Drained of Light (Into the Welcoming Darkness)

Hi. Been a bit.
Short version: I've changed Ghost's voice, and have rewritten, edited, and otherwise improved chapters 1 through 12. I suggest rereading at least some of those, particularly 3 and 12, as I'm proud of what I did to those two. Plus, all those chapters have collectively about 12k words of new or lengthened content. You may additionally like to read this little thing that technically happens between chapters 1 and 2.
I also took off the skin that was making chapter headers default to invisible, as I've put stuff in those in some of the edited chapters.
Long version in the bottom note.
Chapter warnings: dash of self-harm, definite gore, standard stuff for this fic but I got extra bad in a spot or two. Watch out for the italics.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

ISMA

If only she were big enough to hold them properly.

Isma’s Vessel is curled around her, sobbing, shaking like a leaf in a gale. No matter how much she tries, they are half again her height, and she is only one person. Too small to wrap them up in her arms and hide them from the world as someone should have already, as their sire should have when they had struggled free of their shell in their dying nest of a birthplace, as their dam should have after the nightmares every growing creature has, as she should have offered when-

She raised them. Their sire may have shaped them, but she was the one helping them to find their balance after molts, she was the one training them, she was the one watching, desperately hoping never to see, for any sign that they were alive. Knowing, already, to look, and missing it regardless.

She missed it. They were alive, watching her, understanding –for they must have known– what she was honing them into, and she missed it. Failed them, utterly, sent them away to a fate worse than death, and now they-

Her Vessel clings to her as though letting go will kill them, wheezing painfully, and she is too small to properly hold them in return. Too small to draw them into her lap and tuck them away, offering them some quiet, some peace. All she can do is wrap her arms around them, wrenchingly aware of their bandages, hoping desperately that her touch will not hurt them. She has already brought them so much pain.

Lady Unn, please, if there is anything you can grant me- do not let me hurt them again.

[Failed Vessel]

-Isma-

It falls, breaks, shatters, grasping tight-

Held.

Held, tight, Isma-

Crying. Trembling, whispering “-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-“ against its horn, broken, hurting, it-

-Isma Isma Isma-

-it needs her to know-

Broken beyond use, it shatters further, reaching frantic-awkward-pleading for its king, for-

-they knew, they knew, they knew, they claimed it knowing-

-they know-

-sorry-sorry-sorry-lied-broken-traitor-please-please-please-

-it can speak now, Little Sister wishes, it is to speak, but it does not have the words-

-tell-Isma-sorry-please-

ISMA

There’s an awful, fractured sound, a voice strumming like a snapped harp, half-choked, accompanied by a tendril squeezing tight on Isma’s arm.

When she looks up, Ghost is shaking, tendrils writhing around them and curled firmly about the lower half of their face, a stray few stroking at their own horns as they speak. “They want me tell you sorry for lie, for hide alive, for be alive, for-“

She does not, cannot listen any further. Can only grab her Vessel’s horn in one hand, tugging them up to meet their eyes, voice over-harsh in speaking. “No. Vessel, you-“ realizing her mistake too late as they stop breathing outright, “you did nothing wrong.”

She had asked. Had asked, ordered, demanded, in every phrasing she could imagine, the first time she was able to be alone with them. Had ordered it again after every molt; if the Pale King is wrong, if you aren’t hollow, I need you to tell me. The fate of this kingdom, and your life, rests on it. Had asked, dreading the day they did anything but stare at her, dreading what it meant if they did not, and they-

“What else could you do?” she whispers, choked, taking their face in her hand as they keen silently. “You were in an impossible situation, a burden you never asked for on your shoulders, you- you had no reason to think your sire would have done anything but kill you and start over if you had spoken up,” for as much as she wants to think otherwise, the Pale King treating them as anything but a failed machine would have meant accepting what he had done, “and I am certain he would have.”

Bless and damn his memory, no cost too great even if it meant ripping himself apart in working deeper and deeper into his plan, refusing to see what was in front of him until regret tore him apart. And she-

“I had no plan,” soft enough that she can pretend everyone else might not hear, “nothing at all. No way I could help you if you told me. I asked because I had to, not- not because I had any plan of action, I do not blame you for lying to me. You-“ she cannot in good conscience call this the right choice, but it is the only one that does not end in their throat being cut, it-

Their breathing starts again, desperate, heaving, and she loses the tattered threads of anything properly worded in the feeling of them trying to shrink down into themself. Bracing, plating clamping, as though fearing she might hit them.

“-please, Vessel,” oh, she needs to stop calling them that, “it’s all right, I’m not angry, I-“ what do they need to hear? “-please, darling, I forgive you, please,” begging them outright to understand-

Her Vessel shudders in her hands, keening again, and presses into her. Clumsily, lurching against her palms, sliding their mask up her arm- and back down, their claws tightening on her back as they press their jaw against her wrist, cold air whuffing over-

Her pulse-point. Her throat, first, and now her wrist.

Oh.

Heart breaking, Isma spares only a glance backward, finding where she is, before wrapping an arm around them and falling back into the nest. Feeling her heart splinter further as they scramble to keep up, head lowered as in apology, as in obeisance, every motion halted and desperate in trying to maintain that seeking pressure against her wrist.

“-easy, easy, here you are,” she manages, tugging at them again –she needs to stop doing this, as well- until she has them up further, hauling them partly up on top of her and tilting her head to bare her throat. Tugging again, when they hesitate, to press their muzzle over where her lifeblood flows, reassurance and trust all in one. Offering her pulse.

They could rip her throat out, like this, and she would not blame them if they wanted to.

They don’t seem to want to. As their mask rests against her throat, they shiver, clutching at her again, and go limp, all their –alarmingly little- mass settling against her. Cold, all silk-wrapped angles, and so very, very welcome, the weight of them shuddering against her in great, heaving sobs, clinging tight.

She can only just hear herself speak, in the spaces between where their voice should be. “-you’re all right, I’m here, I’m alive, you’re alive,” words tumbling over themselves, her own tears more than catching up, “you’re here. My Vessel, my student- you survived. You came back.”

They choke, burying their face properly in her throat, keening a soundless sound that tears at her very soul. Dragging her over the precipice with them.

- - -

ORO

Ogrim is guarding the door. Resolute save his crumbling expression, back pressed to the wood, everything about him adding weight to the nebulous sense that something is amiss.

Oro, already wary, narrowly restrains the urge to shove past him. It’s easy to imagine the start of what’s happened here, with Ogrim standing guard rather than keeping himself to the duty of diverting Isma, easy to picture something painful, but beyond that-

Ogrim starts to speak, then shakes his head and steps aside, pushing the door open. Faltering again as the veil of silence snaps around a broken sob.

Isma. Isma, weeping like someone shattered, her hands trembling as she clutches Hollow tight against her, their face buried in her throat. Buried, and kept there, held against the heaving sobs that threaten to dislodge them, every line of their body shaking, nosing tighter against her. Moving, of their own accord, to hold her in return, their not-voice cloaking the room in waves.

He should leave. Should let them alone with this, with their mentor holding them, with Ghost at the edge of the nest and Hornet just inside it, with their grief and their pain and whatever has finally broken them. Should give them their privacy, should not intrude, should let them be.

But there is a particularly sharp, painful-sounding rasp building in their chest the longer he listens, and a mote of devouring blackness dripping gravity-defying up their horn, and he’s stepped closer to them before he can stop himself.

Too close. Their head snaps up in open, caught-out panic, every line of them drawing back in a sustained flinch, in a cringing motion like cornered prey. Wild-eyed, fangs parted awry, shoulders quaking with a choking, heaving, familiar effort. Trying, failing, to stop, body curling inward in the effort to strangle themself, biting down on everything.

Don’t you dare.

“Stop that,” he growls, rougher than he means, sharpened by the pained sound Isma makes as they hunch into themself, “you’re going to hurt something. Let-“

His hand is on their horn almost before he realizes why. A split second before their jaws would otherwise have met their arm.

They’re trembling. Fangs bared, trying to twist themself up into that miserable don’t look at me pose. To smother themself on their own blood. Trembling, but achingly, impossibly still, not fighting him, eyes locked on his face.

Fuck.

He will not be the reason they bottle this all up again. Not when bottling it nearly killed them the first time around. This is too much pain for one person to bear, too much for a hundred, let alone swallowing it all down and acting like they aren’t drowning, like the world will end if they let themself weep-

What is there to say to that? What reassurance could ever hope to match?

He has to try.

“Breathe,” he whispers, soft, blocking out the rest of the room- the looming sensation of Ghost struggling not to fully unfurl, the claws trembling where Hornet is frozen with her hands almost to Hollow’s mask, the faint sound Isma is making in the back of her throat. Anything and everything other than those dark, fathomless eyes, than trying, praying, for them to hear him. “You’re all right. Let it out- you’re allowed. It’s all right,” loosening his grip, stroking his thumb against their horn, “you’re safe. You’re safe, Hollow.”

