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In the wake of their rematch in Deep Docks, Lace returns to her bubbly, spirited demeanor. The playful jabs and teasing remarks make a quick comeback, and the brief solemnity that she kept upon their return from the Abyss melts away like snow in spring.
For a while, Lace thinks Hornet almost buys into the facade she keeps up. The residents of Bellhart certainly do; Frey chats enthusiastically about new products she has in store, Plinney encourages her to bring her pin in for a polish, even the courier brothers try their utmost—with no success—to rope her into helping with deliveries. She thinks Hornet is convinced, too, because the exasperation directed at her teasing commentary and sarcasm in response to her faux barbs must surely mean the spider accepts this overtly self-assured version of herself as the real her. The logic is sound enough.
So it surprises her to no end when one day, as a reply to one of her teasing remarks that may have been a little too much, Hornet snaps and says in a tone harsher than usual, “Cease that.”
“Cease what, darling?”
Hornet only sighs heavily before her posture deflates, falling back against the backrest of the bench they are sharing. The motion creaks a joint in the broader metal framework, shattering the natural tranquility provided by the lush greenery here in Shellwood.
“Forgive me, I do not mean to lose my patience.”
Lace turns sideways and leans her head against a foreleg, observing her companion. “An apology like that hardly explains anything,” she remarks, disregarding the request for forgiveness. “Elaborate.”
“It’s nothing,” Hornet replies tersely.
“It most definitely doesn’t seem to be the case. Don’t play me for a fool, spider.”
Hornet bristles, whipping around to meet her gaze.
“You’d do well to refrain from treating me similarly,” she says sharply.
Lace scrutinizes her, but the damned mask betrays nothing. If it wasn’t in the way, she would surely see a deep frown or something akin to that etched upon the spider’s features. She internally debates between a parry and a riposte in response to Hornet's words, finally settling for, “What has gotten your web in a tangle?”
“I do not wish to speak of it.”
“You’re awfully ill-tempered today.”
“Lace.”
“Fine,” Lace huffs, annoyed. If the spider wants to be difficult, so be it. Two can play at that game. In one swift motion, she stands and grabs her pin from where it perches against the bench next to Hornet’s needle. She makes a show of dusting herself off before turning away, stalking towards the direction of Bellhart. She knows she isn’t being followed—Hornet is much too stubborn for that—but nevertheless senses the hunter’s gaze upon her. She has her attention, at least. “Infuriating spider,” she mutters, loud enough that the bug in question can undeniably hear her but ultimately uncaring if Hornet bothers to learn where she is leaving to.
The day’s events leave Lace more irritable than she cares to admit. As it turns out, playing courier is not so simple a task as it initially appears. Her impulsive decision to help Tipp and Pill with a delivery to the Survivor’s Camp down in The Marrow leaves her sore and tired from the effort of having to travel with added mindfulness on top of carrying extra weight.
Now, as night blankets the forests of Shellwood, Lace makes the final trek through bramble and root towards its peak. Here amidst pale flowers and still waters, she locates an alcove past a small pond, shrouded from plain sight by the surrounding topography.
It is as secluded a place as any.
She plants her pin in the ground, keeping it within reach as she settles next to it. The earth beneath her is dampened by moisture from the adjacent pool of water, and the uninvited visage of lying comfortably under cozy crimson covers creeps into her mind before she can stop it.
The thought of warmth and softness certainly isn’t unwelcome, though she struggles to make sense of why she associates it with the spider. Hers is a hard shell that contributes nothing to the aforementioned qualities. Between the two of them, Lace is confident her own silken form makes for a better cuddle companion.
Not that Lace would know.
She and Hornet certainly don’t make a habit of cuddling. It’s just… She supposes sometimes the spider does get cold in the night—she is an organic bug, after all—and will unconsciously wrap her forelegs around Lace. But there's a scientific reason behind that.
