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please go read this wonderful work of fanfiction by my dear friend, @impietyau beta read by yours truly

Lamentations of a Civilization

#Impiety AU - 2 Part - Chapter 02#

Sorrowful Kindness

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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

*My Canon Compliance for this fic is because it is how I imagine/interpreted the endings of each Great Knight, considering every tid-bit of lore we have on the subject. Other works in the Impiety series will follow the same line of idea, canon-compliant to whatever lore I can find, but my obsessed ass might let some important info go by right over my head (if you know something I don't, please SHARE! SHARE THE K W O L E D G E). Also, not every work in the ImpietyAU will be canon-compliant, only some where I'm working more with the pre-game setting.

Will try to keep up with weekly updates!

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Content Warning: Major Character Death, Panic Attack, Bugs have torches and pitchforks - they are revolting!

Word Count: 5.2k

--------------------V--------------------

‘Isma the Kindly;

She was the Third Great Knight of Hallownest. Born as one of Unn’s children, she had a deep connection with Greenpath. Her practiced aim was her specialization, viciously tearing at the Kingdom's enemies from a distance.

Her favorite weapon was her whip—word ran that even experienced Knights from the King’s Pale Guard feared it.

On more personnel registries, she was highly regarded and told to be kind, caring, and equal to all. She would not judge anyone based on their background or species.

—

What has happened to her, I wonder. Where did her glorious tale meet its inevitable end?

I would need to delve deep into that broken elevator shaft to find more about it.

—

That was a bad—awful—idea. That shaft is full of sharp ends and ragged edges, not to mention the crazied sentries roving about in that dark bottomless hole.

Hopefully, that little irritating mute bug will bring more journals with tidbits on her.’

~Lemm, Relic Seeker

The Hollow Knight and the Pale King disappeared inside the gaping mouth of the Black Egg Temple, their light seemingly snuffed out by the pure darkness emanating from the glorified coffin. Isma shuddered, her hand flying to her mouth in an attempt to muffle a sob.

Ogrim’s claw was over her back in an instant. He pulled her closer to his chest, giving her a place to hide for a little while, just enough for her to recompose herself before any of the celebrating commoners could see anything amiss in the reaction of one of the Kingdom’s Great Knights. 

The sentries in the area acted like nothing was amiss. None of the Dreamers nor the Queen tried to question or criticize her for such demeanor. They all have something to lose here—be it a friend or even their own life, at the bequest of The Infection and this attempt to seal it away. 

No one would question Isma, the Kindly, for caring too deeply for one of their disciples—even if they are a construct made by the King. Most of them saw how she treated said automaton in the Castle. How much time, effort, and kindness went into molding that vessel into the perfect knight.

The Dung beetle’s face hardened as he stared deep into the darkness Isma now refused to even glance at. His arms held her close inconspicuously, giving her a hiding place to recompose herself before he turned back towards the masses.

Ogrim silently prays to their God-King for this plan to succeed so that their unofficial Sixth Great Knight can accomplish their first and final order.

He truly wants to believe Isma when she says the Pure Vessel has a Soul of their own. He already has his shortcomings wrapped around the existence of Kingsmoulds and Wingsmoulds—creatures made of metal and stone to be like living and breathing bugs but animated by the God-King’s magic. Sentries that did not tire had no reason to eat or drink and could work around the clock in a precise manner.

After seeing them for himself, he finally understood the creepy feeling those constructs gave off and even talked with other bugs about how they feared losing their job in the Palace Pale Guard to those strange things. More than once, he had wondered the same things while reassuring his friends that the King would not just dismiss them and their years of servitude over those things.

At least, none of those machines had proven capable of surpassing the Great Five—shortcomings appearing even at fighting some of the Pale Guards. 

Then, the little vessel showed up. A blank canvas to be filled with any practice they could fit inside their little head. If he had difficulty understanding how Kingsmoulds, things that looked and moved like bugs, and yet were not bugs, it was infinitely harder to understand that little thing.

Unlike normal automatons, the little vessel could molt, stumble, get lost, and even eat on rare occasions. This all made him feel like the little vessel was indeed a bug.  

But the God-King said otherwise, and one by one, they all accepted it—even his Kindly Isma.

