Chapter Text
One would think that a Higher Being’s life would be… a little more interesting?
The Crowned Goddess of the Loom sat atop the cradle of a massive cavern, idly toying around with the soul-infused string that streamed out of her fingertips. Her faceless mask gazed across the vacant hollow, and her gaunt figure laid lazily in a bed of her own making. She sighed in resignation. The cavern was covered, top-to-bottom, in her silk as well as the various silken structures she had constructed over the years in a futile attempt to amuse herself.
All to no avail.
She was a Higher Being. A Goddess, some would say, capable of performing miracles that other bugs could only dream of. So why did she feel so… listless?
Was it stupid to say that a Higher Being shouldn’t feel… aimless? The Goddess felt somewhat regretful that she’d been blessed with all this power, yet didn’t know what to do with it. It was… wasteful. She already had safety, security, sapience, practically all of her needs met… except for the urge for domination, she supposed. But the nearby area only had nonsapient Pharlids and such, and conquering those would be like kicking a toddler. It just wouldn’t be a challenge, nor much of an achievement at all.
She laid on the floor and peered at one of the Pharlids scuttling around on her silken web. She could feel the vibrations coming from all of the little critters obliviously crawling through her domain.
Such tiny, hopeless creatures. Unable to do anything by themselves. How wretched of an existence was that? The Goddess of the Loom was bored, yes, but that was far better than being a hapless bug on the ground with barely a mind to think.
Unless…
She tilted her head. Now there was an idea. Achieving greatness for herself, that was easy. Every other Higher Being, especially Pale Beings, could do that in their sleep.
But if she could help these tiny little critters reach the sovereign, near-omnipotent heights that she had long ago conquered, then that would be a little more interesting. Right?
She extended one of her hands towards one of the Pharlids. The little pricks loved to stab at everything that came near them, but to a certain degree, she admired their tenacity. A storm of threads erupted from her fingertips, wrapping around the Pharlid—
Ow!
The Goddess indignantly shook one of her silken hands to dislodge the Pharlid, which had bitten directly down on a strand of her silk. It was flung off and plummeted into the webs with a force that surely dealt it non-trivial damage. How crude! How daft! Why had it done something so self-destructive instead of running away? She understood why it might fear her and react unhealthily—after all, very few bugs were suited to challenging a Higher Being and winning—but why antagonize her? It didn’t make sense.
Incensed, she let loose a storm of silk, weaving a dozen looms’ worth of silk in an instant to bind the pharlid tight. It was subdued in an instant, and the Crowned Goddess leaned in to get a better look—this time, firmly out of biting distance.
The Pharlid struggled fiercely in its bindings, like it still stood a chance. It was then that the Goddess noticed something peculiar. There was a cluster of blurred gray somethings on the Pharlid’s belly.
She frowned (with her nonexistent face) and re-situated the Pharlid so she could get a better look. The moment she leaned in to prod it, though, the Pharlid hissed protectively and began to slash even more fiercely at its constraints.
It was then that she realized.
Those were its eggs.
Incredible.
This creature was willing to die for its spawn? Its moves made no sense from the perspective of a Pale, Higher Being, yes—willingly putting itself at risk just to save a few insignificant offshoots of oneself went against the nature of an immortal God—but this mortal bug did it anyway. It was unfathomable, did not even slightly occur to her that such an action was possible until she’d seen it firsthand. The Goddess’ mind raced.
Was this standard among bugs? How could they, so small and fragile and weak, do something a God could not?
What must be going through its tiny, subsapient head?
The Goddess prodded the Pharlid, and it hissed. Was it… attempting intimidation?
Why was it so desperate to be left alone? Why not resign itself to its fate?
Deep down, the Goddess realized why.
It was a mother.
Immortals had no need for spawn. They were useful, yes, and occasionally they could serve some other, less practical purpose like companionship or to carry on one’s legacy or other such nonsense, but generally they were not a requirement. However, the Goddess reasoned that mortals might need spawn. Their lives were too fragile and short, so for their kind to exist at all for any extended period of time necessitated new hemolymph every now and then.
Perhaps that was why the mother fought so fiercely for her children. Better for her to perish and her spawn to live, as the latter would have more cycles left in its lifespan if it did survive.
What was it like, the Goddess wondered, to love something more than oneself?
It didn’t take long for her to come to a decision.
She would find out.
Henceforth, she would be named Grand Mother Silk, and though she could not birth spawn alone, she had a solution for that, too. These dogged little Pharlids would be the first of her surrogate spawn, and Grand Mother Silk would lift them up to satisfy her curiosity for what it must be like to be a Mother.
Two hundred thirty six point seven two epochs passed.
They called her kingdom Pharloom.
Pharloom, the Place of Miracles.
Pharloom, the Nurturing Cradle.
Pharloom, the Wealthiest Land in the World.
