They are stock-still until long after the sound of the elevator stops, trapped in another tight cycle of do not do not do not--
--until they notice the tea running lazily from the fallen cup towards relics resting on the floor.
Should not, do not, but they are the only thing here capable of stopping it. They have shown so much feeling already, and he is not here to watch them.
Before, they were tired, the world dropping from under them, the world and memory and terror crushing them. They still are, the heaviness of it bites at the edges of their every action, but the prickling need to do something, fix something, help drags their body from their blanket cocoon.
They don't know where the cloth they'd used for relics is, and it would likely be too small to work on the full cup's amount. They'd already soaked a hefty part of the...curtain, layered on the top of them. The rest of it can be used to mop.
They are furtive while folding it and doing so, though they would hear the elevator long before Lemm could get close enough to see their effort in scrubbing.
What to do with it next is--unknown. Difficult. Something must be done anyway, they cannot leave it in the main room, too much to ruin with the tea soaking and threatening to drip; so they creep into the next one, a kitchen, and deposit it roughly in the sink. The teacup, with only a minor chip to its handle, is retrieved as well, set delicately atop the curtain.
They crawl back. Hesitate. Make their way to the door, sticking their head out carefully, and nothing is different, the Nail is still resting where it was put.
The Nail. It was the root of the problem. Throwing it away would be a waste, however, and they would have trouble getting around when aches spread down to their legs.
They want to be certain he won't injure himself by moving it, and moreso to not fear them by the idea of attempting to move it, but there is so little room in the shop. They lie it flat beside themselves, right in the little corner that they have been placed in. The throw-pillow is clumsily set over the blade's middle, as though this will weigh it down or be a discouragement.
Then the Hollow Knight lies down as well, folds their body up as tiny as they can make it, drags the remaining blanket from the floor to cover their upper half, leaving only the point of one horn and curled-in legs sticking out.
They...should not be quite so frightening if they aren't watching his return.
They--
--they--
--they hope. They hope they are not. They cannot stop hoping, they never have, that was the Pure Vessel's greatest flaw, and they do not want to be frightening. Not at all, not to anyone, and particularly not to the Relic Seeker who has done so much.
no subject
--until they notice the tea running lazily from the fallen cup towards relics resting on the floor.
Should not, do not, but they are the only thing here capable of stopping it. They have shown so much feeling already, and he is not here to watch them.
Before, they were tired, the world dropping from under them, the world and memory and terror crushing them. They still are, the heaviness of it bites at the edges of their every action, but the prickling need to do something, fix something, help drags their body from their blanket cocoon.
They don't know where the cloth they'd used for relics is, and it would likely be too small to work on the full cup's amount. They'd already soaked a hefty part of the...curtain, layered on the top of them. The rest of it can be used to mop.
They are furtive while folding it and doing so, though they would hear the elevator long before Lemm could get close enough to see their effort in scrubbing.
What to do with it next is--unknown. Difficult. Something must be done anyway, they cannot leave it in the main room, too much to ruin with the tea soaking and threatening to drip; so they creep into the next one, a kitchen, and deposit it roughly in the sink. The teacup, with only a minor chip to its handle, is retrieved as well, set delicately atop the curtain.
They crawl back. Hesitate. Make their way to the door, sticking their head out carefully, and nothing is different, the Nail is still resting where it was put.
The Nail. It was the root of the problem. Throwing it away would be a waste, however, and they would have trouble getting around when aches spread down to their legs.
They want to be certain he won't injure himself by moving it, and moreso to not fear them by the idea of attempting to move it, but there is so little room in the shop. They lie it flat beside themselves, right in the little corner that they have been placed in. The throw-pillow is clumsily set over the blade's middle, as though this will weigh it down or be a discouragement.
Then the Hollow Knight lies down as well, folds their body up as tiny as they can make it, drags the remaining blanket from the floor to cover their upper half, leaving only the point of one horn and curled-in legs sticking out.
They...should not be quite so frightening if they aren't watching his return.
They--
--they--
--they hope. They hope they are not. They cannot stop hoping, they never have, that was the Pure Vessel's greatest flaw, and they do not want to be frightening. Not at all, not to anyone, and particularly not to the Relic Seeker who has done so much.