Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wave after wave of erosive sand blasted the barren lands. Ancient dunes, containing forgotten relics, were constantly resurfaced and buried in an endless cycle. A repeating mantra of all the things found in these lands, an arid limbo sat between realms - endless expanse. How many had toiled it in eons? How many defunct roads, ancient signs in languages no longer understood - half buried, half broken, were there? How many civilizations had passed here? A myriad of directions spread across the land, paths to be traversed - yet which of these were carved by bugkind, and how many were nature’s folly? A deception of the senses, treading to only end up lost, dehydrated or hollowed out by sandworms that hid in every small pit of the land. 

Only idealists or fugitives undertook these treks. Individuals who perhaps aimed for a better life, who sought a purpose, or were brought against their own. It wasn’t a trip that was meant to be survivable, at least not for the common bug. Few in the lands could face the above-ground travel without thorough preparation, and even those acquainted with such dangers–-the cartographers and the charters of the kingdoms–there was no surprise of the high ‘replacement rate’ of their offices. Between the worms, the dissipating paths, the exhaustion and the long, long, long distances to cover… it was truly a mighty undertaking to cross between lands for solitary or even small groups.

That was why, from an eagle’s eye, it seemed utterly catastrophic to witness an incredibly large convoy treading its way through the Sandsea Wastes.

An impossibly long queue of wagons, huddled bugs, pulling stags and their cargo stretching out for miles. And their conjoined moans, the complaints and grunts of hundreds of souls coalesced into that palpable, communal strain– heaving their loads, their belongings, lifesavings and hopes amongst every step on the sands in front of them. As the days turned into nights and days again, the hardest stretch of the travel took the heaviest toll upon the caravan. It felt as if every ten paces, one could gaze to the sides and watch upon a fallen companion; Someone too weak to keep marching, too old and frail to keep the tempo. Perhaps their shell cracked, their mask fell – a bubbling spot in sand signified a worse, consumed fate... Such stories were one common tragedy amongst these travelers. 

It seemed that regardless of these woes, they all kept going. Kept marching on, with constant if staggered gait. Children clung to broodmothers, groups of weaklings huddled around warriors spread around the caravan hoping for some sense of protection. The very back of the line was occupied by a mantis clique, the few who chose to follow along the expedition - keeping the vanguard safe with their attained skill and ability. On the middle laid the vast majority of soul-ridden shells, majority insectoids, but there were some diversity amongst them- mushrooms and mosskin alike in small segregated groups- their reasons varied and diverse in and of themself for their participation; Despair of the past was the primary motivator of all.

Yet, in the very front? At the head of this line of dwellers, hope-laden bugs, renounced bugs, warriors, innocents, defenceless ones?

It wasn’t a sight most shared, at least not in the long time since the departure. Only those towards that farther end could see the silhouette in the distance, perhaps, of a massive block of cargo being pulled forward— the main wagon. Tugged, heaved with immense strength and interlaced beastly grunts that followed forthwith. A mass of intertwined collapsed tents, packed housing, supplies, and everything; A mobile settlement on the go… all held together with silk. Its white reins taut as their workforce pulled them forward- being as intimidating as the massive travelling construct was. Hollow within. Shell cracked. Not a soul dared to be near it from the sheer sounds that escaped it.

All but one.

A single, red-caped bug walking along its own blood. Equal parts scout and frontline. 

How many times had she parsed the road ahead? Hornet lost count. The swirls of the desert changed almost every other day, it was hard to scout a path. She feared that her prescience had wronged her, that her memory had become faulty in all these cycles. She could note it in the group, the dwindling of the numbers. The sullen hand of attrition took its tool, and the most dire of omens resonated in her head every time Hornet passed by the lower ranks of the line, and saw the corpses of those she had convinced to undergo this piled on the sides. The worst were the still-alive ones, perhaps wounded, perhaps simply mentally broken and unwilling to continue - resigned to death. Some cursed her, that a life wasting away in the decrepit corpse of Hallownest was preferable to this slow march towards their deaths. And all for what? The hope of a better place? Of greener pastures? 

The weaverwyrm’s resolve remained absolute, ever the stoic, but she couldn’t avoid feeling for the pain of others brought upon by her own hand. Even if indirectly. Never had it been an easy reality to shallow, Mother knew how heavy the blood of her kinslayer hands still weighed upon her.

