We are all merely vessels for the Flame. But… were we always empty?
Scarlet fire dances and flickers in the brazier, painting rapidly changing shadows on the walls of the cave, a silent performance of darkness and light. The Knight stands before Brumm, their eyes pitch black, a strange force radiating from them, a force that gives the troupe musician hope. They are gazing into the fire, their expression unreadable; the Grimmchild flutters around their head, occasionally breaking the silence with a high-pitched cry.
"So you followed me here, where the Ritual began. You would join me breaking it then?"
He pauses for a moment to gather himself, knowing very well that this would be end of them all. The end of everything he knew and remembered. The end of -
Master… are even you a slave?
Brumm forces himself to carry on.
"It is painful to defy the Master, but our harvest… it profanes this dark, quiet Kingdom. This once, I would see the Ritual fail."
He must do this. For himself, and for all of the Troupe.
For him.
"Mrmm… Now! Let us destroy the anchor, and banish the Master. Never shall he return here again!"
If so, let our chains be broken together!
The Knight looks up at Brumm and gives them a small nod, decided. They will help him. Together, they will put an end to the neverending song. The Nightmare's Heart shall haunt them no more. For a moment, Brumm feels uncertainty rising up in him, but he pushes it back. It is settled.
He lifts the unlit torch, and with great strength, he jabs it into the fire. The red-hot chains break one by one, sending sparks everywhere, and when the last one snaps, the Child shrieks in agony, and Brumm drops the torch as a great pillar of flame shoots out from the brazier. A searing red light fills his vision, the air burning around him, then it all passes, emptiness taking its place, his consciousness crumbling into nothing.
He is free.
They are all free.
Farewell… Grimm.
His earliest memories are of the harsh song of the wind howling over the cliffs. The bleak landscape stretches into the distance, seemingly never-ending, rows upon rows of gray rock, only occasionally livened up by the unexpected burst of vegetation. His feet are sore, like he's been walking for a long time, but he can't recall where he's come from, nor how he has ended up in a place like this. He knows nothing about what lies ahead, nor what he has left behind.
He only knows two things: his name is Nymm, and his accordion is in desperate need of repair.
Aside from his instrument, his possessions consist of his clothes, some dried fruit, and a peculiar object: a charm pin depicting a white mask. Nymm has no idea where it could have come from; it must have been in his possession for some time though as he feels a vague connection to it, as if he got it from someone – someone once knew, perhaps? This is as far as his memory goes, and for now, he tries his best not to dwell on it. He hopes he'll find a settlement sooner rather than later, a place where he can stay for at least a few days.
After a particularly exhausting and risky descent from a cliff, he finds himself at the edge of a large, empty field, and his heart soars when in the distance, he finally spots the faint lights of a town. It's no metropolis by any means; it's more of a large village with its mound-shaped houses of various sizes, most of them looking abandoned. Nymm frowns in confusion, scratching his chin.
Has he been here before?
That charm… Where does it -
"Ho there, traveller. Are you lost?"
The musician looks up at the source of the voice. An elderly bug, stooped from age, stands not too far from him, eyeing him with friendly curiosity.
"Ah! Hello! Hello! I'm… not sure where I am, to be honest," Nymm says with an uncertain smile. "I'm not from around here… I think."
"Welcome to Dirtmouth, then. Our town is not the most lively, I'm afraid. There are only a few remaining residents aside from me." He waves his hand in a beckoning gesture. "Come, let me show you around. It's always nice to see a fresh face around here."
Nymm follows the bug, listening to his explanation about how the Kingdom has fallen to ruin, becoming a deathtrap for its own residents, a dangerous, alluring place that so many of them entered, never to come back. As it turns out, Dirthmouth is probably the only settlement that's still habitable. When they arrive at the bench in the middle of the town square, Elderbug, as his name turns out to be, asks Nymm to stay for a while to liven up the place a little.
"This town has spent too much time listening only to the wind," he says, his face mournful. "I know it's a lot to ask… but it would warm my old heart to hear something else once in a while."
Well, it's not like Nymm has anywhere else to go to. Besides, he's tired. So he leans against the backrest of the bench and starts playing a melody, the happiest one he knows. It's far from being perfect, some notes painfully out of tune, but it comforts him nevertheless.
Soon enough, he falls into a semi-comfortable daily routine in Dirtmouth. He finds the place a little melancholy, what with the wind, and the darkness, and the sense of decline, but he decides it's all the more deserving of some good music because of it. Elderbug proves to be pleasant company throughout the day, though he complains a little too much for Nymm's tastes. Iselda, the local mapmaker's wife, is a bit cautious at first, but when she learns that he doesn't ask for Geo in return for his performance, she mellows out quite a bit. A small bug called Zote, who appears to be something of a local hero, marches up to him and graciously permits Nymm to compose a ballad about his deeds, though the musician can't exactly make out what deeds he's talking about. All in all, he feels content.
Most of the time.
Occasionally, he's overwhelmed by a strange sense of longing, a vague suspicion that something's vanished from his life. He wanders off to the west of the town where he came from, staring at the barren fields, listening to the wind. The emptiness of the landscape feels almost painful to him, like some part of his soul has been ripped out and replaced with a piece that doesn't quite fit.
Something used to be here. Something dreadful and oppressive, something they are all better off without.
And something else that Nymm misses greatly.
He takes the charm out of his pocket, staring at its design, and his memory stirs. Something, someone, forgotten, lost far away. A life of darkness and flame, and fear, and… happiness. Whenever he tries to remember anything specific though, it all becomes misty and elusive once again, slipping out of his reach.
Some time after his arrival – it's so hard to keep count of the days in this quiet town, under this leaden sky –, he becomes aware of a minor commotion around the old stagway station. A tiny figure exits the building, heading toward the bench. Judging from the giant sword on their back, they must be a Knight, though Nymm is not sure when or where he has seen any Knights before. Nevertheless, when he looks at them, his soul immediately feels a little lighter, as if the Knight can brighten up their surroundings by their very presence. Elderbug greets the wanderer warmly; he must have known them for some time now.
"Good riddance," he says, nodding emphatically at the direction of the fields. "That creepy carnival has vanished and the town's returned to its former self, nice and quiet as I like it."
Nymm feels curiosity rising up in him. Carnival? What carnival?
"And we've gained a new addition to the square!" Elderbug goes on, glancing warmly at Nymm. "Go ahead, ask him to play a tune for you, you won't regret it."
Nymm waves at the newcomer.
"Hello! I bet you're tired of listening to the wind. Please, make yourself comfortable!"
The Knight sits on the bench, their legs so short that they dangle freely in the air. They seem to enjoy Nymm's performance; though it's somewhat hard to determine their emotions, they look content, leaning their head against the backrest, gazing at the sky. The song finished, they turn to the musician and clap their tiny hands, which Nymm finds rather sweet. All of a sudden, he's overwhelmed with gratitude toward the Knight, and for a fleeting moment, he's positive that they have met before, a long time ago.
As fast as it came, the moment passes, leaving Nymm feeling somehow… empty. Nevertheless, he knows that he must thank his audience for their kindness, for listening to him, if nothing else.
"Before you hurry about your business, I've a small gift to commemorate a wonderful new friendship." He takes the charm, and offers it to the Knight with a smile. "No use for it myself, but I believe it'd look rather fancy on you."
The little bug looks up at the musician questioningly, as if asking if he's sure about this, then takes it with a nod. They sit back down on the bench and fiddle with their cape, eventually pinning the charm in one of the notches. They look rather proud of it, patting their chest as they turn to Nymm, who beams at them.
