Chapter Text
He stood up from the bench with a heaving sigh.
It was odd to feel the amount of effort the motion took for once. His joints complained, carapace clicking slightly as he hauled himself to his feet. He could feel his strength still - he was in good shape, a fit wanderer who was once well equipped for battle, but after all that had transpired, he felt keenly aware of his age.
Quirrel idly moved a hand to adjust his nail, only to be reminded that he was no longer carrying it.
When the scent of sick and orange glow abruptly left the air, he'd opted to go without it. Let it remain on the shoreline, a grave reminder of the person he once was.
His first life was lost a long, long time ago, only remembered by him now in faint recognition. He would take the time to mourn that old researcher, he who had left his life behind. He was deserving of a proper memorial - the nail he'd carried for so long would serve nicely.
He didn't think he would be needing it anymore, with the infectious curse seemingly lifted.
And that was why he stood again. That was why he left.
That was why he paused at the statue of the madam and her fellow dreamers, paying silent respects and then carrying on.
The Teacher's Apprentice was long dead, yes, but his curiosity lived on still. And so, Quirrel quietly approached the bell in the stag station, intent on finding out what happened to the sealed away light.
With a satisfying cadence from the ringing bell, he heard heavy galloping steps in the distance.
He thought that the little wanderer had been using these old lines. Turns out, he was right. Seems there was at least one old stag left.
"Where shall we go next, little-? Ah. My apologies. You are not who I was expecting."
Quirrel made to tip a hat he was no longer wearing.
"Greetings!" he chirped with the last of his cheeriness, "I don't suppose you can still carry me where I need to go? I can walk, but it's a bit of a ways, and the path seemed awfully treacherous last I saw."
The stag huffed slightly. "Can I? Why, of course I can, traveller! Simply name a station, and I will have us there in no time at all."
"Why thank you, sir!" Quirrel hopped up with a stirrup, swinging a leg over the back of the bug and into the saddle. "What might your name be?"
"Heh. It has been quite some time since anyone has asked. It is Roic. And you?"
"Quirrel. Does Dirtmouth ring any bells? I believe I saw an old station up there last time I went…"
"Ha! Plenty! It seems every other bell that rings goes to that old town. Off we get."
Off the two set back into what remained of civilization. He would've made some more pleasant conversation, were it not so loud he could not hear himself think.
As the lift hauled him up into town from the little station, Quirrel noted that there seemed to be some sort of commotion out there…
“-hold still, would you, you big oaf?! You’re going to send the poor lady flying!”
“Hey now, be kind to it! It’s clearly been through more pain than one could fathom. It’s certainly earned the right to toss me into the Peaks my husband charted, if the cost was all this trouble.”
As he reached for the door, he froze at a familiar voice - “You’d all be best standing aside. This burden is mine to bear. I’d asked for medical supplies, not medical help.” She scoffed, then added, “Vessel, I command you, be still. Allow me to tend your wounds.”
“As if we’d leave it to suffer, and leave you to toil. Be at ease, huntress! Accepting aid when it is offered is a valuable skill,” he grumbled, “One our patient would serve to learn as well, but nonetheless!”
Quirrel stepped out into town, pausing at the sight before him.
A little fly, a slim mosquito, and the sentinel in red were all gathered about a particularly enormous bug, all seemingly trying to treat its countless wounds. Grievous injuries, a gaping hole in one side of its body, cracked, split-open chitin warped outwards from within, at least one glaringly obvious missing limb.
…he recognized this bug.
The Hollow Knight seemed mostly unbothered by its half-dead state. It glanced at Quirrel with the cracked side of its mask, eternally vigilant, even in the wake of what must be sheer agony to endure.
Stunned, processing his widened eyes and racing heart at the frightening image of such horrific damage, Quirrel shook his head and rushed forward, already reaching for a pack of disinfecting pads he kept in his shell, “A-Ah-! Hold on, here, I- I can help!"
What in the world had he just gotten himself into?
Quirrel.
Hornet knew this bug.
The bug had walked into her kingdom bearing the mask of Monomon the Teacher. One of the three Dreamers. She hadn’t known until she tried to strike him down for his trespass - the protective spells shielded him from the blow of her needle.
Her father’s old seals and spells still held up in keeping them safe. It had been some kind of relief, at the time.
Now, though?
The Hollow Knight flinched away at his approach, lowering its massive horns and trying to back away, nearly flattening the two good samaritans who opted to help.
She did not want their help.
She wasn’t sure if the Hollow Knight should be healed.
Quirrel hesitated at its response, bringing up his hands to placate and reveal their contents; disinfecting materials, for the less spiritual kind of sickness. “Easy, warrior, I- I just want to help,” he muttered, approaching much slower.
To Hornet’s surprise, this worked. While the three of them had struggled to get anything done under the old knight’s paranoia, Quirrel was able to touch its most vulnerable wounds just by taking a slower, more empathetic approach.
That could prove useful.
Testing the waters, Hornet reached out to touch the Vessel’s mask - slowly, this time.
She could tell that it was looking at her. She knew enough about vessels to determine that much. But this time, they didn’t retreat, and she was able to lay her hands on its face without getting snapped at or parried.
“...Thank you, Quirrel,” Hornet spoke with a release of tension, a calm settling over her. Not aggressive - just defensive. Far less of a threat. “The help you’ve given us just by your arrival alone has been invaluable.”
He turned to look at her, seemingly startled, before relaxing, something soft settling behind those curious eyes. “Not a problem at all, Protector.”
Right. She had attempted to stab him when they first met.
“...What has happened to it…?” he questioned her in a broken whisper.
Hornet didn’t know, exactly. But she did have a fairly good idea.