But this was necessary.

No cost too…

“Hornet? Are you doing fine? You’ve been silent for a long time now.”

Nevermind. 

“I am fine, Quirrel.” Hornet’s head shook, “Merely an uneasy taste in my mouth. The trek weighs on me as much as it does to you.”

“So it does.” The hunched bug nodded his head. “Perhaps a rest is in order? It’d do you well, my spider friend!” 

It was a query that, while well intentioned, went unanswered. A simple ‘hmph’ escaped Quirrel as he observed his brief conversation companion depart. She paced faster past the ‘empty’ husk of her animate sibling, jumping and swirling past the windy dunes to gaze upon the horizon anew. It had been hours since the last scouting run, and they had just passed by a large cave-in… same as the past 10 times the caravan had swerved by a mountain. All she’d find was more sandy horizons.. if anything, Hornet wanted to clear her mind of those thoughts and focus on not going in circles–

What is that?

There, on the edge.. a reddish blot floating on the sky. Maroon textiles floating, hooked to the ground with flaxen wires. The Hunter stared awe-struck for a moment.. Was that it? Had they all made it? No– there was no time to waste. Hornet rushed down, dashing towards the front to inform and heed the course.

BLASTED STEPS

The Caravan approached Pharloom from its western edge-– the only path large enough to allow a multitude of this size to migrate, despite smaller ones existing that offered safer travels. Those damned sand-worms seemed to only multiply in hunger and amount here, which made keeping to the ancient stone-laid groundpaths all the more imperative. Likewise the aerial threat of conchflies made the warrior-bug’s jobs harder yet. Lifeforms unseen before by Hallownest’s inhabitants. Some souls were seized before the mass caught up to their attack patterns and tells.

A sense of familiarity washed over Hornet as she passed under the Pinstress’s tent. The short journey from Hollow's side—a series of leaps to the large, central floating structure—felt strangely familiar, even though it had been so long.

Despite that, surprises were still abundant for the weaverspawn. Immediately, she saw herself being pointed at by dozens of pins! A myriad of trainees aim their weapons at the red-clad Hunter, some masks painted with fear, others with tight resolve to protect their companions. While Hornet’s own claws tightened around her needle, this situation clearly was not one of mindless hostility. They were defending each other, unsure of her intentions. A reaction she couldn’t blame.

Before Hornet had time to defend herself, a ‘tsk’ emerged from the back of the crowd. A bug making its way amongst those mentored by her dual-wielded pins. 

“Needle bug! Most strange yet welcome apparition. Me and my whole troupe here was startin’ to worry about that big group of bugs in the distance. Ifn’ you didn’t show up I feared I would’ve had to shine my pins!” — Hornet merely had to gaze upon the old pinstress’ shell, noting her frail hunched back and stiffened voice, to realize that her comments were a reminiscent tale of what her pins wished they could still perform.

“My people don’t pose a threat, Pinstress. They are merely looking for a place to settle anew. I promise that your apprentices will not see trouble.” Hornet retorted, the different bugs surrounding her - all cloaked in a frankly slightly oversized cloth that covered their bodies - no longer wielding their pins with concern. “I’m surprised to see you have reignited your order. Has the call for leaving a legacy gotten to you?”

“Aye! You could say so!” The woman’s claw came down upon one of the younger bug’s head, rubbing it back and forth much to the young one’s annoyed chitter. “The young’ins of Pharloom sorely need the skills to defend themselves now, after everything. Despite the citadel falling, you know.. dangers never quite cease here!”

Hornet’s mask tilted to the side, repeating a query in an inquisitive and carefully interested tone. “Dangers? Has something appeared in my absence?”

The initial shrug from the Pinstress dispelled a brief bout of disappointment.

“That I would be the incorrect bug to ask. I’m afraid I scarcely ventured far from these sandy lands even after the whole ground-shakin’ ordeal! And now, with all these rather tame and young pilgrims wantin’ to take up the art of the pin… my hands are full.”

“All I know, needle bug, is that there’s somethin’ brewing past the steppes. If I were you, I’d keep you n’ your group safe.”

Before Hornet left, she gently bowed towards the Pinstress and her apprentices, and leapt down to join the caravan and its hulking lead.

