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They are born at the bottom of a pit. They have siblings, far more than they can count; there is one that they love most, though they do not have the words nor the voice to express it. Their sibling is quiet, quieter even than them, and does not know to avoid danger. That's okay, they can guide them. It's frustrating, sometimes, but who else will?
There is a light.
Their siblings are called, and they are too. They don't see reason to answer, so they don't.
They are buried beneath countless bodies, and they can't find their dearest sibling. They dig, dragging themself from their grave, and they see a flicker of something dark standing before the light. They climb, a voice echoing in their mind, and all they see is their sibling.
They fall.
They twist in the air, some instinct telling them to land feet-first, always feet-first, they know what happens to those that crack. Their leg smashes through shell, plunging into still-living void.
They do not move for a long, long time.
The Abyss is not isolated beneath Hallownest. There are other lakes under other kingdoms, and countless passages between them.
They do not know this, do not know that there is a land above them nor that it has a name. They do, however, know how to walk, and how to forget.
For a long time, that is all they do. They walk, hand trailing the wall, counting each bump as if with each increment they can lose how it sounded when one of their siblings fell. Four-hundred thousand sixty-one. The one with five short horns. Four-hundred thousand sixty-two. The one that always tripped over their cloak. Four-hundred-thousand sixty-three...
Their leg brushes something strange, and they stop. There are plants here, plants they don't recognize. There is not enough light to see by, when they are the only source, but they are sure this is new. There is a fork in the path, and they take the way that leads upwards.
Soon, there is light they can see by. They wade through countless inky-black flowers, eyes fixed on that colorful glow. Someday, they would hear it described as iridescent, but in the moment they only know that it isn't pale, so it can't be too dangerous.
There is a roar, and shouts, and they step out onto the scene of a battle. Corpses litter the cave, tall and delicate with beautiful wings and armor. There is a great beast, chitin shimmering with all different colors, and there are warriors still standing with weapons in their hands.
There is a nail within reach, and there is a chink in the monster's armor, and the winged bugs are losing.
It does not take long to pick a side.
They are wrapped in flowers and shimmering cloth, paraded about for all to see their savior, and all they can think of is how many colors there are. Their cloak— no, their wings they thought grey are blue, glinting in the light whenever they spread them out.
They have no strength to fly, their head and body far stockier than the butterflies that take them in, but they are told that this may change. They are young, barely moulted— have they moulted?
With time, they will grow, and their wings will grow with them. For now, however, they are flightless.
The Monarch carries them on their shoulders, high enough for the people to see as they declare the kingdom saved by a courageous, mysterious child. In absence of apparent caretakers, they are taken in, to be raised as the Monarch's own ward. They are named in honor of their deed.
They wear the name with pride, for as long as there are butterflies to hear it.
They fall from an open window. It is entirely intentional, and they know they won't be hurt— they only want to test the strength of their wings.
They are caught in midair and shouted at by one of the gardeners.
An hour later, the interaction repeats.
After three hours, they know the gardener's name is Allie, and she is strongly considering maiming them with her pruning shears.
Twenty more minutes, and they decide her threats are a little too serious, and resolve to try again another day.
They do not breathe, nor eat, nor drink. They do not sleep, at least not as the butterflies do— their eyes never close, if the holes in their face can be called that, but their mind does wander as they rest, and their attention inevitably slips to nothing at all.
They do not speak, and that poses a problem when the physicians try to figure out where they came from and what sort of bug they are. They can, however, write, and when they are taught to do so they are asked where they came from.
They hesitate. In all the excitement, the light and colors and attention, they find that there is not much they can recall of where they truly came from.
Beneath the earth, they write. Born of Void, I wandered the tunnels until I found light.
"A parentless child borne of the darkened caverns," the Monarch muses. "I grow increasingly certain our little savior is no ordinary bug."
They cannot speak of it. There is something they have forgotten, something they are sure the Monarch should hear, but it lingers just beyond the tip of their non-existent tongue.
The Monarch must sense their frustration, because they smile and pat between their horns. "No matter your origin, I shall love you all the same. Shall we turn to more fruitful endeavors?"
"Strike swiftly."
Metal hits metal.
"Strike remorselessly."
Nail hits nail.
"Be nimble, to avoid danger."
They twist, divert their tutor's weapon, but their legs are swept from beneath them and their back hits the floor.
"Again."
"Back straight. Chin up. Hands folded."
They sit as neatly as they can by the Monarch's side. The retainer eyes them, straightens their cloak, then nods and leaves them be.
