"Bring me the crawlid, please."
Wyrm's voice tilted with an exhausted reservation, cracking and unsteady. It echoed in his posture, his movement, the aversion of his gaze from the Kingsmould even as it stepped toward him with the prey latched in its claw. It was spoken in still more measure than he would allow mere words to express in the dimness of his kingslight, lingering like a dying candle.
He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, miserable and weeping like some common bug, but his head was pounding, throbbing against the forefront of his shell. He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes--for once, seeing the wall was almost preferable, a memorial to his solemn numbness. Gods, if only he'd been able to cling to that for a little longer, at the very least until he was out of this damn hole in the bottom of Hallownest. His kin were right underneath him, and he couldn't do anything even now to give himself or them any closure.
The crawler was deposited to his side with a dull thud. Wyrm didn't look at it, sucking in a sharp breath that stung in his stomach, pressing his palms against his eyes and pressing down harder. It didn't stop the wetness from dripping--if anything, it made it worse. Wyrm sobbed, his shoulders shaking.
"...What am I doing here?" he whispered, lifting his gaze to regard the molded knight. "What draws me here from my grave, wounded and bleeding though I may be? What is this, then, some joke? Do you know, molded knight?"
Of course, it didn't respond, standing stock still and stiff. It didn't even breathe, could be so easily mistaken for a statue--but then, the same sentiment had applied to the Pure Vessel as they grew, and now they were damned because of him. Damned, and mayhaps dead--and if they were dead, that damned memorial would be the sole public acknowledgement of their existence.
Something vile and sharp and feral twisted in his gut, and Wyrm looked away and hissed.
No. This was not how the Pure Vessel would be remembered.
Not as an it.
This was not how his progeny would be remembered.
Not as a long list of its.
Not if he had anything to say about it.
And Gods, he had so much to say about it.
Mind set and refocused, Wyrm bodily turned his attention to the crawler laid before him, hissing this time as the ache returned to his shell and the throbbing in his forehead. He reached out and grasped the crawler, inching it closer, rolling it over in his claws until he could find the place the Kingsmould struck the killing blow so he could begin to tear it apart.
It smelled equal parts rotten and savory despite its rawness, but Wyrm noticed something very quickly that made him briefly stop and reconsider. Orange clumps pressed against the shell and wedged between the flesh, contained within a membrane that felt like hardening jelly. Her touch spread even to down here, then, where the remnants of the void-touched ocean could awaken and drag Her down into its listless depths.
He was loathe to ponder too deeply the implications, though in his mind, they were blazingly clear. He needed desperately to check on the Pure Vessel now more than ever.
He tore through it anyway, grasping every little bit he could find and separating the infection from the meat, keeping a careful eye on the blobs. Interestingly, instead of imitating the lifeblood eggs scattered throughout Hallownest, they instead quickly shriveled, pulled into themselves and became next to nothing, not unlike a dying leaf.
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Mellow In Softness
FanfictionThe Wyrm awoke in the ancient basin. Wyrm did not know why he was in the ancient basin. He also didn't know why he was awake. Each question was as confusing as the other, equally as unanswerable as any one that followed. What he did know was that he...
