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Hornet wept.
She wept for a home she could not longer believe in. She wept for her family, destroyed by rage and rot and ruin. She wept for the pilgrim, lying broken at the bottom of the world in a mossy sun-kissed clearing.
It had been so long since she had wept, so long since she had let herself feel anything but a determined coldness. The tears carved their way over her mask, digging tiny rivers into layers of dirt and grime.
She didn’t know his name. No one knew his name. That was the worst of it. More than the feeling of her body being torn apart by the mad bugs in Pharloom, more than the crushing weight of every near death. This hurt the most.
She fell to her knees as she stared at him, the moss below her as soft as feydown.
She didn’t know she could still hurt as much as she did.
She knew what it felt like to fail. Hundreds of dead bugs lay in the homes of people she couldn’t save. She couldn’t fix the corruption of her homeland. She couldn’t stop her mother from leaving her. She couldn’t save her lovers, dead to time and tide.
She knew what it was like to fail to save people. She considered herself an expert on the topic.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a shuddering breath, looking from the corpse up to the sky. Somehow, the space they sat in at the bottom of it all glowed with a rebellious sunbeam who didn’t realize they were miles below the surface. Verdant green vines and mosses dotted every surface. It was a perfect place to let the dead rest. It didn’t help her feel better. “Gods I’m so sorry.”
“I... I should have asked for your name. I should have insisted. I... I didn’t care... I should have and I didn’t.”
Admitting it felt like ripping off a scab and watching all her organs fall out.
She grabbed at the ground, crushing the earth between her claws. She hoped the feeling would center her. She hoped it would hold back the damn of all the tiny burdens she carried. It didn’t.
Hornet wept.
And she kept weeping.
“I do not favor the way these pilgrims bury their dead, Child-wielding-needle,” a familiar voice said from behind Hornet.
Hornet stumbled to her feet. She rushed to wipe away the tears from her mask. “Shakra,” Hornet said, her voice quivering. “Why are you here?”
“You need not hide your grief, Child-wielding-needle,” she said softly. Shakra didn't crouch to be at eye level with Hornet. She usually did. “the priest giving the burial rite called for me. She could see your distress and knows thar we are companions of a sort.”
Hornet stood stone still. She opened her mouth to form words but they wouldn't come. “What's happening to me.”
Shakra smiled sadly and placed a claw on her shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Warriors cannot be strong all the time, Hornet,” she said softly. It was the first time Hornet ever heard her name out of the taller bug. “In order to fight we must care. In order to care, we must be open to pain. . . We must be weak to be strong.”
Hornet couldn't untangle the rats nest of words her friend tried to console her with. She could feel the warmth of her claw on her shoulder. It was enough to unbar the floodgates again. Hornet threw herself at Shakra, wrapping her claws around the larger bug and burying her face against her chest. The tears came anew, flowing freely as she wailed with a voiceless grief. She grieved for the dead bug behind her, but also for herself. She grieved because she couldn't remember how long it had been since she had felt the warmth of another body against hers. She wept because she needed a hug, and finally someone was wise enough to see it.
She nuzzled her face against Shakra's chest, feeling like a little girl again, being held by her.
“You are so strong Child-wielding-needle,” Shakra said softly. There was a quiver in her voice. She seemed to be close to crying too. “And it is my honor to be your companion and to help you with your burdens.”
They didn't speak for awhile, standing together under the warm light of the distant star. Hornet felt as tears dripped along her back and Shakra's arms wrapped tightly around her. Vaguely, Hornet felt aware that she probably needed this too. They sobbed together, letting the weight of the world roll over them. They sobbed for the families they missed, for the people they feared were dead, they sobbed for each other and the strange tenuous connection they shared. They sobbed, and slowly the weight bearing down on both of them grew a little lighter.
“Do you want to sing for him,” Shakra asked softly, her voice raw from her own mourning.
“What?”
“For my people, we sing for the dead.” Shakra clarified. “And sometimes. They sing back.”
Hornet didn't need an explanation. She had seen enough to know that there was something more than the life burning in her chest. And maybe Shakras people knew a thing or two. She let go of her friend and turned once again to the mangled corpse laying in the sunbeam.
Hornet took her thread, pulling it from that place between her body and mind. The silvery line gleaned in the light as she pulled it across her needle. She did so reverantly, uncaring that this would empty her reserves. He deserved it.
The tune came naturally to her, like swimming or dreaming. Her claws danced across the thread, letting her mind wander. “My mother used to play this for me,” she said softly. “Its the only thing I remember of her when she was awake.”
Normally when Hornet played, she let others speak. The music had a way of bringing song out of people. She couldn't remember the last time she had sang for herself. Perhaps it was because the music demanded that she sing the truth and only now could she admit the truth to herself.
I set my sail
Fly, the wind it will take me
Away from home, sweet home
Knives at my back
Blades digging inside me
I want to go home, sweet home
I see
Your star
You left it burnin' for me
Mother, I'm here
Hornet closed her eyes as she finished the verse. She could almost feel the echo of a mother's paw around her, warm and soft and fluffy. She let herself sit in the feeling, the waking dream passing around her.
They sat in the silence after the music faded.
“Im going to avenge him,” hornet said softly.
“Didn't you kill the beast that did this already?” Shakra asked, slightly confused.
“There was a blight on its mind,” the longer she spoke, the better she felt. She didn't know how much she needed this. “There was a blight on his mind. There's a noose around this kingdom and its suffocating it.”
“Cutting the noose is a admirable goal Child-wielding-needle, but it is... big,”
“It is.” She agreed, feeling strange to see Shakra intimidated. “But I don't intend to cut a noose and free them. I'm gutting the headsman.”
She turned towards Shakra and smiled, the tears in her eyes fading. “I need this. Someone to center me like that. I would like it if it were you. “
Shakra leaned down and gave her a kiss on the crown of her head.
"Of course.”