Lamentations Of A Civilization

Lamentations of a Civilization

#Impiety AU - 2 Part - Chapter 03#

A Knight’s Penitance

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Summary:

"To serve the King was to serve eternity. To serve eternity was to stand unshaken."

Hallownest was meant to last forever, but even gods make mistakes. When the Pale King enacted the Sealing, the act that was supposed to save the kingdom, it instead marked the beginning of its end. The Hollow Knight was chosen to bear the burden, and the Great Knights were left behind to witness the unravel of everything they swore to protect. One by one, they fell.

Isma, the Kindly, who sought to do anything in her power to protect a friend. Dryya, the Fierce, who followed her Queen into a self-served punishment. Hegemol, the Mighty, whose love for the people led him into battle. Ogrim, the Loyal, who desired to prevent the Capital’s rebellion. Ze’mer, the Mysterious, who left to find her beloved amidst revolt. A kingdom lost, a King who vanished, and Five Great Knights who were left with nothing but lament for an era past.

A kingdom lost, a King who vanished, and Five Great Knights who were left with nothing but lament for an era past. — "A... flower?” The King asked, voice now laced with confusion. “It does not need such a thing.” He tried to dismiss it. "But we do,” Isma said. “So, my King, I beg of you. Let us mourn."

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Authors Note's Corner

Shoutout to the awesomely great beans_o_plenty for helping me with the chapter! Go check out their work (https://archiveofourown.org/users/beans_o_plenty/pseuds/beans_o_plenty)! It is very sweet and angsty, just the way I like it! Without their help, these chapters would take way longer to publish and be half-baked. So, LET US C O O K!

This chapter took longer to post because it had 8-fucking-k words. It was supposed to have 5k, like the other ones, but the A N G S T needed MORE!

This fic is not supposed to have a happy ending and will not have one. It is a retelling of the events that transpired after the Sealing, leading to the downfall of Hallownest as a civilization before the Game starts. I do try to add scenes for levity amidst all the sorrow and horrifying endings, but those are it for this fic in particular. Please remember this as you keep on reading!

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Content Warning: Major character death; Mentions of Depression and Suicidal thoughts; Characters with minor and major depression, mourning, depictions of violence, mild gore, depictions of fighting.

Word Count: 8.7k

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‘Dryya the Fierce;

No one knows exactly where she came from. There are numerous accounts of her suddenly appearing in the White Palace one day, led in by the Queen herself—none were willing to question the White Lady’s decision.

Various personal accounts speak very highly of her, describing her strict nature and unquestionable prowess. Her form was said to be exquisite and rigid, intertwining Soul Arts and Long Needle into fierce combat.

She was also regarded highly as one of the wisest among the Great Knights. Her words held valor, guiding one forward on the correct path. 

Even though strict in conduct, she was sometimes regarded as just as kind and empathetic as Isma.

—

The last report I have on her is about a trip to the Queen’s Gardens, following the Pale Monarch into Unn’s Lands, where the Queen shared territory with another God.

I have yet to find a safe way into the gardens. Both territories are now overgrown with thorny, lashing plants, making navigation hard and dangerous.

—

Speaking of the White Lady, there are numerous reports of her being a plant-like God. From what I have gathered, this land is full of Gods. But are these truly gods? Or are they merely pretenders?

What happened to them? What happened to the Queen? Has she simply escaped with Dryya from Hallownest during the Capital’s fall? There were some scandalous rumors about the two, but nothing can be confirmed without more concrete evidence.

~Lemm, Relic Seeker

Weapons clashed, the shriek of pale ore grinding against itself ringing through the air.

A small green orb arced into the air, filled with spikes, each imbued in Soul Magic. The sphere exploded, shooting whistling projectiles in every direction. Dryya lept back, twisting mid-air before landing lightly, dodging with effortless precision. The spikes buried themselves deep into the ground behind her, sizzling against the dirt.

Landing with perfect balance, she spun, her Needle humming as it became infused with Soul. Swinging through empty air, the honed tip sliced a clean arc toward Isma, sharpened wind trailing behind.

But her opponent was just as swift. Isma twisted and leaped, each movement smooth, avoiding every strike with practiced ease.

With a flick of her wrist, Isma cracked her whip against the ground. The sharp snap sent a chill through Dryya’s spine—she remembered all too well how dangerous that weapon could be. 

The whip lashed forward, its thorned length aiming to ensnare her.

Dryya reacted instantly, pulling back her Needle before darting forward, her aim true. Isma sidestepped at the last moment, her whip curling toward Dryya in an attempt to seize her. Without pause, the white-armored knight vaulted high into the air, angling her Needle downward.

Soul surged through the weapon’s channels. With a swift descent, she plunged, and the moment its tip struck the earth, a shockwave erupted outward. The force cracked the ground and sent dust flying.

Isma barely had time to brace. The blast caught her mid-dodge, launching her backward. Her whip was torn from her grasp as she skidded across the field, sand spraying around her. Isma dug her Nail into the ground in an attempt to stop just before the white boundary line drawn at the edge of the sparring arena.

Silence fell as the dust settled. The audience held their breath, watching in anticipation.

“Match!” a soldier declared.

Isma had lost by a hair’s width—her foot just grazing the white line.

A wave of applause ensued, young cadets and seasoned sentries alike clapping at the display of skill. 

Since The Sealing, not many matches have demonstrated such skill and prowess. The Hollow Knight has left a gaping empty space in their absence.

Isma let out a breath of exertion and rose from her kneeling position, brushing sand off the white sheen of her armor. Dryya approached her, expression unreadable at first. They stood in silence, eyeing each other from head to toe.

Then, they smiled.

Their hands met in a firm clasp.

“A great fight, as always,” Isma said, much-needed mirth lacing her voice.

