Chapter Text
Grimm
Grimm felt it as soon as it happened: the call of the lantern being lit. The spark that signaled that the ritual must begin.
But that wasn't what made his heart stop. No, it was something else entirely.
He wasn't prepared for it in the slightest; no one in all his five hundred years could have told him how it would feel inside the Heart Connection for his child to be born.
Like a tearing. The splitting of a whole and the sharing of a power. As if they had taken a part of himself and put it somewhere else.
Grimm vanishes in a burst of flame in the direction of his nest, leaving Divine surprised at his sudden reaction. It takes him no time at all to appear on the other side of the huge maze that is the Troupe's tent and stumble without care or grace as he materializes.
His gaze searches frantically and there, nestled between the carmine cushions and silk of his nest is the tiny grub.
So small. So fragile. That other part that had started the countdown to its imminent death.
He lets out a shaky breath through his mouth before he begins to move forward in silence.
He reaches his hands closer, trembling, and realizes that he can easily hold him between them. He hesitates, until he grabs him, cautiously, gently, as if any sudden movement could cause him harm. Like porcelain, breaking it.
Is warm to the touch, but different from the flaming warmth of the red flames he conjures on a daily basis. It is more pleasant and even tender, and it squeezes his guts. Grimm pulls him to himself, to his chest where the chaotic pounding of his heart keeps echoing and rising in his ears.
He hunches forward, almost involuntarily, seeking to protect, if only for a moment, this little grub –his child– from all the outside world and the impending punishment to which they are doomed.
The pressure in his throat grows stronger as a purring sound reaches his ears and the palms of his claws fill with the soft vibrations of the grub –his child.
He feels like he could cry at that moment, but instead his lips stretch even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, not even his fangs peeking out.
Yet he smiles, broken and happy and small.
Resigned.
He doesn't know at what point he has sat on the edge of his nest but he can't take his eyes off the little moth even though his mind is traveling far from there.
To what his son's presence means to him. To that the discomfort he had been feeling the last few weeks was precisely what he feared. To the Nightmare Heart's weakening.
To the fact that very soon he too will begin to die.
Since there cannot be two vessels for too long. There can only be one Nightmare King.
Grimm purses his lips and stifles a bitter laugh. By the heart, will this really be the way things are?
It's been so long, but that burning, insistent, naive flame in his heart was hoping for at least a small chance.
He remembers a firm hand holding his. He remembers a reassuring touch on his face. He remembers kisses that tasted of bitterness, passion and longing.
He remembers arms holding him, embracing him as if it was the last time they could do so.
Maybe it was.
Oh, it wasn't fair.
Curse the Radiance for in her madness dooming him so.
Curse the Wyrm for having them imprisoned in a vain attempt to remain eternal.
Curse him for having fallen in love all that life ago.
Gods.
His shoulders shake and the sob finally breaks and escapes his throat. He has to control himself. Now he is crying. He doesn't want to wake the little one in his hands, he must prepare everything for the ritual and warn everyone; this is so unbecoming and beneath him –calm down, you knew this was going to happen, that it was supposed to happen–.
But the memories come back, stumbling and pushing their way out of that deep dark corner where he had tried to hide them.
Grimm gasps, and his heart breaks.
He doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be like this. No. No. No. No, no, no, no.
“Oh, what a long way you took to torture me like this,” he whispers to nothingness, finally pushing his tear-blurred gaze to a spot on the antique tapestry hanging across the room.
He doesn't know who he's saying it to: his sister, the Heart, the Pale King, or...them.
His everything and his weakness.
“Will I really not be able to see you again, one last time, my knight?”
His words travel far away, to those cursed lands. Beneath the earth and on the other side of a seal. Where his heart had remained, locked in the temple of the black egg and haunted by the ancient light.
The small movement in his hands brings him back. Grimm blinks, lowering his face and is met with eyes just as red as his own. Deep and sharp and curious. The little one blinks back and he feels like he wants to cry again.
“Hello, my little blaze.” is all he manages to say, a coo despite all the whirlwind of emotions inside, “You have caused quite the stir within my heart.”
Grimmchild tilts his head and lets out a soft squeak in response; voice still weak. His little tail wags a bit and eventually unfurls to straighten out between his hands.
Grimm lets out a puff and leans just a little towards him, gently bringing their heads together. They both close their eyes and he can feel his child trying to get even closer, rubbing his soft, fragile horns against his forehead and letting out another coo.
That finally gets a genuine laugh out of him and to drop his shoulders. The feeling of warmth rises with a newfound love and nurture for this small child he doesn't deserve.
“It's just you and me, little one,” he whispers, more to himself as Grimmchild lets out another purr.
