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Hornet isn’t exactly patient.
Not that she would describe herself as high-energy, but there have been many times in her life when others have commented on her constant need to move. Whether in combat or training, she has ever prided herself in being steadfast and stalwart— always able to lend her assistance whenever the opportunity arose.
Times of peace do not exactly lend themselves well to such a mindset. Of course, Hallownest has not always been under such strife, but these days are different as the Infection has subsided and those quiet moments of tranquility are slowly returning to the emaciated land. Its citizens are picking up the pieces, rebuilding what they can into something more than a memory.
“Hornet, could you sit still?”
Quirrel peeks around his canvas, paintbrush in claw. They’re covered in paint, strokes of white and red spread across his palms.
“While I appreciate your enthusiasm, the fidgeting is making it hard to capture your raw essence.”
Hornet grimaces. She inches her foot to the left, watching as Quirrel panics and nearly knocks over his easel.
“I will leave if you refer to me as such again.”
“Okay, okay!” he exclaims. “Please, I only wish to see you in brushstrokes fine enough to complement its reality.”
“Ever the charmer.”
“I do try,” he says with a smile before returning behind the canvas.
While Hornet tries to not make exceptions, she has found that she often does so for one bug in particular. And when that bug asks to paint her so that he may practice his artful skills, she agrees without question.
She’s starting to regret it, though. While Quirrel, her mate, is lovely in all aspects, she does not quite enjoy it when he is silent and focused. It is so contrary to his normal state of chatter that she finds it almost jarring to hear the empty noise from him.
Still, she sits for her portrait. What mate would she be if she did not occasionally do something for him? He already assists her on all her patrols and rebuilding efforts— the least she can do is sit on a stool, cross a leg over the other, and straighten her back so that he may have her “eternal beauty” on his wall that he is always chirping on and on about.
“How much longer will it be?” she asks.
“Hornet, it has been a total of one minute since we last spoke.”
“Unfortunate.”
Internally, she sighs. Though she loves Quirrel, she cannot deny that remaining perfect and prim for hours on end was not how she pictured her day going. She had assumed incorrectly that Quirrel would merely wish to sketch her, and would perhaps complete his painting at a later date without her present. No— instead, he wants to stand and stare and paint in complete and total silence. It seems as if every time she attempts to make conversation, Quirrel just waves a claw and says that his work is best done without talk. Of course, it’s stated with all the love in the world, fondness and caring, but Hornet is annoyed at it anyways.
She’s not sure how much more time passes in between now and then. Her back is starting to tire, and her legs tremble beneath one another. Even her arms, which she has trained with endlessly, wielding weapons of all shapes and sizes, are feeling the ache of holding their position.
It is then that Quirrel takes a step back from the canvas. He closes a single eye, tilts his head back-and-forth. It’s cute enough that Hornet forgives him for making her sit unmoving for these past few hours.
“It’s done—” he starts, but then he does a double-take and shouts, “wait!”
Ugh, gods. Hornet rolls her shoulders out and gives her muscles a shake. It feels good to straighten out the kinks that have started to form within them, but the moment Quirrel spots her moving, he launches over to her. His claws move to her arms and legs, guiding them back into that terrible position.
“There’s just one more thing I must do,” he says. “But I am missing some paint.”
Hornet rolls her eyes. “Then you shall complete it on the morrow. I am beyond sore and tired.”
“Please. It will take only a moment longer, love.”
She scoffs, “That is low of you to use such loving names to convince me.”
“But is it working?”
“Yes.”
“Then, dear,” says Quirrel, batting his eyes, “sit still for me? For just a few minutes?”
And that is how Hornet finds herself sitting for another half-hour, awaiting the return of Quirrel from his trip to procure more paints. She is not even sure how long it should take to collect them. Is she not made of three colours, maximum?
Well, it is not as if she knows anything about the arts. But she does think that it should not take this long to capture such simplistic features as hers.
Suddenly, a pair of soft, plushy claws land on her shoulders.
“Spider! How do you do on this fine eve?”
