Chapter Text
Dryya knew the last time she felt solid ground beneath her feet. It was during her final moments, before her death, when she fought the mantises. The Black, for its part, whatever it had been, was not solid. It was tangible, yes, but not solid. It was like liquid, almost, or air given texture... like darkness itself given physical form. Yes, she knew the last time she had felt solid ground. The problem came in that she did not know how long ago that was.
At present, she found herself on her knees in a room she knew intimately well: the training grounds of the White Palace. This ground, certainly, was solid. Hesitantly, she got to her feet and looked around. Everything was as she remembered it, down to the smallest details. The ground was, of course, white; a black pattern was set into it, consisting of two loops which intersected one another in the middle of the yard, forming a perfect oval for combatants to stand in. The white parts of the floor were cobbled and the black was made of intricately carved shells.
The walls were white and black as well. Weapons racks lined their length, full of nails for new trainees to use. On either side of the yard, there were covered walkways which extended deeper into the palace. Beyond them were yet more training grounds, smaller than the main area. The White Lady’s beloved vegetation was everywhere, with silvery vines growing on the walls and flowers and grasses sprouting throughout the yard.
Dryya struggled to her feet and shakily made her way to one of the walls. She ran a hand over its familiar surface, tracing every nick and contour she had become acquainted with in her centuries of service to the Pale Court. Her hand stopped over one hole in particular, sinking inside. Even this was the same: it was in this spot that, after a fierce spar with Isma, Dryya had disarmed her fellow Knight and sent her nail plunging into the wall, creating this very hole. The blade had been buried so deep that it took Hegemol’s famed strength to extract–but he was not with them during that session, instead being out on a mission in the Kingdom’s Edge. Isma and Dryya had to wait for two weeks for their large friend to come back and extract the thing. She remembered well his throaty laughter as the tale was recounted and Isma’s good-natured smile. Dryya herself had been the most embarrassed by the whole affair: she tried and failed to pull the nail out herself many times, first in Isma’s company and then later that night when she thought herself alone. She wasn’t; Ze’mer had been training late and watched her friend curse up a storm as she tried and failed to work the nail. The other knights, Ogrim in particular, had a good laugh at her expense the next morning.
Dryya smiled fondly as she recounted the memory. She hadn’t thought of that particular incident in years. There had been little time for reminiscing during the majority of her long guard, though in its early years she recalled there being too much.
Dryya turned from the hole left by Isma’s nail back to the whole of the training yards. As glad as she was to see this place again, her presence there made no sense. She had been floating. She saw Hegemol, and then… her Lady. It was her light that brought her here, but where was here? This could not be the White Palace. It was practically on the other side of the kingdom from the Queen’s Gardens, and besides, she was dead, wasn’t she? Something was wrong here.
“Look up,” said a sad, musical voice.
Dryya knew it well and did as it said without question. She looked up. Her eyes widened. The sky was… well, first of all, there was a sky. One could not see the sky from the White Palace. Not a single room in the place was open-concept, not even its courtyards. The real training grounds were lively and full of vegetation that stretched overhead quite a ways up and stopped shy of the roof, which was a giant glass dome.
Second, even if the sky was visible from the training grounds, Dryya was fairly certain it wasn’t meant to be orange.
“My lady?” she called uncertainly. “What is this? Where am I?”
“We,” replied the voice of the Queen, “are in the Dream Realm. In your mind, to be specific.”
A gathering of white-colored light appeared at Dryya’s side. It took shape quickly, forming into a long body and branches that flowed like hair. The white light dampened, then, leaving behind a pale shape: the White Lady, fully formed and looking as she did in her prime. Younger, shorter, and with functional eyes to boot. They were as blue sapphires… Dryya could get lost in them.
There were times, usually late at night, where Dryya reflected on her duties and her devotion to the White Lady. She was one of the Five, sworn to the King, but she had always found herself drawn to his wife. The Pale King was a warrior of infinite renown and a man Dryya deeply admired. He was strong, dangerous, intelligent, and fearless. She had served at his side in countless battles and had come to rely on her liege as her focal point, her guide, her instructor. All the Pale King had to do was say the word and Captain Dryya would do anything and everything in her power to see it done.
