Chapter Text
QUIRREL
He had, truthfully, been expecting worse.
Quirrel carefully pulls the curtain back across the door, an extra layer of protection against sunbeams getting in alongside someone, and circles around to the side to confirm that Hollow is indeed relatively calm. They must be, for Oro to not be paying them any visible mind, but-
Ah! Or they might be asleep. Not quite the same as being calm, given that sheer exhaustion can manage it just as well as lack of fear, but an improvement over many of the possibilities.
Rather pleased, he locates a suitable cushion, one he vaguely recalls Ghost stealing from a particularly well-appointed building with far too much filigree, and makes himself a spot to sit nearby. “I saw Hornet with Dryya and thought I’d come and see if I could help distract them. I’ve been told I’m rather good at filling silences, after all- though I see the silence might be welcomed at the moment.”
Oro’s only response is a noncommittal sort of monosyllabic sound, followed by a muttered expletive as whatever he’s trying to do with a bit of stitching slips.
Quirrel has never been particularly good at being quiet, but he does like to think he’s developed some sense of when someone wants not to talk. Accordingly, he leans back to regard the situation at large, sizing up the tableau.
That’s rather close to be sitting, when not actively trying to touch someone. Maybe Oro was petting their horns before they fell asleep, or…
He doesn’t quite manage to contain the “oh”, or the pleased little antenna-curl, when realization hits.
Oro aims an impressively flat look at him for that. “What.”
“You made sure they could see clearly, didn’t you? Because this,” gesturing to where Oro is sitting, to how Hollow is still lying with their less injured eye towards his hands, “certainly looks it.”
A huff, and a tug at one stitch, perhaps more aggressively than is needed. “They were watching. Couldn’t say whether they were curious, or just needed something to stare at other than the door, but…”
“They couldn’t watch properly from any further away,” Quirrel finishes, leaning down for a better look. “Oh dear. Perhaps some glasses are in order once they’ve had some time to relax. Or a monocle, I suppose- there probably isn’t much that any sort of lens can do for their left eye.”
“Assuming whatever’s wrong with their vision can be helped by a lens at all,” Oro mutters, then promptly hisses something else profane as the needle finds its way into his fingerpad. Quiet, but made harsh by surprise, cut off sharply with a look down at Hollow.
They don’t so much as twitch.
Oh, Quirrel wants to touch. Hollow, for the pleasant feeling of bone cool and living against his palm, for the subtle pressure into his hand, to make a the silent offering of I’m sorry and you’re safe and you’re welcome to this, as much as you like- and, in this moment, he would especially like to touch Oro. To lean against him, at minimum, until he stops looking so much like he’s expecting Hollow to recoil from the slightest thing he does. Both would be so easy, both feel right in a deep-rooted, instinct-driven manner- but one is a bad idea, risks terribly startling a perpetually uneasy and definitely very strong godling, and the other would probably not be appreciated. Oro is not a pillbug.
Oro would probably not make for an especially cuddly pillbug either. Though he might appreciate being able to curl up.
Whatever expression Quirrel manages at the mental image of a sphere of annoyed shell with three sharp little horns earns him another stare from Oro. He opts not to explain himself.
-
Half an embroidered skull later, Oro glances up at him, then down beside himself once more. “They need something to do. Other than staring at people and winding themself up like their whole sire-line does on getting half a chance.”
“Shield, at least, seems less prone to it,” Quirrel comments idly, watching Hollow twitch in their sleep. They’ve just begun moving, subtly, though with none of the tension that would hint at a nightmare, and he finds himself inclined to keep an eye on them. “Or subtler about it, I suppose.”
This was perhaps not the part that warranted a response.
Ah well.
A moment of shared silence, of mutually watching for any sign that Hollow might prefer to be woken. They seem calm enough- no clawing at the nest, no flinching or trying to curl up. Only small motions of their head, as if looking around, and a just-visible grasp on a fold of fabric.
Satisfied that they’re only dreaming, Quirrel shifts his attention back to Oro. “You’re entirely right. Though that’s a challenge in itself, given… well.”
Everything.
Oro, still half-watching, huffs wryly and picks up his embroidery once more. “Not this, at least.”
Hollow is still twitching. Quirrel leans to the side slightly, giving himself a better view less out of any concern and more out of curiosity as to their dreams. “Nothing that requires much exertion, clearly. Something tactile, maybe, though their dexterity would pose an issue there.”
A general noise of agreement from Oro, and no further response to his thinking-aloud.
“Perhaps I ought to take Arya and go poking around the portion of the city set up for larger bugs,” he muses, “maybe look for a puzzle shop that didn’t expect their customer base to all have hands the size of mine. If nothing else, Arya would probably enjoy whatever of that might have survived. I wonder how well puzzles keep.”
Another pause, watching Hollow once more. Their legs are twitching now, on the verge of kicking them right out of the nest.
Oro, without looking up from his work, shifts closer to block them in.
-
The position they eventually settle into cannot be comfortable. Crumpled up, with their arm half-trapped under them in a manner that somehow still leaves their hand jutting up into the air, head at a strange angle that shoves their face firmly into Oro’s leg.
“You know, Ghost sleeps in odd positions at times, but they don’t have nearly enough limb to emphasize it quite so much,” Quirrel comments, half-watching Oro’s embroidery progress. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone manage to look, in their sleep, quite so much like a wadded-up page of notes. It’s startlingly endearing.”
A twitch of those long horns, subtle enough that he almost misses it.
