(Rescue — Contemplate — Disturbance — Loneliness — Departure)
~~~ are used for changing the perception of vision (POV)
••• denotes flashback
*** denotes time skip
'...' denotes internal thought
() denotes layered perception
===
Lo, there she standeth—
Sister.
Thou movest through the torn veils, wrought of that which is neither naught nor substance, but some bastard mingling of both—Void unshaped, unruly, and without covenant. It devoureth without hunger, taketh without asking, and yieldeth nothing save unto itself. It is wild, disjoined, and yet, before thee, it composeth.
For it knoweth thee.
It hath no tongue, yet it answereth. It hath no mind, yet it yieldeth. It requireth not speech, nor sign, nor plea. Thy presence sufficeth.
Lord of the Void. Lord of the Shades.
It bendeth not as servant to master, but as limb unto body, for it is thine own extension. As thou passest, it parteth not by force, but by knowing. It re-fashioneth itself within itself, as though recalling an old shape it had near forgotten.
It groweth calmer. Unified. Still devouring, still consuming, still swallowing all, yet ordered.
Yet her—
Still her.
"What is she?" it inquireth, though no word is formed.
Sister.
Strong she is. Fierce, and long-enduring. She hath suffered much within lands most foul and crooked, where mercy is spent cheap and cruelty is common coin.
Therefore—let her rest.
Thy thought is not yet complete, yet the tendrils obey. For thou art it, and it is thou. There is no delay betwixt will and act.
Raise her high, beyond the grasp of any creeping thing. Let no hand profane her quiet.
May the age that cometh deal gently with her, though gentleness is a thing rarely found.
Thou turnest thine awareness, and another draweth upon thee.
The Silk-born.
A mad creature. A wretched little fool. A child yet, in wit if not in shape. Crooked, irritating, and—
…Enough.
Sister deemeth her life of worth.
Thus, she is of worth.
Sister careth.
So shalt thou care.
Thou mightst have turned away and left her to rot in her own folly. Yet thou didst not. That alone is care, though thou wouldst not name it so.
For her.
For Sister.
Place her near. Let her abide in some semblance of peace, if such a thing can be scraped from this ruin.
Thy tendrils withdraw. The small, senseless body beginneth to fade, drawn into the swallowing dark. It is not a death, nor a sleep, but something between and beneath both.
Thou turnest.
Small lights peer from the seams where shadow consumeth shadow.
Pale orbs.
Watching. Waiting.
They do nothing more.
They are as they were meant to be—void of want, void of thought, void of fear.
Once they were divided—pale and root entwined.
Now they are made whole in nothingness.
Like unto thee, yet lesser.
Failures all.
Siblings. Come.
They do not answer. They do not bow. They do not resist. They give no sign.
As expected.
Yet they obey, for obedience requireth not gesture where understanding is absolute.
They withdraw. They return to their place.
To stillness. To quiet.
And thou with them.
***
What ails thee?
Thou hast ever been silent, yet now thou art emptier still, as though silence itself hath been hollowed out.
Emotion? A jest.
And yet—there is no laughter.
No mirth.
No flicker of amusement.
Dost thou even know what it is thou feelest? Canst thou name it? Frustration? Regret? Sorrow? Envy?
No.
None of these.
It is something new. Something ill-fitting, like a shard lodged where no flesh should be. A pain without wound.
A sensation thou hadst no need of, until now.
…
Thou art lonely.
Lonely.
A curious thing, is it not? That thou, who art never alone in substance, shouldst yet feel the absence of presence.
Loneliness is not the want of bodies, but the lack of shared being.
Why should this trouble thee?
It maketh little sense.
Yet thou art curious.
And curiosity is that pull which persisteth where fear doth not triumph. Where temptation crieth, "Take," curiosity whispereth, "Look."
Mark this well—thou art not wholly hollow. Thou art flawed, impure, and therein lieth thy distinction.
Thus, this is natural.
