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flecks-of-stardust · 2 years

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Dreamless: Chapter Three — First Reckonings

Chapter three of my Hollow Knight AU, Dreamless. Spoilers inbound.

Learn more about this AU; a link to the Dreamless masterlist.

Chapter summary: Ghost finishes polishing Quirrel's nail and bids him farewell. They then have an altercation with the snails, and are thrown out. After that, they encounter Sly, and are given a few uncomfortable truths about Hallownest.

Content warning for bound hands and legs (briefly) and self hatred (brief).

Read this chapter on AO3.

It doesn’t take too long for them to finish polishing the nail. They sit back, admiring their work briefly. It’s polished enough that they can see their reflection in it, the metal catching the glow of their shell nicely. Hefting it in their hand one last time, they hand the nail back to the isopod hilt first. “You should really learn how to care for your nail yourself.”

The isopod sighs, accepting the nail and turning it over in their hands. “I should. Once I’m done here, I’ll figure something out.” The isopod turns it this way and that, observing their work. “Thank you, traveler.”

They shrug. “Just be glad it was still fixable.”

“Oh, I am.” The isopod sheathes their nail with another sigh. “I owe it to travelers like you to pass on little bits of knowledge I otherwise lack. It’s saved my hide more times than one.” The isopod’s antennae twitch, and they adjust their hat with a small smile. “It’s lovely, learning more about the world, don’t you think?”

They give an impatient nod. With the task at hand complete, they need to get going. “Yeah, whatever.” They give the stone cage a long look, searching for the pain of the Call, before hopping to their feet and heading back the way they came. They’ve wasted enough time here.

“Oh, are you leaving? Be well, traveler! Hopefully we’ll meet again!” the isopod calls after them as they walk away. They don’t look back, unsheathing their nail as they continue with a huff. That isopod is lucky if they make it back to another kingdom.

The stone walls press down on them as they march onward, claws clicking softly against the ground with every step. Without the Call thumping through their head, they’re left with an uncomfortable silence broken only by their thoughts. Over and over again the same thought circles: they have a sibling, here. Their sibling cried out for them. All this time, it was their sibling.

Their insides twist. They were so disgusted at the Call previously, cursing it for existing and bemoaning its every move. That raw pain from the Call, when their eye threatens to rupture… that’s from their sibling, isn’t it? All along it was just their pain. What else could it be? They should have come sooner. If they had they’d both be out of here by now.

They shake their head, trying to clear it of the swirling thoughts, but the lack of the now familiar throbbing of the Call as they do so only disorients them more, sending them stumbling into the wall. Bracing themself against it, they clench their hand around their nail with a hiss. They’ll get this done, no matter what. They just need more information.

Returning to the base of the second staircase, they stop and look around, gauging their next move. There are two other passageways branching off from the room. One has a more polished appearance, while the other looks somewhat rudimentary. Of the three possible exits from the room, the rudimentary path is noticeably older and more battered by time than the other two.

A strange energy they hadn’t previously noticed is seeping out from the rudimentary path. They take a step towards it, lifting their nail. It’s oddly familiar, somehow. It twists through the air, settling around them like a blanket of snow, cold and numb and heavy. Their body prickles where it touches them, and they rub at their arms, unnerved. They don’t recall ever encountering something like this, but their body reacts like it’s felt it before; the buzzing of the energy is… no, not enjoyable, not exactly, but it feels… familiar is the only word they have for it.

This place is as good a place as any to start figuring out more, they suppose. Holding their nail closer, they walk towards the entrance of the rudimentary path, trying to ignore how the hairs on their body stand up on end the closer to the tunnel they get.

The moment they enter the tunnel, darkness swallows them. They freeze, their fingers tingling as the energy coalesces inside them, vibrating and jittering around. The previous room had been dim, but not completely dark; even with the glow of their own shell, they can’t see anything in front of them. They’re still holding their nail up, but despite swishing it around experimentally, the metal no longer catches the glow of their shell.

