Work Text:
Lace knows it is a terrible, foolish question as soon as it graces her thoughts. She has had long, miserable weeks to know it, after the monarch's fall, to hold it in her mouth and turn it over on her tongue and swallow it hard and sharp and bitter. She had thought herself possessing enough self-respect to keep it there forever, or at least until the spider left. She had thought herself strong, defiant, in the act of keeping her company anyway.
It is lovely, mockingly so, to do as little as follow her around Pharloom, scraping silk off the walls and counting loose rosaries. Lace has filled the citadel with all manner of screams and none have made the silence lighter than this. All she has to do is say something snide or heave an exaggerated sigh or two and Hornet will give her a look. Will look at her, easy as that. It is unbearably stupid, how the simple act makes her want to preen with pleasure. It's addicting. It's infuriating. It's so easy and it feels so good that, in the end, Lace forgets it's supposed to be defiance at all.
Lace is not an idiot. She just overestimated herself. She was just waiting to be corrected. She was just hoping—
Her stupid, traitorous self has never managed to do a single thing right. Five weeks of company, three cups of nectar, one prospect of a crushing and permanent loneliness, and she slips the question she already knows the answer to.
"Spider," Lace says. The words don't taste any better spoken. "What do you think of me, truly?"
Hornet's claw pauses on the cup's edge. If she is surprised by the question she does not show it. Ever composed. "I think," she says slowly, "you are a skilled combatant. A valued ally. A companion with whom I share much in common." The cup makes a light tinkling noise when she taps it. "I think you can be sometimes cruel, sometimes reckless. I think you are often blind to kinder truths and unpracticed with change. I think you are learning, much like the rest of us, who you are in the wreckage of Pharloom that remains."
Lace laughs, and it sounds forced even to her own ears. "Goodness, spider. You couldn't come up with anything more romantic? Not even an 'I think you're beautiful'?"
Hornet fixes her with an unreadable stare. "Is that what you wanted me to say?"
The words lodge in Lace's throat and refuse to budge. Yes, she wants to scream. No. I want you to say something very different. But if you called me beautiful I think I'd be okay with it. Lace swallows roughly. "I think I preferred it when you were fighting for your life" she croaks. "All that charm seems to vanish once you open your mouth."
"Lace," Hornet says, softly enough to make Lace's shell itch. "I am not a fool."
No, Lace thinks miserably, I wish you were. Then at least I would've had a chance. "So? Fools can still make a pretty sight on the battlefield," Lace replies. "They tend to splatter when they die."
"Lace," Hornet repeats, dear God, still with that sickly patience. "I am not looking for a mate."
"Well, that's funny," Lace snaps. "Neither was I."
Lace hadn't known what she'd been looking for at all until that little Weaverling fell from the sky and laid her low in her own arena. She had stood there, high above the molten rock, letting the heat buffet her pale husk until it felt almost a warm imitation of it: life, loud and brilliant and hot, sweeping through her in sharp red-cloaked form.
She wanted it and she hated it and she feared it and she hungered, dearly and bitterly.
"I'm sorry," Hornet offers after a moment.
"What would you have to be sorry for?" Lace says bluntly. "It's not like I have a heart to break."
This is one of the 'sometimes' Hornet would call cruel. She would be right, of course. Hornet is often right. It's a curious, infuriating trait that Lace is always cursing.
"I am sorry that this would hurt you," Hornet says, "however unavoidable it may be."
Hornet does not say things, Lace has come to notice, that she does not mean. When she says 'unavoidable' the syllables land in rhythmic thwip thwip thwip like straight-pins through her silken shell. "Is it?" Lace asks, and her voice grows tight around the accusation. "Was it? To accuse me of cruelty is a laughable thing, spider. I did not choose this life, you thrust it upon me: are you not then responsible for its care? For its pains and suffering? Or does your kindness begin and end at the grave—trading one doomed God-child for another?"
This, Hornet does flinch at. Of course, Lace cannot help but think with a maddening desperation, it is only mention of her sibling that provokes the reaction. Lace's hurt was 'unavoidable,' compromised from the start, frail and flawed and stagnant, worth only her weight in service. Lace wishes, viciously, that Hornet would pick up her needle right here and now so they could go back to tearing each other to shreds. So Lace could simply rip the life straight out of her and drink it in full and have no more need for stupid things like love and approval and attention. She could just hold it all within herself and know it is forever hers.
