Chapter Text
Grimm’s domain in Godhome was empty. This mockery of the big top was still filled with phantom music, but the godseekers appeared to be elsewhere. Too bad. Grimm was itching to set someone on fire. In his rage and desperation, he had no trouble forcing his way from the central tower. Flying out over the golden city, Grimm found it was empty as well. The endless, silent hum of the Godseeker’s mind had stilled.
Alighting on one of the golden bridges, Grimm looked up at the sun. It was very bright here. He was not a creature of the light, and it hurt a little to look upon it. Perhaps, with the godseekers behind her, The Radiance could defend herself. Perhaps, as it had last time, their battle would end with them both vanquished: the void sea still and silent, the light banished to the furthest reaches of memory. Despite everything, Grimm could not bring himself to want that. It was easy to condemn the Pale King for his hubris, but hadn’t they both done what they’d done for love? As a wyrm, the Pale King would have loved his kingdom furiously.
The delicate flower still sat in Grimm’s chest, glowing as beautifully as it always had. He touched the petals and found them sturdy. If Ghost was truly gone, if they truly did not care for him, he knew it would crumble to dust as the slightest movement, but it lived on, a spot of calm. Head clearing, Grimm realized he knew where he had to go. The godseekers called to him as they always did, yet they were so far above he feared he could not reach them.
Golden clouds swirled around the top of the central tower, yet they did not block the light. If anything, they magnified it, refracting the sun into a blinding storm, pulsing with power. They were all up there, he knew, their mind focused to a single point of belief. Whoever won they did not care. Either way, they got their God of Gods. They cared not what they destroyed in their pursuit.
As Grimm ascended the pantheon, he passed through the domains of lesser gods. There were many familiar faces, staring at him fearfully as he flew by. Then, he was back in his domain, and he found himself unable to go any further. He could fly, teleport, focus all his power into moving upwards in that massive golden tower, and it would feel as if he climbed to great heights but then he would look to his side and see the entrance to his domain as if he hadn’t moved. Grimm had never been so angry. The disrespect was unimaginable. Who did they dare place above him? He was The Nightmare King, his name whispered in fearful voices across countless kingdoms. He was an heir to this eternal kingdom in which they dared take up residence. He was not a child anymore. He was greater than his predecessor had ever been.
Grimm screamed and suddenly everything was burning. He could feel the Nightmare’s Heart beating in his ears. If this place wouldn’t let him go to Ghost, he would tear it apart. The pantheon was made of strong stuff, but the walls dented under the force of his attacks. Chips of gold and marble crashed down the stairs like a river. Reaching into the nightmare realm, Grimm drew it to him, attempting to corrupt Godhome, bend it to his will. And he found the power he’d been searching for, rushing suddenly through his veins, nearly too hot to bear. Grimm almost collapsed in surprise, but he refused to concede, instead taking to the air once more. Fire enveloped him like a cocoon as he soared upwards. It dripped into his eyes and down his wings. For a moment, he could see nothing but the flames. Then, he burst forth, slamming through the wall of the tower into open air.
He was different—he could feel it—more powerful, more dangerous. He felt raw, like the fire had burned away a layer of protection, exposing his innards. Grimm’s black wings were now a deep red, his features elongated and sharpened. Though he knew who he now resembled, Grimm did not stop to think about it. Above him, he saw what was the top of the tower—at least for the moment—a massive arena surrounded by stands of godseekers. Above the clouds, Grimm could no longer see the city, but he wasn’t looking. He searched only for Ghost.
They were here, of course, cloaked in sleek shadows, their foot resting atop the empty armor of an ancient knight. Below them, the desperate dreams of a maggot twitched pathetically. For good measure, Ghost slammed their new nail through its white body, accelerating its deterioration into essence. The godseekers clapped politely. Soul swirled around Ghost, healing their injuries, as they cast their gaze up towards Godseeker. It was almost as if he could hear them.
“What next?” They asked through their silence.