“You did well enough,” Dryya answered wickedly, a smile gracing her lips.

Isma pushed her friend playfully. “Yeah, right, I almost caught you in my whip.”

“But you were a second too late,” Dryya teased, laughing.

Both comrades-in-arms gathered their belongings from the training field and retreated into the palace’s halls. They walked, sharing some mirth and laughing like before— Before the sealing...

Dryya shook her head lightly to forget about such a heavy topic. She had missed Isma’s cheerful demeanor. The two fell into an amicable silence.

The Great Knight could even see it. The bounce of her step, the way her hands would dance by her sides as she giggled away, gossiping about some new high society scandal Ogrim. Or the mirth in her voice as she pushed Dryya to the side in mock fury at her friend’s rigid nature. 

Isma turned her head, looking behind her as if expecting someone to be there by Dryya’s side— the vessel —when no one was there. When there would never again be someone there— a damn empty void left behind— .

Instantly, Dryya noticed how her friend started to sport a haunted expression—the same one that had lingered on her face for too long. An expression she tried to dispel with a friendly sparring match.

Ah, it seems she has failed.

A pit dug itself into her stomach. The air around them turned heavy—too heavy to bear. Dryya tried to reach out and offer words of comfort, but how could she when she was still searching for those words? When she could not comfort her own heart?

She was supposed to be a wise, guiding friend who helped others in their plight. But who would help her? She decided that when one cannot use words, one can act. 

She grabbed Isma’s hands, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb—both freezing in place in the empty white hallway.

The two stopped in the middle of the pristine white hallway. Isma was still staring into empty space, her melancholic gaze lingering on something Dryya could not see.

Her frustration and helplessness only grew. 

She had been doing everything she could to comfort her friend—sparring matches, staying by her side, buying her presents and food, planning outings with the other Great Knights—yet nothing seemed to work.

Shame washed over her.

She was not thinking logically. She knows Isma is not acting like this just to spite her. No. A disease has befallen her friend. An illness of the mind. Something which has also been—

“Sir Dryya!” A Retainer called out from behind, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

“It’s the Queen! She ordered all of the Retainers and Guards out and locked the doors of the Throne Room half an hour ago. The Monarchs seem to be fighting!” They informed her, urging her along and frantically ushering her away from Isma.

Dryya glanced back toward her friend one last time as she was whisked away by her duty, hoping to convey through the Root Systems the thousands of emotions that run deep in her sap—love, safety, wanted, needed, and warmth—none of them able to touch her friend's recently hardened roots.

Yet, Isma nodded softly, giving a grateful, tired smile—her emotions buried in a thick layer of bark—limiting Dryya’s ability to feel them. Biting her lip under her mask, Dryya turned around and bolted after the court bug

Not as quickly as she would have preferred, they reached the Throne Room. The air hummed with barely contained Soul, the sigils on the lavish white doors thrumming as they strained to contain the power of two Gods. From inside, her Lady’s voice yelled harshly—words hidden under the thick veil of ancient runes cast upon the great doors.

More and more retainers gathered in the area, murmuring to each other and shooting fearful glances at the doors, none daring to approach them.

Her steps echoed in the hallway as she approached the doors, the Retainers’ whispering hushed. Their eyes fell upon the Knight who wished to enter the room where two Gods were clashing against each other.

Dryya huffed a quick, steadying breath and prepared herself for whatever lay behind those doors. She walked up to them, carrying herself as she should—a knight ready to serve her liege. She swung open the great Pale Oak doors.

“--nstantly, and yet, you are the coward!” The White Lady yelled, venom lacing her every word. She stopped herself from speaking when she heard the doors opening. The Queen spared Dryya nothing but a cursory glance, returning to her standoff.

The Pale King was standing up from his throne in a defiant, challenging stance, tail lashing. A guttural clicking escaped his throat; his many legs rapped against the floor as if threatening to charge. His wings flared, and his claws curled at his side. Despite being much smaller than the Queen, he stared Her down, snarling like a Wyrm of old.

The White Lady’s Roots coiled around the room, ensnaring the walls and climbing to the ceiling in fury, thorns lining her Pale boughs. Her furious thorns had crushed and constricted several vases and the grand chandelier in a threatening display. They moved independently, barely contained from closing in on the King and choking out the answer she was after.

Soul vibrated in the room, both halves of the same Kingsoul fighting for dominance over the other in what was once a symbiotic—dare she say intimate—relationship. Hissing curls of Soul wreathed the room, hanging heavy in the air.

It was even difficult to breathe in such an environment.

The glaring intensified in an agonizing stalemate. Dryya tried to walk protectively toward her Lady, but her legs locked her in place—refusing to approach the clashing Gods. Root whipped her head away abruptly from the staredown, breaking the tension in the air, seething resentfully while Wyrm hissed with exasperation.

“Our conversation is not over yet, Wyrm.” She smoldered, turning on her heel and storming out of the room. Her Roots whipped through the air, retracting to rest around Her face and coiling behind her body. She left, storming out of the Throne Room.

The retainers murmured in confusion and dread, instantly clearing the way as the furious Goddess made her way through. Her Roots whipped dangerously behind her, leaving a sizzling trail of Soul in their wake.

Dryya could only stare, stunned at the display, her body now free to move. She turned her head back to the King, who looked more recomposed. The Knight bowed quickly to him before turning and leaving silently. As she closed the doors to the Throne Room, she saw through the tiny crack as the King slumped atop his throne in utter defeat—unaware of her last glance before the doors closed with a thud and a click.

The faithful knight turned to see the retainers staring at her with the same shock. Dryya felt scrutinized under the weight of so many prying, expectant eyes, straightening her back and tightening her posture. She looked up and forged forward with confidence—quickening her pace to follow her Lady, who was storming towards the Palace Gardens.

