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At the entrance of that Egg, overflowing with infectious ooze, she stood. And there, at the entrance of the Egg, after listening to her speak, the little Vessel pulled an item from the depths of its cloak, grabbed her hand, and pressed it into her palm.
The charm wasn't one she recognized. It burned, as if the metal was heated, and the streaks down the eye-like markings on the charm's quote unquote face looked itchingly familiar, but she didn't get time to dwell on it before the Ghost of Hallownest was walking into the Black Egg.
...whatever the charm was, it would have to wait. Hornet stuffed it into a small pouch, kept close to her waist under the cloak, and stood at attention.
She would get her chance to help, binding her sibling, the one she used to call Holly with so much adoration as a hatchling, in silk, watching the Ghost, her newer, littler sibling draw back an empty paw, strike, and then collapse to the ground.
Holly's head bucked as something she must be unable to see struck them, and it knocked her to the floor. With an agonizing clack, her shell crashed into the ground, and the world around her immediately turned to nothingness.
It wasn't until after she had awoken in a crater where the Egg that made the Black Egg Temple what it was used to be, and staggered her way to Dirtmouth in a daze to escape the disgusting rot of the infection being withered away into nothing, and it wasn't until after that, when she had hesitantly taken up a house in the little town, and it wasn't until even after that, once she had been cleared of injury by Iselda and Sly, the resident nail-wielders, and search efforts had begun for survivors, that she remembered what her little sibling had pressed into her palm.
Now sitting on the bench by the Stag Station, she stares down at it, tracing the details with a claw. So intricate, so clearly lovingly made, and so very sturdy. Taking a deep breath, she holds it in one hand, and, reaching up to fasten it onto her cloak --
...
And it is then, staring in horror at the creature that appeared with a sound like twisting silk, a blur of black and grey, it staring back at her, tendrils flapping like wings to keep it midair, that she realizes what the charm is.
She's snatching her needle from where she leaned it against the bench, and sprinting for the red tents just outside of town before she realizes what she's getting herself into.
The tent is red and crimson and scarlet and dimly lit, and she rushes right past the musician, the playful music ripping out a sour note before stilling as she rushes directly onto the stage, the nightmare-spawn following close behind her uncannily quiet. And as she stands on the stage, she stares, and nothing arrives. Alas, Hornet is the daughter of a Higher Being and a Queen, raised in a Palace with otherworldly eyes on her at all times. She knows, intricately, etched into her very being, when there are eyes belonging to an entity not meant for the mortal realm resting upon her. So, she declares, loud and strong, despite the tremble hidden deep in her voice,
"The Ghost of Hallownest, your spawn's caretaker, is dead."
Immediately, a puff of smoke and the crackle of flames appears in front of her. The Troupe Master stares her down, flames in his eyes, and she meets the stare. There is a challenge, a warning, in that gaze, and Hornet, rightful heir of Deepnest, is not one to back down. She steels herself, opens her mouth, and breathes out slow. Trembling, perhaps, yes, but slowly. Then, so too does her voice shake, soft and unsteady, as she speaks again.
"It went into the Temple, and handed me the charm your child is connected to before it did. I - I believe they knew they would not make it out alive." There is a shift in the Higher Being's body language before her, and the shame and burning grief in her thorax weighs on her until her gaze lowers to the stage between them. As she continues, her voice comes out somehow softer, now barely a whisper. "All that remains is a shell, broken in half, in the ruins of that damned Temple. Nothing more."
A soft, hissing exhale.
Though Hornet isn't quite sure what she expected his voice to sound like, Grimm's voice rasps and creaks precariously, smoke-damage and age wearing at what she's sure used to be a melodic tune used to speak to audiences, far and wide.
"And the Old-light?"
She nods slowly.
"Suffocated. Put out, I suspect by the Void itself."
Silence. Her claws itch to pull out her needle, to defend herself - she knows not what to expect from this... moth, perhaps, Troupe Master Grimm may be, and she is very on edge, for it. Perhaps, she notes to herself passively, it is not good to be afraid in a domain ruled by the King of Nightmares. Over her shoulder, the Grimmchild creaks an undeniably sad sound. She looks over at it, and finds it staring ahead of her. She follows its gaze, and is... rather reasonably taken aback to see Grimm staring silently at the floor of the tent.
As if sensing her gaze, he lifts his head and turns to her, graceful and smooth. He visibly heaves a sigh, and then turns to face her properly, bowing his head.