ORO
Hmph. Not the best timing there.
Oro doesn’t need to see their face to know that Hollow is starting to rouse. The hint of tension pressed against him, the gradual hastening of their breathing, tells him enough even without Quirrel having caught them off guard.
At least they aren’t tense enough to suggest anything like fear. Confusion, maybe- he doubts anyone has described any action of theirs as endearing before.
Now. What woke them?
In the edge of his vision, the door opens, admitting the answer. And potential trouble.
PEBBLE
Feels like bait, a little. Something they might want, left conspicuously available, their -sister? She is, isn’t she, blood even if they have no actual blood- gone somewhere else.
Feels like bait. Except that their sister already caught Pebble, had the others lured, and then let go. No need for bait.
Seems safe. Or, close enough? She could believe close-enough.
Thorn can’t. Thorn, club in hand, head lowered enough to show their horn-tips properly in warning, standing between her and the rest of the room. Glaring at- she thinks Oro. For being biggest.
For their caution, their fear, she stays close. Waits, pressed to their back, only nudging a little, until they lift their horns and step forward. Closer, closer, slowly, eyes flicking between Oro and Quirrel, bristling up for a fight-
“Hmph. You can just ask,” Oro growls, and- moves. Out of the way, just slightly, leaving space for them-all to get to the nest. Matched at the other side by Quirrel.
Almost enclosed, the space offered up. Between two fighting-capable bugs, with the nest blocking a third side.
Oh, she wants to take it. To get closer, touch, reassure and talk and curl up close, wants to see what might be wrong- because something is, their new sibling’s Void-song too-quiet and too pulled back even for something half-asleep. Wants, wants, wants, but Thorn hates confined spaces the most of them all, does not like to risk it-
And, her pressed to their back, Ammonite quiet-alert at her side, they step in regardless.
Not only for her, she knows. Knows, as their free hand comes up, slowly, to almost-touch their new sibling’s mask. Knew, already, earlier, feeling a flame-swell of emotion from Thorn.
It’s their breathing. The soft rasp, almost labored, scar-tissue-twisted from what should be silent. All but rattling in their chest.
She has the ghost of something-like-that in her own.
[Failed Vessel]
Oh.
This sibling has claws. Not the dull, stubby claws it had at this size, the claws Arya has now- true claws, some broken, two still needle-sharp enough to feel as their hand presses carefully to its mask.
Strange thing for its attention to latch onto, this. Why they have sharp claws, almost befitting a Vessel in its final molt, when the rest of their shell is still thin and soft.
Unimportant. And yet.
Their touch shifts. Tracing the crack through its skull, carefully, as though pressing too hard could split it open.
This touch will not break it. The weapon, though…
Slow, sluggish, mind weighted with sleep as though by draped chainmail, its attention fixes properly on the spiked club in its sibling’s hand. A heavy thing, already cracked and bound back together, wrapped in thorns.
They want something of it. Something held in a sense like a ragged whisper against it, a curl of shadow soft against the ruin made of the mind it should not have, prompting a response it does not know how to give.
There are claws pressed to its mask. A club near its eye, held at the ready. Another’s presence against it, insistent, reaching further as it does not respond.
It cannot respond. Does not understand what they want, and could not regardless, with them not permitted to wield it.
It cannot obey. It cannot obey, and there are claws against its face, a weapon brought almost to bear.
It knows what to expect.
ORO
The look Thorn carries is a familiar one. Every line of them drawn tight, weapon and body at the ready, braced for a fight. Oro, carefully, does not size them up as thoroughly as he wants to, much as the tattered cloak and sharp-edged wariness have him wanting to grab them before they can scuttle out of examination range again. Vessel or no, they may well have managed to come to lasting harm by now, with-
They stiffen. Air hissing sharply between their fangs, a few smaller cloak-fronds around their shoulders bristling like their sister’s spines, all but flinching back from Hollow. Bowstring-taut, nearly frozen in place, the look of them gone from wariness to what almost seems like horror.
Fuck.
As he and Quirrel trade looks, Thorn wavers, visibly uncertain, lifting their club less like they intend to swing and more as though they might throw it across the room. Halfway through winding up, they seem to reconsider, shoving it under their cloak and out of existence to instead grab at- one of the other two. Pebble. Who, tellingly, gives no apparent protest at being all but shoved into the nest, instead looking up at…
Why people keep looking to Oro for answers, he cannot fathom. Particularly here, where the problem is something he can’t hear or see. Something, what- through the Void-link? Heard, or said, or-
Expected. At being approached by someone upset and armed.
Something that had Thorn willing to disarm themself in response.
“Oh,” Quirrel whispers, fine accompaniment to the lead making itself present in Oro’s gut, “no, my friend, you’re all right,” reaching a hand towards the four and stopping only as Thorn hisses, “no one is going to-“
Thorn snarls, jaws parting to show their fangs, and Quirrel wisely falls silent.
In the tense silence that follows, Pebble looks around the room, then grabs both of the others’ cloaks and tugs gently. Ammonite goes easily, settling into the edge of the nest near Pebble, but Thorn lingers for a few long moments before slowly sitting down. Not in the nest- outside it, firmly between their siblings and the room, claws all but digging into their legs.
After another few awkward moments, Quirrel clicks his mandibles, carefully getting to his feet, and backs away. “I doubt me giving you another person to watch will do any good here. I’ll leave you be, shall I?” he declares, and promptly turns around, marching himself out the door.
