Work Text:
In all of Hornet’s time spent in Pharloom, she never could have imagined herself stalling in the Putrified Ducts, of all places. Damp, claustrophobic, utterly inhospitable… She often steered clear from the place unless something truly important called her there.
That charming flea caravan had been one such something, once… She accompanied them on their final voyage, cutting down what stood between the bugs and their future safe haven. She watched them settle in along the soft sands of the Pale Lake, unloading, relaxing, indulging in story and drink. Despite the obtrusive beasts within the ducts, Hornet vowed to herself to visit them again, in time. If only to assure herself that they’d been adjusting well. That they’d not been in need of any aid. Perhaps she would bring the new settlement’s attention to Tipp and Pill; they could bundle something for her to take back with her.
The thought would resurface every now and again… But- as it often did- work had a habit of drawing Hornet away from what acquaintances she’d made. And so the fleas remained a distant memory for quite a while.
Until the glint of Bellhart’s wishwall caught her attention. The message pinned to the board in a scrawl she recognized.
As was warned long ago, the black times have come. There is one last act to perform. Meet us at what was once called Fleatopia.
They had spoken of a ritual. Hornet recalled it only vaguely- at the time, it had not seemed nearly important enough to settle comfortably in her mind. All of them seemed to share the notion, though had not elaborated on its contents, and Hornet had not prompted them to do so. Some things were not for her to understand…
But the mention of those sickly black strands- of the reckoning she had unleashed upon the already fragile Pharloom- forced something thick to the back of her throat.
She had not hesitated when she tore the wish from the wall. She had not hesitated when she called for the Bell Beast and leapt upon its back. She had not hesitated as she scurried down the narrow vertical passageways, striking down the territorial fauna as she passed.
But here, at the mouth to the Pale Lake- to Fleatopia, or perhaps whatever was left of it- Hornet found the pads of her feet clinging to the rubbled ground. Not even the force of her will could lift them.
The strength of her indecision was as strong as it’d been foreign… And worse still, rumination appeared to be a symptom.
One last act to perform… What was once called Fleatopia. What was once called…
Her mind- traitorous thing it was- flitted towards matters she would rather forget. She deigned to recall the Blasted Steps, and its talented Pinstress. Mount Fay, and the unforgiving howl of the wind. The way needle clashed against pin, a dance that blazed with a finality only one of them dared to long for.
The wish that had led her there had been pinned to Bellhart’s wishwall, too.
Perhaps Hornet was merely sheltered, the way she struggled to wrap her mind around the Pinstress’ train of thought… The concept of a death in battle did not elude her, nor the reason why one would seek it… But of all the bugs in Pharloom, one so talented? Was it some hidden grief that haunted her so? Exhaustion? Did the weight of the Citadel take its toll on a life lived long and full?
… Was it Hornet’s place to refuse that final blow? To speak what she considered sense into the bug? At the time, it seemed the only sensible option. When she salvaged what remained of this world (-if she salvaged what remained. If she righted her wrongs-), a bug as talented as she would do well to guide the others towards a new age.
There’d been a glint in the Pinstress’ eye that rattled at Hornet’s shell. The way she kneeled before her, awaiting that final blow, as if the strike of her needle would be milk and honey on her tongue. Starved for what Hornet could not give. Instead, she could only offer hopes of a future yet to come- words she could only hope had not been hollow.
… The thought of that duel always sent her mind back to this place, funnily enough. To the Ducts, to Bilewater. To that curious Organ, and the inhabitant within it. That threadborne bug, frayed and sullied with age as it was, and the way it found the strength to fight regardless.
She recalled the way it moved. How it made a stage out of its playing room. The grace with which it leaped, and the skill with which it parried some of Hornet’s more devastating blows.
She recalled the way its plush body gave beneath the weight of her weapon, strands snapping against the honed edge of her blade. How it leaned into each strike of her needle, rooted to the spot, even as both knew it’d been fully capable of evading the blows.
How it looked at her the moment their battle was through. Pained solace sewn atop a near-featureless face. A relief. A lightness that persisted, even as its body fully frayed, wisps of torn silk carried on the dying breeze.
