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“Queen Maiden!” A familiar voice calls to me, chimes singing with his every step. “The Caretaker has returned to us! He says he has a blessing for you!”
My eyes lift from the cog work machine I’ve been tinkering with to the familiar pilgrim, watching as, in his excitement, he nearly trips over his white caretaker robes.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to remember who exactly Sherma is referring to.
“I am glad to hear of his return. Did he happen to mention what this blessing was? Let alone where he had vanished to?” My voice still sounds foreign. A distant part of me continues to expect something with a sharper edge to it, pointed but polite. What reaches my senses instead is a more melodic sound, akin to a needoline’s notes in an echoey room.
Sherma only shook his head. “He just insisted he wanted to meet with you, as soon as possible! He seemed a little frantic?”
I finally put my tools down on the desk, “oh? Did he seem unwell?”
Again, Sherma shook his head, “nope. Maybe he was excited about whatever blessing he found and wants to share it with you?”
“That does not sound like him…” Perhaps I am remembering him wrong? Despite my suspicions, I see no reason to refuse the old caretaker's request. He’s never proven the dangerous sort, and if that has somehow changed, it’s nothing I can't handle. “Nonetheless, I shall meet with him in the choir chambers,” I say while rising from the desk.
Sherma gasped excitedly, “Queen Maiden! Is that your new dress? It’s beautiful!”
I look down at the silk wrapped around my figure. It was no dress, the garment was styled after my old poncho, just with an added hood and veil, along with additional length to accommodate both my increased height and new limbs.
Much of my body has changed since defeating the Grand Mother. Despite my newfound pale glow, my shell remains a familiar black. I have grown noticeably taller, and I have an additional two sets of hands, too, along with four new eyes. New growth graces my shoulders and the backs of my legs, a spiked fur of some kind, soft to the touch.
“A change was required when I lost my old cloak during my ascent. Plus, I haven’t found a suitable red dye to match what you described, so silk white will have to suffice for now.” Though part of me is quite fond of the white. Maybe I won’t dye the garment completely red?
The clang of chimes draws my attention back to Sherma, “like the haven you’ve built, queen Maiden, your beauty remains unshaken!”
I huff a quiet laugh, “a fine tune, Sherma. But surely you can save your songs for other, more deserving topics?”
“Sorry, but your lost dress always seems to make you sad. I wanted to cheer you up!”
I move around the desk and place a hand on the top of his hat, “that is very sweet of you, but you need not worry over me. While I mourn its loss, you must understand that even if I found it again, it would no longer fit.” I rise back to my full height, “but enough about that, please fetch the Caretaker for me, I’ll meet you both in the choir chambers.”
“Yes, Queen Maiden, yes indeed! For never has there been a holier Queen than she!” He sang before skipping off.
I follow him out of the room at a slower pace, taking the time to reminisce as I head through the citadel. Its reconstruction is a slow but steady process. The high halls are being cleansed of the glitching automatons, the scrap able to be used on newer and safer models. The underworks will need to be completely rebuilt from the ground up if it’s to ever be deemed hospitable. The surviving seeds found within the memoriam are to be used to rebuild old ecosystems. The various bodies within the white ward are slowly being laid to proper rest.
Much of the gold and brass décor is being replaced with softer whites, greys, and silvers, along with dimmer lights and cleaner drapery. Aesthetic inspiration was taken from the weaver nests scattered across Pharloom. For reasons I cannot currently explain, these changes make the citadel feel more like home. It also feels good to wipe clean the old monarch's influence, to make room for something grander.
Of course, none of this progress would be possible without the many bugs of Pharloom.
Sherma has become one of my advisors, one who provides insight into what the populous of Pharloom needs in its day-to-day life.
Shakra remains a most valuable warrior and friend, training pilgrims in the art of battle, along with being a confidant to confide in when my mind feels foreign.
Garamond and Zaza have both become some of my most trusted knights upon the haunting’s end. Together, they ensure the roads are safe for travel and that aid can reach those in need.
