Chapter Text
Two weeks. Thistlewind returned to the Moth Tribe within two weeks. They were thinner, yes, and a bit disheveled, but was nonetheless met with much merriment and cheer from their fellow moths. The Tribe was eager to hear their adventures of the wilds of Hallownest from the first-ever moth to wield a nail.
Except for one.
Seer brewed a kettle of tea as Thistlewind sat comfortably on her pillows. “I’m sure you had many adventures.” She said, mostly to break the ice.
“Indeed!” Thistlewind agreed, graciously taking the cup of milkweed tea. “Many of the tribe have heard them already, but I’m sure I have some I haven’t told you-”
“That is well and good, Thistlewind, and I’m glad you’re home safe.” Seer loudly interrupted, sitting next to them with her own cup. “However, that is not why I asked you to join me.”
“Oh, what could-”
“Have you heard any word from my son?”
Thistlewind visibly deflated, sipping from their tea to avoid answering. “We...we split up in what I later learned was called ‘Kingdom’s Edge’. I wanted to delve further into Hallownest but Markoth...didn’t.”
Seer’s antennae drooped as she stared into her cup. “What...what did he want to do?”
“He wouldn’t say. He just refused to travel further.” Thistlewind replied. “It was fairly early on in our travels, I’m honestly surprised he didn’t get here first.”
“He didn’t. I’m beginning to grow worried.” Seer said softly. “My little Mar-Mar has always been the oddest little grub, always restless. But I never thought he’d actually leave...especially with weapons…”
“And a shield, don’t forget his shield.”
Seer frowned. “True, he has a method of protection. I suppose I’m just being a silly old moth. My little Mar-Mar isn’t so little anymore. He’s trained in both nail and shield, he should be able to protect himself.”
“True, he was an excellent fighter.” Thistlewind perked up as they continued to assure her. “He would often best me in sparring.” They leaned forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s a capable moth, I’m sure he can handle himself.”
Sighing, Seer nodded. “Thank you, Thistlewind.”
Four months. Four months and Markoth had not yet returned. Seer wasn’t a fool, she heard the whispers from the tribe. She knew what they thought.
She refused to accept that her son was dead.
After she had tended to the graves, Seer would go for walks along the edge of the Resting Grounds and the village. When asked, she would reply, “Oh, I just like the exercise.”
But the others knew. They all knew.
And Seer did too.
A year passed. Markoth was still missing. The rest of the tribe had moved on. They had moved on from that, moved on from the silly old moth who tended the graves.
One of the elders approached Seer gently. “Seer...you cling to the past.”
“Yes, it’s comforting.” She replied, a touch curtly. “I see no good in rushing into the future. The others are quick to abandon our ways, our lives, our God-”
“That is not what I meant, and you know that.”
Seer turned away. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“Seer. He’s not coming home.”
She felt her world spinning. “No.” Seer hissed, despite the vertigo she was currently experiencing, “No, you don’t know Markoth like I do.”
“Calm down, Seer-” But there was no calming Seer down. Her fur stood on end as she stepped closer, jabbing a finger into the Elder’s chest.
“My Markoth wouldn’t just disappear. Not my son.”
The Elder skittered away, recognizing a losing battle. Seer huffed, smoothing down her fur and turning back to her graves.
She would wait for her son. No matter how long it took.
More time passed. Seer lost count of specifics.
She had heard whispers from the others, mothers telling their grubs about the Moth who left, only to never return. Seer’s son had turned into a boogeyman, a fairytale, a warning.
Don’t go past the village. Don’t be too hasty. Don’t be mean. Don’t be prideful. Don’t play with weapons. Listen to the Elders.
Seer knew her son hadn’t been the most popular moth in the tribe, and her son certainly had those negative qualities about him. But they failed to mention his better qualities; he was kind, and honest, and rather soft-spoken at times.
Thistlewind didn’t have any ghost stories about them, but then again, they were still walking amongst the other moths in the village, telling stories from their adventures.
She tried not to be bitter. She tried not to think about how unfair it was that Thistlewind was home, and her son was still lost. It wasn’t Thistlewind’s fault.
