Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Laughter.

After what felt like forever in the suffocating void, the first thing Hornet hears is laughter.

“Ahah.. hahah.. oh, dear spider,” Lace says, incredulous, “really, you went through with it? You risked it all to save this worthless kingdom, this worthless life, and you came out unscathed?”

“‘Unscathed’ is an understatement, pale one,” Hornet responds, taking hold of her needle and attempting to push herself up. It’s the first time she’s moved since diving into the void—her limbs groan and complain and lock up, but she keeps going. “But yes, I did. Because I refuse to see your life as worthless. Because someone who led a life very similar to yours was the one who—“

Hornet’s claws are shaking. She grunts, falling back and letting her needle clatter onto the ground.

“…who…”

“Your strength is running out, spider,” Lace observes from a distance.

Hornet draws in a breath. “It is not. I simply need a moment to gather myself.” She shuts her eyes tight, claws pressing harder down on her needle. She’s used to Pharloom sapping her strength by now, but she wants out of the Abyss as soon as possible. “Besides, should you not know my name by now?”

“Mother said it once,” Lace says, cringing at the memory. “Hornet.”

“That would be mine, yes. And yours?”

Lace hesitates. Her name was all she had left. Could she give it away?

“Lace. My name is Lace.”

“A name worth saving, then.”

Lace huffs. “How did you manage to get me out of the void anyway?”

“I carried you,” Hornet says bluntly, still not looking at her. “You were quite light—but your mother had to give up the rest of her silk to allow us to escape.”

“You—“ Lace’s face flushes gray briefly, before furrowing deep in frustration— “She.. Mother? Mother saved me?” She suddenly starts laughing again, backing away from Hornet, trembling, “SHE saved me? After being made as a replacement for someone who was already one, after years of watching her chase those damned Weavers, after weeks of hearing about you on and on and on, she suddenly remembered she had a daughter?”

“Lace,” Hornet says, one clear, annoyingly smooth syllable, "I'd rather you stay calm. I despised your mother, trust me, I’m just trying to–“

“No, no, dear spider! No need to carry out any more acts of heroism! I promise you need not explain who my own mother is to me!” Lace interrupts, grabbing her pin and stabbing it into the ground below them, making a gross little crackling sound in the fossilized shells. Hornet flinches slightly at the sound—like it’s reminded her of something. “Really? Banishing my sister to the edge of the Citadel, making me track you down after her plan failed, never being allowed to be more than a puppet, and now I’m supposed to feel bad for her?”

Hornet shifts in her seat. To Lace’s further displeasure, her posture implies that she’s actually been listening to Lace rant. Unlike the bugs in the Citadel, who usually scurried away whenever they heard her voice.

“…I apologize for upsetting you,” Hornet says after a while, her voice tinged with a sincerity that made Lace want to jump right back into the void. “And, technically, you need not feel anything for her. If you truly wish to express your ire, then take your newfound freedom and become whatever you wish.”

Lace groans. “Why are you being so nice all of a sudden? Where has your bite gone? Where’s your disdain?”

Hornet shrugs. “I was upset because you underestimated my abilities. Now, however, I know that that was born not out of disrespect, but misinformation. Tell me, how do you think I should feel towards you?”

“Angry.” Lace says, retrieving her pin from the ground and laying it across her lap. “Upset. Or, indifferent, maybe.” Her voice begins to shake. “P-Pay no attention to me. Leave me here to d—“

As her voice crescendos, an ominous stirring arises from the depths beneath them, making the platform sway back and forth.

“Don’t move,” Hornet hisses hastily, creeping toward the edge of the platform, keeping her needle held close.

“I wasn’t planning on it. I’ll lay here and let the void finally claim me.”

“That’s not what this is. At least, I don’t think,” Hornet says, sitting back. “I have reason to believe it is my half-sibling, who controls the void. When the pale bloom that protected us from the void faded, both you and I nearly perished in the depths. They lifted us to safety.”

“Your half-sibling, who controls the void?”

“…Yes. I can promise you, Lace, that my family story is no less complicated and tragic than yours.”

The void trembles again, more violently this time, causing the platform—and the rest of the cavern—to shake. Lace digs her claws into the stone beneath her. Hornet, stronger now, wills herself to stand up, peering down into the abyss.

“If this keeps going, I fear the cavern may—”

Before she can answer, a swell of void mass rises up out of the lake and crashes into Hornet’s quickly drawn-up needle. She shoves it to the side, where it lays for a moment, before two glowing white eyes materialize from the puddle.

Hornet’s voice suddenly becomes very, very small.

“Ghost of Hallownest?”

The mass shakes and writhes until it contorts itself into the shape of a small bug with two double-pronged horns. Several tentacles splay out from its back, along with two defined forelegs and feet. A small tail trails behind it, which it quickly draws into a wag upon seeing the half-weaver.

“Little Ghost,” Hornet says warmly, “thank you. Thank you very much for saving us.” The smaller bug (?) runs into Hornet’s cloak, who draws it into a hug, tentacles wrapping around her arms and back.

Lace scoots closer, slightly, regarding the creature with as much curiosity as her exhaustion would allow. In turn, Ghost shifts their head to look at Lace. They scrutinize her with their creepy little pale eyes for what feels like an eternity. She opens her mouth to ask Hornet if this is a common occurrence before it suddenly turns back to their sister, tail wagging faster, making an odd shape with its claws.

Hornet heaves a great sigh. “No,” She says sternly, “And do not bring it up again. You are much worse at this than Hollow is.”

“You have multiple siblings?” Lace asks, trying not to be left behind in conversation. “Well, of course the savior of Pharloom would be a good sister—”

“Do not assume that of me.” Hornet looks down at Ghost in her arms, raising a hand to their forehead and tracing the shape of a crack in where their shell would be.

Lace takes a closer look at the shade. Truthfully, they do not look like they have always been in this form. Their body is far too small to be of a god of void. Their horns, their limbs, are shaped like shredded threads trying to break free from the rest of their body. She questions, for a moment, if Hornet had had anything to do with whatever made Ghost into what they were now. She questions, for a moment, why Hornet’s apology sounds so familiar, why seeing the two of them reminds her of—makes the strings in her metaphorical stomach twist themselves into a knot…

Ghost quickly shakes their head, whacking Hornet lightly with several of the tentacles and frantically making more curious shapes with their barely defined claws.

She watches Ghost’s silent dialogue intently, and as they go on, her face softens.

“You need not apologize,” Hornet says, still not looking at Lace, “I did not expect you to know. I cannot hold it over my head forever. Especially because Hollow is here, too, correct?”

The little ghost nods, their horns thumping against Hornet’s chest.

“Hollow,” she repeats, “They must be worried sick. Tell me, little Ghost, did they follow me all the way to Pharloom?”

Ghost nods again, more vigorously this time, making more shapes that seemed to both impress and concern Hornet. Even Lace could guess at what they meant this time, as their movements are far more violent, and they seem much more excited to be making them.

”Of course. As if they would ever let something like this happen to me and let the culprits go unscathed,” Hornet says, almost incredulous. Although she had been living with her siblings for a time before being captured, she’s still not used to having company that wants to protect her. She’s so used to assuming the guardian role for her fleeting loved ones that it feels strange to be on the receiving end of protection.

“Do you know where they are?”

A gentler shake.

“Then we shall encounter them on the way to Bellhart, no doubt. I am confident that they can hold their own just fine. Perhaps they would like to settle here?”

“It must be nice to have some family members left,” Lace muses. “After all, someone has been responsible for the destruction of all of mine.”

“All of yours? Was it not just your mother?”

