Chapter Text
Hornet strings her needle, tugging at the silk looped around its hilt. It feels secure enough, but one can never be too sure. She makes one more loop— just to be safe.
A light breeze drifts through her open window, perched at the top of the White Palace. It’s been some time since she’s moved in with her father, though she thinks that it will not be for much longer. Homesick pangs strike her heart more often than not as she dreams of Deepnest and the comfort of her mother’s lands. And yet still, living there had offered her the same number of problems that the White Palace currently does.
She leans onto the window sill and searches for that awning she had scouted earlier. It’s a few levels down on an opposite spire, just as bright and white as the rest of the palace. It shines in the light’s gloam, almost blinding in its sheer radiance; the cleaners must have recently lacquered it, if she’s to guess.
Hornet takes a step back as she readies her needle. This will take an ungodly amount of precision to land this shot— but if she does, she’ll be free for the rest of the day to do whatever she wishes. She could venture out past the borders of the palace, find her way through the City of Tears, and perhaps even seek the sparkling sights of the Crystal Mountain. The world will be hers for this day, she swears it.
She reels back and swings her needle above her head. As it spins, it knocks over all the knick-knacks and tchotchkes that sit on her shelves; some of them shatter, and some of them bounce, and yet the noise is all but static to Hornet as she focuses on the task at hand. She zeros in on the awning and—
“Hornet!”
Damn.
Hornet turns on her heel, quick to pull her needle back to the ground. It clangs next to her, although not before it manages to tear a hole through her cloak’s side. With the precision she wished she had honed a few minutes before, she’s left now left with a gaping rip in her silver drapery.
“Ah, father,” she says with a wave. “Hello.”
The Pale King is renowned for a variety of reasons, some of which span from the reasonable to the unbelievable. As for Hornet, she can’t care a whit about any of the amazing deeds he’s done, or all the good he’s supposedly brought to his kingdom and citizens— all that really matters to her is the fact that he’s got her on a leash tighter than a wedding chain. Of which this moment is a very good example of his reigning tendencies, especially when it comes to his princess daughter.
“Hornet,” he bemoans. He takes a turn about her wide, lavish bedroom, replete with marbled pillars and a gossamer-covered bed. The walls are high and thick, and the windows allow for the optimal amount of breeze to slip through.
She detests it all, through and through. The room only serves as a reminder of what she has lost back in Deepnest, the intimacy of its enclosed, tight spaces.
“Must you be so troublesome, daughter?”
“I know not what you refer to,” she says as she kicks her needle aside. It goes sliding across the floor. They watch as it just misses reaching its target of hiding under the bed.
Her father approaches, claws behind his back. Hornet has learned over her life to not fear the Pale King as others may— as daughter to both Wyrm and Weaver, she refuses to be led by her heart’s trembling. It is in her blood to be bold, brave.
And still, like most children (though child she is far from being), she cannot help but feel the stinging anxiety when she sees the disappoint writ across her father’s face. His spired head wilts as he takes in her bedroom’s destruction, a place that was meant to be a gift from him unto her.
He sighs, and it’s a punch to the gut.
“I will not ask,” he says finally. “I came only to deliver a missive to you.”
Hornet narrows her eyes. She musters down the growing hole in her chest and folds her arms, defiant. “You, delivering mail? Do you not have servants to do your dirty work?”
“Speaking to one’s daughter is not ‘dirty work’, as far as I know,” he says, and Hornet immediately regrets her word choice. “It is from your mother.”
From his robes, a tightly-tied letter is revealed. The parchment is slightly cracked and worn on the edges, a wrapping of lacy silk keeping it held together. There is no stamp nor wax— the silk is instead its symbol of its writer.
Hornet grabs the letter.
“Now, do not be alarmed when you reach its conclusion,” says her father, voice ambling in the background.
But she is paying him no mind as her eyes scan the letter’s contents. There are the usual greetings from Deepnest, all prim and proper for the sake of royal gazes that may turn upon it. Hornet eats her way through the first paragraph as her mother bestows upon her the well wishes of a monarch.
It is not until she reaches the letter’s midsection that the true purpose of its delivery comes clean.
With a heavy— and perhaps hateful, and I do so wish for you to tell your father this— heart, I must inform you that your education is to begin with gusto. Though you may not have chosen your lot in life, your blood demands it to be so; your recent move-in to the White Palace should have been sign enough that this time was to come. I hope your initial studies have gone well as now you must devote the rest of your early adult days to the books of princesses.