Another jagged sound. Visceral, like something tearing around a gasp.

“That’s it. Let go,” he soothes, “you’re all right. Let it out.”

Please.

Something gives way. Hollow chokes out a proper sob, then another, shuddering violently against his hand. Leaning into his touch, shoulders heaving, jaws parting to pant desperately for air, trying to press against him-

Their eyes roll, seeking, from him to Isma and back up. A hammer-blow to the chisel in his heart.

Why are you asking me.

“Go on,” soft as he can manage, “you can hold her.”

Hollow lifts their head slightly, eyes flicking between him and Hornet- then lunges, shoving their face against Isma’s throat.

Oro tries to leave. Let them splinter apart in peace, let them cry- his prodding can wait.

Isma grabs the edge of his cloak, face still pressed against their horn, and yanks.

He sits back down.

- - -

GHOST

Broken.

No other word for this feeling. Broken, splintered, fractured, laid open shattered-shell to the world, cracked open and left to writhe. Or, here, to cling, shaking-sobbing-held. Held, as long as it takes, grief and pain drowning in relief and nameless, wrenching release.

Ghost sits, tucked up, too unfurled to be small, and waits. Mind whirring, churning, a useless question turning over-over-over; was this right?

It was kindly meant, the pretending. Letting Hollow, scared, pretend at not existing, waiting for them to calm. To know themself safe, wanted, held secure, to understand that existing would not, would not be met with pain. Waiting for them to calm down, and watching, instead, as they wound themself up tighter and tighter, helped only a little by the last-ditch effort that was claiming them.

Kindly meant. And good, maybe; telling them we know you’re alive to start with, when every touch was met with a feeling like not daring to flinch, with the weight of watching, listening, expecting pain, would have been pure terror.

Terror, and then, maybe, over with?

Or not. Hollow is proving far too skilled at fear, at seeing only teeth in the shape of the world.

This, now… was terror. Utter, absolute, frantic plea to be allowed to die, understanding I know you as your only use is pain, as damnation. Hearing-

Ghost shudders. Shakes away the echo, the plea, king-wielder-master sung in desperate submission, promising to be good. Good tool, good servant, good plaything, good toy, pleading I’ll help you hurt me-

Away. Push it away, to feel later. Focus on now.

No fear in this. Pain, hurt, and a relief like ripping a spearhead out, like a crushing, tight-held burden finally let go, but no fear.

No fear, now, as Hollow, chest heaving in the stop-start motions of someone almost done with crying, lifts their head a little. Tilting, good-eye-forward, to look at Ghost, the edges of them all heady strangeness and faint question.

Ghost, cautious of reaching, of scaring, sings quietly to thin air in their direction. Reassurance, comfort, welcome, as well as they can manage still shaking themself, meeting their sibling’s eyes. Careful, careful, not reaching, not grasping- even at a brush, rivulet-soft, like not daring to reach properly. Stirring a memory of fever-warmed claws low over their back, hesitant, caught just on the edge of reaching.

Oro rumbles a warning, moves. Reaches out, slow, careful, hand resting against the shudder-hitch-jerk of Hollow's spine, the motion not quite crying, not quite not. “Easy. Deep breaths, in and out. This…” pausing, expression shifting, “happens, sometimes. Breathe.”

Gentle. Careful strokes, palm-on-fabric, up and down. Voice low, soft. “Wouldn’t have done you any good to stop before- you needed that out. Would have hurt something trying, besides.”

Might still hurt something now, by the sound of them. Whistle-sharp, hitching mid-breath in trying to slow.

Shifting. Oro leaning over, almost too quiet to hear. “Don’t force yourself. Easy,” free hand running up their horn. Whispering. “It’s all right if you aren’t yet done.”

A flicker, at that. Rivulet-touch strengthening, curling over on itself and twisting upward, almost mirroring Hollow’s eyes. Shifting up towards Oro, watching, drawing attention to him, like a secret-soft whisper of look. Shimmering with a strange, tentative awe, centered against his hand on their back, the soft touch brushed up the crack to their mask.

Do they understand? That we know you’re alive means this touch, this reassurance, comes with intent? That he wants them to feel it, to calm, to be safe.

Do they know, now? That they’re loved?

When the hitch-stutter stops, Oro pats between Hollow’s shoulders, gentle. “Up. You can stay plastered on her, but get your chest off for a moment. Try to heal,” taking his hand away. Letting them press upward, wobbly, onto one elbow, horns tilted askew in the effort of healing. Soul gathering, building, the whisper-song of spellwork rising until, with a single missed breath, the whistle in their chest is gone.

Lungs improved, Hollow settles again. Tucked around Isma, but, now, looking properly at Ghost, presence flickering like a seeking claw-twitch.

Flickering, and reaching. Hesitant, wrapped in a tracery of what they’d shown at Oro. An edge of maybe, maybe, maybe-

…yours?

Soft, soft, soft, not hoping, not believing, soft and scared and asking.

Mine, Ghost sings, immediate, sibling-mine-loved, wanted, mine, meeting daring-to-ask with daring-to-reach. One tendril, gentle, unwrapped from within the rest of them to slide under Isma. Squeezing their sibling’s hand.

Mine.

A gasp. Trembling not-hope blooming, shattering open bright. Yours whispered, a prayer, thumb pressing over their tendril, yours, yours, yours building to worship-song-

Hornet flicks a blanket up, adding to those already half-on Hollow, and a bright emphasis mark of love devours all else. Bright-shining Little Sister.

(A relief, for Ghost.)

HORNET

She is, once again, useless.

Hornet, not daring to pull away, flicks out an anchor –weak, temporary– on the end of a silk line, fastening a blanket to the wall in the start of another nest. Ridiculous impulse, this, the urge to hide her sibling away as though the world cannot find them if she can only cover them enough, but there is nothing else she can do. She does not have the proper words, can offer them no meal or supplies or healing, can do nothing for them. Nothing save stay here, just next to Hollow, where they can see her easily.

Not that they take advantage of this; their eyes are already closing, frame going limp. Wrung out, surely- Soul healing is tiring when already weakened, and, between their existing injuries and the events of the day…

They had been so unsteady, prying themself up to heal. Weaving faintly back and forth, utterly exhausted. Weak.

Absurd or not, hiding them away is the only thing she can think to do. She continues. Never mind that her efforts involve concealing Isma. Muffling, somewhat, the sogginess in the Great Knight’s voice as she speaks, the broken-hearted whisper.

“Mercies, Oro, they’re so light.”

ISMA

Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Bogged down in the aftermath of tears, Isma pushes herself up slightly, careful not to dislodge her Vessel from their position on top of her. Gentle, gentle, keeping their mask tucked against her throat, horribly aware of the way their body fits against hers.

So much of them is gone. She knew the basics already- their missing arm, their flank. Their shell pierced, carved open so badly pieces are still nonexistent, their lungs. Knew already, but knowing is nothing compared to feeling, to the cavities where their shell should be pressed against her chest. The lightness to them, like someone starved. Like holding them too tightly will hurt them.

If she had any crying left in her, the ache of that would draw it out.

Oro is still touching them, she registers. Stroking up and down their back, over the carnage made of what should be neatly interlocking plates along a fluid, graceful spine, their breathing following as though cupped in his palm. Matching, perfectly, until a final droplet of tension seeps away and their head lolls entirely limp against her.

A sentiment she can agree with. Isma shuts her eyes for a moment, grounding herself in the soft chill of their breath against her shoulder, and finds her voice as well as she can. “They were never this light before. Always light for their size, since their third molt, but this…”

She lets herself trail off, unable to find the words. Anything other than demanding, in a question she knows doesn’t need to be asked, whether they’ve been fed properly.

Oro rumbles a low noise, sitting back slightly. “We need to compare notes, later. When they can stand it. I have no proper way of knowing their normal range of motion, or how strong they should be. Beyond ‘absurd’.”

A moment’s silence. When he continues, it’s quieter, like an afterthought. “Why did you stop me from leaving.”

She would have thought that would be obvious. Isma huffs, setting about trying to sit up a little, to wedge something behind herself. “They –hf– obviously like you,” gesturing at nothing in particular, wincing a little as she runs her elbow unexpectedly against something hard and pointy in the nest. Feeling Hollow’s weight shift against her, lax, as though-

Hm. She can’t see their eyes clearly enough to check, but by the pace of their breathing, they may not quite be conscious. Not a surprise, with Soul-healing under stress.

Isma shifts further, ignoring Oro’s derisive snort at, presumably, the idea that he might be liked, trying to get herself set up for her Vessel to comfortably sleep on top of her.

What has someone put in this nest, all sharp edges and-

The what moves, abruptly, burrowing its way out from under the blankets. Fixing her in a set of eternity-dark eyes, a cloaked presence unfurling just enough for her to feel.

