Work Text:
The glint of a deadly, intricate weapon.
Perfect.
Pure.
Forged by his own claws,
his greatest work.
Forged by his own claws,
his greatest triumph.
A lifetime of toil for this moment,
yet all he feels is a yawning, all-consuming emptiness.
His greatest work.
His greatest triumph.
…The mark of an end.
What is there left?
What left is there to toil for?
Excusing himself, he rises from his spot by the fire.
Joints crack.
Legs wobble.
With great effort, he stumbles outside.
The air is damp and earthy.
Cool, unlike the stale warmth of the forge.
One
leg
after
another.
He stops before the edge.
The air is still.
Distantly, he can hear the buzz of vengeflies
and the groans of husks.
Eyes close.
A deep breath in.
The air is damp and earthy.
Soft footfalls approach from behind him.
He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s the traveller,
the owner of the perfect, perfect nail.
He looks anyway.
Eyes of unending darkness peer up at him,
its gaze curious and piercing.
Fierce eyes.
Confident eyes.
The eyes of a warrior.
The pure nail hangs from its back, glinting proudly.
Magnificently sharp.
Brilliantly deadly.
His greatest work.
His greatest triumph.
The mark of an end.
(...The mark of an end.)
He begs.
He begs the traveller for the sting of his life’s work on his flesh,
precise and powerful.
He pleads the traveller to be unshackled from this life,
which was now completely devoid of meaning.
He cannot bear the vast, heavy hollowness
that now weighs in his chest.
Choking the life out of him, yet never quite killing him.
To be forced to live with this feeling
would be a fate crueler than death.
He would rather perish here,
the sweet satisfaction of knowing his blade’s strength on his tongue
as he draws his last breath.
He would rather it end like this.
(He has earned the right to choose this for himself, hasn’t he?)
After a pause that seemed eternal,
the nail finally slices through his carapace,
digging across his flesh
before exiting with an experienced flourish.
Painful.
Biting.
Wonderfully sharp.
A chilling satisfaction washes over him—
He’s falling.
The air whistles past his ears.
The water almost seems to lunge up to receive him.
It swallows him whole.
(……It’s cold.
He can’t breathe. He can’t move.
It’s cold.
His back stings. His spiracles burn.
It’s cold.
It’s cold.
Is this death?
Is this dying?
It’s cold.
No, it’s fine.
It’s fine.
This life…will end soon.
He’ll be able to rest soon.
After all this time, all this labour…
Finally, he’ll be free.
Finally…
…
…
…It’s cold.
It’s cold.
It’s cold.
It’s cold.
It’s—)
…
…
…
…
…
…
…Pure…
——————
Nailsmith shoots upwards, shuddering violently as he gasps for air. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. It’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold—
“Love?” A gentle hand grasps his own and his eyes immediately lock onto it. Slowly tracing his gaze upwards, he eventually finds a bug’s face, creased in concern. Distantly — in the midst of desperate, nauseating breaths — he realises that it’s Sheo.
“Love, are you alright?” Sheo asks softly. “Love?” Nailsmith can only manage a strangled wheeze in response. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. Wyrm, it’s cold—
Two broad arms wrap tightly around him. “Smith, it’s alright.” He hears Sheo say, a gentle tenderness in his voice. “It’s alright. I’m here. Slow, deep breaths for me, okay love? I’m here. You’re safe. It’s okay—”
Warm… Not like the impersonal warmth of the forge, and certainly not like the hungry frigidness of the water. It’s…a soft warmth. Comforting. Soothing. Safe. Nailsmith relaxes into Sheo’s chest and closes his eyes, letting the gentle monotone of his reassurances wash over him.
He’s alright. He’s okay. He’s alive.
He’s alive.
(...He’s very glad for it.)
Slowly, his breathing evens out and, when he no longer feels like he’s on the cusp of drowning, he gently pushes himself off Sheo and looks at him.
Even now, it amazes him to stare into those eyes and see the sheer love and care gazing back. Before, when he was still in pursuit of the perfect nail, he never gave a second thought about relationships. Everyone that wandered into his hut was a client and only a client. People who happened to find use of his service. Mere opportunities to sharpen his skill. Anything more than that was irrelevant to his goal.
Until he met Sheo, he didn’t even know what love was supposed to look like. He never paid his surroundings enough attention to grasp it. Even the love he must’ve experienced before becoming a nailsmith has already been lost to the age of his mind…
Nailsmith reaches for the side of Sheo’s face and cups it gently. Sheo leans into the touch, his eyes twinkling with a quiet endearment.
Sometimes, he wonders what he did to deserve someone as beautiful and inspiring as this man. Someone who enjoys the thrill of creation and improvement just as much as he does. Someone whose passion was able to reignite his own: long forgotten and buried under a self-imposed duty (his greatest work his greatest triumph the mark of an end—).
Sheo, the bug who had saved him from a life doomed to end in death.
Sheo, the love of his life.
“I love you,” Nailsmith whispers. Sheo’s face softens, and he leans down to affectionately bump his head against his own.
“I love you too,” he whispers back.
At some point, Nailsmith realises that he no longer feels cold.