Chapter Text
No one had seen the Little Nailmaster in weeks. They had bought out the shops in Dirtmouth, banished the tents at the edge of town, and no one really saw them anymore.
In truth, Sly was worried. He knew the pale bug had a grand quest to complete, and he knew they were tough, but he also knew that Hallownest was dangerous, and good at catching bugs off guard.
He had grown fond of the Nailmaster, especially since he had learned his students had taught them their ways.
Several days later, a bug with a red dress jumped out of the well.
”Residents of Dirtmouth!” she called, her voice ringing in the silence.
The bugs emerged from their homes, some with nails.
Sly kept a hand on his nail, just in case.
Once everyone had emerged, she looked around, making eye contact with each member in turn.
”The Pale Wanderer has defeated the Infection,” she announced. Everyone in the square gasped.
”Where are they now?” Sly asked desperately, his heart jumping into his throat.
The figure glanced at him. “The Little Ghost has fallen.”
The town was silent. Sly’s stomach dropped, grief washing over him.
She held up a mask, Ghost’s mask, split in half.
Sly’s antennae were pushed flat against his head, the ends rubbing against his neck. He looked away, covering his mouth with his claws.
”Shopkeeper Sly,” the girl called, looking at him. “The little Ghost asked me to return this to you.” She tossed a charm at him, and he caught it instinctively.
He choked back a sob. It was Nailmaster’s Glory. He bowed formally to her.
”Thank you, young lady,” he said, trying not to cry.
She nodded, jumping back into the well.
Sly numbly walked into his basement, where he kept a black and white cloak, the colors of mourning.
He walked back into the square, most wearing their own mourning clothes. The town held a funeral for the small bug they had all come to love.
Sly thought back, to about six months ago, to when he had woken from his daze to look into the eyes of the wanderer. They had saved his life, and he wasn’t the only one.
Zote, Bretta, Cloth, himself. He smiled in spite of himself.
The Little Nailmaster had left a mark that none of them would forget.