They continue anyway, but slow down their pace significantly, testing the ground in front of them lightly before leaning their weight on their foot. This darkness is artificial, that much they’re certain of, but they don’t know how it manages to swallow even their own natural glow. The energy presses down on them with every move they take; whatever this is, they need to be careful.

A few more steps, and their foot clicks against a solid wall. Freezing in place again, they wait, listening for whispers of movement around them. The energy hums through the air, thickening it, until it pulls at them in dense clumps, hanging off their body and condensing around their head; they shake their head in a futile attempt to rid themself of the sensation.

Have they really never felt this before? It’s too familiar. But where, then? Where else could they possibly have—

A faint, distant pattering of footsteps sounds. They spin, pointing their nail in its direction, tensing. It’s gone before they even move, but they try to pinpoint the source of the sound anyway, having to sift through the buzzing of the energy in the air as they do so. It’s so loud, despite not even being a sound. They scratch at their head in irritation.

Nothing moves for another flicker. Warily, they lower their nail somewhat, but they keep it in front of them. They’re in a bad position here, especially since their shell glows. Maybe they should turn back. Without being able to see anything, they won’t find any answers here either.

Reaching out a hand, they pat for the nearest wall. Instead, their hand lands on something that distinctly does not feel like a wall, and a dull, echoing thump emanates from it. They leap back in alarm, pointing their nail at the object.

While still midair, their wrists slam together of their own accord, their nail clattering out of their hands from the impact as the darkness abruptly lifts from the room. They stagger as they land, thrown off balance by the sudden change. The glowing band around their wrists makes their hands shake, the energy flowing off the band making their muscles clench and twitch painfully. They strain against it, trying to break the bonds or at least pull a hand out, but their arms do not respond to them, uselessly jerking from the glut of energy that floods their body.

They’re not alone here. They spin, looking around wildly and meeting the gazes of a circle of twelve snails. They block their path to the exits, including the way they had come from, and they glower at them, eyestalks waving angrily. With a growl, they dive for their nail, fingers spasming violently from the bindings. But before their hands even make contact with the nail, it flies away from them; a snail on the far end of the circle plucks it from the air, laying it at their feet before resuming staring daggers at them. They glare back, arms still convulsing.

One of the snails, their shell noticeably larger than many of the rest of the snails’ shells, steps forward. Attempting to stand to face them, they nearly fall flat on their face as new bindings pin their tibias to the floor. They opt to glower up at the elder snail as they stop in front of them.

The elder snail returns their glare coolly. “In a bit of a bind, aren’t you?” they say snidely, each slow and deliberate sign dripping with venom.

They shake their bound hands at the elder snail, trying to flip them off; their fingers merely flail around pointlessly. Sighing, the snail flicks their hand. The glowing bonds dissipate with a faint hiss. Unprepared for the sudden release, their arms fly away in opposite directions, spasming violently. They grimace, attempting to reacquaint themself with their limbs.

Soul magic. That’s what the energy is; they were sensing the soul in the air from the spells. They’ve seen people use it once or twice; their hands glowed in a similar way to the elder snail’s do now as they healed up a scrape on someone’s arm or whatever. They’ve never seen it used for this, though.

It takes a while for their arms to regain enough sensation for them to sign, and even then the signs come out jerky and jagged. “What do you want from me?” they spit, trying to make their signs as sharp as they can. The effect is lost as their hands flop around, still not fully responsive to them.

The elder snail gives an unimpressed twitch of their eyestalks. “What do _you_ want with _us_?” they retort, their signs fast but precise. “Why are you here?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Their hands throw themselves into the air, yanking painfully on their already aching muscles before dropping like stones. They flinch, shakily reaching around to massage their arms. The elder snail’s gaze is even colder now. “It is very much my business. You walked into our home and began poking around. Why are you here?”

They freeze. Their home? They glance around at the snails, a deep, roiling unease starting to swirl inside of them. They hadn’t expected there to be people living this close to Dirtmouth. Clearly they’re unaffiliated with Elderbug, or he wouldn’t be the way he is.

