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slimeshade · 9 months ago

Text

Alone

Chapter 1 - Dream

(AO3 link)

–colors swirled chaotically in its field of view, gold against white pushing at one another in an endless war – yielding and formless yet never truly blending into one another, never giving in to the opposing tone. The brightness of this clash pressed and coursed through it, pounding, crushing, filling it to the brim with a blazing hot rage and a flooding terror that left it choking, choking, choking-

The pressure was ripped away as colossal walls of darkness rose all around, trapping it into a barrier of deepest black. Only a few little motes of light remained alongside, floating with no aim and flickering out one by one.

Then, the motes and its surroundings screamed.

Everything shook in turn with that mighty, agonizing sound. Uttering a shrill cry that could easily be its own, made audible in the gloom by the sheer strength of long sharp claws ripping, shredding its chest with the desperate hunger of a starving hunter while more clawing joined from its heart, trying to carve a way out like a caged and terrified beast.

Its own claws struggled, longed desperately to join the battlefield in its thorax. Ached to tear everything apart so the frantic beating and the slicing stopped, so it all stilled into the nothingness that should have been, that should have lasted eternal. But they could do no more than tremble and twitch feebly, bound in place by chain, by spell, by faded strength, by a barrier it could not pierce-

Both stopped at once, abruptly, the moment the last of the lights flickered out and plunged it into complete darkness.

The heat, once a constant companion, bled out of the carved hole in its torso, trickling out like the searing hot liquid that had run under its shell until only a heavy chill remained, shaking it down to its core. Dragging it down, down, down under its increasing weight and freezing touch.

It felt a rush then, and realized that it was falling down in this world of black. Its body attempted to brace itself for the fall futilely; wings long cut off tried to spread, limbs numb and weak from disuse tried to move, and the rest of itself was frozen stiff by the deep echoing emptiness in the gap where its heart once was-

Another massive shake, then lights and shapes and textures and pain, pain, all-consuming pain slammed into its entire being at once, blindingly, overwhelming, spreading the coldness further-

Its breathing rattled a discordant note, doing little to dissipate the black curtain that had descended on its eyes and thaw the spikes of ice embedded inside. Yet it latched frantically on the awful sound, onto each stutter and shake as if it would bring salvation. Release. Peace.

So it breathed the strange air, each inhale battling the weight on its back and each exhale giving out under the pressure. Both producing more of the hissing and clattering noises, in a rhythm that repeated itself on the chamber that was its mask, bouncing, echoing there.

As it remained there immobile save for its breathing and unthinking save for the sibilant sound in its head, the ache in its body dulled, little by little, until it was no more than a dull soreness in its limbs and a single touch of ice on the center point of its chest.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the black curtain lifted away to grant it a view of the world as that world began making sense again. Not completely, for it was in the dark – still so, yet not as purely as before – and no lights shone at all. The air was light and clear, as unfamiliar as this dimness, and it-

It was not hanging. There was a hard surface pushing against it. Or rather, it was pressed against this surface, dulling new pains and waking old ones up from their stupor.

It had…

It was on the floor. It…

It had broken from the seals?

It-

The coldness coiled tighter around its thorax, freezing its vents.

Something had happened. Something had just happened. To Her, to it, to-

Her warmth and Her light had ceaselessly filled it, a constant reminder of Her presence in its eternity. Yet this gloom looked nothing like Her endless realm of gold and the forever warmth was gone, gone, gone-

Alarm rose in its head, tearing the tatters of its mind away from the false lull it had fallen into and waking its limp body up, urging it to stir, to move.

It was bound, still. Its limbs fumbled against the tightness of looping chains, pushing feebly – for it was a feeble effort that nonetheless was like dragging boulders – with a single arm barely given space to move a fraction.

Fitting, that it could not break free from something as simple as the chains put in place to prevent that from happening in the first place.

No, no, it could not give up, should not give in to its weakness and stop here. It needed to get up, to see what had happened. To do something- anything more than lie here weak and broken.