What?

“Huh?” Lace gasps, her voice quickly growing panicky. “Did you not—a-are they still—“

There’s—there’s no way.

They said they would—they said they were going to—

“Lace.”

Did she kill them and just forget about it? Or did she really not find them, and they found someone else to—

“Lace, stop doing that.”

Hands on her claws. Hornet’s. A stinging in her arms. They’d burrowed themselves into her wrists—her claws. Strands of silk are frayed and sticking out at odd angles, but her claws are held still. Lifted up. Lifted away.

Even the little ghost has come beside her, an inky tentacle wrapping itself around her arm.

Ghost. Phantom. Both echoes of the past. Both fickle. Both haunting.

“If I had known it would upset you I would not have asked,” Hornet says, “but, if you’ve a wish for someone you need to find, I would not delay to aid you.”

She can’t be serious. She can’t seriously keep doing this.

Lace laughs lightly, feigning recovery. “So this is what I have become? Another hopelessly helpless pilgrim pinning wishes for the heroic Red Maiden to see?”

“It is difficult to be a common bug in the wake of a pale being’s rage.” Hornet stands, and Ghost lets go of Lace’s arm. “And it is difficult to be any bug when you have just had everything taken from you. Regardless, I think you will soon find you are not as incompetent as you may think.”

Wordlessly, Lace stands up as well. She looks around the cavern—had she really lost anything? This is her kingdom. Her Pharloom. Which would technically be hers now, if Phantom had followed up on their promise. Really, what’s left?

Hornet, and her siblings, and likely troves of annoying pilgrims up above. She glances over to the spider, who stares intently at a strand of void reaching up through the cavern.

“Ghost,” Hornet says softly, turning towards them, “it seems that the void not under your union still keeps its hold on this kingdom. Would you come to reabsorb these strands?”

In place of a nod, they run over to their sister and take her (now free) hand.

“And you would be able to do so? Void falters without a shell, does it not?”

Ghost shrugs, scratching lightly at Hornet’s wrist until a strand of silk comes out. They twist it around one claw and looked up to her, tugging it.

“Silk? I see. You need something with soul?”

A few frantic nods.

“Very well then. Here, hold this,” Hornet says, cutting off the silk strand and fetching a tool from her cloak.

It looks like… the tip of a rosary stringing machine, but modified heavily. It bears a strong resemblance to Weaver technology and has a very, very sharp end..

“There should be some Silk loaded in there. It will be a temporary solution until I can fashion you something else—it can also serve as a last-ditch defense option, but I’m assuming you have no need for that.”

Ghost pores over it for a few moments. They look up to Hornet, longingly, their eyes suddenly full and round like old Silk’s spool. Hornet, at once, seems to know what they were asking for, and nods.

The apparition pulls a trigger on the lower half of the mechanism, aimed at a wall in the distance. A laser appears for a moment, before a shell shard shoots out, following the path as faithfully as a pilgrim before lodging itself deep into the wall.

“Hornet?”

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

“The Weaver term for it would be the ‘Silkshot’.”

“I see. And there are no issues with them holding it?”

“They have to, to remain corporeal.” Hornet beckons Ghost over and turned towards the exit to the cavern. “It is imperative that we clean up the rest of the kingdom—”

“Seriously? You aren’t even going to rest first?”

“I will. I was simply stating it as a longer-term goal. For now I would like to rest in my bellhome.”

Lace snickers. “I’m sure if I jumped into the void right now you’d be after me before the gears in the Cogworks could move an inch.”

“Yes, I likely would.”

Well, now her head is starting to spin. The weaver has been annoying her for the entirety of her presence in Pharloom, but at this point she’s being downright frustrating. How can she say all of these things so easily? When her own mother couldn’t even promise her love?

She forces her pin a little deeper into the ground in lieu of a retort to the spider. Well of course Hornet can say that she would rescue her, because she’s already done that before!

“Lace.”

She hates the way Hornet says her name. She hates how soft it sounds in her mouth.

“If you need something to pick apart and dig into so badly,” she says, reaching into her cloak and tossing Lace a dull red ball—“then play with that. It’s much safer.”

Lace catches the object, which quickly turns out to not be a ball but one of the cogflies from the High Halls, only with a bit of Weaver flair. It buzzes dumbly in her claws, keeping its wings closed tightly underneath them.

Lace says nothing. If Hornet wants a response, wants gratitude, reverence, worship, her face does not show it.

“For now, we need to leave this cavern. There is a diving bell that will take us back up to the Deep Docks, and from there we should be able to take the bellway h—to Bellhart.”

————

“You are quite easily entertained.” Hornet observes. Lace, for the most part, has been fiddling with the cogfly for most of the downtime during the trek back to the diving bell, which is a positive surprise for Hornet. For now that should be able to keep her claws out of her own silk.

“One must learn to do so when your mother barely speaks to you and your home is riddled with spikes and hot steam.”

Hornet groans. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I wonder if the pale beings are more partial to worship or to sawblades.”

At the mere mention of sawblades little Ghost clutches the Silkshot a little harder.

“Hm. Haven’t I seen you using sawblades before, spider? Though I would forgive you for leaning into your pale heritage. Your delight in shredding your captors’ caste was quite cathartic.”

“Was there truly nothing better to do than to watch me?”

Lace beckons the cogfly into her claws, then throws it back into the air again. “Quite. You must be the most interesting thing to happen to this kingdom since the last Whiteward surgeries.”

“You took interest in those? One of the psalm cylinder recordings was of a bug’s last surgery and I’d never dream of hearing it again.”

“They were quite amusing. To see bugs so desperate to inject themselves with the same Silk that I resented. To see bugs so loyal to the cursed strands that simply humming my mother’s lullaby would draw them around my pin. It made them good tools, if nothing else.” Lace catches her cogfly under the hook of her pin and draws it to her chest. “Speaking of tools, this one you’ve made is actually quite amusing.”

“You can keep it if you want,” Hornet offers.

“Keep? As my own?”

“Lace, why do you sound so confused?”

As far as Lace is concerned her sole belonging other than her name is her pin, and at this point she considers it an extension of herself. What would it mean to keep something? What would it mean to keep her?

“I can easily make more,” Hornet continues. “Though they are quite fragile, so I wouldn’t recommend getting too attached to that one.“

“So am I, no?” Lace breathes in what is almost a whisper. “What makes you think I won’t be devoured by muckmaggots or frayed by time and make all your efforts for naught?”

“Neither of those things will be issues,” she answers plainly.

Plainly. Answers always seem to come so easily to Hornet. She resents it. She’s not even sure how those things can’t be issues, because Mother warned her about them all the time. She almost opens her mouth to ask, but doesn’t get the chance to before Hornet clears her throat.

“The bell is right around this corner.”

Sure enough, the diving bell lays in the center of the next room. She remembers catching a glimpse of once briefly when she was snooping around the Deep Docks. Oh, how wonderful that had felt! To defy Mother’s orders and descend far deeper than her gilded cage. And then to rebel again and again and realize there was so, so much farther she could fall.

Though, now, her mind is substantially quieter. When she gazes at the lava above, it no longer feels as appealing as it did when she had first peered down into the docks, into the void, wondering, if she were to just…

Lace looks over at Hornet as she opens the door to the diving bell.

She won’t let me.

“Come in,” Hornet calls from inside, her voice reverberating off the bell’s walls.

Lace follows, Ghost slightly ahead. The bell is quite cramped, with one, gleaming seat at the center.

“Lace, you can sit down.”

