I want to talk about Hollow Knight: Silksong.
I recently finished the game (and before you congratulate me or anything—I used an invulnerability and infinite jump mod; I was interested in experiencing the story, not in destroying my controller in frustration before giving up at Fourth Chorus). Overall, I loved my time spent in Silksong, in the kingdom of Pharloom. And I found that, even more so than Hollow Knight, the themes of the story were both very on the nose and woven incredibly deeply throughout the world, the characters, and the narrative.
Spoilers for Silksong, including all three acts leading up to the “true” ending (along with the much-easier-to-complete “bad” or “neutral” ending), abound fully unmarked below.
I wanted to start off by commenting on the very name of this game: Silksong. It’s pretty natural for storytellers to work the title of their project into the text itself; but it’s a harder proposition to bind that title through every corner of it in a way that accentuates the themes of that work. Silksong does this, and it does it well. Both the metaphors of Silk and Song have been grafted onto the bones of this game.
Let’s start with silk. Silk is never far from any given aspect of gameplay, and finds itself woven—literally and figuratively—deeply into the world itself and its many characters. Hornet gains silk when successfully striking an enemy, can expend that silk on powerful attacks'; she uses silk to traverse Pharloom; she even strings her weapon with lines of silk into a makeshift plucked instrument called a needolin—a musical performance she is required to engage with at several points to progress the story. (Luckily for the player, this performance requires only a single button be held down. I’ll speak more on song later.)
Moving into the world of the game more broadly, silk suffuses the world of Pharloom. We are told early on that this kingdom is haunted by a curse, and later we discover enemies literally puppeted by strands of silk from on high. Pilgrims that would have otherwise shared the road with Hornet are coerced into attacking her. Someone at the top is pulling all their strings.
Hornet’s primary rival is also inextricably tied to silk—Lace is, apparently, a new kind of life, a being created from pure silk. This experiment seems to have failed in some way, rendering her too weak to fulfill her purpose in being born. But more on her later.
Silk is very clearly a metaphor for the control exerted by systems of oppression and rule; and the game’s concern with oppression goes beyond what it spins with silk. Oppression and hierarchy is hammered into the player from another quarter: by the very shape of the path charted through Pharloom during the first two acts of the game. Pharloom’s center is the Citadel, a massive structure literally built atop the rest of the kingdom. It looms high, mighty, and seemingly inaccessible. The plot of the first two acts can be reduced to the following sentence: Hornet climbs. She seeks the Citadel far above for answers—answers to why she was captured and carried here; what this haunted, cursed kingdom wanted with her.
In this climb, Hornet cannot ignore the power of silk. At several points in the game, she must bind certain abilities within her, a metaphor literalized by animated silk dancing and knotting about her person. These abilities—directly called Silk skills by the game—don’t just make the climb easier; they make it possible. She must wield the oppressive power of the kingdom against itself; otherwise, there is no route to meaningfully progress.
Once Hornet finally reaches the Citadel—no mean feat!—we learn more of silk. We learn in the sterile, deathly quiet halls of Whiteward that silk was literally infused into the bodies of the rich and powerful, rendering them functionally immortal. We further gain more and more blatant hints that this act granted these bugs great power—institutional power. But it also bound them to the Citadel, and very literally made them incredibly vulnerable to control from on high. Possession in this game is just a matter of pulling on the right silken strands.
So what does Hornet do? Well, if she is single-minded in her quest, pushing forward without stopping, she finally does reach the top of the Citadel, a place called the Cradle. She fights, she conquers, she struggles, she climbs, and she eventually uncovers the puppetmaster—Grandmother Silk, a great spider (or Weaver, to use the game’s parlance) sitting at the center of her great web. There, she wields absolute control over Pharloom, and hungers for ever greater power to usurp. We learn it was Grandmother Silk’s greed that led to Hornet’s own capture, for our protagonist is half-Weaver herself. And in striking the old ruler down, Hornet binds the kingdom’s vast web of silk to herself, becoming another Grandmother Silk: wielding great power, but yet rendered in another sense powerless by the vastness of the weaving.
