Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air on the Howling Cliffs was forever grieving. A thin, keening cry that tugged at the grey lichen and whistled through the stone teeth at the kingdom’s edge. It moaned, whined, and scraped long, invisible nails across the ancient rock, an endless wail that would outlive the tragedies it mourned

Elder Rem had grown fond of its perpetual dirge. True, it made for a lonely companion, but one more honest than most. It asked for nothing but to be heard, and Rem, a mourner in both trade and temperament, was content to listen.

The wind was proving particularly ferocious that day, dragging grit across the cliffside and turning the climb into a long, grueling trial. Rem leaned into it, unshaken. This was neither the first nor the last storm he would conquer, and he would prove there was life in these old limbs yet.

With claws raised against the stinging sand, he clambered upward and at last pulled himself onto the summit. There he paused, drawing a long, steadying breath before sinking to the ground. He withdrew a river rock from his pack, its surface etched with a name, and set it carefully at the foot of another cairn - this one for a miner of the Crossroads, an industrious little pillbug who had spent his life splitting stone and coughing dust.

It was a vicious irony that claimed him in the end - the familiar dust of his trade giving way to something far more insidious. Golden light, tender in appearance, yet merciless in its promise. The Infection took him faster than most. By morning, his mind had been all but snuffed out, leaving behind a mate and their still-unhatched brood. 

“Find rest in the quiet earth,” Rem muttered. He spoke it so often nowadays that the words had lost their shine. “May your shell return to stone, and your mind to the tender gloom.”

There were no bodies, of course. Corpses were snatched up by the King’s guard, carted away and burned, leaving only dread for those grieving to endure. Yet Rem kept vigil over them all the same. He smoothed the edges of the stone piles, brushed away the dust, and ensured that someone still remembered their names.

He was setting the last stone when he stilled, claws hovering above the cairn. The wind shifted, and for a breath it carried something different than grief. A sharp gust tore across the cliff face, and with it, a scent he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the dry breath of sand and stone, nor the metallic tang of the distant sea below. This was different. Organic, and laced with a wrongness that lingered in the air.

Rem paused, antennae tilting to catch the wind. Beneath the Cliff’s endless lament, another sound surfaced. A thin, frightened gasp, nearly swallowed by the storm.

His mind immediately went to the Infection, fearing some husk had strayed from the forgotten road and clawed its way up the Howling Cliffs. But husks did not gasp. They did not fear, or flinch, or plead. They staggered through the world emptied of thought, mindless until the moment they erupted into violence.

He stayed where he was, claws tightening against the knob of his walking staff. His duty was to the dead, and to linger among them was far safer than seeking the source of that breath.

But once that strangled sound reached him again, Rem found his legs already shifting beneath him. With cautious steps, he followed it to a fissure in the cliff wall, partly hidden by a tangle of thorns, and discreetly peered inside.

What lay within was no husk, nor anything the cliffs had ever borne before.

His compound eyes struggled to make sense of the lump sprawled in the sand. It wasn’t right. It had no carapace. No plates. No honest shell to keep its guts contained. Its body was bizarre, made of soft-looking flesh, vulnerable as a grub pulled too soon from the egg, with a tangled mass of fine filaments on its head. 

And its face… By the Wyrm, it was all yielding tissue. No mask, no chitin - just a twitching slit for a mouth and two massive eyes squeezed shut.

A monster. The words leapt unbidden, a reflex older than the beating of his wings. But Rem was a mourner, and mourners did not recoil. They listened and witnessed. And this huddled thing didn’t attack. It only trembled, curling tight against the stone as it shook. Clear liquid traced crooked lines down its terrible, soft face. Tears. The realization stilled him more surely than fear. It was crying. 

Compassion pressed against caution. He let it sit there a moment, weighing heavy in his thorax, before it finally tipped the balance. This was no beast, but a stray blown loose from the order of things. Neither animal nor kin - its shuddering made it seem scarcely more than a fledgling clinging to life.

“Shhh,” Rem said, his voice a soft rasp. He kept his distance, not wanting to startle it further. “Be still, little mote. Be still. The wind cannot hurt you here.”

The creature flinched at his voice, its head snapping up. Two vast eyes glistened open - liquid, searing, their hue unlike the steady black of his kin or the sickly radiance of infection. Terror filled them, yet beneath it lay unmistakable awareness. They saw him. It knew him for a thinking being.

Inconceivable - that such a thing might exist beyond the king's blessing.

The creature lurched backward, driving itself against the stone until the rock bit into its tender flesh. Rem’s mandibles clicked with unease. Surely that must hurt? The creature made a sound in some round, fluid vocalization that meant nothing to Rem. But its desperate retreat spoke a universal language. Stay away.

“I will not harm you,” Rem murmured, slowly lowering himself to the ground to appear smaller. He set his staff aside. “You are lost, aren’t you? Cast adrift. I understand.”

He looked at this quivering, terrified creature, and his resolve hardened. It was in desperate need of shelter, warmth, and protection from the sandy storm. How it had endured until now, Rem could not fathom, but he knew with absolute certainty that if it remained here, it would not last the night.

But the how of it eluded him. 

The coarse wind would shear straight through the creature’s thin skin before it could take two steps, and Rem couldn’t strip himself of protection to grant it. 

His gaze roamed the barren ground, searching for an answer, until it caught on his satchel. Of course. His spare mourning robes, rough-spun and dyed a humble grey. He could wrap the creature in those, and offer his mask as well - its downslanted eyes streaked with gray lines, a vessel for sorrow, a symbol of identity.

Here was a way to offer both protection and anonymity. Moving slowly, every gesture open and measured, Rem unslung his satchel. He drew out the bundle of grey cloth, then lifted the mask from his own face, exposing weathered chitin and fur stripped thin by age.

“Take them, this will shield you,” he said, holding them out. “They will give you warmth. A shape.”

The creature trembled, confusion warring with fear. Its gaze flickered between the empty mask and the bare view of Rem’s face.

He placed the items on the sand and withdrew several steps, turning away to give it space. He listened to the sounds behind him. First, the silence of hesitation, then the rustle of clumsy movement. He heard a faint gasp of pain as a sharp stone doubtless scraped that soft flesh, the whisper of cloth being dragged and fumbled with. There was a long period of struggle. It clearly did not know how to don the garments.

Rem waited a moment longer, listening to the rhythm of calm that had replaced the struggle, then carefully allowed himself to look.

May the Wyrm’s light, in its infinite mercy, forgive him for the thought - for it was a blasphemous, selfish peace that washed over him. The bizarre, fleshy horror was no more. In its place stood an anonymous mourner, shrouded in robes that pooled around its feet. Its clumsy-looking claws were tucked into the wide sleeves. And its overly mobile face was now the placid, empty white of the ceramic mask. It was still. The embodiment of solemn, silent grief.

Rem thought, with some astonishment, that it was almost dignified.

The creature lifted its paws, its strange claws now sheathed in cloth, and gingerly touched the mask, tracing the slopes and hollows of its sorrowful expression. A fine tremor still ran through its frame, though the raw edge of its panic had softened, blunted now by a heavy fog of confusion.

“There,” Rem murmured, a soft approval in his tone. “Now you have a form. Now you are of Hallownest, at least to any eyes that might find you.”

He approached slowly, and this time the creature did not retreat. It just watched him through the holes of the mask. Rem reached out and gently adjusted the robe’s collar, his claw clicking softly against the mask’s unyielding surface as he did so.

“My home is not far,” he said, gesturing toward the path. “It is humble, but it knows how to keep the wind out.” He gestured for it to follow. “Come, little mote. These cliffs have no more comfort to give.”

To his surprise, it understood the gesture. It took a hesitant, shuffling step forward. Then another. Its gait was an unsteady, bipedal totter. Rem’s pity deepened, swelling deep in his thorax. So utterly helpless.

He led it from the fissure onto the winding path. The creature followed, its masked head turning constantly, taking in the desolate landscape. To offer the comfort of a calm voice, he spoke softly of the kingdom it had stumbled into, of the King in his shining palace and his vigilant Knight.

The creature made a soft, muffled noise from behind the mask. It was listening, though how much it understood, he could not tell. 

A deepening chill bit the air, promising rain. Rem quickened his pace, a stir of relief going through him as his home came into view. He eased the creature through the low doorway of the weathered hut, ushering it inside with his claws guarding its head as it ducked. The interior was plain and bare. A pallet of moss lay beside a cold fire pit, and a stone table showed the worn marks of countless meals and repairs. On the shelves rested little more than tools, dried herbs, and a clawful of meager provisions.

The creature lingered in the middle of the hut, its masked head tilted warily as it scanned the sparse interior. Anxious claws fretted at its sleeves, the fabric fluttering with a faint, nervous sound.