The cold spread further, to its limbs in tune with the beats of its frantic heart, a current rushing with the speed of breaths that pulled at the chains to constrict it, to squeeze the air out and imprison it-

It shoved again with all its might, before the chains squeezed the air out of it. One chain snapped, the resulting lash deafeningly loud against the floor. Another snapped in a similar manner, then another one right as the constraints released around it.

Gone, gone, the pressure was gone and it could breathe, could move-

It was dallying, useless. It had to find Her. It had-

Without the chains to restrict its limbs, it slid its heavy legs underneath itself, and with a push of a single arm, it pushed to sit up in the dark. Old pains flared up as it took up a somewhat more familiar upright position, slumping, head lowered and panting. Its surroundings were a brief dance of dark and light not unlike before, where the only thing that barely stood out in the chaos was its pitch black hand.

(Its mind began drifting away, perilous, into what had caused the pulsing pain and the lack of response in its right arm. But no, it could not get lost in such futile musings.

It needed to act fast. And yet here it was, struggling with each movement as if its body was a stiff foreign thing, never used.

It needed-)

The lights receded into the black like a ghost of something it could not parse, and its vision became clear once more. Rather than dwelling on that –useless, futile– it turned to its left, its body protesting the shift of the plating on its right and the heaviness on its neck and back. Sure enough, there was the faint glint of the greatnail planted beside it.

(-its nail.

It needed its nail.)

A heavy swing of its arm, and its hand reached the cold metal, the blade blunt against its fingers. It turned the rest of itself around to kneel while facing the nail and slide its hand up to grab the handle. The nail seemed stable planted there, so tightening its grasp on the hilt, it pushed itself up to stand with a great heave, one leg first, then the other. Immediately, they threatened to give out, knees and ankles nearly bucking under its weight.

It could not stop, should not stop-

Keeping its grip on the nail gave it a semblance of balance and strength, the pale ore far sturdier than its wielder.

It had to look at its steps as it nearly tripped over the rusting links of chains that had hung from the chamber ceiling, laced once with shining white lines of power, now dull and worthless as they lay strewn across the floor.

(The void ached to run, to act, to do more than shamble around like a dying thing.)

Darkness surrounded it in the outer chamber, just as foreign. A light from the exit served as its lone guide to the outside, beckoning it with every slow and stiff step it took.

Dark, dark, too dark and wrong, so wrong-

Lights from somewhere above assaulted its sight the moment it crossed the threshold of the chamber. But it could not wince, could not cower the way a part of it weakly pushed for. Instead, it looked up directly at the source.

Sources, it quickly realized, as they came from multiple glows scattered on the black ceiling like motes. Only brighter, far brighter, like…

These… was this Her light?

Was this…

No, focus. It had to find Her, that these were there could be a sign of Her presence or could mean absolutely nothing.

Tearing its sight away from the pale lights, it resumed its search.

Nothing since it woke up on the floor of the chamber made sense. Why was it cold? Why could it not sense Her like it always did? Why-

Alone.

Was it alone, now?

It…

It soon enough found that it was not alone in the Temple; a shadowy figure stood ahead and over the surrounding light, small and indistinct in the distance, with only a wash of color preventing it from blending with the dark of the floor and walls or the pale blue from above.

A memory prodded at its mind, one it kept away from – it could not stop to ponder the new figure. Not when the world had shifted greatly, when it had turned into a sharp, alarming opposite of Her realm and Her siftings though its memories, permanently tinged in Her warm gold tones.

As it approached with dragging steps, the figure became clearer against the veil of light, turning to-

It stilled.

The figure- no, this was no regular figure. This- the Princess. It was the Princess who stood across from it in the passageway. The protector of what was once a glorious kingdom, a kingdom that now lay crumbled to dust and irreparable pieces.

It tensed under her steely gaze, limbs stony under the faint glint of her needle and of her silk on the lights from the lanterns.

(Under Her light? Were these specks above Her eyes too?

It did not know. It did not know and it was being foolish in seeking Her glow when-)

Why was she here? Why?

