hornet (and quirrel) and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

by moosegoosecaboose

Summary:

The land of Pharloom is vast and violent with danger lurking in every corner. When Hornet suddenly ends up in this strange new world, she expects to go it alone, as she always has. Except, that isn't the case this time when she finds her journey surprisingly joined by Quirrel, the late Monomon's loyal assistant.

Well, you know what they say: two heads are better than one.

Notes:

i literally never played a HK game until silksong came out and then i got bit by the bug. played through the first, barrelled through the sequel (though i'm at the end of act 3!), and now here we are. ive got a major soft spot for these two but i am a rarepair veteran. hence, this fic, which is being written on the fly.

the tags will be periodically updated with new details as the story progresses, so expect spoilers for basically everything :)

Chapter 1: amuletum

Summary:

Every story has its beginning. Some are already at their end.

Notes:

content warnings for: suicide and suicidal thoughts.

the chapter name comes from Ichiko Aoba's "amuletum"!

The first thing Quirrel sees is a flash of red.

The next is a blinding white, his eyes barely open to the world and yet they are invaded by this brightness all the same. Something connects to his mouth and then there are claws on his chest, pressing against his shell.

It is an immense pressure. Like a stone's been placed upon him, it shoves hard and deep into him, repeating the motions until his lungs begin to inflate with more than just water.

Then, he's turned over, and his vision is consumed by a dark ground. A light blue hue coats it, and in the corner of his sight, he can just make out the shape of rocks that litter it. The stone returns to him, hammering now into his back in rhythmic slams.

Eventually, breath returns to him.

They are large, gasping breaths. He turns over, his eyes involuntarily searching for what looks more than like the ground, and he suddenly sees beyond fuzzy blurs and colours. Above him is the cavernous ceiling, the reflection of the Blue Lake coating it in a beautiful glowing blue. It looks as if painted, something so artificial– yet, it is a true sight. Made real by nature, by the shifting waters.

It takes more than a few moments for reality to completely return to him. He remembers the small knight, of words shared– though, the knight did not say anything to him, per se– and then the quiet patter of their footsteps leaving the lakeside. Quirrel remembers planting his nail in the ground, shoving it between the stones, and then thinking that this world is so beautiful. The end of his story had come, and it was only natural to close a book once it was finished. The finale was long overdue, anyway.

A sigh echoes to his side.

"While sentinel I am, I can only be in so many places at once."

Quirrel shifts his head, squinting his eyes against the bright light. They adjust after blinking away the water caught in them, and he spies that tell-tale cloak of red that he has recognized on more than a few occasions.

"Hornet?" he asks, perhaps unnecessarily.

She isn't looking at him. Her claws are twisted tightly in her cloak, wringing out a pleated corner. The fabric is clearly waterlogged, making the red seem so much more dark compared to its usual brightness. She seems put-out by the action, though she makes no comment on the water dripping from her body.

"Yes," she says absently. "Though you may not have resided in Hallownest long now, you are still its child. Charged I am with its protection– even to those who have been a stranger to its halls for some time."

She releases her cloak. The rest of it is still sopping and heavy. If she were any other bug, Quirrel would say that it would hamper her movement; yet, she is as graceful as ever when she turns toward him, spinning on her heel. In her claw, she holds a scrap of fabric. This one, she also wrings out, flapping it quickly in the air. It sprays droplets every which way, though the action dries it awfully quickly.

She extends her claw out to him.

"I believe this is yours," she says.

He peers a little closer. It is his kerchief, the little piece of clothing he has left to his name. To his other side, his nail still remains buried in the stone, standing straight and tall like an ever-loyal guard.

Hornet shakes the kerchief slightly.

"Well?" she asks.

"Ah," Quirrel croaks. His throat, though he had just been beneath the water, feels dry. "Yes, thank you. Thank you."

What he could be thanking her for, he's unsure. For drying his clothing? For dragging him to shore? When one sees a bug fling themselves into an endless lake of serenity, is the correct– and therefore thankful– action to return them to the surface? Quirrel's questions are endless, though he knows that they will never be met with an answer. No matter how hard he presses himself, he will be naught but silent in mind and in tongue.

All he knows is the beauty of Blue Lake and the feeling of completeness. Though in his heart was a gaping emptiness whenever his mind drifted to Monomon– which it quite often did– he simply chalked it up to sentimentality. To his teacher, to his mentor, the lady who had led him through life with a scholarly lilt and motherly kindness.

No, he thinks to himself. My end was my own by no making of Monomon's end herself.

It tastes like a lie, nonetheless.

"I," Quirrel begins, though all it brings up is more gasping coughs. If he moves, he can almost hear the quiet slosh of leftover water stuck in his lungs. Lodged between flesh, soft tissue, it shifts into his soul.

"There is no need to speak. I will take my leave, and I shall leave you to recover," says Hornet, voice curt and sharp. It is not said in any callous way– nor uncaring; instead, it has that subtle undercurrent of, I know you can handle this.

"Thank you," Quirrel repeats.

"As you said before."

"Yes– I know. It is just…"

"Again, waste your breath not. It is a precious resource you should seek to maintain."

She turns, leaving him in a whirlwind of red and white, her lithe form leaving the caverns. Her needle shines in the light and in its reflection, Quirrel sees himself sitting on the ground. Still soaking wet, holding dumbly onto his half-dry kerchief, staring at Hornet as she slowly disappears.

But, he was raised better than that– to let someone leave without offering his own assistance, or favour, in return. Though he did not ask for it– truthfully, he did not desire it, for his life has run its course, and there was seldom little to continue dragging it along like so– something in him stirs with propriety. With a lesson once taught, Monomon's gentle words guiding him to be a polite young gentleman.

Although, he isn't so young anymore.

So, he calls, "Wait, Hornet."

His voice has still barely returned to him, but she is of keen hearing. Her mask tilts slightly in his direction. She does not reply, but she does stop her walking.

"Is there any way I can repay you? For what you've done?"

Maybe it's a stupid question, and maybe it's just courtesy, but Hornet only shakes her head and turns back toward the exit.

She says, "Goodbye, Quirrel. May you stay safe."

Chapter 2: house tour

Summary:

Hornet makes a crash landing in Pharloom with an unexpected addition.

Notes:

wow i did not expect such an immediate reception for this fic lol, but i'm glad to see it anyways! hope you all stick around for the adventure because i have a bad habit of making longfics into REALLY long fics. this is just the start of the journey anyways :3

chapter title is from Sabrina Carpenter's "House Tour"!

The last thing Hornet remembers is the feeling of being in free-fall.

It's a familiar sensation. That weightlessness, the floating; for a few moments, it feels as if the world is coming close far too fast, far too quickly, but she's always been able to let her silk loose and grapple onto the next platform she sees.

This time, she doesn't. Though someone's silk released her from her chains, she's now left only to crash into the ground without her own.

The next thing she recalls is the motion of a claw on her, shaking her body in fast jolts. Once this way, once the next; back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

Slowly, she opens her eyes. The thunk of her needle hitting the ground resounds next to her, implanting itself in what she thinks is soft moss. She runs her claws against the surface, slightly damp yet fluffy nonetheless. Though hurt, damaged, she manages to push herself up and look around.

She sees the last bug she would ever expect to see after her great fall.

"Quirrel?"

Quirrel's eyes boggle, going even bigger than they already are. Then, he bows his head, perhaps in relief, or perhaps in shock. His forehead hits the ground and he leans heavily on his nail that is likewise planted deep in the moss.

"Hornet– oh, thank the gods. I thought you were dead!"

The most obvious question arises in her head first, but not before an aching wave of pain that assails her as she shifts to her side. Her claw instinctively reaches out for her needle, yet the pain becomes so severe that it makes her keel over instantly.

"That was quite a fall," says Quirrel. He reaches out, tentative. His claw hovers above her before finding the courage to land on her shoulder. The touch is more grounding than Hornet would like to admit, the sudden warmth pulling her from the dizzying waves of pain. She steadies after a few moments of rippling aches before looking up at him.

"Why," she grits out, "are you here?"

And isn't that just a question. So far from Hallownest are they two bugs, though Hornet's abduction is to blame for her own leaving. Quirrel, on the other hand, has no reason to be here– especially at the bottom of a pit.

There are a few explanations for his presence, though they are all just as confusing as the other. In Hallownest, they hadn't been friends– in truth, she had little companionship to name, but that was besides the point. They were only occasional acquaintances, especially after she had established that he had posed no threat to Hallownest as a visitor, and then its child. Occasionally, she thinks with a pang of heartache, that he and the little Ghost had met. But that did not mean an immediate connection to herself. There was no true reason for him to be here, unless…

Well, the first idea that comes to her mind is that he's been following her. The thought makes a grimace shift onto her mask, one caused more by uneasiness rather than the discomfort of her injuries. She is not unused to such approaches, but she detests them all the same.

She shakes her shoulder, and Quirrel releases her. She must be grimacing more than she originally thought because Quirrel waves his claws, the motion rapid and panicked. His expression reveals all, like a perfect painting in brushstrokes, both vivid and telling without words.

"Oh, no, it's not what you think!" he exclaims. "It's nothing so sordid. I was on my way out from Hallownest, on a path darkened and ancient. It was then that I stumbled upon a caravan carrying what looked to be a caged bug. Out of curiosity, I followed from the shadows. But then, well… the bridge collapsed, and with it came me, you, and the entire caravan. I was quite surprised to find it was you."

Hornet looks up toward the sky. It's hard to see exactly how far down they are from here, but she assumes it is quite deep.

"How did you survive the fall?" she asks him.

"I'm quite hardy, though you may not believe it," he says, chuckling at the end. "Are you hurt?"

"I will be fine."

"Hm," Quirrel hums, "well, your mask is not cracked. That is a good sign, at least."

Hornet pushes herself up, claw on the hilt of her needle to steady herself. She pulls the blade from its hole, appraising the damage. There are chips here and there, wear and tear from endless battles in her earlier years. It is in dire need of a repair, and of course she is in the one place where that is seemingly impossible.

Nevertheless, there is little point in whining about it.

"We should investigate these lands," says Hornet. Perhaps it was lucky that she fell alongside a fellow Hallownest resident. These lands, while foreign to her, are just as unknown to Quirrel; a shared experience will provide more perspectives, more ideas. And that means more chances to find why she was captured in the first place. Quirrel is also not an unlikable bug– the opposite, really. He is polite, perceptive, and can defend himself: all things that Hornet considers good qualities in someone, especially a temporary travelling partner. Things could certainly be worse.

Quirrel nods. He tightens a claw on his nail, brandishing it in front of him as he follows behind her. "I agree. Though, this moss is so curious, I would just love to–"

Perhaps there will be occasional problems when travelling with such a curious bug. Luckily, Hornet must look worse for wear– or she is grimacing again– because Quirrel catches himself before he can ramble on about the flora and fauna. He clears his throat and hefts his nail.

"Right. Well. Let's carry on, shall we?"

"Yes, we shall."

This land is a strange one, though not entirely dissimilar to an observant eye. Made of fuzzy greens and cold greys, Hornet is immediately reminded of Greenpath back in Hallownest; even the little crawling bugs make her think of the creatures that idly munch on the grasses grown between rocks back home. She and Quirrel nimbly step around them, slay those that assail them, and climb upward and onward to what they think is the exit.

Of course, that leads them straight into the den of one of the beast's mothers, but things are handled quickly. With two claws, two weapons, battles last half as long and are twice as efficient. When Quirrel lands the killing blow, he exhales a long breath and examines the corpse. He seems to find nothing of immediate interest– and they're definitely not hauling around a body just so he can study it later– so they abandon the area before Hornet is wrought by another bout of pain.

During their walk through not-Greenpath, she had panging aches, though she muscled them down for the sake of appearances. If she were on her lonesome, she would have let herself suffer aloud, but with an audience of one, she couldn't bear letting the cracks in her mask show.

But now? Now, she can't ignore it. Against her own volition, she keels over, knees hitting the moss. Distantly, she thinks of using her needle to prop herself up and reaches to her back to grab it. Her claw manages to touch the hilt loop before her vision begins to blur into a fading mess of moss. Quirrel's voice is an echoing thing in the back of her mind, and the final thing she sees before passing out is his mask over hers, concern writ in his eyes.

 

 

"… stop hitting her?"

"… to wake her up…"

Hornet groans. Something is being bashed against her back. It feels like a blunt weapon, as if a club or staff, although those weapon types are often helped by some kind of serrated or spiked feature upon its tip. Whatever is haranguing her, it is most likely not dangerous– just bothersome.

Gradually, she opens her eyes. Light fills the slits and she musters down the urge to wince. Everywhere is green still, with stony and ancient accents. Her back is bumped again.

"Okay, okay, she's awake! Dear me, that didn't seem like any mysticism I've ever seen."

Quirrel's voice is distant, but it grows stronger with each second Hornet becomes more and more conscious. When she finally runs her hands along the mossy ground and takes in her surroundings (more moss, more stone, more old, looming architecture), she can safely say that this is not an ideal situation. Of course, it was hardly ideal the moment she was kidnapped, but now she must contend with waves of pain that knock her out of the land of living.

An unconscious warrior is no more useful than a corpse.

"I never said it was, child."

"The staff and chapel garb said otherwise. Ma'am."

"Well, you're a clever one, aren't you?"

Hornet pushes herself up, using her needle as a prop along the way. Though she loathes to admit it, her body feels like jelly, limbs weak with the constant pain. At the very least, her mind remains intact.

Quirrel frets beside her, claws hovering not unlike earlier during their initial landing.

"Perhaps we should seek some medical attention," he says. "I don't mean to be rude, but you look–"

"I know, Quirrel. There is no need to point out the obvious," Hornet huffs in return. The reply came out more barbed than she intended it to, yet she cannot find the strength to apologize. Later, she will; but now, she will let herself be just a bit miserable for all the foolishness she knows she will have to face.

"Of course," Quirrel says, the picture of patience.

Now standing, it's clear to see who was the one hitting Hornet's back. A slouched bug draped in chapel modesty holds a jingling staff. Her eyes are bright with cheer, a twinkle of mischief just hidden in the corners where they crinkle in thin, aging lines.

"Awake at last!" she says. "You should mind your strength, traveller."

"I am no traveller," replies Hornet. Then, she adds while gesturing to Quirrel, "And neither is he."

"So you're another pilgrim then? Scuttled out of the darkness to climb the great path and bow at its gilded peak?"

Hornet sends Quirrel a quizzical look. He merely shrugs.

"No, we are no pilgrims either. We are foreign to this land, come from another far beyond it. I was captured, and now seek answers for it."

The chapel maid hums and haws. She stamps her staff against the ground a few times before telling the two of them that their answers lay far above in the Citadel, that gilded corner of the world that asks of them a pilgrimage, no matter if they are pilgrims or not. A sly eye slides to their weapons.

"Welcome then, fierce travellers, to Pharloom. Our holy yet haunted land."

They leave the chapel maid behind in her caretaking duties, but not before she warns them of a curse gripping the land. Though the details are sparse, she describes a ghostly hand that has ensnared the hearts of pilgrims. They climb, but never return.

"Do you truly intend to climb to the Citadel?" Quirrel asks after they have left the mossy grounds. The surroundings have slowly shifted to a bone-grey, stone underfoot and crackling beneath each step. The air smells stagnant and reeks of desperation and hopelessness. It reminds Hornet of Dirtmouth– at least, before the little Ghost.

She tries not to think about them. It is bad for the spirit, such dour thoughts. A warrior must remain light, clear of mind, lest she falls to those who would capitalize on her aching heart.

"Yes," she answers.

A beat passes between them. Quirrel motions with his claw, circling over and over. When Hornet only stares at him, he sighs.

"Just 'yes'?" he asks.

"Yes. Is it an explanation you wish?"

Quirrel's eyes crinkle, not unlike the chapel maid's with a sparkle of levity. She knows him to be quite old– as old as she, in fact– but it is that little motion that makes him seem far younger than he actually is. Perhaps it is his easygoing nature, she thinks. His relaxed posture is one she is unused to, and one she has never adopted herself.

"Well, yes. I expected you would want to leave for Hallownest the moment we left that hole, considering your presence being oft needed there."

Hornet throws her head back, gazing upward. If she thought the first pit they fell into was deep, then now they are in a ravine. Above, the sky reaches far into the recesses of whatever cavern they are in; there are outcroppings of rock and cragged ledges, but no visible way to ascend with without a pair of wings.

"If I leave now, I will only be hunted again. I must find who captured me," she says. "Although, you are free to head back."

"And leave you behind?"

Hornet nods. "Yes, though worded like that, it sounds quite cold. This is not your quest, and there is no reason for you to undertake it– especially not on my own behest. You are your own self, though I encourage you to take the safer road."

But that seems to be the wrong answer. He tries to hide it, but the dissatisfaction is clear on Quirrel. His lips wilt into a small frown as he shakes his head.

"No, I believe I'll stay with you," he says. "Think of it as repayment."

Now, it's Hornet's turn to be confused.

"Repayment, you say?"

"For–" he flails, "you know."

"I do not."

"Are you being obstinate?"

"I am not."

Quirrel waves his claw again, saying while a mite beleaguered, "When I was in Blue Lake. You hauled me to shore, and revived me."

Ah, that. Hornet only remembers it vaguely, primarily due to the fact that she discards any thought that does not have to do with her primary goals. Quirrel's drowning was a minor distraction– something she happened upon while coincidentally in the area– and thus did her part as Hallownest's daughter and brought him to land. Certainly, it required no favour in return, as well. The incident was thusly tossed aside, a situation that she did not dwell on.

At the time, she thought that Quirrel simply wished for a swim, and then realized he could not float as well as he used to. A foolish thing to do, yes, but not the most foolish thing she had seen in all her years of life.

From the way he now fidgets, it seems like that was not the case.

She decides that she will not pry. It is, as always, none of her business.

"I require no favour for my actions. I did as any would have done in my situation," she says, although the words ring untrue. Not anyone in Hallowest would have done such a thing, except for…

Forget it, Hornet.

She forgets it.

"Even so, I cannot just leave you behind in an unknown land in the clutches of a curse."

"This is not your duty," she insists.

"Then," Quirrel retorts, "let's say it's for the sake of curiosity."

"You want to adventure through a dangerous and foreign land simply out of curiosity?"

Quirrel nods, the answer as simple as can be.

"Consider me your second pair of eyes, second pair of claws; I shall watch your back, and you mine."

While it is true that Quirrel is a warrior formidable enough, guilt still invades Hornet's chest when she thinks of dragging another into a situation of her own. She may not have been the maker of it, but she is still that which commands it. Quirrel has the perfect chance to scamper off and save his shell– why he will not take that when neither duty nor honour holds him, Hornet thinks she will never know. Curiosity cannot be enough to sate a bug, can it?

Maybe for Quirrel, who is gazing about the bone-strewn bottom of the pit they are stuck in, it could be.

"Okay," Hornet says finally, much to the delight of Quirrel. "I accept your company. Let us be off, then; there is much to learn about Pharloom."

A smile spreads across him, mask alighting with boyish excitement. He dips down slightly, arm and claw gesturing in front of him.

"Ladies first," he says. He doesn't comment when Hornet remains stock-still at the action. Instead, he looks up at her, mirth so clear in him.

She strides forward, confused by the action. While her mind supplies a vision of the mask he previously wore, and then the gentle Monomon and the bugs who assisted her, all the perfect portraits of gallantry, she still finds it a strange thing to do.

Quirrel follows her, letting her set the pace, set the route. He may truly just be here for the journey and the steps it takes to reach Pharloom's peak. It is travel for the sake of travel, which is something that Hornet simply cannot wrap her head around. She thinks only of the goal at the top, her claw reaching endlessly for its completion.

Although, she thinks this quest's end may take longer than her usual ones.

Notes:

ok which of HK's characters would have a house on pretty girl avenue. my vote is for quirrel, obviously.

Chapter 3: you're something new

Summary:

Hornet and Quirrel officially set off into Pharloom, but not without a few bumps along the way.

Notes:

some details of silksong are switched around for the sake of turning the game into a story, so if some things aren't where you expect them to be, my artistic liberties are to blame lol!

also pls forgive me if you catch me using "hand" instead of "claw" LMAO, it's gonna take me some time to get used to that.

chapter title is from "You're Something New" by Lee Richardson, Jonathan Murrill, Tom Ford, and James Cocozza :)

Quirrel kneels, a claw brushing over the ground. The surface is porous, through the material remains strong against even the harshest of step. There's a certain flexibility to it that reminds him of bone, though upon closer inspection, it appears that is is bone.

Hornet is busy speaking to the locals in this little settlement while Quirrel investigates the surroundings. While he had never pinned her as the social type, she gets along awfully well with those she comes in contact with. Perhaps it is her long, looming walls that make bugs think her to be impenetrable, and therefore more comfortable with telling her absolutely anything. One may think it to be the opposite, but sometimes it is quite nice to speak to a wall.

The denizens ramble while Hornet occasionally interjects with her own questions. They are practical queries– what is the pilgrimage route? What is Pharloom's curse? What lays beyond this settlement?

The following answers are: up, we don't know, and danger.

Hornet returns to Quirrel with a disappointed sigh while Quirrel himself goes back to inspecting the bone, most certainly not pretending he was eavesdropping into her conversations.

The ground here really is interesting, if he is being completely honest. The nature of it is still technically unknown to him now, but the feeling of research opens up a familiar hole in his chest that whispers of memories dead and gone. He likens it to ripping the stitches out of a flesh wound, the slow, agonizing pull before the tissues have had time to knit back together. It has been so long since he has placed his head to the ground and studied it with gusto. Maybe it should stay like that– reopening such injuries could only lead to disastrous consequences.

But then he remembers Monomon's light touch floating on his shoulder. A foggy memory comes to mind, becoming more vivid with each moment his claw drags along the cracked bone. He sees, feels, smells, touches, hears– there is Monomon, her tentacle dropping a small journal in his claws. It is made of a strange leather, one he had never seen in his young life before, and clasped with a rusted bronze button. A small quill was tied to its side. The room smells like home, it looks like home; and when Monomon tells him it is his to keep, for his secrets and heart, he vows to himself to never lose it.

He has literally no idea where that journal is now.

"We are currently in Bone Bottom," Hornet says.

Quirrel glances up at her, but she's not looking at him. Instead, her eyes are locked on the small bone structure and has a sign posted near it. On it are three arrows stacked atop one another, pointing solely in one direction. Perhaps it is some sort of delivery building, where parcels are received?

"And over yonder is The Marrow. Has your own search been fruitful?"

Quirrel rises, dusting his knees off. "I can confirm that the name 'Bone Bottom' is quite apt. This area seems to be formed of bone, or something of its likeness. My assumption is the deeper we move, the more we shall find."

Hornet hums, a claw on her chin. She doesn't say anything for a few moments. The air is filled with their shared silence, and Quirrel musters down the instinct to add his own chatter to it. He is unsure if Hornet is the type to appreciate conversation for the sake of it, or if her breath is better used on more pragmatic talk. The latter seems far more likely.

"The pilgrims seem to fear their holy journey, convinced that either only sin or death awaits them," she says. "If they remain, there is no salvation; yet if they climb, they will surely fall."

"Perhaps the pilgrimage is part of the salvation," Quirrel suggests. "A walk can be quite cleansing."

"But one fraught with death?"

"No– but what is anything worth if not for some danger?"

That gets Hornet to smile, just a hint of a grin. It makes her look leagues younger than she already does. It's girlish, something so unfamiliar on that stoic, pale mask of hers.

It suits her. Cheer, rather than shadows.

"That is quite true, though I believe the pilgrims may not see it that way."

 

 

Pharloom is a curious place. Of its personalities, Quirrel has seen only greenery or bone. He wonders if these lands hold more than just the same two shades that he had already witnessed back in Hallownest. The possibilities are endless in such a strange new world, and Quirrel cannot help but marvel at all the little oddities that he finds in each of its corners.

Though his nail is held firmly in his grasp, he cannot help but just… look. Look at the creatures, look at the walls, look at the ground, the high ceilings, the architecture. While Hallownest had been like a homecoming, brushing the dust off of old tomes to re-read an old, beloved story, Pharloom is far more akin to beginning an entirely new novel. The ink has barely dried on the parchment; Quirrel can just imagine the quill in his claw, scribbling each and every little thing he spots. He wishes, not for the first time since landing, that he had his journal.

His claw flexes involuntarily, longing for something other than his nail's hilt to be wedged between it.

Still, there are more incorporeal ways to dedicate knowledge. Back in the day, Quirrel is quite proud to say that had a fairly strong memory. The cosmic joke that is his current memory loss is a notwithstanding fact to this, since it doesn't change the truth that he had constantly committed hundreds of parchments to his mind. From folk tales to financial reports, he had them all locked away. There were scant few things he couldn't recall from Monomon's archives, and even fewer than he dedicated more to his heart, rather than brain.

Monomon's poems, for one. Quirrel can admit he had never been one for literature, but a proper scholar was interested in all facets of life– and the writings of those wiser than him were always worth a read. In his younger years, when the meaning of her scrawled words were lost upon him, he would use it as an excuse to pester his teacher on them. Her patience was endless and her passion for the quill was unmatched. She guided him like any other student of hers with that matronly lilt, calm and measured even when her poems went straight over his head.

In many such cases, he longed only for her company. He locked out all other senses except the feeling of being around her, that ever-comforting feeling of being under someone's doting attention.

But that memory becomes untethered the moment Quirrel realizes that he's let his mind wander too far. And when his mind wanders, his surroundings melt into one big blur, resulting in situations that have the potential to be embarrassing to mortifying.

He's not sure what to classify this one as when his foot catches on a bone fragment, flinging him forward. Instinct kicks in as he brings his other leg upward to catch himself in a lunge, but that one just gets caught, too.

Tripping over his own feet– ha! How Monomon would have a hearty laugh at him, and then help him back up with a giggly smile.

Hornet's instincts must be sharper than his because she's on him quicker than the eye can see. In a swipe of rose-red crimson, she's latched onto his shoulder. He's righted back up with little effort on her part.

She gives him a stern look, not dissimilar to the one he first witnessed upon his return to Hallownest, her needle glinting in the dim lumafly light. Upon its hive markings he could see the way her eyes narrowed in focus and suspicion. And him, perturbed at her presence and yet prepared all the same.

"Are you the kind to be distracted easily?" she asks. Her voice isn't unkind nor chastising. It truly is just a question, though Quirrel knows more than most how easily these types of phrases can be turned into something barbed. A childhood of teasing can be one that dogs even the eldest of bugs' heels.

"That is one way to describe it," he answers. "My mind often wanders, though I will endeavour to keep it tied down during our time in Pharloom."

Hornet shakes her head. "That is sound of you, but I only ask that you remain present when caution demands it. The mind is a delicate thing– letting it run wild is good in times of calm. Even in here, in Pharloom."

Quirrel had certain expectations when travelling with Hornet. He was confident she would be quite cocksure, a natural leader– of which she has already proven herself– as well as calculating and a smidge frigid. She is the child of both a Weaver and a god, and her strength must be endless within her shell. She has every right to act as the princess knight persona she has been thrust into, all haughty tyranny.

Yet, this had already been disproven to him. In their short time together, she had revealed herself to be softer under that hard shell she put up. Perhaps he shouldn't be so shocked that she acts in kindness. It is a disservice to the bug she has become.

"That is even sounder," Quirrel replies. "It seems as if you speak from experience."

They continue their walk, strides now matched. Hornet's red cloak sways with each step, confident and constant.

"I do not indulge in the practice often; I find it quite difficult to allow myself to think of anything other than my goals at hand." She glances at him, a momentary glimpse. "Perhaps it would do me good to take a page from your book."

She smiles again, a small, barely perceptible thing. Quirrel returns it with a bright grin.

 

 

A few things then happen in quick succession, which makes Quirrel think that– perhaps– Hornet should absolutely take a page from his book. Right now, if that would work with her.

Firstly, they reached what the pilgrims called Mosshome. The name, like Bone Bottom, was so on the nose that it was almost comical. The entire area was covered in a thick coating of moss, so much so that it appeared like layers upon layers of long grasses. They found a few pilgrim there, but they had nothing to say when Quirrel approached them with a well-meaning claw. Combat was had against these accursed creatures, guilt worming into both Quirrel and Hornet's expressions.

And then– well, how would one explain how this happened next? If Quirrel had his journal, he would be able to chronicle it quite easily with a quill, but for now he will simply have to recall it in his mind.

In a black structure the two of them stood, Hornet's neck craned upward to look at the strange thing. A spine ran up from the floor to the overhang, dark as obsidian. When Quirrel was about to make a comment about it, Hornet held up a claw to silence him. She was leaning toward it, her head slightly tilted toward it.

Then, she took her needle, stabbed it into the ground, and began to bind something to her.

"What was that?"

Hornet hummed, a sound of satisfaction.

"Power, I believe."

Power, right. Because the answer was as simple as that. When Quirrel pressed her for more answers, she merely shook her head. Her mind was undoubtedly preoccupied with the new abilities she had just gained, silk thrumming through her.

This led Hornet to immediately turn on her heel and head out from Mosshome. Quirrel, left upon the structure, stood dumbfounded before he realized that she was leaving. He hopped down as quickly as he could and scurried to follow her. She was far faster than his natural gait, and so it took more than a few paces of jogging to get back to where she was.