The Second Sentinel is another of my trusted knights, tasked with ensuring the indoors of the citadel are safe for all bugs to wander through.
Lace proves… difficult. While aggressive after my ascent, she has mellowed out a little since the reconstruction of her sibling. I hope that in time I can craft her an artificial spinneret, so she may come and go more freely.
Phantom, meanwhile, has been spearheading the destruction of Bilewater and Sinners Road. They’ve deemed the annihilation of the maggots as therapeutic.
Eva remains a valuable ally, granting insight into both who I used to be and what I am becoming. I hope that, in time, I can craft an artificial body capable of housing her comfortably.
With my eyes shut like this, I can feel every strand of silk, not just within these halls but throughout all of Pharloom. Every being and construct touched by silk as though they were brushing past me. Sherma running through the citadel, Shakra training soldiers in Bellheart, Garmound and Zaza rushing a courier run to Bone Bottom, Phantom resting at the Halfway home.
I wonder if this is what it’s like to have roots. Did I use to know someone with roots?
I must be thinking of Greyroot.
My musings are cut short by a mechanical whirr. “Gilded one, my apologies, I was lost in thought. How long have you been walking alongside me?” Extending my senses outward makes me blind to my immediate surroundings. Hopefully, with training, I can cure this weakness.
“Mind, this sentinel does not-t-t.” They bow their head to me; blades crossed over their chest. “Not long, has this sentinel followed. To speak with you, it-t wishes to.”
“Of course. What do you need?”
“Curious, this sent-t-tinel is, of the r-reconstruction of its-s-s order.”
“Ah. I must confess, progress has been slow. With the twelfth architect lost to us and the blueprints as damaged as they are, I’m still in the dark as to how to proceed.” I think back to the automaton on my desk, third of make, the Second Sentinel had called it. “My attempts at understanding the sentinel's inner workings have yet to bear any tangible results. I’m sorry.”
“A-Apology not needed. Another question, this sentinel now ha-a-as.”
“You need not be so formal, sentinel. I will not be upset if you simply ask what’s on your mind.”
They paused, taking a moment to process what I’d said. The clicking of their mechanical heart is the only sound they make for a minute. “Acknowledged. This sent-t-tinel would like to kn-now where you are headed.”
“The choir chambers. The Caretaker who vanished has returned to Songclave. Sherma claims he has a blessing for me.”
“Accompany you, this s-sentinel will.”
I tilt my head to them, “while I will not refuse your company, may I ask why?”
“T-t-to protect the voices of the citadel, is this sentinel's duty.” The Second Sentinel swiftly moved in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. They then lowered onto one knee, “v-voice of cit-t-tadel you are. One most important to its continued funct-t-tion.”
“Hm. I see. And if I, as queen, ordered you not to protect me. What would you do then?”
Silence.
The Second Sentinel remained on one knee, staring up at me for what felt like minutes on end, unblinking.
“Gilded one—“
“Protect the voices of the cit-tadel, is this sentinel's duty. Eternal is its duty. Your v-v-voice inc-cluded in primary directiv-v-ve.” They hung their head in shame while I could only smile.
I cup their chin and gently tilt their head upwards. “Refusal of a direct order? I am proud of you, sentinel.”
“Surprised to hear this, it-t is.”
“You shouldn’t be. An unquestionable ruler is a tyrant. I hold no interest in becoming like my predecessor. If I am to lead Pharloom, I require those who will question me, challenge me.” I pull my hand away and step back, watching the sentinel rise once more.
“Acknowledged.”
“Nothing more to say, gilded one?”
“Tyrant, you are-e-e incapable of being.”
I shake my head as I move around the sentinel to continue walking. “Your confidence in me is appreciated but unfounded. All can fall to the lure of power; I am no exception to this.” Some part of me whispers that I’ve already fallen to this siren's call, but I pay the intrusive thought no mind.
“Unfound-d-ded?” Their voice box let out an odd screech as they rise from the floor to follow behind me.
