Chapter Text
“Sorry,” Ghost says.
“Sibling—!” The Vessel cuts themself off as the stag jolts beneath them. “Sibling lies!” Their words are strangled, as tight as their grip on the clover they plucked from the ground just outside of the Greenpath Station. “Is—Is not nice!”
“Not much longer,” Ghost tries to reassure them. “Almost there.”
“Not nice!” The Vessel repeats. The message is far stronger than before, taking root and sharpening into a denser form. Still, the hand missing a clover remains entwined with Ghost’s—tightening its hold at every jostle and bump.
When they finally reach the Hidden Station, their newly-discovered sibling all but throws themself onto the platform.
“Perhaps your Highness will prefer the tram in the future,” Isma says, amusement coloring her tone.
“Tram?” The Vessel asks.
Ghost shrugs. How are they meant to describe the tram? They’ve always just… ridden it. “Moves on its own,” they eventually say. “Smoother. Contained. Big box, no legs.”
The Vessel shifts uncomfortably, and though they turn back to stare at the similarly-disturbed stag beetle, their thoughts seem farther, words impossibly distant. “Not nice,” they repeat once more. “Felt like—” They search for a moment—thoughts heavy enough that the Void shifts with them, until it squeezes suddenly around their intent like a claw around a throat; their body tenses with it. “Like— Falling.”
“Tram better,” Ghost decides, placing a comforting claw on their shoulder. “For you.”
“Now, come along, little Highnesses,” Isma says, clasping her hands together. “We are quite late already. Their Majesties shall be most worried as is, even without such news as we deliver.”
“‘Highnesses?’” The Vessel echoes as they follow behind Isma.
“Title,” Ghost says. “For us. For Sibling—Twin-mine.”
“Title… from what?”
“From Father and Mother,” Ghost explains. “King and Queen. Higher Beings. Rule over Kingdom. They are Majesties. We are Highnesses.”
“We are… Children? Children of King and Queen?”
Ghost hesitates. “Yes,” they reply at last. “We are.”
The White Palace looms above them as the cavern opens up. If nothing else, Ghost can acknowledge that the Palace is impressive both inside and out. It sparkles with a glow all its own—a reflection of their parents’ Light that seeps into the very foundations. Vines snake along its walls, a perfect blend of wild and orderly. The Palace is a jewel tucked into the depths of the kingdom, as Divine as those that call it home.
“White Palace,” Ghost tells the Vessel. A few seconds pass before they add, “Home.”
“Palace. Home.” the Vessel repeats, as if both words were equally foreign. Their grip on Ghost’s hand is firm—and just a bit desperate. It seems almost as if they are trying to convince themself—as if saying it more will make it more real.
“All okay?” Ghost asks.
The Vessel doesn’t reply for a moment. Then—“Home is… Happy?”
The Void tastes of a lie—sharp and sour—but it bends to their Will and conceals what they want it to, and so the Vessel suspects nothing as Ghost answers, “Yes. Happy.”
“Want that,” the Vessel murmurs, and even through the whisper, Ghost can feel their longing—and moreso their conviction. They are not just yearning to have it, but daring the world to stop them. “Home. Happy.”
“Will have,” Ghost says—asserts as solidly as they can with words that don’t exist. “Will.”
The front gates rumble open. As they are led inside, there is a sense of anticipation so thick that it is almost palpable. It is as if the Palace Grounds themselves can sense the weight of what has happened—what will happen.
At Ghost’s side, the Vessel shakes ever-so-slightly.
“Not scary,” Ghost says, and does their best to bend the Void that carries their words into something delicate. “No worry.”
The Vessel does not respond, but uncertainty rings freely from them.
“Squeeze less,” Ghost says. “Will break plant.”
Something startles in the Void, and the Vessel loosens their vice-grip on the clover held between their claws.
They have barely made it a dozen more steps when they hear their mother’s voice.
“My child!” She hurries down the stairs, and the Vessel ducks behind Ghost, huddling against their cloak. “Isma, Ze’mer, you’re so late, did something happen? Did something go wrong? What—”
It is easy to stop her words. Ghost steps aside and her voice dies—fizzles out in the air.