They barely needed any coaching, this time. It takes all their self-control not to leap to their feet in pride.
They settle for wringing their hands in their lap.
The sun seems darker, somehow. They wonder who bred black streaks into the roses.
"You haven't grown an inch."
By now, Allie knows that falls do not affect them. Now, she catches them out of spite and concern for the roses.
And now, she holds a measuring tape and confirms what they've suspected for the past half-year.
She must take their resulting stillness as despondency, because her next words are platitudes. "I'm sure it means nothing," she says. "You must simply be a late bloomer, or you moult infrequently—"
They shake their head, hold their hand up to show that it is okay. They'd already known, this only confirmed it. Whatever they are, they'll never grow any taller than they are. They've accepted this.
...And yet.
Somehow, they have never seen larvae before.
They can't say they're the biggest fan. Even less, when they are told how the larvae are soon to wrap themselves up in cocoons and turn into goop, to emerge mostly person-shaped. They don't mean to be rude, but it's… kinda weird.
The parents seem excited, though, and perhaps they'll have something to learn. They are invited to return, to make friends with the young butterflies. The Monarch has told them they should find more friends their own age.
Months later, they remember this, and wander back down to the village. They wonder if the larvae are still in their cocoons, or if they've already emerged.
They're at the front door when they hear sobs, and a peek through the window shows the parents huddled together on the floor. The mother's hands are stained black.
They do not return.
The palace gardens are stained black. Black petals, black leaves, black stems.
"I don't understand," Allie says. She clips a stem, and the edge bleeds black, black, black.
They think back, to a half-memory of black flowers marking their ascent from the darkness. They sling their nail against their back, and hike to the cave marking their conquest.
The air is choked and grey, their lantern barely pierces the dark, and the corpse of the beast they slayed is covered in pure black lilies.
They remember the first time they saw the sky, so bright and blue that it hurt their eyes. Now, they'd be forgiven for thinking they were back in their birthplace.
The Monarch orders the cavern sealed, that no more darkness leak into the kingdom above.
The cave-in kills three bugs, and injures fourteen more, but the Abyss is sealed away.
The sky grows darker.
"I'll miss these gardens," Allie says.
I didn't think you'd leave, they write.
"I won't," Allie says. "If I'm to die, I'd like to die right here. But when I'm dead, I won't be able to care for them anymore."
They don't get it. But she seems quite certain of herself, so they suppose they'll leave her to it.
The Monarch drowns in midair, and when they hit the ground it's not blood that splatters.
The guards whisper, exchanging glances whenever they walk by. No one has missed the similarity to the darkness that falls from their veins, nor to the darkness that they were born from. This calamity spread only after they emerged from the depths.
They find Allie beneath the roses. She has her pruning shears in hand, eyes wide and leaking darkness. They stare for a moment, then keep walking.
When the mob knocks their door down, the room is empty.
At the edge of the kingdom they pass a cluster of red tents lined with torches. It takes another week for them to reach the sea.
Twenty-odd years they've lived, and nothing to show for it. They were named for bravery, yet here they are.
The water is cold, and sweeps away the flowers wrapped around their horns. They were wilted anyway. For a long time, they think of what else could have happened. In the end, they can only conclude it was their fault.
The water rises, and they let the soft static of the waves carry them out to sea.
They come back to themself when a net tangles around them, drags them from their weightless drifting and hoists them onto land. No, not land, a boat.
"Another body," someone says.
"Toss it."
"Looks like a kid, boss."
"Toss it! I'm not dealing with any more grieving parents. Let someone else deal with it."
They lift their head.
Someone screams.
They have heard many stories about sailors. They hear that they are uncouth, illiterate, and altogether quite rude.
So far, the stories have been entirely accurate.
Put me back, they write.
"Are those flowers?" one of the sailors asks.
"Don't look like any I've ever seen," another says.
If they had a face that moved, they'd scowl. Instead they settle for adding several thorns for emphasis.
"They look very nice," the first one says.
They throw the parchment in his face.
After the third time they try to jump overboard, the sailors tie them up.
They don't reach the shore.
They're as close to asleep as they can be, chin against their chest and mind among flowers before the pleasant fantasy is shattered by a loud crack as something hits the deck. Their head shoots up, twisting to try and see the source, but already there's a flurry of sailors leaping to their feet and swearing and they can't see far enough to tell what caused it.
"Pirates," they hear more than a few of the sailors say, and that's enough to get the gist.
