You Can Walk It Off. Just Try.

1

Maskflies.

That was what those winged little things were called. Quirrel couldn't place who had told him that, but it seemed like an apt enough name. Dozens of those creatures perched on the mossy cavern walls, peering down at him with dark, slitted eyes. A group of them milled about on the path ahead, and he paused to observe.

They hopped from moss clump to moss clump, bending briefly to snap bites, jerking upright to scan for threats. They repeated this process in a sort of dance—backs arching, wings fanning, heads pivoting from side to side.

Quirrel felt an urge to sketch one of the creatures, to immortalize the moment in parchment and ink. If only that cartography shop hadn't been closed. If only he knew how to draw… He took a step closer, but in a flutter of wings the maskflies were gone.

They were certainly nimble creatures, vigilant and quick to flight. Quirrel appreciated attributes like that, the sort which were all too necessary in Hallownest.

He resumed his stroll, resolving to circle back to the surface at some point and pick up a quill or two.

The abundant verdure and waterfalls summoned the name Greenpath to Quirrel's mind. He couldn't pin the origin of this word either, but that didn't bother him. The past wasn't worth dredging through, at least not at the moment. There were so many far more interesting things ahead, waiting just beyond the next bend in the tunnel.

Moss sighed beneath Quirrel's feet, bushes rustled against his outstretched arms, and cool beads of water speckled his shell. Greenpath seemed like such a gentle place, made of fuzzy edges and amiable hues. Even the sporadic pools of acid roiled in merriment. He passed a vine-covered bench, and the mood of it was so inviting that he considered taking a nap right then and there.

But he decided against it.

For all the delight swelling in his chest, Quirrel could not blind himself to the threats lurking beneath the leaves. Fool eaters flanked the beaten path, their thorny maws poised to close around anyone heedless enough to wander near. From the thick, waxy consistency of their roots, they were clearly well-fed.

Quirrel stopped.

Fool eater?

Where had that name come from? One of the locals? No. An old scroll, then? He couldn't recall having ever read a scroll… or seen one for that matter…

A noise shattered the glass of Quirrel's reverie, a clang, metallic and strident, coming from somewhere far away. Its dying echoes trailed down a moss-flanked tunnel as though beckoning him.

The noise resounded a second time, a third, and Quirrel finally recognized what it was.

Battle.

Before he could even consult with his legs, they were in motion, charging after what? Adventure? Peril? Fate? He did not know, but at the least it would be something new!

Quirrel skidded over a bed of fallen leaves and into a cavern jagged with stalagmites. A dozen winged creatures flitted around the spires, jabbing at a retreating blur with their nail-sharp proboscises. The blur—a bug, a warrior?—lashed out at them with a weapon of its own. The cutting edge of a glaive swept out and up, narrowly missing one of the flying things and following through to slam against a wall.

Cringing against the sound, Quirrel tried to make sense of the battlefield, but too much was obscured behind the stalagmites. He clambered onto a ledge along the cavern wall and looked down from his new perch.

The room was like a maze, and the warrior bumbled from one dead end to another. The flying things—the squits, Quirrel somehow knew—hovered just out of the warrior's reach, taking turns hurling themselves down like lances. The warrior evaded with nimble steps and shrugs, always remaining a thread's width from danger. Yet, their every counter-attack failed. The glaive—the double-bladed glaive!—performed more like a percussion instrument than a killing tool. It struck the walls, the floor, and a half-dozen stalagmites, but never its intended target.

Quirrel's shoulders were a knot. He had clamped a claw on the hilt of his nail without even realizing. What was he to do? Leap to the rescue? Was that really the reason he'd come? But when had he ever willingly joined a fight? He was here to observe, not kill. Surely, this didn't concern him, no need to gamble his life so soon. There were so many wondrous sights still to be seen, he didn't want one rash decision to end the journey before it had truly begun.

The warrior took a fall—a bad one. The crunch of shell and gasp of pain reached Quirrel even over the squits' droning. Propped against a stalagmite, the warrior lifted their glaive with one arm, warding the proboscises with exhausted swipes.

The nail rattled in Quirrel's grip. He cursed silently and crouched low, readying to lunge. But before he could act, a shriek rent the air.