Your father (and do not tell him this part) has asked for me to relay this information to you. He sent me first a letter about it, to which I responded to him in kind; when his reply came back brokering no argument, I penned this one for you. Pitiable as he is, there is little else he detests more than your ire, dear daughter of his as you are. Perhaps he also hates the wrath of the White Lady’s, although I have never heard of her becoming angered as we so often and rightfully do.
I know your studies thus far have been of the battlefield, with snippets of minor history, language, and what have you. To be Hallownest’s princess, you will now learn all there is to be about being its crowning jewel. Do not despair, daughter of mine. Once you have proven to your father that you are fit for the job, you may escape back to Deepnest and spurn him for the rest of your long-lived life, as I similarly plan to do.
Yours,
Mother
P.S. Do remember to enjoy yourself. Studies need not always be desks and dust.
Quirrel’s break is almost over.
To be fair, most of it was spent thinking about getting back to work, but he’s been placed on Monomon’s eternal watch-list of “bugs who need to know when to take a break”, of which he is the top offender. Thus, he’s been stuck twiddling his thumbs and looking out the window while his lunch sits half-eaten in the gleaming, pouring sunlight.
Afternoons in the Archives have always been Quirrel’s favourite. It is the time of day when the entire building seems to shut down. It exhales, researchers filing out its doors as they return home to eat before coming back to babysit their bubbling experiments. Quirrel likes to watch them out of his office window, little dots wandering down the path until they disappear into the fog.
For Quirrel, this time of the day is best enjoyed principally because no one is in the Archives. At least, there are very minimal bodies within it, making it as peaceful as it will ever be. The place is usually all hustle and bustle, so the slow moments in between are a treat that he indulges in whenever he can.
The clock ticks, striking the next hour. His break is over. The chair beneath him nearly falls over as he stands, rushing back down to the Archives’ library to continue his research.
Unfortunately, he only makes it about three stories down before he’s stopped. If he were walking any faster, he’d probably be listening to his heels squeal on the linoleum floor. He’s about two seconds away from cursing at his luck, running into somebody while on his way to completing his report that really should have been done a few days ago. Now, he has to make small talk with a colleague.
Perhaps he should not speak so disparagingly about his Teacher, for as he sends his gaze upward, that is who he has nearly crashed into on the stairs. His appreciation for her is beyond what words can tell, and yet at this moment he cannot help but find her presence a hindrance when the books below are awaiting him.
“Ah, Quirrel. Your break is over, I presume,” she says. Her voice is unfailingly serene, a wash of calm that quiets even the most excitable of researchers. Quirrel figures that is why she and him make such a good team— she guides, he executes.
Still, those books. His report.
“Yes, Monomon,” he says. “I intend to return to the library, so if you’ll excuse me…”
He tries to side-step her, but her height means that she towers over him to the nth degree. Though soft and translucent, she can use her size when it matters. In this instance, she employs it to loom over him in the tight stairwell, her shadow cast large over him.
“Quirrel, we’ve spoken about this many times. How much more must I remind you to slow down?”
“Perhaps all my life, good Teacher. I don’t suppose I shall be stopping anytime soon.”
Monomon sighs, and a ripple of guilt slides through Quirrel. To many, Monomon is more than the premier researcher of the Archives, more than just her ‘Teacher’ title— she is a caring, matronly figure, always willing to lend her advice and help to those who ask it. She is a friend.
For Quirrel, it’s more because she is his mother, in a sort of you-took-care-of-me-when-I-was-younger type of way. There is no blood between them, and yet she has ever been his symbol of motherhood.
Ergo, when one’s mother sighs out of disappointment, one feels overtly guilty for being the cause of it.
“Never mind that, then,” she says, placing a tentacle over his shoulders. “I will join you.”
“Were you not just walking up the stairs?”
“Cheeky boy.”
The walk to the library is slightly longer than Quirrel cares for. Of course, he is always happy to entertain his Teacher and speak with her— her insights in every facet of life and knowledge are endlessly illuminating, giving way to hours of conversation between just the two of them. One of their colleagues had once described them as a perpetual motion machine, fuelling one another with each suggestion and theory thrown into the air, and caught with precision.
Still, his mind is filled with that damn report he neglected to do as he was busy favouring one of his recently-finished experiments that required constant watch. Now that he’s got some time on his claws, he’s got to get it done. Not that there’s any consequence if he doesn’t complete it today, but Quirrel has standards that he tries to keep up with. Perfection doesn’t come easy, although it certainly can be striven for.
