Chapter Text
Mistress, the cowardly aphid purrs, and Hornet feels the unasked-for title crawl softly over her skull, like fuzzy spider legs.
She swallows, keeping her voice level with considerable effort. "I have no interest in mastery over you, sir," she proclaims, employing excessive courtesy to make it clear they stand as equals. "If my slaying of these creatures aided you, it was merely by chance."
She once told Flick of Bonebottom that her actions, which he called kindness, were pure pragmatism. The slavering, ragged beasts that overran the Sinner's Road were mere obstacles in her climb toward the Citadel—pests best dealt with sooner rather than later, lest they multiply and give her greater grief along the road ahead. To kill them was merely practical. She hadn't even known the aphid would benefit from her intervention when she killed them, hidden in the adjacent tunnel as he was.
But for all that she would have killed the muckroaches regardless, Hornet is not senseless to the pragmatic reality that a willing slave would be a very useful thing to have, indeed.
And it's not as if she hasn't staunchly restricted her interactions with others in this strange kingdom to dealings strictly transactional, and ultimately self-serving.
The trouble with this freely-offered submission is that it tempts her ferociously. The beast in her blood purrs ruthless satisfaction to be so prettily capitulated to—to have her birthright of dominion so effortlessly recognized.
But the follies of her bloodline are cautionary tales Hornet is anxious to repeat. And so, instead of weighing the merit of accepting the aphid's servitude, she shoves it forcefully from her mind to remove temptation entirely, and simply bids him, "Farewell," as she turns to leave the dead-end chamber she found him in.
"Farewell...?" the creature repeats—forlorn, uncomprehending.
Hornet stifles a groan when she recognizes in his voice the kind of willful ignorance of one who does not want to comprehend the answer they have been given.
"No, no...!" he earnestly, desperately entreats. Another shiver of dominion gratified crawls beneath her cloak. The sycophantic aphid's anxious pleas are an irresistible lure. Hornet half-turns to look over her shoulder at him, something like resignation just barely serving to quell the eager racing of her pulse.
Wringing his claws in a circular motion of fretful petting, the aphid cowers against his makeshift wicker web—an astonishing feat for how much smaller it makes him seem, considering he is over three times her size in truth. When he sees he has her attention, his appeal to reason comes out less beseeching and more begging. "The sss-strong claim the weak," he insists, causing another pleasant shiver to skitter down Hornet's shell with all this talk of her claiming him, "and the weak must sss-serve!"
More even than his ready submission appeals to her, there is something pleasantly nostalgic about his sibilant speech. Not uncommon for bugs to hiss and spit in similar tones, even from one kingdom to the next—mandibles and proboscides can only create so many different kinds of sounds, she supposes—but the voice of this insistent aphid is incredibly similar to that of the Weavers who raised her... to an almost uncanny degree.
He had mentioned her scent earlier, when he sang her praises: well-aged, he'd said. He would not be the first to recognize her heritage by sense and intuition alone, if that is indeed what he has done. So convincing is his imitation of a Weaver's speech that Hornet cannot help but wonder if he is doing it on purpose—and if so, to what end?
"I am yours, my mistress," the aphid cajoles, just shy of pleading for her to make it true, and this time Hornet must expend a much greater effort to conceal the pleasurable shiver this proclamation of her ownership over him elicits. "... and you muss-sst protect me!"
When the aphid's angle is at last made clear, Hornet finds herself on steadier ground. Claws clutched tight in forbearance around the shoulder of her needle loosen into her customary, confident grip.
"I am not a needle for hire," Hornet archly replies. For all that she had felt a certain amount of discomfiture to have her inadvertent aid answered with such cloying gratitude, neither is she so altruistic to serve as this peculiar bug's permanent protector—not least of all when her mission looms so much larger. "I have more important things to do than act as the guardian of your... den," she says after a moment's consideration, casting her gaze over the mucus-laden cavern and deciding that must be what she's standing in: a den.
... Or a nest, perhaps, given the preponderance of soft white bundles that may well be egg sacs, clumped in every corner of the room.
"But of course," the aphid rasps with an ingratiating excess of understanding. "This lowly slave wouldn't dream of impeding his misss-tress's important tasks-sss!" He flattens his belly to his wicker web and rubs his clawed forelimbs together in what appears to be an anxious self-grooming response.
Hornet marvels that one so large can consistently make himself seem so small, with just a few well-placed gestures.
"You need not stand vigil," the aphid goes on, "but only... visit, yesss? Your loyal slave shall make it worth your while..."
Hornet fixes the aphid with a narrow look, finding her footing now that this exchange has come to more closely resemble an equitable negotiation. "How?" she asks.
"... Forgive this lowly one's impertinence-sss," the aphid entreats, "for he could not help but notice how handily you diss-sspatched those wretched beass-ssts." He opens his forelimbs and lowers his head to punctuate his flattery. He is strangely graceful in genuflecting, despite his enviable perch above her otherwise indicating all positional superiority. "... with that precious-sss, peculiar... sss-silk of yours."