“It was filled with Infection. I… I was waiting outside the temple when it escaped. The sickness in the air all wilted and died right then, and it walked out to find me there.” Hornet took a deep breath. “From the look of it, getting rid of the Infection doesn’t get rid of the wounds. I was able to stop the bleeding with silk in the temple proper, and the gods know that pain won’t hinder it, so I brought it up to town to be taken care of properly.”
Quirrel frowned.
“What,” she scoffed, “Do you take me for a liar? The Dreamers’ seals were all broken. There was nothing to impede it from simply stepping outside into the world.”
“No, no, that isn’t it,” he mumbled, “I’m trying to puzzle out whether this was the right choice.”
Aha.
If Quirrel was so closely associated with the Teacher, then he’d have an understanding of the Hollow Knight’s nature that most bugs didn’t. She was among an equal.
The Hollow Knight was a Vessel.
Vessels were dangerous.
The Pure Vessel, the chosen one, mighty enough to hold its own against a god’s wrath, was the strongest of them all.
While there may have been exceptions - the exception that she urgently needed to hunt down, find out where it had gone, seek it out - the Hollow Knight was, theoretically, the most dangerous Vessel.
Most importantly, though, it was not Pure.
Pure Vessels don’t break their stasis and flood the world with furious gold light. No. This Vessel had been shaped for years and years, warped under the heat and strain of divine rage, until it finally snapped under the pressure.
Her birth-cursed sibling, now cursed twice over, was completely and utterly unknowable. An enigma. A threat.
Would it resent its King for condemning it to this fate? For condemning its siblings? Would it be irreparably scarred under the weight of the light within? Would it wish, deep down, that it could weep? Would it wish that it could scream?
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Hornet informed him gravely.
"The hot spring," Quirrel stated, holding the prime vessel's mask gently in one hand. Hornet knew that he was putting his fingers dangerously close to its fangs. "I've seen a little traveller, a Vessel like this one, resting nearly up to its horns in a hot spring. The richness of soul in the waters soothed over its battered shell, rejuvenating it. If we could take the Hollow Knight down to the hot spring in the Crossroads, it may save it."
Oh.
Right. Of… of course.
Of course he didn’t see this the way she did.
He wasn’t, he… he was an amnesiac, discarding Gift of Mind to flee the falling Kingdom. He wasn’t raised in a burning land, doomed to destroy itself. He wasn’t self-taught in the art of slaying little voidlings who sought to burn it quicker. He wasn’t exposed to some of the Vessel’s old training grounds, agonizing machines designed to test strength of resolve.
He didn’t see a creature that was tortured by the Gods. He saw a wounded someone, horrifically injured, and like a kind-hearted soul, he wanted to save them.
He was a better person than her.
“That’s…” she sighed. “That may be for the best, then. You two!” she called out to the townsfolk, “Get off of it for now. You, Quirrel?”
She met his eyes.
“Get it to the springs and let it soak. Never take your eyes off of it. Show caution, always. Do not forget; this being before you is comparable to the most dangerous weapon you have ever known. Be careful.”
Hornet walked away before anyone could question her. Quirrel was definitely expecting her help in that task - but no. She had more important work to do.
So she kept up pace, hurrying past the elderly bug who was most certainly hiding from the Vessel, understandably, and rushed her way into the blasted tents that had shown up.
Corpse of a kingdom, sure. But she wouldn’t tolerate the disrespect of her lands.
Not when the disrespectful god here may have some answers.
She waited with a scowl for the fanfare to cease.
When the Troupe Master materialized before her, she interrupted his greeting.
"Ah, the sentinel. A welcome sur-"
"What has happened? Explain it to me now, being of essence and flame."
He blinked for a moment. "Of course, though royal, princessly manners mustn't matter to one of a long-dead kingdom. Perhaps you'd care to illuminate the reason you'd act so troublesome?"
Hornet sighed at the antics of the Higher Being before her. "The kingdom's greatest sacrifice was unceremoniously released. The plague in dream has withered and died just as unexpectedly. And the last vessel is nowhere to be found. Given your unique vantage point, I come seeking answers. Master Grimm, explain to me what has just transpired."
"Hmmm," he hesitated, "Now that would be quite worrisome, wouldn't it? Though I'd believed that perhaps your epidemic disappearing in a flash would be more elating.” Grimm clicked his mandibles, thoughtful. “I would love to elaborate, halfwyrm, truly I would. However, with your reigning god, I question whether I should."
"Our reigning god? The Pale Wyrm?"
"Nonsense, my dear! His kingdom has fallen, its flames consumed." He shook his head, "Though I may not remain here, lest my rituals be doomed. The embodiment of death lurks far below, and I consider it to be a curiosity like no other, truly. But I fear that, since I so easily dance about its domain, our relationship may grow… unruly."
Her face scrunched a little. "Death cannot be embodied. Higher Beings are merely concepts given form, resembling personhood as much as they surpass it. My father's deific domain was of mind and knowledge, and for it, he was burdened by past, present, and future, always keeping his hands busy and trying to keep up with his own thoughts. His morals have never, and will never be truly applicable to mortals." Sighing, she continued, "But my father is dead, just as the Old Light seems to be. Gods cannot harness the concept of death, for even gods can die. None are above it."
"You understand, then, my intrigue regarding such a situation," he grinned.
"You speak the truth, then, living flame? You believe that this kingdom harbors the physical embodiment of death itself?"
His eyes glowed almost threateningly, conveying a sort of seriousness she had yet to see from him.
The situation was dire. Of grave importance.
"...you believe this being came for the Light."
"I dare not speak above my station. You never know who may be listening."
And with that, he vanished, leaving Hornet to ponder the knowledge she'd just received.