The White Lady, though, was different. She was her husband’s opposite in many ways: subtle where he was brash, gentle where he was harsh, soft where he was sharp. The Pale King was an inspired ruler who led them all to greatness and it was easy to be swept away by his grandiosity. Dryya herself was, then. Maybe she still was. She was a warrior, after all–the greatest of the Five–and she never wanted to be anything else. Still, it was not until she met the White Lady that she truly understood the value of peace. Sitting with her Queen inside her chambers with a cup of hot tea and a smoldering fire, learning to cook, sharing long tales of their long lives… it helped her to understand what she was protecting and why she was doing it. When she said she defended Hallownest and its people, she did it so that they could experience the simple pleasures she did when in the company of her Lady.
It was on those nights, when she contemplated such things, that she wondered which of her monarchs she felt the greater devotion towards. It was a question she did not feel she was capable of answering. The Pale King was her master and she was sworn to him by honor, but the White Lady was… she was special.
“The Dream Realm?” Dryya asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know it.”
“It is a place of energy,” the White Lady said, gazing at her knight with those giant blue eyes. “All mortals dream. That stuff of soul, the imagination, it is the source of this realm. The Dream Realm is typically only accessible by Higher Beings or those mortals with very special talents. Or…”
The White Lady’s sorrowful voice grew moreso, as it was when Dryya was lost in the Black. She reached forwards and took one of her Lady’s hands.
“...Or the dead,” the Queen finished.
Dryya absorbed the information easily enough. It made sense that the Higher Beings had their own little playground. That didn’t confuse her. She had seen both the Pale King and the White Lady perform feats of unnatural ability before; why wouldn’t they be able to enter the minds of others?
As for being dead, well…
Dryya squeezed her Lady’s hand. The Queen, surprised, tilted her head. “You knew.”
“I had a pretty good idea,” Dryya said, smiling. “My nap was lasting a little long.”
“...indeed,” the White Lady responded quietly. Her ethereal form seemed to deflate. It made Dryya’s heart ache. “I am sorry, my dearest knight. It was never my intention for you… you to…”
She cut herself off with a bitter laugh. “I did not even know you had fallen. Did you know that? For months you sat outside my cocoon and I hadn’t the slightest idea you were slain. The fiercest of the Five, so dutiful. Always you checked in on me, but I could not be bothered to do the same for you.”
The White Lady shook her head. Her branches swayed with the motion, ethereal and hypnotic. “You deserve better, Lady Dryya.”
“We all did,” Dryya said softly. She again squeezed her Lady’s hand. “I sold my life in your service. As the years dragged on, I knew it would happen eventually. I have no regrets.”
The White Lady closed her eyes. Neither of them spoke for a moment, enjoying to the best of their ability the simple ache of the other’s presence. Sensing that her Queen perhaps needed a respite from such heavy topics as life and death, Dryya gestured to the room around them. “You said we were in my mind? Why here?”
The White Lady opened her eyes and peered at her knight curiously. “The landscape of one’s mind takes the form of their choosing. Your subconscious designed this arena for us based on your memory of this yard. Typically, the chosen landscape will be of a special place close to one’s heart.”
The Queen took in the room they were in, from the walkways to her own reconstructed vegetation to the carvings on the floor. “I am not surprised you brought us here, to this place.”
“I did spend a lot of time here,” Dryya said fondly.
“Mm, I recall,” the Queen replied. She indicated the hole left by Isma’s nail. “Something about a damned, accursed scrap of metal that dared to defy one of the Five, yes?”
Dryya’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “You knew about that?”
The White Lady laughed, a sensual and musical sound that melted Dryya’s heart. She hadn’t heard her Lady laugh a single time since their retreat to her gardens.
“A Queen has her ways,” she said mischievously.