Hornet had slain many a bug in Hallownest and Pharloom both. Many of the times, it’d been a mercy. Most times, she would go as far to argue. By now, she had more than enough experience to detach herself from the feeling of it.
… The silken thing, wretched as it was, aggressive as it was, had not been haunted… Perhaps that had been the difference. That it stood against her with mind clean, eyes bright, and died upon her blade with full conviction in every movement made.
The concept rolled coldly in her stomach, an icy marble that hung with her ever since the Organ was emptied. That sort of encounter… did not happen often. Not on the paths Hornet’s life forced her to tread. When a bug dies at the end of her needle, the victim is often mindless. The death she grants is simply a reprieve. From the Radiance. From the haunting.
From the void soaked tendrils that spun up from the abyss and threatened to swallow Pharloom whole, along with everyone who resided within it.
… Like Garmond.
Her most recent victim- for truly, victim was the best way to describe the poor bug… A victim of Pharloom’s shadow, of its haunting, of the black thread. A victim of Hornet’s words, claws, and then, at last, her blade.
How she wished he did not speak to her a final time. How she wished she could take solace in the fact she’d been too late- that the bug cradled in her arms had been little but a husk of his former self, devoid of the personhood she’d come to know throughout her travels.
Instead, fate decreed she would meet his gaze a final time. Feel the way his shell trembled against her claws, the cold press of the memento he shoved clumsily towards her. Instead, she would live knowing there’d been yet another bug she’d failed. Yet another kingdom beings Pale had brought to ruin.
Would such an end come to claim all of Pharloom, in time? Would it take Bellhart once more? The Skarr? Shakra?
Would it take the fleas? Even now, were she to cross this simple threshold- venture beyond the infested waters- would shambling husks be there to greet her? Once docile bugs, mere shadows of their former selves? Figures strung to writhe and tear, until all of Fleatopia (-what was once called Fleatopia-) is little above rubble and ash.
One of the newer residents- that curt yet rugged Vog- had been a welcome relief at the time. With a flea who took up arms, Hornet had figured the others would be safer, even without her presence to deter unwanted attacks… But would one bug be able to protect the entire caravan? And what if she was the first to fall? What if exposure forced her mind empty, and turned her weapon upon her kin?
Could she turn her blade upon a flea? Upon the same company she traveled Pharloom’s unwelcome roads with? Upon those she dared to grow close to?
Certainly she could. But must she…?
Perhaps she did. Or perhaps she didn’t. But as long as she stood there, allowing the scent of fetid water and the buzz of the squits to wash over her, she would never know for certain.
Her feet rose with herculean strain. As if weighed down with every soul in Pharloom she had so thoughtlessly condemned.
She did not sheath her blade as she passed through the narrow tunnel.
Fleatopia (what once was Fleatopia) looked very much unlike how Hornet last witnessed it… Where once the shore was bare (beyond, of course, the caravans themselves), now strange poles had been dotted along the shore… They appeared to be metal, save for their tips, which had been swaddled in dark fabric.
She could not identify the purpose of such structures, but her brain supplied that they seemed almost torchlike in nature. As if primitive lanterns, yet to be lit.
It called to mind Wisp Thicket. The burning bugs, the lanterns they wielded, the creatures they summoned, so quick to waste what little time they had blazing bright and volatile.
Her entrance was met with a surprising silence, inspiring both relief and dread alike. She could not tell what form of greeting would be worse: the snarling of once-sapient bugs, reduced to beasts in need of slaying, or the cold quiet of a land she was too late to aid.
The familiar sound of Mooshka’s voice bounced off the wall to greet her- and, had it not, perhaps fear would have seized Hornet with a much swifter and stronger claw. There was at least one flea left to greet her… His song was slow, deep, almost sorrowful in a way she’d never heard from the Fleamaster. Though, considering the circumstances, she supposed that should not have been much of a surprise.
