Chapter Text
Sixty-three days after appearing in the past, Ghost kills the Radiance.
It has far less fanfare than the first time around. There is no Godseeker watching on, no choir lifting ever higher, no thrilling surge of excitement from the unknown of such a battle.
Instead, they slip out one night, when the constant eyes on them grow a bit more careless, and slink through the shadows until they reach the long-forgotten Crown of Hallownest.
The Dream Nail sits heavy in their grip, Awakened and ready to cut through the veil. It traveled back with them, bound to their being as surely as the Void Heart is, which pounds within them as they strike the last statue of the Radiance, carving a path into the Dream Realm where she dwells.
For all that the fight is quieter than the first, it is not an easy one. That is not to say it had been before, either, but at least then she had been contained in some way beyond lost memories, even if that was within their Infected Sibling. Here, she is free, and her power unbound.
“A Pale Child?” She has no mouth, and yet her words reverberate in their mind. “The Usurper grows quite desperate indeed. He truly throws his spawn to the Light in the hopes that one will dim it? Dim me?”
Ghost does not answer, even though they know that they could. They have consumed her once before, in a future that will never come to be, and they can remember the few brilliant moments in which they had not just been the God of the Void, but of Dreams. Though the power is no longer theirs—not yet—they still understand dreams far better than ever before. In such a place as this, they could answer her, if they wanted to.
It is not something that she deserves.
(She doesn’t even recognize them.)
(But once…)
“Nothing to say?” She hums. “All the better. Let the Wyrm see how even his own Pale Light will not be enough to temper the flames of the Dawn.”
Her words are a song, far more alluring than any mortal could hope to make. Overtop her melodic tone echo the voices of those that Ghost loves. Their friends, their family, try to whisper to them and call them closer—call them home. It is one of the truest ways that the Radiance has been able to take hold of the minds of Hallownest. She digs within their dreams, finds the tunes of those they care about most, and weaves the voices in with her own.
It is her fatal mistake.
Because Ghost’s dreams are not filled with voices that can fool them—not here. They are the voices of those that they love, and they are voices that will find home only in Ghost’s mind. Some do not yet live, some are a world away, and the ones that are still here do not know them—will never know them as surely and truly as they did.
(Once, they opened their eyes for the first time, and saw a bug that looked just like them. Once, for the briefest moment before the Pale Light broke through and beckoned them up, they felt what could only have been love.)
It is the weight of a sacrifice that Ghost did not even know they were making until it was done.
The reminder burns hotter than Radiance’s damned Infection ever could. Anger rushes through them, and they can feel the Void roar back. Even for something so soundless, the pressure rumbles through the Dream Realm, and the Radiance finally falters—finally senses that she is missing something. It is already too late.
They fight. As they do, Ghost watches the Radiance grow more and more aware of who—what—it is that she is truly facing; that ancient enemy of hers, long forgotten, but never gone. They are quite similar in that way, aren’t they?
Ghost gives chase, the Void rising at their command, and the Radiance flees into the depths of the Dream, but there is nowhere that she can go that Ghost will not find her. She struggles as the Darkness pulls her down, but she cannot hope to match their strength, born of fury and love and her own devoured Essence in a future that will never be.
The Old Light burns until she no longer can, and screams as she dies.
Ghost allows themself to sit in the Dream for a long few minutes—for control of it is once more under their Will, and time in this place will only pass as they permit it—and simply breathes.
(Once, Mato showed them the value in taking a moment to just meditate and feel nothing but the air and the rock.)
(They do not need to breathe, and yet they do, and the lesson sticks with them more than others.)
Ghost feels the air around them and the rock below them, and in the same breath, they bring the Infection to heel. Those too far gone drop as lifeless husks. For many others, bright orange eyes fade to clouded ones, and sickness begins to run its course. It will take some time to truly disappear, but no more will die than already have, and no Dreams will again be haunted by the Light.
Before the night is done, they return to their shared room with Hollow—for why would Vessels need rooms of their own—and wait.
