Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

The chimera-woman’s flesh was still fresh on Mithrun’s fingertips as Laios approached. For such an imposing figure, Laios had done his best to make himself look meek, slouched over and eyebrows knitted together.

“What is it?” Mithrun asked, lowering the blood-soaked cape.

“We should… talk in private.”

…

…

A cool breeze wafted from the sea as Laios guided Mithrun to a cliff overlooking the island. Laios’s gangly legs stretched out as he sat on the edge of a fallen over tree trunk, gesturing for Mithrun to sit on its stump. Mithrun acquiesced, sitting down heavily into the space beside him.

“While I was facing off against the winged lion, I found this,” Laios said, producing a small item wrapped in cloth from his pocket. He unwrapped it slowly then placed it in Mithrun’s lap.

Clearly defined bite marks accented the small, gemstonelike object. It glimmered red, and when Mithrun picked it up, it felt soft and pliable in his hands.

“What is this?” Mithrun asked.

“It’s the demon’s desire,” Laios said. “I already ate its appetite—or, er, its desire to eat—and it honestly tasted pretty good, but I was thinking Senshi could—”

Prepare it into something tastier? Mithrun completed in his mind.

“Well, um, enough about all that,” Laios said. “I wanted to give what’s left of it to you as thanks for cutting my sister up into pieces.”

One of the stranger things Mithrun had ever heard in his life.

Mithrun turned it over in his hand as he said, “You gave me very little to work with.”

“I’m really sorry.”

Laios hung his head guiltily. Mithrun had no doubts he was being sincere.

“Thank you,” Mithrun said. He folded it back into its cloth and tucked it into his clenched hand. The piece was so small that it neatly fit into his palm.

“Wait, you’re not going to eat it?” Laios asked.

“Now that my previous desire is gone, I see a way forward. And I’m not sure what it would do to me. I’ll give it some thought before deciding what to do with it.”

“Captain! Captain, where are you?”

A voice calling his name made him rise onto his legs. Laios let him go as he strutted in the direction of the chiding remarks not to wander off again just as lunch was about to be served.

…

…

At the dining table, Mithrun once more produced the satchel and stared at the desire’s crimson glow.

“What’s that?”

It wasn’t long before the others were gathered around him, poking at the shard of desire pinched between his fingers. Fleki snatched it up and lifted it toward the sun.

“What’s this?” she repeated.

“It’s what’s left of the desire Laios took from the demon,” Mithrun said.

He never had been much of a liar.

“Is that why there’s this giant bite taken out of it? Eugh, that glut,” she said.

“Why’d he have to eat any of it to begin with? Doesn’t he see the state you’re in?” Pattadol asked. “Seriously. All that guy thinks about is himself.”

“Are you going to eat it?” Lycion asked. “What desire do you think you’ll get back?”

“I don’t know,” Mithrun said.

He had been deeply considering the question himself. Any number of things could happen to him. It could restore harmless desires, like the desire to eat and drink, or something more dangerous, like the desire for revenge. These were someone else’s desires, and he couldn’t be sure how they would affect him.

As things stood, Mithrun had intended to put more attention toward his wellbeing. With the threat of dungeons lifted, new, unexpected threats were sure to take its place, and they had to be ready. He would stay here and watch over Merini’s development to ensure there were no lasting issues while putting new energy toward the mundane things, like learning how to cook and bathe himself.

At first, losing the desire to be killed by the dungeon lord had left a deep rift within him. It was only his desire to finish what the demon had started which had driven him forward for more than two decades. Without it, he had become a husk. But with the others’ encouragement, he found he could carry out little desires.

The desire to bury one who had also been eaten.

The desire to get up to see the sun.

The desire to eat good food.

If he focused hard, just as he had on all his training and his recovery before that, he could accomplish simple things on his own. Without the immediate threat of death looming, they had time.

And while he did not by any means feel fully healed, Mithrun saw hope for his future for the first time since he had almost been eaten.

“You should eat it! Eat it now!” Fleki shouted.

Mithrun plucked the desire from her hand as if about to fulfill her request before once more closing his fist around it and sneaking it onto his lap.

“Later,” he said. “I don’t feel like it right now.”

“You never feel like anything,” Fleki snapped.

…

…

It was early afternoon when Mithrun slipped away again. The campsite was large, and to avoid causing any problems with his teleportation, Mithrun walked.

The people of the Golden Kingdom were deep into their festivities when Mithrun arrived. He read confusion and animosity on most of their faces; it’d be best to make this quick.

“I’m looking for the previous dungeon lord.”

As expected, any neutral air he felt between them died with those words. One man pushed his chair back and volunteered to lead him to the man. It wasn’t far—just a few paces into the forest. Thistle lay on his back, his eyes closed. His skin was ashen and desaturated, the color gone from his cheeks. The adversary Mithrun had once aimed to defeat had been reduced to nothing more than an ostracized boy on his death bed.

Mithrun felt a mixture of pity and empathy for him. While their circumstances differed greatly, Mithrun knew how terrible it felt to have no desires. A chill ran down his spine as he remembered how he had watched helplessly as the goat ate and ate until every desire nearly down to the simplest want to breathe had been sucked out of him. He could still summon memories of the cold flagstone, his feverish skin burning the sweat off his fingertips as he screamed at his body to move, just move, dammit! He’s right there, why can’t you move?

There had been support for him in the days and months and years following. There had been those who cared for him, even forgave him, for the terrible things he still had yet to process himself.

Thistle appeared to have none of that. Even those he had intended to protect were distancing themselves from him. Positioned like this, on the outskirts of the merriment lying supine on a thin bed, he was easy prey to passing monsters. That was indication enough of how little his frail life mattered to those around him.

Had they treated Mithrun like this, he was sure he would not have survived.

“I offered him some food earlier, but he wouldn’t accept it. Now that he’s seen ‘Delgal’ again, he says he doesn’t want anything else,” the man said. He knelt in front of Thistle, who didn’t stir.

“Then he will die soon,” Mithrun said.

“What? Really?!” The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Without any desires, he may as well be a cripple. With no drive to sustain himself, and already suffering from malnutrition, his body won’t be able to hold on much longer.”

“Is there anything we can do? I know we only just met, a-and maybe you have no reason to help someone who did so many atrocious things, but…” it seemed to dawn on him that he was making a mistake by laying things out so plainly, which only incriminated him further. “But… but… he’s supposed to go back with your unit, right? He can’t do that if he’s dead! And I’m sure he can be of some use! His magical power alone—”

Mithrun held up a hand. “I understand. I was once a dungeon lord.”

“You—you were? So you can help?”

“I can try.” As the word left his lips, Mithrun felt the small kernel of desire burning warmly inside him. He knelt at Thistle’s side and studied his face. Then he leaned in a little closer, lifting a hand in front of his mouth. A weak puff of air grazed his fingers.

“Can you sit him up for me?” Mithrun asked.

The man obliged and pulled Thistle up into his arms. As a tall-man, he managed it easily.

“Thistle. Hey, Thistle. There’s someone here to see you.”

The curiosity got the better of him and he cracked open a tired eye. As soon as he did, he jolted back, forcing the man to adjust his grip before he came crashing to the ground.

“What do you want?” Thistle growled. “Here to try and kill me again? Won’t you at least let me die peacefully?”

“This is for you.”

Mithrun extended the fragment of desire toward him. He turned his nose up at it.

“What is it?”

“It’s a part of the winged lion’s desire.”

“This could help you! You might actually be able to live a semi-normal life if you take this. Please,” the man said.

“I don’t want it,” Thistle said.

“Why?”

“I don’t need it. Just let me go.”

“You will never hear Delgal’s voice again if you die,” Mithrun said.

“He’s already gone. You’re the one who told me that, don’t you remember? So what do I care? If anything, you’re probably trying to kill me.”

“I’m not.”

Mithrun’s protest fell on deaf ears as Thistle closed his eyes again. At first, it seemed he was only ignoring them. But then his breath grew heavy and the man reluctantly eased him back onto his makeshift bed.

“Well, we tried,” the man said.

“We’ll keep trying,” Mithrun said.

It was as he was rising onto his feet that one of Laios’s party members strolled by, the whiskers of his beard curled up in amusement. His arms were loaded with empty dishes from the nearby tables, apparently off to reload them for the next stage of the feast.

“What are you doing here?” the dwarf asked.

“Hello, Senshi. We’re trying to get Thistle to eat,” the man said.

“Hm? Is that it?” Senshi asked, pointing to the desire in Mithrun’s hand.

Mithrun nodded.

“No wonder he didn’t want to eat it. That’s hardly what you’d call a meal.”

“Even if we did cook it, I’m not sure he’d eat it,” the man said.

“He has to eat something, or else he’ll starve. What’s his favorite dish?”

“I’m not sure,” the man said. “I guess he always enjoyed grandfather’s tarts.”

Senshi considered this for a moment. “It won’t be very nutritious. And it won’t be a big serving.”

“That’s alright. It would be enough to have him at least eat something.”

“Well, alright, alright. Come with me, then.”

Senshi gestured over his shoulder. After a beat of hesitation, Mithrun followed.

“Let’s make him a lemon tart. Does that sound good to ye?”

“I don’t know how to cook,” Mithrun said.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll show you everything you need to know.”

Mithrun silently complied, following Senshi to his workstation.

…

…

As a noble, Mithrun never had much need to be in the kitchen. Back when he had desires, if he wanted something prepared, all he had to do was ask for it. And losing his desires included any interest in cooking or eating. The utensils felt odd to him, like they didn’t suit the shape of his hands. Senshi helped him portion out all the ingredients then left him to work out what the recipe meant by himself.

The first step was preparing the dough, which came together simply enough. Mithrun stopped just as it began to feel overworked, the texture a little tougher than what he figured was probably normal.

Then he moved onto the filling as the crust baked. Senshi helped him mix it over boiling water, the metal too hot to touch with his fingers despite Senshi having no trouble.

“Can I have that secret ingredient again?” Senshi asked.

Mithrun handed it over.

“Hmm. Maybe we can blend half of it into the filling and leave some as toppings with the berries.”

Mithrun didn’t see why not.

…

…

“Look at that shine!” Senshi crooned.

The resulting dish did look rather beautiful. The desires had melted and mixed into the batter to create an iridescent pink. Small chunks of desire sat nestled on top in between strawberries.

The mental and physical energy it had taken to push himself this far left Mithrun exhausted. Senshi picked the tart up for him and carried it back to the makeshift campsite with Mithrun following quietly behind.

Thistle’s caretaker helped him into a sitting position again. He whispered something into Thistle’s ear as Mithrun pushed the plate into his hands.

…

…

Seriously, what were these people’s problems? Did he, or did he not, say he was done?

Not-Delgal kept waking him up for things even after Thistle had told him he didn’t need anything.

Things would be simpler if he just died. It’d be cleaner, certainly.

There was nothing left for him here— no family, no friends. He’d seen Delgal one last time, just as he had wanted. The town had already moved on without him, laughing from the table only a few feet away, rejoicing in being free from his torture.

Not that he could blame them. He wouldn’t want to be around himself either.

Thistle felt the warmth of not-Delgal’s arms around him as he pulled Thistle into a sitting position. Thistle stayed limp, chin falling to brush his collarbone. The ruffles around his neck choked and itched him. His body automatically drew a tired breath.

“Thistle. We’ve brought you something to eat,” not-Delgal said.

Thistle kept his eyes closed as he opened his mouth. Even the smallest act felt like an insurmountable obstacle. Fatigue weighed heavily on him, like it might if someone tried to wake him in the middle of the night.

“I’m not…”

Someone moved his hands. Fingers bent around a thin plate.

Thistle forced his eyes to fix on the dish fitted into his lap.

It was a tart, like one of those he used to eat when he was a child.

It had been 1,000 years since he had last eaten one.

“Please, at least try it,” not-Delgal said.

Even knowing it was not Delgal, how could he refuse when the shape of Delgal’s voice rang so clearly in his ears? His brother, the last one to say he had loved him, was begging him to eat.

Thistle lifted his head and was once again faced with the one-eyed elf.

“Did you poison this?” he asked, his lips twisting into an immediate grimace.

“No.”

Like Hell he didn’t. The man had tried to kill him before, after all.

“Then you taste-test.” Thistle gestured with his chin. The one-eyed man neatly cut out a slice of tart and lifted it to his mouth.

The piece was small and he swallowed it in one bite. His eyes popped open, but given he wasn’t keeling over coughing or anything, Thistle assumed his reaction was to its taste.

“Well?” Thistle asked.

“It tastes good,” he said.

There was a second of hesitation before he passed the fork to Thistle.

The tart couldn’t be larger than his palm and the portion he cut for himself easily encompassed half the plate. He really had to push to get his muscles to move, every minute moment a missed opportunity to give up. Thistle trained his challenging gaze onto the other elf as he closed his mouth around the first forkful—

—And tasted a burst of juice traveling down the back of his throat. It coated his mouth as mint would, and he half-expected to feel the tickle of sour on his breath as he exhaled. The ghost of that intoxicating, sharp, almost sickly, taste of magic was there, too, hiding underneath the strawberries and raspberries and blackberries. Thistle chased after it, carving the path with his teeth through the tender shell and breaking through to taste the soft body again.

He saw the dining table where he and Delgal and everyone else had once taken their meals. He retraced the halls, fingers brushing the edges of gilded frames, shoes crossing soft carpet to sit at his seat with Delgal at his shoulder. He lifted another bite to his lips and felt the warmth of Delgal’s presence. The reverberance of Delgal’s deep laugh. The taste of that one last bite that would bring him home…

At the very end, the fleeting ghost of what he expected the tart to actually taste like dashed just out of his reach, tasting just a little too sweet and too soft and too… gone.

It was only once he’d taken the last bite and licked his lips that he even tasted the tang of the lemon. It had been too sweet all the way through.

“Do you have any more?” Thistle asked, feeling invigorated.

“No,” he said.

“I want more.”

“We don’t have any…”

“I knew it! This is amazing news!”

Huh? Not-Delgal shot to his feet, pulling Thistle up by tucking his hands underneath his armpits.

“You have desires again! Isn’t that amazing?”

“What?” Thistle blurted out. Who even was this guy?

“I told you,” the elf-man said as he rose to his full height. “You ate the winged lion’s desire.”

Oh.

Thistle sucked in a breath. He wasn’t… sure how he felt about that. He wrestled out of Not-Delgal’s arms until he was lowered back onto his legs. He fell over almost immediately, so Not-Delgal helped him back into a sitting position.

“What is your name?” Thistle asked, glaring into the man’s one good eye.

“Mithrun.”

“Okay Mithrun, and why did you do that? Did you not also try to kill me once before? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I was once a dungeon lord and I know how it feels to have no desires. I don’t want anyone else to suffer the way I’ve suffered.”

“You’re telling me you had the opportunity to help yourself and you passed that goodwill onto your enemy instead?”

“We aren’t enemies anymore.”

That was missing the point. But the longer Thistle waited for a further explanation, the more frustrated he became.

“You know what, fine! I don’t care anyway! Do whatever you want but don’t come crying to me when you regret your decision later.”

Mithrun wobbled a little on his feet and not-Delgal extended a concerned hand.

“Are you feeling alright? When’s the last time you ate something?”

“Oh. I don’t know,” Mithrun said.

And this was the idiot who had not only almost killed him but now saved his life?

“Come eat with us. It’s the least we could do to thank you. Right, Thistle?”

“Tch.” Thistle crossed his arms and looked away.

“No, that’s alright. I’m sure the others are looking for me.”

“Will you make it back on your own okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Thank you so much for everything!”

Not-Delgal bowed and Thistle entertained the pressure at the back of his head encouraging him to do the same.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, getting back proved to be a difficult feat. Mithrun encountered several other campsites first—including Kabru’s party, the orcs, and, finally, Laios.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

Mithrun was a little too embarrassed to answer.

“We’re just about to serve everyone stew. Why don’t you join us?”

It was much easier to go along with him than refuse. After all, Mithrun didn’t know how much longer he could walk on an empty stomach.

…

…

Mithrun wasn’t sure which desires he had recovered, but he had a suspicion food was involved.

So long as he was around other people who ate, he would also eat. Food often had a fine flavor, but at dinner that night, his taste buds salivated at the first bite. Juice pooled in his mouth and trickled to the edge of his lips, but he kept going, chewing and licking, taking intermissions in between to sip his water.

The others engaged in energized conversation about their futures. Food with free entertainment always made the night pass more quickly.

Near the end of the evening, Laios turned his eyes onto Mithrun.

“How was it? The thing I gave you?”

“It tasted amazing,” Mithrun said. Too bad he had only gotten one bite. It was so good that he’d had to exercise self-control not to eat the rest. At least he got some at all; he’d been expecting to get none.

“Do you feel better? Did you make a lot?”

“I only had a slice.”

“What? Why? Did it not taste good?”

“I gave it to Thistle,” Mithrun said.

The rest of the table exploded with noise.

Mithrun didn’t see what the big deal was. He popped another spoonful of food into his mouth as a barrage of questions rained down upon him. He wasn’t particularly listening; there were times when Laios’s team merged into one loud amalgamation of frenzied movement and screaming. This was one of those moments.

“Is he doing better?” Laios asked after they’d managed to quiet the half-foot and half-elf who were plucking each other’s hair out.

“Yes,” Mithrun said simply.

“Oh, good,” he sighed with relief.

“Why do you care so much, anyway?” The half-foot asked. “He caused a lot of trouble for us!”

“Maybe, but he had good intentions in the beginning. And it’s not his fault the demon sunk its claws into him. Right, Marcille?”

Marcille perked up at the call of her name and nodded. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive that he held on for so long after experiencing its power for myself.”

“You’re not wrong about that. You kind of went apeshit on us,” the half-foot said.

That set Marcille off again and she raised a fist to him. Mithrun watched with mild interest.

“So wait, he ate the rest of it?” Laios asked.

“We made him a tart,” Senshi said. “Still a shame we couldn’t make him something more filling. A growing boy needs more than just dessert for a full meal.”

“That means he got some of his desires back.” Marcille’s frown deepened.

“But maybe it was boring stuff, like the desire to eat and drink,” Laios said helpfully.

“Or it could be something more dangerous, like the desire for revenge,” the half-foot added.

Mithrun swallowed his food thoughtfully.

“What do you think?” Laios asked.

Mithrun looked up and saw a sea of determined, intimidated faces staring back.

“He seemed to be in good spirits,”  Mithrun said, recalling how he had wriggled in the tall-man’s arms.

Nobody seemed pleased with this assessment.

“But did anything about him seem off?”

“Was he yelling death threats?”

“Did he mention what the tart tasted like?”

Another barrage of questions assaulted his ears as he took a conveniently timed sip of water.

“Enough with all the questions. Can’t you see you’re overwhelming him?”

From Mithrun’s shoulder he heard Pattadol’s voice. He turned in time for her to stop at his side.

“Sorry,” Laios said. “We’re just a little curious, that’s all.”

“Who gave you permission to speak to the captain, anyway?” she asked.

“He’s the one who accepted my invitation for dinner,” Laios said.

“Did you?” she asked.

Mithrun nodded.

“We’ve been looking for you all afternoon. Don’t run off like that!”

Pattadol waved a chiding finger at him. He reached for a leg of roasted basilisk.

“Well… since you’re already here, would you like to join us for dessert?” Laios asked with a gesture to the dining table.

Pattadol’s nose screwed up in disgust. “You like this stuff?” she asked.

Mithrun didn’t reply.

He had been intending to stay with Laios’s party a little longer, but she didn’t seem too interested in sticking around. He could always get up and return now. See what it would feel like to lay his head down at night.

“Come on, captain. It’s almost time for rest.”

But the roasted basilisk was already in his hands and he sank another bite into it. From the corner of his vision, Pattadol rolled her eyes.

“It’s okay if you leave him with us,” Falin said. Mithrun recognized her from the time he had removed her lower body. She looked so composed, pain-free and happy.

“No. I mustn’t leave the captain’s side.” Pattadol straightened her back and set her eyes on the horizon. “After all, he’ll get lost on his way back if there’s no one to escort him to our campsite once dinner’s finished.”

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Pattadol bristled at this.

Mithrun turned toward her. “Go on without me. I’ll be fine in their care.”

“But—” Pattadol’s eyebrows turned up in worry.

Mithrun stared at her.

She broke under the pressure with a deep sigh, the tension dropping from her shoulders only briefly as she sagged in defeat. “Well, okay. But if I don’t see you at the campsite soon, I’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah. Come pick him up from his babysitters,” the half-foot snapped.

Pattadol’s glare turned fierce, but she heeded Mithrun’s request and left not long after.

“Is Thistle really doing well?” Falin asked.

Mithrun looked up from from his food and nodded.

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown a soft spot for him too,” the half-foot said.

“Well, it’s just that, when I think back to those days of my life, I can tell he really cared for me. And we did a lot of fun things, like fly around, pick berries…”

The half-foot’s face scrunched up in disgust. “He was using you, not taking you on a little jaunt around the kingdom.”

“I know that, but… there were still pleasant things about the experience, too.” Falin leaned back in her seat and patted her full stomach. “I think he was just scared. If my presence helped him to relax, then I’m glad.”

Mithrun had considered that. Had Thistle been scared when he was dungeon lord? Of being stopped? Or alone? What must those long days have felt like after Delgal had left, taking the last bit of his sanity with it? The spiral into delusion must have felt horrible, like drinking acid rain until his insides ached.

“I’m sure it did,” Mithrun said.

…

…

The stars were twinkling out and Mithrun’s limbs were heavy with exhaustion at the end of the night. He didn’t feel much like walking anymore, but he’d rather sleep in his own bed than not return to the Canaries’ campsite and run the risk of everyone throwing everything into chaos looking for him. He took Laios and the others up on their offer to escort him back. Falin was the one who had originally suggested it, and indeed she was the one who pulled on her robes and elected to guide him back through the grounds to the Canaries.

“You’re not much of a conversationalist, huh?” Falin asked.

“Sorry,” Mithrun said. “I’m not really one to speak unless spoken to.”

“Does it take a lot of energy?”

“Mm-hmm,” Mithrun hummed.

“Then I won’t make you force yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” Mithrun said. “It’s getting a little easier.”

“That’s good.”

After that, they fell into silence. Once or twice Mithrun felt the grips of sleep drawing him to unconsciousness and had to shake the feeling off.

“You’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” Falin asked.

“Yeah,” Mithrun said.

She had stopped him beneath a tree not too far from their campsite; he could hear Fleki and Lycion’s shouting from here.

“I wanted to thank you for helping to save my life,” Falin said, “and also to ask another favor of you.”

“What is it?”

“I heard that Thistle will be taken to the Northern Central Continent. Do you mind sending me updates now and then?”

Maybe she had grown an attachment to him that hadn’t dissipated with the rest of her draconic form. Or maybe she was just like this, being the caretaker among the group. Putting others' needs before her own, even when that “other” was one who had previously taken her humanity away with no intention of giving it back.

“Alright,” Mithrun said.

Some people were truly strong in ways he could never conceive of.

…

…

The next day…

“Come on, Thistle. Please eat.”

Even if Not-Delgal put the food into his mouth, Thistle wouldn’t make the effort to chew. His head throbbed from a recent headache, not helped, no doubt, by his refusal to eat even the simplest, most digestible slop Not-Delgal could find.

It was still morning and a cool mist hung heavily on the fields and between the trees around their clearing. Thistle was cold, shuddering uncontrollably every now and then, so Not-Delgal covered him with a blanket that barely kept out the wind.

“Don’t you want to walk around again? Or be able to eat good food and sit around the table with us?”

I know you don’t want to sit at a table with me.

Thistle didn’t say anything.

“Please, at least for Delgal—”

The man tried to lift a spoon to Thistle’s mouth again and he shot to his feet, the bowl clattering to the ground with the chime of silver hitting glass.

“I know you’re not him! So stop lying to me!” Thistle shouted.

The man's eyes widened.

“How long have you known?" He asked.

Thistle fell heavily back into his seat on the ground. Rocks dug into his already-tender skin. "I heard you referencing yourself in the third person," he said. "I heard the others talking to you and the name they used."

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be gentler on you this way."

Thistle scoffed. "You should have been honest with me from the beginning. There's no reason for you to spare my feelings now."

"But that's not what my grandfather would have wished for you."

Cold shock ran through Thistle's heart as it throbbed painfully in his chest. "Tell me. How do you feel about me, Yaad? Your father's dead because of me. Don't lie and say you're not the least bit vengeful about that."

"I, I've mourned him a little," Yaad said. "Delgal's death is much more recent. And unlike you, I've had support to help me through it. But you're all alone."

"Maybe that's the way it should be," Thistle said coldly. "Maybe I want to be alone."

"I don't really believe that."

Thistle crossed his arms. He averted Delgal's warm gaze, the voice still so familiar, the weight real yet deceitful. Thistle drove his teeth down on his lower lip and closed his eyes. The pain burned and burned, and he realized there would be no demon to heal his scars for him.

That's how it should be, after everything he'd done.

Yaad said something else but Thistle only heard the clipped ending. It sounded like Mithrun.

"What? What about him?" Thistle asked.

"Maybe you'd like to talk to him again? He mentioned he was also a dungeon lord in the past. Maybe he could help you."

"I don't need help."

"You're going to the West soon. Wouldn't it be good to be prepared?"

"What?" Thistle asked. "Nobody told me—“

“I wasn't sure how to tell you."

"But what about Merini?”

"Your magic released the castle yesterday, so they're going to explore it today."

"Who?"

"Laois and his party."

Ah. Right. Thistle had overheard the people celebrating him yesterday. It didn't matter much to him now what happened to the kingdom anyway. It wasn't his business. But to leave? Be taken prisoner by the elves?

"I don't..."

Thistle swallowed the sentence. For all of his brooding, he could at least get rid of the more pathetic of his desires along the way. How childish, that he'd expect no ramifications for his actions. Of course they'd imprison him. It was what he deserved.

"What? What is it?" Yaad asked.

"Nothing," Thistle quietly responded. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.