Rem gestured to the low seat by the cold fire pit. “Sit. Rest. My stool will not bite.”

It eyed the furniture warily, then glanced back at him before easing itself down. From then on, it kept its gaze firmly fixed on Rem while he busied himself with lighting a small fire. Only when a tiny, stable blaze was nibbling at the kindling did he rise, his joints cracking, before he moved to the table. 

From a sealed jug, he poured water into a simple clay cup and offered it, along with a pinch of tough Tiktik jerky from his pouch. Though understandably hesitant, his peculiar guest seemed parched enough to accept his meagre offering. A pair of soft claws emerged from the depths of its robes to receive the cup, and it lifted its mask just enough to reveal the terrible, soft slit of a mouth beneath.

Rem couldn’t look away, morbidly fascinated as the creature’s throat convulsed and bulged with each desperate swallow. He followed the water’s passage down its gullet until the last drop was gone, and only then did its breathing completely level, the shaking in its paws quieting to stillness.

A long moment passed before it shifted focus to the jerky, turning the strip of dried meat between its claws as though puzzling over it. The little mote’s glance flickered from the food to Rem and back again.

“You must eat,” Rem encouraged softly, his own mandibles clicking faintly as he motioned towards his mouth. “To sustain your strength.”

Seeming to understand, the creature raised the jerky to its strange mouth. A faint, wet sound was followed by a hesitant pause, and then a piteous, needling squeal. 

Ah, of course, Rem thought, his antennae dipping. It has no mandibles. It can't break the meat down.

His claws were already moving toward a jar of nut-paste when the creature tried again, and this time, a sharp, dry crack echoed in the space. Rem leaned forward, his compound eyes narrowing. Inside its maw, he glimpsed unusual, pearl-like protrusions grinding a piece off.

Denticles, his mind supplied. Oddly shaped denticles. It worked at the tough meat with a grinding persistence, pulverizing the jerky down into pulp. He watched curiously until the final piece was gone, tracing a path down its gorge just as the water did.

The act of eating seemed to have finally grounded the creature. Its tense posture slackened, yielding to a calm exhaustion as its gaze fixed on the flames heating the room. Firelight danced across the smooth planes of its borrowed mask, and for a long while, the only sounds were the pop of sap in the kindling and the distant, muffled keen of the wind.

The silence, peaceful as it was, became a breeding ground for Rem’s curiosity. The need to know more was an incessant pull, growing inside him until he could bear it no longer. The old moth raised a claw, tapping it firmly against his own shell.

"Rem," he said, his name falling from his mandibles in slow, clear chirps.

The masked figure turned to him, and Rem pointed a claw at the creature, waiting to see whether it would disprove his theory or instead prove it true. Was this thing truly sentient, or merely a clever beast?

Deny it, he thought. Confirm it. Give me a sign.

It stared for so long he was sure the attempt had failed. Just as his disappointment settled in, it moved - lifting a robed arm with surprising, unsettling grace and pressing its claws to the semblance of a thorax.

Then, slowly, it pointed back at him.

“Rrreh…m,” it breathed. It was almost eerie, how smooth his name poured out of its maw. The clicks were oddly hollow, its chirps too soft and rounded - like he was hearing it speak through a veil of water.

"By the Pale King's light," Rem whispered, his voice barely audible above the crackling fire.

The creature tilted its head, studying him through narrow openings. It seemed to catch his surprise, its posture shifting into something almost inquisitive as it raised a claw and pointed at him again - this time with the faint assurance of a child realizing it might be understood.

"Rrrem," it said again, and the old moth felt the dynamic shift.

He had been right. Within that soft, uncanny shell lived a mind capable of grasping and growing. How much, that was a different question. One he wouldn't have an answer to for a very long time. 

The creature lowered its paw, its gaze steady behind the mask. It waited, expectant, like a pupil before an uncertain teacher. In that moment, Rem understood. Its needs had outgrown mere food and shelter. It needed communication, lest it become a prisoner within its own mind.

He gestured to the clay cup still clutched in its claws. “Water,” he said slowly, enunciating carefully.

The creature’s jaw worked, hesitant, as though chewing on the unfamiliar word. It glanced down at the vessel, then let out a gurgling click. Cup raised, it forced the sounds into shape. "Wah…ter?"

Truly, it was like hearing a caterpillar babbling its first word. A thrill stirred through Rem. It was a feeling he had not known since he was young, first learning to look beyond his tribe to the vast, unfolding wonder of the King’s world. He nodded vigorously. "Yes, water."

He pointed to the flames crackling low in the hearth. “Fire.”

The creature followed his gesture. “Fy-er.”

"Good. Very good," Encouragement warmed his voice before he could temper it. He pointed to the crude chair beneath it. “Stool.”

"Stoul." This time the replication was faster, more confident, though the accent was still deeply strange.

Their little game continued. Word after word. Rem named everything within sight - the wall, the floor, the roof, his staff, the moss of his bed. The creature absorbed each word with a terrifying, ravenous intelligence, spoken once in his tongue, then echoed back in the creature’s softer cadence. 

Finally, when the lesson had run its course and the fire burned low, Rem felt compelled to complete the exchange. He pointed at the creature one final time, his voice gentle but expectant.

"And you?" he asked. "Who are you?"

The creature went quiet, head tilted in consideration. It stared through the mask's empty sockets for a long, silent moment before it caught his meaning and opened its maw.

What emerged was… hard to describe. It granted him neither clicks of civilized speech nor the harsh cries of a beast, but something entirely different. A flowing, melodic sound that ebbed and flowed like wind through tender wispgrass. It seemed to come from deep within its throat, resonating in chambers that may be the first of its kind in Hallownest. 

Rem's antennae twitched in bewilderment. He tried to parse the sounds, but they slipped through his understanding. 

Chit-ch-click. His mandibles attempted the first flowing tone, but all that emerged was a harsh, chittering approximation that bore no resemblance to the creature's smooth cadence.

He tried again, focusing on what seemed like a simpler sound, but his voicebox simply wasn't built for such fluid articulation. Where the creature's vocalizations flowed seamlessly from one tone to another, his attempts fractured into awkward clicks and stilted pitches.

His guest watched his struggles with what might have been patience or pity, it was hard to tell. When Rem's third attempt devolved into frustrated clicking, it repeated its name again, slower this time, pulling the tones apart as though offering him the pieces.

It was hopeless. Mandibles and spiracles could only clatter, chitinous chambers could only rasp. They were simply the wrong tools for the job. To ask him to repeat the creature would be like asking a drum to carry a melody. No amount of effort would change that.

With a soft, rattling sigh, the old moth shook his head, hoping the gesture conveyed inability rather than refusal. “I cannot,” he admitted. “It is beyond these old mandibles.” Seeing the disappointment, he offered the only thing he had left. “I suppose I might as well continue calling you what I first named you.”

He leaned in slightly and said it again, slowly and clearly, so the designation would be understood. “Little Mote.”

The creature’s masked head tilted.

“Little Mote,” Rem repeated, gesturing towards it.  “You. Little Mote."

“Lih…tul,” it attempted.

“Little,” Rem corrected gently.

“Lih-tull.” It tried again, then moved to the next. “M…Mote.”

“Little Mote,” Rem said, combining them.

The creature took a breath, focusing. “Litt-ull Moht.”

A warm, rumbling chuckle rolled out of Rem. "Yes," he said, placing a weathered claw over his ruff. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Little Mote."

Chapter Text

Through the many cycles, Rem had come to learn that Little Mote was a creature born tired.

Their days always started out the same. The wind woke him first, dragging its cold breath through the hut to flay at his age-worn joints. Against the ache, he pushed himself from his pallet to reach for the fire-poker, and quietly stirred the fire back to life.

Behind him, Little Mote slept on, curled into a moss-covered ball. Perfectly unbothered.

It was a constant source of anxiety. Rem had encountered a great many creatures in his lifetime - some built to endure, others not - but Little Mote seemed biologically designed for an early grave. Their diet was wide but capricious. They lacked any natural defense worth mentioning. They wasted energy on peculiar rituals with no discernible purpose and possessed scarcely a flicker of true survival instinct. 

May the Wyrm preserve them. Even their sleep was a gamble with their safety. Neither the light rest of kin nor the preserving oblivion of hibernation, but an unholy in-between, with no benefit to show for it. How could such a pliable creature surrender so completely to sleep, when the world was bristling with threats? A predator could strike before thought returned, and without food, they would waste away before the next sennight. 

If Rem didn’t know better, he might have thought Little Mote’s sleep cycle was built to see the creature dead.