My Weaver heritage dictates my cold-blooded physiology. It is thusly in my best interest to obtain as much warmth as possible. A higher body temperature makes for increased metabolism, therefore improving my agility and efficiency as a hunter. Hornet said so herself, that one time Lace had awoken earlier than her bed mate, confused, though unbothered, by the limbs firmly wrapped around her own body.
It doesn’t quite explain the odd vibratory noises Lace occasionally catches her making in her sleep, but she supposes she cannot hope to learn everything about the spider in such a brief period. There will come a time when it is appropriate to ask. That time is simply not now or anytime soon, not until she is less vexed at Hornet.
The sound of a twig snapping jerks her out of her thoughts. Lace sits up straight, alert. From her position by the pond, the only entrance to where she sits remains shrouded by vegetation, difficult to spot unless one knew to look for it. Regardless of who or what had made that noise, Lace is positive she will not be found.
At least, she was sure of it until the tip of a familiar needle pokes through the foliage, whacking once, twice before a flash of crimson materializes across the pool.
“There you are,” the figure calls out, disrupting the tranquility. Lace would know that voice even in the darkest trenches of the Abyss. “I commend your stealthiness. You are a challenging target to track.”
She fights the instinct to reach for her weapon as Hornet approaches, joining her at the edge of the pool. The water beneath her feet remains still, unbroken despite the intrusion. As if sensing the subtle clenching of her claw, Hornet stabs her needle into the damp earth next to Lace’s pin, a silent declaration of peace.
“I confess I have been plagued by worry,” Hornet says softly, a stark contrast to the ill-tempered Hornet in lower Shellwood that morning. “There are dangers among these woods even beyond the monarch’s haunting.”
“A couple of splinterbarks and gahlias hardly pose as worthwhile opponents. Or has your blade dulled so?”
Lace basks in the tense silence that follows. Yes, let the spider have a taste of her own medicine.
After a long pause, Hornet turns to face her. “Lace,” the spider coaxes, as though she has any right to wield her name with such tender desperation.
Lace doesn’t grace her with a response.
“I wish to apologize,” Hornet continues.
“I’m afraid you’re a long way from the nearest wish board.”
The way the spider stares dumbfoundedly at her, clearly racking her brain for an adequate reply, is almost pathetic. Pity the fool who cannot escape a grave dug willingly. Lace enjoys it a moment longer before relenting.
“Say what you came to say, spider, then leave me be.”
At that, Hornet seems to perk up a little.
“My reactions earlier today were unsatisfactory,” she begins tentatively, as if one wrong word will see her slipping into a watery death. “You rightfully asked for an explanation for my short temper and I had repeatedly dismissed you. It was unjust of me to treat you as such. I apologize. You have my assurance it is a mistake I vow not to repeat.”
Lace huffs. Fine, she admits the revised apology is acceptable, if a little rigid in tone.
“Will you tell me what has gotten you riled up in the first place, then?”
Beside her, Hornet shifts uncomfortably for long enough that Lace considers perhaps it is too much to ask of Hornet to show remorse and bare her heart in one sitting.
“I… cannot quite fathom your performative tendencies,” Hornet says at last, gazing pensively at a spot in the greenery. “You are lighthearted and jovial in the presence of others, yet in private moments such as these, your solemnity returns. At the expense of sounding accusatory, this duality confounds me. It feels as though I am being lied to, and I am incapable of discerning which face is the liar.”
“It is not as conscious a decision as you make it out to be, spider. If you find that I am more often without my metaphorical mask when I am with you, it is only because–” Because what? That she trusts Hornet? That she has faith whatever bond is forming between them will not buckle so easily? What is she saying?
She chances a glimpse at the spider. Hornet watches her patiently, as though she has all the time in the world to wait for Lace to organize her thoughts.
She releases a shaky breath.
“I find your sincerity a refreshing change of pace, that is all,” Hornet offers.
How ludicrous, this mocking imitation of a sense of security that begins to foam and froth within her.
Ridiculous.
Pitiful.