“Hornet, this is ridiculous,” Lace says, her tone indignant, “I got us into this mess. You’re the one that saved everyone. How could I possibly deserve this?”

Hornet scoffs. “Who decides what we do or don’t deserve? It’s a short ride. I truly don’t mind standing for it. I’ll rest at Bellhart.”

Lace, incredulous, shuts her mouth and sits down, though quickly opens it again to yelp when the straps suddenly come over her chest.

The spider, content, turns to her sibling. “Ghost, I assume you are fine with sliding around a bit?”

The void creature gives a short nod, and even rolls around the bell to demonstrate, making an oddly pretty sound as they hit the walls. She gives them a little grin before clearing her throat and calling into the gramophone on the bell’s wall.

“Ballow?”

There’s a short silence before a gasp of surprise from the other end. “Oh, Hornet! It is wonderful to hear your voice again. There was a great scream from the depths, although I have not seen much from my little control center. I was worried something had happened to you.”

“Quite the opposite, Ballow,” Hornet says, her words labored, “I felled the pale being puppeting Pharloom and saved her daughter. Both the threads and the void should be gone, but I have…”

Ghost begins to clap their hands, although the void does not make much sound.

“…someone… to help me with any remaining corruption.”

“Oh. Well. I’m very glad to hear,” Ballow says. “Now, I would love to bring you up right away, but I must warn you that there is a large creature awaiting your return, and it looks quite…antsy.”

Hornet sighs, leaning against the wall underneath the gramophone and crossing her arms. She hopes this isn’t another old-nectar-in-the-basement situation. “Do you mean that as a matter of appearance or disposition? Describe it to me.”

She expects one of the usual life forms of the Deep Docks that Ballow had forgotten due to isolation, or even a stray Skarr, but—

“A tall bug with a pale mask,” He starts, “and horns with three extensions on each side.”

—she turns towards Ghost with wide eyes. Her sibling looks up at her expectantly.

“Their cloak looks masterfully made, but tattered and burnt,” he continues. “Like they ran here without any regard for their surroundings.”

She makes a rushed sequence of claw motions at Ghost that Lace could barely make out. The small void-creature nods excitedly.

“The weapon they wielded

Was long and sharp and nicked with strange patterns,” continues Ballow.

Ghost doesn’t need to hear the rest. Hornet doesn’t need to hear the rest.

“And, it may have just been my eyes playing tricks on me

but when

I saw

their hands

I could only see one.

I couldn’t find

Their other hand.”

———

“Your other hand,” Hornet said, exasperated, “what happened to it? Hollow, what happened to it?”

The King said you’re supposed to be howw-hollow. Can I call you that? How-hollow?

Nothing. She got nothing. Her sibling stared at her intently, quietly, not out of malice, but because all of their energy was seemingly being put into keeping them upright.

Don’t answer. Do not speak. Do not think.

Do not feel. Do not- do not love. Do not love it. Do not love her.

*

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Hornet asked, more for reassuring herself than to receive an answer. “Come on. To the hot spring. I can- I can fix you. Let me save you.”

Let me fight you! Mother says I need to be stronger. Says she’ll send me off to train with Queen Vespa. But I want you to teach me, too.

Do not.. fight her. Do not teach. Do not love.

Come on, show me how you do it! That blocking thing!

It’s called a pa- DO NOT. THINK. Do not speak. Do not love.

*

“Show me where it’s worst,” Hornet said, her voice trembling, trying as hard as she can to force her tone into something clinical. Her sibling, at first, did not respond, sinking deeper into the soul-infused waters. Absent-mindedly, their good hand went to the crack on their mask.

“I can’t.. I don’t know if I can fix that.”

I don’t know if I can fix this.

No- do not know. Do not think. Do not wince when they weave the rune onto your back…

Do not wince when they weave…

“I’m sorry if this hurts,” Hornet offered, “although I doubt it’s anything worse than the Infection.” Silk slowly started gathering around her, and then through the gashes in their chest and torso, weaving themselves into a crude scaffold onto which a body should be built. Onto which void will be built.

Hollow. Tomorrow is the sealing, is it not?

Do not speak. Do not cry. Do not beg.

As if I could get it wrong. As if I could forget the day that I will lose my mother and my half-sibling forever. I have my grievances, but what rebellion can I offer?

…

Regardless. The skills you taught me will no doubt prolong my life.
I’m not sure if you can heed my thanks. I’m not sure if you should.

I shouldn— do not think.

Whether this works or not… you and I will be bound in servitude to this diseased kingdom. In a way, we will stay together.

I want to stay. No- fuck, I don’t- I don’t want- I don’t love- I love-

After all, vessel, where else would I go?

*

“Where else can we go?” Hornet asked. “Is it really your wish to stay here? Neither I nor you are bound to this place any longer.”

Hollow shrugged for the first answer and shook their head for the second.

She sighed. “It is not an easy question to answer. Tomorrow, I will travel up to Dirtmouth to check on the settlement there. I anticipate you would rather rest here?”

They nod, weakly, regretfully.

“I know you want to come with, Hollow,” Hornet says gently, “but you are still recovering. I’m not sure how well my Bind works on beings like you.”

“Do not worry. I will not be gone long.”

———

“Ballow.” Hornet says urgently, one commanding, damning word. “Ballow.”

“Y-Yes, Miss Hornet?”

“Get me up there—“ her voice holds a slight growl— “as quickly as possible.”

“As you wish.”

The bell begins to rumble soon after, and Hornet squeezes herself close to the ground underneath the gramophone.

“This bell is safe, right?” Lace whispers.

“I only had one break on me during my numerous descents.”

“Eh? You—you fell from this far? Poor spider. That had to have been the third or fourth time.”

All for her. Lace squints as the view from the window suddenly shines with lava. It reminds her of her first battle with Hornet—likely because that was really the only important time she’d been down to Deep Docks anyway.

Hornet offers no reply to her comment, but her breathing is audibly shaky even through the groaning of the bell. Lace feels an odd needling sensation in her chest as she stays quiet and listens. Her mouth opens to say something again, but her mind goes blank.

Ghost crawls over to their sister and curls up in her lap, like some of the Memorium creatures that had been bred from violent ancestors to be pets. She was never fond of the idea, creating something just to serve oneself…

“I hope, in my absence, they have not driven themselves insane,” Hornet says, her words clear despite her broken breaths. “They didn’t want to lose another. I didn’t want to lose another.”

The bell comes to a screeching halt, and Lace can see the architecture of the Docks outside.

“Ready whenever you are, Miss Hornet.”

Hornet, wiping her eyes with her hands, stands up in one long, complicated motion. She makes for the door—but Ghost rushes ahead and swings it open.

————

There were a few advantages to being forgotten.

Nobody bothered to keep record of you anymore. Nobody bothered to warn their capture squad about you anymore. Nobody expected you to be lurking under the kingdom, waiting for you to venture too deep to come back out.

“N-no! Stop! Stop, I don’t know anything, I swear!”

There were a few disadvantages to being a vessel, though. Like not being able to speak. Not being able to ask questions. Not being able to scream and yell and roar at whoever this was for kidnapping your sister.

WHERE.

WHERE IS SHE.

Those are the things you wanted to say, but you cannot say them, of course. You could write them, though. With blood.

“I- I’ll pass out if you keep doing this, you know! Then you won’t get to ask me any-“

Rip that vile hood of theirs off. Make them look. Make them see.

“Okay, okay, I see what you’re pointing at- is that my blood?”

You wished you could growl. Pushing your nail deeper into them should work.

