voicetest the voiceless

[focusedvoid]

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.

Comments

[focusedvoid]

Without stopping to overthink, the Lord of Shades breaks the door from the City to the Wastes down. The Infection is gone, and was useless even when it was rampant. Nobody important is watching.

There’s a low chance none of the Mantids sees them travel, and an even lower one that all of Deepnest misses their presence. What matters is that they’re fast enough to keep from any lingering to catch them. Greenhorn’s insistence they move is a mildly frustrating sparkle on the edge of perception. They go with it still.

Even now, the dark maze is is difficult to navigate. There are enough twists and turns that they’re fed up and covered in debris by the time they make it to the Mask Maker.

They’re an alarming sight, all warping shadows and glowing eyes, squirming into their workshop. The Lord of Shades gets a chisel to their face for the trouble, and flick it to skitter across the floor in return.

Despite this, after showing off their two mask-halves, the Mask Maker immediately drops all they’re doing to help.

The Knight learns, uncomfortably, that their mask isn’t just a mask. Well, they knew that, but there’s a difference between knowing and directly seeing. They knew their Shade was contained in that mask, and that they could reform from it. They’d never had a chance to stop and see the near-invisible lines within that crawl out into the Pale King’s glyphs, lain just inside their face.

Hunched in a room they’re drowning in their own darkness, they don’t care for the knowledge.

This dislike doesn’t stop them from working to fix it.

They learn how to properly channel Soul outward. It’s needed for the glyphs the Mask Maker painstakingly carves to work. The Pale King had the reserves to do so naturally; the Lord of Shades needs to share their own deep well with them as they make repairs. Fortunate and surprising, their recent practice with sending thought and emotion helps.

The mask is a mask, container, and seal. They’d unwittingly destroyed containment markings around the neck-hole long ago, leaving them smeared as though doused with acid. (The Mask Maker correctly assumes that part doesn’t need to be redone.)

The rest are necessary as foundation for the mask to repair through Focus, whether Soul-based or Void-based. Miniscule pieces had cracked off with the split, just enough to break the lines too much to repair alone. It reminds them of when their Shade is--was loose and their Soul was left limited.

The Lord of Shades could brute-force it, the Mask Maker considers aloud, but this! This would do better in the long run. They figure out the Knight had done just that some time before. The Lord of Shades dips their head to confirm truth, but there is no elaboration.

It’s likely they’re being uncharitable.

It’s difficult to care. They want the work to be done.

The Lord of Shades melts into the background for a while, coming back to study, help, repair. They listen to details on their mask once came to be; how the runes weren’t originally carved, but formed through spellwork as foundation of the mask, which somehow grew around around a Vessel as it formed.

They don’t know how long it takes. It’s easier to tell time is passing in Deepnest than elsewhere, with Garpedes changing their routes and so noises every so often, but they’re not an accurate measurement. A while.

Eventually, though, the moment comes. The halves are whole.

The Lord of Shades pours into their mask. All of them. The Blue Lake into a single stoppered bottle.

The Knight finally stands up and bows. The Mask Maker's lanky arms twist together in a single clap as they bow back.

They offer Geo; it goes ignored. The Mask Maker is happy to give such aid. The Knight assumes they may want a favor later.

The two of them stand together in silence, each eyehole inscrutable, until they offer a smaller nod and vanish out the exit.

[focusedvoid]

It seems their appearance in Deepnest was noticed after all.

The Knight steps from the Mask Maker’s workshop directly into a web that wraps around their middle.

Really.

Thankfully for all involved, they aren’t wrapped further. It alerts a Little Weaver that was hidden nearby. They observe each other; after nothing happens, the thread is plucked off, and they’re politely escorted to the Village.

No other options are offered.

Fair enough.

To the Village, to the Den. It seems brighter, somehow. The Knight spends the time travelling puzzling it over. The webbing, they eventually realize, has been cleaned and shines in what little light Deepnest has.

By Herrah, the Knight is bluntly asked about what 'all that' was. They answer that yes, the form was them, and that is what happens when their mask is broken.