Dryya smiled, her heart racing. Her expression was mirrored by the Queen’s, the two women enjoying each other’s company in a familiar, easy way that they had not been able to in years. Despite her present peace, however, there were still questions that nagged at the back of her mind. Questions that needed answering.
“My Queen,” she said, “when did I fall?”
The White Lady’s smile vanished from her lips. Dryya hated herself for being the cause. She would have slain every mantis in the Gardens if it put that smile back on the Lady’s lips.
“It has been nearly three months,” the Queen said softly.
Dryya accepted the news, nodding slowly. Three months. She’d been dead for three months. It didn’t feel like three months. It felt like she hadn’t been in that ever-black for any time at all. An hour, maybe two. But then, she had felt so peaceful. Time was a meaningless thing back in that realm.
“When did you… take notice?” she asked.
The White Lady flinched. Dryya felt guilt well up in her soul. It wasn’t as if her Lady could leave her cocoon; she was bound tightly by her chains, and even if those weren’t a factor, the cocoon was crafted of the toughest shell and most powerful seals available to her. Breaking through it to get out, as she would have to given her current enlarged size, was simply not an option. Dryya was meant to regularly check in on her and update her on how things were going outside. No contingencies were made for her death. There was nowhere else for her Lady to retreat to, no pool of manpower to draw on for her replacement. If Dryya fell, as she had, the Queen would be left to fend for herself.
“Two weeks ago,” the Queen answered, guilt lacing through the melodic pitch of her voice. Guilt was an unhappy thing to marr so beautiful a voice, Dryya thought, not for the first time. It was a singular source of discord in her otherwise perfect harmony; even her ever-present sorrow had become part of her melody. Guilt, while not exactly new, had not been this extreme in the Lady for some time.
“The cause was a strange one. I had begun to worry when I heard footsteps entering my cocoon. I knew they were not yours. They were too small and rapid. I knew also, somehow, that whoever they belonged to meant me no harm. It was… one of my children, Dryya. My Wyrm’s vessels.”
“A vessel,” Dryya breathed, memories crashing through her mind like a tidal wave. She was privy to more of the King’s secrets than most of the Pale Court, even the rest of the Five, but she had been told there were only a handful of vessels. The exact number eluded her after so long; five, maybe, or perhaps six. Further, she had been told they were all dead. Imperfect, the King had called them.
Imperfect, all save one.
Look how that had turned out.
“One of my spawn returned to me at last,” the White Lady said regretfully. “We… spoke. Rather, I did. It had questions, I was certain, and I answered them. It wanted the other half of my beloved Wyrm’s charm.”
Dryya didn’t interrupt. It was after the Kingsoul, then? She could think of only one place such a thing would be useful for a vessel.
“When it made to leave, I asked about you. I asked if it had encountered you somewhere out in the Gardens, if you were perhaps hurt or stranded. It waited a moment, then left. When it returned, it had your nail.”
The White Lady’s voice was shaky, her musical notes thrown into disarray. “You had fallen right outside my door, and I was unaware.”
“You must know I don’t begrudge you for that, my lady,” Dryya said softly. Her eyes twinkled. “If you wish to make it up to me, however, I would request that you keep my nail polished. I did a lot of killing with it the last time I held it and I imagine it’s quite dirty. I do have a reputation to maintain, even in death.”
The White Lady’s eyes narrowed incredulously. Then, she snorted. Despite herself, her face lit up with mirth. “You insufferable creature,” she chuckled. “That would be what you’re concerned with, wouldn’t it? I open my heart up to you and you’re worried about your nail.”
“My armor had not been touched in centuries by any foe, let alone a handful of grimy, infected mantises,” Dryya scoffed in faux offense. “There can be no greater blow dealt than to one’s pride. That my armor is pierced is bad enough, but my nail at the very least should be treated with the respect it is due.”
The White Lady smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Alas, my beloved knight, I do not believe I will be able to perform that task for you.”