Something thunks into the mast, and the ropes fall away around them. The captain stands over them, throws their nail at their feet, and tells them to defend themself.
They can do that.
They had hoped to vanish in the skirmish, take advantage of the chaos to slip back under the waves and let the weight of their blade hold them down.
They had not hoped to be taken captive.
"Let them go," the sailor captain says. "They're not part of this!"
"Oh?" asks the pirate holding them, her tone teasing. The blade digs deeper. "Then why do you fear for them?"
"For pity's sake, they're a child!"
A deep laugh rumbles against their back. "You've grown weak."
They contemplate the odds that they could survive a slit throat.
"And you've grown even crueler."
The pirate takes a breath, and they take the moment to draw their nail and drive it back with all their strength, clean into her chest. She chokes, releasing them. They wrench their nail free, kicking her further back, and with a small flourish they return their nail to their back.
The ship descends back into chaos.
This time, they wait for everything to die down before making their escape.
Again, they are caught.
"Come, join us," the captain says. "You're too scrawny for booze, but you can join us in storytelling!"
They relent. Maybe if they're always sailing, the darkness won't catch up.
When they make port, they take one step onto dry land and fall flat on their face.
"Oof, sea legs," one of the sailors says. "Better luck next time, little buddy."
When the ship next sets sail, they are perched by the helm.
They have no voice to speak, but they work well at keeping inventory. The sailors wonder how, when all they do is scribble flowers on boxes and in the margins of receipts.
They're unloading this last week's fishing proceeds when a passerby stops, staring over their shoulder.
"Is that petalscript?" he asks.
They look up at him. He's a pillbug, wearing a too-large mask as a hat, and he seems to be paying far more attention to their notes than the person writing them.
They drag him onto the ship, ignoring his protests. Their wild gesticulations don't do a very good job of communication, but it does attract the captain. "What is the meaning of this? Who is this bug?"
"My apologies, sir," the pillbug says. "I'm not here of my own volition, one of your crew just kidnapped me."
The captain stares, gaze slowly shifting downwards. "And why did they do that?"
"Ah…" The pillbug looks down, and they wave the notes over their head. "Well, they seem quite agitated that I recognize their writing."
"Writing?" someone asks. "That's just a bunch of flowers, isn't it?"
"Well, no," the pillbug says, gently taking the paper from them. "It's actually quite ingenious, you see each flower is a word—"
Five hours and an improvised lecture later, the pillbug is released, and life becomes a lot easier.
"Got a moment?"
They look up at the sailor leaning against the railing next to them. They nod.
"Since you can write now… or, I guess since we can read it, I've been wondering."
They tilt their head.
"What are you?"
They stare at the sailor, then at the water below, ink-black and barely lit by the pale moon. What are they?
Not a bug, they're sure. Bugs don't bleed darkness, bugs aren't born from the depths of the world. Bugs have voices, and eat, and sleep. Bugs do not throw themselves to the sea and resurface alive.
Are they alive? They have no blood, nor heart to pump it. They don't breathe. Maybe they're just a thing that was built.
By who? Where did they come from? They came from the dark, they know, but they existed before they drove a nail through the back of a beast. If they were born of darkness, who sired them?
They are silent as always, and then they take their quill and draw simple, swirling petals. I don't know.
"They say they don't know!" the sailor calls, and immediately there's a chorus of shouts from below deck.
Of course they had a betting pool. The quill bounces off the sailor's head and she laughs.
They sail for years. What is there to say about it? Crewmates come and go. The Captain grows old. They learn names, and just as quickly forget them.
They get a name from the sailors, for their silence.
One day, they lose a fight. They're bound in chains bound to a boulder, and their head is cracked and leaking as they're dragged towards the edge.
"Where's their captain?"
The Captain is dead. It's their fault, they could have stopped it if they were faster.
Their vision blanks for a moment, and when it clears they're on the ground and their head hurts even more.
"Do you remember me?" a pirate says. They don't. "You killed my captain. Figured I'd return the favour."
They're dragged to the edge.
"We're right above a trench," the pirate says. "I hear no one knows what's at the bottom. Guess you'll be the first to find out."
They don't struggle.
"While you're rotting away down there, just remember." They're pushed over. "This is all your fault."
They hit the water and their shell cracks like an egg.
There's a rush of noise, a chorus of screams, and then they know nothing.
They awaken to darkness pressing in on all sides, chains digging into their skin, and an aching hole where their grief should be.