Her Pale Glow was bright with white-hot fury, the sight alone enough to expel any Retainers tending to her plants.

Once alone, her Lady stood underneath a gazebo weaved with white bark and blue flowers, red and yellow buds sprinkled amidst greens and grays. The Queen’s fists clenched by her sides while she took uneven, shuddering breaths, her Roots uncoiling as her anger mellowed out. They subconsciously explored the garden, feeling over every surface, seeking something to ground her.

Wisps of Soul curled off her body, creating a white mist that covered the entire area. So much power was condensed in those roots, ready to fight bark and thorn with the Pale Wyrm.

Dryya gasped lightly, feeling an unnatural wave of fatigue and melancholy wash over her. She felt it under her skin, deep below the earth, through the Root Channels, as the white-hot anger from the Queen dissolved into rolling waves of sorrow. The Goddess let out a long shuddering breath, stumbling back and sliding down a pillar of the shaded gazebo.

The Lady’s head finally sank into her hands, her shoulders shaking with the weight of her quiet sobs of frustration. There was an undertone of something beneath it all—something deeper. Something repressed. A deep, longing grief.

The Guard stood near her Queen, practiced and dutiful, offering her silent company, watching and waiting with bated breath. 

Once again, she felt wholly and utterly useless. Instead of comforting her Queen like a Knight and a companion— who she was created to be—she was frozen anxiously like some nervous school grub. The knot in her stomach twisted painfully.

She had seen the Lady angry before, but for the Queen and King to fight? That was unheard of.

She never thought she would live to see the day. Wyrm and Root have always worked together in perfect harmony. They even shared half of a soul for crying out loud. What is it that could possibly force them apart so violently?

After a long, stretching silence, her Lady finally got up. She wandered the garden mutely, never sparing a single glance towards her dutiful knight, leaving Dryya feeling like the world was crashing down upon her shoulders. 

Something was wrong, and she did not know what.

Something was wrong, and the Queen refused to tell her what.

She felt like a cadet again, following her superior around awkwardly, unsure of what to do and how to act. So, she did her best and kept watch as the Queen wandered amidst Pale Flowers, the new blooms her majesty has been taking care of. Strange little things that emitted the exact same Ivory Light as Pale Royalty. They were different from the Grey Blooms Ze’mer had brought from her homeland. They weren’t exactly fragile; they were better described as… fleeting. Taking weeks to grow just to show their blooms for a single day before wilting the very next.

It has been two months since her Lady started tending to these new flowers in her garden. Two long, agonizing months since... The Sealing... 

And she knows there is something deeply wrong with her Lady.

Something that started on that dreadful day.

Amidst the sound of chains echoing from the bowels of a black coffin. Amidst the bittersweet laughter and tears. Muffled by the voices of commonbug. Amidst roots that coiled and coiled around in sorrow deep under the ground.

Her Lady's silence pains her. 

She knows it is not The Infection or the unrest stirring in the capital but something quieter—deeper. It is a sickness that gnaws at the Queen, silent yet suffocating—unseen yet unbearable.

And even if this change in her Lady was as clear as the Blue Lake’s waters, no one else seemed to notice it.

The Cityfolk still bowed before her gracious form. The Palace Retainers still whispered songs of devotion and adoration to Her and the Pale King, all attributing her newfound anger at the King’s unwillingness to leave the Throne Room, as she would when he locked himself away in his workshop for weeks.

But Dryya knew better. This was not the same as before—now changed to something raw and vicious, not coming from a place of concern but from spite and fury. It was painfully obvious to her, yet nobody else seemed to notice—or care.

The Queen was suffering.

Even now, she stood before her in guard, watching as her once unwavering light dimmed—flicking under some unseen weight. Pale Roots wilting, Her breath labored and shallow. Branches slowly reaching out for the Pale Flowers under her care, just to hesitate and retreat, as if desperately wanting to touch them—to care for them.

Her Lady was desperately mourning—and her Knight could not understand why. The Queen wept whenever alone, thinking no one could hear her woes. But Dryya did. She could feel the pain and sorrow as if they were her own while she stood, guarding her Lady’s chambers.

Not many were aware of the fact, but Dryya was not Unn’s child; she was the White Lady’s creation. That connection had always been a source of strength. Lately, though, it had become something else—something she could not name. A dull ache settled in her chest—not her own—yet inescapable. 

She ignored it.

Like any other distraction. 

The Queen needed her, and nothing else mattered.

Unable to watch a second more of the White Lady’s despair—which seeped deep into the Roots Channels, imperceptible to most but like a constant scream to her creation. Dryya broke her guard stance and approached her Lady with soft steps.

“My Lady,” She spoke softly. ”Please, tell me what has befallen you.” Dryya asked the dreaded question, attempting not to let pleading desperation seep into her voice.

The Queen’s gaze never faltered from the little white flowers. Dryya should have felt reassured by Her presence, but something was... Wrong... An unnerving silence more resounding than the usual calm—a stillness that made the knight’s chest tighten.

She did not understand why.

“Please, my Lady—if there is anything that can be done, allow me to serve You.”

 She said, projecting confidence in her voice, keeping the pleading desperation from creeping into softly spoken words.

The silence stretched.

When Dryya was second-guessing herself for approaching her Goddess, the White Lady finally spoke.

“I am going to leave for my gardens, " she said with finality. An invisible weight fell atop her Roots, which shone with only a ghost of her former light.

By now, the angered Soul-Magic, which infused the air and coiled infinitely upon itself, had settled into the plants. Everything felt still. Colors returned to the world, now unplagued by the white mist.

Yet, the world felt wrong, as if the words uttered from her Lady’s mouth were a death sentence. A feeling gnawed at Dryya. That a mistake was about to happen—an inevitable one.

A feeling she already knows all too well.