Disgusting.
“Begone,” Lace spits, though the lack of malice shows through more prominently than she had hoped it would. “You have apologized, now leave me be.”
Hornet tilts her head to one side, an odd resolute air about her.
“I think not.”
“You are not my keeper, spider.”
“No, I am not. Neither are you mine. I may linger where I please.”
Lace wants to laugh at the spider’s impudence. How dare she? A scoff strangled by a choke claws its way out instead.
“Then we shall both make shelter out of the wet and wild,” Lace snarks.
“So we shall.”
Lace racks her brain for a retort and finds none. She sighs.
Frankly, she has no inkling of how that conversation should have gone, and it’s taking a toll on her already exhausted mind. It had been a chore to remain vexed at Hornet, and the intense bouts of loneliness that sprung throughout the day did nothing to ease the turmoil.
Defeated, she pulls her legs up to her chest and hugs them. It’s a pitiable display, two of the strongest fighters in Pharloom huddled together in an alcove hidden away by shadow and foliage.
It is even more pathetic still when dawn eventually breaks and neither of them have slept a wink. Lace had thought she might stand guard while Hornet rested.
Her companion is a fool for doing the same.
Despite being a newcomer at Bellhart, Lace expects a regular and predictable schedule for day-to-day life from its residents. At least, back up top, it is what the average mortal bug inclines toward. When she thinks she finally pins down Hornet’s routine, the spider has the audacity to prove her wrong.
The time she spends in the Citadel lengthens and the frequency at which she visits Sinner’s Road—that filthy excuse of a bog—increases. Most infuriating of all, the damned spider refuses to let her tag along. Hornet will disclose her intended destination and outright reject the company in the same breath, heedless to Lace’s prodding and pestering. Even the one time Lace manages to follow her trail part way through Greymoor, it ends with her silken form backed against a damp wall, hivesteel next to her head as Hornet leans in close to whisper a warning.
Fine, let her keep her secrets.
Lace can keep herself entertained; she’s been doing it for centuries.
Frey calls out to her one brisk morning as she leaps off the platform of Hornet’s bellhome, landing right in front of the town’s public bench. The sun is shining, the bells are chiming, and Hornet is off on one of her secret missions which will predictably take her the entire day.
“You summoned, madam shopkeeper?”
“Aye!” Frey beckons her closer. “A little brushflit asked a favour of me, pertaining to matters of the newly affixed bell.”
Lace directs her gaze towards the bell in question, positioned above Hornet’s bellhome and a little more to the right.
“And how does this concern me?” she asks slowly.
“Hm! I shan’t be tedious. All I need from you, fair customer, is to make a selection.”
From one of the boxes behind her, Frey pulls out an array of coloured paints and arranges them in a row atop her counter. A sharp, pungent odor fills the air as she removes the lids and sets them aside. Lace leans in closer, intrigued. Before her sits lacquer paints in red, white, black, bronze, and blue, all beautifully vibrant to the eye.
“Bell lacquer,” Frey explains. “The outside of a bellhome is as important as the inside. Why, a good coat of paint will not only spruce it up, it will also protect from environmental damages!”
“Fine point you make there, shopkeeper. I fail to see how this is any of my business.”
“Ah. Well,” Frey instinctively moves to scratch the side of her mask before halting mid movement, claw dropping abruptly, her usual cheery confidence replaced with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “It truly isn’t for me to say, you understand. My task was to simply discern which coat of paint most catches your eye.”
She gazes at the shopkeeper in her little bell-shaped store, skepticism colouring her features. Lace knows guilt when she sees it. She reaches into her pouch, rummaging through its contents before pulling a rosary string from within, setting it square on the counter between them.
“And you may have your answer once I have mine.”
“In all your worldly experience, spider, has it not occurred to you that you should consult me before purchasing a residence in my name?” Lace announces in lieu of a greeting as Hornet leaps off the back of the bell beast. From where she leans against a column of bells here in the bellway station, the momentary stumble in the spider’s steps sends a brief pang of satisfaction through her silken threads.