The final cutscene for this default, “bad” ending (not the worst ending possible, but perhaps the worst outcome most players will typically experience) renders Hornet bound at the center of this web, immobile, sterile, seemingly dead. Her fluid animation, so joyfully rendered throughout the vast majority of the game, is stilled. She has won, and in so doing, has lost everything.
The Silk itself rules through her. Roll credits.
But, of course, that’s only one possible ending. Before I turn to the hint of a better outcome, I want to examine the second half of the title—song. I find the motif of “song” bears no less thematic weight in this sequel to Hollow Knight.
Indeed, music and the instruments that produce it form the basis of a powerful visual language, one that reaches every region touched by the Citadel’s influence. Particularly bells. My god, bells are everywhere—in some areas, you literally encounter tunnels carved through vast piles of bells, large and small. Benches are unlocked throughout Pharloom with the ringing of a great bell. They are inescapable.
But music through voice and other instruments are, if not present in as obvious a manner, still ubiquitous. Pilgrims sing as they climb. Enemies—particularly in the Choral Chambers, the largest sub-region of the Citadel itself—often use musical instruments as weapons. The Choral Chambers itself is suffused with music as a visual motif: design reminiscent of musical staves, notes, clefs, and even metronomes abound.
And I haven’t even mentioned the score, a masterwork by Christopher Larkin. Partly that is because I don’t consider myself as skilled in reviewing music compared to stories and narratives; but let me venture one comment as representative of the use of musical score in this game. The final area most players will explore before reaching the Citadel itself is the Blasted Steps. Here, the nearby desert region blows blinding gusts of sand, as bare, seemingly impassible rock cliffs rise as a final challenge to any pilgrims who have climbed this far. Bells—ever present!—hang from great chains strung from the Citadel above. The physical agonies of the pilgrimage reach their peak here.
And the music complements that bleak vista perfectly. The score for the Blasted Steps puts me in mind of great suffering—but suffering made holy. This track immediately put me in the mindset of the faithful pilgrim. The Citadel looms near, the end of your hope, the height of your faith. But should you fall on this climb, the dolorous notes seem to say, you will have fallen in glory. Sacrifice will exalt you, in the end. Press on, faithful pilgrim.
As a side note, one of my first quips to my partner when playing through the first few areas of Silksong is that this game, compared to its predecessor, is “very Catholic”. I really had no idea how right I was.
Song complements silk in symbolism. While ties of silk represent the coercive power of oppressive systems, song represents their promise, their smiling lie. Look at this beauty, this holy grace, song says. Remember our storied history, pay honor to our rulers. When all else fails on the pilgrimage, song will sustain you. And there is a kernel of truth in this lie; song does impart beauty, it does inspire, and that inspiration can be far more real than the lies that might inspire it. Hornet, too, wields song during her time in Pharloom.
And why bells in particular? Well, I think one reason is the strong religious associations bells have, particularly in medieval European Christianity. The bell stood at the center of the community; the bell tower was a structure often attached to the church. I think of the bells of Notre Dame, a symbol skillfully used by Victor Hugo; I think of, oddly, the bell-ringer in Andor’s first season, so wonderful a symbol of communal strength.
Through silk and song, the Citadel established and maintains their control over the kingdom. And it is through silk and song that Grandmother Silk ultimately falls.
I want to dwell on the contradiction of silk for a moment before we take a look at the path to the “good”, “true” ending. Earlier I brought up Lace, a life-form comprised entirely of silk. It’s stated that she was formed by Grandmother Silk as the perfect daughter; one that would not turn against her as, apparently, the other Weavers did in ages past. (It is the ghost of those Weavers that gift Hornet with the power to challenge Grandmother Silk in the first place; so Pharloom’s ruler was, perhaps, right to doubt their loyalties).
But Lace is noted as particularly weak. With how powerful silk is shown to be throughout the game, I might ask—why? (She’s certainly shown to be a challenging foe for Hornet; though I suppose, canonically, Hornet defeats her every time they clash). How can silk be both strong and weak? Strong enough to bind a kingdom to one Weaver’s will; yet too weak to meaningfully sustain a single life?