Everything seemed fine for a while, and things progressed smoothly with the King's plan. But suddenly, one night, after weeks of stressing over their discussion with the Pale King over and over during the day, she came to him at night and asked what he would do if the little vessel was a bug. What would he do if they had a soul and could think and feel like anyone else? 

He feared where this question was going—questioning their God-King was never easy for him. But Ogrim did his best to answer honestly.

He would protect them.

No matter what.

Shortly after, Isma initiated the plan. She wanted to find out if the vessel would accept a flower from her. If they did, Ogrim stood ready to assist them in escaping upon her command. 

Even after all this time, he still could not grasp inside his big old head how a construct, created not to be a bug, could gain a mind. It all felt so confusing and backward, so he decided to trust his heart—to trust his love. 

If Isma says the Vessel is alive, then he believes her. 

It is as simple as that.

But he also accepts the Vessel’s sacrifice and is thankful to them. Without their help, he is unsure how one could defeat an invisible foe. If not for the God-King finding a way through the use of the Vessel, he could not even fathom what else they could do to be rid of The Infection.

It all felt so... Helpless.

And that sensation gave him shame that ruminated under his carapace every day.

What use is that of a Knight who cannot defend their kingdom? Who can only watch as everything they swore to protect slowly crumbles away into fine dust?

Shaking his head from those thoughts, Ogrim turned his attention back to Isma, slowly caressing her back and supporting her. She is allowed to mourn their friend. 

Breathing deeply and slowly, he knows he is also allowed to mourn them.

“I’ll miss you, little vessel,” Ogrim spoke softly, feeling Isma twitch under his arm as she nodded, agreeing with his words but not daring to open her mouth for fear of another sob overtaking her.

The Black Egg Temple rumbled—chains echoed from the bowels of the gigantic structure, and the air filled with the static of great concentrations of Soul-Magic. Finally ready, Isma lifted her eyes and straightened her face for a proper, dignified look. 

She still held the flower in her hand, and Ogrim offered a claw.

She carefully placed the flower on his pincers, and he approached the door to leave a last memento—a parting gift to their friend by its frame.

As he lowered himself in a last bow to lay the flower down, he felt the looming presence of the Queen approaching him. His claws let go, and the tiny thing rested serenely by the entrance to the Temple.

“Ogrim, that flower—Where did you get it? It holds power from foreign lands. It should not be here. It is too dangerous to be left near Void of any kind.” Before the White Lady could finish her sentence, the ground rumbled, and small pieces of compacted dirt and stone fell slowly from the ceiling. 

“My Queen,” Isma bowed, “It was I who brought the flower.” 

“Please then, dispose of it,” The White Lady commanded, her eyes boring into Isma.

“Let Me’hon do it, Me’Lady,” Ze’mer spoke, pacing quickly toward the fragile flower. “It was Le’mer’s idea to bloom a flower from Lands Serene as a gift. Le’mer knows how to handle such flowers and best dispose of them,” She explained, gathering the flower in careful hands.

The Queen nodded regally, turning to look at the temple’s entrance. More chains echoed from its bowels. 

The Soul Magic had by now lit up runes to the halfway point of the construction.

The air hummed with Condensed Soul, and Ivory-White motes floated up from various runes activating outside the temple. Ze’mer made sure to walk away with the flower while the sealing continued.

“Guards! Enter formation!” Hegemol exclaimed from near the entrance to Dirtmouth, and Isma looked that way to see Infected Husks approaching.

Heavy guards lifted their shields to hold the infected back, spears quickly thrust in between small gaps, digging deep into the Husk's bodies. Sickly hot orange spilled, puppeteered bodies falling to the floor as if the strings were cut.

“Launch!” A winged sentry bellowed, and spears flew out towards the Infected at the back, halting the horde's advances for a moment and giving the shielders much-needed breathing room.

“Please keep calm. The guards and knights are taking care of it,” A Royal Guard explained to the worried commoners. The White Lady did not even spare a glance at the commotion, her gaze fixated on the Black Egg Temple and the enchantments taking place inside of it.

This gave the masses a sense of safety. Although the cheering stopped, the murmurs of conversation and speculation did not cease.

“They are very apt at dealing with the Husks,” Herrah spoke, approaching the Pale Queen.

“Ogrim, Isma, and Ze’mer came up with the strategy while Dryya and Hegemol helped train the sentries,” She answered calmly.

