Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hornet has lived a very long time.

That much should be obvious to most bugs. 

She was there when Hallownest was in its prime, just as wind of the Infection made its way to the White Palace, and the Plan was conceived. She was there when the Five Great Knights patrolled the City of Tears, whose doors were open to any wandering bugs. She was there when the Plan started fraying at the seams, as one of the last few bugs who’d kept clear of the Radiance’s influence.

Heck, she was stuck guarding the corpse of a massive Wyrm for months on end, slowly losing hope of ever being freed from her duty as a sentinel until Ghost showed up. And promptly beat her up.

In essence: she’s lived through a lot.

And yet, for reasons she could only guess, around half of every bug she’d met in Pharloom had mistakenly called her something akin to “child” (Shakra) or “little” (Lace). Passing pilgrims would stop and stare for a moment, likely wondering how so “young” a hunter like her had survived the Haunting and Unravelling unscathed.

Hornet had just attributed her lack of noticeable scarring to her unique heritage and the ability to heal with Silk. Silk in Pharloom was always abundant, so patching herself up now and then was no issue.

Regardless of scars, all bugs had a start to their lives. A date of birth. And Hornet’s was right around the corner. Not that it really mattered anyways.

Following the events of a certain tracking incident involving an abundance of white flowers and Lace, Hornet now found herself constantly pestered by the latter. 

Lace (originally uninvited) slept in a makeshift pillow mattress within Hornet’s bellhome but often spent her day going around Pharloom doing her own things. The hunter herself was busy with either hunting food, or fulfilling the endless stream of wishes on Bellheart’s wishboard. 

The wishes slowed down somewhat, seeing that it was now more than a month after the Unravelling. However, Pharloom was far from stable, and she wanted to give it some semblance of normalcy first before making the long journey back home.

To Hallownest.

Where it all started.

Hornet heaved a heavy mental sigh, glancing over the overlapping pins on the wishboard. That day was a long day. 

Mainly one filled with courier runs. 

After every package she was sent to deliver, the hunter contemplated asking for more payment from Tipp and Pill. The routes post-Unravelling were newer and Shakra had yet to map them, increasing the difficulty of her job.

But her fondness of them, a weakness that not many hunters would keep, dictated that Hornet shut up about it and help to the best extent she could.

Alongside the deliveries, Hornet had helped clear out parts of the Underworks from remaining Haunted workers. 

Tired and dusty from her errands, she felt that a good soak in her spa was warranted and so made a beeline to her bellhome, flinging the door open with little regard for the echoes it made throughout Bellheart.

It was a bell, after all.

Her red cloak cast aside, Hornet exhaled sharply as both her strength and Silk were restored upon stepping in the water.

Wyrm above, that felt amazing.

The small creatures within the gleamlights overhead buzzed around aimlessly, their bioluminescence brightening up the otherwise-dim bellhome. They reminded her of lumafly lanterns used to navigate Deepnest.

And so, for twenty whole seconds, Hornet was at peace.

Then the door swung open again as Lace, once again, invited herself in, throwing her pin aside with dramatic flair. 

From outside Hornet’s bellhome, the residents of Bellheart covered their ears from the ringing echoes of the door slamming.

Lace plopped herself upon her makeshift pillow-bed just underneath the small basin that served as the spa. She looked around, momentarily confused. 

Strange. The hunter was nowhere to be–

Lace glanced furtively at the edge of a red cloak hanging right in front of her, which was no doubt dangling from the edge of the spa basin. 

Aha.

“Seems like the itsy spider was out exploring the Underworks,” she teased, twiddling the edges of Hornet’s red cloak in her hands. “Did she find anything else noteworthy to keep? Another beating heart, perhaps? The one on your shelf in a jar could use some company.”

From somewhere above came the reply, though now it was not laced with venom, not even spite. Hornet just sounded plain tired. She barely lifted her head to regard Lace, waving one hand to brush off the attempted jab at her odd bits and bobs sitting on her shelf.

“No, I didn’t. And I’m hardly an ‘itsy’ spider, foolish child. If you will barge into my home unannounced, at least address me correctly.”

Lace laughed airily. “Sure you are. The mysterious stranger from lands beyond the Wastes claims to be much older than meets the eye! Truly, a classic.” 

Hornet sighed audibly. She didn’t feel like dealing with Lace’s banter today. She couldn’t quite pinpoint why. It floated out of reach for her rationale, which was extremely annoying. 

Just as she was about to turn around and scowl at Lace who sat directly below the spa basin, the sudden splash of water and a familiar high-pitched giggle prompted Hornet to reach for a needle that was too far away as a reflex. Lace had slipped into the waters as well. 

Okay that was not something Hornet was expecting to happen. Ever.

“Calm yourself, dear spider. I was getting quite tired from running my errands too,” the silken being announced as she took the other end of the spa, elbows propped against the edge. “With all the traveling you’ve been doing lately, I fear this luxurious amenity of yours might fall into disrepair quickly. I’m merely seizing my opportunity!”

Lace then took the moment to scrutinise Hornet up close, more curious than anything else.

Hornet looked pretty silly without her cloak on.

Her white mask was just slightly too big to seem proportional with the rest of her black body. And her horns were actually absurdly long. The fearsome hunter, who’d bested her twice, now looked more like a child’s first pencil scribbles than a warrior of renown, as she was known to others outside Bellheart. 

Lace giggled at the notion.

Hornet sighed in exasperation but chuckled along, if only briefly. Irritating as she might be, the silken fencer was a much needed respite from the empty walls of her bellhome. Whether it be laughter or just another rustling presence amidst her pillow bed, it helped break the monotony of solitude. 

Back in Hallownest, alone as she was, there was never a real quiet moment. Husks' groans and the buzz of some flying creatures overhead were all but background noise. The popping of bubbles in acid lakes. The wind that rushed through Kingdom’s Edge. 

There was always some sound to tune into, or ignore. 

Not Pharloom.

Sounds were too loud to ignore and the silence was the type that swallowed your mind whole.

The Abyss was deafeningly quiet. The fringes of Verdania, now robbed of its two princes, were dead and cold. The border of Pharloom itself was far lonelier than Hallownest’s edges. Not to mention, the lack of a certain vessel made her wanderings much less fun.

So, all in all, Hornet really did miss company. Lace’s presence was bearable. For now.

