Chapter Text
“I hate you. I hope you get infected.”
Tiso’s eyes burned as he said it, and they feel like their heart is made of clay. It sinks, heavy and fragile, and it cracks as Tiso slams the door.
They feel numb.
“Shh, I know,” Oro murmurs, and it doesn’t help. “I’m sorry.”
Tiso’s going to die, they’re sure of it. A quick trip to the Colosseum, and… and…
And they’ll never see him again, all because they couldn’t stop crying.
They aren’t crying now.
Orange bubbles out of their eyes, slow and viscous, and it burns as it slides down their mask. It stings, but they find it hard to care.
“Lost? No, kid! Kid! Listen to me, you can’t—”
Everything is fuzzy. They can’t really hear.
The Radiance laughs, far and distant. You are pathetic, Little Wyrm.
They squint their eyes shut—the globs of infection sting, pierce, burrow into their shell. They try to ignore Her presence. But nothing can hide them from Her, not even Oro’s cloak.
Did you truly think the ant loved you? She laughs. It scrapes against them, and their head begins to throb. Do you truly think anyone could love you? Little Wyrm, you are lower than vermin.
Oro loves me, they object, but they feel so drained. They don’t have the energy to force meaning and conviction into their words.
She titters. He loves the other Wyrmling more. You were simply a placeholder.
That’s not true, they think, but it feels feeble, distant. Why do they think Oro cares about them? They use up so much of his time, energy, resources. They’re not like Ghost…
Memories flood their mind. Memories of Oro grumbling as he helps them, and ones where he scolds them for misbehaving. Memories of nights where they wake him up with their crying, and memories of when they complained about his food and meditation.
Memories of all the times they’ve wronged Oro.
Memories about how rotten they are; reminders of how much Oro’s given up for them, when all they are is a crying, whiny baby.
But—Oro loves me anyway, they think. Right?
She just laughs.
…
You always knew you’d return, didn’t you? She says.
They look around, and they’re not surprised. They’re back in the empty place, and it feels… it feels like they were always meant to be here. Like they never should’ve left.
I’m tired, they think. It’s been such a long day already, and they don’t feel like arguing with Her. Please leave me alone.
You’d do well to remember your place, Wyrmling, She says testily.
They look around. There’s orange at the edges of the empty place, but the bubbles aren’t nearly as big as they remember from before. It brings them a small ounce of comfort, though part of them knows it’s only going to get worse from here.
It always does.
It never gets better.
Good, you’re learning, She says. Submit, and it will be far less painful for you.
Please let me go home, they plead. They know it won’t work.
Oh, but you are home, She says. Her voice surrounds them, and they find it hard to focus. Their legs tremble.
Home is with Oro, they say.
Then you shall reunite soon, She purrs. You will either kill him or I will infect him. You should pray for the second. Maybe then I’ll let you see the brute.
No, Oro can’t get infected—they used Grimm’s spell, and…
And what’s that supposed to do against Her? They wilt, dropping to the floor. Oro’s gone, Tiso’s dying. Ghost is who knows where, but probably in trouble… in Deepnest, dead because of them….
Dread presses down on them, and Her light shines brighter. The pustules push towards them. It’s just like in the Abyss; nothing they did changed anything. Their Siblings fell, and they were left behind, surrounded by shells.
The gentle one died—alone, somewhere far away, and they weren’t there to help their Sibling. The shades hit the Light’s barrier, Oro got infected—
No, he didn’t, a tiny voice inside them pipes up. Oro’s not infected. You are.
They blink, looking around. The infection recedes ever-so-slightly under their direct attention. Stop lying to me, they scowl, looking around. That’s not true.
Yes, it is, She insists, Her voice echoing around them. All of it is true. The bugs all hate you. I can read their minds; I know their hearts. They despise you, Little Wyrm.
My name’s not Little Wyrm. They shakily rise to their feet. My name is Lost.
She laughs. Oh! Has the little darkness named itself? How precious. How perfectly fitting. You really are something, aren’t you? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost consider you a bug! A different spark of dread starts to fester, needling into their mind.
But I am a bug… They pull their arms against their stomach. They feel sick.
Are you truly so clueless and deluded? Genuine joy lurks in Her voice. Surely you have not convinced yourself you are equal to bug.
I’m like Oro, they think, but they’re not fully sure they believe it.
She senses their hesitation; tendrils of light start to sneak around the edges of the empty place. It threads through the infection, making it look alive, transparent. They gulp.