Quirrel did not know how to talk to vessels.
Now, he thought he knew. Just speak to them. They can't speak back, but they might appreciate you filling the silence for them.
That has since changed.
Yes, he can speak to vessels. He can say words to them. But he has no idea if his words are actually registering whatsoever.
Case in point: trying to maneuver the Hollow Knight out of the well and into the hot spring.
"This way, friend."
Simple enough.
He started walking in the direction of the hot spring, as shown to him on the map he'd purchased just above.
…the heavy footsteps of his companion, and the occasional scrape of its horns against the ceiling, were going the other way.
Quirrel looked over his shoulder, confused, to find the Hollow Knight shuffling and limping and leaning on their nail, going the exact opposite direction.
"Ah, my friend!" he called out, "The springs are this way!"
No response. It kept on trudging - for in its condition, it was certainly a trudge - with its back to him, horns clacking against stalactites, down the wrong path.
Why wouldn't it listen?
"Hollow! Hollow Knight!"
It stopped.
It tried to turn to look at him, only for its mask to clip the wall and ceiling in a way that made a very satisfying clonk! noise, like a bone instrument.
He did not laugh. It was bleeding out.
"Hollow Knight, the hot spring is this way," Quirrel pointed.
From what little of its face he could see from this angle, he watched it blink.
And then it kept going the wrong way.
Throwing his hands in the air with exasperation, Quirrel looked back down at the map. "Alright then, fine! We can go the long way, I suppose, but it is your life on the line, I must remind you!"
It carried on regardless.
He turned on a ten-geo piece with an exasperated puff. What was so important that they just had to go this way?
Crossing a threshold that the Hollow Knight briefly struggled to get its horns through, he, unfortunately, found out.
Before them lay the temple.
The one that still had the Madam's mask emblazoned on the entryway.
He stopped.
It, however, kept going. But not past the temple. Into it.
"...Hollow?" he questioned softly, following as- oh, it didn't need to dip its horns all that much to fit into this doorway, as if it had been made for them to pass through comfortably… as they entered, then stood, stock-still, in the middle of the room.
Quirrel looked onward to find the Black Egg gone.
On the floor in the now much more open chamber was a dais, old and cracked soul engravings surrounding it, the whole tile seemingly cratered in, lower than the floor around it. Anchors rested on four distinct points, and the air smelled of steel and pale ore.
Taking a step forward, he accidentally kicked something small and hard. It skittered across the floor with a slightly metallic ring to it. He looked down to find it was a broken chain link.
The Hollow Knight was frozen.
"...the room feels much more empty now, hm?" he broke the heavy silence.
Carefully, slowly, the Hollow Knight took a knee. They sighed as their weight settled into place, heavy with exhaustion. A sadness clung to them, he thought.
He felt as though he should let the silence pervade this old temple. If this old Vessel could not speak, then the silence would do it for them.
Or, maybe, they were looking for comfort, and his silence on the matter was deafening.
It was so, so quiet here. He remembered when this whole building used to hum. It wasn't all that long ago.
"...I knew one of the Dreamers," the words tumbled from his mandibles unbidden. "Monomon, the Teacher. I… was important to her, I believe."
A beat. The Hollow Knight shifted, looking over their shoulder at him.
"Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I knew the other two, as well, but I… my memory fails me, you see. It has been so long… too long. Far too long. And I've forgotten a whole lifetime of mine… forsaken it, even. When I returned to this kingdom, I was unaware that I had even been here before… I was happy."
His legs felt tired.
His shell felt tired. Every limb. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every thought.
He was tired. He felt choked up.
"I miss her."
He took in a deep breath, surprised by his own words.
"It's… funny, in a way," he spoke softly, his voice raw and tone so bittersweet, "how I would not have known. If I just… still had not known. Then moving on would be… simple. Thoughtless. Easy. But now that I know what I'm missing, I…"
He gently knelt to the ground. This place was a temple, no? He wondered what the bugs of old came here to pray for.
Lowering his head, Quirrel continued, "I am the Teacher's Assistant. Who am I without her?"
Silence reigned.
Shortly, the Hollow Knight shifted and knelt beside him, lowering their horns to the paved stones as if paying respects as well, copying his motion in what felt like solidarity. As if in prayer.
His breath hitched for a moment, eyes watering.
What was a sacrifice without a god?
What was a Knight without its King?
What was an empty Vessel with nothing left to fill it?
Hollow, hollow, hollow. A meaningless gesture, rendered obsolete by no fault of its own. A mistake. A consequence of lost time. A clumsy effort. A pointless endeavor.
Hollow. Lacking value, worth, or effectiveness. Without significance. Without purpose. Redundant.
To the lost scholar, a kindred spirit.
He gently placed a hand against one smooth, tall horn, and leaned against their side with a heavy sigh. "Thank you for listening, my dear friend. Perhaps we both are in need of the same thing."
Quirrel eyed their broken mask, missing limb, and warped chitin.
"...If I am to be something new," he hauled himself up to his feet, "if I am to continue living in a new world, to keep walking and breathing even if my time has passed, then by the Gods, you can too. We just need to get patched up, first. Come along… can you stand?"
They briefly met his gaze, lowered the point of their nail to the floor, then stood, bracing themself against the metal for support.
Though, perhaps "stood" was overly polite in this instance. Quirrel was designed to be able to curl up, and even he was impressed at just how hunched over the poor soldier could be.
Damn. If what he was doing was hauling himself, then he would hate to know what it was like to be them right about now. He struggled to come up with a better word for their actions. Slugged, mayhaps?