“This ends here,” Grimm answered, and suddenly all eyes were on him. He hovered outside the arena, his new appearance on full display. “Ghost,” he begged. “You have to stop. You don’t understand what you’re doing. If you continue upwards the void will rise and consume Hallownest, and perhaps even more. I know it’s in your nature to reach to consume the light, but you’re more than that now. You have mind. Focus. Will.”
Ghost shook their head. They pointed to themselves, and suddenly their cloak flared out, turning to a writhing, twisting mass of tendrils. Before him stood Ghost, but their shadow spoke of something else, some ancient, unknowable thing. Then, Ghost stabbed their nail into the ground and it was still once more, as smooth as the surface of the void sea under the light of the lighthouse. They stared up at him, their point made.
“I am in control.”
Grimm wished he could believe them.
“What you want will upset the balance. Shadow cannot be without light,” Grimm begged. “Is this vengeance of yours truly worth our kingdom? Everything we’ve built?”
In frustration, Ghost turned from him, looking back up at Godseeker. It was ridiculous, given she wore a mask, but Grimm was sure she was smiling; so happy to watch the unravelling of everything Grimm cared about most. She trapped beasts, and heroes, and gods to fight for her entertainment. For her own enlightenment. She was a parasite, and Grimm hated her. With a roar that he was sure must echo to the base of the pantheon, he dove at her. If he ripped out the heart of this place, Ghost would have no door through which to reach The Radiance. With all the heat and power of his new form, Grimm almost touched her, but the rules of Godhome were woven into its fabric. After all, even The Radiance was confined by them.
He was repelled, thrown down into the arena. Barely able to catch himself, Grimm landed in a crouch, his wings billowing around him like a cape. The second he entered the ring, his power transformed it, bringing the nightmare realm so close it bleed into Godhome. The beat of the Nightmare’s Heart set a rhythm, patchwork veins forcing their way through cracks in reality, tearing through the floor, winding up over the edges of the tower. From here, it would be so easy to go home, just a step through the ethereal red curtains.
“Leave with me,” Grimm asked, extending a hand. “We’re not trapped her. She couldn’t keep us if she tried. Please. I can’t lose you to this.”
Ghost did not move.
“Then I will do everything in my power to stop you.” On instinct, he lowered his voice to a growl, trying to remind them that this was not an idle threat.
Looking at Ghost, Grimm realized that for once he could see into their mind. It was so rare that they were afraid, sometimes Grimm forgot they were capable of it. At first, he wondered if they were afraid of him, afraid that facing him in this form would undo all the progress they’d made ascending the pantheon. Then he looked closer, peering into the murky nightmares of a creature that was supposed to be incapable of fear, and saw something else. When Ghost looked at him, they say his predecessor, saw a burning stage covered in patchwork veins, and an impossible dance that ended in death and rebirth. This was an old nightmare, Grimm realized, one they’d concealed from him well. Ghost had always been afraid one of their dances would be their last. Seeing Grimm in this form, they were afraid to fight him.
“Don’t fight me then,” Grimm said, “abandon this quest. Because while I am here, you will go no higher.”
Ghost stood frozen for a long time. Neither of them spoke. There was no sound atop the tower aside for the beating of the Nightmare’s Heart.
“Dost it concede?” It was Godseeker who finally broke the silence. “Wriggle back into the dirt, then, forget of this time it climbed so high. It is unworthy to lay eyes upon what shines above.”
Grimm growled low in his throat. Ghost looked up at her, then up at the sun, so close now it covered half the sky. Then, without warning, they moved, straight at Grimm, through him. Only a shadow, Ghost was very cold. Behind him, they were solid once more, and their nail came so quickly Grimm could not teleport in time. The edge of the blade broke his shell as he vanished in a cloud of sparks. On opposite sides of the arena, they regarded each other. The music swelled to a ground shaking crescendo and their dance began.
