Chapter Text
Blasted Steps, the borders of Pharloom... Hornet had passed here many times, wondering how things might have turned out if she had simply left. The answer seemed obvious—nothing would have changed. Citadel servants would have been sent after her again, she would be on the run, hiding from prying eyes, like the most guilty bug that could possibly exist on this earth. And Hornet had no doubt about it—beings consumed by silk are truly implacable. They are dead deep in their minds, but their bodies serve the Mother until their exhausted shells are cracked by a sharp and skillful needle.
But now, she has the right to go where she needs to. To return to her native, dead lands. But not without problems.
Hornet turns slightly to glance over her shoulder at her "honored captive," whom she graciously leads. Lace trudged along rather reluctantly, her head bowed, looking down at the ancient sands through which her feet shuffled. At first glance, you wouldn't recognize her as the mocking and irritating little bug that had intimidated and thwarted Hornet.
She looked almost... small. Harmless, unarmed, literally defeated by what had happened. Her white robes were concealed by a new and highly elaborate cloak bearing the Citadel pin, a special order from the 'scarlet lady' for the Seamstress, a kind of smitten point for the daughter of silk, her final gift from the Kingdom. Or at least, that's what Lace believed.
For Hornet, it was simply a gesture of goodwill. She certainly hadn't had the best first impression, but long and painstaking research into Pharloom and its history had yielded a very reasonable explanation, thus mitigating much of the irritation and contempt. Regardless, despite Lace's anger, her tongue remained as sharp as the gilded pin Hornet had kindly confiscated to prevent a possible backstab if she will decide to suddenly change her mind and rebel. After all, captivity presupposes the captive's disarmament and complete submission. Hornet certainly knows that.
The winding roads of sand and rock, adorned with the ruins of once-great structures, look particularly melancholy against the backdrop of the sandstorm engulfing the edge of the kingdom and the "beauty" of the desert that followed. Of course, sometimes, as the locals say, "the weather can be calm," but on this day, two bugs were unlucky enough to set out.
However, Hornet coped much better than Lace. She had something to grip onto the surface, enough to take even the smallest step—but in any case, the needle quickly gave way under the force of the wind and the instability of the sand, where one could constantly stumble upon a palisade of bones and shell fragments sharpened by time.
Lace, however, had nothing. She walked apparently by sheer force of will, constantly threatening to fall and involuntarily falling into yet another hole, crumbling beneath her unsteady and tired feet. The Abyss is never kind to its hosts, eating away their strength and mind from within, possessing their bodies for its own purposes... And she, unfortunately, experienced its power firsthand.
"Lace," Hornet's clear voice suddenly emerged, cutting through the noise in her head and the blowing sandstorm. The hunter's rough, more skilled hand grasped the her elegant arm. "You're falling too far behind. Are you tired? We can make camp at the nearest shelter if you need it."
Lace didn't immediately heed Hornet words, staring for a moment through the slits in pale mask, framed in the gray 'mist' of the storm. Her head was pounding so much after everything that had happened, and the information was so difficult to process, that she didn't even immediately pull her hand away, ostentatiously shaking it from the weaver's touch.
"Camp?" the bug chuckled faintly. "You seem quite merciful to your captives..."
Hornet doesn't respond, merely waits inquisitively for an answer, glaring at Lace, her spider eyes narrowed beneath her mask.
Lace, however, was too tired to pretend to be the annoying brat she'd played for so long to her Mother's amusement. She didn't deny it. She didn't agree. But the drooping of her shoulders and head at that moment spoke for themselves, and Hornet merely nods slightly.
She offers her 'captive' a hand again, urging her to keep pace with her on the road, and Lace, albeit slowly, almost hesitantly, placed hers, visibly shaking.
Hornet lightly squeezed her fingers around Lace's wrist, subconsciously supporting her. She knew how difficult things were for her. Or at least guessed.
It took a while to find a place to rest. For a moment, it even seemed as if they were walking in circles. The wasteland landscape, stretching for miles ahead, was far from kind to its travelers. But Hornet's keen eye and instincts managed to find the bare minimum of a comfortable resting place—a crevice in the rocks, big enough for two bugs to fit without their legs touching each other's backs. Although, for them, that would be more than enough.