"Here," he stepped beside- err, more like beneath them, pressing up with a shoulder and taking care to avoid their wounds, "Allow me to assist you, my friend. You need not bear all the weight by yourself. Not anymore, at least."
They were quite heavy, though. He would help, but they would have to bear some of their own weight first. Luckily, they seemed intent on doing that. Stubborn, maybe.
The two traversed the caverns together.
Quirrel couldn't help but notice just how quiet it had become.
Infected husks all fallen still. Vengeflies too ill to fight. Not even the goams were hunting anymore.
Chilling. Uncanny.
If the Vessel was disturbed, it didn't show it.
And soon, Quirrel and the Hollow Knight arrived in a large, warm, humid chamber, a sizable hot spring set invitingly in the middle.
He gently ushered the Hollow Knight forward-
The instant that they made contact with the water, they leapt back as though frightened and eyed the spring like it was a deadly foe simply lying in wait.
"No no no!" Quirrel blurted, frightened by their swiftness, "It is okay- be careful, my friend, you'll hurt yourself even worse moving like that! It is okay. It is only water. There's nothing to be afraid of."
At that, they met his gaze, then looked back down at the springs. Their eyes sharpened dangerously.
The Hollow Knight promptly leapt into the water.
It wasn't deep enough for much of a splash, but they seemingly tried it. As if their goal was to pounce the water, to show it who was in charge.
Whatever worked, he supposed. He wondered what had them so hesitant initially…?
Returning to a far more neutral stance, the Hollow Knight stood in the hot spring.
…They were a much taller Vessel than Quirrel's significantly shorter little friend.
"Here, my friend, why don't you lay down and soak your whole shell? That may speed up the process."
They looked down warily once more, then gradually lowered themself into the spring. Every time the warm water lapped at a new wound, they froze, before relaxing and continuing down.
It must've hurt, to provoke a reaction like that.
Quirrel wasn't even certain this would work.
Now resting in shallow waters, he noticed that dried flakes of blackened Infection were washing off of them. That simply would not do - feeling gross was not conducive towards the healing process.
"Hmm… now, I'm not sure I will be able to purchase any soaps up above, but I do know of several delightfully smelling herbs that grow in Greenpath that can be used to scrub away all the grime just fine! If you'd just wait here for a while, I'll come back with some, and we can get you all cleaned up! How does that sound?"
Silent stoicism was all he got in return, of course, but that was fine by him!
Before Quirrel left, he looked them over one more time… ah, "And of course, while I'm sure you're quite capable of doing it yourself, I would be happy to lend you a hand!"
He shot them a wry grin and hopped off.
Depending on just how effective those springs were for vessels, hey, they might just grow that arm back, too! In which case they would probably not be needing that help.
He chuckled to himself as he walked through the grassy pathways, slightly invigorated. He wondered why?
Because he'd been frightened, then gotten his emotions out, then made a joke, resetting his feelings?
Because he was doing something valuable with his time?
Because he missed the quiet company?
Eh, maybe all three. But whatever it was-
Quirrel stopped dead in his tracks at a strange sort of rumbling sound.
It struck him as familiar, but he wasn't quite sure why… he sank into a readied stance, just in case, and slowly reached back for his nail-
For his-
Uh oh.
Right.
He'd left it behind.
He was traversing the grounds of Hallownest while utterly defenseless.
Not exactly his greatest plan.
With a sharp yelp, Quirrel leapt back hard as the ground abruptly split open before him and a great big maw came bursting out and snapping at him viciously.
Oh! There was where the goams went!
At least, one of them.
Problem - he was now in peril.
He shouted in alarm, racing back from where he came as the creature burrowed back down, chasing after him with intent and wreaking havoc on the terrain, cracking stone and shifting moss as it moved relentlessly.
Stumbling slightly over a new gap in the rock nearly had him tumbling into acid.
Bad. Very very bad.
What was he going to do besides-?!
There was a new strange noise to worry about.
Quirrel couldn't afford to stop moving. High pitched like a whistle, sharp like a whisper, a thrum of energy he could feel through his shell, coming closer, oh that was the sound of someone charging a Soul spell-!
And with a sharp pop, the spell fired and burst outwards, knocking the goam back.
He whipped around just in time to see a pitch-black blur lunge at the beast.
The Hollow Knight's nail screeched horribly against the goam's strong outer shell, unable to pierce through while that was clearly the vessel's intent. Instead, it glanced off of it, the blade running along its massive form as it tried to writhe away from the cold contact.
The goam whipped to the side and knocked the Hollow Knight backwards, hard, sending it toppling and staggering.
In what Quirrel could only call the opposite of a flash, a surge of darkness, it appeared just behind the creature with a teleport, this time slashing at the thick hide.
It left nothing but a faint scrape, but the goam shrieked.
It didn't know how to fight the goam.
A crying shame, unfortunately, because neither did Quirrel.
But he could try.
Ducking for cover, Quirrel examined his surroundings, trying to find anything he could use as a potential weapon against an impenetrable beast.
Rocks?
It wouldn't care, pebbles would not do and he wasn't exactly large enough to hurl a boulder.
Moss?
The goam was a predator - a leafy snack likely wouldn't appeal.
Stalactites?
Now that was innovative and effective, however this particular cavern's ceiling was far too high up for that to be an option.
Arguably, he did have a weapon. The huntress had called the Hollow Knight one.
But it didn't seem to be doing so well, so apparently he'd need some assistance for his assistance!
Having entirely failed at coming up with a suitable means of defending himself, Quirrel took in a deep breath with intent to cry for backup-
-when suddenly there was a horrible squeal, of beast and metal alike, followed by a great thwump as something massive fell to the ground hard.
Shortly afterwards, he heard something heavy and two-legged stumble, then heard it collapse, a soft clunk sounding as it hit the ground.
