no mind to think —and runs it between teeth they don’t have. They are no one’s favorite, and that is fine. They don’t need to be anyone’s favorite. It’s a selfish thing to want, anyway.

…But they had been once, hadn’t they? Would be—would have been—in a future as dead and gone as the million siblings resting eternally below? 

Once, Elderbug gave them advice and respite. Once, Cornifer praised their scribbled map additions, and Iselda offered discounts in exchange. Once, Quirrel let them lean on his shoulder and doze off as the endless rains of the capital continued through the window. 

Once, they crawled from the Abyss, draped in the shadows they were born in, to find their sister waiting at the top—stance unreadable as ever, but voice softer and words kinder. 

Once, she walked in step with them through the Ancient Basin to the tram platform, despite having speed they could not match. 

Once, she tilted her head as she looked at them, ran a fond hand over the top of their mask, and unknowingly spared her mother in the same instance; Ghost’s nail would never draw blood their sister shared—no will to break— because they would find another way.

And so they did.

Now, things are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is no one’s favorite. They fade into the background, and pass by friends they will never have, and have cordial exchanges with those that are meant to be family, and it is fine.

But there was a time, long ago and never to be, that reeked of death and destruction, that only they remember…

It was a terrible time, a broken time, a fallen time.

Selfishly, they miss it. 

Things are better now. They are better for everyone except for Ghost, and that is what matters. They got their chance—at love, at freedom, at happiness—but Hollow didn’t. Hornet didn’t. The missing siblings they carefully keep part of their consciousness looking out for didn’t. Ghost was born into the Abyss, was lost outside of Hallownest, had surely fought and struggled to survive, but they can’t remember that. Beyond their birth, the only times they do have—the times in Hallownest—were good; shops and benches, maps and elevators, friends and adventure. It is all gone now, but they got their fill. Now, it is everyone else’s turn.

Perhaps they tense when someone’s breath rattles too much, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they sleep best on benches hidden away in the secluded corners of the palace, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they spend their nights curled on a bed they never use, shaking with silent sobs—no voice to cry suffering—as tears of Void drip down their mask, but they’ll get over it.

They are selfish, and they mourn a dying world that they can never return to, and they are more alone than ever before, but they’ll get over it.

…And it’s not as if anyone will notice if they don’t.

The only one who might be capable of it would be the Pale King with his domain of Knowledge, but his thoughts are frenzied at the best of times. He is caught up with trying to atone, and there is much to atone for. Ghost knows that better than anyone. Still, they can’t hold much of it against him; not anymore.

Who are they to judge a Higher Being—a God—for his sins? When they are his greatest one of all?

They were meant to have no Mind, and yet they think. They were meant to have no Will, and yet the Void unites beneath it. They were meant to be a Vessel—pure and empty and hollow—and yet a single kind act from their sister was enough to drive them to godhood, if only to spare her heartache.

(Once, the Godseeker sneered at them, a speck in her most High and Holy Home.)

(Wretch, she called them then; crawler, cringer, fool.)

It may be better that they are left behind more often than not. Something ancient and eldritch shudders within them—something that they can barely even begin to comprehend. It stirs with their emotions, and beats in time with their Void Heart. 

(Once, the Godseeker gazed up at them in wonder, and drowned in a sea of Nothing.) 

(God of Gods, she breathed, and died.)

Yes, it is better this way. Void terrifies, and it kills, and it hollows, and they don’t want to do any of that. They can keep it calm—keep it Focused—and stop it from harming anyone. 

It is satiated for now, anyway. Ghost will make sure it stays that way, and give their siblings the peace that they deserve.

Hollow taps them on the knee. “Okay?” They sign, tilting their head at Ghost in concern. “Lost.”

“Not lost,” Ghost replies easily. “Thinking. Sorry.”

Hollow is still for a long few moments before getting to their feet, leaving the half-finished puzzle on the ground. “Come. Dinner soon.”

They’re right. Dinner quickly became a regular occurrence, where every night Ghost, Hollow, and their parents gather in one of the White Palace’s many dining rooms to eat together. The White Lady occasionally has to drag their father from his work to join them, but he always does. Vessels do not necessarily need food; they can survive perfectly fine without. Their parents don’t seem to care. 

Ghost trails behind Hollow through the lofty corridors. Retainers duck their heads in respect as they go, and Ghost is reminded of the White Palace that sat in the Dream Realm, overrun with thorns and buzzsaws: the Pale King’s last defense. It is nicer now, they think, gazing over vaulted ceilings and perfectly-carved pillars and plants that are kept eternally tidy. They certainly will not miss clinging to the wall to avoid being sliced in half, staring off into the endless clouds below.

(Once, they fought their way through one of the hardest challenges they had ever faced, all for the promise of secrets sealed. They reached the end, and watched a scene of their father and their doomed sibling, standing on a balcony together. The two looked at one another, and the Dream drifted apart, dropping Ghost outside of the memory and locking it away for good.)

(Once, their father had thought that the Vessel was pure—hollow—empty.)

(And he loved them anyway.)

“Good evening, my dears,” their mother greets them as they enter the dining room. “How were your days?”

“Good,” Hollow answers for both of them. “Puzzles.”

“How thrilling,” the White Lady says, and sounds like she means it. “Come, let us sit. It’s almost time to eat.”

They take the same spots as usual. The White Lady glides into one of the larger chairs, Hollow across from her and Ghost to her right. It is still a bit strange seeing her capable of moving around. In the not-future, she had been bound in the Gardens, far larger than she is now, roots stretching throughout the kingdom. She had not been kind or loving, but rather cold; her children nothing more than tools. Sometimes, Ghost thinks that it is good she is so different from how they remember her. It makes it easier to pretend that they aren’t even the same person at all.

Hornet, visiting at the moment, is already there, perched in one of the empty chairs at the end and weaving silvery thread with three hands. She is truly Hornet now, having earned her name just days earlier after defeating the Hive Knight in combat.

“He’s going to be late,” she says, barely looking up from her work. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” the White Lady says. “I would hope that having you here as well would spawn the smallest bit of initiative. It seems I was a tad too optimistic.”

Hornet snorts. “Quite bold. If his own favored children are not enough to bring it about, I doubt my own presence would.”

The White Lady stares at her, just a bit sadly. “He cares for you, Princess. As do I.”

“So I know,” Hornet says. It sounds genuine.

The Pale King walks in some fifteen minutes later. He moves regally until the doors close behind him, at which point he hurries forward to his own seat at Hollow’s side.

“You’re late,” the White Lady says.

“Apologies, dearest Root,” he replies. His Light is calmer in this time, and Ghost wonders if it is truly dimmer, or if they have simply gotten used to it. “I was preoccupied. The Old Light’s sudden retreat is as much cause for concern as it is a relief.”

Hornet scoffs. “One would think the relief would be greater.”

The White Lady hums, and a soft touch brushes the top of Ghost’s head. “I cannot help but agree.”

Light flares for a moment, but it is gentle, and the Pale King turns his head to observe all of them as he says, “Yes. I find I do, as well.”

They eat. The King and Queen ask questions about whatever things they must think are valuable to know—colors they like, books they’ve read, games they enjoy—and Hollow answers eagerly, while Hornet picks which ones she cares about. Ghost answers when prompted.

The food is good, at least. In their journey through Hallownest, Ghost had never really eaten anything, because they did not need it, and there was already very little for those who did.

(Once, Iselda passed them a piece of hardened sugar wrapped in paper after they safely returned her husband from Deepnest. It was sweet, and tasted like a fruit they’d never had.)

(Once, Grimm cackled as their dance ended and the Nightmare Heart grew ever stronger, and gave them some sort of pastry dusted with red. It was spicy, and tasted like fire.)

(Once, Hornet sat with them in a tent above their common father’s once-grave, and shared her meal of mushrooms and dried skins with them, even though she knew they did not need to eat. It was cozy, and tasted rich, and crunched as it dissolved in the Void.)

Now, they can have whatever they want. They often don’t, because it never really crosses their mind, but they can appreciate the constantly-changing dinner spread: meats free of Infection and freshly-harvested plants and cakes no one in the future even knew how to make.

Their plate has barely been empty for thirty seconds when the Pale King gets to his feet.

“Back to work?” The White Lady asks.

“No rest for the wicked,” Hornet comments.

“Nothing with the Infection, dear,” he says, ignoring his daughter. “I simply have a few tasks that desire my attention.”

“Very well.” Their mother stands as well, and Hollow follows suit. Ghost, as well as Hornet, stays in their seat. “I’ve my own duties to attend to, loath as I am to say it. At least Herrah’s letter promises to be interesting.”

The Pale King nods, flaps his wings once, and presses his forehead to his wife’s for a moment before returning to the ground. He steps toward the doors, and Hollow scurries closer, taking one of his hands.

“Oh?” The Pale King looks down at them, amused. “Would you like to come along?” Hollow nods. “Well, know I will never deny your company, child. Let us go.” The two of them depart, and though Ghost’s stare traces them the whole way, neither look back once.

The White Lady notices. She does not offer them true comfort, however, nor does she invite them along herself. Instead, she chuckles and says, “Do not be jealous, my dear. You will get your own time with each of them. We’ve the entire future ahead of us.”

Hornet hops up from her seat, flips over the table in a flash of silk, and inclines her head at them as she passes on her way toward the doors. “They will not be doing anything interesting anyway, sibling. I’ve been in our father’s workshop; it is nothing to mourn not seeing.”

Her words… do not make Ghost feel better.

The White Lady hums again, places what must be a kiss atop their mask, and says, “Calm your thoughts, my child. You’ve nothing to worry about now; not when we are here to unburden you.” Her fingers stroke the sides of their head, and she smiles and leaves as well.

And Ghost is alone.

…It’s fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.

Deep in the Abyss, the Void Sea surges with the pounding of their Heart, and long-departed siblings begin to wake from their slumbers. Ghost yanks themself from reality to focus their mind on soothing the ancient Darkness, tempering the waves and lulling shades back to sleep. They weave Dreams, and though they are nowhere near as deft with it as the Radiance was, they think it is better than nothing. A rush of warmth floods the Sea, and the pulse fluttering in their throat slows.

It’s fine. They knew that things wouldn’t be easy upon waking up in the past. They just thought that it would be ending the Infection that would be difficult, rather than everything that came after.

Ghost can adapt, though. They have before.

Hollow is safe, Hornet is safe, the Infection is gone, they assert to themself. Things are better.

They are. This is a price that Ghost can pay. It is one that they will choose to pay a million times over if it means that those they love will be all right.

(Once, Ghost used their Dream Nail on the corpse of their father, and his thoughts echoed through their blasphemous mind—No cost too great.)

(Ghost didn’t understand him then.)

(Now, they think they do.)

They are the Ghost of Hallowest, sibling of Hollow, sibling of Hornet, born of God and Void. They have ascended the most High and Holy Pantheon, slayed the Radiance, and ended the Infection for good. They are the Lord of Shades, the God of Gods, the Void given Focus. They can handle being lonely, and lost, and the favorite of no one. It’s fine, as long as it’s only them.

(Now, they are loved and they know it.)

(Once, they were loved and they felt it.)

The Abyss settles, and the Void Heart hums a steady, empty, beatless tune. It might be trying to soothe Ghost as well. That’s stupid, they think. Why would they need to be soothed? They’re fine, aren’t they?

Yes. They’re fine.

Ghost gets to their feet, pushes in their chair, and heads for the door, and if stray black tears curl down their mask and dissipate against the ground, then at least there is no one around to see it.

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing: Hornet never told Ghost that she loved them.

Perhaps it is a strange thing for them to think about—to focus on when there is so much that demands their attention—to turn in their head over and over and over until it tastes only of bitterness. Still, they cannot help where their mind—no mind to think, no mind to think, no mind to—wanders.

Ghost knows that she loved them, too. They are sure of it. She had patted them on the top of their mask, and shared her food when there was so little, and promised that she would be with them at the end. They had felt her care—remember how her touch turned gentle from harsh, warm from cold. What else could it have been but love?

But she never said that she loved them. Her voice became kinder just as her actions did, and yet never were the words pulled from her throat. Was it real, if it was never once spoken?

It was, Ghost thinks sternly, because why would a voice make something real? Hollow is real, aren’t they? The fallen siblings were real, once. Ghost is real, loathe as they are to know it. The love that Hornet had for them, once-upon-a-time and never-to-be, had to be real as well.

Somehow, they think that makes it worse.

“Hello, sibling,” Hornet says as she passes them in the halls of the White Palace. There is no chill to her tone, but no comfort either. She is cordial when she comes to visit; as polite as she needs to be. She speaks with a mix of flowy words and quick sarcasm, and she doesn’t know Ghost at all. When she leaves, it is not to patrol through a dying kingdom, but to head back to her waking and breathing mother, ruling over a Deepnest free of Infection—free of Light.

It’s almost appropriate, isn’t it? There was nothing in the old time that Hornet had despised more than the Radiance’s Dream, and now such a thing was under Ghost’s command. Perhaps some part of her, deep down, knows that they have become what she hates—what she hated in a future that will never arrive.

(Once, the corpse of their father’s previous life caved in around them, and the darkness had been so agonizingly familiar that it chilled them to the core. Then, hands wrapped around them, and they were pulled from the rubble and carried to the bench nearby.)

(Once, while the King’s Brand sizzled fresh on their shell, Hornet sharply said, “Do not dare look at me like that. I could not allow you to meet your end there, before your mission has met its own.”)

(Once, despite her jagged edges, she let them lean against her and fall asleep, and stayed there until they woke.)

They hadn’t realized how used to Hornet’s presence they were until she was gone. There is a gaping hole in their life where she is meant to be—one that cannot be filled by the passing interactions that they manage on the few days that she is around. 

Where once they could often catch a glimpse of her always just past their view, things are now emptier. They are safer than ever before—secure and protected within the walls of the Palace—and yet they feel as exposed as they might have been in the wilds beyond Hallownest. Hornet’s gaze traces them, and then turns away, and never does it linger to make sure that they are all right. There is no reason why they shouldn’t be.

Ghost does not feel very all right, but they suppose that doesn’t matter. They just need time to get over themself—to impress upon their mind that it’s fine if Hornet doesn’t think of them any more than she does any other vague acquaintance; that is all they are to her.

Instead, they spend time with Hollow. Or, well, they spend time with Hollow when Hollow is not spending time with someone else. 

It hurts to be around them sometimes; makes Ghost sad in a way they find hard to articulate. It makes the failures of the old world all the more horrible.

Ghost never met the Hollow Knight in the previous time; not really. They fought their twin within Godhome—where Pure Vessel was far more accurate a title—but their gaze never fell upon the sibling sealed away in the depths of the Black Egg. 

Despite this, Ghost knows what they looked like.

Whether it is through the Void or Dreams or something else, Ghost is well aware of the Hollow Knight’s state at the end. Beyond the screaming and the pain and the Light, Ghost knows that their mask was cracked, and their arm was missing, and their body was so overcome with Infection it burned. The Radiance broke through the Hollow Knight’s mind, and broke through their being as well. 

Ghost hopes it hurt when she died.

The Pure Vessel—the Hollow Knight—was quiet and empty and perfect. It was born in Darkness, and was cursed to spend eternity containing the Light, and never would it know life or love or freedom. There was nothing it desired beyond the goal that it was made for. It had no mind—no will—no voice. It was the ideal puppet for the Gods, just as it had been designed.

...Hollow likes flowers. 

Purple ones are their favorite, they clarify; specifically the light ones that bloom a soft lavender color. They like fairytales, but only the ones where there is a happy ending. After they learned to write, they started adding swirls at the ends of certain letters because they thought it looked pretty.

They can’t sleep without a nightlight.

Ghost’s chest hurts when they think about it, and their Heart sings a soundless, mournful tune.

(Once, the Hollow Knight was strung up in chains, with nothing but the Void and a sealed God for company.)

(It was dark, in the Black Egg. Hollow would have been scared.)

(Ghost wonders if the Hollow Knight was scared, too.)

“Sibling-sibling!” Hollow exclaims when they turn a corner and spot Ghost halfway down the hall. “Look! Look!”

There is a pot, with a sprout nestled inside. It is taking both of Hollow’s hands to hold it, which explains the Void-Speak. They try to use sign as often as possible—even when they do not need it to talk with one another—in order to get practice. Ghost thinks it is helping.

“Plant?” They sign, and tilt their head.

“Pale Lilac!” Hollow replies. “For room! Mother-Queen gave.”

“Pretty,” Ghost says, though there is not even a bud yet. 

“Will be,” Hollow nods. “Pale Plant. Needs only Soul. Easy.”

Ghost wonders if the Delicate Flower had been some kind of Pale plant as well—a flower that could be sustained by Soul alone. It never seemed to wither, no matter how long Elderbug held it in his claws. Did it survive through the kingdom’s stasis, or its own?

Either way, whatever power was within that Flower, it was enough to counter the Void and the strength of a newly-born God. It was enough to tear them from reality and send them hurtling back in time. What would things be like, had they never given the Godseeker the Flower in the first place? 

They suppose it doesn’t matter much now. They did, and it brought them here. No use dwelling.

“Must find spot for it,” Hollow says. They take a few steps forward and then pause. “Come with?”

Ghost thinks if they look at the plant for any longer, they might try to strangle it. Their fingers twitch, and they shake their head. 

Hollow’s shoulders slump. “Okay.” They scurry away, and Ghost watches them go.

(Once, Ghost fought and fought until their shell ached and their Soul was depleted, and one final strike of the nail managed to bring the Pure Vessel to their knees.)

(Once, the sky cracked open above them, and the Old Light’s terrible shriek echoed throughout Godhome.)

(Once, the Pure Vessel, even despite their exhaustion, tensed through the call, as if they already recognized the scream of their inevitable sacrifice.)

There are less retainers in the real White Palace than in the Dream they had once traversed. That is not to say that they do not exist, but many more corridors sit quiet and empty than they remember. They suppose the differences make sense; there are no buzzsaws or thorns or endless falls through clouds here, either. Ghost can wander through winding halls for hours without seeing a single soul, and never walk the same one twice.

While it is a good way to pass the time, the space to think does also bring forth something that they prefer to forget when they can: the Divinity that now hums within their shell. 

(Once, they were born of God and Void, and were created to be less than less; to be nothing. It only doomed them—to Darkness and Light alike—and left their screams to go unheard and unheeded.)

(Once, they were killed and hollowed and emptied before they even lived, denied the Godhood that should have been their birthright.)

(Once, Divinity was something that they and their siblings were formed of, and it did not save them. It did not save any of them.)

If they had known what would happen when they chose to kill the Radiance in Godhome instead, would they have still done it? If they had known that it would unite the Void beneath them—no will to break, no will to break, no will to—and force them to a place where no one that they loved knew or remembered them, would they have found a different way?

(Once, Ghost Ascended, and they did it all on their own.)

