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The shining jewel of the kingdom, the City of Tears, shut its grand gates at the first sign of infection—not before expelling all who showed even the smallest hint of being Infected. Together, Hegemol and Isma had been tasked with the purging of the infected and securing the safety of the city and its waterways.
"Hegemol, has the perimeter been secured?" Isma asked the burly knight.
"Aye, it has," Hegemol affirmed, using his mace to turn over the carcasses surrounding them, hiding their face and eyes from passersby. "I reckon we've rid ourselves of the last of the sickened ones. All we have left to secure the gate and the waterways, now." The large and imposing bug's voice was steady, but there was a certain melancholy in it. Isma gave him a silent nod. Their task was not an especially complicated one, but the duty weighed heavily on their shoulders. The city shed its eternal tears on the lonely pair. They waded through the piles of corpses of infected and uninfected together. They arrived at the fountain in the heart of the city—the statue of the Hollow Knight.
Time seemed to slow for just a moment. The knights gazed together at the statue in silence. Isma glanced at Hegemol, who bowed his head in reverence to the Hollow Knight, then muttered a prayer to Hallownest. She wondered what he prayed for. That they would be safe? That this would all be over? That everything would somehow go back to normal?
For a moment, she wondered if she should pray as well. There was little she could ask for. Strength, cleverness, or swiftness would be appropriate, but she could only muster the will to pray for one thing. "May Ogrim and I see each other, just once more."
"Isma," Hegemol spoke, finally breaking their mutual silence.
"Hegemol?"
"We are to go our separate ways here, as you know," he said calmly. "But the others are with Their Majesties. They gave me no orders beyond defending the City and its waterways, did His Majesty tell you otherwise?"
Isma shook her head.
"I received no more instruction than you did, Hegemol," Isma replied, her head drooped downwards like a wilted flower. "There is much we don't know, and only time will tell what our next orders are, and if they will be safe." She clasped her hands together and held them to her chest. "I can only hope they will be…"
Hushed, yet panicked voice clamored at the gates of the White Palace. The Infection returned with a vengeance and ripped through Hallownest at breakneck speed. The dying and already dead threw themselves at the palace doors in rage, but to no avail. Crowds upon crowds of bugs, both sane and infected, were mowed down by the few remaining guards of the palace who still had their reasoning intact.
The inner walls of the Palace were not a safe refuge. Retainers and servants ran amok inside, fleeing from malfunctioning Kingsmoulds and Wingmoulds. Weapons crashed into the walls of the palace, and the Wingsmoulds gathered around fleeing bugs like flocks of gnats. Constructs that still retained any obedience to the king fended the rebels off, but for how long would they remain loyal? That Void within them would turn at any moment, and many retainers already fled for their lives through the Palace's myriad of secret passageways. The few who remained stayed as an empty display of loyalty to their King, who was nowhere to be found.
Hidden away in a secret wing of the Palace, the Pale King and his court concealed themselves. The room's seal only opened to bearers of the Pale Court's insignia. This inner sanctum of the White Palace was well defended, but time was running out. Yet, the Pale Court—or those who were present—remained locked in fierce debate. The Pale King was seated at a circular table. At his right sat the White Lady, and at the left sat his daughter and successor, Hornet. Dryya was seated at the White Lady's right hand, and from there sat Ze'mer, then Ogrim. The emptiness of the two remaining seats seemed to only add to the tense atmosphere filling the room.
"Your Majesty, with all due respect, it is not safe for you to remain here," Dryya spoke coolly. Her expression unflinching, as though they had not all been yelling and threatening each other mere moments ago. "I suggest a tactical retreat to Her Majesty's garden, I and Ze'mer will surely be able to protect you both." Ze'mer, who sat at her left, nodded in agreement.
"My word is final, Dryya," the Pale King replied. "Let it be known that I do not doubt your ability, nor do I doubt Ze'mer's."
"Then why, sire?" Ogrim suddenly stood from his seat and argued against his beloved King. "remaining here would be meaningless! We can't call ourselves the Great Knights of Hallownest if we left you here to die." Ogrim's booming voice shook the table, causing Ze'mer to shrink away from the large knight. "Why must you throw our loyalty away? Were we not your closest compatriots who stood by your side, no matter what?"
"I do not spurn your loyalty, Ogrim, but I will not allow my beloved knights to throw themselves into harm's way for my sake," the Pale King said, resting his hand on Ogrim's claw. "Forever you will remain the Knights of Hallownest, immortalized in memory, but my final command is that you leave me and the White Palace. Nothing will remain of this place once the dreadful Infection—or something worse—takes it."
"Nym'King, your words pain me so. Ogrim speaks truth. To leave you here to die, oh… Che' would feel that she has failed you as a knight, as a protector, as she who vowed life and limb to protect this great kingdom." Ze'mer's barely audible voice trembled. She had been wailing, weeping, and crying, but she couldn't seem to summon up anymore energy for that. The streaks left by her tears were proof enough of her loyalty. "Is there truly no other options left but to abandon you, and to forsake our beloved home of Hallownest?"