But she did not care.
She did not care for titles, flair, and fripperies. She did not care for the loud, obstreperous hollering from the balconies more than a child would their pet’s howling.
She was Grand Mother Silk, and the only thing she cared about were the people here.
Pharloom was beautiful, yes. The product of far too many epochs of work, and through no small amount of Grand Mother Silk’s own labor, the entire nation had been carved out of a grand cavern and was bustling with life of all stripes. Though before her descendance, the local tribes that predated her had been at war; now, peaces had been brokered, territories drawn up, and laws instituted. The power of a Higher Being—and a Pale Higher Being at that—was simply too great for these meagre tribes to openly defy. However much Grand Mother Silk disliked using force—because what kind of mother threatened her children into obedience—it was impossible to refute the fact that her firm hand had been what elevated this land into prosperity.
And then there were her children.
She considered all travelers and bugs in her lands her children, because what kind of mother picked favorites? But there was no denying that a select few of them had a more intimate relationship.
The Weavers, they called themselves, but Grand Mother Silk preferred to simply call them by their first names. Direct descendants of her—Higher children—that had been granted a small fraction of her power.
Not that her power had been great to begin with. Grand Mother Silk was a proud, vain, greedy being—as all Pale Beings tended to be—but she could easily admit to herself that in terms of raw strength, she hardly compared to the more warmongering of her ilk. She had several awful memories to prove that.
But even a weak Higher Being was capable of much more than the strongest of mundane bugs. While her claws may not be able to shred Pale Ore like fabric, her Silk was a potent form of life. Formed out of her near limitless well of Soul, Grand Mother Silk could harness it to heal wounds, extend life, and rejuvenate strength. It was thanks to her Silk that her children prospered.
Grand Mother Silk sat in her Cradle, overlooking the great city that had been built as her temple. She stayed in a shrine of brass and steel, but no more. It was a humble thing, but she had forbidden excess opulence—her children had no time for shinies and glitters when there were always more homes to build, food to cultivate, people to welcome.
A Weaver scuttled up to her, and Grand Mother Silk would have smiled, had she a mouth. She reached down and let a small curtain of silk fall onto the spider, filling her with a temporary boost of power. The Weaver’s exoskeleton suddenly had a glossy sheen of latent spirit, and her thorax straightened as well. Then, one of Silk’s many claws affectionately rubbed the Weaver’s head.
“Vizier Anthi’ Lokaal.” Grand Mother Silk’s voice boomed throughout her Cradle, and the Weaver bowed. “Rise, my child. Courtesies are unnecessary when speaking to one’s mother, and certainly not for you, my sweetest helper. What is it?”
“Great Mother,” Lokaal said, and Grand Mother Silk shifted with distaste at the beseeching tone. “We have come to request your aid once again. The proud Karak Coralkin and trustless Clearwater tribes are once again at odds. A…” Lokaal paused and seemed to contemplate the exactitude of her phrasing. “Strategic show of strength may be necessary to cow them back into peace.”
Grand Mother Silk placed her face into all eight of her palms at once. “Not this again.”
“I’m afraid so,” Lokaal said, half with amusement and half with exasperation. Every day, it seemed like those two were just looking for excuses to fight.
“Come now, child,” Silk said with a feather-light grace, rising from her Cradle.
Propelled on great strands of silk that pulled her along the ceiling and floor, Silk and Lokaal made their way to the destination, the Weaver leading the way. Their destination: a grand chamber of diplomacy, the Neutral Grounds that Silk had put together herself in order to facilitate the creation of her kingdom so long ago. Now, it had become something of a holy site, the only room ever used when leaders of the various tribes and organizations convened to discuss.
Grand Mother Silk could already hear the loud, incoherent arguing the moment she burst through the door. She was met with a coral-encrusted monarch furiously gesticulating at a tribal chief reminiscent of amphibians. Sitting in the back were Skarr-Empress Amelior and Nyleth, the former pinching the area between her eyes and the latter pretending like the flowers on the wall were the most interesting things in the world. Strangely, the Verdanian Kings weren't here, though perhaps that was simply because they had run out of patience like the Skarr-Empress seemed like she was about to do.
“Silence,” Grand Mother Silk scolded harshly. All four leaders straightened, and the two arguing lowered their heads, though whether or not it was out of shame or fear remained to be seen. Sighing heavily, Grand Mother Silk lowered herself to the two leaders and spoke. “Rakshn, Gresmir, what is the meaning of this?” She demanded.
“Great Matriarch,” Gresmir ground out in a gravelly voice. “This…” He then spat a very tribal slur at Rakshn, and Silk had to visibly restrain herself from flinching. “Has been polluting our waters with his blasted salt.”
“It is your responsibility to manage your Clearwater, you savage, uncivilized—” Rakshn retorted snappishly, outraged.