No. They wouldn’t have. This is the different way, isn’t it? The only other option meant killing the Dreamers—killing Hornet’s mother—and Ghost was never going to do that. Now, Herrah lives, and Hallownest thrives, and Hollow will never be sealed away. In the end, Ghost knows that if they were given another chance, they would choose the same thing. They would choose it every time.

But…

But Ghost does not like being a God.

It might be something that others desire—the endless and unbound power of a Higher Being—but Ghost is not among them. They wish to be normal; to be the kind of bug that doesn’t have to worry about Light or Dreams or the Void, or lost souls clawing at their thoughts whenever they let themself rest for a moment, or a future that must be prevented no matter how dearly they hold it in their Heart.

Ghost has never been normal, though. From the moment that their egg was hollowed out and they were still pulled into existence, they have not been normal. Everything that they are was not meant to be, and yet still they live. They faced the Radiance at the peak of her power and challenged her rule, and yet still they live. Against all odds—despite the ease of the alternative—still they live.

...They have to make it worthwhile.

Hollow is long gone from the corridor when Ghost sets off in the same direction. Upon reaching the royal family’s wing of the Palace, they swerve into their room, just across the hall from their twin. Hollow’s door is open, but Ghost has to focus, so they avert their gaze and shut their own door tightly behind them.

Pacing the length of their room, Ghost does their best to think. They are back in time, and they have changed things, but there must still be things to do. Their days cannot be spent simply waiting for once-fallen siblings to emerge from the Abyss. 

In the old world, they left Hallownest, and by the time they returned, the only siblings that they found were long gone: broken masks and tattered cloaks and empty shells with nothing left behind. 

If they have power—moreso life—within them, then they have a duty to those that they once failed. They have a responsibility to use it.

Climbing onto their bed and folding their legs beneath them, Ghost stretches out their senses and calls upon the Void as they search the Abyss.

It is choked with Darkness. Endless threads clamber for their attention, and they do not know how to differentiate between a shade and a sibling. A million shattered children cover the Abyss floor, and there is no way to tell where death ends and life begins.

They cannot even feel the spark from the Abyss Creature. It had been there when they first arrived in the past, they remember. The small surge of energy had called to them, ushering them closer during their desperate climb to the top. They had landed on the platform before the Creature’s door, and blinked past a flash of blue light to find the ever-familiar Lifeblood Core sitting on the ground before them. It was warm when they took it in their hands, and whispered delicately of echoes—memories—once—once—once. 

Ghost did not understand then. They still don’t. They took the charm anyway, and the Creature went quiet. Ghost has not felt it since, nor anything akin to it, either.

The Void seeps into everything around it, even reaching those regions that rest outside of the Abyss’s clutches. Whatever exits Ghost and the other siblings may have used are lost to those memories that they never quite got back.

(Once, long before they were Ghost, they sprinted through shadows that closed in on every side.)

(Once, fangs bit at their ankles and claws scratched their horns and a roar pierced the air, so loud they could gag on it.)

(Once, they ran and ran and ran, and did not look back until they were deep in the Wastelands and the only thing they could hear was the wind.)

If they cannot find the still-living Vessels within the Abyss, and they cannot find any exits either, then what can they do?

An answer taunts Ghost as so many things do these days—hangs before them in the image of too-small corpses strung up and still.

The Nosk.

Ghost can kill the Nosk.

The thought excites them, more than it probably should.  It is not just the prospect of protecting their family—of saving all those siblings that had once been murdered—but the idea of having a nail back in their grasp. Ghost constantly has enough Soul stored for something like six spells, and no place to cast them. It feels as if there is energy always trembling within them, making their limbs tremble and feeding off of their stress, and they need something to take it out on.

Nosk, who killed their siblings once and will try to do the same again, is the perfect target.

They just need to figure out how to do it.

Ghost begins to plan. They have to get into Deepnest, of course, but more importantly they need to do it without anyone knowing that they are. If all goes well, it will be just like when they killed the Radiance, and they’ll be back in bed before anyone even notices they were gone.

The tram is out of the question, then. Of Deepnest’s untamed regions, the station and the Hot Springs were certainly going to have the most people.

(Once, Hornet perched herself on the Hollow Knight’s fountain and sat with them, telling stories of her childhood that sank into Ghost’s memories and in the same instant were lost to the rain.)

The Queen’s Gardens entrance wouldn’t be a great idea, either. Besides leading straight into Weavers’ territory, Ghost would have to find a way to even get through their mother’s Gardens without being caught. That was not something they particularly want to bet on.

Fungal Wastes has an entrance between it and the Gardens, doesn’t it? But, no, that was formed by a collapsing floor, and Ghost doesn’t want to rely on the hope that it will be in the same state of disarray while the kingdom is still thriving.

In the end, the answer seems obvious.

The Royal Waterways stretch down into the edge of the Ancient Basin in order to reach the Palace Grounds. If they make their way into the Waterways, they can use them to travel below the City, avoiding the many guards within. At the western end of the sewers, they know that they can break through into the bottom parts of the Wastes. Specifically, they’ll be right near the entrance to Mantis Village.

Mantis Village, which has a way into Deepnest.

Before, Ghost went to the Village more times than they can count. They know it like the back of their hand, and they are sure that they can blend in with the shadows and make their way into Deepnest without being spotted.

Their hands shake a bit, thrilled at the idea. Yes, that is what they will do; travel the Royal Waterways through to Mantis Village, slip through into Deepnest, and then find and kill the Nosk. Easy.

All they need is a nail.

It is… harder to get one than they’d like.

They don’t bother even trying to ask their parents. They are well aware that it will bring them nowhere. 

Other avenues don’t prove particularly fruitful either.

None of the Great Knights even entertain the idea. Dryya chuckles when they attempt to sneak past her and grab a practice weapon from the rack. They hadn’t realized she was still there, and she scoops them up and deposits them on the ground outside of the training room.

“I don’t think so, princeling,” she says, crossing her arms. “Her Majesty has been quite clear. Perhaps you may appeal when you are older, in years to come, but for now you must be comfortable in her judgement.” She bends down, takes their hand in hers, and pats the back of it. “It is admirable to wish to protect those that you love. Know, Highness, that such a duty is one you can feel secure leaving to us.”

(Once, Ghost staggered past Cloth’s corpse and approached their mother’s hideaway, deep in the Gardens. Before it laid dozens of dead mantises, as well as one slumped figure: long-passed, and yet still trying to protect—protect—protect.)

(Once, the White Lady never even learned that her ever-fierce and ever-devoted Knight was dead.)

Hegemol… annoys them, on the best of days. He is the largest of the Knights, and the strongest as well, and he looks down at them as if they are fragile; something to be tucked away and kept from anything that might cause them harm. He all-but tiptoes around them, as if scared that he will break them if he is not careful enough. Ghost doesn’t even bother trying to get a weapon from him. The failure is not worth the effort.

The Grey Mourner—Ze’mer, they remind themself, she is Mysterious Ze’mer—gives them as much of a chance as Dryya does. “Ah, nym’prince, the desire can be understood,” she says when they point insistently at the training room she has just locked, “But che’s Lady’s words are firm. Che’ dares not counter them, especially as meled’lover already leaves che’ in dire straits.”

(Once, a lone house at the edge of the kingdom held nothing but memories and the hollow shell of a once-Great Knight, mourning for eternity.)

It makes sense, they suppose, that she is so quick to deny them. Ze’mer and her mantis lover are not a relationship that either side really approves of, and she does not wish to do anything that might draw the King or Queen’s ire. 

(Once, Flowers bloomed over a forgotten grave, and a spirit gave a single flickering bow before disappearing for good.)

Theirs is a story without a happy ending, even given time. Ghost is frustrated by it anyway.

They are in the middle of asking Ogrim—in the middle of yet another refusal—when Isma swoops in. She lives up to her ‘Kindly’ title, Ghost has learned, always quick with a sweet word and a guiding hand. It is the reason she and Dryya often team up to teach the newest recruits; one to be harsh, and the other gentle.

“Oh, I do hope you did not take my words to be grim,” Ogrim says when they ask, likely referring to when he'd ignorantly said they would be more suited to dance than combat. “Of course, anything you wish to pursue may find itself conquered, but the battlefield need not be one of those things!”

Ghost resists the urge to stamp their feet. 

Isma hums as she emerges from her own training, approaching with light steps. “If you are still interested even without a blade in your hand, little Highness, you are welcome as an observer to my next session with the newest guards.”

Ghost goes to shake their head, then pauses and signs, “Really?”

“Of course,” she says. “I will never turn away assistance.”

Their fingers ache for a nail to drum along. They nod.

“Wonderful!” Ogrim exclaims. “You two shall have a marvelous time. Speaking of, you should make haste, lest you be late. I shall inform their Majesties for you.”

Isma leans her mask against Ogrim’s for a quick moment. “Thank you, darling,” she says as she pulls away, and then holds out a hand for Ghost to take. “Come along, my prince. It would not do to dally.”

After the briefest moment, they place their hand in hers, and try not to shiver at the jolt it sends through their shell.

Watching the training for the new guards is… odd. Ghost thinks that is the right word. Their eyes trace movements—attacks that change from bug to bug—that they could counter in an instant. The forms are sloppy, turns a bit too slow and motions a bit too choreographed, and Ghost cannot help the thought that they could defeat every one of these guards all on their own without blinking.

These are new guards, they know; perhaps that is the reason. Still, it is strange to think about being protected by those who are far less capable than themself. 

Ghost expresses none of this, sitting far from the action along the sidelines or hurrying about the room when Isma asks them for help with something. The tasks she gives them are never ones of substance, but they appreciate that she is trying her best to make them feel useful, even if they know better.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Isma asks once the new guards have left. It is just the two of them now, with the supplies that still need to be rolled away into storage.

Ghost nods after a split-second, and she brings a hand to where her mouth must be beneath the mask.

(Once, Isma and her Grotto became one, mask merging in with the vines, and all that she had left to offer the kingdom she had given everything to was a blessing to whomever could find it.)

“You need not lie to me, little Highness,” she says, grabbing the handles of a nail cart and pushing it along. “If boredom took its hold, I do not mind. I enjoy watching the progress of our newest members, but I understand that many find it dull. His Majesty is one of them, you know.”

They did not know that. It is a bit funny, imagining their father trying his very best to look both interested and attentive when he is likely neither.

Ghost rushes forward to hold open the storage room door. Isma gives a gracious nod and pushes the nail rack inside. As she goes to pull over the rack with the shields as well, Ghost eyes the weapons. None of them are particularly sharp—all training nails for fresh recruits—but they would be better than nothing. 

They glance back at Isma’s turned body, take a deep breath, and rush inside. The door closes tight behind them. There is still light within the storage room, a lantern dangling from the ceiling, and they snatch the first nail they see that seems to be the right length. Ghost prefers it resting against their back, but they cannot afford to be either picky or caught, so they slip it under their cloak and let it shift into the shadows of the Void. 

Quick steps get closer and closer, and Ghost grabs a wooden wedge just as the door bursts open.

“Little Highness!” Isma exclaims. “What are you doing?”

Ghost extends the wedge. “Hold open door,” they sign.

“Oh,” Isma says, letting out a long exhale. She was not there to hear them asking Ogrim for a weapon—only catching the bits about training. She does not know to suspect them at all. “Quite good thinking, my prince. Come, let us finish up.”

They prop open the door, and Ghost helps Isma pack the last of the equipment away. She closes up the storage room with a silver key clipped to a loop beneath her armor. 

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” she says as she guides them out of the room. “The companionship was much appreciated. You’d best hurry along to dinner, though. It would not do to leave their Majesties waiting, nor your royal sibling.”

They listen to her, giving a quick nod of acknowledgement before peeling away down the hall.

Dinner is as it normally is; they sit with their parents and their twin, Hollow talks far more than Ghost does, and the food is good. Nothing of note is new. Both their mother and father ask them how their time with Isma was, and they make sure to mention how good she is at her job. They do not intend to be caught with the stolen nail, but if they are, they wish to remove as much culpability from her shoulders as they can.

When they are finally back in their room, Ghost allows a few moments to go over their plan: take the Royal Waterways to the Mantis Village, sneak through into Deepnest, and destroy the Nosk before it can kill any of their siblings. It is nice and simple.

(Once, fresh out of the Abyss and shaking in the din, they looked at their reflection and ran the other way, because the last time they followed a sibling it only brought them pain and an endless fall into Nothing.)

(Once, a mirror drew in Vessel after Vessel with their own visage, because those lost children wanted nothing more than to not be alone.)

(Once, Ghost was saved from the monster that killed so many others like them, because the fear of yet another betrayal was enough to convince them that the safety of isolation was better.)

(They were right.)

Satisfied, Ghost gets to their feet and leaves the room. Just as they open their door, Hollow emerges from their own across the hall.

“Sibling!” They sign. “Good day?”

“Fine,” Ghost answers quickly.

Hollow goes to reply, but Ghost cuts them off.

“Busy,” they say, because they have a great distance to travel and not a lot of time. “Sorry. Busy.”

Hollow stares at them for a long moment. Their hands, still raised and ready to sign, twitch, and then fall. They nod, a bit stiffly, and return to their room. The door shuts loudly behind them.

A chill rises in Ghost’s throat—no voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry—but they ignore it. If they made Hollow upset, they can apologize later, after they have ensured that no more siblings will die than already have.

Sneaking out of the Palace is more difficult than it was the first time—when they went to kill the Radiance—but it is not too much of a struggle. There are many more guards around the Royal Wing, but once they make it through, it is just like before. They trail along the cavern walls behind the lofty Palace and slip into an access tunnel that leads to the Waterways, marked with a sign demanding ‘No Entrance to Any Without Clearance.’

The lock breaks under a quick, concentrated Shade Soul, and Ghost scrambles up the ladder and into the sewers between the City and Palace Grounds.

Unlike the rest of the kingdom, the Waterways are no nicer in this new time than they were in the old. The only improvement Ghost finds is in the lack of Flukes. The Flukemarm must have moved in some time later, perhaps during the Infection, and the pipes are much easier to traverse without her ilk filling them. Belflies still cling to the ceiling, but without the Radiance’s influence, they are passive, watching Ghost slip by with beady eyes.

It is difficult to travel without any of their abilities. They do not have the Mothwing Cloak, or the Crystal Heart. There is no Mantis Claw to manifest in their hand and cling to whatever wall they leap at. Their Monarch Wings, once healed by the Pale vestiges just past their fallen sibling, sit broken and dead against their back.

(Once, they clung to a ledge at the top of the Abyss and watched their twin turn away, following the Light and leaving them to die.)

(Once, there was no one to help them, and they fell—fell—fell.)

(Once, they crashed into the corpses of siblings that were given as little a chance as they were, and the last thing they felt before the Darkness flooded in was their fledgling wings shattering against cracked shells, never to be used again.)

They do not know how long they travel for. It is far slower with their stunning lack of movement, and while they may have godly powers that could help, Ghost… does not want to use those.

So, running it is.

Finally, they crest over another pipe to see the drain releasing into the Fungal Wastes. It is nowhere near as dilapidated as when Ghost first broke it, and their nail is far weaker, but they should be able to manage. Sidling up next to the grates, Ghost manifests some of the Soul they have stored within them, and dives toward the ground with a Descending Dark. 

While the spell does not break the metal, it does wreath them in shadows for just long enough to slip through the gaps in the bars. They emerge on the other side, blinking past the spores already filling the air.

Climbing their way to the entrance into Mantis territory, Ghost takes a moment to collect themself. It is well-lit here, even as the lights naturally dim with the falling of night. They scan their surroundings, and sink into the closest shadow they can find, near-completely blending in with the darkness.

The Wastes feel much more alive, Ghost notices. It is as if they can sense the underlying hivemind every mushroom and fungus is meant to be a part of, so strong here where once it was long-broken. What might they hear from the Mushroom Clan, were the Spore Shroom still within their possession to translate?

It doesn’t matter. They don’t have that charm, and they won’t be getting it back. Right now, they have a job to do.

Even without the Infection, there are still many mantises that patrol the area. They are protective of their home; Ghost is as aware of this as anyone. They stay within the shadows snaking between the walls and along the edges of acid pools, keeping one careful eye on whatever mantis is nearest. 

Finally, they reach the entrance to the Village. Two mantises stand guard, and a torch banishes the shadows. If Ghost wants to make it through, they will have to leave the safety of the dark patch for as long as it takes to make it to the next.

They breathe carefully, trying to calm the panic that worms its way into their Heart. For siblings, they assure the waking Void. Careful, for siblings.

Ghost sneaks to the edge of the shadows just behind the mantis guards, eyes where they need to reach, and move.

There is very little that the Vessels were created with. They were made to have no mind, or will, or voice. For all that such intent failed, the involuntary silence is something that managed to sink its claws into all of them. 

Despite this, their footsteps are certainly not quiet at all.

Ghost is halfway to the shadow they are aiming for when they are tackled from behind. They slide across the ground and are forced around, face turned up. One mantis holds them down, blade against their chitin, while another looms nearby, standing at the ready.

“Trespasser,” the mantis above them hisses. “And a dishonorable one at that, to attempt to sneak through rather than fall in battle.”

The other mantis makes a quick clicking noise and inclines their head. “Yes. You’d best invoke your God-King, cowardly thing, and pray that he ushers your spirit to whatever Death-Land you think you deserve. We’ve little mercy for those who dare walk our lands without having earned it.”

Ghost wiggles their arms free, hopes that they know the same hand language, and signs, “Challenge! Challenge! Challenge!”

Behind their mask, the first mantis’s eyes narrow. “Challenge? You wish to fight for you right to live?”

“Deepnest,” Ghost says. The Void squirms, as if sensing danger, and Ghost signs a bit more frantically. “Must go to Deepnest. Challenge.”

“The Proud Tribe does not grant such passage for simple victory,” the second mantis says sharply. “A battle with us rewards you with only your life.”

Ghost shakes their head. “No. Not you. Lords.” They push their way out from under the first mantis and get to their feet. The guards allow it. 

The Void calms at their insistence, relaxing with the pulse of their Heart, and Ghost manifests their nail from under their cloak, drawing it forth to drive it into the ground before them. “Challenge. Lords.” As confidently as they can, they sign one more time, “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

Chapter Text

If there is one thing that the Mantis Tribe respects, it is a true and honorable challenge. Ghost knows this well, and they do their best to stand straight as the guards escort them into the heart of their territory. 

There are far more mantises than Ghost remembers seeing. Perhaps the Infection had taken its toll, even if it had not found hold in their minds. 

(Once, they walked these halls freely, and exchanged respect with every bug they passed.)

They are deposited in what must be a holding cell, one guard staying to keep watch while the other peels off. It would be rather easy to escape—just a single Descending Dark, they guess—but they don’t plan on leaving until they have done what they came to do.

Instead, Ghost takes the opportunity to sit down on the bench in the back of the cell. They don’t have any of the charms they did last time they fought the Lords, but they should be able to manage. Still, the moment of respite allows them to pull out the Lifeblood Core and secure it to their cloak. Their notches remained—the same capacity for charms as they had before. They’re quite sure they’d be strong enough to wear the Lifeblood Core regardless, but it is nice to not risk pushing their limits at all; they overcharmed once, and will not make the same mistake again.