“Ah.”
“Indeed,” Lace harrumphs.
“Faithless shopkeeper,” Hornet curses, dusting herself off.
“Do not begrudge the good merchant,” Lace defends. “It is no fault of hers that your flimsy excuse of a secret is exposed.”
“Hardly a secret kept intentionally,” Hornet insists. Offering a quick farewell to the bell beast, she turns and heads towards the station exit, Lace trailing behind her.
Lace doesn’t miss the way her companion spares a sideways glance at Frey en route to her bellhome, who coincidentally decides she has more important matters to attend to in the back of her shop.
Once the door to their abode closes, Hornet produces a package bundled in cloth from inside her cloak, hastily shoving it in a drawer of her workbench before retrieving a key from the same compartment.
She holds the key out before her, offering it to Lace. Under the warm lights of the bellhome, its bronze and silver detailing shimmer faintly, its unique shape making it impossible to mistake the item for anything else—Hornet is giving her the key to a bellhome.
Lace frowns.
“Finally had enough of me, spider?”
“Not quite,” Hornet murmurs, reaching forward to press the key into Lace’s grasp. “After our Shellwood escapade, it occurred to me your need for privacy should not come at the cost of safety.”
“So your solution was to spend a hefty sum–”
“Monetary spending is of no concern to me,” Hornet cuts her off simply. “I do not wish to scale the heights of this kingdom every time you seek solitude.”
“Nobody has tasked you with the responsibility of ensuring my safety, spider,” Lace shoots back.
“Certainly not, but it eases me to know you are unharmed.”
“I am more than capable of defending myself.”
“That was never in question.”
“Need I remind you, even before you were brought here, I have slain every possible bug Pharloom has to offer.”
“I am well acquainted with your prowess in combat.”
“So if you wish for me to leave–”
“I do not.”
“Spider–”
“Lace.”
“What?” Lace snaps, patience faltering at being interrupted again. And—how dare the spider wield her name with such irritating gentleness. They are in the midst of a quarrel!
Hornet takes a step closer, head tilted in bemused exasperation.
“You may continue to reside in my bellhome if that is your wish. I have no qualms with sharing the space. This,” she gestures to the key, “Is simply a contingency.”
Lace falls silent.
She flips the metal key in her claw, as if only noticing for the first time its tangibility. Its weight is not as heavy as the sinking sensation taking form in her chest cavity. The gnawing emptiness that eats away at her is horrifyingly familiar, and though it doesn’t rouse any urges to sever the spider’s limbs like she did with Mother, it does make Lace want to skewer something alive.
It makes her want to see blood.
Swallowing the violence in her throat, she takes a step back, then another, deliberately avoiding the gaze Hornet has fixed on her. She leaves without another word.
Lace awakens to the sensation of gentle tickling on the side of her face. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light but even disoriented and head woozy with sleep, the misty domain and its accompanying humidity is a familiar sight. She would recognize the path leading up to Phantom’s prison anywhere.
Odd. The last time she had any use for these misty trails was a time that predated the discovery of a secret pathway leading from the Choral Chambers. The bronze and brass are certainly easier to navigate compared to the bottomless muckmaggots.
She sits up. The motion scatters the silk flies resting on her, sending them fluttering away before she remembers they are beckoning her to follow.
Through hazy fog and slippery platforms, she eventually emerges into the central area of the Exhaust Organ. Here, the walls and floors are sticky with grime and filth, the sensation only worsened by the surrounding ocean of larvae.
She suppresses her disgust and reminds herself of why she’s here. She has to bring Phantom silk.
A little contamination and risk of being eaten alive is hardly comparable to what her sibling is going through.
She climbs the narrow passages of the structure, deftly avoiding the sharp projections that line the hallways. Before long, Lace finds herself standing in familiar chambers, the air heavy with dust and its curtains a little more frayed than the last time she visited.