"I'm so glad that you consider my gift worth wearing! And my, my, does it suit you well. I hope it'll brighten your journey just like you brightened my day."
The Knight jumps off the bench and adjusts their sword, looking ready to set out once again. They wave goodbye to Nymm and Elderbug, and leave in the direction of the stagway station. The musician watches them as they disappear into the dimness of the building, his heart feeling lighter than ever before. He's glad that he found a way to give the charm to someone who might make use of it.
And if he's being honest with himself, he's a little relieved that he could finally part with it. That life of darkness and flame – it never happened. Nymm is sure of it. He must be sure of it, he must convince himself, otherwise he will never find his peace.
It never happened.
The evening performance was an overwhelming success. The Master was nothing if not a great showman, and every time he entered the arena, he commanded the audience's attention with ease. Brumm, who, as usual, provided the musical accompaniment, watched him dance from a far corner of the tent, and wished he didn't enjoy it so much to see Grimm fully immersed in his artistry. He wished his heart didn't beat a little faster whenever the troupe leader looked in his general direction before bowing. He wished -
"…?"
The musician came back to the present with a small jerk. He looked up from his task of putting away his accordion in its case, and found Grimm's scarlet eyes resting upon him, his gaze keen as always.
"Forgive me, Master. I was lost in thought."
"I merely asked if you need any help in packing up your instrument," Grimm said gently, a note of amusement in his voice.
"Mrmm… There is no need, Master."
"You've been sitting here staring at your hands for quite some time now, Brumm. Is there something on your mind?"
As a matter of fact, there was. A lot.
"You truly outdid yourself tonight," he said finally, unsure if it was his place to give praise to the Master. Grimm, on the other hand, looked pleasantly surprised at the compliment.
"You flatter me, my friend. There is nothing easier than to follow a tune that so perfectly captures the essence of our art. Perhaps one day you yourself might want to experience the joy of dancing to your own music," he added with a slight smile.
"I did try it a few times," Brumm said, surprised by his own response. "It happened a long time ago. The specifics elude me. But I do remember a dance of my own."
"It must have been a sight to behold."
Brumm blinked behind his mask, half convinced that the Master had resorted to irony, but Grimm's expression was earnest.
"I wasn't speaking in jest. You're stronger than you think, and there is music in your soul. You must be an excellent dancer when you put your mind and heart to it."
"Mrmm… I haven't danced in a long while, Master. I might not be a partner befitting… someone with more experience."
He didn't know what he had expected the troupe leader to do in response. What he certainly hadn't expected was for Grimm to offer his hand in an unmistakable gesture.
"Perhaps you would consider practicing a little with me, then?"
Brumm was immensely glad that he had his mask on because he felt his face grow hot. For a moment, he thought that the Master was only being facetious – surely, he wouldn't stoop to his level, and even if he decided to, he must be tired, he must have more pleasant activities planned for the rest of the evening, he must have asked out of politeness, and was waiting for Brumm to say no. Grimm, however, stepped a little closer, his hand still extended.
"Come and dance with me, Brumm. It would be my pleasure."
Brumm nodded, not trusting himself to speak. They bowed, and though initially, he was more than a little self-conscious about his bulkier stature, the Master's enthusiasm proved to be contagious, putting him at ease. Soon enough, he found himself immersed in their movements, a spontaneous choreography born from concentration and, ultimately, harmony. It wasn't like any other dance Brumm had witnessed from Grimm; it was gentle and playful, but no less challenging. It took skill and agility to aim just a hair's width to the side so his partner could avoid it without too much effort. And Grimm was right: he wasn't nearly as clumsy as he had thought. In fact, the faster they moved, the easier it became to get attuned to his partner, the more confident he felt on his feet, the lighter his soul -
Crash!
Grimm froze mid-motion as he heard the noise that came from outside the circus tent. He stopped, adjusting his cape.
"I shall go and see what the commotion is about," he said, and Brumm thought he detected a hint of regret in his words. "Thank you for giving me the honor. It was a great joy to dance with such a skilled partner."
"Good night, Master," he said, unable to suppress a pang of disappointment.
"Sleep well, Brumm. Sleep well."
He watched the troupe leader exit the tent, feeling dizzy. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. It must have been a fever dream, and he'd better wake up now. Or go to sleep, preferably.
"Aah! How painful! How disappointing! Watching you skirting around each other like mantises with their heads bitten off is doing a number on my poor, fragile nerves!"
Brumm had gotten used to by then that Divine was much more perceptive than she'd let on. He hadn't gotten used to the fact that she had a tendency to turn up at the worst possible moment. He turned and glowered at the primadonna, who was busy munching on some delicacy of dubious origin.
"Speaking of heads being bitten off – where did that snack of yours come from?"
Divine let the question go past her ears.
"You can just ask him, you know, dearie," she carried on, her mouth full. "I suspect he wouldn't mind at all! On the contrary! I suspect -"
"And I suspect that what the Master would or wouldn't mind is none of our concern," he grumbled.
"Eeuuurgh! What an awfully dull thing to say! You have no sense for the dramatic at all! If I were in your place, I'd have swept him off his feet twice by now!"
Having decided that this was more than enough excitement for the evening, Brumm just let out a disgruntled 'Mrmm,' and left the diva alone with her dinner.
The little Knight has been gone for a while now, and Nymm wonders if they are alright. He hopes the charm he gave them help them, or at least give them comfort in that dark place. He tries his best to ignore the occasional pang of regret for giving it away, and carries on with his self-appointed task of livening up the town. He even composes a song about Zote's heroic adventures, making up most of the specifics himself, though the elderly Knight has so many critical comments about it that ultimately, he decides not to play it.
From time to time, he tries to inquire about the mysterious carnival that used to be to the west of the town, but nobody he asks seem to know much about it; in fact, he gets the impression that the locals prefer not to talk about it. Nymm wonders if he could have asked the Knight about it; then he swats the thought away as nonsense. It's not like he's going to use the charm anymore. It's best not to dwell on it.
Then one day, everything turns upside down.
A horrible shriek comes far from below, so loud that it shakes the town to its very foundation. Nymm's heart leaps to his throat, and he nearly drops the accordion. He rushes to the well, where Iselda and Cornifer are trying to restrain Zote, who seems ready to throw himself into the abyss, swooshing his nail left and right, yelling threats. The rumble intensifies, as if the very earth is about to split in half, or the sky is about to fall on them – then it dies down, as suddenly as it has started.
Silence. The residents of Dirtmouth look at each other in anguish, wondering if it's over yet, or if it's the end for them.
Then slowly, gradually, the darkness around them lifts and, like the air itself has been cleared of some foul miasma, the sky turns a shade brighter, the ever-present wind slowing down to a gentle, refreshing breeze.
Something has changed.
Nymm gets up from the ground, wiping the dust off his fur, looking around to see if anyone needs help. After having made sure that Elderbug is alright, he approaches the well cautiously, peering down into the darkness - then immediately leaps away as a nail shoots up into the well's roof, nearly stabbing him in the eye. The silken thread attached to the nail grows taut, and in the next moment, a petite bug leaps gracefully out of the well. Despite her small stature, she holds herself upright and regal, and Nymm feels the inexplicable urge to bow to her. Her dark red dress twirls as she turns to look around, nail already back in hand. The townsfolk, who have been chatting excitedly about what just happened, fall silent when she lifts her hand.
"The Infection is gone," she says, her voice carrying over the town square. "The Knight chose to free us from this curse, and they gave their life in exchange." She inhales sharply, like she's trying to hold herself together. "We will honor their sacrifice, not with statues and memorials, not with secrets and seals, but with rebuilding this kingdom – on new foundations."