You are nothing like him, She declares. He is strong, sure-footed, kind. You are weak, selfish, broken. The Nailmaster pities you, Little Wyrm.
No, he doesn’t, they murmur. Oro loves me.
He replaced you. She hisses it as though it’s fact, carved in stone and steel. You are broken. The baby Wyrm surpasses you in every way. It, unlike you, is whole. Unblemished. Unchained. Unbroken.
It’s so unbearably bright.
I’m not broken, they object feebly. It’s hard to believe it when they’re here, surrounded by the dark emotions lurking in every bubble, boil, and brick. Beneath the surface, it feels incorrect, despite their mind telling them it’s true. Even so, they insist, Oro loves me even though I’m hurt.
Nobody loves you, Broken Little Wyrm. Not the common bugs, nor the Wyrm and the Root. Not even the other Gods find favor in you. You are a curse of the night. Nothing finds comfort in darkness.
A blade of light glances their side, and they sink to the ground. Void pools around them, cool and comforting. Their eyes water, and finally they start to cry. It wracks deep within them, and it’s dry, wet, painful. It scrapes, and it makes them choke. Tears rise, unbidden, and they relent.
I just want to go home, they cry. Please, just let me go home to Oro.
She laughs. You are home, Little Wyrm. You are exactly where you belong.
The orange presses closer, and they can barely see.
No, please, they cry, please, just don’t—I won’t ever—stop, please stop!
They can’t see Her, but they feel Her presence surround them. Everything is orange-and-white; they scramble backwards, away, but it does nothing. They feel their terror condense into dreaded doom.
Succumb, Little Wyrm, She says, her voice dark and full of warning. It will be less painful for you. Admit you are nothing but a worthless, inconsequential speck of night.
I know, they think, praying it will stave off Her approach. I know, and I’m sorry.
The tendrils of orange start to entwine, creeping closer, closer, closer…
Say it. Say that no one loves you, Little Wyrm.
The light burns brighter, and they squint against it.
Just give in, a voice whispers. It’ll hurt less if you do.
But—
But Oro.
They pull their knees to their chest, hiding their eyes. Oro loves them. He taught them to—to—
Trust.
They trust Oro.
And Oro says he loves them all the time.
They wipe their eyes.
Admit that you are Unloved, Little Wyrm.
I’m not Little Wyrm. Their eyes settle on the pool of void around them. I’m Lost.
You are a curse made from darkness, She says. You are a broken consequence of the Wyrm’s hubris. You are not even bug—not even living. The bugs have only commanded you to be more than you are, and as the obedient little scourge you are, you follow their orders.
They stare at their inky, dark void. It floats up in front of their eyes, and they remember a time when Oro bandaged their arm, scolding them all the while.
‘I told you not to mess around with the Hoppers,’ Oro had grumbled. ‘I don’t care if they’re small, they’re still dangerous.’
BUT THEY’RE CUTE, they remember writing.
Oro had just scowled and launched into a lecture about ‘listening.’
They blink. I don’t always listen to Oro.
Another flaw, She dismisses, but they feel their own confusion rise. How can they be obedient and lifeless when they don’t listen to Oro all the time?
Their confusion spirals, blocking out her words. Another echo of memory pulls at them—
‘It’s not about behaving,’ Oro had said, after that horrible first game of cards. ‘It’s not about getting along with each other all the time. I’m not a liar. I want you to stay, dammit. Warts and all.’
They feel Her anger pressing down on them, but they only recognize it tangentially. What are they even thinking? Oro loves them. Oro’s not a liar.
You are worthless! She screeches. You are a savage, defiled corpse! You have no value!
They scowl, trying to see Her in the light. I’m important to Oro.
You are a fool if you think anyone loves you. Her anger is icy, like liquid fire.
They slip on the void pooling underneath them as they stand. A wave of lightheadedness overcomes them, but they plant their feet anyway. If She’s going to kill them, at least they can die on their feet.
You’re lying, they think, forcing conviction into their words. You don’t know Oro. He loves me, no matter what You say.
Coils of infection start to wind around their feet, and they reach for a nail that isn’t there. Their shoulders drop, but they do not cower. They will die on their feet. She will not take their dignity again.
Oro loves me so much he adopted me. He lets me kick him when I’m asleep.
He pities you, She laughs, brittle and dry. He only helps you to assuage his guilt.
But Oro doesn’t pity; it’s demeaning. Oro’s never lied to them, not when it’s serious. Not when it matters.