Why-

She should not be here. Not here, not in the Temple of all places, where she was especially vulnerable to Her influence. It tried to hiss at her in a warning, in something that would have been a sign of everything that was wrong with this place. But no sound other than a frantic, stuttering wheeze from its vents came out, too low to be truly threatening.

Even with everything else shattered into a million pieces, it was still without a voice.

(One of the last shreds of loyalty to Him, clinging stubbornly in disgraceful mockery of the knight it had made itself to be.)

One leg gave out under the strain, shaking it at the impact of its knee against the floor. Its nail held planted steady between the stones, its hold turned crushing on the handle to prevent it from falling down on its front. That did not prevent its body from drooping under the weight of its own armor, of its horns and the freezing pain coursing through as its void writhed and thrashed underneath.

(Would this not be a right position? To kneel to the members of the royalty as a greeting?

She was not to be here, not her, not here.)

The Princess Knight took a slow step closer, claws tapping at the cobblestones as she took another and then another. Cautious, eyes never leaving it and tense like her taut thread of silk, which glowed visibly with each movement.

It raised its head to hiss at her again before she got too close, the effort draining what little strength was left too fast, rushing out of its neck like cut strings and letting its heavy head droop pathetically. Making the hiss too inaudible to deter her too, utterly worthless without a mouth to display the danger she was unknowingly walking into.

All because...

Because it was too willful. It was too alive to be what she surely would desire of it, too broken to be of any further use.

It was not the Hollow Knight, and it was not the Pure Vessel that she might have once known before. It was only a warped and traitorous thing, a failed monstrosity that no amount of time and effort would fix.

Even with all of its many lies, its many other failures, it had no voice to scream at her this time. No way to warn her, no way to tell her to leave.

Leave.

Leave, Child. Leave for your own safety.

Leave, or draw your needle and slain the monster.

There was no value in its cracked mask and broken mind, no dignity left in its tarnished nail and its deceitful existence. Nothing to deem worth salvaging, for it was completely unsalvageable.

But the Princess was unaware of its silent pleas, or perhaps unwilling to heed them; she was getting closer still, practically next to it, muttering faint intelligible words as her hand-

It recoiled from the hovering hand, a jerk of its head that made its mask bump against the blade of its nail with a quiet clack.

“Sibling?” was her voice, so oddly low, quiet and almost… gentle? “It’s alright; I’m not here to fight you.”

It was not alright. Nothing was alright and her presence here made everything worse, nearly as much as its own presence was doing.

(It was not her sibling, regardless. The bug that would have been was dead before it was even born.)

The hand –her hand– had retreated back into the pleats of her cloak. “Let go of your nail, if…”

No, it would not. Must not. Must be able to stand again.

So it attempted that, pulling itself up with its lone responsive arm. But it was not enough; its legs twitched, slid, yet its claws could not find purchase on the rough floor. The arm gave up, and the weight of its armor and its existence dragged it down once more, mask almost touching the stone below, its vision filling with grays and blacks.

(Its complete disobedience was further proof of its damnation.)

The Princess- her voice, just her voice, rang muffled between the obscenely loud hissing of its pants for thinned air. “Here,” she continued, shuffling noises following closely. “Let me help.”

It winced at her voice, retreating from that and from the meaning of the words that almost brushed at its cursed shell.

Why would it need help? This was not her battle, but its and its alone. This was solely its role, its existence, and she had no role of her own to play in this all.

(Even through it had lost resoundingly, had lost Her and-)

Leave, leave.

“I won't hurt you, it's alright.”

No. that was a lie. It was not alright, nothing was alright to begin with.

(If it was revenge or a punishment that she had come to impart, it would have walked right into her needle. But this? This help, this tentative offer for an aid better given to a properly living being?

Undeserved. It could not, should not let itself fall into her arms-)

It once again tried to push its limp and numbing legs under itself, for it had to stand up, must stand up. The shell protested every shift and every movement along with its arm as it reassessed the grip on the handle and on the floor.