Clarity comes with a deep and unbearable ache. Lace blinks hard, breaths unsteady, and pries her fingers from the shaft of her pin. "I…" the sorry sticks in the back of her throat like a glob of hemolymph. "That's—" the word breaks off into a hiccup. Lace tries in vain to compose herself, but her not-heart beats thunderous in her chest and her not-lungs don't seem to fully constrict and dear God she wants so badly that it hurts.
"Is there nothing," she manages finally, in a voice much smaller than intended, any remaining pride soaked through with desperation. "Is there nothing that might convince you to stay?"
"…Short of a second disaster, I'm afraid I will have to say no."
Lace closes her eyes and isn't sure if she should be grateful or frustrated that her body lacks the necessary facilities to cry. "So what you mean," she says, "is if I hurl myself back into the abyss, you'll come running every time."
"Lace—" And there is real alarm in Hornet's voice this time. It warms something small and plaintive inside her.
"Fear not, dear spider," Lace opens her eyes and manages a weak smile. "I only jest. I'll not throw your precious gift away so heedlessly yet."
Hornet lets out a breath. Her claws drum the table in the space of her hesitation before she speaks again. "Though I intend not to keep long in Pharloom…I am not adverse to traveling with a companion, if she so wishes."
"Awfully kind of you," Lace replies. "I'm sure whoever this dear companion might be will be delighted by the offer."
Hornet gives her an exasperated look. Lace giggles, a flicker of mirth rising from the wreckage. What a ridiculous thing it is to keep company so lovely it can spring her from such dismal depths in an instant. "Alright, I hear you, spider. I…" Lace clenches her claws in her lap.
It is a kind offer, of course it is. Lace is not being left behind, she is not being forgotten, or dismissed, or presumed about. But what Hornet must not understand is that Lace feels it would be hell to travel with her. A taunting, tantalizing kind of hell. An unimaginable offense towards them both, to ask that Lace control herself, to ask that Hornet endure it all politely—to ask that Lace watch Hornet endure her politely, all while the memory of this wretched conversation festers like a cyst.
God, if Hornet had been cruel about it, had been mocking or cutting or dismissive, it would be the simplest decision in the world. What a dizzying dream, to have permission to hunt her down and simply take what she wants without remorse. To deserve it because it was won.
Instead, Hornet is watching her with a calm, careful gaze, her claws folded neatly before her and far away from the shaft of her needle. Lace stares at them miserably. Her stupid chest feels like its caving in again. "I wish we were still fighting to the death."
"You've said this twice now," Hornet observes. "You are always welcome to try, if that's what you really want."
But then you'll really not like me anymore.
Lace shakes her head. "I won't go with you," she says thinly. "I…wish you safe travels."
"Are you sure? I speak only the truth when I say I would not mind the company."
"Yes." Lace smiles bitterly to herself, and tries to imagine Hornet's reaction if she said it out loud: you don't want to know what I keep myself from doing.
"Alright." A beat, then, hesitantly, "…I will return, in time."
Lace — stutters, swallows, hopes it's not obvious that her whole body reacted. "What?"
Hornet tilts her head, slow and contemplative and a little uncomfortable. "I…do not intend to leave permanently. I do care for this land, and feel a degree of responsibility towards it. Though I cannot say when, I can assure you at least that I will eventually return, if only to visit."
"Oh," Lace says. She feels a little lightheaded. "Okay."
"Okay," Hornet repeats stiffly. She shifts in her seat, discomfort obvious and visible now. "I…had hoped that was implicit. I suppose I must apologize."
"No, it's…" Lace is fairly sure the relief is making her hysterical. She shoves down a manic laugh. No it's fine, why would the pathetic, defective, poor excuse for a child ever assume they're being abandoned again for good? Silly."I—wasn't thinking."
Hornet winces. It makes Lace feel better, which she then feels bad about. "Neither was I, it seems. I wish to make this very clear." Hornet reaches across the table and offers her outstretched claws. "We will meet again, Lace. Though I may not return your feelings, that does not mean I do not care about you. I hope this is something you will understand."
Lace very slowly unclenches her fists and tentatively places her claws in Hornet's, barely daring to breathe. "…Okay," she whispers. "Come back first, and then we'll see."
Hornet nods firmly. "I will. Do not lose heart."
"A bit late for that, spider." Lace smiles weakly. She curls her claws little tighter, tries to memorize the feeling. "Just…take care of it for me."