Now, he has finally caught up to her, and they stand inside a small cavern that is coated in–

"Bells?" Quirrel asks.

"Bells," Hornet answers.

She strides through the bells, reaching the cavern's end. There, a pale creature is tied in silken strands that prevents it from moving, aside from the odd struggle here and there.

Quirrel is again about to say something when Hornet takes a sudden step back. Then, she launches forward, and a spear comes flying from her silk.

The beast is released! Only, there is no thanks given to either of them when it suddenly rears back, a growl echoing from its boney mouth. If Hornet expected a fight, then Quirrel is definitely regretting not taking the chance to interrupt her. And if she didn't expect it, then Quirrel is doubly regretful.

Luckily, Hornet is a hunter, through and through. She leaps and bounds over the beast, aiming her needle downward in diagonal strikes that scrape against its thick plating. She is more agile than most, her mobility being helpful not only in her dexterity, but also her strength in pinpointing weak spots.

Quirrel takes a more traditional route by remaining planted on the ground. He slashes when given the chance, and plays it safe by spotting openings that are wide enough to recover from. His dodges are as expected, sliding beneath each of the beast's jumps. His feet scrape against the bells, twinkling dimly in his ears as Hornet calls her position. She is currently on the other side of the cavern, and the beast is right about to jump onto his location.

Whether out of sheer luck or combat prowess, they manage to sandwich the beast between their nail and needle. Hornet flies downward into it while Quirrel strikes upward.

They are both breathing heavy breaths when the fight is over, the beast now having retreated underground. It was far more than Quirrel had expected out of this bout, and his age is coming back to bite him in the behind. He leans against a bell, claw hanging off the back of his neck as his lungs play the catch-up game he did with Hornet earlier.

Hornet, who probably finds herself in fights more often than Quirrel does, recovers in mere moments.

Unfortunately, the ground begins to shake, the bells jingling in the virulent waves that cascade along the cavern floor. Quirrel hefts his nail once more– albeit annoyedly– and prepares for another round.

Only, when the beast resurfaces, it doesn't make a move. It instead walks up to Hornet and nuzzles its face into her claw.

Everything is still until Hornet places her needle down. Her other claw comes up to the beast's face, rubbing where its cheeks would be in circular motions he's seen mothers do with their most beloved children. Clearly, the beast is no longer a threat to either of them.

Hornet doesn't say anything, but Quirrel knows exactly what she's thinking.

"It's quite cute when it's not trying to kill us," Quirrel says as he joins Hornet in front of the beast. She nods, still petting it.

Before the discovery of the bellways, and before they spoke after combat, Quirrel had half a mind to tell Hornet to just– say what she's doing. He knows that he can sometimes have his head in the clouds, but he's always prided himself on being a clear and concise bug when in a group. Hornet, on the other hand, is clearly more accustomed to working alone, making decisions solely in her head without vocalizing them. Which is, as one may know, vital when working in a partnership.

Truly, she cannot just up and turn around without saying anything.

Quirrel just sighs mentally. He decides to let her mind wander to the bell beast before he focuses them back onto the quest at hand. After all, it's healthy to think of things other than work, yes?

Chapter 4: red wine supernova

Summary:

New faces are met, and some are certainly friendlier than others.

Notes:

chappell's songs as chapter titles will absolutely be making repeat appearances, i guarantee you that. also, tags are updated to reflect canon-typical violence. i just can't help myself when there's a fight scene hehe

and one other thing: i'm going to expose myself as having pretty rudimentary knowledge on the game's lore. i'm big on games with esoteric ass lore (i.e. i'm an insane elden ring and dark souls fan) but since i'm pretty fresh to HK, i'm still working my head around turning it into something more narratively smooth in a fic. so do expect some light canon bending and whatnot :)

chapter title is from Chappell Roan's "Red Wine Supernova"!

The ride back to Bone Bottom is more exhilarating than Hornet expected. While the Stagways back in Hallownest provided a fairly smooth ride– though it was nothing compared to the silken tracks the trams drove over– the Bell Beast is rough and rushed. Occasionally, she leaps over the odd stuck-out bell, and the tips of Hornet's mask grazes the low ceiling. If Quirrel sat up straight, the top of his head would similarly feel the cool metal of the bells.

The two of them come out of the experience unscathed, if not a little unsteady after returning to solid land. A little pilgrim shrieks when the Bell Beast is unearthed from the pool of jingling bells, cowering over while Hornet and Quirrel disembark. Quirrel tries to console the pilgrim, but they just shiver and wave a frightened claw.

Since exploring The Marrow and Mosshome, Hornet's pockets have become slightly heavier with rosaries– Pharloom's form of currency. She, as well as Quirrel, even wear a few of the rosary bracelets so that her cloak feels less of the weight. It would an inopportune thing to allow her clothing to drag her down in a fight when her arms can handle lifting the measly jewellery.

Outside of the Bellway station, all is still dour in Bone Bottom. Pilgrims mill about while Flick– the bug fixing up what he called a "Wishwall"– is wiping his claws off. He stands proudly before his newest creation, which already has a few postings on it.

And that would have been the only new thing about Bone Bottom if it weren't for the gentle song that hangs in the air. Someone– an unidentified someone– is humming a soft melody, which is joined by a higher lilt and the clanging of steel instruments. Together, it sounds a mite off-key, voices unused to one another's, but they continue nonetheless.

"Up there," Quirrel says as he points up at a rocky outcropping. There is a small path that one could jump up to reach where the song is coming from. Circular weaponry sits embedded in the stone, so deep as if it has always been there.

They follow the sound, and find a tall, lanky bug sitting on the ground as a smaller, more squat one stands beside her. The littler one looks as if he is wearing a cymbal on his head, his shell cloaked in a maroon cloth. The taller one has a look of elegance to her, though danger lurks in the way her claws move. She scribbles something on a parchment, quill busy.

The moment Hornet and Quirrel reach the platform, the taller bug stands. She claps her weapons together, a loud, chiming echo coming off of them. The little bug does the same, raising his instrument to twinkle along.

"Poshanka!" she cries. "Edges sharp and senses keen. In my land, that is the way warriors greet each other."

Though the safety of Bone Bottom seems true, Hornet cannot help but prepare her claw on the hilt of her needle. The tall bug's stance seems friendly, and yet there is an undercurrent of deadly skill that sits within it.

"In these lands, names are freely given, are they not? I am Shakra, Wielding Rings."

Quirrel nods his head, claw to his chest as he bows slightly. "Fair greetings to you, Shakra. I am Quirrel…" He glances to his back where his nail hangs. "Wielding Nail?"

"You look a child barely hatched," says Shakra. Hornet cannot place her accent. Its heaviness invites the sense that she, too, is foreign to these lands. During Hornet's musings, Shakra turns to her and says, "As do you. Though your stances, weapons, and movements proclaim your warrior natures."

"I assure you, we are no children," Quirrel chuckles before he nudges Hornet. It takes her a moment before she understands what he's trying to tell her.

Ah, yes. Introductions.

"It is as Quirrel says," Hornet says. "I am Hornet, of a land far from Pharloom."

"Hm." Shakra looks from the two of them and then back down to her parchment. "Child Wielding Needle, Child Wielding Nail– you are both foreign to Pharloom?"

"As I said, we are not children," Quirrel repeats, voice tight. "But, yes. Hallownest is our home– quite far from here, we assume."

"Perhaps trade is in order if you, too, come not from here," Shakra says, either unaware of Quirrel's insistences or is simply ignoring them. "I am a navigator amongst my tribe and have been making maps of these lands. I can trade them with you, and supplies, if you wish."

Quirrel brightens at the mention of maps, and even more at the idea of chronicling supplies. His giddiness is almost contagious because Hornet also begins to think that this is quite a good stroke of luck. Travelling in an unknown land is bad enough for one's bearings, but doing it without a guide– even a rudimentary one– is nearly torture. For someone like Hornet, who is accustomed to knowing Hallownest like the back of her claw, Pharloom's winding paths have been difficult to contend with her stubborn mind.

"That would be wonderful. Is your friend there likewise a master of the craft?"

Shakra turns her gaze to the smaller bug next to her, who has stopped his song.

"The Child Who Sings?" Shakra asks. "No. He is a pilgrim, one that I happened upon in my journeys."

At Shakra's gesture, the little bug holds his instrument and clangs them together. They make a pleasing, clear sound, similar to the peal of bells in the way they cut through the air with a single ding. He tilts his head, a small bow to both Hornet and Quirrel.

"I am Sherma," he says, "a pilgrim, just like you two! I hear the call of the great Citadel just like every other devout soul."

It is immediately clear that Sherma is unlike other pilgrims. From those that Hornet has met so far, they seem tired and listless, as if their journey to the Citadel is more to save their soul than anything else. If they choose to remain low, then they shall never ascend to purity, to whatever thing hangs high in these strange lands. The only things that seem certain in Pharloom are the death of pilgrims and their steady, climbing feet.

Sherma, on the other hand, is all too happy to begin his pilgrimage, driven by something other than the need to save his soul. His cymbal hat and cheerful visage shines with more merriment than Hornet has ever seen in all of Pharlooom so far.

"Has your pilgrimage taken you far, Sherma?" Quirrel asks. The question is made mostly out of politeness, but Hornet knows a prodding query when she hears one. There's a chance to learn where the little bug has gone– and survived. That means there's a path already paved without violence, especially considering Sherma's lack of weaponry.

"Oh, not so, not yet! I had just come upon this settlement when I found Miss Shakra with her maps. Though I know my song will bring my feet to where the Citadel lays, Shakra was quite kind to tell me that it is always smart to know where your feet are leading you first!"

"In exchange, he sings with I," says Shakra.

Hornet thinks it may be worth asking Shakra if she would part with her maps with a melodic payment from her and Quirrel, but she doesn't get the chance before Quirrel slides off a few rosary strings from his wrist and passes them to Shakra. His eagerness is evident the moment Shakra nods at the trade, digging around her pack for exactly what he wants.

She produces three maps, as well as a compass, quill, and a few sheets of blank parchment to go with it. They are labelled like so: Mosshome, The Marrow, and Deep Docks. One of these places, they have not been to, but the area seems deep and wide with many dipping pathways that lead straight downward.

Hornet is examining the maps, but she does not miss the moment when Shakra hands the quill, compass, and parchment to Quirrel. He clutches them like precious gems, things so fragile that even the slightest movement may shatter them. The scholarly part of him must be gushing over getting his claws on some material to work with– something to put quill to parchment to solidify their experiences in permanent etchings.

It's an understandable want, and something that Hornet has done in the past, as well. A Hunter does not excel unless she knows her enemies; her notebooks back in Hallownest are proof of that, what with their brimming sketches of the lands' deadly combatants.

Although, that is where her and Quirrel's similarities in this topic may end. Hornet's concern with writing about weak spots and where a bug's shell splits most optimally differs greatly from Quirrel's desire to see the world immortalized in ink– whether they be friend, foe, or a plain curiosity.

Belatedly, Hornet realizes that Quirrel didn't pay Shakra nearly enough for the extra materials– only the maps. She is halfway to fetching some more rosaries when Shakra waves her claw.

"There is no need, Child Wielding Needle," she says. "This is from one warrior to another."

Propriety strikes Quirrel right then and there as he's staring down at the cartography supplies. He must have not realized how little he was giving Shakra, Hornet thinks. His head snaps back up to Shakra as she rises to her full height.

"Oh! My apologies, Shakra, I didn't realize–"

Hornet cuts him off. "Thank you, Shakra. Your gesture does not go unappreciated; your aid is invaluable to us."

After the final pleasantries are traded– as well as Quirrel's hurried apologies and thanks, most likely to his great chagrin– Shakra leaves with a short farewell. Sherma does, too, clanging along to his own little song that he's made up about Shakra, Hornet, and Quirrel. His lyrics allude to something along the lines of a new, budding friendship, and all the trials they shall overcome on their own pilgrimages. Though Hornet has told everyone she's met so far that she is not a pilgrim, she somehow doesn't have the heart to tell Sherma otherwise.

Quirrel clearly isn't going to either, considering the way he waves happily goodbye to Sherma, wishing him luck on his journey to the Citadel.

Hornet is about to suggest that she and Quirrel similarly continue their journey before she realizes the weariness that has settled in her bones. If the day's pains weren't enough, she has been on her feet for far too long. The sporadic combat has not helped either.

"It would be wise to rest for a time," says Hornet. The area they are currently in seems homey enough, lifted above the rest of Bone Bottom with a good vantage point that Shakra seemed to admire. Hornet can understand why as its height keeps it above potential ground dangers while still being a firm location to spot from.

Quirrel's agreement is just as quick as Hornet expected.

 

 

Hornet dreams of silk, of memories, of faces hidden beneath ancient masks.

When she wakes, she forgets it all.

 

 

Waking comes with a groggy stretch, Hornet leaning back with her arms raised against the hard rock to get out all of the kinks stuck in her muscles. It doesn't help much, but it's better than remaining taut and sore.

Quirrel is not here when the last dregs of sleep leave her body. She finds him just below the outcropping, peering at the newly-built Wishwall. His claw goes to grab the few that are hanging there and it takes far too much to stop her sigh from coming out. They have far better things to be doing than accepting bugs' requests.

"How was your rest?" Quirrel asks as Hornet leaps down from above. She lands with a soft poomf against the stone, her legs bending to absorb the sound.

"Well enough. And yours?"

"As good as it could have been on rocks. Did you see the Wishwall? So many wishes just waiting to be granted…"

That sigh finally does release from Hornet. She gestures to Bone Bottom's exit toward The Marrow, saying, "We do not have endless time to be playing wish-makers. It is best to leave it to others of Pharloom."

"We will be returning to Bone Bottom often enough, no?" says Quirrel, question completely rhetorical. "I doubt any of the pilgrims here will be granting these wishes, so I say why don't we? If we are to be venturing around, it wouldn't hurt to be wish-makers along the way. It's convenient for everyone."

Hornet tries to scrounge for an excuse for them to not accept the requests. There are a fair number that immediately come to mind, with the most topical being that it's none of their business. They are not Pharloom's bugs– in fact, they are victims of some of its ill-minded citizens. There is no moral nor honourable reason for them, as strangers to the land, to have to do anything for its bugs.

They have a job to do. It is best to get it done as efficiently as possible.

Quirrel's eyes narrow at Hornet. Something flashes across them, quicker than a lightning strike.

"It is an action with no consequences. We are the only ones who can and will accept these wishes," says Quirrel. His eyes soften then with an expression that Hornet cannot place, a visage that is all too unfamiliar to her with its gentleness. "I say we, at least, try."

In the end, Hornet agrees, if only to placate Quirrel's arguments. She knows her path, and if Quirrel wishes to stray from it, then he may do so at his own leisure. It may be worth it to make some allies along the way to the Citadel as long as it doesn't hinder their progress,

Hm, yes. Allies– a very good consideration, in fact.

"Ah, and while we are on the topic of 'trying'," Quirrel says, jutting into Hornet's thoughts, "I would like to suggest something before we continue our journey."

"Yes?"

"Partnerships are best founded on efficient communication– it would help us greatly if we both kept our intentions clear when we intend to move."

Hornet can't tell if this was a lingering idea of Quirrel's, or if he genuinely just thought of it. It is hard to tell, but with the way it is worded, there is some potential for it to be the former. The idea wounds Hornet only minutely, for she is more than aware of her tendency to splinter off alone the moment she can. She is not unused to working alongside others– most assuredly not– but she has always found comfort in independence.

It is more than a bad habit to break. It is something woven into her, as sure as her silk. Still, she can acknowledge when her strengths become weaknesses.

 

 

Perhaps Quirrel was onto something when he mentioned that assisting others on the way was within their capabilities. For when they happened upon a caravan of fleas, Hornet's instinct was to agree to their retrieval– as long as it wasn't completely out of her way. She just found it so hard to say no to Mooshka, the caravan leader. The little fleas were just so…

Fluffy.

Quirrel's smug grin was enough for Hornet to keep mum on the entire subject while travelling through the rest of The Marrow. He may have tried to keep it hidden, but she could see the way he preened the moment Hornet told Mooshka that she would do her best to see the lost fleas recovered.

Every bug has their weakness, and Hornet is not so prideful to not admit that hers may come in the forms of those which are cute and soft to the touch. Anyways, the fleas' caravan may come in help later, although that rationalization came long after the agreement had already been made and Quirrel had his silent I-told-you-so from the sidelines.

His self-satisfaction dies off quite quickly the moment The Marrow's grey structures fade into more concrete walls and ceilings. Bone shifts to metal, hard wiring deep into the rusted surfaces that they pass through. Each step seems to bring them deeper into a mechanical maw made raw from years of wear, though the metal's strength seems to remain in it. Although, the constant squeaking from each of their footsteps seems to say otherwise.

And when the sights turn from simple metal structures to lava, Quirrel is wiped clean of smugness. Replaced in its wake is shock at the bubbling, boiling lava that faces them. It appears that they are now in Deep Docks.

Quirrel sets his quill to work the moment the bright, glowing light fills their vision. Shakra's sparse map is filled with the added detail of glugging lava, Quirrel's claw moving like a sharp breeze against the parchment. He notes and details the path that they took to get here before glancing back at the fiery pool.

There's really no choice for them– they must brave the crossing. With careful steps and leaps, they head up and over the lava, but not without plenty of warnings from Quirrel about where is best to step. Hornet's agreement to tell Quirrel of her next actions was more for him rather than her, although when she nearly places a foot on a particularly weak spot of metal, it is Quirrel's warning that prevents her from falling through.

"Careful," he says. "Here, this platform is firmer."

Hornet follows his guidance, heading upward and onward through the lava-infested area. When they reach solid ground, it is in a place that is rocky and less metallic with little juvenile ants flying about the air. Quirrel looks to the map and points to a lightly sketched section that looks particularly important.

"Was this not similar to the black structure you bound earlier?" he asks.

Is it. The diamond-esque shape, the way it crawls down through the ground and reaches high into the ceiling, it is exactly like it.

Hornet bends, preparing to leap for the next platform above them. Considering the map's path, it would be optimal to head directly up and then eastward, as the compass dictates. The enclosed spaces that Shakra drew seem to imply that there is combat to be expected above; considering the hostility that is evident through these lands thus far, such an area could prove deadly if uninformed and unprepared. But past that, it appears that there is less of that to worry about. At least, if the map is to be trusted, and it has been quite trustworthy in their short travels.

Suddenly, Hornet's legs lock. A memory bounces in her mind in that scholarly tone of Quirrel's, kind and guiding.

Hornet clears her throat and unlocks her position. She shifts back to her regular posture before pointing upward with a flick of her chin.

"We should investigate, then," she suggests. "If it is anything as useful as my silk spear, it shall be worth the diversion."

Quirrel's eyes flick to her knees before back up. His expression splits into a smile that he seems unable to contain.

"Of course. You lead the way, Hornet."

 

 

"Ready?"

"Quite."

He's taken a few steps back, but Quirrel is more than prepared with his parchment and quill. Anticipation fills his gaze as Hornet plunges her needle downward, the gaze of the Weaver stature chilling the shell upon her back. Even through her cloak, it seems like the Weaver can see straight through her. The sensation should be invading, but Hornet cannot think of a way that this wouldn't feel like stepping into a familiar home. The furniture may have changed, and the mantle may have new pieces on it, yet the structure is firmly rooted in a deep, immovable memory.

She begins to bind the power that lays within the Weaver's structure, silk flying about. It is a difficult process to bring forth so much power into one's shell; the pressure encircles her like an encroaching storm, the air becoming tighter and the atmosphere heavy. She strains with the binding as her silk flits around rapidly.

Hornet is unsure what the experience is like for other Weavers– full-blooded ones, her mind traitorously supplies– but binding has always been a process of fading in and out of the conscious realm, at least for her. There is much focus that must be put into it, which means that reality tends to become a hazy, faraway thing when silk is all but in her full sights. It is both a moment when she is at her most powerful and powerless.

That is probably why she does not notice Quirrel stopping in his scratching. Through the winds of silk, he is nothing but a fuzzy blur of grey. His blot becomes larger and larger as the binding lags on, the storm of silk a violent mass of sheer white encompassing Hornet.

And then– nothing.

And then– something.

The silk clears. The binding is complete, and within Hornet's shell, she feels a certain completeness. It is not dissimilar to when she gained her silk spear, the ancient act of launching her spinning threads in a frontal assault returning back to her.

Her feet feel lighter, her entire body a blitzing blur in the wind as she feels the ancestral art entering her bloodstream.

But she does not get to enjoy the feeling of remembrance because Quirrel's groan cuts through the sensation.

Quirrel is kneeling on the ground, clutching his right claw. His digits flex involuntarily as he hisses in pain. Hornet hurries to his side, concern filling her; interrupting her binding process is one thing, but attempting to enter it while nearing its end is another. The consequences– while not entirely deadly– can be dangerous for all of those involved.

Hornet takes his claw into hers, examining the wound. None have ever entered her binding storm before, but she can imagine the result is not nice. Her suspicions are confirmed when she checks the injury in full: it is similar to a burn, but with more cuts along it. His claw will heal in time, but they do not have that to spare when they both need to be in fighting shape.

"I am sorry," Hornet says. "I should have warned you of this as a possibility."

She knows it is not her fault, but the guilt eats at her all the same. Still, Quirrel confirms her knowledge, assuring her that there is no blame to be had.

"No, no, the fault lies with me. It seemed that you were in pain, and… well. Now I know not to do that again, hm?"

Quirrel's lightheartedness helps abate the guilt. But the only way Hornet knows how to completely assuage it is by acting. She takes her silk once more, wrapping the wound in layers of white thread. Eventually, Quirrel's claw is encased in it; hopefully, it will keep the burn and cuts clean and not prevent his grip on his nail.

He flexes his claw a few times.

"The pain is already fading," he says. "I have you to thank for my continued survival, Hornet."

"Please, I would have been the arbiter of its end if my binding were any more violent. If you require further silk, inform me and I shall wrap your wound once more."

Quirrel nods, climbing to his feet, but not without a sudden shudder overtaking his entire body. Hornet goes to hold him steady, grounding him before he can fall over.

Except, the shudder had nothing to do with his wound, nor pain. Instead, he takes a step, and then another. And then his legs take him across to the next platform, quicker than he ever was before.

From across the gap, he stares at Hornet.

Hornet stares back at him.

"I assume that was not supposed to happen," he says.

"I do not think so."

 

 

The next moment Hornet has to herself, she will ponder the implications of Quirrel being granted part of her ancestral Weaver abilities. But that moment will not be for some time as–

"Hornet, above you!"

– she is currently in the middle of a fight.

Their quarry is a haughty little bug that has a penchant to leap in the air and dive down with her pin, clearly preferring a fencing style of combat. She said her name was Lace, but Hornet could frankly care less when she has a bounding bug to deal with.

Lace launches into the air once more, her pin flitting in sharp jabs against Hornet's needle. Each parry forces Hornet further back to the platform's surrounding lava pit. It bubbles and boils below, the heat like a searing knife against bare flesh.

Quirrel manages to knock his nail between both pin and needle, forcing Lace to face him instead. She takes the challenge with a manic flash in her stance, pressing her quick attacks against the sturdy guard Quirrel has put up with his nail. While he holds his positioning, Hornet uses her distance to her advantage.

With the last of her silk, she launches a spear directly into Lace's back. She shrieks as the threads impale her, just barely avoiding reaching Quirrel at the opposite end of the platform. In her lapse, Quirrel grabs her arms, holding them behind her back to end the fight.

"Little spider," Lace spits, "and her sweet little guard. You know not what you face above, all the trouble and all the suffering."

"Cease your prattling," Hornet commands. "Your blade has spoken for itself."

Lace only smirks before kicking a leg backward. The action is more a distraction than outwardly combative as it makes both Quirrel and Hornet take a defensive stance, claws going back to their weapons at the ready. The loose hold is just what Lace needs to slip her cuffs, escaping up and away into Deep Docks' endless hidden pathways above.

Notes:

btw my tumblr is @moosegoosecaboose! i already post my other fanfic updates there so i'll probably do the same for this one :3

Chapter 5: perfect

Summary:

Fashion is forever, especially when it serves a practical purpose.

Notes:

i'm sure you can guess which npc hornet and quirrel are meeting in this chapter so here's my disclaimer before you read:

click here to reveal my bad memory with details

i completely forgot that you could just jump onto regular platforms to get to the seamstress' hut. therefore, her home looks a lot more like the pinstress' place with the whole pogo platforming. call it a creative difference, or call it what it is: my bad memory. you'll have to forgive me since i'm about sixty hours past that point in the game LOL.

anyway the chapter title is from "Perfect" by The Smashing Pumpkins!

Far Fields, a land of wild green. Encounters include haunted pilgrims– most likely not native to the fauna– small, black bugs with plants sprouting from the head, and a variety of warrior-bound ants. Land appears contrastingly harmless against Deep Docks and The Marrow. Caution remains advisable as the ants have proven to be formidable enemies.

Quirrel looks up from his notes, the last line of his sentence being slightly squished at the end. It's not very pleasant to scribble without a flat surface to write upon, but he's making do with what he has. If he was unable to chart any of Pharloom, then he would have called this trip one well wasted.

Beside Far Fields' description, he includes a small sketch of what seems to be air geysers that are spitting from the ground. Stepping through them does no harm to a sturdy enough bug, but the windstream is extremely strong. For those with wings, it would be enough to shoot them to the top of the caverns.

Hornet stands before one of them, which is seemingly blocked. She pokes and prods at the surface with her needle, a little clink-clink coming from the steel clanking against the stone.

Unbidden, Quirrel's claw begins to draw what he sees. Yes, there is the platform and the gusty wind that spits from it, but that is hardly the subject of the sketch. Hornet stands before the scene, an arm raised to fend off the incoming breeze, her cloak slightly flying in the updraft.

The sketch is only rudimentary. Really, it's just a few scribbly lines and a figure that looks vaguely like Hornet. And yet, Quirrel can't help but see more life in it than in his portraits of the flora he's chronicled so far. Perhaps it is the fact that the drawing's subject is in action, moving rather than in its static state.

Just above Hornet and her windswept cloak is Lace, the curious silk-white bug that squealed a little too much during the fight for Quirrel's liking. Her pin shined bright in the lava's glow, and its pricking-point was even sharper than it looked in the glint. Quirrel's done his best to capture on parchment the mania in her figure. Although, the shape of her head isn't something he can get quite right. The drawn Lace will have to settle for a strangely-shaped crescent head for now.

Quirrel quickly shoves his sketch of Hornet to the bottom of his parchment pile when she returns to him. A look of harried annoyance crosses her as she points with a jabbing finger back to the geyser.

"I don't believe we'll be making it up this way," she huffs. "Without wings, we are grounded."

"I am sure we'll find a way around it. Plenty of other bugs without wings must have made it to the Citadel," he says. The parchment feels heavy in his grasp, that last page crunched beneath his grip. He hopes he isn't crumpling his sketches.

Unfortunately– or fortunately, in any other situation– Hornet's eye is keen, and even keener when Quirrel least wishes it to be. Her gaze immediately snaps onto the parchment when the crackle of of it echoes off the stone walls, far louder than even the rushing winds. For more than a few moments, Quirrel thinks she's going to demand to see what he's hiding.

But, is there any reason to hide it? Any reasonable bug would say no. All that is on the page are some descriptions of Far Fields and drawings to go with them, although there is one that has a focus on a subject not from Pharloom. Useless when chronicling a land unknown, and therefore worthy of chastisement from one that would care only for the practical. Ergo, his need to hide the parchment away.

That's definitely the reason why.

Luckily, Hornet's suspicion fades as she turns back to the path. She waves for Quirrel to follow, which he dutifully does while going back to writing down everything he sees.

There are more platforms to cross, eyes locked on the lava that bubbles beneath the small, stone platforms that bob slightly whenever any weight is pressed upon them. Like the gentle, lapping waves of a lakeside, the lava spits upward where Quirrel steps. He swallows his fear as Hornet carefully navigates the way forward, sparing a cursory glance to a large automaton that haunts the stonework behind them.

The thing is huge and hulking. Thankfully, it is unmoving with dimmed eyes; no light can be seen in its structure, a pin shoved between the crook of its shoulder and head, buried deep within its neck. Quirrel guesses it is some kind of key or stopping mechanism, and thanks his lucky stars that it isn't currently working. The last thing they need is lava and a giant robot to contend with.

Let us simply say that Quirrel is glad that the Bellways exist. With any luck, there will similarly be one in Far Fields and they won't have to jump across any more lava like stones skidding upon water.

The areas seem to blend into one another in Far Fields. It lacks the lushness of Mosshome, but it's not quite like the grey of The Marrow. Instead, there is a distinct wildness that it exudes, as if the untamed grasses themselves could speak to their utter freedom. Through another archway, the two make their way into a place filled with blocked geysers and strange hanging balloons.

These patchwork things appear light and thin, but placing a claw against them speaks otherwise. They are made of a thick material, seemingly something that would weigh them down quite heavily. And yet, they float.

Above it all is a large, hovering structure made of a multitude of platforms and a woven cloth roof. Its red colouring is a stark contrast to all the grey and green, this bright splash of vibrancy against the muted shades that surround it. It almost looks like an oversized hut. Quirrel scribbles a quick drawing of it, just a few dashed lines that create the circular thing on parchment.