Leaving Oro alone with four Vessels, more than one of them obviously scared of him.
Not helpful.
The fuck does he do with this. With one sibling frightened of another, the fear brought about not by their sibling’s actions but by an echo of the past, and with the stare at him like he might be somehow responsible.
Entirely at a loss for any other action he can take that will not rile someone up further, Oro picks up his embroidery again, shifting his eyes largely away from the huddle of Vessels. “I assume none of you plan on hurting each other?”
Several head-shakes, and a low, rattled hiss.
“Right. Any of you want something from me, let me know.”
They’re definitely waiting for something. Not from him; Pebble is watching Hollow, being subtly watched in return, and Thorn keeps glancing over their shoulder. Over and over, the motion growing slightly more agitated-looking every time, as though something ought to be happening that isn’t.
A dozen stitches later, Pebble tucks herself tighter against Hollow, waving a hand for his attention. When he looks, they hesitate for a moment, then speak, the motions enlarged to compensate for their tiny paws and his distance away. “Hurt? Not-“ a pause, grasping at thin air, “-no sign, no-“ a tap to their forehead, then a far gentler one to Hollow’s, then a gesture comprised entirely of the motions that turn a sign to a question rather than a statement.
Hm.
“They aren’t talking to you?”
A sharp nod.
Hm. Not a good sign. They surely aren’t still half-asleep, not with this happening around and on top of them, so they ought to be able to respond to the others. Ought to have more than noticed whatever overtures are being directed at them. Something else must be wrong, then, or-
Oh.
Oro sets his work aside once more, to avoid inadvertently snapping anything, and far more carefully forces his voice to something like calm. “Hollow. You are allowed to talk to your siblings.”
PEBBLE
Allowed what.
As Thorn bristles, she sits back in bafflement, and even Ammonite’s normally stone-steady presence crackles strangely at the edges, Oro eyes them all and keeps talking. “Or to… think at them, or whatever it is you can manage. To anyone else, for that matter. You don’t have to, but you are allowed.”
Why would they need to be allowed? And why, why does that pull a reaction from them, a faint shadow of surprise-turned-unease, half-seen like something beneath deep water but still far, far more than-
Acceptance. Flat, level acceptance, wrapped around their thought, their understanding, that Thorn meant to hurt them. Not fear, not anger, only- only oh. I see. I know this.
Unflinching. Like it was expected.
For them not to blink at that, then to falter at this-
And no response, still, over the Void-link. Not to her nudges, to Thorn’s repeated, growing attempts at getting something from them, some idea of what was happening and where the threat might be. Only the faintest hint of presence, little more than if they were asleep, quiet enough for her to almost think them unable to answer at all. Save that she can feel where her song meets theirs, the joining-place laden with something like splintered flint but not severed entirely, can feel their attention shift to her as she tries once more.
Sibling?
Nothing. Worse than nothing. The faintest curl of something-like-apology, as if not meant to be heard at all, and the subtlest press of their horns against their back.
Thorn growls, cloak bristling further, and whirls to face them properly. Hesitates for a moment, uncharacteristic, one hand raised halfway to touching, then reaches out in song and song alone. Seeking, prompting, sweeping her own song up in reaching for the whisper-quiet impression of another, in insisting let me hear you-
The instant they touch properly, Hollow flinches. Too-small, too-silent presence that she can feel should be something bigger, shying away, recoiling like burnt parchment curling away from flame, echoed far-too-subtle in their entire frame pressing down further into the nest.
Her sharp-edged sibling reels back. Body and mind matching, her sense of them roiling through feelings too quick and muddled to properly grasp- dismay over anger over sorrow over something sick.
Caught between the fear running almost-tangible down Hollow’s spine behind her and the gut-churning echo of wrong wrong wrong at having caused it, Pebble shivers and leans into Ammonite for support, gripping their cloak tight in pleading wordless for- anything.
Anything she can use to help.
Ammonite, quieter than her-and-Thorn but always watching, nudges her attention to Oro. To how he’s moved, half-rising and stilled there, almost reaching out. Eyes on, not Thorn, but Hollow.
Maybe-
Pebble wriggles free enough to stand up, and reaches, grabbing at thin air for emphasis, to him. Without the right words to ask, to explain, to do anything but hope-
He moves. Carefully, around to the side of Thorn, drawing a hiss on reflex as the motion shakes them free enough from their dismay to notice. Eyes on Hollow, still, settling carefully next to the nest, hand raised almost to touch.
Almost is not what she wants. She would ask, would much rather ask, but what little speech she has will be far too slow, and with the sense of one sibling still curled up far-too-small and the other still reeling she will not accept slow, not when she can simply-
A quick wave to grab his attention fully, to not startle, then she grabs his hand and pulls. Pressing his palm, quick as she can without hurting, to Hollow’s horn.
An instant’s worsened tension, their spine almost knotting up- then, as he strokes up to their horntip, a little of the tension fades on a whistling exhale and their mask tips faintly towards his hand.
There.
Pebble flops down, only half-listening to his whispered “easy- you’re all right”, head lolling back with the relief of them starting to settle. Of Thorn still upset, but starting to claw their way to why, to the puzzle, the problem, instead of drowning in it.
As the tension continues fading, draining away, water spilled across half-soaked ground, she dares to reach again. To Thorn, freely, gladly, twining against them and pulling gently, and gentle-gentle-gentle towards Hollow. Not to, only towards- restraining the instinct to curl around them, to wrap their mind in hers like her siblings pulling her under their cloaks, to… maybe, probably, scare them worse in trying to comfort.