“Then I am going to prepare—” Dryya bowed diligently, relieved to finally be given a path of action—something, anything to make her feel needed. Her elated thoughts and voice were interrupted.

“No. You need not concern yourself.” The White Lady refused, remaining unmoving as she spoke—her gaze fixed on the little White Flowers.

“My Queen,” Dryya gazed up at her creator—Queen and Goddess—looking at her gorgeous blue eyes. “My loyalty rests in you and you alone. Wherever you go, I will follow. And if you stay, I will be by your side,” the knight insisted in finality.

The White Lady did not utter a word more that day.

It has been six months since The Sealing— Six long months.

Her Lady’s sickness did not improve, and as time passed, the situation grew direr. Her weeping was daily. At almost any moment, She could be found keening and sobbing to Herself. Her tears of Soul evaporated in the air, creating a heavy mist from its sheer amount, enchanting the Gardens with an air of despair and mourning, accumulating in Her beautiful blue eyes, creating an opaque membrane over them, as if to trying to hide the world from Herself. She was, quite literally, being blinded by the grief.

Her anger at the Pale King grew from simple animosity to outright hatred. 

A vicious slope that has been dragging both of them down since the fight in the Throne Room on a day that was so long ago but felt just like yesterday. The feeling was seemingly mutual—as of recently, both refused to even go near each other and stayed on the far sides of the White Palace.

The Pale Root tried to make Dryya let go of the idea of following Her into Her Gardens deep in Unn’s territory. Root quietly said there was no need to follow Her, that the path was safe and a guard leading the way there would be pointless, or that She was a Goddess who could care for Herself. 

Dryya simply refused every excuse. She knew that the Queen was hurting, and she had to protect Her from this mysterious illness.

The Queen could not stand the thought of her Knight wasting a lifetime guarding an immortal being as she lamented, while Dryya couldn't stand the thought of living her daily life normally while her Lady suffered from an illness of the mind. The two were tethered to each other in devotion—creator and creation. Queen and Knight.

Finally, last night, the White Lady announced she would leave the Palace Grounds in a week.

Isma stood with Dryya on a balcony. A bitter wind whipped past as they watched a few of the Palace Sentries in their training regiment. The sound of swords clanging created a dim clamor that hung heavily above their heads.

She, like Dryya, knows the White Lady is unwell. Neither wanted their Queen to retreat into the Her Gardens, but they could not have a say.

“Will you be back?” Isma broke the silence with a quiet voice. She gazed down below, her eyes unfocused—staring at nothing in particular.

The question was simple. An unworded request from one of her closest friends, one she could not refuse. Dryya was deep in thought, trying to construct a sentence that could console her sister-in-arms. She couldn’t outright lie and say everything would be all right. Isma was not a distraught grub, nor was she stupid to be unaware of the Queen's intentions of never returning.

The Kindly knew that The Fierce would follow the White Lady to the ends of the world if need be. Yet, sorrow clung heavily in the Roots Channels—deeper than the one which would slip momentarily from the Queen’s controlled emotions.

She felt wrong leaving her friend behind like this. Isma has been deteriorating as well—symptoms akin to those of her Lady, yet duller. But Dryya is only one, and her loyalties lie to her charge. She can at least take some comfort in knowing that Ogrim will be there for her sister.

“I… don’t know.” She settled, “I will stay as long as the Queen needs me,” she concluded vaguely.

Isma didn’t react, still staring out at nothing. Dryya had simply affirmed what she already knew. By now, many had noticed the Queen’s sorrow, but none would dare utter a word about it, fearing the Goddess's wrath.

Sometimes, Dryya wondered if Isma’s illness was the same as the Queen’s—an illness of the Soul that saps away at their life force, making them stare into nothing during the day and weep uncontrollably at night—drastic changes happening in their personality. Screams of self-hatred echo into the roots when not properly controlled to avoid sharing it. 

Both of them were afflicted with the same symptoms since the Sealing. Dryya could easily connect it all to the same event. 

The Vessel’s sacrifice has affected them all equally in different ways.

Even the White Palace felt dull without their presence, rushing about the halls at a trained pace for some urgent tasks, fighting daily in training matches with every soldier they could find slacking around, devotedly practicing Soul arts, and always reaching new records of their obstacle course.

They all felt like something else could’ve been done that day.

Something different.

To prevent this.

But, alas, the past is in the past, and they can only wallow in their regrets as they walk forward. Time will not wait for any of them to recompose.

Someone needed to be strong.

That someone is her .

“Stay safe in your journey. May the Ivory Light protect you,” Isma spoke with an empty, clipped tone, as if she had rehearsed it many times before. Distant and dissociated from the words leaving her mouth.

The Roots shook. A longing gripped Dryya’s heart— not hers —searching for something... For nothing... Craving an ending ... 

Isma slowly leaned in the railing, her empty gaze unfocused on the knights training in the courtyard below. Her green hands gripped the railing tightly as she took a shuddering breath. The craving grows stronger and stronger.

Then nothing.

As soon as it started, it was over. The feeling was gone, replaced by a hollow, numbing sensation. Isma’s eyes focused on the training knights and their stances with an instructor’s gaze.

Dryya felt a lurch in her stomach. She did not know why, but she felt sick. She held her friend’s shoulders and pulled her away from the edge, scanning her. Even covered by her White Mask, Isma looked so tired. Just like the Queen. As if her friend was the one who had decided to leave – to be as far away from this place as possible, instead of her Lady. 

It was as if Isma was the one leaving Dryya behind.  

“May the Ivory Light protect us all.” She replied strongly, shaking her friend's shoulder slightly.

Isma nodded softly, being brought into a tight hug. Their Root Channels intertwined, Dryya sharing whatever she could in waves of hope, gratefulness, and love. Since the sealing, the Roots Systems felt distant—isolated, in resonance with the Queen’s feelings. Her Lady commanding them since Unn had given her sovereignty.

