Chapter Text
The Knight has met many strange people on their journey. There are no normal bugs, anymore - most only pay attention to the strangeness that spells danger, to the bright orange rot that no longer burns in the husks that build this dead kingdom.
The Knight, themself, is rather strange, even when they would have - should have - numbered one of two, three, countless thousands. They cannot speak and they are a killer of a god and-
They are lonely. The Knight was not made to feel lonely as much as they were made to be alone, and they are well aware that they are flawed for it.
(They are aware they were not made to feel flaw, as well.)
Still. Now - standing unnaturally still as ever at the very height of the Howling Cliffs - they have not arrived to dwell on themself. The Knight has little patience for unnecessary things.
The Knight has come here, in this nigh-barren place, to think. As they have done times in the past, more often as of late with little duty they must fufill.
(This is one of their problems - they are a Knight without duty, though their siblings appear to be faring slightly better then them. It is not a problem they have come to contemplate.)
They are distracted, which is in equal parts a new experience and an unwise one. They have come here to think of one strange bug in particular. He lives in a lone hut within the cliffs just lower than them, and, despite everything, is not lonely. Indeed - he is one of the more cheery bugs the Knight has had the honor to be around.
Nailmaster Mato. The Knight calls him their teacher, for the Knight was not a creature made to spend time on frivolity or titles.
"I hope you don't take me too forward when I say that I consider you to be my child."
The title of teacher sits oddly on the Nailmaster like an ill-fitting mask. The Knight will refer to him as such regardless, for their thoughts are of no consequence without a voice to speak them - and what other option is available to them?
Certainly, the Nailmaster was being hyperbolic when declaring himself the Knight's... When declaring the Knight his child. The bugs of Hallownest are prone to such fanciful thinking, the Knight has found, and someone so positive - even when the Knight struggles with technique, even when the Knight finds their limbs too tired to work - must be equally as prone towards such words. It didn't mean anything substantial.
(The thought does not taste bitter on the Knight's tongue, for the Knight was not made to have one.)
Instead of dwelling on that which they do not and could not have, they take gently their nail into their hands, examining it. It gleams, pale.
There is little reason to visit the Nailmaster, with most of the dangerous husks in the caverns cleared away, and yet the Knight finds themself here more often than necessary. They rarely train, instead sitting quietly with the Nailmaster for as long as he'd have them.
(The Knight has not yet found a limit to the Nailmaster's hospitality. They were not made to feel fear, and so they certainly cannot fear finding that limit.)
Still, is it truly so unnecessary to find themself at the cliffs again and again? They are a Knight - even when there are no threats to be slain, surely it is within a Knight's duty to see that their bugs are emotionally well. They do not know for certain, for no one has taught them.
Their nail slides comfortably back on their cloak, and they stand with a finality. The only unneeded thing, the Knight reasons to themself, is sitting around wondering if seeing the Nailmaster is unneeded.
It takes only a few short hops - they had been sitting rather close - and they arrive. The tall door, made taller still by the Knight's own diminutive height, might strike an ominous sight with another bug.
The Knight was not, however, and instead the reminder of who awaited them always gave them an oddly warm feeling, though the Infection and its cause were long gone by now. They push it aside and walk in.
Will the Nailmaster be happy to see them? He always is, so it is an illogical question. The Knight feels strangely like they do right before a particularly trying battle.
The Nailmaster is there. This is expected. He is sitting on the floor. This is expected also. He is hunched over what looks to be some sort of metal, and beside him are a number of differently colored inks, the high quality kind that can only be retrieved from Deepnest inhabitants.
The Knight looks back at the doorway. They did not inexplicably appear at Sheo and the Nailsmith's home.
"My pupil!" The Nailmaster sounds slightly strangled, and when the Knight turns to check on him he has his cloak bunched awkwardly beside him, and both the metal and inks are missing. "A-apologies for not noticing your arival. Forgive me for being a tad, ah, preoccupied."
The Knight tilts their head. He pauses for a moment long, and then sits straight up and reajusts his cloak, still beside him. This is unusual behavior from the Nailmaster, but nothing certainly for the Knight to concern over. "Come, sit. Are you well, my pupil?"
The Knight stills before their legs register the command. They're aware they do not express much, but in times past the Nailmaster interpreted even the smallest changes with ease. He must not have noticed their confusion this time - which is consistently usual behavior from most other bugs and therefore nothing for the Knight to concern over.