“I GET IT! I get it! Where- where is she? I’m not allowed to- OW! Pharloom! Pharloom! That’s the name of our kingdom! Can I go n- what, you need directions or something?? Just follow the rest of the squad, they can’t have made it far alrea- EAST! East, you go east! It doesn’t matter! We’ll kill you anyway! The judges will kill you, or at best you’ll be jailed in Sinner’s Road, and that weaver will be Grand Mother Silk’s-“

You sliced them cleanly in half.

I will see her again.

————

Hornet practically stumbles out of the diving bell, the heat from the lava making her head spin even more. She barely registers the figure in front of her before it wraps her up in a tight, familiar hug.

“Hollow,” she breathes, weakly, “you missed me, didn’t you?”

The only response she gets is their good arm pushing her closer. In her sibling’s embrace, her mind begins to wander.

Briefly, she remembers trying to fashion a prosthetic for the other arm. It never did work- shellwood was too weak, rock and fossil were too heavy, and the remaining metal was certainly not of a high enough quality for her sibling. But perhaps, the steel in Pharloom could be good enough? And light enough. And enough talent remained to fashion her sibling something…

Hornet jolts when she sees the world getting darker around her. No, no, she can’t possibly fall asleep now. Not when there’s so much to do.

“We should go,” She says suddenly, with whatever authority is left in her waning consciousness. Hollow relinquishes their grasp and takes Ghost’s hand, while Lace strides up to them.

“It’s, um. Nice to meet you,” Lace offers, completely unaware of what she’s meant to be doing.

Hollow makes an odd sort of clicking sound to get Hornet’s attention, after which they make the same sign with their claws that Lace vaguely remembers Ghost doing earlier.

“I,” she starts, “Will be answering that. Later. After I sleep. Please.”

Lace has never heard Hornet plead before. How bad is her exhaustion? Or, rather, how bad was whatever her sibling had communicated to her? She knows, for a fact, that Phantom is probably the only bug that could make her plead for something because they’re the only one she damn well cares about anyway.

“The bell station shouldn’t be far from here,” Hornet says, walking briskly, shouting a final thanks up to Ballow before quickening her speed. She leads them through a series of hallways full of garish molten lava and dull gray rock, before eventually coming to a spacious room full of bells.

Hornet looks like she’s about to say something, then sheepishly covers her mouth and takes out her needle. Drawing a line of thread from the needle’s point to its eye, she rests it against her body and begins to pluck at the string.

It’s been a while since Lace heard music.

She doesn’t get to listen to it for long, though, before a beast leaps up from the bells—one of the ones the Memorium had bred from the creatures in the Wormways. It trills happily when it sees Hornet, though the sound quickly turns confused as it sees the throng of bugs behind her.

“These are my siblings, Ghost and Hollow, Eira,” Hornet coos softly, “and this is Lace.”

Lace. Not “pale one”, not “child”, just Lace. Not Grand Mother Silk’s daughter, not the haunted doll crossing the citadel. Just. Lace. She still isn’t used to it. She’s not sure if she’ll ever be.

“Would you take us all to Bellhart?”

The beast trills again, stomping in the mass of bells, which gets Ghost very excited.

“She’s very gentle,” Hornet begins, gracefully jumping onto the beast’s back. “Although she does like to jump out at the destination, so be prepared for that.”

Lace looks at the beast with wonder. She’s so used to walking wherever Mother needs her to be. Had a simpler solution existed all along? She keeps staring, awkwardly, unsure of how to approach the beast, clutching the cogfly tightly in her hands.

Ghost runs up to the beast and curls up in Hornet’s cloak. The much taller bug—Hollow—approaches the creature, but turns back and sees Lace, alone.

It stretches its hand out.

Lace takes it.

She’s not sure why. She’s not sure why she’s trusting anyone that isn’t Mother, or Phantom. She’s sure Mother would be very upset, if Mother were alive, but then again she’s sure that Mother would probably have killed a bug like this. One of their hands is missing. One of their eyes is covered in a torn bandage. And yet, here they are, offering their one good hand, and she has just taken it.

They walk her right up to the Bell Beast and gently help her onto its back. She mutters a quiet thanks, and sinks her claws in as deep as she can without hurting the creature.

As it begins to claw its way into the bells, Lace shuts her eyes tighter, and tighter, until it hurts.

I’m so sorry.

Chapter Text

Lace’s introduction to Bellhart goes by in a blur. The residents commend Hornet as their hero—which, of course they would—but she quickly waves them off, and for the first time, Lace realizes just how tired the two of them are.

Hornet instructs her two siblings to acquaint themselves with the villagers, she’s very sorry she couldn’t spend more time with them, she swears she will when she’s better, yes the bellhome is safe, no nobody is going to kidnap her again, yes you can keep watch. And Lace, you can come.

And Lace, you can come.

Into Hornet’s bellhome. It’s very small, though quite cozy, and surprisingly elegant. Not surprising for a princess of another kingdom, but surprising for Pharloom. She wasn’t aware her kingdom was capable of such marvels beyond torture, torture, and also, torture (of the lower class, specifically).

Hornet passes out nigh immediately. She pulls some things out of her cloak to set on a nearby desk, apologizes again for cutting their time together short, and slumps into the bed in the back half of the room. And then, for the first time after their fight in the Cradle, Lace is alone again.

She looks at the Weaver in her bed.

She could kill her right now.

It would be, objectively, the wrong thing to do. Hornet had saved her. Hornet is being sickeningly kind to her, which, obviously, will not last. Besides, Mother is gone. She has nobody to compete with anymore. She has nothing to compete for anymore. But still—Hornet agitates her, in ways she doesn’t fully understand.

Well, her main gripe is that Mother chose Hornet over her. Which wasn’t a particularly hard thing to do. She was ignored pretty much every time Mother sent for a weaver. In fact, it happened even when there wasn’t a weaver.

She’d check in on her every so often to be sure she was behaving. To be sure she remained intact. To be sure she remained loyal.

…

…Hornet looks graceful in her sleep.

One needs grace to stand before the divine. Maybe that was it. How, even though Hornet’s struggle was long and arduous, she struck that balance between animalistic brutality and controlled grace. Between princess and protector.

She’s everything Lace wants to be. She’s free. She’s strong. She can stand not just up to the divine but above them, and bring them down to ruin.

She shouldn’t have been able to. Mother was a God, and Gods were not meant to fall.

And in my experience, even gods can fall.

How could she say something like that? Just what had this spider gone through?

Lace strides over to Hornet’s desk, where her cogfly has decided to sleep. She sets her pin against the desk—Hornet has invited her into her home, so she may as well make herself comfortable.

The first thing that catches her attention is a large scroll, titled in flowery Pharloom script. Someone else must have started this, Lace muses, because this is far too impractical for Hornet. Sitting back in Hornet’s chair, she unfurls the first of three segments and begins reading in her head.

“Mossgrub… if not for the spikes, I would think it an appealing bug.”

She smirks. This is how the savior of Pharloom writes? When did she have the time to do any of this? While the kingdom was in inky ruin? The description is even paired with a crude sketch of a bug that she does, in fact, remember seeing in the Moss Grotto.

She skips through a little further, until she sees an almost comically large and intimidating bug.

“Savage Beastfly… its roar stirs something deep within me, some primal instinct.”

Wonderful. That surely would never cause any problems whatsoever. Actually, reading this is making her feel a bit better about herself! Hornet had brought down a God, sure, but also here she was making little goofy drawings of bugs she’d…

Met? No, wait. She’d been so absorbed in the style of the title that she hadn’t actually read it. She quickly flips back.

Hunter’s Journal.