The moment that the charm clips into place, a cool surge of energy pulses through their limbs. Added strength is better than nothing, they think, especially since it will probably take Ghost longer than usual to beat the Sisters with only their spells and a training nail at their disposal.

“-Rather small,” the missing mantis guard is saying as they draw closer, “Still, they issued a Challenge regardless.”

“To the Lords themselves?” A new voice asks, skeptical. “Never have I known an outsider so bold.”

The mantis still guarding Ghost snaps to attention, giving a quick bow of respect when the other guard and a new mantis, wearing a mask with a slightly different design, appear. “Valiant,” they say. It sounds more like a title than a name.

For a moment, the Valiant goes to respond, but pauses when she sees Ghost. “Braves,” she says, “What is this?”

“The intruder, sir,” the first mantis guard replies.

“That,” the Valiant says sharply, “Is a nymph.”

A choking noise comes from the second guard. “Wha— A nymph? They cannot be! Some bugs are simply small, are they not?”

“Have you been rendered blind?” The Valiant asks. “Or have you never seen a child before?”

The guards shift uncomfortably, and the first hedges, “I’m rarely near them.” The second nods their agreement.

“So it seems,” the Valiant says. “I’ve my own children, however, and train many besides. I can differentiate between a small bug and a child.” She turns to Ghost. “Which you are, unless I am severely mistaken?”

Ghost wishes the scowl they think they are wearing was visible, but they nod.

“You shall not be granted passage through our lands,” the Valiant says. “But neither shall you have to fight for your freedom. Youth are bold—and often foolish—when raised outside of our Tribes’ bounds. You shall be escorted to the edge of our territory, from which you may return to whatever part of that accursed kingdom you desire.”

Ghost shakes their head rapidly. “No!” They sign insistently. “Must go to Deepnest.”

“There is many-a-way into Deepnest,” the Valiant replies. “A tram, a stagway, even that entrance in your God-Queen’s Gardens. Any would be suitable.”

“Not!” Ghost manifests their nail again and drives it into the ground. “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

One of the mantis guards looks hesitantly at the Valiant. “Should a Challenge not be honored?”

“Do we honor the Challenge of every nymph who may wish to try their luck?” The Valiant asks, rather than answers. Perhaps it is an answer on its own. 

“Able,” Ghost signs. “Can win. Will win.”

“They often think that, don’t they?” The Valiant muses. “Very well. It is not within my rights to refuse a Challenge on the Lords’ behalf, besides. The child shall remain here, until their Lordships make their decision.”

Whatever decision it is certainly takes a good amount of time. Ghost doesn’t know how long passes, but they use the wait to familiarize themself with their new nail. They slash—up, down, left, right—and do their best to get used to the weight. What they wouldn’t give to have their Pure Nail back…

(Once, the Nailsmith worked on, even in a dying and dead kingdom.)

(Once, he forged their nail into something Pure, and begged to taste death from its perfect blade.)

(Once, Ghost refused, and found him again—happy and whole—with another who found the same solace in craft. Thank you, friend, he’d said, For affording me a future even as I saw none.)

They cannot get their Pure Nail back. It has never even been made, in this new world. Would they find those Pale Ore in the same places as they did in the not-future? They wouldn’t be able to find enough, either way; some were in the possession of people, rather than buried in the depths of the kingdom. Such a weapon may never be theirs to wield again.

(No mind to think, no mind to think, no mind—)

(No use dwelling.)

“Come, trespassing child,” the Valiant says when she finally returns, pulling the door to their holding cell open. “The Lords shall see you now.”

They are marched farther into the Village. It is even more lively than when they’d entered, and Ghost hopes that it’s just because the mantises wake earlier, rather than from them taking entirely too long to complete this mission. They would certainly prefer getting back to the Palace before anyone has a chance to notice they’re missing.

Arriving in the deepest chamber, Ghost sees that the door into Deepnest has been closed. That is probably a good idea; they had been considering just making a run for it. Instead, they are guided in front of the Lords’ thrones. The Valiant bows, and Ghost inclines their head in respect as well, only for panic to snake into their Heart when they look up and see not three Lords, but four.

(Once, a Lord let the beckoning Light in, and his followers did the same, and power unknown became theirs.)

(Once, those traitors left their home behind, banished on pain of death.)

(Once, a throne was shattered, the last reminder of what the Tribe had lost.)

Ghost had forgotten about the Traitor Lord. How could they have forgotten about the Traitor Lord? Their shell aches with phantom pain from his booming strikes.

They must have killed the Radiance before he had a chance to betray the rest of the Tribe. He looks better here, they must admit; his body, while larger than his sisters’, is not bloated with Infection, and his gaze is sharper—more focused.

At the foot of his throne stands another mantis that Ghost has seen before—only as a spirit though, who vanished as they granted a final gift from her lost love: the traitor’s daughter.

The Traitor Lord is happier here, because of course he is. This world is better for everyone, isn’t it? 

(Everyone except for Ghost.)

“My Lords,” the Valiant says, rising from her bow and gesturing toward Ghost to present them. “I bring the child intruder.” She turns to Ghost, nods toward the Lords, and says, “Child; the Quickest, the Wisest, the Toughest, and the Strongest.”

Ghost… did not know that they had titles. They’d never been afforded a proper introduction, after all. Perhaps they should have asked.

(Nothing to be done about it, now.)

“A nymph indeed,” the center Lord—the Wisest—says. “Truly, you have issued a Challenge, child?”

Ghost nods firmly. They might have forgotten about the Traitor Lord, but they have beaten him just as they beat his sisters. It won’t be a problem. They retrieve their nail once more, stick it into the ground, and for the third time sign, “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

“Certainly we shan’t entertain this,” the Strongest—the once-traitor—laughs. “Their body would crack upon our lances, should we dare.”

“Do not speak so boldly, brother,” the Quickest says. “Underestimating one’s opponent can be all that is needed to spell doom.”

“Only if a battle ensues,” the Toughest points out, “Which, in this case, it shall not. Am I incorrect?”

The Wisest hums and stares down at them. Ghost squares their shoulders as best they can, and meets her gaze solidly. 

A long few moments pass before she asks, “Why is it you wish to Challenge us, nymphling?”

“Must go to Deepnest,” they sign. After a quick pause, they add, “No other way.”

“Deepnest…” She says the word slowly, even though she had likely already been told their answer. “Quite determined for such a dangerous destination. For what reason, one wonders?”

They are still, and then carefully sign, “Family.” More steadily, they continue, “Must help family. Must go. Only way.”

“A worthy goal,” she says. “And an understandable one, at that.” She perches her head on the back of her hand for a moment, staring off at the closed door. Around her, the rest of the Lords are quiet, allowing their sister to stay deep in thought. “Very well, then,” the Wisest finally decides. “A Challenge you have issued, and a Challenge we shall accept.”

Ghost thinks it is a testament to her title that the others do not argue. Instead, the Lords simply sit straighter in their thrones as the walls for the arena lower from the ceiling and anchor into the ground. Spikes are uncovered on the floor, restricting their movement, and something giddy rises within Ghost at the familiarity. This is something that they know. 

The Wisest stands, poised atop her seat, and gazes down at them.

“Draw your nail, oh one who dares walk our forbidden lands, and Challenge the Lords of the Proud Tribe, that their lances may cross your own, and we may see which claims itself better.”

Excitement trembles in their limbs, but their grip is steady as they grab the handle of their nail and brandish it, daring the Lords to come closer; a clear Challenge, as it always has been.

As expected, the Wisest Lord vaults from her throne and down at them near-instantly. They dart to the side, a bit put-off by how slow they feel without the Mothwing Cloak. Every step feels like it drags more—like it catches on air in a way their old cloak never had. Still, it’s fine. Ghost doesn’t need their Cloak to do this—just as much as they don’t need their Wings—and they can dodge the attacks of a single Lord well enough as is; no need to expend any Soul that they might then miss once the rest of the Lords join in.

It is simple to fall into the rhythm of the fight—one that they have done over and over and over in the Dream of Godhome, just to make sure that they are perfect at it. Even with their weaker nail and slower steps, it is little more than a waiting game—wearing down the Lord until she falters, stumbling back and returning to her throne.

The moment she sets down, the Quickest and Toughest Lords stand in turn, leaping as one into the heart of the arena and immediately charging toward Ghost from either edge of the spikes.

They jump, tucking their body up as they arc over the Lords so that the nail, rather than their feet, drags over chitin. As they touch back down, the Lords sling dual lances at them, and they duck down, parrying both from below, before sending a Shade Soul hurtling toward the Quickest. She jerks back, as if shocked, and cannot unhook her claws from the wood fast enough—ironic, given her title. The Lord grunts as the magic hits her, and hurls her lance at them again, just as her sister rushes toward them from the side.

Ghost pushes off to avoid both attacks, only to slam back into the ground as pain erupts from the back of their head.

The Strongest Lord looms over them, and it seems that even without the Radiance’s power coursing through him, he still hits hard enough to send them reeling. The Lifeblood—cool and gentle—rushes to revitalize them, and they roll out of the way before a strike from the Wisest Lord, rejoining the fray, can wear them down even more. 

Pulling at the Soul stored within themself, they dive at the ground, wreathing themself in shadows the only way that they know how. They take the small moment of reprieve to breathe unneeded air and gather their bearings. As light filters back in and the four Lords recover from the spell to surge back at them, Ghost does their best to follow a pattern that they have never learned before.

It is… much more difficult, fighting the Traitor Lord alongside the other three. Every time Ghost takes an opening that they know should be there, the Traitor—Strongest, the Strongest Lord—bridges the divide. They clamber desperately for any chance to gather more Soul that they can, because the moment the Strongest begins to pound the ground and send shockwaves out, the other three Lords jump out of reach, and Ghost is forced to dive and cast another spell—to merge with the Darkness, if only for a moment—just to avoid getting hit.

Perhaps they would be doing better with a stronger nail, or with any movement beyond what their own two legs can provide. As it is, they spend half of the fight in the air, pogoing off one Lord and using the momentum to dodge another nad then doing it all over again. Whenever they are knocked down, they shake off the pain as quickly as they can and slide out of the way before getting right back into it.

Eventually, the Lords seem to realize that Ghost has only one way of circumventing the Strongest’s shockwave attack—the Descending Dark spell that they are rapidly becoming sick of using. While the Mantis Lords might not know anything about the kind of magic that Ghost relies on, they clearly understand that there is some kind of limit to it. Fair enough, they suppose, because if they had endless Soul at their disposal, they’d certainly be using it every other second. 

The Lords must realize this, too. The shockwaves become more prevalent, and Ghost’s Soul is drained faster than they can regain it. Not for the first time, they feel the smallest amount of bitterness at the Kingsoul for transforming into the Void Heart and losing its Soul-generation abilities in the process.

(Their Heart pounds faster.)

(It might be trying to apologize, in whatever silent way it can.)

The time comes—as it always would—that a shockwave races toward them when they are still an additional strike away from having enough Soul for a spell. Their Lifeblood is long-depleted, and they’re not sure if they could take another hit from even the weakened Wisest Lord, let alone from the Strongest. 

If they had their Mothwing Cloak—their Shade Cloak—it would be no problem at all, but they don’t, and there’s nothing else that they can do. They remain painfully and frustratingly solid.

But…

But they don’t need speed to reach the shadows anymore, do they? The Darkness, now, is not just within them, but is them. Or perhaps more accurately, they are it. The Void bends beneath their Will—follows their every command and whim—so why would it be that they need a Cloak to veil themself in it?

(No will to break, no will to break, no will—)

Before they can second-guess it, Ghost focuses on the feeling that the Shade Cloak always brought—that sudden and sweet Nothing—and calls on the Void to fill in the gaps. It does, and as the shockwave reaches them, they dissolve into shadow and appear whole on the other side. Something pulses within their head, and they don’t want to think about any of this very hard, but it worked. They can use that.

From there, the battle turns. The Lords seem to know it just as well as Ghost does. Even with their new ability to avoid his worst attacks, the Strongest still does more damage than any of his sisters, and so they center their attention on taking him down. Without the need to save their Soul, Ghost feels far more free to use their other spells, as well. They use their nail to bounce off of the spikes along the arena, suspending in the air for a moment as they send forth a furious curl of magic that hits all four in one go, before they manage to catch themself on the platform edge as they fall. Sliding beneath the Strongest Lord as he bounds at them, they reach for the anguish of a million dead siblings and Shriek, ducking away from the roaring Shades as the spell envelops him and claws at his lifeforce.

It takes a good few more strikes—and a bit of luck with their dodges—but Ghost at last parries the Strongest Lord’s lance, darts forward as he recovers, and—feeling the smallest bit petty—dives a final time, avoiding an attack from the Toughest Lord and bringing the Strongest down all at once. Hemolymph drips sluggishly from a dozen shallow cuts they managed to make, and the once-Traitor Lord staggers back to his throne, waving away his daughter as she hovers worriedly. 

This fight, now—this fight is one that they know; it is one that they could do in their sleep. Ghost has fought the Sisters of Battle before, and even with all three of them now, they are not as strong as they were in the Dream. 

Ghost brings down the Wisest Lord first, knowing that she will fall easiest after having fought the longest. Just the Quickest and the Toughest remain, and—even if the sisters don’t realize it—Ghost has fought them so many times that the battle almost feels slow. They know what attacks are going to come before they do, and easily find windows to Focus, Soul knitting together some of the injuries along their shell.

Rapidly, they lose track of which Lord is which—the two weaving between one another and switching attacks any time Ghost thinks they have it figured out—but it doesn’t matter. This is a familiar dance, and they are sure that they would be grinning, if they could. The Abyss stirs with their amusement, the Shades growing curious at the joy sparking through the Void, but Ghost doesn’t soothe them yet. Besides the fact that they still need to focus, it might… do their fallen siblings some good, to feel whatever delight they can. 

(They wonder if Hollow can feel it, too.)

One of the Lords slumps in defeat—the Quickest, based on the throne she returns to—and Ghost is left facing the Toughest alone.

The end of the fight takes longer than they would like, because their nail is weak, and the Toughest must have gotten her name from somewhere. Finally, though, they bring her down, and she huffs out an exhausted laugh before taking her seat once more.

The walls of the arena raise, the spikes sliding away, and a thrill rushes over Ghost as the Mantis Lords stand and bow as one. They return the gesture easily and bounce a few times in place, as if it will rid them of some of the adrenaline that sends tremors through their body.

“I suppose you prove your title once more, sister,” the Strongest Lord speaks first. “The intruder indeed was capable—far more than I’d assumed.”

“The warrior,” the Wisest Lord corrects sharply, though not unkindly. “A moniker well-earned, I should think.”

“Our way into Deepnest shall be yours to walk, warrior child,” the Toughest says, and the door rumbles open with her words. “And just as much our lands in kind.”

“In fact, I would say a reward is in order,” the Quickest says, eyeing the other three, “After all, this is a rare occurrence, is it not? When were the four of us last brought low by a single opponent?”

“Years,” the Wisest replies. “Not since the last period, at least. Hmm, yes, I agree, sister. Certainly passage alone is not prize enough.”

“Wonderful.” The Quickest, despite the wounds still dotting her thorax, hops deftly off of her throne and lands in front of Ghost. “Come, warrior child. I shall lead you there.” They go to hurry after her, stumbling a bit as an ache pulses through their leg before they right themself. She pauses, observing them, and then adds, “Perhaps a place to rest would not be remiss, prior to your departure. It would do you well.”

“Yes,” the Wisest says before Ghost can respond, “Quite right, sister. Valiant-” The Valiant that had led Ghost here straightens- “Have a bunk prepared for the visiting warrior. They have earned the respect befitting it.”

The Valiant bows. “It will be done, my Lord.”

Little else can be said, as Ghost is steered from the throne chamber by the Quickest Lord, brought higher up in the Village and through to the treasure room that they have rested in a thousand times before.

(But if it only happened in their memories, did it happen at all?)

“This,” the Quickest says, stopping before a chest, “Is most prized amongst our people. Should you don it, all those within the Proud Tribe shall know of your feats, and of the deference you are due.”

She turns, and presents them with the Mark of Pride.

Ghost had always loved the Mark of Pride. It lengthened their strikes, of course, but more so it sang of their accomplishments. They could wear it, and all would know that the Mantis Tribe allowed them passage as if they were one of their own.

(Once, they sat on a bench, hidden away within the Tribe’s depths, and breathed in the peace.)

(There were few places where they could truly do that.)

They take the charm from the Lord and clip it onto their cloak, just above the Lifeblood Core. Until they sit on a bench and are able to truly connect it to those notches of theirs, it will be little more than decoration, but this is a decoration that they like.

Nodding her approval, the Quickest Lord says, “As regarded a reward as that is, I cannot help the thought that it pales against your achievement. I insist, then, that you inform us if there is something you may wish for, and our best efforts shall be made to fulfill.”

Ghost almost shakes their head—because they really only needed the entrance to Deepnest—but something occurs to them before they can. Their hands twitch, and they raise them to sign, “Claw? To climb?”

Surprisingly, the Quickest Lord laughs. “A Mantis Claw? Well, most certainly.” She moves purposefully to the wall and takes down one of the Claws sitting there—much nicer than the one Ghost managed to snatch before. “After all, no member of our Tribe—honorary or not—should be without.”

Ghost takes the Claw when she extends it, splitting it and passing the two halves between their hands. This pair fits even better than the one they remember—sharpened and polished—and excitement runs through the Void as it echoes their own.

The Valiant is waiting outside of the treasure room, and leads Ghost even farther into the Village. Mantises bow in respect as they pass, spotting the Mark of Pride pinned to their cloak, and Ghost gives little inclines of their head in return. 

“This is where you shall stay,” the Valiant finally says, approaching a door. She pushes a lever and Ghost hears a click before the door slides open. On the frame above is nailed a carving shaped oddly like their mask. “It is a great honor, to be granted a room rather than a bunk,” she explains. “Traditionally given only to us Valiants, Masters, and the Lords themselves.” She cocks her head and observes them carefully. “Though I suppose you have been proven of similar measure; appropriate then, it would seem.”

Ghost looks inside. It is nice, though certainly much smaller than their room in the White Palace. That’s not very surprising, actually. The bed is oh-so-inviting, but they don’t— They can’t—

“Need to go to Deepnest,” Ghost signs. “No time.”

The Valiant is quiet for a long moment. Then, she says, “You must rest, warrior child. If into the dark you truly intend to go, you will need your strength.”

She is right. Ghost knows that she is right. Their nail is half-broken, and they don’t have any Soul left stored, and they’re— They’re—

(They’re so tired—)

“No sleep,” they sign persistently. “Just rest.” They hesitate. “For a little.”

The Valiant nods. “The Lords shall await you in their chamber, when you intend to depart. Should you not know the way, ask it of any Brave about these halls; they shall be most willing to assist.”

She bows and then leaves, closing the door behind her, and Ghost is alone.