They don’t elaborate here either. They’re seen oddly enough as King and Vessel; Seer’s initial response to their Higher Being revelation still encourages keeping it down. And they would prefer avoiding more politics and deals.

They wriggle out of the meeting, almost literally, and pad through the mostly-dark tunnels. Hornet is apparently hunting. Pity. They’ll need to wait longer for her, or come back later, after meeting their other Sibling, who they're told is out and assisting with web repair on the Den’s edge.

Indeed, their tallest Sibling is out of the nest, exactly where Herrah had said.

Kneeling. A trio of Little Weavers hover around them.

The Knight feels an unpleasant rush. They pack it away carefully as they slip across the webbed floors to settle at their side.

They greet them gently, and are surprised when it’s clearly absorbed rather than striking a wall of nothing. They try a little more, apologizing about their lateness. Giving them little bits of information, about Greenpath, about Dirtmouth.

Their tallest Sibling stays a statue.

Slowly, they wind to the fact they visited Lemm.

And that their Sibling did too, didn’t they?

Lemm had questions he’d ask, with permission. They have questions, too, if Sibling might answer--

Concerns about grudges, misunderstandings, shred into nothing as their Sibling--still kneeling, still motionless--tears the link open.

The Hollow Knight rips wall after wall down, flooding the Knight into staggering back even as no others move but Little Weavers skittering away.

It is against their nature, their training, their purpose. But that was the error. The point of failure. They had a façade. They kept it up. They mislead their King. They killed Hallownest by doing so.

They will not do so again. Never.

That wasn’t what they meant--!

The Vessel--the Hollow Knight will give all. Any question for the King’s ally, the Relic Seeker who allowed them shelter. Any truth the King-Sibling-Knight wishes to know, agonizing and terrifying. And there is terror. Fear upon fear upon fear upon fear, mixing and bleeding together, their King is displeased, their Sibling is hurting, they’re afraid, they’re both afraid, this is not what was wanted, they are failing, they’re not a failure, no no no no no STOP.

The Hollow Knight collapses, mask pressing into the floor.

It’s a mercy how soft it is, the Knight thinks hazily, staring from the same position.

[capitalcurator]

There are some tasks one attempts because there comes a time to get them done. Because one has thought about it (and often stared at it, or stepped over it, or pushed it out of the way) long enough. Sometimes, the time does actually come to do what one has been putting off.

Lemm wishes he hadn't started.

He especially wishes it now, picking his way through and over the strew of stuff currently sitting in his corridor.

Well, the corridor. But really it's his corridor, being that it's not as if anyone else comes through here unless they're selling to him. Or they're the Knight, visiting. The corridor is as much a part of his staked claim to the shop it leads to, and he likes it clear of stuff. It is entirely cluttered with stuff right now and as he snags his damp beard on a particularly spiky storage vase and lacks the free hands to unhook himself (one full of metal hatstand, one full of crowbar) he deeply wishes he never started.

The thing is he kind of forgot on his way back. There was a lot going on. But he'd stepped out for a moment, to get some fresh air (ha, right) and have a break from this, just a short one. Only he'd gotten distracted and gone hunting for more stuff, hadn't he. And then the Lord of Shades suddenly made their appearance and that had been even more of a distraction, and now he's home, and he's just... not in the mood any more.

He is no longer in the mood for this task, now, only he's started and he wishes he hadn't.

Lemm rattles into his shop, sets down the hat stand, and snatches his beard loose of the pointy vase. He turns around and surveys the task Past Lemm has laid out for him. He calls Past Lemm a few historically-stimulating names in his head. He jabs the crowbar into a porcelain umbrella stand he forgot he had.

He disappears into the back and feels an unpleasant jolt when he makes it all the way to the stove without having to lift his knees. Sensibly, he makes himself a pot of tea. Less sensibly, he goes and stands in the curtained doorway to drink it, which means he gets to stare at the mess the whole time.

No time like the present, he thinks when he's done with his tea. Then he procrastinates by pouring himself another one, and then he sets that aside to get forgotten about and makes a start.