Currently, they stand at the top of an outcropping. The only way down is either to scale the walls or jump down, both avenues that Quirrel finds subpar. Why can't there be a staircase– or a ladder? Or– and this is revolutionary– connecting platforms that would lead to the central hut? It would save his knees the work.

Hornet is unfazed by it all. She asks before rearing back, her needle at the ready, "Do you have much experience jumping upon such bulbs?"

"No?"

At least, he doesn't think so. All that memory loss doesn't do good for the mind, and even if some of them are slowly returning, he has absolutely no recollection of jumping on inflated balls.

"Then I shall scout ahead. Wait here; I will return in a moment."

Hornet launches herself, cloak flying in the wind, to the balloon. Quirrel is halfway to grabbing her back to safe land when she aims her needle in a diagonal, downward strike, bouncing herself off the bulbs in a dizzying flip. She repeats the motion on the next, and then the next, twirling in the air like some kind of acrobat.

Having that skill tracks for her, considering her fighting style. Always jumping, always flying, she's got a penchant for remaining airborne as opposed to planted on the ground. While Quirrel isn't a stranger to moving in such ways, it's just not his way to be so agile. Maybe when he was younger sure, but…

Well. Age has a way of keeping one to the floor. He wonders if his new abilities– the ones that Hornet unintentionally granted upon him– will help in his old combat skills, the ones he could manage when he was a bit more limber. He looks to the silk that wraps his claw and imagines the way Hornet tied it tight around the burn. The pain has long abated, and yet it still sizzles with something strange beneath it, eating into his veins and flaring his blood.

Describing it that way makes it sound malicious. The sensation is anything but, and yet Quirrel doesn't know what to make of it. He shakes the thought away and watches as Hornet dances along the air and lands on the platform that leads to the structure's central opening.

Her head dips into the entrance momentarily before popping back out. She jumps back across the bulbs and lands in front of Quirrel.

"There is a Seamstress inside. She said we are welcome to rest in her home, and even offered her assistance in our quest."

What luck! Allies may be far and few in between in Pharloom, so it's best to take every chance they get.

"Marvelous! Does she know of a path to the Citadel, or…?"

"If only we could be so fortunate. No, she did not mention any of that sort. In fact, she said to bring my companion over so that she may inform us both."

Now, here's the thing: Quirrel is a warrior– at least by the barest definitions. He's been trained well in the art of wielding a nail and knows how to strike his opponents optimally. Such heavy-set weapons are particularly good for knocking back foes, and he's always made that part of his style whenever he's been forced to take up arms. It's not like he's incapable or lacking in battle-knowledge.

But more importantly, Quirrel is a warrior second to his title of scholar. To make the old adage true: he's a lover, not a fighter. He'd much rather be in the field analyzing every little thing as opposed to being in the arena, where he supposes that's where Hornet would prefer.

This is all a long-winded way of excusing the fact that Quirrel is not confident he can literally bounce from one bulb to another just by swinging his nail. He could probably do it in battle, but never has it called for him to flip in the air just to gain enough momentum to reach the next enemy. There's always been a soft landing, flat ground, or the enemy's head constantly below him to repeat the action. He wonders if he could dash all the way across the bulbs instead, jumping with just his dexterity to reach the other end.

"It is simple," Hornet says, perhaps noticing Quirrel's hesitance. "Simply aim your nail below you after jumping, and then swing."

"Is there a certain technique you use?"

Hornet tilts her head. "I do not believe so."

Fantastic.

"How about your movement?"

She shrugs. "I pull my body inward."

Quirrel sighs.

"Have you ever been an instructor, Hornet?"

"No. Hallownest's protection has kept me more than preoccupied."

Why did he even bother asking?

There's a few moments of back-and-forth between them, with Hornet providing a mostly unhelpful example as she twirls in the air above the floating things. Her precision with a needle is unmatched, but it is more than clear that she is no talented teacher. Quirrel only becomes more confident that he's going to swing, hit the bulb, and then miss the next jump over. His new speed notwithstanding, he's just never been asked to perform a circus act just to cross a gap. And Hornet's sparse, non-descriptive advice makes everything even hazier.

It's not like he has much choice in getting across. Quirrel shakes the nervous tension from his shoulders, letting a calm swoop over him. Although it's a false calm, sometimes one has to fake a feeling just to convince their body that everything's going to work out.

He leans back, just like Hornet did earlier, and then leaps. His nail comes swinging down first in a large arc, propelling him upward.

Good, first hurdle conquered. All he has to do is dash to the next, hit it again, and then land on the platform.

All goes well as his new speed launches him forward and he hits the next bulb. He flies up into the air, tucks his body as best he can, and then flits over to the platform.

Of course, he's just a hair short of landing on it. That coveted hard ground suddenly drifts by him as he misses it, falling past the wooden slats and hurtling toward a quite painful splat to the hard stone below.

Hornet reaches out to him, grabbing his claw before he can fall even more– but she can only reach so far. She leans past the platform's edge until she, too, is past its edge and falling with him, now both of them flying down together into a painful heap.

A flash of gold, a whip of weaponry, and Hornet stops falling.

The both of them look up.

"Enough of your squabbling, you two!"

Above them, leaning over the platform, is a cloaked bug wielding a pin, its curved hilt looped around Hornet's middle. Hornet dangles from the hold, chained to Quirrel by their claws. The bug pulls the two of them up as they hold the pin's blade, a single arm tugging them to safety.

Quirrel's had enough of falling down holes or otherwise. So, he's rather glad when his feet find stable footing once more and thanks the gods that he's not currently a bug-shaped hole in the ground.

His claw still feels warm. For a moment, he thinks it's the silk seeping into him again, but it's just–

Hornet releases her grip from him. Quirrel dismisses their continued hold on the adrenaline, the confirmation of a solid landing, and the fact that they're in an unfamiliar situation and looking for some kind of familiarity in exchange.

Right, anyways.

"My thanks– I assume you are the Seamstress?" asks Quirrel.

"Yes, yes, come inside."

Introductions are exchanged and seats are taken in the Seamstress' floating abode. It's a cozy little place that's heaped with pincushions and fabric; plenty of sewing pins are tucked into the plump holders, but the way the Seamstress held the blade of her pin weapon tells Quirrel that she's no stranger to bloodshed. There's a proper and improper way of grasping one's blade, and she was certainly doing it with a learned temper.

The Seamstress sits at her loom, which takes up the majority of one side of her home. She has a claw on the strings, but doesn't make any move to continue her work. Instead, speaks on and on about the Citadel and her distaste for it, those who hang high above Pharloom in their gilded cradle and its dregs reaching only the bottom.

"I've no love for that holy caste above, and I do worry for this kingdom's ailing state. If you're seeking to settle a score, perhaps I can lend some aid?"

"That would be appreciated, Seamstress. What would you have us do in return?" Hornet asks.

The two of them are dispatched to procure a number of flexible spines from a certain type of bug. What the Seamstress will do with them, Quirrel has not a clue, but he trusts that she will work some kind of cloth wonder with her skills on the loom.

Only, the moment that Quirrel rises to head out, Hornet holds a claw up.

"I believe we may find it a speedier process if only I go to harvest the spines," she says. "Considering the way to get there and back."

The statement stings, although its truth is real enough. It is less the feeling of inadequacy and more the idea that they're functioning less like a unit. Even if Hornet is more than happy to go and complete this alone, teams seldom split unless there is an apt reason. Perhaps, to Hornet, this is applicable enough, but Quirrel would be the first to suggest that this is the optimal time for a learning experience. There is a safety net waiting right inside this hut with her pin, and yet…

Quirrel agrees. Call him a people-pleaser, a doormat, whatever– he has a feeling insisting will merely lead to an argument that he doesn't exactly want to put on display for a stranger. If Hornet wants to prioritize efficiency, he won't step in between that. For now.

Hornet blitzes off into Far Fields, bouncing along and heading through the archway into the next area over. Far Fields has, so far, been quite docile compared to other parts of Pharloom, so he's not worried that Hornet cannot handle herself. He hates waiting around while others do the work, though.

He takes a seat on one of the plump cushions in the Seamstress' hut. She hasn't yet returned to her work. Instead, she's eyeing Quirrel up with a curious glance.

"Keeping quiet, are you?" she asks.

"I'm sorry," Quirrel says, "but I'm not sure what you mean?"

"Don't be so dull, child–" again, with the 'child'– "I know you are more than capable of gathering spines, too."

Yes, he's plenty capable of doing a menial task. The only issue is that he still doesn't know how far he's able to push against Hornet; they've been congenial so far with each other with little disagreement, but that's most likely because they've still got their feelers out for one another. There's a hesitance one has when working alongside someone new, a bug who's barely an acquaintance. You want to be polite. You want to be considerate. But you also need to know how much you can argue without fracturing the relationship completely.

As of now, Quirrel has no idea. Hornet holds her stoicism close to her chest as she was raised well and deep into that knighted heart of hers. Though she may have the lacy title of princess, her royal pedigree means nothing when she's on the battlefield. Straight to the point and pragmatic, she brooks absolutely no quarter for those she supposedly deems incapable. That's not to say that she's heartless– no. She's just… independent.

Painfully so, Quirrel thinks.

"Of course," Quirrel answers. "Hornet is only the faster of us two, and so it makes more sense for her to collect them."

"And what– you will sit and wait?"

"Well–"

Getting chastised wasn't exactly on Quirrel's to-do list today, but he supposes it is now. The Seamstress rises from her loom with her claws on her hips. She looks down at Quirrel sat upon the cushion before waving him outside.

"You seem a clever type. The quill and parchment on you tells me much of your own preferences to pen than blade. A learned fellow, are you?"

"As learned as the next bug."

"Humble, too! Come, Scholar, you should know as much as your companion. I won't have you dying anytime soon– especially before I give you quite the advantage."

Quirrel follows her, definitely more than bit confused at the sudden action. She stands at the edge of her hut's platform before pointing at the bulbs, which are quickly becoming Quirrel's least favourite part of Pharloom's architecture.

"Your companion leaves much to her instruction," says the Seamstress, "but not all of us are suited for such roles. Either way, you'll need to know how to conquer her aerial moves if you're to make it up and onward."

"Are you of such temperament?" asks Quirrel.

"Somewhat. I have long set down my pin, but I cannot sit idly by when two warriors come along to challenge the caste. I will teach you how to navigate Pharloom's dextrous puzzles, as well as something that will put you alongside the your companion."

 

 

By the time Hornet returns, Quirrel is panting and leant over his nail. The Seamstress looks mightily pleased with herself, though, and so Quirrel thinks that he's been a good student under her tutelage.

Hornet looks between the two of them standing outside of the hut. She has a bundle of spines in her claws, tied together with a single strand of silk. Shrugging, she strides into the hut just as the Seamstress leads all of them back inside, setting straight to work on her loom.

"Your cloak, Hunter. And your kerchief, Scholar."

Quirrel looks pointedly away when Hornet disrobes. The air feels far warmer than it was before, but Quirrel just attributes that to his antennae being bare to the world. Everything feels just a bit more when they're out and about, anyways.

Quick as a whip, the Seamstress gets to work. It takes only a handful of minutes before she's completed her creations, handing over the pieces of clothing with reverence.

Taking back his kerchief, the first thing Quirrel notices about it is its stiffness. Well, maybe 'stiff' isn't the best word to describe it. The material now has a flexible boning woven through it, giving it more structure than the simple cloth it initially was. Bending it one way or another provides a modicum of resistance. It makes it more like a hat rather than just a paltry covering for his head.

"Thank you, Seamstress," Hornet says as she dresses. The cloak slides into place, looking a little more structured than before. "These will surely serve us well as we approach the Citadel."

"You're quite welcome, dear. I've rare opportunity to practice such intricate sewing, and a warrior sort like you two will be able to properly appreciate my additions. Float away now, stray ones, and do try not to die. I'd rather not have my hard work go to waste. That goes doubly for you, Scholar."

The Seamstress points a sharp claw at Quirrel, to which he nods and smiles at. He'll certainly be putting her teaching to good use now that he's able to manage some more aerial designs like Hornet. He may never be as graceful as her, but he can certainly keep up now.

Hornet spares them a quizzical glance before saying her farewells. Only, the moment she gets a foot past the door, the Seamstress speaks again.

"Just a moment, dear, before you scurry off! I'm loath to spoil the surprise, but curiosity begs me to ask. Do you know why they pursue you? Those Citadel bugs?"

"My silk, I presume. From the land's accursed strands, it seems that Pharloom's bugs desire my ability to weave it so."

"Ah-ha! Truth, no doubt! In Pharloom, yours is a rare skill, prized beyond measure, to channel one's soul within a thread. Soul and Silk are inseparably linked. It is a skill almost lost from Pharloom. Those old Weavers shared it, but they're long dead now."

With that, the Seamstress dismisses them, saying that she'd rather not have the Citadel's ire pointed upon her home. Hornet and Quirrel leave promptly, both toying with their newly-sewn clothing.

The two of them look upward to where the air geysers spit torrents of wind. One stands just a ledge away, leading to a vantage that will take them upward as long as they unblock each of the other geysers.

"Are we meant to ride the winds with these?" asks Hornet. She flares out her cloak as the pleats straighten out into a bulbous shape, making her look only slightly like a walking pincushion.

Quirrel keeps that thought to himself as he approaches the geyser. He takes his kerchief in his claws and holds it over the vent, expecting the thing to expand with air. It certainly does that and then some as he's suddenly whisked up the draft, claws gripping tightly to the corners of his kerchief like his life depends on it.

And to be fair– it kind of does.

He flies upward to the next ledge over where another geyser glugs an air stream.

"It certainly looks like it!" Quirrel calls from the ledge.

Hornet launches herself into the stream, shooting her upward like a dart, precise and quick. Her cloak expands into a balloon-like shape as she floats down to where Quirrel is, looking a little like the adrenaline's gone to her head.

 

 

After a few stops (finding the Bellway, meeting Mort the highway robber– 30 rosaries per entry? Really?) Hornet and Quirrel burst through the top of Far Fields to find the bottom of a rainy land above the depths of Pharloom.

Dark, dreary, and damp, Quirrel is struck with the memory of being in the City of Tears. While those ancient towers had all the beauty that old civilizations still standing have, this new, wetter area of Pharloom strikes Quirrel as dilapidated. Everything seems just a little worn down, quite especially the broken bells scattered about the area, as well as the cracking platforms that hang above where they've landed.

Not far from their landing spot, they already spot a familiar face. There, sitting beneath a makeshift tent, is Shakra. Under the cover, she scribbles away at another map. She glances up as she hears the two of them approaching.

"Child Wielding Needle, Child Wielding Nail. It is good to see your aspects still sharp," she greets.

"As are yours," says Hornet.

Maps are traded, parchment supplies are refilled, and Shakra hands them some advice.

"Heed a warning: many fierce bugs roost nearby. On the lake beyond this cave nest a ragged horde atop an old watermound. Their mastery of flight makes them dangerous. My shell will forever carry the score of their pins. If you're seeking a safer path, head back, toward this land's core."

Being that Shakra is a respectable warrior, Hornet and Quirrel defer to her advice and head the opposite direction. Not back to Pharloom's core, but just the other way so that they can get the lay of the land before taking on the flying creatures. Quirrel's eyes drag along the half-finished map, spotting a few points of interest that they should definitely investigate before moving to the next. Most interestingly, there is another Weaver structure above what Shakra has titled "Craw Lake."

They fight their way through a few more cursed pilgrims, putting down those who cannot upend themselves from such sordid misery. Quirrel thinks he won't ever get used to the feeling of looking into a dead bug's eyes, lifeless, soulless, and cleaving them with his nail. Perhaps it is a good thing he will be forever uncomfortable by the action and thought– it is best to hold those feelings fast lest one becomes callous to others' plights.

There is a thankful sight on the other side of the dead pilgrims, though. Through the darkness, light pours from glass windows on a building. If Quirrel were to hazard a guess, it looks much like an inn.

"What a find!" Quirrel exclaims, heading straight for the door. His foot hits the pressure plate, opening the entrance with a heavy clunk. The warmth that floods the doorway is like coming home to a full meal, a soft bed, and pleasant company. There truly is nothing better than the simple creature comforts of a hearth and all its benefits.

Quirrel steps into the heat, basking in the dim lights and quiet chatter. It's almost better than a hot spring after a long day of walking.

Unfortunately, he only gets to enjoy it for a split moment before Hornet strides past him, heading for the opposite exit with a focused gait.

"Wait– Hornet," Quirrel calls. "Do you not want to rest? We've made it to an inn of all places!"

"We have ventured not far today," she answers from the doorway, half her body already out into the cold. "We should continue forth before bedding down."

"We've come quite far, though," he says, "though Deep Docks, all of Far Fields, and now Greymoor. It wouldn't hurt to take a moment to breathe."

Hornet frowns. "We took our rest in the Seamstress' hut. Quirrel, if you wish to remain in the inn, then please abide by that desire. I will continue forward and report back once I am done."

There it is again– that all-encompassing independence of hers. Quirrel is surer than ever that she was a difficult hatchling, always wandering off and out of any adult supervision. And as a young one, it may have been sweet– if not a little concerning– but as a grown bug, it becomes a source of friction for those who are trying to work alongside her.

Quirrel's own flexibility gives way once more, bending like a branch beneath the weight of a bug. But one can only fold so far until they snap, and Quirrel is sure he's going to hit that point sooner than later.

"Okay," he placates, his back warmed by the soft heat of the inn, "okay. I would rather you not go alone since we know so little about Greymoor itself. Let us continue."

Hornet brightens at that and they set out once again.

 

 

They shouldn't have continued.

"Do you ever know when to quit?!"

"No, I don't believe so!"

Quirrel definitely should have argued far harder back at the inn for them to take a damn break because now he has Hornet in a hold, claw gripping her so that she can't go scrambling back to challenge that giant mite-beast.

"Release me, Quirrel! We only need to take him down to–"

"There is no reason for us to continue, Hornet! We are clearly at a disadvantage here; regrouping is our best option, lest we wish a complete defeat at the claws of a mite."

While Quirrel wouldn't describe their time in Pharloom so far as difficult, he can certainly apply that definition now. Most of the foes they've fought were pilgrims, bugs of their own size, but now a behemoth of a mite wishes to face them. Hornet is obviously not at her full strength as of now, and Quirrel doesn't regularly take up the nail against such beasts, so they're at somewhat of a stalemate with this bug.

Stubborn Hornet still wants to face it, though.

"It's–"

"You–"

"Would you listen to me?! Throwing ourselves over and over again at a quarry we know nothing about will only lead to defeat!"

"And we shan't know anything about our quarry if we never attempt to fight it!"

"We have!" Quirrel exclaims. "We have, and we've lost! Over and over again. Battling one opponent indefinitely is simply trapping yourself in limbo– we need to recoup."

Hornet struggles, though her shaking limbs begin to abate into stillness. Her head hangs as she stares unerringly toward the docks where the mite-beast will swoop down to claw at them with its talons. If Quirrel didn't know any better, he'd think she'd be growling right about now.

He loosens his grip on her in slow movements. In hindsight, this was the incorrect thing to do– but Quirrel has had a lot of would've, could've, and should've's in his life, so this one isn't much different from all the other ones he's experienced so far. Hornet breaks off his hold the moment his claw releases her, bolting off toward the docks with a shocking single-mindedness.

The beast swings down from the rafters, crying out as it locks onto Hornet.

Her needle glints in the rain, slicking her movements as she jumps toward the mite; she dives her needle downward into its skull, bouncing off it with far less precision than Quirrel knows of her. A lack of focus has threaded its way into her moves, and she will pay for it dearly if he allows it to continue.

Groaning, he runs into the fight. Nail at the ready, he parries the beast's unending flurry of claws, holding his defense for as long as he can before his stamina breaks. When the storm ends, Hornet is still slashing the beast from behind, attempting to jump and dash atop of it.

She misses her landing, instead falling to the ground as the beast unleashes a torrent of discs from its talons, curling up and around Hornet.

Quirrel dives in without thinking; for once, he lets his body work on pure instinct as he shoves Hornet aside before the discs can hit her prone body. Yet still, the beast dives for them, now grouped together.

A lesson is best applied immediately after learning it, so as to keep it fresh in the mind. What a perfect chance this is for Quirrel to put the Seamstress' move into action as he leaps high into the air and slams his nail down into the beast's head, driving harshly into the ground and pinning the mite into stunned submission. He does it just as the Seamstress taught him– rise up, and fall straight. Use gravity to your advantage and propel yourself downward with all your strength. It is move meant for precise action, and a way to nail one's quarry to the ground and render them momentarily immobile while stuck on your blade.

He has a choice now: either continue the fight, or run.

He runs, obviously. There is no shame in leaving a fight when your enemy is clearly still kicking and ready to kill and you are more than just a little injured and aching. He grabs Hornet by the arm and drags her away from the docks, flying up the windstream and back into the rain above.

The walk back to the inn is silent, marred by both argument and anger. To be fair, Quirrel isn't angry at Hornet; but she certainly may be at him. Whether she is or not isn't Quirrel's concern at this point. He just wanted, and wants, them to stay alive.

He probably shouldn't have yelled, though. He was taught far better than that.

"Hornet," Quirrel says as they head into the inn, the cold slowly being drained from their bodies and replaced with the soft, comfortable heat, "I apologize for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming of me to act so rashly, but I only want us to avoid danger when we can."

They retreat to the bench stationed above one of the doorways, Hornet's head hung low. While the atmosphere is heavy between them, neither are quite the type to stay silent when faced with such issues.

"No, no," Hornet says as she takes a seat. "I should be the one to apologize. What I did was rash, irresponsible; long have I kept such fervour under wraps, but I suppose natures long buried are wont to appear when least expected. I am just unused to…"

She trails off, and then waves a claw. Around her, between the two of them, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder.

"All of this."

To her credit, Hornet does look genuinely ashamed. Her shoulders are pulled tightly inward, claws sitting upon her lap as she toys with the edge of her cloak. She pulls at the spines along its inner lining before letting them bounce back.

"No harm done," Quirrel says. Then, he bumps her shoulder with his. "We are a team. I will be there to pull you from danger, your voice of infinite wisdom and knowledge."

Hornet chuckles at that. "Yes, we are. I apologize beforehand if I do anything similar later in this journey."

"Let's just cross that bridge if we get there."

They take their chance to recover from the fight and will recoup after some much-needed rest. Such a fight requires time to mull over, adjust their strategies and whatnot. Quirrel jots some ideas down on his parchment as Hornet fiddles with her needle, cleaning it of blood, but it isn't long until he's nodding off and falls asleep against the back wall.

When he wakes, it's to the soft sound of a glass clinking against a table. His neck feels all kinked up from sleeping sitting upright, but at least he isn't cold. The warmth of the inn has soothed most of his aching muscles.

Below, Hornet sits against a bar where behind the innkeeper quietly cleans glasses. She brings her own glass to her mouth and sips a thick-looking liquid, viscous beyond belief. Satisfaction melts across her when her drink is emptied, which is promptly filled by the innkeeper.

Quirrel makes his way down slowly, padding across the floor to sit next to her at the bar. She glances from her drink and then to him.

"Have a fruitful rest?"

"Yes, though I wouldn't say no to more sleep. Have you found yours yet?"

Hornet wavers for a moment before mumbling, "No. Not yet."

Quirrel gestures to her glass, which looks far too heavy for his tastes. The liquid doesn't even slosh when she brings the now-full drink to her mouth again, sipping silently.

"Is your drink helping? It looks quite sleep-inducing."

Hornet nudges her glass over to him

"Try it, if you'd like. You may find it overly sweet, depending on your tastes."

With only a hint of suspicion, Quirrel tries the drink. Immediate regret washes over him when the sheer saccharine hits his tongue, an overwhelming sweetness taking over his senses. It isn't a normal amount of sweet– no, this is an obscene amount of sugar soaked into the drink. No wonder it looked so thick from afar; it's basically honey!

His look of both astonishment and disgust must be terribly clear because Hornet begins to laugh. It's not a chuckle or a polite giggle. No, this is a full-bodied laugh, brimming with joviality and humour.

Quirrel's astonishment only grows when Hornet takes the glass back and takes a long swig of it. She downs the entire thing and waves the innkeeper for another refill.

"It grows on you," Hornet says between her sips.

"And how long does that take?"

"An entire childhood."

Notes:

one more thing... also forgot you had to fight the fourth chorus to get to up to greymoor. that fight is absolutely a cloak float tutorial anyways so i discarded it out of laziness because i wrote this whole chapter in one sitting and didn't want to put another fight scene in it lololol.

Chapter 6: eiffeltornet

Summary:

Hornet considers Quirrel and the rain, the flooding rain.

Notes:

content warning: discussion of suicide

this chapter is heavily inspired by the song it's named after. although it's technically about being insanely jealous over your partner to the point that you'll throw yourself off the eiffel tower to prove a point, i'm more thinking of its chorus that goes "I'm going to jump off the Eiffel Tower if you let me down / Because I will take revenge if I am left alone without you". it's a great song, but obviously mind the suicide warning above!

also, i've been lifting dialogue from the game for certain sections of this fic. do fic writers still have to give "i don't own this" warnings or are we past that point?

and a final point, i've bumped up the fic's rating to "mature" due to... not PG13 thoughts... because i can't help myself and hornet's a grown woman who is allowed to be a little freaky if she feels like it. nothing explicit, tho (sorry lol!).

chapter title comes from Ted Gärdestad's "Eiffeltornet"!

Hornet wakes with the taste of nectar on her tongue, and a warmth surrounding her shoulders and body. And a terrible ache in her back, but that's mostly notwithstanding as her head rises from the bar.

She shakes the sleep from her body. It doesn't fall as quickly as she prefers it to, but it gradually fades into a quiet drowsiness in the back of her mind. Looking around, she spies the innkeeper– Creige, he mentioned– fiddling with some of the casks that are squirreled away in the back of the building, humming along to a tune Hornet can't place. Her glass sits empty next to where her head was resting, crystal-clean and devoid of any nectar.

The taste still lingers, that longing sweetness of a time long-gone.

Hornet pushes herself up, lifting from her seat when she realizes that something's fallen to the ground. She swivels and sees a pile of patchwork fabric pooled next to her barstool– a blanket. It was most likely the source of the warmth around her, as in its absence she feels a chill slowly making its way into her core.

She fetches it from the ground and brings it to Creige. He turns at the sound of her footsteps, taking the tattered cloth with a thanks.

"Thank you, Creige. I did not realize I had fallen asleep right at the bar," she says.

Creige just shakes his head and tosses the blanket into the far corner. "Wasn't me, Miss. Your mate–"

"– not my mate–"

"– asked if I had anything for you. Thought it was warm enough in here, but hey, whatever keeps your lover warm, right?"

Hornet deadpans him.

Creige stares.

"… Right," Creige coughs. "Anyway, he's just outside right now. He was just talking to the little bug upstairs, strange thing."

Hornet slinks out of the inn without a farewell, hitting the pressure plate with a bit too much force. When the door opens, she's greeted by Greymoor's constant rain, the pitter-patter a familiar sound that reminds her unwittingly of the City of Tears. How fitting, she thinks, that her journey has lead her to a place of such nostalgia.

Sitting at the edge of the dock is Quirrel, who now has a journal in his claws. The thing is already overflowing with untethered parchment, sketches and notes of all kinds from his observations of Pharloom. From behind him, Hornet can catch the slightest of glimpses of what he's currently working on.

The figure upon the page is fairly familiar. She can see the flit of cloak, pleats sketched inexpertly in ways that don't exactly make sense in the material world. There's the curvature of her head, smooth lines fading into a frown she's oft worn.

Hornet isn't a stranger to admirers. Why, she can hazard a number a guesses, but she doesn't care to linger on the thought very long when there are so many other things to be concerned about. She has had her claw taken, she has been wooed; she has laid upon silken sheets and flirted and kissed; but all of it had been– rudimentary. That is the best word she can describe it with: rudimentary.

Perhaps she's looking into this too much. If Quirrel wishes to sketch the closest subject to him, then that is all. He writes, he draws; a muse is simply the font of inspiration from which the artist siphons upon. He may draw her all she wishes, as long as it remains respectable.

Besides the sketched Hornet is the curved figure of Lace, that little maniac. It looks like a scene of them fighting in Deep Docks from Quirrel's vantage on the other side of the platform, Lace's back to him and Hornet's face toward the centre.

Except, Lace's head doesn't look quite right. Was it really that lopsided?

Still, it is… nice, Hornet thinks, to see him doing something so mundane as drawing while in Pharloom. Though there has been fire and blood, there is something comforting in the normal. Here they are, at the edge of a dock, after having a quiet night in the warmth of a hearth and company.

Eventually, Quirrel sets his quill down and stops his writing, his sketching. The ink has long dried on the parchment and there is so much space left to fill. Before Hornet imagines that he is about to start again, he just lets out a long sigh and gazes out at the fathoms of water before him. He may be sitting beneath the inn's awning, but his legs are just out of reach; soaked beneath the rain, they are mere steps away from skidding along the water's surface.

He doesn't draw, nor does he write, for some time. Hornet just stands there, staring, as Quirrel's focus is completely consumed by the shifting waves. Ripples scatter out from the rain, but as mesmerizing as they are, Hornet has a feeling that that's not why Quirrel is so rapt by the drowning puddles.