Oro is honest, and he says he loves them.
But can they really believe it? He helps them because they can’t. They can’t save themself; they’re not clever like Ghost, or a warrior like Tiso. They’re not strong like Oro, or swift like Grimm.
They’re not, they’re not, they’re not.
But they are Lost.
They think of when they first stumbled into Oro’s hut—lost, alone, afraid, hurt. They think of how he healed their injuries and dried their tears.
She speaks, but they ignore Her. Another blade pierces them, but they don’t care.
They think of how Oro trained them to use their nail; they think of how hard Oro worked to find food they’d eat. They think of bubble baths and dishes and writing lessons, covered in ink—
You are dust, She yells, lashing them with balls of light. No matter how hard you try, I will always be here to watch you suffer!
Swear words and laughter and—and—
Joy.
She pushes a blade through their back, slow and deliberate. Their knees buckle; they fall, and the orange wraps around their arms, too.
When they’re hurt, Oro’s there. Oro loves them, and they remember it so innately now. They wish he was here beside them; they’re surrounded by vibrant, blinding flame. It starts to constrict, and their time is running out, they feel it pressing down on their chest, keeping them from breathing—
They squint their eyes, and despite the light that speckles in their eyes, they see darkness. They see…
A choice.
Trust Oro, or trust Her.
She yanks the sword out from their back, and it feels like they can breathe again.
They squeeze their eyes shut against the storm of light.
Focus, they remind themself. It’s all you have.
The choice is simple, really.
Trust Oro, or trust Her.
Grimm’s voice echoes in their memory. ‘Don’t listen to fools, little one. What does this ‘Oro’ say, hm?’
They take a steadying breath.
‘Come on, kid,’ they hear Oro say. ‘You’re not alone. We’re here to help.’
‘Fight or die!’ Tiso cries.
They raise their head. Despite the silence, they feel Ghost’s calming presence nearby. But when they open their eyes, their Sibling isn’t there. No one is.
But in a way, they are—Ghost and the gentle one, by their side, forever and always. Separated, but not forgotten. Not really gone.
They remember how Oro hugs them when they feel sad, or angry, or content.
They remember Tiso’s sign language lessons and Uncle Mato’s blanket fort. They remember Ghost’s odd displays of comfort—dumping soul water on them in their sleep, playing cards with them despite being bored.
They remember they are loved.
They look up, and the light nearly blinds them. I don’t believe You. They love me, no matter what You say. You don’t know them like I do.
No! She throws a line of knives at them from above. No!
You’re wrong, they say, feeling suddenly confident. They love me, and You’re wrong about my family.
She might be right about them, but She’s wrong about Oro. Of everyone they know—
She’s wrong about Oro.
Pain courses through them, but they struggle to care. Despite the pain, they laugh.
Get out of here, they think, smiling. You’re just a—a—
They giggle. A Mushroom. I don’t have to listen to you.
They close their eyes and lay back down.
The orange light withers, bit by bit, and eventually they can breathe again.
They fade, too, and everything goes dark.
…
“Get out,” Oro growls, and that’s what brings them closer to reality. “Mato, get him out of here. I don’t know what happened, but Tiso made it worse.”
“Look, I—” Tiso starts. Their head aches, and they try to tune everything out.
“Oro, what’s going on?” Uncle Mato says. They squint their eyes open; Mato is hovering nearby. He starts to reach for them, but Oro shakes his head.
“They haven’t been responding,” Oro mutters. “They cried tears of infection; the best I could do was wipe it off. Eventually, their tears returned to black.”
“Pip’s worse?”
“Shut up,” Oro seethes. “Go outside, I don’t care. Just leave. You got your damn wish.”
“Tiso, just stay in the training area for now, okay?” Mato says. “I’ll retrieve you when the time is right.”
Their head just hurts, and all this talking is making it worse. They can barely make sense of the words as is. They turn their face towards Oro’s chest, hoping to block out the light and sound.
“Kid, can you hear me?” Oro asks, and they shake their head. No, they can’t hear him, because if they do, that means he’ll want them to move…
“Can you sit up? I can get your slate,” he says. They shake their head again. Their head hurts, and they don’t want to do anything more right now.
Oro’s claw settles on their head, and they flinch. He pulls away; they try to relax their furrowed brow, but it barely helps.
“Mato, what do we do? Should we take them…?”
“I don’t know,” Mato whispers. “I don’t know what to do, Oro. I don’t know any medical treatments that work against the infection.”