Time passes agonisingly slowly as he manages to talk himself out of several decisions. Because the umbrella stand, well, he needs that, now that he's reminded of it. And the vase can stay, it's got a mark of authenticity on it, never mind who from - did he put something in it? Ah, well, it's full of something, he'll pry the stuck lid later. Anyway a spare set of shelves is useful, he's putting that right back where he got it, just as soon as he cleans the floor back there.

...

A rather agitated Relic Seeker disappears again. This time he takes a set of tools with him.

He returns after some time with an adjustable bar stool, complete with the pins used to anchor it to the floor of the bar he got it from, and a few suitably fetching pillows. He spends some time polishing the hat stand, and the base of the stool, until both are free of tarnish and City-of-Tears-typical tear-stains.

Time passes slowly, but it passes. The mess stays where it is. Eventually, Lemm decides he's had enough. He kicks some of it out of the way just enough that the door can close properly, and then he irritably retires to bed.

[focusedvoid]

The Knight spills across the floor as much as the Hollow Kni--no, no, not that name--as much as their Sibling's thoughts had spilled into their head. Heedless of the Little Weavers skittering up the walls and out of sight, they don't bother getting up; it would be practical, but their Shade Wings are hooked into the soft floor and fling bodily to their Sibling's side.

They flinch at the Knight's paws pressing against their mask. Their arm twitches, curling in like a dead thing.

The Knight draws back, stands, pats them further. Frantic assurances bounce through the Void, wordless, formless, fear and protectiveness and horror.

That likely isn't helping.

They don't know what to do. There's so much to sort through. There's so little they want to.

There is their tall Sibling under their touch, lying still as a corpse on the floor, only the fact their own thoughts have something to rebound from letting them know they still live.

Their claws mindlessly trace along the edges of one side of their mask. Their own itches. The glyphs are there too. They have them. There's a mad urge to rip both their faces open, scour them, scour it of him who their Sibling is loyal to, who their Sibling--loves.

Loves. Loves. That is what it is. Father, Pale King, what He did--what he did. They did it for him. It, all of it, they knew this, but now the Knight knows, knows more than they realize they do, memories of Pale shattering across their mind.

Loyalty. Love. Ownership. The reason for everything. The reason the Hollow Knight existed. The reason. The reasons--

The shadows of their Wings are curling around their Sibling. The rest of their family is boiling behind their mask, restrained, enraged.

They need to leave.

They need to leave.

The Knight tips forward.

They need to leave.

They tap their masks together, wrapping their arms around their face. They love you, Sibling. They'll come back, Sibling. They are no King. They're the Knight, their sibling. That's the only thing required.

They need to LEAVE.

When the Lord of Shades sweeps from Deepnest back to the City, their mask is hidden within, still whole.



The Knight finds their way to Lemm's building.

Dully staring at the mess, they wonder if he's been robbed.

No. This is deliberate. The door is locked and a sign is up.

They haven't the emotion to muster to be terribly upset. To be anything, gaze locked on the sign, and not letting their Wings catch on anything as they wade through the mess. Perhaps he's moving to a better place for a shop. There's nothing stopping him from doing so.

...The key is still behind it.

Myla's waiting for them. Everyone in Dirtmouth is. How long have they been gone? Hours. Lifetimes.

Their body doesn't feel their own as they take it and let themselves in.

The curtains are still there. The Knight nearly reaches them before they turn, shame that isn't their own twisting in their chest, followed by loathing that entirely is.

When they next give attention to their surroundings, they're tucked beneath Lemm's counter.

[capitalcurator]

Old habits certainly do not die hard, because old habits don't much like lying down and dying at all. Lemm jolts awake at the jangle of the key in the latch, and just lies there completely still, staring at the ceiling. He locked it. Why is it unlocking. Carelessness? Did he drop the key while he was out? He glances down, he's sure he can find a Wanderer's Journal if not the crowbar -

- The crowbar isn't by the doorway where he always leaves it. In fact nothing is where it's supposed to be left. His back room yawns weird and empty in front of him. Where is anything, what the hell is he going to throw at an intruder now, what is going on?