Alright, that was enough reminiscing.

Hornet reached a hand over to her red cloak, donning it with one graceful twirl as she hopped out of the spa, refreshed and rejuvenated at last. She sat in front of her angled desk, pulling out a pouch worth of tools and shards to tinker with.

Lace knit her eyebrows together in mild frustration. She really didn’t like the noise made whenever Hornet was fixing her tools, but would rather not risk getting kicked out of her semi-permanent residence. She stayed in the spa, staring at the gleamlights.

“Say, spider. You–”

“Hornet.”

“Sorry?” Lace sat up, assuming she’d misheard the hunter, who was now focused on some beetle-shaped machines.

The spider – Hornet – didn’t look up whatsoever. “My name is Hornet. Not “spider”. Or has your time away from the monarch dulled what little manners you have?” she said, slipping several shell shards into various mechanisms.

“You don’t seem very bee-like. Nor do you wear much yellow,” Lace countered, huffing softly. “And you insist on calling me a child! How rude.”

The hunter swapped the cogflies out for a comically large buzzsaw to tinker with. She chuckled softly under her breath, hearing the sharp gasp that Lace gave.

Whether it be to get Lace to tread more carefully or just simply coincidence, the silken being took it as a sign and refrained from mocking Hornet further.

Hornet decided to elaborate. Fixing her tools and weapons always puts her in a better mood than most. Lucky Lace.

“As a child of Wyrm and Weaver, I’ll likely outlive you by a century or so. One kingdom has fallen within my time: I don’t see why another would be spared such a fate after a similar encounter with a Pale Being.” 

Lace hopped out of the spa, drying herself off with a clean rag. “Intruiging! I knew of your origins, but not of your age. Could you have been as old as the Weaver shrines that dot the landscape?”

“Maybe. Even so, I suppose today would be of some importance, if I was more diligent in recording the ages. Today seems to be my date of birth," Hornet said calmly, like how one would comment on passing scenery.

She then looked to her shelf full of mementos and oddities. “It’s been a while since I celebrated it.”

Lace nearly dropped her silken jaw on the floor. Hornet revealing something about herself, unprompted, willingly, in a non-taunting manner? Silk and stars above, she must be dreaming!

“I don’t see how this information would benefit me, spider,” she retorted somewhat, looking over Hornet’s shoulder in interest as the buzzsaws were fixed one at a time. “I’m not a birthday expert. I have yet to pass my first century of existence, and here you are, pale and Weaver, boasting about your unmatched lifespan.”

“Hm, yeah. Forget I said anything.”

Hornet’s nimble hands seemed to slow as she fixed her remaining tools with a hint of hesitation, as if finding an excuse for her to not look Lace in the eye. 

She didn’t think her words through, dang it! What was she doing, going all open and vulnerable to Lace, of all people? Now she thinks Hornet must be a weird, edgy and depressed princess of a faraway land who hasn’t celebrated her birthday in a long, long time.

Great.

Lace didn’t say anything. A mercy to poor Hornet. She merely grabbed her golden pin and sauntered out the door, closing it slowly behind her. 

Her afternoon plans to wander the Citadel could wait. Lace opened a copy of Hornet’s map and quickly charted a course for Songclave.

She had a surprise to throw for the spider.

But first, she needed help.

Chapter Text

Riding the Bellbeast was… an experience.

Good or bad, Lace didn’t care. Mostly because she was busy trying not to bite her tongue off with every jostle and bump of the beast as it scurried through the bellways. Its children were adorable, chirping and cooing to be pet after arriving at the Grand Bellway station.

“Hehe, sorry little ones. I’ll be back soon!” Lace reassured the Bellbeastlings, taking off and taking a left to the nearby bench. Songclave was a little ways upwards and her intended path would bring her through Trobbio’s Stage, the Vaults and then finally emerging into the settlement from below.

It was rather inconvenient, but the Ventrica was a far worse travel alternative compared to walking. She wouldn’t trust that old, rattling contraption with her life, even if Hornet claimed that it was perfectly safe. 

Besides, passing by Trobbio would be potentially helpful. Lace had no idea how to throw parties for anyone but herself. Phantom was quite the recluse and preferred musical theatrics over socialisation. Mother was far too busy with Higher Being nonsense to pay attention to anything aside from the Weavers.

The more pressing question to answer at the moment would be why she was so keen to throw a party for Hornet out of everyone in the first place. 

Lace made quick work of some shambling bugs who were still enthralled by leftover Silk from the Unravelling. So, why show any form of niceties to Hornet anyways? She’s bested her in combat thrice and was far from the best host of a bellhome. And yet, Lace felt some affection for the strange, stoic hunter. 

Aside from a touch of saltiness from being beaten thrice in a row, she did have Hornet to thank for releasing Mother’s vice-like grip over herself. She was still a little miffed over Mother’s obsession over Weavers and their kin, which caused both her and Phantom to be neglected and pushed to only afterthoughts in the Higher Being’s mind. Killing Mother did them both a service, even if Phantom wasn’t around anymore. 

Additionally, Hornet dived into the Abyss out of sheer stubbornness to rescue Lace. That was even after Lace tried warning her, claiming that oblivion was a preferable end. And yet, Hornet went through literal hell just to free her from the Void. Perhaps that was reason enough to show a smidgeon of gratitude to the red-cloaked enigma.

Best to do so before she leaves Pharloom. 

The climb up to Trobbio’s quarters was a silent march, punctuated by echoes of the actor reciting lines of play from across the hallway. He’d fallen into a state of depression after the Abyss swallowed much of the Citadel, but seemed to be doing much better now. Instead of a sad purple, Trobbio was back to bright pink and reddish hues, even sprucing up his stage somewhat. 

“Aha! A guest for Trobbio! Welcome, welcome!” He twirled out of his quarters and bowed to Lace. The pyrotechnics below the floorboards spat out twin columns of harmless flame to further announce his grand entrance. “Alas, I’ve used all my glittery explosives and have yet to craft more,” he lamented, striking a pose as he got up from his bow.

Lace smirked and stifled a laugh. Such theatrics were so excessive, they were downright hilarious to watch. It was a good call to come here for advice.