He had, over time, made his peace with that. Little Mote couldn't help it, after all. But while Rem would have gladly allowed them the full course of their odd rest, dreams didn’t fill empty bellies, and rousing a near-hibernating lump required a healthy dose of time and patience. When there were things to be done, Rem was forced to… Well, force the matter.

At the first whisper of dawn, Rem set aside the fire-poker and pressed himself upright, the delicate chitin of his old legs protesting with a stiff crack. He approached the green mound and gently prodded it with the butt of his staff. 

“Up, Little Mote.”

A deep, noncommittal rumble drifted up from the shapeless lump, and the absolute bedslug burrowed deeper beneath the moss-woven covers. Rem had to give it to them, in any other environment - say, a patch of tall grass - the strategy might've worked.

Clever, Rem thought fondly, but not clever enough.

“Lazy Mote,” he trilled, and when Mote braved a peek, one puffy eye squeezed open against the light, he rapped their head with a dull, echoing ‘thunk.’

"Rem!" Mote sprang upward, their movements an awkward scramble, gaze narrowed into a betrayed squint. "T’early.”

“Early’s what keeps us alive,” Rem replied, shifting his weight against the staff. “Dirtmouth’s a fair walk, and these old legs don’t move like they used to. We’re leaving on time.”

Mote responded with a suffering, muffled groan and pulled the moss tighter.

Rem prodded again, prepared to continue until they gave in. "Up. Now."

With a final, displeased sigh, they relented and rolled off the pallet with all the grace of a sack of grain. Tufts of moss clung stubbornly to their robes as they hit the floor, and while they were still blinking the crust from their eyes, Mote shuffled after Rem, who tugged a bulbous gourd from a time-worn storage box.

The drowsy creature didn’t so much stand as ooze against the moth’s flank, sinking into the worn, feathery insulation of his ruff. The fine fibers gave way, brushing their cheeks with a faint tickle. It was comforting. Like burying your face in the fur of a big, fluffy dog.

"Now, what’s this?" Rem teased, his voice a warm rumble as he savored their soft, natural heat against his cold shell. "Have I caught myself a cuddlebug?"

Mote's only reply was a sleepy, muffled snort, half-lost in the fur as they buried themself further into the luxurious plush. 

"Alright, enough of that. Come, have some breakfast," Rem prompted, giving the gourd a gentle shake. "Quickly, now."

Mote received it with a soft hum. "Thank you," they responded politely, tipping it back with a dreamy drag. The golden sap coated their tongue, heavy and sweet in their mouth.  

As the flavor lingered, Rem drifted through the space in a flurry, fussing about preparations. He took Mote’s borrowed mask from its hook and settled it atop their head with a light, affectionate pat. “Can’t forget this,” he murmured, as though they might actually wander into Dirtmouth bare-faced. The mask slipped askew over their eyes, but Mote, still savoring their breakfast, only hummed in lazy contentment, too comfortable to fix it.

With that done, Rem turned to packing, muttering to himself as he filled his worn satchel. The dried nuts crackled as he wrapped them in cloth, blank slates stacked neatly beside them, and a pouch of Geo chimed softly as he counted. His movements were so routine that Mote could tell what he’d reach for next without even looking.

Still drowsy, they grabbed his map scroll, tied with its fraying bit of twine, and held it out mid-yawn. Rem moved to accept, his claws trembling faintly as he plucked it from their grasp. 

Mote's eyes narrowed. 

“Ah, good thinking. Almost forgot.” Rem took it with a soft rattle and a nod. “Thank you.”

As Rem tied the pouch with a final tug, Mote’s fingers twitched. They adjusted their mask with a slow flick, eyes glinting as they spied the satchel within reach. With a quiet shuffle, they reached out - slowly, gently, so Rem didn't notice them nearing - and snatched it from his grasp just before he could sling it over his shoulder.

Rem’s antennae reared back in genuine surprise, mandibles clicking sharply in protest. “Little Mote,” he said. “The elder carries the necessities. That pack is not yours to carry.”

Mote’s grip tightened, the coarse weave of the satchel biting into their palms. The thought of Rem, with his trembling claws and aching limbs, hauling the weight all the way to Dirtmouth twisted something fierce. They met his gaze, teeming with protective defiance. “I carry,” they insisted, voice firm despite its sleepy rasp.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Rem extended a weathered hand. “Give it here.”

“No, Rem.” Mote stepped back, clutching the satchel closer. “I carry. You walk.”

“Little Mote.” Rem warned softly, wings snapping irritably. The dry rustle scattered a shower of iridescent dust into the air. Mote refused to yield. They drew the satchel closer, the faint musk of woven fibers mixing with the cool air as they took a step back.

The particles drifting from Rem's wings shimmered in the space between them, making for a somewhat absurd confrontation. Mote stood ready for a game of tug and chase, while Rem held his rigid stance, mandibles twitching once, then twice, until the fight seeped out of him in the face of Mote's mudheaded nonsense. 

“Stubborn as a weaver’s knot,” he muttered, the dust settling on the ground. “Very well. Carry it, then. But mind you don’t trip over your own claws and spill my Geo in the sand.”

Mote hummed triumphantly as they slung the satchel over their shoulder, its weight pulling but bearable. Rem muttered something under his breath about ‘fledglings and their folly’ as he shuffled toward the door.

“Out with you then,” he said, exasperated with their antics. “Dirtmouth won’t wait forever.”

Mote’s good mood vanished the instant they threw the door open. A spiteful gust barreled through the threshold, hurling a gritty slap of sand straight across their mask. Rem, predictably, found the whole affair hilarious, chittering at their misfortune. He definitely did that on purpose. Fair play, Rem. Fair play.

The ground outside was no more welcoming. They stepped out with bare feet, testing the soil for pebbles and thorns eager to bite into soft soles. 

Should've evolved claws, they thought, envious of bugs with their shiny built-in boots. Still, they kept their complaints to themself. A small poke was a fair price to pay for the much larger ache they had managed to lift off Rem’s worn wings. 

Their careful, tentative steps set the pace, and Rem fell into rhythm beside them. He guided them along the faded, winding trail, his staff sweeping ahead to knock away every loose rock he could find. He was surprisingly adept at it, too, swatting them away off the road as if they were pesky flies. Mote’s gaze softened, a faint, involuntary smile touching their lips when Rem let out a chiding rumble and sent one flying several paces away.

Silly old moth…  

The trail wound on, its furrows and pebbles giving way at last to the worn cobble of Dirtmouth’s edge. Little Mote’s gaze darted across the scene as they passed the iron-wrought gate, catching the glint of polished shells and the light of lanterns planted between round, stone buildings. 

They pressed closer to Rem as a cartful of crystal rattled by, its wheels grinding against the cobblestone, pulled by something low and, well, that was a lot of legs. Mote was left gawking behind the mask as the strange bug scuttled on by, none the wiser. A merchant's sharp chirp cut through the clamor - "Fresh fungus! Delver's delight!" - while across the street, two pill bugs argued in rapid clicks, their voices overlapping in a staccato rhythm Mote couldn't hope to follow.

Their head swiveled, trying to catch it all - the flash of red chitin disappearing into a doorway, the cluster of gnats haggling over glowworms, the way the whole town moved like a living, clicking, chittering organism.

The one thing Mote wasn’t too keen on was the, eh.. smell. Imagine dipping a penny in watered-down vinegar, then giving it a good whiff. Still, one could get used to anything, supposedly. Mote was certainly trying.

Rem’s staff tapped their elbow, pulling them from their reverie. “Eyes forward, Little Mote,” he said, his voice a low rasp beneath the town’s hubbub. “No use gawking. We’ve business to attend to.”

Mote's nod nearly shook their hood loose. They weren't here for sightseeing, but for the cemetery - to collect names and Geo for the cairns.

Mote knew it was Rem's way of staying afloat while giving back to the community, but they didn’t understand why the service was in such high demand. Dirtmouth's cemetery sat right here, tidy and accessible, its plots marked with proper carved headstones. Mourners could visit whenever grief called them. So why did some need Rem’s cairns, so far off in the howling wilds? Mote considered asking, but the question felt too heavy to broach out in the open.

Later, perhaps.

The cobblestone gave way to packed earth as they followed the familiar path toward the burial grounds. The town's constant chatter faded behind them, swallowed by a mournful silence. Here, the only sound was the rhythmic chunk-scrape, chunk-scrape of a shovel biting dirt,

Slythe, the local gravedigger, was already hard at work, bent low over a half-dug plot. Her movements were mesmerizing, in a morbid way - shovel down, twist, lift, toss. Shovel down, twist, lift, toss. Dust rose around her, settling on her gray carapace until she nearly blended in with the earth herself.

She must have heard their footsteps because she straightened without turning, rolling her shoulders with an audible crack of chitin. When she finally faced them, the weariness that weighed down her shell melted away. 