There was one advantage Grimm had. Where he could fly, Ghost was confined to the ground. Hovering far above, he raised great pillars of fire. Ghost danced around and through them, trying to reach Grimm, and even this far above, Grimm didn’t want to risk it. Any time they drew near, he teleported away once more. This was not a dance. This was a fight he could not lose. But Ghost appeared not to be content with this game of cat and mouse. From within their cloak, void tendrils erupted, wrapping around Grimm’s legs and yanking him violently downwards. Desperately, Grimm called fire from below, and Ghost was consumed entirely within it. The tendrils retracted, but he was sent skidding across the ground.
Ghost emerged in a blur of shadow, shell scuffed and burned. Grimm had to act now. He couldn’t give them time to heal. He lunged for them, kick as sharp as a nail, but instead of the cracking give of shell, he met only metal. Old and warn as it was, Ghost’s new nail parried his strike smoothly. They were face to face now, Grimm releasing a flurry of blows. Ghost blocked them all, no slower for their size, but Grimm forced them backwards towards the edge of the arena. He would force them off, wrap them in his arms and fall away from the gaze of the godseekers.
The ocean of golden clouds spread out before them, and Grimm aimed a final jab for Ghost’s midsection, but they were no longer there. The vessel leapt into the air, flipping smoothly over him. From above, they released a blast of void magic. Overcome with freezing pain, Grimm pitched off the side. It took him a moment to remember his wings. Shaking himself, he flew back up, but Ghost was waiting for him, unwilling to allow him out of reach again. A hand caught his, in a way reminiscent of past dances, and he was yanked roughly forward, nail tearing through his left wing. Grimm teleported, but it came a moment too late. His flight would be unbalanced now, slower.
Fire surged through Grimm; hot and desperate. He could not lose here. He refused. It was true, he was more than his predecessor. Hallownest had birthed something unlike any iteration of the Troupe Master before him. There was power in the throne he’d been given, and in the pilgrimage he’d taken at Ghost’s side, leaving offerings at the feet of ancient things. Perhaps, Hallownest could not have been reborn without him. He was a god of rebirth after all, along with fire and nightmares. This kingdom knew him now, no longer fighting against him like an immune system expelling an infection. He burned much brighter than when the void had almost consumed him. He refused to be afraid—not of Ghost.
Ghost did not expect the fire that came for them. Grimm could read their surprise as he tapped into a part of himself he’d been thus far unaware of. Great balls of flame rained from the heavens, and Grimm danced once more, his steps leaving burning marks on the stage. The void Ghost summoned looked small against the flickering light, shrinking in on itself. The shadows that danced here were his domain. The blows he landed on Ghost were hard-won, but he did land them. Bit by bit, he chipped away at the perfect mask, until darkness dripped from Ghost’s wounds like blood.
Fire wrapping around him like a shroud, Grimm prepared for what he hoped to be the last blow. Ghost raised their sword to block, but Grimm ducked, coming up from below. His burning kick connected with Ghost’s mask. It shattered, Ghost falling backwards, white shell broken, revealing the gaping nothing that lay behind it. Half their face gone; Ghost was miraculously still conscious. Curling in on themselves, they covered the wound with their arm. In their one remaining eye, Grimm saw anger, and something he did not recognize. Rare as Ghost’s emotions were, it appeared he had not encountered all of them.
“I’m sorry,” Grimm said. “I did this for you as much as Hallownest. I hope one day you can forgive me.”
Then, Ghost screamed, and the power of the sound froze him to the spot. Some of Ghost’s more powerful magics shrieked with the grief of Hallownest’s regrets, but this was more than that. This was deep, and ancient. Unlike before, Ghost’s shattered mask did not mark their end. Instead, void seeped from it, reaching tendrils that reminded Grimm of the rising sea far below. He tried to fly away, but his injured wing made him too slow. They gripped his leg, pulling him down towards the writhing mass of darkness that no longer resembled his friend.