For a moment, they are reminded of a stand-off: the stretched seconds before a battle starts where the world seems to fall still under the suspense.
Then, shakily, she asks, “What…What is this?”
“Sibling,” Ghost signs just as they had before. “Found sibling.”
“Who?” The Vessel asks.
“Mother,” Ghost replies. “Queen.”
The Vessel’s fingers twist in Ghost’s cloak, and they say nothing.
Ghost gives them a passing glance before looking back up at their mother. “Sibling says hello.”
“Oh.” She makes a soft, surprised noise, and then raises a single hand in greeting. “Hello.”
“Should meet,” Ghost murmurs through the Void. “Not bad. Safe.”
The Vessel’s fingers release and find Ghost’s hand again, squeezing. “Sibling stay?”
Ghost nods as firmly as they can.
As if bolstered by the reassurance, the Vessel shuffles forward. The White Lady cautiously extends a hand, and Ghost isn’t even sure if she is breathing.
(They aren’t completely sure if she needs to breathe.)
When the Vessel is finally close enough, her fingers hesitate, and then brush over the top of their mask. Ghost watches their sibling tentatively lean into the touch.
“Hello, little one,” she says, awed. “I am your mother. You’ve no idea what a joy it is to meet you.”
The White Lady quickly settles them in a sitting room. The Vessel is cradled in her arms, Ghost sat on a chair nearby, while they wait for Isma to return with the Pale King.
It is not long before the doors burst open, but rather than their father hurrying through, Hollow rushes inside.
“Sibling!” They exclaim. “Heard arrival! Came to—” Hollow falters as soon as they process the stranger held by their mother. “...Who?”
Ghost replies easily, “Sibling. Felt. Followed. Found. Brought home.”
“Brought home,” Hollow repeats. They approach slowly, until they are only a few steps away. The White Lady is silent, seemingly intent on allowing the meeting to go as it will. “Hello.”
“Hello,” the Vessel says. “Are… Sibling? Twin of Sibling? Of Ghost?”
Hollow nods, words bright even in the Darkness. “Hollow!” They point to the bottom of their mask eagerly. “Me. I am Hollow.”
Amusement titters through the Void, and Hollow tilts their head in confusion.
“Ghost said same,” the Vessel clarifies. “For self.”
Hollow stares at the Vessel for a moment longer, and then reaches out to take their free hand. “Happy,” they declare. “To have Sibling here. You will like it. Home.”
The doors open once more, and Light pulses at the edge of their vision—the Pale King.
“Apologies for the delay,” he says. “I was quite caught up in—” He stops—grinds fully to a halt—and stares at the Vessel nestled against the White Lady. The Light brightens for a briefest moment, only calming when the Vessel leans back from it, unused to its glare. “Root,” he says, voice oddly strained, “My love, what is this?”
“I would hope one could recognize his own child, dear,” the White Lady jests.
“Yes,” he says quickly, “Yes, of course. I only— Where did they come from?”
“I am aware of how greatly you wish to Know things.” The White Lady’s voice is low, and oddly hard for how gently she tends to speak. “But perhaps it could be put to the side for but a moment, that you and our child may properly meet?”
The Pale King is silent for a few seconds—or perhaps for thousands. Then, as if in a trance, he drifts forward and comes to a stop before the Vessel.
“Hello, child,” he says. “I am your father. Know that as long as I still draw breath, every moment shall be spent ensuring that you know peace. You have been created with Life, and Life is what you shall find.” He falls quiet for a beat, and then asks, “What would you like to be Called?”
“Name!” Hollow exclaims. “Father-King asks your Name!”
The Vessel’s fingers curl and uncurl around the stem of their clover. “Have none.”
“Do not have,” Ghost translates for their parents. “Wish to pick. Do not know yet.”
“Of course you shall choose for yourself,” the White Lady says firmly. The Vessel burrows into her, and there is a breeze, light and fresh, that waves through the room. She exhales with it. “We would not have it any other way.”
The Royal Wing is large, and so there is no issue finding a place for the newest child of the King and Queen to call their own. The Vessel ends up being placed in a room next to Hollow’s, just across the hall and down a bit from Ghost’s own.