In this crevice, at least, Hornet and Lace could turn around and spread out mats, build small fire, and still have room to stretch out, relaxing their weary joints from the journey.
Hornet warmed up a stew of plump grubs and fragrant herbs over the fire, given to her by the caring residents of Bone Bottom. She had quite a lot of supplies—bugs she helped were generous, giving everything they could afford. At one point, she had so much that she had to give the surplus to particularly poor pilgrims, secretly. But Hornet carried as much as she could safely. Her eyes glance at the Lace lying on the warm bedding, taking in every gesture of her tense and tired body.
Lace looks back at her, more openly than the huntress does. Wrapped in the gifted cloak, she carefully watches the weaver's skillful hands, wielding a ladle and a bowl of stew as if they were her second needle.
For Lace, Hornet's movements have always been pleasing to the eye. When called upon, she can be the most cautious and sensitive bug, or a furious, calculating beast, capable of finishing off even the most agile opponent with a few blows.
She has repeatedly observed her from the most inconspicuous hiding places, which not even every scout could guess. Of course, this was due to her long life in Pharloom, which meant she knew every corner she could reach. Although... subconsciously, Lace understood—Hornet knew she was somewhere nearby. A hunch, no less.
Lace startled from her reverie by the sound of a full bowl hitting a flat stone next to her bedding, which served as a table.
"Eat," Hornet instructed with her usual precision, completing the picture of grub stew with a wooden spoon. "You need to replenish your strength as much as possible, otherwise we simply won't make it."
Lace looks at the thick, cloudy broth, wincing slightly at the mere thought of food. After the cold embrace of the Abyss, the thought of even a single berry makes her sick, and here's an entire bowl, almost full to the brim.
"You want to kill me, right?" the daughter of silk mutters quietly, raising her slightly narrowed eyes to Hornet. It would sound like a curse, if it weren't so powerless. "I can't even swallow a single bite, and this..." She pretends to choke, turning away and covering her face with her hand.
Hornet sighs heavily. If Lace could see her roll her eyes, she would choke with indignation. But still, the hunter's nature is unforgiving.
"Now is no time for childishness, Lace. You're in no position to contradict me," Hornet say, pushing the bowl closer to the daughter of silk, as if she were a small bug. "It's not whether you want to. It's what you can. And while you can, you better do it before it's too late. Exhaustion is very bad for your body—"
And blah-blah-blah-blah... Lace had actually stopped listening the moment Hornet started, because they both knew they weren't two little bugs anymore, and she certainly didn't need her care. And why did this 'little spider' care for her so much? Shouldn't she be wasting away in captivity, without food, without proper clothing, without mercy? Shouldn't this be her punishment for who she was? For what she did? For what her Mother did?
But she was here. Warm, in the comfort of her new cloak, without shackles or prejudices. Without constant surveillance, without the fear of becoming one of those mindless ones who walked in and beneath the Citadel. Without a soul, without a destiny, without a choice. Although... the choice part is debatable.
She doesn't even know what awaits her when they arrive in 'Hornet's kingdom'—as she calls it. Of course, the huntress had told her more than once that the kingdom was called Hollownest, but who was Lace to make concessions? Exactly—a pin in the one place.
But she distracted a little to much. And not again, but again. The bowl of stew hadn't disappeared, nor had Hornet, still watching her. So Lace have to force herself to swallow even the smallest drop to get her to leave her alone. She reluctantly took the bowl in her shaking hands, bringing it to her face.
Still, she had to give it its due—this 'gruel'—as the real, living Citadel workers from the Underworks once called it—smells quite appetizing, thanks to the herbs and vegetables, even better than it looked. She take a small sip of the broth before tasting it properly. And it was... quite mediocre, the herbs overpowering everything else. But better than nothing. She'd had worse.
Lace winced again, more for show than anything else, before continuing to slowly sip the rich stew. Hornet's eyes narrowed slightly, mockingly, at this reaction, her bowl long since empty. She'd grown accustomed to eating all kinds of food, even the most lousy. It seemed that if she'd been hungry enough on her journey through Pharloom, she'd have eaten even the cockroach from that damned Sinner's Road.