They notice. Notice, and tense again, not as much as before but enough, and do not answer.
Safe, she tries, soft, aware of Thorn’s presence rattling-seething-upset as far as they can manage from Hollow without pulling away from her, safe, sibling, will-not-hurt. Safe.
No answer, still. But no worsening knots, either, only a feeling like their gaze on her. Like, almost, watching something small and fragile eye her from hiding, waiting for her to leave.
Will not, she insists, a little firmer, and- tries. Offering them a memory, just now, of Thorn half-stuffing her into the nest, of the familiarity in it and the knowing what they meant. Not to hurt, only- needing her to move, and move now. Scared, always, afraid for her and Ammonite and themself, the entire world a threat and little tight spaces a chance at hiding from it.
Thorn is safe. Trusted, utterly and entirely, with everything she has and is- but they’re scared, too, and it puts sharp edges on more than their claws and horns. Makes them forget-
Another memory, and another. Pawpads pressed quick over just-healed injuries, tugging cloak-fronds out of the way, wrapping around her horns to grab for a better look at chips to her mask. Thorn, searching for what might be wrong and how to help, caring and worried and slightly-too-rough in it.
Familiar, by now. She might squirm, might nip, might protest a little, but she knows- it’s meant well, always, and they will not hurt her.
She knows. Hollow doesn’t. And that’s the problem, isn’t it.
Careful, careful, encouraged a little by that attention still on her, she offers what she felt of Thorn reaching out. Not trying to hurt, to frighten- only scared, and too rough, too sudden, in looking for what was wrong.
Not-to-hurt. Not angry, whispered, no claws. Only worried. Safe.
So quiet. Not as Ammonite is, quiet and watching and deciding things slowly, often preferring to simply be. She can feel Ammonite, despite the quiet, the edges of them tucked against her. Could feel Shield, when she tried and even before that, no matter how unpracticed they are. Hollow, though, is…
Why? whispered as softly as she can, towards the echoing silence where something should be, the sharp-edged empty space around the curled-up presence she knows without thinking should be far more. Why no song?
Another flinch. Smaller, and without the recoil- but with a feeling like watching a baldur curl up missing half its armor, trying in vain to protect itself, and a strange twisting thing she immediately does not like.
They do not answer. Not truly, not willingly.
She still hears them. The shivering cannot, cannot, cannot spiraling in on itself, the twisting shaping itself into shame, into the baldur-sense hiding its face in what is not entirely the same feeling as a wild thing trying to evade injury.
Pebble, immediately, wants to tear the twisting out. To grab ahold of it, of the shame, and drag it out and throw it away, bury it under however much rock and soil is needed to stop it hurting them. Wants to rip it out like she wants to rip out whatever in Thorn’s belly keeps hurting them- but she can’t grab that, not under their shell as it is, and no matter how much it feels like this she can grab she will not scare her sibling again. Will not break her own promise- she, Thorn, Ammonite, will not hurt them.
Carefully, carefully, digging her claws into her pawpads, she swallows back the feeling and sings okay instead.
The twisting falters a little, a thread of something almost like confusion joining it.
Allowed. Always-allowed. Safe, wrapped as much as she can in safe as more than only will not hurt you, as if this scares you, if you can’t, if you don’t want to, we won’t make you.
Not that Thorn likes it. They want to know, need to know, a dozen things rattling around where she can almost-hear and all centered on where is the threat there is always a threat where and what is it, but- she trusts them, always, entirely, and they have never given her reason not to. Have only ever been too-sharp- never cruel.
They don’t push. Not again, not here. Only slowly, slowly tuck themself down smaller, eyes shifting to the side in a gesture she knows from them and has seen nowhere else, and whispers will-not-push as carefully as they can.
(Too carefully. She has to nudge the whisper to get it fully to Hollow.)
Something shifts. A feeling like a tiny crack appearing all-at-once in the bottom of a jar, letting the insides begin to bleed out. Draining away the twisting, the shame, slowly leaving a strange empty space behind.
Slowly, slowly, her nervous sibling relaxes. Attention still on her, less and less like a scared thing hiding, more and more a baffled stare. Gradually going limp.
Over their heads, Oro huffs, attention turning fully to Thorn. “I take it you tried insisting?”
Thorn hisses quietly, hunching up smaller, and snaps half-hearted in his direction. Hesitates for a long moment, frustration bubbling up all-too-familiar in a tangled knot of not enough words, but can’t just think it here, then flicks their eyes between him and Hollow and mirrors her earlier gesture. Sharper, on them, demand more than question.
A long silence, at that. Long enough for Thorn to bristle at how long he watches, long enough that she almost expects no answer at all. He clearly does not want to answer, or- doesn’t want to where Hollow can hear, maybe, with how he looks to them in hesitating. And yet, slowly, like something pried out of him, he begins.
“They have spent… no small amount of a mortal’s lifetime under threat of death, or worse, for being even theoretically capable of speech, and far longer shut away from anyone save someone who hated them. I will not pretend to know their reason for doing anything, but I… have to imagine that trying to speak to you is… difficult.”
A pause, glancing down at Hollow, as in anticipation of… something. Something that, if it appears, she cannot see; to the best of her awareness, they don’t respond, still staring at Thorn. Or, at a thought in Thorn’s direction, maybe.