The silken fencer bowed in greeting. “Save yourself the trouble, actor. I’m merely passing by. Songclave is my destination, and my route happens to cut through your abode.” Trobbio’s antennae visibly drooped upon hearing that. No audience today it seemed. 

Lace hurriedly corrected herself. “Ah, but I came here to ask for some advice from the great Trobbio himself.” She averted her eyes, the feeling of mild embarrassment creeping up behind her words. “Suppose I want to throw a party for an acquaintance. A birthday party. How should I–”

“A party!” Trobbio brightened up immediately and threw a handful of smoke grenades in the air. Lace sidestepped his smoke grenades with ease. “A party after such dark times should be as grand as can be!” He waltzed into his quarters, seemingly to retrieve something.

Some rattling and shaking was heard, before Trobbio emerged from his room, holding a box full of stage props and slipping Lace a crumpled parchment. “In my years of entertaining bug and beast, I’ve collated a great many methods to liven up any play or occasion. I have no doubt that these tips would help in planning your party!”

Lace pocketed the parchment and eyed the box. “And those?”

“For your use! I’ve far too much junk lying around, and to see it used elsewhere would be better than rotting away in my quarters,” the actor sighed dramatically, putting one hand to his forehead, mouth agape in distress. 

Though thankful for the supplies, Lace now ran into a major problem: how was she supposed to carry this?

Slowly fraying every day as she was, without Mother’s constant application of Silk, and she was a fencer, not a soldier. Getting it to the Bellbeast would be a big inconvenience, and posed potential to damage the box. Lace narrowed her eyes and rested her chin on one hand, looking at Trobbio.

“Say, would you mind if we hosted the party here?”

The actor was ecstatic, leaping into the air to flourish his wings. “This day keeps getting better and better! My stage will be set with the best of what I have! I shall rehearse my greatest spectacles, and craft as many props as I can!” Lace hummed in approval, smiling a little from Trobbio’s contagious excitement. 

He stopped for a moment to clarify something important. “Who might this party be for?” It was vital to factor in the Very Important Person into any type of performance, after all. He of all bugs should know.

Lace sighed and waved the question away, like another one of her glowing butterflies. “Some hunter who’s stumbled into your stage twice. The saviour of Bellheart and Pharloom. I don’t suppose you know her?” Lace wasn’t sure if he’d recognise Hornet by name, and so simply described her.

Trobbio oohed and ahhed, realising the importance of the Very Important Person. “So it’s her! I shall refrain from overusing my pyrotechnics, then. She seemed quite fed up with them the last time we danced.” He seemed just slightly saddened by the limited props he was left to use, but still reassured Lace that he was up to decorating his stage for the party. 

It would be hours before Trobbio was finished with setting everything up, giving Lace only several hours to round everyone else up. 

Exiting the stage from the right, she made her way up into the Whispering Vaults. Songclave wasn’t too far from here now.

Lace unfurled the parchment Trobbio had handed to her. It was a list of things that he deemed essential to any performance or occasion. Within the list was one word that had been underlined many times over and circled furiously with multiple arrows pointing at it.

Music.

Lace recalled seeing a gramophone in Hornet’s bellhome, which she critiqued, saying it was underutilised and gathering dust. In response, the hunter played a record of the Vaultkeeper’s melody, part of the Citadel’s threefold song. It filled the bellhome with music, and was one of the rare moments she’d seen Hornet smile.

Hornet’s needolin was also a fascinating display of Weaver skills, which she often played to pass the time. Lace felt captivated for some reason, singing along to the plucked strings of Silk. After every performance, the hunter would then look at her weird, as if she knew something Lace did not.

To conclude, Hornet liked music. 

The silken being pursed her lips and tucked the parchment away. Perhaps a detour within the Vaults might do her good. 

Chapter Text

Cardinius wasn’t particularly pleasant to talk to. 

Lace had to wander around the Vaults for a good half hour, shouting into empty space. It was only when she found the funnel of a gramophone and smacked it several times with her pin did the old Vaultkeeper emerge.

Narrowing her eyes in mild annoyance, the silken fencer looked up as Cardinius’ winding body popped out of a crevice in the ceiling, four thin arms surrounding his dark, bearded face. His golden cone-shaped hat gleamed in the light of the singular gleamlight over his desk. 

Back in the Citadel’s glory days, Lace heard about the fabled factions of the city through hushed whispers of arriving pilgrims, lest any choristers be present to put them back in line. 

She heard of the meticulous Architects, toiling away in the Cogwork Core, keeping the Citadel’s foundational machinery in tip-top shape. She learnt of the power held by the High Conductors, leading the kingdom towards greatness, one wave of their baton at a time. She caught glimpses of the Vaultkeepers and their assistants in action, scribbling down the histories of the Citadel upon holy cylinders for generations to come. 

Lace looked around the Vaults briefly. Nothing much remained, round the decaying parchments and tattered curtains. The once-organised scrolls now paved the very floor she stepped on. 

How far had they fallen! The gilded decorations of the city were fast peeling away, revealing the truth to all who remain to ascend to its top. And it was all because of the actions of one spider and her needle, refusing to leave until her business was finished.

Lace scoffed at the notion of being fooled by such a pathetic facade. She knew from the start, what really lay atop the Citadel’s peak. She’d warned Hornet. Twice. 

And she still made the treacherous climb, one layer at a time. Each swing of her blade exposed the kingdom’s secrets. Lace had kept watch from the sidelines, wondering what would become of her after everything came crumbling down.

She did not expect to see herself doing any of this. Especially not for Hornet. 

The old Vaultkeeper gazed at Lace from his claustrophobic perch, returning the look of annoyance to Lace. “She does not carry cylinders. Nor is she Weaver-spawn. This one, of a like it has never seen,” Cardinius hissed. “It has lived long, watched its fellows wither, but even this knowledge escapes this Keeper’s knowledge.” He tilted his head to one side, his cone hat momentarily slipping off before he readjusted it. 

“Pass it! Share it! Insight, it seeks, on this matter that it does not know.”

Lace rolled her eyes at the centipede. “Gone are the days of your influence, Keeper. You hold no authority over me. I’m here to request your services. If you really are a Vaultkeeper, you should know better than to deny help to one of greater power.” She hoped Cardinius was in a less grouchy mood than he was well-known for, otherwise she might never get what she needed. 

Unfortunately for Lace, Cardinius was in fact, extremely grumpy today. 