In the center of the room, the instrument that her sibling favours sits abandoned. It is a little too late when she realizes with a start that the Exhaust Organ has been eerily silent, void of the haunting hums of song and fume.
Lace rapidly scans the room.
Nothing.
No Phantom. No longpin. No sign of where they might be.
Gone. Missing. Absent.
Anxiety begins to gurgle within her, bubbling with the same revolting squelch of muckmaggots. The tension strains her silk, stretching her tight and taut. Each thread feels as though they may snap and pop if the pressure finds no outlet soon.
Where are they?
Phantom?
Thud thud t h u d.
Her anchor.
Her kin.
Her–
“What am I to do with you, child,” a feminine voice echoes throughout the chamber, chiding.
Lace tenses.
Mother.
No.
No.
Not Mother.
She can’t be caught.
She can’t be caught.
She can’t be–
The organ plays a deafening note, the outro to a piece Phantom never completed.
Lace startles awake.
Lace swathes herself in the navy blanket that came with her newly purchased bed. The bells chime distantly in the town of Bellhart. Its residents sleep soundly through the night, unaware of one silk-spun bug who currently leaps from one platform to another, landing quietly on the step of a bellhome that is, by all accounts, not hers.
Does she knock?
What a foreign notion. She never had to.
The heavy bronze door opens before she can decide, revealing a sleep-mussed spider. In the chilly night air, Hornet takes in the sight of her and Lace thinks she must look terribly amiss—terribly vulnerable—for Hornet to immediately soften.
Lace doesn’t trouble herself with an excuse and Hornet doesn’t ask. She simply steps aside, a silent welcome.
Lace enters the familiar bellhome, discards the navy blanket by the door, and sighs in relief.
Safe at last.
Despite the restored sense of security that comes with being enveloped in Hornet’s protective embrace, the aftereffects of the nightmare leak into the day.
However best Lace tries to go about her routine of helping the Bellhart residents rebuild, a sticky, slimy sensation clings persistently to her shell. It feels as though the grime and muck of Bilewater have seeped past the veil of dream and into her threads. Her concentration trickles to the point where the distraction no longer feels transient.
To Lace’s chagrin, Hornet appears to have long since picked up on her distress. She cuts in when Pavo starts to overdo his chats with Lace, accepts the courier delivery with the more tedious route, and even now as they sit in a quiet corner of the Halfway Home, she diligently keeps Lace’s glass of nectar full.
Lace lets her. She isn’t entirely sure how to convey to the spider her constitution is not affected by alcohol, though she suspects Hornet isn’t so daft as to believe a silk-spun being capable of intoxication. Still, the phantom sensation of having been too close to muckmaggot waters temporarily subsides with the knowledge that for every round of nectar Lace consumes, Hornet matches her in equal.
Which is to say, the dashing champion of Pharloom is, strictly speaking, no longer sober.
What prompted Hornet to consume as much as she did, Lace cannot say. At least, she isn’t set on speculating until the conversation treads into the realm of her nightmare. Once she starts telling the spider about her dream, the sombre mention of her sibling and their Mother seems to break an invisible dam, sweeping Hornet up in its wake. Coupled with sweet alcohol, Hornet’s recollection of a younger age successfully tempts her into sharing hazy memories with Lace. If she hadn’t known any better, Lace almost thinks she tastes bile in the back of her throat when her companion tells her of the most bizarre thing: a mother who raised her within palace walls, one who trained her in combat, and another whose face she struggles to remember.
One mother is heartbreak enough, Lace cannot imagine having three.
Nevertheless, she listens. Gives her complete, undivided attention as Hornet tells her the story of a lost kingdom, a foolish father, and a mountain of half-siblings condemned for the sin of not being hollow. And at the end of it, when the spider falls silent to dwell in drunken solemnity, Lace reminds herself it isn't just a story.
It is Hornet’s past.