“Well, if it ain’t the old mourner,” Slythe rasped, her voice a low, grinding chirp. She staked her shovel into the dirt and dusted her claws together, sending a small cloud into the air. “Early as ever, Rem. And you, little shadow.” Her gaze settled on Mote’s mask. “Still tucked under his wings, I see.”

Heat crept up Mote's neck, prickling beneath their mask, but they didn't mind the teasing. Slythe’s tone held no malice, only a rough affection that eased the heavy air of the cemetery.

"Hold on, got something good for you." She reached into a leather pouch at her side and produced a small, round candy wrapped in waxed leaf, pinched carefully between two digits. "Here, sweetling," she said, leaning forward to press it into Mote's palm with a gentle nudge of her claw. "A treat to sweeten the road."

The waxed leaf crinkled under Mote's fingers, slick and slightly tacky. "Little Mote," they corrected softly, their voice muffled behind the mask. Their fingers brushed against Slythe's claws as they accepted the gift. "Thank you."

Slythe's mandibles clicked in delight. "Listen to that! Chirpin' clear now! Barely a turn ago you were all mumbles and whines." She reached up and patted Mote's head, almost maternal in a way, treating Mote like a youngling despite their near-equal height. Her touch left a faint smudge of grave-dirt on their hood. "Little Mote, growin' up right before us. Won't be long before you’re humming dirges with your old moth, mournin’ proper, eh?"

Her gaze dropped as Mote began unwrapping the treat, their half-covered fingers picking at the waxed leaf's folded edges. Something shifted in Slythe's expression - a flicker of concern that showed in her eyes. She watched their hands work. "Soft as ever, those claws," she murmured, almost to herself. 

Slythe glanced at Rem, and her voice dropped to a low pitch, timed perfectly for when Mote pushed the candy under their mask. "Might want to see the healer, old friend. Little Mote's shell is taking too long to harden for my liking."

The candy flooded Mote's mouth with sweetness - honey and something floral, maybe lavender - but they barely tasted it. Their fingers stilled against the mask's edge, holding it just high enough to keep chewing as they listened in on the conversation.

"You worry too much, Slythe," Rem said lightly, waving a dismissive claw through the air. His tone was casual, but there was something in his antennae… A tension hard to hide. "Little Mote's growing faster than their shell can keep up with. Fledgling is eating me out of house and home at this rate." His claw settled on Mote's head, a gentle pressure that subtly underscored how their crown still hit the exact same point at his shoulder as it had cycles ago. “Going through a gourd of sap every other day."

Slythe's eyes lingered on Mote, her mandibles working slowly. She didn't press though. Professional courtesy, maybe, or respect for Rem's judgment. "If you say so," she said finally, her tone suggesting she very much did not say so, but would let it lie for now. 

She turned back to her pouch, her claws digging through its contents until they emerged clutching a small slate and a leather sack. The slate's surface was scratched with a list of names in rough, hurried strokes - the handwriting of someone who'd never had formal schooling, but had learned their letters through necessity. She handed Rem both.

"For your cairns, old mourner. Two from the Crossroads, one bordering Greenpath. Got one unfortunate bug killed in their madness, as you can see." She gestured to the half-dug plot with a low drone. "Poor sod didn't leave much behind, but..." she shrugged, "nothing we can do 'bout that besides putting what's left to rest."

Mote peeked at the slate as Rem copied the names onto his own tablet. They had no sense of what tied these names together, but Rem's mandibles tightened as he read.

"A young one this time," he murmured, his voice laced with bitter regret. "Barely out of the egg. What a waste…" 

Slythe leaned heavily on her shovel, the tool's blade sinking deeper into the soft earth. "The plague don't discriminate, Rem," she said. "Grub or elder, it chews 'em all the same. Best you don't dwell on it." She pulled the shovel free with a dry sound and planted it again, marking her next cut. "Stack your stones, say the words, and move on. That’s just how it is."

Mote caught the new word - an important one, judging by the way it seemed to press down on the conversation. Their mask tilted, processing the rhythm, the clicks, the sounds they'd have to imitate. 

"Plah…" They chittered incorrectly, the sound catching awkwardly in their throat. They stilled, then tried again, slower this time, breaking it into pieces. "Pla-gue." The word felt strange in their mouth,  wrong. They turned to Rem, the mask's hollow sockets framing their curiosity. "What is that?"

Rem paused mid-scratch, his claw going still against the slate. He shared a glance with Slythe - a long, meaningful look that passed some unspoken question between them. Her antennae dipped in a sympathetic trill, a soft go on, tell them conveyed without words.

He took a breath, mandibles working as he searched for the right words - simple words that wouldn't confuse but would still convey the truth.

"Do you remember," he began carefully, pointing to Mote's middle, "when you ate my root-mash?"

Mote nodded immediately, and even through the mask Rem could sense the grimace. How could they forget? The memory alone still made their stomach churn.

"You were sick," Rem continued, watching their eyes through the mask's narrow slits, searching for understanding. "Sick is when you don't feel well." He paused, letting that sink in, then pressed forward. "A plague…"

He paused again, considering his next words.

"...A plague is when many, many bugs get sick." His voice dropped lower, taking on a grave quality. "And usually… they don't get better."

Mote stood very still, their gaze drifting slowly from Rem to Slythe’s fresh grave - the dark rectangle of turned earth waiting for its occupant - then farther, past the tidy headstones in their neat rows and careful spacing, out toward the wind-scoured Howling Cliffs, where Rem built his lonely cairns beneath an indifferent sky.

The pieces clicked together.

Oh...

Oh.

"The… plague," they said slowly, struggling to wrap their tongue around the specifics of the word. "That is why you… the stones? Up?" They made a stacking motion with their hands, miming the careful construction of the cairns they'd watched Rem build. "Not..?" They pointed emphatically at the neatly tended plots around them, at Slythe's half-dug grave and the carved headstones marching in orderly rows. 

Slythe's mandibles parted in a low, rasping chuckle that rattled up from deep in her thorax. "Sharp as a nail, this one," she said, nudging Rem with her shovel's wooden handle. "Aye, Little Mote, that's the way of it. Superstitious lot here think stones for the plagued draws the malaise back." She gestured toward the town with her shovel. "So they ban 'em from their hallowed ground. No plague victims in the cemetery. It’s all a whole load of dung, if you ask me."

Slythe leaned closer, voice dropping to a low rasp. This close, Mote could smell the deep earthy scent of fresh-turned soil.“But that’s the trouble, little shadow,” she murmured. “Grief doesn’t care for rules. Bugs still want their kin remembered, plague or no. So they slip Rem a bit of Geo when no one’s watching, and he lugs his old shell to the kingdom’s edge, hoping it’ll blow the bad luck right out of this world.” She tapped the slate in his claws. “Ain’t that right, old mourner?”

“It is so,” Rem murmured. His voice was soft, his eyes lost in the distance. “The cliffs take what the town won’t.”

Slythe’s gaze lingered on him for a quiet moment, allowing the statement to rest before she shook it off. "...Speaking of which," She straightened, fixing Rem with a pointed look. "Word is the plague's spiking 'round the crossroads lately. Bad, from what the traders say. Bodies stacking up faster than they can burn 'em." Her eyes flicked to Mote, then back to Rem. "Ain't safe to linger there, even for an old moth like you." The last bit came out ribbing, but concern threaded through it. "I'd wager you'd best find your stones elsewhere for now. Plenty of streams further north, away from the hot zones."

Rem's grip tightened on the slate until his claws scraped against the stone surface. "Noted, Slythe," he said, his tone clipped. "We'll tread carefully. I've not survived this long by being careless."

"See that you do," Slythe muttered, already turning back to her work. "I've dug enough graves lately. Rather not add yours to the list."

Mote's brow furrowed beneath their mask, their mind working to piece together the fragments of Rem and Slythe's exchange. The words came faster than they could fully process, dense with meaning and context they didn't quite grasp. But... they got the gist of it well enough.

An epidemic that exiled the dead…

What a grim concept.  

They clutched the satchel tighter against their side, the Geo inside clinking softly. Each coin paid in grief, a desperate love for the deceased. Their gaze flicked to the fresh grave Slythe had been digging - that dark gouge in the earth, waiting.

A young one, Rem had said. Barely out of the egg.

The thought turned Mote’s stomach, and they swallowed hard as the candy’s lingering sweetness soured on their tongue.

"Rem?" Mote tapped his arm, their voice muffled by the mask but insistent. When he didn't respond immediately, lost in whatever dark thoughts the names had conjured, they tapped harder. "Rem."

"Ah," he blinked, his head swiveling toward them as if surfacing from deep water. His antennae perked up, refocusing. "Yes, Little Mote?"