Grimm summoned fire, balls of it spinning around him like a shield, but the void rose up in a massive wave, crashing down upon him. And in its center Ghost charged, their nail shaking slightly as they clutched at the oozing hole in their face. In his last moments, all Grimm could think was that he’d been too late, that he’d already lost them. Then, there was the feeling of a nail against his neck, and the all-encompassing cold of nothingness.
~
Grimm awoke somewhere warm, bright, and unfamiliar. Why had he not awoken back in the big top? Or in the nightmare realm? As his muddled thoughts reorganized themselves, Grimm realized where he was. He was still in Godhome. His body ached, still bearing the injuries of the fight, but Ghost had not killed him. Somehow, they’d managed to both knock him unconscious, and convince Godseeker that was enough to allow them passage upward. Or at least that was what Grimm assumed, seeing as Ghost was nowhere to be seen.
He lay half-submerged in a pool of warm, soul-infused water; his head propped on the edge. The hot spring was soothing, but ultimately little help in healing his battered body. Like all creatures, there was soul in Grimm, but it was not what sustained him. What had brought Grimm back to consciousness had, in fact, been fear. A shroud of it clung to him. He could taste it, drawing strength from it. Ghost had been afraid as they carried him here, afraid enough to leave an echo. Though Grimm doubted dying here would have killed him—a ritual was more than its last dance, after all—Ghost’s concern was appreciated. It meant they still cared. Seeing the terrifying thing escaping from Ghost’s mask, reaching for him like the climbing sea, Grimm had begun to doubt.
Urgency returned all at once, and Grimm staggered to his feet. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do in his current state, but the care Ghost had shown towards him only served to ignite his resolve. It was peaceful in this small room, but over the sound of the water flowing down into the pool, Grimm could make out the faint sound of metal against metal.
He followed it out into what he presumed to be another arena. It was very dark here, and as Grimm attempted to summon fire, he found the flames unnaturally dim, shrinking down until it was a useless point in his palm. Godhome had guided him to the stands, and Grimm rushed to the banister, unable to cross, unable to reach the stage below. The godseekers sat silently in the darkness, watching the fight with frozen anticipation. The room was lit with a pale glow, a stark contrast to the void-stained air. Below, two vessels clashed, mirrors of one another, one black and one white. Though he had never met them, Grimm knew Ghost’s opponent to be The Hollow Knight, returned to their former glory by the adoration of the godseekers. Nail met nail, identical aside from the years of wear Ghost’s had sustained. So that was where they had gotten it.
Finding himself unable to enter the arena, Grimm searched for Godseeker. He was nowhere near full power, and the godseekers looked at him like he wasn’t there, but his desire to see her burn had not abated. Her throne sat apart from the others. Far above, she watched the fight with rapt attention. He found he could not look at it. Their speed was breathtaking. It was void against void, soul against soul. The air was alight with magic and the glint of blades. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Even in the heat of their fastest dance, Grimm knew he’d held no candle to this.
Grimm teleported to the base of the throne, but before he could take to the air, a gasp swept through the crowd, freezing him where he stood. The fight had ended. The Hollow Knight lay defeated. Perfect, white armor shattered; void pooled around them. What had once been the nail of the other vessel was now buried in their chest. Ghost pulled it free, raising it above their head in victory.
He was too late. It was proven now, without a shadow of a doubt; Ghost was the strongest of the children to ever claw their way from the Abyss. They were the master of the void, the true heir to Hallownest. Of course, Grimm had already known all that, but for the godseekers to witness it was a powerful thing.
“Ghost!” Forgetting all about Godseeker, Grimm tried once more to reach them, clawing desperately at the invisible barrier that surrounded the arena. But it was futile. Where Ghost stood was not somewhere Grimm could reach. It was not as close as it appeared. Still, he yelled for them. “Ghost, please!”