Lemm rides out a very unpleasant wave of disorientation before the adrenaline chases him fully awake, and he gingerly brings both hands to his face and slides them down in a self-chastising little motion. Fool of a Relic Seeker today, aren't you.

Despite figuring out the most likely scenario, it's still with cautious silence that he collects himself and pushes himself to his feet, tilting his head this way and that just in case it is about to be useful not to be so terribly stiff. He creeps to the doorway and very carefully tweaks the curtain aside.

A cursory once-over reveals nothing. The shop is dingy and full of more shapes than usual, but none of them are moving. His gaze flicks insistently across to where he sits, but there is no small, familiar little Vessel perched on the countertop waiting to be noticed.

He's wrong, then. This sets him back to rattled.

Lemm lifts the curtain quietly out of his way, and sidesteps over to the abandoned umbrella stand to draw the crowbar back out of it like a Nail. Nothing lunges at him on the way. He foot-checks the door, just to make sure it's shut tight.

...

The crowbar ticks nervously against his leg. Room's empty. Room seems empty. Thought he heard...

"All right," he sighs, in case that prompts anything to jump out and bite him.

[focusedvoid]

All right.

They keep still.

...Why. They have no need to hide.

No need to be here either. They shouldn't have come.

The Knight could stay hidden--and be discovered by Lemm, as he'll surely check around. They could flee, and upset him. They can stay. And...still upset him, no matter how this may go. As well as upset themselves, by making him unsettled and just leaving, not even looking at him.

They shouldn't have come here, but regardless, here they are.

The paper they take out rustles loudly, as they intend.

There's nothing they can think to write on it. It slips from their paws to land flat on the floor, just out of reach. The Knight can't muster the effort to lean out and pull it back.

Their mask droops.

....It's been an exhausting time.

[capitalcurator]

Lemm has almost convinced himself there is nothing here when the sound of paper being handled makes him jump out of his shell. It's a good thing no one is watching.

There are only a few bugs who could hide in such a small space, and the most likely candidate (and the quietest) is not a bug at all. With a flutter of relief, Lemm creeps across to the counter.

The crowbar tinks quietly against the countertop as he sets his hand against it, bending a bit to take a look.

And, yes. He was right the first time. The nervous tension drains out of him; he's not dreaming things, he's not mishearing, and he's certainly not about to get set upon by anything or anyone looking for a quick Geo. Highly preferable, in his opinion, even if he was in and they should have knocked.

"What're you doing down there."

Lemm knows even as he says it that something is wrong. Because come to think of it, that's a very good question. Why are they here? Did they think he was out? Why here-here, huddled away in the footwell of all places? There is paper with nothing on it lying nearby.

...He fidgets, suddenly, and his voice turns quiet and uncertain.

"Got your mask fixed," he points out, which is basically nothing. He's testing the water.

[focusedvoid]

The paper is still there, still close, still far.

The Knight can't lift their head to look at anything else.

Do not speak, and that isn't their own words. Not words in the traditional sense in the first place, but meaning clings, thick and heavy. Do not speak. Do nothing akin to that, speaking or writing or sending or reacting, a Vessel should not, but now, do so to tell their King, the Vessel that succeeded when the Hollow Knight had only ever failed--

They jerk their head up to meet Lemm's gaze and nod.

The paper's still out of reach when they lean forward. Almost. They could, but they'd have to leave the footwell. They should--and they stab the thought. Their current state is pitiful, and for once they can't care less.

Their Wings stretch and pull the sheet towards them instead, crumpling the edges tight between their paws.

Despite their forced action, they still don't know what to put on it.

Something. They need to put something. Do not speak. Anything, anything, anything drums behind their mask, frantically trying to drown out misery that isn't theirs.

Im not
I didn
apologize for waking you. my mask is fine now. No cracks. No doubt this isn't reassuring, but it's something to lift and let Lemm see.