The elder snail steps even closer, forcing them to tilt their head up to look at them. “You would have kept going if we hadn’t stopped you. Just ‘exploring’ deeper. And what would you have done to our children, if you’d found them?” The snail bends down, their hands and face uncomfortably close to theirs. They lean back, both out of instinct and so they can see the signs better. “You, of all people, should know better than to stick your head where it doesn’t belong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” they snap, their signs even sloppier than before from the angle they’re holding themself at. “Why me? What have I done?”

“Don’t play dumb, wyrmspawn.”

Bewildered, they stare at the snail. “What?”

A soft, derisive noise escapes the snail. “Ignorance won’t get you out of this.” Stepping away, the snail claps their hands, and they pitch forward onto their face as the bindings around their tibias are released. Gasping, they force themself up onto their elbows and look up at the elder snail, who only gives them a short, mirthless laugh. “I have to admit I expected more from you, wyrmspawn. You didn’t even put up a fight.” The snails part around one of the exits, giving them an escape path. The elder snail jabs a finger at it. “Now get out.”

They lay there for a few moments, uncertain. “But my nail—”

They duck, slamming their face into the ground, as the snail who confiscated their nail hurls it towards them. It sails over their head, then clatters against the stone walls; they cringe internally. Then they gasp as an invisible force yanks them into the air, feet dangling off the ground as they flail in a panic. “You had your chance,” the elder snail says, hands glowing so brightly their eyes start to hurt.

Before they can even process what the elder snail is doing, they’re flung through the air after their nail. Several things crack as they hit the ground, and they slide a few more tarsi before fully coming to a stop. Every part of their body is screaming in pain; they try to prop themself up, but the moment they put weight on their arms, they give way again, and they slump to the ground, their head spinning from the pain.

A small burst of soul magic pulses through them again, the resultant buzz of energy making their limbs twitch. _Leave._ A command, given not through voice nor sign, but directly into their mind by force of will and magic. They shudder, retrieving their nail and forcing themself up onto their hands again despite how their arms violently shake. They’re not sticking around to find out what the snails think about them resting here.

As they painfully crawl their way down the tunnel, their limbs gradually regain responsiveness, until they’re able to stand again with the support of the wall. With a hiss of pain, they sheathe their nail. Was any of that really necessary?

Wyrmspawn. They nearly slide back down to the floor. Them, the spawn of the legendary pale wyrms that bring reverence and terror everywhere they go? How could the elder snail possibly know that? They don’t even know their own origins.

But they’d been so insistent about them being a danger. They just got here. What have they done that could possibly warrant the treatment they’d just gotten?

But… they have a sibling here. A sibling who presumably never… left. Who was always here.

… wasn’t the king of Hallownest a wyrm?

No. No, no no no no no. The king of Hallownest is long dead. The elder snail has no proof. Even if they were right, it could be any other wyrm.

It doesn’t matter either way. They’re wasting time here. They let go of the wall, resolutely walking forward despite the uncontrollable shaking of their legs. They’ve at least concluded that there’s no further information to be found here.

They make their way over to the remaining exit, one shaking step after another. The tunnel is, thankfully, free of soul energy, and is also illuminated by wall mounted lumafly lanterns; they relish the ability to see where they’re putting their feet down. Logic follows that somewhere in here, they should make some progress towards freeing their sibling. They’ll be glad to be rid of this place.

Emerging uncontested into a new room, they lean against the wall as they survey their surroundings. It’s much larger than any of the other rooms they’ve been in so far, large enough that the illumination of the lanterns is dampened; the other end of the room is too far away and too shaded for them to make out any details. There is, however, a structure directly in front of them, one with steps leading down to what appears to be another tunnel. They glare at it, taking a few steps closer to get a better look. Surely that’s not another settlement.

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”

They instinctively spin around, but their legs buckle from the sudden movement, sending them crashing to the ground. The fly standing a few widths away lets out a droll chuckle. “I see you’ve met the snails.”

They scramble to their feet, struggling to pull their nail out. The fly crosses their arms with another laugh. “Nice little show you’ve got there.” The fly flicks their antennae at their nail. “Save your strength. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

“Reassuring, thank you,” they spit, giving up on caring about how neat their signs are.