Confused, Dryya made to respond. Before she could, however, the ground began to shake. A dull roar sounded, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Dryya stumbled, nearly losing her footing, and looked up. Overhead, the orange sky was turning black.
Of course. It’s always something.
“What’s happening?!” she cried.
The humor was gone from the White Lady’s face. “You’re dying,” she said sadly.
Dryya looked at her incredulously. “Dying? Last I checked, Majesty, there was no such thing as dying twice!”
“You’re not dead,” the White Lady said, her voice echoing inside Dryya’s mind as the dim roar grew louder. It was the same cadence as always, soft and soothing. “Only mostly. Yours is a strong will, Dryya. You’re so very strong. Even after almost three months, the faintest ember of your soul remains attached to your body.”
Not dead?!
The roar grew into a crescendo. The training grounds began to crack beneath her feet. Weapons racks fell over as the walls collapsed into chunks and dissolved into golden mist.They weren’t the only thing: as Dryya looked back to her Lady for guidance, she saw her form becoming vague. Hazy, as Hegemol’s had been. To her purest horror, she saw the White Lady begin to dissolve as well.
“Majesty! What is this?!” she cried.
“My brave knight,” the Queen spoke inside her mind. She sounded different. Tender, almost hopeful. Were the situation different, Dryya would have been glad. “I am reduced, both in power and will. I have spent so long in my garden, isolated, that I have diminished. My petals wilt. My branches dry. My roots decay. What is more is that I have felt my Wyrm pass from this world, at long last. He held on, as I did, despite his surrender so long ago. I do not know where he has gone. I can’t feel him anymore. Perhaps he has traveled the path you nearly did.”
Dryya felt herself lifted into the air. The ground fell away beneath her. Up above, near the Black, a glowing white portal opened. She was being sent towards it even as the White Lady remained where she was, flecks of her essence breaking off and vanishing into the Black.
“I cannot go on, dear Dryya. There is so little of me left. It is time that I joined my husband, wherever he may be. If that means death, then so be it.”
“Take me with you!” Dryya begged. She was starting to see what was happening and she hated it.
What was left of the White Lady’s face smiled, then broke apart into golden mist. “Where I go, you cannot yet follow. I use the last of my power for you, Dryya. My faithful guardian, my watchful protector, my closest companion. I expend myself to restore you.”
“NO!” Dryya screamed, thrashing wildly against the gentle White just as she had the warm Black. “My Lady, do not- this is not how it is meant to be! Let me go! Let me die! I died for you!”
A strand of the white particles reached out and brushed against Dryya’s cheek. “My dear knight, I know you do not want this. I know you will not understand. Do not think less of me. You have given me so much. Let me give you something, just this once.”
Dryya continued to struggle. The portal grew nearer, brighter, larger. For the first time, the White Lady’s light burned.
“My Queen, please! Don’t! You can’t die!”
Don’t send me away-
Don’t leave me-
Please!
There were no more words from her Lady. Dryya saw the Black surrounding the portal, surrounding her, racing down to envelop what was left of the training grounds.
“My Lady!”
Nothing.
“Majesty!”
Her legs touched the portal and passed through.
“Don’t go!”
A gentle sigh rang out, again reminding Dryya of the endless nothing she had apparently been stuck in for three months. Her torso passed through the portal, then one of her arms. She struggled fiercely, even harder than she had against the Black. It wasn’t enough.
Then, suddenly, She was there. One last time, Dryya looked upon the visage of her Lady. She was spectral, nearly see-through. The Queen of Hallownest leaned in and pressed her forehead against her knight’s. “Goodbye, my warrior,” she whispered. “Perhaps… in another life…”
Dryya reached out, desperate to grab hold of her and force her through the portal. Her hand wafted through the Lady’s image as it dissolved like mist. Horrified, she made to scream, but then the portal enveloped her whole. She tumbled, head over heels, into an abyss of endless white. It grew brighter and more intense until it became unbearable and she was forced to shut her eyes.
And so the White Lady moved on from this world, and the Knight Dryya lost her last and dearest friend.