The Lasius ants were humble — apparently. Black and small, actually fifth the size of Tarsalis ants. They worked day and night, delivering leaves to the colony, a patch of treeless land, anthills spread around, and in the centre, a larger one, where the king and the queen of the Lasiuses reigned. Their land was in the far south of Yura, the closest insectoid neighbours of the bumblebees and the fireflies — often mentioned as The Ants of the Sea, for their land was at the shore's edge, opposing the sea.
'You've 'eard 'bou th'battle between th'bees n' th'fyerflyes?' Asked Níml, who was carrying a leaf behind Mûrj. They were in a line of thousands of leaf-carrying ants.
'Aye – nay? Wha' battle y'speakin' of, Níml?'
'They're dead!'
The frontal ant looked back in surprise, 'Dead, y'say? A'fynd tha'hard t'believe.'
'Argh, it's whatever.' Níml motioned his antennae in disbelief and marched along the busy line.
The politics of the Lasiuses were honest and to the point: to serve the king and the queen and prioritise the wellbeing of the colony, avoid all negative interactions with other insects and animals, and carry leaves till death. This made all ants numb and the royal family prosperous. All were in constant boredom, and the mountain of leaves behind the royal anthill had greens on the tip and gradually turned yellow to red to brown the more you went down. Excess was an idea they had long stopped to consider, and along the shore, they spread. No matter how many leaves the colony brings and stacks, the jungle's trees beyond the back of the beach had a cosmic amount of greenery to serve the settlement.
The ants hardly sleep, and so didn't the king and the queen; it's either signing endless bureaucratic papers for the ants' needs or, at night, it would be useless banter about the state of the Lasius colony. The infinite bureaucracy is only present and enforced by everyone, even the ones behind the papers, to extend the work of the day; without enough bureaucracy, the ants would have gained their needs and rights early, and that can induce a greater sense of boredom in them, and what better hell other than carrying leaves indefinitely, stacks of unsigned papers and inkless pens, the constant hatching eggs, the rapidly growing workers, and training more engineers to build more anthills.
In Sciriala, some animals had mastered the act of Instinctive Rebellion, where ideas and societal approaches replace some aspects of natural instinct to said ideas and some concepts are overcomplicated to match the desires of their evolving sentience. And the endless bureaucratic hell of the ants' life outside the infinite line of leave-carrying ants, and the endless eggs that the queen lay, the need for engineers to study to build anthills made of spit and soil, without the uselessness of the unwarranted struggle, they may be a mere colony of insentient ants in Laniakea (as an example.)
On a starry day when the starlight was scorching upon the sweaty heads of the ants, some fell due to the heat, some withstood it, and some died. The dead were carried to a special hole dug for the Unfortunate Ones Who Succumbed to the Heat of the Star, while the rest were thrown to a nearby hole, the reason being the unnecessary complexion that the ants strive for. On that particular day, the ants were about to experience two of the most troubling blunders they'd foresee in their entire history and life, and it started with the king divorcing the queen. What a shock!
The race for the female ants to take Her Majesty's position commenced in the middle of the day when the starlight screams on their frail bodies, and the flock of females swarmed to the royal anthill's courtyard. And in less than a few minutes, every female stood before the anthill, leaving the rest of the leave-carrying work to the nosey male workers.
The king showed himself before all the ants beneath him and declared: 'T'you,' he said loudly, 'ayem a king n'begetter. Th'ssues between me n'the former queen'd put me'n a terrible position. For that, aye ask all of'ye to fight t'the death! Come'n claim the'position of th'Lasius queen, ma'ferrocious daughters!'
And they fought. Many pulled the other's antennae; many pulled the other's limbs, and some were left limbless to die a rolling body downhill. Their initial patriotism had turned deadly, and their screams filled the shore, only heard by the male workers in the outer vicinities of the anthill clusters. Eeriness filled their spines for the endless screams of the females.
'Tis but another list'f papers t'fill.' One worker said, overseeing the swarm of females killing each other.
'A'reckon m'sister is out there somewhere. . .' His follower replied.
'We're all siblings, deadleaf.'
The stupider ant stayed silent.
One civil engineer ant was in a frenzy, observing the battle from above in the Engineering Anthill, and knowing that this event may not occur in his lifetime again — the idea of setting up a construction site to build the largest mass grave for the all the dead females had sparked, it wasn't mainly about the act of digging the hole itself, no, it was the act of signing endless bureaucratic papers that inspired said engineers, and how difficult it would be to get a permit to create a pit while war is taking place before the king's royal courtyard. He started the venture as they all fought, longing for unneeded uselessness.