A Vessel. And this one, oh- this one is not like her Arya, not like the trio she glimpsed on her way here. Scarcely any taller, perhaps half her height, but with a feeling to them like looking across a campfire at a wild thing in the darkness beyond. A sense of, not precisely danger, but of the need for wariness. Like the Vessel slumped against her chest, save that hers feels of the edge of a blade, of a calculating, unreadable stare before a single piercing blow, and this one- this one feels like they have teeth.

Isma, a little despite herself, is fascinated.

Giving up on repositioning, she settles where she is, lounging awkwardly with her student curled too-light on top of her. “Oh, hello- you were wonderfully hidden,” she murmurs, watching the Vessel creep further out from under the blankets, “I had no idea you were there.”

This would be Shield, then. Oro had described them on a recent supply run; a battle-hardened Vessel crept up from somewhere beyond Hallownest, ferociously protective but seeming somewhat at a loss for how to manage the softer edges of caring for someone. They may have figured something of it out- as she eyes them, unable to restrain her curiosity, they tuck carefully against her Vessel’s wounded flank to stare back at her. By the looks of them, returning her opinion of them- aware, alert, without entirely feeling threatened.

Smoothing a hand down her Vessel’s back, she dips her head slightly to Shield, the closest she can manage to a proper greeting. “A pleasure to meet you. Shield, yes? I am Lady Isma. Oro has mentioned y-“

They move. Quick as a squit, all but lunging across her Vessel’s frame to hook one low- curling horn under her hand. Shoulders curled, hand braced in the nest, no threat in their posture but something intent in their eyes. Stopping her petting down her Vessel’s flank.

“Oh- don’t,” Hornet warns, voice grating, “they- having their remaining vents touched unsettles them. We… do not know why. What someone might have-“

As she growls faintly, Shield moves, nudging Isma away slightly further. Still tucked down, their own hands still not raised. Staring, as if challenging, in contrast to that same near-submissive pose. A clear message; I have no desire to fight you, but I will not let you do this.

Ah. “Thank you,” Isma murmurs, carefully extracting her fingers from the space between their horn and their jaw. “I have no desire to-“

Wait.

“Remaining?”

SHIELD

Do not touch there. That place, that touch, only means fear. Devouring-strong, remembered pain, and a misery they don’t entirely recognize.

Shield tucks down again, partly across sibling’s back, for protection rather than blocking another touch. This… denmate? Unfamiliar, and a shock for stolen-sibling to encounter, unexpected, but that reaction is surely denmate, known and trusted.

This one listens. Understands, maybe, body-carried pain, if they listen that easily.

Strange creature, they are. Shield flicks out a tongue, two, tasting the scent, curling another against their horn where touch-smell lingers. Magic, bright, faintly sharp with corrosion, heavy with something unlike the blood of most living things.

Green. Green like the place below the cluster-den, the city, its stones all but consumed with life. Almost perfectly so. Like something sprouted from the green, growing heart and jaws and stomach, crawling away newly filled with blood and life. Something not to be challenged lightly, by the scent of them.

Sibling’s- denmate, deeply held, to cry so for them, to make them break like this, to make them feel that here is safe enough to shatter, sibling’s deeply trusted denmate- runs a slow hand down their less injured flank, under cloak and over bandages, making a quiet sound of shattering in return. Fracturing, pained, before the hand shifts to their back again, holding them tight as-

Another. Normal, living creature, flesh and proper blood, the horned one who had been guarding the door, and they tuck down tighter regardless. Appreciated, the guarding, sign enough of allyship, but their sibling isn’t awake to offer any sign of trust. Better to wait, to learn. Particularly as they saw this one before, heard this one before, while scouting.

Anything that loud is so as bait, or warning. They know better than to disregard that.

ISMA

Shield doesn’t threaten Ogrim, entirely, when he reaches towards Hollow. They do, though, fix their eyes on him, shoulders at a set that warns of a willingness to fight, staring intently until he withdraws his outstretched claw. “Ah- fair enough!”

Isma, though uncertain if Shield values her word in the slightest, makes an effort. “This is Ogrim. He and I were your sibling’s… I suppose you could call us mentors,” though they had both failed terribly at offering any sort of protection to their charge, “before the Old Light. We- oh, we haven’t seen them in centuries.”

Mindful of the stare still leveled across her Vessel’s back, she shifts her touch to keep their mask tucked against her throat, ensuring her motions won’t dislodge them. Sinking into the sensation of bone against her hand, of the way their chest expands in every unnatural-slow, rasping, steady breath. All angles and lines and sharp edges, and, now, too exhausted to fit everything together in any semblance of grace. Like and unlike the way she remembers them, save that she never inspected their horns quite so closely, and certainly never held them this way. Never held them at all- only set her hands on them to examine them after molts, or in grappling during a training session.

She’s never held them. Never offered them any comfort, any gentle touch not meant to inspect or reposition, any reason to reach for her. Any reason why they should have done this.

Shield is looking at her now, out of the corner of their eye. Wondering, perhaps, what has her on the edge of tears again.

“I had thought they might be angry,” Isma whispers, the words all but pressed against their horn. “That they might not want to see me, or might want to see me only to make their mind known. I- Ogrim, they tried to apologize. They thought I would be angry with them,” and that image will never leave her, the sight of her charge flinching as though expecting to be hurt, trying to apologize simply for living, “and they-“

Choking on her own words, on the sensation that she is not yet done with her tears, she leans gratefully into the touch he offers and forces the rest of it out. “They sought my pulse. As soon as I told them I wasn’t angry, they-“

Ogrim leans against her, slipping a hand under her shoulders, shifting the nest, and her Vessel moves. Just a fraction. Just enough to keep their mask against her throat.

Oh, if they haven’t entirely ground her heart to powder yet, they may well manage it soon.

ORO

Soul healing is tiring enough when one is in reasonable shape. Far more so when one is missing part of oneself, already exhausted, and has just finished crying one’s eyes out. Oro, accordingly, resists the urge to go prodding for a reason why Hollow appears barely conscious, settling instead for watching their eyes. Deepest black, with slits of something darker yet where their eyelids are slivered open.

A subtle tap-tap draws his attention. Shield, head turning slightly to eye him. When he looks to them, they hold his gaze for a moment, then turn, less subtly, to look straight at Ogrim.

Hm.

“I believe I’m being asked for an opinion on you.”

Ogrim, quieter than usual, offers a shadow of a smile. “Prudent enough. How fortunate they are,” soft, “to have siblings so willing to protect them. Now…” quirking an antenna at him, “what is that opinion?”

In this moment, that opinion is ‘smartass’. Oro opts not to say that out loud, giving the matter a moment of thought. He does need to say something properly convincing.

One thing comes to mind as he looks down at Shield.

“Your book. The armored bug, the guardian,” the concept you named yourself after, “appears to be some form of knight. The ideals of knighthood, in Hallownest, were the utmost in loyalty, duty, and honor, with knights willing to lay down their lives in defense of others. I cannot speak to how many truly deserved that title,” and Isma’s scoff at that speaks volumes, “but I can tell you this; Ogrim more than lives up to it. As does Isma.”

Shield unwinds their shoulders slightly at that, blinking once, and considers Ogrim with a slightly different expression. Not that Oro can tell what it is, beyond ‘not hostile’.

He lowers his voice a little, faux-whispering. “I will warn you, he’s normally much louder than this. There’s something of a reason he stood back, beyond guarding the door. He does also like to touch, though he can refrain if you prefer. He intends, I suspect, to hug them when they get their wits back.”

“Only if they like,” Ogrim murmurs.

Another blink. Shield unwinds slightly further, curling, instead, to settle their chin on Hollow’s back.

SHIELD

An ally, then.

Knight. Shield turns the word over in their head, the comprehension-feeling of hearing it said and understanding, and watches the described bug. Loud, earlier, gone quiet and gentle now, touch grooming-soft on the green-made-flesh.

This one is he. Not something they entirely understand, these words; he, she. Person-words, ally-words, like they but not fully the same. Something to ask later, if they can find some way to ask. Something beyond drawing- difficult to draw ‘he’ for matriarch or knowledge-finder.

Whatever the word, this one, he, is gentle. Gentle, and offering touch, something pleasant.

Good. Their sibling deserves gentle.

A shift. Awareness-feeling rising, like eyes sliding open.

ISMA

Her Vessel moves. Properly, this time; tilting their less damaged eye towards the world, chest snagging on a sharp inhale.

Awake.

Before she can find the words to reassure them, they move again. Wrapping their arm more tightly around her, burying their face in her shoulder. Clinging tighter, as if expecting to be pulled away.

Oh. Oh, darling.

Isma holds them close in return, digging her fingertips perhaps over-much into their cloak, throat gone tight as their grip on her. “-oh, easy, Vessel, shh,” feeling them tense, shoulders locking up, “you’re all right. You don’t have to let go.”