“Friends of yours, that one there in the floating tents?” Quirrel queried, glancing up at Hornet as she landed atop the heaved main wagon. “Seems like a multitude. I wonder why all the way out here…”

“Students of an old and sage warrior. I met her long ago. Though her current appearance betrays my memory.”

“The mistress of time has a terrible hand, that she does, my friend! While I do trust your…” There’s a pause from the hunched bug, humming, before continuing, “... connections you said you made in these lands to ensure our survival, one must wonder if they’ve still held up? It has been a long time, per your words, back there at Kingdom’s Edge.”

There’s no response from Hornet, the Hunter lost herself in thought staring towards the almost-lifeless sibling that carried this bidding asked upon it, gaze then passing past onto the entrance caves past Blasted Steps. Some turns within and the caravan alongside Hornet would be facing the gap that she had fallen through once, long ago. 

It was a grim memory, admittedly, and she still wasn’t quite sure how they would all cross. Hornet could easily, of course, Hollow would likely take a moment to do it but eventually manage- his cargo however would not make it, neither would the hundreds of bugs trailing below them. A construct of some sort would have to be fashioned…

Thankfully, by the time the twist was performed and the Caravan turned towards that massive gorge separating the western wastes from Shellwood and central Pharloom– yet another surprise would befall Hornet.

A bridge. Wide, strong and freshly-built. Fit for travel by more than one, and yet its making was odd. It was kept trussed by vines, and the vertical supports were made of boney filaments and pillars of unknown make. There was a hint of familiarity, had the inhabitants of Shellwood wised up and began to rebuild? Or was this an extension of Bellhart’s residents? That was hard to answer, but there was little space present to let these thoughts marinate much. The people Hornet brought over were tired, huddled masses. They had to rest, they couldn’t stop now. 

Hollow stopped by the edge of the bridge, seemingly by himself. There was a continuous stare down to the end of it. Paused. His shallow breath came to a standstill, and the reins held within his claws slowly lost their tautness. The entire caravan began to pump up against each other as the bugs right behind the knight similarly feared to step forward if even their large forward shell ceased its motion.

“Why are we stopping? Calling it for the day here… ? I must say that I am relieved to see us reach this place you spoke of. Pharloom is-”

Quirrel’s bouts of admiration are suddenly hushed by the sharp drag of Hornet’s nail against the floor, taking a step back . “Hold it. Hollow is sensing something. This is no moment of respite.”

The moment after Hornet’s warning rings out- a boney projectile nearly lands on her! It impacts itself upright on the bridge surface, and instantly stirs the bug into a combative stance. A swarm of Spear-wielding Skarr suddenly fly down from above, raising their crudely-manufactured weapons towards not only the pale siblings, but the roughly dozen of bugs stranger to these lands that were near the bridge as the combat started. A quick glance around herself confirmed only Quirrel, Hollow, and just a handful of nail-wielding bugs were near. A casualty or two would be inevitable if the Skarr focused on the defenceless first to distract them. Even if she focused all her efforts on parrying away the flying projectiles that would fly into her group at any moment now, it wouldn’t be enough. 

She hated this feeling. She wasn’t fighting just for herself; Hornet was hampered by the weakness of others. These foes were no match for her, in the past she had gotten aid - sure - but of equals or at least others that could fend for themselves. Now her every act had to account not only for her well being, but that of others in the fray of battle. Even those around her appeared to realize this fact… Quirrel’s legs propelled him to the air, towards the top of the heaved cargo as to deflect the soon-to-be hailing projectiles; Hollow’s long clawed arm reaching behind itself, rearing its own massive nail from its sheath in an eerily silent, almost mechanically measured motion. Those armed refugees towards the front similarly raised their chitin shields, most huddled near the cowering nailless, trying to provide some protection.

Just as she began to raise her claw, channeling her silk towards a precise thrust of a formed spear-attack to take down the closest flying Skarr before handling the others – there’s a glint on Hornet’s vision. A.. brightness, something flying in between the two confronting groups. 

A butterfly.

Corpses littered the ground. Reddened chitin and furred cloak bore, their hemolymph bled onto the rocky precipice below, some gurgling upon their own leaking refuse, mouthparts clicking— SOUL leaving their bodies as seconds ticked. 

