Pure Vessel

… Look.

You really didn’t mean for this to happen. Didn’t mean to form a bond with the being created to have zero bonds, zero feelings, zero thoughts. A being created to be pure, hollow, to be nothing more than an untainted shell. A being that was not created to be practically latched onto as you repair and reforge their nail for the bajillionth time this week.

But these things happen.

You were told— demanded, really— a thousand times not to interact with the Pure Vessel more than strictly necessary. You were demanded not to get attached to them a thousand more.

“Do your job, fix its nail. Nothing more, nothing less.” Is what you vaguely recall the Pale King saying the first time he ushered his creation into your workshop and placed their nail in your capable hands.

… You presumed your job was only to repair the Pure Vessel’s nail. It was both an honor and a mountain of stress bestowed upon you, the task of creating and up-keeping the Pure Vessel’s weapon; one that had to be as perfect as they were, but apparently, babysitting them was also on the requirement list. That much was clear when the Pale King promptly left after his blunt instructions and did not take the Pure Vessel with him.

… Alrighty.

It was certainly a little distracting, having a massive, unspeaking, unblinking, unmoving— are they even breathing?? By the gods, you don’t think they are— being sat crisscrossed on your workshop floor, their empty eyes practically boring into your soul as you worked.

Somehow, mending a simple chink in a nail felt like an hour long task instead of a fifteen-ish minute one.

Still, though, you managed to finish fast enough, thank the gods, and the Pure Vessel’s nail is good as new. To triple check the weapon’s quality, just in case, you hand the nail to its wielder with a slightly wary, “Just test it out real quick, big guy.”

… You’re not quite sure where the nickname came from, but it’s fitting. And the endearing way said big guy cocks their head to the side, trying to process the fact that you addressed them as anything other than their title or simply ‘it’, makes you want to use it far more often.

You quickly drag over one of your many training dummies, worn and ragged over years of use, and nod for the Pure Vessel to use it. You expect them to land a solid strike, add to the plethora of slashes, trim a solid chunk off, probably even—

They slice it in half. Effortlessly.

By the gods.

“Well I’ll be damned, look at you,” you praise, still a little gobsmacked, as you clap the Pure Vessel on the shoulder.

The look they give you afterwards is… strange. It’s a little hard to read the expression of an expressionless face, but it almost seems confused. It seems a multitude of things, actually, one of which looks suspiciously like flustered. You could swear there’s a hint of gray flushing their stark white shell.

It doesn’t take long for Pure Vessel’s visits to become noticeably frequent.

It started as just every month or so, their nail conveniently ending up chipped or scratched. And every time they’d test each repair, each slash gradually more impressive than the last, they’d stare you down afterwards with these big ol’ expectant eyes, as if awaiting your assurance and touch. They melt as soon as you oblige, even if it’s always something as simple as a pat on the back.

You made the mistake— though, is it really a mistake if you’re perfectly happy with the outcome?— of scratching beneath their chin one day, and now instead of just staring, the Pure Vessel will lean down and nudge their face against either your own or your hand.

For someone so stoic and expressionless, they’re terrible at being subtle.

The more affection you’d give, the more Pure Vessel turned up at your workshop door.

Once or twice a month turned into once or twice every two weeks. Once or twice every two weeks turned into once every week.

It was still believable enough for their nail to be damaged this frequently, especially considering how grueling their training must be if they’re being raised and trained to their prime, to perfection. Pure— that’s all you call them nowadays, either Pure or ‘big guy’— confirms that later on in writing.

That was an interesting discovery; Pure can write! Their handwriting is a little messy, considering they’re kind of only going off what they’ve observed in passing, but it’s perfectly legible! And their verbiage is relatively eloquent, which makes complete sense, given they spend most of their time around nobles.

Pure writes often when they’re at your workshop, scribbling a flurry of questions about what your job as a nailsmith fully entails, the difference in each type of weapon you create and hone, how you’re able to pinpoint each and every flaw in their nail and fix it without thinking twice, why you’ve chosen this career path. They seem fascinated by it.

They seem fascinated by you.

Infatuated, even.

To the point their nail soon conveniently needs fixing practically every other day. And to the point they’re practically glued to you the entirety of their stay.

Whether it’s sprawled out on top of you as you sit and wait for their nail to cool off, downright purring against you as you idly scritch between and pet their horns, draped around you from behind with their head resting on yours as you work— which must be terrible for their back with how far they have to bend down, but Pure doesn’t seem to mind— nudging their maw against you in a makeshift kiss, or simply just holding your hand, Pure makes sure the two of you are touching in some way or another every second you’re together.

And, for reasons unknown to them, you don’t ever seem to mind, don’t ever push them away or scold them.

Including now.

”Why do you allow this?” Pure writes, holding the scroll up for you to read from their current spot in your lap while you both wait for the kiln to heat up. ”Why are you so kind to me?”