Isma kept her gaze on the fight. So far, this strategy has been enough to hold back even decently large hordes. But an enormous horde would be too much, and the Great Knights would have to intervene if things start to get out of hand.

More Husks appeared from Dirtmouth, and more of the sickly sweet-smelling substance was spilled on the floor and the guards' armor; there would be hell to pay later with guard rotations and isolation to make sure no one was spreading the infection at the capital once they were back.

Isma painfully noticed there were no more chains sounds coming from the Temple.

The air still sang with magic, and something pulled at her—the root systems felt disarranged. Static, making it all the harder to feel any other who shares the system.

The runes at the top of the temple finally lit up.

Something pulled at something else. A tight snap was in the air, and Soul gathered in the building. Every rune chanted mutely, and the air buzzed with power.

Her ears rang. Sounds turned into muteness.

The Infection started to accumulate in the room.

Everyone waited with bated breaths.

Slowly, the sounds came back. Bugs barking orders. Spears tearing into carapaces. Silent murmurs in the background.

And then a Godly scream.

Ravenously screeching.

Threatening to deafen all.

The Infection started to gather in the air. The sweet smell made her nauseous in its stale presence. Everything started to get tinted orange.

Have we failed?

Did we lose?

As those treasonous thoughts envelop her mind The Infection started to pull away, gathering at the mouth of the Black Egg Temple and sucked in. The runes on the outside shone brighter. Soul chains embedded in the sickly orange. A net pulling it all in—every last drop.

The temple shook with its sheer force.

Isma felt like her own body was being sucked along, and saw as other bugs inclined backwards, as if they all felt the same pressure.

And then it was over. 

Small debris falling from the ceiling was the last signal that anything had happened at all.

“The Husks!” Someone screamed from Dirtmouth’s entrance. “They stopped!” They said, a hint of disbelief mixed with happiness in their voice.

Isma looked that way and saw the Husk shells immobiized on the floor. No. She looked at the shells of their dead, who had finally been allowed to rest.

A Pale Ivory Light appeared from the dark entrance.

He approached the Dreamers proudly, and behind Him, a line made of Soul connected His glowing body to the inside of the temple.

The Pale King neared Monomon first. No words could be heard, but Isma knew He thanked her softly before murmuring the needed enchantment. The Uoma archivist slumped a little forward before catching herself.

Next was Lurrien, who held the King's hand in a feat of boldness Isma had never felt the man capable of. Another quiet ‘thank you’  followed by the enchantment. Lurien slumped forward, and the King managed to catch his body.

When Lurien was handed to his trusted butler, the Pale King finally turned to Herrah. The Beast inclined forward and spoke something into His ears. With a single nod from the Pale God, she closed her eyes, and the enchantment was pronounced quietly. She did not flinch but blinked heavily and tiredly when it was done.

The White Lady walked over to each dreamer and thanked them, bowing graciously to each one of them.

The God-King then turned around to the commoners. His wings flared, and his arms spread in a grandiose gesture.

“We declare from henceforward that the Infection is gone!” His voice echoed in the tunnel. Bugs cheered joyfully and cried in mourning. Relief and hope for a better future intertwined with sadness and longing from a broken past.

“Through the sacrifice of The Hollow Knight and the Three Dreamers—Monomon the Teacher, Lurien the Watcher, and Herrah the Beast, Hallownest is safe and shall reign Eternal!” The King flared his arm toward the Dreamers, and the bugs cheered once more, bowing and thanking the three courageous bugs.

“Herrah, you can go back to your den,” The White Lady said softly, hugging the other Queen inconspicuously. “He will go there to make the final arrangements soon. Make sure there is no lingering regret.”

“My bargain was made; there was never a possibility for regret,” Herrah spoke quietly.

With the King’s orders, they finally started the journey back to Hallownest’s Capital City.

It has been a year since the Sealing.

An entire year has passed, and they still have no new plan. 

She did all she could to get the King to do something—anything—just so Hallow's sacrifice is not in vain!

And yet—

Isma could only watch silently when Dryya and Ze’mer left the White Palace, their forms swallowed by the distant corridors, which seemed emptier by the day. 

One toward the Queen’s Gardens, the other toward the far-off Mantis Village.