"Thank you, Princess-Protector, for making me aware of the new state of Hallownest's ruins." A pause, and he slowly pulls himself back up to his full height, Hornet realizing with prickly distaste that her horns would probably barely make it up to his thorax. Then, with ragged grief, noting that her little sibling, one cursed by her to have a name, damn her for being so sentimental, would be even shorter in comparison.
...she nods silently. The Grimmchild makes a broken sound like a whining call. Instinctively, she looks over at it. It's looking at her. And, for once, Hornet can't find anything in herself to respond.
"...leave us," The Troupe Master suddenly orders, looking past her, over her head, and Hornet jolts as if scalded, realizing only at the sound of shuffling and fabric rustling that they were being watched. The Troupe Master before her stands tall and imposing, until the shuffling fades into silence, and then -
To her shock, compelling her to take an alarmed step back, he drops himself to the ground, and sits cross-legged.
"This... Ghost of Hallownest. Is that what you called the Summoner?" It's disturbing, how steady his voice is behind the thick rasp of what she can only guess, from what she knows of this Troupe, is him being burned alive, from the inside out. A disturbing way to go, for sure.
One she can't help but wonder if her elder sibling experienced, before its shell was, seemingly, vaporized by the Void that swallowed the Infection.
She nods slowly to answer Grimm's question. For some reason, she can't - seem to force words out of her maw.
"I see," He muses lowly, and then, staring at her for a moment, he tilts his head. "...Hornet, yes? That is your name?"
Despite the denseness in her throat suffocating any words, the jolt of adrenaline at him knowing her name without her ever having seen him before in her life despite knowing who he is because her father warned her to avoid the Grimm Troupe at all costs rips words from her anyway, cold and sharp and defensive like the piercing-tipped blade of her needle.
"Yes. And what of it, Nightmare King?"
He fixes her with a long, long look, soft like smoldering embers. It settles, uncomfortably, along the back of her neck, the hairs on her legs prickling.
"Just Grimm, for now, if you will," He muses idly, and then folds his hands in his lap. "I know, very well, it is not my place to be questioning you, at the moment. But as I understand it, you have lost... a great deal, tonight."
The Grimmchild tucks up against her cheek, and she brushes it back, stepping away and shooting it a look. She does not want its touch, and it seems to know this, creaking at her sadly and lowering in its flight. She glances back at Grimm, himself, and finds him only looking at her with an odd expression on his face. He must not wear a mask, like his troupe does, she realizes, and bites down at the bitter realization.
Perhaps, she should expect to be surprised by him, too.
"Hornet," And his voice is soft, soft and warm, and while it holds no trace of that low, dry echo her Father's voice whispers when his words ring through her memory, Grimm sounds, undeniably, concerned the way her Father did when she would run to him as a hatchling, bawling or scared or upset. "Are you alright?"
She recoils.
"The Ritual can wait," She recoils more at that. A Higher Being, putting their own needs aside for a mortal? Unfathomable. Ridiculous. But he persists, quiet, gentle, warm and concerned, and something twists and knots and curls in her belly. Had she eaten recently, she think she might fall ill and her insides reject it all. "I..."
Grimm looks over, at the Grimmchild, and opens a palm to it. Immediately, the grub flies into him, and burrows against his chest, curling around his neck. He lowers his chin as if to stare at it, and then lifts his head to Hornet, and finally, something in the back of her mind clicks.
Hornet's stomach swoops. She has forgotten, it seems.
"I, too, am a parent, Princess," Troupe Master Grimm murmurs, thumbing his child's forehead. Something painful and sharp stabs at the back of Hornet's eyes, and she feels overwhelmed with the urge to run to her mother's bedchamber-turned-shrine and curl up on the slab where she once lay, as if it would bring any warmth to her aching, sore shell. "And you, a daughter with... no more family. Forgive me, but I do feel the need to offer aid, even if you desire it not."
In her blind instinct-driven duty, Hornet has forgotten that the Troupe Master, himself, is a parent, and she, a lone daughter. No parents, no siblings, no family,
Herrah once warned her, what feels like now-eons ago, that Higher Beings are tricky, and possessive, and only care for their own motives. They are instinctive, and often cruel, but that they do tend to be fiercely protective over their own. And it showed, in how the White Lady, despite not being her true mother, tended to her and walked with her and entertained her and played with her. And it showed, in how the Pale King came running to her aid whenever she cried for him when she was young. And now, she realizes, it is showing, as the holder of the Nightmare Heart cradles his underdeveloped child to his chest and looks at her with what she doubts is pity, leaving only the option of sympathy in its wake.
