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What is essential to a bug? What makes one what they are?
A dull bug would say one’s mind. One’s will. Thoughts. The gift that separates the high from the low.
Foolish. Close-minded. A honey-coated lie; one that rots the fangs in overabundance. Separation only benefits those content to stagnate.
Is the brushflit any less a bug, devoid of conscious thought? Is its loyalty to its flock rendered meaningless, the tug of its instinct a lesser force than will? When it swoops at the intruder that threatens its nest, perfectly content to peck, to maim, to die, for young it has never and will never know, does nature not honor its sacrifice all the same?
‘Lesser bugs’, ‘greater bugs’. Trivial distinction. Wheat and chaff burn the same.
Then what? Where does the distinction lie, if not in the mind?
The body? The self that walks the waking world? Claws to fashion tools, to grab, to hold, to strike, hurt, clutch and tear? Lungs to breathe and shriek and sing?
Not all bugs have claws, of course. The shifting sand churners on the edge of the Blasted Steps were no less bug than the pilgrims which climbed them… The presence of flesh itself, then? A bug devoid of body- any body- is not a bug at all. Not a living one, at least. Such had likely been the case since the world’s first bug was hatched.
Presumably, at least.
Life after the pale bug seemed far less certain than life before.
The pale bug… They’d found it on the outskirts of the Wisp Thicket. An unfamiliar song that echoed from Greymoor’s edge, rattling the hollow stalks as it lifted to greet them. It was rare to be approached for once, closed off as they were. Unknowing minds were hostile minds, and those who knew of Father- of his mercy, of his heat- did well to keep away from those who did not.
The voice was soft, alluring. Each note a lure cast wide, reeling swiftly, coaxing, pulling, pleading.
The pale bug must have been a holy being. Not holy as they could consider it, true, but nonetheless divine. Unequivocally divine.
A mortal feat, to lure a mortal bug. A far greater one to lure spirits. But there she sat, effortlessly conducting the emberless wisps as if she’d been hatched to do it. Her weapon cut delicately through the air, and the flecks of light swayed in time. Not a performance. Not a display. Not for the Burning Bugs. A feat of enchantment for herself, and her alone.
In another life, she would have made an exquisite believer. In another life, she was swathed in red, lantern in hand, whispering fondly to the sprites of the thicket, carving new melodies of Father’s word.
Perhaps things would have gone differently had they not startled her. Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing would have convinced her to lay down her pin, hear the truth, embrace her role in the world. As an outside bug, perhaps it had been in her nature, same as all the rest.
The Burning Bugs did not fear a battle. How could they? The bite of pin against shell meant nothing in the face of Father’s divine plans. Another failing of the outside bugs they had grown above. What use was there to cower from a corpse, when from the ashes of their brothers arose new life?
The pale bug knew her way around a pin. Deft, nimble- fast without resulting in carelessness. It was rare they hunted such a quarry. The roaming pilgrims tended not to arm themselves at all, much less have such a thorough understanding of their weapon.
But knowing one’s blade was only half the battle. And the pale bug clearly had no knowledge of her opposition.
Every lantern swung wide forced a hasty reproach. Every wisp that drew near made her arena smaller. Her fear of the flames had been her own noose. What a strange bug, indeed, to prefer being cornered to scalded.
Though willing to obey an order to a certain point, the wisps of Wisp Thicket could hardly be considered tame. A low word, meant for livestock, pets, animals broken and bound. An unfit term for such a flicker of divinity.
Wisps were wild things. And there is little a wild thing adores more than cornered prey.
An eager flame reared back and lunged, whistling as it cut through the air. It flared when it hit the ground, a volatile splash of cinders that nipped at the dirt, at the grass, at the air. It kissed the feet of the pale bug. It gorged itself on the softness of her skin.
Not knowing the honor she had been given, her reaction was rather improper. Her posture faltered, bowing in on itself as she shrieked, kicking as if intent to extinguish… Or perhaps an instinctual reaction. Muscles twitching in earnest, so enraptured by such a vibrant heat that they writhe beneath the skin.
… No. A theory disproven with ease. For there was no muscle. There was no skin. No bone. No viscera. Nothing which churned and bubbled and hissed.
The pale bug was composed not of flesh. Threads curled where the flames licked, blackening, withering. She reeked not of charred flesh, but burnt fur, sharp and stale, not unfamiliar, but certainly unexpected.