The flea in question had been perched on a new structure Hornet hadn’t recognized… Almost a stage of sorts, fashioned from flexible wood and cord, with the occasional thread of cloth that she figured had been ornamental, for she could see no explicit purpose for them… Behind him loomed a strange bundle of fabric, built in a way that preserved the lumpy shape it’d been molded into.
It hadn’t looked like much of anything, at first. Then she drew near, and made out the silhouette of a young flea. A cord had been fastened around where the neck would have been, and the thing swung as if from a noose.
… An effigy? A parting memorial of those who once traveled Pharloom’s roads?
Her mind- horrid traitor that it was- returned to the Father of the Flame.
She quickly swallowed the sickness that threatened to overwhelm her senses.
“This dirge I sing is for the end of our old lives…”
Though his eyes had been closed, Hornet was certain Mooshka knew of her approach. He swayed a bit on the stage, small legs pulling him towards the spider as if magnetite destined to meet.
“Here, at the end of time-” he continued, the cadence rehearsed, falling from his mouth confident and clear, “-our paradise crumbles beneath us. Friend and flea alike, all will soon be consumed… What other choice do we poor wretches have?! Cruel fate leaves us with only one last task…”
“Dear friend… Miss Hornet!”
The sound of her name shook her from her thoughts. She pulled her eyes from the surroundings. The chilling, empty scenery. The gravel at her feet. The black stains that painted the harsh edges of her blade.
“Forgive us, but we beg one more favor from you…”
“... I have received your plea from Bellhart’s wishwall, good flea.” Each word carefully chosen, forced from her mouth with a caution unprecedented. As if- if spoken too sharply- the sound alone would cut down the fragile bug where he stood.
“Ahh! Then I trust you are aware? Of our final act? You shall help us?”
The air of finality in his voice did not betray the apprehension Hornet so desperately wished to find. If anything, there was an undertone of something closer to anticipation. Innocent and eager. It wormed beneath the shell of her head, took root in her brain, curdled on her tongue.
Hornet was well versed in wrongness. She had lived through an era colored and controlled by it. She knew it when she saw it. And this was a wrongness unlike most she had the misfortune of observing.
“... Fleamaster Mooshka-” (If she could take solace in anything, it was the idle coolness of her words… They slipped from her mouth with an ease that dared not portray the thoughts beneath her shell) “-Before I cement my agreement to this rite of yours, would you allow me a word?”
Mooshka, to his part, was startled out of the trance-like state she had found him in. Perhaps he had not suspected Hornet would be so quick to argue before he had the chance to give instruction. To her relief, however, nothing close to offense graced his fuzzy features. Simply curiosity, and perhaps the same reverence that graced much of the pilgrims and travelers who had come to know her.
“... But of course, Miss Hornet. After all you have done for us humble fleas, a million words is the least we could offer in exchange.”
“The praise, while recognized, is unneeded, Mooshka. Especially at a time like this.” (Especially in the face of what she had done. The hell she’d wrought. The reckoning of this world, cleaved by her own claw) “... This ritual of yours… I am not well versed in the culture of fleas, nor their practices. Forgive me if this comes across as cold, but understand my query stems out of nothing less than fondness for your kind.
“This ritual… is it necessary?”
That, so it seemed, had been too much for the Fleamaster. His beady eyes bulged from their sockets, his words losing themselves amidst the grains of sand at their feet. For a brief moment, he could not respond to her query with anything above a sputter.
“... P-pardon?!”
“I have not spent long in Pharloom… Not as long as I have spent within the walls of the land I was raised. I have not witnessed it in its golden era- if it had ever come to know such an age to begin with. If you would ask for my honest assessment of these lands, things have never seemed more dire than now.”
“... I could not agree more, Miss Hornet…” He spoke slower than typical of him, a hesitation distinct from his internal translations. His cadence was that of the teachers in Hornet’s youth, following her train of logic step by step, attempting to decipher where their words and her understanding branched from one another.
“Even we fleas, in all of our vast travelings, have never witnessed an end as great as the one encroaching on us now… This world screams with grief and age. But behind it, we can hear the call of something else, bold, loud, strong. Our ritual compels us, Miss.”
