Chapter Text
This isn’t right. Something about this isn’t right, and Xero has a fairly good idea of what that something is.
Sure, there’s something in the depths of the Kingdom’s Edge that is off-limits to all civilians, but Xero knows from experience—and from chasing away the occasional belligerent teenager on a dare from their friends—that it is higher up than this. This moth, whoever he is, isn’t close to discovering the secrets of… whatever it is the king wants kept secret. Something beyond their final guard outpost, and that something is why the majority of his company remain there even now.
As for Xero, well… his orders are clear.
(And those orders make even less sense. They are from the king himself, and the king simply does not make mistakes. Yet—Xero can’t help but think something must have been lost in translation, somewhere, because they are never normally allowed to use lethal force save as a last resort.)
(Here, lethal force is mandated should the moth refuse to leave.)
(What in the name of Hallownest itself did he do?)
Still, no time remains. Xero surveys the path ahead. Should the intel he has received be accurate, this moth should be just up ahead—and answering only to their king has its perks. Xero’s intel is rarely, if ever, wrong.
Xero’s intel also states that the moth is a capable fighter, and should not be taken lightly. Were Xero more sure of what, exactly, the moth did, he might not even bother with requesting him to leave. But Xero would like some answers, and so he ensures the twin nails on his back are in their proper place before proceeding through the tunnel.
The moth is there, certainly. His head is bowed, his eyes are closed. He is, to all appearances, meditating. A gust of wind from nowhere in particular ruffles his red fur, and if Xero wasn’t on duty, he might ask some more personal questions.
As it is, Xero clears his throat and says, “Um. Hello.”
The moth does not open his eyes. He does, however, incline his head in a slight nod, and say, “If you are here to ask me to leave, my answer has not changed.”
“Right. I’m… not here to ask you to leave,” Xero lies. He takes a hesitant step forward and asks, “Do you mind if I join you?”
“I do not have an opinion either way, so long as you remain quiet.”
And so Xero takes a seat next to the moth, who really is rather pretty. The moth breathes in and out, deeply and evenly, and returns to his meditation. Xero, however, fidgets. He does try to stay quiet, and he thinks he succeeds until the moth opens his eyes and says, “Are you aware of what I am attempting to do here?”
“Somewhat. Sorry. I don’t know how you do it.”
The moth snorts. “I don’t.”
“…excuse me?”
“I don’t do it. I’ve never been good at meditation, I just… can’t block out the world the way I’m supposed to be able to.” The moth shrugs helplessly. “So I found the quietest place I could—and it is quiet, and peaceful, when I’m not being bothered by this guard or another going on and on about trespassing—“
Xero is starting to understand why he was called in. “Ah,” he says.
“—and what is even out here? There’s nothing out here, except ash and acid and hoppers!”
Well, that isn’t entirely true, but perhaps the moth doesn’t need to know of… whatever it is they’re guarding.
“Evidently there is something,” Xero says cautiously, “or there would not be a guard outpost so devoted to defending it.”
“Hm. Point made.” The moth looks at the falling ash, and sighs. “Well, I’m not getting any meditating done today, either, that’s for damn sure. Though I cannot bring myself to be irritated at you. My name is Markoth.”
“Markoth,” Xero repeats, tasting the name on his tongue. “Good to meet you. I am Xero.”
And the moth stares. “Xero. As in… Sir Xero the Bold, one of the Five Great Knights of Hallownest. That Xero.”
“Um.”
“You are here to tell me to leave, aren’t you?”
Xero sighs. “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”
“Damn. I was beginning to like you.” Still, Markoth does not budge from his sitting position, and neither for that matter does Xero. “Still, if you are that Xero… then you have to be able to wield those nails.”
“Yes…?” Xero isn’t sure he likes where this is going. He likes it even less when Markoth leaps to his feet, shield hefted from his back onto his arm, and a glimmering golden nail shimmers into being in his other claw. “I do not wish to fight you.”
“No, no, I have an idea. We fight, because I would actually love to test my nail against Xero the Bold, Great Knight of Hallownest. I trust you can put up a good fight. When we are done, you go back and say that I agreed to leave, they take you at your word because why wouldn’t they, and I have a little longer to properly learn how to meditate before I have to return home having failed.”
“I’m not certain I follow your logic,” Xero too gets to his feet, “but I would not be opposed to a friendly spar nonetheless. Shall we—“
He barely gets the words out before Markoth charges him, nail and shield at the ready, with a dizzying smile on his face. Xero backflips out of the way, landing with both his nails at the ready. Underneath his helm, he too smiles. Upon the moth’s next strike, he blocks it with both nails, then spins to strike at his exposed backside.
With a great flap of his wings—his functional wings, unlike the tattered remnants Xero was born with—the moth dodges just so, and strikes again. This continues for some time, a rapid dance of blades that would appear deadly to an onlooker, but to two bugs of this skill? To two bugs of this skill, it’s nothing to worry about.
Indeed, Xero is impressed—Markoth’s strength was not exaggerated in the reports. Were the king looking for another Great Knight, Xero would happily recommend Markoth—for he is strong, and fast. In the end, Xero is slightly faster, and their spar ends with one nail pointed at Markoth’s throat and the other at his heart.
“You are,” Xero attempts to conceal the fact that he is breathing heavily with little success, “an excellent fighter.”