They find their hand gripping their cloak tightly as they sit.
"My pupil?" Says the Nailmaster again. He is scooting closer now, cape dragging awkwardly along. "Is something the matter?"
No, the Knight thinks. I am a Knight, and I am little else, as I am made and grown and created by nothing at all, and while I am not pure I am hollow. And I was not created with loneliness nor the want to fill that feeling nor the capacity to concern over you or any other.
They cannot say this, for they have no voice to speak. They should not even be thinking this, for they have no mind to think.
There is something about the Nailmaster that brings out something in them that should not be there, and yet the Knight finds themself in his home again.
(Why did the Knight come yet again? There could be no place for them here, no matter how small and quiet and hollow.)
A large hand lands feather-light on their shoulder. The Knight might not have noticed, but it was warm.
"Little one," the Nailmaster starts again, "Are you plagued by troublesome thoughts? Please, speak truthfully. You will find no judgement here."
The Knight stills at that, unneeded breath that keeps other bugs at ease stopping. This is the part where they shake their head - the part where they reassure the Nailmaster, the part where they push aside thoughts they weren't meant to have, thoughts made of imperfection.
And the Knight nods.
"Ah, I thought as much," the Nailmaster nods. "My pupil, you speak very little, but I hope that you may trust an old bug to help you regardless. Actually..."
And before the Knight can fully process that someone might want to hear their problems, the Nailmaster is turning to his cape.
"You were wondering about my activities, yes?" The Knight turns sharply to meet his eyes, an amused look and... something different on his face. "Of course I noticed, my child. You are not so hard to understand as you might think."
There, that phrase again. 'My child' - the Knight feels odd and light just hearing it, despite the Nailmaster most certainly not meaning anything past a teacher-student friendship. They almost wish he would drop the phrase, if only so the Knight would stop feeling so hopeful.
Wait, what?
"I had hoped to offer these a week overmorrow, but you are certainly a perceptive bug," The Knight latches immediately on the distraction, and watches intently the Nailmaster's hands. "And I believe we might both find this useful now rather than later."
From his hands appears sheets of paper and a few quills. The sheets are the fairly typical, sturdy kind the Knight oft sees Cornifer using, though few shopkeeps stock such things in Hallownest. The quills are a new sight for the Knight. There are two total, all metal, and as they look closer they appear to be as meticulously hand crafted as the nail on their back - indeed, one even has the tell-tale gleam of pale ore.
Said quill seems to be a dedicated recreation of a true feather, though each strand of metal fur is still glaringly artificial. It strikes them to be more a quill of quills, all points and very little room to maneuver around without pain.
The other is a deep, dark blue of less expensive metals - though all are when compared to pale ore - and while it keeps the general silhouette of a quill, it isn't as a facsimile of the real thing. Instead, the quill's beauty is crafted through hair-thin strands of crimson that spin and swirl around the blue, all converging to a point at the tip. Despite the allure of the other, the Knight cannot help but find it more charming.
"You're too young to know of it, and I nearly so as well, but in the time of the Kingdom stagways often doubled as a place to pass on messages to faraway companions," The Nailmaster shifts to a more comfortable position, eyes faraway. "It is not hard to miss those times, as little as I and my brothers had before its end. I'm not of the mind to bother the old stag, especially not when I'd much rather see you in person," he says, glancing down, and the Knight looks away and wonders how they feel so warm in the cold cliff walls. "But I want you to know that you are free to communicate with me however and whenever you wish."
Communicate? The Knight was made as their siblings to have no voice, and they are certain that writing would invalidate that. But the Nailmaster is looking so hopeful at them, has retrieved these items for them just so they could - have that, have a voice to use whenever they wish. They do not know why, only that they want to say yes.
(When had they started wanting? When had they returned to that time before their two remaining siblings, where they had a lone goal of containing the Infection, of fulfilling the wishes of a long dead king?)
(Are they bound, yet? They are a lone Knight to their long dead duty; would they, could they truly hold a place among living bugs?)
The Nailmaster waits yet, ever patient. And the Knight knows, knows there is a strong chance that they shouldn't, feels it festering in their void that there are consequences for existence, to be made and un-hollow. And the Knight knows that they have done too much now to be truly hollow, knows this more than they know even that the living rot is dead.
And what is one more flaw?