boxfullofzeroes | there's so many things that you'll never understand

there's so many things that you'll never understand

MEMORIAL TO THE
HOLLOW KNIGHT
------------------------
In the Black Vault far above.
Through its sacrifice Hallownest lasts eternal.

There's a figure at the base of the fountain, bent double, yet still taller than most bugs that once wandered these streets.

The Hollow Knight was sealed before it was raised in the center of the City. In all their glimpses of the world through Infected eyes, they had never seen this--this figure of themselves, towering high above the Dreamers that protected them, sacrificed everything for them, only differentiated by the carving of each mask.

This should not matter.

The emotion that is their flaw screams it does. Why--?

--This figure of them should not have ever been here. The Pale King prioritized their image above the living. A memorial to a thing. A memorial to a failure, still standing tall, lie inscribed for the straggling remains to see.

They should not wonder why. They should not feel the wound in their chest throbbing with new pain. Do not think, do not feel, do not do not do not--

Gendered Child, sister, told them they may go, and they have gone.

And they are here, beneath the shadow of a false Purity, beneath pounding rain in an empty City.

Nothing about this spurs them to move. Their mask presses flat against fountain's base, hard enough to ache.

They empty their mind, and wait.

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Their head follows the King's Idol, unable to tear their eye away until addressed.

Once the Hollow Knight had been left to their mission, it had been--a challenge. They had failed more than once, digging through the remains of ruined lives they were tasked to protect. Paralyzed with grief until they crushed it with their eternal mantra, do not think, do not feel, do not, do not, do not think beyond the perimeters given.

Setbacks. Temporary.

The Idol--along with a living being, seen again--cracks through their hard-won detachment. Their head jerks up, and there is a terrible urge to retreat.

They do not. Leaving their Nail outside, as before, they shuffle into the room. Their hand dips beneath their cloak.

They draw out a journal, setting it on the desk away from the Idol. Another. And another.

Scientific journals, plucked from the Soul Sanctum.

(There had been more. Many more. Only the three were recovered before cowardice and horror overcame them, once they stumbled over the bodies.)

Lemm is worried for a second that they've made a mistake somehow - but he perks up a little as they appear to proceed as if they're just another traveller bringing him things for geo. Business as usual. That's easy enough.

"What have we here?" he says, shifting in his seat and reaching for the first journal - then hesitating with an odd look on his face as the knight pulls out more. There's only one other person he's seen pull things from nowhere quite like that, and something clicks.

And then he catches sight of what's on these journals, and holds one up to the light. There's etched nacreous symbols in some places for emphasis, and he catches the word for soul at least twice just on the one he's holding. His gaze flicks up from the journal to the Hollow Knight, and after a long pause he asks a question he definitely already knows the answer to.

"Where did you get these?"

They're already reaching for more. Their hand is hidden, so they can't point or write; they lift their head to point straight upward, holding until it strains their neck. Upward, almost directly.

They...are less certain of the next items. When they began in earnest, the Holllow Knight went through the categories of what the Relic Seeker appeared to have the most interest in. The massive pile of Journals by the door, the awards with unusual etchings to communicate their purpose, directly giving them ink to write-- they took, simply, items with writing.

Most silk scrolls are terribly damaged by the rain and dampness, they discovered quickly, but the Pleasure House held the highest luxury, and withstood the fall better than other buildings.

They found four. For the first, they did not read past the first few lines, detailing a noble considering devouring a fellow locked in with him, comparing himself to the horrid beasts of Deepnest. Another is a list of rules relating to the Hot Spring within, and the last two are odd rhymes penned by the Marissa whose poster was nearly the first thing they saw. (They nearly took it. They aren't sure why they did not. They stop thinking about it at all.)

Lemm stares at the journal without reading it, as if he's just been handed a live aspid. He knows what's up there, more or less - the specifics have escaped him, or rather he's escaped the specifics. Lemm visited exactly one time and after two steps towards the entrance he learned a valuable lesson about curiosity killing the beetle and had no interest in returning, not for all the Hallownest lore in the world.