No, not a shriek, a roar, a thrashing, twisting sound that sent tremors through the cavern, rattling the ceiling and sending sheets of dust tumbling down.

The squits were caught in the reverberations, wobbling like boats on rough waters. Their precise, predatory formation fell to pieces, and they fled the cavern, scattering down tangent passageways.

Quirrel knelt, not daring to move, not daring to breathe. He waited for the sound of some great terror to drag itself across the stones, for the sickening crack of a shell being torn open and feasted upon.

But there was nothing. Not after one minute. Nor two.

Whatever produced that roar must have wandered elsewhere, and for that Quirrel thanked his bountiful luck. With the squits dispersed, he supposed it was time to check on the warrior. If that bountiful luck persisted, then they would be more willing to exchange words than blows.

He hopped down from the perch and wove through the stalagmites, making his steps slow and exaggerated, announcing his presence. The last thing he needed was for the warrior to strike him down in fright.

"Hello?" he warbled.

After a few turns, he came upon the warrior's slumped form. If from injury or lunacy, Quirrel couldn't guess, but the warrior hadn't fled at the roar. Their glaive was braced against the ground, ready to skewer the next foe.

Quirrel cocked his head, now finally being granted a clear look.

Mantis.

Another name out of the dark.

But that was what she was. A female mantis. One of the warrior tribe. And a lord, at that, with long limbs, articulated claws, and lustrous horns.

"Stop!" The mantis rasped. "Not another step."

Quirrel obeyed. "Easy now," he said softly. "I'm no threat to you."

The mantis cast a look to the nail at Quirrel's waist, and to his claw still clutching the hilt.

With a start, Quirrel let go and raised his arms in an assuaging gesture. "Honestly, I mean no harm. This little barb is for self-defense, nothing more."

Using the stalagmite for support, the mantis labored to her full height. She loomed over Quirrel, a good head taller, though if she sought to exude menace, her injuries stymied the effect. The carapace of her right shoulder bore a nasty fracture, and she hid that arm beneath the folds of a half-cloak. "Why have you come here?"

By just a fraction, Quirrel relaxed. Hallownest had so far taught him that any bug still capable of posing a question was far less dangerous company. He cleared his throat. "In all truth, I couldn't say. The sound of your clash set my legs in motion before I could object. I suppose some part of me felt the need to investigate."

"The sensible tend to flee from battle," the mantis said, "not charge at it. Are you in your right mind, bug?"

"Ha! How would I answer that? If a mad bug knows itself as such, is it still mad? I'd certainly call myself sane, but that's no guarantee."

The mantis hummed. "You are a strange one, it seems…" She shifted her hold on the glaive and leaned on it like a makeshift walking stick. The act seemed meant to convey ease, but from the tremble in her arm, she was on the brink of collapse.

"Are you alright?" Quirrel ventured.

The mantis grew rigid, as though the words had been a slap. "Quite. Now, I hope that you are satisfied with your investigation, for I must bid you farewell." She turned to leave. "I have a matter to attend to else—" but her balance failed, and she toppled. In the midst of the fall, she reached out with her right arm to catch herself, but half the limb simply wasn't there.

Quirrel thought to help, to grab her by the shoulder, but he was far too slow.

The mantis hit the ground in a heap, her clattering glaive quick to follow.

Had he seen that properly? Her arm was missing? Had it been severed in the battle? Were mantis so hardy that they could share a conversation moments after losing a limb?!

Quirrel hovered about the fallen mantis, debating whether to move her. He possessed no bandages, no skills in the healing arts, no knowledge of mantis anatomy. He wished that his ephemeral memories would offer something more useful than names and vague notions. If only he knew how to splint a carapace or staunch the flow of blood.

But wait…

Blood.

There was none. Not a drop. On the mantis or the cavern floor. Did her kind not bleed?

Quirrel crouched beside the mantis and listened to her breath. At the very least she was still alive.

"Warrior, can you hear me?" Quirrel asked. "May I aid you?"

The mantis' only reply was a half-conscious mutter.

For the lack of an alternative, Quirrel took it as consent. He heaved her off the stone and placed her against a stalagmite. The fracture on her shoulder looked painful, but far from life-threatening. The arm was likely to be the more serious problem. Gingerly, Quirrel lifted the half-cloak. The arm was indeed missing, at least partially. It ended just below the elbow, sheared off by some terrible force. But it did not bleed, for it had scarred over long ago.