“That is what I said. May we agree to disagree for the moment?”
A disgruntled whirr came from the automaton, but they seem content to let the issue rest. As we reach the choir chambers, the Second Sentinel moves ahead to hold the door open for me.
I cross two of my arms, “I can open my own doors, gilded one. You know me as capable, do you not?”
“Affirmative.”
“Then have I proven frail in some way?”
“Nega-a-ative…”
“Then why insist upon shadowing me as you do now? Do you fear that I cannot walk my own halls?”
“… What it-t-t would be like to lose you, this sentinel-l-l wishes not t-to know…”
“Ah.” My ascent is still fresh, and this is the liveliest the citadel has been in ages. Can I truly fault the sentinel for its protectiveness? I pause and turn to them, “then know I do not intend to go anywhere. I have staked my claim, and beasts such as I do not let go so easily.”
I ignore their disgruntled whirr and continue through the doors, watching as a few of the pilgrims and cog work machines pause their work to bow.
“The caretaker shall be here shortly. Do you wish to wait with me?” The Second Sentinel nods and moves to stand at my side once more. I nod, “the rest of you, I ask you to pause your work and depart. I require this space for but a moment.”
With a few murmurs of agreement, the various bugs and machines depart.
While the Second Sentinel and I wait for Sherma’s and the Caretaker’s arrival, I get the distinct impression that I’ve somehow offended them. While they don’t speak, I notice their posture is stiff, their gears churn more aggressively, and they stare down at me.
“Second Sentinel, might I ask what bothers you?”
“Negative. Instructed-d-d to drop the topic, this sentinel was.”
“Ah, so that command you will follow?”
I watch their fingers flex as they tighten their grip on the hilt of their blades. “For now, it-t-t will.”
“Do you disapprove?”
“Tyrant-t, beast, these are ter-r-rms that do not, can not, apply to yo-o-ou.”
I hum, “again, I must disagree. After the Caretaker leaves, we can discuss it further, I’m sure.” I let my eyes shut and expand my senses outwards once more. Through the web of Pharloom, I can feel Sherma’s approach. Three bugs trail behind him; one must be the Caretaker, but I’m unsure who the others are.
My thread pulls the door to the choir chamber open before Sherma can knock, and my eyes open once more. “Caretaker, if you can still be called such, I was told you wished to speak with me.”
“Right to business then? Fine by me.” The Caretaker's voice was gruff and unfriendly. As he entered the room, I could see he was being followed by two familiar-looking snails.
“Who have you brought with you?”
“My family. You might have met em.”
“… Chapel Maid and Bell Hermit, yes? It is good to see you both well.”
“No thanks to you, slave.” The Hermit mutters.
“Oh… how much you’ve changed, old one. At a glance, I may not have recognized you.” The Chapel Maid approaches without fear.
“My appearance has changed, true, but I remain the same bug you met before.” It feels like a lie, but Shakra insisted my loss of memory was likely temporary, caused by an injury of some kind.
The Caretaker grumbled, “that remains to be seen, bellringer.”
Sherma, who’d moved awkwardly to the side, looks to me in hopeful confusion. “You know these two, Queen Maiden?”
“I do… I met each of them separately on my journey throughout Pharloom.”
“Figured that was obvious.” The caretaker grumbled, “mind sending your underlings out? We’d like to talk privately.”
“Hm.” I glance at the sentinel, then at Sherma. “As you wish. Gilded one, Sherma, both of you are dismissed. When I am finished here, I shall send a cogfly to fetch you.”
Both Sherma and the Second Sentinel bow.
“Affirma-a-ative.”
“Yes, Queen Maiden!”
As the door shut behind them, the Bell Hermit scoffed, “your slaves are already so well whipped, was that the previous monarchs doing, or yours?”
“You are mistaken. They are my allies, my friends. I hold no interest in slaves.”
The Caretaker stepped forward, putting himself between his family and me. “You say that, but you know nobody here believes you.”
I scowl down at him. “Why have you come, Caretaker?”