He would make do with this, somehow. Everything would be alright. He’d find a way—he always did. He did for Delgal; he could for himself, too.

…

…

That morning, Mithrun woke easily. His forehead throbbed with a slight headache, but after a breakfast full of bacon and eggs, his body felt fortified. The other Canaries acted as they usually did, chatting away at the breakfast table or hanging from trees like they were pretending to be monkeys. As the days passed, so approached the end of their merrymaking; he was supposed to be hearing back from the queen today about arrangements to send the Canaries back home. Although Mithrun planned on staying behind, he’d still have to help coordinate until everyone had boarded the ship. After all, Otta and Cithis were still his wards.

Pattadol briefed him on the day’s agenda as he pulled back on the lightweight armor that glided easily against his body.

The cape settled along his back as she finished with, “…and coordinate the release of Thistle into our custody.”

“Let’s do that later,” Mithrun said.

“Yes, sir.”

The queen’s fairy visited not long after asking when they’d be boarding the ship to leave.

“This afternoon, your Highness,” Pattadol said. Then she pulled out her clipboard and began rattling off all the arrangements they still had to do and the ones they had finished. Lycion and Fleki had finished loading most of their belongings yesterday; there were some provisions they still had to replenish before they were ready to leave.

“And the prisoner?” the queen asked.

“We haven’t picked him up yet.”

“I would like to speak to him.”

“We can take you to him soon,” Pattadol said. “We were planning to do that later—”

“Let’s do it now. I’d like to have his arrangements sorted before everything else.”

“I’ll gather the Canaries,” Pattadol said.

The queen’s fairy followed along as Mithrun guided them toward the Golden Kingdom’s table (with some guidance from Pattadol).

“Be ready for anything,” Mithrun said.

While Thistle hadn’t been the most energetic when they’d met yesterday, Mithrun had certainly seen him eat the rest of the tart. One could never be too careful when they weren’t sure who they were dealing with. What kind of state was he in now, Mithrun wondered? Had he eaten yet today?

“So, the brat who gave us so much trouble is finally getting his due, huh?” Fleki asked.

“I wonder if he’ll go kicking and screaming or come quietly,” Lycion added.

“All the fighting’s over. It’d be nice if he’d make things easy on us so I can enjoy our last hours of freedom,” Otta said.

“Quiet. We’re here to recover a prisoner, not gossip about his motives,” Pattadol said.

Mithrun expected he was probably still lying on the cold ground, refusing to eat, pretending to sleep while eavesdropping on the people around him. What would he make of his imprisonment? If he didn’t have desires anymore, Mithrun didn’t expect it would be a problem.

But if there was something he still wanted from his place, then…

“Captain, is this the place?” Pattadol asked.

Mithrun lifted his eyes. The table and its people were familiar, as was the clearing behind them.

“Yes.”

“Excuse us,” Pattadol said.

She pushed past the people standing, perplexed, by their tents and strutted toward the clearing where Mithrun had last seen Thistle sleeping.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Mithrun and the others drew up beside her. Mithrun stared at the ground but saw only an empty blanket. Grass peeked beneath its edges, all rocks cleared away.

“Yes,” Mithrun said.

At his shoulder, Yaad approached, wringing his hands together.

“Are you by chance looking for Thistle?” Yaad asked.

“Yes,” Pattadol said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Actually, no. I’ve been looking for him all morning.”

“Aw, fuck,” Fleki blurted.

The queen’s fairy leapt onto Mithrun’s shoulder.

“Notify Flamela’s squad at once. We have to search for him,” Mithrun said.

Chapter Text

The castle looked just as Thistle last remembered it.

A heavy musk of soil and dust indicated the years of its disuse. Thistle navigated the hallways carefully, tiredly. He hadn’t eaten properly in years, subsisting mainly off his magic. His body didn’t move the way it used to, the bones stiff and creaking. He staggered into a wall and leaned heavily against it as he forced his foot to take another step.

His vision flickered. He licked his lips and found that they were dry. Usually, this would be the time he’d conjure a glass of water for himself or travel back home.

Both weren’t options now, of course.

He could only keep moving forward.

He could only… keep…

Stars dotted the edge of Thistle’s eyesight. Blood rushed to his ears, his heartbeat slow and quiet. He managed to catch himself before he hit the ground, pushing his shoulder as hard as he could into the wall.

Laios… he had to speak to Laios. If he could do that, then maybe… maybe…

No, it didn’t look like he was going to make it.

He needed somewhere to rest, somewhere to wait until they found him.

He glanced back up the hall to a wide set of doors.

Those… yes, those would do.

With a firm set of his lips, Thistle took another step forward.

…

…

“He could be anywhere,” Lycion said as he lowered his head to the ground and sniffed.

“You don’t have any idea?” Pattadol asked.

“Well, I have a feeling he went this way…”

“You feel or you know?”

“C’mon, I’m trying my hardest!” the ears on the top of his head flattened as he exhaled a tired sigh.

“Yeah, he’s trying his hardest,” Fleki said, nudging him with her elbow.

“You don’t seem to understand the severity of the situation. We have a convict on the loose.”

“Is he really a convict if he was never in custody to begin with?” Otta asked.

“Shut it, you.”

“We’ll find him,” Mithrun said. “He couldn’t have gone far if he was here this morning, especially in his condition.”

“What condition?” Pattadol asked.

Mithrun turned toward Yaad. “Do you have any ideas as to where he might have gone?”

“There is one place,” Yaad said.

…

…

“Are you sure it was here?” Pattadol asked.

She and the rest of the Canaries craned their necks back to stare up at the castle. Roofs of red glimmered in the emerging afternoon light as a flock of pigeons rose from a crenellation, feathers scattering across the blue sky.

“A whole castle… we’ll be here all day,” Cithis groaned. “I was hoping to square this all away before lunch, too.”

“Flamela’s unit will be here shortly,” the queen’s fairy said.

“Good. Let’s head in,” Mithrun said as he strutted on ahead.

…

…

“Wow, this place is huge.”

Fleki skipped ahead, her hands tucked behind her back. She peeked around corners and stared in awe at the giant arched ceilings. Mithrun politely didn’t mention how small it looked compared to the elven capital.

“Don’t stray too far. There could be traps,” Pattadol said.

“You wouldn’t want to die with no resurrection magic, would you?” Cithis teased, hanging near the back.

“Of course not,” she sneered, sticking out her tongue. “You could bother to be a little less cowardly yourself.”

With no resurrection magic, it made sense. But Mithrun didn’t sense any ominous presences down these hallways. All the better for them; he’d rather not have to deal with Thistle and a horde of monsters.

“This is a promising sign,” Lycion said as they approached a giant door likely heading to the throne room.

Pattadol approached first and tried its handles. Despite all her straining, it nearly dragged her to her feet before opening even a crack. Pattadol wiped her brow as Otta laughed.

“Let me try,” she said.

She knelt and planted her hands to the ground, causing a slab of stone to shoot up beneath the door. There was a terrible grinding noise as the door lifted unnaturally toward the ceiling, its hinges screaming. Splintered wood shot toward their eyes, with them raising their arms to block their faces. In the next moment, the stone exploded, sending chunks toward them. Mithrun teleported easily out of the way; others dodged the pieces.

“Nice thinking, smartass,” Cithis snapped.

“How was I supposed to know it’d do that?” Otta asked.

“I’ll go inside and report back on what I find,” Mithrun said.

“Are you sure?” Pattadol asked.

He sent her a firm nod then took a step forward.

“Well, it was nice knowing you,” Fleki said.

The faint echo of her voice reached him as he teleported a few feet through to the other side. Then her voice faded, as did all other noise aside from the echo of his footsteps on the polished stone. The smell of age reached even here, tangled roots hanging from the ceiling where trees had been unearthed with it.

Mithrun trained his gaze on the far end of the room where a figure sat on the throne. It was Thistle-shaped enough, and as Mithrun approached, the figure became clearly recognizable. His stockings and jester’s tunic were stained with dirt that carried up to his weary face.

"Thistle?" Mithrun asked.

Thistle lazily lifted his head. As their gazes locked onto each other, Thistle's lips screwed down into an immediate grimace. Every time they met, that seemed to be the expression he favored.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I've come to take you into custody."

Thistle's shoulders dropped. He closed his eyes. "Yeah, right.”

Mithrun approached. He stopped in front of the throne, and as he prepared to open his mouth again, Thistle launched himself at him. Mithrun smoothly moved out of the way, grabbing Thistle's hand as it aimed for his throat. Mithrun bent Thistle's wrist until he cried out in pain and dropped to the floor.

"Why do you resist?" Mithrun asked.

"I... I don't..."

Thistle's voice went quiet. Mithrun let go of his hand and he curled into himself, mess of bleach hair blanketing his back.

Mithrun pushed away the tangled tresses and planted his palm along the middle of Thistle's spine.

"I know how you must be feeling. Grief, fear, anger—the demon took everything from you and now you feel empty. But you have to keep fighting. If you give up, you'll die."

"I don't care."

"Is that really true?” Mithrun asked. "You came here for a reason, didn't you?"

"No," Thistle said. "I just didn't want anyone to bother me in my last moments."

He was a pretty bad liar, but it wasn't looking like Mithrun was going to get a straighter answer out of him. He looked him over. He wasn't shaking, but he was certainly small, especially for elf standards. Yaad had said he'd once again declined to eat breakfast. That would make the last thing he'd eaten the tart Mithrun had made him. Apparently, it hadn't restored his appetite.

"...He begged me to," Thistle whispered. "His son was sick and dying, and he, he begged me to do it, and..."

"That's what the demon is best at," Mithrun said. "It lies to please you. In the beginning, it will do whatever you want to build your dependence on it, like a parasite."

"What's going to happen to me?" Thistle asked. He lifted his head, unfurling himself enough to drop his arms to the ground.

"You will be taken back to the Northern Central Continent as a prisoner. They'll seal your magic and imprison you.”

"Seal my magic? What about becoming a canary? I thought—“

"No. The veil between dungeons and the rest of the world was torn apart when the demon was defeated. There are no dungeons anymore."

Thistle exhaled. "I see. So I'm going to rot away in a cell for the rest of my life."

"Maybe," Mithrun said.

“What are the cells like?"

"There's usually two prisoners to a cell. In the high security prisons, you're to a room alone, and they're a little bigger."

"Might be less trouble to end up in one of those, then,” Thistle said bitterly.

"Many prisoners are getting their sentences shortened."

"I understand," Thistle said. “That doesn't change the fact that I still won't go."

“Why?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Mithrun sighed and reached for Thistle’s arm. He pulled away.

“I can walk by myself,” he snapped. “Bring me to Laios.”

Mithrun didn’t say anything.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said—”

“Captain! Is everything alright in there?” Pattadol’s voice called from the door.

Thistle growled. “You were a dungeon lord once, right? You understand—”

“I don’t,” Mithrun said.

Thistle jumped to his feet then staggered backward. Mithrun rose to his full height and reached for Thistle’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted.

Thistle’s skin was hot where Mithrun touched it, but Mithrun persisted, pushing him into the closest wall.

“I have everything under control,” came Mithrun’s cool response as Thistle bit his hand.

Mithrun pulled his hand away, but before Thistle could turn around, he pressed him firmly against the wall once more and reached down to pull his wrists together.

“Let go of me! I’m not going with you!” Thistle shouted.

He wriggled and turned his head, but Mithrun kept a steady pressure against his back to keep him pinned. Mithrun pulled a length of rope from a pocket and wrapped it around Thistle’s wrists.

“Ugh, not again,” Thistle hissed. He jerked into Mithrun’s shoulder. “Be gentle with me, won’t you, captain?”

The sugary tone came almost out of nowhere and Mithrun had to double-check he wasn’t speaking to a shapeshifter.

“It will hurt less if you don’t struggle.”

“I hate you. You’re a bastard. I thought you wanted to help me. So was all that conversation just distraction? Do you even care, or are you still heartless inside? One-eyed freak with no…”

Mithrun tugged a final time on Thistle’s wrists to test the knot’s strength then grabbed Thistle around his waist to the sound of a yelp.

“…Desire!” Thistle shouted.

Mithrun lifted Thistle, dropping his weight onto his shoulder with his arm coiled tightly around his midsection to hold him in place. Though Thistle’s arms were bound, his legs were not, and they rested dangerously close to his face. Mithrun teleported back out of the room, landing a foot away from the others where they were gathered around the door.

“Captain, is everything—” Pattadol began, then cut herself short as Thistle interrupted her with his barrage of insults.

“You have… to let… me go,” Thistle said between pants.

“He’s running out of energy,” Otta said.

“He’s fainting,” Mithrun corrected.

Lycion shrugged. “Makes my job easier,” he said as he lifted Thistle off his shoulder.

“Flamela and her unit should be here soon. Let’s wait until they’ve arrived to plan our next steps.”

“Yes, sir,” Pattadol said.

…

…

When Thistle opened his eyes again, his heart hammered wildly in his chest.

The room he found himself in was dark and quiet.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

His thumb throbbed with the thought. Hadn’t he told himself that before? Had he believed it then as little as he believed it now?

He tried his arms. They were still bound. His eyesight adjusted as he struggled, revealing smooth walls and carpeted floors. The room was small, but the bed frame creaked as he kicked off a blanket that had once been settled around his torso. Had someone tucked him into bed? Why? It seemed all he was good for lately was fainting and sleeping.

“He’s in this room,” a muffled voice said from the other side of a wooden door.

“No, don’t come any—”

The door opened and Thistle’s wide eyes fixed themselves on a familiar face.

“Thistle!” Laios shouted, then bound across the room to him. He paused at the side of Thistle’s bed and looked him over. “Are you alright? Did you run into a monster?”

Thistle glared at the entrance of the doorway where Mithrun still stood half in its threshold.

“He’s the monster,” he snapped.

“He told me that you wanted to see me, so I came right away. Is everything alright?”

“Do I look alright?”

“You look… a little beat up. When did you last eat?”

“Laios, you have to convince the elf queen to let me stay here. I can’t go to the Northern Central Continent! I belong here!”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Laios said.

“What? Why?”

"The Canaries already looked displeased enough when I changed my mind about Marcille," Laios said. "I'm sorry, but you have to go to the Northern Central Continent. At least for now until things cool down.”

"What? Really?" Thistle asked. "But—but if I go there—“

Laios’s face brightened. “Mithrun already explained everything to me. You'll most likely get to have an audience with the queen and she'll decide your sentence once you've pled your case."

"My case?" Thistle repeated. "We both know how that will go!"

“I don’t know, what if she’s nice? I’ve never met her myself. Oh no, I'll probably have to meet her soon, huh?" Laios asked.

Big, bumbling idiot. His mind was already wandering off to other things. How unhelpful.

Thistle struggled into a sitting position. “Laios. Listen to me. I can help you. I know how a country’s supposed to run. I helped Delgal run his for a thousand years. Imagine! With me at your side, everyone will know not to fuck with you!”

“Well, maybe, but Yaad’s also already agreed to help out, and he’s been around about as long…”

Thistle grit his teeth. His temple throbbed.

“Look. Why don’t we talk about this after you’ve had something to eat?” Laios asked.

“Fine. I’ll eat whatever, I don’t care.”

“I actually brought some provisions with me…”

Thistle deadpanned. “Of course you did.”

Laios pulled his bag over and produced strips of jerky from inside.

He extended one to Thistle, who stared at him, unamused.

“My arms.”

“Oh, right.”

Laios scooted a little closer and rammed it into Thistle’s cheek. He reluctantly opened his mouth and tore a piece off with his teeth.

“It’s made out of—”

“I don’t want to know,” Thistle said.

His stomach grumbled as he swallowed the first bite. Laios’s eyes shone as though he was feeding some ultra-rare, mythical creature. Look, he’s eating right out of my hand! It was only because he didn’t want to starve to death.

Once the jerky was gone, Laios beamed at him again.

“Now don’t you feel better?” he asked.

“Not really,” Thistle said.

“Oh. Well, maybe you just need some more time to digest it.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You know, I was talking to Falin and we’re both kind of worried about you.”

“Who?”

“My sister!”

A knock at the door drew their eyes to Pattadol as she pushed it open.

“Visitation time is over,” she said.

Laios rose from his seat, gave Thistle one more thoughtful stare, then yielded from another pester or two from Pattadol.

Thistle tested the rope against his wrists, but he was all out of mana and hadn’t restored enough of his strength to fight back.

“So, this is Thistle?” A fairy asked as it floated by his shoulder, the buzzing of its wings loud enough to make his eye twitch.

“Yes,” Mithrun said.

“Splendid. He still has some fight in him.”

“And who are you?” Thistle asked.

“You will find out soon enough,” she said.

Well, whatever. Keep your dumb secrets if you want.

“Have you come to take me away?” Thistle asked.

“Exactly. Is there anyone left you must say goodbye to?”

There was Yaad, but…

The thought of saying goodbye, of seeing Delgal’s face as he left in shame and frustration, likely never to see him again with what was left of his short lifespan, was too heavy a burden to bear.

“No.”

“Very good, then. Let’s prepare the ships for departure.”

…

…

The wolf-elf-thing carried Thistle out of the castle as everyone else walked. More elves had joined them, too—a whole separate unit just for capturing him.

He ought to feel a little prideful about that. Maybe he had, in a past life.

Now, though, he mostly felt tired.

He closed his eyes and listened to the squad members bicker about what they wanted for their last lunch on Merini now that their immediate departure was upon them.

Considering everything that had happened, it was a miracle he was eating at all. The visit from Laios already felt like a distant dream. Losing one’s desire was going to be a pain in his ass for the foreseeable future, wasn’t it? And in prison, nobody checked to make sure prisoners were eating well. If it was anything like the Golden Kingdom’s prison system, showers came inconsistent enough as it was, but if he had no desire to get clean, there was a chance he’d rot away in a corner, never to see the sun again. Maybe he hadn’t delayed his death as much as he thought.

Was that a blessing, or a curse?

He thought about Delgal. It was all he had left in his head, apparently. Any time he thought about eating or sleeping, the thought passed quickly, ephemeral.

I have to stay. I have to stay. I have to…

Each step away from home made his stomach turn and head throb. He didn’t have any energy left to fight and his body’s betrayal only made him all the more frustrated.

They didn’t trust him even with walking onto the ship by himself. The wolf-man dumped him onto a bed with a dresser underneath and a railing on the side to keep him in. He’d have to sit up if he wanted to jump down and that seemed beyond the scope of his physical capabilities.

Then they left, closing the door behind them. Nothing was explained to him. Not that he needed to know, anyway.

He thought fleetingly of escape, of testing the ropes again. But where would he even go if he managed to undo them? Mithrun with his teleportation abilities and the others whose powers were unknown to him would have him right back in the same place in a matter of minutes.

He couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for himself. So much had happened— he had tried his best to protect his family for so many years only to wind up cast aside like this.

“I need to see him!”

A voice in the hallway made Thistle’s ears perk up. It was Delgal—Delgal’s voice.

“And I already told you, you’re not allowed—”

The door burst open. Heavy feet marched to the end of his bed. He summoned the energy to open his eyes, but the window of his vision encompassed mostly the wood of his railing.

“Thistle.”

Arms curled around him and gently lifted him into a sitting position, the same as they had all the other times. Thistle read the worry in Delgal’s eyes, the firm downward turn of his lips.

It was easy to remember all of the times they’d fought in the end. Delgal begging Thistle to release the spell and Thistle too engulfed in his desire to save everyone and see how tightly the wool had been pulled over his eyes.

I just wanted you to be safe but now you’re gone to me forever and I never even got to say goodbye. I tried so hard to find you for so long and you didn’t even leave a note. You begged them to kill me after I did so much for you, after I loved you, and, and…

“Are you hurt?” Yaad asked.

Thistle’s eyes burned with tears. He closed his eyes as his cheeks throbbed with shame.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and af- after everything that happened, I—” Thistle started to speak, but the words settled like a lump deep in the back of his throat. They came out too crooked and strained, a child’s cry as he clung to his mother’s apron. It was shameful to be so desperate after doing so many atrocious things. He had no right to beg. But he could only think of Delgal’s arms as they curled tightly around him.

“It’s okay,” Yaad said.

Maybe it was a lie. But he needed to hear it.

A hand stroked the tangled hair splayed across his backside. “It won’t be forever, I promise. And I’ll write all the time. I’ll find time to visit you.”

“Okay,” came Thistle’s tired response.

“Please promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Yaad said.

He pulled back, setting his large hands on Thistle’s shoulders.

“I’ll try,” Thistle whispered.

Yaad’s expression loosened into a softer smile. “Good.”

“Are you all done with your little heart-to-heart?” A female elf Thistle didn’t recognize shouted. She grabbed Yaad by his arm; he tugged his arm back.

“I just wanted to say my final goodbyes,” he said.

“Your time’s up.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “Come with us before we have you forcibly removed.”

Yaad turned one last time to Thistle and flashed a smile.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, then stepped back through the door.

It closed quietly behind him and Thistle dropped back into the bed, his weight like a stone.

When he closed his eyes, sleep came.

Chapter Text

“I feel like I didn’t do enough for him.”

“I mean, considering everything, I think you were too helpful.”

“Really? How so?”

The next morning, Mithrun chatted with Kabru over breakfast. Kabru had cut his eggs for him— scrambled, at Senshi’s direction— and arranged them on the buttered slices of toast he now shoved into his mouth. They tasted good.

“I don’t know what Thistle was like before he became dungeon lord, but considering he was dungeon lord for a thousand years, he’s not one to be messed with. And you gave him a lot of advice that, if he took seriously, could lead him to recover even faster.”

“What’s the harm in that?” Mithrun asked.

Kabru stared at him. “Are you serious?”

Mithrun shrugged. “I think it would be a miracle if someone like that was able to recover even twenty percent of their original power. I was only dungeon lord for five years and it took me twenty more to become like this.”

He gestured to himself. Amazing results, I know.

“So, you really wanna keep helping him?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not worried about that backfiring at all?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kabru asked. “You didn’t hit your head or something?”

“I guess I’m just… a little worried.”

A deafening silence followed. Kabru put his silverware down and stared at him. Mithrun felt the burn of his gaze. If he was more emotive, he might have felt concerned.

“It’s normal to worry for someone you care about, isn’t it?” Mithrun asked. He was far from the savviest when it came to interpersonal relationships; most of those he had were carried over from work obligations. He wasn’t sure anymore what one would consider “appropriate” to feel for someone like Thistle, especially considering their history.

“You care about him?” Kabru blurted out, his eyes wide with shock. “Oh, I mean, sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Mithrun said. “I barely understand it myself.”

By all considerations, he shouldn’t care. That was how he’d operated for a long time. He had a lot of people he was indebted to for helping him get this far in life. He could barely thank his brother for all of the resources he’d invested in his recovery. When the other Canaries left for the Central Northern Continent yesterday, he had said goodbye, but he didn’t feel any sad longing that would come with missing them. He didn’t feel especially bad when Fleki shed tears for him and moped on his behalf about how difficult his life would be without them.

But Thistle… when he remembered how hard Thistle had fought to stay in his homeland, he felt a twinge of… something… stirring inside him.

“Captain!”

At Mithrun’s shoulder, Pattadol’s fairy flew to his ear. He wiped his mouth as he asked, “Yes?”

“It’s about Thistle.”

“What is it?”

“He hasn’t stopped screaming since he woke this morning, and between the vomiting and his thrashing, we’ve barely been able to keep him held down in his bed. Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

“Oh. It sounds like he’s having withdrawals.”

“Withdrawals?” Pattadol and Kabru dual-screamed.

Mithrun hummed. “From no longer having the demon’s power.”

“How did you handle it?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I was in my brother’s care, so he would know.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“I tried to hurt myself, so they put me in restraints. I wasn’t allowed to do very much every day.”

“But what about us? All we have is rope and he keeps trying to tear out of it!”

“You could try casting a sleeping spell on him, though the effect would be temporary.”

“We’ve been trying. At some point it stopped doing anything. His screams wake him up.”

“That sounds difficult,” Kabru said. “If I remember correctly, you have someone who’s able to use illusion magic, right? If he’s falling into lunacy again, maybe she can conjure up images of his family to calm him.”

“I’ll try that,” Pattadol said. “And I’ll get in touch with Obrin. Thank you so much, Captain.”

And then she flew off, presumably back to Merini Castle.

After a beat of silence, Mithrun realized Kabru was staring at him.

“What?”

“I worry about you,” Kabru said.

“Hm? Why?”

“If I told you, I don’t think you’d get it,” Kabru replied with a dejected sigh.

…

…

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

The thought circled his mind like water a drain, over and over, the sole object of his focus slipping farther and farther from his reach.

He had dreams, so many dreams, that started simple and happy. Reading spell books. Drawing. Playing the lute in the grassy plains of the Golden Kingdom, the wind tousling his hair. The bright blue sky that dipped slowly into bright oranges and pinks, Delgal at his shoulder watching in awe at the slow evolution into quiet night. When night came, though, the stars did not appear.

There was only darkness.

Darkness so deep and rich Thistle couldn’t even see Delgal beside him.

Delgal? Where did you go?

He tried to stand, couldn’t feel the grass beneath his feet anymore.

Delgal? Delgal!

He looked and looked, but he couldn’t see anything. He felt his face, the tender skin there, the too-short bangs he cut himself. His heart hammered against his chest.

You can’t be gone again already. After I just got you back! You can’t…

A cold hand touched his shoulder.

When Thistle turned, an old man stared at him, his eyes too large for their sockets, his teeth crooked and rotten. His limbs stretched out— gangly, unnatural— and grabbed his arm. If he had a smell, certainly it would be putrid.

“You killed us. Do you remember? Do you remember the sound my head made as it hit the basket when the guillotine’s blade came down on me? How my wife cried and the children screamed?”

I know. I’m a terrible person. I never should have done that. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

Another women appeared at his shoulder, also gaunt, thin strands of white hair trailing over her shoulders. Knobby fingers grabbed his shoulder and squeezed; there was surprising force behind her grip.

“How could Delgal ever love someone like that? He was right to ask for your death.”

