Chapter Text
Hornet had not approached the tents since they appeared in Dirtmouth. The once humble glow of the faded town burst alight with cold red, and even from her perch in King’s Pass, she could hear the wheeze of accordion music. She pitches her needle down the cliff face, and the thread looped through its eye pulls her along.
She’s supposed to know everything that’s going on in Hallownest, but she doesn’t understand the presence of these travelers. Their tents and their steeds are too large for her to have missed them. She does not want to consider the alternative, that these visitors have supernatural origins. Yet when she enters the town proper, her gut feeling forces her to face this reality. She thinks she has an intuition for these kinds of things, having Wyrm blood in her, but she swears the crackling energy in the air is familiar.
Past the tents, an elderly bug stands near an iron bench. Why not sit? There’s a perfectly open spot, right next to a chubby beetle. She walks past the tents, past them, ignoring the elderly bug calling out to her, and goes into the Stag Station.
Empty. No stag beetles in sight. Little Ghost, who spends more time here and would know of these matters better than she, has probably gone riding off to some godforsaken corner of Hallownest to find geo or mask shards or something. She doesn’t want to go looking for them right now.
Back to the tents she goes, then. The red really is brilliant, bleeding into Dirtmouth like an open wound. She had thought her own shabby cloak to be bright, but in comparison, it is just dried blood. The curtains, thick as bedrock and probably as heavy, shield the entrance from the elements. It takes Hornet a moment to find the slice through which she can enter.
The accordion music is as sharp as a nail in here. There’s it’s source: a burly, masked bug who pushes and pulls his instrument without pause. He doesn’t even stop when he sees Hornet creep inside.
“Mmm...Are you here for the show?” the bug asks. With the layers he’s wearing, Hornet can’t tell if he’s an ordinary beetle or something else. She peers into the darkness of the tent, which seems far bigger on the inside than out. It’s hard to say how high the ceiling goes, when so much of it is covered with curtains. Faintly, she remembers the Beast’s Den, and how it had been decorated in a similar fashion. Though by now the tapestries are certainly in disrepair.
Little Ghost has not ventured that far into Deepnest. She has time yet to investigate this strange tent, and whatever lies within. The musician has given up on speaking to her, content to stand and play his ditty for whoever else is brave enough to come inside. Certainly no one in Dirtmouth, when even Hornet is feeling wary. She’s holding the handle of her weapon so tightly that her hand shakes. It might just be a trick of the light, but she swears she’s seeing stars. Red ones, spinning in her eyes no matter which way she looks.
She shakes her head, and her vision returns to normal. To her left is a finely-papered wall, deep red with a repeating pattern she doesn’t recognize. Ahead of her is a pool of red light. Red, red, red. There’s so much it’s starting to hurt. She keeps to the perimeter of the light, and somewhere along the way, she almost trips over a set of steps. They lead into a spectator’s area of raised bleachers. The benches are already packed with bugs. That’s what she hopes they are, anyway. Every last one of them is concealed by dark cloaks and masks which, like the musician’s, have black lines cutting through the eyes.
The only available seat is in the front row, where a short wall separates the audience from the stage. This must be the ‘show’ the musician had mentioned, but what is she meant to be watching?
Just as she is wondering, the stage explodes.
Hornet cries out and grabs her needle, ready to fling herself from the tent as mist fills the air. A gust of wind clears it away, bringing with it showers of confetti in deep purple, brilliant gold, and of course, bright red. The rest of the audience begins to applaud, and she soon sees why: someone has appeared in the center of the stage.
She isn’t sure what he is: a spider? Some kind of moth? Or is he not a bug at all? She cannot tell if those are wings or a cloak around his shoulders. His white face is slashed down the eyes with those same black lines that everyone else here seems to have, and his grinning mouth is full of wicked fangs. He takes a sweeping bow, and the audience’s applause grows stronger.
When he straightens back up, there’s a split second where he and Hornet make eye contact. A shiver runs through her, but he merely winks.
“Welcome, welcome all, to the Grimm Troupe!” His voice sounds like he lost his voice to the flu, and it didn’t come back right. “I see we have a full audience tonight...”
Come to think of it, where did the audience come from? Certainly not Hallownest, where almost the entire population is dead.
“Tonight, we feast our eyes upon true magic,” the bug is saying. “Prepare to be enthralled by wonders that one could only dream of.”
Oh. So it’s a magic show—or a circus? She should have guessed as much, from the appearance of the tent, but she had been more concerned with why they were here at all. She still cannot bring herself to feel comfortable with it all, but at least she won’t have to draw her needle?
The stage suits the magician—Grimm—well, though, and she can’t imagine what he’d be like outside of a performance. From the start it’s clear he lives for theatrics, and even the mundane parlor tricks he starts out with have a certain glamour to them. Hornet unconsciously leans forward in her seat, eyes wide, as Grimm pulls an increasingly long string of flags from beneath his cloak.
With a clap of his hands, the flags turn into maskflies with scarlet wings and sharp horns. They fly to all edges of the room, coming back to the center with garlands of flowers in their mandibles. When the ceiling is thoroughly covered, Grimm holds out his arms for them to perch on. The audience applauds politely. The exception is Hornet, who is watching with silent yet undivided attention.
Grimm brings his arms together, and when he throws them out again, the maskflies are gone. No, they’re in the rafters. Hornet hears a flutter of wings, and when she looks up, there they are. While she’s looking away, he has already started another trick. He has taken a large cloth from seemingly nowhere, and holds it up to the crowd to show it off. Most likely he’s going to take something from it, or turn it into something else. Hornet has seen this trick a thousand times.