The Pale King turned to Ze'mer and, for just a moment, softened his gaze and was silent for a moment. Those in attendance waited with bated breath, then he outstretched his arms and began to speak.
"My knights," the Pale King's voice thundered. In spite of his small stature, the grandness of his presence seemed to completely fill the room with his glorious light. "This is the last request I make of you, as your King. My last request as the singular, eternal Ruler of Hallownest."
Dryya straightened her shoulders, Ogrim sat down, and Ze'mer's downtrodden expression transformed into the countenance of a battle-hardened warrior. Despair-stricken as they were, they could never fail to heed of one of his Majesty's orders.
"This is a task without an end, one that will continue in perpetuity. It shall be as eternal as Hallownest itself, and only you, my dearest, beloved knights can complete it."
"Yes, sire," they replied in unison. The Pale King cast his gaze towards a map of Hallownest. Although previously used for strategy meetings, it was now nothing more than a fragment of the kingdom's past.
"I ask…that you live. Live and remember," the Pale King spoke slowly, as if savoring the last words he was imparting onto his knights. "You are the only ones who can carry on the memory of Hallownest at its prime—before the Infection, before the Void, before the inception of the Hollow Knight."
"Is that truly…all you ask of us, your Majesty? Nothing more than remembrance?" Dryya asked, almost in disbelief.
"Not only is it all I ask, but it is the most important duty to ensure the eternity of Hallownest," the Pale King flourished his arm in a dignified sweep. "As the kingdom's memory is lost to the Infection and to the annals of time, your memory will live on in my stead. In Hallownest's stead. You are no longer just my knights…but protectors of this kingdom's memory itself."
"As you wish, your Majesty! We shall always and forever trust in your judgment," Ogrim zealously promised. "Your knowledge and wisdom surely exceeds ours, and we shall follow your guidance to the ends of the world."
"You have my gratitude, Ogrim. There are individual requests I must make of each of you, of course. Fierce Dryya, I ask that you take charge of the Queen's Gardens and protect the White Lady with your life."
"It would be my honor, your Majesty." Dryya bowed, already holding her rapier proudly.
"And Ze'mer, I ask that you lend them your aid, but to also watch over this kingdom's dead from your manor near the Resting Grounds. There is no telling how the Infection will grow and spread across Hallownest…"
"She shall not disappoint you, nym'King."
"And last but not least, Ogrim." Ogrim bowed to the Pale King, waiting for his command. "You must return to the City and relay my message to Hegemol and Isma, and after that…I leave the rest to you to decide; how you remember us is in your hands."
"I shall not fail you, your Majesty."
"I know you won't. None of you will, my loyal knights."
"Sire, what of the White Palace? Surely you know that the constructs within the palace are rebelling, and the Void and infected masses are laying siege upon its gates," Dryya asked.
"That, I request you leave to me. It is not that I do not believe you can fend them off, merely that… I hope to preserve the White Palace in my own way."
The knights silently nodded, giving their assent. As the king trusted them, so too did they trust in him.
After determining the safest routes throughout the kingdom for their tasks, the knights prepared to make their leave. They exchanged their final farewells with the Pale King, Hornet, and the White Lady before taking up their weapons and filing out of the room one by one.
Ze'mer and Ogrim departed first, knowing that their help was much needed on the front lines now more than ever. Dryya helped the White Lady to her feet.
"Dear Dryya, a moment, if you please?" the White Lady looked at her with pleading eyes. She bowed her head to the White Lady and let go of her hand, allowing her to turn to the Pale King. The queen's tendrils entwined with the Pale King's hands. Even in her diminutive form, she towered over him; their pale glow flooding the nearly empty room with a divine light.
"My beloved Wyrm, have you foreseen this outcome? Is there truly no stopping this?" she asked, the desperation apparent in her voice and in her eyes, which shimmered with tears.
"The future is not a linear path, but like the flow of water," he assured. He placed another hand over hers, his voice growing somber and quiet. "If it finds an obstacle, it branches and splits, again and again—it finds a way to reach towards that 'end' mortal bugs call the 'future'."
"Then there remains no more obstacles for us to erect, you say?"
"It's difficult to say. Whether this end was inevitable or the result of many diversions and redirections, it is the present we have been dealt."
"Then I shall face that fate with your same courage, my love." She embraced the Pale King tightly, unsure she would ever see him again.
"Face it with that courage, and with this..." He placed a white fragment in her tendrils and closed them over it. "A piece of our bond. Broken and separated it may be, the pieces shall find a way back to each other, someday."
The White Lady cradled the precious fragment in her vines. There were countless memories stored within it, and she had hoped there would be many more in their near eternal lifespans—but that wish of hers would never be fulfilled.
She said nothing to him, but embraced and kissed him tenderly; their union truly invincible against all that would raise their arms against it.