I know, but…

More people came now, always just beyond his peripheral vision, skin pulled tight across their faces, anatomy stretched to inhuman proportions. Among the sea of ghosts materialized faces he recognized: his father, royal advisors, maids, even children, all joining in one miserable chorus. The people who had once fed him, treated him when he was ill, listened to his music and laughed and danced with him, all of them reduced to beady eyes and gangly grimaces and unkind hands that sought his still-frilled, delicate throat.

“Yet here you are, still alive. You have no desire; could death really be such a difficult task for you?”

It’s not… it’s not my fault!

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know! All I wanted was to protect you!” Thistle shouted.

“And you couldn’t even do that right.”

“What do you want from me? Stop, leave me alone, just stop it!”

Thistle screamed so hard he felt the back of his throat burn. He tried to push them off him but they kept coming, arms and hands and fingers grabbing at him, pulling at his hair and his ears and…

“Thistle? What’s happening?”

“Huh?”

Delgal’s voice hummed gently underneath the wave of voices. Thistle turned his head to the door. The ghosts parted as the tall-man approached him, worry writ across his face.

“Is everything alright?”

“You… you’re not…”

In an instant, the visions disappeared.

Delgal laughed lightly and sat on the edge of his bed. It sunk down with his weight. “Don’t look at me like that.” He poked Thistle in his midsection. “We just saw each other, but you’ve already forgotten what I asked of you. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“You’re not… you’re not here. You can’t be.”

Thistle’s voice came out in a tired whisper. He tried to shift away from him but he couldn’t move.

Delgal wore the same placid expression as he stroked the back of Thistle’s head. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

Thistle tried to argue. No, he wasn’t. They were taking him to prison to lock him up in a cell.

But he couldn’t open his mouth or find the words. The thoughts came to him like water slipping through his fingers; the shadow of the thought remained in the back of his head but the bulk of it had disappeared as soon as he conceived of the thought.

“You must be hungry.”

“Yes,” came his automatic reply.

There was something wrong. He had to get out of here. This wasn’t right.

Panic spiked in his chest as Delgal stood.

Thistle tracked him with his eyes as he picked up a bowl of something and placed it in his lap.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten,” Delgal said.

Thistle warily accepted the spoon Delgal handed him and looked down at the bowl in his lap. It looked like normal soup to him; he automatically scooped some into his spoon and brought it to his lips.

As he ate, the suspicion melted away. This was Delgal. Eating with him, just like he wanted. This was what he wanted. And the voices had stopped.

Everything was fine.

He emptied the bowl then proferred it to Delgal. “I’m tired. I think I’m going to rest.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said.

Delgal pulled the blanket over him and tucked every corner underneath the mattress. He fluffed the pillow, even brushed Thistle’s hair out of his eyes.

“Have a peaceful rest,” Delgal whispered.

“Mm. Thank… you…” Thistle whispered as his breath grew heavy.

…

…

The room was silent when Fleki poked her head in to check on Cithis’s progress. She had just finished casting her illusion magic and lowered her staff with a heavy sigh.

“Is the coast all clear?” Fleki whispered.

“Almost used up the last of my mana on him,” Cithis said. “That would have been bad.”

“I think my ears only just stopped ringing.”

“Did you come in here for something?”

“Yeah. Pattadol wanted to speak to you.”

Cithis scoffed. Probably not about anything good.

“Alright, then take over for me here.”

“Me? Watch over him?”

“He’s supposed to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Cithis said. She rose from the bed where she had been sitting to get a good view of Thistle’s face. He didn’t stir as she stood.

“But what if he wakes up?” Fleki asked. “I’m not dealing with that.”

“You won’t have to. I dosed the soup he ate with enough tranquilizer to keep even an orc sedated for a day.”

“That’s a relief,” Fleki sighed. She threw herself into a chair and smirked. “Alright, then I’ll be waiting right here for you when you get back.”

Splendid.

Cithis walked down the hallway to the other officer room and opened the door to find Pattadol, Flamela, and their respective fairies waiting. An empty chair had been drawn up to the table for her; he threw herself down onto it.

“What’s the status of his condition?” Pattadol asked.

“He’s finally asleep,” Cithis answered.

“Good.” Pattadol turned toward her fairy. “Doctor, what would you recommend?”

“Make sure he keeps eating. Rest is essential, but it would also be good to give him some fresh air, if possible.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Flamela said. “Prisoners don’t get fresh air.”

“Then his recovery will be slowed and he might fly into rages more frequently.”

“Is that really the only way to help him?” Pattadol asked.

“Yes. In Mithrun’s case, he saw the most recovery when he was cared for regularly. Things like fresh air will help him clear his head, and he’ll be less likely to lash out. Also, if you can, don’t restrain him too tightly. It might cut off circulation and cause issues.”

“Well. You heard him,” Pattadol said.

She turned toward Cithis, who had been checking her nails throughout the conversation. “Hm?”

“Did you hear none of what he said?” Pattadol asked.

“No, not really.”

“It’s your responsibility to see to his needs for the rest of this journey,” Flamela said. “Meals, hygiene, rest— all of it. And if I see you slacking, I’m extending your sentence.”

Cithis scoffed. “Who died and made you queen?”

“And no talking back. The queen needs him alive. If we find him dead on your watch, you won’t like the consequences.”

“Understood,” Cithis said, all blasé. “Is that all?”

“Yes. You may go.”

Cithis rose to her feet and left the room. When she reentered Mithrun’s repurposed private chambers, she found Thistle hadn’t stirred an inch—

—But that Fleki, Otta, and Lycion were climbing all over him with brushes.

The edge of Cithis’s lips quirked up into a smile and then a full-on grin.

“We’re getting payback for being woken so rudely this morning,” Otta said as she drew a large circle around one of his eyes.

Cithis dropped into a chair and extended a hand. “Give me one of those brushes.”

…

…

It was late into the night when the others began growing tired and slipped away to their beds. Otta was first, boredly slinking off to her bed next door. Fleki was second; Lycion carried her away then returned to sit backwards on a chair, his face nestled atop his arms as he watched Thistle sleep.

It was kind of him to offer to switch off duty watching him with her. She doubted she’d need the help, though; now that he was asleep, he wasn’t rowdy at all.

“Do you think he’ll wake up and start screaming again soon?” Lycion asked through a yawn.

“No,” Cithis said. “I think his mind is all goop inside, so it’s easy to manipulate.”

Maybe, if they were lucky, he wouldn’t wake up again until they landed.

“He has so much spunk for someone with no desires.”

“Mm-hmm.” Cithis reclined back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“I wonder if Captain went through this, too.”

“Yes, he did,” Cithis said. “By the time I met him though, he wasn’t this bad.”

Lycion exhaled a deep sigh. “We really have our work cut out for us, huh?”

“When don’t I?” she sighed. “Now that I have him under control, though, it should be smooth sailing.”

…

…

Delgal kept visiting him as he slept.

At first, Thistle welcomed it. Even though he knew Delgal was gone, even though he was steeped enough in grief as it was and deep down he knew this would make the pain throb even worse once he stopped coming, it was like a bittersweet medicine he couldn’t help but swallow more of.

The first few times tasted so delicious— better than anything he’d eaten in his life (sans the tart, of course). He smiled and joked and moved just like the real thing.

But then doubt settled in. This wasn’t real.

Delgal was lying to him.

Someone was lying to him.

Forced to be happy: was that any different from being forced to suffer? There were things he had to do. And he couldn’t stand being taken advantage of, not after everything he’d been through with the demon.

He tried to talk reason to the thing the next time it came. Surprisingly, it seemed amicable enough to Thistle’s questions.

“Delgal, I think I’m feeling a little better,” Thistle said as the thing sat on the edge of his bed.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I wanna visit Eodio.”

“But…”

“You’ll let me see him, won’t you? Can’t you do that much?”

The thing with Delgal’s face stared at him in worry and hesitation. Then he lowered himself onto his feet. “Okay.”

Delgal extended a hand to him and he took it.

Thistle dropped onto the ground and reeled as the world around him pivoted. He faintly remembered the ship; it must be rocking.

The thing led him through a series of doors and up a flight of stairs. Thistle stepped ahead of him and turned the door handle, wind gusting around his small frame as it revealed a bright blue sky on the other side.

He knew this sky— recognized the unnatural saturation, the perfect clouds. Wherever he was, it certainly wasn’t here. Ahead of him he saw a wide balcony, just like those he used to frequent in the castle. He was so high up he could barely see the countryside down below. Specks of pollen and strands of hair blew into his face, but he didn’t bother to push them away.

“Where’s Eodio?” Thistle asked, but when he turned, he found that he was alone.

…

…

Lycion woke in the middle of the night to something stirring at his side.

It had been Cithis’s turn last to watch Thistle, so he brushed it off as her taking a quick break to go piss or something. She had pulled him out of the middle of a really good dream and, keen to return to it, he shifted in his place and buried his neck deeper into the corner of the chair.

The door closed, and he heaved a tired sigh.

Then, a very Cithis-like grumble sounded beside him.

His eyes popped open.

At his side, Cithis slept undisturbed. The door creaked on its hinges and waved open and closed with the shifting of the tides. Lycion jumped to his feet and grabbed Cithis’s arm, nails digging ever so lightly into her flesh.

“Hey, Cithis! Cithis!”

“Huh?” She hummed groggily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“He’s escaped!”

“Wh— oh shit.”

He dashed through the door first without waiting for her to follow, launching himself down the hallway and up the stairs. Thistle’s scent was sharp on his nose and he found him easily, standing with back facing them as he looked over the railing. The night was dark and cold, with ocean spray coating their bodies in water. Thistle’s hair whipped wildly around his body as he leaned down over the edge of the railing. In two strides, Lycion closed the distance between them and engulfed Thistle in his sturdy arms.

He expected kicking and biting and screaming, threats to end his life or some cruel slurs about his appearance. He was surprised when the threats never came, instead only some wailing and face buried deeply into his arm.

Cithis came not long after brandishing her staff, but Lycion waved her off.

“Let’s let him get it out of his system a little bit.”

The wind was loud enough to swallow the sounds of his wails and not alert the other occupants. They stood for a few minutes in the rain until Thistle’s voice had given out on him and the rain had chilled them to the bone. He didn’t make a peep as Cithis cast her spell on him and Lycion carried him to the back of the ship where they could get him washed and dressed in clean clothes.

Back inside the ship, Lycion gathered a pile of dirty clothes and finished it off by tossing the final sopping wet towel on top. He’d done what he could to dry Thistle’s hair and body. Cithis helped him bandage Thistle’s forearms where the wind and rain had ripped away the previous gauze keeping them covered.

“That was close,” Cithis sighed, melting into a chair as Lycion pulled a too-large shirt over Thistle’s head. It was almost like dressing a doll; his pretty features made the similarity uncanny, especially when he moved so little.

“Thank god we got to him in time,” Lycion sighed. “We’re gonna have to be even more careful going forward.”

“At least he’s asleep now,” she said.

Lycion leaned forward. Though he hadn’t noticed at first, Lycion saw a peek of almost-grey violet beneath frazzled bangs. Thistle’s eyes were trained on something far away, distant. It reminded him of what Fleki looked like sometimes when she downed her mushrooms and was free, familiar’s wings cresting across a bright, clear sky, the sunlight glinting between golden feathers.

“No, I think he’s still awake,” Lycion said, matter-of-fact.

He ignored the chill that ran down his spine as he smoothed out the curls framing Thistle’s swollen cheeks. Most of the ink on his face had washed off in the rain aside from streaks down each cheek.

Chapter Text

Before departing for the Northern Central Continent, Mithrun had left Pattadol with a final request: If you could send me updates about Thistle from time to time, that’d be great.

At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it. Given she was about to begin her new role as a diplomat, Pattadol would have easy access to information like that, which was why she had assumed he’d asked her to do it. But Thistle, of all people? Was it simply because Mithrun wanted to keep an eye on him as a former dungeon lord? Thistle would be under tight security in the elven capital but maybe Mithrun didn’t think it’d be enough.

It wasn’t until the first night that Pattadol understood the reason Mithrun had asked that of her.

The first hours of their trip, he’d been hit with some seasickness, but that couldn’t compare to what was to come. Unholy screaming started sometime around dinner and, when they checked Thistle’s room, he was thrashing in bed, his eyes rolled back, body bent at unnatural angles. Blood dripped from his forearms where he had apparently scratched himself, the hair wild and scattered from so much tossing.

They called in Cithis.

The first sleep spell had worked for about ten minutes before wearing off.

Pattadol was too afraid to get near him when he fell back into one of his fevered fits, but Flamela didn’t shy away from putting him into restraints or shouting back the same obscenities he shouted at her. He gnawed and writhed in the ropes even while under surveillance, trying to throw himself onto the floor or into walls. Pattadol quickly called upon Mithrun then Obrin, who got her in touch with the family doctor who had been in charge of Mithrun’s recovery.

The next night was leagues better. No screaming or thrashing woke them in the middle of the night; whatever Cithis was doing, it was working.

Pattadol stopped by Thistle’s room later to find Cithis sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning something from his face. He was in new clothes and bandages. His eyes were open but unblinking.

“Looks like he’s finally come to his senses,” Pattadol said.

“Partly,” Cithis said.

“As long as he doesn’t cause any more problems for us, it should be fine. We’ll only have to endure another week of this.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Cithis said with a sigh. “I don’t know if my illusion magic—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Thistle grabbed her by the wrist and twisted. Pattadol gasped, and Cithis easily yanked her hand back.

“If you show me Delgal ever again, I’ll kill you.”

His eyes blazed with lucidity, edges of his teeth peeking out like the fangs of a wolf.

“Get off me,” Cithis spat. She shoved him into the wall and his hand dropped from her throat, his eyes closing.

“Hey!” Pattadol shouted. She gripped Cithis’s shoulder and pulled her around to face her. “Don’t ever lay a hand on him like that again. Need I repeat myself? We need him alive.”

“He can take a little manhandling,” Cithis said with a roll of her eyes.

“Unless he starts eating properly, no, he can’t,” Pattadol said.

“Tch.” Cithis scoffed, turning her head away.

“What’s going on in here?”

Flamela appeared in the threshold of the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Nothing, everything’s fine,” Pattadol said. “Did you need something?”

“We need to talk.”

Pattadol cast one last uncertain glance in Cithis’s direction before turning on her heels and following Flamela down the hallway to her room.

Flamela shut the door tightly behind her. Pattadol reminded herself to speak quietly lest the others overhear.

“We’re slated to arrive in seven days’ time. Do you think you can keep your beast tamed for that long?” Flamela asked.

“Yes,” Pattadol said. “Cithis has everything under control.”

“Good. Because if that thing gets out of control one more time, I’m not afraid to silence it.”

“But the queen—”

“Have I ever been one to care what the queen thinks?” Flamela asked.

“W- well, you should!”

“I’ll start caring when I have a reason to,” she said. “Until then, stay out of my way.”

Flamela marched out of the room before Pattadol could open her mouth again. Once she managed to control her nerves, she stepped out too and walked past Thistle’s room. She felt Cithis’s amused stare burning her back as she passed.

…

...

God, this fucking sucks.

Thistle’s head throbbed with a migraine as he lay flat in his bed. His nerves buzzed, either from the stress or the malnutrition, he wasn’t sure.

Despite it all, though, he was feeling… relatively better. No more nightmares had come for him since that first night and he was getting better at keeping food down. The seasickness had passed and he spent his hours staring up at the ceiling, his forearms throbbing.

He couldn’t remember when he had hurt himself like that. He remembered the nightmares and the moment Delgal left, but not how he had woken from the dream or returned to his bed coiled so tightly in blankets that he couldn’t move. Someone had put him in fresh clothing which smelled fresh and faintly familiar.

Having a part of his memory missing certainly wasn’t his favorite thing, but he could piece together easily enough what had happened. The nightmares had driven him to do something reckless, they got him back into control (likely by force), and then he woke up feeling utterly exhausted— again.

He kept his eyes closed unless it was time to eat something, in which case he summoned what little energy he had to sit up and take the bowl from whoever’s hands. He tried to make the process as quick as possible— rip off the chunks of buttered bread, down the soup in a few gulps, then lay down again.

Their visit this time was different. They wanted him to stand.

“Why?” he asked.

“Taking you to the bathroom.”

He’d started to become familiar with the people on the ship. The one who spoke now was the were-creature. He wore a smile that belied the unpleasantness of the task as he grabbed Thistle around his middle and lifted him from the bunk bed.

“You don’t need to carry me. I can walk myself.”

“And try to throw yourself into the ocean again? I don’t think so.”

Thistle scoffed. Another secret of his past that he didn’t remember. With the anticipation that he’d have to walk gone, he dropped his full weight onto the man’s shoulder and sighed.

…

...

Once that duty was complete, they headed back above-board to the deck. Thistle puzzled at this but didn’t ask questions; the were-man placed him in a chair and tied rope around his chest.

“Are you going to torture me?” Thistle asked.

“No. Cithis told me to give you some fresh air. I heard if you focus on the horizon, you’re less likely to feel seasick.”

Thistle scoffed. Yeah, okay. The sickness had already faded away regardless, but the change of pace was nice. At least here he didn’t overhear as many conversations from through thin wooden walls.

The man pulled up a chair and sat beside him. Thistle felt his eyes roaming his face and body; he ignored that in favor of staring at the ocean as its bright-blue water drew a wobbly line on the horizon. The sky wasn’t too different from the one in his dreams and the visions the illusion caster made.

“How do you feel?” the man asked.

Thistle didn’t respond.

“Do you feel like killing yourself?”

Thistle didn’t say anything.

“I used to feel that way. It was really tough,” the guy sighed. “It takes a lot of effort not to feel that way. I guess you’re on an even steeper uphill battle than I first thought.”

“Are you done?” Thistle asked.

“Hm? Well, I guess, yeah.”

“I never asked anyone to pity me. Think what you want, but this is my business. Don’t stick your nose in it.”

“That kind of thinking is too destructive, don’t you think?” he asked.

“No,” Thistle murmured. “It’s what I deserve.”

“You’re a miserable guy, you know?”

I know.

A cold breeze gusted through, tousling Thistle’s hair. The man beside him made an excited noise then scooted his chair behind him. Warm fingers and long nails brushed the back of his neck as the man started to comb his hair and arrange it into a braid.

He didn’t have the energy to refuse.

“You know, Captain used to have longer hair, too. He cut it after he lost his desires to make it easier to maintain.”

“Your captain’s a fool.”

The man snorted. “It sounds like someone’s jealous.”

Not about that. But other things, yes, maybe.

The hands at the back of his neck felt… kind of nice. In the before times, he might’ve been able to doze off like this. Not now, though. Not when he sometimes forgot his needs altogether.

“What are you doing?” A female voice called.

Thistle didn’t look up as she approached. She began to talk to the were-man, probably making some jabs at him in the process that he didn’t hear.

“Oh, wow. He really will let you do anything to him.”

At Thistle’s ear, he felt a finger twist around one of the long, curling bangs.

“Watch out, he still bites,” came the were-man’s amused warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m all caught up on my vaccines.”

Nice that someone was having a fun time. He would appreciate if they’d keep their hands to themselves.

“I wonder how Mithrun channels his magic? I guess I never thought about it too much.”

“Oh, I think he exercises.”

“Well, that’s practical. I guess it makes sense. It’d be funny if he started throwing up gang signs or obscene gestures.”

The girl snorted. “Could you imagine?”

Did they really have to be talking about that guy again?

“God, I already miss him. I don’t wanna go back to jail!”

“At least your sentence is being shortened,” the were-man said. “I’m in for life.”

“I’m sure we can get Mithrun to pull a few strings for you,” she snickered. “After all, I think the queen has a soft spot for him.”

How had he managed that? There wasn’t that much to like. Thistle stuck his tongue out.

In the high security prisons, you're to a room alone, and they're a little bigger.

That man… It was his fault Thistle was in this position to begin with. He remembered the tart Mithrun had given him, the asinine words that had come from his mouth…

What a perplexing creature.

Thistle considered opening his mouth and asking about Mithrun, but he’d sooner cut off his own tongue than have a chat with these bastards. To live fully surrounded by elves… He couldn’t say that the prospect appealed to him that much. He’d rather live with Delgal. Delgal was the only good human of the bunch as far as he was concerned.

Him and maybe Yaad.

“Well, I think it’s all finished.”

The were-man stood again and Thistle moved to do the same. The ship rocked with the shifting waves, throwing him off-balance. His hands shot out, seeking something stable to grab onto. His hands ultimately found the solid mass that was the were-man’s arm— His face brightened with amusement while Thistle grimaced.

“Maybe you still need to be carried. Don’t want you to hit your head on anything.”

“No,” Thistle growled.

“Well, okay. Man, you’re harder to keep alive than I thought.”

…

...

A few days later…

It took longer than usual tonight for Cithis— as she became known to him— to visit his room and administer him with his usual dinner laced with sleep aids.

The whole ship seemed to be in a fuss because they were slated to arrive at the capital tomorrow and preparations had to be made for landing. That, and half the ship seemed to be filled with toddlers hopped up on too much sugar that he happened to share a wall with.

That night, it was quiet as Thistle lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Nothing came or left his mind. It seemed he’d slipped back into his more vegetable-like roots.

Ha, he laughed bitterly.

He turned onto his side, burying his face in his pillow, as pealing laughter pierced his ears from the other side of the wall.

One of the Canaries had dressed him in fresh clothing again that afternoon. They stank of the same sweet, woody mix of pears and wintergreen that he slept in every night.

When Cithis came by that night, Thistle commented on it.

“Do you have pears?”

“Oh, no,” she said.

“It stinks of it in here.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Mithrun’s hair wash or something.”

Thistle’s face twisted up with disgust. “What?”

“You’re in his old room.”

“Oh.”

“We had to put you somewhere,” she said as she fitted a spoon into his hand and placed the bowl of soup in his lap.

Thistle ate his food without any trouble then handed the empty bowl back and lay down.

The stuff usually took half an hour to kick in; he wondered if his body would eventually grow a resistance to it.

Cithis slipped through the door as laughter continued to echo through the ship.

Mithrun, the bastard.

I can never escape you, huh? And now I have to smell like you, too?

He felt his body growing heavier with fatigue. When he closed his eyes, he felt his consciousness slip away into the deep, quiet night.

…

...

In the morning, Thistle heard the sound of bells ringing.

It took him a few tries to regain full control of his consciousness, but when he did, he saw Cithis standing over him, patting the fat of his cheek with her wand.

“Get up, you lazy bum!”

He did his best to exhale a lazy groan to indicate his return to the waking world.

“Oh, good. Lycion, if you could?”

Lycion appeared hovering above him. Thistle felt his arms pulling him up, a rush of dizziness almost drawing him back down. He wanted to say he could get up on his own but that was obviously quickly disproven.

Lycion finished pulling him down from his bed and give him a brief chance to (unsuccessfully) prove he could walk on his own before heaving him onto his shoulder. Thistle hit his head on the top of the doorframe as Lycion carried him above-deck, but he hadn’t yet regained enough of his constitution to even bitch about that.

At first, Thistle thought his throbbing head was to blame for all the bright noises and sounds he saw. But then his eyes adjusted and he really did see an upside-down buzzing port full of fishermen, sailors, ship hands, and, of course, military in full regalia who had no doubt waited for their arrival to escort Thistle to his resting grounds. Sunlight bleached the city in the distance in bright silvers, blues, and whites, buildings climbing atop each other as they approached the sky. A seagull passed by, momentarily blocking out the sun and giving Thistle a chance to blink.

“Do you like it?” Lycion asked. “Welcome to the elven capital.”

Chapter Text

Mithrun kept himself busy in the days following the Canaries’ departure. Laios and his company always had need of his abilities and moving around kept him from stagnating. One day it was carrying heavy objects up stairs; the next returning tables that had been used for the dinner and spreading manure to desalinate the wastelands that had risen alongside the castle. Mithrun expected in the next few years, monsters would find their way to this land as it became more populated. So, he would still be busy for a good long while.

Especially if any news came before that of a new dungeon or odd activity that could be associated with the demon.

For now, some rest was certainly preferable. The castle was large enough that each person could take up a whole wing just for themself. While some took Laios up on that offer, a few others were quick to provide their own suggestions for the layout and distribution of rooms. Since Kabru would also be staying around to support the new king and was willing to keep helping Mithrun on the side, Mithrun opted to take a room near his down the same hall.

At dinner, they ate together, with different people preparing the meal each night. Marcille in particular seemed especially happy whenever Senshi placed down a new dish that hadn’t been made with monster. The king and his sister, however, always went after those dishes first.

Mithrun’s mind was somewhere else as he jabbed his fork into one of the main dishes and dropped the serving onto his plate. He was settling into this new life smoothly enough. There were still plenty of times when he forgot himself or what he was doing, but on the whole, the adjustment away from captain seemed to be good for him.

He was able to focus on multiple things at once now that his mind had been freed from constant thoughts of the dungeon lord and how best to defeat the demon. He still didn’t possess nearly as much power over his body as he would have liked, but he had reclaimed some awareness over his physical state even if it was difficult still to move his body when it didn’t want to go.

That had always been a big struggle for him, though. It always felt like he was fighting himself, forcing himself to do things when it didn’t want to. Having to think very consciously and intently about every move he made, every step in front of the next.

That was how he had learned to walk again.

“…You hear me?”

Mithrun looked up from his half-empty plate to a fairy floating in front of him. It had just asked him a question, but he apparently made a puzzled-enough expression for the fairy to understand that he hadn’t heard it.

“I said, we have arrived at the capital,” Pattadol said.

“Oh, good.” Mithrun took another bite of his food.

“How are things here? Has all been well?”

Mithrun nodded.

“I also had an update about… you know.”

Around the table, the others were engrossed in lively discussion about other things. The rest of Laios’s party hadn’t fully departed from each other yet and were making a ruckus as always. Kabru’s and Shuro’s parties were also here, adding to the noise.

While Mithrun wouldn’t have cared either way, he was especially inclined not to care about eavesdropping as he asked, “Has he improved?”