They think they can feel every ache as if it is fresh. Their head pulses with pain, shell tingling where flakes of their mask were shorn off by a passing lance. If they brush at the constant sting of a slice on their arm, Void pools between their fingers.

(No voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry suffering, no voice—)

Yes. Rest might be good.

It need not be for long, they tell themself; they tend to heal fast, once they have the chance to truly do it. 

Ghost hops onto the bed and pulls their legs up to fold beneath them. Their nail—still held tight in their grip—they prop against the wall next to them. Upon a bit of coaxing, they feel the Mark of Pride slot into place in their charm notches, promising that every strike will be longer for it. 

That has always been one of the strangest effects to them—how could a charm that they wear affect the length of their nail? They suppose it doesn’t matter much how it works, as long as they know that it does.

It is never particularly quiet in the Mantis Village; even if the distant chatter is organized, they can still hear it. It is peaceful here, though. Ghost can appreciate that, as they blink off into nothing and let this small rest slowly pull their injuries closed.

They don’t have time to be sitting here, though. Even ignoring the fact that every moment they spend resting is a moment that the Nosk could be killing one of their siblings, they also… They have to get back to the Palace. They fear that the night may have already passed by now, and hope that their family doesn’t think too much about their absence. 

(Perhaps being alone so often could come in handy, for once.)

Just a bit longer, they think as the cut along their arm heals. They’ll just sit here until their headache is gone, and then they’ll leave. Just for a little bit more…

A few moments later, they are staring up at the ceiling, blinking away sleep from the corners of their eyes.

…What?

They fell asleep.

How could they let themself fall asleep?!

Ghost sits bolt upright, panic gripping their Heart. The room looks the same, so perhaps—perhaps it wasn’t that long!

When…When is it? How much time has passed?

The Void—the terrible, empty, Timeless Void—shrugs; or the closest approximation, at least. Its Sea sways with Ghost’s flash of irritation. They stamp down on the emotion and temper the Darkness all at once.

Certainly it cannot have been that long. They— It is an overreaction, either way. They might be able to be gone until the next night before anyone notices, anyway. 

Yes, it’s fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.

Ghost grabs their brittle training nail and bursts from the room. Mantises show them respect as they pass, but they do not return it. They don’t have time—

(Once, they stood as equals with the Lords, and with those that followed them.)

(Once, they could stop their hurrying—just as long as they were within the Village at least—and feel for a few moments the kind of world they might be fighting for.)

(Once, things may not have been easier, but they were simpler.)

(Now, their Heart thrums with the sin of missing it.)

They weave through the mantises in the Village, instinctually manifesting their newly-obtained Claw in their hand to slide down the walls faster. When they finally land in the throne chamber, the Lords are waiting for them. The entrance to Deepnest is wide open—dark and gaping—taunting them.

“Warrior child,” the Wisest Lord says, and the four stand to greet them. “We are glad to see your wounds healed. Certainly, it would not do to lose so formidable an opponent this soon.”

“Must go,” Ghost signs. Their gaze stays on the waiting shadows. “Deepnest. Siblings need.”

“So it is,” the Wisest nods.

“The entrance shall be open to you,” the Toughest says. “Now, and forevermore.”

“Yes,” the Strongest then rumbles. Ghost does not particularly like hearing his voice—does not particularly like seeing him happy, because how is that fair— “That Mark does as promised; it names you henceforth a member of our Proud Tribe. Shall you ever walk our lands again, you shall do so as a friend.”

“Tell us, warrior child,” the Quickest says before they can hurry on. “Have you a name to call your own? A title, perhaps? I am unsure which might be relevant; those customs of your God-King—and of those other Kingdoms—can be quite strange, sometimes.”

Ghost nods. “Have name,” they sign. “Sister gave.”

And she had, hadn’t she?

Before Hornet, they had been nothing more than a wanderer from nowhere; a knight sworn to nothing; a child of no one. It was their sister, as unkind as she meant it to be, who first named them—who first gave them something to call their own.

“Ghost.”

“Quite fitting, that,” the Wisest Lord says, and sounds amused as she does. “Very well, then. We wish you luck, warrior child—Ghost—on your journey. Know this Village will always be open to you, should you wish it. That, we swear.” She bows then, and her three siblings follow suit, as does the Lordlet—the Strongest’s daughter—where she still stands beneath her father’s throne.

Ghost bows back, as they should. It is only right. 

The shadows are waiting. Even if it is not the Darkness curling inside of them, there is something almost comforting about it. Deepnest has never been their favorite place, but beyond the Weavers’ territory, it must be as untamed as they remember. Like the battle—and unlike life in the Palace—that unknown is something that they understand; something they know how to handle.

Somewhere within, the Nosk dwells, and perhaps too the corpses of siblings that they are already too late to save.

No. No, they shouldn’t think like that. They are not too late. They can’t be.

Ghost tightens their grip on their nail, takes a final breath of fresh, useless air, and sets off into the dark.

Chapter Text

The Nosk is dead.

Or, well, it isn’t yet, but it will be. Ghost might be barely halfway to its lair, but they have already readjusted their grip on their nail three times in an attempt to calm the tremors of anticipation.  

Just a little bit longer, they think, and change their grip again. Four.

Is it strange that they are already thinking of the Nosk as a corpse? Already, its breath has stopped, and its blood has spilled, and its facsimile of their mask lays broken and still upon the ground. They have not yet laid eyes on it in this time, and yet already their nail is stained with its innards. 

They turn down a new tunnel, and a dirtcarver burrows up through the stone, screeching as it scrambles toward them. It finds itself impaled on Ghost’s nail less than a second later, body tossed to the side to twitch in the shadows. Ghost doesn’t know if they actually killed it, and they don’t think they particularly care, either. If it doesn’t die from its wounds, it will from the dozen brethren that will surely close in to feed off of easy prey. 

(Ghost has prey of their own to hunt.)

(And little time to waste.)

Deepnest is as dark as they remember it being; at least, this region is. The Weavers’ territory had always been far darker—impossible to travel through without their Lantern—but that might be different now, with spiders still living there.

Either way, they were right about the eastern areas remaining just as untamed and dangerous in the past as they were in the future. Feral bugs—those that never had minds to lose or gain in the first place—hurl themselves at Ghost with little fear of the nail in their hand or the shadows swirling around their feet. Each time, the price is paid, and Ghost continues on.

There is one difference, they are beginning to notice: far fewer corpses are slumped throughout the caverns. Ghost doesn’t know if the ones from the Deepnest in their time were simply travelers that took one-too-many wrong turns, or citizens that thought risking the dark was better than dying to the Infection, or warriors that were too bold—too brave—too foolish. Whatever the reason for them dying there, it hasn’t happened yet. 

Or, perhaps more likely, these uninfected denizens of Deepnest actually eat those that they kill; it is for survival, rather than sport. The Radiance had cut through the bugs and beasts of Hallownest with no remorse. They had perished to her Infection, or to the claws of those already gone, and few were even granted the dignity of peace after death as she raised bodies from the dirt they’d died in and puppeted them ever forward.

(Once, and yet not very long ago at all, the Old Light’s rage was nothing against that of the child of God and Void that faced her.)

(Such devastation had she wrought—such desecration—such destruction.)

(It could not—would not—go unpunished.)

…

(It did not.)

The tunnels grow tighter. Walls press in, narrower and narrower the farther they go. Ghost is getting close, then. Once they reach the end of this labyrinth, they’ll be at the Hot Springs, and from there it will be easy to reach the Nosk’s lair. Almost, almost, almost…

It takes longer than they wish it would. Excitement—or perhaps suspense—fogs their thoughts, and they take a few wrong turns. Deepnest has always been difficult to navigate, as they never tried to spend more time here than they had to, and it is even harder without their map. If they hadn’t gotten a new Mantis Claw from their victory against the Lords, they think it might have barely been possible at all.

Finally, after just managing to avoid a fall into a trick pit of spikes—which they’re under the impression might just grow naturally here—Ghost skids to a stop before a gaping hole. It is deep, and dark enough that they cannot see the bottom. Still, they recognize this hole, and breathe deeply—feeling only the air and the rock—before holding their nail tight and jumping in.

Ghost has never enjoyed falling. For a long time, they didn’t have any idea why.

(Once, hands ached as they grasped for purchase, but it was nothing compared to the pain of betrayal that stung in a heartless, empty chest.)

(Once, a door shut, and the Abyss trembled, and a grip failed and fell down—down—down.)

(Once, a scream should have echoed—should have tore through the Nothing and burned into the stones—but the voiceless cannot cry suffering, and so there was no scream to be found.)

The wind whistles as they hurtle through the dark, and Ghost’s free hand grips their cloak, folding cloth between their fingers. As long as their feet hit the ground first, allowing the Void to absorb most of the shock of the impact, they’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about. There isn’t.

After far too long, light pricks at their eyes from below, and they have just enough time to brace themself before hitting the water.

The Hot Springs are not particularly deep, and Ghost surfaces quickly. The water is warm and comforting—saturated with Soul—and they wade toward the edge, settling against stones far smoother than the rest of Deepnest and leaning their head back for a moment.

It is not far to the Nosk’s lair from here, Ghost knows. Their perception of travel-time tends to vary on the best of days, but this is something that they are certain of. It was likely a purposeful choice on the Nosk’s part, now that they’re thinking about it; having a lair near one of the only places in Deepnest that travelers—proper travelers, not just those curious and foolish enough to wander through—might not be accompanied by some kind of escort. The Nosk could lure a poor bug away from the Hot Springs, wearing the appearance of a lost loved one, and no one would be any the wiser.

(Once, the newest arena in Godhome shimmered into place around them, and Ghost was met by dim silence.)

(Once, a familiar bug stood across from them, and from the moment its mask broke and its disguise died, they knew what it really was; they knew.)

(Once, though, for just a moment, Ghost’s Heart screamed, because they thought it was their sister they were watching die instead.)

The Void churns at the memory; or rather, it roars. As endlessly silent as it may be, the roar still makes the Abyss shake. The Lifeblood Core reacts to it, searching desperately for somewhere to go. Pressure explodes behind Ghost’s eyes, shadows writhing along the walls, and they yank the charm off before pulling at their horns as if it will relieve a bit of the heaviness from their head.

Hornet, mask broken…

(No mind to think.)

Hornet, body still…

(No mind to think.)

Hornet, dead, dead, dead…!

(No mind to—)

Ghost’s Heart—rapid and painful—stutters, and they take the opportunity to force the Void back to sleep, shadows retreating to where they belong.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Hornet is fine, just like Hollow is. They are safe and whole, and so everything is fine. 

Ghost is fine, too. They’re just being overdramatic. None of those things have happened in this time, and they weren’t even real in the time that they did. Hornet has never died—not here, and certainly not in the once-future. She has always been fine, and they need the Void to understand that, just as much as they themself need to—

There is someone in the tunnel.

Ghost’s hands fall at the light patter of footsteps, cautious and ready to strike if need be.

From the darkness, a mask emerges. Two empty eyes stare back at them.

For a moment—the briefest, most glorious moment—Ghost thinks it is another Vessel; one has found its way to them, and they aren’t too late, at least for this—

The Void reaches out, and recoils. There is nothing familiar to be found.

Ghost blinks past the haze that had settled over their mind, and their throat hurts as they’re finally able to process what it is they are truly seeing.

They are looking at themself.

It is not them, they are well aware of that. Still, it looks like them, and it makes their stomach turn.

Ghost does not like looking at their reflection. They had once, they suppose, in a future that will never be. It had been strange—foreign. The first time they saw it, they hadn’t even known what it was.

(Once, they startled awake from their nap on a friend’s shoulder and prepared to descend into the capital, only to stop as they saw another bug staring at them from the glass.)

(Once, Quirrel saw them looking, and laughed. Your reflection, my friend, he’d said. That is what you look like.)

(Once, they ran a tentative finger over their mask, and, amazed, watched the reflection do the same. Me, they couldn’t help but think. That’s me.)

In the times after that—before Now—they had never minded taking a moment to gaze into the water and see their own face gaze back. The occasional mirror they stumbled across would be subject to scrutiny as Ghost hopped in place or back-and-forth just to see if they could catch it off-guard. When they reached the bottom of the Birthplace, they’d met their own hand on their once-egg’s glossy surface, an echo unwarped by aged glass or ripples from rainfall. It was them, at the place it had all begun.

(Once, they drew the Dream Nail back and struck their own reflection.)

(Once, their Mind—their Will—finally saw the past, unclouded and horrible as the truth always had been.)

(Once, Ghost Dreamed, and Ghost remembered.)

Since landing in the past, though, there has been little that Ghost likes less.

They avoid mirrors as deftly as they once did enemies. Ever since the first time they looked at their own reflection after returning, they have always averted their gaze before they can catch a glimpse.

Now, their own visage looks back at them, and mocks them as it does.

For all intents and purposes, it should feel no different than the last time they saw the Nosk. It’s only them, isn’t it?

But it’s not. It’s wrong. 

Something is wrong.

…Hollow had called it a splotch, the one and only time it was ever mentioned. 

(“Sibling-sibling has splotch,” they’d said, poking the side of Ghost’s mask, where the mark must have decided to settle. “Hollow has none. Know why?”)

(“No,” Ghost replied.)

(It must have been scathing, because Hollow never asked about it again.)

(No will to break.)

The ‘splotch’ had been there since they’d returned to this time; a black stain upon their shell that wouldn’t go away no matter what they did. Ghost is sure that it is from Void—feels the familiar chill of Nothing behind it whenever they try—but it does not bend as the rest does. No, it does as it pleases, and taunts them—reminds them of all they’ve lost—every chance it gets.

Ghost first saw it in the gleaming glass of the White Palace’s front windows; only a passing glance as they were escorted toward the throne room. That had been enough, though. Along the side of their mask, just a bit removed from their eye, was a dark imprint that bore a striking resemblance to the silhouette of the Delicate Flower that had brought them here.

(No will to break.)

That would be bad enough, Ghost thinks, but the mark is not content to stay in its place. It shifts, sometimes forming an ink blot that mars their pristine shell, or pulling up along the edge of their eye to look almost like a tear that will never fall.

Ghost hates it, and so they refuse to look at themself, because it’s easier to forget it’s there if they never do.

(No will—No will—No will—)

They cannot avoid it, now. A copy of themself looks back at them, the splotch—on the right of its mask, this time—stretching sharply upward, reminding them distinctly of one of the Void tendrils that had slashed at them before their Heart calmed the Sea. 

Ghost wants to look away. There is nothing they want more than to look away and forget—

But they can’t. They came to Deepnest with a job to do, and they will not fail any more siblings than they already have. They will help—they will be useful—and will make this world as good as they can; they will make it one worth losing everything for.

A single step forward is enough for the Nosk, which hurries quickly into the darkness. Once the creature is out-of-sight, Ghost takes a moment to fish their nail from the depths of the Hot Springs, sliding it into the Void so that the Nosk will not see it and truly run off.

They breathe. Air. Rock.

It’s time for what they came here to do.

For far too long, they follow the Nosk, keeping it just within view. When they emerge in the large chamber that is meant to be a path to the Broken Tramway or the Weavers’ territory, they instead focus on the reflection standing on a platform above, tilting its head as it stares down at them. It would look almost curious, if Ghost was more foolish than they are.

Unlike in their broken future, there is actually a way up to the lair here—some amalgamation of glowing vines and rotting wood. They hop across it carefully, and the Nosk runs on, certain that they are following.

The tunnels leading to the true lair are as long and winding as Ghost remembers. There are far more corpses, which is a bit surprising. They wonder if the Radiance had made her Infected minion do a bit of cleaning; it is a funny thought.

In the final corridor, tendrils shoot down from the ceiling and anchor into the ground. Nosks are so strange, Ghost cannot help but think. How do they scrape the top layer of a mind; have the smallest bit of control over their environment; contain so much within so little?

They do a bit of the same, they suppose. That doesn’t mean much, though. Ghost is strange, too.

As they finally enter the center of the lair, the entrance becomes blocked off behind them, and they see that their copy awaits. The Void expands their senses for a brief moment, but there are no consciousnesses—no siblings, living at least—to meet them. Ghost keeps their gaze staunchly off of the ceiling; they cannot risk being distracted, no matter what they might see there.

Heart pounding, Ghost draws their nail, holding it tight. The grip is still uncomfortable, the handle weak beneath their fingers. 

(They don’t have time to worry about that.)

The copy’s head tilts again, that false curiosity still attempting to toy with them. They take a final step closer, and—just as expected—the mask twists, and Ghost watches their own body crack and break apart, giving way to the monster hidden within.

(Once, the God of the Void—the God of Gods—shed their shell as if it was nothing, and revealed the terrible—horrible—Divine thing clawing its way out.)

They feel a bit sick, but swallow past it as the Nosk’s limbs unfold and it roars before scurrying straight for them.

Ghost sets their feet, pulls back their nail, and meets it halfway. 

The Infection certainly changed the Nosk. It feels almost like they are fighting a completely different creature. That brilliant bubble of orange sickness is gone of course, but even without it, the Nosk seems smaller. It cuts a lithe figure in the darkness—sharp angles and spikes. It seems a bit faster than Ghost remembers—not weighed down by the Light, perhaps—but that poses little threat to them. They defeated the Mantis Lords—Sisters and Traitor alike—all at once. They can take care of this monster handily.

Ghost’s nail meets the Nosk’s front leg, slicing a deep, jagged cut past its cuticle and into the skin beneath. The Nosk stumbles, likely unprepared for Ghost to actually fight back, and they use the opening to hurl two spells at it in quick succession, burning through some of their Soul and the creature’s lifeforce in one go.

The Nosk rights itself and dodges their next nail strike by leaping to one of the walls, body contorting so that it can still face them. From beneath the broken, fake mask sprays some dark, viscous liquid, and though it is certainly not the Infection that had once been spat at them, Ghost does not want to find out what it will do anyway. They jump backward to avoid the spray, and the Nosk scuttles down to pursue.

Backed against another edge of the cavern, Ghost manifests the Claw in their hand and hooks it into the stone, scaling the wall and pushing off just as the Nosk is below them. They call on their Soul and the shadows alike and dive down. Magic tears at the monster, and Ghost slips through the darkness to slide beneath it and Shriek before it can regather its bearings.

The Nosk screeches, and its legs stamp frantically, as if it can shake the shades away if it is fast enough. The movements are impossible to fully avoid, even as Ghost wreathes themself in darkness for another few moments, and they push through the quick pains that come from spikes and claws raking over their shell.

Ghost hurries toward the center of the lair. The Nosk recovers to do the same, and they jump over it, slashing down quickly when they have the chance but not following as the creature’s momentum carries it straight into a collision with the other wall. Instead, Ghost ducks behind an outcropping of rocks and Focuses, revelling in the feeling of those chips in their shell disappearing. They straighten, and meet the Nosk as it spots them and charges once more.