The Princess-

She had stepped away from it, keeping a wary distance as it finally managed to stand on its feet without succumbing again. Her eyes, dark and glinting, remained strictly on its shaky form and her white mask gave a faint glow under the lights above both.

White mask, white glow.

White, white.

Every part of it tensed under that glow, as realization crashed upon its head like the clash of steel against steel.

She had always manifested as a sun, always trying to bathe it in Her soft, gentle touch, or scorching it under Her mighty, wrathful glare. Sometimes doing both at once, if provoked enough.

It was a fool for believing that She was dead, for believing She had escaped into reality when this was just another of Her conjurations.

Another slip, another mistake. It had failed again and the dawn would sooner break, would soon be freed-

“Sibling?” her voice – or Hers? – drew it back. It did not look at the Princess, did not look at the brightness of the sun, weakened as that currently appeared to be.

It would not. It would only endure Her, for as long as necessary.

Stay still.

Do not react.

Do not give Her anything.

Do not let Her light out.

Why would She dream Her own death? Why create a vision of Her own end, when She strove so strongly to live, to break free from Her constraints with or without it?

That did not make any sense. She would not have done that, not like this or-

She loathed the dark. Found it repulsive enough to have tried, more than once, to separate it from the dreadful black sky in an effort to save it, as well as Herself.

It was the dark, it was not to be saved for anything or anyone else, for it was the grave specifically tailored for Her.

(And yet it was not fit-)

“Hollow Knig-”

The words, steely cold words that drove nails into its heart, remained unfinished as it lunged towards their source, void boiling and pushing and pressing to tear, to claw and smother the title that should have never been placed upon it-

The red and white blur was faster, of course she would be, and so she – She, she, that was the sun disguised in the Princess’ form – avoided the mindless swipe of its claws, and remained out of the way as the floor greeted its body with a deep embrace that crashed and shook its armor, its mask, its shell until the world was nothing but a great wall of white, flaring pain consuming it entirely.

(Shell melting, inflamed flesh pushing, nerves scalding, liquid sunlight pouring and flowing and burning, burning, burning it all-)

The blankness receded in uneven patches across its sight, giving way to blacks and blues and then to indistinct shapes and forms. One quickly stood out, pushing it to lunge and crawl away at once. Opposing forces, clashing in its core and leaving it trapped in a storm of its own making.

(Why was it even doubting? This was Her, She was back and this was not a new trick.

This was its chance to set things right, to drag Her back into the chamber and into its seals and never let Her out.

And yet, and yet-)

All it managed was to lift its head. Even that single movement proved to be a struggle; wobbly, neck stiff and threatening to bend down, it watched Her – or her? – fall from a restless motion and into a silent, seemingly calculating pause that captured it, pinning it down.

(-it could not act, soaked in a thick, cloying layer of dread.

Dread of…

Of…)

The pause stretched on and on then, catching it in a frozen moment unperturbed by anything as the world thinned out at the edges of its sight until-

She turned away, sharply snapping the stillness, and threw her needle with more strength than it deemed necessary, before then disappearing with a yank of silk into the white from the outside. A clear and perfect imitation of what it had only seen through Her peeks into the world beyond.

She…

She was gone.

It was alone again.

(No, not really. It never had been.)

The void retreated in a great rush, its strength rapidly blotting away, draining out of a neck that could no longer hold the weight of its head. It let its trembling form lie down on the cool floor, too weary to do anything else. It did not need to; it was over, she was gone, gone, and it-

... wait.

Cool?

Its ragged awareness, forced into a halt by the sensation, turned solely towards the cobbled path underneath. With a jerking motion, it turned its hand palm down to run it over the rough surface, ignoring the pain that simple movement caused in its wrist. The pads of its fingers and the tips of its claws felt the vibrating roughness of the bumps, the depth of the cracks and the dents in the stone that did not burn or even warm it.

The floor was, indeed, cold. Almost pleasantly so.

This... this was new.

