Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The infectious reflections and thoughts of life made it so that the distant sound of the rain was much more discernible yet subconsciously unnoticed. The drops trickling from the inside however were much louder and slowly immersed him into a terrible whirlpool of dejection. It was damp, as it usually was; but something about the everyday dampness was much more apparent and gloomy, like an overarching dark cloud is.

The Knights presence is what silenced the knowledge of the rain’s sound more than anything there; for his fate, life, and inevitable death was nestled safely in their hand. They stood behind him, unmoving for some time, their cloak audibly waving along with the wind.

“I beg you, cut me down. At my final moment in life, I want to taste the blade’s exquisite edge.”

But The Knight persisted, unmoving, almost in protest. Slight irritation plagued him.

“After all this time, all this toil... haven't I earned it?”

Even with that, with the unbearable, encapsulating silence, The Knight hadn’t wavered.

"...Do not hesitate," he says, "I beg you. Cut me down! I want to taste that blade's exquisite edge."

And the silence was the same, for a while, with nothing but the plops of water satisfying the despair. That was, until The Knight walked away, hastily, with steps as soft as wind. So soft that he had mistaken the steps for the continuous plops of rain. It was only when he turned around that he realised The Knight had vanished.

Stunned with rage summoned by the inability to understand the reasons behind The Knights decision, he firmly sat down, parallel to the spot where they were previously. He stared at it with a frustrated sort of gruff. After a while he turned his head forward and stared out again, past the mushrooms and the dampness of the city. He stood up once more and took a couple of staggered steps back. His eyes widened, and he began to wander.

He walked away from his hive, where he was always honing his craft as the days went by. Away from the damp and stickiness which made the days go slower; and away from the City of Tears entirely, where he once sought out the creation of the Pure Nail. He wandered among the intricate stone architecture and through the views of the pouring rain, to an area of mushrooms and fireflies and acid. It was similar to where he worked, and he had been there before; but never took the time to see it as so.

After a while, he found himself surrounded by a lake of hungry, steaming acid that popped and boiled beneath his feet. Around him, there were tiny uomas that didn't do much and appeared passive. He roamed the rest of the territory there carefully, avoiding the acid and the larger creatures, oomas, that floated above it.

Finally, after what felt like a thousand years of aimlessly wandering with a heavy mind full of scattered thoughts, he'd made it to the safety of Greenpath, where the grass blew steadily and comfortably under the natural, soft breeze. The creatures here were mostly passive as well, but the way they'd roam around in secret, hidden by the grace of the leaves and grass, made them appear otherwise. Further beyond this calming nature, the Nailsmith encountered a river of acid, with the spiky backs of durandoo's laying there conveniently. Farther beyond even that, he'd seen more, seemingly intentional, stones and platforms leading somewhere entirely new. He stared over there for a while, his head still scrambled; but this time it appeared that it was trying to form a thought. He looked anywhere else, for any possible way to venture there, where his heart was distantly calling.

In front of him, once hanging by a vine, was a thick platform. It was decorated in smushed leaves and flowers. He stood on top of it and dug his claws forward, deep into the intertwined spikes. He felt a pain that stung but could be ignored, for it felt that something important was calling. He could almost hear the distant sound of a new path being offered his way.

The rest of the journey was easy then. He made his way carefully through the wetted grass and leaves. It was a long path, but he hadn't noticed, having trailed so far from home anyway. He then slid down, avoiding the spikes that now began to cause inconvenient pain across his claws and arms due to his recklessness from before. He climbed up. Before him was a tiny hut, with a large bench beside it. The hut of course was covered in more of those green, treacherous spikes; and the doorway was unwelcoming, having pointy green stone poking down, but the glowing light from the inside was comforting. The Nailsmith took a moment to analyse and admire the architecture, before stepping foot inside.

Right as he did so, he heard the shuffling, roaming, and humming of another inside. He stood back, alert and frightened, and his head ran loose with thoughts of leaving, returning back to the City. Better yet, encountering the Knight and forcing them to strike him down once more. It would be unavoidable, they'd have no choice.

He decided instead to take a seat at the bench in front of the property. He let his head sink down as he stared down at the floor. He shut his eyes and attempted once more to search for a calling, for this one suddenly seemed stupid, a childish dream, a foolish prophecy.

The Nailsmith was keenly sure about leaving right then and there, when the fellow from inside stepped out with a canvas stand, a couple of brushes, and some paint in hand.

He was humming, and when he finally saw the Nailsmith he'd made a confused sound.

"Hello?" he inquired.

The Nailsmith did not turn to respond. Instead, he simply stood up and began to walk away.

"I'm sorry. I've been wandering for quite a while and needed a place to rest my legs. I apologise, I'll be going now," he whispered softly.