It takes some time, but just about two cycles later, it starts to become clear throughout the kingdom that the Infection is gone. There is caution, but if it holds, the Pale King promises to lift the quarantine, eases restrictions for the time being, and vows to his citizens that a close eye will be kept to ensure that it does not return.
Only four days pass before—while intense discussions are taking place over what to do with two Vessels that are no longer needed—Isma turns a corner and catches Ghost and Hollow locked in a hug of mutual reassurance. All of a sudden, those discussions end.
Ghost and their sibling are brought to the throne room. It is empty, save for the King and Queen. Not even the Great Knights stay, bowing quickly and closing the doors behind them.
The Pale King stands from his throne and approaches the two of them. The White Lady is a small step behind him.
“Pure Vessel,” he says, looking at Hollow. His eyes dart to Ghost, and he corrects, “Vessels. We are going to ask you a question. You must answer as truthfully as you can, to the very best of your knowledge. Do you understand?”
Ghost nods. Hollow does, too.
“Good.” The Pale King looks nervous now—it is a strange look on him—as he crosses a set of hands in front of him. The White Lady’s face is carefully blank. “Now… Are you—either of you—truly… truly hollow?”
It does not seem as if Hollow knows how to answer, uncertainty ringing from the Void within them. That is fine. Ghost can handle it for both of them. They shake their head. Hollow glances at them, and then does the same.
“You can think?” Their father rasps. “Feel?”
The Void Heart pulses within them, unified for the first time ever with Dreams and Light beneath Ghost’s own Will, and they think that it would be very odd indeed if they could not. They take Hollow’s hand, hold tightly, and nod.
The Pale King lets out a shaky sort of breath, stark in contrast to the White Lady’s heaving sob. Ghost and their twin are wrapped in an embrace by their parents—the first one they’ve ever gotten—and the world shifts more than they ever imagined it could.
A gathering of the Dreamers is called. They were already on their way, and thanks to the quarantine still in place, the paths are clear, and it does not take them long to arrive.
Ghost stands near the throne and watches the Dreamers enter. They feel as if they know each mask as well as they know their own—whether from the entrance to the Black Egg or from the bugs that slumbered away in their seals. Ghost did not kill them, in the past, though they knew that they were meant to. They are even more glad for it now. It might be even harder to look at them, otherwise.
Lurien moves with fluttery steps, as if his feet are unsure if the ground will be there each time they land. Monomon, comparatively, slides forward with such grace that Ghost is almost jealous. Herrah is as imposing as they would expect, but they have little time to think about it, as a flash of red shifts behind her.
“Queen Herrah,” the Pale King says, and sounds like he’s grinding his teeth. “You were not meant to bring a guest.”
“‘A guest,’” Herrah scoffs, her voice the oddest mix of gravel and velvet. “My heir, you mean. And your child, as little as such a thing means to you.”
Hornet does not look as they remember. She is far smaller than in the future—obviously young—but still taller than either Ghost or Hollow, even if it is only by a smidge. Her horns are shorter. A needle is strapped to her back, though it must not be the one that she wielded in the future. She bounces a bit in place, head twitching as she looks around. There is an innocence to her that Ghost never got to see—one that she will not be forced to lose so quickly, now.
“Does she have a name?” The White Lady asks.
“Not yet,” Herrah says, far more kindly. “Though her training will begin soon, in both Deepnest and the Hive; she will earn it then.”
The Pale King inhales to speak again, but the White Lady lays a delicate hand on his shoulder and murmurs something low enough that Ghost cannot hear. The Pale King sighs, but acquiesces, and turns to address the room once more.
“I’ve called you all here to inform you that your services as Dreamers will no longer be required.”
The shock is palpable. Lurien gasps; Monomon stills; Herrah stiffens. Hornet—or Not-Yet-Hornet—falls into place and gazes up at her mother in wonder. Already, she knows what sacrifice would have been made, and rewrites what must be imaginings of a motherless future.
“Then… you truly believe the Infection is gone?” Monomon asks.