All of a sudden, Nymm feels numbness washing over him.
They gave their life in exchange.
The Knight… They are… gone?
His head is teeming with questions, but there are no-one to answer them. Hornet, as her name turns out to be, would be the only one he could ask, but the small bug looks too far busy to pay any attention to a street musician. She gets to work immediately, asking the mapmakers to help with her plans of charting the remote parts of Hallownest, and making a visit to Sly to get his advice on reviving nail arts among the city guardians. She spends the entire day going to and fro, and by dusk, she looks quite weary. With a small sigh, she sits down on the bench, staring at the ground. Her nail lies beside her, the silken thread carefully wound up.
Gathering his courage, Nymm approaches her hesitantly, hoping for who knows what. He still cannot believe that the Knight is dead; at the same time, he doesn't want to bother her with possibly unanswerable questions. At the sound of his footsteps, Hornet looks up, her stern gaze softening a little.
"Nymm, right?" At his nod, she gets up and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small, round object. "The Knight… they had something in his possession that might be of importance to you."
Nymm's heart nearly skips a beat when he sees the charm. So it is indeed over.
"They got this from you, I understand, and to you shall I return it now," Hornet goes on. "Take it - and cherish it in his memory."
"Thank you… your majesty. I will."
He's unable to continue, the lump in his throat choking his words. Hornet lowers her head and stands in silence for a moment.
"I am sorry for your loss," she says finally in a soft voice. "May their sacrifice not be in vain."
After her departure, Nymm drops down on the bench, too overwhelmed to even get up and go to sleep in a proper place. He spends the night under the street lamp, his tears falling, soaking his fur. He didn't even get to know their name. They went into the darkness, knowing that it would be the end of them – to save their friends.
He stares at the charm lying in his palm, and the mask stares back at him from the middle of the design, an unreadable white face, a reminder of a friend who is lost forever.
The heavy curtains were already half drawn when Brumm finished his tasks for the evening and decided to check on Grimm just in case he needed anything. The Master was sitting at the table, his eyes half-lidded, his posture languid, a tray with some biscuits and fruit in front of him, as well as a glass with some wine in it. He must have had a drink to unwind a little.
He looked… lonely.
Brumm softly cleared his throat, making the troupe leader look up from his reverie.
"Mrmm… May I be of any help, Master?"
"You may." He smiled at the visitor. "Would you join me for dinner?"
It was Brumm's turn to be surprised.
"Your company is more than welcome."
To hell with it all, Brumm thought. It's not like anything disastrous would happen, and at least he could look forward to a semi-pleasant evening. He sat down at the table, careful that they wouldn't be too close to each other. Grimm poured him some wine, and he took a sip, his mind grasping for an approppriate subject.
"It is very kind of you to invite me," he said, feeling clumsier than ever. "I didn't even thank you properly for the dance last week."
"You had a good time then, I take it? I hope your accordion has safely made it into its case since."
„I took care that it had a good night's sleep before the next evening," Brumm said with a slight smile.
"Do not make light of it, my friend! Instruments are capable of sabotaging entire performances." He rested his chin on his hand, his tone airy. "Just as it happened when our lovely Divine decided to use the tenor drum as a storage box for her spare charms."
Brumm laughed at the memory, his initial shyness slowly thawing away.
"I'll make sure to treat it well," he said, reaching for a biscuit.
As the evening turned into night, Brumm found the two of them immersed in their reminiscences. Grimm's memory served him quite well, but there were details here and there that still eluded him, and Brumm was eager to provide some of the missing pieces, especially when it came to the topic of music. He made sure to avoid bringing up the Ritual as he sensed that it would do no good, but thankfully, there were plenty of other shared memories they could talk about. It was almost like a dance, the thought occurred to him, one composed of words and laughter and, occasionally, companionable silence. The Master proved to be an attentive listener, and he was genuinely interested in what Brumm had to say, which made him bolder than any kind of wine.
"Do you remember the song of the snow cicadas, singing of a land of frost and ice?" Grimm turned to him, warmed up by the conversation, one hand in the air to emphasise his words. "Have you ever felt that urge to give yourself up entirely to a melody so grand, it might flow beyond the edges of the world itself?"
"I remember them," Brumm replied, smiling to himself. "I had never imagined playing a tune someone else composed could make me feel so… whole. It even inspired me to put my own spin on it. Mrmm… In hindsight, I'm glad that nobody else was there to hear the results. I never shared it with anyone else. But it has its place in my heart."
"Listening to your words, I am tempted to ask you to indulge me with a private performance."
Brumm chuckled at the idea, but the troupe leader sounded serious.
"May I ask you to teach me a dance that matches that song of yours?"
The musician blinked, his self-consciousness catching up with him. He, teaching Grimm a dance? A ridiculous notion, if there had ever been one.
"You would find my skills lacking. It is… not my place to teach someone who is a master himself."
"On the contrary, Brumm. I would gladly follow your lead." A moment of pause, the sound of a claw idly scratching wood. "Seeing you at your most passionate is something that would bring me great pleasure."
Brumm's breath caught in his chest for a moment as their gaze met. Grimm's eyes were glinting scarlet in the dimness of the tent, and Brumm felt the overwhelming desire to pull closer, and -
It was time to leave before he did something rash.
"I'm not cut out to be an instructor, I'm afraid," he said with a forced smile, quickly emptying his glass.
"Oh, but I'm quite good at taking orders. Provided that they are to my liking."
Brumm let out a weak chuckle, convinced that the wine had left the troupe leader in high spirits, and stood up from the table, pushing the chair back in place.
"Thank you for treating me to -"
"You are free to put me to the test if you doubt my word."
The words died in his throat, the sudden silence heavy and stifling. He looked up and found that Grimm was still eyeing him, turning the wine glass back and forth in one hand with slow, measured motions. The Master's gaze was as intense as the fire burning in the lantern behind him.
"You heard me, Brumm," he said in a low voice. "What do you want me to do?"
His heart was pounding so fast, he was afraid it'd leap out of his chest. Surely he had misunderstood something. This couldn't have been what he thought it was.
"Or perhaps you would prefer to show me?"
Grimm's eyes were still on him, and Brumm knew that it was now or never.
"I want you to come here," he heard himself say, only half believing that this was not merely a dream.
It was almost nothing: a chair sliding on the floor, the swish of a cape, a footstep, and all of a sudden, they were so close, so impossibly close.
"What else?" Grimm asked quietly, his eyes dark.
Before Brumm could gather his thoughts enough to form any coherent reply, his arms were already around Grimm's slender waist, pulling him flush against his chest. His eyes fell shut, and in the next moment, all his doubts and worries melted into nothing when he felt arms around his shoulders and the soft pressure of a mouth on his own.
He wasn't sure who broke the kiss; he only knew that they came up for air at one point, their foreheads touching, their breath mingling. Grimm's eyes were still closed, as if he was afraid of breaking some spell, and when he finally, finally spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Will you stay with me?"
And Brumm couldn't deny him any longer.
"Always," he murmured.
Things escalated rather quickly after that – not that Brumm had any complaints about the pace, nor about their activities. No matter what the troupe master did, he did it with passion, and lovemaking was certainly no exception. Brumm was sure that they woke up the entire Troupe, if not the entire town with the sounds they were making, but afterwards, when they were lying on the impromptu bed fashioned from pillows and curtains, Grimm reassured him with a sleepy chuckle that they hadn't been nearly as loud as he imagined.
"I'm flattered by your concern, love, but trust me, I know how to be discreet when the need arises."