It had been like a snap, a dash of light flying in the air— a flurry of surgical-precise strikes that flew from one flying tribesmen to another. It was nigh impossible to predict, to see, Hornet couldn’t follow through the movements or their originator at all as it happened. Fear befell the bugs behind, Quirrel’s nail tightening in his hands with a soft grunt as the not-friend-not-foe dispatched the enemies in front of them with eerie ease. The thud of each corpse onto the floor shook a little whimper from the refugees huddling behind the main wagon.. until none were left to fall, and silence befell the entire scene.

Hornet’s nail slowly returned to its place, her stance straightening. She spoke not a word, stepping forward slowly - as if to make an unspoken signal to the others of the situation unfolding. Her head canted, letting out a soft sigh…

She looked forth to the other, now standing mere feet away from the wyrmweaver. 

A soft little laugh can be heard coming from her perfectly alabaster complexion, now interlaced with golden threads.

“It’s been so long, little spider! To think I had begun to believe you had abandoned me here. Again.”

Chapter Text

Shellwood looked different. The wood grew, vegetation churned and changed shape. Certain structures remained ever in place, faint signs of paths once treaded and yet others appeared entirely novel.

That was not a surprise, it mustn't be. Things weren’t meant to be eternal, Hornet knew that very much at heart- and part of her wish, when felling the regnants of this land, was that something new could arise from the corpse of their control. There were signs of habitation, but the fauna and flora present was still hostile nevertheless - and only a few bugs dared to eke out a living amongst the mossy waters to earn the daily meal. The living splinterwood thankfully did seem to have died down and became merely another minor part of the local fauna rather than the imposing presence choking down both pilgrim and other life on these woods.

And yet, not all was so safe. There were signs here and then, reddish paint upon manufactured, crude signs with symbols she could not understand - but their tribal making was clear. Skarr territory? This deep in past Bellhart?

“I was under the impression you had perished, or something-else.” Lace commented, pin held behind her back with her claws as she walked along with her reunited foe-turned-companion. “Truly, a surprise! And more yet seeing you brought company. Quite some of it.”

“I found myself unable to give advanced notice of this migration. Only I knew the path between our lands well enough to traverse it without risking anyone’s life. And the trek could not wait much further.” Hornet’s head looks over a shoulder, past Hollow’s still body, onto the line of yearners that slowly but surely trickle into a clearing near Shellwood’s western entrance. “Most are malnourished. I ran through the length of our convoy several times since departure and every fortnight our numbers thinned.”

There’s a pause. A knowing pressure on the back of her head regarding the implications of Hornet’s potential query this early into her arrival, and no less to Lace.

No matter. Her pride had to stand down, for the sake of the rest.

“I… we require aid. Material aid. Supplies will buy us some cycles, but not many. At least until the settler team is able to establish some harvesting from the–”

A rambunctious giggle stops Hornet’s open-poured reasoning dead in its tracks. It was Lace, of course, having a funny moment, chuckling and chortling with that typical childish glee that lacked any and all aspects of respect for the decorum of a situation that just involved starving populations. “Oh, spider, first you barge into our sacred lands with no less than an invasion-sized force– and now you wish to pillage from our stocks without so much as a thank-you? Tch. I don’t think I even heard you even ask for permission to set up your little camp as I see your followers and … your … “

What the fuck is that.

Lace’s ultra instinct twitches. She skids forward in a dash, turning around with her pin raised rapidly! She was met with none other than a massive, lumbering creature.. bug? Creature? That stood behind her silently during that entire discussion. Only its deep huff made its presence noted, otherwise eerily silent and unseemly.

“Bwhahaahah!!! Tell your monster-pet to SPEAK before it creeps up on me!” Exclaimed the wide-eyed Lace, shaking the tip of her weapon rather menacingly towards an apparently uncaring knight.

“That’s my kin, fool child. Lower your pin.”

“This?! This– it is… thrice your size! Make sense of such madness!”

A soft sigh escaped from Hornet, approaching Hollow’s form. Some words whispered, and the lumbering giant merely turned around and returned to the main wagon it had stopped hauling - resting by it with a loud thud as its body hit the ground and back pressed against the construct.

