The Hollow Knight was not made to have a mind.
Of Void, Root, and King, it was crafted. To serve, to protect, to seal the Old Light. With its sacrifice, the kingdom would be made safe. With its death, the Light would be fully extinguished.
A duty it has already failed.
Its body is broken and pock-pitted with the effort of containing Her wrath. It has faced its purpose, and it has failed- and even the merciful princess of Hallownest, as kind as she has been, cannot fully repair it.
And then she had left, and left it to decay and ponder on its own shortcomings.
It was made to obey its Father- to obey the King, the Ruler of Hallownest- and yet, it cannot even properly serve his kin, the last remnants of the purpose it was meant to fulfil.
Hallownest is fallen. Its inhabitants are gone. Its father is dead. The Old Light is gone from its captivity, the cage at the back of its mind gone empty. It is alone, or so close to alone that it is indistinguishable from true loneliness.
It does not feel lonely, no matter how much the idea might cross a lesser bug's mind.
It has no thought. It has no voice. It was made for its purpose, never to stray, never to deviate. It was crafted with no mind and no soul, divine purpose bestowed upon it for a reason- and now, that purpose is gone, and only the husk of a divine beast remains.
It is a failure. The only question that remains is who will repurpose its body, once it has spent all that it is.
It sits. It waits. It remains obedient, even as it struggles to act according to orders that should be maggot's play for something such as it.
Its sister, gods-knows-how-long ago, had ordered it to guard Hallownest in her stead. It had obeyed best it can, but it was difficult even then - its body was worn and decayed from its time in the Black Egg, and had only rotted further since, the strain taking a toll on its slowly-breaking shell.
Being of void granted it durability. Far beyond that of a normal bug, yes, beyond even that of most demigods - but not an unlimited amount.
It had bowed at the claws of the Old Light. It had nearly broken at the claws of the many intruders, warded by its scarred muzzle. Now, it threatens to shatter in the face of the wear of time.
It is aging. It is tired. Its shell is worn and splintered, threatening to break at the mere touch of an intruder. It struggles to stand straight-backed, weight of its horns dragging it right back down again. It is so, so, very exhausted, and all it wishes to do is rest .
It is not so tired as to disobey the Princess's last orders. But it is worn enough to fear it will break , should it stand for much longer.
Or that it will break, should it dare stand against this visitor.
The moth standing before it is familiar. A pale cream color, shot through with gleaming goldenrod where Her fur is shortest. The shade of Her fluff strikes a familiar bell, the look of disdain She levels towards it even more so. The wasteland beast at Her side is unfamiliar, but it supposes it would be foolish to assume She would not garner new followers, once unleashed.
It should have known She did not die.
When it proved resilient against Her, it should have only been common sense to realize that She would have been much the same. If it had not suffocated Her light, then an impure Vessel taking a child's form would have no chance.
The moth levels a glare at it and barks something sharp, clapping Her hands - it does not know the language, but it knows a command when it hears it.
She is expecting to be obeyed, no doubt. Expecting it to bow to Her, as it did during their imprisonment. It should disobey. It should tear any last remnant of Her limb from limb, cleanse this land of Her rotting light before The Infection can return again.
It... is not certain it can disobey.
It should not listen, it knows, not to her, but it is tired, it is worn, it is-It wants, so very badly, to finally have some drive more than to guard, set to this eternal post until its body finally gives out.
She turns from it to address Her companion, disdain and dismissal clear on Her face. The wasteland beast tilts its head at the Hollow Knight, clearly inquisitive. It does not understand what it is that it is looking at.
It is listening. Even if it does not understand.
Her back turns to it, Her tone singing of derision, and it begins the slow, painful process of dragging itself to its feet.
Its claws scrape on the stone, aggravating pains it did not know it had. Its shoulders burn with the exertion as it pulls itself up by the nail, its claws straining on the hilt as it forces itself to stand. Injuries nearly forgotten make themselves known, burning across its shoulders, its arms, its claws. It leans on the blade far more than it would want, putting weight on its still-broken tip as it struggles to straighten its back under the weight of its own body, of the broken metal that remains from its bonds, of the many battles it has fought since being instated as guardian.
It stands at attention, and it lasts no more than a single second before gravity gets the better of it.
The Moth's conversation with Her companion stalls for a single second as She watches it rise, her claw frozen mid-gesture. It knows better than to underestimate a goddess, but this new body of Hers is so terribly small, compared to it. It wonders, for a brief moment, if it could overpower Her - but it has tasted Her dream-blades before, and even if Her vessel is less assuming than it is accustomed to, it knows all too well how deadly the residents of the Waste have proven, bug and beast alike. It knows all too well how formidable She must have been, to win its loyalty, just as personal experience has taught it of the wasteland beasts.
It knows it will lose, if it moves against Her. It know it will die, if it is to lose a fight.
It raises its blade.
It will make an effort. It will prove that it tried. Perhaps then, it may hope to claim some greater dignity than that of a fallen husk.
Her new incarnation is not as hasty to use magic as it expects. It has fought a thousand battles with Her over the course of Her imprisonment, and this form of Her follows nothing it is used to- it has grown presumptuous, battling the same handful of bodies, and this one takes it by surprise. Her diminutive size conceals strength far beyond its expectations, the shields of void it summons to eat at Her magic merely pierced through from the other side. She sings in a tone that rattles its shell, and it moves to interrupt Her casting before true damage can be done.