Oro continues, still halfway pried-out. “I have no way of knowing if their physical ability to talk to other Vessels is somehow damaged, to say nothing of…“
Another silence. Almost as long, this time, breaking to a voice lowered almost into whisper. “Removing a threat that someone has lived with for long enough doesn’t always remove the feeling of the threat. Soldiers who leave battlefields alive often carry it with them long after the war is done- and you, I suspect, know something of this yourself. It…“
Silence, again. Different, now, hand tightening briefly on Hollow’s horn, eyes fixed on the far wall. Silent, still, long enough that she almost reaches to nudge, until her sibling shifts under his hand. A tiny motion, barely felt, enough to look up at him.
Enough to nudge him back into words. “-it clings. Far after the battle is over with, after- after everyone is stitched up or dead. You can’t-“
Another look down. A careful stroke along Hollow’s spine, drawing a subtle arching motion she almost mirrors with what little spine she has, grasping at any soft thing she can find to help the pit growing in her gut.
Another stroke to their horn. Another whisper, quieter yet. “They were born to a blade leveled at their throat. They never had any quiet between battles, any… safe moments with someone trustworthy to talk to. They’ve only just learned that the blade is gone, and- listen to me,” locking eyes with Thorn, drawing another hiss, “you cannot force the echo of it away. They need time, and they need, not only to be safe, but to feel safe. You can tell them that the blade is gone, show them that the blade is gone, but when they still feel its edge you will not help them by forcing them to step into it. Understand?”
Thorn hisses once more, less at him and more at- everything, but glances away and nods.
“Good,” Oro sighs, and lowers his eyes to Hollow, hand stilling briefly on their horn. “Believe me, if this was something that could be simply gotten rid of by another, I- hmph.”
I would have done so already, Pebble hears. Alongside, maybe, with how his voice caught in describing, I would have found someone to do the same for me.
She likes him. Likes him explaining, likes the unspoken want-to-help, likes how her sibling leans soft into his touch. Likes him still petting them. Does not like the picture he’s laid out, but- better to know what hurts, how it hurts, so as not to prod anything by mistake. And…
Something clicks, pieces falling together. Much nicer, the picture these make.
Edging forward, she leans experimentally against Oro, looking up at him. Earning a look in return, hard-to-read with his antennae covered- but no protest, no pulling away. Nothing to stop her turning, settling, and resting her chin on his leg, curling up tight against warm shell.
Can’t see his expression now, not without moving. She can see what Ammonite shows her, the look down at her like this is something odd.
Can feel when he switches which hand is on Hollow’s mask and, slowly, lowers the other to pet her horns.
Feels nice. Not as nice as having longer horns to be stroked, maybe, but warm and just-rough-enough in texture and pressure, buzzing something pleasant down her spine when he tries rubbing his thumbpad against the tip of one horn.
Feels nice, and makes Thorn stare at her, taken aback. Stare hard enough for her to feel as her eyes drift shut.
Trusted, she offers by way of explanation, nudging their attention towards Hollow. Hollow, still quiet, giving a feeling of thinking something over, and leaning subtly into his hand at every opportunity.
Hollow, who understands an upset sibling as a threat so inevitable they have no fear left for it, who recoils from another Vessel’s seeking presence as if expecting it to burn them. Who did not for an instant expect any hurt from Oro’s touch.
So wrapped up in expectation of pain, so tangled that they make no move to defend themself when they so clearly could, and they trust him entirely.
More than enough for her.
ORO
What.
Oro, now with two Vessels leaning into his hands and a further two watching him, stares blankly at nothing in particular for several moments, mind abuzz yet accomplishing nothing. Hollow, he has some vague idea of what to do with, spurred on by them pressing faintly into his touch, but Pebble-
Pebble is, perhaps, not the biggest issue of the three. Odd as it is for them to decide this seemingly out of nowhere, they, at least, are clear with what they want, leaning insistently up into his hand until he finally presses hard enough for their liking. The other two, though- Thorn is staring at him with borderline hostility clear in the hunch of their shoulders and the angle of their horns, while Ammonite simply watches, entirely unreadable.
Thorn seems the more immediate concern. Thorn also bristles further, flashing their fangs at him yet again, the moment he meets their eyes to speak.
Wonderful.
“I’m not going to hurt your sibling,” he tries quietly. “I have no interest in hurting someone for my own entertainment, and,” in something Thorn might believe more easily, “I’m not fool enough to pick a fight with multiple Vessels. I have no plans to pick fights with single Vessels. Settle.”
They hiss at him.
As if in response, Pebble tips their head slightly to the side and goes limp. Almost unsettlingly so; their thin shell affords him an awareness of the pliable Void-flesh beneath, gone near-liquid in the absence of any need to shape it into muscle, almost molding against him. Their eyes slit open, then close once more, and on the heels of a heavy exhale a faint buzzing stirs deep in their chest.
Thorn makes a low sound halfway between a hiss and a rattle, then huffs, snaps their fangs at him, and looks away, bristle lowering a little.
Well.
All right then.
Oro takes the opportunity to look Pebble over as well as he can without moving his hand, sizing up the scuffs to their mask, the tears to their cloak. Their small size and stubby horns compared to the other two still have him wary, far too much like other tiny things he would rather forget, but they feel healthy enough; steady breathing, no tremor or wobble to their motions, strong enough to make a serious effort at pushing him around.
Now. Hollow.