“Pay it no mind. It will do no harm. So long as you don't annoy it.” Hornet’s words pause for a moment.. a brief twitch of her mouthparts humorously on the underside of her mask. “In which case your body would be used akin to a silk doll.”

“As if that helps my current condition! I see you learned nothing of manners since your departure! Not as if you had any to start with, spider…”

Some further intermingling occurred. Minutiae and further quips exchanged, many had rightfully been saved over the annums. But likewise information, valuable and relevant for the plight of the immigrants. The Skarr tribes, with the death of their fabled Skarrsinger and the severing of that haunted thread that kept many still ‘listening’ to her song - began to bicker and infight once more until a leader rose from the many to claim the mantle. Unlike the graceful Karmelita, this was a warmonger ignited by righteous fury over the perceived enthrallment of their bug-brethren by the Citadel above. They had been spreading their influence ever since Hornet had left, with tunnels bored as far deep as Greymoor and even the Blasted steps seemingly. Lace left shortly after without much more fanfare, citing having ‘responsibilities’ to keep to now. What these responsibilities were remained a mystery as the white-and-gold clad fencer skipped her way upwards into the depths of Shellwood.

Likewise, more menial and standard labor commenced. The camp, as it would come to be known, was slowly being erected. Hundreds of bugs slowly pour in from past that makeshift bridge, entering and gawking at such a luscious forest, unseen by many after Hallownest’s own greenery had become overrun with dangers and such. Tents are set up. Supplies unpacked. Dead counted. One of the first sites to be designated are burial grounds— viney soil already being dug into pits to pour the carts of husks being carried from families or companions unwilling to leave the likeness of those fallen to be preyed upon as carrion.

Hornet, likewise, helped. Mostly in the culling of the nearby hostile fauna that already began to react unwelcomingly to the visitors. Some buzzing Gnats and Phacias near the camp grounds being swiftly dispatched– joined by Quirrel and a few other bugs. Somehow, Zote was amongst them. Doing his thing.

It wasn’t very much.

Nevertheless, with the camp’s main parts set up and the area near it secured from threat… the refugees kept piling in. And piling in. And... piling in. Only when the mantis vanguard made its way through the entrance did Hornet let out a soft sigh, keeping guard until the very last of Hallownest’s refugees had passed in.. her shoulders droop. These fierce warriors would most surely keep watch over the pilgrims - for their own desire to prove themselves against novel enemies if not for the pilgrim’s sake. Likewise, Hollow was present should anything grander appear… but Hornet had not witnessed it fight ever since it awoke. She was truthfully not sure of many things that it could do like this, little more than a silent giant that seemed to heed her words without much more than zombie-like responses.

Many times during the travel did she gawk into the empty, empty eyes of its husked shell and saw nothing glancing back. Perhaps that was for the best, hearing not what thoughts poured through the head of a being so tortured for time countless. In a way, the one bug that Hornet hoped for the most to have a new beginning was it. Deserving of a life anew. She had learned far too intimately what the cruelty of one’s creators can do to the psyche of a bug from these lands, much more than she did in Hallownest.

This wasn’t time to reminisce on such details, however. Pharloom was a land far, far away – far enough to bring new thoughts to all that were involved in this. Such were Hornet’s hopes, after her objectives in Hallownest upon arrival didn’t pan out. This was the next best thing, or perhaps the last one truly.

The day dawned late, for the bugs of these lands had no Sun to look at and note the hours but rather an internal rhythm– and the activity of the camp could be seen slowing down as its new arrivals settled down. Hornet’s own seemed impervious to this, she scarcely needed to sleep- and tiredness was more a temporal concept of physical exertion rather than a bodily need to lay and recover.

Besides, her mind heaved weary with interlaced thoughts and memories. There was something inextricably stimulating being here again. Hornet’s mind wouldn’t let her slow itself for even a second.

Thoughts raced in her mind as the wyrmweaver rested idly on a vine overlooking the camp, swinging back and forth slowly upon it.

Was Pharloom still safe?

Was it safe for her people?

Was Lace normal?

The first two seemed easy to answer. It wasn’t safe, but it wasn’t unlivable. She looked down at the myriad of tents set up, movement in the landing grounds having come to a halt. The Skarr were a threat, but… they weren’t life-ending for the many bugs present. They could be fended off, most likely. Hornet’s mind wasn’t brought heavy by that particular thought.