The fly harrumphs. “Trade Sign. I’m out of practice. We’ll see if I’ve still got it.” Making a beckoning gesture with their hand, the fly turns and starts walking away. “Come. We can sit while we talk.”

They stand there, legs trembling, and glare at the fly. The fly stops, meeting their glare with an impassioned look. “Well? Either follow or leave. You clearly have questions, and I may have answers.”

Crossing their arms with a huff, they stomp towards the fly, who resumes walking without so much as a backward glance. As much as they hate to admit it, the fly is right about both things. They need answers, and their legs are about to give out on them again.

They stop at a wooden door around a length away, which the fly shoves open with one hand. There’s a small campsite inside the room, complete with a blanket on the ground, a big lumafly lantern in the center of the blanket, and a few piles of random objects. “Make yourself comfortable,” the fly says, airily flicking their hand at the blanket. “And don’t touch anything.”

They comply, sinking to their tibias with a sigh on the corner of the blanket. The room, clearly an abandoned storeroom, is modestly lit by the big lantern, displaying the stacks of abandoned crates placed haphazardly around the room. A few overturned crates lie on their sides on the ground; all of them are empty.

“Other people took anything that could be of use here long ago,” the fly remarks, sitting down across from them without closing the door. “Unless you want wood, there’s nothing here for you.” Crossing their arms, the fly fixes them with an austere stare. “So. Ask away.”

They stare at the fly for a few moments. With the better lighting from the big lantern, they quite clearly match the description Elderbug had given them earlier. “Are you Sly?” they ask, their hands starting to cramp from forcing them to move in a specific way instead of letting them flop all over the place. “Elderbug was looking for you.”

The fly sighs. “Again? I told him I’d be down here a while. Yes, I’m Sly. Are you his rescue mission?”

They blink. “No, he just asked me to do him a favor.”

“So yes, you are.” Sly’s antennae twitch irritably. “He asks every traveler that comes through about that whenever I’m not back in town within a harvest. I suppose it’s about time I pay him a visit to remind him I’m not dead.”

Oh. “He was very worried.”

“Give him anything to think about and he’ll worry about it. He does a fantastic job at making minor issues into mountains of stress.” Sly grabs a bag near him and starts packing items in his camp away, glancing up at them occasionally. They sit there awkwardly, remembering Sly’s earlier request for them not to touch anything. “One of these cycles he’s going to start peeling his own chitin off from the stress. I don’t know how he hasn’t dropped dead from sheer anxiety yet.” He pauses in his packing briefly, letting out a sigh. “He’s only gotten worse since Bretta stumbled her way down here. I’m sure he mentioned her to you.”

“Yes, he did. Asked me to look for her too.”

Sly gives them a sharp but otherwise unreadable look. They squirm under his gaze. “I haven’t had much luck so far, but I’ve been slowly working my way into the deeper parts of the Fungal Groves. Send her back up if you find her. She’s a lovely young lass, but she’s more than a bit airheaded.” He resumes packing. “If she thought to bring food with her, it’s bound to be all gone now, so I hope she’s found something to eat down here.”

They nod stiffly. They still don’t expect to have time to find the child, but they’re not going to tell Sly that.

With a few more firm shoves, Sly finishes cramming the last of his items into his bag, which he tosses aside. “But, enough about me and my issues.” He fixes them with the same stern stare from earlier. “You have questions, yes?”

Caught off guard by the sudden topic change, they stare at him, their mind going blank. He crosses his arms again with a shrug. “One word of advice that I’m going to give you regardless of whether you ask for it or not. If you came this way looking for Hallownest’s riches?” His stare intensifies. Their hands twitch. “Don’t.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Their tail spasms. “Not what I’m here for.”

“Good. Then what are you here for?”

The truth will sound utterly ridiculous. Why tell him about their sibling, anyway? Sly has no stake in this. “I’m… looking for someone,” they say after a few ticks. Close enough to the truth, yet so far away from it. “Or something, I guess.”