A scream split the world in two. It descended from the heavens with the weight of a mountain, and Grimm sunk to his knees, clutching his head. The godseekers were on their knees as well, masks pressed to the ground, whether in deference or to hide from the blinding light that now filled the chamber. The top of the tower crumbled, cracking open as a shaft of sun pierced the darkness. Only Ghost remained on their feet. Gently, they lifted the body of their fallen sibling, pressing their forehead against their cracked mask, like a promise. Then, they turned their head upwards, utterly unafraid. In that blinding spotlight, they looked so beautiful, so serene, for a moment Grimm let himself believe that what lay ahead was only somber vengeance, and not the end of all things. He let himself pray that despite the truths of history Lemm had revealed to him, despite the slow climb of the abyssal sea, Ghost was above their nature.
Then, Ghost was gone, and it was silent at the top of the pantheon. Though light still streamed down from above, it no longer hurt to look at. Grimm could sense that Ghost had moved from this dream into another, but despite his mastery of nightmares, he could not find how to follow. Still, he took desperately to the air, flying upwards into the light. Through the clouds, he could see great shadows shifting, could hear distant, echoing cries. But no matter how he screamed, how the fire burned in his veins, the Nightmare King could go no higher.
Finally, he collapsed back at the base of Godseeker’s throne, shaking from exhaustion and grief.
“Thou are as close as one can come, oh wandering god,” she said, “yet that place is above even thee.”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Grimm demanded, rising to meet her. He knew the uneven gate of his wings undermined his ordinary frightening presence, but there was also something very dangerous in a cornered animal, and he saw his own desperation reflected in her mask. “What right do you have to come here? To take from Hallownest when you give nothing to it in return?”
“Art thou not much the same?”
Snarling, Grimm grabbed her by the front of her robes. She did not fight, relaxing into his grip. For the first time, he could see her eyes, vacant and fogged with ecstasy. She was barely looking at him.
“Hallownest is in my veins. I was born from its embers. I have walked these lands. I have left my offerings. Your adoration is cheap. You have built nothing here, but you will destroy everything!”
“The bugs of this kingdom will never have to bear the truest of pains.” Her voice was so heavy with joy Grimm recoiled without meaning to, letting her go. It did not matter what he did to her. Godseeker was unafraid. “To die for thy gods, to be ground to dust in the clash of greater things. We would have given anything. For all its silent halls, Hallownest is not a quiet kingdom. When Our gods died, they did not take Us with them.”
Grimm saw her nightmares then, of a desolate land in the shadow of the corpses of higher beings, of a silent mind, of the unimaginable task of sculpting purpose for themselves. For the godseekers, there was no greater pain. What could Grimm do in his anger but offer them the heat they had been so long denied?
“What We have found here,” she continued, gazing up at the shifting clouds above, “art beings greater than those who made Us. Much older and beyond understanding, to what withered to nothing and left Us. Thou love is much like Ours, Nightmare King. Thou shone light into the depths, knowing what thou would find. We have much to thank thee for.”
Despite the futility, Grimm was what he was, and he lunged for Godseeker once more, willing to take off her head for no other reason than the sliver of pleasure it would bring him. Something landed on his hand as it closed around her throat, like a raindrop but far too cold, and far too dark. With a roar, Grimm threw her from her seat, and she crashed to the ground far below. She barely seemed to feel it, staggering to her feet and reaching upwards, grabbing at nothing. Both stared up into what had once been Godhome’s blinding sun, but the sky over the golden city was dark.
It started slowly. Small particles of void fell like rain. Then splattered on the upturned masks of the godseekers, running down the pillars and mixing with the waterfalls. As Grimm stood frozen, the golden clouds were superseded by the familiar haze of void, descending like a storm over the wastes. Darkness streamed down in thick sheets, no longer droplets, and it was only increasing. Had the sea ascended so quickly it was above them? Like water forcing its way through the rock above the City of Tears? No. This was no slow drip. The barrier had shattered. Godhome would drown. Grimm was certain of that.