They weave around its legs as best they can, trying not to get stuck under it again while striking whenever possible. The Nosk is able to dart out of the way more often than they’d like—far quicker in this time than it would one day become—would have one day become. Still, it is so far from being a match for them that it almost feels unfair when another Shade Soul makes it stagger just long enough for them to drive their nail directly into its brain.

It trembles—a shake of death—before falling still. 

Ghost breathes heavily for a moment—comforting, no matter how unnecessary. 

They’ve done it.

The Nosk is dead.

Before they can even really think about it, the Void reaches out again. Still, there is nothing to find. This far down, they are likely very close to the Abyss, and they can feel that. The air has far more Darkness in it than most of the rest of the Kingdom; they have to wade through if they want to feel anything at all. No minds respond to their calls, however, nor thoughts or feelings or even faint impressions. Whatever might be here, there are certainly no living siblings included in it.

…They are stalling.

Clenching their hands into fists, Ghost steels their nerves and looks up.

The Nosk’s various prey dangle from the ceiling, each just as dead as the last. Husks, dirtcarvers, spiders of a dozen different sizes, and…

And…

No siblings; none at all.

It takes all of Ghost’s willpower not to fall to their knees. They want to cry—no voice—they want to laugh—no voice—they want to do a million other things—no voice—few of which they even can.

They weren’t too late.

Ghost’s hands shake with their glee, and they jump in victory, even using the last of their gathered Soul to dive at the ground and bathe in the shadows, just for the fun of it.

They made it in time. They snuck out of the Palace, traveled to Deepnest, and killed the Nosk before it could do the same to any of their siblings. They don’t think they’ve felt such joy since…since…

(Don’t think about it.)

There is little else in the lair, though the tunnel in the back of it still has a Pale Ore tucked away within it. They take it eagerly, even if they have no real use for it at the moment, and let the Void keep it safe. 

Still giddy, Ghost moves back to the Nosk’s corpse and pulls their nail out, hemolymph dripping off of the blade. The tip has broken off.

Oh, well; it isn’t as if they really need it anymore. There had been little plan to put it back, and they’ve done what they had to do. They’ve succeeded.

Ghost haphazardly tosses the brittle nail away and looks down at the dead Nosk. Its shattered copy of their mask stares back, and they kick it—right on the splotch—for good measure.

Ha.

Satisfaction curls within Ghost’s chest. Their work here is done. They saved at least some of their siblings from future death, and they even got a Pale Ore for their troubles. There is no reason to linger further.

Pulling the Dream Nail into reality, Ghost raises it high above them and waits for the Dreams—their own domain—to whisk them away.

…Nothing happens.

Ghost lowers the Nail and turns it over. There isn’t anything wrong with it, at least not that they can see or feel. They raise it again, pushing their Will even harder, but still nothing happens. They’ve never had a problem with their Dream Gate before, why would it—

Oh.

Ghost never set a Dream Gate in this time. The Dream Nail is not taking them anywhere because there is nowhere for it to take them. 

They feel, quite distinctly, like an idiot.

No, no, it’s fine. Everything is fine. They might take even longer to get back to the Palace than they’d hoped, but this is nothing more than a setback. Even though there is no retracing their steps, since they fell quite a long way into the Hot Springs, they know another way around well enough. 

They’ll have to be careful when they loop past the Broken Tramway—which might not even be broken yet, now that they think about it—but once they’re past it, they can make their way back to Mantis Village, into the Royal Waterways, and to the Palace Grounds once more. If they’re lucky, they’ll even be able to get back into their room without being spotted, and can play the whole thing off to anyone who might have noticed their absence. As long as they don’t drift into Weavers’ territory—which they won’t—they’ll have no problem. The spiders never venture outside of their domain, so there is nothing to worry about.

Perfect. They have a plan, and as long as they have a plan, things will be all right. They make a mental reminder to set a new Dream Gate within their room once they make it back, retrieve the discarded nail from the ground, and set off, leaving the Nosk’s lair behind them.

Once they’ve emerged from the tunnels that lead into the lair, Ghost descends down the rickety path and feels a bit of relief as their feet hit solid ground. It almost feels as though the previous ledge—with no path to it—was safer.

A dirtcarver pops up and they cut it down without a second thought. It gives them just enough Soul for another spell, and they barely have to consider their action before they take it. A streak of dark magic slams into the strange staircase, and though the vines simply recoil, the wood splinters and breaks, and the steps fail, tumbling into the roiling pit below.

Much better, Ghost thinks, and brandishes their Mantis Claw, ready to ascend.  

The climb is exhausting, but Ghost thinks that might just be because they’re tired out from the battle. Perhaps they should have stopped at the Hot Springs first, but when they have finally scaled halfway up the chamber, they decide that they really don’t feel like doing all of that again, and so instead they keep going, sticking to the edges of the dimly-lit path travelers must be expected to follow. It is strange to even see those paths—and the routes that are surely meant to be taken—as they had been long-gone by the time Ghost first made their way through Deepnest. It certainly makes it easier without their map though, so they aren’t complaining.

When they finally make it to the top of the main chamber, they pause. The path diverges, one veering off into the Weavers’ lands—which they will not be following—and another, far newer-looking one winding upward even farther, marked with not a tram sign, but a construction one. 

All right, so the not-yet-Broken Tramway is being built at the moment. Does that mean that there will be bugs working when they go up there? Surely, it must.

Even if there are bugs there though, they don’t think it will change their plan. The only other one that they can think of is making their way back down and to the working tram in Deepnest. They wouldn’t take the tram itself, of course, but rather use its tunnels to make it back to the Ancient Basin. There would be so many people, however, that the idea seems stupid even as they are barely considering it.

Well then, Broken Tramway it—

Ghost’s thoughts are cut off by something wrapping around their leg and pulling, causing them to topple onto the ground. Their nail falls from their grip, and they are hoisted into the air as quick, quiet steps skitter closer.

“Well, what’s this we find?” Ghost is spun around, and stop their flailing for a moment to gaze into the many eyes of the spider holding them hostage. She chuckles at their feeble attempts to escape. “A Pale child, far from home?”

“Is it them?” Her companion, a smaller spider, asks from their position on one of the tunnel walls. 

“There is little doubt in my mind,” Ghost’s captor replies. “Hurry ahead back to the Den to grant fair warning; we shall be along shortly.”

The smaller spider clicks an affirmative and hurries off.

“You aren’t going to run off upon release, are you?” Their captor asks.

Ghost thinks about it, and considers it for a long moment, if only out of principle. They have already been caught, though. There is no returning without suspicion at this point. 

They shake their head, and she hums. Ghost is slowly lowered back to the ground. As soon as they are standing once more, they reach down to pick up their nail and hold it tight.

“There is little need for that, small one,” the spider says, sounding amused. “Nothing will hurt you while I am here. Little would dare try.”

It is probably meant to be reassuring, though it just makes something bitter rise in Ghost’s throat. Still, they loosen the grip, and it must satisfy her, because she beckons them to join her as she moves toward the entrance to the Weavers’ territory. After a quick second, they do.

The spider does not make small talk with them. They almost appreciate it. She only speaks to warn them of spikes that they might not see or pits they need to avoid. When they reach the first wall, she begins to tell them how she will carry them up, only to fall silent as they use their Mantis Claw to scale it on their own. She does not offer again.

As they had suspected, the darkness of the spiders’ lands that they remember is not how it was meant to be. Certainly, it is dim—because most everything in Deepnest is—but they can see perfectly fine. Lanterns line the caverns, lit not by lumaflies like much of the rest of Hallownest, but something else—a swirling thread that glows softly as it spins.

“Silk,” the spider says when she notices them looking. “The Weavers’ gift. I myself—like many others—cannot spin it, but they are generous enough to share that blessing.”

Ghost never really took the time to learn the difference between a Weaver and any of the other spiders of Deepnest. It hadn’t been particularly relevant at the time—they were Infected all the same. Now, perhaps it might not be a bad idea to actually figure it out.

In these brighter caverns, a glint against their cloak catches their eye: the gleam from the Mark of Pride. A chill winds down their throat, and when next they are certain that their guide is not watching, they yank it off and slip it away into the Void.

None of the spiders that they pass give them even a second glance. It is a bit interesting, but Ghost supposes that they likely get more visitors than the Mantis Tribe does, even if it is still not very many. Seeing an outsider accompanied by an escort must not be too strange of an occurrence—

“Ghost!”

They tense at the suddenness and instinctively raise their nail to strike, but it is yanked from their grasp, so they have nothing to defend themself with as Hornet zips from above on a strand of Silk and lands before them. Her hands find their shoulders and hold tight as she looks them over. They can feel how she trembles through her fingers.

“Are you hurt?” She asks.

They shake their head. 

“Good,” she says. A beat. She grabs one of their horns and tugs at it, jerking their head to the side a bit as she demands, “What is wrong with you?!”

They do not answer.

“Nothing to say?” Hornet laughs, high and quite unlike her. 

Ghost thinks for a moment before raising their hands to sign, “Trip.”

“‘Trip,’” she echoes. “You went on a trip? One that required you be absent for half a cycle?”

They still. Half of a cycle? That’s…That’s four days. They can’t have been gone for that long; there’s no way.

“Didn’t know,” they manage to sign. “Meant to be shorter.”

Hornet exhales sharply, as if she is about to rant more, and then turns away. “No,” she says, largely to herself. “I am not having this conversation with you on my own. Come, sibling; consequences await.”

They have little choice but to follow her. Even like this—younger and shorter and weaker—Hornet is still faster than them. She would catch them easily, and then they would have to deal with a failed escape attempt along with their supposedly-four-day-long disappearance.

Hornet guides them through the Weavers’ territory and into its heart. Their original captor follows behind, as if to emphasize just how little choice they have here, carrying the nail that she snatched from them. It would be silly, if they were a different person than they are; if they were more willing to tap into the Divinity that coats their soul—that could coat their every movement, if only they were to let it. They are not that kind of person, though, and so whatever godly abilities they may have remain staunchly dormant—untouched—and they continue on.

When they finally reach the corridor that leads to the Distant Village—spikes remaining blissfully covered by the solid stone floor—their head aches. They aren’t quite sure why, but they also don’t think it would be a great idea to bring it up, so they don’t. It is quite easy to forget anyway as the corridor opens up and the true heart of Deepnest spreads itself out before them.

The Distant Village is far larger than the one that Ghost remembers. Those homes of Silk stretch out through the large cavern in all directions, and they are beautiful in a way the broken, empty ones never had been. Far from abandoned here, and lit by those same swirling lanterns, it truly looks like a place Ghost could imagine the spiders knowing as home.

“Quite a sight, is it not?” Hornet snaps them from their thoughts. She gazes at the spiders bustling about before glancing down at them. “The City in Silk, we call it.” A far nicer name. “The spiders of old always called this place theirs, but it is said that when the Weavers arrived in these lands, it truly came to life.” She hums consideringly and then points her needle forward. “Come. Not much farther, now.”

Beast’s Den is in the same place at least, though far less derelict. Hornet ushers them inside, and devout bow as she passes, approaching the Beast herself sitting upon her dias—her throne.

“Daughter,” Herrah says, words as smooth as ever, “You bring a guest. That lost Pale child, found amongst our own?”

“Not even, Mother,” Hornet replies. “Found within the wilds.”

“The wilds…” Herrah peers down at Ghost. “A long way to travel, little one. For what reason?”

“Trip,” Ghost signs, just as they had when Hornet asked, and then throws in, “Adventure.”

“Certainly there is much of that to be found in the Nest,” Herrah chuckles, “But it is for those far older than yourself—honed and sharpened as any good blade must be. The time for such things has not yet come for you.”

“After this stunt, it may never,” Hornet says blithely. “The Pale Mother must be beside herself.”

“The Wyrm as well,” Herrah nods. “Never have I received a letter from him so frantic.”

“Frantic?” Hornet tilts her head to the side, confused. “His words did not seem frantic to me.”

“Discerning such things is a skill you will learn in time, Daughter,” Herrah says. “For now, trust my words: there is little else he is thinking of right now, bar the safe return of his child.”

“His reckless, idiotic child,” Hornet adds as if it is something that needs to be said. 

Herrah hums. It follows the same tune that her daughter’s does. Ghost’s Void Heart tries to echo it. The sound that comes is no sound at all—silent and empty; a failure.

“I must send word to the White Palace, that they may be ready to receive the Pale child upon their arrival,” Herrah finally says.

“As you say, Mother.” Hornet looks down at Ghost, and then continues, “I shall make my wayward sibling more presentable, and then accompany them on their journey back. I am nearly due for a visit, besides.”

Herrah inclines her head. Hornet’s hand wraps around Ghost’s wrist and she starts to drag them toward a staircase near the back of the room—one that must have collapsed long before Ghost came through here in their old time.

They are stopped when Herrah speaks a final time.

“You are lucky this time, Pale child,” she says. Her voice is oddly soft, though Ghost does not think that it is out of kindness. “But luck is far from a promise of survival. Best not to wander these caverns in the future, lest it run out.”

She is not looking at them, and yet Ghost is certain that she sees it when they nod.

“Good. Hurry on, then; best not to linger.”

Hornet takes her cue, and guides them up into the heart of the Beast’s Den.

The only memory of this place that they have is of it falling to pieces. It is interesting to see it as it is meant to be; the palace of Deepnest—or at least the closest thing to it. Spiders of all kinds—Weavers and not—scurry about, and Hornet slips through them easily, pulling Ghost out of the way of whatever arachnid happens to not move aside quick enough for her pace.

“Your room?” They sign when she finally pulls them out of the main tunnels and into a smaller room, tucked up in the higher reaches of the Silken structure.

“On occasion,” Hornet replies. She presses them toward a seat and turns to rummage through a drawer. “I’ve another in the Weavers’ Den, as well as in both the Hive and the Palace.”

So many homes, Ghost can’t help but think. 

(Do they even have one?)

Hornet wipes them down with some cloth she had tucked away. It isn’t made of the Soul-spun Silk that lights the rest of the spiders’ lands, but it is absorbent and tightly woven, and seems to do what she wants it to, so it’s fine. She tugs at their slightly-torn cloak and makes a small clicking noise, but decides there’s no point in wasting time on fixing something that will likely just be discarded when they return to the Palace anyway.

“Come along, then,” Hornet says when she at last deems them clean enough. “It would be best not to keep them waiting any longer than we already have.”

The Stag Station is small—likely seldom used. Only a few stags mill about, though none look restless like the Old Stag had whenever Ghost had asked him to bring them here. These ones must be used to this place.

Herrah is waiting. “I’ve not received a response,” she says rather than greeting them, “But they certainly know by now.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Hornet says. After a moment, she nudges Ghost in the side.

“Thank you,” they sign.

“Hm.” Herrah observes them carefully, and the longer it goes on, the more Ghost wants to squirm under her gaze. They don’t, and take an annoying amount of pride in it. “Safe travels, Pale child,” the Queen of Deepnest finally says. “To you as well, my Daughter. Send word when you plan to return. I shall wish to welcome you.”

Hornet nods, and together she and Ghost climb atop one of the stags. It is a lean one, clearly young, and Ghost wonders if this trip will be noticeably faster than those they have taken before; they never had another stag to compare with, after all.

“To the Hidden Station, if you please,” Hornet tells the stag, followed by a word that Ghost has never heard before—some kind of passcode, they are sure, as they are moving only a few seconds later, with barely enough time to throw a wave of farewell back at Herrah before they are shooting through the tunnel.

It is certainly faster, but more than anything, Ghost notices how loud it is—far louder than when it was just them and the Old Stag. The size of the tunnels finally make sense, as they pass by more stags than they can count, moving too quickly to even see who or what any of them are carrying. The cacophony of feet as dozens—hundreds—of stags run through the network is a bit overwhelming, but Ghost has always been good at letting the world wash over and away from them. Noise turns white, and Ghost closes their eyes, one hand holding the seat’s handle while the other comes up to grasp Hornet’s arm, wrapped around them. She says nothing—not that would likely be able to hear her if she did—but her grip tightens, and they hate how it makes them feel just a bit safer.

Surprisingly quickly, they arrive at the Hidden Station. The stag skids to a stop, and Ghost takes  a moment to reorient themself only to be instantly swept up and clung to.

“Oh, my child!” The White Lady exclaims. Her voice is thick, as if she has been crying. Strange. “We were so worried! Gone for days, only to turn up in Deepnest, of all places!”

She shifts Ghost just enough that they can see again and look down as their father, standing on the stag platform, says, “Yes, it was quite the relief to receive Herrah’s notice. We were about ready to expand the search parties into the Peaks.”

“Would’ve been quite the waste of resources,” Hornet drawls, “They barely went any higher than the Waterways.”

Well, it’s technically true, Ghost supposes.

“Ah! Princess!” The White Lady does not set Ghost down, but she does turn her attention to Hornet even as a finger still strokes the top of their mask. “How wonderful to see you! And in such circumstances as this. Thank you for seeing them returned safely.”

Hornet shrugs. “I was meant to come soon, anyhow; might as well join them.”

The Pale King glances back toward the entrance to the Station. “We had best continue this in the Palace. I fear that if Hollow is left for any longer, they may climb the walls just to see if their sibling is all right.”

“Yes, you two are never apart,” the White Lady says to Ghost as they start to walk. She still holds them tight. “It has been quite a difficult four days for them.”

She says it as if they have never been apart for longer; as if there was no Pure Vessel before Ghost arrived.

(Once, a pair of twins were born, and the first thing they saw was each other.)

(Once, a pair of twins were separated, one taken by the Light and the other pulled back into the Darkness.)

(Once, a pair of twins were reunited after centuries apart—whether remembered or not—only for the world to command, Now fight. Fight, and see which one is left.)

Ghost has no idea why so much time passed. They don’t know where the time even went—how it slipped through their fingers so easily. Perhaps that is always how long it takes to travel Hallownest, and they simply never noticed before. It isn’t as if they had much reason to.

The White Lady readjusts her hold on them, and they lean their head against her. It should be comforting—soothing—warm, but Ghost feels oddly numb instead. If they had true blood running through their body, ice might be congealing along its paths. 

As it is, the Void bubbles uncertainly. Fine, they whisper to it. All fine. It listens—because no matter how much they may fight with it sometimes, it will always listen to them in the end—and calms.

Some sort of punishment is coming; Ghost knows it. They disappeared, were missing for days, and turned up in Deepnest. No tale comes to mind that they could spin to find their way out of trouble.

It was worth it, though. There is no doubt in their mind about that. They went to Deepnest and they killed the Nosk, and more than that, they managed to do it before that monster lured any of their siblings to their deaths. That was a success—something tangible and real—that Ghost could look at—could think of—to make all of this seem worthwhile. 

That was what they are here in the past to do, right? At least, that is the mission that they have bestowed upon themself. It is one that they will carry with them for as long as they can; more than that, it is one that they will fulfill. It is one that they can choose.

In the end, it isn’t even really a choice at all.

Chapter Text

Ghost is grounded.

It isn’t particularly surprising. Regardless of the joy that came from their return, they had left in the first place. They also weren’t very forthcoming with information when questioned why.