The words stuck in Mote's throat for a moment. They gestured vaguely at the slate. "You… too? Like them..?" You're not going to get sick too, are you?

Understanding dawned in Rem's compound eyes, and they softened immediately, multiple facets catching the light as his expression shifted to something reassuring. He rose slowly from his crouch, joints creaking like old branches, and placed a weathered claw on their arm. 

"No, Little Mote," he said firmly. "My shell's tougher than most when it comes to such ills. Old moths like me - we're fortunate in that sense." He squeezed their arm gently. "I've walked through infected areas before, and never once has it caught me. I'm careful, and I'm lucky, and I'm old - I'm too stubborn to die easily."

"Tougher shell?" Slythe snickered from behind them, her voice rich with amusement. She leaned heavily on her shovel, using it like a cane as she grinned at Rem with undisguised mirth. "The plague takes one whiff of you and bolts for safer ground, old moth. S'got nothing to grip to but dust and cobwebs on those tattered wings."

"And you're irreverent," Rem grumbled, but there was a playful edge to his rattle, a warmth that suggested he didn't mind the chaffing. "Keep that up, and plague or no, I’ll build a cairn for that sharp tongue of yours yet. See if the winds can carry it off without shredding the clouds to pieces."

Slythe’s laugh boomed, her shovel thumping the earth. “Try it, old moth - I’d haunt you for sport.” When her gaze drifted to Mote, her demeanor gentled, the harsh edges smoothing out. "Don't fret, sweetling. Your Rem's tougher than he looks, for all his creaking and complaining.” She made a shooing motion with her free claw. "Now, off with the both of you. I've work to do."

Rem inclined his head in farewell, proper manners, something Slythe clearly didn’t give a lick about. His staff tapped the earth as he gently guided Mote away with a claw at their shoulder. Mote hesitated though, their feet dragging, glancing back at Slythe with concern they couldn't quite suppress. What if she got sick?

Rem's hand rested more firmly on their shoulder. The gravedigger would be fine. Slythe was strong. If the plague came for her... well, she'd probably try to bury it alive.

"Until we meet again," Rem said, his voice soft but carrying that pensive quality that meant his mind was already elsewhere.

Mote mimicked the sentiment with a small wave, their cloth-wrapped fingers fluttering in the air.

"Yes, yes. Until the next." Slythe snorted, flicking a claw in a dismissive wave. "Go on, now, both of you. Don't make me chase you off with my shovel - I'll do it too, and I've got good aim." Her low chuckle chased them down the path, blending with the distant hum of Dirtmouth's morning bustle.

The dust of the streets swirled under Mote's bare feet as the pair trudged back toward the town's heart, the plague lingering in their thoughts.

They glanced sideways at Rem as they walked. His staff tapped steady, and the lantern light caught the iridescent dust that constantly shed from his wings, making it look like he was dusted with stars.

He'd said the plague wouldn't touch him, and he'd sounded confident saying it. Like it was simply an established truth that required no further discussion. Old moths don't get sick. The sky is gray. Water is wet. These are simply facts.

Yet Mote's fingers tightened on the satchel's strap regardless, the rough fabric biting into their palms. 

Are you sure? The question lingered in their mind, unspoken and difficult to shape into words they actually knew. Can anyone really be sure?

Rem turned before they could try to give it voice. His antennae tilted - amused, not concerned - as he let out a soft, melodic trill.

"That's enough gloom for one morning," he said, adjusting his grip on his staff. "Before we head to the stream, we'll stop by the merchant's stall. I've saved enough Geo for some proper fabric, and it's high time I stitched you a robe of your own, don't you think? Something that actually fits."

"Fabric," Mote tucked the new, unfamiliar word alongside the other, less savory one in their mind. Robe, they understood - robes were garments, made of… cloth. Fabric must be cloth, then. "For me?"

"Yes, for you," Rem said, his eyes flicking back to the road ahead, already calculating their route to the merchant's stall. "Something that doesn't trip you every ten paces and send you sprawling in the dirt, hm?" There was a teasing lilt to his voice, an attempt to lift the mood.

Mote's chest warmed at the thought - new robes, made specifically for them instead of borrowed from Rem's sparse wardrobe. A thank-you gathered on their tongue, the words aligning into a servicable response, when the faint, ever-present sourness of the city streets seemed to concentrate suddenly, distilling into something unmistakably, unnervingly wrong.

Their nose wrinkled in disgust, and they swiped at the air in front of their mask, trying to physically dispel it. But instead of dissipating, it swelled, thickening further into an overwhelming, choking stench.

Oh gods.

Gagging, they stumbled back hard, their feet tangling in their overlarge robes as they veered sharply away from the invisible assault. The abrupt shift in their stride jerked Rem from his musings mid-step. His antennae flicked upright, snapping to attention at Mote's sudden stagger.

It was sickening - truly, viscerally sickening - a strange combination of bile and rancid grease, left to fester in a sun-baked gutter. The stink seemed to crawl up their nostrils and settle in their sinuses, coating the back of their throat like a film of spoiled milk.

Their stomach lurched violently, threatening rebellion.

"Little Mote?" Rem called, taking in the way they'd curled into themself. "What's wrong?"

Mote's hand clutched desperately at their mask, fingers digging into the ceramic as if they could somehow pull it tighter and seal themself away from the smell. They struggled to find words, their already limited grasp of Hallownest's tongue faltering completely under the dominating assault on their senses. 

"Bad," they managed, voice muffled by the mask and strained to breaking. "Bad, Rem. Bad."

"Bad?" he echoed, his claw hovering near their shoulder, hesitant to touch. Concern spread across his features with the helpless fear that came from not understanding. "What's bad? Your stomach? Did Slythe’s candy not agree with you?” 

How are you not smelling this? Mote wanted to scream. But they could only shake their head, frustrated beyond words, their throat too tight to force out anything more coherent.

A stout beetle with wary, protuberant eyes slowed their pace as they passed, maintaining what they clearly considered a safe distance. Their antennae quivered nervously.

"Everything alright over there, mourner?" they called, their posture suggesting they were already halfway committed to running. One leg was cocked back, ready to pivot.

Rem raised a claw immediately, signaling calm, no cause for alarm, nothing to see here. "My aide is… reacting to something," he said, choosing each word carefully, lest they cause a panic. "Not sick, mind you - fully aware, just… unsettled by something." His eyes flicked back to Mote, who was still hunched over, one hand braced against their knee to keep from toppling. "We'll sort it out. Just need a moment."

The beetle hesitated, antennae twitching frantically as if to assess the validity of Rem’s words. After a long moment of visible internal debate, they gave a curt, unconvinced nod and shuffled off quickly, throwing suspicious glances back over their carapace. Mote barely noticed the exchange, too occupied with trying not to vomit.

"Easy now, Little Mote," Rem murmured, his claw finally making contact, rubbing slow circles on their arm through the fabric. "Steady breaths."

"No, no breath," Mote gasped, their voice coming out in a strained, warbling imitation of a chirp that didn't quite hit the right notes. Each inhale brought more of that terrible smell flooding in. "Bad."

Rem's wings shifted, his eyes narrowing as he studied Mote's distress more carefully, trying to diagnose. He leaned closer, lowering his head to their level. "Little Mote," he said slowly. "This bad you speak of… is it the air? Something you smell?"

Mote nodded jerkily, their head bobbing up and down like a broken toy. "Yes," they wheezed. "Yes, in th' air. Bad smell."

Rem clicked thoughtfully. His gaze swept the street. The morning bustle of Dirtmouth continued completely undisturbed - bugs haggling cheerfully over wares. Carts creaking under heavy loads of crystal and ore. The distant groan of the stag station preparing for another departure. The air smelled of... well, Dirtmouth. Nothing unusual.

Perhaps some fermented fruit being sold for consumption, or the waste heap on the eastern edge getting a bit ripe, but nothing that would cause this extreme of a reaction.

"You smell something we don't," Rem murmured, almost to himself, his antennae twitching as he tasted the air again and again, searching for whatever Mote had detected. But his expression remained puzzled, finding nothing. "Your sense of smell is sharper than ours, perhaps. Or different." He tilted his head, studying Mote's hunched form. "Can you tell where it's coming from? Point the way?"

Mote swallowed. They really, really didn't want to know what was waiting at the source of that smell, because what could produce such an overwhelming reek? Nothing good, they were sure of it. But… Rem seemed insistent on finding out. His posture had shifted into something almost urgent, like the smell - or rather, Mote's reaction to it - might be important. 

Not wanting to disappoint him, they forced themself to straighten and nodded. "Yes," they whispered, their voice barely audible. "I will try."

