The Strings of Fate (Cut Loose) | A Hollow Knight: Silksong short story
/!\ DISCLAIMER: Major spoilers for Hollow Knight: Silksong ‼️
All credits to Team Cherry for the ‘Red Memory’ sequence and quoted dialogue
thank you so much for reading this text which, beyond being a literary reenactment of the “red memory” scene, is a tribute to silksong and the hollow knight world as a whole. the game's story, themes, and character lore have been explored at length by amazing content creators and fans - their works have been such precious resources to further dig into the game and illuminate various plotlines, so thank you to them for also informing my understanding of hornet's journey. in this piece, i wanted to celebrate the bonds that hornet formed with different characters in pharloom, and how despite the game's mysterious and dark tones, silksong is also rich with many touching and hopeful sequences, which had me grow deeply attached to all of the colorful characters hornet met along the way. <3
When Hornet awoke, the pounding pain was no more. It could not have been guessed that only moments ago, the battered, red-cloaked body had been beating madly with the pulse of three hearts, claimed by Hornet’s sword. A sorry price to pay for the ruin that her own hand had caused. Inadvertently or not, it made little difference for the pilgrims caught in the wreckage, the torn and stained cloth she had glimpsed in the rubble. Yet the final curtain could not fall over Pharloom, Hornet knew. Mend. Repair. Sink deeper into the gaping pit that had upturned earth, lava, and steel underneath her feet; further searching for the buried answers that made up the plinth of the ill-omened Citadel.
The hunch that her role had not yet been carried to completion pushed Hornet to her feet, and to a lightness that took her off guard. The gleam of candlelight and humid walls of the Ruined Chapel had been swallowed by an obscurity so absolute, that they were relegated to a distance which Hornet could no longer close. No trace of the Snail Shamans and their boisterous incantations, either. Nothing of Bone Bottom remained. Instead, the red glow diffused in the feeble light illuminated a one-way path lying before Hornet, covered in silk. It guided her forward.
Another chapel stood in the way; an arachnoid embrasure that called Hornet in, shining crimson. And inside—another lapse, right through time. Surrounded by weavers of her kind, a small child—herself—sat in the midst of probing, avid eyes. It was as if Hornet watched the scene outside of herself, yet feeling just the same as she did then.
‘Prove yourself more Weaver than Wyrm.’
She spun, thread upon thread, until the circle of spider-like figures collapsed into bright flashes. The child morphed into adulthood.
Hornet regained possession of herself, but only to be transported back. Again an infant, she sat upon the steps of a throne clad in red; a soft material, that soothed the child’s distress. She looked into her mother’s face.
‘Weaver, guardian, queen… Those are their desires… not your own. Certainly not mine…’
Why, why could she not see the face clearly? Why the mask, a barely recognizable blur?
‘…Only if you resist them, you might see it, another hope, beyond…’
And still behind the mask, a love inexhaustible.
‘…But to recall these words, in time so far… Will you even remember me, child? Could you?’
From the depth of years past, Herrah’s far-sighted call reached her daughter.
‘… A mother… before the mask…’
Cross-legged beside the now empty throne, Hornet remembered the strong, hissing voice, a beacon of unwavering volition. Of Weaver and Wyrm, Hornet was neither. Herrah’s daughter was the title she wore.
Then, a sudden slash. Blades clashing together, fast and clean, and Hornet landed back on her feet. Think of the next step right away—a moment’s hesitation, and all is lost. Needle drawn back to keep her balance, she already knew what came next. The golden steel rings that she will throw out would be no toy for Queen Vespa to parry. Undoubtedly, the tool had proven true to Shakra’s words: ‘Hard enough to crush the kingdom’s toughest shells.’
‘…Yet still you will need to be faster… In time, they will come for you…’
A second of dismay—and Hornet realized that her wrists bore no trace of Shakra’s gift. Still she trod inside a memory, a time when Vespa’s prophetic warning did not yet echo the desolate depths and peaks of Pharloom.
‘…To survive our world you must learn to sting,’
Vespa continued, firmly, with a kindness that could only be passed from blade to blade. Such were the ways of the world Hornet had been born into, with its unwritten iron law. Yet still, Vespa’s dignified figure reminded Hornet of times less distant. The constant, almost calming, clamor of the waterfall that had accompanied Shakra’s melodious elegy flooded back to her. She remembered the music, could hear it almost clearly in her mind. Shakra’s last homage to her mentor, a song that Hornet would have expected grave and mournful, yet which had flown lightly, with the accents of a celebration that rose high over the resting body and the grey, shimmering surface of the Pale Lake. Fleatopia was now established near the lake, too, and the once austere cavern must be ringing with lively chirping. As Vespa’s image faded into white light, Hornet hummed to herself, strumming, softly, the chords of her needolin along to Shakra’s melody.