Lace sets her glass of nectar down. It clinks against the table and like a hard slap to the face, it occurs to her—it was neither heroics that drove Hornet’s journey through this haunted land nor foolhardiness that prompted her to dive into dark, abyssal depths. It is this horrid sense of empathy that the spider has grown to nurture yet stubbornly refuses to acknowledge as hers.
What a strange creature, Lace muses to herself, laughter bubbling in her chest though never quite making its way out. There is odd comfort to be found in the discovery that this better daughter that Mother so desperately sought is painstakingly mortal at heart, after all.
Eventually, Creige the barkeep does decide the night has gone on long enough. He clears their table of empty nectar bottles, thereafter politely signalling for his last two customers to depart. Lace hooks one of her companion’s forelegs over her back. Between their weight discrepancy and Hornet’s inebriated state, they make a poor show of pushing and pulling before successfully exiting the Halfway Home and into the perpetual dampness of Greymoor.
Under dark and dreary skies, Hornet’s poorly concealed sorrow braids itself into Lace’s disquiet, and the uneasiness from the previous night’s dream sheds its skin into something more manageable.
By the time they limp into Hornet’s bellhome, Lace is too overcome by fatigue to resist the spider’s drunken insistence to fall into bed. At the tail end of this long day, she lies enveloped in the familiar comfort of crimson covers, allowing the protective weight of Hornet’s limbs over her silken shell to finally lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Lace knows the Citadel like she knows the back of her claw. A left turn here, a short upward climb there, clack this lever just so and one would find themselves in the Citadel Spa. Though it has been some time since her previous visit, she is no stranger to this route.
As they make their way from echoing halls to the warm humidity of the spa chamber, Lace is pleased to discover some locations in Pharloom remain untouched by the end of the world. This place of reprieve still stands, ready for her to purge any vestiges of nightmare muckmaggots from her threads.
The gilded door shuts and Lace activates the lock for privacy. When she has done so, she turns only to find Hornet already having wandered off to fiddle with the water faucets, evidently eager for a soak in warm waters.
Behind the rows of folding partitions, Lace retrieves a basket of toiletries hidden away on a high shelf. She inspects its contents. Detangling brush, unscented soap, water basin, towel, bottle of perfume—all there; her humble collection is still as she last left it.
Satisfied, Lace faces the mirror. The moisture in the air weighs heavily on her, clogging her senses. She takes a breath she doesn’t need and closes her eyes. There is no longer a part of this routine that requires her to see what she is doing; she knows well how to look the perfect daughter.
The pointed metal cuffs at the end of her headdress come off first. Lace lets them clatter to the ground, one after the other. The clear chiming rings throughout the space, and she waits for the final ting-ting-ting to play out against the bronze surface of the floor. At the end of its grating melody, Lace’s eyes flutter open a fraction, claw reaching out for her brush. Through the foggy reflection, she finds Hornet’s gaze trained on her, observing with rapture.
An unidentifiable emotion scratches the inside of her chest cavity like a beast. It delights in the subtle manner Hornet squirms when Lace makes a point of locking eyes with her through the mirror.
She cannot help but chuckle.
“Watch, if it pleases you. Every performance begs for an audience.”
With that, Lace runs her claws through the silk threads that form her hair, untangling them until with a quick whip of her head, the long white threads flare out and cascade down the length of her body, resting just short of the base of her feet.
She stares at her own visage in the mirror, and the one that stares back looks–
“…Just like Mother.”
From her position in the pool, Hornet’s posture straightens, point of interest evidently shifting.
“You are as alike your mother as I am my father,” she denies earnestly.
The conviction in her tone makes Lace want to gag.
“One cannot pick and choose which lineage to be proud of, spider,” Lace says bitterly. As Hornet ruminates the thought, she adds, “You are as much your father’s daughter as you are your mother’s child, just as I am mine. The blood that courses through you remains part wyrm regardless of your apathy towards its source. Denial does nothing to change the fact that I am silk.”