“Must show around,” Hollow declares at breakfast the following morning. The Pale King, who is often working in the mornings, has taken the time to join the rest of his family for this meal. It speaks of just how momentous an occasion this all is. “Give tour.”
“A wonderful idea, my dear,” the White Lady says. “We certainly would not want your sibling getting lost before they’ve the chance to learn these halls.”
Hollow turns to Ghost and points at them. “Ghost come?”
Ghost hesitates, but then the Vessel’s gaze is on them, desperate even in its stoicness, and they can’t find it within themself to refuse. They nod.
The White Lady claps her hands together. “Most lovely! Oh, you all will have such fun.”
Clearing his throat, the Pale King cuts in, “Ghost, I would like to speak with you today about those… escapades of yours.” He must sense the Look his wife is giving him, as he quickly adds, “After the tour, of course.”
Once they stand in the corridor outside of the dining room, Hollow asks, “Where first? Could see courtyard? Gardens? Library?” They pause at a light crinkling sound coming from the Vessel’s hand, where their slightly-dry clover from the previous day is still being held tight. “What?”
“Plant,” the Vessel says. “From…” They look helplessly at Ghost.
“Greenpath,” Ghost fills in.
“From Greenpath.” The Vessel raises it so that they can all get a better look. “Do not know it.”
“Recognize,” Hollow says, “But do not know. Sibling likes plants?”
The Vessel tilts their head, and then shrugs. “Think so.”
Hollow nods firmly and takes the Vessel’s empty hand in their own. “Gardens first.”
The tour does not finish before the day ends. They arrive at the main gardens, and don’t leave until it is time for dinner. The Vessel is enraptured by the variety of plants, and asks more questions than seem possible. Neither twin has an answer for most of them.
Ghost departs in the middle of the afternoon—when it becomes clear that the gardens are the final destination for the day—and makes for their father’s workshop. Though he spends most of the morning in an office, Ghost is well-aware that once midday passes, he tends to set many of his royal duties aside in favor of whatever thing has grabbed his attention for now. At the very least, the workshop is the best place to check first.
Their assumption is not incorrect. The Pale King looks up at them when they enter without knocking. “Oh,” he says, “Good afternoon, child.”
“Wanted to talk?” Ghost signs, and then points at him.
“Indeed I did.” He gestures them closer. “Come. I’ve but a few questions for you.” They doubt that it will be so simple, but listen anyway, and sit down on one of the few stools devoid of clutter. Their father hums and considers them for a long moment before asking, “Yesterday, you stated that you had ‘felt’ this newly-discovered sibling of yours. What did you mean by that?”
“Meant that,” Ghost replies. “Felt. Through Void. Followed feeling.”
“Through the Void,” he echoes in a murmur. “You did not recognize them?”
(Once, a soft ray of light shone upon a lifeless visage, barely larger than Ghost themselves; a youthful mask split open, propped up by the nail that ran it through.)
Ghost shakes their head.
“Then what possessed you to follow them?” The Pale King is unable to keep his tone bereft the inflection of a parent scolding their child. “You did not know who they were.”
“Knew enough,” they insist. “Felt enough. Felt like Hollow.”
The Pale King sits back a bit. “Can you…” He hesitates, and glances away. “Can you feel any others?” He finally asks. “That feel ‘like Hollow?’” There is something in his voice that they can’t quite place, but that they think sounds something like guilt.
Ghost searches, almost on instinct, but they can feel nothing—at least not within the bounds of the Kingdom. They are not surprised by that, though. The only way out of the Abyss is within Deepnest, in the spot where the Void has sunk its claws into the caverns, and its Darkness shrouds any siblings from their untrained view. Still, it is not a lie as they shake their head.
“Of course not.” The Pale King sighs. “Worry not, child; it is not your fault. In fact, if we are to speak of blame here…” He stops. Ghost is certain they know exactly what he would have said had he continued. “Nevermind that. Where did you find them?”
“Greenpath,” they say. “Edge of Greenpath. Surface. Dark beyond. Cold. Empty.”