Releasing his held breath with concern, Quirrel darted off back from whence he came, off to go see with his own eyes what had transpired.
The errant goam was dead. Thoroughly so.
Pierced through its upper jaw straight through the top of its head past thick armor plating, a large pure nail stuck out of its mouth from the hilt, stabbed through from the inside out.
Struggling against the moss and soft earth was the Hollow Knight, seemingly unable to stand.
Quirrel approached hesitantly, trying to figure out the problem, but worried that the wayward vessel might be frightened enough by his presence to lash out at him next.
Watching closely, he found that whenever it tried to lift its head, it would press its weak and injured left side into the ground, straining it with too much pain to persist and dropping it right back down. When it tried to use its remaining arm for help, however, it couldn't gain enough leverage to support the weight of its horns, leaving it effectively pinned to the ground, trapped and struggling helplessly.
The vessel did not cry out in pain or despair. It just kept heaving deep, long breaths as it fought against agony to get back up.
If the Hollow Knight was too weak to stand on its own, then how had it even made it here from out of the hot spring?
Quirrel let in a very gentle gasp.
Its nail.
It had been bracing itself with its nail.
Now that that nail was embedded in its foe, it was rendered helpless.
…Quirrel knew the feeling.
He hesitated.
Helpless bugs who were otherwise very strong did not like being helped. They did not like the reminder that they were weak, the implication that they could no longer save themselves on their own.
The Hollow Knight was, debatably, not even a bug, and Quirrel would have no idea how the old soldier would react to being rescued.
Would he be thanked? Or would he be a new target?
His hands shook as he approached the greatnail. It was twice his height, and beautifully intricate…
And despite the lack of upkeep, incredibly sharp. He nearly cut through the carapace of his palms just by reaching for the blade for more leverage - there was a clear scratch left on his shell from where it had almost cut straight through, as though he were made of soft wax.
It took quite a bit of effort to pull the nail from the beast. When he succeeded, he noticed it was somewhat quieter.
The Hollow Knight had stopped struggling. It was just staring now. Watching him.
Nervously procrastinating, he looked over the blade once more. As it turned out, the patterning on the nail might not have been just for show - there were thin cracks in the blade, worn in from overstress and what appeared to be acid exposure putting strain on it, but the welding of the metal all interwoven made sure that, no matter what, it wouldn't crack through. Always held together by at least one section of refined pale ore.
Quirrel took a deep breath and hauled the nail back to its owner, gently offering over the hilt.
In an instant, pitch-black claws seized the blade, planting it hard into the ground right next to him, allowing the vessel to surge forward onto its feet, horns lowered but head raised as it put its face directly in front of his.
Falling backwards, Quirrel held his breath as he met the eyes of the Abyss. It was like staring into the sea, seeing only darkness but knowing that, further down, something lurks, watching him right back.
The Hollow Knight stared him down.
Then, gradually, it hauled itself back up, inhaled deeply, tossed its horns back and-!
There was a soft rushing of air, and a specific lack of sound that made his antennae ring - a changing of air pressure and a distinct silence.
And then it stopped.
"...Huh," Quirrel noted, so afraid that he found himself somehow detached from the situation at hand, logic being his only functioning thought process, "I could have sworn that you could roar."
Apparently satisfied, the Hollow Knight shook itself off, then dashed just overhead back in the direction of the hot springs, likely to go right back to soaking like he'd requested of them.
Quirrel kept laying in the grass for a little while longer. Surely, no one would judge him for that.
Quirrel returned while Hornet was pacing in circles.
She needed to find the Ghost of Hallownest.
The exception to the rule, the strongest wild Vessel she’d ever fought, marked with the King’s Brand… stared back into the abyss from whence it came and ascended unscathed, a feat only ever achieved by one other Vessel in recorded history.
The Ghost would have supposedly done it twice, then.
Racking her brain for answers, desperate, she thought back to that day by the Temple.
It had not been that long ago. The Ghost of Hallownest had been there, intent and strong, going forward into the dark to purge its sibling of Light…
She had heard the unholy, visceral screams of sickness and godly wrath. Heard the sounds of struggle. She’d felt light on her feet, desperate to leap into action, to fix things, to help…
And then, all of a sudden, it had stopped. Silence fell.
Hornet had thought she’d been too late. Her inaction had gotten the Little Ghost killed.
Too unsafe for her to traverse and check. Her shell had itched with the urge to find it and pull it from the rubble, as she had when the cast-off shell had collapsed around them both. But the Void, how it would choke her, use her Soul as though she were a Dreamer just like her m-
But it had stumbled from the Temple, shaken from the heat of battle, and met her gaze.
Those dark depths writhed with an unknown strength.
…and it’d left without hearing a word from her.
Where had it gone?
Where had it gone?
Unable to stop the Infection, could not best the Hollow Knight, it must have been felled in combat and yet it still stood, leaving the temple of its own volition.
Hornet waited for it to return and try again, all the while worried that the Hollow Knight, which must have been freed of its chains, would burst free from the dark prison it had been left in and seek vengeance, sick with a light-hazed fury not of its nature…
“Ah, madam? A word, if you would?”
Quirrel was back.
Hornet turned to acknowledge him to find him shell-shocked.
He looked to be a wreck. Emotional, physical, she wasn’t quite sure, but in the land of Hallownest, those two states of health were linked so closely that the difference did not matter.
“The, um,” he stumbled through his message, “The Hollow Knight made it to the hot spring, and, ah, s-seems to be doing better. Marginally so.”
Good, the child in her wanted to say.
No, the hunter in her pleaded with her heart.