He’s beginning to suspect that they missed who he was referring to, in laying out the shape of their pain. He had not particularly wanted to say any of this within their hearing, had only done so to stop their siblings prying at them any further- or shifting focus to him. Had anticipated… something, fear or shame or the core-piercing intensity of focus they’ve shown at being told about their injuries. Some sign of an opinion, of interest in any form. Anything other than them simply staring at a wall as though deep in thought.
Much as he would rather not lie to them, even by omission, he would also like not to upset them. Not while they’re still leaning into him, seeming, if nothing else, unafraid.
He deeply does not want to give them any reason to feel differently.
-
Neither of the Vessels he’s somehow wound up petting make any attempt to pull away. Pebble tips her head to another angle twice, but remains otherwise limp, and Hollow does not move at all.
Around the third time Pebble moves, winding up with his fingertips against the jaws hidden under their mask, Thorn huffs silently and creeps back over to the nest. Slowly, cautiously, watching Hollow with what he takes for an edge of unease, until they can tuck themself up just in front of Ammonite. Not touching Hollow in the slightest.
Oro, keenly aware that the mandibles under his hand could take his fingers off in a fucking instant, scratches lightly for a few moments longer before finally stopping. An act which earns him a set of stubby horns bumped into his palm, then a midnight-dark stare when he pulls away fully and a grab at his leg -with far less force than a Vessel is capable of- as he stands.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he tells the offspring-of-three-gods staring plaintively at him like a pet tiktik dislodged from someone’s lap, “I do not have enough hands to pet you all day. I have tasks to accomplish. Including,” pausing to shove a misplaced crate out of the way, “ensuring that your sibling stays topped up on pain medication.”
Not the most convenient form thereof, this. Something that can be mixed ahead of time without losing potency would be far better- but nothing else had particularly worked, not in testing on Ghost at least, and inconvenient is far better than insufficient.
Maybe Lemm can find something in the Archives about containers for Void. Something that can keep Void in would surely keep it out, allowing Hollow to keep these components in their internal storage without it slowly being contaminated. Of minimal practical use while they still lack the dexterity to actually mix it, but- he does not want Hollow relying on him, or anyone else, for pain relief.
They’re already prying themself upright when he turns back to the nest. Horns coming up, eyes fixed on him, shifting to kneel in a pose something in him does not like. Too poised, or as close as they can manage, for still being halfway in a nest meant to let them relax.
As always, they take the drinking container carefully when he offers it, wrist turned at a strange angle to permit them supporting it from beneath as though concerned they might drop it otherwise.
Pebble, having given up on the sad tiktik look, hops onto their leg to look up at whatever they can see of Hollow’s jaws closing around the container’s spout. A moment’s observation, then they look to him, making that same questioning not-quite-sign and pointing to it.
“Don’t sample any of that,” Oro warns, sitting down again. “They’re recovering from enough, and have anatomy stubborn enough, to warrant a high dose of something fucking potent. You’ll probably wind up on your ass if you take a sip.”
He misses the details of what, precisely, happens at that, catching only a flicker of motion and a vague sense of some form of exchange, but doesn’t miss Thorn snapping their fangs in apparent irritation. Nor does he miss them half-rising, snapping again and beginning to bristle, as Pebble cobbles together a rapid attempt at conveying something; another point at the container, a motion as if indicating something small, a point towards the cabinet still holding the ingredients, and that sign-fragment equivalent of a question mark.
Hm.
“A weaker version?” he tries, and is immediately met with yet more reason to be concerned; a quick, pleased-looking “yes!” from Pebble, and Thorn’s eyes snapping from him to them as that ragged cloak bristles once more. Thorn, he gathers, did not want this question to be asked.
They are not going to like his follow-up. “Why?”
Another flicker of something indistinct, the faint sense of a conversation had -loudly- two rooms away, as Pebble turns to Thorn and gestures vehemently at him. Thorn snaps at them in response, pulling Hollow’s eyes to themself, and moves almost as if to stop Pebble- but pulls up just short of grabbing them. Bristled and fang-flared in clear distress, in what looks like anger, stance and sharp motions warning of a desperation strong enough to be dangerous.
Pebble does not budge. Doesn’t so much as blink. They make a quick, unreadable gesture, snapping their own fangs in a clack startlingly deeper than Thorn’s- then, a bare moment’s exchange later, sigh and tip their head back slightly.
When they turn back to him and shake their head, huffing, the motion is laden with clear reluctance.
“Hmph. Fine, then,” Oro mutters, eyeing the sharp-edged target of his suspicions as to precisely who here may need pain relief, and shoves down the urge to pry. “If you decide you want it, ask- don’t try mixing it yourself, unless you want to wind up unconscious for a day or two, and do not swipe it from Hollow. Beyond needing all of it, they get a particularly strong version so that this,” tapping the empty container in Hollow’s hand, “can fit an entire jug’s worth of effect. Spares them having to taste it for any longer than is absolutely needed.”
Hollow’s claws, abruptly, tighten on the container. Digging a set of tiny lines into its surface as they drag in a sharp, painful-sounding breath, eyes shifting from their siblings to him.
[Failed Vessel]
Oh.
Realization crashes over it all at once; he was referring to it.
Not only in this, in laying out a deliberate effort to make it more comfortable. Before, when it had heard his words but thought it had somehow missed the subject, for surely, surely he was not speaking of it in such a way, he could not have been-
He was. For this- this is the same manner of referring to it. Speaking as though it is something other than a broken tool too living for its purpose yet too dead for anything else, as though it is a person. Not only in this, but in describing-
I… have to imagine that trying to speak to you is… difficult.