“I do not know for certain,” the Pale King says. “We know nothing about why it has gone, nor whether it will return. Regardless, even if it does still linger yet, we shall not counter it with the Pure Vessel Plan.”
“Did—Did something go wrong my King?” Lurien stammers when no other speaks.
“I suppose that depends on your perspective,” the Pale King replies. The White Lady whacks him lightly, and he clears his throat. “Ahem. Watcher Lurien, Teacher Monomon, Queen Herrah.” A pause. “Princess of Deepnest.” Hornet straightens. Their father places one hand on Ghost’s back, another on Hollow’s, and continues, “I would introduce you to Hollow and Ghost. Our children.”
Monomon leans forward with immediate interest. “The Vessels? They’re alive?”
“In every way that matters,” the White Lady says.
“The King and Queen’s children?” Hornet asks her mother not-very-quietly.
Herrah nods. “So it would seem, Daughter. They’d be your siblings, then.”
Lurien finally recovers, and manages, “Hollow and Ghost?”
The Pale King inclines his head.
“Rather interesting names,” Monomon hums.
The White Lady grins. “They chose for themselves.”
Things… change.
Ghost supposes that many would probably say that they get better.
They do get better, don’t they? Yes, they do. Things change, and they are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is happy and safe—having tea with their mother and trailing off behind their father—and Hornet has her mother and gets to keep her this time, and Ghost is…
Ghost is…
…
Days are monotonous. There is little to do, despite the skills that they have and the things that they know. Where once they might have spent time fighting in the Colosseum, or digging up relics to sell, or mapping out new tunnels with their quill, they now find themself… bored.
They, like Hollow, are ‘too young for combat.’ “Children are meant to be children,” their mother says—their mother lies—and smiles gently. “And you will never have to see battle—not if I have anything to say about it.”
(Once, she looked at them through blind eyes and told them to supplant—to kill—their tortured, broken, never-pure and never-hollow sibling.)
(Spawn, she called them then.)
(Child, she calls them now.)
Their hands itch for a nail that is not there, one that hasn’t even been made . They fought for such a long time, that it is almost strange to not do it now. They wake from naps and reach out blindly for a handle, and it always takes a few moments to remember. When Hornet visits, she strolls about with her needle poking out over her shoulder. Ghost tries not to be jealous, and tries not to miss the trusty weight against their back.
It might be better that they don’t have it, anyway. One day, Ogrim manages to sneak up on them, and they spin into a Cyclone Slash—useless and pathetic without a weapon to complete it. He gives a booming laugh, tells them that battle might not be the call for them, and that the Queen can likely put them in dance lessons if they desire.
(Once, the Cyclone Slash defeated Ogrim, and the next time Ghost saw him, he said they were mighty, strong, honorable.)
(Knight, he called them then.)
(Child, he calls them now.)
It’s probably good, right? Things are better now, so they don’t need to fight. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is…
Ghost…
…
They think that they might be ungrateful. They’re alive, aren’t they? So many of their siblings cannot say the same. The people that they loved before are safe, and others still might yet be saved. They live in a palace, with any luxury they could ever want—everything they never had before. A lantern that may have once cost them every last piece of geo they had now comes in dozens, each lighter and brighter than the last, each available for them to take without question.
Their life is one that other bugs can barely even dream of, and they know it. They should be thankful.
It does not stop them from thinking of the Abyss, though. The doors are sealed tight, and the King’s Brand is no longer seared into their shell, but they can still remember its burn. They wonder if the Void can, too. Shouldn’t it, if it is united under their Will?
The Void Heart pulses within them at the thought, one of the few things that remained with them. It almost makes them feel vindictive, in the proof that it provides; a soul rests within them, despite all the best efforts of the world. Their thoughts are real, their feelings are real, they are real.
It’s a silly thing. Of course they’re real. Everyone else thinks so, too. Their parents, for all their faults both past and future, think that they are real. The tablet outside of the Abyss’s entrance is changed barely a turn after that fateful day in the throne room, and it is different from what Ghost remembers. It speaks now of an eternal mourning, a grave for the King and Queen’s children that would forever remain undisturbed.
