Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

Xero returns to, unsurprisingly, Isma. What is surprising is that she’s a thoroughly distracted Isma, regaling his younger comrade whose name continuously slips his mind with tales of grandeur and something about a garden.

“And that,” Isma proclaims, spreading her arms wide, “is how I arrived in Hallownest. It was strange, to be sure, but… the kingdom welcomed me, and so forevermore I’ll fight to protect it. Hello, Xero! Glad you could join us.”

Isma’s back is to the entrance, though she stands at her words. Xero cracks a grin as he walks further in, and says, “Greetings to you as well, Isma.”

“Oh my Wyrm,” mutters the slightly starstruck dung beetle… Ollin? Owenn?

“Lovely place you’ve got here.” Isma turns, light on her feet as always. Her leaves, bound down her back into something approximating a braid, sway as she moves. “And quite excellent company. If everyone stationed here is as friendly as Ogrim—”

That’s the beetle’s name, Ogrim! Xero makes a mental note to thank Isma once they’re on their way, and a mental note not to forget Ogrim’s name again, and then realizes he’s missed part of the conversation. Shit.

“Sorry,” Xero says. “What was that last bit?”

Isma reaches out and flicks him between the eyes. Even with an expressionless mask bearing far more eyeholes than she needs, it’s clear she’s amused. “If everyone stationed here is as friendly as Ogrim, I can see why you requested being stationed out here.”

“Hmm,” Xero says instead of they are most certainly not, Ogrim is the only halfway friendly one and I suspect that would have been beaten out of him too if I hadn’t been put in charge when I was. This is only partially because what he wants to say would be a mouthful. “It’s peaceful. Quiet, most of the time.”

“And you do like your peace and quiet. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Ogrim. We’ll have Xero back by tomorrow, maybe the next night at latest.”

“Wait, wh—” But the words are yanked out of his mouth by Isma looping an arm around his and bodily hauling him back towards the rope down, and he only manages a wave before they’re gone.

Isma, for her part, waits only until they’re halfway back to the city to ask, “So how have you been, Xero the Bold?” Amusement is clear in the way she walks, the way she leaps from rock to rock as if dancing. In retrospect, they probably weren’t supposed to make a game out of their titles, but the king had never said they couldn’t, now, had he?

“Adequate,” Xero replies. “Might I ask you the same, Isma the Kind?”

Isma snorts. “Doing alright, I suppose. A little bored. A little sad.”

“You cannot say that and not elaborate.”

“Point,” Isma says, and then, “Bored because there is little happening, and it almost feels like a calm before a storm—though I know not what storm is coming, or even could come. Sad because… well, another moth has turned up dead.”

Xero makes a face. “Another one? I only heard of the first.”

“Three more, now, and we can’t officially do anything about it. Our king said something about it being out of our jurisdiction? Which is ridiculous, what are knights for if not to protect the people?” Isma heaves a heavy sigh and adds, “Unofficially, of course, I’ve been investigating on my own time. Someone has a serious grudge against moths in particular, and I’m going to find out who and why.”

Unbidden, Xero’s thoughts go to Markoth. Well, he should be safe enough beyond the reach of the city, though he’ll still make sure Markoth knows to be wary of anyone he doesn’t know when he sees him again.

“Huh,” Xero says. “You want help?”

“Well, Hegemol did ask us to be back by the dark cycle.” Isma considers this. “On the other hand, we do have at least an hour before then, two if we’re lucky, and even if we’re a little late, I can’t imagine Hegemol taking an issue with why.”

“Nor I.” 

“I have some notes back at my apartment. A fresh set of eyes might prove useful.”

“You mean a set of eyes to begin with?” 

Isma sighs. The roots Xero knows she uses to see, disguised as feet in the same way any other bug’s are, tap impatiently. “You know what I mean.”

(Xero does. It isn’t as if seeing in a different way than others makes Isma any less terrifyingly capable, when she wants to be. The mask merely makes her a little less disconcerting to the average bug.)

(Not everyone, after all, is so lucky to be born with a face.)

Xero has known Isma for a long time. He knows, perhaps even better than he knows her, that when she becomes determined to figure something out, she will figure it out one way or another. And so, he isn’t too surprised to step into Isma’s apartment and find an entire wall covered in newspaper clippings and Isma’s own notes.

He’s just a little surprised that she got this much from four dead bugs.

( Four dead moths, his brain supplies, and he suppresses a shudder.)

“The first,” Isma says, pointing at a picture of a small, fluffy moth with two sets of almost rectangular wings. “Her name was Karina. A visitor from the community living atop the Crystal Peak, and while she was found third, I suspect she was killed first and simply not missed until someone found her body in the waterways. Or… more accurately, about two-thirds of her.”

Xero audibly winces. “What happened?”

“Difficult to tell for sure, but her, um… eyes, had been gouged out. And her wings were missing.”

And, of course, Xero’s mind helpfully calls up a mental image of that small moth, very much dead. “...right. Can we move on?”

Isma takes a closer look at him, and—thankfully—glosses over the more gory details for the next three. Eventually, she says, “The only link is that they were all moths, they were all seen in the city prior to their murders, and they were all found in the waterways. Besides that, none of it makes sense.”

But there has to be some link, somewhere. Xero knows that. Isma knows that.

“How about… timing. When were they found?”

“Twelve days ago, seven days ago, five days ago, yesterday. No pattern there. Maybe… it’s difficult to tell for sure when they died, but the last time any of them were sighted… should be on a paper to your left.”