Her Vessel shudders, gasping a noise that should be silent, a rasp like thorns on stone forcing its way from their chest. Pained, every line of them, everything down to their breathing, better than it was before they healed but still sharp enough to mark every little shudder.

“I have you,” she whispers, and Unn only knows why that draws another beat of pure silence from them, why she feels their claws curl tighter against her shell as though she can offer them any comfort, “and I will not let you go until you ask. I have you. No one is going to take you away ever again.”

That strike hits bone. They wheeze, a high, desperate sound, cut off in a silence like a stopped heart, and Isma is speaking again even before she can hear herself. “-have you, I have you, you are safe. No one is ever going to make you leave again- I swear it. On my honor, should anyone think to try to force you away, to take you anywhere you do not want to be, I will hurt them.”

Another gasp. Almost questioning, she thinks, offering a moment’s hope that they might be hearing her.

“On my honor, Vessel,” with every scrap of conviction she has left, “you are my student and I will protect you. Tree or not, I can still manage that.”

She can practically hear the “tree?” in how they twitch against her, and chuckles weakly despite herself. “I- I’ll explain the tree later. For now- I will not make you let go, but,” loosening her grip enough to rub their back instead, “will you sit up enough to look me in the eye?”

They do. It takes them a moment, and a clutch at her back like a drowning bug grasping for air, but they do, propping themself on their elbow with their hand still under her.

Isma immediately grabs them, gently, by the face, unable to entirely resist the urge. “Listen. When you decide to let go- and you will have to eventually, or we will both find it very inconvenient- you are always welcome back. When you choose to leave this room, if you decide to travel the kingdom or even beyond that, you are always welcome back, and I would like to offer you my permission and my encouragement to hug me whenever you like. And- just as I will not let you be forced to go, I will not let you be made to stay away.”

Deliberate, she lets go of their mask, clasping her hands instead and settling them on her chest. “You’re free.”

[Failed Vessel]

It…

Oh, it does not understand this. Not her words, not the fluttering in its chest, not-

It. Does not feel right.

It dimly registers its frame sitting up fully. Registers its head listing to one side, dazed.

Registers itself starting to topple sideways.

Registers Isma –Isma, Isma, Isma- catching it. One hand on its shoulder, one-

Ow.

She… seems to have attempted to grasp where its right shoulder once was.

Its head turns to look down at where her fingers have curled around the warped edge of its plating, claws cushioned by bandages but still pressed into its innards. A strange, dull ache, her presence cushioned but not entirely concealed-

She pulls her hands away, gasping faintly, as though in pain herself. “Oh- I’m sorry, I- oh, darling,” voice shaking in a way that makes something in its chest squeeze, lifting her hand again to-

The look on her face has already brushed away some of the cobwebs. Her reaching for the edge of its cloak, trying to see, to know, dislodges the rest.

It flinches.

Isma freezes. Eyes locked on it as it slowly, slowly curls inward, tucking its maimed flank away from her, miserably ashamed of itself and still, still trying to hide.

Please. It does not want her to see what its weakness has made of her work, what ruin it has found. If only the suggestion of its injuries has her voice breaking so, then the proper sight-

It does not deserve to hide. Does not deserve to shield itself, does not deserve the shelter it has been given from probing eyes, does not deserve anything less than the cloak and bandages stripped away and its broken body stretched out under glaring workshop lights for inspection by, not only her, but every living citizen of the kingdom it has failed, does not deserve anything but having the physical evidence of its flaws on full display-

But it is weak, and it is tired, and it- it does not want her to hurt so.

It does not want to cause her further pain.

Please.

A touch.

Not to its wounded flank, its ruined shoulder. Not to where its other hand has drawn up, only half against its will, towards covering itself further- as though it could hide this. Not to its cloak, or the clasp, or the bandages.

To its horn. Gentle, gentle, a soft warmth at the base, not as hot as flesh-and-blood bugs are.

Its head is turned too far to the side. It can see Isma only out of its damaged eye, cannot read her expression. Can only hear, and hurt for, the pain in her voice.

“No, no- it’s all right, darling, easy. You don’t have to let me see. I’m sorry.”

It has no right to refuse-

“You do not owe me this. You owe me nothing about your body,” she whispers, impossibly soft for all its mind seizes up like a wrench has been thrown into the gears, “nothing. Not touching you, not knowing you. I’m sorry- I should have asked.”

Asked. Asked it to-

The touch against its horn falls away. Brushes against its arm, not grasping, only petting, before leaving entirely. “It’s your body. You make the rules. You decide.”

You decide. Addressed as though to a person. Offering it a choice.

She…

It risks turning its head. The effort grinds, nearly hurts, like forcing a joint past how it should bend, hunted by the awareness that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, it has already done so much it should not have and it is far past all concealment but acting any further feels a sin-

It looks her in the eye.

It believes her.

This is Isma. Isma, who has shaped it and guided it and taught it the new outlines of its body every time it changed, whom it trusts utterly and entirely as it trusts its ~~Father~~, telling it that it does not have to let her look.

That it has a choice.

She knows. She knows what it is.

It stares down at her, its inner workings a mess of wedged gears and tangled springs, and does not see a hint of anger. Only something strange, pain and a warning determination, tangled over in softness.

It has seen this expression before. In watching her care for badly injured students.

A flicker of red draws its eye. Little Sister, eyes locked steely on it, a thick strand of silk still caught in one hand as she interrupts herself in-

Oh. The entire nest is very nearly surrounded in fabric, in a set of curtains fastened ceiling-to-floor and bound to each other until the rest of the world is almost closed away. A spider-nest, and one that includes… it.

Little Sister’s voice shakes, too. “She is right, Hollow. You do not have to let anyone do- anything,” spit out like the word is poison, “if you do not want them to. I…”

A shuddering breath, beginning to step toward it, beginning to raise a hand- then stopping, claws curling, eyes flicking away. “I am sorry. That we… haven’t been asking. We- we knew you would not, could not, refuse anything we asked, and that- that is not permission. Fearful acquiescence is not consent. I…”

She meets its eyes, for a moment, before looking away once more. “I can only hope that we did not cross too many lines, and beg your forgiveness for those we did.”

Forgiveness for-

The nest.

The spider-nest, before, that it had not understood being included in. The nest now. Touching it, then and always, careful hands on its mask and horns and back, a thousand gentle touches that served no purpose it could understand. Careful touches, careful, moving it gently, placing it in the hot spring at every opportunity, wrapping it in cloak and bandage when there was and is no true use for such things. Stroking it, petting it, as though to soothe.

The pain medication it had not and does not understand. The insistence, over and over, on making it comfortable, offering pillows and bedding and, strangest of all, something meant to make it hurt less. To ease its pain, something that has never been done to it before.

It does not know how to read any of the expressions it can see. Can feel only Shield’s, muted and stormy, pressed low against its injured flank as though waiting to strike at anything daring to approach it.

It cannot read them, save to know that none of them are anger. It knows, it knows anger, knows betrayal, knows intent to exact bloody satisfaction when vengeance cannot be had.

They… they knew.

They all knew.

They knew from the very beginning. The little god could have cut its throat if they had tried, afforded the opportunity more than once when it fell to its knees, could have spell-struck at its already-ruined flank rather than only its legs, could have-

They wanted it alive.

It remembers. Through the agony, the foreign rage, the visceral, choking satisfaction of finally, finally insisting no more and driving its nail through the body that had become Her puppet, through the splitting pain of needle-steel forcing its skull apart-

A chime. A shower of light. A whisper, soothing-cold, all but drowned out, let-me-help-

Reassurance. That everything would be over soon, that they would help it.

They knew it was alive. They came for it.

They saved it. Knowing what it was, they saved it, and brought it to be offered-

A flashbulb goes off, shining new light against- everything. Every memory, every touch, since it woke to soft fabric and muted pain and gentle, gentle, gentle.

They knew it was alive. They knew it could feel.

They wanted it to feel good.

…why?

It has failed. It has condemned an entire kingdom to burning plague, has wasted the effort and the sacrifice and the pain that went into making it, has rendered ~~Father’s~~ final efforts and the very existence of its siblings useless.

It does not understand.

It was born to be a Pure Vessel. Its purpose is the only reason that it, and its siblings, exist at all. Is the only reason for-

No.

No, that…

That seems… wrong. To name its siblings- what they are, yes, but-

Refuse and regret. Nothing. Failed prototypes, flawed versions of the ultimate goal, cast-off things worthy only of the scrap heap.

That… is not right. They do not exist only to die, useless and forgotten. They are, still, impossibly, alive.

Arya.

Destroyed in use. Further reinforcement needed.

A failure.

If Arya had not broken, if they had been Pure, Hallownest would still stand.

If they had been Pure, it would not have burned.

That image again. Another Vessel in a bleached-white cloak. Arya’s horns, Arya’s mask, lifeless eyes.

Perfection.