They go to see it the first night that it is there, and have to hide away as the Pale King approaches. They watch his Light dim not from the weight of the Void, but the weight of his grief. He places a hand against the door, claws digging into the grooves, and tilts his head toward the ground. “Rest well,” he whispers to nothing, and Ghost’s Void Heart tries to thrum the same somber tune. They sit in the shadows until he leaves, and for hours more after.
(Once, the Pale King cast his unborn children into the Void below, and left all but the most worthy and most doomed behind to rot.)
(Vessels, he called them then.)
(Children, he calls them now, and weeps.)
As time passes and they settle into the past, much of the hatred Ghost feels toward their father fades. It had been easier to despise him when they did not know him. Now that they do, the hate bleeds into something more akin to bitterness—or maybe to bitter understanding.
When they first arrived in Hallownest, the Infection had been nothing more than the way things were; certainly not something that called for the Hollow Knight—sealed away in body and mind—screaming—to be subjected to such a fate. Then, though, there was Myla, slipping away no matter what Ghost did. Her singing grew quiet and shattered, her body stilled to twitches, until eventually she hurled herself at them and her carapace split along their nail, Infection and blood spilling as one, staining the crystals.
She was the only one that they actually watched succumb to the Radiance’s twisted Dream, and it haunts their thoughts. They can’t imagine making the same choices as their father, but they can understand why he did. Hallownest was full of the dead, brought back by the Old Light, and if Ghost had watched thousands of those they were meant to protect fall just as Myla did, they think they might have become desperate too.
As it is, many of the Pale King’s mistakes have been made, and some never will be.
Hollow will stay free and happy, and if that is all Ghost can do, then this will have been worth it.
Things are better here. The Infection is gone, and Hollow is happy, and Hornet is safe, and Ghost is…
Ghost is…
…Ghost…
…
They are left alone more often than not. Or, perhaps that is not quite right. They are not brought along, and refuse to join without an invitation just as staunchly as they refuse to ask for one. It doesn’t matter much. They were alone rather often during their travels as well. This is not so different.
Hallownest is strange, now. It is lively in a way that Ghost never saw—full of bugs going about their business, gathering in trams and stag stations, hurrying down roads that haven’t had the chance to crumble. Areas that had once been dangerous are laughably safe now, with spikes covered by bridges and sound-minded guards posted about.
Ghost wonders if the whole kingdom is the same. They have no way of knowing. Along with Hollow, they are not permitted to wander—not without an escort. They would laugh at it, if they could; Ghost can probably traverse the caverns better than any guard that could guide them through. That doesn’t matter, though. They are the child of the King and Queen, young and untrained, and in this strange, once-forgotten world, that means something. Ghost has defeated Gods, has ripped through the Dream Realm and torn the Radiance to shreds and wrested Divinity from her fading corpse, and they are no longer allowed to hold a nail. Funny.
It doesn’t matter. They don’t need to travel. They don’t need company.
Everything is as it should be. The Infection is gone. Hollow is safe and happy. Hornet is safe and happy. And Ghost is…
Ghost…
…
Oh.
And Ghost is no one’s favorite.
It is a strange thing to realize. It does not come as a revelation—a shock or an explosion or a nail through the back—as much as a steady understanding. Suddenly, they simply know that it is true, as if they always have. There is not one single moment they can point to as much as a million instances, catching on a web—tangling in a dreamcatcher—folding in on themselves as easily as the future did.
Hollow readily spends time with them until the moment the Pale King appears, at which point they peel away to patter after him, and leave Ghost alone in a courtyard. Hornet gives them naught more than passing acknowledgement when she visits, and they think it’s just how she is, until they watch from the rafters one morning as she flings herself excitedly at a delegation coming from the Hive. Their father tries to show that he cares, but the affection he so long harbored—harbors—for the Pure Vessel often takes precedence over the one that simply appeared one day, and so it always a case of ‘next time,’ of that patient and endless waiting for an invitation that will never come. The White Lady is free with her love, but it is the same she gives to the others—because her children are all equal in her eyes—and for all that the love is welcomed, it is not unique to Ghost. It is not unique to any of them.