A distant memory arises in her head, though its distance isn't quite as far as some of her others. She recalls the rush of speed against her shell, the dampness of her cloak, and the weight of Quirrel in her arms as she heaved him through Blue Lake's placid waters. Her mouth over his, breathing life back into him, pressing against his back to expel any leftover liquid clogging in his system. The relief she felt when he came to was as usual– just another Hallownest denizen saved by her claws.

She doesn't know much about Quirrel, as a bug. In her youth, she had occasionally visited the Dreamers, hung from the back of their cloaks and clicked her claws against their masks in childlike curiosity. But it was Monomon the Teacher whom she visited the least, and found her to be the most intimidating. Hornet is not afraid to admit that she had never been the best student in subjects other than combat, and she always half-expected a scolding from Monomon whenever she was dragged to the Archives by her handlers.

Of course, Monomon was always sweet and kind. In the very depths of Hornet's memory, she can recall a small student the Teacher often had by her side, one that liked to cling as best he could to her tentacles. He was young, though just slightly older than Hornet, and was terribly, horribly, and wrenchingly shy. He never spoke, simply hiding and waiting until those who weren't his Teacher to leave them be.

On one occasion when Monomon and Hornet's handler had left for a moment to check something, the student and Hornet were left alone in the Archives. The student had held his head down, dusting the shelves quietly while Hornet was tearing them off the wall in search of… something. Probably a text on how best to slash a needle. Hesitantly, the student had asked her to stop, if it would please her, princess, and Hornet had merely continued her search.

It wasn't until he found the text for her that Hornet had halted in her destruction.

When her handler and Monomon returned, the Archives were a mess. They were both quick to notice the decimation specifically surrounding Hornet. There were piles of journals, parchment, and vellum; scrolls and inkwells dashed along the ground, and Hornet at the centre of it all with a mischievous little glint in her eye. But even at that young age, she quickly realized her mistake and the incoming scolding she was about the receive.

Hurriedly, she turned to the student, only to see hear him speak before she could. She thought for a moment that he was about to spill the ugly truth, but something else– something amazing– happened.

"My Lady, please forgive my mistake," he said, his head bowed and claw to his chest. "Princess Hornet wished for a text that I could have sworn we had still, and in my overzealous search I have torn the Archives asunder. I will clean it immediately."

Monomon and Hornet's handler didn't believe him for a second and Hornet was swiftly– and rightfully– saddled with the mess' blame. Still, Hornet never forgot Monomon's student that had covered for her, shouldering what he knew was a long time of cleanup and lectures from those around him. He was just some student, and she the Princess of Hallownest.

It's not until now that Hornet thinks of that moment, the selflessness in that young student, that it was Quirrel. Whether he remembers it or not, she has not a whit; but she had never let that moment escape her memory. It was a lesson not in just humility, but also responsibility– even if her juvenile brain could scarcely comprehend the ramifications of such an instance at that moment.

"Oh, Quirrel," Monomon had said after his confession, "you have such a big heart."

Hornet can't claim to know how Quirrel feels– or felt– about Monomon. From what it seems to her now, Quirrel is the type of bug to place all of his feelings into one basket and then sob when that basket inevitably fractures under its weight. His heart is, perhaps, too big.

On the other claw, Hornet has kept hers under the tightest of locks and keys, buried beneath years of aging wisdom and aching longing. Hallownest's recovery from the infection may have cracked one of those locks, but– and now, look at her, digging for ghosts–

Hornet takes a breath.

Her heart beats an unsteady song.

She exhales.

Whatever Quirrel's reason was for tossing himself into the Blue Lake– because that's what he did, no? It was a purposeful action, one intended to let himself slip into that quiet sleep– Hornet knows she should not pry. It is not only improper, but also completely unrelated to Pharloom and its haunted silk. And yet, she cannot help but wonder why he did it. Call it curiosity, flat out morbidity, or some other third option. It doesn't matter the label.

She wonders if he resents her for saving him. But that fact seems incompatible with his reaction when he woke ashore, asking if he could repay her in any way. And even now, during their landing in Pharloom, he said that his assistance would be a favour traded for resuscitating him.

Right now, it looks like he wants to dive into the water.

Quietly, Hornet comes up beside him. He stiffens and slides a claw over his sketch, leaving only the small description visible. Lava and Lace, it reads. With any luck, there shan't be more of that.

She doesn't quite know how to approach him. The air feels heavy, even though Quirrel smiles and bids her a good waking. Something about his expression appears forced, tugged upward to pretend that his jovial nature is all true.

Hornet decides to do what she does best: act.

"It looks like I have you to thank for not letting me catch my death in that drafty inn," she says. "Though the hearth is warm, I found that sitting in front of the doorway was quite chilly."

Quirrel slowly closes the journal as he tucks the quill into the crook of the page he was working on.

"It's nothing," he says, a small smile playing upon his features. "I only wish everyone in Pharloom did not charge us for everything! My wrists are looking mightily empty right now."

He shakes his wrist for good measure. No rosary bracelets sit upon it, and even Hornet's pockets are feeling awfully empty right about now. As embarrassing as it is to admit, she had spent far too much of her own rosaries on last evening's nectar. It was a steep price to remember one of her homes, but such sickness should be kept at bay at any cost. To have her heart betray her– what a terrible thing that could happen at any time so far from Hallownest.

"Mine as well," Hornet says. "Did you also purchase the journal from the innkeeper?"

"No, it was actually free, shockingly enough. A little bug, Nuu, gave it to me in exchange for filling it with descriptions of those we defeat in Pharloom. I wouldn't even call that a cost."

For anyone else, it might have been a steep ask. Quirrel is not like most others, though. His claw scrapes along the journal's cover, attention absently drifting back over to the water's edge when the conversation lulls.

Hornet does not want to treat Quirrel like he is some invalid, as if he is incapable or delicate, for she of all bugs knows his capability in combat, in speech, and in skill. If she can, at least, bring his attention away from the dancing water and towards pertinent things among the land of living, she thinks that is a worthy cause.

She places her own claw over the journal. Fingers drift against one another as she takes it from his lap, the small sparking sensation of connection still lingering upon her shell.

The journal is hefty and leather-bound. A small clasp on the side keeps it closed.

"I assume you've already filled part of it?" she asks, if just to speak.

Quirrel laughs in response, nodding. "Of course, of course; how could I have not? I've been working on it while you slept."

How long he's spent staring at the water, interspersed between his writing and sketching, Hornet is unsure. Even now, it seems like his attention is split; half of him speaks with Hornet while the other lingers with temptation for that liquid solace.

The thought makes her stand and fetch the map of Greymoor. She traces the added detail, but ultimately drifts over to the far eastern side where there is a small drawing of a building surrounded by water, as well as what appears to be another Weaver structure hanging in the high rafters.

She points to the map's edge and suggests they go there first. It takes a few moments for the statement to register, but Quirrel's enthusiastic agreement sounds far less like genuine excitement and more like the ache to distract oneself.

 

 

"How have you gained such proficiency in so little time?"

"I'm a quick study. I get the feeling you were more a 'learn-as-you-go' type of bug."

Hornet huffs. "I suppose that is an apt assessment."

Quirrel chuckles from the platform above her. She must admit, it's been quite surprising to see him pick up on the skill of bounding from these bouncy bulbs so fast. Such an art isn't easily learnt and requires studious practice that results in many bruises. To see Quirrel take it up with such fervour is relieving, in a way.

He is no acrobat, but in place of agility is a steadfastness that many other bugs lack. More in line with a traditional, nail-wielding warrior, his leaps are characterized with a stability that lingers in each jump. He doesn't tuck nor does he roll. He simply aims his nail down, strikes, and lets the momentum take him as he rides against gravity's pull.

It's– impressive. Truly impressive.

The craws here have proven difficult, to say the least. In swooping and unrelenting patterns, they dive and peck at the tops of Hornet's head; though hard it may be, it doesn't negate the fact that she doesn't like it. It's bothersome at best, and dangerous at worst. From such a high point in Craw Lake, one fall can prove fatal.

One such instance occurs right when Hornet is about to make her second jump across the balloons that hang above the lake. She strikes diagonally, pulling her body inward to keep the motion within her core, but then feels the wicked dive of a beak in her back. She has the next balloon in her sight, but it falls short when her roll is interrupted by that damned bird.

Just when she thinks that she'll be doing a lot of falling off of ledges in Pharloom, she sees a wicked slash of nail. Her claw is grabbed just as the strike hits above and then below, launching them both into the air as Quirrel holds her tight. Both of their spine-enforced clothes inflate, Quirrel holding his kerchief with a single claw while Hornet gently floats with her cloak.

They land on the top platform, Quirrel still holding her steady by the arm. She musters down the instinct to shake him off, the sensation of another bug's touch upon her nearly as foreign as Pharloom itself. Instead, she lets him allow his grip to fade once he's satisfied that they're upon (mostly) safe ground.

He glances over the edge. At the bottom, the water shifts and sways as the craws skid along the surface. Waves are splashed upward, and though they are so far, the pittering and pattering rain make it seem like they are standing right before it.

Hornet interrupts the silence, forcing Quirrel's gaze back upon her.

"If the craws were not so insistent, I would have had no issue upon these pesky balloons," she sighs.

Quirrel turns over to her, hefting his nail upon his back. "Of course, of course," he chuckles. "I believe you completely."

"Hm," she hums. "Do you lie, Quirrel?"

"I would never."

Never, he says; except for when it saves Hornet's pride, apparently. She preens under the statement nevertheless, pushing them to continue upward and onward through the winding paths of Greymoor's tops.

There is more jumping, more spikes narrowly avoided, and plenty of more close-calls. But in the end, they reach the Weaver structure where memories buried have awaited to be awoken.

Now that they've been through this before, Hornet wastes no time preparing her needle to bind the power to her soul. She lifts it above the ground, about the jab downward with all her force, but–

"Oh, just one moment, Hornet," Quirrel interrupts.

The nail hovers over the ground. Hornet turns her head to Quirrel, nodding.

"I have a proposal to make, if you'd be amenable to it."

She narrows her eyes. Her suspicion is immediate, but no more so is her conscience telling her that Quirrel has so far done nothing to harm either of them. In fact, he's been the guiding voice of protection in these lands, keeping Hornet from death and danger even when she thinks that she can handle whatever is ahead. So, in spite of that long-woven instinct in her shell to rally against those who would wish to take advantage of her, she listens to him speak.

"Thus far, we've encountered two of these Weaver structures, of which you've been able to receive powers from both."

"They hold memories, in a way," Hornet says. "When binding, there are voices of long-dead Weavers buried within them, within the power."

Quirrel pauses at that, and then whips out the journal to scribble that little tidbit down. The quill moves at such a rapid pace that Hornet can hardly see it writing actual words down.

"Right, okay," he says after tucking the journal away, "that is news to me. Either way, I've been able to siphon one of the two abilities you've received; but that's only because I did not attempt it on the first one."

Hornet doesn't like where this is going.

"The powers we've both received have proven highly beneficial in Pharloom, if not outright necessary to traverse it. Ergo, I propose that I once again attempt to be part of your binding process in order to potentially receive some of this power."

"No," is Hornet's plain-as-day answer.

"Just 'no'?"

"Yes."

"But, look; my claw is practically healed– the danger is close to null if we consider the healing factor. The most we may have to do is wrap my claw once more."

"No."

"Has anyone told you that you are terribly stubborn, Hornet?"

"No."

Quirrel sighs, folding his arms. "Fine," he relents, "if you are insistent that I should not, then I shan't. But I ask that you consider the wider factors at play here and the risk being far lower than the potential reward."

If Quirrel had ever been part of some kind of debate club, then Hornet wouldn't be surprised. Still, it is more than just simple logic that brews in Hornet's mind; she must consider how and why Quirrel desires the powers, too. Although he has explained his reasoning, what trust does she have for him to not capitalize on being granted Weaver arts? Of course, there were all the times he's saved her, looked out for her, watched her back… And his kindness, concern, and selflessness…

If one wanted something so desperately, they would not roll over and allow it to escape their grasp. Throughout her life, Hornet has seen this proven true time and time again, her mind drifting to a certain Wyrm.

Hm.

Ugh.

Gods. She just hopes she doesn't regret doing this.

"Fine," she says, definitely not noticing how Quirrel brightens when she gives in. "Place your claw upon my needle, but do not move. I cannot promise you what may happen if you are in the storm and try to escape it from within."

Quirrel strides up to Hornet's needle. His claw grips the upper hilt as hers holds the loop; together, they send the needle into the ground just as the Weaver's voice whispers haunting phantoms into her mind.

Daughter of a distant land…

The threads dance around them in a hurricane, whipping and winding in uncontrollable blitzes. Slowly, the world fades into that blank whiteness, the silk expended creating a bubble not only in the physical world, but also in the depths of her heart; all senses fade as she tunes into the memories of old, forgotten Weavers, of their talents and crimes.

During all of this, she can still hear Quirrel murmuring and mumbling. She can't hear what he's saying for the storm is too strong, but she can just barely notice his voice over the rumble. Concern is strong in his expression when she manages to turn slightly over to him before the silk completely overtakes her.

When the storm fades, Quirrel is holding his claw once more, but without any of the tell-tale signs of injury. Instead, he's staring down at it like it's betrayed him in some way.

"Do you feel any different?" she asks him, holstering her needle.

Quirrel shakes his head. His eyes are locked on his claw, the one still wrapped in silk and mostly healed from their last, accidental foray into binding together.

"No, unfortunately," he mumbles. "Maybe there was an issue with…"

His voice disappears as Hornet feels about for her new ability. It turns out that she's received quite a gift from the Weaver. Now that the silk runes have begun to fade from her shell, she's been able to recall abilities that had once been lost to her when landing in Pharloom. Around her, she can now bring her silk as a threaded storm, destroying all that come within her deadly path. It's quite nice to have again, though that probably explains why Quirrel has not gained any abilities of his own

After all, he's no Weaver.

Hornet informs him as such, which placates him somewhat. He nods along to her explanation, humming when necessary and nodding when needed. In the end, they decide that with this new ability, they may actually be able to turn the tables against the mite– Moorwing, the innkeeper had mentioned. A giant, over-sized mite that had no reason being as big as it was aside from its breeding.

Quirrel's disappointment is almost palpable during their backtrack through Greymoor, but he certainly hasn't given up as he continues to rattle off possible factors that led to him not gaining anything. It almost makes Hornet want to tease him for thinking that he'd be able to adopt a Weaver's abilities so easily. She tamps down the want quickly enough, though.

 

 

Of course, they get a little side-tracked when heading back to Moorwing. They ultimately end up arguing as to whether or not they should tackle it again, going back-and-forth on the endless possibilities of the fight. There is this attack, and that attack; there is this swipe and then that move. There is the water to consider, the rickety docks; there is the breeze and the rain and fading adrenaline.

Never had Hornet thought so long on a single fight. She's always prided herself on acting now, thinking later– and that's worked out for her so far. But now, with Quirrel and his slightly disapproving expression, she feels the strange need to bend to his wishes. She supposes that this is what teamwork is meant to be like, but ne'er has it ever been so… compulsory, in her heart.

Their side-tracking leads them to a few places. For one, they do what Fleamaster Mooshka asked of them and discovered some of the missing fleas. Of course, Hornet had tried (and almost failed) not to press her face against the soft little bugs before they barked and ran off into the dreary skies.

They also headed down to Bone Bottom, greeted the pilgrims, purchased some necessary items ("For that much– a key?" Quirrel had exclaimed), and then paid even more rosaries for the Bellway in Greymoor. Hornet swears that if she has any rosaries left by the end of this journey, she'll eat her own needle.

Part of their side-tracking also included an addition to their quarry quest.

It seems that being sociable is more helpful than Hornet originally thought. While in Hallownest she was content to stand by and speak only when she deemed it necessary, Pharloom seems to have brought the talkative side of her out. Being a little more extroverted certainly has its perks.

And, well– it seems like Quirrel's grown far more into his chattering side as he's aged. No matter where to goes, allies appear to flock to his side.

Case and point: Garmond and Zaza, two curious bugs with an enthusiasm rivalled only by Quirrel's for the landscape of Pharloom. The old knight waves his hornlance about, an old tale of his home village overtaken by the Haunting on his tongue. Though he seeks vengeance for his people, his demeanour is definitely not that of wicked violence.

"You would be undefeatable with me by your side, brother!" he cheers. "You need only ask, and our hornlance would be yours."

Quirrel smiles, nodding his assent. "That would be very appreciated, Garmond– and you, too, Zaza. We certainly need all the help we can get for the coming fight."

"Well, lead the way! Let us hunt the creature together!"

 

 

Hornet is, perhaps, reconsidering a number of things.

The good part about travelling with a partner is the added perspective one receives when joined by a second party. There is never a downside when having an extra voice of potential reason, provided that they are capable of well-thought reason. In Hornet's case, her companion is more than sound of mind and is far beyond it in some ways. His wisdom in taking a step back from battle and reassessing most likely saved Hornet's life.

But she's quite loathe to admit this fact. Considering she's spent her entire life– and she means her entire life– throwing herself at challenges whether she is victorious or not, her self-admitted stubbornness is second to none. She's willing to make the jump others are too frightened to, which has often resulted in her becoming overly confident in her own abilities within and outside of combat.

Seeing as they now stand before a dead Moorwing, Hornet now must concede that– that Quirrel was right. He was right, she was wrong, and now she must contend with the fact that she must now think before she jumps into a fight instead of using her trial-and-error technique that is barely classified as a technique at all.

Quirrel and Garmond (and Zaza) are all celebrating the victory. Well, Garmond and Zaza are, with hoots and hollers into the rainy sky; Quirrel is a little more subdued but the excitement is clear as crystal upon him.

It's– good to see him upbeat. As he should be.

Moments like these don't last forever, though. As Hornet continues her investigation of Moorwing's cooling body, there is a rumble in the docks. It shakes her to her core, the very strength of it– is it another enemy? Is it an attack from the watery depths? She cannot tell at this point as all she knows is that the ground is shaking like an earthquake as struck it.

All rise and heft their weapons at the ready, although those responsible for the terrible shivering docks end up being none other than some more friendly faces.

"Ah!" cries a flea, "it's them! Fleamaster, it's them!"

A caravan packed with fuzzy bugs comes barrelling down the docks. They come so quick, in fact, that Hornet half thinks that the weak wooden planks will give way and they'll all end up in the drink. For Quirrel's sake, she hopes that they remain steady.

Fleamaster Mooshka comes up to Hornet and Quirrel, shaking their claws with a huge smile.

"Miss Hornet, Mister Quirrel! Look, so many fleas have joined the caravan! We must thank you so for finding so many of our lost little dears!" he says with, perhaps, a little too much gusto for Hornet's liking. She shrinks back and slides her claw from his grasp.

Quirrel keeps his claw within Mooshka's, shaking it back with a good-natured smile.

"It was our pleasure. We're glad to see your fellow fleas safe; these lands are quite dangerous, so it is nice to know they are within the carvan."

"Yes," Hornet adds, "and if we come across any more fleas, we will assist where we are able."

Mooshka laughs. If a bug could be any cheerier, then this would be it.

"Vavenda! That is to say, incredible! What a beautiful thing for me to hear! And what's this– your friend there, did he also assist in helping find our fleas?"

He gestures to Garmond and Zaza, who seem to have gotten quite comfortable around the fleas already. A few of them are admiring his hornlace, such a strange piece of weaponry in a land that is already brimming with curiosities. One of them offers him a yellow, bubbling drink, to which he accepts with flair.

"No, but he did help in clearing the way. The Moorwing you see laying upon the docks once ruled this area, and now it is defeated by our claws," Hornet says.

"Beautiful! Amazing!" Mooshka exclaims. "Again, you have saved us!"

Unused to such profuse praise, Hornet continues her shrinking. She's just about to exit the conversation to get a look at that brew when Quirrel points over at a flea that isn't quite partaking in the festivities.

"He has quite an interesting vehicle," says Quirrel with a curious lilt that tells Hornet that he's not going to stop asking about it until he gets his answer. "I've never seen one like it."

"Oh," Mooshka grimaces, "that is Kratt. He's a recent addition, but…"

"But?"

"Something about that one sets my fur to raise. His carriage offers a steaming service–"

Quirrel is, far more than often, the picture of politeness. He likes to do things for others, he says please and thank you, and he waits until someone is done speaking before it's his turn– unless it's Hornet, it seems. But this time, Mooshka becomes like Hornet as Quirrel perks up and swivels toward Kratt. Obviously, he must have missed the part where Mooshka said that Kratt was discomfiting in some way.

"A steaming service? Oh my, please excuse me, Fleamaster, but I must speak to Kratt right now."

Quirrel hurries over to Kratt on the far end of the docks, leaving both Mooshka and Hornet in the dust. Hornet spares Mooshka a quick apology and farewell before chasing after Quirrel.

At the dock's edge, Kratt barely spares Quirrel his attention. He is snippy and curt, with single-worded answers to Quirrel's various questions. But it's only when Hornet approaches that Kratt's attitude completely turns on its head.

"And– ah, Hornet! Are you also interested in using the steaming service?" Quirrel asks.

Kratt's gaze is now solely on Hornet, which only makes her hackles raise even more. The fleas here have been gracious and kind so far, appreciative of the saving they've been granted, but this one appears much unlike the others. Standoffish around those other than fleas, and yet completely focused on Hornet.

She doesn't like it one bit.

"Yes," she says, "I am. Tell me, sir flea, of this service."

"Of course, dear one, dodeshna! You are Miss Hornet, yes? The Fleamaster, that old bore, tells me to call you such a prickly name, but I find it ill befits such a delicate beauty. Shall I call you something prettier, like 'Nectarsweet', my dear?"

Oh, yes. Hornet does not like this at all.

"No, no, her name is Hornet– for all our safety, it is best to call her such," Quirrel says with a light laugh, defusing the situation slightly. Something like discomfort has weaved its way into his voice, glancing over at Hornet for some kind of confirmation. She sends her own gaze his way.

"It is as Quirrel said. Address me by my name or not at all."

Kratt croaks, "Gradak! Of course. Of course! Heh heh. Please, see my carriage; it doubles as a soothing spa– it's most ingenious. The water inside is piping hot, and purer than a psalm. I'd gladly let you soak inside for a modest fee!"

At the mention of water, Quirrel stops, hesitates. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

"Quirrel," Hornet says, "do you wish to use the spa?"

"Oh– I… yes. Well, do you first want to?"

Hornet isn't so foolish as to not see a request when it's placed in front of her. It is not, 'Do you want to go first?' It is, 'Will you go first?'

In truth, Hornet doesn't want to. She doesn't trust this flea at all and his reaction to Quirrel has just made her even more bothered. She would even go as far as to say that she's upset with the way he's treated Quirrel, but she's not about to go announcing or displaying that to the world.

Instead, she says, "I do, thank you. Kratt, how much does the spa cost?"

"Oh-ho! For you, dear one, a measly ten rosaries."

Ugh. Even ten rosaries is steep for such a service. But still, she paid that same amount the other evening for all her glasses of nectar, so she supposes that Quirrel is allowed his weaknesses, too. She passes over the rosaries. Kratt squeals.

"Please, my dear, step inside! I will just be fixing something up in the back, making sure the water remains delectably soothing just for you!" he says as he disappears around the carriage, a smarmy little smile spreading across his face.

Quirrel and Hornet stand in front of the carriage. Quirrel fidgets for a moment before tilting his head toward the door.

"I did not realize it would be a pool," he says, frowning. "I assumed it would be some kind of sauna."

"You do not have to enter if you do not wish to," Hornet replies, "if it makes you uncomfortable."

Quirrel goes to say something, but again he is stopped short by whatever is storming about in his mind. He looks at Hornet– really looks at her– when a flash of understanding flits across him. A sigh escapes him instead, a nervousness she hardly recognizes from his grown self.

"I shouldn't be so apprehensive about this, I know. It's merely a shallow pool."

"There is no need for justification, Quirrel; if you do not want to, then the answer is as simple as that."

"Well," he says with a mite of hesitation, "you did also just pay for it."

"Rosaries come and go. We will make them back in less than a second."

Still, he gazes at the carriage with such longing that Hornet wishes it was just a sauna, hot steam and warm air pleasing the shell. She imagines him lounging in the heat, spread out and–

"I can stand guard for you. If there is any issue, I will be right here to assist you," she says quickly. Her body suddenly feels like she was the one who was just in the spa, a lingering warmth sliding across her.

Thankfully, Quirrel nods at that and doesn't notice whatever in the gods just happened to her. "Ah, that sounds like a wonderful suggestion. I will only be a moment– just to test it out for the journal."

Hornet smirks. "Of course. All in the name of research, no?"

Quirrel laughs at that, his apprehension fading with each step he takes up the carriage. The door slides open and then closes, letting only the slightest bit of steam escape from the opening.

Hornet stands sentry. It's something she's rather good at, actually. Moments pass without incident except for the distant, tinny sound of splashes from within the carriage, and Quirrel's quiet voice sighing. Hornet definitely doesn't lean closer to the carriage door when he groans, the water sloshing about.

She absolutely doesn't do that because if she was, how else would she have heard that strange and precisely suspicious clank from behind the carriage?

Hornet spares the entrance a quick glance before rounding to the carriage's back, spotting a certain somebody clambering up from the bottom's jagged pipes up to the top where the steam rises out from. Kratt's legs dangle as he holds himself up against the opening, greasily laughing to himself.

Without a second thought, Hornet sends her needle sailing into his backside. Kratt screeches, falling flat on his back and rolling about in pain.

Hornet hovers over him, the promise of pain in her visage.

"Explain, now."

"The pain!" Kratt cries, pathetically rolling onto his stomach. "Such fury over a mistake! Kratt did not mean to steal a look!"

"Of course you did not, believing me to be in there as opposed to my companion," she hisses.

"This old carriage needs constant care. I was only doing repairs! I had no intent to intrude! And I barely saw a thing!"

He wails on and on about the carriage, its rickety body, and the water needing to stay up to temp. Whatever his excuses, Hornet has no patience for him.

"Lie no more to me, flea, and be grateful you still live. My companion is a gracious bug and would see no harm upon the innocent– but believe me, I see you as no innocent. Know that if you peer again, be it myself or Quirrel, you will die."

"Yes! Kratt would never! Let's consider the matter forgotten, and you shall forever be my treasured guest!"

Hornet only grimaces at the paltry bug, turning her back as she returns to the carriage's entrance. She leaves Kratt to moan about in pain, sure that the slash she gave him with her needle will be sufficient to leave a scar forever etched in his shell. Though she is little satisfied with that conclusion, she will have to be for Quirrel's conscience's sake.

Far more than a few moments pass while Quirrel is enjoying the spa. Hornet speaks to the passing-by fleas and is allowed to pet a few of the smaller ones who are particularly fond of affection. Her claw weaves between their soft fuzz, a pleasant feeling against her hardened shell.

Behind her, the entrance opens with a hiss. Steam slides out of the doorway as Quirrel exits, glancing down at Hornet sitting on the ground with a little fluffy flea in her lap.

She rises and dismisses the flea. It flies away with a chirpy bark, rejoining its friends.

"How was your soak?" she asks.

Quirrel's relaxed smile is response enough. He stretches his arms and bends his back and hips. Satisfaction is writ so clearly on his features that one would have to be blind to not see it.

"It was wonderful. Kratt may be a bit, ah, interesting, but his carriage certainly holds magic in it. Did you also wish to take a turn? I promise the water is as hot as he said!"

Hornet refuses the offer, which she is sure Quirrel will be endlessly confused about. For now, they go off to enjoy the company of the fleas– as well as Garmond and Zaza.

They sit at the bench under the soft rain, clinking their glasses of fleabrew together. The drink is not as sweet as nectar, but the kick it has is certainly enough to make one want to run about the docks. Quirrel downs all of his in one go while Hornet catches up to him.

Serenity settles in them. Hornet knows before long that they will have to set out again, but she's beginning to see the value in slowing down.

Quirrel bumps his shoulder against hers. For once, she returns the action.

Notes:

thanks to all of you for keeping up with this fic! so surprised at the reception still, but i'm not complaining lol! i'll keep on keeping on :3

Chapter 7: i think we're alone now

Summary:

Quirrel and Hornet get some time alone.

It's not what you think.

Notes:

first time i heard this song i think i ascended or smth. i am specifically talking about the Tiffany cover bcs it's so iconic tbh. the original is awesome but her vocals are just gorgeous. pls excuse the music talk, but i feel like a fic on silkSONG should allow me to gush about my fav tracks hehe. always open to music recs too!

chapter title is from "I Think We're Alone Now", originally sang by Tommy James & The Shondells, covered by Tiffany!

An evening with good company is one well-spent, Quirrel's always believed. Although in his youth he was shyer than most, he's since found a great love for being around others and enjoying the simple pleasures of conversation. From Mooshka to Garmond, there are plenty of bugs here that are more than thrilled to provide some mental and social stimulation.

Hornet has long gone to retire for the day, hiding out in one of the carriages that Mooshka offered to her to rest in. Quirrel has a sneaking suspicion that she went only to rub her face against the little fleas' fur, but that's neither here nor there. As long as she rests, that's all should matter.

For now, he simply soaks in all the hubbub of the fleas' caravans. Everyone here seems so content with the world, in spite of the Haunting that hangs around them. There are fleas still to be found and other maintenance to be taken care of, and yet the caravan cares for one another without question. It's comforting to know that such affection exists in this strange world.