What was it then? The last one.

Was Lace…

Hm.

Her words still resonated in her mind.

“ … to think I had begun to believe you had abandoned me here. Again.”

An annoyed chitter came from her mask. That wasn’t true, Hornet thought. That was just not… true.

Abandon? Foolish. Insolent. Had she no mind for the sacrifices made? For the trials and tribulations this one had to go through? Most poorly understood of a situation. Most unkind, unwilling, un… gah.

Why did she feel so strongly over these words? Rejection? Unrequited opinion? Hornet couldn’t decipher it. Perhaps it was time spent so long apart from her presence that devolved the silken child to a more basal, arrogant state as before. Perhaps she had gone mad with freedom and leveraged her position to become queen of the land.

In such a case, she would be struck down, Hornet’s mind hissed to itself. No different than the last time.

… It was easy to ponder, but was it easy to do? If it came to it?

After all, Lace still carried that oh so intimate part of her within.

Was that why such words were spewed? Did the other expect more of that shared covenant?

All so rare, so strange to grasp. Emotions as complex as the movement of a blade, equally sharp in their edge. And yet one was tacitly more natural for Hornet to grasp and manipulate than the other. It was easy to express herself through a strike, a svelte cut, or even a shove. Even a positive thought was easier expressed through a saving action than an encouraging word. Only when it came to matters of personal moral ethos did Hornet speak with unvanquishable forté.

This was, however, muddy. A thick and loamy bog brought along by her hand, conditions she created and yet it was a necessary step. This were merely… the consequences of her actions.

Hornet sighed. Fine, she’d deal with this. Eventually. For now, more pressing matters remained.

Ironically, her inner turmoil proved to be more taxing on her spirit than days of sleepless struggle trudging through sandy wastelands- and however longer wrangling a part of Hallownest’s inhabitants to engage in the migratory trek. Maybe some rest was in order, even if her head still swam with the constant firing of neurons.

Ah… whatever. Letting her head rest back and eyes close wouldn’t hurt, just for a while…

…

…

Lace raised her head from her bed of flowers. Her silken hand stroked a petal, so carefully managed and kept by labor borne from oneself. It was one of the few things that emboldened her pride by true self act and not power granted by birth.

Her body strung itself upwards, not a noise emanated from it. Ever graceful, ever perfect. So was her creation’s desire, and so it was maintained.

What was there to improve, upon what remained impervious already?

But that facade had long sailed. Lace was not perfect. She was imperfect.

At least, she could improve now, knowing of the faults. To grow, to mature… and leave behind that shell of her own. A task of every day undertaken, something new to grasp. The incessant whines of the Bellhart townspokesman, the requests for tallying up overpopulating muckroaches seeping into Greymoor, the weekly defense against a Skarr incursion onto the Bone Bottom village… all menial jobs, requests below her stature.

Lace could very simply deny the aid, remain in her gilded habitat and refine herself further. But what is growth through a mirror if not an egotistical reflection of the self? What point is there in being better if there remained no one to look at oneself for it?

It took time to gather the trust of the newly-awoken inhabitants of Pharloom about the once-frightful silken child being not a menace cutting them down, but rather a reformed hero. A protector, a defender.. if one that was still unafraid to insult and prod you in the shell if one were annoying enough. Certainly, certain behaviors from this one still left a certain.. unsavory taste in the mouth of some bugs, but with the departure of the previous interloper– one couldn’t argue much.

Certainly, for Lace, this existence was if anything more gratifying than the last. No longer held under mental lock and key, unbridled to do her will as she bid it and not by the oppressive thumb of another being. No more. If these bugs were to love her, they would do so out of their own will and not that of her mother’s silk.

There was still some work to be done in regards to the ‘loving’ part, nervous chuckles and bows was still as good as Lace was getting from most towns.. but it was an improvement, and the mood of the place in general was better. Her luscious Citadel was still ever beautiful to tread along.

Thump.

… Now, this was just another day, even with these new arrivals and, worse yet, that damned spider–

THUMP.

… I know, I know. I’m going, just let me enjoy the silence for a second, the stillness, the smell and aroma of my garden. Just one .. second ..

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.