“He has a little bit…”

He’d worked with Pattadol long enough to know she wasn’t lying, but the meekness in her tone belied the full scope of the truth.

Mithrun put down his silverware and turned toward Pattadol’s fairy. Seated at his shoulder was Falin; she perked up when she noticed the movement.

“Did something happen?” Mithrun asked.

“What didn’t happen?” Pattadol asked. She sighed deeply. “No, everything’s okay. He was awake when Lycion carried him off the ship this morning and he’s scheduled to meet with a doctor this afternoon after he’s been washed up and had something to eat.”

“Are you talking about Thistle?” Falin asked.

“Ex- excuse me?” Pattadol asked. Her eyes went wide as she set them on Falin. “Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you. I just overheard you guys and it sounds like him,” Falin said.

“Yes, it’s him alright,” Pattadol groaned. “Flamela wanted to bite my head off after finding out he was causing trouble for Cithis. Almost had to drug him the whole way just to make sure he behaved enough not to become a nuisance for everyone on board. Flamela was threatening to kill him if he didn’t calm down.”

“That sounds awful. Can they really do that? Don’t they need him alive?” Falin asked.

“In theory. And she shouldn’t! It’d still be murder, even if it’s an inmate! And the queen’s supposed to speak to him! It would be a whole mess if something like that happened!”

“Like what happened?” Yaad asked.

The turn of one head led to a cascading effect that spiraled down the whole table. The small fairy’s shouting reached Laios’s ears at the other end and he stopped mid-sentence, fork still held up, wide, curious eyes boring into theirs. Pattadol’s fairy threw its hands over its mouth and flew into the back of his head. The hair there wasn’t thick enough to hide her and her legs dangled down, tickling his shoulder.

“I’m not saying another thing!”

“What’s wrong? What happened to Thistle?” Yaad asked.

This seemed like it could likely lead to some unnecessary strain on their intergovernmental relations if the misunderstanding wasn’t cleared away quickly.

At Mithrun’s other shoulder, he heard Kabru suck in air. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Oh, it’s nothing, it’s nothing! Nobody worry. We were just talking about what it would be like if he were still here! We’ve just gotten a bit curious about him, that’s all.”

Slowly enough, with a bit more talking down, Kabru managed to convince the others to return their attention to the food. He dropped back into his chair and snatched Pattadol’s fairy from her hiding place, bringing her face close to his scowl.

“Executing a Merini on elven soil? Do you even know how that would look? This county is brand-new; we can’t already be talking about the sort of stuff that brings other countries to the brink of war!” He whisper-shouted.

“Hey, that’s not what I said. And anyway, he survived the trip here, didn’t he? If you’re so worried about execution, tell Laios to have a word with her!”

“We’ve already—”

Falin cleared her throat. “Everything’s okay for the moment, and that’s what matters. I hope that his check-up goes well.”

Kabru sighed as he released his grip on the fairy. She huffed at him then landed on the edge of the table, her arms crossed.

“Yeah. Right,” Pattadol said. “I can’t wait for him to be out of our custody and in the hands of the queen’s guard already.”

“Do you know what they’ll do to him?” Falin asked.

“There’s no—”

“Oh, there’s a couple of different options,” Kabru interrupted. “First off, I think it’s very unlikely they’ll let him just rot away in a cell. The Queen of the Elves cares a lot about purity and power, so she might keep him around for his information or abilities. I’ve heard a lot of the Canaries’ sentences are getting shortened and that’s probably to reintroduce more elven populace into the workforce and into homes. Population rates are decreasing, and if the queen can stir up some good impressions of the country, it might give people more confidence in their futures. If there’s more people working during a prosperous enough economic time, they’ll likely see a boom in reproduction. But illnesses are always a big risk for elves, because even with stronger immune systems, they still live longer lives and get subjected to more disease across their average lifespan than tallmen do. So, my guess would be magic to deal with healing or reproductive health would be a priority. But, if there’s fewer inmates as they’re released from their sentences, she might need more manpower; in which case, Thistle could be a potential replacement or new entry into their military to maintain a robust force.”

“Jeez, do you ever stop talking? I didn’t ask to know that much,” Pattadol said. “Mithrun, I have to go. I’ll update you again in a few days if anything notable happens.”

“Thank you,” Mithrun said, and then she flew off.

“That sounds fascinating,” Falin said. “So, what do you think is most likely?”

“Hmm. If I were in her place, I guess I would care most about knowing what kind of magic Thistle used in the dungeon. Even if commoners aren’t allowed to use black magic, I don’t think the queen is so ignorant that she wouldn’t acknowledge its power. And if you understand how something works, you have control over it. Hey, Mithrun.”

Mithrun perked up at the call of his name and turned to him.

“Did she ask you anything about your time as dungeon lord?”

“She asked me a few questions, bot nothing in-depth.”

“Hm. Interesting. Well, still.” Kabru leaned back in his chair. “He’s ruled for a long time and magic has changed a lot in that time. So, I’ll be curious to see if he has any unique spells up his sleeves that we’ve never seen before.”

“It’s certainly possible he knows more archaic versions, at least,” Mithrun said.

But when they had faced off, Thistle hadn’t thrown anything at him that had impressed him all that much.

Maybe Thistle would surprise him.

…

...

“You’re underweight.”

“Well, yeah. I’d be more surprised if I wasn’t.”

Speaking felt like grinding gravel between Thistle’s teeth as he sat on the edge of the doctor’s examination table. The doctor had just finished weighing him on a scale and asked him to sit down as he wrote some notes down onto a clipboard. The room was small and quiet with just them in it alone; Thistle knew, however, that the red-eyed woman was on the other side of the wall, bitchy face screwed up in annoyance as she waited for them to be finished.

“How have you been feeling lately?” the doctor asked.

Thistle stared at him. So many elves possessed androgynous features; he should have expected that. He was an extremely androgynous elf himself. But with growing up surrounded by tallmen for so long, he supposed he’d forgotten the distinctive, smooth curve of the jaw, the youthful eyes and thin lips and silky hair associated with most of their race. This doctor was no different, and despite how much Thistle might have trusted the stranger if they had met in a past life, Thistle felt nothing toward him now.

It would help if he could pull a few sentences from the back of his clogged-up throat, but all he could manage was: “Bad.”

“Bad, huh?” the doctor parroted. He looked Thistle over as if trying to choose what to acknowledge first. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to your arms?”

“I was in… some sort of nightmare and I scratched myself.”

“Does that happen often?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thistle. You can share with me. I’m here to help you. Mithrun was also under my care while he was recovering from his loss of desires.”

“And you would consider him ‘recovered?’” Thistle asked. “The guy whose only reason for being reinstated in the first place was because you guys couldn’t catch me without him? The guy who looked like his lips would start bleeding if a breeze blew into him the wrong way?”

“So you’ve met him,” the doctor sighed. “I promise he’s sturdier than he looks. The same can’t be said of you, though. I’ve heard that you’ve been refusing to eat?”

“Yes. That’s kind of part of the whole ‘don’t have any desires anymore’ thing. Are you going to help with that, by the way? Or can I go back to staring at the ceiling yet?”

“Not just yet. I had a few more questions for you.”

Thistle sighed.

“May I touch you?”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m going to squeeze your forearm. Tell me to stop if it begins to hurt.”

“Okay.”

Thistle turned his head and watched as the man closed his larger hand around his thin forearm. He started to squeeze, and Thistle certainly felt it, but it didn’t hurt. And when he started to feel the first sting of pain, he didn’t do anything to stop it.

It- it hurts. Oh, ow.

“Do you feel it?” The doctor asked.

“Yeah.”

The doctor’s hand had started to tremble with the force he was using to squeeze him. The little sting spread into a jolt down to his stomach laced with a deep, trembling fear that he man was about to break his arm. Thistle’s mouth barely moved. Was this what torture felt like?

“Does it hurt yet?”

“I… I…”

Thistle wanted to pull back, but he couldn’t force his body to move. It hurt. The pressure dug into the existing scars but he couldn’t do anything about the pain. He could only stare in horror as the doctor pulled his hand away, revealing a clean imprint where his hand had been.

Shame and anger burned inside him. Why had the doctor done that? Didn’t he know how badly it hurt? And why couldn’t Thistle say anything?

“That looks painful. I’m sorry if I hurt you,” the doctor said.

“Why, why can’t, can’t I say it? It- you hurt me,” Thistle hissed.

“I asked you to tell me to stop if it hurt and you didn’t,” the doctor said.

Thistle grit his teeth. “I don’t remember you saying that.”

“It’s clear that your absence of desires is interfering with your survival instincts. I’ll take note of that.”

“What do you mean?” Thistle asked. His arm bloomed purple with a deep bruise.

“You were put in a dangerous situation and your body involuntarily froze up. It seemed you immediately subconsciously forgot my orders and any desire you had to protect yourself disappeared. I’d like to run another test, if I’d like.”

“This time with no abuse, I hope?” Thistle grimaced.

“I promise I’ll heal you in a moment.”

Thistle sent him a guarded stare.

“Try getting up and walking across the room for me.”

Thistle pushed off the mattress on either side of him and landed firmly on his feet. He pitched forward but straightened himself before the doctor could cross the room to grab him. For days he’d been telling everyone he wanted to walk on his own two feet, and every time he was shot down. He grit his teeth as he took a step forward; his body obeyed with an intense throb in his arm. God, how he hated this.

The next step came no easier. He started counting the steps, looking forward to the moment when he could rest. He reached the other side of the room where a counter filled with spellbooks and medicines were and gripped the edge with both his hands. His vision flickered and he leaned heavily into the lip, exhaling a relieved sigh.

“That looks like it took a lot of effort.”

“No. It’s- it’s the malnutrition.”

As much as the admission made him stick to his stomach, it was the truth.

“Let’s get you lying down back over here.”

The doctor helped Thistle back to the bed with a much gentler touch than before. Thistle dropped his weight onto the bed and closed his eyes. A second later, he felt the warm buzz of healing magic from his shoulders down to his tingling fingers and opened his eyes to find that the doctor was following through on his promise.

“In the future, I’d advise that your warden heal you as soon as possible. Do you have any idea why they didn’t while you were on the ship? Certainly someone knew healing magic?

“Maybe they didn’t think I was worth healing.”

It was a cold fact but the only one he could think of.

The doctor clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Really, those military types… they need to take better care of their prisoners. Here. Drink this.”

With great effort, Thistle pushed himself up into a sitting position as the doctor offered him a vial with a tan liquid inside. He sniffed it; it smelled like honey.

“It’s a stamina potion; it’ll help with your difficulty moving.”

Thistle accepted the vial, closed his eyes, and downed it in one go. It didn’t taste or feel like anything as it went down, but once he swallowed, he felt a little less dizzy.

“It’ll be a little while before I have your full diagnosis ready, but for right now you definitely need to be drinking more fluids and eating regular meals. I would be curious to know what your blood count is like, too. You may be anemic considering your BMI is so low. I’ll talk to your wardens about possibly creating a nutrition regimen for you. Does that all sound good to you?”

“Okay,” Thistle said.

“Alright, good. I’m glad that I was able to speak with you today.”

“Good for you.”

The man’s smile wavered, clearly unamused with his blasé responses. He was clearly the fool here though for expecting someone like Thistle to be anything but resigned.

…

…

Thistle was beginning to prefer the big-nosed, blond-haired guard over the red-eyed bitch. At least the blond one was talkative and didn’t leave him in apprehensive anticipation like the red-eyed one did. She led him from the doctor’s to a quiet room that looked scarily similar to the dungeons back in the Golden Kingdom. She had left him handcuffed and on a stool, forced to stare at the cracks in between stones grown old with moss and soil. Eventually, she returned with two older elves dressed in dark velvet cloaks.

Was he about to be tortured? Close calls had passed already, but maybe she was administering his punishment for everything that had happened on the ship ride here.

“This is the man?” one of the elves asked as they knelt to see Thistle’s face.

He felt the spit gathering at the front of his mouth but swallowed before launching it in the man’s eye.

“Yes,” she said. She kicked one of the legs of the stool. “Stay still, brat. You won’t like it if they mess up.”

“What are you—”

“I said, stay still.”

A pair of hands closed down around Thistle’s shoulders as the other person reached for his wrist. The same chill as before came down upon him as he thought to move away but couldn’t.

The guard removed his handcuffs. The searing-bright glow of magic engulfed the small room and Thistle closed his eyes as he felt the familiar pull of a mana drainage spell sucking up the last of the mana he had.

It didn’t occur to him until that moment that perhaps some of his symptoms could also be attributed to a loss of magical power. Along with the loss of Delgal, maybe that was why he had been feeling so empty lately. He almost felt hungry— restless, without the low thrum of power running through him.

As expected, he instantly felt more tired but, as with all the last times he tried to rest, his body refused to shut down even when it ought to. He felt trapped between unconsciousness and lucidity as he stared confusedly at the hands moving over his arms, a quiet voice mumbling out some phrases in Elvish that he couldn’t understand. It felt like gravity had suddenly gained density around him, pulling him deeper forward, head pitching toward his stomach.

Between one blink and the next, Thistle was sitting on a stool one second and on all fours staring into the ground the next. Had he caught himself from fainting? Had seconds passed, or hours? As he begged over and over for his body to obey the small task of sitting up, his vision cleared and he fixed his gaze on the dark, black rings that now adorned each wrist.

“The spell is complete,” a voice hummed above his head. “I have sealed his magic.”

Chapter Text

God, he looked so ugly.

No self-respecting ex-court jester would willingly wear something as ugly and unappealing as prisoner garb to an official audience with a queen even if it wasn’t a queen he possessed any respect for.

Thistle tried to display something akin to a prideful lift of his chin, but he grew tired of holding the pose for more than five seconds as they tread the cleanly polished halls. They stopped outside a door; Flamela gestured for the guards and Thistle to wait outside while she entered.

A minute later, they gestured him inside.

Why was he so scared? He knew what kings were like. Hell, his surrogate father was a king. And it was all pointless anyway; it didn’t matter how he wanted to look to her. He hardly knew what would come out of his mouth until he opened it.

Thistle crossed the large room on his own, Flamela closing the door behind him as she waited outside with the guards. He shuttered, taking one glance back before directing his gaze toward the tall windows looking out over a city he could barely remember traversing. The queen was lounging across a settee, some tulle material draped across her shoulders, leaving very little to the imagination. Her long curtain of hair did a better job of covering her breasts than any sheer strip of fabric did. Was this what traditional elves dressed like? He felt almost ashamed at how little he actually understood of elven culture.

“Go on, take a seat.”

Thistle sat on the edge of a chair; his body relaxed at the release of pressure at the back of his legs.

“Do you know why I’ve summoned you today?” she asked.

“To punish me for my actions as dungeon lord.”

“Correct. And how old are you?”

Only her eyes tracked the subtle shift of Thistle’s expression as he considered the question.

He honestly didn’t know. He’d been trying his hardest to avoid thinking at all about that time of his life for fear of the nightmares coming back. The time he spent as the mad mage, lunatic magician, psychotic sorcerer— whatever they wanted to call him— were bitter, muddied memories. He couldn’t remember half of them. And anything he did remember was laced with a cocktail of bitter emotions and twisted thoughts. The thoughts of someone whose mind was clearly not in a good mental state.

And it wasn’t like he could say that had improved all that much.

“Mithrun informed me that you are roughly one thousand and eighty years old. That would make you the oldest known full-blood elf currently alive.”

Okay, your o’ beloved Highness. And what does that mean?

“So, there must be some knowledge in that long life of yours that you can impart unto others.”

“I can’t teach.”

“That’s not what I’m asking of you. What do you remember of the spellbook the demon gave you?”

Oh, so that was her angle.

There were only a few spells he’d used reliably; the book was chock full of information, it was true, but there were whole sections that went untouched aside from some rare use when he needed to summon a new monster or build a cabin from scratch.

“I know a few things,” Thistle said.

He fixed his unblinking stare on the queen’s aged face, her skin pulled taut over sharp cheekbones and uninterested eyes.

“…For a price.”

The queen raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think, as a prisoner, that you can negotiate your conditions?”

“You forget who you’re talking to. I have something you want more than my death. And I’m offering it to you— if you let me go home as soon as it’s finished.”

“And what do you think I would do to you if I found an original copy of the spellbook?”

“You’d probably kill me. But you won’t do that— because the originals were destroyed with the demon.”

He could only hope that guess was right; the demon had only created those books for Thistle. So, when Thistle stopped being its dungeon lord, the books should have gone with it. Laios, unfortunately, would probably have a better idea of what had happened.

The queen’s lips quirked up into an amused smile. “At least you understand what’s at stake here.  So, how much do you remember?”

“Enough.”

“I expect you to write in full about everything you can remember from your time as dungeon lord. And don’t think of filling it with nonsense; the information still needs to make sense.”

“Wait, are you asking for an autobiography or a spellbook?”

“Yes.”

“A thousand years?” Thistle blurted. “That’ll take forever!”

“That’s the hope.”

The hope?!

Thistle opened and closed his mouth several times.

This absolute…

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m glad to see we’re in agreement.” The queen stood. “Flamela, if you would.”

The door opened again and Flamela emerged from the other side flanked by the guards. “Take Thistle to his cell.”

Thistle didn’t put up a fight as they dragged him out of the room and down the hall. He closed his eyes, pretending he was somewhere else. The golden fields of his old kingdom, following Delgal to some apple tree far off in the distance to pluck apples. Delgal would stretch up as far as he could and grab the sweetest apples from the tops of the trees. Thistle would carry the basket. When they got home, they’d bake them all into a pie and share with the others in the castle.

And everything would be sunshine and rainbows and he would be happy.

…

...

When Thistle opened his eyes again, he was flat on his back on a bed. He looked up at the ceiling; it was the color of peppercorn. The walls and floor were red brick, bright where the sunlight from his single barred window shone on it. Maybe if he lay on it where it’d been heating up, it would be warmer than the bed.

The wall opposite the window was a locked door and bars; Thistle wasn’t surprised. The Golden Kingdom’s prison system was the same. The corridor was pretty quiet but Thistle knew without looking that rows of other cells probably lined that wall.

He had a toilet and sink. Not that he would ever use them, most likely, being how he was.

He slowly eased himself onto his back again.

How to take roughly a thousand years of life and reduce it into something he could actually write in his lifetime. The spellbook stuff was enough work by itself, not even including the personal accounts of his life that he had already written. Was there any way he could get Yaad or someone else to send him back the journals so he could hand them to the queen and be done with it? Of course, though, there was some embarrassing cringy poetry and occasional angst about the people he was killing mixed in, too. The queen might make him redo the whole thing if she read that and thought he wasn’t taking her task seriously enough.

Thistle’s heart pounded against his ribcage. Everything would be fine. They couldn’t let him die until this task was done. And he wanted to get it done as badly as she did; he wanted to go home so badly it left a deep ache inside of him the way a starving man’s stomach would grumble from going months without a proper meal.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until this want was fed.

…

...

Two other elves Thistle didn’t recognize dropped him off food he didn’t eat and returned the next morning to find him with his eyes still as open as they had been the afternoon prior.

Flies had started gathering around the food. He had never looked at it, so he didn’t know what it was. The window couldn’t be opened or closed, so while the cold night air was refreshing, it had brought in a few pests.

Flamela threw a whole fit when she found out. Thistle got an earful for it, but he only interrupted at the end of her rant to ask her if he could start writing his spellbook.

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not. You’re not getting a mile near that thing until we see an improvement in your physical condition.”

“Then you’re going to be waiting a long time,” Thistle said bitterly.

She called upon the doctor from before. There was an examination done in that same four walls of what seemed his new room. The doctor mumbled a lot of things underneath his breath; apparently, he wasn’t pleased with Thistle’s condition.

It didn’t feel like that long ago that he was riding the ship being carried around by Lycion and now here he was, coming to terms with the fact that there was an absolute possibility these idiots would drop the ball on him and he’d end up paying for it. He’d run out of cards to play in this situation; the only thing he had cared about had been squared away. He couldn’t conceive of why his physical condition mattered that much. As long as he could still move his arm and write, he could vanquish the one thing standing between him and what he truly wanted.

“His condition’s worsened since yesterday,” the doctor said. “Why isn’t he in a clinic?”

“He’s a prisoner,” Flamela said, matter-of-fact.

“Maybe, but even prisoners have a right to medical attention when they need it.”

“This one is a special case.”

“Is he? So you’re telling me he won’t starve to death like the other prisoners if he doesn’t get food? Or he doesn’t need to sleep or exercise regularly?”

“Do you have any idea what he did to people? Countless people lost their lives in that dungeon! He murdered his own family and almost destroyed the surface! And what, you want us to pardon him for that?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. The fact of the matter is, if you want him to begin repaying his debts, he needs to be physically well enough to do it. He can’t do that the way he is now.”

“Why should I care what kind of state he’s in?”

“He might die. And it’ll be on record that you were the one supervising him during that time.”

Something in her expression changed; Thistle’s heart beat faster.

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“We need to feed him, for starters.”

Flamela’s expression soured. “He’s a grown man; he can feed himself.”

He really couldn’t. And the doctor knew that.

Thistle forced his mouth open. “If you want…”

Flamela’s expression turned from peeved to bloodthirsty as he lifted his head to meet her gaze.

“…Me to die so badly, just say it. That’s more courageous than dancing around the issue.”

“What did you say?”

Flamela lurched forward; the doctor pushed himself in between them. Thistle felt bile rise in his throat.

“You will speak when spoken to. Do you understand me?”

Thistle forced himself to nod. She held her glare on him a second longer then spun on her heel and stormed down the hallway to the exit.

“Erique, Misyl, keep eyes on him. I can’t stand to see his face any longer,” Flamela’s voice echoed as she walked down the hall.

…

...

Once they were alone, the doctor helped him to his feet and had the guards follow them to the clinic. It was a short trip; Thistle didn’t pay attention to most of it. He was back in his self-pitying state, thinking about everything that had happened to him in the hours and days and weeks following his fall from dungeon lord. His hair scratched the back of his neck; he hadn’t braided it since he woke up. His eyes were crusted over from exhaustion; he rubbed the crust away with a finger. He was proud of himself for at least being able to get his body to move today.

The doctor checked his vitals again and gave him a glass of water. It went down as easily as a slab of jelly.

“Were you able to get any sleep last night?” the doctor asked.

“No,” Thistle said. “If I did, I don’t remember it well.”

“I’ll speak to the queen about sorting out an agreement with Flamela in regards to your care. But for now, let’s prepare something to fortify you. When did you last eat?”

Thistle avoided his eyes.

“Um…” The guard with long, blond hair spoke up. “We tried to feed him last night but he didn’t eat any of it.”

“I understand,” the doctor said. He squeezed Thistle’s shoulder. “Your situation is getting dire, little Thistle.”

Don’t you think I know that?

…

...

The doctor had some attendants bring Thistle steamed vegetables, chicken, and rice. He was hungry enough that once the doctor put the fork in his hand, he was able to down it easily. At some point someone had to remind him to chew. He took down a few more gulps of water afterward then was led to a bath to wash off with the help of one of the attendants. It certainly felt good once they had braided his hair for him and put him in fresh clothing that smelled more like lemons than pear.

But lemon, too, came with its own memories.

Staying alive was a lot of work. Thistle could barely manage the work laid out for him for the next two minutes let alone tomorrow. By the time the doctor had finished all his work, the sun was dipping back below the horizon and Flamela was screaming about him getting back to his cell in time for dinner and lights out.

“I thought working with Mithrun was difficult, but working with a prisoner comes with its own challenges,” The doctor said.

Thistle watched as the guards prepared to bring him back to his cell. The prison had its own clinic, so it wasn’t far from his room. As an aside, he should pay better attention to the path it took to get here; if he did that, then he might be able to retrace his steps and escape if he ever found a way out.

“We can take him from here,” the blond guard said again.

“Thank you for everything. I know Flamela isn’t easy to deal with,” the other guard said.

“It’s no problem. In my line of work, you come across difficult patients every now and then. At least this one isn’t as rowdy as Mithrun was when he first came to me.”

“Is that so?” the lady asked.

“Hey,” Thistle said.

The doctor turned toward him. “Hm?”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Meras.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, Thistle. Now, try to get some sleep tonight.”

Thistle nodded, then let the other two lead him back to his cell.

…

...

“Some mail arrived for you while you were away.”

They were at the entrance to Thistle’s row of cells just a hallway away when Flamela intercepted them. Flamela extended the letter to Thistle and he leapt from between his captor’s grasps to pry it from her fingers.

“What? From who?” Thistle asked.

“Someone named Falin Touden.”

Falin what? Thistle flipped the envelope over; that was indeed the name on the other side. That couldn’t be for him. He didn’t know anyone with that name.

“Are you sure?” Thistle asked.

“Your name is the one addressed as the recipient. Accept it before I have it taken away.”

She pushed past him and the two guards led him to his room. The wax seal had already been broken, probably to check its contents.

Thistle unfolded the paper as they opened the door to his cell with a creak. He dropped onto his bed and began to read as they closed the door again. The lock clicked as they turned the key inside.

Dear Thistle,

“Psst. Hey.”

My name is Falin…

“Hey. Can you hear me?”

…but you know me better as the red dragon.

“Hey.”

“What?” Thistle growled. He threw his hands down onto his lap, the paper flapping against his lap and the envelope slipping to the floor. He lifted his head and saw a hand sticking through the bars of his cell.

He pushed himself off the edge of his bed and approached the wall. The guards had receded to the end of the hall; all he saw was the familiar shape of a gangly, pale arm covered in tattoos.

“Lycion?”

“So you remember my name. I’m flattered,” came his sweet reply. “It’s exciting to know that we’ll be next-door neighbors.”

“Did you want something?” Thistle asked.

“Well, no. Fleki and I wanted to know where they took you. Oh, yeah. Fleki’s also here.”

From deeper in the cell, Thistle heard her noncommittal hello.

“They took me to the doctor’s. Meras’s.”

“Oh.”

“What? Unimpressed?”

“Are you gonna die?”

“No, idiot!”