“Hm,” she replied, unsure of herself and her own plans, but mostly unsure of Quirrel himself, “How much better?”
“...Well… I, ah… left myself without my weapon, you see, and…”
Leveling a glare at him, he quickly spat out the rest of his statement:
“They successfully were able to protect me from harm by killing a rampaging goam that nearly killed me. It was an impressive display of skill for a warrior so grievously injured. I am… not certain where they are now, I assume back at the springs, but-”
Hornet interrupted him by cursing under her breath.
That was not what she wanted to hear.
…when the Hollow Knight finally did step out of the temple, Hornet had been distracted by the unceremonious death of the Infection.
Frightened, she had drawn her weapon.
And, just as frightened, it had drawn its own, braced against it like it was the only thing keeping it there, grounded in the realm of the waking.
It was so wounded, broken, not what she had been expecting - it no longer frightened her to such an extent, to see it so battered, and so she had relaxed. It did too. She- she helped it, the dangerous, deadly Vessel that it was, believing it incapable of harm in its condition.
Goams were not easy to kill.
It was just as capable as it had been when she was a hatchling.
And now, both of the strongest Vessels in the whole kingdom were entirely unaccounted for…
…and without any guidance.
No Light left. Not of her sire, not of the Infection, nothing.
The embodiment of death…
“U-Um, is everything alright, ma’am?”
“No,” she shook her head, rerouting in her mind, shifting gears, what could she do to keep her kingdom safe…
“What is it?”
Her Father had always told her that thinking through your problems was much easier if you talked them through to someone. Even if that someone couldn’t listen or respond - an inanimate object was an excellent audience to hear your theories and plans to work around an issue. Before the Sealing, he had the Vessel behind him at all times, rambling to it. After the Sealing, he kept a Kingsmould at his heels instead.
On lonely days, it was her at his side, learning what made his contraptions tick as he spoke to the open air.
She took a deep breath.
“First things first. You do not remember me, Quirrel.”
A look came over his face, his eyes portraying an age to them that she hadn’t yet seen from him. “I have lived many lives, Pr…”
He gave himself a confused look, as though not sure where his mind was taking him - old pathways left forgotten for an age.
She knew perfectly well that old, old, old habits nearly had him remember to address her as Princess.
“My name is Hornet. I am this kingdom’s protector. And my most sacred duty has just gotten significantly harder.”
Still confused by his own automatic response, Quirrel nodded to her, urging her to continue.
"To protect the Hollow Knight, I have been tasked with stopping any other Vessel from attempting to take its place. To break the seals would doom the kingdom. But then… the stasis broke. The Hollow Knight stopped protecting us from the Infection. So, I altered the task."
Hornet idly ran a hand down the length of her needle. "The King of Hallownest. He tested the strength of the Vessel he chose, the resolve, through a series of intense trials. Knowing that a new Vessel may be needed, I tested each one in hopes of finding one strong enough to keep us safe… once and for all."
Quirrel exhaled deeply, hanging his head and feeling the weight of the burden on her shoulders. "...but the Infection is gone, now."
"Yes. And I found a Vessel stronger than the Hollow Knight."
His gaze shot up to meet hers, realization ringing loudly through his silence.
"That little Ghost, lost in time, yet right where it needed to be… it has done something impossible, something unspeakable, and I do not understand it. And I do not believe the Hollow Knight can understand it either."
Quirrel took in a shaky breath, looking around as though to find an answer somewhere. "But- your… your task. Without an infection, it is over, is it not?"
"Do the Vessels know that?"
His eyes widened.
"A purposeless Vessel, without any guidance or command. What would it seek? What would it search for? To carve a path through this world, carrying on despite pain and struggle and absence of reward - a force of nature unto itself. And now, there are two of them."
He stared, silent.
"Death. I have consulted with a Higher Being, and he believes that these are figures of Death." Hornet took a deep breath, tensing, steeling herself. "I have reason to believe him."
It was quiet. Quirrel scanned the ground before him like the dirt was a record of her words.
"...no," he breathed.
"It is not safe to-"
"No," he repeated louder, "They are not ."
Hornet had grown to used to the company of naught but shadows. Shadows and husks did not argue.
"These Vessels - they were born to protect . Just because you're scared does not make them - what, bad omens? Spirits of death? Gods in their own right?" Quirrel stood firm, glaring at her, "Your Ghost just saved your kingdom from catastrophe. Any sacrifices made to accomplish that task are no worse than what the King chose as well. You asked a God for its opinion on a godslayer, and that was the response? It is a wonder - research must be done in order to get answers, and if you won't do it, then I will."
And with that, Quirrel stalked off towards the well.
Hornet allowed his words of conviction to echo about her mind.
…After a moment, she called out to him.
"You have to find them first."
It seems he hadn't thought of that.
He paused. Turned back to look at her. Then changed his destination to the nearby Stag station, it seemed.
If he wanted to search and research for her, that was fine.
She was not mad at him. He was about to make her life easier.
He was right.
“Back so soon?” the stag, Roic, commented once they’d arrived at the Resting Grounds.
“Well, I left. Found what I was looking for. Now, I’m… not so sure what to do next.” Quirrel sighed. “I’ll figure it out later.”
Roic huffed. “Start looking for something else, I suppose!”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I will…”
And off he set, back down to the shore of the Blue Lake.
This time, he kept his gaze far from the Dreamers’ monument. He passed by wordlessly.
Looking along the cobbled street, he noticed the large, red-shelled husk was no longer patrolling these grounds. Instead, it lay dead on the pavement, no more golden glow to animate its fallen form.
That was comforting, at least. Death was truly an ending. Nothing would come between it to interfere anymore.