The library is kept at the far bottom of the Archives. There, the temperature is optimal to keep the parchments dry, and Quirrel far prefers it to the humid middle of the Archives where most of the researchers and fellow scholars spend their day. As Monomon’s assistant, he’s able to avoid it completely on some days as his office is situated near the Archive’s top, right next to the Teacher’s.
The smell of the library always hits Quirrel first. It’s unlike the rest of the Archives, which always has a twinge of chemicals and the taste of metal hanging in the air; below, it is almost like stepping into an old home with dusty shelves and tattered cloths. A single breath gives one the impression that the place hasn’t been cleaned in some time, left to gather debris over its long years. The walls are lined with ancient tomes that go all the way back to Hallownest’s early days; they hold secrets untold, meant only for the prying eyes of overly curious scholars— like Quirrel.
“Quirrel, dear, could you fetch me that title I had bookmarked— ah, what was its name?” Monomon asks as she floats to the shelves near the entrance.
Quirrel can tell she isn’t actually looking for anything, but rather stalling. If she really was doing so, then she would have found it right away. Either way, he knows exactly which text she’s looking for— Deepnest And Deeper: An In-Depth Look Into Weaver Societal Structures And Its Intersectionality With Hallownest Culture. A rather dense and unhelpful text, albeit, but sometimes Monomon likes to read the bland ones for fun, and the occasional laugh.
Quirrel grabs the book and hands it over to the Teacher. Without a word, she flips open to a page and reads it aloud.
“Of the Weavers, one thing is certain: their rivalry— if one may claim this— with Hallownest opened the doors of opportunity to them. Rather than compliance, they acted as their civilization was wont to do. Strategic maneuvering led to the birth of what many regard as the symbol of peace between the two groups.”
“A bold claim to make, is it not?” Quirrel says as he looks around for his stack of books he just left here. Did the librarian already clean it up, specifically after he asked them not to? Ugh. “That they ‘acted as their civilization was wont to do’?”
Monomon replies, “Quite. We have very little information about the Weavers themselves, especially of their homeland. Perhaps one may make the claim that it is as their current— as in, their state alongside Hallownest— civilization is, but even that seems like a rather weak argument.”
“True, but even then, we do not have much to go on. Deepnest isn’t exactly forthcoming about its history, nor anything about its citizens. Ah, speaking of— how did your meeting with Herrah go?”
While Herrah is a name that stabs Quirrel with abject fear (and how could it not? Her title is literally the Beast), he is still polite and interested enough to want to know exactly what she and Monomon were speaking of yesterday. Monomon had been gone to meet with the Beast for the entirety of the day, from morning ‘til night, returning only in the wee hours of daybreak with a smile dancing on her face.
“Well, very well. In fact, we spoke about you.”
Uh oh.
“What of, might I ask?”
Monomon closes the text and puts it back into its correct place, right beside Quirrel. She leads him over to a table and sits them both down at it, although her size means most of her is spilling off it. Nonetheless, she produces a letter and hands it over to him. It is encased in a silvery silk, no wax nor stamp to be seen.
“Herrah is looking for a tutor— not for herself, mind you. She requires one that is knowledgeable in all aspects of Hallownest. Biology, language, sociology, and the like. Naturally, I recommended you.”
Quirrel frowns, clenching the letter in his claw. The parchment crackles under the pressure.
“But, I have much to do here, reports to complete, research to run,” he argues.
“Which you can do whenever you are not tutoring your pupil. It will not be long, just a couple hours a day— unless you wish not to have a student of your own?”
He muses on the idea for a moment. While he is no teacher like Monomon, he does see the idea of being the lecturer instead of the lectured somewhat compelling. But then he thinks about it some more and finds that he would still much rather be doing his own work than watching over another’s. Yet, there is something quite enthralling about bestowing knowledge upon one who wishes for it…
“She is about your age, give or take a year. You may have much in common,” Monomon hums, a mischievous glimmer in her tone as it trails off.
“Monomon, please,” Quirrel says as he rolls his eyes. He runs a digit beneath the silk and cuts it loose, letting the parchment unravel in his claw.
Quirrel the Scholar,
I write to you today to formally request your services, of which Monomon the Teacher has recommended them most greatly unto me. She has spoken at length about your wisdom and intelligence. Any apprentice-turned-assistant of hers I do trust quite well to be an effective yet kind teacher.