…If Phantom is in this, where would they…

Quickly, she flips through all three sections, scanning each sketch and name for her sibling. It’s only near the end of the third parchment that she begins to see stronger bugs—but, fortunately, she reaches the end of it without seeing them.

She does, however, see herself.

She almost doesn’t want to read further. She doesn’t even want to continue looking at the impression of herself staring back at her. What could Hornet possibly say about her? About someone who had failed to kill her, once, twice, three times, who had nearly brought the kingdom to ruin, who—

“Manic fencer who delights in battle.”

Well, that’s not too bad.

“Much Silk would have been needed to see her sustained.”

“Would have been?” Why write in the past tense? Did her little performance in the Cradle convince her that she was dead—or, that she would be once she felled Mother? If so, why write in such a… Lace struggled to find the word—dismissive manner?

“A fragile form of life, but life nonetheless.”

She scowls at the page. She knows full well her own fragility, and evidently, Hornet does as well. So then, why tell her in the Abyss that it wouldn’t matter?

She flits with the scroll a bit more. Surprisingly, there’s another drawing of her, though this one is done in charcoal from the Docks. No doubt it was when she was possessed by the void.

She almost prefers her form in jet-black. The color suits her better than the deceptively clean, pure white of Mother’s silk. Of her roses.

“To quell the mother’s rage, and see this kingdom saved, I will claim her back. This one… the dark shall not take.”

Claim her… back? Back where? Where does she belong? The citadel, where no bug came near her? Who does she belong to, if not Mother?

Who is she? She’d told Hornet in the abyss that what waited below was her no longer. But what part of her personality had the void taken from her? She laughed the same way, fought the same way, lost the same way—when did she start being herself?

Her claws want so badly to embed themselves in her silk again, to pick and cut until her thoughts exhaust themselves and fade. Until she exhausts and fades.

But, like an idiot, she picks up the cogfly instead. Still asleep, though maintaining a quiet hum, she runs her thumb over its wings for a moment, until the urge passes and she picks up the scroll again.

“This one, the dark shall not take.”

The dark. The… void.

She flips back several entries until she sees a bug that she doesn’t recognize from anywhere in Pharloom.

A Wingmould.

“Crude construct of my father’s domain. Only a fool believes that void can be fashioned to do their bidding…”

Her half-sibling, who controls the void. Her half-sibling, too small to be a god, too shredded to be whole. Her other half-sibling, missing a hand, missing an eye. Her kin, who cannot speak. Her kin, who the darkness had taken. Her kin. Constructs. Fashioned to do one’s bidding.

Her. Lace. Construct. Fashioned to be Mother’s daughter for eternity. Lace, who the darkness had not taken. Lace, who was saved.

Why her?

Hornet has made a terrible mistake. Lace is sure of it. She sets the scroll back down on the desk, rushes out the door, as quietly as she can. Peers down at the rest of Bellhart. It’s dark, so dark, and yet still infinitely brighter than the Abyss.

There, huddled up on the bench in the center of the town, she sees them. Ghost. Hollow. She doubts that they are truly asleep, because Phantom never sleeps, and she never sleeps, and they are all constructs, they are all devoid of life, and the lifeless do not need sleep.

Why did Hornet keep insisting that she was alive? She knows now. Because she wanted her siblings to be alive. Because she wanted to make up for not saving them. And, by extension, to make it up to them, she had saved her.

What a poor mistake. Certainly she is not worth saving as much as those two beings below. Ghost, who had brought them up from the void. Hollow, who had brought her up onto the Bell Beast, who had chased their sister all the way to Pharloom. Where does Lace, who killed countless bugs in the Citadel, who almost killed Hornet, who almost killed Pharloom, fit into any of this?

Lace, who killed Mother. Lace, who killed Phantom. By telling them that there was an out. By telling them about that damned spider.

She slinks back inside. To her pin. To her cogfly. To Hornet. She does not realize she is panting—she is silk, and has no need for breath. She does not realize she is whimpering—she is silk, and has no need for a voice to cry suffering. She does not realize she is sobbing, only without the tears.

Hornet does.

As soon as Lace hears her name, hoarse, in the spider’s voice, she knows she has made a mistake.

“…Lace?” Hornet sits up, taking her needle from beside the bed. She swings it upwards in a large arc to stir the flies inside the string lights awake. The weaver sees the silkborn, still not looking at her, and stands up, sighing. “Are you alright? I heard you crying.”

Lace stays quiet, motionless, caught in the spider’s web. If she moves on her own, speaks on her own, it’s going to be something stupid.

“No, of course not,” Hornet mumbles, “I forgot to patch you up in the Abyss. May I see your arms?”

She slowly turns to the weaver, holding them out, trying her best to keep staring at the floor. Hornet strides over, taking them in her claws, lightly running over the frayed Silk at her wrists. Like Mother—except not like Mother, at all, because Mother’s voice was never this soft and her hands never this gentle.

“I must apologize,” Hornet mutters, “it was irresponsible of me to leave you like this. Though this should only take a moment, and I will do my best to ensure you are not in pain.”

Mother never said that either.

Hornet closes her eyes, and Silk gathers around her, slowly snaking its way around Lace’s arms. At once, they snap onto her, and she jolts—but it does not hurt. She opens her eyes, bewildered, and just like that, she has been rewoven. How did Hornet do it so quickly? So painlessly?

“Not as elaborate as your Mother’s weaving, I’m sure, but at least now you should feel more comfortable.” Hornet turns away, digging into her cloak and producing a small spool of Silk—one of the Reserve Binds from the cogwork Sentinels.

“I meant to use this to patch you up in the Abyss, but now that I am h—in my bellhome, I have no need. I would rather you keep it.” She reaches over and places it on the desk next to Lace’s cogfly. “It should sustain you in case of emergency, until I have a more permanent solution.”

Lace continues to run her hands over her arms. Now, Hornet has made another mistake. She has wasted more of her Silk on Lace, and now she is indebted to her, indebted to someone that she has tried to kill, someone who tried to make her feel alive, someone who had invited her into her home just to be woken up in the middle of the night.

Hornet turns back towards her. “Lace, you don’t have to say anything, but you’re worrying—”

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

She shrugs. “I do not mind. I rested well.”

Either that has to be a lie or Lace spent much more time ruminating than she thought.

“You have to be mad at me,” she continues, taking a step back.

Hornet looks at her quizzically. “I don’t, no.”

“You have to hate me,” Lace’s voice is trembling again—weak, “because I insulted you. Because I tried to kill you. Because you wasted Silk on me, on someone who isn’t—who isn’t even—”

Lace tries to back away further, to run away again, but Hornet grabs her wrist, keeping her in place.

“Don’t—you don’t need to go. I promise, I have no need or want to hate you, Lace.”

“I do.” It slips out, but Lace has already dug herself into this hole. “I hate you.”

She should never have said it, and now Lace hates herself even more. There’s no way Hornet will let her stay now. She’s ruined her only opportunity, and she will be left without Silk, left to fray just like her sibling. This is the punishment she deserves. This is what she gets, for trying to go against Mother, for—

“Then hate me.” Hornet lets go of Lace’s arm, but does not reprimand her, does not raise her voice. Out of shock, Lace stays in place.

The spider sighs. “Your mother prioritized my capture above all else. With the information you have, you have every single reason to hate me. But you hate yourself, too, and if I let you push me away, then what’s stopping you from…”

She trails off. “Hate me. Slash me, pierce me, do whatever you have to do to me to get it out, because you need something to take your anger out on that isn’t yourself.”

Lightly, she picks up one of Lace’s wrists again. Lace does not object.

