boxfullofzeroes | voicetest the voiceless

voicetest the voiceless

They're not dead.

Less dead than they'd felt, at least. Their shell doesn't normally take so long to reform.

Then again. Their shell doesn't usually break of their own violation as they ascended in a boiling rage, ate at least one realm, a god, and all the Godseekers.

(That last point is debatable, actually. There's some odd sense, deep under their...shell? Void? Wherever they once stored things like Isma's Tear, much deeper now...that the sea-mind is still there, sluggish and held in a stasis. They're already adjusting enough, and they don't seem to be dying or trying to kill them, so that problem is neatly sorted as 'for later'.)

They push their body to stand. Their horn clangs uncomfortably loudly against the grate they've apparently woken up beneath. They're somewhere in the Royal Waterways. A quick check of the map--or, not so quick, as it takes time to locate where it had been--shows they've risen about halfway through, closer to the City of Tears than the White Palace. They'll go to the Stag Station in the City Storerooms next.

So they think. Complications arise on the way.

The Infection is gone, leaving dead Flukes, Pilflips, and Hwurmps in piles enough it takes time to force their way past. Their body seems too small. No, their body is fine--there's something wrong with perception itself. That will take time to adjust to.

Then, they discover the Monarch Wings now stretch and warp when used, twisting around the nearest pipes after landing before the Knight forcibly calls them back. Shade Wings, they decide to call these.

Once they're high enough to hear the rain above, they realize a noise they'd ascribed to water running in the distance is, in fact, something swirling behind their mask. Many somethings. All the fragments of Siblings with enough self left, staring out from their eyes. It's disconcerting.

By the time they actually get out of the Waterways, they're using their Shade Wings to grip ledges and drag themselves up, with those holding onto things better than their own arms are with the Mantis Claw.

The Knight faceplants awkwardly onto the floor of the building Lemm's shop is in. If the City is the same as below, there's little left to try killing them in the area.

They'll just take a moment here, thanks.

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Those were small faces they hadn't known, dying alone and left without the natural dignity of rot. There was Cloth, still, who they can't forget. There was Tiso, arrogant, oriented perfectly to his goal. He made it where he wanted, and it still killed him before success. It likely would have killed him after.

So many dead where they couldn't reach without shattering themselves. The wilder passages lined with spikes and their victims. Empty shells of who fell great heights and lacked the wings or bodies that could take the landing. Camps and trails and tiny groups walking to the same fate.

The muddled shape of Lord of Shades is surrounded by Nails, jutting up from the ground like grave markers. Imperfect tries. Possibly true monuments, when there was anyone left to bother.

Lemm. Lemm is here, again, again.

A mess of a head tears its way from the center of the mass. They are close, too close, building-size face looming above a common bug, claws sinking into the path on either side.

He's taking a risk, isn't he. Face this monster, face a so-called god, face a terrible thing that devoured Higher Beings and ate realms and killed their way through the ruins long before they could do any of that, all for the sake of collecting relics and history for himself.

Edited 2022-11-18 22:13 (UTC)

He's thought about taking one up before. A Nail, that is. He thought about it when he moved in, and again when the Nailsmith... moved out. I'm mean enough without one, he's always maintained, half-joking, never meaning quite that. Well.

"Knight," he tries, again. His head is pounding.

There was a pile of written attestations on his desk, most of which now lie strewn about his empty shop. He found them perfectly trustworthy back then, because a little wanderer wrote them. He is looking at the Lord of Shades.

Lemm holds the two tightly in his head and, finally, forces himself to see both.

As the vast dark volume of the Lord of Shades presses in, Lemm's hand reaches blindly for the nearest Nail handle.

...And he leans on it, heavily, and presses a hand to his forehead as he stares up at the vast darkness and at those eyes daring him to say something.

"Grubby little wanderer," he dares. "I haven't been very responsible."