Xero scans the pile and finds it before too long. He picks it up and reads, “Karina, twenty days. Thistlewind, fifteen days. Luralia, ten days. Ennea, five days. Wait, but that means…”

“Oh, no,” Isma says. “There aren’t a lot of moths in the city at the moment—we’ve been trying to keep news of this killer under wraps, but I’ve been… encouraging those that already live here to go on vacation elsewhere. But the Teacher is visiting the Watcher, and she brought two of her researchers.”

“...one of whom is a moth, I take it,” Xero concludes, and is moderately dismayed to receive a curt nod. “Well. Fuck. We might be a bit later to team bonding than we thought.”

One hastily penned missive to Sir Hegemol the Mighty later, two Great Knights stake out the eastern exit to the Watcher’s Spire. It’s a hunch, but given that there is an entrance to the waterways close by, and Monomon the Teacher is well known for being… talkative, the moth might emerge sooner rather than later.

(If he emerges from the western exit, Isma has her roots over there, and Xero is reasonably certain that he can make it there within about ten seconds, fifteen if he needs to remain undetected. So they’ve got that covered.)

Luck, however, seems to be on their side. The moth, a roundish fluffy one with green wings held around him, steps outside with an audible sigh of relief. He mutters to himself, “Just a few minutes, she said. Just a few minutes while I speak with the Watcher. I don’t know how Quirrel does it. ”

If the moth is talking about interacting with the high society of Hallownest, and the city in particular, Xero is inclined to agree. Based on the quiet snort Isma lets out beside him, he isn’t the only one.

The moth closes his eyes, and breathes in the fresh air of the dark cycle. He isn’t as small as Karina had been, but he’s still shorter than Markoth. Shorter, and more stockily built, though he bears no nail or shield, nor any weapon at all.

Xero is, perhaps, so absorbed in watching him that he doesn’t notice the shadowy figure creeping up from the other side of the square until Isma elbows him hard, and points. They are small, hooded, with only the faintest glint of light off metal to reveal they are armed.

The knight looks at Isma, lifts his helm, and mouths the words, You handle the moth. I think I can sneak up on him.

Isma frowns, but nods nonetheless. She plants her claws on the ground, and as they grow down there it becomes in a quite literal sense. Though Xero does not stick around to watch, he knows there is a growing vine poised to send the moth flying back inside if need be.

Xero, meanwhile, creeps. Low to the ground, a single nail drawn, he circles the square, sticking to the shadows and taking advantage of the fact that his armor is not reflective. He catches up with the hooded figure just as they are poised to strike.

He strikes first, clapping a claw over their mouth and putting his nail to their throat. 

Isma takes the opportunity to grab the moth by the waist and throw him bodily through the still open door. Her vine closes it behind him, and only then does she retract her claws from the ground and stand to greet the bug they’ve caught.

“I think,” Xero grinds out, “that it’s time someone had a little chat with you, hmm?”

They don’t get a little chat. They don’t even get a name. They don’t get much of anything before their suspect breaks free of Xero’s grip with an incomprehensible yell and hurls himself bodily down the elevator shaft to the White Palace, chitin cracking so audibly upon impact that it can be heard from above. Xero looks down, and winces.

“That… was not how I was expecting this night to go,” Xero admits.

“Nor I,” Isma says wistfully. “I would have liked to have brought them before the king, made him stand trial for his crimes. But… at least, hopefully, there should be no more dead moths now.”

“Hopefully.”

They stand there, at the top landing, looking down. Then Isma lets out a yawn, and winces. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go find Hegemol.”

Suddenly exhausted as well, Xero can’t bring himself to argue. And honestly, he could use their leader’s encouragement right about now.

(Hegemol is worried that they took so long, and slightly miffed if understanding that they didn’t bring him along. Dryya is disappointed that their suspect killed themself before proper retribution could be vested upon them. And Ze’mer… is quiet and melancholic as always, but her approval is quite evident when not a single one of her never have I evers is directed towards Isma or Xero.)

Xero is on his way back to his post at the kingdom’s edge when someone, behind him, shouts, “Wait!”

He turns, and is greeted by, of all the bugs and bug-adjacent entities he knows… Ze’mer. Who takes a moment to catch her breath after catching up to him and wryly admits, “Ah, Le’mer, Che’ is not built for distance running.”

“Are any of us?” Xero asks.

Ze’mer lets out an amused sigh. “None of meled’comrades, save perhaps Dryya or Le’mer.”

“Certainly not I. Perhaps Dryya indeed. Tell me, what is it you rushed after me for?” A disturbing thought occurs to him, and he asks, quietly, “It isn’t another dead moth, is it?”

“Nahlo, nahlo. The one of whom you speak is shaken by your and Isma’s intervention, though very much alive. It is instead…” All pretense of amusement fades, and she fixes Xero with a purposeful look. “Le’mer, you and I have been summoned by the king, with the rest of meled’comrades.”

“All five of us?” Xero blinks upon receiving a nod, considering this. “That is… worrying. Very well, let us go.”

Xero and Ze’mer are, in fact, the last to arrive in the king’s throne room. They join their comrades kneeling before him—Hegemol in front, as their leader. Isma on his left, Dryya on his right. Xero takes up a position on Dryya’s right and behind her, and Ze’mer slides easily onto Isma’s left.

“My knights,” says the king. “It is good that you are all here.”

“What is it you wish of us, o sire?” Hegemol asks in a quieter voice than usual.

And the king sighs deeply. “First, a request: though I know better than to believe I can keep news of this from spreading, I would that the resulting panic did not originate with any of you.”