So, leaving Godseeker to her suicidal bliss, he fled, diving from the pantheon into the city below. Just like him, the godseekers had disturbed the darkness. He recognized their fear as they rushed out into the streets, staring upward with an equal mix of reverence and terror. He knew what fate awaited them, had almost succumbed to it himself, had Ghost not spared him from his foolishness. The Nightmare’s Heart remembered, beating fast and loud in his ears. He would happily leave them to their fate, but the world did not feel right. His awareness of the nightmare realm and Hallownest was replaced with a numbing fog. Though a dream like this could not hold him, even now, Grimm hesitated, afraid of what he would find if he were to return to the waking world.
He’d failed. The Light was surely gone, and he didn’t even know where Ghost was. There was no time to think, no time to consider what this truly meant. In all his panic, he had never had the strength to imagine the truth of the consequences of what he’d done. He’d never imagined facing them without Ghost by his side. Despite knowing it was childish stupidity, Grimm felt that if he could just see them everything would be alright. Though lingering here was not the way to do that. In the dark sky near the top of the pantheon, Grimm saw something moving. A huge shadow shifted in the void vapor. There was something like a scream, echoing across the sea of the godseekers’ shared mind, a shivering gasp from many mouths, and the tower snapped like a twig, crushing a great swath of the city below. It was time to flee.
Grimm tore himself violently from the cloying dream. It released him reluctantly, like the reaching arms of the void, but biting and burning he pulled free, collapsing amongst the kingdom’s discarded remnants. It had been some time since Grimm had come to the junk pit. To his relief, it was the same as it had been the first time. Towering spires of garbage stood many times taller than him. Stagnant water held the noxious stink of the wastes. For a moment, Grimm let himself breathe, let himself forget that this normalcy did not undo the truth that, far below, the void was rising. He curled at the foot of one of the junk towers, like a child at the foot of a bench, knowing it was unbecoming of his status but unable to help himself. He was battered and tired, and so afraid.
Searching for something to hold on to, Grimm plucked the pale flower from his chest, cradling it in his palm. It was a point of calm, a reminder that Ghost cared for him as he cared about them. The pedals were as sturdy and bright as ever. He traced them as his breathing slowed, remembering how it had felt when Ghost gave it to him: the joy, the relief, the overwhelming peace of that grave.
Still clutching it like a lifeline, Grimm got slowly to his feet, and only then did he realize he was not alone. He’d forgotten all about Godhome’s physical tether. The bloated godseeker sat trembling at the foot of its coffin. Grimm had been almost glad to see Godhome consumed, had felt it right they face repercussions for what they’d done. Now, watching void drip from the holes in this bug’s golden mask, he realized how foolish he’d been. Whatever had descended on the pantheon would not be contained so easily. Even he and The Radiance had been confined by the rules of that place. Whatever this was had torn it apart effortlessly.
“Hold on,” Grimm commanded, the godseeker reaching a hand uselessly towards him.
Void poured from its eyes and mouth, and in the pained noise it managed to make Grimm could understand its prayer, its call for help. Grimm wasn’t sure exactly what he intended to do. Perhaps teleport with it to the Abyss then find some way to reseal the door.
He never got the chance to try. The godseeker could hold on no longer, torn apart as void erupted from mind into reality. What emerged was not the mindless flood he’d been expecting. This was not a sea of disparate, reaching tendrils. What rose before him had form. It had eight, pale eyes, and clawed hands emerging from the writhing mass. It had horns like a crown, unfathomable and ancient, perhaps even more so than the Light it had consumed. With it, it brought darkness unlike any Grimm had seen outside the Abyss. Its presence meant the end of Hallownest, perhaps the end of everything.
Grimm knew what it was. Knew who it was. He could feel it in his chest, where the pale flower had sat rooted for so long. Even like this, he could recognize them.
“Ghost?”