“Impudent bug! Her demeanour warrants death! Service it will deny, for no insight was shared!”

The silken being sighed loudly. She didn’t have the time to deal with one cranky old centipede librarian. She genuinely started to reconsider this detour, before begrudgingly responding to the old Vaultkeeper.

“If I share my secret that you so desperately seek after, will you help me get a special melody?”

Cardinius narrowed his eyes. He pondered the strange being’s words. She was bug-like in all but physical make up. An utterly alien being to even him, the last Vaultkeeper alive. 

This was information he wanted, no, needed.

Lowering his head to meet Lace, Cardinius rasped. “It shall fold its hands to her, in exchange for her knowledge. Uphold her part first, she must. Better that way, methinks. Less trustworthy than the Weaver-spawn.”

Lace flinched. Not that she was offended by the Vaultkeeper’s distrust, but moreso just amazed at just how many bugs Hornet had met throughout her journey. She had to put up with this guy? Wow.

Leaning against the rickety desk nearby, the fencer started rambling about her origins, partially hoping that the centipede would quickly grow disinterested and hurriedly offer his end of the bargain. 

Sadly, she severely underestimated the attention span of Cardinius. 

Back in Bellheart

“You’re welcome, Pavo,” Hornet said, handing him a handful of supplies as per requested in his wish. “I hope you’re able to fix your home now.” 

The poor bug had his bellhome’s ceiling give way several days ago after suffering much damage from falling debris. Tremors were not uncommon nowadays, which were inconvenient at best, and deadly at worst. The hunter guessed it had something to do with the lack of solid stone underneath the whole of Pharloom, as she’d seen with her own two eyes. 

Hopefully it wouldn’t snowball into a much larger problem, mused the hunter. Hornet refused to dwell on the matter, hoping to whatever Higher Being was present that she didn’t just jinx the kingdom's hard-earned peace. 

Pavo was delighted, singing praises to the heavens (the usual). “Many thanks, saviour of Bellheart! I shall put these resources to good use, to make your troubles worthwhile. You truly are a gift from above, good traveller!” He left with supplies in hand, the tinkling bell hanging from his headgear growing fainter as he walked away.

Hornet opened her hand to glance over the rosaries he’d brought as payment, making her way back to her bellhome. 

Two frayed strings, worth sixty beads total. Not bad for a quick trek around the Deep Docks for metal ore. Ballow was even nice enough to give her additional free ores.

She could’ve gotten more rosaries off of enemies in the Citadel, but lately, the hunter had grown to treasure anything she was compensated with by those whose wishes she completed. 

While some were not quite as useful as her Silk skills, tools and trinkets or rosary beads, they wormed their way into a special place in Hornet’s heart.

A small statuette from Flick the Fixer, all the way back in Bone Bottom. It sat proudly amidst her vast collection on her shelf, somehow surviving in her satchel unscathed, even after falling into the Abyss. Hornet couldn’t bring herself to break it for shell shards, even in the most dire situations. Crude and uncoloured, it reminded her of her humble beginnings in Pharloom, when she was no better off than the lowliest of pilgrims.

The Egg of Flealia. A roundish symbol depicting a flea of legend: the mother flea. Hornet found herself wishing to meet this mother flea, in the hopes that it was far bigger and fluffier than the Huge Flea she’d fought. It represented her close friendship with the flea caravan, whose members continued to party and celebrate while facing the end of the world. A massive, fluffy beacon of hope amidst dark times. 

It was such a shame that the fleas belonged to the caravan. Hornet had idly planned ways to convince a flea (or two) to stay with her as a permanent companion, but deemed such thoughts selfish and inconsiderate.

Frequent visits to Fleatopia would be the only way to meet the adorable fleas. For now.

Throwing rings, gifted from Shakra. They made fine tools in battle and even better treasured objects. She made sure to maintain them with equal care as her needle, just as how the map-maker would do so herself. She had found the “Poshanka!” greeting quite amusing at first, before it was slowly integrated into her vocabulary. It made her recall her first steps into the kingdom, lost and disoriented, requiring her to purchase maps from Shakra. She was glad to call such a fierce warrior a good friend.

Hornet opened the door, shoving the rosary strings into a drawer. The low, steady rhythm of a certain memento caught her attention. She looked at the shelf.

The Conjoined Heart. What remains of the Green Prince, a bug most tragic indeed. She felt guilt for both freeing him from his cage and slaying the Cogwork Dancers, yet found his final memory somewhat… encouraging.

Perhaps, if she held onto the memories of a Hallownest unblemished and strong, it might hold fast in her memories, like lost Verdaina. 

And yet, the greater part of her was quick to dismiss such a childish dream. 

The Green Prince’s memory of Verdania was tainted by grief so strong it lashed out in one final fight, he and his lover as the Clover Dancers. She was above that. Protectors and sentinels who’d been overcome by such feelings often abandoned their posts, fleeing to the safety of nostalgia. 

And so, Hornet held on. Even when everything was hopeless, dreary and depressing, she’d defended the corpse of a god and stalked the overgrowth for ages uncounted, to the point of forgetting to return to Deepnest. 

To the point of forgetting her mother’s face.

It was hard, but necessary. Just thinking about it made her eyes smart. Hornet blinked back stray tears. No, not now. The beating Heart, thumping sharp and clear, seemed to mock her callousness. A princess with no heart left for her kingdom, it whispered. 

No heart left for herself.

Not even on the most special day she could have.

Hornet's vision blurred, her mask a little wetter than she remembered. She could vaguely recall Herrah seating her younger self on her lap, talking about things too grand for a hatchling to grasp. It grew fainter every year, dwindling so much that it needed three Snail Shamans to surface the memory. 

And Herrah's face was still distorted.

She was so busy running errands for everyone else, and failed to look inwards, at old wounds that have yet to recover. Old hurts that were still sore. 

Hornet tore her gaze away from the Conjoined Heart, but its beat still rang loud in her head. It threatened to leap out of its glass jar with the sheer ferocity of its pulse.

Sometimes… there were wounds even Silk cannot cover. And Hornet didn’t like admitting to that truth.

The emptiness of her bellhome – the lack of Lace or anyone else to distract her – was oppressive. The chatter of Bellheart outside her door was too loud, and the enclosed space seemed to echo her own thoughts back into her head, louder than ought to be.