She had never liked the cold. Everything around Her was in varying degrees of warm, often suffocating and inescapable, only becoming gentle in the moments when She tried to be kind to it.

The sun did not exude coldness, ever. Why was then...

First Her demise, now Her lack of warmth.

Was this a new trick of the light? Or...

Its heart lurched.

Was this-

No, no, this had to be a dream. This had to be a new twisted creation of its mind, a new weakness She had found, ready to exploit any moment.

(If it was not, it had then driven the Princess away due to its faults, exercised its will over hers, tried to hurt her for wrongs that were only its own.

That was for the best. That was for her own good, her own salvation.

She would not come back. That was better, she was better off without it-)

It took a deep breath, enough to put pressure on the plates of its thorax, to set the wounds scoring it ablaze. The coolness below was no longer a curious thing. That was a taunt, was another attempt to break it and it was falling, falling into Her trap.

So it-

It remained there. Not as a surrender, no, but instead as an act of resistance.

It could not be impassive, not anymore - it was too damaged to do that. But it could resist Her, could still give Her nothing, until the true nothingness of death claimed both at last.

(That admission had hurt, once in the past, and doubling as the final proof of everything that was wrong with it.

Now? Now that realization gave it strength; it might be too alive to be truly bring about Her death, yet they both had been buried together in a larger grave. She belonged to it to keep here, until both their lives turned to dust and their cores were completely emptied.)

It ignored the cold, the multiple lights, the muted hiss of its slowing breathing, and waited. For the darkness to come – the true darkness, the one only real death would bring.

The darkness that, it briefly hoped, came for it in a blanket that clouded its senses and shrouded it into black.

#hollow knight #hornet #the hollow knight #slimes art #slimes writing #happy valentine's day to those who celebrate‚ I bring... this #(I wasn't aware of the day until today jdjfbdjf my bad)#uh... how to tag this one?#unreality cw #suicidal thoughts cw #ask to tag

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abysskeeper · 9 months ago

Note

Trick, mistake, secret and skin

This 100% did not start with me thinking Trick was one of the words

Yeah ok, my secret is that I'm always on my bullshit about Trick too. Another readmore because I uh...always always ramble hard about my girl.

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

So, the key to writing Trick in any way, shape, or form is that she is, 99.9% of the time, never comfortable in her own skin and always contending with some type of monster writhing beneath her skin. Is she confident and capable in her abilities? Yes. Willing to lead and make the tough decisions? Yes. Self-assured and secure in who she is? No, never.

Is it a contradiction in a lot of ways? Yes, but the girl's a mess of martyr complexes and insecurities. She almost always, honestly believes she is the most horrible version of herself (a coward and a monster), and though she would only call herself as such in a conversation where it's directly referenced, she never denies the accusation and does all she can with her actions to try and make up for her perceived shortcomings. In reality, the worst version of herself is the girl who gave up for a time (there's usually some point in her history where she went selectively mute and actively tried to kill herself), and in that regard, Trick often pretends that girl actually succeeded. She rarely acknowledges that time existed, ashamed as she is by it, and on the rare chance it does come up...well, the ensuing conversation isn't pretty.

As for the monsters beneath her skin, it varies by verse, but she's usually contending with some type of darkness or beast that's a thinly veiled allegory for her rage, desperation, and trauma (because I'm like that). A few examples, in no particular order:

Pack-verse: In Trick's original universe (a dystopian urban fantasy/sci-fi mashup), she's a wolf shapeshifter who was experimented on as a kid, which ultimately resulted in the line between human and beast blurring within her. Meaning, she has a tendency to go partial-to-full werewolf when deeply upset, among other differences (improved senses, heightened instincts and reflexes, etc). She's terrified of her capabilities and tries to repress herself as much as possible, which only backfires. The whole character arc there is about her coming to terms with who she is and what happened to her, and accepting that that side of her (the rage, the desperation, the trauma) is not actually a bad thing (and is actually more heightened because of her human choices, not the animalistic ones).