“Did someone take you?” The Pale King asks. 

It is Ghost’s first time in his workshop—in this lifetime, at least. They stumbled into it in the Dream of White Palace once, dark and in disarray. It is far nicer here, they think, lit well. It is certainly no less messy, but seems to sit easily in some realm of organized chaos. Ghost would never be able to find a thing, but their father must know where every scattered item is. Even with the small collection of buzzsaws propped against a wall, it’s almost comfortable.

“Ghost,” the Pale King presses, and, oh, they’ve been thinking for too long. It is not often that their parents use their name, actually; far less than they use Hollow’s. That is strange, is it not? There must be a reason. 

Of course there is, Ghost trills in their mind. You know it.

(No one’s favorite—)

The Pale King sighs. Ghost blinks, and turns back to him.

“I apologize if I seem… aggressive, with my queries,” he says slowly. “It is only… There should be no way for the child of the King and Queen to simply disappear without a trace.”

Oh. He’s curious. That makes sense, Ghost supposes. Knowledge is his domain; it is only natural that he would want the answer to any problem bothering him.

He is going to have to be disappointed, though.

“If you cannot say for certain whether someone took you or not,” the Pale King continues, “We might begin to assume you left of your own accord.”

Ghost carefully does not shift—does not give anything away that they could not take back.

“Sweet shattered Thought,” he breathes. “You did. You left on your own.”

Ghost has… no idea how he figured that out; nor do they have a response for it.

His fingers spasm, and the croak in his throat sounds almost painful as he asks, “Why?”

Their hands stay still at their sides. No prodding from their father garners anything else from them.

So. 

Ghost is grounded.

They think that they would have been grounded either way, really. In fact, they might have been grounded for even longer, had they explained that their goal had been to kill the Nosk. From what little they know about Nosks, they are generally not meant to be trifled with. Ghost’s parents, who still refuse to allow them to even hold the hilt of a nail, likely would not be thrilled to learn the truth of their escapades.

Disappointment clouds the White Lady’s face when they next see her, however. The Pale King must have told her by that point, as she looks down at them with dimmed eyes and asks, “Are you unhappy here, my child?”

They shake their head.

(She does not look as if she likes the answer.)

Being grounded is… odd. As it was first explained to them, it is meant to mean that they cannot leave their room unless they are accompanied by one of a particular group of people: their parents and the Great Knights, mainly. Guards in the hallway stand watch.

Hollow visits on the first night.

“Left?” They ask. “Chose to?”

Ghost doesn’t reply.

Hollow signs more firmly, “Sister told us. ‘Trip,’ you called it.”

“Yes,” Ghost says. “Trip.”

“Why?” Hollow steps closer to them. “Why go?”

They are still.

Something sharp flares from the Void—something that tastes of frustration and fear—before it is almost immediately tucked away. “Why go?” Hollow drops the signing altogether. “Why leave? Why…Why tell no one?”

“Trapped,” Ghost eventually murmurs. “Wanted to see. Needed to see.” Their Heart twists. “Was trapped Before. Not again.”

Hollow recoils. Ghost looks at them—properly looks at them—and sees that their hands are shaking. Their twin catches them staring and folds their arms back inside of their cloak.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” Hollow replies quickly. “Tired. Both tired. Sleep.”

Ghost nods. They hesitate for a brief moment, and then ask, “Sleep here?”

Hollow stares at them, and seconds pass by like pockets of eternity. Then, they turn sharply and leave Ghost’s room, the door closing heavily behind them.

The air is thick. It presses down on them from all sides, an impossible weight that squeezes their throat and bashes against their head and makes them feel as though they are underwater. 

Or, perhaps they are in acid, because nothing else ever burned this much—

The door opens again. Ghost blinks past the constrictions of their own thoughts to see Hollow pattering in. Their regular cloak is gone, replaced by thicker, warmer nightwear. A pillow is hugged against their body.

Without saying anything, Hollow approaches Ghost and climbs up onto the bed next to them. They place the pillow down.

“Tired,” Hollow says. “Did not sleep well.”

“Hard?” Ghost asks after a moment.

“Bad memories,” Hollow replies. “No Dreams, but… Bad.”

Perhaps they shouldn’t sleep in here, then. Any Dreams that may come to them would be Ghost’s fault, after all.

On the other hand, maybe it is better this way; maybe Ghost can make sure that Hollow’s mind stays calm and their sleep blissful. It is the least they can do.

“None here,” Ghost says firmly. “Sleep. Safe.”

Hollow nods, sinking down against their pillow. Ghost does the same, staring up at the ceiling. It does not take long for sleep to claim their twin, and Ghost, pushing past an odd ache in their throat, grasps for delicate strands of Dream and tries to form them into something nice. They don’t think they can stop memories from invading Hollow’s rest, but they can weave something better to slot in the open space.

Clouds are too much like the Radiance’s domain, as soft as they may be. Instead, Ghost focuses on the image of the Lake of Unn. It was always a nice place to relax, even as its temple’s walls crumbled. The docks were long, and tall enough that their legs could dangle without burning from the acidic waters below.

Hollow would like it, Ghost thinks, and build it as best they can from what they remember. They layer in flowers blooming a light purple, the kind of shade that their sibling likes. The Dream is harder to hold together, then. It slips away from their grasp more easily, as if adding in something that wasn’t there before is too much for them. They are well aware that a Dream can be anything, but they aren’t good at it; not like the Radiance was.

Good enough, though, they think, and anchor the scene in Hollow’s mind. It takes hold easily—almost annoyingly so for—for—

(No mind to think…)

The Dream will stay on its own. Ghost can sleep now, too.

Exhaustion comes the moment that they think of it. Their limbs are heavier, and darkness claws at the edges of their vision—not the Darkness that they control, but rather that of unconsciousness; the promise of respite.

Sleep calls. They listen.

When they open their eyes, they’re in the Crossroads. The path ahead looks different than the rest: wooden supports keeping the rock from caving in. A faint glow comes from within. Might as well check it out, they suppose, and head inside.

They are not walking for very long before they hear humming. It comes from a tunnel that bends downward, and they follow. A small bug waits at the end, pickaxe striking away at the stone.

The bug sings. It is not a song that the Wanderer recognizes, though they don’t think they really know any.

“Ha ha ha, do you know that one?” The bug asks when she finally notices them. “It’s one of my f-favorites!”

Her name is Myla, she eventually says, and barely reacts when they don’t respond to any of her questions. Instead, she asks if they want to listen to her sing. They do, and listen as she stumbles through lyrics that she can and can’t remember. It is nice, and they think that they would like it even if they knew more songs than none at all.

They blink. The path ahead looks different from the rest, and familiar. A faint glow comes from within. Perhaps something has changed. Might as well check it out, they suppose, and head inside.

Myla is still humming. It sounds a bit more broken now than before, but they think that she might just be tired.

She lights up when she sees them. “Oh, hello again! Are you still running about? Why not join d-down here?”

The Knight does not plan on doing that, but they do sit and listen again. They pat their hand against the rock to provide a beat for her to follow, and she laughs and tries to stay in time with it. Her words stutter a bit, and sometimes her voice fails, but it is fun. They wonder how long she has been digging for.

They blink. The path ahead looks different from the rest, and above it they know an uneven floor sits, just waiting for them to use their new Dive spell on it. A faint glow comes from within. Maybe it goes somewhere. Might as well check it out, they suppose, and head inside.

Myla is quieter than she has been before. They cannot even hear her voice until they are inside of the tunnel she works in. A hand goes to her shoulder, but she does not react. Her body twitches occasionally, making her words even shakier.

“What meaning in darkness?” She whispers. “Yet here I remain… I’ll wait here forever… til light blooms again.”

Within the eyes of her mask, pinpricks of orange shine stark against the shadows.

The Vessel pulls their hand away. Darkness… Perhaps meant to have no meaning, but they know now that it is who they are; it is part of who they are, at least. They have meaning, do they not?

Myla is not well. They should have visited sooner. They have to keep going, but they will come back. Hopefully, whatever is past that trembling floor will let them cross the gap of spikes in the Ancient Basin so they can see what awaits them at the other side, and they can get a bit closer to ending that strange Light creeping through the minds of this old Kingdom.

They blink. The path ahead looks different from the rest. Ghost shivers at the acrid stench of Infection. Their sealed sibling is failing, and the world is starting to know it. No Lightseeds patter around the wooden beams, though. A faint glow comes from within. Myla is in there. Should check it out, they think, and head inside.

It is quiet in her tunnel. Not even broken notes fill the sour air. 

She does not turn around, silent and still. It was the same last time, they suppose. Perhaps it is like Bretta; they need only snap her out of it, and then her song will return. They are confident in their sign, now, and raise one hand to speak while the other lands on her shoulder.

Myla startles, whirls around, and lashes out with her pickaxe. Ghost barely avoids her attack, the tip catching the edge of their cloak and tearing through it. The Light in her eyes is so bright it burns.

Instinctually, they call their nail into their hand and bring it up to block her next attack. 

They are not quick enough to move it as she hurls herself at them, and the strike is sure to be a deadly one. Her carapace splits. She falls, and a final wail echoes against the stones in the same sweet voice that once belonged to their friend.

Ghost trembles, and drops their nail. The crystals are stained, dripping with orange, a steady blend of hemolymph and Infection.

There is blood on their hands.

There is blood on their hands.

There is blood on their hands—

They wipe and shake and scrape against the ground, but it doesn’t do anything, there is still blood everywhere. The Light’s putrid stench suffocates them, and their fingers are glowing, and Myla’s blood is on their—

Ghost hits the floor with a jolt. Everything is too hot, and they scramble to kick blankets off. The taste of Infection is in their mouth, rotten and burning, and they think they might gag on it, were that something they could do.

They are drowning. There is blood all around them—coating their hands and their cloak and their Heart—and they are going to drown in it—

Fingers find their shoulder, and they whirl around. There is no nail for them to draw, no Soul to use for a spell, and so instead the Darkness thickens, shadows pulling closer—rising—ready to—

“Safe!”

Hollow’s word rings in the Void. Ghost’s throat hurts. The shadows falter, waiting uncertainly.

“Not real,” Hollow continues. “Here. Home. Safe.”

They blink. The walls of their room in White Palace greet them. There is no Infection here, no blood splashing over crystals. The Light exists only in their mind. 

“What happened?” Hollow asks. They are kneeled in front of Ghost, one hand clenching the blankets of the bed. “Heard you fall. Woke up. Something happen?”

Ghost grabs at the shadows and forces them back down—forces the Void back into dormancy—and shakes their head. “Bad Dream.”

Hollow stills. “...Dream?” They echo. “Bad Dream? Not good, not good, not good.” An air of panic fills their words. “Must tell Father-King. Not meant to Dream.”

“Not true Dream,” Ghost quickly reassures them. “Memories. Bad memories.”

Their twin stops. “Oh.” A long pause. “Talk about it?”

“No,” Ghost says, and tries not to be harsh as they do. “Just… Hard to remember, sometimes. Where we are. Now.”

Hollow wavers, and then reaches a hand out. “Still late,” they say. “Bed.”

Ghost doesn’t really want to sleep again, but they should; they also don’t really know how to refuse. They accept the hand, and Hollow scrambles back onto the bed, pulling Ghost with them.

The blanket is pulled up high before they can even do anything. Hollow does not let go of their hand, even as they turn on their side to sleep.

“All okay,” Hollow murmurs. “Here now.”

“Know that,” Ghost replies. 

“Safe,” Hollow continues. “Not there anymore.”

They are talking about the Abyss. Ghost knows that. Just as easily, though, they could be talking about that doomed timeline; that world where Myla sang sweet songs to crystals that would one day be soaked in her glowing blood.

“Feels like it sometimes,” Ghost says. “Hard to forget.”

As if they want to.

“Father-King says not to forget,” Hollow explains, and Ghost’s Heart twists. “Says remembering is important. Part of who we are.”

That old world is all of who Ghost is, they think. They don’t know how to be anything else. They nod against the pillow anyway, and feel Hollow’s satisfaction through the Void.

“Sleep now,” Hollow says. “No more memories. Sleep well.”

Ghost, despite already preparing to weave a Dream of Darkness for themself, asks, “How know?”

Hollow is almost cheeky as they reply, “Will stop them. Keep Sibling safe.”

“Keep each other safe,” Ghost says, because they know it will make Hollow happy, even if it isn’t true. That’s fine. It doesn’t need to be true; Ghost can keep the both of them safe all on their own. 

Hollow doesn’t need to know that. Their satisfaction shifts into a spark of joy, before the emotions are packaged away. “Still tired,” Hollow insists. “Sleep.”

Ghost closes their eyes, and waits. When Hollow is unconscious, they form the same Dream they sent over earlier—easier now that they have done it before—and layer it back into their sibling’s mind. It slots into place easily, and Ghost takes less than a second to create their own—one of shadows and respite. They do not need anything else. The Dream sits uncomfortably in their head, shifting as if it is as unsure about its placement as they are about its domain tied to their soul.

(There is blood on their hands.)

They ignore the feeling; shove it down and away until it cannot bother them anymore.

Exhaustion rears its ugly head. Sleep sounds good, actually. 

They listen to its call, and this time, no memories worm their way in—just as they wanted.

Morning comes with the reminder that they are grounded. Ghost is already awake when there is a soft knock at the door, but Hollow is still deep in the thralls of sleep. They get to their feet as carefully as they can and go to answer.

“Good morning, little Highness,” Isma says cheerily, bowing. “I’ve come to escort you to breakfast. You would not happen to know where your royal sibling is, would you?”

Ghost is certain that the guards last night would have seen Hollow enter their room. The shifts must have changed since then. They step back and point to their bed.

“Ah!” Isma’s hand rises to where her mouth would be. “I see,” she laughs. “Well, best wake them. It would not do to leave their Majesties in wait.”

Ghost nods, closes the door for at least the illusion of privacy if nothing else, and pads back over to the bed. They pull the Dream from Hollow’s mind to make it a bit easier, and then shake their sibling’s shoulder.

“Wake,” they say, and try not to impress any of their Will as they do. 

Hollow wakes. Well, more accurately, they turn over in the bed to press their face to the pillow as something that might be a grumble if there were any sound to it drifts through the Void.

“Breakfast,” Ghost continues. “Come.”

“Go without,” Hollow says. “Must sleep. Pillow calls.”

“Parents wait,” Ghost presses. “Must go. Come.”

Hollow does not seem particularly enthused by it, but they roll off of the bed and onto their feet.

“Not changing,” they say, tugging at their nightclothes. “Comfortable.”

“Okay,” Ghost signs. They feel like they might buzz out of their shell. “Me too.”

Hollow walks alongside them on the way to the dining room, Isma just a few steps behind. She is always on the edge of their view, and it makes Ghost feel distinctly like a prisoner.

Breakfast is oddly tense. Or, perhaps it isn’t odd, but it is tense regardless. Questions come Ghost’s way—subtle and not—and they focus on the food in front of them, one hand clenching a utensil while the other is tucked underneath their leg. 

Their parents are disappointed about the lack of information. It seems as though Hornet is more frustrated than anything. Hollow is just sad though, in that delicate way that they sometimes are. 

Ghost hates it.

When they’re returned to their room, the door closes heavily behind them, and they are alone.

There is little to do, and Ghost has no idea how long they are meant to be grounded for, but they have never really had much of a problem with letting Time turn meaningless, so it probably doesn’t matter much anyway.

They take the time to set a Dream Gate up in their closet. They would prefer to have it on their balcony, but the doors to it are locked and they do not have the key. It seems that someone thought they might have used the balcony to escape, which is ridiculous because there is quite a decent gap to clear before they’d be able to get anywhere, and it isn’t as if they have working wings to help—

A twinge of pain bursts from their back. It is as if just thinking about the wings made the broken pieces remember they existed. The chill from the Void numbs it just a bit, but they don’t think this is the kind of hurt that can be iced away.

Whatever.

Ghost sits on their bed, ignores the ache, and stares at the ceiling, tracing a pattern they’ve seen in two lifetimes now until it’s burned into the back of their eyelids.

Days pass. Ghost doesn’t really keep track of them, but they do know that they pass. They are still brought to dinner each evening, and breakfast occasionally. Any meal not eaten with their family is brought to their room, and they eat even though it’s unnecessary, because they know that people will get worried if they don’t. 

(At some point, it feels as though they’ve forgotten how to taste.)

(All that fills their throat is ash.)

Hollow visits often. Well, not often, but they manage it just about once every day. They’ll talk about all that they have done; bring a game, or a book, or a puzzle for them to do together. Sometimes they stay for hours, sometimes for only a few minutes. It’s the only real change to their schedule that Ghost ever gets, and they do appreciate it, even if they don’t think they do a wonderful job of showing it.

The grounding fades slowly as days turn to cycles, and when they’re about a turn removed from their ‘disappearance,’ it’s once more business-as-usual. Guards are still posted in the corridor at night to make sure they don’t run away while everyone is sleeping, and a closer eye is likely kept on them, but the escorts are gone.

Ghost, sick of spending time in their room, returns to their walks through the Palace. It is tempting to scale the walls with their newly-acquired Claw and just watch the world pass by from above, but they don’t know how they’d explain it if they were caught, and they are not looking to get grounded again this soon.

They find more nooks and crannies. The Palace is nothing like it was in the Dream Realm, but the pieces are all here. It is interesting to see rooms that they are sure should be on the other side of the Palace waiting for them when they turn a corner. Strange, too. There are far more benches too—which seems unfair—and it is nice to sit down on one and breathe in the air—free of Infection and Dream alike.

Their trip—adventure—whatever sticks stubbornly in their mind. It might have gotten them in trouble, but it was… It…

They hadn’t realized just how much they had truly missed the rush of combat until they’d experienced it again. Their battle with the Radiance in this timeline hadn’t really counted—they hadn’t even had a nail—and so much without it had made them forget their love for it.

(Once, they could throw themselves into the Trials at the Colosseum, and slice through enemies to the screams of an adoring, bloodthirsty crowd.)

(Once, they could stop by the Mantis Village, and any they encountered would be glad to spar if they only asked.)

(Once, they could travel the Kingdom, and any craving for battle would be satiated by the journey.)

(Now, memories will have to be enough.)

The Mark of Pride turns easily in their hands. They do not wear it—do not want to deal with the questions that might come once it’s noticed—but it is nice to look at. It is a reminder of what they can do, what they can accomplish.

At first, they only look at it in the safety of their closet. They sink between cloaks and drag their finger along the charm’s grooves. The light of the Dream Gate shimmers just a few steps away. It doesn’t reflect off of the Mark, but it does illuminate it, and how does that work? Ghost is the only one that can see the Dream Gate, so are they the only one that could see the light that it bathes the charm in? 

(No one else could see the dead.)

They get comfortable. As attention on them diminishes the more time passes, Ghost feels fine taking the Mark out and rolling it in their palm when they’re alone in their room, perched atop their bed. It becomes a form of relief—something that offers solace whenever they hold it. It feels the same as in the original world; whether it is or is not truly the same charm doesn’t matter, because it feels like it.