Atrocity.

It had never thought to be angry with them. Never thought to blame them.

Is not angry with them.

How could it be? They had tried, surely- it has seen the records of what they endured, knows intimately what they must have done to hide, how they must have tried-

How they-

~~It had tried, it had tried so hard- no matter that everything hurt, hurt, hurt-~~

Arya was the first Failed Vessel. Arya was not Pure enough. Arya broke.

Arya is loved.

Is that- does that mean-

…it-?

A voice stirs it out of its stillness. Not truly the voice –Ogrim, oddly quiet, prompting “knight?”- but the touch against its arm that comes with the third repetition.

Isma.

“That’s you. Admittedly, it is three of us, but- it’s you.”

Knight. Is it still-

Ogrim is addressing it.

It turns to look.

He is almost touching its shoulder, showing no sign of moving, expression a similar oddity; soft, wounded at the edges. “I have watched nearly everyone I have ever helped to train go to battle, or flee this kingdom, and never come back. You offer me a vanishingly rare opportunity. I understand you’ve had little chance to learn if this is something you enjoy, but- I would like to hug you. May I try, and we can find out if you like it?”

Oh.

Yes.

It lifts its hand to offer a clear answer, drawing, in another thing it does not understand, a look of renewed pain from Isma-

And is promptly and effectively diverted by Ogrim. Ogrim’s grip, sudden and tight around it, pulling it firmly up against him. Warm, solid, alive, and it had never seen his would-be corpse as it had Isma’s but there is a strange, gutting relief in the weight of him regardless, in feeling how its chin rests on his shoulder, in scenting soil-dust-water-life.

When he lets go, he moves as though to grip it by the shoulders, as it has seen him do with countless recruits- and interrupts himself awkwardly in the middle of the motion, arriving with one claw on its shoulder and the other on its face. In lieu of where its shoulder is not.

When he speaks, his voice cracks faintly, as Isma’s does. “Ah- there we are! Look at you,” and oh, it knows, it knows the state of it is pathetic, it-

“You’re alive.”

…oh.

It is, yes.

As it stares at him, he pulls it in again, clacking his horns deliberately against its own in a way that makes something in it want to shove, and hugs it once more. Much tighter.

The pressure hurts. Aches, pressing at where its body is only beginning to heal, or has not entirely managed so.

It leans into him regardless.

Oro speaks up, eventually, when Ogrim fails to loosen his grip. “Don’t break their ribs.”

The pressure lets up a fraction, with an odd, stilted chuckle. “Do they have ribs?”

“…not that I saw, actually.”

Isma makes an odd hissing sound. Ogrim clicks, then speaks against its horn, faux-whispering. “That is not a good thing for someone to be able to see, my friend.”

It is aware.

…friend.

Does it…

Is it to return the hug? To understand an order in this, to-

Hugs are mutually done.

GHOST

Small motion. Subtle. Claws spreading, careful, as though expecting reprisal, as Hollow sets their hand against Ogrim’s back.

Ghost is at the wrong angle to see, to watch his face. Right angle to hear, though, a faint noise like learning an old wound still hurts, soft-whispered “there you are”.

Ogrim hugs just short of strangling, when emotional. Now definitely counts.

When he lets go, Hollow wavers, head going up-sideways-down, almost overbalancing in trying to sort out horn-centering. Isma catches them, hand at their chest, choking on something near a laugh. “Oh- easy, love, give it a minute,” reaching up to cup their face, “a good enough cry can do that. Wrings you out, doesn’t it? And that’s without having to stick one’s skull back together, poor darling. Oh- you’re all right.”

Soul wells swirling along her arm, between fingers now spread just in front of cracked bone, almost-liquid shine. “Here. Pull as you would with a totem,” whispered, other hand still propping their chest. “There’s a spring in town, I have more than enough to spare. Let me top you up, hm?”

Soul-sharing. One of frustratingly many things no two places agree on, seeing anything from common decency to the height of intimacy. Meaning anything. Guilt, to love, to simple offer of rest.

All three, maybe, here.

Hollow, horns still askew, muzzle nearly engulfed in the glow, hesitates.

A faint shiver, a deep breath, and the light wells, spiraling up-over-in across face and eyes and horns. Easing, slightly, the tightness of shoulders and spine, body softening out.

Still unsteady. Isma strokes, gentle, up their horn, then pats lightly as one eye tilts to her. “Better?”

Nothing.

Isma… wilts slightly. Like something else should have happened.

Ah. Isma hasn’t seen, yet. Arya, meeting her again, had slipped their chains and stayed free, chased and haunted and clawing at lingering scraps but trying. Hollow wraps themself in broken chain-links, refusing to crawl free.

Gentle, gentle, Ghost reaches out, trailing along the thread-link like a line in the dark. Whispering, soft. Safe. Safe, sibling.

A brush, shivered, against their whisper. Head tilting to see them. Nothing, still, only watching.

Please.

A shudder, leaf-rattling, as Isma rallies. “Here, darling. Let’s- I’ll stop trying to give you more to deal with. Lay down, hm? Before you fall over,” coaxed, soft, a hand gentle up their spine. Pressing them down, down, into the nest, stroking up one horn. “You rest. Let me- ah.”

Careful, taking their hand in a delicate grip, pressing their claws to her wrist. “Right there. A little firmer- that’s it. Do you feel that, Vessel?”

The slightest, half-hidden nod.

“You have my pulse, there, and you’re welcome to keep it,” whispered against the back of their hand, settling in next to them. “I- oh.”

Two blankets, in Hornet and Shield’s hands both, flick over them. Covering Isma, by extent.

Hollow shivers, body and thread-link both, slumping limp.

Calm, at least.

Ghost sits back, body and link both, to… wait? Asking again, pleading again, is- useless, maybe, more likely to scare, with their sibling so deeply wrung out. Enough to feel, like cloth through a laundry roller. More than enough confusion, for the day.

They sit. Quiet, still, not pushing. Not pushing, not- no matter the urge. No matter the need, the drive to reach, to cling, to plead, please, you’re safe- come out, to chase-

Hollow. Their sibling. Chains shrugged away, however briefly.

They do not chase.

A flicker. Tentative, delicate, the barest brush against a thread. Reaching out.

Yours?

Mine, Ghost sings, immediate, reaching back, trying- please-

The touch connects, clawtip hooked around clawtip. Delicate, tentative, but trying.

Yours, like a breath of air after drowning, then a trembling, disbelieving loved?

Loved, always, and the trembling sensation of something impossible is another bolt to the chest, a crushing weight, sending them up and dashing to grab. Catching Hollow’s face in both hands, tugging, to shove two horns together, through fabric. Headbutting, nuzzling, please, please understand-

Ours, sibling, ours-

A press into them, faint. Trembling. A squeeze, thread wrapping tighter.

Holding, without fever, without raw, broken desperation, the thread-link and Isma’s hand.

There you are.

Ghost, curled small, clinging to one arcing horn, misses seeing Oro try to leave. They feel, though, the motion, hear Isma hiss. Faint click-click and shifting of rapid, angry sign.

Oro sits again.

- - - - -

[found]

This… seems unsafe.

The tent has eyes. Not the windows, the face- the seams. Half-hidden, not-there, shifting magic-bright to watch.

They hesitate. Just on the edge of a lantern’s heat, inside the pool of strange red light. Hearing its crackle waver and dim, the world fading out behind something-not-right. Closing away, a piece at a time, sound and light and balance chipped at the edges-

Pressure.

Arya. Arm around them, supporting, until the wavering eases. As much as it ever does.

Arya is unsteady, too. Different way, all in limb and muscle, not so much in senses, and different reason. Different enough to balance them.

Different, and calm.

Calm.

Okay. They… okay.

Safe?

Safe, Arya confirms, squeezing- vaguely awkward, too tall. Trusted, warm, safe.

Okay.

Warm. Warm fabric, rough under pawpads, warm scent. Magic, flame- strange.

None of this should fit, they think. Not with this many pieces, hallways and rooms, together. More space-bending, in fabric instead of stone, strange-strange-strange.

Strange door. Fabric, giving when Arya touches it, opening to show-

Oh.

Flame-god, they understand. Death-god, scavenger, like the wild things that eat corpses to work them back into the soil. Important. Safe, too, trusted, they know-

And much, much taller than them. Obvious even with him lounging, cradled off the ground in fabric, worse when he unfolds and stands-

He-

Pressure.

Darkness. Soft cloak thrown around them, squeezed.

Motion. Can hear that something is said, low, rough, but can’t hear the words, can only feel the sign-gesture motions of something said in return.

A shift. Arya unwrapping, letting go, stepping forward as the god crouches. Reaching up, up, hopping to-

Grab him by one horn, hauling down, down, until his chin presses to the floor. Until he sighs, hot air billowing, and slumps limp along the rough fabric. Eyes closing to slits, folding both arms up and under, leaning a horn into Arya.