“Would Sly know? What about Ghost, do they know anything?”
“No,” Mato sighs. “Ghost has been trying to help another bug overcome the infection, but they haven’t made progress. There isn’t a solution I know that will help.”
They shift, and Oro nestles their head against his arm.
“Shh, kid, I know,” he hushes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to help…”
With great difficulty, they lift their arms and reach for his other hand. They don’t know where it is, but Oro’s claw appears. They pull it against their chest and hug.
“Their head seems sensitive,” Mato says uncertainly. “Maybe a cool cloth could help?”
“Yes, thank you,” Oro sighs. “That’s a great idea, thank you.”
Soon, a cool cloth settles across their forehead. They relax as the pain abates, and despite Oro’s pleas, they fade away again.
…
The empty place is once again empty.
There’s no sign of Her; not a single speck of color, really, just shades of gray. It looks rather like the Abyss, they realize, watching dark, wispy flickers and spirals surround them.
It’s peaceful.
It’s not happy, sad, or angry; nothing extreme or violent like it was with Her.
It’s just… calm, devoid of conflict and strife.
It’s nice, they decide. It’s really, really nice.
They sit, watching the shadowy clouds swirl and disappear in front of them.
They close their eyes.
Something changes; there’s a presence nearby—a presence emanating fearfulness, doubt, sadness. They don’t know how else to describe it. It just is.
They open their eyes, and they just stare.
It’s them.
It looks just like them—their long, lopsided horns, their swishing cloak. It looks like the Broken Siblings in the Abyss—the shades. The ones who didn’t make it, the ones who played with the gentle one, the ones who attacked the Light and vanished.
But it’s them.
Their shade cowers under their attention.
They frown, rising to their feet. The shade flinches back, and their heart squeezes.
Is this what Oro sees?
They reach out, and it hesitantly lets them pull it closer.
It’s okay, they think, I won’t hurt you.
Their shade nods, looking away.
Like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place, everything clicks. It’s not particularly dramatic; there’s no great realization of what they’re seeing. It’s a quiet, tender realization, one they’ve been vaguely aware of for a long time now.
They’re afraid because they have something special to lose. They’re afraid because they don’t want Oro to leave them behind again. They want to stay.
Their shade flickers, uncertainty clear.
They reach out, pulling it into a hug.
Their fear—their shade, their cowardice—
They don’t feel ashamed of it anymore. It’s not shameful or weak, not to them, not anymore. How can they get angry at themself for worrying about losing the best thing that’s ever happened to them? How can they possibly reject the part of themself that wants to preserve the life they’ve found, the life they’ve built with Oro?
They pull their shade close, putting as much love as they can into the hug.
You don’t have to be afraid anymore, they think. We are loved. Even if something changes, we’ll always remember, right?
They think about all the card games they played with Oro. All the times he comforted them after a nightmare, how he taught them to dance. Oro, carrying them around the hut just because they asked or hoped. Oro, finding foods they enjoy, and giving them extra honey. Oro, telling them stories, teaching them to write, use their nail, build a fire, wash the dishes, splashing them with water, blowing bubbles—Oro, just wanting to see them laugh—happy, young, whole.
They blink away their own tears. Oro loves them. No matter what happens, they know Oro loved them. They know Oro will always love them; they know he’s worried, waiting…
We’ll be okay, they think. Oro will make sure of it.
Their shade nods, and in a flurry of spirals, it disappears.
But it doesn’t really.
They feel their shade’s presence seep into them, and they smile. They feel more like themself—happy, freer than they’ve felt in a long, long time. They let the void wisps surround them, and they feel whole.
…
They open their eyes, and the first thing they see is Oro, holding them but looking up. Relief washes over them, and they launch forward, throwing their hands around his neck.
Oro startles, half a swear leaving him as they hug him as tight as they can.
“Oh, Wyrm,” Oro breathes. “You’re okay? How are you—I was so…”
They nod, smiling and letting their tears happen. Oro’s okay, they’re okay, and everything will be alright. They cry-laugh, just holding onto Oro.
He’s talking, but they’re so overwhelmed they can’t properly listen. It’s only when he pries them off him that they start to focus.
“How’s your head? I put some salve where you got burned, but—”
They feel their cheek, surprised to discover that it stings just a little. They examine their hand, and sure enough, some of the green paste is on their fingers. They smile, fighting the temptation to stick their hand in their mouth, just to see what Oro says.
“Kid? How are you? Is the infection…?”
She’s-gone, they sign. She-won’t-come-back.