The artificial composition of the strange pale bug had smothered the small fire in time. It pitted out, feeble and altogether unusual, as far as a wisp’s flame was concerned. Where feet had been, char remained. A soot black that mellowed into an umber as it rose past the cauterized stumps, then back into the familiar white as it reached the knees.
On the subject of knees, the pale bug was not standing, of course. She couldn’t. Her pin slipped from her claws, seemingly not nearly as important as her new injuries had been. She clutched at those instead, briefly, before recoiling with another scream. Her threaded body not only registered pain, but retained it. An otherwise perfect replica of a mortal bug, cast and molded in a divine, silken shell…
What was to be done? With this? With her? Something must be done.
… The life of a wisp was a quick one. Others would call it a shame- for a bug often mourns what they do not understand. But Father’s disciples knew how to parse tragedy from virtue.
Things which are gorgeous are born to be fleeting. If goodness remains, it will curdle, dilute, until no original part of it remains. Better to embrace volatility. Better to abandon the world in a bright flash, to lash white hot against the canvas of the world, to take and take, to blaze, to scar, even long after you are gone.
No truer than for the fragile. The wisps knew this well. The wisps did not fear, did not falter. The wisps did not apologize for what they took, in life, in death. They simply were. They were fragile. They were bright. They were hot. And then, they were gone.
The pale bug, the silk bug, was another such fragile thing. A fragile thing composed of fragile things… Snapping a singular thread would be an effortless affair. Twining multiple together did not significantly change that fact. Braiding those together perhaps made a marginal difference. Stringing the resulting mass into the shape of a bug, breathing life into its lungs, light into its eyes, made it stronger than it should have been, true.
But no stronger than flesh. No stronger than bone. No stronger than the Burning Bugs. Hardly any stronger than their hoods and robes had been.
If mortal life was fragile, what had that made her? She, born of silvery gossamer thread? She, featherlight and supple?
Considering her composition, the pale bug was lifted with ease. Of course, she attempted not to make it quite so simple. A single bug alone could not hold her. Two managed. Most of them stood over a head above her. Even if she were heavy with flesh and blood and bone, her squirming would not have done much.
The Wisp Thicket was not silent for those who knew what to listen for. Never silent. The crackle of dead grass, of leaves set alight, of distant fires in lantern sentinels, had always been there to comfort Father’s children.
But that walk, with the pale bug in tow, felt especially quiet. As if the woods itself held its breath. Watchwisps suspended in the air like a held breath. The wind hardly shuddered.
Perhaps Father was watching them now. The gravity of their obligation weighed down the canopy, dripped from the leaves, sizzled against red-hot metal.
A unanimous decision, discussed in knowing glances and wordless nods. A pilgrim’s pyre would not be fit for a bug of such esteem.
The Furnace was a holy place. Holier than the building which housed it. Were a bug to die within it, they often died with full conviction, prayer falling from their mandibles as the fire claimed them whole. It was a practice far above the nonbelieving bugs. Too familiar. They would not understand it. They would not accept it with the honor it was due.
Even in the darkness of the oversized bell could not disguise the reverence in the eyes of the Burning Bugs. Nor could it shadow the terror in the pale one’s. It would not be fair to ask an outsider to make sense of the idol before them… The visage of a god (or, perhaps, of a foreign god, if from another she’d been sired) was not an easy sight to bear.
They could not blame her. But her conduct had not made the process any easier.
Charred stumps of once-feet clawed uselessly against the gravel, kicking at clumps of dirt, legs, empty air. She thrashed, flailed, tugged at her restrained wrists. Funny… to seek freedom and to struggle against it in turn. Pity, they hadn’t the time to teach her the truth.
Bugs were never led to Father’s visage in fear… The act itself- forcing the decision- felt a bit grotesque. But she did not know, and she would not listen. Not all lessons can be taught by mortal hand.
She would learn. And there was warmth to be found in the thought.
Elytra chittered, and those blessed with wings took to the skies. The pale bug went with them of course, writhing all the while. Silken paws clutched to the bars of Father’s ribs, clinging to them as if handholds, desperate to make his strength her own.