Translation: keep this from becoming common knowledge at all costs. Do not tell anyone .

“As you say,” Hegemol says for all of them.

The king stands from his throne, then. “There is an Infection within my kingdom. And I must depend on my Five, strong of mind and body, to keep it contained until a solution can be implemented. Are you with me?”

It is, quite obviously, a rhetorical question. Of course they are with him.

(Xero doesn’t make it back to the edge of the world, where the ash falls and few dwell, for nearly a month.)

Chapter Text

The Infection does not follow any kind of logic. In fairness, Xero isn’t entirely sure what a normal pandemic would entail, but it should follow some kind of logic. It should, if sealed away behind closed doors, stay behind those closed doors, and not pop up again on the other side of Hallownest just when it seems to be in the clear.

And it shouldn’t disproportionately affect moths. But it does. At least no one is going around murdering them anymore, but—they just can’t seem to catch a break, can they?

And Xero would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried in particular about Markoth. Ironically, as far away from civilization as he is may be the safest place for him right now. The Infection follows no patterns, but it does tend to pop up more in populated areas than with isolated individuals out in the middle of nowhere.

So Markoth will probably be fine, so long as he stays put and stays out of trouble. The first, if he hasn’t already returned home, would be easy for him. The second… may be a bit harder, which is a solid seventy percent of Xero’s reasoning behind checking on him. And, perhaps, extending an offer. If he wants it. Which he might not.

Xero would also be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous to see him again. Those nerves only increase when he steps into the cave to find nothing. No sign of Markoth, or where he’s gone. Just ash, and rocks, and an empty cave.

His heart sinks, even as he calls, “Markoth?” 

A blur of brilliant red in the corner of his eye, and Xero looks up. Markoth is hanging to the wall above him by a single claw, shield on his back. He waves, and slides down beside Xero with a, “Xero! Here I was thinking you’d forgotten about me!”

Xero laughs, though there is little humor in the sound. “I would never. It… is good to see you as well. How have you been?”

Markoth makes a so-so gesture with his wing. “Exploring. Evading patrols. Trying to keep from becoming too curious as to what it is the king is so determined to hide back here. I don’t suppose you know?”

“I… have never asked,” Xero admits. “It is not my place.”

“Do not be ridiculous. You are a Great Knight. If it is not your place to ask, then whose is it?”

He… has a point. Xero doesn’t know, but he isn’t about to admit that. Instead, he says, “If there is a need for me to know, I will be told of it. The king has his secrets, I expect, and I have mine.”

“Fair enough.” Still, Markoth hums to himself, and adds, “You aren’t a little curious?”

“It is not my place, or yours, to be curious.”

“I am not hearing a no.”

“That does not automatically mean a yes!” Xero scowls, despite himself. “Listen, I… would you like to know why I was considerably longer in getting back than I intended to be?”

“Actually yes, but—”

“There’s a plague. An Infection. It’s… we’ve had our claws full attempting to keep it contained, and it’s not working but we’ve managed to keep it contained enough until the king has a more permanent solution, and it’s… moths are more vulnerable. Much more vulnerable. I am well aware you can take care of yourself, but…” Xero sighs, and admits, “If you haven’t heard of the Infection, it’s… it’s bad. It’s really bad and I would rather one of my few friends not connected with work doesn’t have that to worry about on top of the whole technically trespassing somewhere on pain of death thing.”

I’m worried about you, he doesn’t say, though given the look Markoth is giving him, he thinks that much made it across nonverbally.

I don’t know you very well yet, but I would like to, and if you’re infected—if you’re dead— I’d miss you. I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if something happened to you because of me, he doesn’t say either.

“There’s… a what? Slow down,” Markoth says uneasily.

“There’s a plague,” Xero repeats, “it brings bugs down indiscriminately but moths seem to be more vulnerable than others, you’re a moth, and when bugs… die, from this, they wake up again. Bleeding orange, biting and scratching others indiscriminately, and infecting them too. We’ve been trying to keep that under control—fuck, we’ve been trying to keep this entire thing under control with very little success—but some bugs are starting to realize that moths are more vulnerable, and… attacking them, and saying they were infected after the fact when they weren’t, and I…”

Xero takes a deep breath, and admits, “I know you can take care of yourself, obviously. Any normal situation, I would not be the slightest bit worried. But this is not a normal situation, I don’t know how none of the Great Knights have been infected yet except that our king must be protecting us somehow, and… I’m worried.”

“No shit.” Markoth’s tone could turn the waterways into the windswept cliffs at the kingdom’s eastern border. “I… was not aware there was anything out of the ordinary going on. You have experience with this? What can I do to protect myself?”

“From the Infection, I don’t know. Nobody knows what’s causing it. Or if anyone does, they’re not saying.” Xero sighs. “For anything else… the king has a plan. The Infection will be over soon, and when it is… I suppose everyone will likely be too busy recovering to worry about what secrets are hidden at the edge of the world.”

Markoth stares at him. Then he says, “I have been a terrible influence on you, and I love—it.”

Xero smiles beneath his helmet. Still, he hesitates. “If… if you would be willing. It would be safer within the city’s walls, particularly if you are under the protection of one of Hallownest’s Great Knights. The others would like you, and… I can’t say it would be safe but it would be saf er and there has been talk of a kingdom-wide quarantine, and I would prefer to be quarantined with someone I can hold a conversation with and spar with.”

“I… are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Uh… perhaps?”

Markoth’s expression is, for a long moment, unreadable. Then he says, cheerfully, “Not that I am against the idea, but at least buy me dinner first.”