“It doesn’t,” Hornet agrees after a long pause. “And what of it? As you say, you remain silken regardless of your feelings toward your predicament. Why should you wallow in resentment?”
Lace whirls around, the grip on her brush clenching before she hurls it harshly to the side. Something sour rises to the surface as she stalks toward the pool, glaring down at Hornet where she sits leaning against its edge.
“You would have me forgive and forget? I am who I am because of her,” Lace seethes.
Hornet tilts her gaze upward to meet her.
“Is that all you are?” she dares. Then, in a softer tone, “There is no glory in suffering, nor pride to be had for standing sentinel over lost grievances.”
“Haah! Rich, coming from you! You aren’t silk that disintegrates and decays.”
“Flesh rots, does it not? What is there to envy?”
“Hardly fair for you to say so, spider. Your pale heritage will see you outlive both bug and kingdom alike.”
“I…” Hornet starts before glancing away, seemingly caught in her own web of thoughts. After a long beat, she extends a claw in Lace’s direction, ostensibly an invitation to join her in the pool.
Lace squints suspiciously at her.
“Speak your mind, spider. Hesitation is an unbecoming look on you.”
Hornet relents, dropping her claw, the motion sending ripples across the water surface.
“I wish to equip you with the ability to heal yourself,” she says tentatively, careful while she gauges Lace’s reaction.
“What?” Lace’s voice cracks. Surely she has misheard Hornet.
“I am in the process of devising a tool with the function of extracting silk and converting it into a malleable form. Having said that, the blueprint is crude and more trials are required, hence my apprehension–”
The instinct to both scoff and laugh derisively tangle in Lace’s throat. A mocking jeer wins through.
“So that is what has you toiling away day and night. You claim it is not your intention to cast me aside, yet you propose idea after idea that sets me up to live an eternity in solitude.”
“The line between independence and loneliness is often indistinct.”
“So you say.”
“I know so. If I wished to be apart from you, I would have long left this kingdom. I remain because I choose to.”
“You remain because of your inclinations to play the hero, spider. Your every waking moment spent in Pharloom is in service of her bugs.”
“I do not deny I find fulfilment in helping the bugs of this land rebuild. It is, in a way, recompense for what I could not have done for my kingdom. However,” Hornet pauses, standing abruptly. Lace takes an instinctive step backward to avoid being splashed but Hornet easily closes the space in a stride. “Make no mistake—I remain by your side of my own volition. You pose a worthwhile conversational and sparring partner, and your company is… not unwelcome.”
“So I’m a source of stimulation, is that it?” Lace contends, forelegs crossing.
“You certainly arouse a sentiment I had thought long buried.”
Lace chokes.
“You can’t just say that,” she says weakly.
As if realizing for the first time the exact words she had uttered, Hornet clears her throat, uncharacteristic bashfulness taking over as she suddenly pivots to retreat back into warm waters.
“In any case, the device is theoretically able to harvest and plasticize the silk from silkeaters,” Hornet says, refusing to meet Lace’s gaze even as she joins her in the pool. “In a similar manner to my own binding, it should allow you to manipulate silk and weave it into your wounds. The design is still unrefined, but given time, I am confident something will come out of it.”
“As you wish,” Lace mutters quietly, her earlier bout of ire swiftly abating in the face of Hornet’s equally peculiar and charming declaration. “Build your contraption if it pleases you.”
“It shall please me greatly to provide you agency where your mother refused to.”
This time, in lieu of gawking wordlessly, Lace lets out a bark of incredulous laughter, a part of her terrified of the conclusions she’d arrive at if she dwells too long on the proclamation.
“How bold,” she teases, voice lilting, a sore attempt at bringing the conversation back to safer waters. “All this and still you neglect to take me out to dinner.”
Despite her flusteredness, Hornet appears keen to take the easy way out.
“Was it not you who claimed to be impartial towards the rituals of formal courting?” she quips, leaping at the opportunity to return to the familiar grounds of banter.