“But even despite-”
The words escaped Hornet hastier than she liked, and she suppressed the urge to wince at the pathetic slip of the tongue. Composure was her birthright, for all’s sake.
“... Do you not pause to consider your actions? Do you not consider yourselves gripped with fear and haste? Could this not be a decision you shall come to regret?”
When dealing with citizens so quick to don masks, it was rare Hornet was graced with the intricacies of one’s expression… She found herself lost in Mooshka’s reaction- the micromovements and subtleties in each twitch of muscle. She drank in each detail, committing to memory every part of him, lest the decades she was destined to live eroded it away.
Everything in him reflected a strange sort of sadness… Visible- pained- but distant. Like someone recalling a long dead lover. Like someone watching the innocence fade from a child’s eyes. Like a mother grooming her young a final time, overcome with love unconditional.
“Certainly there is fear, Miss… How could there not be? Our world- our paradise- is crumbling around us… Our time here grows slimmer every second. Perhaps it may seem unusual to some, in the face of our current predicament, but… Well, if not now, then when? If the end shall come to us, then we must embrace it as only a flea can.”
As only a flea can.
She was not meant to comprehend their process. She was not meant to interject. She was only here to do as requested. To satisfy this wish. To usher the fleas into their final act, in whatever way they saw fit.
“... I can not say I truly understand, Fleamaster…” The confession burned on her tongue, worse than any acid those swamp-dwelling bugs could produce.
“... But, I do not believe it is my place to. I have accepted your wish from the wall, and as such… I am at your disposal, for whatever this ritual may entail, and whatever part I am to play in it.”
The smile he graced her with grabbed at her immortal heart and twisted. It wrung and clawed until she wasn’t sure there’d been anything left.
“Vavenda, Miss Hornet! Everyone here in our now-bygone Fleatopia would be honored to have you in attendance… A friend of all fleas, here, at the end of all ends. What more could we possibly ask for?”
A question that could be answered with ease. Somehow, Hornet found the strength within her to hold her tongue.
“Ahh, then our pact is made.” Mooshka chirped, paws steepling at his chest.
Hornet adjusted her stance.
“Fellows! Steel yourselves!”
She did as told.
“It is time! It is time!”
The sudden POP of compressed air nearly made the spider leap from her shell. A high whistling, like a firecracker’s shrill whine, punctuated the sudden blast of colorful shreds of paper. Had Hornet’s weapon not already been drawn, the startle she’d been given would have had it out and lashing within the second.
Had Mooshka noticed her surprise, he did an excellent job ignoring it.
“It is time for the Festival of the Flea! One last, grand celebration before the black quakes pull us all down into the darkness!” As if by magic, the jovial trill had found its way back into his voice. It bounced off the cavernous walls, echoing for all the lake to hear.
“Rouse yourself a final time, fleas! And let the games begin!”
Heeding his word, the once hidden fleas flung themselves from the dunes they’d been holed in, yipping and howling in juvenile delight. Some of them held strings of twinkling fairy lights in their claws- struggling to keep themselves and their kin from tangling within them. Others held the pieces of what Hornet recognized to be an unconstructed spitroast, diving towards a suitable place of construction. The stragglers had indulged themselves with the confetti that hadn’t yet dropped to the ground.
A sudden dizziness threatened to overtake her- not too dissimilar from the effects of the weakening runes that brought her here- and Hornet pierced her nail into the ground to prevent any unwanted staggering.
She felt… disconnected from the present moment. Her body here, but her brain still a few minutes behind, sifting through all that lead up to that moment as if she’d stumble upon a fragment of clarity.
“... The… games…?”
“Of course!” Hornet hadn’t realized the question left her mouth until Mooshka had answered it. His voice was a lighthouse, piercing the fog of her mind, returning her to herself with a surprisingly gentle claw.
“No celebration is complete without them!”