Arya. Who… gestures ‘come here’, patting… at his horn.

Come and handle the nightmare god.

…they. Hm.

His horns are warm.

Hm.

QUIRREL

Finding Grimm sprawled on the floor is something of a surprise. Somehow, Arya sitting on top of him is not, but the little sibling perched by them loops back around to surprise again.

Quirrel pauses, stepping inside just enough to let the flap-door close behind him, then sits so as not to be somehow towering over the rest of the room. “There’s been an introduction, I take it?”

Grimm gestures elaborately with the black bone cigarette holder he only seems to pull out when unsupervised, intricately detailed and longer than his hand. Well-suited for elaborate gestures. “Evidently all I needed to make a good impression was to become a rug. Though- we have managed to skip over the proper introductions, I feel. What is your name, friend?”

The little Vessel wobbles slightly, tucking their footpads better into a fold of his cloak, and ducks further behind Arya.

Catching the faintest shadow of something in Grimm’s eyes, Quirrel hums a low note, grabbing a pillow to lean back against. “They haven’t chosen one yet, though Patches has managed to have us calling them Sweetheart, as a slightly more polite alternative to ‘hey you’. They do also… may I tell him?” he asks quietly, gesturing to one antenna.

They look faintly startled, then nod, tangling a hand in Arya’s cloak.

“They have some trouble with their hearing. It worsens under stress, which does nothing to help them experience any less stress. Nor does that tremor, or the fact that their ability to understand speech fades out faster than their hearing.”

Fascinating implications there, that they have a state of being able to hear the sounds of words without the meaning coming across. A failure in the spell that lets them understand language? An equivalent to the sort of brain damage that causes similar difficulties, but somehow intermittent? And how would that have happened, given-

Ah. He forgot to finish his point.

“It isn’t you,” he whispers, reaching to squeeze Grimm’s hand, “it’s the world at large that makes them nervous. Let them settle,” murmured, before looking to- hm, they do perhaps need a name that isn’t a term of endearment. Though they may like it well enough. “Grimm is used to people finding him intimidating. Granted, he is,” a little wry, “but there are those who make no effort to look past that initial impression and simply treat him as someone to be avoided. Which… does not look like this, hm?”

Grimm huffs, a scrap of tension fading, opting for a drag of vaguely berry-scented smoke rather than any sort of verbal response. A deep, deep breath, ribcage expanding enough to notably lift the Vessels perched on his back, then an exhale that sends smoke curling out a set of vents along the sides of his neck. Drawing Sweetheart’s eye, an inquiring head-tilt that nearly tips them off his back, one hand almost shifting as though to touch.

Arya, meanwhile, gestures hopefully to the holder, wiggling slightly. Earning themself a half-glare, fond, over his shoulder. “I am not sharing with you. ‘Lulu cannot yell at me about my lungs when I only need them a day or two more, but you, unless I am terribly mistaken, are stuck with yours.”

They snort at that, leaning over so he can better see them speak. “Who tell her?”

“She would know.”

- - -

MYLA

The sunset is pretty. Blurred or not, it’s all in lovely shades, purples and oranges and reds. And pinks, like…

Maybe not so pretty, the pink like crystals. Nice color, she really does like it, but maybe she’s had enough of that for awhile. Like with mining- enough of that. At least until the phantom ache in her shoulders stops.

Still. Pretty. Worth watching, if she can… remember which way to go to get back. This is the edge towards the road in, she thinks, so if she can find the road…

Oh. This one is taller than her.

That shouldn’t be a surprise; many people are. Myla isn’t a tall bug by any standards, especially not outside the mines, ha. Still, somehow, it’s an odd thing to meet, enough to stop her even before they step fully in front of her.

In front, and around. Three of them, and that’s also a strange thing, more than one of… why is that strange? There are usually more than one of any given creature, aren’t there, except-

Oh! It’s their eyes.

Those are her friend’s eyes. Ghost’s.

Curious little creature, smaller even than her, and the only one like them she’d ever seen. She’s seen another now, Arya, with those same eyes, so why…

Arya wobbles, don’t they, and feels different to be around. Less… what’s the word.

They’re still looking at her.

Whoops!

“I’m sorry, w-where are my m-manners. Myla. I get a l-little lost in my head sometimes, ha,” she offers, a little self-conscious, watching them… stare at her. Head cocked, feet set, sizing her up. Matched by the other two, set apart at a perfect, even distance, squared up like support beams. Not threatening, only… watching?

They’re… pretty, she thinks. Chipped and tattered around the edges, but pretty, fine white horns standing out in the dimming light. Taller than her, a little, more if you count the horns, and nowhere near as solid. The other two are heavier built, though not to match her, and-

One, the smallest, right at her height, reaches out. Almost to her face, hesitating, to…

Oh. Her eyes.

“T-that’s from the Light. It doesn’t h-hurt, I just… c-can’t see very well.”

Another moment’s hesitation, then they slowly reach out, taking her hand. A little puzzled, she lets them, feeling their hands –pawpads scuffed and little short claws chipped like a miner’s– shake faintly as they press her fingertips to…

That’s right. Hollow eyes, in a mask that isn’t a mask at all.

There are scratch marks under her thumbpad. Gouged outward from their eyes.

Oh.

“…y-you too, huh?”

- - -

CLOTH

This isn’t likely to be a pleasant talk.

Cloth knows, by now, better than to try waking her fellow warrior. At best, it gets her hissed at, at worst swiped or bitten. ‘Tis only fair, really, with the heart-lurch she must cause, but she likes not to be bitten and she likes not to give her friend cause to bite. Though it is funny when instinct wins and gets her an eyespot-display too, hands up to show those startling-bright markings inside each arm.

She waits, then, for the rare twitches to strengthen, turning to proper stirrings. Waits for the lurch of proper wakefulness, hums ‘till the first, reflexive growl settles away and shifts to recognition. ‘Till her friend looks up properly, sees her rather than shadows.

It’s gladly done, all of it, no matter what. But it’d be a lie to say there’s no pleasure in the quiet trill, half-thought, that she’s come to know as hello, friend.

Never mind what it trails into, something profane and half-heard, fangs bared at nothing as Dryya struggles against uncooperative limbs and spine to get herself up. Fighting for being able to look her in the eye from somewhere other than flat in bed.

Winning, at that. Enough to stare her down, steely, like a challenge. “How are they?”

Complicated answer, this. Cloth shifts a little closer, off the edge of the bed and onto it proper, looking for the right words. For an answer, really, if there is one at all to that, let alone an answer held only in what she could see.

She settles on what had surprised her most. “They’re upright. Don’t rightly know how,” with what she’s overheard of them, of what was done, of generations worth of time spent chained, “and it’s with a crutch, but they’re up and moving. Makes an impression, that, tall as they are. Bandaged, some, around their chest and belly, and,” what else? “somebody’s got them a cloak over their one. Doesn’t… entirely hang right around-“

This is much less comforting than the standing. But- she was asked for truth, not comfort, and it would be a disservice to act otherwise. “It isn’t only their arm gone. Their whole shoulder is as well.”

Dryya makes a low, angry sound, claws tight in the blankets.

“Their mask is cracked, into one eye. It isn’t covered, so ‘t may not be blind yet. I didn’t try close enough to see any more; they didn’t look to be pleased with all the eyes on them.”

Oh. That’s of note, isn’t it. “The… perfection. Playing at being a machine, hiding everything. That’s cracked as well, seems like. ‘Tis subtle, little things,” things she likely would have missed if not for how closely she was watching them, “but they aren’t, maybe can’t, hiding it all.”

She can’t read that expression proper. Can only take a swing at it. Pain, grief, anger, claws piercing already-shredded blankets to grind bloodying-strong against her palmpads. Won’t take kindly to being stopped in it, either; enough trouble fighting her own body without someone else contributing.

Cloth, instead of trying to stop her, fishes for something to make this- not better, but less. Little to say, there, beyond they’re alive, they’re walking, they’re here, beyond…

That’s something. “Their sister’s tight by them. Has them guarded. That tough Vessel, the one my height, has the door strung with tripwire. They’ve family.”

Dryya wedges herself up more, managing to sit, and glares at her claws until they come mostly loose. “Family is who did this to them.”

Hmf. “They’ve proper family, grown enough to fight for them,” Cloth mutters, half-managing her own growl, dodging the urge to help untangle threads by reaching instead for the jar of wound ointment. “And allies besides. They’ve safety. They’ve a chance.”

This may push too far, but- “they’ve you.”

Somehow, that earns her no snapping. Only a huff, scornful, and a stare at the far wall. “They don’t want me.”

Cloth reaches out, careful not to startle or put her fingers between claws, to take her friend’s hand. To pull the clawtips gentle from welling spots of blood. “Wanted Isma, I think.”

Dryya’s breathing snags.