“Oh? Done with the feigned chastity, are we?”
“Do you think me a blushing maiden, Lace?”
Lace scoffs, unimpressed at Hornet’s decision to make use of her name at such a time.
“Your cloak remains on even whilst bathing, spider,” she remarks, pointedly toying with the hem of the red cloak.
“The material is impervious to water,” Hornet defends.
“Surely it is more comfortable to be without it,” Lace suggests, curiously amused when Hornet makes no move to stop the claw slipping underneath her cloak. She traces featherlight touches along wet carapace, watching the spider with rapture, giddy and drunk on the irony of Hornet’s reply even as Lace straddles her:
“Comfort is a luxury oft unafforded,” she argues, her inaction when Lace wraps forelegs around her neck plainly contradictory.
“Oh, suit yourself. I suppose even after personally bestowing Pharloom her deliverance, comfort remains above the little spider,” Lace says tauntingly. A validating sense of pride gushes to the surface when she realizes belatedly the firm hold Hornet has on her waist, grip tightening, almost reluctant as she attempts to pull away.
“I am not opposed to new… exploits,” Hornet tries, shifting ever so slightly forward, as if propelled by instinct to chase lost touch.
“An exploit? Hahahaa! What a marvelous specimen you are.”
Lace slips a claw into the underside of her mask. When Hornet does nothing to stop her, she lifts it in part, pleased to find the maw beneath it already slack. She trails gentle pressure along the wet, velvety softness that laces the inside of Hornet’s mouth, marvelling at being allowed exploration of such a space. The fangs on the chelicerae twitch faintly when Lace brushes by, prompting her to press firmly against the pointed ends until they pierce in between the threads of a claw tip, dull ache blooming in waves. Before she can relish in the pain, Hornet leans forward and closes her mouth around the injury and–
–sucks.
An unbidden whimper reverberates between them, wanton, and Lace isn’t sure who among them made the noise. It is only when Hornet releases her claw that she notices the broken silk threads are broken no longer; they are rewoven, healed, and distinctly void of Mother’s silk.
“Daring,” Hornet comments idly, reaching up to cup the side of Lace’s face, a subtle sign of approval.
Lace leans into the touch, soaking in the exhilaration that comes with toying with the venomous mouthparts of a predator.
“I do not fear you, spider, hunter though you may be.”
“Good.”
She continues her exploration south, one claw holding Hornet firmly in place while the other travels to the juncture between mouth and throat. With the newly healed claw tip, she pushes, pokes, prods until finally, she locates a soft, tender spot that dips faintly inward.
“How I longed to pin you through here,” Lace whispers, thrilling at the way Hornet sucks in a sharp breath, evidently struggling to tame the hunger in her eyes. “Have you squirming against molten stone. Against Citadel bronze. Against divine dirt. But here we are.” She releases her hold, gesturing vaguely at the chamber before deflating in Hornet’s lap, warm water splashing in the wake of the motion. “Rather romantic, is it not?”
“I confess I much preferred the white roses,” Hornet replies breathily. “The element of surprise held a certain appeal.”
“Oho! So my efforts have not gone unnoticed, after all.”
“There is much about you I refrain from voicing, Lace.”
“Is that so?”
Hornet merely hums her assent.
Lace restrains the urge to inquire further, forcing herself to be content with what has been shared. The horrifyingly bold creature in her chest implores her to ask, begs to learn what the spider thinks of her. It needs to know. It longs to know. It clashes with the equally intimidating quieter voice that whispers her insecurities, telling her of the chance that the spider views her as inadequate, deficient in the same way Mother once saw her.
She swallows deeply.
Here in the humid warmth and touch warmer still, Lace beats back both voices. She suppresses the urge to plunge a claw within herself to forcibly silence them, and tells herself it’s enough. It’s enough to know this strange companion beneath her. It’s enough to know she will not flee. And it’s enough, she thinks as Hornet brushes a stray thread away from her eyes, to know she cares.