“Just to talk. I’m curious, for one who so vehemently denied wanting Queendom, you’ve taken to the role quite well. Something change between now and then?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“It’s a pity,” the Maid said solemnly, “to see one monarch replaced with another. I’d hoped you’d bring change, not stagnation.”
“I hold little interest in acting as the previous monarch had, if that is your intent. I’ve ended her haunting and released those tangled by her thread as best I can.”
“Liar,” the Hermit hissed.
“You had an out,” the Caretaker insisted, “we had a plan. You just needed to follow through!”
My gaze drifts to the floor. Plan? I can’t recall a plan. “… yours was too vague to trust.”
The caretaker scoffed. “Didn’t bother you none when I pitched it the first time.”
“Well, I clearly cared quite a bit when the time of action came.”
“Did you? Or did you just fall into instinct? Pale beings and weavers alike strive for dominance above all else.”
“I bet you reveled in killing the previous monarch.” The Hermit hissed.
“Do not speak as if you know me. The Grand Mothers death was strictly necessary.”
“Aye, but your ascent wasn’t.”
I sigh. “Yes, dominance is in my blood, I will not deny you that. But I still hold compassion. I am not mindless. It is a love for the bugs of Pharloom which drives my actions, not base instinct alone.”
My actions are for Shakra who guides me, Sherma who inspires me, Eva who awes me, Second Sentinel who strengthens me, and all others who were there for me when I first opened my eyes and found my memories empty. I am Queen for the pilgrims who look up to me with such hope, who speak of my past deeds with such reverence.
All, for them.
“Pah!” The Hermit spat. “That supposed love of yours will run dry. Then you’ll spin another web just as your predecessor had. Bring about a new haunting, if not something worse.”
“You underestimate me, Hermit. I would not be who and what I am without the bugs of Pharloom—“
“So distant you once were,” the Maid sighed. “Spoke only of duty and escape. What happened, old one? Do you even remember the homeland you once fought so hard to return to?”
“I—“
I’ve been told I was once an outsider dragged to these lands by force. I’ve even found the cages and scrolls to back up these claims. Apparently, I hailed from the kingdom of the white wyrm.
Who that was or what that kingdom was like, I cannot recall.
“There in lies the problem, doesn’t it?” The caretaker stepped closer, “you aren’t so old anymore, are you? Your play for power stripped you bear, left nothing but your beastly nature behind.”
Does he speak true? Do my memories truly feel like my own? Most are distant, foggy, like a dream forgotten upon waking.
“You know nothing of me.” I deflect, “my mind is fine, my old home is irrelevant to the present issues, I only wish to see Pharloom thrive.”
“Pharloom doesn’t need a monarch to thrive.” The Hermit glared.
“Is this the supposed blessing Sherma mentioned? An attempt to guilt me into submission? To what end, I wonder.”
“The blessing was enlightenment, old one.” The Maid smiles, “of your true nature.”
“I’m perfectly aware of my nature. Beastly though it may be.” My lowest set of arms begins crafting a cogfly to summon the Second Sentinel. “If there is nothing else to discuss, I have work to get back to; you may return to whatever hole you crawled out of.”
The Hermit has already turned, walking towards the door.
“A beastly thing you are,” the caretaker agrees, “but your nature is more than that.”
“Do you not see the irony in this?” I huff, “to be schooled on what I already know to be true, for I feel it in my very caprice. Know that in time, you will partake in Pharloom’s glory and see that I am unlike the Grand Mother.” I release the cogfly and watch it dart up and through a nearby vent. My gaze only turns back to the family when I hear the door lock.
“There are things all higher beings have in common,” the Caretaker continues as though I hadn’t spoken at all.
The Chapel Maid has begun to hum an unsettling tune.
Do my eyes deceive me, or has the room gotten darker?
“To make hunting grounds out of kingdoms, to lure lesser bugs into their thrall, these are traits you know well…”
From the door, the Hermit has also started humming. Some kind of ritual, then?