"A hungry hunter is a poor hunter," a memory of Herra's joke surfaced, that one when they dined in the Deepnest. She recalled every warm memory of her clearly, even if her mother's face seemed like a blur.
"Should I give you my plate, too, spider?" Lace suddenly asked, looking at Hornet with a sly grin over the rim of the bowl. "You look like you're about to snack on me."
"You think so?" the huntress replied calmly, leaning back against the rough stone wall of the crevice, softened by her thick, downy cloak. Her long arms, slightly fluffy due to her weaver nature, folded across her chest. "I prefer not to eat sentient beings. And I'm not sure you're particularly edible."
Lace takes this as a challenge, a sly grin on her dark face turning into a wide smile bordering on a snarl, clearly indicating that its wearer is plotting some mischief. She demonstratively sets the bowl down on the "table," adjusting her cloak and rolling up one sleeve to the elbow.
Hornet watches her closely, frowning suspiciously. What has this "clown" thought up this time? Lace crawls closer to her, proudly extending one hand to her face.
"And what do you expect me to do?" the huntress asks contemptuously, looking at the wrist of the bug before her.
"Bite! Prove I'm not edible," Lace commands with open mockery, leaning even closer to Hornet. She, in turn, looks at the bug as if she's a fool, before taking her hand by the wrist and slowly pulling it away. "Or you're afraid?"
"No. But I think I'll refuse. I don't intend to harm you because you or I want to," the huntress says calmly, looking straight into the eyes of her formally captive. "It's not rational."
Lace laughs loudly, nearly knocking her bowl off the makeshift stone table as she sits back down, pulling her cloak tighter around her, slightly adjusting the sleeves of her white clothes beneath it.
Harm her because she wants to? Apparently, Hornet definitely thinks she's crazy! This isn't just a selfish whim, but a very important, 'scientific' goal: to learn how Hornet bites—the great warrior, huntress, daughter of the Pale Worm and the dreamer Herra, protector of the kingdom of Hallownest. It would be such an honor to be bitten by such a respectable and important person! An even greater honor than if Lace bit her... probably. She thinks she'd sooner become familiar with the stone floor of the crevice than she could bite her.
Nevertheless, Lace refuses to give up on her attempts to joke with the huntress, searching for even the smallest thing she could seize on for another caustic joke. A cloak? Too obvious, especially since she has one just like it. A needle? It's happened before, and Lace had to heal her wounds for a long time, especially after the first battle in the Deep Docks. It's somehow scary to even think about it. Maybe... Anything is possible. But Lace seems to have exhausted her supply of her jokes, so she has no choice but to improvise.
"Spider, ah, spider," Lace almost singsongs in her exaggeratedly high voice. "You've been to the Slab, haven't you? And how did you like it there...? Hospitable, I suppose!"
Hornet ponders her answer for a long time, looking at the flames in the fire, which remind her of the Wisp Thicket and the mysterious things she encountered there. But she still has to answer, and best if she uses the same silly humor.
"Did I like it?" the weaver says thoughtfully, looking up at Lace. "I can't say for sure, but I wasn't particularly comfortable running around in the cold with nothing."
"Without anything at all?" the daughter of silk sighs dramatically, placing her palms on her cheeks in theatrical shock. "Without anything at all? What a shame! You must have been freezing cold..."
Hornet merely lets out a heavy sigh through her chelicerae, shaking her head, while the other one laughs at the situation. Lace is never one to mince words.
"Lace," the huntress looks at the daughter of silk, her mask as serious as ever. "Where are we now?"
Lace falls silent, looking first at Hornet in confusion, and then around, at the walls of the crevice where they've made camp. She hesitates, muttering, "What am I supposed to understand? We're far from Pharloom, somewhere in the middle of nowhere."
"Why are we in the middle of nowhere, Lace?" the huntress asks bluntly, without any sarcasm or humor. Just a straightforward question. And for some reason, it seems she uses her 'captive's' name more than the other way around.