Her claws were weak, her arms weaker. Still, she attempted. Commendable. Useless as well. Her handlers pried Father’s chest open, and she clung. They prodded at her, and she clung. Then, they pulled each claw open one by one, and she could stall no longer. She tumbled gently into the cavity of Father’s chest, soft body noiseless against the ash and straw and kindling.
The gate slammed shut, bone clattering against bone. The pale bug’s eyes glinted, bright and clear against soot-stained walls.
The desperate loved to trade. Whatever material goods they had- whatever possessions they held dear- did not outweigh their desire. For freedom, for safety, for life, they would deprive themselves of all they ever earned.
The pale bug had not been any different. She spoke of rosary strings longer than Father was tall. She spoke of comfort and luxury, milk and honey, never knowing food nor thirst. She spoke of safe passage to the Citadel above, homes to make their own, bugs to shepherd into their number.
For a being so rare, she seemed content to sell herself short. Material things were of no use to them, of course- nor were they comparable to herself. The whole of the Citadel in the palm of their hand would not have been enough to tip the scales.
The assertion quieted her at last… Perhaps she had understood, then. Or perhaps she knew she had nothing of higher value to offer.
Cradled in Father’s ribs as she was, the pale bug looked so small.
She shivered. She clung to the bars and tugged. A voice wavered weak and thin, barely echoing off the sanctum walls.
Fear. Hesitation. An expected reaction from the nonbelievers, but horrible ambience for the chapel.
Comfort was not often a luxury granted to the kindling of the Burning Bugs. But never had there been such an offering as this. Never had a bug with a fraction of Father’s divinity set foot in the Wisp Thicket, much less in their church, and certainly not within the Furnace itself. The matter was wholly unique. Delicate. In such a case, they could add an olive branch to her holy pyre.
She would be elevated, they assured her. She would rise with the smoke. Wisps churned eagerly in their braziers. The pale bug was quiet.
She would burn briefly, they assured her. Beautiful and bright. The scent of smoke made the air heavy. The pale bug whimpered.
She would understand, they assured her. Though no part of her would remain to thank them, she would bathe in Father’s knowledge, and she would realize her purpose. She would realize that fragile things like her were not meant for a world like this.
The pale bug screamed.
She shrieked a sound normally reserved for bugs already alight. The sound seemed to shred her silken throat, once-velvet voice taut with strain. Every word more bitter than the last. Cursing, swearing, a biting temper that hadn’t matched the body which restrained it.
Gasp. Scream. Gasp. Choke. Scream. Pant. Choke. Sob. Scream. With time, words became noise. With time, threats became babble. With time, claws clutched tightly to Father’s ribs retreated, cradling her head, tugging threads undone.
With time, a kneel became a huddle. Shivering. A silent titter, broken and wrong. The laugh of a bug on borrowed time.
“Fine, then… Get on with it.”
It tasted more of compliance than acceptance. But even that had been rare, with the outside bugs. Another oddity to the pale bug’s sprawling list… Wiser than her years, perhaps. Or weaker than them.
Too weak, truly. Pitiful thing. They would show her the Light.
Fire curled from open lanterns, pouring into the open room, scalding at the floor, leaping and spinning. White hot wings snapped as wisps flapped and dipped, until it hurt to breathe. Until every gasp of air fought against the lungs of the devout, writhing, scalding, living.
The first wisp hit the cage of Father’s chest with a crack, Father’s totem shifting with the force of it. The pyre breathed life into itself in a sudden hiss of air, throwing flickered light around the room.
Hungrily, its brothers followed, bright bolts of flame and heat striking at the brazier, the kindling, their Father, towering and scalding, creaking and shuddering.
One by one, pious bugs fell to their knees. They bowed their heads until they touched the floor. They muttered and chanted against the soot, against the ash, against the bones of all who had come before them.
The fire snapped, a whip crack of a sound that rumbled through the sanctum like a thunderbolt.
The pale bug howled.
The pale bug howled as any bug would. And though none could see her through the blaze, they could feel her presence. They could feel her in the waves of oppressive heat, searing at chitin and flesh beneath. They could feel her in the embers that leapt from Father’s chest, kissing his faithful with gratitude, with love unconditional. They could feel her as the fume of smoke washed over them, stung at their eyes, locked the scent of burnt fur deep within their minds and held it there.
The scream curled up. Strangled itself. Died in a flash of light and color. Bright, beautiful, brief.
And the fire raged on.