Something struck Quirrel in the chest, and he found himself painfully seated upon the ground.

"I said no," the mantis slurred. Her remaining arm was raised defensively, and it occurred to Quirrel that she had just shoved him, but so quickly that he hadn't even processed.

Quirrel rubbed at his lower back. "Sincerest apologies, but you seemed in need of a helping claw."

"I am fine." The mantis shook her head, attempting to retrieve her bearings. "Do not concern yourself with me."

"Is that so? I'm a stranger in these lands and know nothing of local customs. Is it a common practice to collapse face-first after battle? I'll be sure not to overreact next time."

The mantis huffed and attempted to stand but couldn't muster the strength. She gave Quirrel a long, analyzing look. "What is it you seek? Something must motivate your persistence."

"What do I seek? Why, adventure, of course!" Quirrel trilled. "The urge to explore and discover is what motivates me! So many outlandish tales radiate from this old kingdom. It's a perfect place for an intrepid bug such as myself. I intend to delve its depths and spy its every time-lost marvel."

"Hallownest bears no kindness for the frail," the mantis said. "Not to shatter your hopes, but you will likely die long before achieving that goal."

Quirrel shrugged. "Perhaps, but a life spent without new experiences is no life at all. Already I've seen things beyond my imagining, and I only just arrived!"

"Fair enough, but what is it you desire from me? I wish you luck on your quest, but I cannot share in it. I have my own ends to pursue."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm in no need of a guide. I prefer to do my own wandering. But as I've hinted, the history of this land is unknown to me. If you've any tales, or legends, or even words of advice, I would very much like to hear them."

The mantis was silent for a moment. "…Words, then…? That is all you demand…?"

Quirrel waved a claw. "No, no, not a demand. I can offer a trade of sorts. There was a bench not too far back. You would find it a far more comfortable spot to recuperate than here. If I served as a trusty crutch, would you reward me with a story or two?"

The mantis let out a single, terse laugh. "When first I saw you with that nail in your grip, I thought you a bandit after my glaive and my Geo, not some starry-eyed explorer intent on stories."

Quirrel leaned back, looking down at himself. "Do I have a sinister look about me?"

"No," the mantis said thoughtfully. "No, you do not."

Quirrel labored down a mossy tunnel, his gasps and grunts reflected back to him in the resonant air. Had he foreseen the toil that this trade entailed, he might have heeded the mantis' warning and left her alone.

For sweet mercy, was she heavy!

From only sight, Quirrel would never have guessed. She was lithe and slender as a vine, but from the weight of her, she felt like a stone statue brought to life.

Quirrel's legs trembled like a newborn stag's, and with every step he bent closer to the ground. The mantis' left arm was thrown over his shoulder, and still gripped the glaive. The slicing edge of the weapon dragged behind them, periodically sparking against the stones and chance pebbles. They had been traveling at this shambling, four-legged pace for what had seemed like ages.

To distract from the burning, Quirrel craned his neck and locked eyes with the mantis. "How do you fare? That clash with the squits was a fierce one, no?"

"You do it too much credit," she said. "To clash, one must land a blow. I did no such thing."

"Still, your evasion was quite a sight, and you wielded that glaive well enough, considering your arm."

The mantis made a dispassionate noise and carried the conversation no further.

"Does your injury pain you?" Quirrel prodded. He was realizing that the bench was much farther off than he'd first judged.

"It is not terrible. I have survived things more dire than a cracked shoulder."

Quirrel glanced down at the mantis' trailing legs. They dug narrow wakes through the moss, barely seeing use. "Any other wounds?" he grunted.

"Not of significance," she said. "A few scrapes."

"And your legs?" The tunnel began to slant upward, and Quirrel hurled his strength against it.

"Hale and healthy."

"I see." Quirrel took a few ragged breaths. "A relief. Shame it would have been if they were—impaired."

"Indeed," she said, a peculiar lilt in her voice.

"Have you recovered—much of your strength?" Black spots danced at the fringes of Quirrel's vision.

"Most, yes, thanks to the efforts of my trusty crutch."