“Ow, my poor ears!”

That would be convenient for everyone, now wouldn’t it? But no, it seemed like he was going to live at least a little longer.

“Well, I guess that’s good. Hopefully they can help you more than we could.”

It felt odd to hear that from him. Thistle supposed he’d gone so long without hearing that anyone cared for him, especially not a man he half knew, that the words left him feeling a little uncomfortable.

“Do you have more asinine things to ask me about or can I go now? I’m kind of busy,” Thistle said.

“With reading your letter? Do you have a sweetheart on the outside?”

“It’s from some lady I don’t know. If you’d given me more than two seconds of peace, I would have read the message already.”

“Oh. Well, then I suppose I can bother you later. Good night!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Thistle replied.

With a huff, he unfolded the letter again and began to read.

Dear Thistle,

My name is Falin, but you know me better as the red dragon.

I spent some time with you in the dungeon near the end of your time as dungeon lord.

I'm writing to you today because I heard from Mithrun that you weren’t feeling well on the trip to the West. While what you did and what happened to the dungeon have died down, many of us think of you often.

While Marcille won't admit it just yet, she worries about you, and so does Yaad.

I want to encourage you to keep going. Even if things are difficult, there will always be a light at the end of the tunnel. I'm so excited to meet you in person once circumstances allow. I plan to visit the Central Kingdom soon and hope to include the capital along my route.

Do your best!

Falin

Thistle stared at the letter for a long time.

He didn’t want to, but her words pulled him right back to that time he was racing after stupid dungeon crawlers flying on her back. At the time, he so clearly remembered her as a red dragon. The shape of her body, especially the bright-red talons and feathered back, were what he interpreted a red dragon to be.

Looking back now, of course he was so deep in his delusions and desire that he couldn’t see what he had done to some random woman. He couldn’t begin to conceive of why someone like that would be contacting him like this.

For a second, fear struck him that maybe some residual thing from the dungeon had left an attachment to him on her. But no, he’d released every connection he had to that place and the demon was gone. He had felt the earth trembling and heard when the Golden Kingdom had risen from the ocean.

So she… wrote this because she wanted to?

Wrote to him?

And she… was worried about him?

Thistle rushed back to the bars of his cell.

“Hey. Hey, Lycion.”

“Hm?”

“Give me a pencil and paper.”

“Oookay. Give me a second.”

Some shuffling noises. Then an arm extended through the bars bearing the things Thistle asked for.

He snatched them up and threw them onto the ground as he began to write out his reply.

Dear Falin,

If you're writing to me because of some sort of savior complex, save your words for someone else. I did what I did, and this is my punishment.

It's not a stranger's place to worry about me. I'm still alive, aren't I? I still have business to settle and I won't go until it's finished.

Thistle

He heaved a relieved sigh as soon as the words were down. Good; at least he was able to get that much out of his system.

He folded the letter up and left it on the floor then climbed into bed to stare at the ceiling.

It would be awesome if his body could relax enough to sleep for even a few seconds.

His mind went back to Falin. What did she look like, again?

Any time he tried to remember, it felt like wiping away the condensation off a thickly covered window, leaving streaks of water behind. The image of her he uncovered was a little foggy around the edges. A blond bob of hair. He thought that sounded familiar.

Blond with kind eyes. Just like… just like that wretched tall-man who had tied him up that one time and fed him monster jerky. Laios, that bastard! So, all the Toudens were like this!

Thistle exhaled deeply. Just the thought of that made him exhausted. He closed his eyes as a small chuckle passed his lips.

“You idiots…”

You’re a funny one, he thought he heard from the cell beside him as he slipped into a fitful slumber.

Chapter Text

A few weeks later…

It was another week or two before Mithrun heard from Pattadol again. He’d once again kept himself occupied with other things and was blindsided by her fairy one morning while in his room getting dressed. He had just finished pulling a shirt over his head when the fairy materialized in front of him.

“Captain—”

“Hello.”

“Wah!” the fairy covered her eyes and Mithrun sent her a perplexed look.

“What is it?”

“Is now a good time?”

He approached the end of his bed and picked up his trousers. A lift of one leg into the pants, then the same for the other. He pulled them up to his hips and fastened the waistband.

“Yes, it’s fine.”

“I, uh…” Pattadol’s fairy hesitantly peeked from between her fingers and released a relieved sigh. “I brought you an update on Thistle.”

“How is he?”

“He’s, well, his condition is more stable, but he still needs to see the doctor frequently. Apparently, the queen has assigned him to create a copy of his dungeon master spellbook.”

She did, did she?

“So, he spends most of his time at the library during the day. But it seems that he still can’t feed or bathe himself. And it actually occurred to me that, well…”

“Yes?”

“Maybe you should send him a letter? Falin has sent him a letter, too. But I think it might help if you could give him some advice, you know? From one dungeon lord to another?”

“I tried to give him some advice in the past and he didn’t seem interested.”

“Well, circumstances have changed a lot since he first woke up. For one, Flamela says he’s always quick to respond to any letters he gets.”

“Okay. Then I’ll give it a shot.”

He pulled back his chair and sat at his desk.

“You’re doing it now?” Pattadol asked.

“If I don’t, I’ll forget.”

Mithrun tapped his chin with his pen as he pulled out a clean sheet of paper. What to write? Maybe some practical advice would be best. If they were most concerned about his base needs, then Mithrun had just the message.

Pattadol’s fairy floated by his shoulder as he scratched out the first few letters.

“You can’t be serious!” she gasped, which only made him focus harder on writing his message properly.

A knock at his door drew his attention away from his work as he dotted the last sentence with a period.

“Yes?” Mithrun asked, pushing the chair back.

“Laios is asking for your presence in the throne room,” came Kabru’s voice from the other side of the door.

Mithrun crossed the room and pulled the door open. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Were you writing to someone?” Kabru asked.

Mithrun glanced down to his hand; without thinking, he carried the letter along with him when he stood. “Oh. This is for Thistle.”

“Is he writing to you?”

“I suggested it,” came Pattadol’s hesitant response. “I think… I don’t know. Maybe, well, whatever. We need some help motivating him, that’s all.”

“I hope that helps.”

“Me too,” Mithrun said.

…

...

Laios hadn’t fully adjusted yet to sitting on the throne, so most conversation was usually done in one of the strategy rooms, which indeed made for more approachable and easy conversation. Especially on a day like today, when Kabru opened the door to reveal that Marcille and Falin were already seated with Laios, all wearing severe looks on their faces.

“What did we miss?” Kabru asked as he sat down across from Laios at the front of the table.

Mithrun joined him at his shoulder, sitting between Falin and Kabru.

“It’s kind of complicated,” Laios said.

He squirmed in his seat, avoiding Kabru’s gaze.

“Come on, out with it. What happened?”

“Apparently, there’s reports that resurrection magic was able to bring someone back to life.”

That didn’t seem complicated at all. In fact, it sounded pretty straightforward.

“Did this happen in a dungeon?” Kabru asked.

“No. That’s the problem,” Laios said.

“…Oh.”

“Do you have any additional details?” Mithrun asked. “Like who did it? Or what sort of condition the revived is in?”

“The person who gave me the information comes from their village, but they seem to be afraid of consequences so they haven’t told me much.”

“Can we speak to them?”

“They only sent a letter.”

Kabru cursed under his breath.

“I know it looks bad, but— but maybe this is just what life after dungeons will be like from now on,” Marcille said. “Maybe some of the magic from the dungeons is accessible to us since the mana’s been mixed together.”

“But I’m sure you can also see how something like this could cause problems,” Kabru said. “An early death from an undine in battle is one thing, but reviving someone who is in old age or suffering from a terminal illness could have complications. And I don’t like the idea of messing with the natural order too much. If we bend on this, people might start using more spells from the dungeon and the overworld will skew more toward black magic.”

“No!” Marcille shouted.

Eyes turned to stare at her. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson and she played with a strand of hair between her fingers. “I mean, I just think this isn’t a power that everyone should have access to. Only skilled mages with years of experience should even be allowed to do stuff like this.”

“Things sure are complicated now that there are no more dungeons,” Laios sighed. He scanned the room. “Mithrun, could I ask for your help with this?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll go, too,” Kabru said.

“Me too,” Marcille said.

“Three’s probably a good group for a preliminary scouting mission,” Laios said. He turned his eyes onto Mithrun. “Do you guys have a spare one of those fairies you could lend so we can stay in touch?”

“I don’t,” Mithrun said. “Carrier pigeons should work instead.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Laios mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Marcille asked.

“Well, it’s just… I wish we had one,” Laios said. “Can’t you make one?”

“What? Make one of those things?” Marcille grimaced. “I don’t wanna.”

Laios turned his large puppy-dog eyes onto Mithrun. Unfortunately, he was barking up the wrong tree.

“Mithrun?”

“Hm?”

“Can you make me one, please?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kabru said.

“Why not?”

“It requires daily care, so Mithrun might accidentally kill it by forgetting about it.”

Harsh words but accurate.

“Oh. I see. Well, okay then. I guess bird carriers are fine.” Laios slouched back in his seat.

“The elven queen manages so much correspondence that she has a loft dedicated to it,” Mithrun said.

“Yeah. Maybe think about that while the rest of us fend off some crazed necromancer from razing a whole cemetery of undead and destroying this country before it’s even gotten on its feet,” Marcille huffed.

“Okay, okay! I get it!”

“About that. Are we good to meet back up here in half an hour? Rin might also be joining us,” Kabru said.

“That’s fine,” Marcille said.

Kabru turned toward Mithrun. “Do you need any help getting ready?”

“Yes, please,” Mithrun said.

Kabru followed him back to his room where they assembled his adventuring gear. Mithrun was able to get into his gear himself while Kabru wrote up a list of things to grab from the kitchen and weapon storehouse.

“Will the journey be long?” Mithrun asked.

“No. It should only be two days on foot, and if we’re able to take horses, it should go by even faster.”

“I see.”

“But there’s something I should tell you about Rin.”

“Hm?”

“She hates elves.”

“Okay,” Mithrun said.

“She’ll probably be okay with Marcille for the most part, but because you’re pureblooded and an ex-Canary, it might cause some issues.”

“Should I stay here?”

“Definitely not!” Kabru said. “Just do your best not to say anything rude to her.”

“Okay.”

For him, that probably meant keeping his mouth shut.

…

...

When they all finally met in the strategy room, Rin indeed threw Mithrun a glare as they arranged their things and headed out to the stables. Laios agreed they should take horses, so two had been set aside for them.

Marcille admitted in a guilty voice that she had never rode before; Rin didn’t look interested in sharing. It had been a long time since Mithrun encountered a dynamic like this. As much as they were prisoners, the Canaries were much more easygoing when it came to things like this. Maybe that was because they had trusted him; here, though, Kabru was the only one Mithrun had even a faint connection to.

“I’m riding with him,” Rin said and approached Kabru as he pulled on the straps keeping his bag attached to the back of the horse.

“Oh, okay,” Marcille said.

“You guys will be fine riding together, right?” Kabru asked.

They exchanged a glance. Marcille looked away.

“I… I can just walk,” she said.

“You can ride on the back with me,” Mithrun said. He approached the horse and patted its back, ushering her over.

She didn’t budge.

Mithrun stared at her, but the longer this went, the more it became obvious she was truly intending to stick to her conviction of walking. Did she really prefer that so much over riding with him instead?

“You’re scared to be around me,” Mithrun said.

“N-nu-uh!” Marcille pouted, then threw up her chin and looked away with her arms crossed.

“I have over fifty years of experience riding horses. You’ll be fine.”

“Well…”

“We have to hurry. If we take much longer, the sun will go down by the time we’re saddled,” Kabru said.

“Here.” Mithrun bent down slightly and laced his fingers together so Marcille would have something to step onto.

With a determined screwing-down of her eyebrows, Marcille stepped onto the foothold and landed ungracefully onto the saddle. Mithrun followed her shortly after, heaving himself into position with the help of the stirrups. Kabru and Rin approached riding the other horse, a rich brown as compared to their speckled gray-and-white mane.

“Okay, it looks like we’re all ready,” Kabru said. “Let’s set off.”

…

Kabru got Rin caught up with the situation as they traveled. Mithrun was used to silence when traveling with others or facing Lycion’s and Fleki’s boundless energy while Otta and Pattadol lightly scolded them. How were they doing, now that they were back in prison? Time could pass so slowly when sentences were hundreds of years of one’s life. He had sent a letter to Thistle, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to send a few others to the rest of them, too. He could only imagine the fuss that would ensue if Fleki received a letter and rubbed it in the others’ faces. Sometimes he forgot her age with how childishly she acted around the others when not on duty.

“Hey, um…”

Behind him, Marcille eked out a quiet mumble.

“Hm?”

“How long did it take you to feel, uh, normal again after what happened to you when you were in the dungeon?”

Define normal.

“How do you mean?” Mithrun asked.

“I mean, like, not crazy, I guess. I felt so powerful but also kind of out of control, you know? Like, any time I remembered the desire he promised to fulfill, he sunk his claws back into me and I couldn’t think of anything else. It was a really scary feeling.”

“I never really felt ‘normal’ after that,” Mithrun said. “When they first found me again, I only remember being very tired. I was in rehabilitation for twenty years before I became a captain again.”

“Oh, wow. That’s a really long time,” Marcille said.

“Is it?” It flew right by for him.

“Yeah! I mean, I guess for an elf that’s as quick as blinking.”

“You’re a half-elf, so it should feel even faster for you,” Mithrun said.

“Maybe, but I don’t see it that way,” Marcille said. “I think living around people like Chilchuck and Falin and Laios has slowed the pace of my life, maybe. Although I have to admit that lately, time has been flying by. There’s just so much work to do at the castle all the time.”

She dropped her shoulders and heaved a tried sigh. She wasn’t wrong about that.

He probably ought to reply to that in some way. But he didn’t have many thoughts on it. In retrospect, it made sense. Mithrun had always lived surrounded by other elves and their lifestyles, but now that he was staying at the castle, there was certainly a marked change in how they approached problems. Things were done quickly and efficiently, not put off nearly as often as they might have if an elf had been given the responsibility.

There was one thing Mithrun was curious about, though. After everything that had happened in his dungeon, if he had ever again encountered that woman whose love he wanted so badly, he was sure not a cell in his body would react. If anything, the first thing his mind would go to were the times he had dined with her serpentine form, hearing her drag her meaty, striped body through hallways and across padded carpets. Any time he remembered how they had embraced or her delicate nails touched the underside of his chin as she tilted his face her direction for a chaste kiss, he felt his stomach churn and a chill start at his legs and travel up to the front of his head in the form of a dull headache.

He brushed the feeling off as he looked to the side to catch Marcille’s curious gaze.

“Do you still desire for all races to live equal lifespans?” Mithrun asked.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Marcille said. “I mean, it still hurts, and I still feel a little crazy about the concept whenever someone mentions it, but I’m sure that with time and some meditation that feeling will go away. Falin’s been really good at helping me work through my feelings about it. But, uh, what about you?”

“I think it would be a miracle if I ever desired something like that again,” he said. “If I did, I think it’d have to be with someone who’s willing to make a lot of compromises for me.”

“What was your desire?”

“I wished to leave the Canaries and spend my life with a woman I liked at the time.”

“Oh, so you think it’d be hard to date because you’d be hard to care for?”

Mithrun nodded. That was the gist of it, anyway.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually,” she said. “I mean, take Chilchuck, for example. Guy has absolutely no charisma! And I’ve been traveling with him for years when suddenly, one day, he just up and tells us he’s a divorced father of three! What kind of guy does that? I never took him as the type at all!”

“It sounds like he prefers to keep his work and personal lives separate,” Kabru said.

Marcille whipped her head toward him. “You’ve been listening this whole time?”

“Hard not to when you’re so loud,” Rin said.

“Hey—”

“We’re coming up on a campsite soon and I’m feeling kind of peckish. Do you guys mind if we stop to take a break?” Kabru asked.

“No, that’s fine,” Marcille mumbled. “I’m kinda hungry, too.”

…

...

The sun was dipping below the horizon when they finished setting up a small campfire and sat down to prepare a meal. They laid the ingredients out on the ground and looked at Kabru expectantly.

“Daya and Holm are the main cooks in our party, so you’ll have to excuse me if my skills are a bit rusty,” he said.

“We have all the ingredients for a stew,” Marcille said. “All we have to do is chop some veggies then toss them into a broth with some spices!”

“I can help with the cutting,” Mithrun said.

At least this aspect of adventuring was familiar to him. The others easily agreed to their assigned divisions of work; Mithrun finished his part in a matter of seconds by teleporting rocks into the potatoes to carve out good-sized chunks that he rinsed then dumped into the pot. Marcille balked at this, and afterwards, she wouldn’t let him near the carrots or celery.

“How do you do that, anyway?” Marcille asked after everything was in the pot and boiling. “The teleportation, I mean. Is it hard?”

“I showed a talent for it as a child,” Mithrun said.

“Wow!” She gasped, her eyes properly shining now. “And you were probably trained by the best of the best!”

“Yes, my family hired private tutors.”

From across the campsite, Rin mumbled something.

“What was that?” Marcille asked.

“I said, he was trained to become a murderer.”

Mithrun simply ignored her as he moved onto cutting the onions. Marcille, too, didn’t provide a retort, though he felt her burning gaze from behind his back. Kabru had warned him this would happen, so it wasn’t like he hadn’t been prepared.

…

...

Dinnertime didn’t see Rin any less disturbed by his presence.

He sat the farthest he could get from her at the campsite, seated on a log feeling the night air lick at his back. Torn between sitting with Kabru and Rin or with Mithrun, Marcille ended up somewhere in the middle, seated with her back facing a tree— a wise choice from a defensive standpoint.

“What is the West like?” Marcille asked. “I’ve never been.”

“It’s fine,” Mithrun said.

He wasn’t really sure where to start with such a big question.

“It’s filled with murderers,” Rin said.

“Oh, again with that?” Marcille muttered under her breath. “Do we have to get into that again?”

“Yes, we do,” Rin said. “Because it was his people that destroyed my homeland and kidnapped me! I’ll never forgive you for it! Do you have any idea how horrible that felt? Everything I went through because your race had to get involved?”

Mithrun stood holding his bowl of stew. In two strides, he crossed the campsite and stood over Rin as she glared at him. He extended his bowl to her, and with a confused scrunch of her brow, she accepted. He felt the spark of her powers thrumming beneath the surface as he drew his hand away.

“We did what had to be done. If it makes you feel better, I wasn’t in duty at the time. Maybe if I had been able to do something, Utaya never would have happened. And for that, I’m sorry,” Mithrun said. “You should eat something. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Kabru placed a hand on her shoulder and muttered a few encouraging words.

“Tch.”

Rin turned her head to the side and with a huff spooned some of the food into her mouth.

…

...

“Communicating with others is so difficult.”

Even though they had finished dinner and set up their tents quickly, Mithrun was exhausted by the time they finally managed to lay down for the night. After some energized bickering from both sides, the others managed to come to a consensus on sleeping arrangements. Against Rin’s wishes, Kabru had ended up in a bed roll beside Mithrun. Kabru had convinced Rin by telling her it was the easiest way to keep an eye on him. Mithrun was sure his true intent was to get him alone for a debrief on the day’s events while the women slept in the other tent.

“Well, I’m not really surprised,” Kabru said, keeping his voice to a whisper so the others wouldn’t overhear. “Sorry about all of that. I know you didn’t have any direct hand in anything that happened, but she doesn’t see it that way.”

“It’s okay, I do deserve some of it.”

“Well, at any rate, at least this way you’ll get a bit more exposure to socializing with other people. It’s good to get it out of the way now while you’re still new to people and can become friends with them.”

He looked at things so optimistically. Kabru was certainly more social than him, so he supposed that made sense.

“I hope you’re right,” Came Mithrun’s tired reply as he turned around in his bed and closed his eyes.

…

...

The morning saw them quickly dressed, tents stowed, and horses saddled with the rise of the sun. Marcille wasn’t fully awake by the time Mithrun helped her back onto their horse and set off on the trail.

“Hold on or you’re going to fall off,” he said, though Marcille again seemed hesitant to have anything to do with him.

The most shaky of hands grazed his sides.

Minutes stretched on without a sound. An hour more passed before the scene shifted and thatched roofs and fenced fields began to sprout up.

Kabru stopped his horse and dismounted near a cluster of buildings that indicated a main avenue of sorts. Mithrun followed and helped Marcille in time to avoid her smashing her teeth on the ground while getting down by herself.

“This looks like the place,” Kabru said. “We’re looking for someone tamed Tulli.”

“We arrived too early,” Marcille yawned. “The shops aren’t even open yet.”

“The intel said that they’re an early riser,” Kabru said.

“You had more intel and you didn’t share?” Marcille mumbled.

“It wasn’t that much to begin with anyway,” Kabru said. “Let’s see if anyone’s awake.”

They found what seemed to be the tavern and tied up their horses outside before walking down the main avenue. As expected, everyone was still asleep or just waking up.

They had nearly run out of buildings and Kabru was about to open his mouth when they reached a small house at the end of the row. The door’s hinges groaned as it swung open and a girl took a small step into the misty morning flanked by a tall-woman carrying a basket pressed against her hip. The wear of the pair’s clothing suggested poverty, and crow’s feet dotted the edges of the woman’s eyes.

“Excuse me,” Kabru said as they approached, lifting his hand in a friendly wave.

The woman grabbed the child by the wrist and pushed her back into the house. Mithrun felt Kabru’s eyes flitting back to them. Did you see that?

“Go away,” the woman hissed. “I don’t know anything!”

She turned on her heel to rush back inside, and with one step, Mithrun teleported himself to her side, landing perfectly between her and the door.

“Now hang on just a second,” Kabru said. He approached wearing a calm smile on his lips. “We don’t mean any harm.”

“I don’t know anything,” the woman repeated again, shaking her head fervently.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Tulli, would you?” Kabru said.

With the drop of the name, the woman’s eyes darkened. “What do you want?”

Chapter Text

“We have a few questions for you,” Kabru said.

“Like I said, I don’t know anything. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Are you sure? Because it seemed to me like you recognized the name immediately.”

The woman backed away from Kabru and bumped into Mithrun’s chest. He reached for her wrist and she gasped, dropping her basket.

“Who- who are you? What do you want?” the woman asked.

“Oh, my apologies. My name is Kabru and that’s Mithrun, Rin, and Marcille. We’re here on King Laios’s behest to investigate claims of someone named Tulli using resurrection magic outside of the dungeon. Do you mind if we chat inside for a little?”

“O-okay,” the woman stuttered.

Mithrun stepped aside, allowing the woman to reach the doorknob. The door creaked as she pushed it open and gestured them inside.

“Mama!”

The child from before ran screaming across the room and clutched at her skirts, burying her tear-stained face in the folds of cotton around her knees.

“Is that your daughter?” Kabru asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”

She bent down and ruffled the girl’s head. She had a mass of bright red curls that fell around her shoulders, concealing the shape of her ears. To Mithrun, he thought it would be helpful to know what race she was; even as children, elves and gnomes could boast a surprising amount of magical power. It was unfortunate, then, that he couldn’t quite tell whether she was a tall-man, dwarf, or even perhaps a half-elf. The woman, though, was definitely a tall-man. They were both too thin for that to be any helpful indication of recent resurrection, either.

“Go on and play upstairs for a while, okay? I’ll be up in a minute,” the woman said.

Kabru sat down on the couch and Rin quickly took the place beside him. Marcille didn’t seem entirely comfortable no matter where she stood or sat, and Mithrun didn’t feel especially inclined to sit either, but followed their leads and sat in one of the wooden chairs the woman pulled up for them from the kitchen.

He noticed that the house was sparsely decorated and that every plank creaked under their weight as they moved around. The cold morning air pierced the room from a chip in the window through which they saw the avenue outside.

“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” Kabru said.

“Thank you,” the woman said. Her gaze darted between them. “Should I prepare us some tea?”

Kabru shook his head. “No, we won’t be here long. Why don’t you sit down? I’d hate to make you uncomfortable in your own home.”

The woman complied and sat down.

“Is it just the two of you in this house?” Kabru asked.

“Yes,” the woman said.

“It must be tough taking care of a child all on your own.”

“We get by,” she said.

“How old is she? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Mr. Kabru.” Her voice came out firmer this time, more determined. Mithrun noticed her hands had formed tightly clenched fists in her lap. “I know what you want, and I don’t want to give it to you. So, either you can take it by force or you can kindly accept my request that you leave this house alone.”

“Alright, ma’am. What about this. All I ask is that you tell us your name. Tell us that, and we’ll let you have a good rest of your day.”

“My name is Mari.”

“Alright, Mari,” Kabru said. He slapped his hands on his thighs and rose to his feet. “You and Tulli have a good day.”

Marcille jumped to her feet.

“Wait! You mean—”

“That’s right,” Kabru said.

The woman’s face turned pale. Everyone was standing in an instant as she shouted, “You can’t take her! I won’t let you!”

“Mari—”

“You can’t take her, please, it’s all I beg of you! I don’t— I don’t want to lose her again!”

“We’re not going to take anybody,” Kabru said. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Mari collapsed back into her seat and began sobbing. Marcille hesitantly hovered over her, unsure where to put her hands to properly comfort her without it being awkward. The stairs creaked as Tulli scrambled down them. In a matter of seconds, Tulli had wrapped her arms tightly around her mother’s leg and started to whisper soothing things to her.

“Mommy, don’t cry,” she said.

“I-I’m sorry,” Mari sniffled. “I was just so afraid that I would lose her after she went through all of the trouble to do… what she did.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Kabru asked. “We heard that Tulli revived someone a few days ago. Was that…”

“Yes, it was,” came Mari’s quiet voice. “It was me.”

At Mithrun’s shoulder, Marcille shuttered. Rin and Kabru’s frowns softened, a little more sympathetic than accusatory.

“How?” Rin asked.

Mari leaned down and brushed the hair out of Tulli’s eyes. “Tulli, baby, can you bring Mommy the book?”

Tulli nodded and ran back upstairs.

