"Erm… Alright, I think I've got it this time." Quirrel handed the Knight a slightly wrinkled parchment, which had a series of bulleted points on it. It was written in cramped handwriting, on the corner of the parchment as if it was an unimportant afterthought. More bulleted lists filled up nearly every single inch of the parchment, however they were all messily scratched out and rendered illegible.
With a crooked finger that was exhausted from writing, Quirrel pointed at the top bullet point and started making his way down the list. "First, you defeated the Hollow Knight, whom contained the infection and was imprisoned in the Temple of the Black Egg. Then, you saw the King's Brand along with some strange symbols and apparently traveled back in time. After that, you used a special nail to cut into the Hollow Knight's mind, and kill the physical manifestation of the infection."
He paused and looked up from the list to glance at the Knight. They didn't seem to have any issues with his retelling, so he looked back down and continued. "But the same thing happened and you got sent back in time. So you tried to defeat them several more times, but nothing changed. Then, while thinking about a strategy, your mind wandered to the Resting Grounds which resulted in you teleporting here… and you travelled even further back in time, just after you had slain Monomon."
…
The Knight shrugged and nodded, apparently satisfied with his conclusion. Quirrel sighed and leaned back on the bench that they were sitting at. It had taken several long hours, along with intertwined broadcasts of memories and a small piece of his sanity to try and make sense of what they were trying to tell him.
'If only they could write, or better yet, speak!' Quirrel thought as he stared up at the ceiling. It truly was peculiar how they were fully capable of reading and drawing detailed maps, and yet when it came to illustration or writing, they were completely inept. It was as if they were created with the sole purpose of being frustrating to communicate with. A solitary creature, one that wasn't meant to socialize.
'Time travel… What a ridiculously absurd yet novel concept. Could they really have experienced such a thing? Or is there perhaps another explanation?'
"The Hallownest Seal…" Quirrel mused. Although only a quiet mutter, his remark sounded like a booming shout to the Knight. Their head jerked up to look at him, eyes wide and curious. "Oh, it's nothing my friend. It just seems rather strange that you saw this seal at that moment. Perhaps it was some sort of interference from the Pale King himself?"
The Knight winced and shook their head. The intact Kingsoul that they carried was proof that the Pale King, their father, was dead. They had seen his corpse, lifeless and powerless within the White Palace. Why, they had even struck at his body with their nail, hadn't they? Slashed at him until a crack ran through his skull and the other half of the Kingsoul appeared.
Even if they had not directly killed him… It was yet another death upon dozens that weighed upon them.
"You think otherwise? Well, to be honest, so do I. After all, it was missing his brand. That would actually indicate that he wasn't involved at all, wouldn't it?" Quirrel asked. He flipped the parchment over to the back, where a rough sketch was displayed. "Besides, there is still the issue of those strange symbols that accompanied the crest."
Sandwiched between two lavish drawings of the Hallownest Seal, there was a collection of large yet simple symbols that seemed vaguely familiar. The sight of them prodded something in the back of Quirrel's mind, but he couldn't figure out why they seemed recognizable. Whenever he tried to remember, a dull pain flared up in his temples. He closed his eyes and brought the back of his hand up to his forehead. It was cold.
To say he was tired would have been an understatement. He was both physically and mentally exhausted. With the death of Monomon and his reacquired memories plaguing his mind, it had already been too much to bear. And now, with the worries of the Knight being stockpiled onto him, along with the unpleasant sickness of reliving of their memories?
Quirrel reopened one eye and lifted his hand up. His fingers were trembling terribly, and he found himself unable to even straighten them. Every limb in his body was somehow sore and even the dim lightning in the stag station felt too bright.
He felt a light tugging on his arm. It was the Knight - they looked at him, an expression of worry spreading through their expressionless face. Somehow, he managed to crack a smile. It couldn't hide the dark thick lines under his eyes, nor could it cover up his curled hands. But the sight of it appeared to placate them anyway.
A little bit, at least.
He found his eyes wandering past the Knight, and onto the bell behind them. If his memories (still admittedly foggy) were to be trusted, then the bell would call upon a stag from the deep nest of tunnels that ran through Hallownest. The stag stations used to be widely used by everyone in the kingdom, from all classes of bugs. When the infection began spreading however, the stag stations decayed and the stags themselves were neglected, until finally, all of them perished.