Great. Lace is just about the last bug she wishes to see while stuck sitting still. It seems that her rescue from Pharloom has left her more energetic than ever, adventuring around Hallownest with a thirst to know all that rivals Quirrel’s own. Although Hornet thinks of her as a close, kin-like companion, that does not deny the fact that the silken bug is a professional at bothering her to no end.
Case and point.
“Do the bugs of Hallownest oft enjoy just sitting, like yourself? It must explain why so many of your citizens are untrained in combat if they simply spend their days lounging about.”
Hornet hisses, “Do you not have better things to do, Lace? I thought you were investigating Greenpath today.”
Lace nods sagely and hums, “Yes, and now the day is done. I have returned to see what you and your knight were doing, only to find you sitting in front of a canvas with no painter at it.”
“You would do well to use that silk-brain of yours and assume that I am waiting for the painter to return.”
“Ai— so rude! Who taught you such manners, spider?”
“Your mother.”
Lace throws her head back and cackles as she usually does, a habit that she has not broken since coming to Hallownest. She ‘rounds around Hornet’s back and stands in front of her, claws placed at her hips.
“Who is painting you, good spider?”
“Again, I ask you to use your brain.”
Lace taps her chin a few times. It’s all just a facade, a way to drag the conversation on for longer than it must, and Hornet is starting to fidget even more than she did when Quirrel was painting her.
“Ah, it’s that knight of yours, is it not?”
“How impressive of you.”
She squeals like a youngling and bounces on her heels. In a flurry of white, she runs around to the canvas to take a look at what Quirrel has been working on all day. Hornet watches as her eyes scan the painting up-and-down. A mischievous glint enters her expression that Hornet really doesn’t like.
“Oh, my,” she gasps. “The colours, the lines… I do not know about you, spider, but this is quite the masterpiece.”
“Of course,” Hornet says with a sigh. “Quirrel prides himself on perfection.”
“But I believe it could do with a little something else.”
Hornet’s eyes widen. She feels herself begin to move toward Lace but not before the echoing pleas of Quirrel enter her mind. Please, Hornet. Stay still, love. If she even dared to move an inch, he would bemoan the loss of his painting’s muse. And there really isn’t anything else like the sadness on her mate, so poignant.
Good thing he isn’t here to see her move, then.
She shoots off from the stool, grabbing Lace by the arm and tugging her back around to the easel’s back. Lace makes a paltry attempt to resist before she is yanked back to where the stool is, a look of pure trouble on her elegant face. That grin— gods, it does not speak of good things.
“Calm yourself, spider. All I wish to do is make the painting even more perfect than it already is.”
“Is that not the definition of perfection, child? That it does not require further tampering?”
Lace shrugs as she slides out of Hornet’s grasp. She is more slippery than a serpent, that one. Hornet tries to keep a hold on her, but the silken bug is already gone, now back to the canvas as she scribbles something on its taut surface with a brush. She giggles as she paints her addition, her laughter echoing across Hallownest as she once again evades Hornet’s capture of her.
“Come back here!” Hornet shouts as she chases Lace away from the canvas. “You will fix what you have done!”
She doesn’t even want to think about the disappointment on Quirrel’s face if he finds that Lace has ruined his painting. Hornet did not have the chance to see the canvas before she ran toward Lace, but she can assume that whatever she did was no-good.
“Catch me if you can, spider!”
The fact that the two of them are poised more toward agility means that this goes on for far longer than it should. Since Quirrel chose a field to paint, there’s plenty of space to chase and be chased. Lace whips around the wide, open space as Hornet bends further down, using her lithe body to her advantage. Luckily, she also has her needle on her, which makes Lace’s capture much easier once she gains enough ground on her.
Hornet threads her needle and sends it flying toward Lace’s ankle. The silk loops around her dainty leg, and the bug goes down with a slam as Hornet reels her in.
But never let it be said that Lace is one to give up a fight. Just as Hornet brings her close enough to reprimand, Lace pushes herself upward and grabs onto Hornet’s shoulders, throwing her down. Their struggle— wrestle, really— ends up on the ground as their tussle continues with them rolling around.
“Hornet, I have returned— what in the gods is going on?”