"I'm—pleased to hear that. Take no offense, but—do you believe that—you could walk on your own if needed?"

"We have not reached the bench," she said. "What of our agreement? Do you no longer wish to hear my stories?"

"No, no. I wouldn't—dare to betray my word, but—" he swallowed, his throat achingly dry. "—Are you playing—a game at my expense?"

The mantis's laugh was low and tender. "Nothing of the sort." She shifted her weight, making Quirrel lurch.

With a titanic heave, Quirrel managed to right himself. "Oh, really, now?" He tried to loose a laugh of his own, but it came out as a strangled growl. "Those must be grand stories—for you to guard them so jealously, mantis. But do not think—I'll abandon your game so easily! This only makes me wish—to hear them all the more!" He mustered his will and planted one spasming leg after the other.

The tunnel began to level out, and just as they reached its apex, just as Quirrel's sight flickered and grayed like a dying lumafly, the mantis spoke. "You have a Knight's heart, bug. If not its might." And she stood.

A mountain evaporated from Quirrel's shoulders, and for some reason the last of his energy with it. He crumpled to the ground, gulping for air.

The mantis observed him from her great height. "Are you well? Shall I carry you instead?"

Quirrel did not speak but waved a limp claw.

Carefully, so as not to jostle her injured shoulder, the mantis knelt beside Quirrel. She laid her glaive on the ground and stared down the tunnel from whence they'd come. It was a steep, winding passage, rife with slick moss and loose earth. "Pardon the game," she said quietly. "It was a cruel thing to do."

"No, the apology—should be mine," Quirrel gasped. "I promised you aid, but—misjudged my strength. I'm afraid I—must resign as your crutch."

The mantis picked up a pebble and flicked it down the tunnel.

"At least now—you needn't waste your time—on stories," Quirrel said.

"These days, my time is not so precious. Ask what you please, you have earned that much."

Quirrel propped himself on his elbow. "Really?"

The mantis nodded.

"May I know—your name, then?"

"Anthem," she said after a pause.

"It bears a musical ring," Quirrel chortled. "Is it—common amongst mantis?"

"No," she murmured, and then louder, "but what of you? It feels improper to call you bug."

With a deep breath, Quirrel steadied himself. He sat up and offered Anthem a claw. "Quirrel is the name. A pleasure."

She took it, in a firm grip that bordered on painful. "Likewise."

"You know me as explorer, vagabond, and creature of burden," Quirrel said. "But I know little of you. What is your path?"

"Not so different from yours, I am merely a wanderer."

Quirrel rested his elbows on his knees. "Modesty, hmm? An admirable trait, but I'd wager you've led a far more eventful life than I. Your noble bearing says much, even if you do not."

"Does it?" Anthem asked. "And what has my bearing told you?"

"What indeed?" Quirrel rubbed a claw on his chin. "That you are a banished queen? An oathless Knight? A slighted warrior on a quest for revenge?"

Anthem stiffened, though at what Quirrel couldn't tell. Had his silly conjectures grasped at some truth? He didn't press the moment, however, and let Anthem reply in her own time.

"Perhaps something like that," she said.

Quirrel laughed. "Careful. Mystery is welcome enough in a good story, but too much and you risk confounding your listener."

Anthem shrank. "That is not my intent, I—" She paused, seeming to collect her thoughts. "Shall we walk to the bench as we talk?"

"Are you well enough to travel?" Quirrel asked.

"Are you?"

"Ha! My life may have flashed before me, but I'll survive another trek, so long as you do not expect me to ferry you."

"Fair enough." Anthem picked up her glaive and stood. She offered the haft to Quirrel as a clawhold and when he accepted, lifted him bodily from the ground.

Quirrel dusted his shell, admiring the ease to the mantis' strength.

She shifted under his gaze and cleared her throat. "Shall we?"

"Oh, right, of course."

As Quirrel and Anthem walked, the sounds of Greenpath—the crackling foliage, the sizzling acid, the furtive chirps—eddied all about them, pooling in the introspective gaps between their conversation.

Quirrel inquired on all manner of subjects, from flora to fauna, geology to architecture, history to legend. The only subject he shied away from was Anthem herself.