By the looks of it, he is holding a journal from well within the Sanctum. The Hollow Knight must be mighty indeed.

Lemm's business acumen kicks into hyperdrive. Setting the journal aside with no indication that it's worth its weight in pale ore, he turns to the next couple. Then to the scrolls - and my, but he should be using gloves for these.

"Two," he mutters under his breath, and his hand dances over the buttons on the antique register. "four, six hundred." For Soul Sanctum texts. And he's about to do worse for scripts so well-preserved. This might be blatant shortchanging, if he wasn't the only interested buyer in Hallownest. "And five for the set of silkworks. I'll pay one thousand one hundred geo for all of this." He gestures, and waits expectantly for a response.

...They'd forgotten this part. Not only retrieval, but trade. Or...selling.

This situation seems incorrect. Bugs behind counters gave items, and the ones that came in gave geo. Unless one was stealing. None stole in the Capital, none but fools, and those fools would be skewered two steps from the door by any Sentry that was tired of listening to the nobles yet wary of causing--

They reel in their mind back to the shop. As backwards as this is, this shop is Lemm's, and they have no reason to question him.

But first, they take another item out.

A chunk of stone, larger than their hand, heavy. The noise it makes hitting the desk makes them twitch.

There's a name scrawled on it, an age, a tiny eulogy. A piece of gravestone from someone who passed long before Hallownest fell. This may be a disrespectful act, but venturing upward to the lowest level of the Resting Grounds left them stumbling over the wreckage of dozens of ruined tombstones and small memorial statues. This was one that was intact enough to decipher, and leaving it...

Well. They did not leave it.

Lemm, for all his scholarly-adjacent wit, has not cracked a great many realisations about the Hollow Knight. To him, the pause and the introduction of a new bargaining chip looks like haggling.

"What's that?" He reaches out with both hands, and it's still heavier than he expects. The thing slides towards him against the table a short distance before he manages to lift it up with a slight grunt. "This isn't..."

He reads.

"...Where'd you find this?" he asks gruffly, and taps a finger against the stone. "Did you break this?"

They point diagonally out the rainy window, upward and eastward, where the sizable elevator they rode leads to the graveyard.

The Hollow Knight shakes their head sharply. Why--?

--disturbing the resting dead without purpose--

--they would nev--

They shake their head again. In their chest, they find a spark of something that is quickly doused.

Lemm narrows his eyes suspiciously, and it's not because he's suspicious, it's because that expression tends to wring the truth out of someone regardless. Nothing personal. He's not good with people, but he's got a shopkeeper's bluff detection. Lemm nods slowly and studies the eulogy more carefully.

...This is worth little, academically speaking. It's the context that would make this valuable, and as far as he knows this is just someone whose name he's never heard, someone non-famous, unimportant. It's no one.

Lemm keeps his eyes fixed on the grave marker as he thinks about why on earth the Hollow Knight might have picked this up. His thumbs smooth over the writing, brushing some grit from the stonework, and he frowns.

"One thousand, two..." He puts the thing down, rapping the stone loudly against the table, and folds his hands on top of it, fidgeting. Lemm runs a hand through his beard and scratches. "...The rest is one thousand one hundred geo. I ca- won't buy someone's gravestone. It should stay where it was put."

His stare is returned, albeit with their characteristic nothing.

They did wrong. Not on what they had braced for, but still, wrong. They will adjust their criteria for later. They have some items yet, but the geo is already being offered, and that is meant at the end of exchanges.

The price means nothing to them, with nothing to buy, having never used geo, and without going out of their way to find potential shopkeepers who might want some. They don't react to the offer at all.

Instead, they lift the gravestone.

They should have left it. They should return it to where it was put. But it had been put on the middle of the path, which is not where gravestones should be, either.

They should listen to Lemm. He is speaking straightforwardly as to what to do. They have no right to hesitate.

And yet.

They look down at the stone in their hand. (The paleness of the Idol gleams on the edge of their vision.)

The word beloved stands out. An age that is not old, but not young.