“If I make a mistake,” Lace whispers, “You’ll leave. And then nobody will be left to bind my wounds. Who else would put up with Mother’s sad, broken, puppet? If I chase you away now,” she says, her voice getting louder, “then it won’t take me by surprise. Then I’ll know exactly why I deserve to fray.”

Hornet lets out a deep, heavy sigh. “You’re not a puppet anymore, Lace. And trust me, I have put up with much worse. I promise there is nothing you could do that could—”

“What about your half-siblings?” She blurts out.

Hornet’s eyes widen slightly, and her light grip on Lace fades even further.

“What about them?” She asks, the simple question weighed down by years of… something.

“Your father built them, yes?”

“Where did you—”

“Your journal,” Lace snaps tersely, slipping out of Hornet’s hold, grabbing the scroll and holding it up. “You’re sickeningly obvious, spider. He tried to imbue them with void, no? And how did that turn out?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hornet’s voice wobbles, reaching in the general direction of her needle.

“See? There it is. Everyone has a point, Hornet,” she spits out, dropping the scroll back on the desk. “You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t save them. What difference did you think saving me would make?”

Hornet draws in a breath like she’s about to speak, about to yell—but exhales instead. Slowly, she picks up her needle, and sits down on the bed. She lays the weapon across her lap, running down the length of it with her claws.

“Is that your best attempt?” She says after a while, her voice small. “Try to convince me that you aren’t worth saving, by comparing yourself to some of the bugs I love most?” A strand of silk shoots out of her wrist, and she draws it across the needle the same way she did in the Bellway. She begins to pluck at it, and Lace freezes in place, mesmerized by the sound.

“I have long tried to make peace with the story of my kingdom. No, I could not save my half-siblings from their initial fate. But it was also out of my hands.” She continues strumming her needolin, the song sapping any anger or energy Lace had before. Carefully, tentatively, she approaches the bed, sitting down next to Hornet.

“I still saved them, in a way,” Hornet goes on, her voice still quiet. “Ghost was almost trapped in a collapsing cave, and I saved them. When the old light was slain, Hollow was barely alive, and I saved them.”

“And in turn, look at what they have done for me. Hollow taught me, in part, what I needed to survive, and obviously Ghost is the only reason we are both here now.”

“Why save me, then?” Lace huffs, picking at the bedsheet.

Hornet stops playing. “Because bugs save one another sometimes, Lace. But further than that, I need to keep doing this until you realize that you are worth saving. Yes, you remind me of my siblings, but only partially—you are different from them in so many ways, too, and that only makes your life even more valuable.”

Lace reaches over and plucks the string across Hornet’s needle. “What’s the difference between me and this? Are we not both simply threads?”

“You speak. You fight. You feel pain. You hope. You dream, even if you do not remember. And many, many other things that you will find out, in time, if you stay.”

She fiddles with the thread a bit more.

“Do you… want to try playing it?”

“Is that normal?” Lace asks, laughing. “Can I want to?”

In lieu of a response, Hornet shuffles closer to Lace, sliding the needle so it lays across both their laps.

“Try it. It might take a non-Weaver some practice, though.”

Lace plucks the string again, purposely this time, and it produces a short, pleasant sound. She recognizes the note, and identifies the places on the strings that make higher and lower sounds, and in a few minutes, she’s strung together a melody.

“You learn quickly.”

“It’s.. my mother’s lullaby. I don’t really know how to play much else,” Lace admits.

“Could I help?”

“How so?”

“Something like… I play a different melody and you add your own flourishes to it.”

How liberating. To be able to play her own song, away from Mother’s clutches.

“I would love to.”

Hornet starts to play—much better than Lace, of course, but she would improve with time.

With time? In the future, then. Lace had never thought much about her future, apart from that it would likely involve fraying slowly and painfully, and that it would be better to meet her end on her own terms.

This, though, this is nice. If her future is to be filled with music, her own music, then maybe she can stay, for just a moment longer.

As she catches on to Hornet’s melody, she begins adding a few notes here and there on her side of the needolin. Gradually, Hornet lets her influence spread throughout the song, until both have equal parts in their duet. Her cogfly, too, has started to chirp subtilely, though not loud enough for the two of them to notice.

“I didn’t respond to everything you said earlier,” Hornet whispers, trying to be quieter than the music. “I know I said that no fault of yours will drive me away.”

“But I want you to have more control over your own fate, and I believe I might have a solution.”

“Hm? What would that be?” Lace’s voice is almost sing-song, the music lulling her into a more amicable state.

“As a semi-higher being, blend of weaver and wyrm, I can manipulate that mark on my soul—my crest. If I do it a certain way, I can reap additional Silk from other bugs. I think,” Hornet concedes, “I think you should be able to do something similar. Your soul is eager for new meaning.”

Lace stops playing, briefly, and gazes down at the needle. Gazes at Hornet. Her own Silk reserve? It would remove the need to rely on Mother. It would remove the need to rely on her.

“And as for your sibling—”

Lace perks up even more.

“—should we encounter them, I anticipate that they will be able to as well.”

The silken construct looks back down at the needle. “Tomorrow,” Lace says as she starts playing again, “tomorrow, can we look for them?”

“Of course. Though my siblings may want to tag along.” She laughs, briefly.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Lace keeps playing, and she realizes that Hornet stopped some time ago. She catches Hornet watching her, who then quickly looks away, down at her end of the needle. Now, the song is all Lace’s own. First Mother’s, then Hornet’s, then theirs, then hers.

She has another possession to her name. She has a want. She has a goal—no, two, three now.

“Lace?” Hornet’s tone is much more different than when she first called her name this evening. It almost sounds like she’s pleading.

“Yes, Hornet?”

“Do you still hate me?”

Lace looks up at her in shock. No, she shouldn’t—look at what Hornet has given her, and what she wants to keep giving her, and the control she wants to place back into her metal claws.

“It’s okay if you say yes. It’s okay if you don’t answer, even, I was just—”

“Hornet,” she says, her voice raspy, “I’ve never had anyone do these things for me before. I might wake up tomorrow, and think it was all a dream. I might try to convince myself that I’m unworthy again. I might try—” her voice starts shaking again as her song crescendos—“to destroy myself again. And I know you said that you’ll stay, but… I don’t… I don’t…”

“Don’t fret about it.” Hornet keeps her eyes off of Lace, but she does not sound upset. “It will take a while. I know.”

“I don’t want to hate you. Does that work?”

“Yes. But I knew that from the beginning.”

They both stay quiet as Lace reaches the end of her song. She gives it one final flourish, and lets go, her claws hovering above the strands. She nudges it back towards Hornet, who takes it and props it up against the bed again.

“Thank you,” Lace whispers.

Hornet nods. “You could try playing on your pin, too.”

“Maybe tomorrow. And about your siblings—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hornet says, quickly. “It is just… a soft spot. Though, I think your mention of them taught us both something.”

Lace fiddles with her silk, though not maliciously. Perhaps they had. She resolves to get the to know the two of them better.

“Now,” Hornet stands from the bed, “Get some sleep, won’t you?”

“Sleep?” Lace looks up at Hornet, confused. “Where?”

“Where else?” She pats the bed twice. “You can have it. I will be at my desk, weaving.”

“You’re not going to sleep more?”

“It is.. optimal, for me to sleep in small increments. If I slept too long I would become sluggish.” Hornet doesn’t make eye contact, already halfway to her desk.

Lace says nothing, sliding into the spot where Hornet once was. It holds memories of warmth. She drapes the blanket over her, tries to make herself as small as possible, curling up just below the pillow.