“She- broke, a little. Went to see them. Been in there hours now, with Ogrim,” pausing to grasp the jar lid in her mandibles and unscrew it, “an’ several people who could throw both’m out if they wanted. Seems she’s wanted there,” almost whispered, gentle. Not looking up towards the shuddering noise that earns, she sets to dabbing at the new wounds, careful as she can. Propping all the claws back as they try to curl in again.

A long, wheezing snarl, and a curling-up motion at the edge of her eye. The scrape of claws on horns. “They should not-“ sharp, then bitten down on, choked softer, “they should want nothing to do with us, save perhaps retribution. We failed them, and I-“

Another fang-snap, grinding, voice breaking. “What little I can offer, like this, they should not want.”

This is a discussion had before, and one that chases itself in circles. How did you fail them, what could you have done met with I did not take my oaths to accept ‘nothing can be done’ without blood and steel poured into it, with do you know what we did to them, do you understand, winding up into rage. Made worse, she thinks, by Dryya being usually unable to stand and pace.

That question goes nowhere.

She tries, instead, a statement. “They should be dead, too, or mindless. Seems they’re not the best at should.”

That wheeze, at least, sounds vaguely like amusement.

It’s a start. Where are the bandages.

- - -

ORO

This was not the plan.

The plan was to let Hollow get to feeling less like something dragged backward through the sharp bits of Greenpath, to let them get used to the crutch and be done with looking like they wanted to burrow into the ground and disappear at having it handed to them, before springing this on them. Let them get their brain sorted out a fraction so they could better deal with… however they would feel about that.

Isma, evidently, didn’t have deep enough supplies of patience for that plan, given their impressive ability to continually wind themself up.

Maybe sobbing their eyes out will have gotten enough else out to help. They seem calm, at least, when Hornet uncovers their face to offer them dinner, feeding them a few slices of roast crawlid herself to avoid making them let go of Isma’s arm.

There’s something odd to them, when he reaches to examine the crack through their mask. A sense of another set of eyes on him, an indefinable sense of curling awareness, in faint shadow of what he’s felt before.

Another ‘at least’; their shade seems calm as well.

Ogrim has taken his leave, but Oro is, evidently, not allowed to do the same. Both times he’s tried have resulted in Isma scolding him one-handed, evidently under the impression that he has something to lend to this situation. Leaving him with little to do but watch the heap of bugs –or, bug-like creatures– assembling around Hollow.

Isma, to no one’s surprise, opts to arrange herself next to them rather than leaving to sleep elsewhere. Somewhere in the arranging, she curls herself up enough to reach her ankle, wincing slightly, then pulls a length of thin cordage festooned in crystal shards from under the blankets. “I seem to have acquired someone’s tripwire.”

Shield pokes their snout out of where Hornet has inadvertently buried them once more, reaching out to take what seems to be at least their third tripwire, given the two already placed at the door. They’ve curled against Hollow’s belly, tucking back under the blankets, and are doing… something. Something that makes a faint, repetitive scraping noise, like chitin or bone being worked.

Ghost contemplates the nest as it settles, then lifts the edge of Shield’s main blanket, leaning underneath. After a brief exchange, they duck under as well, tendrils briefly visible as they wrap themself up in liquid shadow and settle in.

Which leaves Hornet. There’s a look to her like something caged, faint but persistent, clinging through the weaving of a tent-nest and her efforts at going still after. All too familiar, that look, though he doubts his own ever had entirely so much claw-tangling. She’s worse at sitting with helplessness than he is. Worse, and winding herself up about it, looks like, hesitating every time she reaches for her sibling’s horns.

She doesn’t entirely manage to hide the caged-animal look to her expression when he taps his claws to get her attention. Signing, to avoid waking any of the others. “Touch. They like. You know they like.”

A quiet growl, and an irritated flash of claws, glaring. “Won’t tell me no.”

He glares right back. “Won’t ask.”

She bares her fangs at him for that, then glances away, claws curling on thin air as she reaches out. Setting her hand, lightly, through the blanket, against Hollow’s horn.

In what should not make her look so faintly startled, they lean into her.

She tucks herself against their chest, eventually. Carefully under their arm. Making a near-silent whine when they press their muzzle to her horn.

- - -

Rot. Light.

The form under his hands writhes, spurs gouging into the table, strength born of desperation nearly shoving him loose, and his grip on their wrist and chest can do nothing to stop them kicking out, claws already tipped in blood he can pay no mind to, not when-

Black plating splits open like overripe fruit, molten orange spilling forth, and Hollow screams. On and on, jaws gaping open, a silence as piercing as agony choking the room, strangling out any hope of calling for the help he needs to do something, anything, anything to stop-

Oro lets go of their wrist and presses instead against the top of that gaping wound, trying to stop it spreading, to stop the edge chasing up towards their chest, and feels their shell break under his claws as the devouring rot eats them alive, tearing up up up through their belly and into their chest, everything of them spasming as it hits their lungs-

-still, still, they need to be still, and his grip is back on their arm as light bubbles up from their throat, as one mandible sloughs away to hit the table beneath, as they choke on acid and the sound is present in the room once more for an instant before they scream again, every scrap of control broken, wrist cracking in his grip and still, still too strong for him to pin properly, for him to keep down to see if something, anything can be done to-

Their eyes meet his, rot forcing its way up through the crack in their mask, and he knows.

They don’t understand. Don’t understand why he’s done this to them, why he’s broken whatever scrap of trust they had to hold them down as their innards dissolve and their lungs flood and their frantic, agonized struggles start to weaken, terror and betrayal damning in their eyes-

-one final, heaving breath, and their chest collapses in on itself, sending their back arching and their horns driving into the table as rot gushes from their mouth, their vents, throat showing spots of light piercing through velvety black, body lit up in a tracery of brilliant orange showing between every plate-

The shell of their chest sloughs away into molten gold and writhing black, lungs coming apart and heart still, still beating in the mess of gore, still alive, alive, alive, frame going limp save weak, helpless twitches, claws falling away from their frantic grip on his arm-

-useless, useless, he’s done this to them for nothing, betrayed them in service of nothing but his own failure to keep them still enough, to find something to help them, to give them so much as a merciful end-

-his hand meets thin air where his nail –last resort, final mercy, praying splitting their mask works– should be.

The air is clear. Free of sickly-sweet rot.

Something is chirping outside, the sound un-choked, a steady, even pattern.

When he lifts his head to look, one elegant white horn shines softly in the dark of the room, curving up from among the blankets. Intact, not fracturing apart, the slight visible corner of one eye free from pus-viscous rot.

…he’s going to be sick.

Outside helps. Cold, scouring wind, a rain barrel to scrub nonexistent decay off his hands, space to move.

Too quiet, though. Whatever was chirping has gone silent, spooked, and no one else has managed to be awake and out at whatever fucking ungodly hour this is. Too quiet, too still, no proper reminder that it’s done with, that this is a silence of nothing rather than pain. Enough to send him towards the outskirts of town, towards the one thing still making consistent noise.

Strange, maybe, to go looking for the Nightmare Troupe’s enchanted torches for something like reassurance. To hunt after the crackling noise they make. Useful, then, that he’s well past caring about ‘strange’.

There’s something odd about that tent. Beyond the obvious. Something he doesn’t entirely register, until the impression of it fades out just as Grimm shrugs the flap aside.

Of course. Trust Grimm to stitch eyes into the thing.

He looks rudely woken. Squinting crookedly, Arya held limp in one arm like a plush toy, their horns lolling even as he absently tries to cradle them slightly better. “What… are you doing.”

Oro doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s pacing around the bonfire area- what does it look like he’s doing. Nightmare-god ought to know why, besides, much as that thought makes him want to head the other fucking direction. Invasive fucking bastard. Intentional or not.

Grimm shifts his hold on Arya, succeeding only in making them flop a different direction, and continues to watch. Staring, openly, until Oro snaps “what” and he blinks. “Are you anticipating that this will do you any good?”

Fuck else is he meant to do.

“If your hands still feel tainted,” eyes flicking meaningfully to where Oro is grinding his thumbpad against his fingers in a habit he thought he had shaken, “I doubt thin air will offer much relief. I have some aggressively-scented soaps, but- perhaps something more tactile?”

Oro pauses at that, to glare at him properly, then sets to pacing again. “That suggestion better not be what it sounds like.”

A huff, and a quick motion to catch Arya again, finally unfurling those odd secondary limbs to support them better. “I do not have the energy needed, nor the foolishness to suggest that. What I meant was; go and set your hands on them. Feel for yourself that the fever and the rot are gone. Go- find their pulse,” gesturing at nothing, before settling his hand against the curve of Arya’s horn. “Something other than this.”

Oro stops again, glaring at him from slightly closer this time. “They don’t need me prodding them awake for no fucking reason. Don’t need me- handling them. Had enough of that already.”