“The Wastelands,” he says, and then falls silent for quite some time. At last— “Were they to enter them—to leave the bounds of this Kingdom—I fear we may have never seen them again; they would have been lost to us for eternity.” An instant passes, just long enough to be noticeable, before he reaches forward and places a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. “It is a good thing that you have done, child—regardless of the circumstances that surround it.”
Ghost cannot bring themself to say anything—cannot seem to make their hands move—and so they simply nod. The praise settles over their shell awkwardly, as if it does not know where to go. Ghost supposes that it doesn’t—they rarely have such a thing to hold for themself, and can’t quite figure where to tuck it.
They’re released soon after and return to the gardens where their siblings remained. Hollow is speaking quickly through the Void, and the Vessel responds in kind—if a bit more measured. Ghost isn’t sure that either noticed that they were gone.
When the White Lady asks that evening what they all got up to, Hollow eagerly replies, “Sibling loves the gardens! Loves plants!”
“Oh.” She sounds as though she is trying to contain her joy. “How thrilling to hear.”
“Asked many questions,” Hollow continues. “Did not have answers.”
“Well, how about this; on the morrow, spend the morning completing that tour, and once the afternoon comes about, I will join you in the gardens, that we may perhaps answer some of those impossible questions, hm?”
Hollow nods, and the Vessel does the same a moment later. Gazes turn to Ghost, and it is only then that they realize that they have been invited as well. They incline their head in agreement, just a beat too late for it to fully be comfortable.
The Pale King hums. “Sounds quite the day,” he says. “I think I should join as well, if you do not mind, my dear?”
Her laugh like bells, the White Lady replies, “There is little more I would wish for.”
Ghost does not care too much for plants, but they suppose that it is nice seeing their newest sibling so excitable. Ghost is better with signing than Hollow—have more practice—and so do most of the translating for their parents.
(Once, Hornet watched as they waved their hands around aimlessly, trying to convey something when they had no way to.)
(Once, she had grabbed them by the shoulders and sat them down beneath an overhang. “No voice,” she’d murmured as the rains roared on behind her.)
(Once, their sister had looked upon them with new eyes and realized that no Voice did not necessarily mean no Mind, and so she took their hands in her own, and she taught them how to speak.)
“Pretty,” the Vessel says, staring at a large bloom the color of the shallowest parts of the Blue Lake. “From here?” It is a reasonable question to ask, considering more than half of the plants in the Palace Gardens grow elsewhere.
Ghost relays the question, and their mother smiles. “Not quite, though you won’t find them quite like this anywhere else, bar the Gardens. I suppose if there were any in Greenpath, they might manage, but these are native to the Edge.”
That surprises Ghost a bit. They had never seen flowers like this anywhere near Kingdom’s Edge. “Different how?” They ask before the Vessel even has a chance to.
“You might see the buds,” she explains, “But not the flowers. They require the power of a Higher Being to bloom. I suspect they were originally seasonal, but with no seasons, they have no way to blossom on their own.”
“What are..?” Hollow’s claws hesitate, unable to convey the sign for a word they don’t know. Ghost is glad for it, as they were about to do the same.
The Pale King, though he is engrossed in a book as usual, must have been paying attention to the conversation regardless, because he cuts in. “There have not been true seasons since before even my beginning,” he says, and signs what must be the word for them. “A piece of the natural order that was lost to time, I’m afraid. Records from when I was wyrm tell of distinct divisions of the year; marked by differing weather conditions, daylight, temperatures, and the like.”
“They still exist in some capacity,” the White Lady adds. “Many plants still follow them, if to a lesser extent. When it is the Flowering Season—”
“What was once called Spring,” the Pale King clarifies. “Before it was forgotten.”
“Yes. During that time, the stems of many plants will straighten. In the Bright Season that follows—”
“Summer.”
“-Their colors grow more vibrant. They are following something that no longer exists, simply because they feel that they should remember it.”
“The World is always trying to right itself,” the Pale King murmurs, gliding a finger along the flower’s petals, “Even when broken beyond repair.”