Two Great Knights leaving to care for two different crises.

One was to protect the White Lady, who had vanished from the Castle Grounds not too long after the Sealing, and the other was to check on the whispers of treason and conspiracy coming from the Mantis Village.

That left only three of them in the palace now—herself, Ogrim, and Hegemol. Soon, they would also be gone to deal with another crisis.

She had not voiced her complaints at the time, but now, standing in the empty hall with only the distant murmur of a few palace sentries, the weight of their absence pressed on her.

Everything had been fine for the first few weeks. 

Life was seemingly falling back into what it was before. Bugs were mourning still, but at least they had new hope—a future to look towards.

With whispers lost to the wind, it started. Telling a tale of an usurper—of old debts and wrongdoings. Common bugs started praying, not to the Ivory Light, but to a glistening Blistering Sun. Their eyes unfocused, tinted in orange. But there were no physical signs of orange blisters overtaking their carapaces. No infected cocoons present. Not even the lingering sweet smell of The Infection could be found.

There was no evidence of The Infection, and still, the Goddess's presence lingered.

During the day, those bugs acted fine and worked normally. But at night, they dreamed of Her Light. They would pray to Her and speak of Her. 

Ill words started to befall the Pale King and His image. Insisting that His Light had abandoned them. How the deaths were His responsibility. Spouting that He had not done enough to save them. 

And then, the Soul Sanctum happened.

Like a Domino effect, bugs from all around started to blame Him for being careless, for allowing someone to commit such a massacre on the doorstep of His home.

Stories of piles of bodies atop piles of bodies. Of the agronious sin of sucking a bug’s entire soul reserve in the name of research. That the research was allowed by His decree.

All nonsense—lies and blasphemy. But no one would listen to the voice of reason, and the lies spreaded like fire.

The Soul Master and his followers vanished in the Bowels of the atrocious building. They did not have enough soldiers to go after that monster right now. Various sentries had already died at his magic when trying to act independently.

The Pale King did not act. He had hidden away in His throne room a few weeks prior, refusing to leave and ordering none to enter—soul drumming in the air around closed doors.

Isma can only hope he has been doing some research there while chaos ensued. Anything to try and save this Kingdom—His Kingdom!

Without clear orders, the situation was growing out of hand. There was a shortage of soldiers, so Ogrim and Hegemol decided to leave and check the Capital's situation. Things spiralled out of control over the course of a few days. 

Sentries started to gather arms with commoners, whispers of revolt against the King circulating the masses and growing in strength by the minute. Palace Guards left their stations to check on the situation and never came back.  

She felt abandoned.

No—she felt like they had abandoned Hallownest.

With the Infection still lingering, its return slow but undeniable, they should all be fighting to find a new solution. And yet, they had scattered one by one, each drawn away by a different crisis.

Hegemol and Ogrim’s departure had been the final spark of frustration. 

She could no longer stand idly by.

The King had to listen to her now. He could not brush her aside any longer, not when his own Great Knights were leaving, not when the capital whispered of rebellion, and not when she had warned him from the very beginning that the Vessel was impure.

The Throne Room doors loomed before her, heavy and foreboding, the Pale King’s light seeping from the cracks.

He had not left this chamber in months, His absence in His workshop painfully conspicuous. That was the strangest of all.

Before, he had worked tirelessly, endlessly thinking, always planning—that unrelenting mind had built Hallownest’s prosperity! But now? Now, he sat in that throne, unseeing, unhearing, letting his kingdom rot beneath him.

Has He given up? Has he forsaken His kingdom and His people?

Isma did not hesitate. She pushed open the doors and strided in with confidence.

The Pale King was exactly as she expected him to be: seated upon his throne, motionless, his hands gripping the arms of his seat with an intensity that spoke of barely contained tension. His luminescent Ivory Crown cast long shadows against the pristine walls.

He did not acknowledge her for a moment, and her stomach twisted. When was the last time she had seen him truly move?

“My King,” she started, and the words left her mouth more gently than intended. Too gentle. Her grip tightened at her sides. “I need to speak with you.”

Silence.

Her frustration spiked. “Ogrim and Hegemol have gone to the capital to control the uprising. The city is in turmoil. The people see what you refuse to—The Infection is still here. It never left.”

Still, He said nothing.