Some birthday this is, she thought, slamming headfirst into bed. She didn’t feel like dealing with this.

Not now, nor ever.

Preferably forever.

Chapter Text

In the Vaults

Lace tucked the psalm cylinder within the fabric that comprised her skin. It was a handy boon from being made purely of Silk; she could theoretically carry anything around as long as it was light and small enough. Her weapon, rosaries, trinkets…

She essentially had infinite pockets.

Her pin hung unused to her side. The area under Songclave had long since been rid of Haunted bugs, thanks to that spider. It made traversing between settlements much easier and safer, even if it remained dark as heck throughout. She was contemplating the practicality of summoning more of her glowing butterflies to light the way, before shaking her head. 

Lace didn’t mind the dark. Anything was better than another minute of conversation with Cardinius. She managed to remain relatively calm and composed while narrating the parts of her life she really, really didn’t want to remember. 

Basically, anything that had to do with Mother.

Which was, considerably, a lot of things. And yet, somehow, after their “brief” exchange, she hadn’t gone insane from attempting to summarise her entire life story for the centipede. 

That’s what all Vaultkeepers are, Lace, she chided herself, heading towards the light streaming in from above. Extremely long and nosey bugs.

She jumped out of the Whispering Vaults and took a moment to breathe in the fresh surface air. 

Songclave, at last.

It looked less depressing than it was a month ago, and had an air of liveliness to it, despite the meagre population. White sheets of fabric salvaged from the Whiteward covered most of the unrepaired wreckage, and Jubilana seemed to have set up a modest shop in the far left, overlooking the grand view below.

The large bell in the First Shrine was rung thrice a day, to alert any wandering souls seeking safety that they were welcome in Songclave. It was a new tradition, all started thanks to that spider, who’d cleared it of Silk and rang it for the sake of ringing it.

Lace smirked at the thought of Hornet roaming the lands, hitting every single bell she came across, purely out of curiosity. That attitude lined up nicely with short recounts of her journey throughout Pharloom, where running headfirst into walls and doors was how she navigated the land. 

“Some princess you are…” Lace muttered under her breath as she headed towards the Shrine and the Acting Caretaker. “Endearingly confusing.”

In the permanent absence of the previous Caretaker, whose problems Hornet also had a part to play in, a small, cloaked pilgrim had been dubbed Acting Caretaker to oversee most of the hub’s business. He wore a white tunic, not unlike the Citadel’s envoys, that made his headgear look like a large, white triangle. Lace assumed it hid a wide-brimmed hat. 

“Hoy, white maiden! ‘Tis been too long since we last met! Doesn’t the sight of such lovely pilgrims up and about lift your spirits?” He happily smacked a short pin against a teardrop bell to a steady rhythm. How he managed to talk while maintaining the beat impressed Lace somewhat. 

“Greetings, Sherma. It has been some time.”

They’d met for a moment, back when Hornet and Lace ascended from the Abyss after the whole Void fiasco downstairs. The hunter insisted on running around the entire kingdom to check on her fellow acquaintances. Since Lace didn’t have much to do anyways, she’d tagged along briefly before going their separate ways.

And then, she’d since returned. Now, they were sharing a bellhome. 

Quite ironic. 

Sherma grinned and ran up to Lace, his positivity rubbing off of her. Lace returned the smile. She looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before addressing Sherma. “Today is Hornet’s birthday. I came here to ask for some assistance in organising a party.”

The Acting Caretaker gasped audibly, so excited to help that he stopped ringing his bell. A party for the red maiden! He couldn’t wait! 

Lace laughed. “So I take it that you’re interested?”

Sherma nodded, his triangular headpiece almost tipping over. “Where many are gathered, great songs will be sung,” he said, “And red maiden deserves many, many great songs! She saved me, you see, from horrid, silk-snared bugs from within the Citadel’s Whiteward. If I owed any debts of gratitude to anyone, it would be her!”

Lace hummed in acknowledgement. The Whiteward. A particularly unpleasant place within the already most distasteful part of the city. Bold of the spider to even step foot in there. She’s heard of stories of reanimated corpses, pulled along by the whims of Mother’s Silk, in service even in death to the pale monarch. 

The silken being snapped out of her reverie. Right. Work to do. 

“We need more than three pairs of hands,” Lace thought aloud, clarifying that the third pair belonged to Trobbio, who was decorating his stage as they spoke. “And we need a way to convince her to head for the Stage.”

Sherma thought long and hard, furrowing his eyebrows. His already small face scrunched up further. What to do, what to do…

Aha!

“We can ask help from the map-maker, the gold maiden! Red maiden is a good friend of hers, and doubtless will heed her words if she invites her to a party.”

Lace thought that was a pretty good idea too, but had doubts on how to go about locating the elusive Shakra. Hornet could call her easily enough; she once hit a pole with a bronze ring several times and the tall lady immediately appeared, as if summoned by magic.

Shakra wasn’t exactly fond of Lace, so she couldn’t summon her just like that.

Sherma sensed her apprehension and offered to get more pilgrims to help decorate, but still highly suggested Lace to find Shakra. If not as a helper, then as another one of Hornet’s friends to attend the party.

Lace sighed and readied herself to leave. “So that’s that, then. I’ll be off to find the map-maker. How many more hands are you able to get to help, pilgrim?”

The bug in question gestured all around himself, brimming with confidence in his persuasion skills. “As many as red maiden has helped!” He held out his bell and stick, resuming a steady beat. “More voices to join in song too!”

The silken being couldn’t help but smile again at his words. Sherma was just that fun to be around.

“Oh, a word of advice from the pilgrims. Gold maiden was last seen near where the sands meet Bellheart.”

Lace nodded, departing with a wave.

Time to head back.

Back in Bellheart

Hornet awoke with a start, rubbing her eyes in frustration. 

She fumbled around for the handle of her needle. Having one hand around something so familiar helped ground her to reality. It was only slightly saddening that the something in question was a weapon.

More at ease with blades than friends, she thought, eyes tracing the pattern of the hivemetal. Unfortunate.

Sleep had not been kind. A rare experience for the hunter. She had retreated to her bed, wishing for peace, and yet was greeted with nothing short of a nightmare.