Already, she can hear the sounds of silk slipping in and out of fabric; already, Hornet has forgiven her; already, Hornet has given her an out, before she even realized she was reliant on the Weaver.

Lace closes her eyes, lightly. Phantom, too, would have an out. Phantom would have their dress back, their long opera gloves, they could sing and dance on their stage…

Phantom. If they aren’t dead, what are they doing?

———

Phantom has always loved machines.

Perhaps because it gives them a sense of control. Being able to go at their own pace, tweak the machination until it does exactly what it needs them to do. Becoming familiar with every cog and key. Twisting each one in their fading, stiffening claws. At least, when they die, their creation will last a bit longer.

The organ is their proudest accomplishment and worst enemy. On one hand, it is their gilded cage, their prison. On the other, playing it is the only way they feel free. Filling the room with music loud enough to make them forget about the pain, about the fate they are inflicting on others.

Right now, though, it is not functional. They kneel at its base, holding it open, reaching in as deep as they can to try and find the problem. Gently prodding to see what may be loose or jammed.

Then, Phantom sees it. So simple—a screw that’s come undone. Now they only need to grab their—

The elevator accompanying the Exhaust Organ groans loudly, snapping them out of their thoughts.

Phantom clicks their silken tongue. Hm. Well. Hornet was supposed to come through the other way. In fact, Phantom isn’t even sure what could have pried the entrance from the Bellways open.

They keep their back turned to the rest of the room. Yes, they long to die, but could they at least finish their routine maintenance?

Something heavy clink-clanks into the room—much different from the soft, satin steps that Lace described. They press their mask to their face, ready to confront death.

Phantom sighs, loudly enough to get the other’s attention. “Spider, before you kill me, could you please pass me my—“

Oh.

As Phantom turns around, they do not see a bright red cloak, but a white one, stamped with the Citadel’s insignia.

A sentinel—no. Not just a sentinel. They know this one.

“Ah.” Phantom shifts in their seat to face the intruder fully. “I want so badly to ask you to hand me my tools, sentinel. But I know what you are here for.”

“To c-c-cut the whispering threads, is this Sentinel’s dir-direct-t-tive.”

“So it is, Sentinel. So it was, when I had to put you away.” Phantom stands up from the organ, picking up their pin. “Now tell me. Who was the lucky one that got to put your heart back together?”

Phantom knows they’re wasting time. But so is the sentinel—in fact, Phantom has never seen one take so long to attack.

“Woken b-by the Red Hunter, was this S-Sentinel.”

“Of course.” Phantom grips their pin a little harder. “A shame she left me out to dry.” They jump down from their organ, a jolt coming up their legs as they land.

“T-t-termination, is the n-necessary fate.”

“I almost remember—” Phantom approaches the sentinel— “you saying that, about yourself.”

The sentinel flinches. “Like the H-Hunter… you are both innocent-t-t and haunted. This Sentinel must test-t-t your resolve.”

“If you truly do not recognize my will, machine, then allow me a moment to reintroduce myself.” They take the sentinel’s hand—scissor-blade in their claws—and raise it up to their mouth, kissing it lightly. It is a simple gesture, one of greeting, nothing more.

“I am Phantom, keeper to and prisoner of this organ. My blackened threads are not of void—and believe me, even my Mother would never claim my remaining silk as hers. And I want you—”

They take several steps back, until they are two longpin-lengths away from the robot.

“—to free me, Sentinel,” they say breathily, “free me, from this fading fate.”

It waits for Phantom to tell them twice—but no longer than that.

Immediately, they thrust one blade forward, crossing almost the whole distance between them in a moment. Just as they ready their next swing, Phantom draws up their pin in front of them. It gleams briefly in the pale light before the sentinel’s other blade crashes into it.

The next course of action, usually, would be to punish—dash in and out of the enemy, piercing them a few times, and scrambling away. However, Phantom does not rush through them, but past them, the hook of their pin barely nicking their side on the way.

If the sentinel is shocked, they do not show it. Instead, they turn around, raise both blades above their head, and swing them down hard, sending a shockwave in Phantom’s direction. They dodge it easily, jumping high into the air, throwing their pin down at them—but now it is the sentinel’s turn to parry as they land, drawing one blade up just as their pin makes contact, and responding with a riposte that is…

…just like Lace’s.

Phantom knows that, of course, their own parry is the exception, not the norm, but they find their movements slowing down as they watch the sentinel lash out at the air in front of them. Ignoring their eyes.

They quickly dash in to retrieve their pin before the riposte finishes, making more distance as the sentinel readies another attack. Phantom leaps up again, but so do they, spinning both of their blades on their ascent. Phantom is forced to swing their pin underneath them instead to parry and maintain their height.

The two land on opposite sides of the arena. Phantom tries to initiate the next attack, thrusting their pin towards them thrice, but the machine dashes backwards, jumping up and using the momentum of their downslash to land behind Phantom.

The spectre turns around and throws their pin at them; the sentinel springs up again, launching another shockwave in their direction, but Phantom avoids it as they dash under them to grab their pin. The dance continues, neither making much progress other than grating down their opponent, until both are mimicking heavy breaths.

Not real breaths. They are constructs, after all. Only, one of them was built to fight a little bit longer.

At once, the sentinel begins to focus, white particles surrounding them until they coalesce into an aura. It looks pretty, Phantom thinks, with a false halo. They jump towards them, slightly, and Phantom knows what is coming, welcomes what is coming, as the sentinel crosses their arms and—

As they begin

To draw them down, into that beautiful

Cross of the pinstresses, the mark of death,

Their limbs lock up, and they collapse,

Falling to the floor in a harsh metal thud.

Phantom stands, idle, disappointed. Twice, death has been taken from them.

“Sentinel.” They try to hide the fear in their voice. They will not allow the machine to be taken from them twice as well.

“The str-r-rength of your will… the clarit-t-ty of your gestures… you are innocent.” The machine, arms stuck mid-slash, contorts itself into a kneeling position. “F-failed again, has this Sentinel. Again, judgement, it w-will accept.”

Phantom, claws and legs already aching, closes the short distance between them. They kneel in front of the construct.

“Judgement? It is I who needs to be judged, and punished, and killed, cogwork,” they say, shuffling closer to the sentinel. “There is no need for you to be in this state. What happened?”

“Unsure, is this S-sentinel. T-t-tangled, its wires seem.”

“My, that’s an issue, is it not? Have you seen any Architects on your journey?”

“Warned by the Hunt-t-ter, was this Sentinel. No Arch-ch-chitects remain.”

“Hm. Then I suppose I shall have to suffice.” Phantom tries to sound purely clinical as they lay a claw on the sentinel’s chest and push. “Lay down.”

Almost too quickly, almost with too little resistance, they allow the spectre to continue pushing them to the ground, readjusting their legs so they lay flat. Phantom stands, looming over them for a moment. To get inside of their arms, they would have to be under them, with the blades in their claws hanging directly over their neck…

Well. Dying is their goal. Though, if they were to now, not only would the sentinel be responsible, but they would need to find help from—oh, damn it, Hornet could probably do it!

No. Phantom will be the one to repair this sentinel. Enough time has been lost already.

“A second,” they request, grabbing their tools from the other side of the room and setting them beside the sentinel where they can reach.

Inspecting the robot closer, they realize that there is no way they will be able to keep their mask on during maintenance. Unacceptable—Phantom refuses to show their face to anyone, much less this sentinel who already has a reference point for how badly their body has deteriorated.

“You must promise me,” they begin, “that you will keep your eyes closed the whole time. I have no interest in allowing you to gaze upon my tarnished form.”