Brumm didn't say anything to that, only kept gently rubbing his lover's back under the cloak. After all, Grimm already knew that he trusted him wholeheartedly.
Day by day, week by week, Dirtmouth awakens from its long slumber. Nymm is happy about his growing audience, and all the happier when he finds out that some of them are more than willing to pay Geo for his performance, especially after he finally manages to make the necessary repairs to the accordion. One afternoon, a miner comes up to him and asks about the Knight; when she learns about their sacrifice, she asks him to play something melancholy, preferably a song with lyrics so she too can learn it. She even promises to teach it to her fellow miners, and despite his grief, Nymm is glad that he can contribute to the Knight's fame in some small way.
Soon enough, not a day passes by without visitors and travellers arriving from beyond Hallownest's borders. One of them, a rather curvaceous ant by the name of Deona, takes up residence in one of the larger abandoned buildings, and just in a few days, she sets up a charm shop, greeting every client with a wide – perhaps a little too wide – smile. Even though he's somewhat annoyed by her mannerisms, Nymm can't help but feel drawn to the place. He listens to her gush about the wonderful delicacies the Kingdom has to offer, and complain about the state of the roads leading into the town. However, when he asks her where exactly she came from, she only frowns and scratches her cheek.
"Augh! I'm sorry, lovely, it must be so far away that I don't remember. But what does it matter, anyway? I'm here now! So many interesting visitors above! So many delicious morsels below!"
Aside from wanderers coming from far and away, some of the townsfolk set out on their own journeys as well. The mapmakers decide to finally move to the City of Tears to accompany Hornet, and are kind enough to invite Nymm to share a last cup of blackberry juice before their departure. The only one actually drinking anything is Nymm, as Cornifer spends the time selecting his favorite maps, covering every flat surface with sheets of parchment, while Iselda goes around the house lifting them up and putting them back down in the process of packing the necessary items for their journey.
"Sweetheart, we simply must make a detour to the elevator," Cornifer exclaims, pointing to a sign on a torn piece of parchment. "Turns out there's another resident of Dirtmouth who was previously hiding in the eastern caves, in a deep sleep! A Confessor, as luck would have it. Intriguing, isn't it? I was sure these ancient arts were lost to the past, but then we find someone practicing them just outside of town!"
Iselda replies with a distracted 'Yes, dear,' and goes back to counting Geo into a purse.
"A Confessor?" Nymm asks, curiosity piqued.
"A shaman who specializes in Shade retrieval," the mapmaker explains, adjusting his glasses. "Shades are something of a mystery to us regular Hallownest folks, although there are some legends circulating down in the deeper corners of the Kingdom that speak of an ancient entity they stem from. In any case, this Confessor fellow – her name's Jiji, if my memory serves me well – looks like the trustworthy type! She told me that she can help me in case I have any regrets in exchange for food. What sort of regrets though, she didn't specify. Maybe she can retrieve lost maps, too?"
Nymm puts his empty glass down, his thoughts racing. He has never talked with someone who could command Shades (…has he?), and he's not sure if the idea that has just occurred to him makes any sense. These things are way over his head. He involuntarily touches his pocket, feeling the small charm inside. He hasn't looked at it since Hornet gave it back to him, afraid of what it might remind him of. It is a relic of the past, a friendship that has ended before it could have fully blossomed. But once again, Nymm feels that there is something more to it, something that he has felt right from the start, something that still hasn't found peace in his soul.
Something that feels remarkably similar to regret.
Maybe it is no coincidence that the charm has found its way back to him. Maybe there is something – or someone – he can bring back for good.
And he will bring it back.
At his inquiry, Cornifer advises the musician to bring the Confessor a special kind of food in exchange for her services, and provides detailed instructions on how to find some. Nymm, not without reluctance, descends into the well and looks around for something that could match the description. The Crossroads, though they are far from being returned to their former glory, practically teem with life, bugs, stags and slugs going around about their business as if they're trying to make up for all the lost time. There's a distinct sense of hope in the air, and Nymm's heart feels a little lighter.
The moment he stumbles upon the rancid egg, he knows this is what he was looking for. It's squishy, it's sticky, and it stinks worse than a dung heap. Nymm cannot imagine someone would find this thing appetizing, but there's no accounting for taste and all that. In any case, he's more than happy to finally get rid of the egg, climbing back to Jiji's lair at a speed he didn't consider himself being capable of. He steels himself, and knocks on the stone door. After waiting for a reply and getting none, he decides to enter.
"Hello? I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I heard you can -"
"Stop."
An imposing black figure hurries out from the darkest corner of the cave, her outlines all the sharper for the light of the many candles burning around them in a semicircle. Blocking his way, she looks Nymm up and down, narrowing her eyes, mumbling under her breath. Ultimately, she must have decided that the visitor is harmless as she visibly relaxes.
"You may proceed. The chains have been broken. I sense no unfamiliar smell on you anymore, though your truth still seems to be hidden." She pauses, clearly amused by Nymm's confusion. "Is that why you are seeking my services?"
Relieved, the musician nods and fishes the charm out of his pocket.
"I… suppose. I heard you can bring back our regrets."
"You heard right."
The Confessor takes the charm and examines it up close, like she's trying to spot some detail that only her luminous eyes can see.
"Ah… I do sense regret here, yes. Not much, only a morsel. I'm not sure if it's going to suffice. We shall see. But first, I must ask… are you sure you want me to bring it back? It might be the source of regrets even greater than that which made you came here."
Nymm hesitates. He thinks back to the wind blowing over the empty fields, the strange nostalgia that grabs his soul whenever he looks at the charm, the sense of displacement that still haunts him from time to time. He thinks back to everything that has happened since he came to on those bleak plains, and he already knows the answer.
"Yes, I'm sure. I don't know what is in there, but it calls to me."
"Very well." She glances at Nymm with a sly expression. "You know though how it's hard to perform on an empty stomach. Perhaps you're willing to part with a little of your food?"
Nymm pulls the rancid egg out of his pouch, holding it as far from his face as possible. The Confessor's eyes widen with delight when she sees the loot.
"Let's get to work."
She places the charm in the middle of the candle circle and starts chanting in a low voice, her hands drawing invisible symbols in the air. The candlelight fades, the air becoming dark and stifling, and Nymm nearly falls to his knees when the ground shakes for a moment. With a sharp crack!, the charm breaks in two, and thick mist pours out of it; it has a deep red color, which he finds equally unsettling and captivating. A shade emerges from the mist, gradually taking the distinct shape of a moth. When his feet touch the ground, he staggers and nearly collapses; Nymm is about to leap to his aid, but the Confessor stops him with a small gesture of her hand.
In a few seconds, the mist clears up, the candles burning bright around them once again. The moth seems to come to, his posture becoming more stable, his breath evening out. He opens his pale red eyes, blinking a few times, and looks around, taking in his surroundings with apparent curiosity. He doesn't even look surprised when he notices Nymm and Jiji.
"So, it was you who summoned me," he says in a firm voice. "A great honor to be called once again. I am -"
He stops abruptly. Nymm realizes he's been holding his breath for quite a while now, though he's not sure what he's waiting for. The moth frowns slightly, clearly thrown off track.
"How unfortunate! My memory, capricious thing it is, seems to have abandoned me for the moment. Would you be so gracious to help me out?"
"You don't know who you are?" Nymm blurts out in shock. The moth turns to him, his expression polite but guarded.
"I am deeply sorry, my friend. I can't recall anything."