She was back in that damned cage, gleaming gold and powerful. The days blurred together as the chimes of the envoys rang for weeks on end. Her strength had long left her, stripping her of any hopes of escape. Her needle lay beside her, bound like cargo amidst the caravan’s supplies. She was never getting out. 

Never.

She raised her eyes from her blade, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lace. She really needed someone to talk to, likeable or not. If both mind and memory cannot be trusted… 

Hornet was a master at adapting to circumstances. Traps, tools, skills and feats. All honed to perfection through meticulous training and discipline. She had an arsenal of techniques at her disposal, dispatching enemies with killer effectiveness.

If staying alone wasn’t doing her any good, then she refused to stay alone for much longer. Sheathing her needle, the hunter stepped out of her bellhome and headed to the edge of Bellheart.

Time to head out.

Chapter Text

“Poshanka! Edges sharp and senses– oh. It is you,” said the voice from above. “Our paths meet again, Child Wielding Pin.”

Lace squinted against the sandy winds and looked up. The squint was in part due to the sand, and mainly due to her annoyance at being called a “child”. Shakra was a good height taller than she was, so her face was difficult to make out amidst the sandstorm. Unlike the map-maker’s encounters with Hornet, where she’d crouch down low and address the hunter eye-to-eye, it seemed like Lace still had quite a ways to go to earn the right for eye-level conversations. 

“Greetings, Shakra. I hope the lands have been kinder to you, after so great a calamity has passed,” she ventured, hoping to start the talk on Shakra’s good side. 

For reasons (seemingly) unfathomable, the two never really clicked as well as the spider thought they would. In reality, Shakra has admitted to Hornet, on multiple occasions, that Lace’s pompous and haughty behaviour didn’t make good company for the warrior. It was like entertaining a tall child. 

Lace felt miffed at first, seeing the map-maker’s distaste in her company. However, between her frequent travels beyond Bellheart she always caught glimpses of Hornet and Shakra on a ledge within the town itself. They seemed so close as friends, and held the other in high respect. Passing them by made her feel strange. A little envious of the map-maker, maybe? Or was she simply craving approval where none was before, solely to fill the emotional gaps left behind by Mother? 

Either way, she wanted to prove to someone that she could make friends like that spider. To whom, she had yet to sort out.

Hornet would always tell her to stop forcing friendships that obviously didn’t click well, saying that good fighters chose their battle wisely. Luckily for Lace, she wasn’t one to ever listen to Hornet, and so continuously pestered Shakra whenever she was seen in Bellheart, until Shakra was thoroughly fed up with talking to Lace. She didn’t see the truth in Hornet’s words at the time.

But today, the two needed to put whatever differences they had aside for the common goal of somehow getting Hornet to attend her birthday party.

Lace explained the situation at length, restraining much of her dramatic vocabulary to appeal to Shakra’s straightforwardness. Regardless, she was pleasantly surprised to hear about Lace’s plan. She didn’t think the fencer was the type to show her affections so openly, much less asking other people for help.

Shakra nodded sagely, listening to the details of the party. “Yokkala… So a celebration for Hornet Wielding Needle’s date of being gifted life. A noble pursuit.” She finally crouched down while speaking to Lace, resting one arm on her thigh. Lace hid her surprise well, not wanting to seem like she was seeking Shakra’s approval in the first place.

“So, what is your plan?”

The silken being blinked. Plan? She didn’t have the faintest clue. She came to find Shakra for answers, not the other way round!

She coughed into her closed fist, looking away from the taller bug’s gaze. “Well, I haven’t had time to come up with a plan, what with running around Pharloom to organise this…” She glanced at Shakra. “You have a plan, don’t you?”

The map-maker arose from her crouch, eyes bright with amusement. “Hmph. I thought that such plans were to come from you, the one who thought of throwing a party in the first place. You have my aid, but must rely on your gut to think of what to do next.” She beat one arm against her golden shell, bronze throwing rings making a tinny clang. “Nu-Hakkata, Lace Wielding Pin. You will know what to do next.”

So Lace thought long and hard… and eventually had a pretty solid plan.

It wasn’t long before Hornet had wandered beyond the bell-strewn paths and to the edges of the Blasted Steps. The winds blew harshly against her cloak, buffeting her strides. 

She looked around. 

Nobody.

And then suddenly, a familiar melody. A lilting tenor voice that carried itself with pride and dignity. It sounded bright as ever, just like what she heard in the Marrow, when Hornet first started her journey in these lands.

She looked up and smiled.

A tall, golden bug looked down at her and saluted in her unique fashion. She crouched low and quick, hitting her throwing rings against each other. “Poshanka! It is good to see you again, Hornet Wielding Needle.”

Rummaging through her tool pouch, Hornet produced a pair of rings, identical to the ones worn by the map-maker. She hit them together, responding to Shakra’s gesture. “Poshanka. It’s good to see a friendly face around such rough wilds.” 

Internally, Hornet was delighted. Just the bug she was looking for, and so near her home too! A coincidence she gladly accepted.

“What brings you back here, map-maker? Here to chart the new routes that have been opened?” She asked. 

“Peh. I have already done so, while you helped Pharloom recover from disaster. I thought we might trade resources once again. Here, browse my wares, and tell me what catches your eye.”

Hornet flipped through the map fragments offered, thoroughly impressed by how quickly Shakra managed to note down the newer passages, and make edits to caverns that no longer exist. She handed over several strings of rosaries and pocketed a handful of map fragments. “You’ve outdone yourself, friend. A great many maps drawn up in such short notice. They will no doubt aid my progress in seeing the kingdom regain a steady footing.” 

Shakra nodded, but didn’t go back to singing as expected. “Gara takana! I almost forgot! Here, take this.” She handed Hornet a badly drawn map, clearly done by an amateur cartographer who was in a hurry. The lines were faint and wobbly, with hardly any landmarks to help the reader. It was only thanks to the layout of areas alone that Hornet managed to guess what the map was showing her. Shakra seemed to share a similar sentiment, scoffing at the map. “A map of poor quality indeed. Though, I ask you to ignore its looks and follow the trail depicted. A friend of yours wishes to show you something.”

Hornet squinted at some curly blobs near the trail’s final destination. They looked like squarish flowers with wings on their heads and four sticks for legs. “Are those… fleas?”