“Don’t forget to send me letters,” The Kindly mumbled. 

The Fierce nodded in the crook of her friend's head, pulling away gently. “Make sure to keep Ogrim occupied while I’m away. The goofer needs his daily dose of attention,” She joked, trying to get a laugh from Isma.

“I will. Don’t worry,” Isma replied, allowing a small, tired smile to grace her expression. Her roots accepted the feelings and shared some of their own, now freely giving small amounts of happiness mixed with appreciation. 

A drop of normalcy amidst the chaotic waves their lives have turned into.

The moment lingered until Dryya felt she had to go—still needing to prepare for the long trip ahead. With final goodbyes, she departed.

Dryya’s heels dug into the floor as she walked away; 

the quiet, rhythmic clicking on the marble floor was the last Isma saw of the Fierce.

Isma’s gaze lingered back down to the training knights below;

a slumped, resigned silhouette was the last Dryya saw of the Kindly.

The Queen’s Gardens were silent—Dryya’s mind was anything but. 

Each step she took alongside the White Lady weighted heavily, her every movement deliberate. The Queen had spoken little since their arrival, which unsettled Dryya. 

Her Lady has always been more reserved but never like this—never so withdrawn, so consumed by something beyond her sight. 

Something she cannot protect against.

The journey had been long, and they had arrived at her Lady’s Gardens near Unn’s sanctuary without much decorum. Without the White Lady’s careful control, thorns could easily have overgrown in the area. Usually, a myriad of Palace Workers would be sent ahead to clear the way, her Lady arriving after, and once in the center of her domain, She could easily command the thriving plants to retreat.

This was not what happened this time, resulting in treacherous pathing until they finally reached one of the corners in her Domain. Root never bothers to command the plants away, and Dryya never comments on her Lady’s decision.

The Queen does not want anyone bothering Her.

Dryya adjusted her grip on her Needle, standing watch as the Queen wandered among the pale flowers she had been cultivating for months in the Palace and now cared for in Her Gardens.

Her Lady’s condition was not improving.

The once-pristine gardens back in the White Palace must’ve been abandoned. Without her Lady’s Ivory Light and command over them, the retainers had no chance of caring for such exotic plants alone—beauty left to wither without a proper caretaker.

Deep below the earth, her Lady seems to be trying to cultivate something new.

She was not doing this for joy. There was no love in Root’s careful planting, only a hollow, aching sorrow. She traced the air above each and every petal mechanically—refusing to touch the downy White Flowers as if the act itself would shatter some fragile illusion.

It was as if the flowers were not just flowers;

ghosts of something lost— taken .

Her Lady’s boughs trembled just above the blooms.

“My Queen,” Dryya said, at last, her voice careful, hesitant. “You have been tending to those flowers day and night. You barely rest and have not properly cared for your needs. Please, tell me what troubles you.”

The White Lady turned her head away—ever-present sorrow etched into her expression, deepening further. Blue eyes unfocused on the world around them. For a long moment, she did not speak. And then, softly—

“ I hear them. ” A haunted whisper came from her Lady's lips.

This left Dryya with more questions than answers—a bitter taste filled her mouth at the inadequate feeling that overtook her body.

How can she serve and protect her Queen when she is so utterly unaware of what the Goddess needs to be protected from?

“Who?” The Great Knight frowned, glancing around as if expecting to see someone there. But there was no one. She was sure of it.

The White Lady’s radicles kept the futile task of tracing the White Flowers without ever touching them in the same pattern as she would in the White Palace. Millions of those flowers were now blossoming around them in the cave deep inside her gardens, which she had selected to stay in.

“The Root Channels,” Her Lady whispered again. “They tell me everything, showing what I wish to ignore— to forget. ” There was a finality to her voice.

Dryya’s muscles tensed. She knew that the Queen’s bond with the channels was strong. The plants of Hallownest thrived under Her silent will, bending to Her desires, sustaining life white Unn’s Mind faded into a dreamless dormancy.

But what could the channels be telling Her now that has despaired Her so?

Root turned to her at last, her blue eyes focused for the first time in a long time—heavy with something Dryya could not even name. 

“The Hollow Knight suffers.”

Silence stretched between them.

Heavy.

Unbearable.

The Knight inhaled sharply. “The Sealing—”

“--Has not worked.” The Queen admitted. “It is impure. The Vessel has failed.” Her hands trembled as they futilely traced the air above the White Petals.

“Existence split into something that had never been supposed to be. Challenging the wills of nature—of myself, to create and give unlife to what should have stayed dead.” A whisper heavy with the Queen’s emotions.

Those words struck Dryya like a blade to the chest, only capable of inhaling sharply as the implications of her Lady’s confession hit her like a Stag.

If the Hollow Knight is truly Impure;

The Sealing would fail.

The Vessel would be Alive, left to Rot in that Black Coffin.

The Infection would run rampant once again.

She would have left her fellow Knight behind.

She would have failed them.

Despite her best efforts not to, Dryya has often thought of the vessel in these past months. She remembers standing in that grand procession, watching the Pale King lead them forward, unmoving even at Isma’s desperate final pleas, uncaring to the tool that was to be used to end The Infection.

She had done nothing to stop it.

None of them had.

And now, before her, the Pale Queen was confirming what they all had feared all those years ago when the Vessel was just a little grub right out of their egg.

The Sealing Has Failed.

The Vessel Is Impure.

And She Has Failed Them .

But maybe they still have time. Like Isma once said after the procession. Their sacrifice was not for naught—it has not been in vain.

The Queen’s gaze never left the White Flowers. Her presence, usually close and grounding, has been distant. Never seeming to truly be there. Dryya still could not understand fully what was happening—a silence deeper than the usual calm—a stillness that made Dryya’s chest tighten.

