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"Again?"
Quirrel nods, claws dragging over his eyes.
"Come here."
Quirrel heaves himself from his side of the bed and into Hornet's arms. Cradling, they hold him in place as the world outside simmers in quiet; only the slight buzz of lumaflies can be heard from the humming lamps that dot the streets of Dirtmouth, effervescent and eternal. Quirrel closes his eyes, though they immediately open once more.
All he sees are the placid waves of Blue Lake. Shifting, crystalline hues that reflect up on the ceiling above. It's a beautiful sight. It should be a beautiful sight. Quirrel can recall standing before its lakeshore and taking in the view with all the awe of a child. And then, his nail was digging into the hard stone and he felt the lapping licks of water on his ankles.
Hornet is warm. Quirrel wonders if she runs hot. Her blood is fast and fervent, though her heart beats with a softness that one may not expect from someone as so passionate as her. Quirrel doesn't know enough about Weavers or Pale beings to make an educated guess on any of this, so he doesn't. He just keeps his eyes open and stares at the wall adjacent to their shared bed, blankets hitched high over their shoulders.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He never does. She asks anyways. It's a politeness she extends, a courtesy, and he appreciates it more and more each time it happens. Maybe one day he'll want to talk about it, she probably thinks. He won't ever, but it's the thought that counts. The knowledge that perhaps someday he'll open up about the lake. And the knowledge that even if he doesn't, she'll still be here to bear his burden with him.
She had been the one to tug him away from the shore with a harsh claw. Quirrel's mind often echoes the way her voice railed against him when his feet hit dry ground, Hornet shouting on and on about how such a son of Hallownest could be so foolish as to end his legacy in the water. "Why survive this long," she had spat, "if you do not intend to continue any longer?"
Why, indeed?
He had no answer for her, at the time. He still doesn't. She's since accepted it, he thinks.
"We need to pick up new whetstones tomorrow," Hornet mumbles, half-asleep. "My needle is... growing dull."
It's a boring topic she's brought up, but it's a normal one. An every-day conversation piece. It shifts his mind away from tranquil waters and into the real world, visions of metal glinting across a stone as blades are sharpened to their maximum lethality. Honed.
Quirrel likes when she does that, talking about the next day's tasks or what she recently heard on the grapevine. It's a reminder that there's always something else on the horizon, like peeking one's head over the edge of a wall and finding that the world beyond it is so much wider than you originally thought. There's acres upon acres of undiscovered land, and you're just going to sit it out?
No, Quirrel thinks. I will not. Hornet will see to it that I will walk these lands with a quill in claw, parchment in the other, noting down everything I see— even if she must drag me from the waters and dry me with her cloak, sopping wet and heavy not with regret, but renewal.
"You need more than one whetstone? Whetstone, plural?" he asks.
"I am simply being," she yawns, "prepared."
"Prepared for what?"
"The next day. Always, the next day."
There is always another day. The sun rises, and the moon rests. The world resets itself on its axis and greets you when the stars fall from the sky, the growing warmth on your shell and its shine kissing your face.
Quirrel closes his eyes and finds that his dreams are filled with sunshine, unpaved paths, and Hornet.