Ghost gets comfortable.

And they get complacent.

It was a stupid idea to bring the Mark of Pride out when they were anywhere other than their own room. Their shell was buzzing, though, and the White Palace was busier than usual because of some Hive delegation arriving, and they didn’t want to be near anyone but they also didn’t want to be alone, so they did what they do best and retreated into the depths of the halls. They sat on a bench near one of the smaller gardens, pulled the charm out, and dug their claws into the sharp pattern over its surface. Just for a bit, they thought. Just a bit.

They pay the price now. They had known that taking too long would risk missing dinner, and that doing that would result in a search to make sure they hadn’t left the Palace again. They were selfish though, and had wanted to let their nerves calm for a bit longer, and managed to wait long enough for a search to be mounted, and for them to be found.

“Where did you get that?” Dryya asks. Any relief that had been in her voice when she first discovered them is gone. 

They do not answer, but tighten their grip. 

“That is… No, it can’t… But it must be…” Dryya is muttering to herself. Ghost tries not to squirm in place. The Mark burns between their fingers.

Finally, the Great Knight says, “Their Majesties must know of this. Come.”

She will tell them either way. Ghost knows this. Their throat hurts, and they force themself to follow her.

Their parents look tired when Dryya finally guides them into the dining room, and they feel a bit bad. The King and Queen were likely stressed enough from the delegation without wondering where Ghost was. 

Hollow and Hornet are both sitting there as well. Their sister had left for Deepnest just about a cycle-and-a-half after delivering them home, and returned to the Palace only a few days previously.

“My Queen,” Dryya says, bowing low, “My King.”

“Ah, thank you for finding them, Dryya,” the White Lady says. Her smile is as gentle as ever. It makes Ghost’s stomach turn. “We were ever so worried.”

“Of course, my Queen.” Dryya places a hand upon the back of their shell. “However, I fear there is something else that demands your attention.”

The Pale King straightens—which is actually impressive, because Ghost had thought that he was already sitting as straight as he could—and asks, “Has something gone wrong?”

“That is not my judgement to make,” Dryya replies. “But the Prince has… something in their possession that I believe may be of interest.”

Their parents turn to them, and Dryya pats their mask, urging them forward.

Ghost obeys, as much as they don’t want to, and reluctantly holds up the Mark of Pride.

The Pale King sucks in a sharp breath. “That…That is a Mantis artifact. It must be; their craftsmanship is quite distinct.”

“Do you recognize it, my love?” The White Lady asks.

“Not its make,” the Pale King responds. “Only its style. Still, it is of the Mantis Tribe; I am certain of it.” He sighs. “We must return it to them. Hopefully, it is nothing that they noticed was missing.”

Ghost shakes their head, raises their free hand, and quickly signs, “Mine.”

Their father tilts his head. “Oh? And how did it come into your possession?”

Ghost pauses. They should not tell him the truth. They won’t. Instead, they slowly sign, “Found it,” as if they know just how bad of an answer it is.

The Pale King hums. “Unfortunately, finding something is rarely enough to merit calling it yours.”

That’s unfair, Ghost thinks. He found a kingdom and called it his, didn’t he?

Their father, at least, is not unkind when he continues, “This will have to be returned to the Mantis Tribe. Do you understand?”

Ghost does understand. At the same time, they want to hit something. They nod instead.

(No will to break…)

“Good.” He leans back, and Ghost squeezes the Mark of Pride one more time—as if they can imprint it onto their hand and still have it even after it is gone—before passing it over.

Dinner is a bit awkward after that. Perhaps Ghost is a bit too obvious about the fact that they are upset, but they don’t really care. They get why the charm was taken away—they couldn’t truthfully explain how they obtained it, and their family doesn’t know how important it is. The Mantis Tribe is secretive, and more than that, they are not fully a part of Hallownest, as much as the Pale King may wish that they were. Relations with them are important to maintain.

(Ghost wonders what the Lords will think when the Mark is returned to them.)

The charm is sent with Ze’mer half-a-cycle later when she takes a day of leave to visit her lover. It is probably the smartest idea; Hallownest’s relationship with the Mantis Tribe is tentative on the best of days. Ze’mer handing it over to the one Mantis they can be certain will not attack her is the obvious choice.

When she returns the next morning, then, still holding the Mark, it is cause for confusion.

She finds them in the Queen’s main gardens of the Palace. The Pale King is there as well, having been dragged from his workshop by his wife to ‘make time for his family,’ though he is still engrossed in a journal as he sits with them.

“Majesties,” the Grey Mourner greets, bowing low. “Che’ apologizes for the interruption.”

“Apologize not, Ze’mer,” the White Lady says. “Welcome back. Your trip was successful, I presume?”

“Ah, in the seeing of meled’lover, ai, it was,” Ze’mer replies. “But when che’ attempted to return that artifact, ‘twas rebuked.”

“‘Rebuked?’” The Pale King echoes, looking up from his journal. “For what reason?”

“Meled’lover—the Lordlet—told che’ ‘twas a gift to one who passed through and gained their respect,” Ze’mer explains. “Freely given, to one with a description quite reminiscent of che’s Prince.”

Their parents turn to Ghost almost immediately. Their fingers twist around the stem of the flower they are holding—a shade of blue so light it is almost grey—and their hands stay still.

It is not very surprising when the King and Queen call the Mantis Lords and request a meeting. What is a bit surprising is how quickly the Lords accept; perhaps they are as curious as Ghost’s parents are.

They are expected to be at the meeting, but at least they do not need to be there for the proper greetings in the throne room. Instead, they sit on a bench and wait. Isma is by their side, content with the silence. In their hand, the Mark of Pride—returned to them after Ze’mer brought it back with her—feels like a lifeline.

Eventually, Isma hums and says, “Best to go now, little Highness. It would not do to be late.”

They pull themself to their feet and follow her to the meeting room. It is not a room that they have ever been in before, though there is nothing that particularly sets it apart from the rest of the Palace; the ceilings are just as lofty, the walls just as ornate, the air just as fresh.

Their parents are sitting on one side of the large table, the four Mantis Lords on the other. The Lordlet stands just behind her father. 

All heads turn to them as they enter, and the White Lady beckons them to her side.

“Warrior child,” the Wisest Lord speaks for her siblings. “A joy to see you again, though the circumstances are certainly unexpected.”

“So, you do know them, then,” the Pale King says. There is some kind of tone to his voice, but it is not one that Ghost can discern.

“Indeed,” the Wisest Lord nods. “Though it seems to be that you do as well.”

“I should hope so,” the White Lady chuckles, though there is not much amusement to be found within it. “They are our child.”

The way that the Lords stiffen would be imperceptible to most, Ghost thinks. In fact, they likely only notice it because it is the same tell that all four of them have when they are about to launch across the battlefield; it is a motion—or lack-there-of—that Ghost has learned to recognize in them a hundred times over. 

“Your child?” The Strongest Lord repeats. “Yours and the King’s, Pale Lady?”

“Yes,” the White Lady replies. “I sense you were not aware?”

“Certainly not,” the Quickest Lord replies as her sister, the Toughest, seems to stifle a laugh and disguise it as a cough.

“If you were unaware of this,” the Pale King says, “Then how did it come to be that they appear to have both entered and left your territory whole? It is quite known how fierce your people are to defend your lands.”

“Quick to slay and fierce to defend, yes,” the Strongest Lord says. “But not against children.”

“The warrior child would never have found death upon one of our blades, God-King; not within our lands,” the Toughest adds.

“Be that as it may,” their father says, “It is not only mercy that they found, but passage. It is through your gates that they entered Deepnest, is it not?”

“You speak truth,” the Wisest Lord nods. “Granted to them upon the earning of that Mark.”

She gestures, and heads turn back to Ghost, and to the charm they are still holding tightly.

“Yes, that Mark…” The Pale King murmurs.

“What is it?” The White Lady asks when it becomes clear that her husband is a bit too lost in thought.

The Wisest Lord is silent for a long moment. Then, she says, “An honor. It is a mark of respect, and allows them to walk freely through our lands.”

“Why do they have it?” Their mother presses.

Her voice carefully level, the Wisest Lord replies, “The Mark of Pride can be bestowed upon anyone the Mantis Lords may wish to grant it to. The two Lords before us only ever gave out five, while the three before them handed them out readily. It is to our own discretion.”

“What made you give it to our child, though?” The Pale King finally asks. “To one so young?”

Ghost’s Heart might hammer out of their chest.

“We knew not where they came from,” the Wisest Lord says, “Nor truly where they would go. We knew not if they had a home to return to, nor if they would find whatever we might have imagined they were searching for. There is little that we value more than determination, passion, drive. It was clear that those were plentiful within the warrior child, and it felt… necessary to have them know that they may freely walk our lands once more, should they ever wish it.” She hums. “Dare I say, it would have been granted to them even if we had known their origin, just as it is still theirs to keep now.”

“Our children have never— They will never see battle,” the White Lady says. She corrects herself partway through, and Ghost wonders if she is also thinking of the training that the Vessels had been put through when they were still Vessels—long and grueling and painful. Neither they nor Hollow have been allowed to touch a nail since, and it wasn’t as if the training got particularly far in the first place, but perhaps it still haunts her.

(It should, they think, and swallow past something bitter.)

“So why is it that you all refer to them as some ‘warrior child?’” She asks.

The Strongest Lord snorts. “All nymphs consider themselves warriors,” he says easily. “It is nothing new.”

He didn’t say anything about whether the Mantis Lords consider them a warrior, Ghost notes. It sounds as if the Lords are humoring them, but truly the question was never answered in the first place. That is happening a lot in this meeting, it seems.

“It would be a shame if they were to never again step foot within our lands,” the Toughest Lord muses, as if she is thinking to herself. “To lose such willpower…”

Ghost would laugh if they could. Though she likely doesn’t realize it, the Toughest Lord said perhaps one of the only things that could sway their parents; something that reminded them of guilt that they feel over the Vessels’ creation. No mind, Ghost thinks giddily, No will…

(No voice to cry suffering…)

“I suppose…” The White Lady looks sideways at her husband. His fingers twitch, as if he wishes to drum them on the table, but he stays still.

Then, he sighs. “It could not be often,” he says slowly. “Twice a turn, perhaps. And with an escort. But… If they should wish it… I do try not to make a habit of denying any the chance to learn. It would be quite unfortunate to have my own child be the first I do.” He shakes his head. “They may go to the Village to train.” His Light flares for a moment. The Lords shift back just a bit, mortal as they are, but do not flinch. “Know, however, that should any harm come to them, all of our treaties shall be rendered null, and I will do everything in my power to wipe your people from the face of this world.”

There is a beat of silence. 

“Calm yourself, my dear,” the White Lady mutters. She sounds almost embarrassed.

His Light calms almost instantly.

“Apologies,” their father says, clearing his throat. “I’ve found myself a tad more… emotional, as of late.”

“Children have a tendency to bring that out in even the strongest,” the Quickest Lord says, and ignores the sharp look her brother seems to send her.

“The warrior child—your child—shall find nothing but sanctuary within our walls,” the Wisest Lord says. “We have found the peace of the last years much preferable to any war. It would be prudent to keep it that way.”

Ghost does not have a chance to speak to the Mantis Lords as they leave; they expressly do not wish to spend the night in the Palace, and as they are departing, the King and Queen are fully engrossed in discussion with them.

Who they can speak with is the Lordlet—the Strongest Lord’s daughter—who lags behind a bit as if she knows that Ghost wants to talk and also knows how easily she can slip from people’s notice.

“Lied,” they sign. She laughs lightly.

“They did not lie,” she says. Her voice is light and airy—like a gentle breeze. “They omitted.”

“Are same,” Ghost says. “Mother says.”

“Perhaps. Considering the circumstances, however, it matters not,” the Lordlet explains. “Outsiders are not privy to those affairs of the Tribe that one may wish to keep concealed.” She reaches out and takes the Mark of Pride from their hand, pinning it to their cloak and tapping it lightly. “Whatever your reasons may be—however strange we may find it—it is apparent that you do not desire for your family to know of your prowess in battle. We shall respect that, for respect is something you have earned.”

“Thank you,” Ghost signs, because they don’t really know what else to say.

“Such gratitude is unneeded,” she says. “Though you must know that I intend to face you when next you are in the Village; I have thus far defeated only the Quickest of my aunts in single combat, and not nearly with such efficiency. I simply must learn.”

“Can help with Claw?” Ghost asks. “Teach?”

“Manuevers with the Mantis Claw?” She clarifies, and they nod. “Of course! Oh, an exchange of knowledge. How thrilling!”

(Their father would feel the same, they think, were it not Ghost on one side of such a trade.)

The Mantis Lords leave. Ghost watches with their parents, the White Lady stroking the top of their mask.

“You were quite lucky, child,” the Pale King says. “To not be skewered the moment you stepped into their territory, yes, but more so to earn their respect.” He pauses. “Lucky, and perhaps impressive as well.”

They try not to preen. They do not want to preen at their father’s praise.

“You must not do such a thing again, however,” he continues. “This… training with the Mantises must satiate any urge. There is no way of knowing if always we shall be so fortunate, and it would… cause much distress, were something ill to befall you.” He looks at them, and delicately runs the back of one finger over their shell—over that dark splotch that must look like a stark ink blot marring their face—as if he thinks they might break. “Do you understand?”

Ghost does not. They nod.

His exhale sounds like relief. “Good.”

The front gates close heavily, the Mantis Lords and their small entourage disappearing from sight. They are gone now, but Ghost will see them again. They will see them soon.

A Wanderer—a Knight—a Vessel—Ghost does not need to breathe, but they do anyway, and think the air tastes just a bit sweeter than it did before.

Chapter Text

The Lordlet is fun to fight.

She isn’t necessarily difficult—couldn’t be, with all they’ve done—but she is fast and smart and new. She had been long-dead in the old world, so they had never gotten the chance to face her until now. It is as fresh as anything in this new timeline is, but doesn’t hurt their Heart as so much else has.

Her upbringing is obvious in the way that she fights. While she doesn’t yet have the mastery of her family, her strikes are strong, her movements quick, her skin tough, and her choices wise. It is like four echoes blended into one warrior, who is as gentle and sweet as she is deadly.

(Ghost can understand why she was mourned.)

Since the meeting with the Lords at the Palace, things have become a bit easier. Or, well, they haven’t become easier, but it is far more manageable with the occasional visit to the Mantis Tribe always there to look forward to. 

This is their sixth—with their parents’ permission, at least—and it is steadily becoming a nice and consistent respite. Every two cycles, Ghost rises early—even before the lights have brightened—to leave. They say goodbye to Hollow, who is often half-asleep, and their parents, who are often wide awake.

Their twin, even through their exhaustion, still always sits up to bid them farewell. A hand reaches out—an exact copy of Ghost’s own—and they line their fingers up against it. Sometimes, it feels as close as can be to looking in a mirror. Ghost thinks that it comforts Hollow, more than anything. They don’t complain.

It is both Ze’mer and Isma who escort them. Ze’mer’s reasons are obvious, given her relationship with the Lordlet, and Ghost thinks that Isma’s presence is actually their own fault; they had praised her a lot to cushion the possible blow of the training nail being discovered missing. It must have instead convinced their parents that she was their favorite of the Great Knights.

…Actually, she might be. She is not one of the two that they knew in the previous timeline; it is hard to interact with Ogrim or Ze’mer without remembering who they once were—who they once would have been. Hegemol isn’t the False Knight, but he reminds Ghost of it, and more than that he treats them as if they are fragile, breakable. They can’t stand it. Dryya is… fine, they suppose, but she is their mother’s sworn protector, and quite dedicated to such a task.

Isma… Well, if nothing else, it always feels as if they have her whole attention. It’s not personal, they think, rather just the way that she is. Kindly Isma, the citizens of the Kingdom call her, and it certainly fits. She speaks softly, but she rarely makes them feel as if their opinions do not matter. When they wish to be quiet in their still, pensive way, she is content to allow that. 

There are worse people that could be Ghost’s minder.

Besides, neither of the Knights are allowed within the Mantises’ territory, anyway. Out of the three of them, Ghost is the only one that has earned the right. Ze’mer has never seemed surprised by this—probably used to it from visits to her lover—and Isma was quick to accept it once an oath was given that they would be safely returned with enough time to make it home by night.

Ghost is thankful for it. They do not need to feign any sort of ‘training’ far below their skill level. The Lords themselves are often too busy to spar with them—though occasionally one can break away and join them for a bit—so Ghost instead fights with the Lordlet. She has not managed to beat them yet on her own merit, and the one time that they threw a match to allow her a win, they received a sterner talking-to than what Hornet gave them after their disappearance. Victory shall be something I wrench from you myself, she had insisted, and then pulled them from the ground to go again.

Ghost does their best to guide her, though their weapons are very different and the Lordlet cannot do nearly as much as they can. She is willing to adapt, however, and they quickly come to find that her lance is sturdy enough and her body light enough to allow for a similar pogo that Ghost uses. She cannot quite keep herself in the air forever the way that they can, but the move turns into a sort of launch off of the top of an enemy that she seems to take great joy in weaponizing against her fellow warriors.

The exchange of knowledge also works out in their favor better than they could have hoped. It is clear that the Lordlet has been working with her Claw for her entire life, because she moves with it in ways they could only dream of. 

She readily teaches them different ways to use it. They are shown just how to dig into a wall so they do not slide down it. Their grip is gently changed to allow them to hook onto the edge of a platform and pull themself over the top. Now, she is trying to teach them how to get to an overhead ledge that is out of reach.

“Watch carefully,” she calls. Ghost sits on the floor, keeping their gaze on her as she clings to the wall above. After a moment, she tears her Claw out and pushes off at the same time, deftly swinging her arm around so that it can hook back into the edge that she is trying to make it to. She does not slide, and instead pulls herself over and onto the waiting platform—both techniques that she has already shown them.

“Do you think you can manage?” the Lordlet asks, looking down at them.

They nod, and mean it. Much of the method they have already done. More than anything, they just need to perfect the movement of twisting their arm around fast enough to reach the ledge while also having enough force for the Claw to actually grab on. They practice the action a few times, and the Lordlet inclines her head approvingly.

Ghost scales the wall and digs in, bending their head back to see where they need to aim when they jump. For a moment, they let themself take in those needless breaths, and then burst off of the wall.

As they arc through the air, ready to take hold of the ledge, the gateway to the training area bursts open, an unfamiliar voice sharply calling, “Warrior child!”

Ghost falters, and they cannot swing their Claw up fast enough. The ledge drifts out of reach, and they fall to the floor, just barely managing to twist their body so that their legs take the impact.

The Lordlet yelps. “Ghost!” She latches into a wall and slides down, hurrying over to them the moment her feet have hit the ground. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking their head, they gesture to their legs and sign, “Absorb.”