“That could definitely be arranged,” Xero says hopefully.

Xero kneels, head bowed, alone this time. He remains there, motionless, until his king says, “Rise, Knight Xero. What is it you ask of us?”

“Merely your permission, and your blessing.” Xero looks up, though remains kneeling before him, and thanks the fact that he’s wearing a helmet. He’s pretty sure it’s considered rude to not be able to look at your king without squinting. “I… have met someone.”

“Oh?” His king leans forward slightly in his throne. “Do elaborate.”

“He is… a very talented warrior, easily my equal. He is brave, and strong,” and Xero decides it may be better not to mention Markoth’s certain disregard for authority, “and I would like to bring him here, to keep him at least a little safer from the Infection.”

He does not ask how goes the king’s plan against it, and yet the king still says, “Our solution is in progress. Soon, your loved one will no longer have to fear that cursed plague.”

“That is heartening to hear, sire,” Xero agrees. 

“Still—answer us this. Is your loved one a moth?”

“He is.”

The king sits back in his chair, nodding to himself. “Then yes—perhaps it is best that you bring him here, for his own safety. We grant you our permission, Knight Xero. Do not tarry.”

“I will not, sire. Thank you.”

“You are dismissed.”

Xero nods once again as he stands, then turns and leaves the throne room with a spring in his step. Still, despite his king’s orders, he does not return to the edge of the kingdom, and that secluded cave.

Not yet. Markoth had expressed a desire to return to his home, to check on his mother and assure her he was still alive. They would meet again in that cave tomorrow, and so Xero spends the night in his apartment before setting out bright and early the next morning.

He swings by the training grounds, too. Dryya and Hegemol are there, brash dexterity against brute strength—that is, if anything about Hegemol can be called brutish when the bug himself has spent an entire evening crying over the fact that maggots don’t have shells—and from the looks of it, Dryya is winning their spat.

Appearances, of course, can be deceiving. There is a very good reason why Dryya is thought to be the leader of the Great Knights, and an equally good reason why Hegemol is the actual leader of the great knights.

“Ho there, Xero!” Hegemol calls. Dryya takes the opportunity to strike, and finds her greatnail blocked by a single arm held up to stop her. “Quite a spring in your step this morning!”

Xero laughs nervously. “Is it that obvious?”

“If it is any consolation, it is not,” Dryya says wryly, sheathing her greatnail and moving to greet him. “What has you in a good mood, Xero?”

“Perhaps a cute boy.” There’s a twinkle in Hegemol’s eyes visible even with him in full armor. Xero considers whether he can outrun them. Hegemol, maybe. Dryya, no.

“Oh, don’t be ridi— oh he’s right. You can forgive me for not being quite as excited as Hegemol here?” That being said, Dryya does look a little interested. “Xero has a boyfriend, hmm?”

“I don’t actually—” Xero sighs. “I don’t think it counts as me having a boyfriend just because he’s moving in with me for safety. We’re just friends.”

“That is a blatant lie and you know it.” Still, Dryya claps him on the shoulder before turning back to Hegemol and going, “Let’s leave Xero to it, hmm?”

Hegemol nods. Before they head back out into the yard, Hegemol says, “Introduce him to us, yes? I’d like to meet the bug who captured our Xero’s heart!”

“I will,” Xero promises. “Don’t bother threatening him. He is a capable warrior in his own right.”

“I would expect nothing less!”

Hegemol waves boisterously, and Dryya inclines her head in a clear gesture of farewell. Xero waves back, though nowhere near as enthusiastically as Hegemol, and then he sets off once more.

Xero considers stopping by the old outpost, to see perhaps if Ogrim is still stationed there—but in the end, he thinks better of it. He’s dallied long enough already. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little attracted to Markoth, which is why he has no intention of saying anything on the matter. Instead, he walks, head held high, through the falling and fallen ash.

It’s beautiful, the ashfall, in its own way. Peaceful, serene. Rumor has it that the ashfall comes from the decaying corpse of a massive bug, which makes it slightly morbid as well—but it’s still rather pretty to behold, massive decaying corpse or no massive decaying corpse. 

Xero stops just before the tunnel. He extends a claw, catching some of the ash in it, and smiles. Perhaps that massive dead bug is the secret Markoth had been looking for. Perhaps they’ll find it, once the Infection clears up. He turns, still smiling beneath his mask, and heads down the tunnel.

He stops, close to the end, in his tracks. The smile is gone in an instant, and in another he’s rushing to the moth’s side. He’s there, but he’s—sleeping. He must be sleeping. He must have merely decided to take a nap, with his shield still in his grasp and more than a couple broken nails scattered around him.

“Markoth!” Xero shakes his shoulder, then recoils at how cold he is already. This does not stop him from reaching out again. “Markoth… please wake up.”

Markoth does not wake up. He is not breathing. But he cannot be dead. He can’t. It was… he was so close to being safe, as safe as anyone could be in this Infection. And then something… someone? Something killed him, though he bears no life-threatening wounds that Xero can see.

Not that Xero is looking very hard, of course. His vision is blurring and he chokes out, sobbing, “Markoth… no… you have to…”

He holds him close, even though Markoth cannot feel it, and never will feel anything ever again, and he sobs harder. At some point, he falls asleep.

When he does, he dreams of orange. The Infection is orange. Xero snarls at it, slashes through it with his nails till nothing remains but orange shreds and splatters on the ground around him.

He is not Infected, when he wakes, and for that he is grateful. But Markoth is still dead, and— Xero knows who killed him.

“I will return,” Xero says in a broken voice. “I promise.”