Hornet and Lace freeze. As it stands, Hornet has the other bug pinned beneath her, a claw pressing down on each shoulder. Lace has her foot lodged in between Hornet’s stomach and chest, ready to kick her away. Which she does.
Hornet goes flying and lands on her backside rather roughly. She groans as she sits up, glancing over at Quirrel who is staring at the two of them with a boggled expression. He is holding a few tubes of paint, as well as new paintbrushes; in another arm, he has a couple of empty canvases that are waiting for his creative touch. Hornet would find the sight charming if not for the fact that Lace is sitting just a pace away from them, laid out on her back and giggling, giggling, giggling.
“Welcome back, knight! I hope you do not mind, but I added some finishing touches to your painting. I think you will find it quite exquisite, if I do say so myself.”
Dread fills Hornet as Quirrel goes to the canvas. His eyes scrape over the painting in slow, deliberate turns; time passes like molasses while Hornet sits on the ground, waiting for that sad sigh to echo from him and say that the painting is ruined.
But instead, he just nods like a wise old shaman. He places down his implements and waves Hornet to stand.
“If you could, dear?” he asks. “Just for a second? Ah— and you, too, Lace.”
Lace and Hornet give each other a look. It’s one most often shared between friends that asks, “Do we do it?”
In the end, they both rise to their feet and shuffle over to the stool. Hornet adopts her earlier position as Lace stands behind her, claws behind her back. They watch as Quirrel adds fast, messy brushstrokes to the canvas. He dips his brush into a number of different colours on his palette, sliding the fibers over and over again.
This time, Quirrel is true to his word that he will only take a second. Not long after he began painting, he takes a step back to take in his work. A large smile is evident across his handsome face.
Beatific and bright, he says, “Now, this is true art. Would you both like to see it?”
Hesitantly, Hornet and Lace head to the canvas. Nervousness wells in Hornet’s stomach as she makes the turn around the easel, joining where Quirrel stands. He throws an arm around her waist and bumps his hip with hers. Though he is shorter than her, she still slots against him like a perfect puzzle piece.
The painting is beautiful. How Quirrel does it, Hornet will never know. Every bit of her is captured with precision, the shading fading into the natural light of the cavernous field they stand in; from the tip of her head to the vibrancy of her cloak, each detail is painted like it is a slice of reality. Hornet cannot take her eyes off of how magnificent her cloak looks in the lava-red paint.
But more so, she sees that she is not the only one in the painting. There Lace is, standing right behind her. Her figure is far more rushed, considering that Lace must have been the one to add herself into the canvas. Yet, that matters little when she is still caught in the grips of Quirrel’s artistic skill, curved body softer than its true counterpart.
And then there is one more in the painting. Stood right beside Hornet is the painter himself, nail planted at his side. Hornet thinks that his self-portrait would be the optimal opportunity to shine a bright light on all of his good parts (of which she knows there are many), but the painting itself captures himself as he is in the real world. Each scar is visible, each bend of his back— if anything, it’s his nail that looks the best out of all three of them.
“I wanted it to be something of a family portrait,” Quirrel says with more than a hint of fondness. He looks up at Hornet just as she looks down at him. They share a secretive glance, a smile meant for only one another. “I hope I captured it to both of your liking.”
“It’s very lovely,” Hornet replies. She leans down and kisses his cheek as chastely as she can in front of Lace. Although, it isn’t as if the bug is even paying attention to either of them as she marvels at the portrait, star-struck. “Thank you, Quirrel.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, leaning upward for a true kiss.
As Hornet bends to Quirrel to capture him, Lace exclaims, “Oh, it is wonderful! See, spider— do I not make a fitting addition to your little retinue?”
Hornet scoffs at Lace as Quirrel presses closer into her. “This is not a retinue, by any meaning of the word. That would require far more bodies, of which there are only—”
She is about to say two, but looking at Lace’s expectant expression, there is only one obvious answer left.
“— three. There are only three of us.”
“Hm,” says Lace, turning back to the painting. “Then what would one call us, motley as you two are, and as elegant as I am?”
Quirrel chuckles. The sound is warm and full, like it was always meant to be.
“I think family suits us just fine.”