Sly shrugs, flicking his antennae blithely. “That’s what we’re all down here for, one way or another. You’re going to have to be more specific about what you want to know.”

The knowledge that they have no idea how to free their sibling presses down on their shoulders, and they hunch into themself. How do they even ask about this? They’re not even sure where to go next. Dirtmouth is all but dead itself, and the snails will kill them if they return. What else is left?

… there is still Hallownest itself. “How much do you know about Hallownest?” they try, trying to gauge Sly’s reaction.

He does not react. “More than I’d like to. I used to live there.”

Shock jolts through them, making their arms twitch. “What?”

“What? The stories about Hallownest aren’t just for show.” He unsheathes his nail, glancing down at it. “I hatched and grew up there.”

They stare at him, dumbfounded. He returns the stare levelly. “Most of what you hear about Hallownest has some truth to it. It sealed itself off years ago and is now a shadow of its former self. The one thing that is untrue is that it’s dead.” He tilts his nail, catching the glow of the lumafly lantern with the broad edge, and he sighs. “I think things would be simpler if it were actually gone.”

The shock coalesces into a cold, hard lump of dread that thumps around inside their chest. “How can it still be alive?” they argue, fumbling for the right words. “It’s been over sixty-four years since it had imports. Elderbug’s the only one left in Dirtmouth.”

Sly lets out a bitter laugh. “Are you actually trying to debate me on whether the kingdom I _ran away from_ is still alive?”

They lift their hands to retort, but no words come to mind. Sly continues, his voice darkening with every word, “Last I checked, the reason Dirtmouth is empty is because everyone keeps trying to find this blasted kingdom. For all I know, Bretta’s already made her way there.” They shrink into themself from the force of his glare. “Hallownest is very much alive, and it is ravenous for the ill informed. It will swallow you up like everyone else who came before you.” He stands, picking up his lantern and sheathing his nail. “Turn back. You’re unprepared for this.”

They get to their feet, wobbling as their legs protest the sudden movement. “You can’t just tell me to leave. You don’t know me.”

“I don’t. But I’ve watched enough people lose themselves to this kingdom.”

“I don’t have a _choice_—”

“You _always_ have a choice,” he snaps, closing the gap between them. “There is never a moment where you are not making choices. And _you_”—he jabs his finger into their chest, making them stumble a step back—”have _no idea_ what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You don’t even know—”

“You walked into the snails’ abode.” His stare burns into them, and they have to force themself to keep standing straight. “If you knew what you were doing they would not have needed to throw you out.”

They snarl, reaching for their nail. Sly draws his in one smooth motion, his stare not wavering. “Do you really want to test me on this?” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “Might I remind you that you’re in no state to fight right now?”

They stare at each other for a few moments, unmoving, before they let their arm fall, clenching their hands into fists. Sly keeps his nail unsheathed. “You will run out of leniency, traveler,” he warns, his voice barely above a whisper. “And this kingdom will treat you far, far worse.”

He maintains his stare for a few more moments; they force themself to meet it despite the way their insides crawl. With a final scoff, he steps back, sheathing his nail and picking up his bag. “Regardless, good luck on your travels. I hope whatever business you have here is resolved quickly and cleanly.” He turns, walking a few steps towards the door, then stops. “If you need me, I’ll be back up in Dirtmouth.”

He leaves without another word, leaving the door hanging open. Alone again, their legs finally give out on them, and they allow themself to collapse to the ground in an unceremonious heap. There goes their lead. Botched because they can’t ever stop to think before they point their nail at something.

So much for wyrmspawn. They can’t do anything right. Their sibling’s never going to get out of here. They fully curl up, letting their body shake itself apart. All they ever do is make things worse.

First chapter: A Call to Struggle | Previous chapter: A Cry from the Dark

#hollow knight #dreamless au #godslayers #dreamless whispers #alright let's get this fucking show on the road #some remodeling is in order as well as an announcement probably soon ish #ghost #the knight #quirrel #sly #snail shaman #(technically)

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