Edited 2022-11-18 22:47 (UTC)

They loom. Look at him, risking. Look at him, holding a blade they don't know if he could even lift if he tried, could hardly bite into their shadowy not-shell. Look at someone who could go and fall and die, under their claws, anywhere, and nobody would go looking.

...Nobody but the Knight. Now. If they weren't aware, or the cause. Lemm would have been nothing not so long ago. Another body, another loss, another soft regret lost in a kingdom mired in them.

Dirt and stone creak beneath giant claws. Their form shudders.

No movement beyond that. They're listening.

Nobody would look for him. Lemm has never expected anything different. That's the trouble.

"You as good as warned me." His hand tightens on the handle of the discarded Nail. "No one's ever been responsible."

His posture wilts just a notch. He's not holding the Nail because he thinks to take it up. The thought has not crossed his mind today. It is a very real worry that he might buckle in the middle of this and he has important things to say.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm not very good at it. Come back."

Come back.

An impassioned speech wouldn't have struck such a blow.

A simple apology, and something the corpses left would never be capable of. Never returning, never requesting. Not the empty shells, nor the spirits even if they lingered as best they could. Come back.

He's afraid.

He's said something they haven't heard from him before. He's saying something they haven't heard in this cursed kingdom at all, given to them for something that matters.

They're still--it's too much. This isn't their Siblings' grief alone. Not anywhere near it.

...They're afraid.

Lemm's alive now. They want him to stay that way.

The Lord of Shades draws away, all their wild darkness pulling into itself until it's nearly the Knight in shape and size among the Nails and mushrooms along the path.

He could say a lot. But, like he's said, he's not very good at it, and that's where the problems start. Lemm makes his stand there for a moment and lets the Lord of Shades coalesce how they please.

He has locked this thought below a thousand layers, compounded over time. The longer he's spent thinking only of himself, the more he's come to believe that's all he wants. The fact is: he wants -

He moves again, passing his hand from Nail to Nail like they're a balcony railing.

Lemm splashes unheedingly into the shadowy pool that's shrinking away from him. Void kicks up like wet dust. He lets go of the nearest hilt and stands there, inches deep in shadow, posture open and bewildered like someone very, very lost.

"Come back. You keep coming back. Do it again." Terrifying. He's going to pass out or throw up. "I'll help you do it again, this time. I'll do my part. I'm sorry it has to be me. I'll try."

Edited 2022-11-19 00:20 (UTC)

The Void pulls back a little faster. The Knight forces it. It would cling otherwise, wrap around his legs and beard and all until he was dragged in. To where the Radiance was erased, as some Siblings would not mind, or to be hidden away in a pocket next to the Godseekers, as others--as Greenhorn and they selfishly wouldn't mind.

Come back, again, again. They keep coming back. Lemm was a rare living being who wanted so little at the start. He wants to help them now, he says, deeper than asking them to fetch relics and words.

...Nobody else would have been coming back, would they? Lemm met Cornifer only once. Quirrel had his own mission. Others...everyone else would have been dead walking, even if they hadn't realized it yet. It's only now they give consideration to how few he must've seen return.

Less than Elderbug had, in the end.

The silhouette of the Knight stands there. They can't be open. They don't have the face for it, the gestures. Shade Wings wrap tight around something almost like their body.

So small now, as the shade drags itself into shape. But still the Lord of Shades. Or rather the other way around.

There is a little shadow standing in front of him. They are the Lord of Shades, he can see that now. They can be both.

He steps closer, following the edge of the shadow as it recedes from around his feet.

Lemm does not drop to his knees, as much as they're threatening him with the prospect. Someone ought to be taller than them right now. Someone ought to be responsible.

"I'm sorry," he offers again, "that it's just me."

He'll let them run, if they must. But he won't. It isn't a risk. He has it in writing.

The Knight's head shakes vehemently. That isn't--they don't care that it's 'just him'.

They're still upset, they're still angry. It's only easier to hold onto now. All their previous points stand; they knew he could be careful, they tried to dodge this entire thing. So many were careful, and died anyway. The world didn't care who it killed. Hallownest's ruins, even less. Lemm could easily become just another body.