They tilt their head back, then to each side as they look around. What little light they give off can't pierce the dark, and they feel like they're moving through molasses.
Between the chains, the pressure, and the buoyancy of their head, they can barely move. And so, after the initial attempt, they do not.
They don't have their nail.
It's such a little thing, compared to the general situation they're in. But they've had it for as long as they can remember, a comforting weight on their back, and now there's nothing.
A creature drifts past their face. They slowly turn their head to follow it.
They've never seen anything like it before. It's ugly, eyes huge and milky-white, and it's covered in little tendrils tipped with light.
It drifts out of their field of vision. They return to staring blankly ahead.
Things are growing on them.
They hesitate to call them plants, though they're stationary and drift in the currents like leaves in the wind— they know plants, and they know these are different.
They wonder if they'll become overgrown, like the old toys they left in the wasp-reeds and rediscovered years later.
They are surrounded by a reef, countless not-plants and glowing creatures making their homes on and around them.
They suppose it must be very dark down here, that even their weak light would serve as a beacon. It is even more of a beacon now, with all the glow-bugs around.
Something enters their reef. It is behind them, but they know it is there because the creatures stir and scatter into their holes, plunging the reef once more into darkness.
They do not turn their head. If they remain still, it will think them a piece of the scenery.
When the intruder enters their view, they are startled to see it walking— not an ocean creature as they expected, but a tall bug walking on two legs. They wonder how they breathe.
They're familiar, somehow.
The bug turns and meets their gaze with eyes just as black and empty as their own. A moment passes.
They keep walking.
The bug returns, carrying armfuls of shells. They stack them at their feet, movements so slow and deliberate that the reef is nearly full with light again by the time they finish.
They stand, scaring the reef into darkness, and they leave.
The third time, they bring tools.
The bug makes to disturb the reef growing around their feet, and that's when they finally move. They kick as hard as they can, which isn't much against the chains but it's enough to make the bug jump back, startled.
They shake their head, gently so as not disturb the growth between their horns. The bug stares, eyes empty, and then they drop the tools and take their face in their hands.
Something stirs within them.
Sibling?
Their sibling returns often, sits by them and speaks through ripples and impressions in their shared darkness, though they cannot speak back.
Thought sibling dead. Found shade.
They look at their sibling.
Far from home. How did sibling get here?
They tilt their head back to look into the darkness above them. They twitch their hand, pulling it as far from their body as they can manage and miming walking.
Their sibling gives an impression of laughter. Too complicated?
They nod.
Sad, curious. No voice, no story.
They shrug. Even if their arms were free to write, they're not sure they'd tell it anyway. They're more interested in answers, and they know by now that their sibling has none.
Want to be free?
They shake their head.
Their sibling nods, stands, and walks away.
Want to be free?
They shake their head.
Want to be free?
They do not.
Want to be free?
They don't care.
Want to be free?
They don't want to lose this too.
Want to be…
They don't…
A light blooms, a shell cracks, and pain echoes through the void.
Their vision wavers. Their sibling doesn't look much better.
A call.
They tilt their head in a silent question.
I won't answer. There's absolute certainty, bolstered by pain and experience.
They nod.
Hesitance. Will you?
Will they?
They shouldn't. Haring off after some mysterious calling, destroying the most peaceful existence they've ever known for some voice they don't know… they shouldn't.
Yet.
Who else will?
They tug at their chains.
Their sibling seems disappointed.
Rusted as they are, the chains snap easily between their sibling's tools. Their sibling takes their hands, holds them down even as the chains fall away, and impresses upon them that they're going to die.
They nod.
They let go.
When they reach the surface, they can barely move. They feel both weightless and built of solid lead, barely able to paddle towards the shapes they see in the night.
The ships are still there, wrecked and rotted and somehow still floating. They pull themself onto a deck, and stay there until their limbs remember how to carry them.
When they can stand, they begin slowly, delicately prying coral and barnacles from their shell and skin. When they are done, they feel naked, but they move easier.
They find their grief and heartache floating at the helm, clutching their nail. It lashes out, but its movements are wild and it's easy to disarm and slay.
A hole they'd forgotten is filled.
The sails are torn, the ships will not sail.
That's alright. They can swim, and the call still beckons.
Eventually, they reach the shore of a barren, ashy wasteland.
They do not break stride.
The wind drags them forwards, pulls them inexorably towards their destination like it, too, is calling them.
They scale the cliffs, stand at the edge of a pit overlooking a distant town.
They jump.