“I suppose. This map’s maker mentioned your fondness for the creatures, and so drew them to incentivise you to follow the trail.”

Well, whoever made the map knew what they were doing. She did want to visit Fleatopia earlier. Even if the destination wasn’t the Pale Lake, it still had a bunch of fleas for her to meet. Supposedly.

Hornet grinned. “I guess I can’t refuse an invitation like this.” She got ready to leave. “Thank you for the maps once again, friend. Until we meet in the future.”

From behind a stone column, staying very still, Lace watched as the hunter unknowingly set off to her very own birthday party. 

Perfect. 

Chapter Text

Hornet jumped down through a tunnel and into the bellways.

Cupping her hand over her mouth, she shouted into the vast space that was lined with numerous bells. “Eira!” 

From within the sea of bells came a deep rumble. And as soon as the rumbling started, the Bellbeast emerged from the floor, sending bells crashing all over the place. The Bellbeastlings also scuttled out along with their mother, hopping around the bellway and crawling up to Hornet. The Bellbeast itself purred loudly, shaking the entire tunnel. 

Hornet giggled softly as the little Bellbeastlings smothered her underneath their hard, pearly shells. “Yes, yes. I’m glad to see you too.” She gently freed herself from the bundles of energy and walked up to their mother, petting it lightly. “The Grand Bellway, please.” The massive bug nodded, and as soon as the hunter sat on top of its back, it took off through the bellways with impressive speed. The Bellbeastlings ran along its side, chirping all the way.

Once having arrived at her destination, the Bellbeast stopped abruptly and flung Hornet off its back. She somersaulted and landed with ease, waving goodbye to the beast before opening her map.

Bad as the map was, Hornet gave its maker some credit. 

It led her through a relatively short route towards Trobbio’s Stage, not too far from the bellways, and was in an area she’d already helped clear of enemies. 

She looked up from the map and swung her needle as an afterthought, cutting down a Haunted bug. 

Okay so it was mostly clear of enemies. 

Hornet sheathed her needle and continued walking down the corridors, glancing at felled bugs that dotted the landscape with morbid curiosity. Some had died from natural causes. Others were slain by the unforgiving hazards that make Pharloom so treacherous to explore (cough, trapped benches, cough). A handful were obviously a result of her doing, whose wounds were too clean to be done by passing pilgrims.

Killing was just an everyday requirement to fulfil for her. Self-defence had been ingrained into her from young, to prepare her to survive the world as a fierce hunter. But sometimes… sometimes in the dead quiet of long nights, when Hornet sat alone on hard, cold benches, she wondered what it would feel like if she wasn’t a hunter. 

Would it be luxurious? Exciting? Mundane? Would she have been safer? Happier? Would her blade have been stained with blood still, and would she even have a blade to begin with?

It was a little hard to imagine. 

Those nights of contemplation felt quite strange. Peering into another life, a life based on what ifs. It felt a little like some child playing pretend, seeking solace in something that never was, or will be. 

Hornet had never been discontent with what she has grown into. She had regrets, yes, but would also never trade the world for what she has learnt, in spite of everything that has happened. She herself impressed the White Lady with her wisdom, even if their interaction was only in memory.  

“One can only dream,” she said, walking past the corpses. “But to live in dreams is folly.” 

Hornet glanced at the crude map again. So, the Stage was where the fleas were? Interesting. She didn’t think Fleamaster Mooshka was one to enjoy theatrical performances. None of the smaller fleas struck her as particularly well-read individuals either, what with them getting stuck and lost in the most random places around Pharloom ever. 

Seriously, how did one of them manage to get lost in the caverns in Mount Fay? 

The entrance to the Stage was also mysteriously shut by a closed door. Hornet didn’t recall seeing a door there previously. Must be a new addition, she thought. What puzzled her more was the sound of many bugs behind said door. It sounded like a gathering of sorts. She could even make out faint music and the pitter-patter of hurried steps across the wooden floorboards. 

She could also hear the occasional “Trobbio!” proclamation, no doubt from the actor himself. 

This was not something she was expecting in the slightest. 

Wary of a potential ambush, Hornet readied her needle and Silk, placing one tentative hand on the door and slowly swung it open. 

The Stage looked extremely different from the last time she’d seen it. 

The tattered drapes were replaced by curtains, dyed a shade of red that matched her cloak exactly. A gramophone in the corner was playing a song she hadn’t heard of in a long, long time. Gleamlights were strung across the ceiling, providing a softer ambience than harsh spotlights. The stage itself shone with evident polishing and unexpected maintenance. 

As Hornet stepped through the door, two plumes of red smoke announced her arrival, shooting up from some hidden mechanism underneath the floorboards. A single spotlight pointed right at the spider, who was clearly the most important thing in the room. She could hear Trobbio’s mutterings from behind the Stage, who was no doubt manning the mechanisms.

“Happy birthday!” cheered the entire room, filled with friends and faces Hornet had seen throughout the kingdom.

Hornet didn’t know what to say. Years of avoiding interaction to do her sentinel duties didn’t exactly give her chances to practice her royal manners. With some shyness of being greatly surprised, the hunter smiled and addressed everybody with a simple “thank you”. 

She hoped it sounded sincere.

Thankfully, it seemed like that was enough for the party goers. 

The fleas were present, as promised, and circled the air lazily, some yipping and awoo-ing as Hornet walked through the crowd. She suppressed a gigantic grin at their presence, especially upon seeing the Huge Flea asleep on the stage. 

Fleamaster Mooshka approached her, followed by others like Grishkin and Vog. “Oh! Oho! The esteemed fleafriend has shown herself at last! We were wondering when you’d show up!” He patted her on the shoulder. “When your short, bell-ringing friend sent word to us, I took a handful of our members to attend this grand celebration. I also took the liberty to leave Kratt behind.”

Mooshka laughed heartily upon seeing Hornet’s sigh of relief when he mentioned Kratt’s absence.

“Many thanks, Fleamaster,” said Hornet. “Your attendance wasn’t expected, but I doubt a party thrown for me would be more complete than one blessed with the presence of fleas.” 

The fleas then left to host a mini-flea carnival on the stage, inviting some bugs to try their hand at the Flea Juggle. Nearby them were a few tables worth of food and drinks, likely sourced from all across the three three main settlements. The hunter wondered how long it took for everything to be prepared in such short notice.