Mote shuffled forward, testing the air with shallow breaths. The stench wasn't constant, they realized. It came and went in waves, curling around corners, fading only to surge back stronger moments later. They moved haltingly, pausing at each intersection to catch where the odor grew from merely bad to absolutely unbearable.

It feels… Mote hesitated, wondering if their mind was playing tricks. Like it's moving. 

Rem followed close behind. His antennae remained upright and alert, twitching constantly as he watched Mote's uncertain shuffling. "Anything?" he asked softly after a long moment of tense silence, afraid to break their concentration. "Are you getting closer?"

Mote's steps slowed as they neared a narrow alley that split off from the main road. The passage was tight, barely wide enough for two bugs to pass comfortably, its walls pressing close on either side. And there - there - the air was thick enough to taste, coating their tongue with rot. Decay, acid, and something worse underneath it all, something that registered in their hindbrain as danger danger danger.

Their heartbeat thumped loud in their ears, drowning out the distant sounds of the town as they forced themselves closer to the alley's mouth. Every step felt like wading through muck, resistance building with each forward movement.

Something's there.

In the shadowed throat of the tight alley, barely visible in the dim light, Mote's gaze fell on something lurching through the dark. It was a small bug - maybe the size of one of the town's common scuttlers - but not one of the familiar faces. Its shell glinted dully, catching what little light penetrated the shadows as it staggered forward. One leg dragged uselessly behind it, carving wet trails in the dust as the creature clawed at the air with its other limbs, grasping desperately for something that wasn't there.

It was grotesque - there was no other word for it. The way its entire body shuddered, twitching with the desperate convulsions of a gutted fish writhing on a fisherman’s hook.

A strangled cry caught in Mote's throat. They recoiled, stumbling backward as their heel caught hard on an uneven cobble. Their balance tipped, arms pinwheeling, and they would have crashed hard to the ground if not for Rem's claw snapping shut on their elbow, yanking them upright.

"Little Mote?" Rem's voice sharpened, but Mote was beyond answering. Their gaze was locked on the creature, hypnotized by the amber light dripping from its maw and the savage glow in its eyes. The only sounds that registered were the soppy, rhythmic click-click-click of its mandibles and the horrible scrape of its carapace being dragged mindlessly against the stone.

Rem’s claws tightened on Mote’s arm. His eyes caught the glow spilling from the creature’s mouth, and all the warmth that defined him peeled away in silence. His posture drew taut, wings folding in with a crisp snap, and when he spoke again his voice was a low, rasping whisper. “Back. Slowly now."

Mote held their breath and nodded, bare feet scraping against the uneven cobblestones as they obeyed Rem's command. Inching backward one careful step at a time, they never took their eyes off the lurching horror. "Rem," they whispered, their voice cracking. "What… what is that?"

Rem eyed the creature with the focus of a predator watching prey - or perhaps prey watching a predator. His claw guided Mote backward, positioning himself carefully between them and the poor soul in the alley.

"They're plague-bitten."

Chapter Text

In that distant land, where comforts multiplied like aphids and fear was packaged for consumption, humanity speaks of plagues as one speaks of fables. 

The Black Death foremost among them, once crept through hamlets on the backs of vermin, delivered by fleas no bigger than poppy seeds.

Physicians of old filled their pages with the memories of boils splitting open, purulence weeping poison across fevered hides.

They’d tell you, with grave certainty, that it claimed one in three.

But for all its horror, the pestilences of that foreign history were at least honest about the business they kept.

Gangrene festered in necrotic flesh, announcing their claim with the gruesome sincerity of a corpse budding with mold, and you knew - death had come to claim its due. It took, and you knew it to be a savage beast and nothing more.

Hallownest’s infection announced itself with a deceiving beauty.  It resembled the gleaming, faultless gold of kings and queens. Glittering and shining with a brilliant radiance, inviting one to stretch out their claw and touch, enough to forget the stench as it offers a sip of the divine.

A feeling of being chosen - oh, special, precious little miteling - even as it feeds, consuming you from within.

Which Death, then, wields the crueler blade? 

The familiar butcher that scars the flesh, or the light that consumes the soul?

 

- Excerpt from the Royal Archives : "Testament of The High Mourner”

Down the cramped alley, the ailing bug had taken to hurling itself against the wall.

With cracks and snaps and scrapes, the small beetle collided with cold stone. Over and over, frenzied. And with each wretched strike, thick golden sputum sprayed across the stone. The jarring impact deepened the cracks in its carapace, revealing veins of glowing splendor, like teacups mended with gilt.

The light caught on Mote’s mask, illumining their features with distorted warmth.

Truthfully, when Rem and Slythe first described the epidemic, Mote had naively expected something recognizable. They’d pictured a wracking, chitin-rattling cough, or a fever so intense it turned a bug’s own blood - or whatever passed for it -  to tar. Something that made sense. This was...

They genuinely couldn't wrap their head around it.

Sickness should not glow.

“Don’t look,” Rem whispered much too late, guiding them further toward the mouth of the wider street. The motion of Dirtmouth’s morning market brightened in their ears, all of them blissfully ignorant of what festered in its bowels.

Another sodden crunch sounded behind them, followed by a strange bubbling noise, like air escaping through syrup.

"Keep your eyes forward, Little Mote." Rem reminded. "Don't turn back."

The stench in the air seemed to sweeten alongside it.

“Rem?” Mote turned to the old moth, only to fall silent at the sight of his face.

A wet, terrible sorrow pooled in the clouded facets of his eyes, suffused with a trembling intimacy that stole Mote’s breath. They might have thought Rem was mourning someone he’d once known by name - someone whose laughter still haunted the edges of his memory. Because for as long as Mote had known the old mourner, they had never seen grief cling to him so closely.

But Rem was a hermit at best, a recluse at worst. Few bugs knew his name, and he knew fewer still in turn.

Whatever he saw in that broken shell, it wasn't a friend.

But the thought lingered anyway. For all its blind stumbling and brutal collisions, the creature had, without question, once been someone. To see it reduced to a thing instead of a person was an overwhelming realization all its own, and Mote was forced to tuck it away into some dim, cluttered corner of their mind - to unravel later.

For when they could afford to be upset.

Perhaps Rem was already practicing his duties while the poor creature still drew breath. Mote didn’t - goodness, it felt cruel to even think it - but they didn’t see the little beetle surviving this. When illness penetrates the meat, what could possibly be done? It was more plague than bug at this point.

Should they get a doctor anyway? To… make it comfortable, before -

…

That would be kindest. Wouldn’t it?

"Little Mote."

Mote blinked, looking up to see Rem's focus squarely on them. It took a moment for them to process their own name, even as it landed soft and kind, terribly gentle - which was, in their experience, never a good sign.

He loomed over them, his claws digging into their shoulder with a grip that promised trouble. And, oh, Mote knew that look - had seen it smoldering in the faces of doomed characters across enough stories to recognize the setup for something monumentally stupid.

"I need you to do something for me, and I need you to not fight me on this."

Oh, Mote thought. Oh, they didn't like that.

They straightened, spine stiff as pride, and gave the firmest “No” they could manage. Because honestly, absolutely not. If they'd had hackles to raise, they would have risen, and they would have risen with a blazing passion. 

“You need to - " Rem froze mid-sentence as Mote's refusal actually registered. His next words died on his mandibles, antennae drawing back as if Mote had just spat in his lunch.

"What do you mean, no?" he asked, baffled.

Mote narrowed their eyes, heart hammering against their ribs. "You tell me to go, run, and then - you... You hurt. To pro-tect me." The word stumbled on their tongue, but they pushed through. "So I am not going. Don't want dead moth."

“Dead?" Rem’s ruff exploded out in every direction. "Who said anything about dying, you ridiculous skippy-shell? Being old doesn't mean I'm auditioning for the afterlife.”

Mote blinked.

Ah. 

Alright.

Okay. That was... 

That was good. 

Air suddenly returned to their lungs, albeit rancid with the nasty alley waft. No dying. Rem wasn't going to die. Oh, thank god, they had completely misjudged the situation.

With that realization came embarrassment, they flushed under the unimpressed stare leveled their way, feeling - rather unfairly - scolded for their assumptions. What else were they supposed to make of all that self-sacrificial posturing and jabbering? 

"As I was saying," he pressed on. "I need you to run and fetch a guard,” He flicked a claw toward his legs. “I fear I'd only hold you back - we both know these are decorative at best.”

"But you said - "  

"Hush," Rem scolded, his voice a fierce whisper. “I told you not to argue. We don’t have time for this.” He tapped his staff toward the unfortunate bug. “They may seem docile now, but that won’t last. Do you understand? The sooner we get a guard here, the safer it’ll be for everyone.”

“But you stay,” Mote protested, refusing to be placated. “Still dangerous, for you.”