“Such things matter primarily to the Hive alone, now,” the White Lady explains. “Though the differences between seasons are noticed little by most—not enough to truly affect the regular bug’s life—they do have an effect on the production of honey. In fact, I dare say it is only because of the Hive that we still find ourselves using them in any regard.”
“Quite right,” the Pale King nods. He exhales slowly, returning his gaze to his book. “It is a shame,” he muses, “That the world was shattered as it was. Before it was torn asunder, it truly must have been something to behold.”
Ghost feels a light touch on the top of their mask, and sees their mother brush her fingers over both of their siblings as well. “I find that, even broken, it has its charms.”
The Pale King huffs something like a laugh. Oddly enough—or perhaps not—he sounds remarkably like Hornet. “So it does.”
As they continue on, still translating for the Vessel, Ghost’s thoughts drift.
They have never really thought of the world as broken. They supposed it made sense; the Void would not recoil from the Wastelands—would not feel it as a wound—otherwise.
But it is strange to truly consider. Things are not how they are meant to be? What are they meant to be like, then? Ghost cannot even imagine it—which feels a bit unfair, because if there is anything that their domain of Dreams should grant them, they feel it should be creativity.
(Perhaps Sheo would have an idea? He did always like to make and think up new things.)
(They wished they could ask him.)
Ghost doesn’t sleep well that night. Their mind does not quiet though, no matter how much they try to stamp it down. Eventually, following what must be hours of fruitlessly staring at the ceiling, they kick off the blankets and get to their feet.
It has been long enough since they truly ran away—and they have been behaving well enough since—that the guards are only really stationed at the entrance to the Royal Wing, rather than throughout. It gives the feeling of privacy, and is something that Ghost appreciates more than they dare admit. They emerge from their room and into the corridor, intent on going for a walk to see if it might be merciful and clear their head, but they are only a few steps away from their door when a soft voice stops them in their tracks.
The Void silencing their already-quiet steps, Ghost creeps toward the slightly-ajar door of the new sibling’s room.
When night falls, the lights of the kingdom dim. It is the same for the White Palace, where in the latest hours, shadows are allowed to slink up walls that would banish them come the day. Ghost slips into one of these shadows, blending with the Darkness and hiding them from view.
“You’ve nothing to fear,” they hear the voice murmur. “You are safe here.”
Ghost peers around the corner and sees their mother sitting on the bed, the Vessel cradled in her arms. Hollow is there as well, likely translating for the White Lady.
“Bad memory,” the Vessel says, and Ghost can hear it because of course they can. It is through the Void, and they are nothing if not the Void. “Dark—”
“No Dark here,” Hollow replies. Without meaning to, Ghost sinks further into the shadow. The rhythm that their Heart pounds is irregular, and deep below the Kingdom, the waves of the Void Sea crash against the shore to the same beat. “Are safe. With family.”
“I will stay here, if you so desire,” the White Lady says gently. “Should any such memories attempt to take hold, I will be here to help ward them off.”
The Vessel agrees with a shaky nod. Hollow stands and heads toward the door, but rather than leaving, they simply shut it firmly. Ghost pulls themself from the shadows—which feel heavier than before—and sits against the wall. They breathe carefully, and try to ignore the scent of fresh life that their mother must have left behind.
When they feel as though they can stand without collapsing, Ghost stumbles back to their room and manages to make it inside. They slump against the closed door and ball their hands into tight fists to stop their trembling.
With a delicate extension of their consciousness, Ghost weaves together a quick Dream of Greenpath. It is simple, and cobbled so haphazardly that it might fall apart with basic scrutiny, but hopefully their sibling will be too tired to do anything but appreciate it. They anchor it carefully in the Vessel’s Mind and hover there until it takes hold.
Ghost is exhausted, all the way down to the bones that they do not have. The Void roars with an anguish all its own, and they temper it as best they can, soothing the waking, restless Shades until they return to their sleep.
In their own body again, Ghost blinks around their room. The light is low. No plants line the walls. It is quiet.
It is quiet, and they are alone.
