The fight, the bloodshed, the slaughter; it was a dance in it’s own way.
You weren’t ignorant of the sun Goddess’ feelings, how could you by now? Age after age after age has passed and the Infection ravages the lands your father took in conquest. You don’t know the exactness of time which has flowed through you like howling winds, all you see the death and reanimation of soldiers for a war long over.
She has won already, can’t she see?
The kingdom your father built, in cool light, in blood, might as well be gone. Ruins simply another corpse to be picked off by scavengers. Your sister you see as well. Flying the areas with swiftness, protecting a grave. You see your mother. Bound by runes and regret, somewhere deep in her gardens, which, were they always hers? Did they grow as she accepted union with your father? Did she regret her actions against her native home?
Your father… You hope he stays dead and buried, unknown, unmarked.
The moths, who once lived here, once called this place home; they fled in exoduses an eternity ago. You know it wasn’t all of them, couldn’t. You hope that those who fled have descendents, are happy, prospering where bloodshed can’t catch them.
You have a duty, there’s other people in the end.
Not simply the bugs and beasts who moved to Hallownest. But the mosskin, the hive, the mantises and those of Deepnest. They didn’t deserve this too, Didn’t deserve their minds and bodies rippend and shredded by a Goddess who couldn’t accept her victory as one, even if it was phyrric.
You failed long ago. Tired, shaking, aching for companionship of the one person who understood you better than anyone else (for sure better than you). She has grown angry yes, but it’s an anger born from love. Born from her people, hypnotized away from their ways to a light who had more than enough. If it were not for the people left behind, the corpses knowing no peace, you might’ve accepted your defeat in grace, went gentle into her embrace.
But you cannot.
For worse, for honour, you know either way she can’t either.