She seemed all too willing to oblige his questions. Each of her answers grew longer than the last, as though the stream of her words ate away at some long-entrenched barrier. Even as they came across the bench and settled onto its cold, metal slats, their talk carried on.

During a particularly long stretch of contemplation, Anthem voiced her own question, the first in a fair while. "What do you know of the mantis?"

"More than I should," Quirrel replied, "but less than I'd like."

"W-What?" Anthem quavered.

"Since my arrival in these lands, I've begun to recall certain details that I rightly shouldn't. Stray names and facts appear in my mind that I suspect were never learned to begin with. For instance, at first glance, I knew you to be a mantis, though I've never encountered your kind before in my life."

"Oh. I see."

Quirrel nodded. "Additionally, I knew you to be a lord, a most prestigious position in the mantis caste, yet that knowledge came without the slightest context. I know nothing of what makes a lord prestigious, or even what the mantis caste is." He shrugged and chuckled. "Quite puzzling, no?"

Anthem looked away. "I am… not a lord."

"Really? That complicates the matter. Does that mean all these ephemeral thoughts have been false? Were those angry, jabbing creatures not actually called squits?"

"No, no. You are not mistaken. I am a lord in form, but not in right."

Quirrel cocked his head. "Pardon?"

Anthem's grip tightened on the bench. "My tribe disowned me before I was granted the trial of lordhood."

A shrilling warning rose in the back of Quirrel's mind. Good sense told him not to probe further, but it was all too swiftly drowned out. "If… you do not mind the inquiry, why were you disowned?"

"For all manner of reasons: power, statecraft, my own damnable pride."

Quirrel inched closer. "You remember my earlier chiding about undue mystery, yes?"

She gave him a look. "Would the story of my life truly aid your quest?"

Quirrel made a show of considering. "Possibly. We won't know until it's all said and done."

"It is not a pleasant tale," she said, "nor is it brief."

"We have a comfortable bench and abundant time, don't we? I'm no stranger to grim tales."

Anthem relaxed her grip and rested her claw in her lap. "Very well. My early life was spent amongst the tribe, my first form as a soaring youth, my next as a bladed warrior. I was nimble then—and fierce—not what I am today. As only a clawful of my kind do, I survived long enough to near the final stage of my life—that of a lord. It is tradition for those that undergo this transformation to challenge the lordly council, either proving their worth and claiming a seat of their own, or… perishing. Before my change and my lord-trial, the kingdom of Hallownest approached the tribe, offering a bargain of peace.

"You were alive while Hallownest still stood?!" Quirrel blurted.

Anthem flinched. "—Yes, though only in its latter years."

"How can that be? The kingdom is but a memory! Could anything possibly live so long? On the surface I passed an ancient-looking bug that claimed the kingdom had collapsed before even his time."

"Death does not come to mantis by old age, but by battle. I have never heard otherwise. The eldest lords only meet their end in either defense of the tribe or in a lord-trial."

"That's a cruel fate," Quirrel mused, "forcing the lords to battle into their final days. The mantis have little reverence for the elderly, it seems."

"To my kind, it is better to die on one's feet than to wither away into weakness. It is considered a blessing to be struck down in combat, not a cruelty…"

"But do you believe that?"

Anthem's voice rose high and brittle. "Shall I continue?"

"Y-Yes," Quirrel said, making himself small upon the bench. "Apologies, do go on."

"At that time, Hallownest was a voracious maw, snapping up territory wherever its legions could march. The mantis lords accepted the offer of peace, for the only alternative was destruction. To sustain that peace, the tribe agreed to become a shield against the Deepnest, though that was not the only service required of us. The Pale King, the ruler of Hallownest, demanded our finest warrior as tribute. A competition ensued within the warrior caste, and I emerged as the lone victor. Had I not been so blinded by the thirst for glory, I might have recognized what that victory entailed."

"Banishment!" Quirrel exclaimed.

Again, Anthem flinched. She shifted farther down the bench, restoring the buffer that Quirrel had erased in his captivation. "Correct. After my triumph, after I entered into the dormancy of metamorphosis, the lords exiled me from the village. To their reckoning, I was the property of Hallownest, and thus no longer a true mantis… My cocoon was hauled away to the Pale Court, and I never beheld the village again."