"The Flame…"
The faint voice came from somewhere above him. Brumm stirred and woke up from his dreamless sleep, pushing himself up on his elbows, blinking at the figure hanging upside down from the tent ceiling. Grimm had taken to mumbling in his sleep, his dreams getting uneasy as of late. He didn't seem to be aware of it, and the musician didn't want to bring it up in the faint hope that it would pass on its own. Especially since Grimm's shifting dreamscape might have predicted the beginning of something Brumm didn't want to come yet. Possibly not ever.
For a while, things had seemed to have taken a turn for the better. There was a spring in the Master's step that the Troupe hadn't seen for a long time by then, and he was markedly more generous both with the praise and the spending Geo. It warmed Brumm's heart, and even though he suspected that some of the Troupe members guessed the cause of their leader's upbeat demeanor, he couldn't care less. Not even Divine, who gave him a knowing smirk when they first met the morning after, and later, when there was just the two of them, pestered Brumm until he grudgingly admitted that she had been right, managed to truly annoy him. All was right with the world.
After a while though, Grimm's mood began to change once again. Oh, he was collected and poised as always; Brumm was sure that the rest of the Troupe couldn't sense anything out of the ordinary. The musician, on the other hand, found the Master's behavior starting to become troubling. He went to sleep later and later, until he was reluctant to fall asleep at all, asking Brumm to keep him awake with a song, or simply by talking to him. And even when he drifted off eventually, it didn't seem to do him any good.
Brumm sat up in the darkness and reached out to put his hand on Grimm's shoulder in an attempt at soothing him; in that moment though, Grimm jolted awake, his eyes wide with some unindentifiable emotion.
"It's alright," Brumm said softly. "I'm here."
Grimm didn't say anything in response, just rubbed his eyes and, in one smooth motion, got down and lay on the mattress next to his lover, pushing so close as if he was trying to melt into him. Soon enough, his breathing evened out. Brumm listened to the soft noise in the darkness, and wished for the morning never to come.
The next evening, after he was waiting in vain for Grimm to turn in for the night, he set out to look for him. He found the troupe leader outside the tent, staring into the darkness, his claws toying with a small, shiny object.
A charm. The charm, more accurately.
Brumm took a step closer, a gust of uneasiness touching his soul.
"Master?"
No answer.
"Grimm?"
As if shaken up from a daze, the troupe leader finally came back to himself with a blink, and turned toward Brumm, a distant expression in his eyes that the musician had learned to recognize by now.
"We have been summoned once again," he said, his voice oddly calm. "It is time to write a new contract and seek the help of a new ally, in a faraway kingdom fallowed by root and worm."
He looked at the charm in his palm, and closed his fist decisively.
"It is time for our harvest to begin."
The moth sets out from Jiji's lair with such elan that Nymm can barely keep up with him. The Confessor doesn't even try to stop them, looking ready to dig into her meal when she shuts the door behind them. The newcomer spends the rest of the day pacing around the town, sticking out like a sore thumb in his gray-red cape, a feverish energy vibrating in his movements. He seems to be interested in everything, though few things keep his attention for long. Most of the residents eye him with some suspicion; Deona, on the other hand, oohs and aahs over him, gushing about the bright aura that surrounds him, and he even manages to win over Elderbug by being impeccably polite every time they meet.
Then, out of the blue, he decides to descend into the underground tunnels in search of who knows what. Nymm follows him, answering questions ranging from the rational („Where does that upper corridor lead to?") to the outlandish („Have you ever taught the King of Hallownest to dance?"). The moth is adamant that they will come upon some clue or sign if they look hard enough, and doesn't seem to pay much heed to Nymm's half-hearted protests that they should probably take things one at a time.
They find nothing, of course.
By the time evening falls over Dirtmouth, Nymm feels like he's been dragged through several thorn bushes and a few mud pits for good measure. After they have ascended the well, he tries to convince his companion to take a nap, at least.
"You can rest there, it's pretty comfortable," he points to the bench under the street lamp, stifling a yawn. "You must be exhausted."
"Far from it, my friend! I feel invigorated. The night air is rife with the whispers of the wind, and they speak of dreams and memories which I must go and seek out. Sleep well."
Nymm is too tired to protest anymore. He watches the moth's back as he leaves in the direction of the fields, his figure soon swallowed by the darkness.
The next day, he's nowhere to be found.
Nymm turns the entire town upside down, to no avail; he even descends into the Crossroads once again in the hope that someone might have taken notice of the strange visitor. He eventually finds him sitting alone on a rock at the eastern gate of the graveyard, looking like a gravestone himself with his cape pulled tight around his torso. He acknowledges the musician's presence with a small nod. Nymm plops down next to him, out of breath, glad that they can finally have a moment of respite. He opens his pouch in the hopes of making some long-overdue conversation over lunch.
"Thank goodness I found you! I thought you left for good. Of course, you can leave whenever you want, it's not my place to hold you. It's just that you haven't eaten since you – since yesterday morning, and I thought it'd do you good to have a snack, at least."
"Thank you."
Without a glance at Nymm, the moth takes the blueberry and starts munching on it absently. The silence doesn't seem to bother him; Nymm, on the other hand, feels uncomfortable, his bad conscience gnawing at his soul. How on Earth could he apologize for what he had done to someone who has no memories of this world and who, possibly, doesn't want to be here?
"Are you alright?"
"I am not."
The silence stretches on between them, making Nymm feel lonelier than ever. He fiddles with his pouch, then gets up, defeated.
"I should be going now. I burdened you long enough."
"Would you play something for me?"
Nymm stops, astonished by the sudden interest in his music. The moth is looking at him over the collar of his cape with an unreadable expression, but there's no doubt that the request was sincere.
"I'd be happy to," the musician says with a timid smile. "Although most of the songs I know fall on the sadder side. It might be time to switch to something that fits the atmosphere of the place a little better."
He takes his accordion in his hands and, after some consideration, chooses a tune that he considers relatively upbeat, but not too loud. The moth, as much as he can tell, enjoys the music. He leans back on the stone surface, his eyes falling shut, his posture becoming more relaxed. He looks almost peaceful. Nymm wonders if he has fallen asleep, but with the song finished, he looks up and claps, his gaze a little gentler.
"Thank you for humoring me. You're quite the virtuoso. Perhaps it is no coincidence that your music fills my soul with longing for something long lost." He pauses, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Please come, sit with me."
"Have you slept at all?" Nymm asks, sitting back beside him.
"I haven't."
"You can still try the bench if you feel like it."
"Thank you. It is not the time for it yet, I'm afraid. Forgive me for leaving you in such a rude manner last night. My judgment was clouded by inner turmoil. I should have seeked out your advice before I set out on a fool's errand."
„I'm not much of a help, I'm afraid," Nymm shakes his head. "In all honesty, I was hoping that maybe you'd prove to be a better fit for disentangling the situation."
„You told me that you have no memories from before your journey here."
"I'm not sure anymore. Whenever I look at my charm, I have this remote feeling of nostalgia, and... well, fear. That mask might be a reminder of past events, for all I know. After all, you had to have come from somewhere, and beforehand, the Confessor warned me that I might regret calling you for some reason."
"Given my brusque demeanor yesterday, it wouldn't surprise me if she had spoken the truth."
"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way!" Nymm exclaims. "Jiji might have, but please don't think you've offended me in any way."
"There is no need to apologize," the moth says with a small chuckle. "Would you tell me more about your life here so far? It might prove to be useful as you've been here long before my arrival. I promise that this time, I'm going to heed your words."
So Nymm tells him everything he knows about their world. About Dirtmouth and its residents, about the tunnels twisting and turning deep below, about the travellers arriving from far and beyond, about the princess who set out to rebuild the Kingdom, about the Knight who once listened to him, and accepted his gift, and then never came back from the darkness. The wind is picking up and the sky is turning black when he finishes his tale. The moth rests his chin on his hand, lost in thought.