He turns his back on the body then, and blinks hard. He will be back. Markoth deserves better than to be forgotten here, at the edge of the world. But he also deserves to be avenged. And if Xero doesn’t do it… who will?

(It escapes his notice that, in the corner of his eyes, there is always a faint hint of orange—and yet, when he turns to look at it, it is gone.)

Chapter Text

Ogrim is no longer stationed at the Kingdom’s Edge outpost—or if he is, he’s out elsewhere. Where he is does not matter, save that he isn’t there, and therefore Xero has no need to hold back on account of actually liking one of the bugs there.

“Knight Xero is here,” come the whispers he pretends not to hear, from bugs who would not give a damn about him were he not the Great Knight Xero. “He’s back, he’ll save us from the Infection.”

Xero wants to scream, no! No I can’t! And if I could save others from it, I would save someone whose life meant something! Someone like him…

He blinks back tears, is grateful once again for the fact that no one can see behind his helm, and looks for one specific bug.

He does not have to look for long. The garrison’s captain is sleeping—rather soundly for a murderer, at that. Xero fixes that by grabbing him by the collar of his armor and hauling him up to eye level with an audible hiss of “You.”

“K-Knight Xero,” the captain stutters. He is approximately half the size of Xero, and therefore even while he is still being held over his bunk, his legs dangle a good several inches off the ground. “We did... not expect you back so soon!”

“No. I suppose not. I notice that your unit is missing someone. Did you kill him, too?”

“Who—oh, the dung beetle?” The captain relaxes, as if he thinks this is all. “Of course not. The idiot requested to be transferred into the city, to assist with the Infection relief efforts, and I know I won’t… what do you mean, t-too?”

“You know exactly of whom I speak.” And yet this bug seems not to, so he adds, through gritted mandibles, “The moth. ”

“The—the moth? W-what moth?” 

Xero leans in, glaring at him quite distinctly even through his helm, and does not speak.

“Oh, that moth. He should be quite dead soon if he isn’t already, no need to worry—”

“I told you that I had the situation handled, and I did. Who, pray tell, gave you the authority to question one of our king’s own Great Knights? Treason is, after all, a crime punishable by death.”

The captain has grown significantly paler as he realized that this was a threat. Now, he stammers, “It wasn’t—we were following orders!”

“From whom?”

“The—the moth was Infected, or soon to be, and—and… I was just following orders! That moth killed two of my bugs!”

Xero narrows his eyes. “Did he?”

“And he would have killed more if we hadn’t retreated once we got him with the… it isn’t as if it matters, if he wasn’t Infected yet he would have been soon, and it wasn’t as if he was anything but a moth!”

“Wrong answer,” Xero growls. “Last chance. You were following orders, were you? Whose?”

The captain swallows nervously, eyes darting around the room in a desperate attempt for relief. “If you were in close contact with one of the Infected… you could be Infected yourself. And a Great Knight would not be acting this way if you were not Infected.”

“That is definitely treason—” But any further words are shocked out of him by a nailstrike to his back, bouncing harmlessly off his armor. Xero drops the captain and spins, drawing his nails as he does so—just in time to parry more nailstrikes.

“GET HIM!” The captain shouts. Xero realizes, belatedly, that maybe he should have at least incapacitated him before there were eight armored bugs, bearing nails and shields, charging for him.

“If I were truly Infected,” Xero mutters, “I would have killed you already. The Infected attack indiscriminately, and bear no love for defense or tactics.”

But given that these bugs— killed Markoth— Xero does not try particularly hard to defuse the situation, nor does he attempt to injure instead of kill. His left nail slides neatly under the shield of one unfortunate bug, gutting them. His right decapitates that bug, granting them a mercifully quick death.

Then the rest are upon him, and he no longer has the luxury of quick deaths. A jab here, a slash there, a parry and a block and a leap back out of the way, and soon, he is standing in a veritable sea of haemolymph, very little of which is his own.

(There isn’t a hint of orange. They aren’t Infected. But— they killed Markoth.)

Xero sheathes one nail, but keeps the other out, as he returns his attention to the captain. In different circumstances, he would feel bad for the bug visibly shaking now, for they both know how this will end.

Still, the captain grabs for a fallen nail. He holds onto it for all of two seconds before a flick of Xero’s wrist sends it flying again, and then Xero levels his nail once again between the captain’s eyes.

“You fool,” Xero spits. “They did not have to die. Neither did you. Why did you kill him?”

“I—” The captain swallows nervously. When he speaks again, it’s in a nearly nonsensical jumble of words spilling out. “I didn’t—I was following orders, orders I tell you, orders! The king himself—he told us he had to die, he told us he was Infected, and he didn’t— he killed my bugs!”     

“The king…” Xero’s gaze hardens. “You lie, and that is the most pathetic thing of all. Our king would never have ordered the murder of an innocent bug.”

“Exactly! He wasn’t innocent!”

“Perhaps not. But he wasn’t guilty, either. There won’t be a next time, but if there was one, I would advise you to pick something slightly more believable to lie about.”

One rapid slash, and it’s over. Xero sheathes his other nail as well. He steps over the body, over all the bodies, and climbs back down into the ashstorms of the kingdom’s borders.

It couldn’t have… his king wouldn’t have ordered Markoth’s murder. Would he have?

He would have, he thinks—except those aren’t his thoughts. He spins on a dime, drawing his nails again, but there’s nothing there.

Nothing except his imagination.

(He’ll go to visit the king. He’ll clear it up, and he’ll be happy to help Xero find who really engineered Markoth’s murder. After all, his king—his king would never do such a thing.) 