Grimm shudders his cloak-collar back towards neatness, huffing sharp at him. “No reason, he says,” addressed to the limp bundle of Vessel in his arms, “as though stirring himself about in his own pain will do them any good. As though they might prefer him doing this to them potentially being woken.”

He lifts his head, eyes flaring bright as they lock onto Oro’s. “Is it really such a terrible thing? The idea of comforting yourself in a way that shows them you care for them?”

…fuck.

Entirely too many people in this damn kingdom who know things they have no right to know, and they have to make it fucking worse by knowing what to do about it. Peel him open like a damn head of grain.

Bastard even calls after him as he turns to leave. “I have it on good authority that they are, at minimum, fond of you! Go and act like it.”

They’re still asleep.

Asleep, their breathing as quiet as it ever is, muzzle tucked against their sister’s horn. Curled up, no more light to them than their own Soul-glow, and just the sight of them calm and intact is a relief like being able to breathe again.

Careful of those around them, he steps into the nest to sit by their head, looking down at their closed eyes. Deep black, like ink, hiding away the shadows behind. No weeping rot burning the delicate lids open, no wild, desperate terror. No pain.

Reaching for their belly gets him another set of eyes. Shield’s, open, visible under the edge of their blanket only thanks to the glow of their mask. They make no attempt to stop him sliding a hand between them and Hollow, only watching, head tilted slightly, as he sets his palm against…

There.

Cool, solid shell presses against his fingertips, that same small gap that had broken open to rot and agony. That has, in fact, not ruptured at all, marked only by a slight nick at the edge of one plate. Rainwater-cool, shifting faintly with their breathing. Intact.

Oro exhales, long and slow, and lets himself sink into the feeling. The gentle rise and fall, steady, unmarred by frantic struggle. The hint of flexibility, the soft material between giving at a slight pressure.

No abscess here. No rock-tension of pain.

Another relief.

Shield lifts their head a little further, their eyes lifting from his hand to his face, as in question. Reaching, after a moment, to set their hand just beside his.

Hm. How much does he want to explain. “There isn’t… shouldn’t be anything. I… remembered something, and…”

The room is dark. Quiet. All other eyes covered, tucked away, save Shield watching him.

“I needed to see that they’re all right,” he murmurs, a confession, hoping at once that they will and will not understand what he means. That they might, or might not, understand I need them to be all right, I need their pain to be over with, I need them safe.

Shield stares up at him, then down at their hand next to his, pressing lightly as in inquiry. Tracing the edge of one plate, then back up, eyes on him. Asking, he thinks.

Fully aware that the explanation will only piss them off, he traces a careful circle over Hollow’s stomach, where Patches had outlined before. “They were sick when we got them out of their chains. An abscess,” he explains, and feels when the meaning of the word sinks in; Shield’s frame goes tense, shoulders drawing up, and they growl oh-so-faintly. Claws curling, carefully, against their sibling’s shell.

“Not a normal one. They have no blood or pus to fill a normal abscess with,” rubbing his thumb carefully over the spot. “Rot, trapped inside them, with a fragment of god-scale anchoring a curse in it. We got it out, but it-“

He should stop talking, shouldn’t he.

It spills out regardless.

“-it had them so feverish they couldn’t remember who we were. We had no way to tell them that we were cutting them open because it was the only way to get that out. That we were- that I was holding them down to help.”

It’s the barest whisper, something that should only be truth but comes out as another confession, half-wrapped in the expectation of that bone blade at his throat for this. If Shield doesn’t understand-

-well. It would almost feel deserved.

Another growl, bitten off, and a reach for his free hand. Grabbing it, when he offers, to shove it against Hollow’s flank. A press, a slide, starting just above their vents and moving upward, as far up as Shield can reach. When they run out of arm length, they let go, tilting their head, and press one hand firmly to their own throat, then stare pointedly from his hand to Hollow’s throat.

Ah.

He’s asked too much of them already, asleep or not. But, caught in a space lit by nothing but faint, steady Soul-glow, fingertips still thrumming with the sensation of rotted shell giving way twitching and alive under his hands, Oro cannot find it in himself to refuse. Only to run his hand up the rest of the way, to their shoulder, their back, before finally coming to rest at their throat. Fine scales and velvety black softness, their pulse thrumming slow and steady under his touch, far too slow for any conscious flesh-and-blood thing but entirely normal for them. No racing beat of fear and pain, no swelling pustules of rot stretching the delicate skin until it tears, no choking of trying to scream and being denied by nature and acid both-

Shield, rumbling a noise felt more than heard, presses a handful of something rough-textured to Hollow’s belly and sets to scrubbing.

Why- ?

Hollow jerks awake. Feet bracing, head coming up, visibly startled-

A one-two whuff of cold air against his hand.

A blink.

Their whole frame slumps. Not the dropped-puppet limpness they’ve shown before, only something close, a soft-edged look of relaxation. Cumulating in their head settling onto his leg, his hand still on their throat.

Their throat. The softest place on their entire body, and blood loss may not be as dangerous for Vessels as it is for living things but he could still hurt them so badly if he tried, and they settle as soon-

As soon as they smell him.

Woken from a sound sleep by what is likely not the most comfortable sensation, Shield (figuratively) attacking them with what looks like either wiry lichen or some sort of dried root, and all it takes to get them relaxed again is recognizing him.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck-

Feeling their pulse settle back from where it had jumped under his fingertips, Oro moves the hand on their belly up, out of Shield’s way, resting against their chest instead. Feeling, not through their shell but in their throat, the beat of their heart thrumming calm and steady under his hands.

He doesn’t entirely mean to ask the question.

“You… do trust me, don’t you.”

A blink. Slow, sleepy. A nod, subtle, against his leg, claws sketching a sluggish “yes” against the blankets.

Fuck.

May as well have put those claws through his chest. Blinking languid up at him, accepting whatever’s happening with something he can feel in their pulse is nothing like fear, lax and trusting in an instant.

It’s an effort to keep his voice together. “You’re fine. They’re- pissed at memory,” and trying to scrub it off, looks like. “Go back to sleep, if you can.”

Their eye rolls towards Shield, mask lifting the slightest fraction, then up again.

A deep breath, chest expanding under his hand, constricted in spots by scarring but managing well regardless, and the weight of their head settles properly onto his leg. Trusting, calm, and alive.

Keep it together.

Slowly, their pulse slows, their breath a steady current against his hand.

Don’t scare them. Keep it together.

A final blink, and their eyes close properly.

Don’t.

Oro keeps a lid on himself as their pulse finally sinks, down, down, from a pace worrying for a living thing to a pace utterly impossible. As their breathing falls into place alongside it, a long, long pause at the peak of each inhale and the depth of each exhale, carrying a frame with no true need for air.

Keeps himself together until he can feel, soft against where his thumb rests on their mask, spaced out in their breathing, that they’ve fallen asleep.

Alive. They’re alive, calm, quiet, blessedly cool, without rot or fever or gushing Void.

They aren’t dying. The heat, the pain, the please, let us help are over with.

They’re going to live. Barring something external, they are going to live.

They trust him.

Shield, still rumbling every now and then, only looks up when his own breathing changes. When something finally splinters.

They have, at least, the decency not to stare at him falling apart.

He manages not to get any tears on Hollow’s mask.

It’s a narrow thing.

Notes:

Yeah, turns out I couldn't just go through the chapters and put headers on 'em, I had to fix stuff. I basically rewrote the first four or five chapters, and made a variety of degree of edits to everything up to, technically, 13, though 13 only had a couple words changed. I put my year+ of additional writing practice to work. Worked great, but took awhile, and then my December and January were, uhh, let's say 'hassles'.
I've also feraled Ghost up a bit. Their actions remain the same, but their voice has changed, and there will accordingly be an unfortunate couple of bumps when you read the middleish part of this fic where they sound different. I'll get to that at some point. Not sure when. We'll find out! Though I might have to at least start on the chapter after this one first, 'cos that's got some important things in it.
It should be a lot quicker to edit the remaining chapters, whenever I do, due to them mostly not needing many tweaks. That said, do not trust my ability to tell how long a thing will take. Particularly when it requires the slippery sort of character voice Ghost has found. I like it, but boy is it hard to grab onto.
Also, I wrote... several things.
Had a few good storms roll through and bring in some smut muse a few times, resulting in this crack Herrah/Hollow/Monomon thing, the second chapter (and possibly more) of this Herrah/Hollow thing, this Herrah/Grimm BDSM thing, and this Quirrel/Hollow fluffy kink thing. None of which are canon to or associated with the world of DoL. Except maybe the Grimm/Herrah thing, because that'd be funny.
(I am apparently some sort of catfish, as big storms moving in occasionally give me the kind of smut muse that lets me brrrr a few thousand words out in a couple hours.)
On the non-smut front, we have some Quirrel + Ghost feelings taking place just after the Blue Lake, and the aforementioned roughly 12k words of new stuff scattered in amongst the edited chapters.

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