Grand Mother Silk raised a hand, and the two went silent.
“Enough. The terms of the Contract state that all territory separated by Weaver lands must be contained individually as such. That your waters,” her gaze flicks to Rakshn, “have leaked into his lands,” then to Gresmir, “is fault of my own. For that, I apologize. I shall resolve the issue currently.” Then, she bowed her head.
Immediately, Rakshn and Gresmir were shocked upright, their rage forgotten. “Honored Matriarch!” They said in unison. “I would not dare!”
Amelior and Nyleth were glaring at the two of them now, and Lokaal seemed thoroughly displeased by this turn of events, but Silk stood by her decision. The Weavers were a lot more vicious than herself, even after she tried her best to curb their more animalistic impulses, so it wasn't a surprise Lokaal would encourage her to "stand with the dignity befitting a Goddess." But, as she had learned over the past 200 epochs, velvet cushions and flower petals could sometimes do far more than cold steel and volatile venom ever could.
Despite herself, Grand Mother Silk wanted to beam at her humble children. Loyal to their mother, through no compulsion of her own. Yes, she had raised them right. Lightly placing a hand on each of their shoulders, she spoke. “No one, not God nor pauper, is above admitting an honest mistake,” she told them gently. “I have broken a promise, even if I was ignorant of it. So I must apologize. I am sorry.” She pulled them in for a soft hug.
Rakshn and Gresmir looked thoroughly helpless, now, and Silk wanted to laugh. It seemed almost every conflict between the two bickering children could simply be resolved with a hug from their mother. Both of them were adult bugs, so they must have found it a little embarrassing and emasculating, especially in front of their feminine counterparts, but Silk stubbornly held onto them nonetheless. It was the role of a mother to embarrass her sons in front of others, after all.
“Now,” she said brightly, letting them go and raising herself to her full splendor. “Where is this leak I’ve heard so much about?”
6XX Epochs After the Sealing of Grand Mother Silk
Deepnest’s eponymous location made it a very quiet place.
Herrah did not like the quiet.
She knew Hornet did. Sweet Hornet, with whom she had so little time left, had grown up in a decaying kingdom and as such had found solace in the silence.
But today was not a day for silence.
Herrah found Hornet in her room. The half-Weaver was trying to stop herself from crying at her mother’s coming Dream.
“Hornet,” Herrah said gently. “Daughter,” she amended.
Hornet looks up at her, and her eyes, though dark just like the rest of her ilk, carried a few droplets.
“I have a story to tell you.” Regret was evident in her voice. Regret that she had not told Hornet this story sooner. Regret that she might not be able to tell Hornet this story again.
Regret that her kind had done to their mother the unthinkable.
Hornet cozied up to her, and Herrah patted her head. Her mandibles opened, and after a long hesitation, she spoke.
“There was once a Queen,” she said softly. “A generous Queen. She wasn’t perfect. Nobody was. But she was a good Queen nonetheless, and she tried. She tried very hard to help her lands and people.
One day, she met a child. A child not of her race, not of her kind. But she did not care. She took the child in, cared for her like her own. Nurtured the child, fed her, clothed her, taught her until the child was a great princess in her own right, powerful and beloved among the people thanks to the Queen’s teachings.
'My daughter,' the Queen proclaimed proudly at the princess’ coronation. 'My daughter.'
When the princess found out that she was not like her Queen, she was furious. ‘Liar,’ she shrieked at her mother. ‘You lied, you said we were yours, but we are not.’
‘But I love you,’ the Queen called back sadly. ‘Does that not count for anything? The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, is it not?’
But the princess did not care. Perhaps out of anger, perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of jealousy, she raged. She revolted against her Queen, threw her mother into a dungeon, and claimed her place as the rightful heir of the kingdom through her own merits.
For a time, things went well. She created lies, lies about her mother to justify the coup, staining her name and dragging it through the mud.
She was a foolish princess, though. Without the aid of her mother, her mother’s wisdom and strength, aid that the mother even still freely offered from the dungeon, the kingdom stagnated. Yet the princess refused to listen to her mother, refused to accept help, and so life became worse for the citizens. And soon, the princess' lies unraveled, and the kingdom went up in arms at the knowledge that their glorious Queen had been stolen from them. It was thanks to that princess that the kingdom fell.
The princess fled. She exiled herself, because if she went back she would have to admit her failure. Yet she held onto the key to the dungeon, and there in the dungeon her mother rotted, unable to be freed by her vassals while the kingdom collapsed into anarchy. And…”
Herrah stopped speaking. Hornet looked up at her mother.
“And then what?” Hornet’s voice was plaintive now.
Herrah paused, then chuckled ruefully. “We can finish the story another day. It is time for bed, Hornet dear.”
Later, Herrah would be pulled into a great Dream without ever finishing that story.