Occasionally, Thistlewind would leave for several weeks to explore the edges of the world. They returned every time with fantastical stories of lush green valleys and strange beasts. And every time they returned, Seer would sit them down and ask for news of her son.
Thistlewind never had news on her son and slowly they started visiting less and less. Eventually, they stopped coming to visit her at all. Seer wasn’t sure if it was due to guilt or irritation, but she didn’t care.
Seer found herself thinking of her son less and less. Although, she had more important things to focus on. Namely the strange ailment spreading through the tribe.
It was an unusual sickness, giving them golden thoughts and dreams, their vision and words tainted with sickly sweetness. It affected the elderly first, and slowly they took their beds and withered away.
It took the grubs and the eggs, the babies inside never hatching. It took the weak, the young, the old. Then, it started taking everyone else.
Everyone except Seer.
For unknown and ungodly reasons, Seer alone was spared from the malady. Although she saw this as not a blessing, but as a terrible misfortune. She alone was tasked with tending to the dying. There wasn’t anything to be done, there was no known cure or even a way to slow the disease - if it even was a disease.
Seer wondered if her son was suffering from the same sickness, wherever he was. Was he immune, as she was?
More and more moths fell to the plague, their veins choking with orange, their eyes resembling the sun. Seer dug more graves. She was digging so many, not only for the moths but for the bugs that the rest of the kingdom sent.
So many bugs fell to the disease. Warriors, guards, farmers, fathers, mothers, sons. There was even a strange ant dressed in a bright red suit of armor. The bugs delivering the cadaver said the red bug was a traitor to the king.
Seer didn’t care too much, but special instructions from the Pale Wyrm, demanding the traitor receive a special grave as a warning. A bit strange, and it wasn’t what Seer would have done, but who was she to question the Pale Wyrm?
More and more moths fell to the plague, their numbers dwindling.
Until eventually, only two moths remained of the once flourishing tribe.
Seer and Thistlewind.
Thistlewind fought as hard as they could against the infection, trying every remedy they could think of and even visiting the capital city. They had refused to give in, refused to let the sickness take them quietly.
But quietly it did.
Their fighting grew weak, unable to even pick up their nail. And soon, they were unable to even leave their bed.
Seer came to see them in their final days, tending to them as a
mother
caretaker should.
“Seer…” Thistlewind croaked, their eyes a brilliant gold. Could they still see? “Seer...I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Thistlewind.” She assured them, wiping their forehead with a cloth.
“I should have stayed. I should have talked some sense into him...into Markoth.” They continued, their voice hoarse and quiet. “I should have...could have...he would be here if I tried harder-”
Seer shook her head, using a free hand to grasp their own. “No, Thistlewind. No one is to blame.”
Thistlewind sighed. “I’m fading, Seer. I can feel it. I...wanted to travel more.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Seer snapped, taking their other hand. “You will-”
“No, I suspect I won’t.” They whispered. “I never stopped looking for him, you know...I never stopped.”
She shushed him. “It’s not your fault, Thistlewind. I’m sure he’ll return one day.”
They reached into their cloak. “I made you something, before the infection,” Thistlewind said, pulling out a metallic golden charm. “I was...unsure when to give it to you. But I feel that there is no better time than the present.”
Thistlewind handed her the charm, and once it was in her grasp, his hand went limp. The golden charm was no bigger than her hand, its front carved into the likeness of a shield. His shield. Seer was speechless.
“Protect yourself...Seer…” Thistlewind said, his eyes closing and his grip going slack. “You...are our last…It’s so bright, Seer...it’s so...bright.”
And they were gone.
Seer had so many graves to dig. Thistlewind was buried with their nail in the Spirit’s Glade, the last body to be buried in there. Afterward, she sealed the glade. The spirits would be at peace there, all of them falling to the infection before their death.
One grave remained.
But this grave didn’t have a body to bury.
This statue would go under her tent, in a small cave. There, she painstakingly carved the surrounding rock into what she wanted. She was growing older, making the graves wasn’t as easy as it once was.
Soon the rock face was the spitting image of her son’s shield. And inside the notch in the middle of the rock went the charm Thistlewind had made her.
Seer stood in front of the grave. The grave without a body. The grave for her son.
She rested a hand on the smoothed rock. “Protect yourself, my son...for you are our last…”