Wading through the crowd, Hornet saw others like Seth, Nuu, the courier brothers, Grindle and more. Trobbio was busy trying the Flea Juggle game, racking up a formidable high score that she sought to contest later on. Sherma was attempting to rally the room in song with his bell and stick, singing that old tune she has long since memorised. 

And after sifting through the entire room, she found Lace.

She was standing near the gramophone, conducting the air, surrounded by her glowing butterfly companions. When Hornet approached, she flung her pin down with a hint of anticipation. “Finally! Some nerve you have, showing up to your own party fashionably late.” She gestured all around the Stage. “Do you like it?”

For once in her many interactions with Lace, Hornet was at a genuine loss of words. 

She looked around. The decorations were definitely themed after herself. The food and drinks on the table were enough to feed everyone. The gramophone was playing an old Weaver song she heard back in Deepnest. The guests attending weren’t some handful of strangers, but bugs that mattered greatly to her. 

Lace certainly put in a lot of effort for this, which could explain her nervousness. She really wanted to know if Hornet liked the party she threw for her. 

Hornet took a moment to think before replying. “Lace. I think this is the best thing someone has ever done for me.” She took a step forward and hugged her tightly, before quickly stepping back to contemplate her life choices.

"...!"

Now it was Lace’s turn to be surprised. No matter what she did or said, that pesky spider would always find ways to surpass her expectations. Truly an enigma of a being. Not quite what one expects, but in a good way. 

For the silken being, that one hug was all she was looking for. It was more affection than Mother had ever shown in her entire lifetime. It made her feel seen and heard, not like some random creation to be tossed out when it didn’t live up to expectations she didn’t want. Lace only threw the party out of gratitude to Hornet, but somewhere deep down, she longed for attention, and wished to be noticed by someone, anyone, to fill the void in her heart left by Mother. 

Hornet appreciated her. And that was more than enough.

Lace blinked away her shock and grinned cheekily, swiftly returning to her usual demeanour. “I’ll take that as a yes, hm?” 

The hunter cracked another rare smile of hers and exhaled deeply. Lace swore she saw weeks of tension and stress simply melt away in her shoulders. “I’ll admit. I’m rather impressed. Is that gramophone playing what I think it is?” Hornet eyed the music player with wonder. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, nothing too fancy. I just had to bargain with an extremely insufferable centipede to get that psalm cylinder. He said something about it being a Weaver song. The gramophone is one of Trobbio’s.”

Lace then recounted her misadventures throughout the Citadel, narrating the series of unlikely events that culminated into Hornet’s birthday party. They sat near the others, watching as many tried the flea’s games or picked apart the tables full of food. Hornet didn’t know what to focus on: Lace’s ramblings or the festive scenes around her. 

Both were equally endearing.

Shakra stopped by the duo and handed Hornet a stackful of maps. “Poshanka! It is customary for gifts to be given to the birthday bug, is it not? I was made privy to the party a tad bit too late for me to get a suitable gift. Take my remaining stock, and consider it your present.” The hunter was floored, but only managed a soft gasp. Wyrm above, this would save her so much time farming for rosaries! Shakra didn’t know how much it meant to her.

She stood up to return Shakra’s greeting with a clash of two throwing rings. A warrior’s thanks. “I’m glad to call you my friend, Shakra. Thank you.”

Little Sherma tiptoed from underneath the taller bug, having doffed his white robes in exchange for his wide hat and pilgrim’s robes. He hit his bell with a steady rhythm, the ting-ting-ting floating over the party chatter. “Hoy, red maiden! ‘Tis heartening to see you in good health and spirits. I don’t have much to give, so have a song instead!” 

Lace held back her giggles as Sherma serenaded them with his iconic signing. Even Hornet found it cute. 

“Fari do la si ma net, doni pwa na vo mi net… Pi na sa ni ma ni set… Dana fou siu lo bon!”

Shakra hummed in approval and started singing too. Trobbio’s Stage boasted of great acoustics, which further amplified the map-maker’s rich voice. 

“Kai, lai lai lai… Ooohshka dou… Kai, lai lai lai… Oooshka dou ai…”

Lace then picked up her pin, waving it in the air, pantomiming a conductor. She smirked and made bigger gestures, urging Shakra and Sherma to sing louder. She gestured to Hornet, as if cuing her to come in and join the song. 

The hunter sighed in mock exasperation and hoisted her needle over one shoulder, adjusting its flat end against her crossed legs. She strung a length of Silk through its eye and secured it underneath its tip. Graceful hands plucked notes from the needolin, joining the two singers as accompaniment.

Their small band drew the attention of the crowd, in part also due to the properties of Hornet’s needolin. One by one, voices overlapping with many different melodies, the Stage was filled with a majestic makeshift choir. The fleas yipped and awoo’d loudly. Even Lace couldn’t help but sing.

As “conductor”, she smugly thought that the heartfelt singing rivaled the Citadel’s threefold melody. If only Phantom were here to hear this. She would have loved it too.

Sometimes there was dissonance, where the different songs clashed imperfectly. Other times, they harmonised, striking unrehearsed chords with ease. Regardless of the nuances, everyone in the room was having a blast. Many voices and faces were united in a song, singing for the one who’d freed them from the cursed Silk from above. The one who’d bested them in combat. The one who may have saved their life.

The one that they could all call their friend.

The needolin allowed Hornet to pry into every bug’s thoughts unintentionally. She opened her mind and allowed herself to listen in to everyone’s thoughts.

“Audience… in a long time… witness me…”

“Saviour… friend… red maiden…”

“Friend from afar… matched my strength… fearsome warrior…”

It was overwhelming to listen to, but Hornet didn’t want to stop at all. She’d forgotten what it was like, receiving attention instead of giving it. To be treasured and held in high regard, not due to her lineage, but rather through her interactions with them. Sincerity at its best. 

She wanted to cry.

“Rescued many… friend of fleas… safe travels…”

“Great hunter… my journal… helped cut down many…”

“Child of Wyrm and Weaver… saved… Abyss…”

They continued singing long after Hornet put her needolin down.

Slowly, somehow, the unique melodies merged into one united chorus, led by Lace. They sang the traditional birthday song for the hunter, who sat there in awe and gladness. Her heart was touched.

It was the best birthday ever.