She clenched her fists, her claws digging into her palm. Yes. Everything could still be fixed. They had a couple of actions to take now. The Vessel could even be saved! It was not hopeless. “Then we must speak with the King. We must prepare another plan and act —”

The White Lady recoiled at her words, shaking her head mournfully, tendrils curling inward around herself like a wilting flower. “It is already too late. The King knows,” she whispered, barely audible. Her head hung low, tears of Soul burning her eyes and falling to the floor. She let out a choked sob, her head sinking lower as if she were weighed down by her pain and despair.

“ He has known. ” A hushed, broken whisper escaped her Lady.

Dryya felt the weight of those words settle over her like a suffocating fog.

The King has known? For how long? From the beginning? Since before the Sealing? Had he foreseen this failure and done nothing ?

Silence stretched between them, thick with painful, unspoken truths.

The Queen turned away, walking deeper into Her Garden. She couldn’t stand the mention of such painful topics any longer. Dryya followed, wary. She had spent her life in unwavering loyalty to her Queen, but something in her stance now—the melancholic sorrow in Her voice—unsettled the loyal Knight in a way she could not describe.

“My Queen, please,” She tried again. “Tell me what must be done.” 

“There is nothing to be done.” Those words were like a wave of ice-cold water upon her. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. There must be something to be done!

The Queen’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the same weight and finality as when she spoke her Declarations. “It was a mistake I allowed—I partook in even.”

Her Lady abandoned the futile task of tracing the White Flowers, turning around and looking at Dryya with those unfocused eyes for the first time in what felt like centuries. Her roots touched the Knights shoulders lightly.

“You should go now, my Knight.” She said softly. “I need time to think—to mourn and to repent.” Her head hung low shamefully.

“My Queen, if you are unwell, I must stay with you.” Dryya insisted. She would never abandon her Lady.

Root simply shook her head slowly. “No, Dryya.” She spoke words of finality, but her voice was hushed and pleading.

Her Queen didn’t want to be alone. To repent alone. She is not a creature made to be left forgotten in the bowels of this deep cavern but to share her feelings and emotions with others. No plant being can thrive by itself—be it competition or cohabitation, they need each other.

The Knight needs her Lady as much as the Lady needs her Knight.

Dryya did not falter. She stayed.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Knight and Queen never spoke a word to each other—afraid of breaking this fragile, barely maintained balance they had reached.

Dryya helped her Lady tend to the White Flowers, caring for the little plants as she would for Her Majesty. Whenever Root saw Dryya silently moving in the garden, she would shake her head mournfully.

If the Queen wanted to, it would be grub’s play to force her Knight out of the little cave. But the White Lady never did so. Dryya kept guard, steadfast.

Every opportunity granted would be refused. Letters to Isma lay forgotten atop a tea table for the excuse of never having enough time to write back and find someone to deliver them—retainers forbidden to enter the small cavern, thorns growing thickly just outside as if to ward them off. A single path remained, which Dryya could take if she ever wanted to, but the Knight simply kept finding other things to do.

The Queen did not weep anymore. She had long run out of tears to shed on this accursed matter, moving with the precision of an automaton. Like what the Pure Vessel was created to be. The Root Systems felt empty and cold, gnawing at Dryya’s sanity every day.

She does not know how to act to protect her Lady from this illness. She fears acting too rashly would result in the Queen finally forcing her Knight out of the Gardens. Dryya doesn’t even know how the world outside is faring!

If the Vessel is not Hollow, then surely the King must be doing something by now. The God-King would not abandon His Kingdom—His thrall. But what is He doing? Are the other Great Knights locked in fierce combat, needing her help? Is the Black Egg Temple still standing? Maybe a new vessel is being trained right now, a truly pure one? Or is the Vessel plan supposed to fail as no creature could be born from unlife like her Lady had said?

Does the King know Vessels can never be pure if that is the case? Or is this the reason they were fighting?

There were simply too many questions and no answers.

Dryya shook her head as her gaze focused once more on her Queen. For days now, She has been weaving together a massive cocoon of Roots and Soul. The Roots shimmered, intertwining with the earth and pulsing in quiet grief. Dryya kept working diligently, tending to the flowers as she watched her queen create the living structure.

But contrary to her Lady’s claims, whenever her Knight lingered near Her, the structure was not a sanctuary of healing but;

A prison, all too similar to another one—high above. Made of stone and soul.

Once she noticed this, Dryya spoke for the first time in those long weeks: “My Queen.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but she felt helplessness and despair soak into it.

Her heart pounded, and the world spun around her. There was no action she could take to convince her Queen to stay. “What are you doing?” She asked in disbelief.

Her Lady did not look at her, still spinning sigils into the coffin. “I have no right to die,” she murmured absently mindedly. “I have no right to abandon this world when I have committed such sins. I refuse to take the easy way out—I have no right to an escape.”

Dryya’s breath hitched.

The Knight stepped forward to do something—to stop this madness! But the Queen raised her hand and looked back at the loyal guard. An action that, for the first time in a long time, seemed to be full of purpose—to be truly Hers and not just another automatic action She had maintained all these months.

“This should have never come to be,” the Queen murmured. “It was a mistake. A sin, Dryya. Do you not see it? That thing... It was never meant to exist.”

Dryya stiffened. That thing? Her Lady’s voice did not waver, and yet—

"That thing...?" she asked cautiously.

She faltered. For a moment, just a moment, Her composure cracked. Then She breathed, forcing the words out as if they sickened Her: “Our child.”

A revelation spoken not with love, but with revulsion.