They were born to a blade leveled at their throat.
He knows. He knows.
The swirling, twisting, terrified thing inside it, the thing keening that it must not reach, cannot reach, cannot speak, the thing it cannot silence no matter that its orders are now otherwise and it is wanted, encouraged, required to break that oldest of tenets, the thing that writhes choking in its throat and stops it answering its kin-
Oro knows.
He sees it.
This should terrify it. Far more so than any clinging new image of being inspected, of its scars and flaws being known. It is all but laid open, its heart bared to the world, a thing far more terrible than any physical hint at its corruption on display-
It should be afraid. It is afraid, or very nearly so, a single drawn-out note in the tangled mess of should not have this must not have this must not be left not to suffer coiling shame-drenched and deservedly poisonous in its belly, but-
Oro has seen it laid open. Seen it with its shell and innards rotted away under the weight of its impurities, seen its organs still very nearly fully exposed. Has seen its heart.
He did not hurt it for that. Did not scorn it, did not abandon it, did not dig his claws into the soft places its flaws exposed. He touched its innards gently, and only very briefly, and has not done so again. No matter that he could, no matter that he should, he has carefully avoided doing so.
He has seen its heart, the blackened, warped corruption of what this body was to be, laid bare by its own faults alone, and the only use he has made of that is to describe its inner workings to it. Is to help it.
Oro is watching it, still. Knowing it. And oh, it can feel its breath rattling sharper in its chest, making it too-aware of the new state and shape of its lungs, serving at once as a reminder of its flaws and to make the world aware of the mess of feelings that writhes inside it and knocks awry its efforts at behaving as it must, but-
Still, still, yet again, he does not reject it. Does not punish it. Does not leave it.
The world rings faintly around it, a hum just at the edge of its hearing, its pulse still racing in the aftershocks of realization. Rings, but does not entirely cover the odd softness to Oro’s voice as extends a hand slightly towards it. “Let me put that away.”
Distantly, as though shifting its own arm on puppet-strings, it places the container in his hand.
There is, still, something odd in how he moves, something like caution in how he stands. Eyes still on it, voice still quiet. “I’m not leaving. Understand? Just- putting this back.”
It watches him cross the room. Watches him return to his sitting-spot, and notes, again, the slow, careful manner in which he moves once close to it. Watches his hand lift once more, almost as if to reach out, then lower, alongside a murmur of “easy- you’re all right. Just breathe.”
Unbidden, unexpected, a fragment of memory rises.
Careful hands, one on its belly, one on its throat, the sensations half-dimmed by sleep. A whisper, strangely fragile, in the dark.
“You… really do trust me, don’t you.”
The caution, here, could be for its siblings, small and wary around it. Oro is kind, and careful, and gentle no matter that they are Vessels and can bear far more than mere rough handling-
But it can feel them around it, alert yet unafraid, and his eyes do not go to them once.
They are not the objects of his caution. It is.
He thinks it frightened of him.
It… oh, it does not-
It does not like that.
It is not afraid of him. Has not been since he looked it in the eye and offered it an apology it did not deserve, a vow that he would not hurt it. Has not been since it understood, in a thing entirely new to it, that he did truly not want to hurt it. That his anger is not something it has to fear, that his touch will not turn suddenly sharp-edged and burning as others it has known.
It is not, is not afraid of him. It knows, now- it could be on a work-table once more, chest laid open and heart beating in easy reach as its waking body had never entirely offered the laboratory lights, and it would still have nothing to fear from him. There would be no scraping claws, no probing metal or piercing light, no tugging at its innards to search for flaws or simply to see what would happen- he would touch it gently, and as briefly as possible, and would close it up afterward. Would-
-careful hands under it, cradling it gently no matter that it is half-conscious, half-numb, exhausted and still too warm, carrying it to-
-he would, he has, put it somewhere soft and dark and quiet afterward. Would let it rest.
It is not afraid of him.
It trusts him.
It needs him to know. Needs as its heart needs to beat, a choking thing slowly rising in every moment of him watching it so carefully, a pressure building within it, and it-
It should not do this. It knows, it knows, the mere concept almost sending it recoiling, almost forcing it to the ground to beg forgiveness for its transgressions, it should not do this but it must. It must, it must, it-
It moves.
Slowly, slowly, hand braced on the floor for support, it lowers itself almost to the floor. Alert, wary, watching for any sign that this is not wanted, for any hint that it has misstepped, that it-
It should not do this, it should not do this it should not do this-
-but it remembers.
-gentle touch, gentle, god-sibling-king curled soft around its mind, whispering to it that it will not be hurt, not for its flaws, not for its failings, that they know it to be hopelessly broken and it is allowed to be so, that they will not, will not hurt it-
-Ogrim’s breath hitching as it tries, tries to do as he wishes, grip on it painful-tight against its battered shell yet not hurting at all as he pulls it closer still-
-Little Sister asking-ordering-demanding to know what it wants, the feeling of a blade lifted to open its shell and lay its innards bare to the world turning to soft, trembling touch, her mask nudging up under its chin almost, almost, almost as before its failure tore the world apart-
-sibling-loved pressed carefully against it, naming it very nearly the same as Arya, calling it kin, coaxing it to reach out-
It does not know what to do, does not know how to do this, does not know how to be soft, but-
-its own shaking effort brushing the mind of a god-devouring god, of god-sibling-king-savior-wielder-kin, greeted not by any rebuke for its inexperience or its fear but by true, soft delight at it trying at all-
-Oro, one hand on its horn, something like surprise in how he eyes the little sibling tucked quiet-calm-pleased against him, reaching oh-so-carefully to touch as though anything else might break them-
Perhaps, if it- if it tries, and oh it has tried before, has tried so many things, has hurt for so many of them, but perhaps here-
-gentle, gentle, gentle, over and over, no matter what is asked of it and how it fails and how many of its faults are bared to the light, soft touches and soft response until it could almost, almost believe that it will not be hurt if-
-coward that it is, craven, pitiful thing flawed from the start and broken further open by what it was meant to contain, it falls back on the only thing it had ever been able to do to resist Her; it closes its eyes and does not, does not, does not look. Not at anything. Not even at-
Carefully, carefully, it rests its chin on Oro’s leg, holding back all but a fraction of its weight.