“... Pardon, Mooshka, I-”
It was unusual for Hornet to grapple for composure so. It slipped from her grasp as if it’d been little above the sand on the shoreline. Worse still, she could hardly bring herself to notice. Too much of her mind had been occupied with… well, with the sudden bustle that’d taken root around her.
Regardless, she swallowed thickly, and attempted to make her next words seem a touch less pathetic.
“… Will you do me the courtesy of explaining. I fear something may have been lost in translation…” A beat of hesitation. Then, a touch quieter, as if the question would break the spell and bring to life the machinations of her mind, “... What of your ritual?”
“Miss Hornet,” if Mooshka had been anyone else, the playful chiding of his voice might have agitated her, “-this is our ritual! Our final festival! Our last hoorah before everything ends. A finale a flea could only dream of!”
For emphasis, he swept his arms around the bank. Yet more fleas had been busying themselves with the ‘rite’- whatever in the world it had shaped up to be- lifting writing boards and toting bells to and fro. Some zipped up above their heads, tearing away the cloth that blanketed the towering poles. Beneath had been ornate pickets, carved to resemble the festival’s fuzzy occupants.
“There shall be games, food, and drink for all in attendance! You are more than welcome to imbibe in as much or as little as you wish, of course. If ever there was a… err, an honorary flea deserving of a place amidst our grand celebration, it would be yourself, Miss Hornet!”
“... And… what, ah…” Turning back to the Fleamaster, she struggled to wrangle her thoughts over the din of the encroaching celebration, “... What… must I do…? How am I to… complete this rite? Satisfy this wish…?”
Mooshka did not seem to know how to answer such a query. Though his smile remained, he blinked once more, as if Hornet had been the oddest bug in all his travels.
“Simply by… enjoying yourself? Your presence is answer enough to our request- the little ones were hoping you would return to share in our spirits and merriment!” For a brief moment, he considered leaving the answer there. But curiosity nagged at him, tugging his brows down in a manner that almost suggested concern, and he was swift to continue,
“... Forgive me for such a question, but have you… attended a festival before?”
The sound of clattering wood snapped Hornet’s attention from his words, and she watched a few fleas erect a couple of simple structures, Vog overseeing their work. Closer to the water, Kratt had been pushing a cobbled raft of sorts out into the water, accompanied by young fleas who splashed and yipped in delight. There came a hollow clattering from behind, and she turned to see a familiar portable bench unfurl next to an impressively large cauldron. Next to it, Grishkin had been stoking fires- most likely in preparation for their usual nutriment.
“... Miss Hornet? Miss…?”
She in question startled, drawn back into the discussion she was so quick to forsake.
“... Pardon, Mooshka. My…” No excuse came to mind but the truth, “... My thoughts weigh heavily on my mind.”
“That much is clear…” Thankfully, Hornet had been paying attention when Mooshka raised his hand, an offer to take her claw in his that she wordlessly agreed to. Even his paws- devoid of the same kind of fur his body bore- had been deceptively soft…
“All the more reason to enjoy yourself, yes? The weight of us bugs- of Pharloom itself- bares so heavily on your shoulders…”
(Would he be saying that if he knew? Would he have invited her here if he was aware of just how much of this had been her folly? How long would it take for him to figure out… How long would it take for the entire caravan to know?)
Hornet’s pale shell did not betray the thoughts that hazed her mind. And so, not privy to the machinations of a being such as she, Mooshka could only offer her a compassionate pat of his claw, sandwiching one of her hands between both of his own.
“Please, enjoy the festival for as long as you wish. It would do you good to take respite from the clamor of our dying world.”
That, more or less, was how Hornet found herself where she was now. A plate of thick cut Moorwing upon her lap, and a bottle of flea brew in one hand, sat on a bench as she stared into the middle distance. She could practically taste the mixture of spices in the air, seasonings from a land far beyond Hallownest and Pharloom both. The bottle in her claw was near tantalizingly warm. The meat had still been sizzling.
She did not eat. Did not drink. Did not move her claws, or raise her head, or do much of anything at all.