Well, consider the physicality of silk. One strand can be snapped rather easily. The puppets paraded before Hornet are cut down by her needle within seconds. But en masse, they form a potent threat. Grandmother Silk is shown to be absolutely suffused with silk, producing it and storing it in massive quantities. She sends down thousands of strands from on high, puppetting the entirety of Pharloom from her throne in the Cradle. Silk is weak individually, but strong when bound together in quantity. And is this not true of the systems of oppression silk represents symbolically?
Again, my mind turns to Andor. Authority is brittle. Any one strand of control can be snapped, and quite easily, too. But that’s not the whole truth of oppression. It never comes in a single strand, a single thread. It comes in force, entangling us from all sides. The system only works, put another way, if enough people cooperate.
If enough people agree to be puppetted.
And what of song? A single voice can be silenced. But a choir of voices raised together? Not so.
So Hornet wields silk against the very Kingdom of Pharloom itself. And if she uses it in the same violent manner used against her, the Kingdom adapts. It places her atop the Cradle, traps her in the center of the web, and continues rattling on. The haunting of Pharloom endures.
How, then, might Hornet find another way?
The answer is also rather simple, from a mechanical perspective. As Hornet moves through Pharloom, she comes into contact with communities: fellow pilgrims banding together to help each other on the long climb. And she—at the behest of the player—can choose to help them in her turn.
From a gameplay perspective, this manifests in a simple quest system. A bug would ask Hornet for help, and she can agree to assist. If she does, a little musical sting plays, and flashing across the screen in a flourish of silk come the words “Wish Promised”. These quests aren’t anything out of the ordinary for RPG fans (or for anyone who’s played a modern video game). Hornet must kill certain enemies, rescue NPCs, retrieve lost items; some wishes are even fulfilled simply by donating rosaries, filling communal coffers with the currency.
Needless to say, I find great meaning in the animations that play when accepting and fulfilling these quests. By helping those communities Hornet passes through, she binds herself to them in quite another way as she does a Silk skill. And it is in those bonds—not of silk, but of community—that she finds a power not just to topple Grandmother Silk, but the entire web of silk that haunts the Kingdom of Pharloom.
This is literally true on a mechanical level. If Hornet does not complete enough wishes before confronting Grandmother Silk, only one option is available to her (aside from snaring Pharloom’s ruler with a weird, cursed, gross seed—leading to the absolute worst ending). It is only by binding herself to the communities of Bone Bottom, Bellheart and Songclave that Hornet is even presented with another way: with an ancient trap she can use to ensnare Grandmother Silk in the Void, pulling down her web of control with her.
Hornet never considers another way unless and until she begins to deeply care for the surviving communities of Pharloom.
I actually really appreciate how Hornet’s arc to this “true” ending is mirrored by at least one other character in the story: the tiny pilgrim Sherma. At the beginning of the game, Sherma is encountered in the Marrow, tirelessly singing to a door in order to open it. Of course, this does nothing; it is Hornet’s navigation of the map that allows her to backtrack and unlock the door. Sherma naively sees this turn of events as a confirmation of his faith. Players might find humor in this; but is Hornet not similarly naive? Does she not falsely trust in her own skill in combat to topple an entire system of oppression?
Sherma can be encountered in similar circumstances throughout Pharloom, always tirelessly continuing his pilgrimage. After a certain point, Sherma settles in Songclave, perhaps the safest place within the Citadel. He has achieved the object of his pilgrimage—but he isn’t satisfied. He begins to see the curse haunting even these high and holy halls. Certainly, players who have defeated Grandmother Silk once would sympathize: for both them and Sherma, victory is empty. Something more is needed.
At this juncture, Sherma takes a major step. He descends into Whiteward, seeking medical supplies to help his fellow pilgrims. At his disappearance, Hornet can promise Songclave a wish to rescue him; if she finds him below, he returns safely back to Songclave. Sherma has, for the first time, looked beyond himself—he never seemed particularly selfish before, but his descent was taken entirely for the benefit of his fellow pilgrims, rather than for his own personal religious devotion. I find this a dramatic contrast with his first meeting with Hornet.
The final place Sherma can be found in Act 3, once Grandmother Silk has been cast into the void, is Songclave—he has made the community his home. In fact, he has become Songclave’s caretaker, stepping into the role explicitly to assist and lead his fellow pilgrims in rebuilding and maintaining their community. His passion at this point is matched by Hornet, who now works tirelessly to reverse disaster; to give these small communities a chance to thrive after Pharloom’s violent fall.