While I lost my original needle during my ascent, my form has not forgotten it. The cool bite of its blade, the comforting weight in my hand, and the protection it granted me. Drawing from my soul, I summon that very blade into a free hand. It glows with a soft pale light.
“But all higher beings share a common enemy, something ancient and primal.” Their humming has turned to singing. Awful, grating, out-of-tune singing.
“Make your point, Caretaker.” I point the blade at him.
“They're all prey in the eyes of the void.”
And as the Caretaker's voice joined the melody, blackened tendrils pulled the ground beneath me asunder. Quicker than I could react, two of my arms had been snagged. I swing my needle to cut myself free, but just as quickly, another two tendrils appear to replace the one I’d cut.
Instinctual, primal fear runs through me; each thread of silk in this room lashes wildly in response to my panic. My light glows brighter in a sad attempt to ward off the rising darkness. “What is this? What have you done!?”
“The abyss, old one.” The Caretaker sounds all too pleased. “Enemy to lights such as yourself, predator of predators, god of gods.”
Realization hit me suddenly, “was this your plan for the Grand Mother!? To bind her to this supposed abyss!?!”
The void lashes out around us, tearing at the walls of the choir chamber.
“Of course. How else could we hope to trap a pale being? Or see her consumed with such insatiable efficiency?” The Hermit sounds smug.
"We'd have needed you to weaken her first," the Caretaker adds on, "thankfully, that isn't the case here. Seeing as you yourself aren't fully ascended yet."
I try once more to pull myself free. “Do you not realize that your actions risk condemning all of Pharloom!?”
“If you’d stop resisting, Pharloom might survive this.” The Maid says with faux pity.
My senses violently flicker beyond this room. The inky tendrils are spreading throughout the citadel, possessed by an ancient hunger for light and life. The sudden loss of focus disorients me for just a moment. I try to use my threads to pull myself free, only to watch in horror as the void crawls along my silk, consuming it and spreading itself further. Again, my senses snap to the pilgrims fleeing to Songclave, the automatons succumbing to the blackened threads, and the stirring sentinel newly possessed on my desk.
The entire citadel shudders and groans, risking collapse under the weight of nothingness.
The previously locked door breaks open, the sound enough to snap me back into my body. Three of my arms are restrained, my summoned weapon discarded. “Gilded one!”
They rush towards me, blades aimed to cut me free. But the void's retaliation is as swift as it is brutal. Tendrils catch their leg and crush it with ease, and they collapse with a loud thud. The cogfly that had been trailing behind them was instantly grabbed and shattered.
“Sentinel!” I extend a free arm towards them; they quickly drag themselves forward and catch it.
When another void tendril moves to crush them, I quickly summon another blade and cut it down. My threads continue to lash out around us in a storm of silk, a mediocre attempt to keep us both safe.
Again, my sense stretches; the void has escaped the confines of the citadel already. I can sense Sherma guiding terrified pilgrims into the shrine, Shakra throwing her ring at a void possessed soldier, the shamans rushing out of the broken doors, Phantom running out of the halfway home in search of—
“Lace!” Of course, I failed to notice her. Years spent hiding from her mother's silk makes her adept at avoiding mine. How long had she followed? How long had she watched? She sat on a ceiling beam above us, looking down at the chaos the room had erupted into.
The second sentinel struggles to keep hold as my legs are pulled fully into the dark. It burns, a cold burn, worse than even the ice waters of Mount Fay. I cannot silence my cry of pain. Instinctually, my claws dig into the gold metal of the Second Sentinel. I mutter apologies to them as I seethe.
“Requests-s your aid, this sent-t-tinel does!” They call to Lace as they drive one blade into the floor as a perch to try and pull me loose.
“Spider,” her voice is filled with faux playfulness, “those strange shamans implied you killed yourself. Is that true?”
“The time for-r-r this, it is not!”
“Did you?” She insisted.
My head spins with the overwhelming pain, my threads struggling to keep the void from tearing both myself and the Second Sentinel apart.