Rem rasped a sigh, slipping a claw beneath the edge of their mask to pinch at their cheek, chiding and fond all at once.

“Listen to me, Little Mote, and listen well,” he said, his voice folding into something firm and no-nonsense. “I will make sure the poor bug does not wander into the market, and you will run as fast as those legs can carry you. If they turn violent before you get back, I have a staff and I will use it. You know I can deliver a proper, ugly whack when it’s called for.” He drew back his claws, letting Mote’s cheek smart in their absence. “Now… do you remember what the guards look like?”

Mote nodded frantically.

"Good," Rem breathed. "At the town gates, you remember the way?"

Another hectic nod.

"Then go. Now."

Mote didn't need to be told twice.

They spun on their heel and bolted, their robes snapping behind them as they tore toward the main street. The market sounds that had been a distant murmur suddenly roared to life, crashing over them in a wave as they burst into the street.

Their legs pumped frantically beneath them, quick and strong, eating up ground with desperation. They slipped through knots of passersby in fits and stumbles, scattering curses and clattering wings behind them.

"Watch it!" someone bellowed.

Mote didn't watch it. Mote was moving, and far too busy to do anything else.

Near the Stag Station, the two pillbugs remained exactly where they'd been that morning, locked in the same argument. The smaller one was gesticulating wildly with several arms, mandibles working overtime.

" - and I'm telling you, the quality has gone downhill ever since - "

They burst between the two, scattering their argument mid-sentence. The smaller pillbug’s complaint broke into a startled cry, and he snapped into a ball, rolling backward until he struck the station’s base with a dull plunk.

The larger one turned at once, antennae rigid, her composure cracking into open outrage.

"Oi! You little - ! What in the Pale King's name do you think you're - rude! Absolute barbarian!" Her voice chased after Mote like an angry wasp. "No respect! None whatsoever! When I was young, bugs had manners - !"

The rest dissolved into the chaos of the market behind them, forgotten before Mote could even bother feeling guilty about it.

Their vision tunneled, focused entirely on the path ahead. On dodging, weaving, moving. The gates. They needed to get to the gates. Find a guard. Bring them back - 

Their foot caught.

Oh no.

The hem of their robes - that stupid, trailing hem that Rem was planning to replace - snagged beneath their heel. Mote pitched forward with a yelp, hands shooting out on instinct as the ground rose fast to greet them.

The world decided to grant them a small mercy then. Outstretched hands connected with a lamp post - a jarring smack of metal on palm. Momentum swung them hard against the iron, winding them around in a half-arch, and for a glorious second, they clung there, robes tangled, lungs burning, but upright.

A beetle in a worn apron, who'd been sweeping the stoop of a nearby shop, stared at them with open astonishment.

"You alright there, mourner?"

"Good!" Mote squeaked, already untangling themselves. "Good, sorry, have be fast, sorry!"

They kicked free of their traitorous garments and launched themselves forward again. Their feet began to ache, the smack of skin harsh on the unforgiving cobblestone. The market was starting to notice. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A few bugs stepped aside, tracking Mote's frantic progress with concern folding their antennae back.

A elderly millipede, her many legs clicking in an anxious rhythm, reached out as if to stop them. "Child, what's wrong? Do you need help?"

"Guard!" Mote gasped out, neither correcting her nor stopping in their tracks, couldn't stop, keep going. "Need - need guard - "

"A guard? Whatever for - ?"

Mote tore past her before she could even finish her question, leaving the poor old lady in the dust as the gates rose ever larger at the end of the street. They could see them now - the guards. Towering, pear-shaped bugs with steel-clad chitin, clutching clubs carved from the fangs of some long-dead leviathan.

Almost there. Almost. Just a little farther.

Their lungs burned. Their legs screamed. But they kept running.

“Pla - !” They coughed, choking and gasping on their own spit before they hauled enough breath into their burning lungs so they could finally tear the warning from their throat. "Plague in the streets!" 

And, snap. The world fell still.

One could have sworn time had congealed, or a cosmic hand had slammed the universal pause button. Conversation froze. Geo hung suspended in a buyer's claws, a hair's breadth from the merchant's scales. Even the damned guards stood still in the face of Mote's plea.

Their passivity grated on Mote's nerves like nothing else, because - hello?  - were they stationed there for decoration? 

“Curses,” the guard on the left muttered, his voice thick with resignation. “Not this rot again.”

“Language, Gouge,” his partner chided, though her tone lacked bite. Smaller but no less proud, she carried her club propped casually against her shoulder. Leaning toward Mote, she asked, “You’re the mourner’s youngling, aren’t you? Where’s your minder? Is he with the sick bug?”

“Yes - Rem’s there - the bug is glowing, glowing everywhere - ”

“Advanced,” Gouge cut in, deadpan, the word itself seeming to sour his mood. He shot his partner a weary glance. “Of course it is.”

Who cares, Mote wanted to yell, resisting the urge to kick his ass in gear, get a move on already!

"We'll need to cordon the area," the second guard declared, her hand already darting toward her belt, untying the ivorous horn at her side. "Clear the square, herd everyone indoors - "

Mote lost it. "No time!" Their voice splintered, as angry as it was desperate. "Rem! Don't want dead moth, come now!"

"Steady, little mourner." Gouge lifted his giant claw, the scarred ridges catching the lantern light. "We're moving. Tally, blast the warning and haul shell after us."

Tally dipped her head. "On your tail."

"You heard her, grub." Gouge hoisted his club with a low rumble and surged ahead. "Lead the way, and make it snappy."

Mote felt as if the world had at last exhaled in their favor.

Finally.

They spun on their heel and charged back toward the market, dust caked to their soles and relief lighting a fire in their step.

That relief lasted about three seconds.

Gouge, for all his hulking might, was slow. Mote might as well have been leading an elephant charge through town. He lumbered behind with an earth-shaking tread that smothered Mote’s frantic pattering, complete with bellowing grunts and the clatter of his steel-clad chitin. They kept glancing back, their hearts sinking with every plodding step he took.

Eventually, they were forced to stop and wait, dancing on their toes with anxious energy that had nowhere to go. "Come on, come on," they muttered under their breath.

"Working on it," Gouge grumbled, a hint of annoyance in his rumble. "Not everyone's wired for darting, flea-legs."

Mote bit back a retort - not that they knew the words to make it land anyway - their fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and drag Gouge along by his club. They just couldn’t shake the thought of Rem alone in that alley, counting on them to be quick.

The image of shell cracking still bounced around their skull, and they kept picturing it in their mind - Rem’s carapace taking the blow instead.

“Hurry,” they urged, their voice a strained chirp as they bounced on their heels. “Please.”

Gouge’s mandibles gnashed, but he picked up his pace, shaking the ground with his stride. Tally kept close behind, raising her horn to her mandibles. Her spiracles expanded before a sharp, piercing blast cut the air, scattering bugs in the market as they realized this was no grub's prank. Shouts of alarm erupted as merchants abandoned their stalls, and passersby scrambled for cover, their antennae quivering with fear.

“Plague alert!” Tally’s screech boomed, amplified by the horn. “Clear the streets! Indoors, now!”

The return trip was a nightmare of inverted order. Where Mote had once moved through bustling, ignorant life, they now fled through a vacuum of rising panic. Tally’s horn blared again, smothering the market's hushed rush of anxious chittering and curious rumbling. Doors slammed shut, and the snick of locks slid home. Others shamefacedly peered through windows or around corners, but all sound was swallowed by fleeing footsteps.

Mote, with the two guards thundering behind, paid them no mind. Their focus was on that alley, on the thickening sick in the air. This time they neither gagged nor choked, but pushed forward. Even as it burned its way through their sinuses like chlorine.

Then, through the haze and the pounding of their own heart, a series of sounds snagged Mote's attention

A low, guttural rasp - wet and ragged, like fabric tearing underwater - followed by a sharp crack of wood on chitin. Then a grunt, pained and exertion-heavy, unmistakably Rem's. Another thud, heavier this time, flesh and shell slamming into stone with a meaty splat. Scuttling - frantic, erratic - claws scraping over cobble in a frenzy. A bubbling hiss, rising to a shrill keen that pierced the air like a needle through silk.

A struggle. Undeniably violent.

They rounded the corner.

Rem - 

Rem was on the ground -  pinned on his back like one of those preserved insect specimens.

His wings - those beautiful vanes he occasionally let Mote smooth, allowing them to gather glittering scales in their palms - were crushed beneath his body, their delicate parchment membranes torn and smeared with alley filth. He'd jammed his staff crosswise into the infected bug's maw, serving as a splintering barricade as jagged mandibles scissored the air just inches from his face.