Hornet turns fully to face the aphid again. "You saw correctly," she says. "I produce it within my shell, and I have trained to use it in combat." She refrains from mentioning that her mastery over silk and her ability to maintain her own reserves have lately been diminished, no thanks to the rune-laden cage she was kept and bound in on her unwilling pilgrimage to Pharloom. Should she admit to weakness here, she is uncertain whether he will try to cut his losses and make a meal of her instead. Doubtless for all his thunderous bulk he could still clear the chamber in a single leap, given how quickly he'd arrived.
The aphid trills, as if he is elated to have his inquiries answered so agreeably after all her prior rebuffs. "And yet you cannot produce-sss that silk at your leisure... isn't it so?"
Hornet stiffens, her absent grip on her needle tightening again. How could he tell?
The aphid coos conciliatorily—apologetically, for the impertinence of his observation. "This humble slave could not help but notice... Mistress kept her distance-sss, and sss-stole the s-sssilk of her enemies to feed her needle." He trills and bows his head like a chastised beast as Hornet's body tenses with growing hostility. "Don't be mad, misss-stresss... This lowly one only proposes to help you, yesss...?"
"Then explain how," Hornet snaps, brandishing her needle in warning, "and stop wasting my time."
She expects him to cower and tremble when her manner turns harsh. But instead his wings flutter, and his wicker web trembles, almost... enthusiastically. As if he is only pleased to have been given a command accompanied by a threat.
"A rare delicacy!" the aphid promptly proclaims, "The sss-silk eater gathers s-ssstray strands of sss-silk. Feedsss on itsss fibers. In thisss larval state, it can be conss-ssumed—and your own silk replenished, missstress." He spreads his forelegs in a gesture akin to a street merchant, inviting a wandering eye to purvey his wares.
Hornet's gaze falls once more to the mucus-laden sacs scattered throughout the chamber.
"... You don't eat them yourself?" she asks. It would be the height of injustice to ask him to starve himself on her behalf. It's not as if she needs to eat.
The wicker web creaks as the aphid clings to it, like her inquiry has surprised him. "Oh! My mistress is so, so thoughtful," he croons. "Your humble s-ssslave is unworthy of your conss-ssideration..." As Hornet remains silent in anticipation of a proper answer, the aphid abashedly retires his flattery and regains his focus. "... But, no. I cultivate them as a... hobby. As I sss-said, they are a delicacy... Highly sss-sought after... Good for trading, for bartering—and for diss-sstracting wretched beasts who encroach upon my den..."
The aphid's massive head bows, and Hornet anticipates more excessive demonstrations of submission—helpless to place the resulting feeling of anticipation within her as containing greater dread or excitement—but as he casts his gaze about the chamber, she realizes he is surveying the multitude of egg sacs gathered in the corners. He heaves a great, rattling sigh. "My den has-sss been overrun for sss-so long," he laments, "I fear I muss-sst start over... My work will take time." He returns his gaze to Hornet. "But I will toil tirelessly, yes-sss? For you, mistresss, many morss-ssels await..."
If the effects of these larval silk eaters he describes can be relied upon, then this arrangement is more than agreeable. If she understands his proposal rightly, Hornet need only periodically visit the aphid to retrieve what he claims to offer, and clear out any muckroaches that have breached the chamber in her absence.
"Do as you like," Hornet says, mindful not to encourage his convictions of servitude. "If these larvae are as potent as you claim, perhaps it will be worth my while to return and see for myself."
The chamber trembles with the aphid's unrestrained delight. "Oh, yes! You are strong now, my mistress, of this there is no doubt... But you shall be even stronger with the morss-ssels I provide you..."
Hornet's lost strength—her emaciated reserves of silk—would certainly benefit from such a boon. A worthy offering, indeed.
A worthy trade, she silently amends, cursing her Wyrm-blood and her Weaver-appetite. She stands stalwart as a palace guard before the seductive whisper of temptation in her ear—a voice which bears a troubling resemblance to the aphid's, who stress-grooms his claws as he awaits her answer.
"Very well," says Hornet, her words prim, bound tightly in silken propriety—lest the sultry ichor of desire slip the reins and seep from her voice into unmistakable, unintended invitation. "Then I shall visit again when next my path takes me through these fetid, winding roads."
The aphid trills happily. "I shall look forward to it, my misss-tress," he croons. "Mind the maggots-sss, as you go..."
Hornet does mind the maggots—leaping with light and flighty steps over the rotten, frothing stillwater turned to a silt-soaked, musty, musky breeding ground for filth.
At least the musk of the aphid's chamber is considerably less rank, Hornet reflects. And it bears the comfortingly familiar scent of silk.