#stay tuned for tomorrow mwehehehe

[blackwldcw]

They awake to the sound of singing. A soft and mournful tune, more of a spell really. Melantha would sing it to them whenever they'd get hurt.

Melantha. The train of delegates. The ceremony.

Their eyes fly open. The muscles in their abdomen tense in a feeble attempt to help them rise, but a wave of pain, and a gentle hand, stays them. With a groan, they fall back into their nest, panting.

Nest?

Their eyes dart around the room in an attempt to make sense of their surroundings. They’re in a medical bay, one of the private ones Starscream makes use of in Iacon's upper district, but instead of laying on a metal slab, they find that they're suspended, gently hammocked, in a web made from another's silk.

Familiar golden eyes stare down at them.

"Mel?" they rasp, throat dry from lack of use and moisture.

She gently shushes them and rests the back of her long black digits against a violet cheek. "I thought we'd lost you again," she intones in their native tongue.

It surprises Blackarachnia, how easily they can slip back into it despite having spoken neo-cybex and nothing but for the last four million years. "What happened? Why are you still here?" They pale. "Is Starscream alright? Is spark zero?" They list off a few more names, before Melantha lays a finger to their lips.

"Rest. Speak only when necessary. I will explain."

It, apparently, was a very poorly planned assassination, and one that was in very poor taste. He was swiftly disarmed and apprehended, but not before one shot left the barrel. It was meant for the Lord Chancellor, but it hit them instead.

Scalpel helped stabilise them for transport while Kalamity placated the crowds, and Melantha and Akantha had been taking turns giving them some herbal remedies and helping them feel comfortable.

“That rusty blade doesn't know everything about us, you know," Melantha adds with a soft huff.

Blackarachnia’s hackles rose. "Yes,” they retort with a glare, “but he's defended me in situations far more dangerous than this. And he is my tribe-brother."

Melantha's eyes widen with understanding. "The marking of the Web on his arm... our language—“

"He has undergone the rite. I had no doubt that he would take care of me. You, however--" Their scarlet eyes peer into the other's own. "Why seek me out now? Why stay? After Chela's death, after my own flight, I thought you'd be furious."

Melantha smiles sadly. "Do you think so little of me?"

"Tch. Well, you were always Mother's favourite."

A flinch, but the elder says nothing. She merely offers a gourd full of something sweet-smelling. Blackarachnia wants to refuse out of spite, but their throat hurts too much for that. They take an experimental sip before taking a few larger gulps. Nectar. A delicacy from their hive-dwelling cousins. Also a surefire way to ease any aching throat.

"Why stay?" Blackarachnia murmurs, wiping the back of their mouth with their inner wrist.

Melantha sighs, secondary legs twitching. "Perhaps... to atone. You were always the strongest and bravest of us, Pro-- Blackarachnia. You stood up to Mother. You reached for the stars. You gave of yourself for the betterment of others, while I-- well, I was terrified, even of getting between her and you.

I heard your cries in the cave, after she dragged you away from the festivities— the festivities held in your honour. I made up my mind to run away with you that day, but when I snuck away, you were already gone. I thought she had killed you, despite her claims. I-I mourned you. Every day."

Their expression darkens. "You could have sought me out after that. I know the tribe witnessed Chela's death. I saw you all skulking."

"Mother was gravely ill, and Venatrix named me her new successor. I had to help calm our people first. I had my responsibilities, and you had yours."

"I do not require responsibilities for happiness or fulfillment. I require connection, and I thought you had severed ours."

"It was not my intention." Melantha glances down at their injured side, fully stitched and wrapped now. Her lips purse. "I should have been a better sister. I realise that now."

Blackarachnia wants to say 'too little, too late' or something along those lines, but they're too tired. The ceremony hadn't gone as planned, and rather than being furious at the assailant, they find themself embarrassed. If they had worn armour, if they had ran through the crowd instead of around it, if they had done anything else-- They would have been able to prove to Melantha that Cybertronians were more than just a quarrelsome and war-mongering race.

Although… if the vases of native flowers and vials of innermost energon are any indication of how much space they take up in Cybertronian sparks, perhaps their sister already knows.

"So, what now? You've apologised. I've acknowledged it." Not accepted it. Not yet. "Will you go back to hiding in the dark?"

A tear traces the outline of Melantha's cheek, and their expression softens slightly. "No. I will do what I should have done aeons ago. Stand by you. Myself and all of us. That is... if you will have me."

Blackarachnia stares at her outstretched hand and then, slowly, grasps it. Melantha brings their fingers to her lips and then, choking back a sob, holds it to her cheek.