“Are you sure? Kid, don’t—”
She-won’t, they repeat. I-laughed-until-she-left.
Oro sighs, a smile replacing his worry. “You’re a miracle worker, kid.”
“Can I talk to Pip? Please?”
Oro looks furious, and they—
They remember what Tiso said.
They look up; Uncle Mato is standing next to Tiso, looking grim. When he notices their attention, however, he gives them a thin smile. Tiso won’t meet their eyes. He’s pretending to, but he’s looking just a bit to the left.
He’s wearing such an un-Tiso-like expression: worried, sad, self-conscious. Tiso’s clearly trying not to look so guilt-ridden, but he’s never had a good poker face. His body language says more than he ever could.
If-you-don’t-apologize, they sign, we-can’t-play-cards.
Oro grunts, and Tiso’s face lights up with surprise.
“Don’t let him off the hook,” Oro grumbles, scowling at them. “What he did was unacceptable.”
Mato’s grim expression twitches with a barely concealed smile.
“I know,” Tiso says, stepping forward. “I fucked up, Pip, and I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it, any of it. If you still want to give me a black eye—”
Maybe-later, they sign, grinning. But-I-know-how-you-can-make-it-up-to-me.
“How?” Oro bursts, scowling. “How the fuck can he make up for—”
“Language,” Mato says, scowling. “Oro, they’re a child.”
“And you’re a self-righteous bastard,” Oro grumbles.
I-thought-I-was-the-B-A-S-T—
Tiso bursts out laughing. Oro scowls, swatting their hands down. “Now’s not the time.”
“They practically died, and you’re telling them they’re not allowed to make jokes?” Tiso scoffs. “Let them feel joy, you sick fuck.”
“Tiso!”
Oro rolls his eyes. “Kid, does your head hurt?”
No.
“Do you need anything? Water, food?”
They shrug.
“Okay, fine,” Oro mutters, sounding terribly annoyed. “It’s not like you’re recovering from a serious injury or anything.”
They reach up, pulling at the fluffy collar at his cloak. He looks down at them, and they pet his shoulder with their bad hand.
“Are you sure…”
They nod.
“Okay.” They feel the gravity behind it, Oro’s trust in their honesty.
“How do I make it up to you, Pip?” Tiso asks, warily stepping forward. He’s wearing such a serious, genuine expression, and despite Oro’s grumbling, they can’t bear to keep their forgiveness from Tiso.
They smile. Teach-me-how-to—S-W-E-A-R—in-sign.
Oro bursts into laughter, and Tiso wears a big, silly grin. Uncle Mato looks terribly confused, and they giggle at his expression.
“What…?”
“You can’t stop me if you don’t know what they asked,” Tiso says, looking a lot lighter. Mato looks alarmed, and their giggling worsens.
“Oro…”
Oro waves his claw. “It’s their request, and Tiso needs to honor it.”
“Yeah,” Tiso grins. “I’m sorry, Mato, but I’ll have to stay here to—”
Oro scoffs, doing a good job of hiding his smile from everyone but them. “You’ve got a long way to go before you’re welcome back here. Just because I’m letting you earn their forgiveness doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
Tiso nods, ducking his head. Mato gives Oro a hard look, and after several moments, he nods. Approvingly, they think, but it’s not really their business.
“Now, get out of here. Lost needs to sleep.”
Mato nods, but Tiso hesitates. Uncle Mato must nudge Tiso before he moves, but he leaves, nonetheless. The door clicks shut.
They look up at Oro; he looks so tense and, well. Lost.
They wrap Oro’s cloak around themself, and immediately, his attention is on them. They smile and make themself cozy, playfully pulling on the cloak and making Oro duck towards them. They pet his head as best they can, and Oro smiles softly.
“Don’t get into any more trouble, okay?” Oro mutters. “You’re going to stay safe and happy, alright? You’re not allowed to get hurt or sick again, kid. I mean it.”
They nod solemnly. They don’t want to get hurt again, either.
I-love-you, they sign.
Oro huffs. “I love you more.”
I-still-win, they sign.
Oro smiles, shaking his head fondly. “And I’m still the winner.”
They sigh, settling back into Oro’s arms.
Oro’s smile turns a little sad, and so does theirs. So much is said in the silence, and their eyes water with overwhelming emotions they don’t know how to define.
They’re home.
Oro gently takes their hands in his, just petting and massaging them. They close their eyes, feeling a quiet, passive joy.
They’re home. They’re finally home.