“Xero!”

The single utterance of his name snaps Xero out of his thoughts. He blinks, turns slightly. Isma, claws on her hips and concern in her every word as she says, “What—what happened to you?”

Ah. Right. He’s still covered in haemo, isn’t he. Maybe he should have done something about that.

“It’s not mine,” Xero says, and his gut clenches when Isma takes a wary step back. “It’s… I need to speak with our king. Right now. It is very urgent.”

“So urgent you couldn’t clean up,” Isma says, mostly to herself. She reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, then withdraws as she realizes that too is wet with haemo. “I… Xero, what happened?”

“I’ll tell you later, I need to… the king.” Xero takes a deep breath. “I can get there on my own.”

“I never said you couldn’t. Are you… okay?”

And that makes Xero laugh out loud, though it is the furthest thing from an amused sound. “Do I look okay? Do I sound okay? Because I am absolutely not, thank you for noticing. Isma—” He sobers up, and looks away. “Take care of yourself.”

Isma stares at him, but nods. She does clap him on the shoulder this time, without hesitating, and says, “You as well, Xero. I understand you do not wish to talk about it now, but—I’d like an explanation eventually.”

“You will get one,” Xero lies—though it isn’t a lie, how could he know it is a lie? He forces a smile, though she cannot see it, and says, “Goodbye, Isma.”

“See you around.”

Xero turns, then, and continues through the halls of the palace. He is very aware of Isma watching him go—and perhaps, if Isma had pressed the matter, perhaps, if she had staged a rather rapid intervention, perhaps, if all five knights had been united in what was to come—

Perhaps things would have gone quite differently.

But they do not. Xero opens the door to the throne room without any ceremony. His king is there, sitting on his throne. Waiting for Xero, as he kneels before his king.

He is alone, which is odd in itself. There should always be some clingy retainer or another, but Xero supposes he too needs alone time. 

“The answer to your unspoken question,” the king says, “is that I possess some degree of foresight. Based on my own knowledge, I can determine what will most likely result from an action of mine, and act accordingly.”

It does not escape Xero’s notice that the king referred to himself using I, not we. Xero swallows, though he is not consciously aware of why. “Then… you know already what I am to ask.”

“Yes.”

“Please, tell me… did—you wouldn’t have—”

“Knight Xero,” the king says in an admonishing tone. “Collect yourself.”

“He’s dead,” Xero replies. “He’s dead, and—they said you… they said it was on your orders. Was… were they telling the truth?”

The king studies him for a long moment. At last, he says, “They were.”

And what little remained of Xero’s world spontaneously and rapidly shatters. Tears, unbidden and unwanted, begin to leak from his eyes—though they are, at least, still hidden behind his helm. His first attempt at speech falters in favor of a choked sob.

The king watches him, impassively, as Xero manages a, “Why?”

“I cannot expect you to understand why actions must be taken for the greater good, but I will expect you to understand that they are being taken for the greater good.”

“Of course,” Xero whispers. He looks down, and closes his eyes. “I just… why?”

His question is not answered verbally. It is, however, answered—by the worst pain Xero has ever felt, a horrible burning and tearing in his thorax. His eyes snap open, and his gaze travels further downward. A white-hot nail lance is buried in his chest, up to the hilt. As he stares at it, it shimmers out of existence, leaving Xero’s life free to pour out of him.

But he manages to look up, to look the king in the eyes—

The king, who maintains the same impassive look as he says, “Do not take it personally. From the moment you entered this room, there was no longer any chance that you would not attack your king. Be glad that it was ended for you, before you could fully turn against me and ensure you went down in history for the poor decisions you made at the end of your life.”

“Why…” Xero could not stand if he wanted to, now, but somehow he remains kneeling, even as his vision darkens at the edges. “Why did you do it? How could you—I trusted you… you…”

The king snaps his fingers. Another lance of soul appears in midair beside him, and he angles it slowly, deliberately, almost lazily, until it points at Xero’s throat. While Xero begins to choke on his own haemolymph.

“Perhaps you should have thought before you put yourself in the way. Perhaps you should have thought about that before you fell in love with a moth. I have heard enough of this. Goodbye, Xero.”

The lance moves in an instant, and Xero—

Xero feels no more.

Chapter Text

Xero is dead. He could not have survived, should not have survived. And yet, slowly, ever so slowly, he returns to consciousness, slumped face-forward on the ground where he’d fallen.

(Slowly, ever so slowly, the haemo flowing freely from his fatal wounds turns orange.)

“He was Infected,” cuts the voice Xero can’t bring himself not to hate, now. “We had no choice but to end it quickly. We… thought you would like to know.”

Xero is dead. He cannot pull himself to his feet and cry a dissent, that he is not Infected, that he was—murdered, the same as Markoth. Perhaps, the same as... 

The same as many others, whispers a thought that is not his own. It is easy for the Wyrm to claim no cost is too great for his unity, when it is not he who pays the cost.

That… that isn’t him. He didn’t think that. He’s… he can’t be Infected. He can’t turn on his friends, his family.

Of course you did not think that. I did. As for being Infected… not to be the bearer of bad news, but if you can hear me? You very much are.

No, he—he can’t. He can’t be.

Do you not wish to avenge yourself? To avenge your lost love? To avenge everyone else he has murdered?

Not if killing his friends, too, is the cost. And anyway, he couldn’t. The king—the Wyrm?—is known to be a skilled fighter, and he’s immortal at that.