Clearly, she does not understand what they mean by that—which is fair enough, because the Void is weird, and they don’t even think she knows that they’re made of it. She must also decide it is not worth asking after, as she sighs instead, and then turns to the new mantis. “Would you care to explain this interruption, Scout?”

“Yes, of course, Lordlet.” The mantis sounds a bit flustered, but pulls himself together admirably. “My squad is assigned to the westernmost of our Deepnest patrols. As we did our rounds, we stumbled across a strange bug moving quickly through the tunnels. We gave chase, but could not reach them, nor did our words give them pause. As the fastest of my squad, I was sent to report back while the others continued their pursuit.”

A chill is already rising in Ghost’s throat as the Lordlet asks, “What relevance has this to us?”

The Scout’s antenna twitches, and he turns to face Ghost alone as he says, “Warrior child. The strange bug looked like you.”

Their vision tunnels. “How?” They ask quickly. “Like what?”

“If not for the shape of their horns, you might have been the same,” he replies. “Four in all, two short on either side.”

It is a Sibling. It must be.

A Sibling!

“Must go,” they sign frantically. “After them. Need to.”

“Hold on,” the Lordlet says, grabbing their shoulder. It takes every ounce of willpower they have to not throw her off. She is… Well, they don’t quite know what she is, but it is something like a friend. They should avoid anything that could cause harm.

“Need to leave,” they sign instead.

“I understand,” she says softly, even though they don’t think there is any way she could. “It is only… If you leave to Deepnest, through our doors, they… I know that you laugh in the face of repercussions, but if we allow you to face any kind of true danger, I fear you shall never again be permitted to walk these lands; barred not by us, but by your family.”

She is right. Ghost hates it, but she is right.

But their sibling…

(No mind to think…)

“However,” she says, drawing them from their thoughts, “If you were to be delivered back to your Knights early, and should they be… distracted… You know the Kingdom’s layout well, do you not?” Ghost nods emphatically. ‘Well’ would be an understatement. “Then, if you were to run off on your own, while anyone who might be watching you has their attention elsewhere… Who is to be blamed?”

(Only Ghost.)

For a brief moment, they fling their consciousness from the confines of their shell and stretch outward, searching. There is the endless Darkness below Hallownest, as well what must be the bits of Deepnest that are tainted. Hollow is there in the distance—a familiar presence—and Ghost carefully keeps themself from their twin’s awareness. They comb through the presumed Deepnest, scanning for another.

There! The spot of Void that they find is moving quickly, panic and fear laced through it. Around it, there is the faint brush of their mother’s power—fresh leaves and new growth. The Sibling is heading into the Queen’s Gardens, and Ghost is quite sure that they know where.

“Now,” they sign as soon as their mind settles back in with their body. “Know where they are. Have to go fast.”

“How do you—” The Lordlet cuts herself off. “Right. Your parents are Gods. I shan’t question.” She straightens. “Come, then. There is little time to waste.”

They rush through the Village together, as well as through the Tribe’s territory, until they reach the upper boundaries of it where Ze’mer and Isma are permitted to wait. The Sentinel watching over them bows to both Ghost and the Lordlet before stepping away.

“Quite an early return,” Isma says.

“The warrior child seemed tired,” the Lordlet replies easily. “It does not do to train through exhaustion. Such conditioning is not something they should ever have to endure, from what your God-King and Queen say.”

Both Great Knights shift uncomfortably. It is just a bit, but they are certainly remembering the Vessel training. Ghost would laugh, if they could.

“Certainly not,” Ze’mer says after a beat. “Che’ believes leave shall then be taken—”

Ghost shakes their head and settles themself on the ground. Their limbs feel as though they are buzzing, and they carefully hold onto the vague sense of the panicked Sibling making their way through the Kingdom. “Sit here,” they sign. “For a bit.”

“Of course, little Highness,” Isma says first. “We’ve the time, after all.”

“Never will che’ complain about the gift of more time with meled’lover,” Ze’mer agrees.

For what feels like ages, Ghost eases away from the three of them as conversation starts up. They do not want to just disappear—that would certainly reflect worse on the Knights when they returned to the Palace—but they also need to make sure that they have enough of a headstart to make it to their Sibling before they are caught again.

They know this region better than Isma, they are sure of it, and once they are in the Gardens, Ze’mer’s own knowledge will likely falter. They can make it there.

Once they are comfortable with the distance, they wave to catch the Lordlet’s eye and nod.

She tilts her head in confusion before taking a very convincing gasp. “Warrior child, is something wrong?”

The two Great Knights turn to follow her gaze. Ghost does not stick around to see what they do beyond that.

It is easy to tune out the exclamations from behind them, as well as the rapid footsteps. Ghost ascends as quickly as they can, using the Claw and the purple mushrooms whenever they are out of view to put even more distance between them and the Knights. They scramble into the lower western path as soon as they spot it, noting in the back of their mind when they pass below where Cornifer once sat, a lifetime ago and never before. The Queen’s Station shouldn’t be too far, bustling with bugs, but it is the Gardens that Ghost is aiming for.

Their limbs tense as they spot the expanse of floor that will give out and send them plummeting into Deepnest. It might not happen here, though, and there is no other way across either way. Ghost steels their nerves and run along the outside edges. The ground does not give way, and as they rush forward into the… Well, they don’t actually know what it’s truly called, but they knew it as the Moss Chapel. Ghost doesn’t know what it is used for in this time, but at least there are no people gathered within—no Moss Prophet praising the Radiance to any who will listen.

Revulsion curls deep in their stomach at the reminder. Ghost did not like the Moss Prophet when they met them before, and they do not like them now. It had been hard to muster up any sympathy for the fate of them and their followers—consumed by the Light. It was what they had wanted, anyway.

The buzz of power around the distant speck of Void is shifting, the White Lady’s fresh energy giving way to something deeper—the old, steady scent of soil, of life and decay and the endless cycle of all. Unn, Ghost is certain. The Sibling is heading into Greenpath.

They know the route well; in another lifetime, there was even a Whispering Root sitting along it. Traversing the Gardens is much easier without any mantis traitors scattered about. The region is well-lit, so there are few shadows to slink through and avoid being spotted, but the foliage—even being more controlled than Greenpath’s—is still thick and plentiful. As long as they stay off of the main paths, no one will see them.

They go west. More than that, though, they go up. Gates are not closed the way they were when Ghost first came through here, so they are able to take a rather direct route. It is far easier to avoid the thorns, which are kept neatly trimmed in this time, as bridges of metal stretch over pits, their railings of glass and wrought iron cloaked in vines. Those railings provide just enough of a shadow for them to sink into until they can reach the other side and duck back into the brush.

Avoiding the stag station—which will probably be the busiest area, they presume—they slip past the path leading to the place where they first met their mother. It is a long ascent to the Greenpath entrance, but it seems that the sibling they are chasing took a while as well, as the distance is growing smaller. Perhaps it took them much longer without a Mantis Claw to help.

They can feel the end of the climb before they see it; the Whispering Root resting on the border of the two regions is almost singing to them. What had the Seer said once? “Essence can be found wherever dreams take root…”

It is a physical gathering of Essence, this Root, and glows just as they remember. Its branches seem to almost perk up as Ghost passes by. They take the briefest moment to run their fingers along its bark, and the twirling sigils that only they can see shine just a bit brighter.

(No will to break…)

They snap out of it. Right. Sibling.

Acid bubbles in great expanse, but thankfully Ghost can climb into the tunnel above and avoid it all. Isma’s Tear, just like most other things, did not make the journey through time with them, and they don’t think they’d be able to make it across the pools otherwise.

It will be impossible to avoid Pilgrim’s Way, they’re quite certain. All three of the main paths upward have at least some portion overtaken by their father’s Kingdom. The middle one of the three should place them at the best spot to intercept the Sibling, though. All they will have to do is avoid the toll bench, which they are certainly capable of. Ghost remains low to the ground, ducking into shadows whenever they have to, and slip through Greenpath. 

There are far more bugs walking the Way than they expected. Or, well, they hadn’t really been expecting anything, but it seems as though those unformed expectations were tainted by their memories of this place before—overrun and empty, Infected and silent. It is yet another reminder of just how different this world is than the one they came from. Citizens are on this path—use this path—as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Nothing is, they suppose, and ignore a strange ache behind their eyes.

They reach Mosskin territory without incident either way and reach out to feel for the Sibling again.

A panicked presence, blended with fear and desperation, hurries through the tunnels far above. It is not a direction they could have come from, so they must be backtracking, which certainly makes things easier for Ghost. The Sibling heads toward the entrance to Howling Cliffs, and so Ghost settles back into their body and makes to do the same. They won’t be able to cut them off, but they know the region well enough that they think—compared to someone who has never walked these lands before—they will have little issue catching up.

Time fades into the background, and Ghost hopes more than anything that they are not taking multiple days to do this chase. They will be in trouble either way, but would prefer a lesser punishment that might come with a shorter time missing. 

(Hopefully a new sibling will help minimize that as well.)

The air becomes colder—mustier—and the plants clinging to the walls begin to give way to harsh, dark stone. It is not open enough to hear the winds from the Cliffs, but Ghost thinks the roar is in their mind despite that.

They are close to the Sibling now; they know it. The Void hums beneath their shell, as if it knows that a reunion is close at hand. A reunion for the Void at least; not for Ghost.

That does nothing to lessen their own eagerness, however. They hurry into the tunnels that will spit them out at the bottom of the Howling Cliffs and twist through narrow passages that they once mapped themself.

Winds off of the Wastelands are strong here, and as Ghost climbs, the sound echoes that within their own thoughts, as if breaking into reality.

For a moment, they stand in the gusts, bracing against the biting cold.

Then, as if teasing them, that presence they have been trailing after flares into their awareness. Apprehension colors it, as well as that same panic—that same fear—as before. It is still, as if standing on a precipice. When Ghost’s senses reach out just a bit farther, the Void curls back in on itself.

Ghost presses, and their consciousness slams into a wall. Or, well, it isn’t a wall as much as it is a warning—a guard against a wound as old as the world itself: the Wastelands, which rob bugs and beasts of their minds and memories alike, which defy Time almost as deftly as the Void itself. They had spent ages out there—ages that they cannot recall, no matter how hard they try, where they didn’t grow and didn’t change and only wandered and struggled while Hallownest crumbled, and they didn’t even have anything to show for it—

They shake themself from their thoughts. There is no time to get lost in the past—or in the never-future—when a Sibling is right there.

Just about to step into the Wastelands themself…

Propelled by something greater than just their own two legs, Ghost scrambles toward the presence hovering just against the edge of that worldwide wound. They scale a particularly large boulder and slide down it, gaze finally locking on their target.

“Stop!”

They think they accidentally force a bit of their Will into it, as the Sibling both flinches and freezes at the same time. Ghost skids to a halt.

The Sibling turns to them, and all thoughts of calming their Heart cease, because they know that mask.

(No voice to cry suffering…)

Many of the Vessels look similar. It is bound to happen when a million dead children are born of all the same things. Still, this one isn’t like those broken shells that litter the Abyss, or the endless Shades that they ensure can keep slumbering. This is one that Ghost recognizes.

Just as the Scout described, two horns poke out from each side of its head—short and sharp like spikes. There is no crack running through an eye, and the Vessel’s cloak is longer than the one they would have been formed with, but that does not make Ghost any less certain. They know the cloak as well as they know their own, for it was once theirs.

Before them, draped in the Mothwing Cloak, stands the Greenpath Vessel—the Sibling that they had once found slain, brought down by a shared sister. 

(Hornet had never spoken of them, but Ghost thinks that she regretted it anyway.) 

(Or, perhaps she never regretted, but she did grieve—in her own way—for every lost child she killed in her mission to protect the Kingdom’s corpse.)

The Vessel is smaller than Ghost remembers. Having likely just escaped the Abyss, they haven’t yet been granted the chance to grow. They are the same size as Ghost is—the same size as Hollow. There is no weapon in their hand, but their frame is tense, ready to bolt at a single wrong movement. Ghost’s throat hurts, the Void nearly writhing from the howl of the Wastelands’ endless agony.

“Safe,” Ghost says as gently as they can. The Vessel flinches again, flaring a burst of surprise. “Will not harm. Sibling. Safe.”

The Vessel stares at them for a long moment. Then, faintly, they respond, “Leaving. Going. Must leave.”

“Dangerous,” Ghost says firmly. “Wastelands. Steal Mind. Steal Memory.”

“Don’t care.” The Vessel’s hands ball into fists. “Must go. Anything better than Before.”

Ghost understands. Of course they understand. “No,” they say anyway. “No need. Safe here. Home. Family.”

The Vessel tilts their head. “...Family?”

Ghost nods. “Me. Sibling. Twin-mine. Sister. Mother. Father.”

“Father?” The Vessel asks. “Twin?”

Ghost hesitates. “Twin ascended,” they explain. “Climbed. Succeeded. Father was Voice. Call.”

The Vessel observes them carefully. “You ascend?”

Ghost shakes their head. “Left alone. Found family. Safe now.” They taste something bitter as they continue, “Happy.”

It is easy to see the Vessel’s hands shaking. They do not do a great job of hiding it. “Want that,” they say softly. “To be happy. Safe.”

Ghost extends a hand—an open invitation. “Come, then,” they murmur.

“Where?” The Vessel asks.

“With me,” Ghost says cheekily. “Home.”

“Home…” The Vessel considers it for a long moment and then, ever-so-slowly, they place their hand in Ghost’s.

“Will not run again?” Ghost asks, beginning to lead them away from the edge of the Wastelands.

“Not fast,” the Vessel replies. “Don’t like running. Had to go, though. Found-” They tug at the Mothwing Cloak- “This. Faster.” They pause. “Will not run again, though. Do not like it. Do not want to.” In one quick motion, they tear the Cloak off. They stare at it for a few seconds before cautiously offering it to Ghost. “Sibling want?”

Ghost tries not to let their excitement seem too obvious. “Thank you.” They take the Cloak and drape it over the opposite shoulder. They do not want to untangle their fingers from their siblings’ to put it on right now. “And… Ghost.”

“Ghost?” The Vessel questions. “What is ‘Ghost’?”

“Me,” Ghost explains. “I am Ghost. Name. Given. Chosen.”

“Oh.” The Vessel says nothing for a long moment. Then— “Do I have… ‘Name’?”

“Not yet,” Ghost replies. “But you can. Will. One that you choose yourself. If you want.”

Ghost understands why that gives them pause. The Vessel has probably never really thought about what they want before. It is a strange thing to experience for the first time.

Finally, they nod, and say, “Do want. Eventually. Something to be Called. Something of…of own.”

“Then you will have,” Ghost says simply, and appreciates the way something seems to settle in the Void at their response. They head for the tunnel entrance, pulling their sibling with them. “Come.”

“Where go?” The Vessel asks.

“Down,” Ghost answers. “To…” Where would be the best place to go? Probably the Greenpath Stag Station, they think. It would be easy enough to get home from there, or at least get close to home. They don’t know the password needed to access the Hidden Station, but they could go to Queens’ Station and make their way back to Mantis Village from there? Or, it may be better to go to Distant Village—the City in Silk, that’s what it’s called—and get assistance from Herrah. No matter what, they’ll be in trouble, but maybe it’ll be less if they take a direct route to find help?

(Once, they could wander this entire kingdom without needing to hide—without needing to be guided through—without needing to worry about trouble because they could always handle it themself.)

“...To?” The Vessel asks, dragging Ghost back into their body.

“Stag Station,” they settle on. They’ll figure out the rest when they get there. Confusion radiates from their sibling, and they elaborate, “Faster way to travel. Nice.”

The Vessel certainly does not understand, but they accept the answer even so, and let Ghost bring them back into the depths of the Kingdom.

While there is little conversation to be had at first, that changes once they reemerge in Greenpath. The Vessel asks many questions, few of which Ghost knows the answer to.

“What are those?” 

Ghost glances over at the flowers—simple, round green ones—and tries to remember. “Mossbuds. Probably.”

“Those?”

The blue-and-grey-petaled blooms that have now gained the Vessel’s attention are not ones that Ghost has ever learned the name of. They say as much, and do the same for the next four questions.

It does not stop the questions from coming.

Still, they cannot find it within themself to be annoyed—not in the slightest. This is a Sibling— one that they once saw the corpse of—who is alive and talking to them and coming with them.

(Someone that they saved.)

They are halfway to the Greenpath Stag Station when they hear a shout from behind them.

“Little Highness!” 

The Vessel rips their hand away and ducks into a bush faster than Ghost can react. They turn around, and Isma hurries into view. Ze’mer is just behind her.

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Isma says. Her hands hover in their air, and then find their shoulders, looking them over. “Are you all right? You are not harmed, correct?”

Ghost shakes their head and signs, “Good. Safe.”

“Perhaps now,” Ze’mer says. “But before? Such a thing cannot happen, nym’prince. This chase was Kingdom-wide. Were you to be unfound? ‘Tis that Che’s Majesties would not survive such a loss.”

Ghost remembers their four days spent away—the time that passed without them even noticing. “How long?” They sign. “Missing?”

“Dinner is come and gone, certainly,” Ze’mer replies. “But only now do the lights dim. Lucky, che’ would say.”

“Indeed,” Isma nods. “Quite so. Though their Majesties will certainly be informed regardless…” She trails off. Then, there is no judgement in her tone as she asks, “Did something happen, little Highness? Why did you run away? And so far…”

Ghost’s head spins. They suppose the Kingdom is wider than it is tall, but it is good to hear either way that they weren’t missing overnight. Hopefully, their parents will see the good of this little trip outweigh the bad. “Felt something,” they sign. “Worried. Had to find.”

“You… felt something?” Isma echoes. “Was it bad? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“No time,” Ghost replies. “Worried.” Their fingers twitch, and they add, “Felt like Hollow.”

“Like…Like Hollow?” She sounds almost horrified. “Your… The Prince?”

They nod. “Was not,” they sign quickly, to try and reassure her. “But almost.”

“I…” She glances back at Ze’mer, who seems just as confused as Isma is. “I’m afraid I do not understand, little Highness.”

Ghost didn’t think she would. They turn to the bush. “Come out,” they say. “Safe.”

“Strange,” the Vessel replies. “Unknown.”

“Safe,” Ghost repeats. “Friends. Knights. Loyal to Father and Mother. Good.”

“...Friends?”

“Yes.” Ghost… does not actually know if the Vessel knows what a friend is. They hope that the idea is conveyed well enough, though. “Will help. Will want to see you. Will…Will take us Home. Come.”

Still, the Vessel does not move. “...You stay?” They ask. It is almost as if they are scared to.

(No cost too great…)

Ghost nods as steadily as they can. “I do.”

The Vessel does not breathe—has not even been given the chance to learn how calming it can be—but they do wait a few more beats of the Heart before standing and taking the hand that Ghost offers. Fingers fold against each other, and hold tight.

Ze’mer’s own breath audibly stutters, while Isma gasps, her hand coming up to the base of her mask in shock.

“Sibling,” Ghost signs, and squeezes the other Vessel’s hand. Within the Void, they can feel something like hope. “Found sibling.”