[capitalcurator]

Lemm tracks the motion of their Wings without moving, still bent near-double. He has always had an eye for details, and picking out a person's tells may be different but that doesn't mean it's been hard to learn the Knight's. Not when he's watching for them.

He has been watching rather a lot for some time.

At the aborted sentences and unsettling atmosphere, Lemm slowly straightens himself back up, disappearing overhead behind the lip of the counter, and he takes a moment. He heaves a soft sigh. One hand slides up against his face and rubs tiredly at his eyes, and he throws out any notion of going back to bed. He commits once again to the idea that he is the least personable bug in Hallownest and he is going to try, anyway.

Relic Seeker Lemm sets aside the crowbar, braces both hands against the edge of the counter, and gingerly (stiffly) lowers himself down to sit on the floor of his shop opposite them with a mild grunt. He crosses his legs and smooths out his beard.

"Something's wrong with you," he grumbles, sounding about as tactful as a block of wood.

The point: they have his full attention. The point, too, is that he is aware there is something wrong with them.

Whatever the anything is, he got it loud and clear.

[focusedvoid]

Oh. They hadn't expected... He should go back to bed, reasonably, not sit on the floor with them.

This thought skitters along with consideration of deflection, and both smother themselves without ceremony. They can't do that. Not right now.

They nod again, twitchily, pressing the paper flat against the floor to continue.

The Holl

No! No. Not that name, not that forced title they still cling to because they must. (No mind to think/do not think) The Knight viciously crosses it out, parting the edge of the paper easily as any blade.

My sibling (that is better.) is so

What next? Nothing can encompass what was just loosed into the Knight's mind. What's been tormenting their sibling for ages uncountable.

Lemm can't fit in their hiding place. They don't want to leave it.

When had their Wings wrapped so tightly around their body? A strand loosens again and reaches out, gently wrapping around one of his wrists.

[capitalcurator]

Lemm is quiet. There's nothing to say, yet, except the Knight is tearing the page with whatever emotion they're struggling to describe, and his eyes linger on the ink and the blank space after it. No real clues there.

Sibling squabble, maybe. He can't imagine what the Hollow Knight might have done, and it's hard to imagine them doing much at all after meeting them just the once. Or maybe they're hurt.

He's not getting any answers right this second. What he does get is -

The Knight reaches for him. He's beyond pulling away now, even if the instinct is there, but it takes a lot to hold still.

They are in distress and it's Relic Seeker Lemm's shop they've come to hide away in, and they reach for him. Who does that? In what world?

What else can he do? They're in front of him and they're upset. Lemm places his hand over the coil of Void around his other arm, same as he had with Greenhorn when they'd hid with him once. He pats it, experimentally, and then lets his hand rest there. Deceptively ordinary.

Softly, eyeing the unfinished sentence on their paper: "Easy, now. Are you still with me?"

[focusedvoid]

The tendril tightens slightly. The Knight looks vaguely up at his horn, unsteadily reminding themselves that he can't fit even if they yank him over. They don't know why they would. They don't want to be held onto. They want--they don't know.

A paw presses against the side of their mask. Here. They're barely here.

The previous apology gets a tap. They truly hadn't intended to wake him. Fleeing to keep from drowning their already-suffering Sibling in their horrified panic, they hadn't been sure of what they were doing at all.

No words are enough. Nothing can explain.

But the thought of leaving it lie is a burning in their chest that even Grimm's flare couldn't touch. They scrabble until settling on the simplest terms:

so much more hurt than I realized, and I am scared

[capitalcurator]

He dutifully re-reads the apology and just mildly shakes his head (and, yes, there is a slight mis-measurement and his horn clacks lightly against the counter).

"Aye," he says, and before he can think it through he's already leaning hard into normality: "well it's easy to say that now that I'm up, isn't it."

Even as he's speaking he feels his heart sink, because even now, even now his default is being a moody old -

- That's normal, he thinks quietly, and as he thinks that over his thumb brushes back and forth against the curl of shadow.