Mithrun and Marcille exchanged a look. Marcille looked almost… scared, or worried. Mithrun didn’t know her well enough to parse the expression.

The rest of their silence stretched on unhampered until they heard Tulli marching down the stairs again carrying a large book. Mithrun felt a flitter of relief wash over him when he got a good look of its features— a typical spellbook, tattered around the edges and bound in leather.

“Here,” Mari said, and extended it across the table to them.

Kabru handed it to Rin, who began to flip through it.

“Some of the questions I’m about to ask might sound insensitive, but we just need to know. How long had you been dead before you were resurrected?”

“I don’t know,” Mari said. “Probably only a few days at most. I- I think we had our new king by that point. I’m not sure.”

“Okay. Is the spellbook yours?”

“It belonged to my husband; he was a corpse retriever in the dungeons.”

“I… see,” Kabru said. “Have you heard from him recently?”

“We haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you,” Mari said. She wiped the still-drying tears from her face. “What’s going to happen to us? Are you going to take us in for more questioning?”

“While it’s ultimately King Laios’s decision, in the interim, confiscating the spellbook is enough. After all, I think you and Tulli have been through enough,” Kabru said. “I’d like for us to also keep an eye on your condition in the coming days just to make sure nothing expected happens.”

“Really? Is that all?”

“Well, to be completely honest…” Kabru paused as Marcille opened her mouth.

“Merini doesn’t have a constitution or laws yet, so technically, you guys couldn’t have broken any.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Kabru said, though he didn’t look particularly pleased about it.

Kabru and Mithrun’s working hours were spent doing very different things, but Mithrun had heard Laios receive more than a few reprimands from Kabru at dinner for not assembling things more quickly.  It seemed this was a byproduct of waiting too long to get things organized.

“Thank you. I’m very sorry that all of this happened to begin with,” Mari said. She dabbed at her eyes with her apron as Tulli climbed onto her lap.

“I still have a few more questions for you but they can wait until we’re alone,” Kabru said. “I take it you haven’t had breakfast yet?”

“No, we haven’t yet.”

“Sorry for taking up so much of your time early in the morning. We’ll leave you to the rest of your morning.”

Kabru rose to his feet and gestured the others to follow. Mithrun flanked the back of their group as they walked back out the door. Marcille paused long enough to pick the woman’s basket up off the ground and placed it near their front door, then they were off toward their horses again.

…

…

The tavern was quiet this early in the morning and the food was a little dull compared to what they were usually served at the castle. Marcille poked at her breakfast with a deep frown carved into her face. Rin wasn’t much different, and Kabru looked more annoyed than anything. Each person brought their own unique perspective to the situation. Marcille, as someone who had once feared outliving her friends, could probably empathize with the child’s decision. So too could Rin, of the little Mithrun understood of her background; she was an orphan who had been taken from her family at a young age. Embarrassingly, it was Kabru whose reaction was the biggest mystery to him.

Death was personal to all of them, and they hadn’t even learned how the woman had died.

That was a kernel of information Mithrun was especially curious about.

“I feel so bad for her,” Marcille mumbled. “Poor Tulli.”

“At least things ended amicably,” Kabru said.

“I think we should have told her,” Rin said.

“No. That would have been a bad idea.”

“Told her? Told her what?” Marcille asked.

“Well, when we were in the dungeon, we came across some corpse retrievers who were exploiting us for profit— basically reviving people and letting them travel down to deeper levels so they’d fetch a higher reward when they were brought back up to the surface,” Kabru said.

“That’s horrible,” Marcille said.

“If they haven’t seen him in a while, he either walked off with the money or died in the dungeon,” Mithrun said.

Marcille shuttered. “I don’t know which fate is worse.”

“Ugh, I can’t wait until we get back to the castle. There’s so much we have to do! Things are in such a horrible state right now! We should have drafted up laws on the first day.”

“Well, I mean, you are working with Laios,” Marcille mumbled.

“Yes, I am.” Kabru hunched over in his seat and dragged his hands down his face, his lower eyelids sagging open, revealing bright red. “And he just so happens to be an idiot.”

“We’ll get by somehow,” Rin said.

“Are you concerned that she might be a flight risk?” Mithrun asked.

“Hm? You mean Mari? No, not really,” Kabru said.

“Her daughter was powerful enough to use revival magic,” Mithrun said. “In the elven kingdom, if you encountered a child that gifted, you’d enroll her in a school immediately, or at least explained the risks to the parent before leaving them on their own.”

“Ah, dammit! You’re totally right!” Kabru groaned. “We should go back right away and—”

He made to stand from his seat, but Rin grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back down.

“That can wait until after we’ve finished breakfast.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Kabru mumbled.

…

…

After they finished breakfast, they returned to the house and found them still there. The house seemed generally undisturbed, although Mithrun still possessed a feeling that they had been preparing to run.

Kabru, with his endless charm, explained that actually, it’d be better if they came along. We can provide you a new, warm home and a full education for Tulli to learn all of the magic she wants.

Mari hesitantly accepted the offer, and thus they began preparing for the trip back to the castle.

The process was in stark contrast to how the Western elves might have dealt with such a problem. For all intents and purposes, revival magic was now just as forbidden as black magic, and if someone was found to be doing it, they would likely be detained immediately. If the person was from a high-profile family, they might be let go with a slap on the wrist, but more likely they’d be sentenced to a good chunk of their life in prison.

It would be completely asinine to expect a gifted magic user to agree to willingly serve the queen for altruistic purposes; it was far more likely they were using the magic to gain power. Perhaps that wasn’t the case with Tulli just yet, but Mithrun had to wonder how circumstances might have differed had Mari used resurrection magic on her child instead.

Traveling with Tulli presented its own challenges, but all three of Mithrun’s other companions were more than willing to trade off duties to care for the child when it called for it. The trip was beginning to highlight for Mithrun his many shortcomings, mostly of the social variety, and he wound up feeling like the extra manpower in case Mari and Tulli tried to run for it in the middle of the night.

He was fine to do it, all said and done. But as the trip approached its end, he felt strangely… uncomfortable. Like he hadn’t done a well enough job, or that his role was somewhat redundant. Sure, there had been some trouble with Rin in the beginning, but once Mari and Tulli joined the party, Mithrun saw very little of her among all of the other things crossing his mind.

It made him realize that maybe he was beginning to care about what other people thought of him.

Honestly, the realization came with more dread than anything.

In his past life, he had tried very hard to appear pleasing to every person he met. It was tiring work— walking around with a mask on constantly, hoping nobody would peel it back to see his true nature underneath.

And it wasn’t like him to desire to be on other people’s good sides. He didn’t really care if other people liked him or not or even acknowledged his presence. Yes, it left him feeling lonely at times, but if he never made close connections with anyone, he couldn’t feel the pain of losing them, either.

He supposed if he was developing a desire to make friends, it wasn’t the worst desire he could nurture, but it wasn’t the most important, either.

They traveled a full day hoping to return to the castle by nightfall, but with the extra people, they fell just short of their goal. They ended up having to camp outside again, this time with the four of them trading off guard duty to ensure the mother and child didn’t escape or were harmed.

To Mithrun’s surprise, Marcille turned to him with her sleeping bag still in her arms and asked, “You wouldn’t mind if I bunked with you tonight, would you?”

“No,” he said.

If was safe to say he didn’t sleep a wink that night. Marcille joined him on their rounds, sitting around a sputtering fire with the solid ground making his ass just a little sore.

In the deepest part of the night, when people were most likely to fall asleep from boredom or exhaustion, Marcille offered him a chunk of chocolate that she said would keep them awake.

Mithrun wasn’t sure how effective it would be, but he accepted anyway and broke off a piece. When he slipped it into his mouth, he felt a dash of salt and the deep richness of the cacao. Marcille hummed happily at his side.

“Oh, it’s so good to have something other than monsters at a campfire for once,” she mumbled.

Mithrun hummed affirmatively.

It went silent as they finished off the rest of the chocolate. Marcille sucked the melted chocolate off her fingers and lifted her head to gaze up at the stars.

She mumbled out quietly, barely above a whisper, “You know, I don’t think I ever thanked you for everything. You had so much good advice for me even though I… wasn’t exactly able to heed any of it.”

She laughed nervously and prodded the fire with a stick.

“It’s okay,” Mithrun said. “You’re welcome.”

“I can hardly believe all of that happened. You warned me that I would feel empty, and I didn’t even understand how right you could be. I mean, I could have ended up like you.”

“You could have,” Mithrun agreed.

Marcille sighed. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and yawned.

“You can rest if you want,” Mithrun said.

“No, it’s okay. I would feel guilty after all that time getting to sleep when people looked after me in the dungeon, too.” She shuffled a little closer to the fire then cast a quick glance back at him. “I heard that you’re keeping an eye on Thistle. Is he, um, causing trouble for people there, too? Or is he…”

“I can’t really say,” Mithrun said. “Pattadol seems to have the impression that he’s unhappy.”

“I don’t think anyone could be happy in his position, after all.” She curled a little more tightly into herself. “I hope he’s doing okay.”

“I hope so, too.”

“You do? Oh, sorry. I mean, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t get the impression that you cared about other people like that.”

“Not usually.”

“Oh, is it because he’s also a former dungeon lord? So you have the same urge to help him?”

“No, I think it’s different from that.”

“Huh? I’m not following.”

Mithrun scratched the side of his head, causing his hair to fall over his eye. He had taken the prosthetic out since it was dark and he often didn’t sleep with it in, but the empty space behind his eyelid was a little uncomfortable.

“I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s just different,” he said.

“Hm. Well, okay.”

Marcille hunched her shoulders and sighed. “Alright, well, I think that’s enough time spent sitting out here! It’s about time we exchange with the other guys!’

She shot up to her feet and marched over to intrude on their sleep. Mithrun followed her shortly after as the thought circled his mind: What was different? Was it the worry he had identified before? Or something else?

Kabru and Rin came out rested enough, and Thistle became the second reason for his sleepless night as he lay his head on a pillow.

Really… it made no sense to him at all.

He couldn’t look forward enough to Thistle’s response to his letter. Hopefully it was as helpful as he expected.

Chapter Text

Thistle fell into his new life ungracefully. It took him a long time to adjust to the rhythms, especially at night. He supposed it was… nice that his main working area was the library. Meras had pulled more strings for him than he at all deserved and convinced the right people that the fresh air away from the prison every day would be good for him. Misyl or Erique ferried him between his doctor checkups, the library, and his room at night. In between all of that, there were times when Meras’s aides came in to help him see to his hygiene and dietary needs. There were still times when he would be writing or walking and suddenly overtaken with exhaustion, collapsing into someone’s arms or the table where he worked. It was only luck that kept him from damaging his head on a flagstone, especially when he was in his cell alone at night.

He lived for Yaad’s and Falin’s letters. To know that there was a world outside of his small cage.

Falin had only sent him two letters so far, the first and then a reply to his detailing her journey to Izganda. The letter mentioned so many interesting kernels of information, including an anecdote  about Marcille, who apparently was the one who had taken up the mantle of dungeon lord after Thistle had been left for dead.

Thistle wanted to know more about this woman and her strange reasons for writing to him. He wanted, too, to understand what the world was like in the thousand years he had lived in the dungeon with the others. None of the names on the world map looked familiar to him anymore; he felt completely like he didn’t belong. Anything he could do to mitigate that feeling would be appreciated. (As much as was that was possible, anyway.)

Yaad wrote to him a little bit talking about how amazing it was to see real blue sky for the first time. So far, his letters had been pretty short, probably to keep from seeming too braggy about the fact that Thistle wouldn’t get to feel those things for himself.

Thistle’s guilt and pride swelled like a lump in his throat that made it difficult for him to talk about everything that had happened during his time as dungeon lord. He wanted so badly to apologize, and yet, at the same time, he felt so conflicted. It was probably shame, or fear, or that annoying, pestering feeling of self-pity that had taken root deep inside of him recently that stopped him from writing those simple two words on a scrap of paper and sending it off.

A new letter arrived about two weeks after he had. Whenever he received mail, it was waiting for him on his bed when Erique or Misyl led him back from the clinic or the library at night. They wouldn’t let him near candles, but the hallway torches stayed lit usually for another hour or two before bedtime, so Thistle took the opportunity to read his letters then.

Today, the envelope bore the Touden seal. So, it was from Yaad. But Thistle had only just recently sent the last letter to him. Had he replied so soon?

Thistle tore the letter open.

This was decidedly not Yaad’s handwriting.

“What the fuck is this chicken scratch?” Thistle grumbled.

From the other side of the bars, he heard Lycion say, “Hm? Let me see.”

Thistle handed the letter over.

Lycion hummed. “Oh, this is definitely Mithrun’s handwriting.”

“Is he even literate?”

Fleki snickered. “Let me see!”

“When we went dungeoneering together, Pattadol usually wrote all of his letters for him,” Lycion said. “I think his penmanship took a hit when he lost his desires.”

“I see. Give it back.”

“Oh wow, I really can’t read it at all!”

“I said, give it,” Thistle growled.

Fleki stretched her thin arm through the bars and Thistle snatched the letter back from her. Some nights, he’d sit along the same length of wall as them as he read or wrote his letters. It felt nice to know there were other hearts beating not far from him, that he wasn’t as alone as he felt. Sometimes they talked to him but other nights they kept to themselves. Thistle learned that Cithis and Otta were also in this group of cells and he saw them often in the mornings and afternoons when he came or went from his cell, but they spoke less frequently.

Mithrun’s handwriting was messy enough to require its own decryption. Thistle began to wonder if it was in Common or Elvish, but after deciphering what the first word was in his handwriting, he slowly pieced it together.

Thistle,

Eating + sleeping + maintaining personal hygiene = better health = more equipped to face the demon.

In this way, I've been able to gradually expand the list of things I'm able to do as long as I can convince myself it's useful to my remaining desire.

I hope this advice is helpful to you.

Mithrun

P.s. for trouble sleeping, Kabru suggests a foot massage.

Thistle scoffed. Getting advice? From this guy, the one who was barely capable of taking care of himself? Certainly Mithrun hadn’t decided of his own free will to write this; who had put him up to it?

“What? What did he say?” Fleki asked.

Thistle ignored her. He threw himself onto the floor, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from underneath his bed, and began to write.

Dear Mithrun,

I cannot even begin to conceive of where you obtained the grossly incorrect assumption that prisoners received massages. Who do you expect to give them to me? The rats? My fellow cellmates?

I write spells for the queen during the day and any available free time I have is spent staring at walls or writing responses to Falin’s and Yaad’s infrequent letters. I would rather not waste my obviously precious time reading Mithrun's 101 Tips and Tricks for Life after Losing all Desires.

Why do you write to me? Do you have a savior complex? If there's anything I can do to make you give up on me faster, please let me know.

Thistle

His attempts to express the same thing to Falin had failed but maybe this time would be different. In the best circumstance, Mithrun would take the hint and stop writing to him. In the worst, though, he’d keep writing and it would be filled with unsolicited advice.

One could only hope his letter worked at making Mithrun leave him alone.

"What did it say?" Lycion asked.

"Nothing, don't worry about it," Thistle said. "Hey, what did you guys used to do to put Mithrun to sleep at night?"

"Usually a sleep spell or potion," Cithis's voice said from the cell over.

“I figured,” Thistle grumbled.

It certainly wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for. Something more achievable like meditation or exercise might still have been difficult but more accessible than something that required materials he didn’t have.

“You’re still having trouble sleeping?” Otta asked.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I used to date this girl who would give the best massages. You know that tight spot right between your shoulders at the base of your neck? She’d press just the right way and— ugh. It was the best.”

“Nice for you and your active dating life,” Thistle seethed. “Do you have any advice that’s more practical?”

“Squeeze your feet,” Lycion said.

Thistle gagged. “What?”

“Put your thumb on the top of your foot and squeeze the heel with your fingers,” Otta said.

“Like this!” Fleki shouted, then stuck one of her legs out of the bar as far as it would go. Thistle shouted in disgust and surprise when she shuffled forward, pushing herself as far out of the cage as she could go. Erique yelled and jabbed her back in with a shoe as she giggled.

“Point taken,” Thistle mumbled.

Erique yelled at Fleki a little more, then separate chidings followed from Lycion and Otta. Thistle climbed into bed and rubbed his sore neck. He’d spent all day looking down and he could feel the strain it had left on his body. Unlike with other jobs that might grant a weekend off in a seven-day span, Thistle worked straight through each week.

It was the same, monotonous work.

Eating + sleeping + maintaining personal hygiene = better health = more equipped to face the demon.

Could it really be as simple as that?

If he slept at night instead of passing out in the middle of the day when he worked, he’d be able to complete the spellbook faster. And the faster he completed the spellbook, the faster he could return home.

Return home…

Thistle bit his lip and released a reluctant sigh.

He didn’t want Mithrun to be right, but the guy did have more experience than him with this type of stuff.

He did his silly massages, and by the time the lights went out, he had at least worked himself to exhaustion enough to close his eyes and let the world melt away for a little bit.

…

…

A week could pass surprisingly quickly when you had something to look forward to.

Thistle’s temper slowly worsened with each day that passed without a letter. Five days later, a letter from Yaad arrived and Thistle read it over and over beside a faint candlelight until it was lights out.

Then he read it in bed underneath the moonlight.

It didn’t say anything particularly important; just recounting recent additions to the castle populace.

Kabru and some others overheard that someone had used revival magic on the surface, so they went to investigate and found a mom and her child! The child is a dwarf who’s naturally gifted with magic. Ever since then, Kabru and I have had our hands full arranging meetings of all sorts to make sure something like that doesn’t happen again. Starting a government from scratch is a lot of work.

How are you faring? Is everything going alright? While cleaning the castle the other day, we found your room and I thought of you. Don’t worry— nobody touched anything. I think some people in the castle are coming around to you a little bit. Marcille asked about you, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

Well, yeah, of course he didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like Thistle and Yaad had been the closest buddies or anything like that. Yaad had his own complicated history with him.

Thistle gave a lot of thought to how to reply to that one. He wasn’t sure what to say, either. It’d be for the best if she didn’t get involved. And revival magic? Outside of the dungeon? If that was possible, then what else was possible now? Would the same laws apply here, all the way in the West? Could the demon’s power have been that incredible?

Thistle chewed on the end of his pencil, graphite marking his teeth. He spit it out. Dungeon… the dungeon’s power, here, tangible, beneath his fingertips.

He stared at the black bands running across his wrists. Well, that would be a problem if he wanted access to that magic. Even if he was able to use it, it’d take a heavy toll on his body and wouldn’t help him get back home unless he did something impossible like summoned another dragon to fly him across the ocean. And he’d have to use black magic. The demon’s magic. He’d rather cut off a leg than do that.

He chewed on his thumb, the skin tender and scarred after years of the same abuse. No, no, no. How could he use this new knowledge to help him? Oh, God. And he was just handing all that power to the queen. It’d be harder to conceal his abilities if she had a helpful guide painting in explicit detail everything he knew.

It wasn’t like there was much he could do about that, though.

Needs must and all that.

…

…

Some days were harder than others.

Thistle was surprised that this was the case. After all, it was basically the same work, just a different day. Some days, his body hurt in new ways or different attendants and guards helped him in his daily rhythms. Presumably, the ex-Canaries left their cells during the day (he was sure they’d told him something to that effect before when regaling him with a tale of how the other inmates were severely jealous of Thistle, unknowing to how fucking difficult it was to be him, information they acquired during some cafeteria gossip).

Thistle could barely shuffle his cold feet across the flagstones as he passed the others’ cells. He couldn’t bother to look at their faces, though he heard their teasing hollering as Misyl gestured him into his cell. Some days, he found amusement in such a little elf, almost shorter than him, being expected to be guard to someone who once would have been powerful enough to snap her in half with a flick of his fingers.

Instead, Thistle entered and threw himself stomach-down onto his bed. He felt the crunch of paper beneath his midsection and rolled onto his side, clenching it in a vice grip. He flipped the letter over; Mithrun’s chicken scratch adorned the upper corner. The bright-red Touden seal caught the light and glimmered.

Without preamble, he flipped the already-opened letter open and pulled the paper out.

Thistle held his breath—

—Then exhaled it in a giant puff.

I want to help you. I don’t know why. — Mithrun

What bullshit was this? He’d waited all that time for- for— One, two, three— ten words.

This whole, giant sheet of paper to write whatever he wanted, and he wrote that.

Thistle flopped onto his stomach again and stretched his hand down for the pencil he’d left on the windowsill. He turned Mithrun’s sorry excuse for a letter over and wrote on the backside.

Mithrun,

I've waited a very long time for your response only to be presented with ten measly words. If you're going to write, please at least make the response substantial.

Thistle

With a small, pleased huff, he folded the letter back up along its existing folds and stuffed it back into its envelope.

More letters came in the days and weeks following from Falin, Yaad, and, sparsely, Mithrun. Mithrun's letters were so short a monkey could have strung the sentences together by pure luck. I'm doing a perimeter check today. Learned how to make noodles. Laios says hi.

But they were the ones he most looked forward to.

This was someone who wanted to help Thistle but didn’t know why. Such a fascinating case. Could Thistle figure it out when even the man himself couldn’t? Was it because Mithrun wanted something from him? What was it? Could Thistle give it to him? Could Mithrun give something to him?

Would the letters suddenly stop one day when he finally did lose interest? Would Thistle be able to live with himself when that happened?

There were things he hadn’t tried yet in terms of coping with his situation. Magic was a no-go unless he found a way to break his shackles. He was still too weak to even think of running and the place was crawling with guards; he’d be caught on sight.

There was still one thing, though, that he hadn’t tried yet.

…

…

As usual, the library was quiet that morning when Erique escorted him from the clinic to its regal entrance. They walked across red carpet, passing underneath high-arching windows that allowed ample sunlight to pool on every surface, bringing even more warmth into the old walnut bookshelves.

His chair was unassuming; just a wooden thing with four legs— typical. It creaked as he dropped his weight onto it. The book was already waiting for him, its ornaments glimmering golden in the sun. Thistle picked up his quilled pen and flipped to the last page he’d been working on. The parchment was thick, sturdy; no marks bled through to the other side. The thing was so heavy he could hardly lift it and it was larger than he’d been as a child. Not exactly made for easy traveling around, then.

Writing in the archaic language wasn’t the most difficult part; it was getting his hand to cooperate after the first few hours. His body always failed him in some way during these tasks, and a cramping hand was the most frequent. When someone wanted something as badly as Thistle did, he’d do anything he could to get it, even if it meant making a few (or many) compromises for his physical health.

There came a point where his hand kept dropping the quill onto the table. With a frustrated sigh, Thistle lifted his head and locked eyes with the guard. When had one switched with the other?

He usually never spoke to them. He didn’t see a point in it. They were here to do their job, just as he was. The only reason he’d ever show any interest in them was if they were carrying a letter or he wanted to learn their abilities on the off chance he ever got an opportunity to escape from them.

“I need to double-check something,” Thistle said, pushing his chair back.

Misyl didn’t say anything as he strolled between the rows and rows of books.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Any magical primer would probably have what he was looking for.

After a little searching, he pulled a book off the shelf that presented some promise.

He stood in the center of the aisle and flipped through the table of contents to his desired page.

Depending on the race and magical aptitude, an adult human can fully regenerate their mana in the span of several months… It is possible if mana is transferred in the right way for someone to go beyond the usual limits of how much mana they are able to hold. This may be useful in casting particularly demanding spells that are beyond the caster’s usual ability, but is incredibly dangerous and not recommended.

Well, wasn’t that just grand?

He flipped back to the table of contents. There was some information about fairies he’d been curious about.

Mix together seminal fluids, medicinal herbs, horse manure, etc. Distill and ferment in a magical flask. A short time later, a small transparent humanoid figure should start to form. It must receive a daily injection of blood. This must be done without fail for 40 weeks.

Could it be possible to make a few substitutions?

These instructions should be followed exactly. Substitutions are not recommended and could result in dangerous consequences or failure.

Thistle scoffed, scrunching his nose up. Well, yeah, no shit.

A few ingredients would be no problem but the majority of them would be difficult for him to procure. Semen? Alright, if needs must. But medicinal herbs? Horse manure? Where would he even store these things for nine months and provide it with a steady supply of blood?

But he didn't really have any other options.

If he wanted to see his home again, which he so dearly did, this was the only way.

Of course, there was still a lot to consider with this, but his mind had already been made up. He knew plenty about creating familiars and similar creatures and figured he could probably get a similar result if he made a few, not-too big substitutions. Human shit instead of horse. Whatever medicine he could get out of Meras's hands, whether that be medicinal or otherwise.

All of the fairies he’d seen were female, likely because of the demanding daily blood donations they required to stay alive. Ovulating monthly could be useful for some things. Thistle, of course, wouldn’t have the help of such tactics if he wanted to create his own communication fairy and he had a whole body full of blood; he just had to find out how to properly extract it without dire consequences.

As for the mana restoration, it was more curiosity than anything else. After the first few days, he didn’t feel sick from loss of magical power. He probably possessed a deeper well of magical power than most typical humans, but he had never really given much thought to it. (Thanks again, insanity.) If he ever really needed the magic for something, he was sure he could think of a way to release the magical binds without accidentally killing himself in the process. (He had, after all, learned that such spells usually possessed self-defense measures.)

With his research completed, he took the book back with him to his desk and dotted the page with its final penstrokes before Misyl alerted him to dinnertime.

He stood and followed her through the halls back to the clinic. They ought to move his bed in there with how often he visited.

Meras was already waiting for them when they arrived.

“How do you feel?” Meras asked.

“Fine,” Thistle shrugged.

Meras did a cursory physical, squeezing Thistle’s shoulders. He felt the tenderness there, but didn’t say anything.

“You should do more stretches. Your muscles are getting tense here.”

“Hey, Meras? Would it be terribly inconvenient for you if you sent me off with some medicinal herbs tonight?”

“Oh, do you feel unwell? You can have some now—”

“No, it’s more like something that hits me in the middle of the night sometimes.”

“How bad is it?”