The bug hastily placed down all of his items.

"Wait,"

The Nailsmith turned.

"Allow me to make you some tea before you continue," he said, "my treat."

The Nailsmith looked down and considered for longer than necessary, but the bug in front of him was patient.

"Thank you,"

The bug's face beamed, content and inviting. He gestured forward, towards the door, "come right in."

He allowed the Nailsmith to walk in first, which the Nailsmith simply nodded and said: "thank you," in response to.

Inside, the hut appeared to be well-kept, with not much clutter except in the back. A large spike was growing there as well. Around him was art supplies on top of art supplies. There were hundreds of scattered canvases and paper, more than the amount of paint buckets, brushes, and clay that were scattered around in a similar way. However, the most enchanting of all was the big nail, stuck in the ground and kept in the front of the room.

It looked like it hadn't been picked up in a while, and was beginning to attract dust. It was large and terribly heavy, yet so shiny and so intricate, crafted by, what the Nailsmith assumed, the best of bugs in his craft. The Nailsmith reached out to it slowly, dragging his pained claw against the sharp yet rough edge. He flinched and pulled his hand back. It was used, and more dull than it could be, but still sharp.

"Be careful," the other bug warned. He caught the Nailsmith off-guard, "hasn't been used in a while, but it's still as sharp as ever." His gaze was comforting.

"So it is," he says.

It was silent for a second.

"I'll get the tea ready," he said, "please, have a seat anywhere you'd like."

So he sat in the only place that seemed appropriate; in front of the table, on the floor, facing the door.

“Are you alright?” He asks, suddenly.

“Yes.” The Nailsmith responds.

The bug handed him a tiny, cylinder-shaped cup and poured the tea inside carefully. He did the same for his own cup.

“So,” he began, “what brings you here…?”

“Nailsmith,” he says.

“My name is Sheo.”

“Well, Sheo; I’d simply begun walking and ended up here.”

“Awfully difficult to suddenly end up here,” Sheo laughs, “any reason you’d been walking?”

The Nailsmith hesitates and takes a nervous sip of tea. It burns, but he doesn’t react.

“…just needed to clear my head,” he finally says, wanting to say more, but not wanting to burden or intrude.

“I see,” Sheo says, “where are you coming from?”

The Nailsmith hesitates once more.

“I’m sorry; am I asking too much?”

“That’s quite alright,” the Nailsmith chuckles a little, “I-I think the tea is making me hesitate; it’s very good, I can hardly stop drinking it.”

Sheo’s face seems to radiate, “is that so?”

The Nailsmith nods.

“That’s very nice to hear. I never have guests, so I hadn’t ever received a second opinion on it,” he chuckles.

“Perhaps the surroundings has something to do with that,” the Nailsmith suggests, smug.

“You think so?” Sheo laughs.

He takes another sip, “just an idea.”

So they chattered idly, about nothing in particular, really; but it was engaging enough for the Nailsmith to completely forget about the pure nail, the Knight, and the life that he was certain on throwing away only hours ago.

Chapter Text

The 'small' stop that the Nailsmith took was far longer than initially intended. He spent most of his brisk visit with his bearded mouth on the cup of hot tea, nodding at every point the bug in front of him made. He'd go on and on and on, to a point where the Nailsmith could hardly get a nod in. He appeared pleased, however, yet felt appalling for his lack of reaction. A horrid act, to cut someone off. It's more appalling than the Nailsmith felt before, hardly saying anything. Yet, he'd gotten a word in. Not rudely, simply adding to his friend Sheo.

"-it's been such a long while since we've seen a warrior like that, hasn't it?" The Nailsmith cut in, Sheo nodded, "such harsh skill, yet so much sympathy."

"They are a lovely warrior, aren't they? Fierce, but couldn't harm a little crawlid!"

The Nailsmith nodded, content with his response. Despite this contentment, he'd still felt bad for cutting Sheo off. He could've said 'may I interject?' or, have given a little warning, he thought. And this plague contaminated his brain with hatred for his very being, the same loathing that made his heart beat slower than usual, that made his life hang by a thread just hours before, and that made him beg for a fate that he'd dreadfully sob at the thought of yet kept desired in the darkest parts of his heart.

On the opposite side of the table, Sheo hadn't changed. His eyes fell closed with ease. Nothing could bring the man's mood down. Opposite to that opposite, however, The Nailsmith looked sorrowfully into his cup, at the restless imperfection of his own eyes. He looked closer, but away from the cup, at his own withered away claws. After years upon years of crafting, it only got more difficult, more taxing on his body. Hunched over, he looked back at Sheo, who'd finished speaking for a second or so.

"Hey," he said, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Has my talking given you a headache?" He asked.

"Not at all."