The reminiscences gave Hornet renewed strength to cross the following corridor and descend deeper into the pits of memory. An involuntary chill ran through her shell as she recognized, now floating before her, the white-armored bugs that stood guard around the Pale King’s Palace. She had left the familiar dimness of Deepnest, the warm tiles of the Hive, to enter the cradle of Hallownest. The delicately-chiseled balustrades of the White Palace framed the path, an architectural splendor that barely masked the soulless vacuity of the place. There—a sign, pointing to a stag station. Hornet stopped in her tracks. Could she go up, ring the bell? Would the remaining stag come, called to action, pleased to help ease another traveller’s passage? Would she meet her half-sibling—Which past had she been dragged into? Was he chained, in place of the Hollow Knight, fulfilling its emotionless purpose? But the task which had taken Hornet into the realm of memory guided her elsewhere.
The Shamans’ chant, the hearts she had consumed, led her through the White Palace. She had guarded the forsaken kingdom for so long; travelled the length and breadth of Hallownest, stood watch over the frail camp at Dirtmouth, climbed over the mossy hills of Greenpath, paced up and down the derelict alleyways of the lamenting City of Tears, ventured into the abandoned blooms of the Queen’s Gardens—yet it was as an estranged visitor that she returned, treading corridor upon corridor of memories. The loneliness of the place chilled Hornet to the bone, not unlike the first haunted bells she had encountered in Pharloom. What hope could lie in a vestige of past greed? What was she looking for, here? A remedy for the destruction she had wreaked? Justice for the misguided pilgrims whose paths she had so often crossed?—Justice—Hornet had come to abhor the term. She resented, from deep within, the twisted meaning of the word that had been etched into parchments and commandments by automatons, powered by souls sacrificed to the Citadel’s altar.
‘You might see it, another hope, beyond…’
There had to be something, the other hope that Herrah spoke of, beyond the tragedies of Weaver and Wyrm… Hornet thought back to the clanking caravan, rattling on its way to a home that had been hoped for for so long, against all odds. The lost fleas, chartered over the course of a journey as perilous as the roads of Pharloom have known since the rise of the Citadel. The places marked on maps kept carefully concealed by hunter Vog, whose scars alone told hundreds of stories. She was engulfed by the faint warmth of the Halfway home, with the sweet aftertaste of nectar, and Nuu’s restlessness upstairs. She sat next to Shakra’s meticulously arranged quills and charcoals, lulled by continuous harmonies. She felt the gentle purr of the Bell Beast and the soft fur of fleas under her hand. She saw the restored square in Bell Heart, teeming with pilgrims come to find shelter and solace amidst the crystalline clinking of bells, Pavo’s ever welcoming carillon jiggling as she passed by, the courier brothers reunited. Heard Sherma’s unyielding song, perhaps another path opening up, cleared of curse. And, somewhere in the High Halls, Second Sentinel, whom she trusted to protect the ascending pilgrims. At the next precipice, Hornet dived further down, with no hesitation.
She was stunned by an explosion of blinding light. She had come to the White Lady, the last stop of her journey, she sensed it.
The White Lady greeted her with remorseful affection, as if she had been awaiting Hornet’s coming—spider’s child, as good as her own. Before her, Hornet stood between past and present, speaking as herself, no longer a child. She understood, and without rancor, asked the White Lady for her final wish. She knew now why the red string of memory had unravelled all the way to Hallownest. Only out of the darkest void could bloom the hope that Herrah, Vespa, and the White Lady spoke of, a hope passed down from mother to daughter, yet to be fulfilled.
‘Reach forth, child grown strong. Wrest it from this remembrance. Burn yourself free from our sad fate…’
Hornet took the delicate flower offered by the White Lady, glowing white, incandescent. She knew what was to be done, to cut loose the strings of fate. And, before waking anew amidst the misleading peacefulness of the Ruined Chapel, it was Flick’s good-natured optimism that sprung back to Hornet’s mind.
‘Calming our raging world? That’s a lofty goal, miss. I’m not thinkin’ any one bug’d be able to stop these happenings, but it’s heartenin’ knowing you’ve still got fire enough to feel different.’