Those words swerved spoken so softly, yet they struck Dryya with the force of an earthquake. Her mind reeled. Child? What Child? And then, the pieces started to fall into place too quickly, too violently—the failed experiments, the way the Pale King spoke of His work with cold, detached logic, and the way the Queen had always watched the Vessel with something bordering melancholy in her eyes.

Dryya was the White Lady’s creation. She was not a daughter–she could never be a daughter. Not in the way Unn saw her children. No, Dryya was born with a purpose: to serve, be Her loyal guard, never leave Her side, and above all, to be company—a friend in times of need, a shoulder to cry on, and a mind to debate with.

Born from necessity— not from want.

“Your child?” The Knight whispered. “You mean—”

“—The Hollow Knight.” The Queen spoke with a hitched voice, her form shaking, light dimming.

Dryya took a step forward, desperation creeping into her voice. There is no way the Vessel is royalty. Wyrm and Root could never conceive. There must be a mistake somewhere in her Lady’s thoughts. “They were never meant to be your child, my Queen, the King—”

“The King.” Root spat the Wyrm’s title. “Asked me to let him experiment.” Her voice was then eerily calm, unfocused eyes gleaming over the Soul-infused sigils of the root cocoon.

“And I agreed. We could not bear any child of our own. Our natures are too different, but I still kept the selfish desire that maybe— maybe I could end up with a single viable seedling from the experiments, that He could find a way to give me what I desperately wanted. What I still crave . So I let him take my seeds time and time again. I let him try. Watched him fail. Watched nature pushing back as more and more eggs hatched to show only inviable creatures, ” The Queen explained slowly—no emotion in her voice. 

She let out a long breath. “When he finally succeeded. When the first egg hatched and we saw movement, I felt faint hope. I could finally get a seedling of my own.” There was an abrupt pause, and the Queen blinked away tears, Her voice trembling. “That was smothered quickly. What came in return for all of that were things devoid of soul, cold to touch, and reeking of death. The bodies of my dead offspring inhabited by accursed Void. Things that should have never been created. Mistakes.” 

Her Lady’s roots lifted, snaking around Her body as if trying to strangle the guilt and painful memories from Herself. “My Lady!” Dryya pleaded, but it was unanswered. 

She kept constricting and strangling painfully, letting out a last burst of agony. Finally, roots fell to the ground, alongside more tears. “Now it lives in a cursed existence. Its mind is long gone. The Vessel screams into the Roots, crying out its pain and suffering. It should not be able to feel pain. It should not scream. And yet, it does both deep in the dark corners of the Roots Channels.”

The White Lady gathered bindings removed from Her own roots, imbued with her Magic, and carved in Ancient Runes—things She had created using Her coward of a husband’s previous work on the Black Egg Temple.

“I have to own to my mistakes. I must take the brunt of its pain before it leaks into the Roots Systems.” Her voice was frigid now. “Dryya, please, bind me—bind me before I succumb to this madness and escape this world. Do not let your Queen leave as a coward, my courageous Knight.”

“No,” Dryya said immediately. 

This is not an action she can take. She cannot be the one to bind her Queen like this. She cannot do it. Why must she be the one to do it?

She was not built to be the guard of a prisoner but to be a knight of a friend.

“Please.” The Queen’s voice wavered for the first time, pleading, breaking.

“Is there no other way?” Dryya insisted. There must be something else to be done. Can’t she take this heavy burden from her Lady’s hands? Can she be the one bound to the earth instead of her Queen?

“The only other way out is the coward’s way, Dryya,” Her Lady answered almost inaudibly. “And that would doom to all those who rely on the Roots Systems. The pain would be overwhelming to all mortals.” A root lifted to caress Dryya’s cheek in longing.

“Please, Dryya—my fierce, loyal, unshakable Dryya—don’t refuse this final request of mine.” The Queen said, touching her head to her Knight in the first act of affection they have shared since the Vessel was knighted all those years ago.

The Fierce bit her lip and cursed internally. Closing her eyes tight and screaming into her head. She does not want her Lady to die . But she also does not want to bind her Goddess, Queen, and Creator.

The Knight breathed in deeply.

The Guard exhaled sharply.

Dryya nodded. With trembling hands, she fastened the bindings around her Lady, her Goddess—her prisoner. The bindings reacted instantly, clutching tightly around the White Lady’s body, sticking like honey. With every knot made, the Guard’s chest tightened alongside them—her body threatening to suffocate alongside the guilt and sorrow she felt.

When the final knot was secured, the Queen finally looked at her. “My Knight, I implore you. Leave me to mourn, please. It is not worth it to expend your mortal days here.”

Dryya clenched her fists and nodded, the only response she could give without revealing her vulnerable emotional state. 

The White Lady exhaled softly as if a heavy weight was lifted from Her. The final sigils are activated, and root tendrils leave from the mouth of the cocoon and link with the bindings around Her. 

In a burst of Soul, her final task to the Queen was done, and roots pulled Her inside the coffin. To mourn. To be forgotten. To repent.

The Guard positioned herself outside the door, keeping watch for any daring to desecrate her Queen’s place of repentance.

She is not a knight. Not anymore.

The Great Knight, Dryya the Fierce, died the moment she bound her Queen. Locking away her Goddess powers and leaving Her with no means of protection.

Now, Dryya is a nameless guard. Ensuring no one will ever be able to reach her prisoner. 

Is this the correct course of action? She cannot know. But as long as she can be here, that is all she needs to do. 

A Great Knight diminished to a lowly Guard.

Time passes.

The Guard did not move—did not waver.

Time passes.

A maskfly fluttered past her. A mosscreep scuttled through the grass. The world did not stop— even as hers crumbled.

Time passes.

For a long time, she just stood there, unmoving. Silent. Guarding.

Time passes.

Then,

movement.

A flicked or a shadow at the edge of the Garden. The nameless guard kept still, feeling the needle in her hold. 