He can't fidget outwardly, because this is a transaction, but his focus is so intently zeroed in on the Hollow Knight right now that he could win a staring contest with a statue.

The statue-- the Hollow Knight - takes back that final bargaining chip, and Lemm stalls.

They're just so still. Nothing they do betrays any emotion at all - and he was lost on their first meeting, but now they've met again Lemm reckons they're either a master barterer or they're simply lost.

Curiosity is why he's a Relic Seeker. It's also why he leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and says, "Honestly. What made you pick it up?"

He doesn't mean to glance at the inkwell and note-scrawled paper to his left, and maybe he doesn't even notice himself doing it.

A question. To be answered, as decreed. The glance is nearly unnecessary; that inkwell is the only way they can respond to something that is not yes, no, or which way.

They place the marker back in their void carefully, as though it's become twice as delicate as the quill and paper they pull to rest in front of them.

The Hollow Knight stares down at the paper as they did the gravestone, as they did the King's Idol.

The writing is crooked, terribly slow, with a bit of Fungal flare instead of Mosskin this time, and, of course, purely factual.

Relic.
History / writing of Hallownest History upon it. Carved,
lasting.

When he tilts his head to read, Lemm takes a little longer to parse this one. It's not that Fungal is any more complicated than Mosskin, but it's old in the way Arcane Eggs are old. He might posit that most other languages borrowed the word lasting, which only emphasises the knight's point.

"Feh. Of course it's lasting. Someone wanted them to be remembered." Even as the words come out of his mouth he frowns and gives the Hollow Knight a strange look, just for a second. "But that's not of historical importance, not unless that bug was... was someone."

He doesn't like that they made him say it. His fingers drum restlessly on the counter.

"'S not the same thing," he concludes, annoyed, and opens the register and begins counting geo. "But if you want to know who they were, maybe I can find out a few things..." He's not sure why he's offering. "Did you know them or something?"

The Hollow Knight, again, does not understand. All bugs were someone. With desires, struggles, hopes, dreams, families. Names.

They...want nothing. They do not know anyone of before their creation. And the dead of Hallownest have been disturbed for so long. They know little of spirits, but know much how being a wandering dead is agony. Merely knowing of one should not be enough, to trap one in the nightmare of Her--the Infection is gone!--but. But. If there is the slightest chance...

They cannot do that.

It is against their purpose.

They shake their head.

The quill stays pinched in their claws. If they could tell him--all bugs are someone-- but he has not asked this, and they do not speak, do not, do not, do not.

Edited 2020-08-31 09:36 (UTC)

"No," Lemm concludes tentatively from their response.

He does not want to think the Hollow Knight had ill intent when they took a gravestone, and maybe that's bias talking, but they also don't seem like they have much intent at all.

He sighs. "They'll be wanting it back, then. I'll admit to buying a lot of clutter, but I won't pillage the Resting Grounds."

But they didn't break the thing; he's content with that at the very least. Lemm slides the geo for their other finds across the counter fair and square... and eyes the quill they're holding.

"Not that I'm interested, but I'm thinking you either don't talk or you can't. Makes no difference to me, and I don't care." Brusque, isn't he? "But if you're not going to be disappearing into the mists of time again too soon, you might want to practice some modern dialect. You were lucky to find me, but bugs who aren't tarsus-deep in the past won't be able to read any of that scrawl. Communication is important. Someone might think you're infected."

There's a very short pause.

"Not that it's any of my business."

Then the stone will be returned, right where they had found it, among the rest of the shattered gravestones. To be left, as it has no place in even this place of relics.

Modern dialect. They have no--

The word Infected spills into their mind.

The quill snaps.

They don't feel it.

They are not Infected. The Infection is gone. They felt Her shredded by Sibling beneath their claws, Sister disappeared and reappeared, telling them things they do not need to know but wanted, wanted, such as the Crossroads are clear, Greenpath is near empty but the diseased thorns are falling off, Crystal Peak is quiet, it is gone, it is gone, She is gone, She is dead, if She was not dead they would be dead, they would be rotting still, they are not, they should be, She is gone, She is, She they are aching, rotting, arm gone burning whispering stories grinding thoughts howling screams tearing their throat open for Her own Voice--

Their face is pressed down against the counter. The crack along their mask stings.

