Chapter Text
“If it rusts, it can never be trusted again
If its owner fails to control it, it will cut him
Yes, pride is
Like a blade”
-Kubo Tite
“Going back, then, to the question of being feared or loved,
my conclusion is that since people decide for themselves
whether to love a ruler or not, while it’s the ruler who decides
whether they’re going to fear him, a sensible man will base
his power on what he controls, not on what others have
freedom to choose. But he must take care, as I said, that
people don’t come to hate him”
-Niccolo Machiavelli
….
If Hornet were to look back inside herself and follow the long, winding trails of her memories for as far as they would go, the furthest end-points she might reach would often contain vague, amorphous impressions of her mother atop her high seat.
Herrah the Beast was no small creature, tall and massive, frightful to behold, with or without her long, elegant crimson veil.
The wrought-iron throne on which she resided was intended for creatures larger still, and yet she very much occupied her space in it, proudly and fully, even after being left to fill it alone.
In far distant days, the princess would recall just a few stray, fuzzy memories of being carried in her mother’s lap, but more commonly, those early scenes would feature her having clambered on the lowest step of the dais, nestled in the crimson carpet, sometimes gazing tentatively at the mighty queen.
It would occur to her sometimes that she must have looked misplaced there, the tiniest, scrawniest little thing.
She was too young to understand too much of the matters being discussed – borders, politics, administration, trade deals, hearing petitioners, settling internal disputes, heading the tribal assemblies, conducting religious rites, receiving guests and dignitaries.
The impressions she would have retained were shapeless, fragmentary, lacking in focus, consisting of what might be gleaned from the tones of their voices or perceived by means of basic instinct.
Even a mindless, feral creature might have been able to tell that the position of the queen was absolute: When she said her piece, everybody listened; If uncertainty or fear ever spread within the crowd, all eyes would go to her. If she rose from her seat, all the clamor in the room could suddenly die down, expunged down to the faintest sound.
The queen would speak firmly, with a clear air of authority, and if she were to apply but a little pressure, most naysayers would fold; Her judgments were awaited with bated breaths; If she declared something with conviction, her followers might well erupt in zealous fervor. She never let herself be daunted nor provoked, facing everything that came her way with naught but unflinching strength.
She never had the need to throw her weight around, or make a spectacle of her power; She never had to pull rank, lineage, seniority or caste to make another comply with her decrees, nor to assert that ‘I am the queen’.
It was understood implicitly that she was in charge; Her power was assumed, her command as natural and inevitable as stones sinking down in the water of the lake below.
The Beast did not concern herself with gossipers, prattlers or naysayers, nor did she care for yes-bugs or suck-ups, nor waste time on fools or querulants.
Her presence was that of a solid, immovable mountain of flesh, shell and fabric, resting assuredly in herself, yet leaving no doubt that she had every ability and intention to strike with lethal efficiency if given reason.
Hornet could recall only one or two instances where her mother had to resort to brandishing the retractable blades on her forelimbs, and in both cases, the funny business ceased at once – though she’d reserve such outright threats only for acts she found repugnant, or for those who had repeatedly failed to realize that she would brook no disrespect.
The sting of her claw-blades was well-known. Some of the very best fighters of the surrounding tribes and territories bore scars from them.
Countless, endless years after she had begun her long duty, the name of the sleeping queen would still be spoken with the utmost reverence.
Even those who might be counted among her detractors never dared to slander her.
Once, she’d come to Deepnest in rags, leading a band of destitute refugees; Soon, all the biting, scratching, skittering things in the untouched eternal darkness of the warrens would come to pray to her and call her ‘mother’.
Her own tribe, the Weavers, were well known to worship nothing and no one, but none among their number would deny that it was largely their leader’s grit and willpower that had seen them escape the vicissitudes of their homeland, cross the fruitless, salt-stricken seas and make the unforgiving trek through the barren wastes.
Herrah was not the eldest among their number, not the most cunning or the most skilled in craft, but it was her who spoke up and took charge when their rebellion had been left fractured and leaderless by the capture of their movement’s founder;
The Beast had been the prophet who got them through their exodus, and a beloved sister besides; Foremost and peerless among their kin, strongest in body, in fiercest heart, unbowed in will.
Whether among her own tribe, or amidst her people by marriage, the refrain of laments was much the same:
‘If only Herrah were here. What would Herrah do? I wonder what Herrah might say.’