From the underbrush, something shifted. A set of eyes peered at her from the dark.

Not a single pair. Many.

The guard turned her head sharply, counting the sets on the dozens.

A thin green head appeared from the underbrush. Mantises.

In the past, not so long ago, when she had a name, she respected their kind. They were warriors, honorable and deadly. Those here, in the cavern, are young—just shy of their juvenile shell.

What are they doing here, so far from their tribal territory? Had they gotten lost?

Still, the Guard cannot leave her post.

... 

Something...

Something felt wrong...

Their eyes burned in the dark with an ominous glint, like a candle about to burn down a home. She was used to ending lives; a simple blow, and they would be nothing more than corpses.

There was a flash, and the Guard reacted instantly. Raising her Needle and striking metal from a mantis’s Pin, the clang echoed through the gardens.

More glowing eyes. More mantises. They invaded through the entrance of the cave, their forms twisted, their eyes glowing—glowing in sickly orange.

... 

There was no time to dwell on its implications.

The Guard raised her Needle in defiance. None shall interrupt her Prisoner’s sentence.

Mantises fell upon her, their speed nearly unmatched. Flying at her like lances. White sap mixed with orange hemolymph as she danced on the field.

Another boomerang spun her way. The Guard leaped into the air and struck, bouncing atop it. Her form nimbly descended upon one of the mantises and tore through its carapace.

As she suspected, they had just finished their molt, soft shells tearing easily under her sharp Needle.

Another attack from the right, a parry. More orange spilled. More sap dripped. Another attack. Another parry. Attack. Parry. Attack. Parry.

She stood motionless when the attacks stopped for the briefest of moments. She breathed heavily, her forms disheveled but still terrifying. Falling into a battle stance once more, her Needle swept down in an arc to her side in a challenge.

She would fight these traitors until they relented or until there were no more.

With a flash of motion, a claw from behind nicked her side as she swerved. Dryya let out a sharp hiss. 

Three mantises were upon her.

It didn’t take long for three more bodies to add to the growing pile. She parried, countered, and struck down another opponent. Too easy. She was barely breaking a sweat.

Blades and claws sang through the air, shadows leaping and lunging at her from all directions. The scent of sap and hemolymph grew thick as she cut down foe after foe. Something warm trickled down her leg. No matter. She stepped forward, her armor still holding firm.

One. Two. Five. Ten.

More bodies to the pile. 

More hemolymph on the floor. 

She lost count. The fighting blurred together in a haze, and her limbs and mind were numb. She worked methodically in a practiced set of moves, which she had taught countless cadets and used on the battlefield numberless times. 

These untrained juveniles were unable to make a proper counter.

The ground beneath her feet turned slick with the remnants of the fallen. Her body was covered in white and orange. She had no time to acknowledge any of it.

The Guard fought.

Relentlessly.

Mercilessly.

None shall bother her Prisoner.

More bodies fell into the pile. Sharp, orange eyes bored into her, whipping across the battlefield, the only part of the mantises still visible through their impossibly swift fighting. Slowly but surely, the amount kept diminishing. 

Her Needle thrust forward—too slow. The enemy should have been impaled. Instead, they sidestepped easily. A miscalculation. She adjusted her stance, tightening her grip. Another strike. This time, she would not fail.

A blade finally broke through her Pale Ore Armor, stabbing deep into her side. The last mantis twisted its claw, orange eyes glinting viciously and pulling the appendage out with a sickening squelch. 

No matter how many she killed, more kept coming to the fight. She couldn’t. Only she could be the one to guard the Queen the Prisoner.

The Guard felt numb. Without faltering, she retaliated, plunging her Needle deep into the orange eyes of her foe. With an agonized, maddened cry, its body fell limp, collapsing to the floor as she stood, breathing heavily, clutching her side.

Her hand felt sickeningly wet and cold.

Was it her own sap or the hemolymph of her foes? She didn’t know. 

It didn’t matter.

A hulking figure loomed at the entrance of the cave. A beast of strength and infection. Its burning eyes met hers, and then it stepped back—retreating. Defeated.

Her numb body shook as she walked over to the gate.

None shall enter this cavern.

None shall desecrate her Prisoner chambers.

With a grunt, she pulled a lever that felt impossibly heavy, and the gate fell.

None shall defy the Nameless Guard.

She is a Guard, and she has vowed to protect her Prisoner.

This is her penitence.

Triumphantly, she walks back to her post, holding her head high;

Her body limped, sap seeping from various wounds.

Straightening her regal posture;

Her form collapsed outside the entrance like a broken twig.

Lifting her head in defiance of any traitors who dare come this way—

Broken gasps of air and shudders of pain.

—let them see the carnage that has befallen those who came before!

Her body was slowing down, her vision fading—it was getting cold.

She took a step forward. Or at least, she thought she did. The weight of her armor was gone, yet she still stood. 

Still guarded. 

Still protected. 

The enemy had fled. 

The Prisoner was safe. 

She had done her duty. 

She had to keep watch.

A triumphant guard stood before the gates;

A broken warrior slumped against the entrance.

An unyielding knight watched over her Queen;

A dying figure bled silently into the roots.

Dryya’s mind did not falter.

And yet—

Her body collapsed.

...

...

...

One by one, they all fell.

Dryya, the Fierce, who followed her Queen into repentant punishment;

whose mortal shell succumbed to wounds under undefeatable will.

--------------------Λ--------------------

Link for ao3 -> 'Impiety'

And here we have it, chapter three!

I hope to have managed to squeeze out some tears from your eyes! The saltiness pleases the A N G S T Gods MUAHAHAHHAHA

I really appreciate when someone uses some of their time to leave even a tiny review! And thank you to everyone who has already shared some of their feelings on this silly thing I have been writing in my spare time!

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