Know also that here, thy thoughts are not thine own. They lie bare, stripped of privacy, as pages torn from a book and cast into an endless wind.
We know thee.
We know this ache.
It is the sting of being left behind. Not once, but again. Yet this time, it was of thine own choosing.
Thou couldst have refused.
One word. One denial.
And this dull suffering would not gnaw at thee. Instead, thy silence hath cut deeper than speech ever could.
Answer then—
Wilt thou remain thus? Wilt thou persist in stillness whilst all else changeth? Wilt thou erode, as a statue left to decay, until even thy shadow thinneth into nothing?
Wilt thou endure an eternity of slow unmaking, thy memory chipped away piece by piece, until naught remaineth but absence?
Wilt thou suffer, unable even to name thy suffering?
…
No.
Thou wilt not.
Good.
The Void doth not judge. It doth not command, nor forbid. It careth not what thou dost with it—whether thou swallowest worlds or leavest them be.
It will not praise thee. It will not damn thee.
It will simply allow.
Thus, thou mayst—
…
Tunes.
Again.
They call.
Thy followers, stubborn and vexing, demand audience. They are loud in their persistence, though they know not the weight of their noise.
Let them have reason, else their insistence groweth tiresome.
Thou fashionest a path—not of stone nor substance, but of focus and intrusion. A way into the realm where mortals yet dream and rule unseen.
A place thou hast trespassed before and been received both.
Its path openth.
The path to Godhome openeth.
•••
All is quiet.
Not the peace of rest, but a silence meant to suffocate. It presseth, yet feeleth as nothing. Like drowning in air, or sinking into a lake that is not water, nor even real.
One moment it is form. The next, absence.
It is a thing that cannot be grasped, yet it presseth upon thee from all sides.
Some would break beneath it.
Others would revel in it.
Many would abuse it.
For the line betwixt use and abuse is thin as a hair, and the cost of crossing it is sharp as any blade.
Yet still, they reach.
Not from ignorance. Not from fear.
But from desire.
Desire.
It breedeth lack where none was, then promiseth to fill it. It lieth.
Consider a kingdom already dead, though its breath lingereth.
The king knoweth.
He hath seen the rot, the empty granaries, the hollow eyes of his people. He hath counted not days, but endings.
There is no hope.
No future. No salvation.
Only time, being spent.
Yet he continueth.
Not from belief. Not from hope.
But from desire.
"No cost too great."
He sendeth men to die for ashes. He spendeth wealth for moments. He demandeth loyalty from those who know better.
Not from cruelty.
But from refusal.
He will not accept the end. Thus, he devoureth all.
His people. His name. Himself.
He protecteth not to save, but because he cannot cease.
And in the end, all falleth. Yet until the last breath, he standeth.
Because desire careth not for outcome.
Only for continuation.
…
Dost thou see?
There is no end to understanding.
Rest now, if thou wilt—
But no.
Another cometh. Thou feelest him.
The one who was loved.
The Hollow Knight.
Thou turnest not. Instead, thou compellest the Void to shape thy gaze upon him.
Acknowledgment first.
Thou inclinest. He answereth, though uneasily. There is tension. Thou seest it. He knoweth thou seest.
He who was flawed by love.
He speaketh at last—
"We would protect what remaineth."
Expected, yet swift.
He chooseth to depart. To act. To pursue purpose long since broken.
By his own will.
A rare thing.
…
Shouldst thou strike him down?
No.
There is no cause.
No betrayal.
Not now. Not ever.
Ye are both bound to nothing. Yet only one of thee hath learned to desire.
To act. To want. To seek approval.
Again.
And again.
Tempting, is it not? Dost thou feel it? The urge to end him?
…
No answer.
Yet thy silence speaketh.
Thou noddest. The Void accepteth.
He nearly faltereth. Then he turneth.
A path openeth.
He walketh it. At its end, he looketh back.
This time, thou noddest.
He goeth, and is gone.
The path closeth.
Once more.