She blinked almost painfully slow, the muscles of even her eyelids feeling heavy, as if she’d been stuck in a dream. The sounds of the festival (a festival… the rite was a festival) faded in and out around her, the yipping of young fleas, laughter, bottles clacking together, the sharp chime of bells meeting steel.
If she strained past the ringing in her skull, she could make out snippets of conversation…
“Bug not flea acts oddly. Cold and quiet. Is dead, perhaps.”
“Nonsense! Our dear guest is simply introspective! See how her eyes glimmer with thought unmatched. That gleam betrays her stoic exterior. Wise Kratt can read our savior like a book! Show some respect, dear Vog.”
“Miss Hornet not dead yet, at least. But plate is still full! Will pass from hunger soon, slim as is being!”
The words may have reached her, but they did not retain themselves in her mind. The voices wafted straight through her, much like silk dregs on the wind, kissing her shell as they passed her by.
When she finally brought herself to move, it was to pull her needle from where it rested on her back… Somewhat tarnished, now, but still polished enough to make out the amber sheen, and the hexagonal patterning common of hivesteel blades.
In its reflection, she could make out a few of the fleas from behind her. She pictured how cleanly the edge of her blade could cleave through something so soft and craven-
Hornet dismissed the thought with force, blinking harshly until the image had truly dispersed from her mind. They would be fine, it… would not come to that. It would not have to come to that.
An especially loud yip had been quick to interrupt her thoughts, and had Hornet not been so familiar with her blade she may have wound up cutting herself.
One of the fleas seemed to have tired from their play for now, shaking the bell-like helmet from their head. She wasn’t certain if it had approached for the refreshments, or for Hornet herself… All she knew was that the second its eyes (lost in its fur as they were) fell to her, there’d been a newfound vigor to its movement.
The thing flitted around her head, bumping her with its own once or twice, in a manner that was meant to convey endearment, as far as she had observed. A far gentler treatment than some of the other fleas received upon those towering platforms, being barreled into by those sturdy brass heads, toppling into the sand in fits of sharp laughter.
This lone flea eyed her expectantly, and- sensing its desire- she shifted her plate from her lap to the empty space at her side. Without hesitation, the bug was quick to fill the newfound gap, all six of its legs tapping merrily against the plush of her downy cloak.
… She recognized this flea. Being their saviors, she recognized most of them by now. While indistinguishable on the surface, each one was unique, carrying their quirks or blemishes, mementos from Pharloom’s wrath.
This had been the one she’d freed from the Slab… If the grooves on its limbs- markings where shackles once had been- were not a dead giveaway, then its stature was more than telling. Small, feeble, most assuredly the runt of whatever litter it had come from… Whether or not it had always been that way, or if it was a result of its time within the Slab, Hornet did not know. Though, from her own personal experience, the latter had been far from unlikely…
… So gently, so carefully- as if undeserving of such an indulgence- a claw fell upon the head of the flea. It followed the grain downward, weaving through the strands as though each had been spun from silk and gold.
The little bug seemed to appreciate the gesture as much as she did… Hornet wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been doing it for herself, or for it. At the moment, she did not know if it mattered either way.
She repeated the emotion- equally slow, equally reverent- relishing in a sensation she had been certain she’d never feel again. Another stroke. Another. She lifted her head, feeling the way the flea settled fully into her lap, content to stay a while and bask in her attention.
… Grishkin had been trying their luck at one of the games. Fleas threw themselves towards them, and in turn they would effortlessly heft them back into the air, keeping them from touching the ground… A few others watched in awe, clapping, barking, and cheering them on in whatever manner each saw fit.
Mooshka had been right. To embrace the end in such a way was foreign even to a being as long lived as she… While indulgence was somewhat common amidst some of the stragglers of Hallownest, it rarely took on such a jovial and communal form…
Certainly, it was an unanticipated look into flea culture… But, in the face of all she had overcome, and all she was yet to bear, she could hardly call it unwelcome.
The sounds of revelry had not been enough to drown out the muffled scream that echoed from the abyss. But it’d been enough to unwind the knot that tightened at the back of her throat.
Pharloom would not lose another. Not to the haunting. Not to this.