They do not remember falling.

Edited 2020-08-31 19:08 (UTC)

Lemm flinches, hands lifting off the counter instinctively as he leans back.

"-Eh?" he says helpfully.

They're unresponsive. Lemm glances over their bowed mask at the corridor beyond, as if half-expecting to see something there that has launched a spear or thrust a sword. There's nothing, and he stares back down at the Hollow Knight with his heart in his throat.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe they are infected, and this period of silence and the dead staying dead has been a trick, and now there's a long-dead shambler in his shop, maybe they're getting cleverer, and...

...But he already knows that's not it. He knows what the infected looked like. They've been his nigh-only company for a long time, give or take a few stragglers. The Hollow Knight doesn't, hasn't, fit the bill.

So what does a well-adjusted social bug do in this situation?

What Lemm does is slowly push his chair back and rise from the desk, gingerly plucking the broken quill pen from their hand while being very careful not to touch them directly. Just because they're not infected doesn't mean they won't react violently, and Lemm knows he'd lose that fight.

He's about to speak. Doesn't.

Relic Seeker Lemm's palm rests itself unprompted on the Hollow Knight's good shoulder. He's got no idea what he expects to happen.

Void is not warm. Void is not cold. Void is nothing, unaffected by anything but the most powerful and purposefully-concentrated of Light.

The Hollow Knight is cold, soaked through by the rain they've been walking through nonstop for days.

Lemm's hand is warm.

Their frame shudders. Warmth is a terrible thing...

...but they are, suddenly, too exhausted to attempt to struggle, fight.

And they do not have to. Lemm is not Infected. They are not, truly.

If he wants to thrust a dagger into their back to be certain, is steadying them to be certain his aim is true, then so be it.

They lift their aching head enough to settle their chin on the counter instead of their face.

(They may have scattered their own finds with their horns.)

Lemm shifts his foot to avoid as priceless things roll off the counter, thud to the floor on old carpeting and carapacian tiles. His hand is as still as he can make it, but not quite still, as he's stressed and overthinking every little micro-movement and so he makes more of them than he would if he were relaxed and resting on a table.

His hand is on the cloaked shoulder of the Hollow Knight, which is cold, and damp, and unsettlingly still.

Lemm considers for the first time that the mighty memorialised impossible knight may in fact have hypothermia or something.

"I'm not a hotel," Lemm complains, mostly to himself. They are a cold and damp and delirious stranger. This complaint has nothing to do with him leaning down and trying to put their faces on level with each other, seeking some kind of reaction or recognition. "Hey. How many?" He holds up three fingers, in what he hopes is their view. Some buried thought is that he would be well within his rights to toss them out onto the street.

They don't understand his comment. Unless bugs often pass out in hotels--this is information beyond them. Dipping into knowledge of the other Infected would be a terrible error now, and so they do not.

He may or may not notice the darkness in the space where their eyes should be beneath their mask. The one without the crack is sheer black, utter Void, something Monomon herself said was unsettling. The other is bubbling with motes, contained behind the white, but ever-moving and utterly blind.

Their response is sluggish, but their hand only shakes a little when they hold up three fingers in reflection.

He does, actually, notice. Perhaps it's his reliquary studies - he's good with small details. But whatever he sees, he keeps to himself. (Never mind that he's seen another incidence just like this, a tinier and more compact version, wandering in with relics and leaking particles of blackness into his air. He didn't say anything then. He doesn't say anything now...)

...Three. Good. Lemm nods, and then pats their fingers back down gently into a fist, pushing their hand down to rest on the counter again. He dumps the snapped pen into a drawer and thinks about what to do next.

Sigh. "Aren't we in a predicament." Lemm doesn't have a guest room, blankets, the time or the patience. Hates that he thought about it. Not his problem. Not, not, not. He doesn't take guests...!