Grimm wonders if he understands. If he knows what is about to happen or if he is aware in any way. He really hopes the child doesn't, he hopes that for now his son is sheltered by the blessing of ignorance and naivety. Of innocence.
Since everything is going to change as soon as he leaves that room and has to face whoever has lit the lantern and made him start with the ritual... Or could it be some kind of sign, perhaps that his world is about to change? No, perhaps it's just his own longing to want to see them again.
Grimm never thought it would come to this. He doesn't know exactly how much longer he´ll last, sharing the Nightmare Heart's power until it finally consumes him, but....if he can be honest in the solitude of his nest, he doesn't want to die just yet.
Not when his son watches him as if he were the center of his world.
Not when the flame in his treasure still glows and burns brightly.
Not when he hasn't been able to see them one last time.
Maybe he can buy time.
Maybe he can delay the ritual long enough to find a way to see them.
Maybe he can convince whoever lit the lantern to wait and let him spend time with his son.
He is a performer after all. He is the head of the troupe and knows how to captivate an audience.
Yes, he can do that. He will buy himself time. He will buy them time.
He's already waited all these years anyway.
It had been a long time since Grimm last returned to Hallownest.
He'd like to say he didn't know how long it had been since he last set foot in the lands of the Wyrm, but that would be lying.
To lie and deny the fact that he'd counted. Every. Fucking. Year.
That he has been painfully aware of the passage of time.
But the one thing he does know is the way his heart dropped to his stomach as soon as he realized where the call of the lantern had brought them. These cursed lands where it all began and where it must now all end.
How fucking ironic.
The bugs in the small village –Dirtmouth, if he wasn't mistaken –where they had settled looked curiously at the tents; there was one old man, however, who seemed to fear him greatly and Grimm wondered if he really knew what they were doing there or if he was just very suspicious.
In any case, none of them seemed to be the one who had called them there, so he had no choice but to wait.
He decided to begin preparations within the troupe for the ritual.
The others had seemed to take “well” the news that his impending end was near. Perhaps they must be used to the endless cycle of ritual by now. Divine, though, was delighted when introduced to Grimmchild and he seemed to feel the same as he let out a delighted squeal on receiving the attention.
He was happy about it. His little blaze would be in good hands.
The one who had the worst reaction was Brumm; closest to him within the whole troop. Although hiding behind his accordion, he has served as a butler, helping him and keeping him up to date on everything that needs to be done and what he hasn't done. Quiet and reserved but calculating and highly efficient even though he may appear slow.
He'd watched as the perpetual melody of the instrument had stopped as soon as he saw him appear with the small grub in his hands. He didn't know what expression he had because of his mask but the way he looked at them, that tense attention, made him notice that he wasn't comfortable with it. With what it meant.
However, he said nothing, only to nod at the end and start again with the accordion.
Grimm wanted to go over to him, but at that moment the tug of someone new entering the tents stops him and he had to dismiss everyone in a circle of flames to greet them.
His little grub goes to him clumsily through the air, and squeals contentedly when he receives him in his hands and cooed on his cheek. He lets out a last laugh and makes sure he curls tightly before tucking him inside his wings.
Grimm takes a breath puffing out his chest, trying to give himself courage, and takes a step backwards disappearing into the shadows of the stage, where the spotlights never touch.
The small footsteps are heard; he doesn't know if it's them echoing across the stage or if it's the nervous drumming of his heart that makes him tense his shoulders, preparing himself and not taking his eyes off the curtains of the main entrance.
But, the thing is, just as Grimm decided to raise his hand and snap his fingers for the spotlight show to begin and for him to appear as dramatic as ever, from behind the worn curtains, a small figure appeared and completely froze him in his tracks.
A familiar figure. Pale face; deep black eyes; a white expression on the shell. Two small horns that rose upward and curled just a little, ending in two small spikes.
Just as they looked when they first met.
He watches them walk with a curious yet cautious air across the stage. Blinking as they wander their gaze around the tent and stop right in the center of it.
The air catches in his throat and his claws tremble. No, it can't be. They are locked right under his feet . That proud goddess has them. They wouldn't look like that anymore. They can't be. No. No. No. No, no, no, no.
But that little grub looks as much as they did all that lifetime ago which crushes his heart. If he didn't know them, if he didn't have their features etched in the back of his eyes, he'd mistake them easily. Almost like a lost twin hatched from the same–
“my sibling, we hatched from the same egg and I... let them fall.”
That voice and memory appear, distorted from the corners of his mind, but with a strange, impossible realization.
Could it be?
He takes a second to compose himself, catching his breath again, and finally with trembling hands, the snap happens. The music begins. Lights dance and reddish smoke takes over.
And Grimm stands in front of them.
