Work Text:
The Dolorosa waits.
Three weeks ago, she carefully dusted off a smooth stone and seated herself as delicately as she might upon its surface. Lifting her face to meet his, she kissed the brow of her wiggler and folded her hands in her lap as she watched him spin the fine fibers of silk over his round red body. She counted silently his waving legs as they disappeared beneath the first thin layer--two, four, six--and soon enough, he was covered entirely, a hazy, squirming thing beginning another, snugger coat of spun thread.
His head disappeared last, her last impression of his face one of squinting eyes and bared teeth; he was the very picture of dedication, slowly veiled by his own success. That was the image she would hold within her heart, she told herself as she watched him disappear into his nest of filaments. It was the face of a grub intent on achieving what might not have been possible, had she not scooped him into her arms, tucking him safely within a sleeve, and hurrying quickly away. She would not credit entirely to herself his tenacity, of course--the spinning of the cocoon was a step inherent to all trolls, inborn rather than learned--but perhaps she had unwittingly modeled some force of will for him nonetheless. Perhaps without her influence, he would not have frowned with such concentration as he prepared for his long sleep.
The Dolorosa found herself caught somewhere between false modesty and crediting herself overmuch for instinct. She settled for the unshakable belief that he was the handsomest wiggler she ever beheld.
"Sleep Well," she told him, when she could no longer discern his form from the casings protecting it.
Surely he would. Couched comfortably against a stalactite so long that she need not extend her arm entirely before her fingers brushed his cocoon, he would sleep and dream of glories she could not begin to imagine.
Perhaps he would dream of her.
She has kept her vigil for three weeks now, never daring to actually reach out for his cocoon with a searching hand; she occasionally looks up at it, unable to keep a smile from curving her lips when she does. The rest of the time, she thinks: imagining what he will look like when he emerges, planning the things she will show him when he is steady upon two legs, coordinating the clothing they will wear. (They will not match; that, she thinks, is not only in poor taste but threatens to draw more attention to them than is advisable. Coordinating colours, however, are a wise and rational choice. She will dress him handsomely.)
Four candles are in her possession, and little else--only a cloak, perhaps too large, to clothe him when he clambers down and unfolds his spindly limbs. She made it in preparation, for she cannot imagine leading him back to the surface naked, but she had to try to recall how large she was when she tore a hole through the threads of her own cocoon so many sweeps past in order to judge its size. What she remembers of that time primarily is the hulking size of everything around her, and so she overestimates when slicing up her only other gown; the rest of it lays in tatters in their little hive above, waiting to become a pair of leggings and a shirt.
Four candles and a cloak, all she had time to gather and carry away with her when it became clear that the grub needed to spin his cocoon. They stole down into the bowels of Alternia once more; if she could not give him his trials after, she could at least allow him the close, cool air and the quiet darkness of the caverns in which to pupate. In a far corner, dark and perhaps a bit desolate but tolerably far from the prying eyes and noses of her former compatriots, she lit the first candle, that he might see to choose his stalactite.
After he is ensconced, she lights the candles only occasionally, allowing herself the pleasure of the dancing shadows they cast for brief periods before blowing them out once more. First one candle, a fat black piller, and then two, the second identical to the first. When she longs for more light yet--for the warmth of the sun is swiftly becoming a memory full of yearning as she awaits the grub's transformation--she has a choice between a third black candle or one of acid green, as stout as the others.
She chooses the green. Colour is swiftly becoming something to pine for, too, in these unending cycles of darkest black and yellow-tinged tan. When he returns to her, she will dress him in red and yellow and blue and hear not a word of complaint from him. The cloak, grey-nearly-black with green trim, is a start, but she has begun to dream of a rainbow of garments for them both.
It is after she lights the fourth candle, when the flame of the first candle is half-hidden by the tall walls of wax surrounding it, that she hears it. Something between a creak and a step, quiet and steady and coming closer.
The Dolorosa feels herself tense, staring into every shuddering shadow for the trespasser who will finally, inevitably discover her grotto, and worse, her grub. She will be cast out, shamed beyond reason, and the child curled above her head will have as little hope for his future as he had those weeks ago when she discovered him.
She waits.
And waits.
And for all that she peers into the darkness for the flash of horns, nothing appears. Some moments later, when she has managed to coax herself to stop planting her feet so she can spring forward and strike, should occasion arise, it occurs to her that the sound is not coming from the deep pools of darkness outside the candles' glow.
It comes from above.
When the Dolorosa glances up once more, it is to the flash of teeth, blade-sharp and sticking through the silken cocoon. She sees nothing more of the boy but the shining row of teeth for some time, though as he grows nearer to tearing through the outer layers, she hears the occasional expletive.
She waits again, a far shorter length of time and yet so much more difficult to bear, now that she sees some hint of his presence. He is awake, with all the strength she could have hoped for him, and will no doubt be a most graceful and dashing creature.
When he finally shreds a hole in the side of his cocoon, it turns out that he is mostly damp, a folded-up little thing with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes. He is perfect.
She settles the cloak around his shoulders--too long, but he will grow, no doubt--and shuffles him into her arms as easily as she did when he was no more than a wiggler with a fondness for biting, so small she could tuck him into her sleeve. And though he complains, and rather foully, she gathers him close, pressing her cheek to his slick hair, the rounded bumps of his horns poking gently into her jaw.
"Hello, My Son."