Her voice rose. “You know the plan has failed.”

His fingers twitched. That was the only indication that he had even heard her.

She pressed on, stepping closer. “I told you! I told you! The Vessel was not pure! We trained them, fought with them, and saw the hesitation—the will—but you refused to listen. You had so much faith in your plan, in your foresight, but now—”

She hesitated. Now, there was nothing. 

A kingdom at the edge of collapse. 

An Impure Vessel locked away, forever sealed, yet unable to contain the rot completely.

And still, he sat.

Something inside her snapped. She strode forward, emboldened by her anger, until she stood at the foot of his throne. “Say something! Look at me!”

Her arms lifted, intending to grip the King by His shoulders, to shake the stupid out of Him! 

But the figure of the God-King she had looked up to so desperately in the past stopped her. She might be Unn's child, but this does not mean she can just so boldly disrespect another God, especially one she had believed.

Even if she has no lingering respect left.

His gaze finally shifted slowly, as if it pained Him. She could see the exhaustion, weariness, and failure in His eyes. Everything was hidden perfectly under a porcelain mask, one she had learned to interpret after centuries of servitude.

“There is no other plan.” The words were hollow. Empty. A declaration of finality.

Isma froze, her mind catching up with the utter desperation these simple words brought down on her shoulders. 

The anguish and utter sheer feeling of hopelessness that they gave.  

“You’re lying.” She said with gritted teeth. There is no possible way this is the truth.

He is the God-King. He created Hallownest and claimed to have given everyone a mind to think! How can He say there is no other plan?! There has to be another plan! It has to! Please.

His hands curled into fists.

“There is nothing more We can do.” His voice came out softer than she expected, a tinge of sheer tiredness covering it all. 

As if He has given up.

Her breath caught. That was the moment she finally realized. He had given up. Truly given up. The Pale King, the Wyrm, the God-King of Hallownest—he had no more answers to give.

“You have seen the Infection returning,” she accused. “You’ve kept it hidden, but you saw it. And yet you have done nothing!”

His foresight would have foretold this exact situation long ago. So why has He kept it hidden? She cannot understand!

Has He wanted this all along? A Kingdom in shambles? Bugs distraught, in pain, and lost? Is He truly the sadistic monster they all have been whispering Him to be?

Still, silence.

She stepped back, shaking her head. 

This wasn’t happening. He had always had a solution. A contingency. Another idea, another scheme, another path forward. But this time—

His voice, soft yet weighted, broke her thoughts.

“Since I turned to the Void,” he said, “my foresight has been corrupted.” His voice whispered hauntingly as if uttering those words was a grave sin.

She froze.

“I look into the future, yet I see nothing.” A broken whisper belonging to a being who has lost it all. Betting on Eternity and losing Everything He once held dear.

For the first time since she had known Him, the Pale King looked afraid. Lost. Confused.

Her stomach lurched. She thought she had felt fury before, but this was different. This was betrayal. He had lied—He had lied to everyone—To Hallownest. To her. 

He had stood before His people and promised them eternity, and all the while, He had known the truth. He had known that His vision was broken. That the Infection still lived. That the kingdom was already lost.

For the past year, He has known all of it, and He has done naught but sit on that cursed throne!

Her claws clenched, shaking at her sides. “You—you knew.”

He said nothing.

“You knew!” she roared. “And you still went through with it! You knew that Hallow wasn’t truly pure! You knew that the Infection was returning, and you—”

Her breath hitched. He still wasn’t looking at her—He wasn’t denying it—He wasn’t denying any of it. And this dug deeper than a Nail to her stomach.

“There is no cost too great for an Eternal Kingdom,” he murmured. Then, softer, barely audible—

“Even at the mercy of progeny cursed.”

The words sent a chill through her core. 

Progeny? 

What progeny!?

Her mind screamed at her. How could one contain a God inside a mortal shell? The answer was that they couldn't...

Hallow wasn't any construct. They weren't even a construct who gained a Soul—a mind. No. Hallow was His child. A child He locked away .

Sealed alongside a Goddess of plague; filled with blazing hatred to Him and His kin.

"You have locked away your own child? You have left your child to suffer at the hands of a raging Goddess?" She questioned in a whisper, a mixture of emotions ranging from disgust to disappointment and even hatred laced in her voice. Her body trembled. 