“Mm, it’s like… writhing in my bed.”

“In that case, I have some suggestions for a more effective medicine you should try first.”

Meras made to cross the room. Thistle grabbed his wrist and squeezed, firmly setting his gaze on him, eyes burning into his.

“Meras, please. Medicinal herbs.”

Meras sighed and turned around to tinker with a jar full of bright-green leaves. “Let me know if you’re still experiencing difficulties in the morning.”

Thistle exhaled deeply. “Thank you.”

He tried for a smile; Meras smiled back. “Any time.”

Chapter Text

A few months later…

The change of seasons saw Merini thriving. Time passed quickly, just as Marcille had said it would; maybe she was right about life feeling faster when surrounded by tall-men.

Mithrun went on perimeter checks, dealt with the occasional monster sighting, attended town halls as a bodyguard, and learned how to cook, sew, and make pottery. His life had grown larger to fit all of these new things, and the number of things he was capable of doing on his own tripled.

While bathing, eating, exercising, and sleeping had become habitual for him long ago, he now also did things like write to Thistle and cook regularly. Kabru had also established a weekly commitment with him for catching up and talking about what had been going on in their lives since they had last spoken.

Kabru always impressed him with his masterful ability to read people and make friends with even the most closed-off stranger.

Sometimes, Mithrun thought he maybe even envied that about him.

It was winter and Laios and the castle staff were deep into preparations for a ball set to happen in a few weeks. Marcille carefully counted the days on a calendar; Falin was supposed to return today.

Mithrun was there in the foyer helping hang up decorations (with some dubiously productive use of teleportation magic that succeeded at least a third of the time) when the giant doors in the foyer opened and Laios and Marcille hollered Falin’s return with arms thrown across her shoulders.

“Falin’s back! Falin’s back!” Laios’s booming voice echoed across the hallways.

Whatever poor person Mithrun was working with almost fell off their ladder at all the shouting.

Everyone gathered in the center of the room to ask her about her journey and to welcome her back home. Just like with Kabru, she was greeted with warmth wherever she went.

Mithrun followed the attendant he was helping to get off the ladder and circle the edge of the crowd that had gathered near the entrance to the castle. It would be awkward if Mithrun said anything, seeing as how he didn’t know her all that well to begin with, so he just stood there and watched the conversation from nearby. Information came in a dizzying blur.

“Yes, Izganda was really fun. Oh, no, I wasn’t able to get out that far to see that… Yeah, mother and father are doing okay. The countryside is gorgeous! The coast is so beautiful, I saw it while the ship was pulling in… Hehe, I guess my hair is a little ruffled!”

“You must be so tired!” Marcille said. She hadn’t stopped clinging to Falin’s arm since they walked through the door. “What do you want to eat?”

“Mm, I’m not particular. Do you have any monster food?”

“I have just the meal for you,” Laios said with a puff of his chest. “I’ll get it whipped up for you right away!”

He turned to face the crowd that had gathered, and, defying every likelihood, Laios’s eyes landed on Mithrun.

…

…

Mithrun couldn’t understand the sequence of events that led to it, but one way or another, he ended up helping Laios pluck feathers off the chicken side of a basilisk to prepare the breasts for seasoning and baking.

Laios paused between the usual deluge of monster-admiring to drop the observation, “You’re really good at this. Have you done this before?”

“Not really,” Mithrun said. “I’m just following your directions.”

“Oh, okay. Only because I noticed that you saved the skin…”

“…To dry and make into a jerky, yes.”

Laios’s eyes sparkled. “And you didn’t get the head and the tail mixed up!”

“Of course. I learned a lot about monsters while in the dungeon.”

“That’s awesome! Could I ask you to make me something now and then? Please?”

“Sure,” Mithrun said.

Laios looked a little too excited about that.

At the end of the hourlong process, they gathered around the dining table and served heaping plates of basilisk carbonara pasta bake to everyone. Marcille and Kabru grumbled as always about their reluctance to eat it. Afterward, Marcille asked for seconds; Kabru politely sipped a glass of wine instead.

Conversation centered around the holidays. Mithrun had heard talk floating around of a gift-giving custom that was supposed to happen shortly before the new year.

At his shoulder, Kabru leaned in close and whispered, “The tall-men tradition goes that poor-behaving children get coal in their stockings while well-behaved children receive gifts. It’s kind of like a birthday.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Falin said. “I brought a few gifts from my travels!”

She pushed the dishes toward the center of the table to make room for a giant, bulging bag that clung on for dear life on the edge of the table. Falin rifled through it and began sending boxes down the length of the table. Whenever Kabru handed one to Mithrun, he passed it along to the next person in the row without much thought. It was only once all of them had been passed out that he heard one of the Golden Kingdom residents calling his name.

He lifted his head in confusion and Kabru nudged a box into his hands.

Huh?

“It’s for you,” Kabru said.

“Oh.”

Why me?

“But don’t open it yet; you have to wait until Yuletide,” Kabru said.

Just like many of the other gifts around the table, Mithrun’s was a small box that didn’t make a noise when he shook it. Anything could be inside; he had to admit that the curiosity was endearing.

…

…

The following morning, Mithrun finally understood the full purpose of the tree he had teleported into place beneath the wide, spiraling staircases in the foyer the other day. Loads of gifts began piling up beneath it, including his and everyone else’s. Marcille and Laios lavished even more presents upon it, and soon enough, the boxes were too many to fit beneath the tree comfortably anymore.

It occurred to Mithrun that he hadn’t written to Thistle in a while. And if he wanted to send gifts, it would have to be soon, otherwise the holiday would pass and they would arrive late.

He could think easily enough of things Pattadol, Fleki, and the others would want, but Thistle came up as a question mark.

Maybe a gift that would remind him of home. What would that be?

He trawled the halls that morning in search of Kabru to ask him but ran into Yaad first.

He bumped into the tall-man’s chest and looked up to lock eyes with him. His face melted into an easy smile.

“Are you lost?” Yaad asked.

Maybe a little bit, but… “Do you know any things Thistle likes?”

“That’s a hard question,” Yaad said. He stroked his chin as he thought. “Nothing immediately comes to mind. He used to be a jester, right? So maybe you could gift him an instrument.”

Mm, possibly. He could look at the selection while he was in town buying everyone else’s gifts.

“Are you buying him something for Yuletide?” Yaad asked.

“Yes,” Mithrun said. “I’m going into town soon to buy everyone’s gifts.”

“I think I remember Marcille and some others saying they were going to leave soon to do the same. If you hurry, you could still catch up with them.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Mithrun said.

“Of course,” Yaad said.

Mithrun said his goodbyes, then teleported away toward the main foyer again.

He heard Marcille shouting at him upon arrival, as he had apparently teleported into a potted plant. Shards of its pot and a load of soil fell immediately onto his shoes.

“What did I say about teleporting inside the castle!” she shouted.

At her side, Falin laughed.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to miss you,” Mithrun said. He took a step out of the plant, shaking pebbles off his foot. “Yaad said you were going shopping in town.”

“That’s right. Would you like to join us?” Falin asked.

Mithrun nodded.

Marcille crossed her arms. “Well, I guess you can come along.”

“We’re just waiting for Rin and then we were going to go all together,” Falin said.

“Isn’t that going to be a problem?” Marcille asked.

“Why?”

“Rin doesn’t like Mithrun.”

“Well, maybe all they need is a little positive exposure,” Falin said.

Mithrun sure hoped she was right.

A second later, Rin arrived in a hurry, her face bright with sweat.

“Sorry I’m—” She was still in the process of pulling a heavy coat over her shoulders when she spotted Mithrun standing by the girls’ side and grimaced. “Late. What is he doing here?”

“He wanted to come shopping with us,” Falin said.

Rin cast him a doubting glance.

“C’mon, he won’t cause any trouble,” Marcille said. “Let’s go! There’s this shop I really wanna visit before all their best stuff is sold out!” She gave Falin a few stubborn tugs of her arm as she laughed.

“Okay, okay,” Falin said. “Let’s go.”

…

…

This was more difficult than he thought.

The others knew exactly what they wanted, but Mithrun came along not being entirely sure he’d even be able to find what he was looking for.

They stopped first at a jewelry stall where Mithrun looked at the cut of different gems with little interest. The others tried on earrings and necklaces. Mithrun was just beginning to feel like he was intruding when Marcille ushered him over.

“How do you feel about earrings? Elves wear them sometimes, right?”

“Sometimes,” Mithrun agreed.

“I think this is a good color for you.”

A light went on in Falin’s eyes and she whispered something to Marcille.

“Oh, you’re right! A necklace, then,” she said.

“Are you buying one?” Mithrun asked.

“No! Well, maybe!” Marcille huffed. “Don’t you think you’d look more approachable wearing jewelry?”

“Not really,” Mithrun said.

“I think what he really needs is some chapstick,” Rin mumbled.

Marcille huffed. “Hey, that’s—”

“She’s not wrong,” he cut in. His dry lips did bother him sometimes.

“Well, whatever,” Marcille said. She turned back to her browsing with new, quiet determination.

…

…

Mithrun didn’t buy anything from the jeweler’s store.

He also didn’t buy anything from the next three stores they visited.

There was a second when he thought he had found something Thistle might like in a music store before Falin dropped the tidbit that she had already bought Thistle a flute from Izganda made out of high-quality dwarf-forged steel.

He couldn’t compete with an instrument like that, so he kept looking.

After the fourth place, Marcille asked, “Who are you shopping for?”

“The Canaries,” Mithrun said.

“Most of them are prisoners, right?” Falin asked.

Mithrun nodded. “Except Pattadol. She works as a diplomat for the queen.”

“It must be really hard to shop for prisoners. What can you even buy for them?” Marcille asked.

“Is writing letters not enough?” Rin asked.

“They’re given some special treatment for their assistance in defeating the demon,” Mithrun said. “So, trinkets are okay.”

“I’ll keep my eye out,” Marcille said.

…

…

The last shop they visited was covered from floor to ceiling in garishly decorated garments and yards upon yards of brightly colored fabrics. The shopkeeper seemed to boast a wide knowledge of textiles of all sorts, but Mithrun had never seen even a percent of this sort of thing while living in the West. It would probably be a longer time still before he found Eastern style clothing as familiar to him as the smooth, plain fabrics of his homeland.

“Oh, hi, Miki! I didn’t know you had a shop here!” Marcille shouted, then buried the woman in a big hug.

“Hello! It’s good to see you again.”

“Miki, this is Falin! And that’s Mithrun and Rin. We’re out shopping for gifts!”

“Hello,” Falin said.

“Hi,” Mithrun added.

Miki extracted herself from Marcille’s arms and turned to them with a smile. “Feel free to look around. I’m so glad to finally have people looking at my handiwork after all this time.”

“You were a resident of the Golden Kingdom?” Mithrun asked.

“Yes, I was. You won’t find handiwork like mine anywhere else in the kingdom.”

“I see.”

Mithrun turned around and stared absentmindedly at the wall of color. Where to even begin? Prisoners usually wore uniforms, so clothing wouldn’t even be a good option.

“You know what a prisoner would want?” Rin asked.

“What?” Mithrun asked.

“A quilt,” she said. “You know, because it’s winter.”

“Oh, that’s true.”

“We have some in the back,” Miki said. “I can show you.”

Mithrun followed her to the back where large quilts hung off the wall, all of assorted colors and patterns. He couldn’t even begin to choose one out of the options, but maybe with the right question, Miki could help sort out the answer for him.

“I’m looking for something that could comfort a homesick person,” Mithrun said. “Do you have anything like that?”

“Hm? Well, I guess any of them could work,” Miki said. “It depends on what ‘home’ means to them.”

“I’m looking for something that would remind Thistle of the Golden Kingdom.”

Miki’s expression clouded and a frown settled on her lips. “I see. Well, um, that’s a big question.”

“I wondered what you were going to get Thistle,” Falin said. She drew up at his shoulder, a warm presence with an easygoing smile. “I think a quilt is a great idea, especially if it’s made by someone who understands just a little how isolating those thousand years was. Wouldn’t you agree, Miki?”

“Yeah,” Miki mumbled. Her voice came more tenderly as she cast her gaze on the quilts again. “I think I know of one he might like.”

…

…

Outside the library windows, the scenery had begun to change.

Flakes of snow had been falling from the sky for the last week, and it was so cold at night that, even if he wanted to, Thistle couldn’t sleep anymore.

His forearms throbbed as he scribbled in the spellbook. Meras healed his wounds every morning but they kept coming more frequently than his body could keep on top of. He tried every morning to feed his fairy, but there were some mornings cutting himself was so painful and he was too tired and scared and any number of other feelings that he gave up and kept it for the evening instead; after all, if there was one thing he could count on, it was him getting shoved back into that cell at the end of the day.

Obruo ac mors obruo mors ac mors…

Thistle was in the middle of writing an incantation when his hand would no longer move across the page. He blinked a few times, willing his brain to refocus, but then that warm, sweet feeling warning of an oncoming loss of consciousness enveloped him like someone draping a warm blanket across his shoulders. His body tingled, and before he had the time to comprehend it, his head hit the thick, solid mass of paper beneath him.

He could never be quite sure how much time he lost to his “naps.” He always woke up afterward feeling exhausted and a little sick.

This time, someone shook him awake. This, he hadn’t fully comprehended until his vision and brain connected and worked out that the bright red eyes and dark skin could only belong to Flamela.

He thought he remembered trying to push her away. He couldn’t make out anything her big mouth was saying. His heart thudded in his chest and his temple throbbed.

He passed out again.

When Thistle woke up the second time, a woman he had never met was standing over him. The book was no longer under his head; they had moved him to a whole other room while he was asleep. He sat up, fingers digging into the plush cushion of a velvet settee. It was warm and winter light bled in through a large window onto polished floor. Were they in a hallway?

“Where am I?” Thistle asked.

“Good morning,” The lady said.

She knelt down to his level and pinched his cheek. He violently flinched, upsetting his vision again in another dizzying spin. Just like with Meras before, Thistle couldn’t bring his hand up to push her away. The flinch, though, had been instinctual. Nobody had touched him like that in years.

“What the fuck?” Thistle blurted out. “Don’t touch me!”

The woman clicked her tongue. “Such foul language!”

“I’m—” Thistle pushed his legs to the side to try and stand, but he only wound up collapsing again.

“Helki,” the woman called.

A man appeared at her shoulder. Had he always been there?

“Huh?” Thistle asked.

He hadn’t noticed until the man was poking it into his face that he was holding some sort of candied kebab in his hand. Thistle turned his nose up at it; the strangers frowned.

“My name is Milsiril,” the woman said. “I heard that you came from overseas?”

Thistle didn’t say anything.

“And that you haven’t been eating.”

Who told her? Mithrun? Flamela?

He kept on not saying anything. She could say whatever she wanted, but he had already closed off his ears to her. He had to get back to the book. He was in the middle of a spell and everything. He’d lose his spot if he spent any more time away from it.

He tried again to stand, and this time, he made it onto his feet.

“You really shouldn’t be standing,” the woman said.

The henchman pushed lightly on his shoulders and he fell back into his seat.

“You’re hurting yourself. Why?”

Thistle pulled down on his sleeves. “I have to go.”

“Listen for just a second,” she said. “You know, I helped with Mithrun’s recovery as well after he returned from the dungeon. I could help you, too.”

“No thanks.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure? You’re still just a child.”

“I’m not a child. And I don’t recall asking for your help. I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m here to adopt you and take you out of that terrible prison.”

Thistle felt like he was going to be sick. Sicker than he usually was. Milsiril reached out to tenderly touch the side of his face. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing to his ears.

Push her away. You know this isn’t what you want. Do it…

But it was like trying to swim in a block of ice.

“No,” came his strained voice. “I was already ‘adopted’ once and we all know how well that went for me.”

Her eyes turned soft. “This time would be different.”

“Oh yeah? How so? You’ll feel all warm and fuzzy inside because you’re doing something good for a heartless little wretch like me? Do you know how infantilizing it is to go on offering to adopt an elf who’s over a thousand years too old to be babysat?”

“When was the last time you bathed yourself? Or had a proper meal?” Milsiril asked. “Do you really think you’re in a position to refuse?”

“Yes. Because that’s not the terms I arranged with the queen.”

“But I’m doing something to help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Milsiril sighed. “I really do wish you’d at least give us a chance.”

Thistle sent her a cold, uncaring stare.

Another sigh. She turned toward the man. “Let’s talk to Flamela.”

He felt a chill run down the length of his spine like being dipped into a tub of cold water.

The guy who was still holding the kebab thing didn’t seem to know what to do with it as Milsiril ushered him to follow her down the hall, so he pushed it into Thistle’s hand. Thistle felt the rush of hunger as he sat staring at it. Some doors clicked at the end of the hall; Misyl appeared at his side.

“She’ll be arriving shortly,” Misyl said. “You should eat something.”

Thistle hummed. He wasn’t sure he had ever heard the little guard woman’s voice before.

He forced his mouth to close around the candied orange on the top of the string of fruits. It thankfully didn’t take very much chewing, then he swallowed and kept going. Each fruit, down the line, methodical. He needed the calories. Meras had had a tough time getting him to even chew that morning. The sugar rushed to his head, and while it granted him temporary energy, he was sure he’d feel it later.

When Flamela arrived, Thistle kept his gaze fixed on the polished floor’s tiles. At that point, the kebab was nothing but a sugary stick clutched in his hand.

“I heard about your refusal,” she said. “Are you a glutton for punishment? Do you want to suffer?”

“I want to finish my work quickly and efficiently. That’s all.”

“Absolute bullshit. I gave you a chance to make things better for yourself and you refused?”

A hand gripped his chin and turned his face up to lock eyes with her.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Thistle really wished he wanted to spit in her face. But the urge didn’t come beyond a small inkling in the back of his head, and he sat there struggling with his own inner thoughts as the opportunity passed him by.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said simply.

“Fine. Have things your way, you stubborn bastard,” Flamela said. Her nails scraped the underside of his chin as she pulled her hand away. “Misyl, take him back to his cell.”

It was quiet once she left. Thistle licked his lips; he still tasted sugar. A light headache throbbed at his forehead and he felt that tingling feeling overtaking him again.

“Let’s go,” Misyl said.

He felt her hand at his back. He forced himself to his feet and felt his weight pitch to the side; Misyl helped him keep upright.

“If you’re really not feeling well, we can stop by Meras’s,” she said.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Thistle said. “Just have to get to my room.”

…

…

As soon as he returned to his cell, Thistle collapsed in front of the toilet and raised his forearm. Pink streaks accented where previous cuts had been, crusting over as rapidly healing scars. His tool of choice was a knife he'd stolen from dinner; it hadn't been hard to grab. Probably because nobody took him as the type to do something like that.

The fairy had started to take on a more solid form. Thistle had started the process in spring, dedicating careful attention to it that was clearly beginning to pay off. What had started as a white blob had started to become somewhat translucent. He thought he saw something like a skeletal system forming, and muscles and organs and all the things a human needed. Soon, the wings would grow and form around its body until it was fully formed.

It required a lot of blood, and Thistle had been dutiful.

It hurt. It hurt every day, but there came a sick sort of relief to it, too. He felt like he could finally release a relaxed breath when the blade ran over his skin.

He watched the crimson drop into the basin and slide off the curved surface into the pit in the center. The fairy gulped up the blood greedily. There were days when he fed it too much. His hope was to split it into two; otherwise, a fairy with no one else on the other end was as good as useless aside from being a slower form of a delivery pigeon. It was about time to begin his attempt at separating them if he was going to try at all.

But he was so exhausted and relieved at the little work he’d already accomplished just getting the fairy fed that he barely had the energy to drag his blanket to the floor with him before he felt that warm rush of unconsciousness creeping toward him again.

Thistle blinked in and out of consciousness several times as his body became more and more rigid with cold.

Today had been the hardest day he’d had to endure in a long time. There were times when he imagined his homeland for hours on end just to manage walking down the halls of the prison on his way to the library.

He had known eventually his conviction would be tested by someone like that woman. It was scary, how deeply this desire ran to the point of pushing even her aid away. It was awful, the way this pain ran through him, a cavernous ache that molded with the air and formed the cold tears on his cheeks as he slowly fell asleep.

Chapter Text

It was a few months into Thistle living in Merini when he came down with his first illness.

He remembered there being servants in and out of his room all the time. They brought him full, warm bowls of soup that settled the anxious shivering in his body. Heat would flash through him in quick bursts, replaced suddenly by cold a second later, so he was always kicking his blanket off then scrambling for it again. Someone came, once, and helped him to his feet so he could sit by a window for some fresh air.

When he coughed, his lungs hurt.

He was sure he was bothering the whole castle with his racket, which made him feel bad.

There was one time at night when it wouldn’t stop and a handmaiden came in her nightgown to check on him. He remembered how the candle in her hand made her face light up like an angel in the moonlight.

He wished he could remember her name.

“You aren’t well,” she said as she sat on the edge of his bed and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

Tears dotted the edges of his eyes. He felt like he was close to death. He wished he could call for his mom or dad, but he couldn’t even remember their faces.

“I’ll get you something, okay?” she whispered.

He was sure he mumbled out something pleading for her help.

She came back, just as she had promised, the bed sinking with her weight.

While she was away, Thistle had curled himself tightly into a ball. Burying his head between his stomach and the mattress made him feel small and painless. The throbbing was still there, but the sensation was indistinguishable from the blood rushing to his forehead from sitting upside down.

Her hand touched his back through his nightclothes and stroked his skin in slow circles. Given how insomnia-addled Thistle was already, the touch was almost enough to put him fully to sleep.

Eventually, Thistle felt well enough to sit back up. The woman brought his hands around a warm mug of tea.

He brought it to his trembling lips.

The burst of honey and lemon soothed his throat for a few seconds, and when he coughed again, there wasn’t as much force in his raw throat as there had been before.

“Do you feel better?” she whispered.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed.

“Good. Then get some rest, okay?”

The woman made to stand. Thistle clutched at her skirt. “Please, please don’t… go…”

He hesitated to say it. Before here, he had only known Elvish. He wasn’t sure if he was even pronouncing the words in Common correctly. But he was so afraid of getting sicker in the night, of being alone…

The woman flashed a calm smile.

“It’s okay, I’ll stay by your side. Here, lean back.”

She fluffed his pillow for him and eased him back against the headboard. He slowly sucked in another breath, accompanied by more coughing, and closed his eyes.

The woman leaned her body into his bed, and for a time, he felt more peace in watching her sleep than trying to do it himself. When sleep finally did come, there were no dreams, just the warm comfort of a heart beating beside his.

It was the best sleep he’d had since he arrived there.

…

…

Thistle knew he wasn’t well when he couldn’t get out of bed.

He was so tired that when he first opened his eyes, he only had enough energy to close them again. He heard a gentle voice floating above him. Something about cold… Probably his cold. Or flu, or whatever this was.

He was still half-awake when he felt someone pulling him off the bed and dragging him over their shoulder. He felt about as brittle as a shortbread biscuit being snapped in half.

His spine was still aching when someone stretched him out on a bed. His nose ran, snot tickling his cheek, as warm hands touched his shoulder and lifted his arm. He coughed, which woke him up a little, as the hand moved to his leg and lifted it to stretch his knee.

Was this supposed to be some sort of massage? Who was touching him? He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

He forced his eyes to open and was greeted by the sight of a figure stretching his limbs out. He thought he recognized the heavy plaits of hair falling down the woman’s shoulders.

Milsiril?

A heavy quilt laid across his midsection and pinned him down, not that he’d have the energy to get up anyway. He couldn’t smell anything, his mouth was dry, and he didn’t recognize the decor. All of the rooms melted together after a while.

His heart instinctively hammered away at an anxious rate, scared of the woman, scared of being sick. While he didn’t necessarily like his cell, it was familiar where this place was not.

As Thistle opened and closed his eyes a few times, the woman said something again.

What is she saying? What’s happening?

“Uhn…” Thistle’s mouth wouldn’t move the way he wanted at all.

A shadow passed over his head and placed something cold on his forehead. He squirmed away from it and heard a curse as its weight disappeared.

Someone wiped the cold off his brow. A shudder jolted through him and he involuntarily seized up, his muscles aching when they tensed. It wasn’t quite a seizure— he had seen them before and didn’t want to experience one.

He tried to relax. But his heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

“Thistle, please.”

The voice sounded exasperated now.

He hated this feeling, the feeling that he wasn’t in control of his body, that he was trapped inside it, some kind of sleep paralysis.

He exhaled a long, deep, slow breath. The cold returned to his forehead; this time, he forced himself to relax into the deeper warmth of the mattress. With his second breath, Thistle smelled the hint of fragrant green, freshly cut wheat gathered from the fields beyond the castle. Oh, how beautiful they looked glimmering like a sea of gold in summer, the harsh heat beating down on them as they rustled on a warm wind, spreading their crisp, deep smell so far that he could even catch hints of it from the castle balconies during breakfast before the outdoors became too hot to bear and they receded inside.

Thistle missed those days. The wheat didn’t smell the same once he had sunk the castle, and the sky and air never felt warm. All he’d really done was create a cage for himself and the citizens who had stayed, the ones who were too young to fully comprehend what they were missing from their past life.

He closed his eyes as globs of tears rolled down his face, itching his chin. The woman clicked her tongue and wiped them away as he sniffed. The fresh scent was gone now, replaced by congestion so bad he had to cough to clear his throat even to let air through.

Milsiril helped him into a sitting position. His head spun as he pressed his back firmly against the headboard. The range of his gaze was limited to just the corner closest to him— Milsiril at his shoulder by the bedside table with a basin of water and a few bottles of random stuff. In his haze, he barely made out what he was wearing or the blanket that covered him. He thought he saw stars.

He coughed a few times as Milsiril said something to him and poured him a glass of something. She handed it to him and, with trembling hands, he took it and tipped it to his lips. The liquid reminded him of peppermint, hot and thick, coating the back of his throat as it went down. There was a sweetness there, too, sweet enough that he didn’t cough it up when it hit his tongue. He forced it down with an aching swallow, then shoved the cup back in Milsiril’s direction.