Life settles back into a bit of a routine. It is different than before; as if the arrival of a third child finally reminded them that they were raising children, the King and Queen set up lessons for the lot of them. Ghost and Hollow have already sat through the lessons in sign that the new Vessel was going to get, but that is apparently not going to get them out of anything. Instead, all it affords them is a single free hour in the morning, followed immediately by lessons until midday.
Ghost isn’t… Well, they aren’t necessarily mad about any of it. They do like to learn, and there had been little opportunity in the world before. More than anything, they find themself enthralled by the history classes, and help Hollow with some of the work in exchange for assistance with mathematics, which their twin takes to so quickly it is almost shocking. The new Vessel, surprising no one, is in love with biology—and botany, specifically. They throw themself into their lessons on reading just for the opportunity to scan the encyclopedias on plants found throughout the Palace Library.
Once they consider it, Ghost realizes that they don't really remember learning how to read. Those tablets left solely for Higher Beings—with words just for them—they’re sure they would know regardless, but common script? It isn’t imprinted into the Void, so they must have learned it from somewhere, but they have no idea where that could be. Perhaps it is just another one of those things lost to the Wastelands and its tricky fingers—plucking memories from any mind that dares enter its hold.
When mornings finish, and the lessons with them, they are quite free to do as they wish. Ghost does not have much trouble keeping track of either of their siblings’ whereabouts. They are often together in one of the gardens, and when they are not, Hollow is likely with the Pale King in his workshop, and the new Vessel is engrossed either in plants or books about them.
Hollow is excited by their new sibling’s fascination with the gardens, though that excitement dims a bit when it becomes clear that the fascination is solely on the plants themselves and not on the act of caring for them.
Ghost is with them one day, some two cycles after the Vessel’s arrival to the Palace. The White Lady and the Pale King are there too, sitting in the gardens. It is the morning, but this is the sixth day of the cycle, during which the population of Hallownest at large are meant to spend time catching up on personal matters—and children are meant to have a break from school.
In actuality, Ghost wishes a bit that they did have lessons today, because at least it would be something to occupy their mind with other than the emptiness of their hand without a nail there.
Normally, they would be spending this time at Mantis Village, training with the Lordlet and feeling far more free than they dare admit. However, even if the Pale King had told them that following their sibling was a good thing, it was still something that needed to be reprimanded. The end result—the welcome expansion to the royal family—only lessens that. Ghost will miss one session with the mantises, and only one. They suppose that they should be grateful for it.
They draw themself back—focus their attention once more—to watch the conversation that is happening before them.
Pointing at a plant—white and glowing faintly—the Vessel signs, “Is C-L-O-V-E-R?” It is slow, both because they are spelling and because they are still learning.
The White Lady nods, unperturbed. “Indeed it is, my dear. Clover.” She makes the sign, and the Vessel copies her, getting it correct on the second try.
“Had one,” Hollow nudges the Vessel. “When you arrived. You had a clover.” Their signing of the word is a bit sloppier, but they manage it.
“From Greenpath,” the Vessel confirms. They slump a bit. “Liked it. Did not take care of it. Died.”
“That isn’t your fault, darling,” the White Lady says gently. “You didn’t know.”
They shrug. “Do not like to take care. Like to…” They pause, clearly trying to remember the word. “Study?”
“Well done,” the Pale King comments off-handedly. Ghost hadn’t even realized that he was paying enough attention to the conversation for that.
“How about this…” The White Lady turns to Hollow. “Retrieve one of those pots for me, dear?” Hollow obeys easily, trotting back with a pot in hand. Their mother places it on the ground between her and the Vessel, and for a moment, all is still.
Then, Ghost feels her power rush over them. The Void hums uncertainly against it, and they calm it before she can notice. Around them, the plants seem to lift, and some brighten with a soft Light that wasn’t there before. One of the white clovers bends down and slots itself easily into the dirt within the pot. The plants lean back, as if their job is done, and the White Lady’s power retreats into the light background melody that they are used to by now.
“Here you are,” she says, nodding to the pot. “A plant of your own.”
“Cannot care for it,” the Vessel signs slowly.
Hollow jumps in place. “Does not need care! Is Pale Plant!”