You will be properly compensated for your services, if you intend to accept this request. As they come from not only I, Herrah the Beast, but also the Pale King, you can rest assured that your time will be handsomely paid for.
Quirrel stops.
“I’m sorry, Monomon,” he wavers, “but the Pale King is looking for my assistance, as well?”
She shrugs, though she smiles at the same time.
“I do not know. I am not the one reading the letter.”
Quirrel shakes his head and turns back to the letter, now reading it faster. There’s much writing about compensation amounts and what the duties actually entail; these parts are uninteresting, though important they are. But Quirrel does not care for how much Geo will line his pockets nor what subjects he will have to teach. All he wants to know is who he will be sitting down with each and every day to—
“The Princess of Hallownest is required to be knowledgeable in all aspects of the kingdom.”
“Well, I did not choose to be her, did I?”
“Hornet, I swear—”
“To what? Yourself?”
The Pale King takes a step back and a breath. His daughter has ever been the opinionated type, quite like her mother, but he did not imagine that such a personality trait would be her most dominating when she was first born. He can recall with exact clarity her size, the way her weight felt when pressed in his arms. She was so small, so sweet.
Now that she is grown and resides within his palace, he has front-row seats to examine exactly how Deepnest has shaped her. He’s not sure whether he thinks it is a good or bad thing. Most likely, it is some grey-area, in-between detail, and should probably appreciate the fact that his daughter is strong-willed enough to stand up to even a king and god.
Yet, he cannot help but be frustrated at her refusal to understand that this is her lot in life.
She lives in a palace, she is a princess, she is able to train with her needle whenever she pleases— would it be so much for her to just… sit down? Study? Think of anything else than running back to Deepnest?
Apparently so.
“I will say this once, and once only, daughter,” says the Pale King, mustering his best fatherly demeanour. “You will study. You will study well; and once your education is complete this next year, you shall be free to do whatever you please. All I ask is that you put your needle down, pick up a book, and think about your place amidst the kingdom.”
Hornet’s eye twitches. The Pale King tries not to sigh.
“And who will be my tutor?”
“Quirrel, be reasonable.”
“The Princess! Why— I do not think I can accept this. Me, teach the Princess of Hallownest? No, this idea is terribly preposterous.”
“You are more than qualified, my dear. Think of all your publications, all your research. Who else would I have suggested to teach such a prestigious student?”
Sure, Monomon thinks, the Princess of Hallownest is known to be rambunctious, a trouble-maker, and all around rebellious, but only she and the other great rulers of the land are aware of this. All Quirrel needs to know is that this student is in great need of learning, and he certainly has the enthusiasm to draw her into the world of knowledge. Who knows, the Princess may even find that she one day may want to take part in the Archives’ research!
Probably not. But, still, the thought is warming enough.
“But she is the Princess,” he insists, emphasizing each word like saying it pronouncedly is going to change the situation.
“Correct.”
“Do you truly have nothing else to say on this?”
Monomon has plenty to say on this subject. She could speak of the Pale King’s desperation to reign in that tricky daughter of his; she could meander on Herrah’s playfulness at it all; and she could even mention her own opinions on the fierce friction between Deepnest and Hallownest, and how producing a child that split her time between both kingdoms in an awfully uneven manner would only have ever benefited the parent who had the better sense of humour. In the end, Monomon simply rises from her seat, and plucks a text from the library wall.
“Here, my dear,” she says, handing it over to him. He reads over the cover with quick glance.
Finding Joy In Teaching: Inter-Disciplinary Studies With Blasé Students.
“I found this particularly helpful when I first began my climb to becoming the Teacher.”
Quirrel cracks open the book. It has been unopened for many, many years, and a smattering of dust puffs out from its pages. The two of them cough and wave away the air, though it’s a scent that Monomon adores. It reminds her of her early years as a student, studying late into the night while surrounded by all the books she could ever care for.
“The opening lines,” Monomon says, “are my favourite.”
You may find that your student is unruly, petulant, or even dismissive of your methodology. That is fine. The relationship of teacher and student, tutor and pupil, is more than what its name suggests. It is a friendship— a time to test how knowledge connects us to our roots, where they may grow in kind with another’s. Be willing to learn as they do with you.
Herrah sits back, quill in claw. When she reads back the letter, she crumples it and tosses it out.
Her daughter will be just fine. There’s no need for assurances.