The realization settles in a way that makes them double-check it; that rests so easily it might have been there all along. Ghost turns it over in their mind—no mind to think —and runs it between teeth they don’t have. They are no one’s favorite, and that is fine. They don’t need to be anyone’s favorite. It’s a selfish thing to want, anyway.
…But they had been once, hadn’t they? Would be—would have been—in a future as dead and gone as the million siblings resting eternally below?
Once, Elderbug gave them advice and respite. Once, Cornifer praised their scribbled map additions, and Iselda offered discounts in exchange. Once, Quirrel let them lean on his shoulder and doze off as the endless rains of the capital continued through the window.
Once, they crawled from the Abyss, draped in the shadows they were born in, to find their sister waiting at the top—stance unreadable as ever, but voice softer and words kinder.
Once, she walked in step with them through the Ancient Basin to the tram platform, despite having speed they could not match.
Once, she tilted her head as she looked at them, ran a fond hand over the top of their mask, and unknowingly spared her mother in the same instance; Ghost’s nail would never draw blood their sister shared—no will to break— because they would find another way.
And so they did.
Now, things are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is no one’s favorite. They fade into the background, and pass by friends they will never have, and have cordial exchanges with those that are meant to be family, and it is fine.
But there was a time, long ago and never to be, that reeked of death and destruction, that only they remember…
It was a terrible time, a broken time, a fallen time.
Selfishly, they miss it.
Things are better now. They are better for everyone except for Ghost, and that is what matters. They got their chance—at love, at freedom, at happiness—but Hollow didn’t. Hornet didn’t. The missing siblings they carefully keep part of their consciousness looking out for didn’t. Ghost was born into the Abyss, was lost outside of Hallownest, had surely fought and struggled to survive, but they can’t remember that. Beyond their birth, the only times they do have—the times in Hallownest—were good; shops and benches, maps and elevators, friends and adventure. It is all gone now, but they got their fill. Now, it is everyone else’s turn.
Perhaps they tense when someone’s breath rattles too much, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they sleep best on benches hidden away in the secluded corners of the palace, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they spend their nights curled on a bed they never use, shaking with silent sobs—no voice to cry suffering—as tears of Void drip down their mask, but they’ll get over it.
They are selfish, and they mourn a dying world that they can never return to, and they are more alone than ever before, but they’ll get over it.
…And it’s not as if anyone will notice if they don’t.
The only one who might be capable of it would be the Pale King with his domain of Knowledge, but his thoughts are frenzied at the best of times. He is caught up with trying to atone, and there is much to atone for. Ghost knows that better than anyone. Still, they can’t hold much of it against him; not anymore.
Who are they to judge a Higher Being—a God—for his sins? When they are his greatest one of all?
They were meant to have no Mind, and yet they think. They were meant to have no Will, and yet the Void unites beneath it. They were meant to be a Vessel—pure and empty and hollow—and yet a single kind act from their sister was enough to drive them to godhood, if only to spare her heartache.
(Once, the Godseeker sneered at them, a speck in her most High and Holy Home.)
(Wretch, she called them then; crawler, cringer, fool.)
It may be better that they are left behind more often than not. Something ancient and eldritch shudders within them—something that they can barely even begin to comprehend. It stirs with their emotions, and beats in time with their Void Heart.
(Once, the Godseeker gazed up at them in wonder, and drowned in a sea of Nothing.)
(God of Gods, she breathed, and died.)
Yes, it is better this way. Void terrifies, and it kills, and it hollows, and they don’t want to do any of that. They can keep it calm—keep it Focused—and stop it from harming anyone.
It is satiated for now, anyway. Ghost will make sure it stays that way, and give their siblings the peace that they deserve.
Hollow taps them on the knee. “Okay?” They sign, tilting their head at Ghost in concern. “Lost.”
“Not lost,” Ghost replies easily. “Thinking. Sorry.”