A single twitch from His tail, yet He did not answer—He did not deny it.

His form still in a throne; 

a throne at the summit of a Castle. 

A castle that has gone silent under a Kingdom; 

a Kingdom that is burning with vicious rage.

And even though He remains motionless; 

she saw through His lies—His act. 

His stillness was not of stoicism or dignity, but of fear and uncertainty. 

He knew there was no eternity here. He knew he had made a mistake. And yet, he still clung to his grand delusions—refusing to face the truth.

Isma couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Her fury burned through her veins, hot and suffocating. The roots around her were screaming in agony alongside her soul.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. Then, louder, “I won’t do this.”

She turned on her heel and stormed away from the throne room.

Her steps were heavy, her mind racing. She needed to do something—To fix this. 

If the pale worm will not act, then she will.

Ogrim. 

She had to find Ogrim.

She found him amidst chaos.

The capital was burning. 

Not with fire, but with turmoil. She had barely made it into the city before she saw him, running—fleeing. She nearly called out to him, relief in her eyes, before she noticed the unmistakable orange glow flickering in the distance. Following. Approaching at a fast pace.

Nails and Lances ran after him, pursuing her beloved in unmistakable hatred. 

A single figure led the charge. 

Hegemol.

No—Not him. But something akin to him. Something that shone with deep orange inside his eyes. Seeping into his mind and whispering lies.

Ogrim reached her, panting, frantic, and she saw the shock in his eyes. “It’s—it’s Hegemol. He’s—”

But she already knew. The infection glowed viciously in the eyes of everyone she had once sworn to protect—every citizen, from young to old, commoner to noble. 

She felt sick.

They had lost him.

Her mind spun. Everything was happening too fast. 

“We need to go!” Ogrim said amidst the commotion, pulling Isma alongside him. His voice felt distant.

She followed, her mind in turmoil, cascading emotions and feelings faster than she could comprehend. No time to mourn. No time to think. They had to run. The city was lost; they had to go back. To the palace—

–

The palace…

She turned toward where it should have been. Where it had stood but a few hours prior. And yet—

It was gone.

Not in ruin, not crumbled—just gone. As if it had never existed at all.

Isma’s breath caught, her chest tightening like something had wrapped around her ribs and squeezed. She blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw, but the world refused to align itself with something logical. The towering structure, the shining halls, the King’s throne—that marvel of architecture—had been there. Just hours ago. It had been there. It had to be there .

She could still hear its echoes. The way her footsteps rang against the polished floors. The muffled whispers of the sentries. The steady hum of Soul that had filled the very walls. She could hear them—feel them—but there was nothing. Empty air. The foundations severed, cleanly cut like a limb lost in battle, and she didn’t even see the wound happen.

A sole Kingsmould lay broken in the ruins, abandoned in a way that resonated with her. No other soul remained to tell the tale of what transpired in those few hours.

~~

‘The fire crackled. The ruins shifted. Distant voices twisted into shrieks, laughter, wails. Too loud. Too much. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears—was that hers? Or the city’s? Or something else, something deeper?’

~~

The world was spinning around her endlessly. There was no hope. Everything had gone wrong. The roots screamed in pain and agony. 

0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o

Has this really happened? Is this reality? Or is this a dream? Is she infected? A husk attacking others amidst a nightmare?

She did not know if she was the one screaming. Sometimes, she felt like Hallow was the one in pain and not her. 

Was she feeling them? Locked away in that Temple far above? Or is she slowly going crazy? Her world shattering at her fingertips due to a sin she has committed—this pain her penance.

0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o

She shook her head to clear the thoughts—the pain was not hers... Not hers... Not hers... 

Shuddering under her breath, she started running again, her body mindlessly following Ogrim, who held her wrist with strength. There was nothing left in here for either of them. Their hearts pounding, their breaths short, they fled. 

The White Palace’s gone, and the Capital has revolted—bursting with The Infected. They ran towards the only place left untouched in this mess.

~~

‘The fire crackled. The ruins shifted. Distant voices twisted into shrieks, laughter, wails. Too loud. Too much. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears—was that hers? Or the city’s? Or something else, something deeper?

Her stomach twisted. A bitter taste rose up her throat. Her fingers tingled—cold, numb, distant. Her heart hammered, too fast, too hard. Her skull felt like it would crack from the pressure.’