"You said that you came from the West, I understand, and those empty fields called out to you, as if you have been there before." He frowns, scratching his hand with one claw. "May I see your charm again?"
Nymm fishes the broken pin out of his pocket, and the moth takes the pieces, trying to put them together, looking at the tiny white mask in the middle. A shadow passes over his face, and for a moment, Nymm almost remembers something. Almost.
- to defy -
„I'm sorry," he blurts out. At the moth's questioning glance, he carries on, the words tumbling out of him half against his will. „I'm sorry that I brought all this mess upon us. I'm sorry that I've dragged you into it against your will. I shouldn't have summoned you when I had no idea what I was doing. I shouldn't have burdened you with my emotions. It was selfish of me to do it just because I was - just because something might have happened that -"
"You must have been terribly lonely."
Nymm stops, taken aback.
The moth is right. He was lonely. No matter how pleasant life has been since he arrived, no matter how content he felt - ultimately, he was alone.
"You lost a dear friend, and your heart was heavy with grief," the moth continues, his voice soft. "You shouldn't condemn yourself for wishing to bring back something that once might have meant so much to you."
Nymm nods, blinking back the tears. It'd do no good to let his emotions get the better of him now.
"I know that our truth is buried somewhere in this kingdom, and I'm not giving up on finding it," the moth says, his face determined. He turns to Nymm and takes his hand, the contact once again stirring some vague memory in the musician.
"Do you trust me?"
And Nymm realizes that despite all his doubts about their situation, he trusts him wholeheartedly.
Hallownest indeed seemed to be a fertile ground for the Ritual. Its tunnels and roads stretched for miles and miles under the surface, full of ruins and decay and skittering creatures taken over by a curse, an amber light shining in their eyes. Brumm stood in awe of this vast kingdom, and wondered if he could ever comprehend something this ancient - something that had its own history.
That evening, Grimm called for a gathering of the Troupe in the main tent. Just as always, Brumm watched him from a shadowy corner of the ring. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation, the Troupe members murmuring among each other before silence fell on the arena. The Master was standing center stage, deep red fire surrounding his form, his shadow dancing around him like his very soul had been torn out of his body to serve as a grandiose backdrop. His voice echoed in the ring, strong, commanding, irresistible.
"The time is ripe, my kin. The Child has been born, and soon, he is to be set free to nourish himself with the Flame. It is time to complete our Ritual once again! We shall wait for the Vessel who will help us gather this precious essence, and fulfill our pact with them, written in scarlet fire, and three nights from now on, the Final Dance shall take place. And through that deadly sacrifice, the Nightmare's Heart shall live on!"
Brumm closed his eyes as the Troupe broke out in thunderous applause, the Novices, the Masters, the Nightmares chanting, the steeds stomping the ground, Divine squealing in delight. Grimm himself seemed to be roused by his own speech, bowing deeply, and the thought occurred to Brumm that this, too, was just an act, a mask on the face of a reality that no-one was willing to confront. When they were finally alone in his tent, Grimm practically attacked him, which was certainly not unwelcome, far from it – but Brumm sensed a strange desperation in him, like he was trying to keep something at bay that otherwise might have swallowed him whole. And once again, he was reluctant to go to sleep, asking Brumm to keep him awake for the better part of the night.
So Brumm stifled a sigh of exhaustion and talked to him softly, his mind wandering. He thought back to their previous lives, the travels, the harvests, the dances, the cycle of death and rebirth his Master was forced to undergo and everyone else was forced to witness, again and again and again, a steady, monotone, neverending song - that was no song at all.
He felt tired.
"Grimm…"
"Hmm?"
"Mrmm… I'm not sure how to ask such a question, but… do you remember anything from the time… before?"
Grimm stayed silent for a long while, and Brumm, in the hopes that he'd finally fallen asleep, decided not to push the subject. Finally, just as he was about to drift off himself, he heard Grimm's voice, barely a whisper, as if he was talking to himself.
"What does it matter?"
"I was merely wondering. I remember how you used to talk about our memories. About our journeys all around the world. You looked happy."
Grimm made no reply.
"And this Kingdom… It is so dark, so quiet. Like a tomb. Built on dreams and lives long forgotten. It makes me long for something that I might once have had."
"You're free to go and explore with the other Troupe members, if you wish. The Flame can be found in the most unexpected places, and your expertise is invaluable to us." His hand came up to stroke his companion's face. "Does your music not bring you joy anymore?"
Brumm fell silent, unsure of the answer. How should he explain to Grimm that while he was more than happy to perform for them, he had been playing the same old song for as long as he could remember? How could he make him understand that the notes had lost their meaning to him a long time ago?
"Perhaps it's time to learn something new," he said with some hesitation. "A new song. A new dance. Something that is ours."
"The melody has already been written for us, and it is not our place to abandon it. You know that as well as I do, Brumm. Every member of the Troupe has their own purpose, their own duty to fulfill. It gives our lives meaning. Have I not been a Master you're proud to follow?"
"You have," he murmured gently. "And I would follow you to the end of the world if I needed to. But… is this the life that you desire?"
This must have been probably the first and only time a question had caught the Master by surprise. Grimm opened his mouth for a fraction, but ultimately said nothing, his claws idly drawing small patterns into the sheets. Brumm held his gaze, trying to reach him somehow, trying to communicate without words everything that was in his heart. The unease that gnawed at him when he witnessed the Grimmkins spread out into the tunnels of Hallownest. The worry that rose in him whenever he looked at his Master and saw him slowly getting robbed of himself.
The love he felt for him, despite everything.
"What I desire is of no importance," Grimm said finally, averting his eyes. "It is what we are here for. It is what we are."
There was a sense of finality to his words, and Brumm knew there was no place for objections anymore.
"I see."
If Grimm perceived the doubt and discontent in his words, he didn't show any anger for it. He just squeezed Brumm's hand and looked up at him.
"There is no greater comfort for me than to know that you're by my side."
"Always."
And he meant it.
…Didn't he?
They are standing to the west of Dirthmouth, the wind whistling foreign songs around them. The morning is chilly, wisps of fog lingering in the air, and Nymm is glad that he have his thick fur to protect him. The moth hasn't slept for two nights now, and it's starting to show, dark circles forming under his eyes.
"It was here, wasn't it? There must have been something here. Can you feel it too?"
Nymm nods.
"The charm… I'm sure it has a connection to this place."
A shiver runs through his body, and he's not sure if it's because of the wind. The shapeless, nameless fear that grabbed his soul whenever he ventured out here, rises once again, and he wonders if he really wants to know the truth after all.
"Ha!" the moth exclaims, pointing at the ground. "There's something that eluded me during my first visit."
He takes a few steps, bends down, and picks up something shiny from a grass patch. Upon closer inspection, Nymm sees that it's also some kind of charm, though it doesn't look familiar to him. The moth turns it back and forth between his claws pensively.
"A fragile one," he says finally. "One which breaks easily. How could such a delicate thing have ended up in this forlorn place, I wonder?"
"Maybe Deona, the merchant can tell us more about it," Nymm suggests. "She seems to be an expert on the subject."
The moth stops, looking uncertain.
"You might be right," he says slowly. "It might be a fruitless endeavor. But it might just be the key step toward solving our conundrum. We shall see."
He hastily pins the charm on his cape, and sets out in the direction of the town, waving to the musician to follow him. Nymm doesn't quite understand what he was talking about, but hurries after him nevertheless. Back in Dirtmouth, the shopkeeper greets them with a toothy smile, perking up as they step to the counter.