The rain has long stopped, though Quirrel's mind still occasionally drifts back to it. He leans his head back and stares up at the abyss above, empty but for the rotten wooden rafters that hang precariously from tenuous holds. If he were back in the City of Tears– before the memories, before the flood– he would have held his arms out and embraced the cooling calm of the pitter-patter. Now, it just makes him sick to his stomach.

Is it fear? Is it temptation? Surely, Monomon would scold him for thinking so. "Oh, Quirrel," she would say, "imagine what you would miss, imagine what knowledge would be lost. There is so much, and you are so hungry for it all."

But Quirrel is no fool, and he has always led his life with half heart and half logic. Oftentimes, those are incompatible ideals, one that wishes to feel the world in all its mysteries while the other desires to chronicle it through a scholar's eye. In his younger days, it worked well enough– his passion fuelled his research while his brain kept him grounded in his work. Paradoxical it may have been, but it worked.

Quirrel's not so sure if it works now, especially with Monomon just… gone. In the back of his mind, there were no goodbyes, no farewells; just the promise to return with her mask and undo what could not be done at the time. To fulfill a final, dying wish of hers.

He watches the water slosh below the docks. The noise of the fleas fades into a background blur, a fuzzy shadow that haunts him as the liquid dances and beckons. He has already lived a life well-lived. Things like that shouldn't overstay their welcome, should they?

His claw drifts to his kerchief, pulling it off with a single tug. The tie comes undone as the fabric slips down his head. It's slightly damp to the touch, soaked by rainwater and dried by the breeze of combat, but that's all that it holds. No other memories, no other sentimentalities.

It crunches in his grip. He can't even remember who gave it to him. Monomon? A friend? A lover? It is one of his two total belongings and yet– it means absolutely nothing.

He's not sure how much time passes as he stares down at the kerchief, but the moment is broken when he feels a claw touch his shoulder. He turns, looks to the source, and finds Hornet glancing down at him from behind the bench.

She looks rested, rejuvenated. A sparkle glimmers in her dark eyes, something that Quirrel hadn't noticed until staring up at her visage. Being in a good mood suits her just as much as combat does.

"Quirrel," she says, "was I gone for long?"

A pause passes between them.

"I am sorry, but I wasn't keeping track of time," he answers, shaking his head. "Not long, I presume."

Hornet knows. How much, he doesn't quite know. And yet, nothing about her has changed– she acts as she always has with poise and precision. Her directness has not died down a single bit, still just as straightforward and stubborn as she has presented herself to be. She treats Quirrel as nothing has ever happened, even though it was her who dragged him to safety while at his lowest.

It's refreshing, Quirrel thinks. He has never suffered such… anguish before, and still Hornet speaks to him like she always has.

These feeling will pass with time, he knows this; but however long they take, there is at least some solace to be had in the way Hornet pushes them both forward. Unerringly confident, strides long and exact, she maintains the path ahead and never looks back, even if he is constantly tempted to languish in the past.

 

 

They're hanging. Bugs, strewn high from the bell-slung ceiling, hang from silken threads of pure white. Quiet, incomprehensible moans echo throughout the chamber that Quirrel thinks was once a village of some sort– although, it's far from that now. If anything, it's a prison held tight by threads, so delicate yet unbreakable except by the sharpest nail.

It is beyond horrific. It is a waking nightmare that Quirrel could not ever hope to conjure in his mind, all haunted strands and dead, empty eyes. Who knows how long they have been strung up there, caught in the web of an inescapable fate.

Hornet's gaze is fixed upon the bugs, and Quirrel half-expects her to walk right through the village while he lags behind, insisting that they at least attempt to do something for these pool souls.

But it is instead Hornet who speaks up first, proposing that they save them from such wretched torture.

"Is it not a wise course of action?" she asks when Quirrel doesn't respond after a few moments.

Now, it's not like Quirrel thinks Hornet is cruel– far from it, actually. But her pragmatism reaches bounds beyond Quirrel's own, and he thinks of himself as a fairly pragmatic bug. In all situations, he thought– without a shadow of a doubt– that Hornet would comment on the despair, but then ultimately have them move on as it would only be time wasted on even attempting to loosen them free.

Clearly, he's not given her enough credit.

"No, I agree," he says. "These bugs… what a terrible thing that has befallen them. We would be remiss if we did not try."

"Of course. And it provides us ample opportunity to learn more about the Haunting and the Citadel."

Ah, there it is.

Quirrel won't categorize Hornet's underlying reason as an ulterior motive because he's just happy that she wants to lend a claw to those obviously in need.

Unfortunately, there is no real way for them to investigate the area effectively. Any platforms that were originally in place are now tucked away or broken, leaving only the flat ground as a place to stand. Instead of lingering, they unlock the Bellway and then decide to regroup in town once they procure a way to loosen the threads. Hornet had offhandedly mentioned that she used to be able to climb walls without any tools (which, frankly, Quirrel doesn't believe in spite of Hornet never lying to him on this journey thus far), but it's quite a toss-up as to whether or not the next Weaver structure they stumble upon will be the one that holds such a power.

Through bell-laden halls, they make their way amidst the ghostly passages. Even if no phantoms haunt the area, Quirrel can still feel the cold sickness of silk prowling the atmosphere. It reminds him of the Infection, but far more insidious. The Haunted pilgrims have no appearance of being controlled, and yet they act in such violent ways that there can be no other explanation than a complete loss of sense. At least in Hallownest, one could immediately identify an Infected bug. Here, one must practice caution at all times.

The bells give way after enough walking, bringing forth a bloom of green and thorns. Lush plants coat the walls as spreading vines wind in and out of the low ceiling, wood and flower joining one another as they weave together. Quirrel jots his initial observations down, even running his claw along the walls to get a feel for the area's flora. The touch is soft, just like the gentlest of blooms back in Hallownest's Greenpath.

With his head in the journal, Quirrel hardly notices Hornet's sudden stop. He bumps into her back, but his height means that he can still slightly see over the top of her head, through the slit in between her long points. But even if he was shorter than her, he'd be able to see what– or who– she halted for.

"Greetings. Have you seen the town over yonder?"

Straight to the point, as always Hornet is. Quirrel glances up at Shakra's tall form, her long legs stretching her far above both Hornet and himself. She nods, clashing her rings together and clicking her tongue.

"Hakk! I did, at the core of a vein and old bells. It seemed the pernicious trap of some unseen predator. I left quickly, making sure to avoid the glimmering threads. The Child Wielding Song, I found on the way, still without a blade to his name. I have had little success convincing him to accept my guidance."

That makes Quirrel step around Hornet. From behind her cloak, he can see what he's missed hidden by his companion, for the small form of Sherma has now been revealed standing just past her. He holds two of Shakra's rings in his claws, but instead of using them as intended, he's clinking them together like instruments.

Ah, the innocence is so endearing. Quirrel waves a claw, and greets the two.

"Red maiden, Nail-knight! I am glad to see your pilgrimage has taken you on the same path as Shakra and I!" he cheers. The rings clang against one another, and Quirrel half-expects him to shout, "Poshanka!" right after.

"It is good to see you both well," Quirrel says. "Have you decided to take up the ring, Sherma?"

Shakra interjects, "If only. The Child Wielding Song insists that he needs not rings nor pin in his journey to the Citadel. Even my mentor, a warrior of greatest repute, would need all her senses to keep up with this haunted land."

At that, she turns to Hornet and Quirrel, voice uncharacteristically nervous, like the waver at the end of a confession or spilled secret. "I travel in search of my her, the greatest of my tribe. I have followed her trail throughout this kingdom, but have so far failed to catch her. She will have travelled much farther by now, but if I keep moving and stay vigilant, we shall reunite."

"With song and heart, you shall find her, Miss Shakra!" exclaims Sherma. "To lose hope would be to lose her!"

Shakra chuckles, shaking her head not in dismissal, but in amusement. She bends down to Sherma's height and clangs her ring against his, the sound a twinkling chime.

Quirrel makes a mental note to keep his eye out for Shakra's mentor. He assumes she is the type of bug who commands a room, if Shakra's description of her abilities is anything to go by. At the very least, he expects her to resemble her protégé in some way, perhaps in the same colour scheme with yellow and black accents.

Maps are traded, rosaries given freely. While Hornet continues her discussion with Shakra and Sherma, Quirrel sets his sights on the map and traces where they've already been through. It's not much, but having the first area mapped out is better than being blind. He immediately zeroes in on the Weaver structure that is lightly penned into the parchment, already plotting their path to it.

He's sure that the last Weaver ability Hornet gained was not one that was meant for him. Sure, he's got a total of one piece of evidence toward that theory, but it's not completely baseless, nor has it been disproven. He can replicate movement; unfortunately, he cannot replicate silk skills. If the next Weaver structure holds a memory of something that does not require silk, then there is a good chance that Quirrel will be able to be granted it– if Hornet is amenable to the idea, which he has a feeling she will not be.

"… refuses to learn."

"'Refuse' is a strong word, Miss Shakra. I simply believe in my song, and that is enough for me."

"You would do well to heed Shakra's lessons, Sherma. These are dangerous paths to tread without a blade."

Perhaps if he convinces her that these are necessary skills to have in order to traverse Pharloom's lands… But he has already said that once, and the resulting bind gave only Hornet her ancestral arts– not himself. Though stubborn, he knows that Hornet is always willing to see the logic in a situation as long as her anger has yet to cloud her mind. There is a good chance that the Weaver structure is protected by some guardian, considering the map's pathways; if her adrenaline is still pumping– and provided they've won– then there is a greater chance that she will be willing to share her binding once more.

"Just look at Quirrel. He is…"

"… a warrior with a quill."

Another issue may arise from this, though: if the ability does not translate to Quirrel, then he will be left with no further excuses to attempt any more bindings. Of course, that would mean his theory is nullified, and therefore unworthy of any further experimentation, but there's just something about the structures that makes him want to pick them apart, piece-by-piece. This land is just filled with an ancient whisper that makes it hard to not want to know everything about it.

"Ask him…"

"… Quirrel?"

The chance that Hornet would then allow him to participate in bindings becomes exponentially smaller with each failure that occurs, but is there any way to–

"Quirrel!"

Quirrel looks up from the map.

"Oh," he says, "yes?"

Amusement alights in Hornet's eyes, a gentle dance of humour that sings throughout her. He's not quite sure what she finds so funny, but he's sure that's due to him, somehow. She shakes her head when Quirrel just stares at her blankly, ideas still filling his head about the Weaver structure.

"Lost in thought?" she asks.

Oh– oh! He must have missed much of a conversation, if he's taking into account the curious looks coming from both Shakra and Sherma.

"Something like that," he chuckles. "I'm sorry; what did I miss?"

"You and the Child Wielding Song are much alike, and yet you heft a nail," Shakra says.

Quirrel looks to Sherma. He's not sure how true that statement is, but he supposes that they are alike in some ways, both with idealistic, positive, glass-half-full types of mentalities. Although, that is where the similarities end as Sherma appears unstained by the hard claw of life, still replete with soft belief in everything he sees. Maybe, in some ways, they would have been far more alike if Quirrel was many years younger, still standing by Monomon's kindly side.

He says, "I guess so. But it is his choice if he wishes to avoid violence. There are many ways to protect oneself without lifting a blade. His choice is simply to use song."

"Yes, very alike!" Shakra exclaims. "Perhaps you would prefer my teachings, then, Child Wielding Nail? I am eager to practice, if that bell-haunting predator appears soon."

It's a good idea– a great idea, even. While Quirrel would never describe himself as a jealous nor envious soul, seeing Hornet gain another ability has reminded him of the fact that all he has is his nail to his name. Just steel; and while that worked back in Hallownest, Pharloom is a whole other beast that asks its wanderers to have a unique skillset to survive it. Ergo, he's willing to take anything that he can get, especially so that he won't slow down Hornet.

Hornet, too, is offered to learn some of the skills, but she turns it down and selects to observe instead. Alongside Sherma, they watch as Quirrel gets a crash-course on how to lunge effectively with his nail.

Shakra opts to use her fists while curled around her rings to deliver her blows, but she informs Quirrel that having a nail means that he will be able to slash in a circular motion at the end of the lunge in order to cause wider damage. Shakra is blur when she dives forward, her body pointed like a needle as she aims for a hardened root to practice against. Quirrel follows her movements, although he finds his balance slightly off-centre. She corrects his strikes with each attempt, lifting his arm here and moving his leg back there. Eventually, he's able to consistently hit his targets with a spinning slash, though some dizziness does kick in after trying it a couple of times in a row.

The practice doesn't last long, and yet he feels like he's learned much. From the sidelines, Sherma clangs his rings together and cheers him and Shakra on. Hornet– well, Hornet just watches and examines. It makes Quirrel feel almost bare, her gaze stuck on where he grips the hilt of his nail and the muscled tension that threads through him.

At the end of it, Hornet approaches him while he's still catching his breath.

"Your form is quite nice," she says, and then makes a disgruntled face. "It is– ah, correct. Yes. Your form is correct."

Her voice is stilted, like something is caught in her throat. Quirrel glances at Shakra and Sherma to see if they noticed it, but it seems that all has flown over their head as they chatter with one another– Shakra still trying to convince Sherma to learn to fight, and Sherma just clinking the rings together to a little song.

Hornet and Quirrel look at them, and then back at each other.

 

 

Shellwood, a place laden in hard wooden walls and beautiful white blooms. Life here seems to spring wherever one walks, whether they be friend or foe; even the petals here bite with ensnaring poisons, with splinter creatures threatening to stab where you step.

Quirrel's kept his head mostly in the journal through their walk through Shellwood. Below them, placid waters call longingly out to the distracted and restless. Quirrel has decided that it's best to stay busy in order to avoid the siren song.

It's not… Well, it is serious. These thoughts, those that swarm his mind in moments of silence and wretched contemplation, are more alluring than one may think. He finds himself fading from the journal pages quite often when his claw stops its writing, its sketching; and so he forces himself to keep working if he isn't fighting, to keep moving if he is not speaking. But, he does not wish to fill the journal's contents with nonsense and ramblings– it would do his chronicling little justice to have manic writings and incomprehensible drawings within it.

There is luck in having a partner in these trying times, especially one that knows of certain tendencies. Hornet is quick to speak to him when he becomes distracted, when his mind wanders in the growing quiet. She mentions things he should add to the journal, tips on combat, and whether or not a needle is superior to the nail. Between the two of them, there is much to speak about. And as the walls are slowly crumbled, a comfort grows in the newly-available space.

Companionship– friendship, even– he would call this.

It is tentative at best, and temporary at worst, but Quirrel finds it hard to deny the fact that conversation flows easily between them. It is simple, he thinks, to speak to her.

Their climb leads them ever-closer to Shellwood's hidden Weaver structure, and they soon enter a chamber filled with gnarled roots and a damp scent; trickles of water flow from the walls, spitting upon the ground where white blooms blossom.

Their steps echo against the flowered walls until they don't. A shrill scream sounds from above, a monstrous beast ejecting from the ceiling with a body made of wood. The ground shivers and shakes beneath its cry, Quirrel and Hornet adopting defensive stances just as their gazes are brought upward.

The beast's claws are massive, practically the size of a full-grown bug. They are a sharp contrast against her wooden body and spindly hairs that stick from her head, destructive weapons at the ends of what should give life to the forest.

Branches shoot from her, thorns sticking into the ground. Quirrel narrowly dodges being impaled on one of them when suddenly the arena is closed-off from escape; the branches prove to be hardened warriors themselves as they weather even the strongest of nail slashes. And yet when one finally falls, another grows in its place faster than any plant Quirrel has seen.

The fight begins with Hornet sailing upward, silk threads in a storm of white as they assault the beast's face. She shields it with a claw, but is still hit through the barrage. A howl sounds through the arena when Quirrel sees his chance to cut them some extra space in the arena, the newly-grown branches next to him appearing weaker than the others that guard the exits closely. With ample slicing, they are gone, and there is further room to move.

They trade hits, back-and-forth. While Hornet continues slashing with silk and needle, Quirrel keeps the area clear for her to continue the constant blows. Occasionally, they are forced to dodge the slamming fists of the beast, but with their speed, it is handled quite easily.

What makes the fight endlessly more difficult is when the beast slams the ceiling. She summons forth other wooden creatures with similarly sharp claws that dice the empty air. It is almost as if they are awaiting either Hornet or Quirrel to stumble into their pathways.

Quirrel catches the tail-end sight of one of these wood-made creatures, splinters spitting in Hornet's direction as she is dropping to the ground from a jump. It spins its claws in blurringly fast circles, Hornet's red cloak inching toward it by the second.

His legs move on their own. A memory of Shakra's teachings kick in as he launches himself forward, his nail speared toward the whirlwind of claws. Hornet ends up falling behind him as the creature is shoved backward into the thorny branches, pushed even further when Quirrel whips his nail in a twirl. He feels like a spinning top as the momentum keeps him moving, both the branches and wooden creature perishing to his cyclical hits.

Hornet's attacks against the beast above eventually bear fruit when she falls to the ground in a crash. In her dizzied confusion, Quirel and Hornet deliver blow after blow against her splinter-like body until she succumbs to the grievous assault.

When the fight finally ends, Hornet lifts herself up. Breath panting, needle shining with a sticky sap that leaked from the beast, she looks almost like a portrait. Quirrel can imagine it so clearly– her figure emblazoned on a stretched canvas, vibrant red and pale white juxtaposing one another in the gleaming light of Shellwood's caverns. Her needle glimmers with rivulets of sap, reflecting in them the victorious expression she wears.

For a moment, Quirrel thinks he should immortalize the moment in the journal. He dismisses the thought when Hornet turns from the beast, pride full in her eyes when she tells him that he is a talented fighter.

 

 

All that pride turns into annoyance pretty quickly when they reach the Weaver structure.

"No."

"Come, Hornet, see the reason in this."

"Reason? All there is to see is a bug taking unnecessary risks where there is no benefit to be had."

"Well, actually–"

"There is no 'actually', Quirrel."

"Please, Hornet, see this from my perspective; so far, there has been one failure, one success, and one null result. Of the Weaver structures bound, I have been part of two. We cannot confirm anything without a solid pattern, especially when there are potential factors that may be at play here when it is determined which Weaver memories are fit to be passed to non-Weavers. My injury came from interrupting your bind– not being part of it. The worst that can happen in this instance is that I am left with no further abilities."

"Quirrel," Hornet grits out.

"And," Quirrel adds, "we will have obtained further evidence for whatever conclusion is brewing here."

Hornet's needle hovers over the structure, just like she did back in Greymoor. Except, now she does it with far more of a bothered expression, plain annoyance spread across her.

Later, when Quirrel hangs on Shellwood's flower-covered walls with just his claws– just his claws; how exciting!– he tries his best not to tell Hornet, "I told you so."

 

 

Though they have lingered in Shellwood for some time now, what's immediately clear is that they still have no idea how to untie the residents of the bell settlement. They toss some theories between themselves, yet all seem paltry when thinking back to the terrible threads that have suspended the residents of that little community.

All paths lead through thorn and thicket, and eventually back into the bell veins. While neither of them know exactly how or why Shellwood eats directly into the bell settlement, they don't question it when it provides them with an extra chance to figure out exactly what their plan of attack is here. At the very least, it appears that the map is telling them that they are located somewhat above the town. Perhaps they could find an opening from the ceiling and cut the residents down from the top? Or maybe…

"Quirrel."

"Yes?"

"Do you hear that?"

"What– the bell chimes? Yes. We are surrounded by bells, so–"

"Not the bells. Listen."

Quirrel copies Hornet's position against the ground, kneeling against it with his head to its surface. The steel bells feel cold even against his mask as he blocks out all other sounds. He forgets the chimes, the quiet rumble of bugs flying up and down the veins, and even the gentle breath of Hornet next to him.

Far, far into the veins, he can hear one single thing: strings. Like a harp, they sing into the echoing chambers, elegant and foreboding all at once. In the back of Quirrel's mind, he thinks of funeral dirges played as bugs are set to rest, the harp's endless plucks being less like a comfort and more akin to the announcement of finality.

They follow the song. Hornet's hearing must be far keener than his as her hunter's instinct leads them through winding corridors and confusing passages– areas that would have had Quirrel scratching his head at each dead-end. It is lucky he is travelling with someone so well-tuned into her senses, her body moving as if possessed with a single-mindedness to track that elusive sound.

Eventually, she stops in her tracks. Below them is a hole with a light beaming from it, eating into the dark encroachment of the bell veins. They both peek into the chamber, immediately spotting the bell settlement's problem within it.

"It is a Weaver," Hornet whispers, voice on edge. "Maskless, too."

"Have you ever seen a Weaver without a mask?" Quirrel asks.

"Yes– well, no. My mother did not wear one, but I have nary a memory of her without. My father bid her wear it, as all the Dreamers did. But she is an exception; a Weaver does not remove her mask unless…"

"Unless?"

Hornet shakes her head and leans closer into the hole.

"Unless she is forced to."

The Weaver below is covered in a soft, down-like fluff, though her claws speak of violence and blood. A haunting melody emanates from the silken strings she pulls in symphony while sat within her nest of phantoms; and if Quirrel peers even closer, he can see large pins sticking into her back. Through shell, they pierce her flesh, no doubt a painful procedure that has left her with a debilitating and lifelong ache. In the middle of it all is a large bell that Quirrel and Hornet have rung in similar locations throughout Pharloom, sounding out a deep chime that sings of ancient rites.

There is no doubt left: this is the cause of the bell-town's curse. Quirrel is just about to ask Hornet if she has a plan in mind when suddenly his eyes are full of crimson red and a flick of needle-glint.

Gods.

Hornet drops to the ground while Quirrel remains up in the ceiling, head peeking out. She adopts an offensive stance, legs bent at the joints and needle brandished in the dim light.

"Creature, your claws guide those cursed threads, but you are not their source. What role do you play in this vile affliction?"

But the Weaver does not reply to any of Hornet's questions. Instead, she turns her head toward Hornet and coos and cries, her claws raised up in excitement as she rises from her seat of corpses.

"She is here! The rare birthling! Precious child of Wyrm and Weaver! Spawn of those who dared to flee. She has found her way home… at last. How fine her shell, and silk, and claw… For you, mother… let me claim her all for you!"

Quirrel takes that as his sign to jump down because that's a taunt to begin a fight if he's ever heard one. From the hole, he launches his nail downward to impale it directly into the Weaver. He manages to hit her just as she's taking a step forward, catching her back and the pins stuck in there.

His assessment that those pins look like they hurt– badly– must be true as she unleashes a shrill cry. It staggers her for a moment that allows Hornet and him to deliver their blows, but her recovery is shockingly fast. All at once, she returns to her former stance and pulls the silken threads in diagonal directions, all toward Quirrel.

Hornet dives, shoving him to the side as bells rain from above. They clang against the steel ground, a cacophonous rage in this tiny arena. Though they rise quickly, it's not quick enough when the Weaver speedily approaches with her claws flying in all directions.

Hornet manages to leap up and catch only the tail-end of the scrapes, but it's been firmly established that Quirrel is a ground-fighter. He tries to parry the hits, but he has never faced such a furious opponent before with blows that are just barely visible in their whipping motions.

His shell is sturdy enough to withstand the Weaver's attacks, but it will not be for long. Glancing down, he can see the gashes embedded deep into him, lines that will take time to heal. But there's only so much time he can spare at his injuries when the Weaver begins pulling down bells once again.

Hornet remains in the air, jumping and threading between them with an aerial elegance. She delivers powerful, downward blows in agile strikes as Quirrel maintains his grounded stance. He holds his defenses as long as he can while the Weaver slashes at him, each parried hit a moment longer for Hornet to continue her slicing.

It isn't long until the Weaver looks worse for wear, her growls and snarls a panting mess in the midst of her summoned bells. She skids across the ground, pulling silk from the ceiling as Hornet grabs onto the wall, calling for Quirrel to do the same.

Good thing, too, because it's then that cragged metal spits from the ground, cutting deep into the surface.

Alas, safety from above is something that only Hornet can capitalize on well as the Weaver returns from her silken strands, back again to pull bells around them. Quirrel feels a bit like he's dancing with the Weaver, feet balancing a delicate step between dodging and slashing, slashing and dodging.

The fight is lasting longer than Quirrel would prefer as he feels his stamina flagging. Thankfully, Hornet stills seems okay as her weaving remains as precise as ever, shooting out silken threads to gather the Weaver in her grasp. She is lashed, over and over, in the storm, wailing out as it stings her bare face and revealed flesh.

Quirrel sees his chance in the hurricane of silk, the Weaver stunned still by the endless assault. He charges forward with his nail, sprinting in a quick dash with his nail prepared to impale.

A few things happen in quick succession, which Quirrel now has a very spotty memory about.

He remembers running, he remembers the heft of his nail; he remembers the intense beat of his heart deep in his chest, the pounding of blood rushing in his veins. He recalls Hornet hovering above; he recalls the Weaver frozen in silk; he recalls seeing the opening with such clarity that it made him feel like some kind of true-blue knight.

And then there is nothing, just for a moment. His vision goes blank, quickly returning with a harrowing sight of Hornet's expression melting into fear, the Weaver's claws slashing in a torrent of fury.

Pain sears him. It burns, so unlike the feeling of having one's shell damaged. Whereas that is a dull ache, like pressing a claw against a hard wall, sliced flesh is a far different experience. He can imagine the muscle rendered bloodied, gouged in terrible gashes.

He's not sure if he says anything when the claws manage to break through his shell– gods, he doesn't even know if he remains conscious for that second when all he can see is the Weaver's angry swipes. All he can be truly sure of is the sight of Hornet's needle diving deep into the Weaver's back, joining where those pins are embedded deep in her.

The Weaver keels over next to Quirrel, claws only holding her up for a moment before Hornet sends her claws down on the pins' edges. They dig deep, far deeper than they should into a bug that is already long dead to the world.

Armoured bugs, like Quirrel, don't often feel much pain beyond the odd ache. Softer ones with exposed flesh may be more accustomed to it, and therefore hardened by the sensations when they occur; while one may view this exposure as a weakness, it may truly be a blessing in disguise. As when an armoured bug receives enough damage to their shell to break it, well– they will be unprepared for the hurt, the burn, the sear.

 

 

Everything is a bit of a blur after that.

Quirrel can remember only the barest of details, which just seems to be the story of his life now. There is the sensation of his arms being lifted, the trickle of blood down from his abdomen. Hornet's voice is thick like honey, sweet and cloying and sticky in his mind as she rattles off words that he can barely parse. In her eyes, he sees concern, but he wonders why there is such worry in them.

His feet don't move of their own volition, but each forced step is a way closer to wherever Hornet is leading them. Fading in and out of consciousness, he is both numb and yet acutely aware of the pain that is wracking his system– somehow, such a burn may render one both wholly within the pain and apart from it. It is similar to saying a word repeatedly to the point it loses all meaning. You know it has a definition, and still it has none to you.

There is a clamour of noise when Quirrel opens his eyes to blurred visions. He leans against Hornet as he tries to focus on the masks in front of him, the voices that ring in the open air. He doesn't recognize them, but they all seem worried in some way. He is dragged this way and that, up and up and up.

 

 

"Quirrel, could you–"

Quirrel hands the parchment over to Monomon without a word, his head still down and other claw scribbling out his observations from yesterday's visit to Greenpath. He feels a soft tentacle take the parchment from him like the downy touch of a flea.

"Thank you, my dear. You always know what to do, even before I ask."

He glances up. There Monomon is, floating in all her great glory in glowing Archive lights, lumaflies making her form shimmer through the translucence of her body. He often has a hard time looking away from her, stuck admiring the elegance of her and the admiration that brims in his heart when he remembers that he is the one she chose, he is her assistant. Out of all the candidates, she wanted him.

"That is what an assistant is for, are they not?" he says as he turns from his chair. Today, they are just working on some general catch-up items, things that keep the Archive clean from piling parchment. Outdated accounts, current reports; these things must be checked on occasionally as information flows constantly through Hallownest's rulers.

"Cheeky, too!" she laughs.

This is how the days normally pass, Quirrel thinks in a haze of ink and old, dusted tomes. The quiet of the Archives, occasionally broken by visits from others of great import. Though he is young– so, so young– he cares only for the monotony and constant presence of his dear Teacher, the one who lifted him into such a position replete with all the knowledge he could ever care to know.

Time glides slowly between them. The silence is interspersed with questions to guide Quirrel's writings to precision, to accurately portray his chronicling. Though he will never be as fine a writer as Monomon, he can hope to at least live to her standards.

She slides next to him, a tentacle floating over an image that he didn't even realize he was sketching.

"Who is she?" asks Monomon. "Such a cloak, it reminds me of…"

"A Weaver," he says. "Half-Weaver, half-Wyrm."

"An impossible creature," hums Monomon. "Bugs are always whole, made anew by their birth; it matters little where they came from, who sired and who bore."

Quirrel's claw keeps moving on its own. He pulls the ink up into a finely-pointed head, the crisp black painting a picture of a young bug in a pleated cloak. He recognizes her– inexplicably so.

Isn't this a memory?

"Her name, Quirrel?"

Quirrel chokes the words out.

"… Hornet, My Lady. Her name is Hornet."

His throat is dry, body tense, and yet his claw keeps moving as he completes the sketch. It is nothing beautiful, but the subject commands the eye anyways; her needle a deadly weapon, capable of such death, and still the serenity of her figure is apparent in the ink. She looks content, staring out at the blank parchment like she's overlooking a land that she's known all her life, protected with her very soul and heart. But– this is a memory. Just a recollection of another day in the Archives, far before the Infection had ever eaten its way through Hallownest's unknowing denizens.