“As are you,” Markoth agrees. “Look down.”
Xero does. His nails are, as it turns out, not the only ones aimed somewhere vital. Were this not a friendly spar, and if Xero genuinely wanted to kill Markoth, he would soon follow. Xero hums an impressed note at that and retracts his nails, sheathing them once again on his back. Markoth opens his hand and his golden nail fades into nothingness.
“That,” Xero admits, “is a very cool trick.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to show you sometime,” Markoth says coyly. He stows his shield on his back and adds, “After all, it wouldn’t do not to check on me every now and then, to make sure I’m still here and not off exploring where I shouldn’t be.”
“That logic, I do follow. Very well. Just… please do stay out of trouble? And please don’t go exploring. How long do you expect you’ll be here?”
Markoth shrugs. “A couple more months, at most. Just long enough that my mother understands this is not just a childish temper tantrum. ”
“...I am not going to ask.”
“Smart. You would be here for some time, and I suppose you’d best be getting back.”
“Suppose so,” though Xero is rather reluctant to admit it. “You are an admirable fighter.”
“As are you. I would not be opposed to crossing nails with you again.” Markoth bows, just once, before returning to his seated position, and once again closing his eyes. Xero takes that as his cue to leave.
He bows back, then turns, and rushes back.
(He tells the others at the outpost that the moth has been driven off, and nobly volunteers to take on patrols in that area in the future in case he returns. No one questions him, for to question one of the king’s clawpicked knights would be to question the king, and no one questions the king.)
It has been approximately one month, and countless daily patrols, since Xero first met Markoth. And so it is that Xero dons his armor and sets about going through the motions of preparing for the day, only to be interrupted by one of his own bugs with a letter.
“Thank you,” Xero tells the bug, for he isn’t an unappreciative piece of bugshit. “Who is it from?”
“Not sure,” the bug—Xero knows he’s heard his name, isn’t it Orrin or something? Ormin?—reports. “Though… that appears to be the seal of Hallownest on the back?”
Xero’s eyes go wide beneath his helm. “Let me see.”
And so Oggim… Orgim?—Xero really needs to figure out what his name actually is, he seems like a decent sort of bug—passes over the letter.
“Ah,” Xero says. “You had me worried for a moment there.”
“What… do you mean?”
“The seal of Hallownest would mean a missive from our king, and he isn’t one to exchange pleasantries.” Xero motions at the seal that is actually there and continues, “The symbol of his Great Knights, however, is similar. It just lacks the crown, like so.”
“Oh.” Ommin(?) doesn’t seem particularly saddened by that. “Which one, Sir Xero?”
“Cannot tell without opening it. That being said… my geo is on Hegemol or Isma.” Xero opens it and reports, “And I was correct. Let’s see what Sir Hegemol the Mighty has to say, hmm?”
“Wyrm,” Orrim breathes. Xero is pretty sure he’s bouncing a little on his feet. “Can I…?”
Xero scans the page briefly to make sure there’s nothing confidential, then nods. “I don’t see why not.”
To my comrade Xero:
How fares you, in your lonely outpost at the edge of the world? I understand, of course, that you need time to yourself, as do we all. Still, you are greatly missed, and I wonder if you can spare a day away. We have something fun planned, and it would not be the same without Xero the Bold, now, would it?
I am extending an invitation, but I should warn you that Isma has taken it upon herself to retrieve you whether you like it or not, and I do hope this missive reaches you before she does. It will make a lot more sense if it reaches you before she does. That being said, if you do not wish to attend, you will merely have to explain as much to our dear Isma. Or run. You would likely have better luck running.
With hope and honor,
Hegemol
“That sounds… nice?” Ornin says tentatively.
“Oh, make no mistake, it will be.” Xero sets the letter down and returns to armoring himself for the day. “You evade knightly bonding exercises three times in a row, and the others make a game of dragging you to them whether you like it or not.”
“But, you do like them. Don’t you?”
Xero laughs. “Of course I do! That being said, I did swear I’d handle your unit’s patrols today, and if I’m fast I can make it back before Isma arrives. I trust you can distract her, if she turns up in the meantime? Ask her of how she came to become a knight. That will keep her talking as long as I need.”
“I… as you wish, Sir Xero!” Ogrin salutes, though there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes Xero suspect he doesn’t mind distraction duty at all.
“I’ll be back.” And, without further ceremony, Xero leaves for the secluded cavern where he knows he will find Markoth.
The moth is meditating, as he often is when Xero arrives—or more accurately attempting to meditate. Xero recognizes, now, the subtle tells of a twitch here and a shift there, and then Markoth’s eyes opening to look upon him.
“Xero,” Markoth greets, a surprising amount of warmth in his words. “Come to spar, or to talk?”
“Neither today, I am afraid,” Xero apologizes. “I will be away for… not long, I hope. Given what the others at this outpost currently believe of you…”
“Ah. You wish for me to hide.”
“Yes. Is that… too much to ask?”
Markoth looks down, and sighs. “I suppose not,” he says, though it’s with no small amount of disappointment. “It certainly will not be difficult.”
“Thank you.” Xero can’t help but feel that he’s making a mistake, somehow. He does not dwell on it. “I will not be long. A day or two at most.”
“Mhm,” Markoth agrees. “Be safe.”
“You as well.”