"Mmmm! What is that charm that you bear, little lovely? It looks so delicious!"
"What exquisite taste!" the moth says with the most disarming smile Nymm has ever seen. "I see you have an eye for high artisanship."
"Then give it to me, sweetheart, will you? I want it! It was meant for me, I just know it!"
"It is indeed no coincidence that this treasure among treasures has found its way to you. Our meeting must have been arranged by the hand of fate. We must be kindred spirits, as I too feel the call of a precious thing you have in your possession. A loyal companion of those who venture into the realm of dreams." He bows his head meekly. "Perhaps we could arrange an exchange?"
Deona's face immediately darkens.
"Eeuaarrrgh! So nasty! So cruel! Why do you ask me to give you something back, you greedy thing? Don't you know it's not nice to ask something in return for a gift?"
"A gift for a gift, to commemorate our fellowship. I am sure that someone with an outstanding collection as yours would understand how special a place they have in one's heart."
"Aaagh! But I don't want to part with any of my lovelies, don't you see? Why come into my shop just to torture me? Why do you enjoy seeing me in pain?"
"What about some exposure in addition?" Nymm asks, an idea occurring to him. "I'd gladly compose a song to bring your name a little more recognition. Clients would come from every corner of the Kingdom to bring you the gifts - and Geo - you deserve. It'd be a far greater reward than what either of us could offer right now."
He sees from the corner of his eye as the moth stifles a smile. The merchant grimaces and rolls her eyes theatrically, grunting and sighing as if the deal causes her physical pain, then slams her claws together, frustrated.
"Ugh! Fine! Just give it to me, and take whatever you want, you pesky little things."
She takes the dream charm out of the glass case and drops it on the counter. The moth swiftly puts it away, and offers Deona the fragile charm in return. She immediately stuffs it in her mouth, crunching on it with an indignant expression.
As soon as they are safely back on the street and out of her hearing range, the moth turns to Nymm and bows slightly, his hand on his chest.
"Bravo, my friend! Bravo! What admirable presence of mind! I am in awe of your astuteness."
"It was worth a try," Nymm says with a smile, warmed by the praise. "I suspected she couldn't resist the promise of more Geo. I'll try my best to pay her back, although my advertising skills aren't up to par, unfortunately."
"Ah, so you remembered something about her? She has an air about her that speaks to me, just like you. I wonder if she has ever felt the same way about us."
"If she has, I never noticed it. She never treated me different than anyone else in town. And… to be honest, she seems to be content in a way I never was."
The moth looks at him, his gaze kind, and all of a sudden, Nymm feels self-consciuos. He averts his eyes and leans closer to examine the charm. It has an intricate design of interwoven circles; the perfect symmetry of the pattern speaks of harmony and a world beyond waking reality.
"What are you planning to do with this?"
"Nothing at all. I have no use for it." At Nymm's nonplussed expression, he gestures in the direction of the graveyard. "I suggest we seek out a quieter place so I can explain."
As soon as they have settled down on the remains of a stone fence, the moth falls curiously silent. He turns the charm between his claws, staring into nothing, and Nymm, who's slowly getting used to the sudden shifts in his mood, waits patiently. Eventually, the moth looks up at him and breaks the silence, his voice weary.
"I haven't slept in two days because I fear what might be waiting for me there."
"You're afraid of a nightmare?" Nymm asks, frowning as a shadow of a memory bubbles up in his mind.
"I am."
He averts his gaze, looking distressed for the first time he has arrived. Nymm wants to comfort him, reassure him, but he has no idea how.
"I know that I must confront it sooner or later," the moth goes on, still not looking at Nymm. "But… I cannot do it alone."
"I'm here," Nymm says, desperate to offer everything he has. "You're not alone."
"I don't doubt your good intentions. You've been nothing but kind and considerate to me ever since we met. However, I must ask you to listen carefully before you agree to participate in something you might not understand the full scope of."
He takes a deep breath, his posture radiating exhaustion.
"This charm might look like it has no use for our kind, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. I recognized it during our previous visit to our dear merchant, and asked for it specifically because it will aid us in our quest. I might not be a member of that ancient tribe born from light, and my knowledge cannot compete with their superior craftsmanship. But I am still their distant kin, and I know that dreams are not as elusive as they often appear. They can be accessed much easier if the dreamer themselves grants permission. And I intend to do precisely that."
"You need someone who enters your nightmare to help you," the musician says slowly. "Is that right?"
"Yes."
Nymm blinks at the moth incredulously.
"Is that it? Is that all? Of course I'll help you! How could I refuse?"
"I am not sure what we will find in that realm," the moth says calmly. "You told me that the Confessor spoke of regret, and I'm afraid that she predicted the truth."
"I don't care! I took that risk already when I summoned you, knowing that it was worth the reward. Do you honestly think I'll refuse to follow you to the end of this road? Do you honestly think I'll leave you to struggle with this on your own?"
"You don't owe me anything."
"And I'm not doing it as payback. I'm doing it because you're my friend."
He reaches out and squeezes the moth's hand.
"If this is what needs to be done for us to find peace, then we'll do it together."
The moth looks him in the eyes, his expression almost vulnerable, and Nymm has to suppress the sudden urge to take him into his arms.
"...Thank you."
He lets go of Nymm's hand and glances up at the darkening sky.
"There is no point in delaying the inevitable," he says, offering the charm to Nymm. "Take this and put it on; it shall help you to focus. And if anything... unexpected happens, please leave immediately."
Nymm nods, and pins the charm on his pouch.
"I'm ready."
The moth stifles a yawn and gets into a more comfortable position. Nymm wonders if he'd be able to fall asleep at all sitting on a rock, but the lack of two days' rest seems to catch up with him quickly. His breathing gets slower, softer, until his body goes limp, his head falling on Nymm's shoulder. The musician closes his eyes, determined to face whatever is waiting for them.
Here goes nothing.
He gently touches the moth's brow, focusing his soul, and enters the dream.
He was alone.
Brumm was used to being alone, and he certainly didn't mind that he had some time to think. He had a lot on his mind lately, and none of it was pleasant.
He had seen it countless times. The ally returning with the Child, now agile and strong, almost ready to replace the Master; The Troupe gathering in the arena of the nightmare realm to witness the Ritual. The dance commenced then, a whirlwind of fire and flame, the hoarse cries of the Grimmchild mingling with the music, the murmur of the crowd, the thunderous commands of the Nightmare King, the steady, endless beating of the Heart. Then, inevitably, the Nightmare King was defeated and collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing in agony until it turned into red smoke.
And soon, the cycle was about to renew once more.
Two times the Knight returned with the flames, and two times the Child absorbed them, growing stronger and stronger in the process. Grimm, as always, spoke proudly of him, and Brumm wondered what it must have felt like to have your own demise blossom in front of your eyes. The First Dance was most spectacular, and the little Knight even had the audacity to bonk the Master on the head mid-bow, throwing him off enough to forget his manners for a second (which, Brumm had to admit, was actually a tiny bit amusing).
Afterwards, Grimm looked like he was about to collapse right on the spot. He had grown thinner, more haggard with every flame the Child had consumed, and this evening, after the curtains had fallen and the acolytes had left for the night, he grabbed Brumm's hand and pulled him close. He buried his face in the fur around his lover's neck, and for a long minute, he just stood there, his breath uneven, his head weighing heavily on Brumm's shoulder, like even staying upright was eating up all his energy. Brumm put his arms around him, trying to lend him strength simply by being close.