“Temporary memory loss, from an injury, nothing more.” My words are strained.
Hollow laughter rings from above. “Oh, what a sick game you’ve played, little spider. I expected Mother to kill you, to take your silken strength as her own. Instead, you somehow manage to kill both yourself and her in one fell swoop.”
“Nonsense, you speak-k-k.” The sentinel’s gears grind in agitation, loud enough for me to hear over the collapsing room.
“How so? In binding her, she killed her. In losing her memories, she killed herself. You’re risking yourself for a husk, sentinel. An empty life worth nothing at all. Best to let the void take her now—“
My summoned needle cleaves through a void tendril that Lace had failed to notice behind her. “If you insist upon gloating, the least you could do is keep yourself alive in the process.” I then ignore her silent shock and turn my focus back to trying to pull myself free. But a tendril around my shoulders undoes what little progress I’d made, yanking me torso deep.
I’ve left deep claw marks in the sentinel's arm. I worry they’ll be dragged down with me if this continues.
“Gilded one, I have an order for you.”
Their head snaps to me so fast I can hear the crunch of metal.
“Let go.”
“N-n-negative.” I feel their grip tighten. “Protect the voic-c-ces of—“
“Pharloom needs you! Let go.”
“Oh, shut up!” Faster than should be possible, Lace is at the sentinel's side. Having cut through the mass of void and silk thrashing around us with her pin.
“Your annoying heroics have proven who you are, spider. Now shut up and pull.”
The Second Sentinel adjusts their grip on their weapon and tries again to drag me out, now with Lace’s help. Both the silken and mechanical frames tremble from the effort.
My legs are unable to find a perch in the void, so I attempt to drag myself free with my unrestrained arms alone. Genuine progress at last. Each arm pulls out and latches onto either the Second Sentinel, Lace, or the floor.
But another lapse in focus makes my entire body shudder as my vision snaps outwards. Hordes of void-possessed undead push at the walls of Songclave’s shrine, Bellheart is struggling to set up barricades under the assault, Garamond and Zaza stand as Bone Bottom's sole defense, and the shop clerk at Pilgrim’s rest is crushed by debris.
Does the void know it pulls at my senses with each consumed thread? Or is it only cruel, uncaring instinct that tortures me?
The ceiling above us groans in protest, sending shrapnel crashing down around us. My threads don’t react fast enough, and while Lace manages to dodge, the Second Sentinel is pinned by a large metal beam.
My claws leave deep gashes in the floor as I am yanked backwards, the progress made swiftly undone. I’m left neck deep; the only reason I wasn’t dragged down completely was Lace’s quick reaction time. She managed to catch my last free hand.
Already, I can hear the threads in her arm starting to tear.
The second sentinel lies unresponsive.
The entire kingdom is screaming.
“Lace—“
“Don’t you dare, spider,” she hisses.
“Lace, please.”
“Don’t you dare ask me to let go. You still have so much to answer for!”
“I won’t.”
My threads are strained, her arm is ripping at the shoulder, and she refuses to let go.
She glares at me, and I can see the desperation in her gaze.
“Take care of them for me.”
“Don’t be gross—“
“Please.” I don’t grant her the chance to respond. My summoned needle tears my last free limb off.
I hear her scream, see her dive for me, before darkness swallows everything.
It’s cold.
Painfully cold.
My light flares to keep me warm.
I can only make out vague shapes in the dark. Tendrils I can barely perceive drag me down, deeper and deeper. They dig into my shell with the predatory desire to tear me into shreds, so that I’ll be easier to consume.
My silk is cut; I can no longer expand my senses outwards.
Still, I struggle. Giving up is not in my nature. But everything hurts.
The sheer cold of this place makes my movements sluggish and weak. My remaining upper hand reaches towards a tendril wrapped around my throat. I struggle in vain to pull it loose. My other limbs seem to be restrained; I’ve lost feeling in the tips of my fingers.
Attempting to inhale fills my mouth with absence, and I choke on nothingness. It feels as though I am drowning and suffocating all at once.