It was awkward, the air between them. Both fought desperately for some sort of reassuring words to say back to another.

"Keep talking," said the Nailsmith, "your speaking, for lack of linguistic knowledge, gives me the opposite of a headache. Whatever that may be."

Sheo chuckled loudly, with his claw on his belly, "why, thank you," he said, "you've given me more compliments this hour than any I've received in my long life!"

"Long life? Be kinder to yourself."

He huffs, "I'm far older than you could imagine."

"Exactly how many years?"

Sheo thinks for a moment, seriously pondering. He then laughs with the same gruff as before.

"I cannot trace back that far.”

“An excellent coverup,” the Nailsmith laughs, “but, even if it is true, it’s best to forget it.”

“To forget your age?”

“Yes,” the Nailsmith says, “you become far less miserable, forgetting, or, at least, not acknowledging your regrets and mistakes.”

“And if you have no regrets at all? Have I a reason to forget my age?”

“Well, yes,” he says, “doesn’t age make you miserable? You will always remember the things you used to do when ripe with age, remembering that you’ll never be able to do those things ever again, like you, a talented fighter, never being able to pick up the nail again,” the Nailsmith pauses, “does that not make you miserable?”

Sheo considers, “I dropped the Nail on my own. I wanted to find a new calling. The nail just hadn’t done it for me anymore,” he continues, “there are some days where I consider picking up my nail again, fighting my way through the vines and spikes in Greenpath… maybe… maybe you are right; it was my choice to leave my old calling behind anyway, and I could pick it up again just as easily as dropping it,” he says, “but, remembering my age inspires me, rather than it demotivates me. It inspires me to draw as much as I can, to try new things, to use new materials, to search for new references and bugs to draw. The negative thoughts of age is what makes you miserable, not the thought of it by itself.”

The Nailsmith refuses to speak for a little while, stunned by his own wrongness. Then, he laughs, “at least, I am not entirely wrong.”

“It depends on who you talk to,” he says, “I have many, many regrets. They bring me misery, sure, but it will only become an obstacle if I allow it to; if I forget the good in life.”

The Nailsmith looks at Sheo, who quickly looks back town at the clay, molding it with his claws. He's in the middle of sculpting a base for his new inspirational piece, The Nailsmith assumes.

“… maybe you are right,” the Nailsmith stands, placing his cup on the table and walking to the door, “thank you for opening my eyes, Sheo. You were a great stop.”

“Huh?” Sheo questions, “you’re not going to stay?”

He turns.

“Well, maybe for a day or two, to get your life back together,” Sheo seems to smile.

The Nailsmith wants to seem insulted, “… my life is just fine,” he thinks to say; but Sheo is genuine, lonely and kind, someone that The Nailsmith needed to see for longer before finding his own way out of his own calling, the hobby that brought him down his entire life.

“… if I’m really not an intrusion.”

Chapter Text

And they'd spoke some more that night. Sheo was caught up on his sculpture, the Nailsmith debating on if he should ask for a refill of his tea. He'd felt as if Sheo hadn't cared for him as much as he thought. Surely he would've asked if the Nailsmith if he needed a refill hours ago. Surely he'd have asked the Nailsmith more about himself, pestering into places that not even he could recall, and, frankly, doesn't want to.

"Your name..." Sheo finally began, "is it.."

"I am the Nailsmith."

"Yes, you are. But, I'm just confused. Is that your birth name? Do you have an actual name? Of course, I have no problem calling you The Nailsmith, if that's what makes you comfortable. I'm just very curious."

It seems that Sheo has to force himself to stop talking, a little mumble is heard after the final word.

"I..." The Nailsmith begins, "I'm not sure if I-"

"That's completely fine!" Sheo chuckles, "I was just wondering. Maybe some people just forget their name. I suppose it's not too unusual, right? Don't feel too bad about it, friend."

Maybe it was about time to comfort his anxious friend.

"I don't feel bad about forgetting it, don't worry. It's not on my mind anymore."

"That's good," Sheo's claws roughly squeeze and shape the clay, "you can never let such a small thing haunt you forever, you know?"

“You are right.”

Silence, not far from fireflies scattering the dark night, filled the room once more. Yet it was not comforting like the image of those bright bugs. Whatever drops of tea that coated the inside of the cup was completely cold, and it was uncomfortably sticky and murky. The temperature in the air was betraying the cottage safety of this little shack, and the Nailsmith began to get more and more desperate for rest.

But no, no, a day or two, he said, to get himself back on his feet, he said, to have a better life. To find a calling and stick with it for good. Sleep is not important. He mustn’t waste any time with his new friend.

“What are you sculpting, Sheo?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m not quite sure yet,” he chuckles, “I guess I’m just playing around with it until it appears feasible.”