The old mourner’s arms trembled with the strain, claws slipping on the wood as he pushed with everything he had to keep the creature at bay. The infection wept for him, golden tears dripping from the bug's eyes onto his robes, his ruff, his face - sliding down his cheek with the slow, horrifying tenderness of a mother’s caress.

Fear and doubt were cauterized in a single, scorching instant. 

This could not be called anger, it'd gone far beyond that - because this was Rem, who cursed his ailing joints but would still spend hours selecting smooth, perfect stones for strangers he'd never get to meet. Rem, who painstakingly gathered fresh moss so Mote could sleep warm, who offered the shelter of his ruff, and hugged them even when the behavior baffled him. 

And he was fighting for his life.

"Get OFF him!"

Mote’s scream ripped from their throat, untamed and savage, a guttural howl that shattered the air. Not in Hallownest’s tongue, but their own birth dialect, rounded and whistling, a cry that burned with such visceral hatred that even the antennae of onlookers trembled. And still, curiosity pulled them closer, daring a forbidden peek despite the warning horn.

Mote launched themselves at the bug without thinking, without plan or strategy - just pure, incandescent fury. Their feet pounded the ground, robes flapping wildly, and they swung their fist with every ounce of strength they possessed, aiming for the bug’s grotesque, glowing face.

The impact was a disaster.

Their soft knuckles met unyielding chitin with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded through Mote’s hand, searing and nauseating, like they’d punched a brick wall. The bug stumbled back, wobbled for a moment, and then lost its balance, crashing onto its back with legs pedaling uselessly at the air.

“Mote!” Rem snapped harshly, voice strained but furious. “What do you think you're doing? Get back!”

"Hush!" Mote snapped back, the chastisement tearing free as a wobbly, watery warble. They didn't spare a glance for their bloody knuckles, instead focusing on furiously wiping the glowing goop from Rem's face with their oversized sleeves. "Rem said okay, this is not okay!"

Behind them, the infected beetle hacked and screeched something awful, mandibles clicking at a maddening pace. Rem grabbed for Mote, trying to pull them back with him. His limbs felt sluggish, half-numb from exhaustion, yet panic lent him strength. The creature’s convulsions clawed at the silence, and he feared - no, knew - it would rise again, drag itself across the dusty road, and come for them once more. And this time, Little Mote was too close to the danger, far too vulnerable to weather even a single hit.

However -

The beetle did not get up.

Its spasms faltered, and the legs that had scraped and clawed against the stone slowed to a twitch.

A wet rattle broke through the air, thick and shuddering, and then -  a sound that was not a screech at all.

A low, guttural whine seeped from its mandibles.

“L - llll…ight…”

Rem’s eyes widened. His mind refused to accept what his sensory frills told him.

That wasn’t possible.

Did it...

“Wyrm preserve us..!”

At the alley’s mouth, a scavenger - small, wrapped in the frayed cloak of a secondhand trader - had been peering, unsteady with curiosity. The tiny creature dropped its basket, eyes wild, and let loose a screech that had no right to carry as far as it did.

“The plagued spoke!” they shrieked, jabbing a claw toward Mote, stumbling backward. “That mourner chanted to it - and it answered! Did you hear?! It spoke!”

Their cries were a spark in dry tinder. Sound hopped from stone to stall to mandibles, and from unseen places, hushed clicking and trilling repeated their words. Mote’s head snapped toward the bug, frantic with a new kind of worry - why was this idiot yelling? They needed to move, before it decided tiny squealers were tastier than mystery-lump-on-legs and old moth.

Honestly, they thought incredulously, do you have turnip for brains?

And Rem said Mote had no survival instincts. 

The clicking chorus faltered as thunder rolled into the alley.

Gouge.

His massive shadow swallowed the scene whole. With a low growl of frustration, he scooped up the hapless bug and sent it tumbling back into the road with an effortless toss, their legs flailing in the air.

“Stop causing panic and get to the ground!” he roared, his voice echoing off the narrow walls as he raised his massive club for a final, merciful blow. With a quick glance toward Rem, he signaled for the moth to shield the youngling from what came next.

Rem understood, pulling Mote close and pressing their face into his ruff, blocking the view.

But then the dying bug twitched again, its legs kicking a final, desperate pattern against the stone. The gurgling behind its mandible returned, and then it spoke once more. A series of broken noises that shaped themselves, imperfectly, into words.

“Noth-i-in-ng, lighhht...." it chittered haltingly through ichor, fighting for one last turn. "There's not-not-not - "

The scavenger Gouge had knocked aside clawed its way back up, dragging itself to the lip of the alley. Its eyes, wide and manic, flickered wildly between Rem, Mote, and the guard.

“See, what did I tell you?! That mourner sang some sort of spell and it's talking!” the bug shrieked, its voice hysterical, drowning out the waning struggle of the Infected. 

“Foolishness!” Rem finally snapped. His mandibles ground in a rare display of unrestrained anger. "Have you no shame, accusing my aide without proof."

The scavenger flinched under Rem's furious rumbling, antennae curling back, but their fervor didn’t waver. “I heard it!” they insisted. “That thing spoke! It’s not natural! They did something!” Their claw jabbed toward Mote again, trembling with conviction, drawing the attention of a small crowd that had begun to gather at the alley’s edge despite Tally’s warnings.

Still clutching her horn, Tally herself forced her way through the gawkers, her club sweeping out to keep them at bay. “Back off!” she barked. “Are you lot deaf? Clear out, or I’ll drag you out myself!” Her wings flared, round and shining, and the crowd shrank back - though their eyes still lingered, hungry for the show.

Gouge stood over the infected beetle, his club still raised - but his stance had changed. The certainty in him faltered, and his massive frame went still as he stared down at the creature. Its cracks glowed brighter, pulsing akin to a lantern newly fed with oil.

“Gouge,” Tally called. “Finish it. Now.”

He didn’t strike. His eyes flicked to Rem, then to Mote, and finally back to the beetle. “Bug’s proper barmy, Tally, but they weren’t wrong,” he muttered. “It spoke. They don’t do that when they’re this far gone. Might be better if we capture it.”

“Capture it?” Tally echoed, disbelief sharp in her voice. “Are you mad? It’s advanced - look at it! One wrong move and it’ll gnash your legs to bits!”

Gouge tightened his grip. “Think about it,” he said. “The higher-ups would appreciate it if we brought this thing in alive. Could be a lead, maybe even a breakthrough. You know how desperate the Council’s gotten.”

Tally’s club lowered slightly as she processed his words. “Breakthrough?” she hissed, her voice a sharp whisper to avoid the crowd’s eager ears. “You’re talking about dragging a glowing, gibbering plague-beast through Dirtmouth? To what, hand it over to some scholar who’ll poke it till it pops? Gouge, it’s a walking hazard!”

“It’s not walking anywhere,” Gouge countered, gesturing at the beetle’s twitching. “Look at it. It’s on its last legs - literally. We bag it, we bind it, we get it to the Archives. The bug’s got a point about the talking. That’s not normal. If it’s got something special going on, the Council’ll want to hear it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?” Tally asked, suspicious. "I didn't hear anything when I got here."

"That's - " 

“It’s true, it’s true!” the crazed scavenger droned, their voice climbing higher into a frantic whine as tiny claws scrabbled at the air, pushing them closer into the circle. “I heard it, plain as the Wyrm’s fall! That little mourner -  they howled some foreign curse, and the thing answered! It blighted them, I tell you! Mark my words, plague’s whispering through them!” The bug stomped their claw for emphasis. “I knew they were up to no good, those mourners - thieving the names of the plagued! Who knows what they stir with them?!”

A murmur rippled through the gathered bugs, heavy with morbid fascination. Mote shrank back, unsure whether speaking would make things better or worse - but before they could even draw a breath - 

“Shame on you,” Rem said, cutting, the cold fury in his voice enough to make Mote’s skin prickle. “Their plating hasn’t even come in, and you have the audacity to accuse them of conjuring plagues?" 

Gouge’s low, gravelly rumble cut through. “If anything, mourner,” he said, letting his club drop to the ground, its tip landing firmly in front of the plague-bitten bug, just in case. “I think it’s the opposite.”

Rem’s injured wings shuddered as he lifted his gaze to Gouge, pulling Mote closer against his thorax. “Spare me the riddles, guard. Say what you mean.”

Gouge’s black eyes reflected the eerie orange of the alley. “I’ve never seen a bug that far gone open their maw and speak anything coherent,” he said, glancing at the small beetle, “but I wouldn’t call that a curse. And no one can deny your aide’s strange wailing came first. I’m fairly certain half the town heard them howl.”

Mote felt Rem tighten his hold, sensing what Gouge was about to say.

“So, from one plague-stained profession to another,” Gouge whispered, “I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”