And, truly, that is what takes her off guard the most. The fact that Grimm is looking at her, and looks sad, maybe resigned, and there is a child, a hatchling, wrapped around his neck, chirping and creaking and snuggling close for comfort and his hand is on its head and-
Hornet gets the start of a word out, she isn't sure what it was, before her voice breaks completely, and nothing more escapes her. Her vision blurs, and she wishes to run, to hide, to burrow somewhere nobody can reach her like the filthy wyrmspawn she is, and-
There is something warm wrapped around her. Warm and soft-smooth, and something fluffy brushes the tips of her horns, and a soft nyeh sound echoes by her as a tiny, tiny body snuggles up against her shoulder.
"I will not ask of you to continue what the Ghost of Hallownest started, but I will ask of you to sit with me, a moment." She flinches away, backing directly into what she's now realizing, vision a haze of black and red, is Grimm's wing. "We have both lost two people, tonight."
"Right," She scoffs through a sound so broken and strangled she doesn't recognize her own voice. "And who else would you have lost?"
"My sister." The response is immediate, calm, and she goes still. She blinks, looks up at Grimm, and finds he is kneeling at her side, a wing wrapped around her, offering her space to flee but also offering warmth. Company. Security. Comfort. The little hell-spawn on her shoulder bunts its head against her mask, and her vision blurs again.
"Tonight, I have lost my sister. Mortals have always called her the Radiance. She is the balance of the Dream Realm. With her gone, I know not what will happen to me. To the Troupe." The Grimmchild snuggles close to her, like it's seeking comfort, and she cups her hands to let it curl up closer. Grimm's voice continues, hoarse and jolting, as if someone unsteadily trying to follow the steps for a new dance. "Differences, arguments, disagreements - none of that matters, now that she is gone. And then, of course, the Summoner. The Ghost of Hallownest, as you called them."
A pause.
Then, gently,
"Your shorter sibling."
She inhales sharply, and can hear Grimm pull in a slow, rattling breath before he keeps talking.
"In taking upon the duty of the Summoner, they, too, became family of the Troupe." He laughs then, dryly. It sounds almost pained, and that idea is cemented when he coughs, rattling deep in his thorax. Hornet can hear it. "How odd, I feel as though I have lost a child, with this. I don't believe that's ever happened to a Troupe Master, before."
"They forced the charm into my hand," Hornet blurts out, voice cracking and breaking. Her body shudders, heaves with unsteady breaths. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tight, and she dare not open them. "Pried - pried my fingers open, to put it in my palm. Left, before I could ask why. I didn't have time to question it, I didn't - I had no clue,"
"You couldn't have," Grimm murmurs, his own voice creaking, as if about to split cleanly through the middle. Like Ghost's shell. Her eyes fly open at the thought, and she stares as hard as she can at one of the banners draped over the wall below the seats of the fabric auditorium they stand in. The wing wraps tighter around her, and she lets herself stumble into Grimm's side. The Grimmchild curls up under her chin, and churrs. It's almost comforting. Almost.
"I swore myself to protect Hallownest. To tend to its ruins, to see it through its stasis, and I-"
"You succeeded."
"But at what cost?"
Silence, then, before, much to her own horror, Hornet bursts into hysterical laughter, broken up and scattered with what she now realizes are sobs. And that comes with its own kind of horror, and she laughs harder, bitterness clawing its way up her throat, dripping past her fangs.
"Great lights, I really am my father's child, what cost, what am I-"
"One too great." Grimm cuts her off, and quietly, she melts into his side. Her head hurts. She's tired. She is alone. She is curled up against the Nightmare Heart's mortal body, with the blasted thing's child curled up under her chin, chirping and creaking and making sad little sounds at her. And she is crying. Oh, she is crying.
"A cost far, far too great, Princess. This never should have been the responsibility of someone as young as you." Wings fold around her, warm and gentle and safety washes through her, followed immediately by a stab through her gut. She curls up tighter, and the wings follow her, holding her tighter. It is then, pressed against the Master of the Grimm Troupe's carapace, that she feels the shuddery jumps and hitches of breaths given when crying. Grimm, too, is crying. He's grieving. He wasn't lying to her.
Somehow, that hurts more than if he had been lying about his losses.
She curls closer against him.
"As - as a father, Hornet, I am sorry." His face presses into her horns, and her fingers twist into his cloak. She wants her father back. She wants her mother back. She wants her siblings to come back. Grimm nuzzles her head, and she sobs into his shaking thorax. "I am so, so sorry."