When only a thousand female ants remained to fight, the star started to set. The inevitable darkness didn't pose as a deterrent for the battle; it will stop until one last breathing female ant declares herself victorious, and along the beautiful starset where it disappears under the oceanic horizon, two ants decided to have a lunch break and observe these last remaining hundreds fighting for the Queen's Crown.
'Whado we have 'ere, Niknik?' Asked Náṁûl, (Nammool.)
'Eh, well, a stack o'leaves, I'd seh.' Replied Niknik.
Both sat at a branch high enough to offer a great view of the vicious females. They chatted about the beauty of life and collecting leaves. The chatter consisted mainly of housing and cramped spaces in the workers' anthills and how civil engineers are in an endless hell to hunt for permits.
'Dotnik would've loved this.' Said Náṁûl.
'Aye. Till he finds 'is way home – e'd be astonished b'the lack of gals.' Added Niknik.
The other ant listened in awe at the hapless stray ant.
The remaining fighting females are now less than four hundred, and more worker ants rebelled from transferring leaves to foresee the final female who shall be the queen. Behold! The last of the females voluntarily extincting their gender to become the only Layer of Eggs.
The crowd that was initially Náṁûl and Niknik has now become a flock in the thousands, hanging around the branch with a great view of the blood-spilling courtyard. It was useless to chat now, for the cheering voices of all the male ants overshadowed any naïve voice that wanted to express something other than ecstasy and rage. The crowd became so large and noisy that the remaining hundred females could hear the men cheering for them, and it only fueled their will to become the last survivor. Obviously, the rebellion against the collection of leaves, even for an hour or two, significantly affects the work of the ants who manage inventory manifests; actually, panic had already begun within the glasses-wearing ants, 'We should've received thirty-five 'undred this very 'our. . .' One inventory ant complained. Oh, the blunder!
The observer ants screamed when a circle of ten females stood in standout, and each took a moment to look at each other's eyes. One was fearful, three were breathing heavily, and two were in a confident smug. The last one was crying, for the last three had already bled to death! Making the circle of seven now.
The culmination of years of endless Lasius ants' labour is now at stake, and at any moment, the future of this ant colony will be decided by one female ant that will reign alongside Suḳár, King of the Ants. Oh, the panicking inventory managers, the endless paperwork they'd have to fill, the clueless civil engineers, and the wailing crowd!
And the sound of a great wave roaring above.
At a whim, this very moment, the ocean and its chaos sent a wave that towered the entirety of the ant colony and the nearby trees, crashing above all. Then, the seawater receded, rendering the shore a flat, clean, sandy landscape. Silence was present for the first time in years, and its compliment was the crashing of softer waves along the shore.
Two figures came out of the jungle and continued their walk along the shore, 'Come on, you mindless girl. . . Safir, you have been the greatest distraction in our journey – why did I even agree to let you accompany us!' Cried Wolfheze in frustration as he struggled to step on the still-wet patch of sand, dragging the puerile for she was gazing in amazement at the bee and tried hard to reach for the poor ambassador.
'With all respect, Sir,' said the bee respectfully, 'I'm your only guide in Sciriala who's voluntarily offering help navigating this land. . .' He, for once, opposed the ungratefulness of the blonde. He still followed the two bipeds, refusing to hide in Wolfheze's pockets or be away while knowing that he would be a distraction to Arnitikós and her unending obsession with catching him, a tiny and hairy bumblebee.
The blonde grunted at the increasing weight resistance of the puerile being dragged on the sand, and along the grains, Safir-Flavum noticed a bright thing of interest. When he reached down for it, it was an elegant crown he could easily fit on his head. 'Lookie, a golden crown!' Exclaimed the bumblebee as he grabbed it, brushed the sand off it with his flapping wings, and crowned himself as King of the Ambassadors.
It has been told that until Safir-Flavum's death, nobody had ever called him king.
The trio marched along the shore to its south. As the bee suggested, it is an easier and faster path to reach the middle of Sciriala, where many animals could be interacted with and be of help. Assuming the two bipeds won't be of trouble to the rest of the animals.
And when the star finally set, an ant burst from the jungle. Triumphantly, he shouted in celebration of his feat, 'Ah, m'home! Finally,' he treaded quickly towards the location of what used to be his colony, 'I can rest for 'n 'our then 'ead back t'work 'nd—'
It was Dotnik, only finding his way home after being lost for months, seeing two lines of foreignly-shaped footsteps and nothing else but a flat and calm shore.
Dotnik stayed silent, gazing with squinting eyes at the flat land. 'Ah well,' he exhaled, 'to Mavrílla we go!'
And he marched clumsily to the path that led to the Mavrílla, the Dark Forest, holding above him a leaf that had been browning since his interaction with the fairyfly.
It's possible that he died trying to reach the forest.