Speaking of Act 3…
After Grandmother Silk is defeated—trapped in the Void alongside her daughter, Lace—the fate of Bellheart, Songclave and Bone Bottom become even more tenuous. Earthquakes emanate from below, visiting disaster on Pharloom’s tunnels and caverns. The Void begins to rise and infuse already dangerous enemies with greater power, thus threatening already vulnerable pilgrims. At first glance, Hornet’s actions have done more to endanger than to protect.
At first glance, yes. But this step was necessary—the haunting of Pharloom would have subsumed all within and beneath the Citadel eventually. While the drama of the Void has brought destruction more swiftly, destruction would have been inevitable without Hornet’s intervention. A system of oppression must first be dismantled. Then the rebuilding begins.
But that rebuilding is no less a necessary step. Hornet can assist a little in that rebuilding, but as the game hurtles towards its true finale, her focus is rightly on the Void below. She works to free Lace of the Void’s grip, true—and this relationship is unmistakably sapphic—but Hornet continually voices her motivation throughout Act 3. She fights to save all the inhabitants of Pharloom. It falls to her to give them a second chance.
The path she takes through Act 3 is further instructive. The mechanics of it are a little ridiculous, outright fantastical in a way I adore. She needs to descend deep within her mind to recover the memory of a flower that will shield her from the influence of the Void. But the point is this: she isn’t strong enough to stop this disaster on her own. She needs to gather strength lying dormant elsewhere in Pharloom. Strength from the memories of that Kingdom.
I find this rather fitting. Hornet was perfectly capable of toppling Pharloom’s ruler; but rebuilding takes greater strength beyond her own needle-wielding reach. Strength beyond any one person, in fact. That strength is demonstrated by the nearly-faded memories of Pharloom’s predecessors – the heart of the great forest; the calcified remains of an empire beneath a long-vanished sea; the traces of a long lost kingdom of the ants; and, optionally, a realm of grasshoppers reminiscent of Arthuriana, living only in the memory of its last surviving prince.
In seeking the example of these forebears, Hornet’s journey reminded me of this oft-quoted passage from Ursula K. LeGuin:
We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable — but then, so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.
I would suggest that Hornet did not just gain magical strength from the memories of these forgotten kingdoms. Perhaps she also gained the inspiration to know that they, too, perished—and in their wake, life continued on. Such a thought would make the current death throes of Pharloom feel far less inescapable.
In any case, Hornet gains her protection from the Void. She descends, thanks to the ingenuity of those she had befriended. She confronts Lace,and presents her with unbearable hope: of life, of a realm outside the machinations of silk. She pulls Lace from the Abyss…
Or she nearly does. As it turns out, all her effort thus far is almost enough. Who comes to her aid here, so far from the kingdom she has given everything to save?
Why, it’s her oldest friend: the Knight of Hallownest. (I legitimately teared up at this point in the ending). Players who reached the true ending of Hollow Knight know that this isn’t the first time Hornet aided someone in need.
What kind of friend would our Knight be, if they didn’t repay her in kind? If they didn’t come during her own time of dire necessity?
I really, really loved Hollow Knight: Silksong. Not just because it’s legitimately beautiful—though it very much is, in its visuals, its animations, its music, its storytelling. But because the story told a very clear message: a message of hope against oppression and tyranny. A message that has only become more and more relevant since the release of its predecessor, Hollow Knight.
Ursula K. LeGuin spoke those words I quoted above as part of an acceptance speech for an award given by the National Book Foundation. You can read her remarks in their entirety here; it’s not a long speech, but it’s well worth reading in full. In closing, I wanted to highlight the words she spoke immediately after those I reproduced above:
Resistance and change often begin in art. Very often in our art, the art of words.
Through words—and through visuals, through gameplay, through careful world design and canny visual craft, Team Cherry has crafted a story of resistance.
It is a story that teaches that resistance is difficult, and sometimes painful. But it also teaches that resistance is necessary. And most importantly, that it is possible.
Thank you for reading.
a song of silk... and resistance