My light begins to fade as it’s devoured by the dark. As I’m devoured in turn.
Deeper I descend, the weight only builds.
I'm dying, slowly.
Only as my vision starts to fade can I make out odd lights in the abyss. Eight glowing slits. I only realize their eyes when I see them blink.
It’s hard not to feel small in the presence of something so vast.
The entity seems distant, as cold as the abyss it resides in. With a crown of horns and talons longer than I am tall. It offers no comfort, no condolences. It seems only mildly interested in watching my end, like one may watch a candle burn out when bored.
It’s only when my glow is thoroughly snuffed that the eyes of the creature seem to widen. It darts forwards, moving far faster than one would expect a creature of its size to be able to.
Suddenly, I am no longer descending, restrained by imperceptible limbs, nor crushed under the weight of the abyss.
Two large hands have encircled me, creating a pocket free of liquid void. The space between its palms is cramped.
I lift my mask as my body begins violently rejecting the blackened fluid I’d inhaled. It tastes like nothing but burns like acid on the way out. I move another hand to try and slow the bleeding from my lost limb, but I hold no more silk to bind it closed.
It’s still so unbearably cold, and I cannot stop shivering.
The entity offers no words, but emotions not my own echo in my caprice. It feels like heart-crushing worry verging on panic.
“Wh… what…?”
Initially, I have no idea who the worry is for, but my slurred speech makes the feeling double in intensity. The sheer force of it is enough to push me further into the palm of the creature's hand, the void my body rejected already reabsorbed by it.
For reasons beyond me, this action results in affection and concern radiating from the being. It does not feel like the affection I hold for the fleas or other such cute creatures. It’s also unlike the affection I hold for the cog work constructs, like my many cogflies. No, this feels distinctly… familial.
I don’t— I can’t recall having any family ties. Only the vague sense of being both weaver and not. But not something dark and cold like the abyss surrounding me.
The entity's affection fades back into panic, its hands tighten, and I am forced to curl up further. I weakly push against its upper palm with a third hand, but the effort to lift it is almost more than I can bear.
As consciousness slips through my numb fingers, the creature's panic grows into righteous fury. The last thing I hear is an unholy, unnatural sound composed of many unheard voices.
The void itself is screaming.
Awareness returns to me slowly.
Akin to waking from a deep slumber, my senses are groggy, and my body is heavy. Attempting to open my eyes leaves me nauseated as the world spins.
There's a lingering scent of death in the air. Dust makes the act of breathing difficult.
This lack of clear thought gives me a twisted sense of Deja vu. Like when I first woke in my silken cocoon, with a body that felt both mine and not. But this is not like last time. No, last time I had confidence in my form, my strength, my silk, even as my mind felt distant.
There was no such comfort here. Here, there was only pain and confusion.
What happened? My shoulder burns, my body aches, and the nausea refuses to fade. There is an unexplainable dread in my chest. A primal urge within me is demanding I get up, I fight, I do something other than lay here and die. But the task of moving feels monumental.
Slowly and blindly, I push against the cold but soft ground, trying to rise to my knees, then my feet. But I don’t make it that far.
Something gently, effortlessly, pushes me back down. I grunt as a foreign urge to rest echoes behind my mask.
The feeling only intensifies when I try again. A soundless coo rumbles, shaking the very ground beneath me. My claws dig into whatever I'm lying on; it doesn’t feel like dirt or metal, it feels like nothing at all. There’s something distinctly wrong about that.
I try to slowly open my eyes, only two of them since I remain dizzy. I am lying on something dark, darker than the pitch-black sky of a starless night. It’s cold in a familiar way that fuels my urge to fight or flee.
Memories flicker on the edge of my consciousness. Visions of a choking darkness, of tendrils trying to rip me apart, and of eight glowing eyes. Panic grips my chest, and I flinch upwards. Far too fast, my vision swims as I am easily forced back down.
Fondness and annoyance echo in my shell.