"You paint a malicious picture of your tribe. Perhaps parting from it was a good thing."

Anthem nodded, but without agreement. She stared into a rippling waterfall across the path. "Even now I am compelled to wonder… why? Why did the council punish me so? For spite? For fear? Was I so dreaded a foe that the lords would rather cast me away than face me in battle? Was I so barbaric that they thought me unfit to join their ranks?"

Quirrel made an incredulous noise. "You? Barbaric? Certainly not."

"Just as this land, I have changed much over time's passage. You would not know me then, and that is for the best. If I gleaned a single thing from my service to Hallownest, then it was restraint."

"But what of that service?" Quirrel asked, leaning in. "What of Hallownest? If even a fraction of the rumors were true, then it must have been a glorious sight! Something to at least rival your old home!"

Anthem was quiet for a time. "That was the King's word: glorious. When I emerged from my metamorphosis, displayed before the Pale Court like an exotic creature, He proclaimed it glorious, the heralding of a new age of cooperation between our people. To that purpose—vain though it was—He gave me the name Anthem." She said the word slowly, as though tasting its bitter contours. "Amongst the mantis, only a lord is considered worthy of a name, and only lords may grant it. I was not a lord, for I had passed no trial, yet that King presumed to inflict one upon me…"

She stopped and looked to Quirrel, as if waiting for an outburst.

But Quirrel only shook his head. "Go on," he whispered.

"I would rather not," she said. "Some ills are better left to the past. Content yourself to know that I was many things in the King's service: caretaker, sentinel, executioner. None of these would I care to relive. In time the kingdom fell, and with it my obligation of service. Now I am bound to nothing, a lone wanderer in a dead land."

"Oh." Quirrel thought to voice some cheerful note, some witticism to brighten things, but it did not come.

Across the path, in a shallow basin beneath a waterfall, something floundered. Quirrel hadn't noticed it before, so enraptured had he been. It was a creature, small and fragile-looking, its dark body heaped with leaves.

Mosscreep.

It had fallen somehow, and was laying on its side, stubby legs flailing uselessly in the air. Leaves and droplets of water were kicked up in a frenzied cloud, but the mosscreep could not right itself.

It seemed in dire need of assistance, and though the idea crossed Quirrel's mind, he only continued to watch. A paralysis had taken hold of him. He could not muster the will to walk over and tip the thing onto its feet.

The mosscreep's thrashing slowed and eventually stopped, ending in something like exhaustion, something like acceptance, something like death.

Quirrel balled his claws so tightly that they hurt. "Wait!" he shouted, "Does your tribe still live?"

"Hmm?" Anthem stirred as though from a dream. "To my knowledge, yes. Time was far gentler to them than Hallownest."

"Have you considered returning? After so many years, it's possible the lords that cast you out have already passed. I'd guess a new council would care little about your half-forgotten banishment. They'd be fortunate to have such a worldly, well-traveled lord as yourself amongst them."

But even as Quirrel's voice rose with the momentum, Anthem was already shaking her head. "No," she said. "It is a warm thought, but no. Even if that were so, I would still have no hope." The stump of her arm rose out from beneath her cloak. "There is no use to a maimed lord. I could not repel unworthy aspirants, nor protect the tribe from danger. They see those such as I as only a burden to be discarded."

"How did it happen?" Quirrel asked, the words slipping out.

"Excuse me?"

"How—" He hesitated, hearing that warning shrill yet again.

"My arm?" Anthem asked quietly.

Quirrel gave a single nod.

She stood. "I must go."

"No, wait, I'm sorry," Quirrel extended a claw. "I shouldn't have pried! Please stay, there's so much left to discuss."

"Seek no forgiveness. In truth, I should be offering thanks. You have returned me to my purpose. The only purpose that remains." And she strode away.

Author's Note:

I've done it! I've tricked you all into reading my story about a Hollow Knight OC! I'm so pleased I could cackle maniacally! Muaha!

*ahem* but anyway.

This was originally meant to be a brief, 2,000 word gift story I could complete in a week, but... that didn't exactly pan out. As is my way of doing things, this story bloated to over four times that, so it needed to be broken in to a couple chapters. I'm still tweaking the ending, but expect the conclusion fairly soon. Sorry for my cruel cliffhanger ways.