He is young. He is an assistant. He has only ever held a nail in defense, in practice.

He is in a memory.

"She is beautiful," Monomon says. "Do you not think so?"

Quirrel places the quill down, his claw feeling around his abdomen. There, along his shell, is a raised scar in the shape of a slash. It feels– not large, but prominent. If you glanced at him, it would be the first thing you would notice.

"I…" he trails off.

"You don't need to answer that, my dear. I'm only teasing."

Silence coats the atmosphere in a thick syrup, an ichor that fills any empty opening; and in the yawning quiet, it floats along the blank conversation that grows between student and teacher.

When Quirrel goes to rise from his seat, Monomon places a tentacle on his shoulder. She pushes him down not roughly, but firm enough that he knows that he should remain where he is. He cranes his neck up at her, all soft in the light.

She brings a tentacle to his face. It cradles his cheek and he has to stop himself from leaning into this farce, this false dream of a time that never happened and would never happen again.

When she goes to speak, all Quirrel hears from Monomon is the gentle plucking of strings, harmonizing with the gentle drone of buzzing from outside the Archive, electricity humming in time.

"Wake, Quirrel," she says over the song, "and say hello to little Hornet for me."

 

 

Quirrel awakens with a groan.

He realizes he's laying down only when the vision of a ceiling comes into view. It is a bronze metal, aged through wear-and-tear, though it still arcs quite proudly above. If one looked even closer, they would be able to see the slight chips in it.

Rolling over, he comes face-to-face with what he would call a "home". It is a small, humble space, complete with dusty shelves awaiting to be filled with scrolls, mementos, and trophies. The air inside is slightly musty, but it's quite spacious inside with enough room to fit a few bugs inside comfortably; distantly, he can hear the sound of plucked strings– is there a gramophone playing somewhere?

Below him, a plush surface, soft covers, and a warm blanket. The bed he lays on is definitely one of the comfiest he's ever been on, but that might be because his entire body is aching like he's just been smashed with a sledgehammer. It is genuinely that sore.

He pushes himself upward to sit, but the pain is almost unbearable. Another groan escapes him, his arm wavering beneath his weight; but he is caught by a strong claw, silencing the music that floated through the home.

"Careful, Quirrel," says Hornet, her expression downturned into concern. "The injuries you sustained were no trifling matter."

Hornet helps him lay back down. Behind him, she rearranges the pillows so he's propped slightly up and able to see what's going on in the home. And yet, it's hard to focus on anything else when she's got her claws over him, blankets being fluffed around his waist and pillows adjusted to maximize comfort.

He says, "I never took you for a caretaker."

"Even though sentinel I am?"

"Well, caring for bugs personally is slightly different."

She shakes her head and sits down at a desk, her needle propped next to her. "It is; in this, I concede you are correct."

Quirrel feels down to his abdomen where he saw the scar in his… memory? Dream? Whatever– his claw makes its way down to his belly, but finds it wrapped in tight strands of silk. Beneath it, he can feel the sting of the deep gashes, although its sensation is muted with the pressure applied from the binding.

"Widow was her name," Hornet says. "A Weaver devoted to the matriarch of this land. I know not how she knew my heritage, but I can hazard a guess it is to do with the Weavers of Pharloom. She sliced you quite badly."

She says this with all the clinical cleanness of a healer. Still, Quirrel can detect her voice raising at the end, a hair-breadth away from anger.

"There is a fair chance you will live with her scars. I did my best in binding your wounds; alas, there is a stark difference between a Weaver healing herself and healing another."

There is something uncharacteristic about the way Hornet is sitting. Normally, whenever they stop off at a bench, she likes to lean back and relax against it. Though her posture will remain straight, she will indulge in the chance to lift the weight off her feet and enjoy the serenity. But not here– not even in this place where it is just them, away from the clamour of battle and Pharloom's haunted silk. She sits ramrod, stock-still, her claws digging deep into her cloak and scrunching the fabric.

It worries him– almost unerringly.

"Are you okay, Hornet?" he asks.

"I am," she sighs. "I only wished for you to be unhurt in the bout."

At this very moment, Quirrel becomes aware of everything. The air, the surroundings, the tension lining his muscles and the heat beating through his blood.

In this little home, they are completely and utterly alone. There are no enemies knocking upon the door, no screams for help nor taunts to battle. It is just them– wherever they are– in solemnness.

"My thanks, Hornet, for binding my wounds once again."

"Of course."

A heavy quiet drapes over them. Each of them stare at everything but one another, pure, unpunctuated silence threatening to overtake the atmosphere unless one of them speaks up. Quirrel fiddles with the blankets while he tries to focus on the silk wrapped around him, and a quick glance tells him that Hornet is running a claw around the hilt of her needle, mindless actions that mean nothing and everything.

He has to say something, right? It's either he works up the courage to break through the awkwardness or they will continue sitting in this terrible quiet, this wretched thing that is haunting their newly-blooming companionship.

"I–"

"You–"

They stop. Stare. Then start.

"I'm–"

"It's–"

This is going absolutely nowhere. Before Hornet can even think of saying anything else, Quirrel pushes through the tenseness between them and speaks of the first thing that comes to mind.

"I heard music," he says and then immediately scolds himself.

Seriously? That was all I could think of?

Hornet tilts her head but then looks down at her needle. Then, back up at him.

"Yes," she replies. "It appeared that Widow held a memory within her, just like the Weaver structures. In them was a song and instrument brought forth– a Needolin."

"Could I hear it?"

At that, Hornet looks taken aback. Again, that strange nervousness consumes her actions, claws hovering and not acting, a caution that is so foreign upon her, until she summons strings of silk and ties them to her needle. She plucks a string, and then another.

The song is haunting and yet beautiful at the same time, not unlike the player of said song. It fills the air completely, cutting straight through the silence; within it, Quirrel can sense the history in the notes, an ancient language lost nearly to all and yet universally known as power, knowledge, a whisper of unknown that is waiting to be revealed from beneath bone-dust.

"Could you…" Quirrel starts, "teach it to me?"

"It is not like any other music," Hornet says. "It is more a memory than song."

"Is that such a bad thing? To remember?"

Hornet does not respond for some time. Quirrel wonders what is racing through that mind of hers, always so preoccupied with the mission that it seems to never have time to slow down and simply think of the present and past. Perhaps she has spent her entire life lingering on what was and what could have been that there she views the future as all that remains, all that holds hope.

From beside her, she fetches Quirrel's nail. She strings it with some of her silk and then hands it over to him, laying it over his blanketed lap.

"Like this," she says, her claws guiding his. "And then feel the memories."

A deep bass tone fills the air, so different from Hornet's own clear, harp-like sound. When Quirrel finally gets the hang of the notes, his claws moving on their own as the music rings out, she returns to her Needolin and plays the same tune. Together, a song is made, and a song is heard. It embeds itself deep into Quirrel's mind, more permanent than a scar, more powerful than silk.

Notes:

here's a fun fact: this chapter was originally SUPER different. like, it had a whole extra adventuring section and way more funny moments before i decided that i'd rather do the whole "omg u got hurt" scene instead of a "uh-oh, only one bed!" thing. it was also probably going to be double this chapter's word count which is already ridiculously long lmaooo

Chapter 8: love me anyway

Summary:

Hornet is haunted by a king long dead.

Notes:

a bit of a different chapter! i love love love exploring parent dynamics and an "i hate my dad" and "conflicted but not really about my daughter" duo always gets me.

also, mb for the later-than-usual update. i was travelling for my anniversary/bday and my lovely bf made me a CROCHETED HORNET DOLL. she is so cute; you can take a look at her here!

chapter title is from "Love Me Anyway" by Chappell Roan!

"It is not what I would have chosen for you."

"Well, I did not ask your opinion on it, did I?"

"Keep that tongue in check, child."

Hornet pulls her cape around her, silver liquid spilling on her dark shell. She thinks of it as a moving metal, an outer casing that can protect only as much as it covers; for that which is bare, will be pierced. She coats herself in the armour anyways– as long as she is impenetrable, there is no way for her to be hurt.

She remains silent. In the din of her father's office, there are no words left to be said. He gazes out the glassy panes that surround him, a light filtering through that cuts past even the darkest of void. Contemplation is in his nature– nay, it is his truest state– and yet, Hornet cannot help but think that her father often has little insight as to how the world genuinely functions. Beyond the palace, beyond the troubles of royals; down and below, deep in the kingdom, where the citizens play and ponder.

Which is why he would throw such a fit over her name.

"You shall call me Hornet, or not at all."

"You are no hornet."

"And I am hardly Wyrm, hardly Weaver. It is fitting enough that I sting like neither."

Her father sighs. It will not be long before he lets this go, as he usually does with matters so inconsequential. And still, Hornet knows it will linger in his mind until the day he passes, forever thinking of all the things that could and could not have been. His children languish, his prized vessel ensnared; and when he dies, she will only mourn for a moment of all the past could have held.

There is no reason to stay so stuck in that which has passed, she thinks. Her mother always sought the future, giving up her life so that her name may live on beyond her. Hornet thinks it only right that she do the same, too.

"And yet, you are my daughter."

The Pale King, her father, imagines similarly. But he does not see the far future– only the close, the adjacent.

"It seems I am."

He turns around from the windows. The light shines upon him in a beam of pure white. It illuminates his back as he casts a long shadow over the room, and just for a second– a split moment– she thinks she can see his true form encased in the darkness. The gaping maw, the endless razor-blade teeth, and the gargantuan size that could tear kingdoms asunder.

"Would you lower yourself, daughter?"

Hornet narrows her eyes.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Her father gestures to her claws, held within them the mask of a Dreamer. She recognizes it only through elimination– Lurien has only one eye, her mother has many. On this, there are four holes for which to see through.

Is this not a memory? Hornet can recall this day with a shocking clarity, the disappointment so potent in her father's voice. And in spite of everything– all that he had done to her siblings, all that he had done in search for that cure to a disease most terminal– she still felt the sting of guilt. The kind of guilt only a child could feel when their father admonished them not harshly, but with softness and sadness.

She certainly had not taken Monomon's mask this day.

"I ask only what you think," he says.

"I know nothing of Monomon, except for her teachings– if that is what you are asking."

"It is not."

Slow, ambling, he approaches. The shadow before him grows as does the wicked light, and soon Hornet is eaten by the blackness of his casted darkness. And yet, the light still pours around him, a halo of purity entrancing his very form.

A claw comes to her cheek, pulling her close. Instinct tells her to step back, but she remains stock-still when her father knocks his forehead against hers.

"I am but your bargain," Hornet wavers, "and this has never happened."

"Do you not wish for it to be?"

"You name me daughter only in relation. You chastise my chosen title. You discard my mother. Why would I ever wish for this?"

Her voice is a hiss, bordering on shrill; her chest beats out of time, a pulsing threat running rapid in her veins. Her father simply holds her face, cradled as one does a newborn, that sweet birthling.

"And yet in your mind, you still call me 'father'."

"Out of–"

"Respect?" he interjects. "No. You never respected me. Not now, not then, not ever. You truly are your mother's child– she despised me."

And that is the question, is it not? To hate, to respect, to revere– to hope? All things she had once done for her father, but look at where that has gotten her. In a dream, in a memory, in a place unforgiving and forgetful with nary a lick of logic left within it. Whoever this fading remembrance of a father is stood before her, it was not the one who truly existed.

But, perhaps, it is some formation of what she had wished for. A father who cared. Or– showed that he cared.

The Pale King fades into dust just as Hornet raises her claw over his, cupped over the side of her porcelain cheek.

 

 

Hornet is not one to reminisce. Nostalgia is for those who never learned to let go, either through gentle coaxing or because the situation called for stoicism. Leaving baggage behind is the premiere way to not be dragged down in the future– something that Hornet has done time and time again to keep herself as agile as possible.

Obviously, that does not explain why her father keeps visiting her in her dreams. If anything, she'd rather have memories of her mothers– but dreamers do not choose what they see. They only remember.

Thankfully, there are plenty of other things in the day to keep her mind occupied and out of the unwilling memories. For one, Quirrel is quietly on the mend, and has been for a day or two now. By the end of today, he should be fit to leave bedrest and set out on the road again. Hornet will not deny that she is eager to leave Bellhart, but they have been nearly excessive in their hospitality. Providing them an entire bellhome was a bit much, she thinks, but still greatly appreciated.

Quirrel leans back against the bed as Hornet sits on its side. Her claw, which she finds herself becoming increasingly aware of, is placed next to his hip as she leans backward near him. They've been talking for some time while he's been recovering. Conversation seems to flow very smoothly between the two, in spite of Hornet not ever being one for small talk.

Well, to be fair– Quirrel does most of the talking.

"Your Needolin reminds me of a bug I once met," Quirrel says. He sends a glance up to the ceiling before turning to Hornet. For some reason, she feels naked under his gaze, as if he is searching for something and has yet to find it.

"You must have met many on your journeys away from Hallownest," Hornet replies. "I am assuming you enjoyed it, then? Seeing new paths, greeting other bugs and whatnot."

"Oh, of course," Quirrel hums. "I have met many, supped with plenty; there have been friends and lovers and enemies, but the ephemeral nature of travel means that those bonds will be broken by age eventually."

A polite bug would listen to what their conversation partner was saying, but Hornet–

"Lovers?"

Quirrel gives her a funny look at that. It's not confusion, it's not annoyance; he just tilts his head while pressed up against a mountain of pillows and flashes her a most curious smile.

"That is what you heard? I profess a profound statement on the nature of life and it's 'lovers' you lock onto?" he teases, voice lighter than a lumafly.

"Well–" Hornet coughs.

"I never took you for a gossip, Hornet. I suppose we learn new things about one another every day."

He settles back against the pillows as he crosses his claws over one another. He's the picture of serenity, satisfied with the social torture he's just put his conversation partner through. In other circumstances, Hornet would think herself bothered– angry, even– at the idea of another poking fun at her when her query was in genuine curiosity. But this isn't that, and they aren't strangers anymore; his teases and jests are friendly and well-meant, words softened by laughter rather than barbed with harsh tones.

When Hornet does not reply, he speaks again.

"If we are gossiping," he ambles, "then, I will trade a story for a story. Sharing secrets is no fun if only one bug is telling all of them, don't you think?"

Hornet has a few options here. She could back out and keep her tales close to her chest, locked deep in that black heart of hers; she could swallow that key and have it eaten by acid with no way to unlock the rest of her stories. Or, she could play it off and pretend that she has no idea what he's talking about.

Or…

She could play his game.

"Okay," she says. "Let us share."

Quirrel flourishes his claw in a winding motion. "Ladies first," he says.

Hornet scrunches her face. "I do not subscribe to such ideas."

He hums, thinking.

"Princesses first, then?"

Arguing the point further would be moot, as much as Hornet cares not for chivalric ideals. She has been no princess for some time, and while the thought pangs in her a strange combination of longing and vitriol, it is hard to come up with a reason as to why Quirrel should offer his romantic road-tales first.

Really, they shouldn't be talking about this at all. It's a waste of time– precious time that Quirrel should be using to recoup his strength before they head out again, which Hornet thinks will be sooner rather than later. Aside from the fact that it feels unprofessional, for lack of a better term, it is nearing what Hornet could define as a tenuous friendship between bugs that should be entirely focused on the task at hand.

And yet, she finds herself wracking her brain for an old memory of a dead flame, a bug she had once called lover but never for long. Unfortunately, none are notable enough to bring up a memory of touch or sound, of words spoken and remembered.

"While the instinct has struck me at times, of my own mates none could match my lifespan. Perhaps you could categorize it as animal, the need to bond and seek such union. None of mine have been memorable– purely base."

"Now that's not a secret!" Quirrel exclaims. "Truly, you recall none?"

"Not any worth mentioning, at least."

He sighs, clearly disappointed. Quirrel may have teased Hornet earlier for wanting to indulge in others' secrets, but it's clear that he's quite the gossip-hound. Hornet supposes that tracks for a scholar like him, always wondering and pondering about every little thing in this world, whether they be bug or environmental.

"Well, it can't be helped. I'll tell you mine, but don't expect any sordid details!" he says with a wagging claw.

Sordid. Though it's stated with all the plainness that can be conjured on this plane, Hornet cannot help but feel warm at the mention. She shuffles on the bed, adjusting where her claw lays against the sheets. She nears him until she’s at a fairly close distance from him.

To hear him better, obviously.

"It was perhaps a number of years ago. I found myself on the road back to Hallownest, driven by some unknown instinct when I was suddenly accosted by a tall, looming bug. She wielded claws longer than the usual, sharper than a tack. It was then she demanded all my Geo in order to cross her path.

"I was tempted to give her my funds, as I didn't exactly have much on me and I did not want the trouble. She was quite the fierce sight with a mask that had a large crack along its side, never healed; and yet her antennae curled in an almost girlish way, like she purposefully coiled them. In the end, I handed over my Geo."

"You did not fight?" Hornet guffaws.

Quirrel shrugs. "Why would I? I had about ten Geo to my name, which could buy me approximately one eighteenth of a map that would lead to a hole in the ground. She did not ask for a specific amount other than 'all of it'."

"That is… a troubling thought," Hornet admits. "That you would not challenge such an obvious threat."

That makes Quirrel laugh, a warm, velvet sound. "She said the exact same thing, if you can believe it. 'Your nail,' she said, 'it is best used on those that would threaten your life, like me.'"

Quirrel's description of this bug is a strange one. He calls her warrior and elegant all at once, fierce with a scarred shell and mask and yet with coiffed edges and a softness to her. Hornet has a hard time imagining what she would have looked like beyond her height, a figure that casts shadows over all that stand in her strength. She thinks she would have admired the bug if it were not for the passion effusing itself in Quirrel's words as he continues to describe her beauty and grace and wicked power in her claws.

He's clearly a biased subject toward her– whoever she is. Maybe she isn't actually that amazing of a warrior.

Right.

"She decided that I needed protection, if I wasn't to provide it to myself. I did not even ask her to– she just simply tagged along for the journey. She ended up being quite a nice travelling companion, even if her idea of relaxation included constantly duelling whenever we had a spare moment."

That, Hornet can see with a piercing clarity. While Quirrel's companion is naught but a fuzzy vision of claw and height, she can see Quirrel's defensive posture as he parries blow after blow from the storm of blade. The shifting weight, his diving nail, he would slice the figure upward to end the duel with a flourishing finality. Him, his nail, shining in the dark paths to Hallownest with the quiet surrounding, his panting breath the only thing that could be heard for miles.

"I often triumphed in our bouts. She seemed to me a prideful sort, but on every defeat, she would simply sharpen her claws and sing to the empty caverns. Perhaps it was her natural talent, or maybe it was the acoustics, but she sounded like a symphony all on her own. Not unlike your Needolin."

Quirrel shifts his weight, the bed dipping beneath his movement. It jostles Hornet closer to him. The length is minute, but when Hornet's gaze locks onto where her claw rests right next to his hip, her head leant toward him, it makes him turn toward her, too.

Unbidden, she hears her father's voice ricochet in her head.

"Would you lower yourself, daughter?"

She moves back.

But then she remembers the nagging tone of her father, the constant berating and criticism– the quiet daggers thrown in daylight and deep-cut claws in the night, words that stung more than weapons ever could.

She moves forward.

"And then?" Hornet prompts.

"And then what?"

"What of your singing love," she says, "and what came of her."

In a burst of humour, Quirrel guffaws and then laughs heartily. The bed seems to shake with his joviality as he laughs on and on, leaving Hornet to wonder where she stepped wrongly in her question of a most serious matter.

"Love, she says," Quirrel breathes, his chuckles fading back into that tempered tempo of his. "As much as I may have wished it at the time, what we had was not love. Oh, sure– my romantic heart thought 'What beauty! What grace! What strength!' but she didn't want anything that would hold her close to the ground. We had what we had, and then she returned to her tribe after I reached the crest of Hallownest's borders."

Hornet is, admittedly, struggling to wrap her head around such an idea. It was not love, nor was it lust; it seems to her that Quirrel is implying that relations can exist in some third grey area, where both lust and love can equally inhabit and yet deny one another's existence. Apparently, such relations are not as cut-and-dry as Hornet originally thought.

"And what would you have labelled your relations, then?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Friendship. Companionship. Mutual respect. Does it matter what it was called? Or does it matter more that it simply was?"

Hornet waves a claw. She pulls her legs up onto the mattress and folds them under herself, under her cloak. The plush sheets have her melting into the softness, and it makes her want to lay down in the lush coverlet. The bug already resting in it notwithstanding.

Or, perhaps, not in spite of it. Because of it–

"I am no philosopher, and I did not expect you to be either. It seems I have misjudged your wisdom, though we have both lived similarly long lives."

"Well, it helps when one has studied under one of the wisest of bugs. And also leaving one's hometown, hm?"

 

 

"And do you love her?"

"Of course. Do not mistake silence for a lack of emotion."

Here they are again. In the office, in the light, in the pale whiteness of the world. There he sits, scribbling at his desk, and over yonder Hornet stands, back straight and silver cape a-flutter in the open window, breeze pouring through and shifting the material.

Just like liquid, molten metal.

"There is lust, and then there is love, daughter. Do not conflate one with the other."

Her father's cloak has always seemed more to be a shield. There is a solidity to it that appears impossible. Whenever he moves, it remains as still as stone. An inflexibility is hewn into the material, and perhaps even into its wearer.

"There are reasons why we did this," says her father. "I do not expect you to understand."

"Do not treat me as if some invalid. I know they had no choice– acceptance was as moot an answer as denial. A pet project of yours would ne'er deny you."

"And yet, here you are, daughter."

"My name is Hornet."

"Perhaps that is why you are so notable in this twisted family tree of ours."

"Will you not listen, father?"

"My daughter. My only lineage."

"I am not yours," she hisses. "I belong to none but those who have my love– of which you have naught. Farewell, father."

She turns and tears the cape off of her. Beneath it, her red cloak blooms like a tireless flower in the empty night, finally mustering its strength to shed its shell and blossom out under the endless sky.

When she pushes the office door open, the sight of Quirrel resting upon the bellhome's bed before her in the light, she hears her father call out. Soft, nervous, pleading. It is an echo from an earlier dream-memory, a whisper of conscience, of hope.

"Still, you name me 'father'."

 

 

The waking world introduces a few things. One, Quirrel is mostly healed. He is still scratching at his injury's scar even though Hornet has told him to stop multiple times, but he's able to swing his nail, dash, and jump, which means he'll be able to defend himself.

Two, Hornet is getting quite sick of seeing her father and all the terrible nostalgia and pangs in her heart that come from it.

And three, they've got no idea where to go next.

Hornet's feet clang against Bellhart's ground, cool steel making contact. Pavo jumps a bit when he realizes that it's just her and Quirrel, half the town's saviors. He perks up and chimes to greet them

"Oh! Our good warriors! I trust you have both rested and healed since your dreadful battle?" he coos.

All the pleasantries are exchanged between the group, with Hornet cutting straight to the chase before Quirrel can go on a huge tangent about Bellhart and its architecture and whatnot. As nice as it is to listen to him, they've spent more than enough time lingering in this little community.

She shows Pavo her map, circling areas with her claw to show where she thinks they can go next. Following Shellwood is the obvious answer, but Pavo only shakes his head sadly when she directs her claw along its roots.

"I fear that even pilgrims are denied at the Citadel's doors. It is a mighty battle for the sinful, for only the clean can be permitted through."

Hornet and Quirrel look at one another.

"Are you sinless?" asks Hornet.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

"Pavo," Quirrel says, "is there any way for non-pilgrims to enter the Citadel? A back-entrance, or perhaps an exit door?"

Pavo fumbles around. The little bell on his hat twinkles and sings as he bounces from foot to foot, unsureness pouring from him. It takes a few moments for him to crack under Hornet's unflinching gaze, eyes locked with him as she awaits his answer. They have saved their town– he must tell them.

"Well, there is one path," Pavo mutters. "But I do not recommend it! No, quite not!"

It takes some further convincing with another hard stare for Pavo to spill his information. Well, it may also be due to Quirrel's gentle coaxing, but Hornet doesn't want to let him take all the credit when her silence does the job just as well.

When they finally enter the Bellway, they're still arguing about where to go.

"Look, it is called Sinner's Road. It sounds like an extremely bad idea."

"Quirrel, I believe we already established neither of us are sinless."

"That doesn't mean that we must go through Sinner's Road. Just think of all the wretches there! We may not be sinless, but that does not make us–"

"Sinners? By definition, if we are not sinless, then we are sinners."

"By the hard definition, yes, but the term 'sinner' is oft used a way to denigrate or separate that which does not comply with a set of beliefs– beliefs that tend to differ from one's own."

"A sound argument, but not one that a zealot would care to listen to."

If Hornet's earlier statement on their ease of conversation was true, then what is doubly true is their ability to rattle off arguments without pause. While Quirrel's insistence on etymological logic and societal use of "sinner" is nice and all, that does not negate the fact that they are within an unknown land that worships silk. If he was in a classroom, he would get an A+. In reality, he's just arguing at a wall.

The conversation is going absolutely nowhere, continuing even as they board the Bell Beast. Quirrel rambles as Hornet helps him up onto the Beast’s arched back, talking on and on. She listens to him for a few more polite moments before leaning toward the Bell Beast’s head, showing her on the map where to go, and then feeling the wind against her shell as their journey begins westward.

 

 

Sinner’s Road is named quite aptly. In fact, its atmosphere is so horrendous that it boggles Hornet’s mind that anyone who is not a sinner could even make it through this area. Replete with deranged bugs swinging sharp pins and spiky traps, it seems like this is one forgotten corner of Pharloom that deserves no mercy from either needle nor nail.

Quirrel is expectedly upset that Hornet has dragged them here. Her reasoning is that they should, at the very least, examine Sinner’s Road before forgoing it. Whether they use this path into to the Citadel is a null point— all that truly matters is that they check every possibility before flinging themselves at a gate that needs them to be washed of sin.

Which they are not.

Quirrel swings his nail at a flying bug, who is chucking spiked balls in their direction. They bounce along the ground and demand any land-locked creature to watch where they step, lest they be impaled by their own ignorance. There is a second, similarly flying bug swinging their blade at Hornet. This is a fight that should be theoretically easy, but is difficult only because of the environment.

One wrong step, and one will end up in a maggot-infested soup below. Quirrel had tried to get a sample of the maggots to examine, but Hornet stopped him before they could leech away at his shell. She smacked his claw and dragged him forward, a harsh reaction but a deserved one— who even dips their claw into a swamp without knowing what will happen?

Apparently, Hornet. Because just as she’s driving her needle down into the pin-wielding bug, it dodges her attack. And since she’s already locked into her movements, she can only watch as she soars through the air, past the dock, past Quirrel, and into the maggot soup.

She is surrounded by a thick sludge of rancid maggots. They squirm along her shell, gliding in a gloop that disgusts her to no end; and once they begin to gnaw at her— her face, her arms, her legs— she surfaces with a gasping breath. She slings her needle over the dock’s edge just as Quirrel heaves her from the swamp, maggots squealing in the open air as they shrivel and die at their feet.

A serrated ball hits Quirrel in the back of the head just as Hornet reaches solid ground. In a fit of pique, she launches her needle like a javelin at the bug, sending the tip straight into their mask and pinning them against the wall.

“Gods!” Hornet exclaims. She picks a maggot off her head— and one that was just squirming past the collar of her cloak and down her back. “What luck I have.”

Quirrel helps her shuck off most of the maggots, but Hornet has a chilling realization when she feels one of them deep in her shell. It eats away at her flesh, and, even worse, her silk. Flesh can be repaired, but a silk heart is a resource most precious that she cannot let it continue overlong.

She informs Quirrel as such while she fetches her needle from the wall. He suggests that they find a bench to rest at so that they can focus on their removal, to which Hornet finds this a most agreeable idea as she drags her feet along the docks once more.

Is Hornet a lucky bug? Some may say so, for she and Quirrel stumble upon a paid bench not far from their fight, just above in an alcove. Shakra is there, too, scribbling her maps out and greeting them with complaints for Sinner’s Road. They chat about their journeys as Hornet drops some rosaries into the bench’s bowl.

“Have you journeyed quite far into Sinner’s Road, Shakra?”

“Not far, Child Wielding Nail. I presume—“

Clang!

They turn around.

Clang!

Hornet points a claw at the half-revealed bench.

Clang!

“Maggots are consuming my silk and this is what happens to me?”

The answer is, ostensibly, no. Hornet is not a lucky bug because only she could land in maggot-infested waters and then have her only solace be stuck in halfway in the ground. Whatever the cause of this is most assuredly a curse from the gods themselves— which just makes Hornet think of her father once again, and she has to bite down on her tongue before she says something she will regret.

She takes a breath and examines the area around her. A Hunter is calm even under duress, and this is surely a situation that calls for a temperate blood pressure. She glances around the room and finds that a corner of the rocky wall is particularly weak-looking. Without a word, she jumps up wall, hits the rocks, and opens up a passageway.

What is in there is even worse.

Hornet allows herself a short tirade as she curses out everything she can think of. As the worms nibble on her flesh, leaving a stinging string of spittle along her bones, and her silk is slowly supped at, she shouts at her father, she shouts at Pharloom, and she shouts at the wretched spikes that seem to dog her journey through this wicked land.