It’s best not to question it, the Nailsmith assumes, he’s a real artist.

Sheo looks up, “now,” he says, “I don’t mean to ask so many questions again,” he takes a second to laugh, “but I must know more about the Art of Nail-Forging! It is such a blessing to have that talented, to be able to form the greatest warriors. Did you make the Knight’s Nail too? As soon as I saw it I knew some sort of mysterious talent must’ve constructed it. A talent that I’d never be lucky enough to know. Gosh, every engraving was a product of love. Of course you’d be the one to make it!” Sheo assumes everything quite boldly, The Nailsmith thinks, but it is with great enthusiasm, which he will entertain.

“There is not much to it,” he says, “it is the same as any other art; you’ve got to have passion, or some other strong motivator that’ll make you continue your craft. I assume that you’ve got something like that?”

“Not exactly…” Sheo mumbles.

“What do you mean?”

“I just like to make art.”

The Nailsmith laughs, “well, that can count as a motivation. But I was thinking something like money, or…” he hesitates, “trying to distract yourself somehow. For some reason…”

Sheo doesn’t look up, “nothing like that.” He clasps his hands, “anyways I’m off to bed!" He exclaimed.

The Nailsmith hummed, "I'll sleep on the bench."

His friend Sheo laughed like a fool. The Nailsmith stared at him with expectation.

"You're not serious, are you? No friend of mine is sleeping outside! I will be sure you have something to rest on." And his friend searched through the dusty canvases, brushes and clay, nearly throwing everything he picks up behind him.

"Really, it's just fine. I sleep sitting down most of the time, anyway."

“Oh, please,” Sheo scoffs, leading the Nailsmith to his room, “here, take my bed. I’ve got an extra one around for myself. Both are very comfy.”

The Nailsmith hesitated, looking at Sheo’s paintings scattered on the floor and then back to the bed.

“If I’m not an intrusion.”

Chapter Text

The Nailsmith was left alone in the room, with just a candle on the shelf above “his” bed. He took a seat on the soft mattress with no indents or wrinkles. The Nailsmith rubbed his claw against the soft blanket as he took a quick look around the room.

There were unused paint sets in one of the corners next to his bed, along with tiny crochet squares on top of them. In the other corner beside him, there was a dead rose, with withered leaves scattered about. The Nailsmith’s wrinkles were predominant.

The Nailsmith stopped rubbing the bed. In the corner adjacent, there was a red, velvety cloth that covered a huge pile, spanning nearly half of the wall. Many bumps protruded from the top. The Nailsmith stared long and hard. At random moments, he would move his feet to the ground and nearly step off the bed to investigate. But he couldn’t, he said to himself. He could walk in. But what would Sheo care? He’d understand that the Nailsmith felt a hunger, and it was a hunger he would never manage to satiate.

He lightly stepped down and walked to the corner. He felt around with his claw until he winced back. There was a sharpness protruding from the cloth that he had hit. The Nailsmith looked around anxiously, at the noise that Sheo most definitely heard. But after minutes and minutes, Sheo hadn’t checked on him. So the Nailsmith continued his search. Mostly investigating the blade that he dropped. It was one of the largest he had seen. But not very impressive material-wise. The blade wouldn’t produce much of a threat on its own.

The Nailsmith glanced at the room where he supposed Sheo might be. He looked down at the blade again, and then back up to him. How strong could he had been back then? Surely not that strong, thought the Nailsmith, for such a gentle bug. But he wouldn’t undermine his strength, he couldn’t.

The Nailsmith heard the front door open, and so he quickly stored the nail back, and fell into “his” bed without a sound. There were now steps that got agonizingly louder and louder. The Nailsmith shut his eyes the hardest that he could. He heard the lighting of the candle, and the careful pulling out of a chair.

He supposed that Sheo took a seat nearby, probably by the desk in the other corner. Which was in his field of vision. He hardly opened his eyes, but it was just enough to see Sheo. Sheo was preparing a sheet of paper, along with a quill. He lightly dipped it in ink and he scribbled on the sheet. He wrote gently into the paper and carefully folded it into an envelope after at least an hour of doing the gentle writing. The Nailsmith breathed in and out at a regular pace. And Sheo was none the wiser, he thought. Sheo finally stamped the letter shut and stood. The Nailsmith could see a satchel on his desk, which Sheo threw over himself, and which he stuffed the letter inside. Then, he had finally left the room, and the Nailsmith heard the front door shut. But as he allowed himself to blink again, he heard the front door hastily open once more, and Sheo run down the hall. The Nailsmith glued his eyes shut, but allowed one of them to peak open. Sheo blew out the candle on his desk, and whispered, “sorry”, and left the room, finally.

The Nailsmith hadn’t heard the front door open again, until he heard the Maskflies chirp.