Quirrel shook his head to rid himself of such a grim thought. Not yet. Let him ponder on it for a while.
The feeling came back to him in a rush when his feet met sand.
Old and uncertain once more.
He took a deep breath, stood before the nail in the sand… then simply sat down behind it, leaning back against the hilt and gazing thoughtlessly back from whence he came.
The sentinel, Hornet? She was right about one thing.
A purposeless vessel would be utterly lost without any guidance.
…
Perhaps that was rude to think. He’d known two vessels, and they were rendered devoid of purpose.
Perhaps he was only right about himself. Perhaps he was the broken one.
As he promised himself he would, Quirrel pondered.
The waves gently lapped along the shoreline. A soft wind stirred the air with barely a sound. The absence of patrolling husks was a notable silence.
…after a minute or so of quiet, Quirrel heard something new.
A faint plop, as though something had fallen from the ledges above into the lake. Small, but weighty, from the sound of it.
He didn’t pay it any mind. Probably a loose stone or something.
…at least, he didn’t care for all of one second.
That was when the second splash came.
And perhaps a splash was an understatement: it was loud, and heavy. If whatever had fallen before was a pebble, this was a small avalanche, a cacophonous displacement of water as something came crashing down from above to send ripples across the water’s surface.
That was when Quirrel turned around, frightened nearly into a leap.
At first, there was only the ripples from whatever-it-was as evidence, before all of a sudden, the surface tension of the water broke once more as something enormous rose out of it, a thrashing pitch-black mass that kicked and swayed in the air, he stood, stunned and horrified at the flailing abomination-
Until its head surfaced.
It hadn’t occurred to Quirrel that whatever he was looking at may be upside-down until large, pale-white horns came rushing up after the tangle of lanky limbs, now-soaked cloak of leaves flicking outwards from the abruptness of the motion and sending droplets every which way.
The Hollow Knight waded before him.
It then abruptly threw its massive head back under water, attempting to dive.
And then it popped right back up again. A huff expelled all the water it had unintentionally inhaled, and then it went back down again.
Quirrel remembered.
Remembering was painful, but it happened anyway.
Memories of old research, of study at the Archive, cataloging the nature of the elements around him.
Void, as a substance, did not want to interact with anything else around it. It was notoriously bad at it as a result.
The only thing Void properly stuck to was simply itself, forming a heavy liquid that poured and pooled and did everything in its power to sink straight through just about anything to try and get back down to the rest of the Void far, far below it.
When Void was separated from itself, with none of itself to stick to, it did its best to avoid the air, floating and becoming a fine mist. Adding more Void would cause it to form a sort of waterfall in the open air, becoming a fountain of itself as it flowed and evaporated endlessly.
When placed in water, it would try to do the same thing, but the amount of Void needed to weigh itself down would be much greater due to the increase in the number of particles and substance and-
The Hollow Knight resurfaced, practically doing useless little flips in the water as it repeatedly attempted to sink, only to float instead.
-and so in the water, Void was very, very buoyant.
Hm.
The vessel before him seemingly did not get this memo.
Huffing with effort, it attempted to dive once again, to no avail.
…now, why in the world was it doing that?
Briefly, Quirrel hesitated. He knew this vessel. This was a vessel in its prime, dangerously strong, capable of shattering steel in its fist. This vessel had survived an eternity of torture just to get back up and walk away once it was finally over. This vessel made Hornet scared. This vessel made him scared.
Curiosity won. Curiosity didn’t even need to pose its argument; it simply won.
Quirrel walked to the water’s edge and swam out to greet them.
The next time they surfaced, they whipped about to face him, watching him closely. If he had any more arms, he’d use them for a placating gesture. Unfortunately, he was using all his limbs to tread water.
“Ah! Pardon me! I was just wondering if you, ah-”
They paid him no mind after that and went right back to their impossible task.
The word his mind offered him was stubborn. The next was a whole sentence: it was programmed to perform an impossible task anyways.
They resurfaced and shook their horns. Right before they could try again, he blurted out in a rush, “Do you need any help?!”
The Hollow Knight met his gaze again, and - hesitated? For something that was supposedly mindless, but also supposedly corrupted, he had no idea what terms would be appropriate for the very thoughtful-looking motions it performed.
They glared down at the water.
Taking a deep breath and flexing the plating over his gills, Quirrel dipped his mask under the water and took a look for himself.
Squinting through the blue haze, he thought he could see something shining at the bottom of the lake.
…Well, not like he had anything better to do. Or anything to lose, for that matter. Quirrel dove.
Reaching out and grabbing at the glittering thing in the sand, he found it surprisingly weighty, ice-cold and smooth.
It was a small statuette.
Peculiar. Very peculiar.
Continuing to operate under the assumption that the Hollow Knight “wanted” whatever this was very badly, he began his ascent with the little idol in hand.
He watched them shove their mask back under, reaching out with one strong arm able to push past the natural buoyancy of its ichor, and he made to hand them the relic.
Apparently they “thought” it would be more efficient to grab his whole wrist and pull him back up to the surface with them.
Yes, that was more efficient. It also scared him senseless.
Sputtering his way through a shout, he found himself pressed to the vessel's chest as they floated on their back, easily supporting his weight and looking at him almost expectantly.
Stunned for only a moment more, Quirrel held up the little trinket. "Is this yours?"
Almost tenderly, the Hollow Knight slowly brought their hand to his and pried the statue from him, gently tucking it away behind them - probably into their cloak. Probably.
"There you are. Why don't we get back on dry land, hm?"
They glanced over their shoulder - it was comical how large their horns were, really - and then back to him, seemingly telegraphing a movement to him.
He figured out the problem quickly, treading water so the Hollow Knight could turn over and paddle properly.