It makes its first blunder when it attempts to close the distance. It judges Her as small enough to crowd, to force to the defensive with the reach its nail affords it, and She simply allows its blade to sink into Her ruff, kicking it in the chest with enough force that it feels its shell waver when it overbalances in surprise.
In dreams, She was a spellcaster. This form, it seems, is a physical fighter.
It is too late to correct its mistake when it realizes the blunder. She cannot strike far beyond Her small form's limb length, but the wastelands beast makes up for Her lack of range, fluttering around its attacks with ease and sticking daggers through any gap in its guard that it can find as She punishes its attempts to disengage. Her cries, more than mere channeling, rise into an ear-rattling pitch that would surely tear the auditory membranes of a mortal bug and threatens to rattle apart its Void, to worsen the cracks in its mortal shell. It attempts to strike, but its distance acts against it, the length of its nail rendered clumsy and useless against a foe that remains no further than its forearm and a foe with such speed as to evade every hit.
It lasts longer than it had expected. But it cannot stand against a god.
The last strike lands, and it collapses with a wheeze, the frail shell over its Void threatening to split apart. She kicks it a last time, a heavy impact in the middle of its thorax, staring down on its broken body as She sneers. The language She speaks down to it in is incoherent, but it still understands the idea of what She says.
It has lost.
And in doing so, it has failed the last duty that has ever been given to it.
It slumps as She speaks to Her companion, dismissive and smugly victorious at once as it struggles to hold itself together before the potential of another hit. Her tone turns sickly sweet as She addresses it, beckoning it away from its post as Her companion watches as if judging if its death is a certainty. Her claws hook, hook in the back of its mind, entirely too persuasive for what it knows her to be, and it knows without a shadow of a doubt what She is asking it to do.
It knows it should not obey. It knows it should guard its kingdom.
…it has been ever so long since it has seen anyone that it could not fight, and Hornet has been away so long it fears she will never return.
It moves its head to Her hand, baring its throat for Her to take Her tribute. It has failed again. She will take Her right of conquest, and it will die, as it already should have when She broke her prison. It knows it should not think, but something of it thinks it would be happy with that ending, were it a thing with emotions.
The expected blade does not come.
Her hand cups around its face, pulling its head up ever so softly. Her voice grows more insistent, Her demands repeated over as She looks it in the ink-black eyes of its mask. She pets along its mandibles, clucking Her tongue as She attempts to pull it away from its post.
It doesn't understand.
She grows more insistent, an edge of impatience coating Her voice. The wasteland beast curls around Her shoulder, speaking something in that unknown tongue, and She brushes it off, continuing to coo to it as if it is a stray pet.
It doesn't understand .
Why would She keep it alive? Why would She not kill it on the spot - it is the prison that contained Her for years, the thing that She voiced her malcontent and tested her blades against for centuries - why would She spare it now , after however long trapped together? Why would She wish to keep it around?
It is lost. It is broken. It knows not what path it could take to possibly bring it back from its disgrace. Its claws curl around a nail it no longer deserves to wield.
She beckons it away from its post again, and it leans where She guides, this time. She cooes as if it were a hunting-beast praised for bringing back Mosscreep, stroking its splintered horns and beckoning again.
It obeys. It realizes, perhaps too late, that it has allowed Her passage, moving its bulk from the path She was trying to access. Perhaps this is only more evidence of its impurity. Perhaps She simply wished to see it bend to Her one more time, before killing it.
But She does not strike again. She does not unsheathe claws to carve into its softened underbelly, She does not call Light to pierce through its fragile void-shell, She does not command her waste-beast companion rip it asunder. She simply pets it on the horns, her head turning off into the ruins of Hallownest as if it does not even warrant her gaze.
It...
Perhaps She simply wishes to humiliate it. Perhaps this is all that it was ever worth to Her - a momentary battle, a step along her road, an inconvenience soon to be dealt with.
A pained wheeze escapes its throat, air whistling through broken anatomy. The wasteland beast stares at it as if it is a beast in a zoo, as if its body is something wholly alien to it. To a wasteland beast, it supposes, it would be.
It says something to the Moth, and She pauses, if momentarily, in Her attentions to it, speaking to Her beast without regard for the Knight dying in her claws, one hand absently cupped about where its mandibles connect to its muzzle, and it sits, silent as it is meant to be, as She converses with Her follower. It sits in place in uncertainty, not knowing what She expects of it, if it is to lean to Her mortal form's warmth or simply to remain where it is already positioned.
Finally, she stops. She beckons it upwards, heedless of its pain. It takes several long moments for it to garner the energy to raise its head, even when it is commanded.
She gestures to the Wastes. To the long way out of Hallownest. And it...
It knows it should not be obeying. It knows that it should not be listening to the Old Light.
But it is not worthy for the duty that it has been set to. Not anymore.
It is Her right of conquest, it reasons to itself. And it is not the place of a vessel to question what a god would ask of it.
A trickle of Void flows from its failing body as it drags itself to its feet once more, nearly every part of itself straining in a threat to fall apart. It holds itself together through will and nothing more, receiving an approving coo from Her. The wasteland beast moves to support it as She gestures it towards the exit - out of Hallownest, out into the mind-killing wastes. It knows that it will not survive the mind-scorching that awaits, the loss of self that will become inevitable - but it is not made to protest, and if she wishes to strip it of its memories, it does not truly have any right to resist.
It is so tired. It wants to rest.
She guides it towards the wastes, just the slightest bit more insistent this time, and it moves, regardless.
The Hollow Knight was not made to have a mind. It will not attempt to fight against the choices of its betters.
If this is what is asked of it, then it will remain obedient.
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