Oro goes very, very still.
Oh, it should not do this. He will not, will not hurt it, it knows, but that does not mean nothing it can do will be unwanted, and the fear of that is a new weight in the writhing mass of near-terror still lodged in the back of its mind at doing something so utterly forbidden-
But it tilts its head to the side enough to bare its throat to him, and it goes as limp as its shell will allow, and it does not move,
and carefully, almost hesitantly, Oro’s hand settles onto its horn.
It does not move. Does not open its eyes.
Fabric rustles, something in the nest shifting. One of its siblings, a flicker of intent over its back.
Slowly, the warmth against its horn moves, settling into a familiar pattern.
He does not relax.
It- oh, it tries. It tries. One more detail, one more-
As little as it can, the terrified thing in the back of its mind still crying out for it not to be seen, it tips its mask to press into his hand.
Oro exhales, slowly, a little of the tension fading away, and runs his hand down to rub his thumb under its chin. Gentle, precise, just firm enough to dig in pleasantly, then sliding back up to the tip of its horn.
The next stroke down almost, almost masks his voice, softer than it had known was possible.
“That’s it. You’re… you’re all right.”
The tangled, choking thing in its throat does not fade entirely. But, for that, for the careful touches, for the eventual, muttered, faintly amused “there is considerably more of you than there is of Pebble”, and for how its touch -its touch- has been what it can only understand as welcomed, the feeling of wrong wrong wrong all but vanishes.
Small paws press to its leg, and something quiet, something soft and dark and gentle, nudges carefully at its mind. Just long enough, just close enough, to whisper likes this!, to offer it an image of Oro’s expression- and to sing something pleased at what it would not dare to call a look of faint wonder.
He likes this. He likes this, and that sparks something strange and fluttering in its chest, displacing yet more of the tangled wrongness, flooding into the space left behind as its fear drains out in a rush like a gutted thing’s spilled blood. Sends something pleased, a little like feeling tiny spiderling claws scrabble up its leg and a little like nothing else it has ever felt, rattling about inside it, and oh, it does not deserve this, but that understanding is muffled and dim and shoved-down under the fluttering. Is half-drowned, choked, dragged nearly out of it entirely.
He likes this. Might, perhaps, in a thing it does not dare to hope, understand a hint of its intent, and whether or not it has made itself clear it has done something he enjoys.
It has done something right.
It clings to that. Clings against the remaining scraps of unease, the shuddering aftermath of the near-terror that had seized it in doing this, the rising confusion at how strangely fond he seems of it.
It clings, and it tries, it tries, it tries to be still, to be quiet, to be calm, to make its trust understood.
This should not be difficult. It trusts him. Utterly and entirely. Trusts him, impossibly, however he manages to open it up, whatever of its body and even its mind he can see, not to hurt it for what he finds. Trusts, strangely, caught up in the quiet of his voice and the softness of his touch and how the only thing he has ever done with its hurts is try to help it, that him seeing it and knowing it will not claw and bite and burn at its shell quite so much as another’s gaze will.
But.
But there is something else, something welling up in the back of its mind. An unease, a sense that something is still wrong, the feeling of some new threat abruptly crawling scorching-freezing-bladed down its spine as realization sinks in.
Oro is, surely, not the only one able to see it. If he can know it, somehow, understand anything of what might be happening inside its mind, then perhaps others-
-others-
Coward that it is, it is at once immediately, terribly glad of Little Sister’s newest orders to it, of her insistence that it not allow unwanted touch, and swept up in a thing like sickening shame and fear at the prospect of refusing-
It is not permitted that. It is a thing meant not to feel, and as such it should not want not to be handled, should not respond to unauthorized touch except to avoid damage, should not care-
It should not be permitted to refuse, and yet it is permitted, has been ordered to do so, and in the clash between old and new orders Little Sister’s win almost immediately but do not erase the feeling that it will struggle, flounder, hesitate-
It has been ordered not to be handled so, it does not want to be handled so, and still something inside it wails that it must not refuse. Must not refuse, must not, and it does not know what will happen if it is given cause to do so but it wants so very deeply not to fail immediately at an order Little Sister has given it, for it cannot fail her, must not fail her-
But Oro’s hand runs up its horn again, base to tip and then down almost to the point of its mask, and in the instant’s echo of warmth left on Void-chilled bone it remembers something.
An exchange, earlier. Brief, a phrase from its Little Sister and a single word from Oro, and yet enough that a thing far more abhorrent than any other rises inside it.
Hope. Hope that, in utter reversal of what should be, he will protect it. Will not allow it to be prodded at, to have reason to protest at all.
Hope, hope, terrible and shining and choking and jam-sweet, that he will keep it safe.