Lace looks at the other one before freezing in place, not even breathing. Why are they here? Hm... perhaps because she lost? Perhaps because Pharloom fell? Perhaps because no one welcomed her in her own kingdom? Perhaps because she willingly surrendered because she knew she had nowhere else to go?
So many possibilities, but not a single word emerges from her throat, stuck there like a sharp lump of tears, which she will obediently swallow once again, as Mother taught her. If Lace was sad, then Mother was sad, and that was completely unacceptable. And even now, this principle holds true, no matter that Mother is no longer around.
"You're so cruel," the daughter of silk whispers hoarsely, no longer so mocking and arrogant. Broken. Indeed, Hornet is cruel. But Lace is far from a piece of cake either. "I know I screwed up, and more than once..."
"That's not what I mean," Hornet interrupts, not even letting her finish. "You didn't screw up. You just..."
"What 'just'?" Lace suddenly flares, waving her hands. "So, for you, the Pharloom residents just hate me? That I was, so to speak, just exiled?! That I just surrendered to your clutches because I had no choice?! That I..." She doesn't continue, only muttering something unintelligible and sobbing, drawing her legs up to her. She continues more quietly, her voice trembling with tears she's suppressed. "That I never received the care and warmth I could have? That I personally wounded my Mother, casting her into the Abyss with me? For you, is all this just what it is...?"
Hornet looks at Lace's face silently, really seeing the threat of tears in it. And, in part, she could understand it. Harsh circumstances had bound them together. After the Abyss, the remaining bugs insisted that Lace be either locked up or somewhere far away from Pharloom, and even Hornet's persuasion failed to dissuade them. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," the huntress quoted the discontent of one particularly elderly pilgrim to Lace, watching her already melancholy face become even more broken with grief.
Of course, at first, bugs treated Lace even more bitterly—an enemy, the product of the one who had seized everything they held dear—if, of course, the bugs who had seen it all lived to see the 'end' of the Grand Mother Silk's reign.
"No," Hornet finally says. Firmly and confidently, although she will be honest—seeing this weight of loss and the fracture of the old world in Lace's face is like pressing on her own scar. Old scars don't hurt, of course, but you often remember the situations in which you got them, and sometimes even the pain that left them. "It's not "just" for me. I understand how difficult it is for you now, because I've been through it myself. The loss of loved ones... it's very difficult to ignore. But dwelling on it isn't always right."
"I'm not dwelling over it! And anyway, what's right for you?" Lace snaps. How she hated unsolicited advice, all that wisdom, and she still do. All bugs treat her like a child, something she hasn't been for decades, something she no longer wants to be considered. "Is it right to just give up and move on?"
"You don't even want to listen to me," the huntress mutters. True, Lace isn't a child, but her behavior somehow resembles one. "I'm not saying what's right or wrong. I just want to tell you that it's normal to feel grief and loss. You can't escape fate, and since it happened... it had to be this way. Nothing can be changed, Lace, there's no way back."
The daughter of silk stares at the slits in the Hornet mask for a long moment, clearly not expecting to hear such bitter words of truth. But, as much as she doesn't want to, she has to agree. "There's no way back," she repeats quietly, looking down at the fire. Hornet, unfortunately, is right.
And then follows a quiet, awkward silence. Tension crackles in the air, like those dozens of unspoken words about everything that's been simmering for so long, since Hornet saved Pharloom. Lace lies back down on the warm bedding, pulling her cloak almost over her head. Somehow, even with the fire burning nearby, she feels a chill that seeps in her body. Whether it's from exhaustion, or just the effects of the Abyss—she doesn't know. But, albeit reluctantly, she will thank Hornet for the warm clothes and food. Of course, she'll thank Hornet mentally, since the huntress isn't yet worthy of thanks out loud, and Lace keeps her senses on high alert, fearing a backstab from Hornet, especially when she least expects it.
Hornet, however, doesn't force her to thank her. She simply does what she deems necessary. Rosaries and other things she was given for wishes were merely a formality for her. Hornet quietly watches as the fire dies down.
Beyond the walls of the crevice, the uncontrollable wind continues to howl, the sandstorm intensifying, sweeping away the remnants of conversation. Tomorrow will be a new day...