Arrogance, apathy, irritation--the reasoning behind his dismissal doesn't stop it from being a dismissal of something painfully important.

Lemm wouldn't be just another body to them.

It isn't the first time Lemm's ever apologised to anyone. He's tried before. They've never been any good, either because his pride got in the way of sincerity or they've had empty promises in them he knew at the time he wouldn't be able to keep. Eventually he stopped bothering. Not having to try is so much easier. This is bewildering and hard.

"I'm sorry. I don't..." know how to do this. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I don't know what you want I just want you to keep coming back -

- unlike everybody else in this - how did they put it? - this fucking kingdom.

If he wants to do this right he is going to have to stop pushing down the hope that someone might actually want him to stick around, as well.

"...I need your notes," he offers quietly. "I'm capable, but you're right to... Come and cross some things off my map for me, will you?" Lemm dares himself to extend a hand down to their level, palm up. "Just that, if you like. We don't have to talk. But you shouldn't stay out here in the rot. You'll get sick."

The Knight isn't settled enough to understand the nuances Lemm is trying for. Still, they don't get sick--not like this. They're not completely blind to a peace offering. They don't want either of them to leave when their mind is hissing with memories of a multitude of abandoned corpses.

Their hands snap from beneath their wings to wrap around his one.

Their grip is tight. Not enough to be crushing. But tight.

Reality set in for Lemm a little while ago. He is careful not to flinch at the quick grab, and his fingers curl around their paw - another first on the long list of things Lemm has not done before.

He thought his problem was saying too much, and it was, but maybe right now he should keep talking.

"Alright. Come, then. Let's go." He takes a careful step back, trying to lead them into moving, not entirely convinced they will. "We'll talk, you and I. Unless you're sick of it. But you'll cross some things out for me, and then I won't go. You know Hallownest better, you see."

They sat to rest against Quirrel and Bretta. They'd exchanged Geo and product, brushing shell. Lemm stood over their shoulder. They used their paws to concentrate on their tallest sibling's shell, to Focus for someone else.

The Siblings are there. The Siblings are always there. But there's something to be said about a solid touch.

They hold Lemm's fingers, shivering too imperceptibly to see while impossible not to feel. He starts to walk with words that sound distantly reasonable, and they come along.

Edited 2022-11-19 17:17 (UTC)

Lemm keeps leading. He keeps his pace slow; their legs are shorter than his. Their grip is so tight.

Keep talking. Don't think about it.

"It's not every day a Relic Seeker admits someone else is more knowledgeable. We're a prideful lot," he continues, passing out of the small forest of cast-aside Nails. "But that's a poor excuse. Sometimes a bug's just sour."

There are canals here and there, and Lemm's jumped these before, but right now he skirts along until the footbridges and walks them both the slow way.

"All that behind your mask, and a sour old bug needling you like I did..." He glances down to keep an eye on them, not that he expects to glean much from a visual inspection. "...No, we'll get you out of the rain, first." It's not far to the elevator, or to his shop.

For something that contains the whole of the Void, the Knight doesn't have much weight to them.

The farther the walk, the further they settle. Shame rises in a prickly wave, quick to settle. It isn't the important part of this. They don't need it.

They're tired.

One of their miniscule claws taps clumsily against his, an agreement and hint of reproach. They don't need to express more. Lemm nearly collapsing in the Lord of Shades literal shadow--and this--is more than enough to judge his sincerity.

Lemm's free hand comes up and instinctively closes over the top of their claw, holding it lightly against his other hand and reassuring them he got the gesture. His thumb smooths over the top as they walk - some loose attempt at letting them know he doesn't expect them to try any harder than that. That's enough.

He guides them onto the lift. Walks them both slowly along and through the door.

Lemm halts just inside the shop, and he very tentatively attempts to pull his hand loose.

"Stay a minute."

The Knight justifies allowing it as the same as avoiding the Void-pull.