Hollow is still for a long few moments before getting to their feet, leaving the half-finished puzzle on the ground. “Come. Dinner soon.”
They’re right. Dinner quickly became a regular occurrence, where every night Ghost, Hollow, and their parents gather in one of the White Palace’s many dining rooms to eat together. The White Lady occasionally has to drag their father from his work to join them, but he always does. Vessels do not necessarily need food; they can survive perfectly fine without. Their parents don’t seem to care.
Ghost trails behind Hollow through the lofty corridors. Retainers duck their heads in respect as they go, and Ghost is reminded of the White Palace that sat in the Dream Realm, overrun with thorns and buzzsaws: the Pale King’s last defense. It is nicer now, they think, gazing over vaulted ceilings and perfectly-carved pillars and plants that are kept eternally tidy. They certainly will not miss clinging to the wall to avoid being sliced in half, staring off into the endless clouds below.
(Once, they fought their way through one of the hardest challenges they had ever faced, all for the promise of secrets sealed. They reached the end, and watched a scene of their father and their doomed sibling, standing on a balcony together. The two looked at one another, and the Dream drifted apart, dropping Ghost outside of the memory and locking it away for good.)
(Once, their father had thought that the Vessel was pure—hollow—empty.)
(And he loved them anyway.)
“Good evening, my dears,” their mother greets them as they enter the dining room. “How were your days?”
“Good,” Hollow answers for both of them. “Puzzles.”
“How thrilling,” the White Lady says, and sounds like she means it. “Come, let us sit. It’s almost time to eat.”
They take the same spots as usual. The White Lady glides into one of the larger chairs, Hollow across from her and Ghost to her right. It is still a bit strange seeing her capable of moving around. In the not-future, she had been bound in the Gardens, far larger than she is now, roots stretching throughout the kingdom. She had not been kind or loving, but rather cold; her children nothing more than tools. Sometimes, Ghost thinks that it is good she is so different from how they remember her. It makes it easier to pretend that they aren’t even the same person at all.
Hornet, visiting at the moment, is already there, perched in one of the empty chairs at the end and weaving silvery thread with three hands. She is truly Hornet now, having earned her name just days earlier after defeating the Hive Knight in combat.
“He’s going to be late,” she says, barely looking up from her work.
“I’m sorry, dear,” the White Lady says. “I would hope that having you here as well would spawn the smallest bit of initiative. It seems I was a tad too optimistic.”
Hornet snorts. “Quite bold. If his own favored children are not enough to bring it about, I doubt my own presence would.”
The White Lady stares at her, just a bit sadly. “He cares for you, Princess. As do I.”
“So I know,” Hornet says. It sounds genuine.
The Pale King walks in some fifteen minutes later. He moves regally until the doors close behind him, at which point he hurries forward to his own seat at Hollow’s side.
“You’re late,” the White Lady says.
“Apologies, dearest Root,” he replies. His Light is calmer in this time, and Ghost wonders if it is truly dimmer, or if they have simply gotten used to it. “I was preoccupied. The Old Light’s sudden retreat is as much cause for concern as it is a relief.”
Hornet scoffs. “One would think the relief would be greater.”
The White Lady hums, and a soft touch brushes the top of Ghost’s head. “I cannot help but agree.”
Light flares for a moment, but it is gentle, and the Pale King turns his head to observe all of them as he says, “Yes. I find I do, as well.”
They eat. The King and Queen ask questions about whatever things they must think are valuable to know—colors they like, books they’ve read, games they enjoy—and Hollow answers eagerly, while Hornet picks which ones she cares about. Ghost answers when prompted.
The food is good, at least. In their journey through Hallownest, Ghost had never really eaten anything, because they did not need it, and there was already very little for those who did.
(Once, Iselda passed them a piece of hardened sugar wrapped in paper after they safely returned her husband from Deepnest. It was sweet, and tasted like a fruit they’d never had.)
(Once, Grimm cackled as their dance ended and the Nightmare Heart grew ever stronger, and gave them some sort of pastry dusted with red. It was spicy, and tasted like fire.)