SWTOR: I took the Jedi Consular story and ran with it. The effects of the Force plague linger after chapter 1, even after Morrhage is defeated. I figured that lending out your soul to protect fellow Jedi against a Dark plague probably means you don't get everything back properly, even if you did everything right. She doesn't suffer from corruption so much (I actually believe she's not corruptible because she learned the shielding technique), but she's almost constantly, subconsciously using the shielding technique on herself to battle off the bit of Darkness she inherited from those she shielded. Other parts of her are missing altogether. It causes her a lot of chronic pain, but over time she learns to deal with it...until chapter 3 when she secretly starts shielding the Children and accidentally inherits some of the Emperor's power. KOTFE and KOTET are the worst time of her life, and she never knew so much relief as when the Emperor finally died in EOO.

BG3: My new project and current brainrot. Trick's issues are a little different here, as she's dealing with divinity instead of darkness (her backstory fic I'm working on is literally subtitled "You've Been Touched by Something Holy"). Instead of dealing with darkness, she's dealing with the fact she's literally been touched by the God of Death and bares the scars (both physical and emotional. I'm using this as an excuse to finally make this a valid design and not just metaphorical) that set her apart from her peers. It's still very much a metaphor for her rage and grief, but has a new and exciting flavor that I'm still working out all the kinks of.

secret: What's one secret your OC never wants anyone to know about them?

Again, depends on verse, but Trick always has at least one, world shattering secret she's keeping to herself. Generally, no matter in what iteration, there are deaths in her past she doesn't want anyone knowing about. The numbers and her exact involvement often vary, but she always feels a sense of guilt for people she either directly or indirectly killed through her actions and/or inactions. Otherwise:

Pack-verse: Her primary secret she wishes no one knew is, exactly, the number of people she's been responsible for killing as an agent of the government. However, that isn't a secret she can hide, as most people know and/or remember her committing those crimes. Instead, the secret she's trying most to hide is the aforementioned experimentation and ensuing consequences. She doesn't want anyone to know just how monstrous she really is, and how utterly disgusted she constantly feels about herself.

SWTOR: She tries to take the fact she was born an Imperial slave to the grave, but it does come out eventually to the Republic or Alliance. Instead, the one thing she will take to the grave is what happened to her as a result of the shielding technique. She'll never speak a word about the non-corruption corruption (thus, she'll never ask for help) because she fears how people will view her or treat her if they ever knew. The only exception is Cipher Nine, sometimes, but that man can and will both take a secret to the grave and never once consider betraying her trust.

BG3: The fact she died and was resurrected by a God. It's kind of hard to avoid in full, given the golden scarring is a dead giveaway of something divine happening to her, but she doesn't easily share the full story. And having died and being resurrected stands in direct contrast to being a cleric (and unrealized Chosen) of Kelemvor, nevermind the fact it was Kelemvor who asked her to live and resurrected her in the first place. It's complicated.

mistake: What's the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Trusting Torren, in every verse. The worst mistake she ever made is trusting her...ex? Abuser? Mirror image and narrative foil? All of the above?

Regardless, Torren is always her worst mistake. She tried so hard to fix him, but he was one of those people who couldn't be helped, and did nothing but manipulate and use her further because of her goodwill. People got hurt and died because of it, no matter the verse. She got hurt (usually assaulted), no matter the verse. Torren is always the worst mistake, no matter what, and the only reason she ever trusted him was because she was young and naive and just wanted to help.

Usually Trick rectifies it by, eventually, killing him. It's the only way she feels like she can rectify everything he's done (to her and to others), and it is her burden to bare alone (though sometimes Tav insists on doing the honors). Even after he's dead though, it takes a long time for her to move on from everything that happened. When she has Tav, he usually helps facilitate her moving on quicker, but she can get there on her own with enough time away from the situation and a metric fuckton of painful self-reflection.

#don't mind me #asks #sometimes things just appear on my dash #no I haven't been working on this for a week and a half #time isn't real anymore #uh....#happy valentine's day here's torturing my girl!

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