By the end of, she is panting with anger, a rage long having awaited to be unleashed. She groans— the pain of the maggots is becoming unbearable. When she runs a claw along her shell, she can feel the wriggling of them beneath her hard armour.

“Hornet,” Quirrel says, voice kind and calm and full of temperance that Hornet could never have, “Go, sit with Shakra. I shall figure out the bench.”

“No, no,” Hornet grits out as she leans against the wall. “I cannot let you do that. This problem is mine own.”

“Hornet—“

“No, Quirrel.”

“Stubborn lady,” Quirrel huffs before shoving her out of the way. He nudges her all the way to the passageway’s exit. In spite of Hornet’s resistance, her strength has waned enough to the point that Quirrel has little trouble pushing her to the end.

“What are you doing?” she says, wiggling in his grasp. His claw is firm but not tight, solid but not insistent, upon her shoulder.

“Showing one headstrong princess that there is no shame in asking for help.”

And with that, Quirrel jogs back down the hall with his nail in hand. He looks a little silly with the blade swinging around as he— not runs— but just lightly trots down the rocky passage, all pomp and enthusiasm when he leaps into the barbed pit. Hornet is halfway to crawling her way back to him when she sees the glint of his nail in the light, a shimmering arc of metal sparking against the steel spikes. He’s launched upward and over, landing perfectly on the wooden platform just on the other side.

It makes him look a bit like a knight.

Hornet knows that defeat is not something she should accept, but is there harm in backing away when another has it handled? Her father would say no; he would haunt their shadow until he personally saw it complete, held the key in his own claws to confirm its success.

She has to remind herself that she is not him, that king whose distance only made her seek succour in coldness and empty offices. His back to her, armour heavy on her shoulders—

Sliding out of the passage and down the wall, Hornet take a seat next to Shakra on the ground. Shakra understandably shuffles an inch away from the maggots spilling on the ground, but offers conversation in stead of her close company.

“You and the Child Wielding Nail appear quite close— did you share a master, perhaps?”

Shakra’s quill is still moving, but there is a slyness in her tone that makes Hornet think that there’s more to that query. Less politeness, more probing; a curiosity that is prompting Shakra to investigate the strange relationship of Quirrel and Hornet.

Hornet shakes her head. Although, all that does is make the maggots rattle around in her. “No. We grew up in the same kingdom; it was chance that we met in Pharloom.”

“Yours must be one with warriors aplenty, then. His skill with the nail is impressive, as is your needle most deadly.”

“Yes, he was trained well. Except, not even I know where he found such talent. Maybe it is it the font within that he draws from.”

“Natural talent, you say? No, there is no such thing. Bugs like him— the soft ones— are always guided by heart.”

“You say he fights for heart?”

Shakra shrugs, and then hands over the finished map of Sinner’s Road as Hornet gives her a few rosary bracelets. She emphasizes, “He fights with heart.”

Hornet’s mind is addled enough as is, but Shakra’s cryptic language is enough to confuse her completely. However Quirrel got his warrior skills is beyond everyone— literally. She’s not even sure if Quirrel can remember who taught him to wield a nail with such expertise, such finely-gripping claws and boundless strength in those arms.

Not wanting to run down a path of thoughts non-conducive to the situation at hand, Hornet says, “Shakra, do you know of any path that is either not Sinner’s Road or past Shellwood?”

“No, unfortunate as it is. If you are finding Sinner’s Road to be…” Shakra gestures at the curled, curdled maggots on the ground between them, “troublesome, then I recommend following the Child Wielding Song’s path through the Blasted Steps. I have heard many stories of pilgrims of all kinds traversing through the grand gates, so I don’t expect either you nor the Child Wielding Nail to find it difficult.”

“And what of sinners?”

Shakra clicks her tongue. “Ai! What of them? I say to follow the Child Wielding Song. He seems confident in his journey, as should you be.”

Hornet takes that into account just as another wave of pain passes over her. She focuses on the facts at hand, a thing that has oft grounded her in life. They have two choices: continue down Sinner’s Road or brave the Blasted Steps to the Citadel’s gates— neither are very good choices, but one is definitely filled with less maggots than the other. But still… there is no guarantee that their journey will not include an inane amount of backtracking, which Hornet definitely cares not for.

In the conversation’s lull, the clang of the bench echoes through the chamber. Both bugs snap over to it, watching as the structure unfolds from the ground with its bells jingling as it shakes off whatever was holding it back. All of Hornet’s planning fades away when she sees that wonderful bench.

And good timing, too, as another crunch of maggots against her shell causes sparks to fly behind her eyes, the pain like a bonfire stoked to its full strength. Hornet is no stranger to pain, but having such a worm within one’s shell is beyond even what the immortal body can handle.

Quirrel pops out of the passage, landing next to it. He hefts his nail against his back and wipes off an errant piece of root that has stuck itself to his claw.

“Now, let’s get the rest of those maggots off of you, hm?”

 

 

“Begone, child.”

“You command me to leave? Whence it was you whom destroyed Hallownest— your home, your lady’s home, my home?”

“Eventually, you shall learn why we have done what we have done; but not now, not so soon. Not while the wound still gluts and glugs, raw in the air.”

“Your poetics have no effect on me, Pale King.”

“If only. I suggest that you flee now lest the understanding ever catch up to you. Spare your innocence for a little longer.”

She stands in the doorway, claw on the handle and halfway to slamming it. The Pale King sits with his back turned toward her, the silver of his form nailing him to the ground. He does not move, he does not breathe— he merely lingers in the dying lumafly light while his only child shouts at him.

“I will not see you again,” hisses Hornet. “Not ever. Not even in these dreams or memories.”

He nods. His spired head falls, the turrets of a castle crumbling to artillery fire.

“No. Not in dreams. Not in memories. But perhaps in the interim, in the middle where sleep and waking meet. You shall hate me forevermore, and I will languish in regret as you have always longed for me to be. In your heart, I am as you have wished.”

Hornet does not know whether to tighten her grip or let go of the door.

“Did you regret any of it?”

“That is for you to answer, Hornet.”

She takes a step. The threshold gives way, the doorway opening further as her red cloak casts a jagged shadow in the office.

“You name me Hornet?”

A shuffle of movement, a slight tilt of head; her father glances over his shoulder with eyes crinkled, a line of tension running through his form.

“Hornet.”

Her heart pulses.

“Yes, father?”

He smiles.

“Hornet, wake up.”

 

 

She breaks through the surface tension of her consciousness, gasping just as Quirrel holds her shoulder steady. He flicks a maggot from his claw and presses her cloak down.

“You blacked out there for a moment,” he says, worried. “Are you alright now? I think I got the last of them out.”

Hornet runs a claw up her shell to feel the silence of worms. Every last one has been picked and plucked out of her, removed evermore unless she ever dips back into the infected waters. And why would anyone ever wish to dive back into such rancid memories?

Notes:

mfw my dad haunts the narrative

Chapter 9: perfect portrait of young love

Summary:

Quirrel has a realization.

Notes:

very sorry for the late update! i've got nothing to blame but a bad writer's block and playing too much elden ring NR. the dlc is coming out soon so probably don't expect another update for a while LOLLLL.

this chapter is a mite shorter because of that aforementioned writer's block, but i wanted to get it out because it was too good to not post. things are really starting to kick off!

chapter title is from "Perfect Portrait of Young Love" by The 502s!

Quirrel flicks the last maggot out of Hornet’s shell, careful to avoid touching her more than he should be. He reminds himself that this just is a medical procedure that is asking him to pick at her shell— nothing more, nothing less. Only, he could feel the heat rushing in him when he had brushed her cloak aside, bearing her dark shell to the outside’s chill. Shakra had made the experience slightly more bearable by lending a claw to the effort. It came as especially appreciated when Hornet’s head momentarily dipped, presumably losing consciousness.

Either way, the whole situation was necessary, simply put. It was as required as Hornet breathing life back into him back at Blue Lake, her pressing precious back air into him.

“You blacked out there for a moment,” he says, worried. “Are you alright now? I think I got the last of them out.”

Hornet looks at him with bleary eyes. A quick glance tells her that his claw is still resting against her chest, flush against the shadow-dark shade of her. Quickly, he removes the offending appendage and smiles sheepishly.

Hornet runs her claw up her shell. It rests where Quirrel’s once was, a perfect indent along her heart.

Shakra gives them both a long stare.

“I believe so… yes,” Hornet says slowly. She pushes herself up from the bench and smooths down her cloak. Everything looks perfectly normal with her as she rises, but for some strange, unknown reason, Quirrel is struck by the way she moves from the bench to the ground. Like a fluid, it’s all one single movement, the pleats of her cloak fluttering as softly as sighs, a claw wiping away the remnants of the maggots’ fluids from her face. There’s something about the light, something about the atmosphere, that leaves Quirrel looking up at her standing with not a thought crossing his mind. It’s almost as if he’s gone completely blank in the head.

“My thanks, Quirrel. And you as well, Shakra.”

While Quirrel struggles to come up with the words to reply to her with, Shakra beats him to the punch. Thanks and apologies are exchanged as casually as can be while Quirrel feels his heart stutter an asynchronous rhythm in him. It feels… familiar, somehow, this sensation of stopping and staring and marvelling— if that is what he is doing right now.

Something sparks in his mind. A fire starts, flint against steel, the bright pangs of flame begin to eat away at the roiling nervousness in the crevasse of his heart. It starts slow, and then rises into a crescendo. Heat fills his face, his claws suddenly feel tight, and when he looks over at Hornet who stands in the dim, dank light, he can’t help but have a terrible realization while in an infested roadway.

 

 

He tries to deny it, at first. Even while leaving Sinner’s Road, with Shakra still drawing out her maps, he attempts to rationalize what he thinks is happening.

It’s hard, though, when he is busy watching Hornet stare at a caged bug, her hand on her hip and head cocked to the side and that slight shimmer of curiosity making its home in her eye. He likes to think that he’s had an effect on her, at least in that way. Where now she is interested in the small things, the little details that she would have otherwise ignored while on her own journey. A bug locked-up in a cell would previously have been no bother to her— in a place like Sinner’s Road, of course it meant next to nothing— but when she saw the pathway of iron thorns with an interesting clue waiting near its bottom, she couldn’t help but point and tell Quirrel that they should investigate.

Or maybe he’s getting a little too big for his britches, thinking he’s had that much sway over her.

“Leave me be, traveller. Better I accept this kingdom's cruelty than rage helpless against it,” says the trapped bug, with just a twinge of a haughty sigh. He sits up straight when Hornet peers closer at him, all regal and fine lines.

“You seem not the average prisoner here,” says Hornet. “I say this only because of your stature, royal as it seems.”

It seems like an apt description when the bug jerks. It is almost an accusation to him as he reels back and points a sharp claw at the two of them.

“And how should you know?” he spits, and looks both Hornet and Quirrel up-and-down. His eye quirks, a single twitch, before he grinds his jaw and chokes out, “I shall not hear it. Not from you, nor your little knight with his shining nail.”

A barely-hidden jealousy snakes into the bug’s expression, his voice a harsh snarl stuck on his perfect features.

Hornet takes a step back at that. She sends Quirrel a wayward glance, regret worming its way into her expression. This was the price of curiosity, in which hostilities could be met at any place at any time. Quirrel would have been relatively unfazed by it all, if not for the little implication hanging in the air that the bug had just flung at them.

Him, Hornet’s knight. Ha— as if! If anything, she is more his knight and he is hers. Still, the thought warms him to no end, though it’s just another warning sign of the impending conclusion that he knows he must come to soon.

It makes his pride flare, the instinct to deny anything remotely intimate between them climbing up his throat. Childish doesn’t begin to describe the feeling he acts on, but the way the bug eyes him makes him do it anyways.

“Well,” Quirrel huffs, “let it be known that we are the bigger bugs here.”

Then, he kneels down to the cage’s lock. At eye-level, he can see that it’s an extremely simple mechanism that has no less than four pins in its tumbler, as well as having a relatively large opening for a key. A swift strike with a nail or needle could destroy it completely, leaving the door hanging open. But Quirrel does not care for brute force as he sticks the end of his claw’s nail into the lock’s opening, clicking the pins until the lock opens.

“I did not know you could do that. It was quite impressive,” Hornet says. Quirrel does not turn back to her, afraid that if he accepts her compliment face-on that he will melt— or something equally embarrassing. Instead, he just nods and replies while still looking at the now-unlocked lock.

“The lock was relatively simple. Any bug with the barest of lockpicking knowledge would have been able to crack it.”

“Well, not I, then,” Hornet hums. “Your skills will be quite helpful later in this journey.”

“Just do not ask me to break into anything and my claw is yours,” Quirrel laughs. “I have had quite enough of that on my travels.”

Quirrel spares her the quickest of looks. A smile shines on her, that usually stoic frame of hers now decorated in a softness that Quirrel knows will follow him around for all the rest of the day.

“Now, that is a story you must tell me.”

“Only if I receive one from you in turn.”

The caged bug clears his throat. Quickly, the easy jibes and flowing conversation dies down when the two of them shift their focus to the unwillingly saved bug. He does not thank them, nor does he ignore them; he simply narrows his eyes and shakes his head.

“Take your flirtations elsewhere,” he scoffs. “I am freed, despite no request of mine for aid.”

He directs this at Quirrel, the thinly-drawn line of tension between the bug’s shoulders becoming wider and wider. For a moment, Quirrel thinks the bug is about to leap from his cage, but Hornet cuts through the tense air with a voice as clear as a crystalline jewel.

“And we do not ask gratitude. If you choose, stay in here and wait ‘til your shell hardens to crust.”

“No. I shall depart shortly. With my way clear, my wish again propels me, though I tried to avoid it.”

“Safe journey, tall bug.”

“This is Pharloom, warrior. Safety is a myth.”

 

 

There is a chance that Quirrel is staring.

He has a feeling he’s been told to keep his eyes to himself more than once in his life. It’s just that he can’t help it— when he sees something that sparks his curiosity, he simply must gaze upon it. He needs to categorize it, chronicle it, sketch it; it doesn’t matter how he puts it into permanence, except that it must happen. Ergo, his eyes are required to lay upon his subject and sup its visage until he’s had his fill.

Obviously, staring at Hornet as her cloak flutters in the gales is inappropriate. But, still, he tries to logic his way out of the definition. He’s just… looking, and making sure that he’s been getting her angles correct in his (secret) drawings of her. She’s a subject that demands precision, so is it truly a bad thing if he’s watching the way she leans forward into the Bell Beast’s sprint, her body like a lithe line against the wind?

Probably. Oh, he’s not fooling anyone as to why he’s looking at her so closely. He’s not even fooling himself, even though he’s tried to do that for the whole of the day. Denying feelings only leads to progressively worse symptoms, and accepting the problem before it becomes a bigger issue is the best way to mitigate any obstructions that may appear.

The pump of his heart, the flush in his face. The way she seems to shine in the brilliantine light, reflecting her visage in the golden bells. The ease in which he falls into her step, the simplicity of being near her, and the safety that she brings.

Yes, let it be known that Quirrel the Scholar, Quirrel the Assistant, and Quirrel the Adventurer is harbouring a quiet affection for the late Hallownest’s princess. If only Monomon were here to hear his confession— ai, she would have an absolute heyday!

Quirrel is, admittedly, used to such feelings. He’s had plenty of on-and-off journeying partners in his long life, and while not all of them lit something in his heart, those that did have left a lingering burn where they first blitzed. Of course, there was his lady at the edge of Hallownest’s borders, beautiful and dangerous and who liked to bite— when he would let her, of course. And there were others, plenty of others, where nothing came of his affection except silent admiration and a desire to have and be held by them. It was a simple fact of travelling with someone who clicked with you— feelings were naturally going to crop up, but it was up to the bug to decide what to do with them.

More often than not, Quirrel acted on those impulses. He’s been rejected, accepted, and also left in that strange grey area where neither exactly know where to step next. And yet, he’s always been enthralled and then left empty by them, a passing instinct settled the moment they’ve parted on the splitting road.

But none had ever inspired such… fervour in him. If that is the correct word to use— fervour. Quirrel wants to blame it on the closeness they’ve shared in recent days, but should that even be the term for it? Blame? Who would ever wish to blame feelings?

Certainly not Quirrel.

He holds fast to the Bell Beast as Hornet urges her forward. His entire body is wracked with jolts as the Bell Beast leaps bounds over the bumpy ground. At one moment, he’s actually lifted from the Beast as gravity hurries to bring him back to solid ground.

Through all of it, Hornet wears an adrenaline-drunk expression, pressing further and further into the speed. Quirrel watches her as she watches the path ahead with a focus finer than the pin-sharp edge of a blade. He half-wishes that he could take the journal out right now and scribble out the picture before him; alas, he will have to squirrel the image away for later to pen in.

When they reach their destination— Bone Bottom— Quirrel hops down first. His entire abdomen stills aches, but he’s luckily only gotten away with a light scar across the middle. It’s hardly visible in the light, and completely gone in the dim; but he can still feel the raised line scratched in his shell. No amount of healing will ever make it fade, but Quirrel can’t find the urge to care. Scars are attractive, are they not?

Well, dashed across the mask or face, they certainly are. In a place most vulnerable and obvious, it’s a sign of survival and prowess. He’s not so sure about his scar placement.

On the ground, he extends a claw out to Hornet. She reaches out to him, but then pulls back and pulls a face, as well. It makes her look infinitely more dainty than she’s trying not to be. Not that dainty would ever be the word he would use to describe her normally, but he thinks that, in this case, it’s quite appropriate. She shrinks away like a shy maiden, never having even held the claw of another.

The juxtaposition is jarring, if not infinitely intoxicating. In his mind, he lingers on the picture of Hornet the Princess Knight, strength in elegance, power in finery. She is no blushing lady— never has been, and certainly never will be. But her regal upbringing is so obvious when she walks, talks, and acts, holding herself high and yet denying any sort of niceties that a princess would normally demand.

“I do not require any assistance,” she says.

“Let me anyway,” he says.

A quiet moment passes between them. Awkward isn’t what Quirrel would call it, but tense; a strange second where neither of them are sure what will happen next, not to mention how it will transpire. If they could, they would simply stand here forevermore, content to never know what will come of one another’s actions.

Quirrel is already regretting his audaciousness when Hornet is suddenly jostled from the Bell Beast. Ripples of hard bone waver beneath Hornet as the Bell Beast bucks her off, landing her right in the claw of Quirrel.

He grasps her with a firm touch as her feet hit the ground. She was right— she didn’t need the help. But Quirrel can’t help but want to pretend to be a knight, at least for a moment, for a princess. Call him old-fashioned, but he’s always been a terrible sucker for all the gooey stories about chivalry and adventure.

Even if the princess only cares for him in a most surface-level manner, Quirrel is still satisfied with playing the part of occasional savior. Even if she has been the one who has been doing most of the saving. After all, she, too, is a princess knight. Two in one, a lady of multitudes. He could never pin her down with just one simple term like princess or knight, her presence commanding so many definitions that it is near impossible to contain her within a paltry word.

Hornet pulls her claw from him once she finds her balance, although there is no malice behind it. They head out to the Bellway’s exit with Hornet taking the lead— and maybe she doesn’t think that Quirrel can see, but he can spot just between the crook of her head and shoulders how she holds her claw up to her face, clenching fingers against her rough palm. Her claw forms fist, its pressure released the moment they step through the exit.

 

 

In her claws, Hornet holds a bundle of wishes.

“This is why you wanted to return to Bone Bottom?” Quirrel asks.

She shrugs. It’s a non-committal movement, the light bounce of her shoulders, but Quirrel knows that there’s more to it than she’s letting on. He doesn’t press her nor does he insist, though she answers the question without any pressure.

“If we are to move further into Pharloom, I thought it prudent to collect further wishes as to fulfill them. Granting them has proved fruitful so far; it is thus practical to accept as many as we can while continuing our journey.”

Quirrel takes a look at the pile of wishes. Some are as simple as collecting items, while others are requesting that certain vile creatures be slain. They could be easily done within a day, if they set their mind to it.

“That sounds like a swell idea,” Quirrel says. “Though, I would have thought you of all bugs to not want to linger much longer in Bone Bottom.”

“I do not, but I confess that the pilgrims here stir me to helping. They just seem so…”

“Sad?”

“I was going to say ‘pitiful’, but yes. That is a nicer way of putting it.”

They decide to tie up their loose ends in Pharloom before heading to the Citadel, which includes fulfilling wishes on both Bone Bottom’s and Bellhart’s boards. Hornet juggles the wishes in her claws as Quirrel jots them all down in the journal, so that they don’t have to carry the signs with them the entire time. As he writes, he watches Hornet out the corner of his eye. Her gaze dances along the pilgrims, those that are still mustering the courage to begin their travels upward and onward.

To say that Hornet is a cold bug would be incorrect. She is no colder than the average stranger, though her stoicism keeps her seemingly at arm’s length from most folks. But Quirrel can see the cracks in that well-kept facade, the breaking of her walls. He wonders what prompted her to now extend a helping claw, and if it is her wishing to free herself from the expectations of other bugs. Maybe, she has tired of being viewed as haughty, silent, and tunnel-visioned; perhaps, she desires to act in a way that she has never been able to, but now can with the freedom of travel.

Helping others. Being soft. Acting as a savior because she can, not because she must.

Quirrel finishes the last request, dotting the i's and crossing his t’s. He points to the first one on the list, and informs Hornet of its ease of access.

“Mossberries,” he says. “We saw them on our way up from the drop, did we not?”

“I believe we did.”

They make their way to the end of Bone Bottom, with Quirrel’s head in his journal the moment their conversation lulls into a comfortable silence. He jots down everything that has been completed so far today, from travelling through Sinner’s Road to freeing the strange tall bug. In hindsight, they haven’t actually gotten much done as of late, but a change of pace is fine by him. They do not always have to be rushing around like eternal busybodies. He sets his quill back to the page, writing out descriptions of Sinner’s Road when his foot suddenly hits empty air.

“Wha—”

“Quirrel!”

He’s falling, air whooshing past his head and shell. The chill hits him as immediately as the dizzying sight of the slowly shrinking hole overhead, green moss flying by him. And then, there’s that flash of red he’s come to liken Hornet to, and the push against gravity shoving him sideways as opposed to downward.

He hits the ground hard. His back feels like it’s been cracked in half, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his shell now has a few fractures in it. Nonetheless, he currently isn’t a Quirrel-shaped splat on the ground, so he’s got a few blessings to thank.

One of which being Hornet, who is splayed against his chest and groaning with pain. She pushes herself up with one claw against him, placed right above his heart as she sits upon his lap. Her head swivels about while she reorients herself.

Quirrel keeps his claws planted on the hard ground, drawing lines into the stone as he gazes up at the bottom of Hornet’s chin. She seems unaware that she’s perched on him, but she is quickly alerted to that fact when he clears his throat and gives her a mortified smile.

“Oh— oh!” she exclaims, and hurries to stand. She brushes herself of imaginary dust and debris as Quirrel rises. She turns her back to him as she shakes her head.

“My apologies,” she grimaces. “I did not mean to land atop you. Only, I was concerned with assuring that we both made it to safe ground.”

“No, no, the blame is mine. I did not look where I was stepping.”

“It is of little consequence when neither of us are injured.”

Her gaze turns back to where she was looking before Quirrel had prompted her to stand. He follows her until he finds a strange figure carved into the walls below the cliff they are on, with what he thinks is the mask of a Weaver. It appears like it is joined by figures of harps, silken strings strung in eternal stone.

Hornet motions for them to head downward, jumping from platform to platform while avoiding the pesky bugs that chase after them. When they reach the carved figure, Hornet pulls her silk taut against her needle and plays what he recognizes as the song they strummed in the bellhome.

The eyes of the Weaver mask glow. Quirrel is sure to mark all of this down in the journal as Hornet continues her playing, the ground shaking just as the song tapers off into its end. Then, the mask rises and unveils a passageway into a dark tunnel, empty but for the distant light at its end.

“Curious, Quirrel?”

“Always, Hornet.”

The potential for danger is always present, but for some reason, Quirrel doesn’t have that sense when he strolls into the passage. Hornet appears to have the same feeling as she strides past the strange creatures lighting the hall, keeping her eyes locked forward while Quirrel tries not to trip over his own feet at the sheer sight of the place.

The architecture is simply amazing, all high lines and sloping curves. It is like nothing he’s ever seen before. The shining steel floors are almost blue in the dark, dipped deep into a shaded navy. The sound of their feet clink against the floor as they proceed through the hall, finding that light source at the very end of it.

Hornet spares the strange bulbs sticking out of the wall only a cursory investigation before she knocks them inward with her needle. Whether spurred by instinct or logic, Quirrel doesn’t know, but it seems to have done something to power the entire hall.

A flash, another whoosh. It’s an exhilarating feeling being transported by a pure beam of light when they step on the platform that Hornet guides them to. Quirrel has to take a moment to get the spinning sight of blinding suns out of his eyes. The darkness returns once again, though he is given pause when he hears something humming out of the far corner.

“You hear it, too?” Hornet asks.

“Yes. It sounds like it’s coming from over there, though it is muffled.”

There is no question about what to do next. They set their claws to digging, although they quickly find that it’s far easier to work through the packed debris just by swinging their weapons at it. Bit by bit, they dig deeper into the hole until they find themselves at the border of an ethereal, glowing light. It’s far different from the one above, with this instead seeming more like the soft glimmer of shimmers refracting through glass.

Hornet steps past the threshold first.

“Who's there? Has someone come to free me? Or are you here to bring my end?” echoes a voice. It has a ghostly quality to it, if not distinctly feminine. The pitch is high, though it floats through the air like a lost wisp of words.

They approach the voice, which is apparently coming from a contraption. It resembles a coffin, except it is made of a hard metal that would instead imply to fortify a life— not represent its end.

“I am Hornet, prisoner, only a traveller and not here to slay you. What cause sees you caged in these ruins of Weavers past? Were you their enemy?”

“No. Not their enemy, and their prisoner not through malice. I am Eva, a thing... difficult to describe, a child of Weavers, yet not quite their kin...”

Hornet perks up at that, and takes a step closer. She swings her needle behind her as it finds its home against her back. “How strange. That description could fit me as well as yourself.”

The two ladies fall into conversation while Quirrel does his best to get everything he sees down onto parchment. He learns that the not-quite-Weaver is named Eva, and can offer Hornet the chance to find further power through her Crests, which is apparently an old Weaver term for the imprint of a bug’s soul. Frankly, Quirrel’s never heard of it, but he’s also not a Weaver, so…

“And who is this?” asks Eva. “The one beside you. He is no Weaver, though I can detect a great power within his shell, too.”

“You would be correct, Eva. I am Quirrel, and though I am not a Weaver, I have been chanced with some of their abilities through absolutely no tampering of my own.”

Hornet gives him a withering look.

“Okay, slightly of my own tampering. But I promise you it is used with all the responsibility I hold dear, only to further our quest above.”

Eva laughs, a twinkling giggle that makes the air lighter. Her shell glows briefly as she speaks again.

“Ah, you are a charming one, good Sir. Though I wish I could grant you what I can grant the Lady, know that I do not fault you for being blessed with such power. It takes a great shell to withstanding a binding; yours must be tough to a fault.”

Quirrel chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. The effusive praise is a bit much, but he accepts it with as much grace as he can muster.

“I agree. Quirrel here is stronger than he may initially appear. It is a good quality for both scholar and knight, and especially for an adventurer,” says Hornet, nodding toward him.

“That is sweet of you to say, Lady. If it were possible, I would see your Crests bound together, though fate sometimes does that on its own.”

“Oh—” Hornet coughs, “— we are not. We are not so.”

Quirrel has always been quick on the uptake, so it doesn’t take him long for the assumption to hit him. That makes it two bugs today that have mistaken them for being joined, and that is two more than Quirrel would have ever imagined thinking so. Hornet appears embarrassed by it all, her shell stiff and straight at the implication.

“Accept my apologies, then, good Lady. I only meant to say that you are both well-matched. It does not take a reader of Crests to see that.”

The conversation eventually falls back into the cadence of Crests, with Hornet being offered to step forward and gain clarity into her own. With little hesitation, she does so, a light pouring from Eva’s iron shell to swallow Hornet whole. Quirrel does his damndest to look through the blinding shine but is forced to steer away when the burn begins to hit the back of his eye. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of the blot that now occupies the centre of his vision.

“Lady... Incredible...” breathes Eva. “Your nature is so unlike a mortal bug’s. Yours is malleable, transitory. It is a marvelous thing. Worth my long life to behold. If in your travels you are able to further evolve, return to me. With what power I possess, I may be able to aid you further.”

“Thank you, Eva. If my nature expands as you say, I shall return.”

Their departure is marked by another trip upward through the light tunnel and another song to get past the Weaver mask door. The light that comes from the outdoors pales in comparison to the silence that now invades both Quirrel’s and Hornet’s space. Neither are willing to make the first step to say something, a curious cloud of uncertainty now haunting them.

Quirrel decides to take the first step. As he leaps from the platforms, he says, “Strange, don’t you think, that folks here seem to think us a couple?”

Hornet huffs and folds her arms once they manage to crawl their way out of the hole. In Bone Bottom, all is the same: little pilgrims float along with their meagre belongings and hope in their hearts.

“Quite so. The bugs of Pharloom appear to enjoy jumping to conclusions, so far that they will leap off cliffs.”