Dryya took the White Lady's hand in hers. She saluted the Pale King one final time, knowing that he had entrusted her with something so vital and important—not just his wife, but a piece of their union.
"My lady, I swear to protect you until my last breath," vowed Dryya, with her head lowered in reverence.
The White Lady said nothing. She only gave a nodded and held her half of Kingsoul closer to her heart. Despite her lack of mask, her expression was unreadable. Her eyes carried a strange mixture of emotions. Joy, sorrow, and mourning, which all neutralized into a perfectly still and regal expression.
With the final knight and his wife at last departed, there was but one bug who required the Pale King's attention. Hornet—an ever silent watcher, a sentinel, one who was never easy to place. She stood from his left hand, seemingly ready to make her departure, yet still prepared for her father to make a demand of her.
"Child, come hither," commanded the Pale King. Hornet did so, her expression stern, cold, and calculated as ever. She was clad in the formal garbs of the White Palace, and at first glance, was nigh indistinguishable from a member of the Pale Court.
"What would you command of me?" she asked, not as his daughter, but as his subject, and his knight. Within her burned a fire that the Pale King could never hope to tame, but he hoped that it would someday burn the refuse left behind and bring about a happier end.
"There is nothing I could ask of you."
"Of course there isn't," replied Hornet. "There was no meaning, no significance in my birth for you."
"That is not what I meant, my child," he said, almost scolding her.
"Then what did you mean, sire?"
"Simply that I could command nothing of you. It is not my place to determine your next destination. That is something only you can do for yourself."
"Strange, you seemed more than happy to choose for my half-siblings," she retorted.
He turned away from this daughter and towards the map of Hallownest in the chamber. There was no answer, no justification he could give—for if he did, he would be admitting the flaws in his plan.
"Your judgment is as venomous as I expected," he replied at last. "At least you have something to remember this kingdom by, this…one thing I loved, so dearly…I just couldn't let it go." A tear formed in the Pale King's eye and rolled down his cheek. The first, and last, tear Hornet would ever see him cry.
"…Know this," Hornet spoke. "I do this for my mother and for her sacrifice. Not for your bargain, not for your Hollow Knight, and most certainly not for the sake of this kingdom." She stood proudly. Though her stature was barely much taller than the Pale King, she truly looked the part of the princess and protector of Hallownest. "I shall remember this kingdom—its birth, its glory, its sins, its fall—not out of remembrance, but so this shall never come to pass again."
"You were never mine to command, even if you are my daughter," the Pale King replied with a strange tenderness. "You never accepted me as your father, and perhaps…that is what set you apart." He paused for a moment. "You exist between the lines that define our world—and, eventually, you shall understand the full extent of your potential." His gaze was filled with a strange mix of pride and melancholy. She was his one child who he could communicate with, truly communicate with. And yet in his infinite knowledge, he lacked the wisdom to respond to her.
"There is much to learn, yes, but nothing more you can teach me," She turned away from her king—from her father—and released the clasp on her pale cloak and revealed the scarlet robes beneath. The vivid, fiery color was a stark contrast against the sterile interior of the White Palace.
"I can only hope someday you will find a better teacher then, my daughter," he watched her turn to the door, and restrained himself from saying, "And know that I'll be proud of how you'll grow, no matter what."
With a wave of his hand, Hornet's crimson garb disappeared behind the sealed door. She didn't turn at the sound of the door closing, and the Pale King was left alone in the hidden chamber.
Alone, yes.
At last, he was alone.
His Court, his Kingdom, his Rule, it would continue to reign eternal. Hallownest would not die, it would merely sleep. It would dream, just a little longer. From his cloak he drew an artifact. An ancient, unnamed creation of the moths. He cradled it in his hand, the foreign and ancient powers within pulsing with each step he took.
Well, it wasn't the first unknowable power he's tampered with. To a Wyrm, few things were truly in the realm of the "unknowable", they just had yet to be discovered; today he would discover the true strength of this invention.
Within his chamber lay one deactivated Kingsmould. Fully functional, but deactivated. Asleep, in a sense. If the impurity in his spawn did not originate from him, perhaps the Void itself could think…perhaps it could dream. No one had tested it, thus no one could deny it, could they?
He'd prove it.
It was a last ditch effort to preserve himself, and it certainly wasn't guaranteed to work…but if it did, perhaps eternality wasn't so out of reach, even in his current form.
She had an advantage he didn't, to persist even as a memory, a dream, a fleeting thought gave her power. He, so bound to the material world as he was, could only hope his memory carried into perpetuity by those he trusted.
And so, he pressed the artifact gently into the Kingsmould's chest. Immediately the Void within reacted, and the Pale King lurched backwards. He watched in amazement as it attempted to wrestle the foreign object from its body, but the sigil of Dreamweaving glowed brighter, yet brighter, causing the Void to retreat fully within its shell.
The light spread with such swiftness and completely engulfed the White Palace.
In its place remained the palace's foundation, the swarm of confused and aimless Infected, and the shell of a slumbering Kingsmould.