They aren't about to leave after this, unless they absolutely need to. They take a half-step in to go back to the counter as before, and instead end up paused, looking over the mess they made.

At least they hadn't broken his window or the walls.

Lemm makes an awkward little bob gesture with both hands to imply they should stay, please, and he'll be back. He retreats into a corner of the shop, stepping over strewn objects and between flurried papers to rummage around in a side room.

He returns quickly enough carrying a traveller's cloak, one with fur hem that smells of damp, and goes down on one knee to drape it around the Knight's shoulders.

He has not so much as looked at the mess since they both walked through the door. There is a more important priority than his collection.

Lemm does hesitate. But gingerly he follows the fabric until he can gather enough in his hands, and he starts to gently fluff the rain away, horns first.

They're stock-still, watching him ignore the mess completely to...dry them off? Why?

After he pats down around half their face they pull back, something uncomfortable squeezing in their chest. They duck away and pluck a bit of the mess to drop on the counter, and then grab an actual paper, unmarked. The movement could be read as frantic to someone used to their usual gestures.

I promised I wouldn't ~~do an~~ hurt you and I will keep to it no matter how upset I am. You don't need to do this.

Lemm stops quick. He wasn't expecting them to want him to do this and he was ready for this so yes, his hands are drawn back to himself, cloak folded over his arm, and he hurries to lean over what they've written and parse it fast (they're going to tell him they're leaving, that's the inevitability here) but it-

It isn't that. He fidgets with the fabric, drying his fingers.

"You already told me that. It's in the records." The evidence of this is... somewhere on the floor, probably. He doesn't look for it. "You're wet," he informs them.

He makes no move to take the cloak from where it's folded over his arm, or to invite them closer, or to... anything. Lemm just goes down on a knee, and pats the cloak implicitly.

The hand with the paper drops down to their side.

The Knight thinks about underlining the words again. You don't need to do this.

And they think about him after informing him of their surviving sibling, a little while ago that seems more like years. "You didn't have to tell me a thing."

Their steps are slow. The whole time, they're observing Lemm carefully. Looking to see if he's hiding fear. Waiting for him to snap to his senses.

They come back.

Lemm is stiff. But.

"Aye, aye," he scolds gently. "Dripping all over my shop." It is the softest his voice has ever been.

They're enveloped in the fabric of the old coat, and very carefully Lemm ruffles them dry.

"You be upset."

They try to offer a dismissive shrug. Wrapped in the cloak, the movement doesn't indicate much past a twitch.

They are upset, still. They'd just rather avoid feeding it into overflowing again.

They let the fabric's movement calm them further. They learned long ago how their dark shell holds onto the temperature around it. It doesn't impact them much, only severe heat and chill enough to potentially cause problems.

With Lemm doing this, they're warming when they often wouldn't. It's not needed. It is, perhaps, all the nicer for it.

Edited 2022-11-19 23:10 (UTC)

He's careful. Mostly it's just loose dabbing with fabric, a little ruffling here and there. He's anything but rough.

Lemm doesn't... know where the cloak ends and the shade begins, really. So he quits a bit short, and goes back up to scrunch the fluff of the hem around their face (mask), making sure it's dry even though he knows it. And then tucks it neatly over their horns and around their face, like a hood.

They are draped in an old cloak, something that smells stale like it was rescued from a mouldering place and never quite dried properly. It is the best he's got. It is heinously not enough. Lemm draws back and observes this with some embarrassment.

He brought them back with the idea of doing work, marking his map, all that.

"Maybe you'd like a break."

Compared to other things they've been covered in (perhaps later he'll remember the eventful time they wandered in with the Defender's Crest), this is perfectly suitable. More than.

The idea of further direct communication of writing type is...too much. The urge to continue is stabbed in its core. They don't have to. Lemm shouldn't be going anywhere yet. There's still time. There is.

But then they turn and wander back to the shop's debris, taking care not to catch the dragging end of the cloak over anything too roughly. They can't stand just leaving it all after this.

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