Apparently unsatisfied with him swimming on his own, they briefly dipped their mask below water and surged forward, effectively placing their head right underneath him and-
When they resurfaced, he was perched between their horns as they swam the both of them back to shore.
Quirrel couldn't help but let out a disbelieving laugh. Luckily, it didn't startle the curious case before him.
He hopped off his impromptu ride at the shoreline, then offered them a hand to climb back out of the lake with. "Thank you kindly, Ser Hollow," he said with an amused smile and a little curtsy to his friend.
The smile fell slightly when he remembered this vessel was no friend. This was a stranger, and a dangerous one.
That being said, of course, they stood up to almost full height and then returned the bow.
Then promptly huffed and knelt in the sand.
And then flopped down onto one side, breathing deeply.
"Ah. Feeling tired?" Quirrel sat down at a relatively safe distance, "That does make sense. You've been through an awful lot recently, and I'm sure your battle with the lake was quite stressful."
They didn't acknowledge him beyond one heaving sigh.
It occurred to him that this was the most still, and most intact, that he'd seen them so far.
Internally, he smacked himself. No no, he'd already indulged his curiosity a moment ago. He need not trouble himself further by once again pushing the boundaries of this powerful, god-slaying automaton.
…
He scooted closer to get a better look.
Despite their evident exhaustion, they were visibly doing much better. It was difficult to see, what with their shell refusing to absorb or reflect any light on its own, but the layer of water over their body helped make their state more visible.
He could see that their shell was pitted and scarred from the way the light bounced off the water… but it no longer looked like it was actively harming them. All healed over. Might still be sore.
Their left shoulder was still missing something critically important. Not that they seemed too hindered without it. If they could think - by the same definition that he could think - then they might be annoyed by the loss.
Though, if they could think by his standards, they would have to be very patient. A long fuse. How long did the stasis actually hold, again…?
Their hips swept outwards, pointed along the edges. Their limbs by each joint were rounded quite a bit, implying a large range of movement and a lot of muscle beneath the carapace. The claws of their remaining hand looked deadly sharp - had they been pruned recently? It looked as if they'd been sharpened crudely, as if by fang.
The Hollow Knight's body was lithe and smooth, streamlined, built seemingly compact but also as if for speed. Surely a being meant to endure torment would be thicker around and tougher, meant to be hard to snap… what was he missing?
Quirrel could get the answer by touching.
Quirrel should not get the answer by touching.
He scooted closer.
They tipped their mask forward a little to get a better look at him as well. The vessel remained relaxed, watching him calmly, as if just making sure he wouldn't try anything. They blinked slowly with apparent sleepiness.
Taking a page from their book, he clearly telegraphed his intent, slowwwwly reaching for their splayed-open hand.
Besides one slightly deeper breath, they did not react or respond.
Quirrel gently scooched a little closer and carefully took their hand.
It was big.
Everything about them was big. Taking their hand in his own, much smaller hand, just emphasized the point.
He lifted it up and turned it over, examining their knuckles before looking back at their palm. It was very hard to understand the texture of their shell by looking at it, since it was like staring into a blindfold, but with his hands on their shell, he found it was full of grooves and divots, interwoven with smooth, cold planes.
He felt over it again, trying to make out the pattern with his fingertips alone. It reminded him of the engravings on the Madam's mask.
His heart sank a little at the thought. He couldn't compare the two - he no longer had it.
Quirrel lowered the Hollow Knight's hand back into his lap, sighing as he laid back against their steadily breathing chest.
What was he going to do without her?
Find something new.
He blinked, trying to recall where he'd heard that.
Right. Roic, the old stag.
He'd said that he'd found what he was looking for, and now wasn't sure what to do. So he'd been told to look for something else.
Maybe he was right. Maybe that's what life was. Looking for something to fill it, and then, once that's been found, looking for the next thing.
It would be hard, maybe. Especially since now, he had no clue where to look.
He turned his head to the side, meeting the Hollow Knight's gaze. "I don't suppose you have any ideas on what to look for in life once you think it's over?"
Their gaze was dark, yet soothing. Almost hypnotic, staring into those depths as if they went on forever, as still and peaceful as the lake just behind them.
…Wait a minute. What was he leaning on again?
Refraining from making any sudden movements, he gently unwrapped himself from the hold the Hollow Knight had let him get himself into, and stood so he could slowly remove himself from the very precarious situation he casually found himself in.
Oh, just resting against the Last Hope of Hallownest, no big deal.
At least it was tolerant about the situation. If it had disapproved, he likely wouldn't have had time to notice before he was dead.
"...I'm quite thankful that you aren't pushy regarding your personal space," he laughed nervously.
They blinked.
"Well, I mean," he shrugged, plopping back down on the sand, back at that safe distance, "when you're not horrifically maimed, that is. Then, it is more than understandable."
He paused, a natural lull in conversation where, ordinarily, the person you're speaking to would comment.
"I must thank you for your patience. Your shell is one of a kind, and quite intriguing. Are the grooves and patterns natural, I wonder, or shell carvings, like the cosmetic sort?"
No answer.
"Vessels truly cannot speak, then?"
At that, they tilted their head.
"I met one of your kind not long ago. You may just have it to thank for your freedom."
Interestingly enough, they seemed to understand completely, settling back down against the sand.
“Have you met, I wonder? I would have no idea how, given your prior arrangements, but… hm.”
Maybe the Hollow Knight had the answers that Hornet was looking for.
She may have been afraid, but… if she was searching for a Vessel, then maybe another could help.
He rose to his feet, offering a hand to the old Knight.
“Hollow Knight, could you help me with this?”
They followed him, unthinking.