[There are other stories. Grimm touches on many, though some are too short to be called a story and not an instant.
He tells of the Pale King's laboratory, the way writing would glow and shift depending on what the Pale King was working on that day. His days upon days of labor on the Kingsmoulds and later the Vessels, and how often Grimm had to be the one to remind him that his physical body needed rest.
The many attempts and failed attempts at those moulds, how even the failed attempts would put any other engineer to shame. Even the one that wouldn't stop giggling.
How he had heard the Pale King laugh out loud exactly once, and missed what the White Lady said that triggered such an astonishing response, and had been wondering about that impossibly funny joke for hundreds of years.]
[ It listened. Stories were like water, and it like a creature dying of thirst. Each one was a memory of sweetness, painting its Father in a light that it had never seen Him, but had perhaps seen glimpses of.
How would the world have been, if it had been truly hollow, and the Pale King could have been this person again? Its failure had killed the King, broke His heart and let Him wither and die.
It slowly leaned forward until it was resting its face against the crook of Grimm's neck. He smelled comforting, even if the Hollow Knight had a muted sense of what smell was. Like fire, warm and crackling. ]
[Grimm holds the Hollow Knight close to him. Though they may barely feel the cold of the rain and even less bothered over it, he hopes his warmth will chase away their chill.
It is the least he can do for them.]
Oh, my friend. How I wish I knew how to comfort you.
[ It wished it knew how to be comforted. It was meant to be hollow, not feel a hollowness deep inside of it.
Gently, knowing that it was being demanding, it tugged lightly at Grimm's wings, nudging him in the direction of his couch. It could curl up on him, giving him Chroma while he gently touched and comforted. At least it could offer something back.
It just...
... it wanted. Oh, it so wanted a father's touch now, and Grimm was the closest thing it knew, here. [
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no subject
He tells of the Pale King's laboratory, the way writing would glow and shift depending on what the Pale King was working on that day. His days upon days of labor on the Kingsmoulds and later the Vessels, and how often Grimm had to be the one to remind him that his physical body needed rest.
The many attempts and failed attempts at those moulds, how even the failed attempts would put any other engineer to shame. Even the one that wouldn't stop giggling.
How he had heard the Pale King laugh out loud exactly once, and missed what the White Lady said that triggered such an astonishing response, and had been wondering about that impossibly funny joke for hundreds of years.]
no subject
How would the world have been, if it had been truly hollow, and the Pale King could have been this person again? Its failure had killed the King, broke His heart and let Him wither and die.
It slowly leaned forward until it was resting its face against the crook of Grimm's neck. He smelled comforting, even if the Hollow Knight had a muted sense of what smell was. Like fire, warm and crackling. ]
no subject
It is the least he can do for them.]
Oh, my friend. How I wish I knew how to comfort you.
no subject
Gently, knowing that it was being demanding, it tugged lightly at Grimm's wings, nudging him in the direction of his couch. It could curl up on him, giving him Chroma while he gently touched and comforted. At least it could offer something back.
It just...
... it wanted. Oh, it so wanted a father's touch now, and Grimm was the closest thing it knew, here. [
wrapup maybe
They do not have to give anything back. But if doing so allows them to accept that comfort, then he will offer no protest.]