That was what he and most other bugs believed. Apparently, there was one stag left. While wandering, he had stumbled upon many stag stations, several of which were opened. He had rang the bell once based on pure curiosity, and was introduced to the stag personally. He never used them all too much himself though - he much preferred travelling on foot, soaking in all of the wonders that the Hallownest could provide. The gloomy tunnels wherein the stags travelled were, more or less, identical to one another.
'If I recall correctly, there are two stations that lead to the City of Tears.' Quirrel thought.
"The City of Tears… There's someone who lives there, if I'm not mistaken." Quirrel said. "Relic Seeker Lemm, was it? Do you think that perhaps he would be able to assist us with this? I've talked to him several times. He seems to know much about history, and is a traveller of many lands."
Quirrel turned his gaze from the bell back to the Knight, who was staring blankly ahead. "While you may be unable to illustrate your memories, I believe I could provide a decent sketch, even from memory. What do you think, my friend?"
They provided no response, which was to be expected. However, their body remained completely still, and they gave no indication that they had heard him at all. Quirrel blinked and tapped the Knight on one of their horns."
Nothing. They didn't even flinch.
"My friend, are you alright?" Quirrel said with an edge of worry in his voice. He placed his hand on their shoulder and gave them a light shake. Their body moved with no resistance, as if they were a ragdoll. "Why aren't you-"
"Ah, little ghost. I was thinking about your situation when you startled me."
The Knight's head turned to face her in one jerking motion. Their head moved quickly, and with a contrast from their stone-still neck and body. They stared at her for a second before their gaze shifted to look at Elderbug, standing next to the bench. A strange jolt ran through one half of their body, the half in which the Knight was confused, struggling to process the strange warping that they had just felt. The other half was cold and unfeeling. It knew what happened, and knew why it happened.
They didn't even mean to do it. They were just in such a deep and long silence that their mind couldn't help but drift. They thought about how bizarre it was that Quirrel was back, and that they just happened to travel back in time. Questions, questions like how? Then answers, in the form of a recent memory. It happened because they thought about it while they were on a bench. They were thinking about Quirrel, and they were on the Dirtmouth bench.
From there, the picture just grew clearer. The quiet, sullen atmosphere and colorless backgrounds. The iron bench, solid yet comfortable and with plenty of space despite the presence of both the Knight themselves and Hornet. The bench. It was that bench that their minds centered on, and from there, the memory grew into a picture-perfect scene.
And when they opened their eyes, here they were. Sans Quirrel, plus Hornet, Elderbug, and a maddeningly familiar somber tune that played in their head. It would have been calming were it not for the fact that such music should have been completely impossible.
They jumped down from the bench in a haste, along with a slight sense of déjà vu. Nearly tripping over their own feet, they sprinted inside of the Dirtmouth stag station and rid the elevator down. Behind them, they heard the rapid footsteps of Hornet. She was following them, but that was fine. They just wanted to check, that's all.
As soon as they could, they leapt off of the platform and dashed through the air, seeing with vague surprise that the stag was already there. Perhaps their last ride together was to Dirtmouth. They landed neatly on his back, earning a gruff grunt from the old bug. They brought out their map and dangled it over his eyes with one hand. With the other, they pointed at the stag station located in the Resting Grounds.
With another grunt, the stag began running down the halls. The Knight glanced back just in time to see Hornet's needle impaling the ground, and her body flying towards the entrance of the tunnel. She stopped and stared after them. Guiltily, they raised their hand in a weak goodbye. They hadn't meant to run off so abruptly, but…
'I just need to check. Just one check. Sorry, Hornet.'
This thought barely finished going through their mind when the stag came to a complete stop. The Knight instinctively raised their arm up to their eyes as a sudden but mild blast of light filled their vision. Cautiously, they lowered their arm and looked around - they were at the Resting Grounds.
'Already?' The Knight looked back at the stag with wonder. Then, confusion, as they realized that they didn't even remember getting off of the stag in the first place.
"The Resting Grounds... Passengers would come here to conduct rituals for those who had passed on...Not any more though." The stag says in a deep, gravelly voice. "Perhaps the dead conduct their own rituals now?"
'The dead. Yes, Quirrell should not be dead. That's right.' The Knight thinks. With renewed vigor, they ran out of the stag station and leapt all the way down to the ground, landing without a single scratch. They continued on to the direction of the Blue Lake with impatience. ' Not dead because I saw him. I stopped him. Not dead, not dead.'
After an eternity, the Knight found themselves standing before the Blue Lake.
Lush green bushes. Fireflies in the air. Beautiful blue waters. Golden sands.
And a pristine shining nail, stabbed into the ground.
The only thought that ran through their mind when they saw this was that they needed to go back.