"Fine," he says, and Lemm steps away and disappears for a long moment.

When he reappears again it's without any warning - and anyway he's just there to slip an arm under the Hollow Knight, a tiny old bearded bug trying to lift a semi-armoured beanpole three times his size, because he's dragged his only dry blanket into the corner and that's a better place than slumped over the counter. Nothing personal. Remotely.

They feel like they're falling. Feel, only. The Hollow Knight is not moving, pressing the point of their mask into the counter to make certain of this fact. Do not make the damage worse. They've done too much already. Shown too much. Too much feeling when there should be none. Too much thinking.

Too much.

Distantly, they hear him moving, and speaking. It may be to them, or to himself. The words strike them with no meaning. Their body is manipulated without resistance.

They do not lean on him for more than a moment, even in their haze. They're emptier, physically, than a bug, but they are still too large to weigh little.

His hands continue to be warm.

They move when he moves them. They settle when he adjusts them. They stay still when he pulls the blanket over part of their body.

They are too tired to consider what purpose this may hold.

Lemm was going to leave them to their own devices. Perhaps he'd walk off immediately, disgusted at having to harbour a traveller in his shop. A stranger causing setbacks. Uninvited, no less.

...What he does instead is pause for a long time and then drop into a crouch beside them, beard spilling against the floor.

If there's a thought that this is The Hollow Knight in-person in his shop--

He's sick of that already, much sooner than he thought. Never meet your heroes. Ruins your sense of awe. Really grounds you in an unpleasant way. (Not that they're a hero! Not that they're anything. They're just a statue he's seen, they might as well be nobody. Does that matter right now?)

He's been silent for a while. His mistake.

"Can't bring me any more relics if I have to throw you in the canal."

Lemm stays close. Sister did, to examine their wounds. All that can be healed have been to their greatest extent, and the Relic Seeker has no need to check on those.

No memory of their own is similar. The Hollow Knight needs no-one near.

The Hollow Knight needs nothing but what they are given.

And they have been given a blanket.

It's a long struggle to hear what he says, and longer still to comprehend any of it.

They twitch their head in a tiny no, too exhausted to parse or even second-guess if he is asking a question. No, they could not, and no, he cannot. They're too large, and would most likely float more than sink, if being thrown into a canal was chosen to dispose of them.

Lemm has no damned idea what to do with them. Having guests is for other bugs, and they aren't really a guest just because they're horizontal on his floor. He doesn't know how to treat whatever is wrong with them. They'd be better off anywhere else, with anyone else.

Lemm is many things, but he's not cruel. He heaves a deeply inconvenienced sigh.

"Stay there, then."

He straightens up somewhat stiffly, and remedies the anxious tightness in his chest by pottering around and adding more clutter to the situation.

A throw-pillow is at some point slipped under their mask, embroidered and scratchy and smelling a lot like several years spent under a couch. (He's careful when he does it, and lifts their head only by the far end of a horn, opposite side to the break.) The blanket is far too small and Lemm scavenges a curtain from somewhere, thick and weighted, that probably originated from some noble's study. He has nothing appropriate. He's never needed anything appropriate. The curtain is draped loosely over the Hollow Knight and is not adjusted again.

Lemm awkwardly disappears into another room, stumbling over some large carved mantelpiece trinket and cursing under his breath, and then there is the suspiciously kitchen-like sound of clinking utensils and pouring water.

Edited (casually edits 4 times because i wrote it after just waking up bc i am bobo the fool) 2020-09-01 08:11 (UTC)

They accept the order. They move as he moves them, and lies flat as he's placed them.

It isn't completely comfortable, but they do not need comfort. Beyond sitting up or standing, they could not move even if they wanted, horns too large, stub too sensitive, to simply roll over. They are too tired to sit up. Lemm is not telling them to sit up.

They stay where they are, listening to whatever he's doing and staring into nothing.

The Hollow Knight was entirely not made to sleep. They may be wasting his efforts, even now.

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lemm how could you

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