By the time my vision clears, I can see what’s holding me down. The tip of a finger from a large, clawed hand. Connected, of course, to a massive black beast. One who watched me drown in that abyssal sea, one that nearly tore me apart, and one I now find myself lying on top of.
My admittedly pathetic attempt to squirm away is met only with an increased pressure against my back, and the creature’s emotions overpower my own. It smothers the flames of my fear with comfort, love, and a touch of worry.
It’s not until my breathing has forcefully evened out that the emotions lessen. Another soundless coo rumbles from it, scattering nearby debris.
I manage a few steady breaths on my own before choking on my next inhale, the lingering dust makes me cough. I can't help but notice how the being's coldness is no longer painful, and its touch is somehow gentle. It’s also no longer draining me of my silk; perhaps I can heal? Would it allow such a thing?
If this is the god of gods the shamans had spoken of, then I should be dead. What this being is or what it wants is entirely lost on me.
Still, this ache and nausea will not fade unless I try. So with what silk I’ve managed to generate, I attempt to bind. The abyssal being doesn’t move to stop me. In fact, it removes its finger from my back, and I can feel how pleased the creature is at my attempt.
My shoulder still burns, and when I move a hand, I can feel that my arm is still missing. With silk and time, I can molt and mend it, but I still don’t know if I’ll be permitted either. However, I can at least open all my eyes without wanting to heave, plus the creature finally allows me to sit upright.
What I see is… haunting.
The citadel, my citadel, lies like a fresh kill. It’s metal ribs torn open, its ticking heart crushed, and its organs dragged across the caverns of Pharloom. Am I looking at the remains of Songclave? The high halls? The cog work core? It’s impossible to tell.
Attempting to reach my senses outward doesn’t grant me any hope. The sense is faint, as weak as the rest of me, but it’s there. I can feel the many hands frantically digging through rubble in search of survivors, the feet of many fleeing pilgrims, and the stillness of corpses. All while the wound opened by the snail shamans looms above, still bleeding liquid void. Coating my threads and choking my kingdom. The further from the open wound one is, the better things appear, but such is like comparing a rotting corpse to a comatose patient. Destruction paints everything. Can anything grow with the abyss seeping into the soil? Can such a wound ever be stitched shut?
Just what have those shamans unleashed?
Wherever the snails fled to, my threads cannot feel them. Have they hidden away? Ended up trapped somewhere? Or have they joined the many indistinguishable bodies?
The god of gods is lying amongst the ruins like a beast resting atop a hard-won kill. I wonder, briefly, what that make me then? A trophy? A snack for later?
Before my panic can return, their will overpowers my own with an overwhelming sense of calm. I am forced to relax, allowing its clawed finger to nudge me back down. I lay on my back, looking up at the odd creature.
It oozes comfort, a disturbing and uncanny comfort that I have no choice but to sink into. As if all this ruin was a necessary evil, as if all this destruction was somehow needed. Perhaps it was, in a way, surely this entity would wipe the slate of Pharloom clean once more.
This is the snails’ enlightenment. If I stood higher on the food chain than the Grand Mother had, then this abyssal beast must be the top of it. It shall feast upon my divinity as I had feasted upon the Grand Mother’s.
We so-called gods shall tear each other apart, leaving common bugs caught in our crossfire.
My reign, it would seem, will be a short one.
Despite this, I want to try and reach out once more, search for the Second Sentinel and Lace, find Sherma, check on Eva, or locate any of my other allies. They were my friends. I want desperately to know if any of them yet live. But I can feel my consciousness slipping. Both my expanded and immediate senses are fading, making everything blurry and distant once more.
Seeing my struggle, a new foreign emotion buries itself in my caprice, no less confusing than the others. While I continue to expect malice, apathy, or even hunger, what I feel instead is… protectiveness. Like a promise that I am somehow safe here, with it, amongst the bleeding carcass of Pharloom.
It leans its massive head down to nuzzle me.
My vision blurs once more, my weak and injured form unable to resist the void’s call to rest.
I am afraid.
I feel loved.