Normal is good, when you're upset. The familiar. Goodness knows he falls back on the familiar, when the days go badly. They've come to him. They know what kind of a person he is. Ergo.

"Mad of you to show up here, in a state like that," he points out, pulling no punches with the truth of it. "When there're far more sociable bugs in Hallownest. Ridiculous decision. Come on, then," Lemm begins properly, and scoots back to make space.

He doesn't stand, yet. His wrist stays more or less in the same place, now held out between them with the Knight's tendril like an anchor.

(Subtly, it twists, so that he can take hold of the line between them with his hand.)

"Up you get. I don't make invitations to everyone."

His head inclines in the direction of the back room.

[focusedvoid]

They shrink further into the footwell, deeper than there's room for. They shouldn't have come, Lemm is--

--a little annoyed. Tired. Naturally. They burst into his shop in his sleep. If he wished to ignore them, he could have turned away and left them to...be rattled in his shop until they left, or until he woke again.

The Knight is afraid on their own, and their sibling's added terror is broken armor puncturing through the whole of them. Being reasonable is difficult.

They shudder and lean forward. Gingerly, after a long moment of staring at his hand, hold out a paw. That would be easier. (That would make a better anchor to with him.)

[capitalcurator]

All of the above. He's not good at pretending, and frankly trying would make things weird. He is what he is: pragmatic.

As a rule Lemm spares little time for beating around the bush and lacing flowery words into things to make them sound better, so he doesn't try.

He does shift his hand from their tendril to take their paw right away, because that seems a rather important priority. It gets a slight squeeze, fleeting and barely-acknowledged. Lemm shuffles back a bit further, and pushes himself awkwardly to his feet. He doesn't yank them upright, but a slight motion towards himself might beckon them up off the floor.

"There are conversations for the shop floor," he explains, dusting himself down with his free hand, "and there are conversations to be had in private."

Whatever that means.

"Up off my floor, Knight. That's it." He holds out his other hand, just in case. He suspects he may be a little steadier than they are.

[focusedvoid]

...Whatever that means, indeed. They don't question it.

--They don't question it yet. They don't know if they want conversation at all anymore, but one bare, solidifying thought is that they don't want to be left alone. They've had horror gone to numbness back to horror again. Neither is desired, and an outside grip helps keep some at bay.

They take his other hand and pull up.

A moment of still staring, as they register holding both hands and moving would be difficult. A paw is transferred to hold one of Lemm's hand with two paws instead.

The tattered paper is left on the floor.

[capitalcurator]

The paper can stay where it is. Compared to the mess Lemm has recently made, it's nothing to note. He plucks another couple of sheets off the counter on his way past just in case.

Lemm weaves through some of the the junk he dragged out that didn't make it out to the corridor; the Knight is guided by a steadfast hand, and he moves slowly and smoothly through to the back. He holds the curtain, ushers them through first, and disregards the ugly flutter of nerves at the idea of bringing anyone else back here, again.

"Straight on," he mutters, now walking close behind them, steering them by his arm held forward over their shoulder so that they aren't made to let go.

The back room is (to Lemm) unsettlingly bare. Empty but for the tiny, barely-used kitchenette, and the curtained-off corner at the back where he sleeps - but private, in a way the shop isn't.

Safe in a way the shop isn't quite. The safest place he could think of to deposit the Knight back then, when they'd been upset and he hadn't known quite what to do about it so he'd fallen back on the golden rule: when you have something you suspect is delicate, you bring it straight home and you put it somewhere safe.

Lemm shepherds the Knight to the very back of the small back room and steers them to the collection of pillows he calls his bed. The safest place he's got.

"Better here than huddled under my counter," he explains, kind of. "Sit."

[focusedvoid]

The Knight follows his lead, ignoring an urge to...what, insist he go first? They don't fear where they're being brought, and so they only hesitate a moment before stepping through the doorway.

It's not bare enough to be unsettling to the Knight; enough to, however, be strange. It hadn't looked this way last time. Moreso, somewhere Lemm is not being entirely surrounded by objects is a foreign sight.