They did not answer. He wasn’t sure they’d heard, and if they had, if they even cared. For a moment, he wondered if they had ever felt anything at all. As powerful as he was, Grimm had not been immune to the call of that ancient sea. Ignoring every warning, he’d turned off the lights and extinguished the torches. Hornet was right, they’d given Hallownest willingly to the void. The god that had once been Ghost loomed over him. Void tendrils seeped up from the ground, keeping him in place, though he would have been too frozen to move regardless. Memories rushed back. He remembered how it had felt, pulled down into the shells, surrounded by nothing but freezing, grasping darkness. For a moment, he wondered how he could have been so foolish.
But looking down at the flower in his hand, the traitorous thoughts were banished. Even now, it remained strong. If Ghost’s heart was not as it had been when they gave it to him, it would have no power, crumbling to dust at the slightest movement. Grimm knew this to be true. Yet that knowledge did little to abate his fear. If anything, it was worse to recognize the light behind those eight eyes, to know it was Ghost who would consume Hallownest, snuff out the flames of the Troupe. Yes, for a time there would be great fear, but then there would be nothing. Grimm had felt that nothingness once and remembered it well.
The creature was staring at him. Grimm was overwhelmed by the smell of nothingness, and found that amongst the fear, it stirred something else. It reminded him of Ghost—a good memory, not a bad one—and as one of the massive hands moved to grab him, the pale glow of the flower only increased until he stood in a bubble of light in a dark world.
“Ghost…” he said again, reaching towards them, not recoiling as a part of him desperately wanted to.
They shared a frozen moment. Ghost’s massive claw did not close around him. Was this hesitation? From a being like this, that seemed impossible. If he were to ask… or if he were to fight, and burn, and scream, would Ghost let him go? Perhaps the fondness they’d harbored for him would be enough, or perhaps it would have the opposite effect. The void had been reaching for him for a long time. And even if they did spare him, where would he go? For Grimm, there were no paths in this world that did not lead back to Ghost. Had he not looked the White Lady in the eye and gladly accepted the risks? Had he truly not known what it was he was awakening?
No. Grimm knew very well that fear was a liar. He’d been letting his blind him for far too long. He had thrown himself willingly into the darkness and would do so again. As he’d burned away his weaker form ascending the pantheon in Godhome, he’d promised himself he was done being afraid. If this god was Ghost—as he was sure it was—then he welcomed it. Too long he had rejected a fundamental piece of the one he cared for most. For Ghost, he would embrace the void.
Fire burned along the edges of Grimm’s wings as he straightened up, meeting Ghost’s eyes. Flower clutched to his chest, there were many things he could have said, but he knew none were necessary. They had never needed words to understand one another. Gently, Ghost’s claw closed around him, and the numbness came with it. He was powerless here, strange for a being such as Grimm, yet he welcomed it gladly. Though he did not know what came next, he did not turn away.
The closer the darkness embraced him, the brighter the pale glow of the flower became, until Ghost had him entirely in their grip, their palm contacting the sturdy pedals. Then, there was light. It was incomprehensibly bright, and incomprehensibly powerful. After all, the delicate blossom was as strong as the bond of the creatures it represented.
When the light faded, nothing remained of the two higher beings aside for a lonely flower lying amongst the junk. There was no trace of void nor flame. Far below, the dark sea was still once more, and above, on the surface of the kingdom, the torches of the Troupe sputtered and died. For the first time, Hallownest found itself without ruling gods.
Where the Lord of Shades and the Nightmare King had gone was unknowable. Brought from far away, the delicate flowers were powerful and mysterious. They had within their brittle leaves the same power that had driven the Pale King to madness for his kingdom, the same power that had bade the White Lade give her wyrm the children he requested. It was the power that kept Hornet haunting her mother’s dead kingdom, that had corrupted the king’s Pure Vessel and doomed Hallownest. It had kept Ze'mer trapped in grief until she’d used the flowers she’d brought to free herself. Such a force might seem cruel, but much like the light and darkness worshipped by the ancient bugs, it simply is. Love simply exists, capable of creating both great tragedy and great joy. At least, wherever they had gone, Grimm and Ghost were together.