Oh, no, he is certainly not. Immortal, that is. Skilled, though, yes—and I doubt you could take him alone even if he was without your so-loyal friends. Fortunately, you are not alone. You have me.

And who, Xero wonders, is the only slightly overconfident voice in his head?

I am the one who refuses to go gently into the night. I am the one who does what she must to protect what little she has left. I am dawn, breaking when those who kept me down least expect it. I am the Infection.

…oh. Oh. Quite suddenly, it occurs to him that thinking someone who claims to be the Infection sounds reasonable is not actually a smart course of action.

But he—

Can she help him kill the king, if he truly is not immortal?

He is immortal in the sense that he will not grow old and feeble, but not in the sense that he cannot be stabbed and bleed out. There is a distinct sense of hesitation, and then a, Yes. I will help you, though I fear you will not linger long with or without my aid.

Xero doesn’t need long. He just needs to succeed. It is, with that new resolve in mind, that he tunes back into his surroundings. He is still collapsed in the middle of the throne room in the middle of a still-growing puddle of his own now-more-orange-than-blue haemolymph. The floor itself is cold.

His comrades—his friends— are behind him. Kneeling, most likely, before their king. The king—not his king, not anymore—reclines still on his throne, as if he didn’t murder Xero for… well, he was Infected, but he wasn’t then.

Are you ready?

No, he is not. But he never will be. It is with this in mind that he focuses, concentrates on just getting up.  

“Oh, Wyrm,” Hegemol says sadly.

“Yes, that has been established,” says the utter bastard of a Wyrm himself as if he didn’t just… murder him.

A leg twitches. No one seems to notice, so Xero slowly, carefully, reaches for his nail. Either one will do. He’ll only have one shot at this if he wants to maintain the element of surprise, and if that fails…

Well. He’s still going to try, because if he has to die here he’s going to take his—and Markoth’s—murderer with him. He just doesn’t want to fight his friends.

Will they still be your friends?

No. They won’t. But he won’t hurt them unless he has to, because they were his friends, and then he’ll fight to incapacitate and not to kill. Unlike the king, he has standards.

And you are more noble than many for upholding them despite your current situation.      

And maybe, if it does come to that, he can tell them the truth. They would side with him, if they knew. If he’d been thinking more clearly, if he’d actually bothered to reach out to Isma or anyone else before coming to his death.

If he—

“I… don’t wish to interrupt,” Isma says uneasily, “but… I think he’s…”

She knows. MOVE!

As a ring of blades materializes into being around him and shoots out in every direction, Xero draws his nails in one quick motion and moves indeed. Startled, the Wyrm throws up a shield of soul, but not quickly enough. Xero lunges—

—putting all his waning strength behind the blow—

—and just barely grazes the side of his face. 

He counterattacks with his other nail, of course, but by then the king has recovered enough to summon a nail-lance of soul and block it. And then, of course, he’s slammed into the upper wall by a thick vine. Isma.

Isma, who shouts, “Xero, please!”

“He is not in there any longer,” the king grits out. “Killing him quickly is the only kindness you can afford your friend, now.”

Xero wants to scream. He wants to tell them that he is still here, that he is angry for a reason, and he—he knows they would side with him, if only they knew. But when he opens his mouth to speak, he—

Can’t.

No words come out, for no words can come out. Something thick and wet and sticky catches in his throat when he tries, producing instead a horrible gurgling, and he sees Hegemol visibly flinch at the sound. Were it not for the power of what he now knows to be the Infection, he would still be choking on his own wet haemo.

As it is, he’s not sure he’s even breathing.

That complicates things, remarks the voice in his head. I believe he slit your throat.

Really. He never would have noticed.

Your sarcasm is appreciated, but now is not the time. I can hold off your friends, and I will endeavor to do so non-lethally. You handle the Wyrm.

Light bursts into being around him, a bright brilliant gold, and burns away the vine holding him there. Somewhere, Isma screams. Somewhere, more white-hot blades, shorter than the king’s and more similar to the ones Markoth used before, block off Hegemol and Dryya and Ze’mer as well.

Xero drops to the floor, and charges again. This time, the king is expecting him. This time, he brings up that irritating soul shield in an instant, and keeps it up far longer than any other bug he’s ever met or fought could. Of course he has greater soul reserves to draw upon than others, he’s—Xero doesn’t suppose his claimed godliness was an act.

It is not. But merely because one is a god, does not mean they cannot be killed.

And so Xero grits his mandibles beneath his helm—there’s so much orange, everything is covered in orange—and redoubles his attack. The king is fast, and strong—and Xero may be far from stronger, but he is faster.

He pushes his body to limits he couldn’t have achieved and wouldn’t have dared to try for, before. He darts around, feinting and jabbing and retreating and otherwise harrying him and wearing him down.

One positive effect of being more dead than alive, and possibly not alive at all: he can’t get any more tired than he already is. The king, the Wyrm on the other hand—he is tiring. Slowly, nearly imperceptibly—but he will slip up.

And then he’ll be just as dead as Xero is.      

(He is dimly aware of, behind him, beams of light and soul-blades keeping the others at bay. He wonders what they think the explanation for that is, if he is merely yet another mindless Infected.)

I cannot hold them off forever, the voice warns, and so Xero looks more closely for an opening.

Finally, at last—the first one comes, and he takes it. The Wyrm is just a little too slow, just a little too sluggish, in bringing up his soul shield. Xero strikes, not realizing that his shield isn’t being brought up at all.

One of his nails lodges itself squarely in the Wyrm’s thorax, and everything stops. He… did it.

Xero… did it?