The pillows are familiar, though. Barely. A trace of embarrassment surfaces,, drifting away as quickly. Lemm doesn't need to prompt them; they're moving to sit before the word's entirely out, though far too stiff to relax.

They will need prompting if he wants them to release his hand.

[capitalcurator]

He almost tries to take it back by default. They'll feel a twitch.

But it's as he told himself; they came to him.

Lemm's expression shifts in some almost imperceptible way, and he lowers into a crouch in front of them to get on their level and leaves his hand in theirs. He leaves the spare papers on a pillow beside them within easy reach. His free hand sets itself usefully on their shoulder.

"Here, then. We'll do tea in a minute. Look at me."

[focusedvoid]

Their grip tightens, then loosens. They felt it. They want to keep him here, so they don't fully let go. This is only their paw, no tangled mess of Void that can try swallowing him arm-first. Should he try, he can get away easily.

The Knight can't drink tea.

(Massive claws wrapped around a cup, watching the steam dance, look at what the Hollow Knight has done, being granted something like this, supplies wasted upon--)

They look up.

[capitalcurator]

There, that's present enough to work with. He gets the feeling there's a lot going on under the mask, but this is present enough. Never mind that it feels like the spotlight is on him to say something right, and he never can, never does, and never has, that's irrelevant. They came to him.

"I told you I'd hear everything," he reminds them, and their shoulder gets a light squeeze. "Trouble is you've got to write it, and that's not going well, is it."

The next part sounds pretty insistent. He's good at being stubborn, at least.

"Have a moment, steady your hands. I'll make tea. M'not going anywhere, and neither's..." He nods vaguely at them. "...All that. Whatever needs saying. D'you understand?"

[focusedvoid]

Unusually, the Knight looks away. As is less unusual, Lemm's right.

...And they suppose that's why they came, in the end. So it was known. So he knew. As a friend and as someone directly involved, more than for historical documentation's sake.

Their Sibling gave permission he could know anything through them. This approval is terrible and...unfair. Wrong.

They're falling further back into horror. It can wait. They can sit with their friend and hold tea and wait until this passes.

Their paw trembles, and though they nod, they tug Lemm's hand up to press it against the forehead of their mask before letting go.

[capitalcurator]

He's not sure, for a second. The old, familiar fear crawls back out of the corner he's been pushing it into and tells him he's messed this up, predictably, because if they're looking away they're not looking at him and that means he's lost them somewhere along the last few sentences.

But they nod. And it settles.

Relieved, he huffs quietly and - lingers, a moment. They've put his hand on them and it stays, of its own accord or his, even he's not sure.

In a rare bout of daring, he slides his hand further back so that it rests on the top of their head, between their horns. It's been there before, but never invited.

With a herculean attempt not to overthink it, Lemm decides he's not being adequate.

"Here -- here, then."

His other arm leaves their shoulder and slips around their back, and rather gingerly he attempts a hug.

[focusedvoid]

Immediately, the Knight leans in, pressing their face flat against his beard before wrapping their arms as far as they can go (and a few tendrils of Wing reaching around more). They didn't quite think they wanted this until it was happening.

The thoughts aren't any quieter, but they, and all the horrible wrongness, are easier to ignore.

They'll let go before Lemm does this time, but make no motion to pull away.

[capitalcurator]

He's not convinced this is the right move until he is. It comes on fast, the moment they reciprocate and there are small arms trying to fit around him and Void hanging on further; this was the right thing to do, there's no uncertainty about it, it just is.

Lemm holds on tight, faintly squeezing them closer to his chest, his other hand still resting between their horns. (Distantly he registers: smooth, intact, not that he has any idea what it looked like broken and he never intends to, but the point is they're all right. And another lingering frayed nerve smooths back into place.) He stares over their head at the back wall, processing.

When their limbs drop Lemm retreats slowly. The hand on their head lingers the longest.

"Steady," he says again, with a mindful look.

He eases back upright, and pushes the heavy curtain aside so that he can keep an eye on them while he busies about the stove.