(Once, Hornet sat with them in a tent above their common father’s once-grave, and shared her meal of mushrooms and dried skins with them, even though she knew they did not need to eat. It was cozy, and tasted rich, and crunched as it dissolved in the Void.)
Now, they can have whatever they want. They often don’t, because it never really crosses their mind, but they can appreciate the constantly-changing dinner spread: meats free of Infection and freshly-harvested plants and cakes no one in the future even knew how to make.
Their plate has barely been empty for thirty seconds when the Pale King gets to his feet.
“Back to work?” The White Lady asks.
“No rest for the wicked,” Hornet comments.
“Nothing with the Infection, dear,” he says, ignoring his daughter. “I simply have a few tasks that desire my attention.”
“Very well.” Their mother stands as well, and Hollow follows suit. Ghost, as well as Hornet, stays in their seat. “I’ve my own duties to attend to, loath as I am to say it. At least Herrah’s letter promises to be interesting.”
The Pale King nods, flaps his wings once, and presses his forehead to his wife’s for a moment before returning to the ground. He steps toward the doors, and Hollow scurries closer, taking one of his hands.
“Oh?” The Pale King looks down at them, amused. “Would you like to come along?” Hollow nods. “Well, know I will never deny your company, child. Let us go.” The two of them depart, and though Ghost’s stare traces them the whole way, neither look back once.
The White Lady notices. She does not offer them true comfort, however, nor does she invite them along herself. Instead, she chuckles and says, “Do not be jealous, my dear. You will get your own time with each of them. We’ve the entire future ahead of us.”
Hornet hops up from her seat, flips over the table in a flash of silk, and inclines her head at them as she passes on her way toward the doors. “They will not be doing anything interesting anyway, sibling. I’ve been in our father’s workshop; it is nothing to mourn not seeing.”
Her words… do not make Ghost feel better.
The White Lady hums again, places what must be a kiss atop their mask, and says, “Calm your thoughts, my child. You’ve nothing to worry about now; not when we are here to unburden you.” Her fingers stroke the sides of their head, and she smiles and leaves as well.
And Ghost is alone.
…It’s fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.
Deep in the Abyss, the Void Sea surges with the pounding of their Heart, and long-departed siblings begin to wake from their slumbers. Ghost yanks themself from reality to focus their mind on soothing the ancient Darkness, tempering the waves and lulling shades back to sleep. They weave Dreams, and though they are nowhere near as deft with it as the Radiance was, they think it is better than nothing. A rush of warmth floods the Sea, and the pulse fluttering in their throat slows.
It’s fine. They knew that things wouldn’t be easy upon waking up in the past. They just thought that it would be ending the Infection that would be difficult, rather than everything that came after.
Ghost can adapt, though. They have before.
Hollow is safe, Hornet is safe, the Infection is gone, they assert to themself. Things are better.
They are. This is a price that Ghost can pay. It is one that they will choose to pay a million times over if it means that those they love will be all right.
(Once, Ghost used their Dream Nail on the corpse of their father, and his thoughts echoed through their blasphemous mind—No cost too great.)
(Ghost didn’t understand him then.)
(Now, they think they do.)
They are the Ghost of Hallowest, sibling of Hollow, sibling of Hornet, born of God and Void. They have ascended the most High and Holy Pantheon, slayed the Radiance, and ended the Infection for good. They are the Lord of Shades, the God of Gods, the Void given Focus. They can handle being lonely, and lost, and the favorite of no one. It’s fine, as long as it’s only them.
(Now, they are loved and they know it.)
(Once, they were loved and they felt it.)
The Abyss settles, and the Void Heart hums a steady, empty, beatless tune. It might be trying to soothe Ghost as well. That’s stupid, they think. Why would they need to be soothed? They’re fine, aren’t they?
Yes. They’re fine.
Ghost gets to their feet, pushes in their chair, and heads for the door, and if stray black tears curl down their mask and dissipate against the ground, then at least there is no one around to see it.