~~

–

The Royal Waterways.

Her breath came too fast. Too shallow. She pressed a hand against her chest, willing it to slow, but it only made it worse. The world narrowed. Shadows twisted in the corners of her vision. Something pressed against her skull, pressing, pressing, PRESSING—

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made it worse.

Hallow.

The doors shutting behind them. Chains rattling in the dark. The finality of it.

A breath in. Too sharp. Painful.

She should have stopped them.

A breath out. Too ragged. Choked.

She should have done more.

In. Her chest refused to expand fully. It was too tight. Too much.

She should have saved them.

Out. The air burned her throat.

She should have stopped this. Stopped this. Stopped this.

Nothing.  That was her sin. She had done nothing.

Her head jerked up. She didn’t know when she started shaking or when her claws had dug into her arms hard enough to hurt. Ogrim’s hands were on her shoulders, grounding, solid, but he was saying something, and she couldn’t hear it. The world was too loud—her thoughts were too loud. A roaring in her ears, a scream that was silent but deafening. Was it hers? Was it Hallow’s? Was it the Queen’s?

She staggered back, pulling away from Ogrim’s grasp. Her legs barely held her. She was going to be sick. The capital was burning, the White Palace was gone, the Infection was rising, and the King—

The King had lied.

There was no plan. No future. No salvation.

She gasped, but the air was thick, choking her.

A mistake. A mistake. A mistake. Everything was a mistake.

Roots.

She could feel them, pulsing beneath her feet, deep in the earth, whispering, beckoning.

~~0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o~~

Rest.

Just for a moment.

~~0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o0 o~~

~~

‘The fire crackled. The ruins shifted. Distant voices twisted into shrieks, laughter, wails. Too loud. Too much. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears—was that hers? Or the city’s? Or something else, something deeper?

Her stomach twisted. A bitter taste rose up her throat. Her fingers tingled—cold, numb, distant. Her heart hammered, too fast, too hard. Her skull felt like it would crack from the pressure.

And then, warmth. Gentle, quiet. No more fire, no more screams. Just the steady, ancient pulse of the roots, wrapping her in silence. The world melted away, swallowed in green, in sleep.’

~~

A place with no pain, no regret. No grief. No mistakes.

She stumbled, barely aware of her own movement. Something warm wrapped around her wrist, coiling, pulling.

Ogrim shouted her name, but it was too far away. The world was too far away.

There was too much pain and, at the same time, no pain at all. She felt hot—too hot, and cold—too cold.

Roots coiled around her slowly, suffocatingly. And yet, they filled her with a calmness she has not felt in a long time—from when she was but a seedling.

So, she let herself be taken into that empty place. 

To a place where she could finally breathe.

Far away from this nightmare.

Back into Unn’s Dreams.

...

...

...

One by one, they all fell. Isma, the Kindly, who sought to do anything in her power to protect a friend; In the end, she succumbed to her grief, wilting away into a dreamless dream.

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

Link for ao3 -> 'Impiety'

Chapter Two is finally out! A tragic end to the heroic tale of Isma the Kindly. How will the other Great Knights fare in their own endings of this sorrowful story? Writing the last portion about Isma's panic attack and ending was a tad hard (had to redo it like, three times), but I think I have managed to do a good job at it... Hopefully...

Anyways, I have a beta now! Shoutout to the awesomely great squishybeanfrog for helping me with the chapter! Go check out their work (https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishybeanfrog/pseuds/squishybeanfrog)! It is very sweet and angsty, just the way I like it!

--

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcomed! I'd love to read your feedback on this tragic tale!

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Patching up after beating The Radiance ❤️‍🩹

i feel like this is important enough to put on here.

if you have any videos on youtube make sure this is unchecked

the worse part is, if you do this (especially if you don't have the author's permission), you are letting these ai engines scrape off of their work and fuel future stealing. ABSOLUTELY DO NOT DO THIS.

it makes we wanna go full s1 jinx mode that this ship is called CaitVi and not Violyn.

the sun disappears, but you're on the nighttime side.

everybody always talks about how it would take 8 minutes for you to notice if the sun disappeared, but what if you were on the side where it was nighttime? the sun just went down one day and never came back up.