Work Text:
The vessel ran, dashing through the bricks that built the crossroads, then the lush green foliage they could find in Greenpath.
They weren't sure what, exactly, they were looking for, but they needed something to help the Nailmaster.
They swung their blade around, pushing past plants and vines, jumping over gaps at the best of their ability.
They passed benches – normally, they would have sat for a moment, taken in the scenery around. In the rare times the Nailmaster would let them roam free between teachings, they reveled in how alive the flora was, despite most of the fauna being hostile.
This wasn't a leisurely exploration, just a few rooms away from their mentor.
This was a Rescue mission.
When the infection - orange, pustulos, bright and plaguing - had started showing signs of taking the Nailmaster over, the vessel immediately went looking for something, someone to help.
They remembered having seen a figure, so similar to their own but draped in red, running in these caverns.
So many times, for so long, the vessel had seen the figure running, never showing the slightest sign of infection.
It was futile, but they tried taking the Nailmaster to them.
« ...Esmy... how much deeper do we have to go... » he asked, following along, tired as the vessel had never seen him be.
Esmy, the name he'd picked for them, was said many times during that travel, much softer than it was during training.
It tugged at their heartstrings, or whatever void equivalent they had, every time he asked them to slow down, to stop, to let him rest.
They couldn't. Sleep was the enemy. If the Nailmaster went to sleep, they doubted he'd ever wake up.
They didn't bring the Nailmaster's weapon. Far too big for those corridors, and the vessel couldn't carry it.
Besides, they'd been learning. They could protect their teacher.
They just had to be quick.
Eventually, they had to stop.
Eventually, they had to let the Nailmaster rest.
But they couldn't stop.
« Don't get hurt, Esmy. »
The vessel nodded, promising they'd be safe. They had to be. In that small group of houses, hardly calling it a town, the Nailmaster couldn't be safe for long, not with the infection starting to take him.
But he had strong will. They had time.
So they ran, and dashed through the halls, ran and dashed through the green.
They ignored injuries, tiredness, all of it.
If the Nailmaster was safe… then they didn't matter as much. He could find a new pupil. Maybe one that could carry a sword like his. They were sure he'd like that.
They tripped down a ledge, falling in the middle of three columns, intrinsically decorated.
They couldn't move, tiredness taking over their body all at once.
Every time the vessel closed their eyes, they heard whispers, voices, wrapping around their void body, under the uniform their teacher had given them, trying to get in their head.
No. They couldn't listen. They had to get help.
They tried getting up, but their body failed them. Their body wouldn't obey.
The whole world around them became more muted.
When did everything have such an orange hue?
Greenpath hadn't been as infected as other places in hallownest. It shouldn't look like that.
They reached up the mockery of a hand they had made of void, trying to clean away the treacherous void threatening go spill.
Not quite tears, but close enough, the fear of disappointing their teacher enough to trigger the reaction.
But what came away was orange. Bright, pulsing, almost blinding.
Infection, at a far more advanced state than the Nailmaster's was.
How long had the vessel been infected?
Had they been the cause of the Nailmaster's illness?
Had they been the reason he might be gone, now?
Shame.
Shame started flowing through their body, alongside void and the infection.
Greenpath wasn't as infected as the crossroads. Plants grew without producing orange fruits.
They couldn't risk their presence break this delicate balance. They owed it to this world.
If they couldn't save the Nailmaster, they could at least try to delay the spread of the plague, here.
The vessel reached for their nail, hold shaky.
The Nailmaster would have told them off for how they were handling the weapon.
A delicate weapon, made specifically for them. A gift, after they'd already learned most of the nail arts their mentor had to teach them. Intricate, but light, far lighter than the grand weapon the other held.
They pressed it against their thorax, bracing themselves for the burning sensation.
It always burned, void and soul leaking from their injuries. The Nailmaster always have them time to breathe after, time to heal. He didn't know well how to handle their unique body, so he let them keep their pace.
This would be far worse than sparring injuries, but the vessel hoped it would be faster.
But something held them back. They couldn't press in.
It wasn't fear. It couldn't be. They feared little, and death wasn't it. Their void would flood back to their cursed birthplace.
Maybe sadness? They'd never see their mentor again.
But they'd doomed him to his death, left alone in the midst of the plague.
No, it was none of them.
Weakness.
They pressed in, but they didn't have the strength to breach the void shell.
Noises were around them, but they didn't pay attention.
This place was always far more lively than the crossroads. They supposed it would be a nice resting ground.
They couldn't do it.
They were too weak, even after all the training to be something more.
Something landed next to them, and they hoped it wasn't an infected foe. They couldn't fight them back, and they might just speed up the process, make them a hollow husk guided by another God's will.
« Who are you? »
The figure stepped in front, and the vessel could barely make them out.
But relief flowed through them, as they recognized them.
The red dress, black chitin and a white mask, resembling their own.
The uninfected one.
« Go seek my teacher » they wanted to plead. « find him, and help him. »
But the infection closed up their throat, keeping them from making even the rare sounds they allowed themselves.
A hand steadied their own, and another cradled their mask.
« … A vessel. » the figure said, looking them over.
« Esmy. » they wanted to reply. They'd never felt that name their own, only letting their teacher call them that as it seemed to bring him joy, but now, knowing they'd doomed him, that they wouldn't hear it from them, they wanted to hear it from someone else. Anyone, before they went.
But only a garbled sound left them, the popping of a postule dirtying the figure's cloak.
Esmy's nail was still in their hands, pressed against their thorax.
They glanced down st it, and the figure in red seemed to understand.
They nodded, helped them get a steadier grip, and closed their eyes.
Their hand on their mask was the last thing Esmy felt, before the void reclaimed them.