The Wyrm doesn’t look particularly bothered. In fact, the way he calls a nail-lance back into being is almost leisurely.

Xero can’t tug away. He tries. He fails. He— fuck.

“You missed,” the Wyrm says mildly. “Though you came closer than most. Goodbye, Xero.”

He sees rather than feels the nail-lance fully decapitate him, and—the last thing he hears is that voice, the voice of the Infection, screaming, “NO!”

When Xero wakes up the second time after dying, it is with a stark contrast to the first time. The first time, he was in agony, and still collapsed on the floor at the foot of his— not his king anymore.

This time, nothing hurts. He doesn’t feel anything at all, except a distinct and extremely foreign sense of peace that flees as he acknowledges it. He… should be at peace.

He isn’t. He’s also already standing, and that in itself is… slightly concerning. Then he looks down, and sees—

Well, two things. His body is translucent, see-through to a point. He is in the Resting Grounds, right in front of a gravestone bearing the visage of his own helmet.

There is no name, nothing about a knight or Xero the Bold, or even just Xero . Instead, there is just a single sentence.

Cursed are those who turn against the king.

Xero clenches his claws into fists, and lunges for the gravestone, intending to break it down. He passes through it harmlessly, and then again when he tries again, unbelieving.

He is… a ghost.

He is definitely dead, and he… failed. He couldn’t save Markoth, nor could he avenge him. He couldn’t even save himself. It’s with this in mind that he stares up at the cavern roof for a while, then—curls up beside his gravestone and sobs.

There are footsteps nearby. Xero ignores them until their owner stops directly in front of him, clears his throat awkwardly, and says, “Well… hello, Xero. It has been some time, hasn’t it?”

Xero knows that voice. Not well enough to place it from merely hearing it, but well enough to look up and place the name eventually. Ogrim… in white armor, for some reason? That’s… odd.

“Ogrim,” Xero breathes, getting to his feet. “Please, you have to—you have to warn them. The king, he’s—he murdered me. He murdered Markoth. He—”

Ogrim reaches out to set a claw on the gravestone, and consequently reaches right through Xero. An involuntary shudder wracks his form, and he floats over to the side.

“Xero,” Ogrim begins hesitantly, “I… don’t know if you can hear me. They say that the spirits of those Infected are ripped asunder, but I’m reasonably certain that is merely a morbid rumor. You might still be here. And if you are…”

“I am,” Xero insists, to no avail. He waves a claw in front of Ogrim’s face. “Ogrim, I am right here. What are you wearing?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t visit sooner.” Ogrim continues not to hear him. “The others, they—they aren’t allowed to visit at all. And they know better than to question our king. So do I, but I’m not forbidden, so… here I am.”

He sits, then, in front of Xero’s grave, cross-legged, and continues. “You know, I—I would have given anything to be a Great Knight, once. Ogrim the Loyal has a nice ring to it, but… not so nice of one as Xero the Bold, and I—they said you killed bugs, that you were Infected, I don’t… I can’t imagine it.”

“They deserved it,” Xero mutters, even though he knows full well he cannot be heard now. Then another part of what Ogrim said clicks, and he starts, “Wait, you’re— you replaced me?”

Ogrim does not hear. But he does say, “As far as the king is concerned, you never existed. I was always the fifth Great Knight. We are not allowed to acknowledge that you ever existed, and… I suspect the others are afraid if they take a stand against that, they will be next. It is… difficult, sometimes, to believe that this is all for the good of Hallownest.”

“It is not.”

“But it is. It has to be. Learning that a Great Knight fell to the Infection… if that became common knowledge, the kingdom would descend into chaos. Better, then, that you become an unacknowledged traitor, but it—hurts. I can’t forget you entirely, though I have tried. Neither can the others. I… they told me things to say, in case you were listening.”

Xero sits wordlessly, and listens indeed.

“They are… mostly apologies, for not being there for you,” Ogrim admits with a harsh laugh. “And some complaints from Isma regarding the Knights’ armor being standardized. All of us have to wear white now, which changes absolutely nothing for Dryya at least but she’s still a bit annoyed on everyone else’s behalf. Ze’mer wished for me to bring you flowers, but decided against it when she realized the flowers she wished me to bring were rather well-known as being hers alone, and it still took Isma to talk her out of it. Hegemol… he has been beating himself up and then some. We all have, but we’ll… recover, eventually.”

“You will,” Xero says sadly. “Just to live a lie you don’t even know about.”

“The Infection is… well, the king’s plan is nearly complete. I am not completely clear on the details, but there is a vessel? Meant to contain the plague, somehow?” Ogrim shakes his head. “That is not important. What is important is that—I won’t forget you, Xero. I wouldn’t be here without you, but I almost wish I wasn’t here, wearing this, because then you would still be alive.”

“I wish you were right.”

“Thank you for everything.” Ogrim stands, and bows deeply. “Goodbye, Xero. I… hope you find peace, somehow.”

Xero waits until Ogrim is gone, watching him go back to the city, before whispering, “If only that were possible.”

(He’s too angry, still, to find peace.)

Somewhere to the southeast, in a secluded cave, a red-ruffed moth yawns, and stretches. He looks around, hopefully, but does not find Xero waiting anywhere.

Oh well. He’ll be back soon. Markoth will wait as long as it takes, and if those sentries return, he’ll kill as many of them as he has to. 

And so, Markoth settles down to wait, sitting down closer to the passage out of his cave. At some point, his eyes drift shut once again. He does not notice, or even look at, his own body crumpled behind him. He might not recognize it, if he did.

(He came a long way to die at the edge of the world.)