Yet she has never been to a circus or magic show in her life, not that she can remember. She watches as he twists up the cloth, and from one end, pulls the handle of an umbrella. Typical, yet somehow she feels charmed by it. The audience laughs when Grimm opens the umbrella, and he is doused in rain. He makes a big show of being bothered by it, shaking out his cloak and holding the umbrella away until the water stops. Steam rolls off him in clouds—glittery clouds, little sparkles that settle on the ceiling like stars. Then, one by one, they fall. Hornet catches one in her outstretched palm. The light fades from it, leaving behind a little candy drop.
These transformations happen one after the other: cloth into umbrella, stars into candy, and now umbrella into a huge flower. It almost feels like a dance performance, rather than a magic show. Perhaps it’s both, and that’s what a ‘circus’ is.
Before she can grow impatient—she was never one to enjoy long shows—Grimm gives a sweeping bow, and the audience erupts into applause. At the same time, a clock begins to toll. Hornet, thoroughly rattled by all the noise, remains frozen in her seat. Not a single bug who leaves the stands goes to the exit. Once they’ve floated a certain distance away, she can no longer see them. When she is finally alone, she wonders how long she has been here. She does not recall it being anywhere near twelve, neither morning nor noon.
Nothing that transpired here has answered her questions, but she can’t sit here forever. With her needle in hand, she trots down the steps, takes one last look towards the stage…
...and immediately bumps into Grimm.
She, the huntress always one step ahead of her prey, didn’t even see this giant of a bug step into her path. She squeaks, and he laughs at that: a low sound like the rumble of thunder. There hasn’t been a thunderstorm in Hallownest in ages. Hornet jumps back as if struck, weapon at the ready.
“Ah, ah. So eager to dance.” Grimm leans forward with a hand splayed over his chest. Each finger is tipped with a claw that could easily render a bug’s flesh. If not for the bright, distracting scarlet of his thorax, he could have easily passed for a hunter of Deepnest, or even the Ancient Basin. How strange that she meets him as a traveling performer. He catches her staring, and offers his hand with a toothy grin.
“Yet so timid...” he says, almost to himself, when she doesn’t take his hand. He laces his fingers together. “Was the performance to your liking?”
Hornet returns her needle to her back. “It was fine. Who are you, and why have you come here? There’s no market to be made in this fading town.”
“Perhaps not. I’m here for what lies beneath.” Grimm gestures to the floor, as if the wealth of Hallownest were mere inches beneath the floorboards. “I am Grimm, the master of this troupe. The lantern was lit, and we were summoned by knight fair and small, to consume the flames of Hallownest’s fall. We harvest the nightmares of long-dead lands, and feed the heart.”
A single word rolls out of Hornet’s mouth, bitter as medicine. “Scavengers.”
“No ecosystem is complete without them, child.” Grimm stretches to full height. He easily towers over Hornet, who barely comes up to his waist. She’s forced to crane her neck back to make eye contact.
“You’ve come to pick the bones of sacred Hallownest clean,” Hornet says with narrowed eyes, “like a vandal dressed in silk. I won’t allow you to do as you please.”
“There is no point in such abrasiveness. I assure you, we will not be leaving until we have what we seek.” Grimm gestures for her to follow. “The least I can do is escort a lady out.”
Hornet follows begrudgingly, for where else would she go? Further inside? She was planning to leave, anyway. His civility feels almost condescending, as if he’s showing off how much more refined he is than her. He sweeps open the curtain and gestures to the windswept roads of Dirtmouth.
“’Till we meet again.” He sweeps her out into the open, and again the stars erupt in her eyes. This time, however, they do not fade: they g row bigger and brighter, searing her vision with aching red. She turns around and tries to say something, but her own sudden movement unbalances her, and she goes tumbling to the earth.
The lumafly lamp above the bench rudely awakens Hornet with its light. The moment she’s awake, she glares at it and rubs her eyes. Outside the pool of light that is Dirtmouth’s resting area, the rest of the town is impossibly dark. The Grimm Troupe sits to the side of the town with feigned innocence, and Hornet scowls at that too.
“How are you feeling?” someone asks. Hornet tosses a glance over her shoulder, and sees a mosquito perched on the other end of the bench. Next to her is the beetle from before. To her left is the elderly bug who had tried to speak to her when she first arrived. Hornet feels disgusted with herself when she checks her back for her weapon. These are just normal bugs, but she’d still feel vulnerable if she was unarmed.
“I am fine.” Hornet checks the pockets of her cloak. Nothing is missing. “What happened?”
“You just passed out in front of that tent,” says the mosquito, propping an elbow on her knee. “One of those weevils in the front was poking at you, so the Elderbug went to get help.”
The gears in Hornet’s head begin to turn. “Did you, perchance, see me enter?” she asks.
“No, no,” says the Elderbug, shaking his head. “You walked right up to it as if in a trance, and passed out. I would have carried you myself, but these old arms aren’t what they used to be. I’m sorry...”
“I appreciate your assistance, nonetheless,” Hornet replies, bowing her head respectfully to the other bugs. Still, passing out without even realizing it is troubling. There’s a strange twinge in her chest, like a warm hand firmly grasping her heart. Grimm’s words are already fading from her memory, but there are a few she manages to catch. Namely, the description of the summoner: a knight fair and small. There’s only one bug in Hallownest who fits that description, and the idea that they’re somehow involved in this isn’t much of a surprise. This is just another item on the list of strange things that have happened since they showed up in Hallownest.
“I cannot vouch for the safety of that tent.” Hornet pushes herself off the bench. The last dregs of sleep still cling to her, making her sluggish. “Take care going near it. I am off to investigate this matter further.”
She backs away with a polite bow, and then heads off to the old well. For the sake of Hallownest—and her own peace of mind—she hopes the little Ghost hasn’t gone in over their head.