“Perhaps even mountains.”

“Or the Citadel itself.”

The two look at one another, chuckling together when the tension finally snaps and the pressure releases between them. It was easier to brush off other bugs’ observations as quirks of the land, tendencies of a culture unknown to them, than to give them any credence.

Even if Quirrel wouldn’t have minded if they were true.

Chapter 10: party 4 u

Summary:

Hornet faces a series of increasingly difficult thoughts.

Notes:

in honour of spotify wrapped, this chapter is titled after my #1 most-listened song of the year. brat summer never ended for me clearly.

this chapter is kind of like an interlude before we head further into silksong's main story, so there's a lot of moving parts. i wanted to go full comedy but unfortunately i can't ever get rid of the angst. so y'all get a mishmash of it all.

also! still blown away by the reception to the fic! like wow you guys!!! for a rarepair, there sure are a lot of you. lucky for everyone, we're only 10 chapters in and i'm thinking we've got like 20 more to go LOL

chapter title is from "party 4 u" by Charlixcx <3

Hornet is reminded of a memory that she thought she had long buried beneath years of dust, decay, and general forgotten upkeep. The recollection concerns, unsurprisingly, her father, and the ghostly visage of his crowned head in the shadowed corners as she trained with her needle in the honey-soaked lands of The Hive.

“You sting, my dear, swift and sudden.”

“But it is not enough.”

Hive Queen Vespa swung back, her needle a sliver of silver. “And why is this?” she hummed. “I say your skill is up to snuff, and yet you feel the need to rally against it?”

The admonishment came as a surprise. Hornet half-expected the Hive Queen to agree, to nod and square her shoulders. She should have corrected Hornet’s posture and her grip upon her needle’s hilt— she was so sure it was incorrect, stupidly held between too-small claws and forcefully slashed against a foe far greater than she.

But Queen Vespa merely and serenely granted her the fine compliment of skill. At the time, Hornet could not comprehend why her mentor had said so, but she did not have the heart to argue back.

“I know not,” said Hornet. “Only that I must be stronger than I am now.”

Queen Vespa narrowed her eyes. “We are only ever at our strongest, our wisest, and quickest. You shall grow, you shall learn; our peaks are ever-reaching, child.”

“But—”

“If you listen to your father any further, I fear for you. Have you ever seen him in combat as of late?”

“Well—”

“It is a rhetorical question, my dear.”

“Ah.”

Hornet fell silent. She hefted her needle against her shoulder, the blade’s tip hitting the edge of her face. She could remember in great detail the gentle scrape of sharp steel against her shell, the muted sensation cooling her.

“Do not heed him,” hissed the Hive Queen. “Whatever he has said to you, discard it. You swing without confidence? Prove him wrong and arc your needle with strength. You strike without power? Show him you are made of sinew, of muscle. You are not perfect? None of us are— least of all him.”

She paused and turned. The yellows and oranges of the Hive reflected back onto her soft fur, making the Queen glow in the light filtered through layers of honey. She spoke once more, but this time with less anger and more grace. Her words were thoughtful and practised, as if she had been thinking long on exactly what to say in this situation.

“I took you in because I knew you had the will to live. Bugs like your father, they wish only to survive. Be more than that. For your mothers, and for your foremothers, too. Accept that we think your strength will only flourish with age.”

When Hornet blinks, the vision of Queen Vespa is gone but for the scent of honey in the air. Hornet moves her claws as reality slowly returns to her, placing shell shards into Flick’s claws, although most of them spill past the edges of his palms. His eyes boggle at the sheer amount that she pours into his grasp. There are hundreds of these little grey pieces of bone that clink and clank onto the ground.

“Miss, Sir, you’re both doin’ a fine service for this humble camp. I saw you two grab the wish not long ago and then— bam! You’re both here without a hitch less than an hour later.”

“The praise is unnecessary,” Hornet says, an old, familiar feeling pooling in the bottom of her gut, “as we are merely doing what we can for the bugs of Pharloom.”

“Oh, come off,” Flick says as he waves a claw. “This is mighty good you’re doing. The folks here— they need it more than you might think.”

Hornet feels the ghost of a claw on her shoulder and the silencing murmur of the dead. She insists, “It is only practical to lend a claw when it is needed.”

Flick quirks a small, lopsided smile as he glances over at Quirrel and then back to Hornet.

“Seriously, you two are amazing help.”

“It is merely—“

But before Hornet can continue, Quirrel interrupts her with a shaky laugh and a pat on her shoulder. While not a universal sign to shut up, the intent is clear enough. Hornet does her best not to be offended.

“What she means to say,” says Quirrel with a sharp look, “is thank you. It’s lovely to know our help is appreciated.”

That glance, the piercing gaze, makes Hornet feel barer than if her cloak had been torn from her. It’s more than just a look, but a knowing stare; Quirrel is searching for something with that scholar’s eye of his, hunting with a thirst to uncover whatever clue he’s set his mind to.

 

 

Hornet feels a bit like a courier today, considering that she and Quirrel have been practically running deliveries nonstop. There were mossberries dropped off to a strange druid, crying out melodies and chortles to a song only they heard; there were more shell shards dropped off to Flick; and there was even a delivery of a delivery bug, who had gotten lost on his way back to Bellhart. That, Hornet wasn’t sure how it could happen, but she supposed that even the best couriers can get tripped up by Pharloom’s many perils.

And all throughout the day, with each wish granted, the bugs were profuse with praise, with compliments, and kind words. Hornet did her best to brush them all off, but every sweet sentiment only made her dig her heels further into the ground as she denied them all. It was unnecessary, all the cheer for her actions— but Quirrel accepted it for the both of them, giving her that curious look with every single compliment deflected and then recaptured.

Hornet would love to pretend that she doesn’t know why she does this. Unfortunately, she does. She’s not going to acknowledge it because it’s not going to help her in any way, shape, or form, but saying it out loud might make Quirrel stop looking her up-and-down, searching for a hint or a tell that would lead him to the conclusion.

But, she thinks as they make their way to Deep Docks to investigate the last of the area before heading to Far Fields, she kind of likes it. The heavy, weighted gaze, the drag of vision along her; in any other situation, it would feel invasive, like a predator sizing up its meal before pouncing. And yet, when Quirrel does it, she senses only the curiosity he has for her, that strange wish to know her as opposed to swallow her whole. There is more to his look than just pure hunger— something she cannot say for past bugs who have lingered on her, malintent or otherwise.

So, she lets him. He can look all he wants, and if Hornet unconsciously flicks her cloak this way and that, letting it flutter in the heat of the lava, then so be it. She’s just walking and he’s just looking. Nothing more, nothing less.

They head deeper and deeper into the docks. The metal encasing them is oppressive, but not overly so; it somehow reminds Hornet of the White Palace, what with all the technology she cares not to understand decorating the halls. A fleeting vision of her father tinkering at his desk appears in the corner of her eyes as they pass by empty desks piled high with discarded junk. She can hear the scrape of claw along the rusted steel.

It’s easy to distract herself from such thoughts when they are thrown into enemy territory quickly enough, accosted by a series of armoured bugs with bells covering their heads. Hornet dances along the tops of their jingling helms; though she does not damage them, it certainly staggers them long enough that they fall to Quirrel’s blows. The flying creatures prove to be more troublesome when they begin to launch bombs at them, exploding upon impact with their shells. One of them catches Hornet by surprise, blowing her back into the wall as she’s singed by the flammable powder within it. Quirrel goes to help her up, but is also caught unawares by a bomb.

The flying bugs are dispatched soon afterwards, though the two of them are now absolutely covered in soot and ash. Hornet brings a claw to her face, disgruntled when it comes back even darker than her shell. The coating is greasy, as if she had dragged her claw through a pool of oil. Quirrel seems even more discomfited by it all, attempting to sluice it off his face but having very little success.

“This,” Quirrel groans, “is disgusting.”

Hornet hums at that as they climb their way upward through Deep Docks. She can hear the quiet clank-clank-clank of someone working on metal just ahead of them. “I thought you were an adventurer, Quirrel. Is a traveller such as yourself unused to such grime?”

He had no trouble picking the maggots out of her shell, and yet some soot bothers him? Hornet is amused to no end by her companion’s strange idiosyncrasies.

“Just because one is accustomed to it does not mean they enjoy it,” he scoffs. Another glob of soot is scraped off of him. “I just— ugh. It’s gross.”

Hornet looks back at him to find that he’s stopped, standing in the halls while trying to wipe the rest of the blackened ash off of him. Hornet knows she probably looks like a mess, but Quirrel certainly got most of damage as his shell is completely covered in it. It would almost be comical if he weren’t in such a bad mood about it.

She strides to him, taking his claw in hers as she brings a corner of her cloak to him. She drags the fabric over his sooty arms, cleaning it with a swipe. It doesn’t get it all off of him, but it certainly gets the initial layer of grime off.

Quirrel wrenches his arm from her grasp. She’s startled just by how much force is behind the action, a sudden worry laced in his expression.

“Your cloak— it’s stained now,” he says, something like mortification weaving its way into his voice.

“It will come out eventually,” Hornet says with a shrug. Worse liquids have been spilt upon it. If blood can come out of it, then grease does not seem like such a far-fetched idea.

“Still—”

“Lament on it no longer, Quirrel. It is only a cloak.”

He narrows his eyes at her, that same searching gaze finding purchase upon her. Whatever he’s thinking, she has not a clue; as such, she turns and walks ahead of him, the black splotch on her red cloak feeling awfully heavy at her side.

They eventually come across a large bug, chortling into the empty halls. She introduces herself as the Forge Daughter, and the bug beside her as Ballow. It seems they are loyal, of a sorts, to the Deep Docks’ business of building… whatever it is they build. Whether it be weapons or contraptions, it seems that they have plenty of talent to create whatever a bug suggests.

“My, you two look like you’ve been tossed into an oil drum!” laughs the Forge Daughter as she continues her tinkering. “Why have you not yet visited the showers?”

The mention of showers gets Quirrel to perk up immediately, asking who, what, when, and where about these glorious cleaning stations. The Forge Daughter points them westward, down the hall and then down some platforms where they will find a station that can get them and their clothes cleaned right up.

Ecstatic doesn’t even describe how Quirrel appears. Hornet finds herself unable to muster any annoyance at the expression, bright as it is in the gleaming steel halls.

 

 

The Forge Daughter must not know what a “shower” is because this is not a shower.

Steam fills the small space, plying the atmosphere with a thick layer of condensation heated to the optimal sauna temperature. Quirrel practically squeals as he steps inside, scraping his arms once more of soot as it completely slides off of him. In the warmth, the grease melts faster than ice, trickling off their bodies and down the drain in the ground.

“It may not be a shower, but I believe this is far better than such,” Quirrel says as he sits down on the metal bench. Something seems to strike him just as he says that, though, rising to say, “Oh, but did you wish to use the sauna first? We can take turns.”

There are two ways this can go: one, Hornet and Quirrel separate their sauna time and get clean individually. This idea, Hornet has no major opinions on— it respects their privacy and their chance to have some time alone and independent from one another.

But, two: they could simply share the space and act like the adults they are. It would save time, especially considering that the space is plenty large to fit them both as they get clean. It is only practical, she believes, to share the sauna.

“If you do not mind, we can go at the same time. I only wish to get the grime off of me, and then you may enjoy the heat for however long you wish,” Hornet says, hoping that some unconscious, ulterior motive won’t suddenly spring itself into her words. She doesn’t even know what that would be, but she fears it regardless.

The suggestion is met with silence, and then a tentative, “I do not mind.”

Hornet spares no time stripping herself of her cloak, laying it flat over the bench as she works away at the grease stain. Admittedly, she doesn’t know much about how cloth fibers work and what one actually needs to clean them properly. She kind of just thought it would… come out, just with a bit of elbow grease and spit. Unfortunately, her continuous scrubbing is doing nothing to loosen the fabric, and is ultimately just spreading the black splotch around into an even bigger mess.

A cold dread overtakes her. She expected naught but a satisfying conclusion to her dear cloak, but now with this giant stain dashed on it, it seems that she will be stuck with it for the time being. Ai— what a terrible turn of events. Her mother would be rolling in her grave if she knew this was what happened of her daughter’s symbol of pride.

Quirrel leans over her shoulder, saying, “Maybe it would be best to leave it over the vent?” He gestures over to the bars in the ground that are spitting hot steam. “It should help the fibers relax; even without soap, it should come out after sitting on it long enough.”

The cloak is laid flat over the vent, with the stained part right over the heart of the steam. Thankfully, there is more than just one vent in the sauna, so their heated relaxation isn’t all to waste with Hornet attempting to clean her cloak.

“A wise suggestion,” Hornet says as she turns to clean her shell of soot. She keeps her eyes low, away from Quirrel. They’re sat about a shoulder-width apart— not quite touching, but not quite far from one another, either. It’s a friendly distance, even if Hornet wouldn’t mind if the gap were closed somewhat. But that’s neither here nor there, and certainly not appropriate for the time being. She brushes it off as a random, illicit idea, one that will come and go with the steaming heat around them.

But those thoughts are fleeting when compared to the flush of warmth that is slowly overtaking her, a deluge of heat crashing over her in a torrential wave. She could have been in the most frigid of snowstorms and still feel like she was about to combust, a bare spark set to dry, aching tinder. She blames it on the knowledge of Quirrel sitting beside her, relaxing in the heat, limbs loose in the stuffy air.

“One learns much on the road,” he says. “One time, my kerchief got absolutely soaked in sap. It took far too long for me to figure out that washing it in cold water was the wrong thing to do.”

She feels no gaze on her, but temptation is a wicked beast. Hornet has long denied herself the pleasures of life, whether that be in the form of serenity, peace, or love; but in Pharloom, far from the mandates of Hallownest, she feels herself giving way to urges that she would have otherwise dismissed back home. A hunger has consumed her soul, aching for her eyes to drag along the steel ground to her partner. When they do, she finds that Quirrel is free of soot and ash and grease, splendidly and sparklingly clean; his eyes are closed, ankles locked over one another, and his arms are tucked behind his head. But then, a single eye opens, and peeks at her. Quickly, they both turn away.

“Ah—”

“Oh—”

Hornet finds a particularly interesting dent in the ceiling to look at. The divot appears to have been caused by some kind of mechanical snafu, like someone climbed up to fix something but instead just banged their hammer into the metal. And then they did nothing about it.

“Perhaps this was a bad idea,” Hornet admits. Her face feels as if it is glowing, though she knows that a face like hers struggles to bring colour to pallid cheeks.

Hornet has never been so shy about nudity— frankly, most bugs aren’t. It’s a simple state of nature, and not all bugs deign to dress themselves in any sort of cloth. More often than not, it’s out of pragmatism or fashion, such as those who care for their appearance or require armour to keep themselves protected. Hornet wears her cloak as a symbol of pride, to don her mother’s legacy in a physical form. Of course, she feels exposed if forcefully relinquished of it, but she has little problem in bearing herself if necessary.

Of course, that hardly explains why she is so… fidgety, without her cloak around Quirrel. She had undressed herself in front of him before in the Seamstress’ hut— why is this any different?

Oh, she knows why. She’s just not going to say it. Conflating love and lust just confuses things, does it not? Let it remain what it is, a boiling temptation sitting at the bottom of her belly, burning a way through her heart. It’s unnecessary to acknowledge it for even a second.

“No, no,” Quirrel says with a wave of his claw. They have both turned to one another, though Quirrel’s gaze respectfully sits at Hornet’s eye-level. “There is no awkwardness to be had here— perish the thought!”

Hornet chuckles at that. The tension breaks minutely under Quirrel’s good humour, especially now that he’s squeaky clean. He smiles at her, softness in his form as he slouches against the bench once more.

“We’ve been running around all day; it’s quite nice to just sit and relax for a moment.”

“I agree. Not since Bellhart have we been able to just…”

“Take in the moment?”

“Yes, something like that.”

The quiet settles on them again, not unlike the moist air in the sauna itself. The gentle lull of warmth makes Hornet drowsy, though she would rather not fall asleep in a heated space with just the two of them within it. The atmosphere would become far too charged at that, electric at just the thought.

But there are plenty of things to discuss, plenty of things to go over before they set out on their journey again. For one, they could certainly use an update to their weapons— someone in Bellhart should be able to help out with that— and they could also do to complete the entirety of their map; there is a small section off of The Marrow that leads into a mysterious side-route, which could hold extra clues on the Haunting and the Weavers of this land. Hornet has half a mind to speak of all these things to fend off her sleep, but only one thing comes out of her mouth.

“Back at Sinner’s Road, you were able to pick the lock of that bug’s prison. I presume you have a story for that?”

Quirrel nods. “Of course— are you willing to trade one of your own for it?”

“Well, it may not be as interesting as yours.”

“Bah. It matters little to me; I only wish to know more about you.”

The comment is as casual as ever, and yet it makes Hornet squirm under Quirrel’s attentions. She distracts herself by trying to remember something— anything— that would compare to Quirrel’s illustrious stories on the road far from Hallownest. She doesn’t have many from the days after the kingdom fell, but she does have a few interesting ones from her childhood when all seemed well. She thinks with a fair amount of humour of a moment between her mother and father, though it is a hazy, dreamlike remembrance; some details will have to be glossed over, but the core of it is certainly there.

“Ah, I believe you will enjoy this one,” she says. “It is of my father and mother— were you ever able to meet Herrah the Beast?”

“Once,” Quirrel says with a shiver. “I must apologize, but your mother… she frightened me, as a child. All I remember is being terribly intimidated by her.”

“I do not blame you for thinking so. It is true that she was a force to be reckoned with; she was the epitome of strength in my eyes, a pillar of protection. She was not kind like Monomon, nor was she wise like Lurien, but she was irrevocably and undeniably unrepentant. She backed down to none, and protected her brood with the power of a queen.”

A small smile rises in Quirrel just as Hornet realizes her voice is cracking somewhat. She does not waver one bit, but she knows he can hear the hesitation in her cadence as she continues with her speech. She hadn’t realized it while speaking, but recalling such details about her mother has opened a wound that has been ever-raw and ever-bleeding. Quirrel places a claw atop of her own, where both of theirs rest in between where they sit.

“Grief is a strange creature,” he consoles. “But I find it best thwarted by bringing it into the light.”

Hornet wants to instinctively spit that he doesn’t know how she feels, but… the fact of the matter is that he does. Whatever he was to Monomon, and she to him, it must have ran deep enough that the scars are still prominent. She thinks to him and the pouring water, the rains of Greymoor; whatever had happened between them, it was enough to push him to such lengths to smother the pain.

But Quirrel’s encouragement drives Hornet to continue. He squeezes her claw just as she’s about to pull away, unused to such touch. But the motion makes her remain in place, in spite of the strange, charged atmosphere that is building around them.

“I believe this happened on the eve of her becoming a Dreamer. My mother had unfinished business with the Pale King; I do not know how much you know of my conception—”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“— but, the reason I exist is because the Pale King wished for my mother to become a Dreamer. In exchange, she wanted a child; and so I was her bargain. But, on the night before her slumber, my mother stomped all the way through Hallownest to the White Palace, and banged on my father’s chamber door. When he answered, she thrust me into his arms, pointing with an accusatory finger that he had been the worst father she had ever seen. ‘A piss-poor excuse for a king,’ I recall her saying to him. ‘Not even able to acknowledge his daughter outside of a conversation on lineage.’

“They fought all night, all while I was traded from arm to arm. You would think that one would bend the knee to the Pale King after he commanded them to cease their shouting, but not my mother— not Herrah. She continued her tirade into the early morning, long after a crowd had gathered ‘round them. The White Lady, the Hollow Knight, even the help— everyone was witness to my father’s dressing-down as my mother admonished him for never have lifted a single claw to be part of my life.

“But when all was said and done, my father nodded, led my mother out of the palace, and we went home. She slept the next day.”

“Your mother, Herrah,” Quirrel says, “what prompted such anger from her? Well, aside from the Pale King’s aforementioned ‘piss-poor’ fathering.”

Hornet’s mother’s voice rings in her head, that deep, gravelly tone that she has come to associate with care and protection. “Is she merely a weapon to you? A blade to sharpen upon the whetstone? Look at her, mere babe that she is; you hold her in your arms and you think to thrust her into a life of blood.”

“The intention, after my mother was set to rest, was for me to reside within the White Palace as a rightful princess. Somehow, some way, it got out that the Pale King planned for me to instead live in the Hive, permanently.”

Quirrel shakes his head as he leans back against the bench. Their claws have returned back to their rightful owners, with Quirrel’s planted on his knees. He tilts his head as he speaks, a pained timbre to his words. “I bear no love for the Pale King, but that is quite a callous thing to do to such a young child, abandoning her in an unknown land after her mother enters an eternal sleep. Cold barely scrapes the surface of what your father did to you.”

Hornet frowns.

“He wished only for me to learn to protect myself. The Hive was the safest place to do so,” she says with a dismissive, waving claw.

“But could not another warrior of the White Palace do this for you?”

“Perhaps he thought my style would have been better suited under the Hive Queen.”

“You were a child.”

“A child of Weaver and Wyrm. Battle runs in my blood— is it a crime to hone it?”

“Why do you defend him?”

Hornet’s neck snaps toward Quirrel. The room has taken on a new kind of tension, the kind that isn’t so pleasant to have hanging in the air. He stares at her head-on, and she matches the gaze. Neither are willing to break nor bend.

“I am not defending him. I am merely stating what his reasons could have been.”

“Which,” Quirrel points out, “is the definition of defending. His actions, justified, through his potential reasons.”

Hornet scoffs as she crosses her arms. Who is he to claim any right on what the Pale King thought? And who is he to claim her defense of him? Hornet knows better than any other bug— other than the White Lady, perhaps— of her father’s intentions; and while not all have been wise, plenty were done with good intent for the future.

The two continue their staring contest, but Hornet knows she is not one to give under pressure. She, a beam of steel, stronger than her needle, uncaring of that which presses upon her in even the heaviest of situations.

But it seems that she has misinterpreted this moment, as when Quirrel moves away, his back bending like a willow, a pang of regret hits her straight in the chest. The competition fades as Quirrel grimaces and rubs the back of his neck.

“I am sorry,” he says. “Far be it from me to lecture you on your father— especially when I barely remember him as a king, or even a bug. This is… not how I wished for this conversation to go.”

Is she, Hornet thinks, immature? For much of her life, other bugs have told her she has grown fast, and adopted the mantle of adulthood quicker than she can slash an enemy. She has no problem apologizing, as it is oft the pragmatic thing to do to maintain relationships; but matters of family have always wound her up in a way that is difficult to explain in simple words. Her soul feels twisted like a cloth torn by claws, pulled this way and that.

“I, too,” she says, “apologize. Perhaps I should steer from discussing such matters any longer.”

Quirrel shakes his head. “If you wish to, I will not stop you. But wounds need to breathe. I would know.”

His smile is sad. The remorse is real upon him, undeniable; and Hornet cannot help but think it handsome on one such as him. It is so terribly genuine, as if Quirrel could be anything but. She shakes the thought of out her head, though it remains lodged in the back of it.

“You handle these moments with such grace,” Hornet says. “Is this also because of all your years on the road?”

He shrugs. “Perhaps. I have met many who handle these conversations worse than you, so do not be ashamed. I am only glad you haven’t punched me.”

“Punch— why would I do that?”

“That’s a story for another time.”

Later, when Hornet fetches her cloak from the vent, she finds that the stain has faded into a dark red spot, fibers relaxed enough to be free of the grease.

 

 

Tensions come and go, and while Hornet is confident they will face times like these plenty more times, she is glad that Quirrel is calm enough for the both of them. It makes way for the comfortable knowledge that they will find their way back to their careful allyship eventually, even if it may not feel like that in the moment.

“… and then, we found ourselves locked in a cage. Our captors threatened to return in the morrow after our bones had been picked through, left in a den of unknown danger. While I was busy scrambling, my good companion was of a much angrier temperament.”

Quirrel is currently telling his owed story of how he came to learn how to pick locks as the two of them gaze up at a statue of an ant queen. She shines in the slivers of sunlight that stream through the mossy ceiling, looking every bit the graceful dancer that she appears to be.

“To this day, I have not a single clue as to what that cage was made of. Some kind of impenetrable metal, no doubt. My companion raged against the bars but time was of the essence. We couldn’t just break our way out. Luckily, I had read that it was possible to crack locks with one’s claws as long as they were sharp enough. I assumed that the lock on our cage was a simple one, and so I set to work on clicking through the tumbler.”

“Well, that’s quite an anti-climactic story.”

Quirrel only laughs in response. “Well, it’s not quite done. My skills were unfortunately not good enough to get through the lock because I broke it instead. I remember the exact moment it happened— a large crack! that sounded out through the den. My companion and I argued for so long after that. We ultimately turned the cage on its side and ran out of the den like some kind of creatures in a wheel. The lock came off only once we rolled down a hill and it shattered in twain.”

The picture of Quirrel and his travelling partner rolling through a beast-infested den is humourous enough, but the idea of them tumbling down a hill is even more so. Hornet chuckles just as she says, “And so you learned lockpicking from this how?”

“I managed to salvage bits of the lock to study. My expertise— if one can even call it that— came later. But this was my introduction to a most unsavory talent.”

Quirrel flexes his claw at that, making a fist and then splaying out his fingers. Hornet watches the sharp edges go to curl around the hilt of his nail, a place where both gentleness and strength meet and mingle.

It’s only after Quirrel is rambling on about the ant queen statue that Hornet realizes she’s been watching his claws this entire time, wondering exactly how they angle themselves to pick those delicate locks. His claws, sliding along the metal; his claws, caressing her wounds; his claws, placed upon—

Okay, Hornet thinks. This needs to stop now.

 

 

(It won’t stop.)

 

 

Their map is practically complete. After Hunter’s March, it seems like they are no longer missing any pieces of their puzzle. It remains to be seen if there is more to discover amongst Pharloom’s lower kingdom, but that can come at another time as the two of them are currently settling back in their bellhome after a full day of running around. Bellhart is now flush with rosaries, bugs all over the land have their packages, and everyone has enough shell shards to build whatever they please.

(Their bellhome. Hornet likes how it sounds, even if she won’t vocalize it.)

“Finally home,” Quirrel groans as he sits on the bed. “I am absolutely knackered.”

Hornet, on the other hand, is wired. Like she’s just touched a live wire and shocked her entire system to life. She watches as Quirrel flops over and spreads his arms out, body splayed out. She thinks of the day’s tribulations, the way his claw curled over hers.

Quirrel is… unfathomably kind. The type of kind that makes one’s heart ache just by how honest and raw it is. Hornet struggles to comprehend the variety of bug one must be to act so, but it is just so natural for Quirrel to be genuine in everything he does. Even in his tiredness, he is truthful— there is no shadow that looms over his words or actions. He simply is.

Hornet thinks herself little deserving of his niceties, but they are welcome nonetheless. She sits next to him on the bed and says, “You are welcome to rest. I think I may have a walk around Bellhart before I sleep.”

“Truly?” Quirrel guffaws. “After all that walking we already did today?”

Hornet shrugs.

“If that is what you want, then I won’t stop you,” he says with a yawn. With a single pull, he removes his kerchief and lays it down on the nearby desk, but not without folding it into a perfect square. “Feel free to wake me if you want a walking partner.”

“I will, thank you.”

She steps out of the bellhome, leaping from platform to platform. In the distance, she can hear the tinny sounds of her and Quirrel’s blades being worked on in the other home, as well as the grumbling voice of Scrounge echoing along the walls. Pavo sings and dances at Bellhart’s bottom just as the other residents quietly converse with one another, trading rosaries and discussing the day’s events.

She needs to clear her head of all this— this infatuation she’s developing. She has no problem acknowledging that she thinks Quirrel is handsome, good-looking; any bug would say so. But that’s where the commonalities between her and the general population ends as Hornet has been the one subject to his constant care, his (ultimately unneeded but appreciated) protection, and all of his little quirks that she is more than tempted to call terribly charming. But none of this has to mean anything, right? She can simply be embroiled in a lust that will linger and then fade, a simple appreciation for his form; it does not require any kind of further diving. Except, when she thinks of the way he comforted her when remembering her mother, and the way he challenged her when it came to the Pale King, it just endears her to him even more.

Many others have criticized her father. It is nothing new. But aside from a scant few that were close to Hornet, their comments have all been surface-level observations, things that any king would receive harsh words for. Instead of seeing all the wretchedness her father had wrought upon Hallownest, Quirrel looked at Hornet and said, “What he did to you was not right.”

When Hornet returns to their bellhome, her mind is as addled as ever. Quirrel is curled up on the left side of the bed with his back to the wall. There’s a simple choice here that Hornet can take, and she doesn’t know which is the correct answer. Part of her knows that the chair will have ample enough space for her to slouch over and sleep on, but gods only know how painful it will be.

After an agonizing few minutes of trying to decide what to do, she gives in and slides into the bed next to Quirrel. She lays on her back while he faces her, snuffling quietly when he feels the bed dip under her weight. He opens his eyes, sleep still heavy upon him.

“How was your walk?” he asks, drowsy.

“It was calming,” she lies.

“Good, good. That’s—” he yawns, “— good.”

He shuffles over on his back, his claw placed in between them. Hornets lays hers right next to his, fingers just barely brushing over one another’s.

Notes:

up next: a cool ass fight scene that will definitely go to plan