The White Lady chuckles. “That it is; a plant such as this requires only Soul to sustain itself, and the Palace is saturated with such a thing. You need only to find a true place for it, and it shall thrive.”
For a long moment, the Vessel doesn’t seem to know how to react. Finally, they ask, “Is called what?”
“Oh, nothing exciting, I’m afraid,” she laughs as they pick up the pot and stare at the plant within. “It is simply a Pale Clover.”
There is the briefest moment during which Ghost swears they can feel the Vessel turning her words over in their mind. Eventually, they nod firmly, and say through the Void, “Me.”
“What?” Ghost and Hollow ask together, their confusion melding into one.
“Me,” the Vessel says smugly. “Clover. My Name.”
Hollow, if it is possible, jumps even higher in their excitement. Their parents both startle at the sudden display.
“Tell!” Hollow grabs the pot to free the Vessel’s hands. “Tell Father-King and Mother-Queen! Will want to Know!”
There is amusement bouncing through the Void as the Vessel signs carefully, “Know Name.”
The White Lady gasps, and the Pale King abandons his book almost instantly. “Truly? You have chosen?” Their mother asks, breathless.
A nod, and then a steady, “Clover.”
“Clover,” the Pale King says easily. “A wonderful Name.”
The White Lady laughs, and it sounds a bit wet. “And fitting as well. Clovers symbolize luck, you know.” She sweeps the newly-named sibling into her arms and presses a kiss atop their mask. “I can think of nothing better.”
Clover burrows into the hold easily—as if they are meant to be there—and the White Lady pulls her husband close as well. Hollow puts the pot down to join them, but not before grabbing Ghost by the hand to drag them over too.
“Just in time, I would say,” the Pale King comments. “Your sister comes with the Hive’s delegation upon the morn. She will be delighted to meet you, most certainly.”
Clover—who has not met Hornet but must know much about her by now—signs some question or another. It must be answered, but Ghost is not paying attention. They twist their head away to stare at the Pale Clover instead.
It glimmers in the Palace’s Light. There are four leaves jutting out from its base and a single white flower with thin petals rising from the heart. It is a delicate thing, but certainly lively, and—like the Pale Lilac—glows with the same light they remember from the Delicate Flower.
The stain on their shell shifts, and they do not know what it is now, but they feel the cool touch of the Void—trace the shape it makes—and they think that they can figure it out rather easily.
They do not need to. A finger pokes their mask, and Ghost turns to see Clover tilting their head at them curiously. “Mark changed,” they say. “Is like flower.”
“Like clover,” Hollow adds, far more carefully—likely still wary about how sensitive Ghost tends to be when it comes to the splotch.
Now that it has been said, Ghost can feel it, and how it mocks them. The blemish of Void upon their shell—the Flower’s brand—has swirled itself into the image of the same bud sitting just a handful of steps away.
They symbolize luck, the White Lady had told them, but Ghost has never felt particularly lucky.
“That’s nice,” Ghost says, and tries to ignore how bitter the Void tastes.
It must satisfy their siblings, because the conversation with their parents continues instead, as if nothing happened. Ghost, with empty hands that shake under the privacy of their cloak, leans against their mother’s side, and even as an arm comes up to gently hold them there, they cannot help but think about how they can’t quite manage to slot into place.
They are stupid to feel anything but happy. They know that. They are stupid and selfish, sitting with their family and still having distant wishes for a world in which none of this is close to possible.
Ghost saved their sibling. The Vessel from Greenpath—Clover—would be dead otherwise, or at the very least lost to the Wastelands, and without a Call from the broken Hollow Knight to bring them back, who knows if they would ever even return? They had been only a corpse in the not-future, when Ghost finally found them. They had died alone, and Ghost thinks that they might have also died scared. This is better than the alternative—it is better an endless number of times over.
The selfishness is just something that Ghost is going to have to live with—something that they are going to have to stamp down and keep buried within themself and hide away from the rest of the world. It is barely even something that they deserve to hold; there is no way that their family is ever going to catch even a glimpse of it.
This is the way that things are now—Ghost doesn’t quite fit into place, but their parents are good, and their siblings are alive and happy and here.
That is enough.
It is going to have to be.