“Acc-cc-ccepted, are your t-terms.”

“Good. Now, may I?”

“This Sentinel would pr-prefer having free range of its l-limbs.”

Phantom recognizes the answer as an intentionally vague one to avoid the Citadel’s censors. Hm. They had always wanted to find a way to reprogram those.

Not now, though. They shuffle on top of the cogwork, ducking their head underneath their beautiful gilded blades. They brush aside their cloak, and pull up their sleeve, pinching a screw with their claws.

A very specific type of screw, the Architect had used. Presumably, to complicate its maintenance and dismantling, but it had never been an issue for Phantom. They awkwardly fiddle with their bag with their left hand, securing the screwdriver and handing it to their right.

“I apologize,” they say, as they insert the tip into the screw head. The sentinel shuts their eyes tight, and Phantom can feel their upper arm wobbling beneath them.

“Defence… of the voices-s of the Cit-t-tadel, is this Sentinel’s eternal d-d-duty.” Their voice is slightly more strained than normal.

“I am glad you remember my place, Sentinel, but,” they sigh, removing the screws holding the paneling of their arm together, “it has been a while since my voice filled these chambers.”

“This Sentinel, does r-remember it-t-t. It would like, to h-h-hear it-t, once more.”

“Hmmhm. I doubt it would be as satisfying as it was before.” Phantom gently opens up their arm, and frowns at the inside—like the cogwork had suggested, their silken wires are completely tangled. Unwisely, they hook one up with their claw, and the Sentinel winces beneath them, doing their best not to let the blade drop onto the specter’s neck.

“Machine. When was the last time you received maintenance?”

“It-t-t is… unsure. Unsynched, are the c-c-clocks of this Sentinel.”

Phantom huffs. Already, they’re pushing the limits of what their stiff claws can do—surely, it is impossible to fix all of the sentinel’s problems. Perhaps they would need Hornet’s help after all.

“Maybe,” Phantom starts, fiddling with the wires as an attempt to loosen them, “you should seek help from someone else.”

“You, alone, are familiar with the c-c-c—” its breathing mechanism hitches as Phantom spreads their claws in the knot—“cogworks.”

“What makes you think that? When you saw me repairing my organ? Trust me, it is very different from a cogwork. I made sure of it.” The wires loosen a bit more, but so does the sentinel’s grip on its blade.

“Ap-p-pologies, this Sentinel offers.”

“For?” The wires look a bit cleaner now, but they can only make progress with one hand, the other braced on the Sentinel’s chest to hold themselves up.

“For being… diss-s-similar. For being difficult.”

“You are not the reason why this is difficult, Sentinel,” Phantom grumbles, as they carefully free one wire from the knot. “If I had a bit more Silk within me, this would be… hm?”

One of the wires they uncover has been pinched. They bring it closer to their face to inspect as they hear a harsh metal grinding sound from within the machine—pain.

“This has to be replaced, does it not?”

“F-f-f-faults within a Sentinel are to b-b-be r-reported t-to an Ar-c-ch-i-y-yes. Yes.”

“And… where would your Reserve Bind be, Sentinel?”

“G-g-gift it was, f-for the H-hunter.”

Phantom tightens their grip on the faulty wire.

“Then,” they say, letting go, “I may have to give you a gift of my own.”

The Sentinel’s eyes open the tiniest sliver as Phantom’s free claws go to their chest, picking at it until one silvery strand comes free. Phantom shuts their eyes in a mixture of concentration and pain as they slowly pull it out, digging their other claws into the Sentinel’s chest a bit harder to keep themselves in place.

“N-no harm can come to the v-v-voices of the—”

“What harm?” They sing innocently, staring down at the Sentinel to ensure that its eyes are closed. “Besides, my choice is already made. My only regret is that I do not have better Silk to offer you.” They set the thread under their other hand and return their claws to the faulty wire. “When I remove this, will you feel pain?”

“Not-t-t pain… like y-yours. Feelings, this S-Sentinel finds difficult-t-t to describe.”

Phantom only offers a hmm in response as they try to separate the other wires from the defect. They locate where it is spun around the axle at its elbow, and carefully, very carefully, cut it with their claw.

The Sentinel’s voicebox catches on itself in what sounds like a groan.

“You’re doing very well,” Phantom whispers, and the sound ceases.

They remove the offending wire, and, with the Sentinel’s eyes closed, uses it to patch up the tiny hole in their chest. They take the grey thread beneath their hand and wind it around the axel, connecting it to the larger silk spool in their shoulder.

“There,” they breathe, “can you move it now?”

Reluctantly, the sentinel tries to lift its arm up, and it works. They quickly jerk it to the side—

“Tsk—Careful!”

—to get the blade out of Phantom’s way. It clatters on the ground, and they turn their head to the side, visibly exhausted.

“Good. Good,” Phantom mutters, placing the panel back and screwing it in place. It was quite mesmerizing, watching the silken wires move the cogs when the Sentinel turned its arm.

They wriggle a bit so that they are now facing the machine’s other arm. This one, (un)luckily, is much easier—the wires are not tangled, but instead twisted around one another. It only takes a little bit of fiddling to free them, though the sentinel makes no verbal or physical response this time, only maintaining a constant mechanical hum. The metal underneath Phantom, however, has gradually grown warmer.

They replace the panel, and again, the machine carelessly jerks its arm to get the blade as far away from Phantom as possible. The two of them release a faux sigh, their work finally over.

“Open your eyes, cogwork,” Phantom says, and the sentinel obeys, regarding them with a look of gratitude, relief, and maybe, reverence.

“Th-thank you,” the machine manages, “A-Ar-Arch-ch-k-keeper. Keeper, of the org-g-gan.”

Phantom laughs lightly. “Do not mistake me for an Architect, cogwork. Though I am glad I was able to help, in some way.” Their claw lingers dangerously over the sentinel’s exposed chest paneling—they want, so badly, to see that beautiful heart one more time, to see if Hornet had ruined it somehow…

No, not now. The Sentinel has had enough for tonight.

“You do… owe me a favor now, no?”

“This S-Sentinel.. always d-d-did.”

“Then,” Phantom pushes down on the Sentinel’s chest to raise themselves up, standing beside it, “I would request you to fetch me the Hunter who repaired you.”

The Sentinel shuffles to its feet, clutching its chest, draping its cloak back over it. “To p-p-protect, the voices of this Citadel?”

“To kill me, machine. Or at least, to try.”

“Is it n-n-necessary?”

“It is my best option. How else do you expect me to keep going like this? To let myself unravel? Throw myself to the muckroaches? There is no other solution for me.”

“Th-there may be,” the Sentinel says, and for the first time, Phantom almost hears desperation.

Phantom knows by now not to get their hopes up.

“Tell me.”

“The R-Red Hunter.. woke this sentinel. Perhaps, she could r-repair you too.” It looks away, almost guilty.

“So if you bring her here,” Phantom says, walking around so that the Sentinel’s eyes are on them, “she could grant me a fate other than death?”

“This Sentinel wishes so.”

“Then find her,” Phantom growls, not necessarily at them, but their eyes widen slightly regardless.

“T-t-to prove its et-t-ternal devotion to the Citadel, this Sentinel sh-shall.” And just like that, the machine darts out of the Organ the same way they came.

Phantom returns to the instrument, carrying their tools. They make to tighten the screw back into place—but they accidentally grab the screwdriver bit meant for the Sentinel’s screws instead. Chiding themselves lightly, they replace it with the correct one, and their organ is functional again.

A beautiful machine. But maybe, not the most beautiful one they’ve had the honor of repairing.