He had never felt so helpless in his life.
Reluctantly, Grimm broke the embrace and let go of his hand.
"It is time for me to go. You should try and rest a little as well before you set out tonight."
"Grimm…"
The Master stopped, turning back to look at him, and even though he was standing only a few steps from him, Brumm felt him slipping away, into some distant realm where he couldn't follow him.
"Can't you… Can't I…"
Grimm shook his head.
"I must go," he said softly. "Sleep well."
He didn't sleep well. He didn't sleep at all. He sat in the dark alone, his torch prepared, his mask in his hand, ready to offer his aid in completing the Ritual. Ready to contribute to a song that bound them all in inescapable chains, reduced them to endlessly repeating notes, senseless and pointless.
He knew what he had to do.
He silently stepped into the side tent where Grimm slept, and looked at the unconscious figure, absorbed in his nightmares of fire and flame. He wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to wake him up, to keep him alive by sheer force of will. He listened to the faint sounds of the night around them, the wind howling over the land, and wished that he'd have been strong enough to not do what he was about to do.
"Forgive me."
And with those last words and a heart heavy with sorrow, he set out to descend into Hallownest's depths once more.
This time, the Ritual shall not be completed. This time, the Nightmare shall be broken.
They shall all be free.
Red light fills the circus ring, countless flames dancing and flickering in the lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the tent. There is no music, no murmur of the crowd, no cheering or laughter, nothing at all except for a deep, endless, droning sound around him, inside him, filling his head: the pounding of the Nightmare's Heart.
And Nymm remembers. He remembers everything. A chill runs through his body when he realizes where he is – and what he has done.
- let our chains be broken -
He doesn't want to be here anymore.
- to defy the Master -
He must leave immediately. He must leave, and ask Grimm to come with him, beg him to flee this accursed place, but he can't move, he's kept in place by his own fears and doubts, and in the next moment, he knows it's too late, it's already too late, a flash of red blinds him, and sharp claws slash his shell, knocking him down.
"Traitor."
Pushing past the fog of pain, Nymm opens his eyes, his vision blurry, his temples pounding. He's lying on his back in the dirt in the middle of the arena. The imposing figure of the Nightmare King towers above him, dressed in scarlet from head to toe, his cape billowing, his eyes piercing and merciless.
"You betrayed us. You betrayed me."
Nymm can't speak. He opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat at the King's stare.
"My only purpose was to keep the Flame alive, to keep the Heart beating forever." The demon sneers, baring his sharp fangs at him. "And you took it away from me, my friend, you robbed me of everything I ever had, and then you dare summon me back to a barren world that I have no place in anymore?"
"I wanted you to be free," Nymm forces out.
"I didn't give you my blessing to go through with it."
"Our harvest… it desecrated the dreams of the Kingdom. It desecrated our soul. I saw you." He pushes himself up on his knees, and looks the Nightmare King in the eyes. "You were suffering."
"Suffering has always been a part of our lives. And It was the Ritual that gave us that precious gift of life," the King replies. "Without it, we are but shadows, useless and forgotten. Without it, we are nothing."
"That is not true," Nymm shakes his head desperately. "Just like you, I don't remember anything from before… that life. But I always felt that we were more than vessels. We aren't empty just because we were once enslaved to that livid flame. The Nightmare's Heart… it was not us. Not you."
The King narrows his eyes, seething with fury.
"Your convictions no doubt offered you great comfort when you decided to turn against me and kill the Child."
Nymm gets up, steadying himself.
"It pained me to defy you, more than you can imagine. I said that I would follow you to the end of the world if I needed to, and I meant it."
The Nightmare King flashes him a cruel grin.
"I have something to ask of you, then."
He extends a hand, a twisted mockery of a gesture that was once so familiar, so intimate.
"Dance with me, Brumm," he says. "For one last time."
Without waiting for an answer, he attacks, and Nymm darts out of the way in the last moment, barely avoiding his claws. He lands on his elbows with a harsh thud, the smell of dust and blood in his nose, and before he could even comprehend what's happening, something sharp jabs him in the side. He cries out, his eyes tearing up from the pain, his side burning, his ears ringing with the beating of the Heart, and once again, he's forced to move, to spring, to leap out of the way, getting more and more disoriented, his movements becoming slower, sloppier, his legs threatening to give up on him. The Nightmare King dances around him, his movements agile and quick as lightning, his cape a blurred red mass, his eyes constantly on Nymm, and he never stops, he never stops until Nymm falls to his knees, panting from exhaustion, bruised and battered, within an inch of his life.
He lost. He promised Grimm to help defeat the nightmare, and he couldn't even reach him for one moment. He lost.
He closes his eyes, waiting for the final blow.
The blow never comes. Half numb from the pain, Nymm looks up, and finds the Nightmare King looking down at him with a cold glint in his eyes.
"Thank you for putting on a good show, my friend," he says, flicking a speck of dust off his cape. "We truly outdid ourselves tonight. The final steps are up to you."
He kneels down next to Nymm, leaning closer, taking his hands, his smile as sharp as a knife.
"Kill me - and complete the Ritual."
Nymm's eyes widen with horror.
"No," he whispers.
"This is the only way."
"I'm not doing it. I'd rather die. I'd rather let you kill me."
"Do you truly think I will let you go that easily?" the King growls. "Do you truly think I will forgive you for what you've done, and let you live your life in peace?"
Nymm shakes his head, his voice breaking as tears start flowing down his face.
"I won't kill you. Ask me, or threaten me, or keep me captive here until the world ends if you want, but I will not do it."
"You already did it. You banished me. You cast me aside."
"I won't ask you to return. I won't ask for your forgiveness as I know I cannot ask for it. It was wrong of me to - to decide for you. It was wrong of me to cling to the past like that." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I wish I had the strength to let you go earlier. But I'm not going to hurt you, no matter what you do, or what road you choose to take. If you want to leave - you must do it of your own will, Grimm."
With the greatest effort he ever mustered, he lets go of the King's hands, stands up, and looks him in the eyes, his voice calmer now.
"I set you free."
A wave of exhaustion washes over him, his head spinning, his limbs heavy as lead. He wipes away his tears, nearly falling over, and when he finally finds his balance again, he realizes that he doesn't hear the heartbeat anymore.
Silence reigns over the arena. Nymm looks up, nearly blind from weariness, looking for the scarlet figure, but the Nightmare King is nowhere to be found. It's only his Master standing before him, the flame of madness gone from his gaze. Nymm smiles at him, feeling the dreamscape shifting and twisting around them, knowing that their song is soon to end.
"Farewell, Grimm."
The moth's eyes flash red, a last glimpse of the Nightmare's hatred, and a searing pain slashes through Nymm as his chest is torn open. His body goes limp, his consciousness slipping away, and he's falling, falling down into nothingness until everything is consumed by darkness and silence.
He is alone.
He is alone in the darkness, the wind howling in his ears, the herald of a world empty and void of light.
And he'll never -
"Wake up."
He's tired, so tired. He doesn't want to return just yet. He's afraid of what might be waiting for him.
"Wake up, my dear musician. The nightmare is over."
Nymm feels the touch of something warm, and as he begins to emerge from the fog of unconsciousness, he realizes that it's a hand on his brow. His head is resting on someone's lap, and that someone's been talking to him, calling out to him.
"Your songs might have been somber, but it is time to learn a new melody. A long-awaited reunion such as ours deserves something joyous."
He opens his eyes, and finds Grimm leaning over him. His gaze is calm, peaceful, and when he smiles, there is recognition in his eyes.
"Well met - Nymm. Well met."