“You should sleep,” she said.

Huh. He had heard her that time.

Thistle sunk once more underneath the blankets. Milsiril tucked him in carefully, folding the edges of the blanket around his trembling body. The racing of his heart settled a little while after and he sucked in another slow breath. He didn’t feel especially tired, but there was nothing else to do and it would probably help him recover faster. The smell of wheat whispered past again, and he heeded it with a tired closing of his eyes.

…

…

“I can’t believe the day’s finally here!”

If Mithrun thought Laios was excited about his sister coming home, that was nothing compared to the excitement Laios seemed to hold for Shuro’s arrival. For the past several days, Laios ranted and raved about having the castle in tip-top shape, from polishing the floors and windows to making sure every guest room had neatly folded bedsheets and pillows. He even asked Mithrun to dust parts of the castle he never knew existed, using his abilities to reach corners that nobody else would have the courage or sense to attempt to traverse.

Laios had prepared a lavish menu for the night’s dinner post-Shuro arrival, and the castle staff exhaled a collective sigh of relief when Senshi arrived that morning to help. Mithrun met him in the kitchen shortly after his own breakfast to clean dishes and prepare the monster parts that most other people aside from Senshi and Laios would care to touch.

Kabru took to the work much more poorly than Mithrun did. Where Mithrun didn’t mind as long as the work kept him busy, Kabru did it with a frown and cross of his arms.

Over their lunch break, the silence usually punctuated by Kabru’s interesting observations instead remained uninterrupted.

What had gotten into him? Mithrun thought Kabru would be excited about the new addition to the castle’s social ecosystem considering his deep appreciation for people and his relationships with them. Kabru and Shuro had been on good terms in the past, too.

“Kabru,” Mithrun said, and Kabru pulled his eyes off his plate of cold steak long enough to frown at him. “Are you looking forward to Shuro’s arrival?”

It wasn’t like Mithrun to ask after other people like that, and indeed it felt a little strange. But good friends did things like that, right?

“Not really,” Kabru said sharply. “It’s all Laios’s big mouth has been blabbering about lately.” He accentuated his words with a stab of his steak.

“Hm,” Mithrun hummed.

Red oozed from the meat onto his plate.

How would it be best to broach the question of… whatever the source of this frustration was? Flat-out asking didn’t seem like the best approach, but Mithrun didn’t know of any more tactful ways of putting it, and Kabru had come to expect forthrightness from him.

“Did something happen between you?” Mithrun asked.

“No,” Kabru mumbled with a sigh. He put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “It’s great and so fun that Laios is gonna get to see his ‘best friend’ again after so much time away. Really, I’m so happy for them.”

“You’re jealous,” Mithrun said.

“Yeah, maybe I am,” Kabru said.

Oh. Well, okay.

That actually changed very little for him. Or, well, actually nothing.

He wasn’t really sure what to do with the information. But in all likelihood, Kabru also didn’t expect him to do anything with it.

Mithrun’s mind ran a mile a minute. His eyes dropped onto the abandoned plate of food.

“Are you going to eat the rest of that?” Mithrun asked.

“No,” Kabru said.

“Did you know that you can preserve the snake skin end of a basilisk to turn into jerky?”

Kabru’s face twisted up with disgust. A silence passed between them, then Kabru’s expression cleared and he smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, I’m way more tolerant of all of Laios’s weird interests. I’m really upset over nothing! Thanks, Mithrun. I feel better already.” He pushed his chair back, rose to his feet, and strolled away.

Mithrun’s eyebrows bunched together in confusion as he processed the words, but no matter how he thought about it, Kabru’s conclusion made no sense to him.

…

…

That night, nearly the whole castle staff had condensed itself into the royal dining hall. This was the first time Mithrun had seen every seat filled. The chandelier above their heads glittered with the light of a hundred candles, all of which had been meticulously lit for the occasion. A fireplace at the end of the room roared, and, combined with the body heat of so many people, Mithrun barely felt the bite of the cold at all. Laios had given the event a lot of attention, to the point that they had even been given assigned seats. He and Kabru both had been assigned to sit close to the front, near Laios and his reunited party. The same energy Mithrun recalled from several seasons ago was back in full force, with Marcille bickering with Chilchuck, the cat-girl picking apart her food to eat only the pieces she liked, and Senshi and Falin laughing along to the chaos.

Mithrun felt right at home among the bright colors and loud voices, giving in to the urge to pack his plate full of food just as he saw so many around him do. Despite his improved state, Mithrun still didn’t usually have an appetite, and every meal took a lot of attention now that there wasn’t someone there to make sure he was eating properly. He had no worries about filling his stomach tonight, at least.

He wondered how the Canaries were doing. Pattadol had assured him that they were receiving the best treatment, but it was still prison, and he imagined even “best” was only relative to the worst conditions they could be subjected to.

Should he have insisted upon at least keeping Fleki by his side? He could have done it. But she really hadn’t looked interested after he explained what his life would be like and what she’d have to go through.

Mithrun looked across the table again. Was all of this really so bad as to have reduced Fleki’s interest in living here so much? Perhaps it would have been difficult for her seeing as she didn’t grow up as a diplomat.

To Mithrun, events like this were second nature, even though it had been a long time since he’d last attended one.

The most recent time before this was probably from before he lost his desires.

The thought sent a shudder through him.

At his side, he felt a prod in the shoulder.

“Can we switch seats?” Kabru asked.

Mithrun rose to his feet and let Kabru eagerly nab his chair. He sat down again and pulled a glass of wine over. In the usual fashion, if one was sad and at a party, one drank their sorrows away. It was practically an unspoken rule and one that, again, he hadn’t exercised in some time.

Was it desire, or more of an automatic habit that had led him to down the wine glass? Did it matter? Mithrun hadn’t exactly come into this event with high expectations, so he didn’t mind if nobody socialized with him, but he felt faintly lonely. At least the wine was well-aged and sent a warm tingle down his spine as Laios’s booming voice traveled down the table, barely subdued by protests from the others at his shoulders. Naturally, Kabru had taken Mithrun’s seat because it was closer to Laios.

As the night progressed, Mithrun kept an open ear pointed toward that end of the table. He could hardly make out anyone’s voice but Laios’s half the time, but it helped to have Kabru right beside him. At some point, Kabru said something to him and shook his arm eagerly, and Mithrun realized he hadn’t been the only one to indulge in the drinks. He got by with mild nods and turns of the head toward whatever new snippet of conversation he overheard.

It was a few hours into the night by the time the table began to thin. Mithrun spared a glance to the other end, which he’d practically forgot existed, to see that it was mostly empty— just like his wine bottle. Even Laios’s party began to lose steam. The last straw was Marcille announcing that she was retiring to bed, yawning deeply and turning to cling onto Falin’s arm as Falin guided her toward the hallway.

Mithrun didn’t really have the desire to get up. He’d encountered this problem before: the inability to finish something he started. It often happened at times like these when he had put all his energy into keeping momentum going, so trying to change direction left him paralyzed.

He should get up. But he didn’t have any energy left to do it. He could barely focus on what Laios was saying, let alone reminding himself of how he usually handled when something like this happened.

Kabru turned toward him.

“Need some help?”

Mithrun nodded.

Kabru stood and pulled Mithrun’s chair back, then offered a hand and easily pulled him to his feet.

Mithrun silently gawked. It used to be that easy for him, too. Although that was a whole lifetime ago.

“Have a good night, guys,” Laios said, his arm slung across Shuro’s shoulders. Chilchuck and Senshi were the only other ones left playing with a deck of cards.

“Good night,” Kabru said.

“Mm,” Mithrun hummed.

He was feeling pretty warm now. A nap sounded nice.

He followed Kabru into the hallway, candelabras spaced evenly apart to keep the path lit.

“You should talk to him,” Mithrun said.

“Hm?” Kabru hummed.

“Talk to Laios. About your feelings.”

“Maybe,” Kabru said. “I can bother him some other time. Right now I should help you get to bed.”

“You should do it today.”

“Why are you so insistent about this?”

“He’s alone with the others right now,” Mithrun said. “Do you want to spend the rest of the night wondering about what could have been?”

“…Are you sure you’ll be able to find your way back on your own?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mithrun said.

To prove how “fine” he was, Mithrun broke away from Kabru and took a few firm steps down the hall. He felt the weight of the alcohol in his system pulling him toward the floor, putting an extra wobble in his legs, but he somehow managed to keep sturdy throughout it.

“Okay, well, thank you,” Kabru said.

“Of course,” Mithrun replied.

Kabru eagerly returned to the dining hall, leaving Mithrun in the middle of the hallway. When he looked around, all of the lights melted together.

As expected, without his guide, he was immediately lost.

It was… probably that way?

He knew he had to take two turns before winding up in the proper hallway and that his door was the fourth from a window at the end.

He started walking.

…

…

As it turned out, Mithrun was more drunk than he expected. The hallway he thought had a turn in it actually truncated in a tall window, so he ended up turning on his heel and walking the other way. This wasn’t the right hall; the decor didn’t look right.

He tried teleporting once, just to see if it would land him at least in the appropriate area of the castle, but that only left him even more confused. He ran into one wide set of doors that couldn’t possibly be someone’s room, but it could at least be an anchor for future ventures deeper into the castle, so Mithrun opened it and entered the room beyond.

It was a large drawing room, an unlit fireplace sitting in the corner facing a lavish assortment of chairs and settees.

Thinking of not much else besides his exhaustion, Mithrun ambled toward the nearest row of cushions and dropped face-first onto them.

Sleep found him immediately and he dropped into unconsciousness.

…

…

When Mithrun woke again, he felt drool slathered to the side of his face. He hadn’t slept that well in a long time and it was only Laios’s booming laughter that had pulled him to wakefulness again.

Not one to linger lost until the morning, Mithrun forced himself to his feet again and approached the door leading back into the hallway.

When Mithrun opened it, he saw Laios and Shuro at the end of the hall, standing in front of a familiar door.

That was his door. Counting from the end of the hall, it was the fourth nearest the window. And that was exactly where they were standing.

Mithrun considered his options.

He could go back to the dressing room, which, honestly, did not sound that bad right about now, or he could attempt to teleport past them into his room.

The liquor had left his system enough that he was confident he could pull it off, so he closed his eyes—

—and landed himself squarely in front of them.

"Shuro, I really like—!”

Laios was in the middle of a sentence when Mithrun appeared in front of them. Anyone could tell it had meant to be an intimate moment, Laios's cheeks flushed and the air quiet aside from Laios sucking in a breath the second Mithrun unexpectedly materialized in front of them. With a quick glance down, Mithrun noticed Laios had clasped Shuro’s hands in his. Shuro seemed to be confused, his eyebrows drawn tightly together, not unlike how Mithrun felt.

Mithrun felt a pang of protectiveness wash over him.

Kabru…

"Um..." Laios cast an awkward smile his direction.

"Hi," Mithrun said. "Sorry for interrupting.”

With some urgency, he backed up, then teleported away once more.

He'd intended to land on the other side of the door, but the decor Mithrun saw when he finished teleporting was far from what he expected.

An impressively large window overlooked the room, a rectangle of moonlight stretching across an equally impressive bed. Everything had been arranged neatly, the pillows fluffed, the blankets stretched over the mattress with neat edges. An intricate floral design filled the walls, pale blue in the faded dark. The wardrobe and bedside table were done up in their own complex decorations, firmly suggesting for Mithrun that this room belonged to a noble.

The bed was empty, though, and looking rather comfortable in that second.

Something dangled from the end of one of the bed posts. As Mithrun approached, he caught the sight of coins twisting and shimmering. This was Thistle’s violet jester’s outfit, with the red bows and black tights.

Now feeling exonerated, Mithrun approached the side of the bed and dropped into it, falling once more into a hazy, post-partying slumber.

…

…

Rest for Thistle came in fits. He never slept for long, often waking up from a cough or pulsing headache. He began to feel more lucid, though, and capable of hearing Milsiril when she spoke to him.

Her assistant, who he came to know as Helki, brought him food that he ate automatically without care toward taste or nutrition.

He must have slept on and off for something like a day before he even got up once to use the bathroom.

It had seemed that, despite Thistle’s wish to stay in his room and away from this woman, he was under her care for now. He shouldn’t have felt as upset about that as he felt. After all, she was taking good care of him. But he couldn’t help feeling upset that he had put all that effort into his fairy only for him to wind up absent for so long. There was no way it would still be possible to finish growing it now.

Whenever he looked at his wrists, he felt deep unease and guilt. He never would have wound up in this situation if—if…

His nose stung, one of those awful stings that felt like he’d jumped into the deep end of a lake and gotten water clogged deep inside of it.

No, no, he wouldn’t cry. He pitied himself enough as it was.

Thistle followed Helki back to his room. When he arrived, Milsiril was waiting for him with a slip of paper.

“A letter arrived for you,” Milsiril said.

He felt a jolt of excitement run through him, then admonished himself for the feeling. When had he become so dependent on them?

“Oh, yeah?” Thistle asked. He sat on the edge of the bed and brought a hand up to his mouth to cover a shuddering cough.

He extended his hand and Milsiril gave him the letter.

He unfolded it, feeling an unexpected rush of relief when he saw Mithrun’s terrible scratch.

Thistle,

At the castle, everyone has been preparing for the holidays. Kabru informed me that it’s customary to exchange gifts during this season, so I decided to buy you a quilt. A woman from the Golden Kingdom named Miki made it.

Enjoy your Yuletide,

Mithrun

Thistle cast his gaze toward the quilt he had just crawled out from underneath. What he had first thought were stars were actually red petals sewed into the fabric, creating an intricate pattern of stems and leaves peppered with flowers.

So that’s why it had smelled of wheat.

He had not celebrated Yuletide in years. Not since he had lost Delgal. There didn’t seem a reason for it anymore; his life had become one monotonously long, terrible night. Before, with Delgal, they might have celebrated the holidays together. They’d bake cakes, sew clothing, and heap the evening dining table with tasteless food.

In Thistle’s past life, someone like Miki never would have given him a gift like this. A handwoven gift, picked with careful thought by someone who kept writing to him about banal things that shouldn’t matter yet somehow mattered the most.

He was all out of tears as he pulled back the corner of the blanket and slid underneath the sheets with the letter still grasped in his hand. He turned toward the bedside table to drop it when he noticed a box sitting there.

“It’s another gift for you,” Milsiril said.

Thistle shot her a doubting look.

What’s with this obsession with me?

This, too, had already been screened by security, so it was open. Thistle popped the lid off the box and looked inside.

It was a flute made of silver. It had come disassembled in three pieces encased in crushed red velvet. Judging from the bright sheen, it was brand-new. It wasn’t anything like his old one, which had been made of one piece of wood, but that didn’t necessarily mean this one was worse. In fact, it was an upgrade.

He had assumed that everything but the clothing on his back had been destroyed along with the dungeon. His diaries, paintings, wardrobe, instruments, sentimental bullshit, really anything that had belonged to him was probably long gone. The absence of those things settled deep into his mind when there was nothing else to think about late at night. He had spent countless long, sleepless nights imagining what he might be able to do if he still had a tool to channel his powers.

And now, one had been dropped, literally, into his lap.

What gracious benefactor had given him this? Also Mithrun?

Thistle plucked a letter off the underside of the lid and opened it. Falin’s curling handwriting greeted him.

Dear Thistle…

He couldn’t read it.

The disbelief was too strong.

It had been so long since he felt like someone had seen him, and then Mithrun thought he was too cold at night and picked out a blanket for him and Falin bought him a new flute even after everything terrible he’d done with the last one, and this random lady cared enough to take care of him, and he was sick, and he couldn’t think straight during the best of times besides.

You idiots. You stupid, incredibly annoying, ridiculous…

“It’s okay to cry.” Milsiril drew close and engulfed him in a small half-hug as his nose pulsed, warning of oncoming tears again.

“Idiots,” Thistle mumbled.

Chapter Text

“Ugh, my head hurts.”

The next morning, Mithrun had expected that his tardiness at the breakfast table would be noticed, but then everyone else was absent. Kabru was the only other one who had come, and he sat at Mithrun’s side massaging his temples as Mithrun picked a cooked carrot up off his plate and chewed.

He was still dressed in last night’s attire, but if Kabru noticed, he didn’t say anything. Mithrun had gone straight to the breakfast table when he’d woken in Thistle’s room, weighed down with a strange mix of emotions as he wandered back into the main foyer of the castle, the one place he knew better than any other in the building.

His mind went back to that scene of Laios clutching Shuro’s hands as he prepared to confess.

The best play here would probably be to not interfere at all. Mithrun couldn’t be sure of what he saw last night. Maybe it had been a confession, but it was their business, not his. And in his own (unintentional) way, he’d done what he could to help Kabru. (By ruining the mood, of course.)

“Did last night end well?” Mithrun asked.

“Mm, I mean…” Kabru scratched the back of his head. “Nothing really happened. I guess it was… fine.”

It didn’t sound like he’d confessed, at any rate. But if his friend loved someone, then it was only right to do what he could to help, right?

“We’re not in the dungeon anymore,” Mithrun said.

“What?”

“It’s okay to wish for things. No demon will take advantage of you for it.”

Kabru cracked a smile. “Are you… trying to help me?”

“Of course, I—”

Kabru started laughing, then wiped the edge of his eye as though he’d just heard a really good joke. “So you’re trying to be my wingman?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Maybe we could have this conversation some other time when my head doesn’t hurt?”

“Sure,” Mithrun said.

Maybe he had said something out of place. Next time, he ought to wait until Kabru asked him for help to offer any of his own. He couldn’t imagine that he had anything profound to provide, considering the last time he’d fallen in love with someone it had completely destroyed his life. Kabru could take advice from several better sources before he turned to Mithrun.

At the other end of the hall, Mithrun heard footsteps. Both he and Kabru turned their heads to see Falin approaching, a knitted shawl thrown across her shoulders. She carried her breakfast with her, envelopes pinched beneath the underside of the plate and her hand.

“Morning,” Kabru said.

“Good morning,” she said. “Mithrun, this is yours.”

She handed him an envelope.

“Hm?” Mithrun hummed.

“I fetched our letters from Thistle from the mail room.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you both were writing to him,” Kabru said.

“Yes,” Falin said. “I assume he gets very lonely working each day, so I decided to start writing to him.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Is that not awkward for you? You know, considering…” Kabru paused in the middle of his sentence.

Falin frowned. “No, it’s true. Perhaps I should hate him for everything he did. But I can’t. Sometimes, I remember things from my time with him as the dragon. They’re… complicated feelings, certainly, but I just can’t let him be knowing he would be suffering on his own if I didn’t do something. And now, we’ve become friends outside of the dungeon.”

A cold throbbing sensation rushed through Mithrun’s chest as she spoke. He could empathize.

Kabru rested his head on the table. “I see.”

“I usually just write about where I’m visiting at the moment. He usually doesn’t seem interested in talking about himself, just demands that I tell him any other interesting things happening,” Falin said.

In an instant, Mithrun remembered at least a dozen different times Thistle had rebuked him in his letters for random things. It would seem that their relationships with Thistle were totally different.

“What did he say to you this time?” Kabru asked.

“Let’s see,” Falin said.

She peeled open the envelope and pulled out the thin paper Mithrun was accustomed to seeing Thistle use. Falin read the message silently for a moment, then placed the sheet of paper down.

“He says he’s fallen ill and that he’s very grateful for the gift,” Falin said.

How polite of him.

“Pattadol said he just recovered from falling ill again, though,” Mithrun said.

“Did he? Hm, I suppose he did,” Falin said. She frowned. “He seems to always be sick.”

“Yes,” Mithrun said.

Perhaps his advice hadn’t helped as much as he had hoped.

“What did he write to you?” Falin asked.

Mithrun was used to Thistle’s messages being so short that he had to unfold the letter completely to read them. So, he was surprised at the loquaciousness—and script—of this one. A wall of Elvish script faced him from the letter’s backside, but all of the phrases appeared to be gibberish. The language wasn’t the problem; he was fluent in Elvish. But was Thistle?

“Well? What does it say?” Kabru asked, suddenly looking very interested.

“It says, ‘Weaj Nigsjum…’” Mithrun paused, staring at the first few symbols carefully. “It’s encrypted.”

“Does he usually encrypt his messages? I didn’t know that was allowed,” Kabru said.

“This is the first time he’s done something like this,” Mithrun said. “He disguised it as a child’s attempt at learning Elvish. So, they probably let the letter through because they assumed he’s inept.”

“That’s a careless assumption,” Kabru said.

“I’ll read it later,” Mithrun said and slid it back into its envelope.

“Are you excited to open your gifts today?” Falin asked.

Was that today?

“Sure,” Mithrun said.

“I really hope Rin got me that book I’ve been eying. Maybe I should have been more upfront about what I wanted,” Kabru said. “But whatever I get, I’ll be grateful.”

“I’m sure she got you something you’ll like,” Falin said. “I’m so excited to see how everyone will react to my gifts.”

Mithrun kept his lips sealed. He had been so focused on getting gifts for the Canaries that he hadn’t really thought twice about getting anyone else anything. He vaguely remembered Falin and Marcille helping him pick something out for Kabru—he couldn’t remember what it was now, though. A pen? Maybe a knife? They had gone to a lot of different shops.

“When are we opening them?” Kabru asked.

“I believe some of the kids have already woken up and are downstairs,” Falin said. “I’ll be going as soon as Marcille’s awake.”

Even once Kabru had described all of the holiday customs to Mithrun, there were still things about them that confused him. Was that how this usually worked? You just went down whenever and opened them? Then maybe he’d go later that morning, after he had finished his usual routine of eating and bathing.

“We should do it later in the morning when everyone’s together,” Kabru said. He sighed. “There must be some way to coordinate so we’re able to do it around roughly the same time.”

“Is that usually important?” Mithrun asked.

“Yeah,” Kabru said.

“You want to be there so you can see the reaction of the person as they’re opening your gift,” Falin said with a smile.

“I see.”

“What do you think I got you?” Kabru asked.

“I don’t know,” Mithrun said. “A pair of scissors?”

Kabru’s eyebrows rose in bafflement. “Why that?”

“To cut my hair.”

“I think it looks fine as it is.”

“Cithis usually cuts it for me every few weeks because it gets more difficult to maintain as it grows.”

“That makes sense. If you wanted it shortened, you could have said something,” Kabru said.

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“This is actually a good chance to practice wanting things. Do you want shorter hair or not?”

“I think…” A pause awkwardly stretched on as Mithrun chewed on the syllables, forcing his mouth to form a sentence. “Shorter hair could be good.”

Kabru smiled. “Great. Then it sounds like we’ll be arranging you a haircut on top of presents today.”

…

…

It seemed that waiting for the others would take a while, so Mithrun elected to take a bath and get dressed in fresh clothing in the meantime. He finally found his room again and took a mental note not to get so lost in the future. From the experience, he learned that Thistle’s room was above his. It was likely Mithrun was outside the correct room last night, but had accidentally teleported upwards.

The opening-present thing still hadn’t captured his attention enough for it to be of any particular importance. Kabru had to come and get him from his room to bring him downstairs for the event.

Mithrun had never seen the lobby area so busy, filled with people bustling back and forth. Discarded boxes and wrapping paper lay in piles on the floor. Falin was there and approached them with a few boxes under her arm. What had initially just been Mithrun and Kabru grew to include Marcille, Falin, and Rin. Mithrun became less sure of this as his anticipation built.

They picked out a quiet(ish) section of the stairs nearby and sat down.

The others opened their gifts first. That bought Mithrun some time to figure out what he was going to say when he opened his. The way Marcille’s eyes lit up at every gift, paired with her squealing and heaps of gratitude upon the gifter, suggested it was important that he show some enthusiasm.

He tuned back in to watch Kabru open his gift.

Don’t expect much.

“Oh, wow! This is beautiful!” Kabru turned the knife over, watching as it caught the light. The shopkeep who had sold Mithrun the knife had almost certainly swindled him, as the cost was beyond what any reasonable person would pay even if it was high-quality, but he didn’t mind. “Thank you,” Kabru said, casting Mithrun a grateful smile.

“I think we’ve waited long enough,” Falin said. “Why don’t you open your gifts?”

While Mithrun had initially felt somewhat nervous about it, the others didn’t give him any room to put a word in edgewise. One after another, they placed gifts in his lap and he opened each one in turn. He received a tight-fitting golden bangle from Marcille, a new coat from Falin (“To replace the one you borrowed from me,” she said humorously), and, ironically, a knife from Kabru. Unlike the knife Mithrun had gifted him, this one was much larger, with a wide blade. Kabru explained that was to help him along in his journey of learning how to cook.

He thanked everyone for their thoughtful gifts, trying to be as sincere as he could (what a strange thing to do) as he piled the gifts together, wrapping them in the newly received coat. He wasn’t sure he’d ever wear it; again, he wasn’t used to the fashion here, but he would probably wind up wearing it at some point. They were already deep into wintertime and he hadn’t yet frozen his fingers or even caught the seasonal cold.

Laios was late to the room and Mithrun might have missed him had Kabru not rose to his feet and approached him, drawing the group’s gaze as he went.

“Good morning!” He crooned.

With the event over, Mithrun was preparing to stand and return to his room when Rin nudged him back into his seat.

He sent her an inquiring glance but she didn’t say anything.

Perhaps it was rude of him to attempt to leave in the middle of the gift-giving ceremony or everyone needed to be present when their king was opening his gifts. For whatever reason, Mithrun waited patiently for his dismissal as he looked over his gifts once more. The last time he’d worn a bangle or really anything shiny had been at a party with his brother from before he lost his desires. What use would he have for that kind of clothing now? Maybe he would wear it to their new year’s party or something. The knife he would probably use that evening to prepare dinner with Senshi while he was still in town visiting. He was quite an impressive teacher. If Laios were the lore master for everything monster, Senshi was that for monster cuisine.

“Oh my god!”

A monster?!

A roaring shout pulled Mithrun fully to his senses and he straightened in his seat, throwing his gaze toward the source of the noise: Laios, crouched in front of a large box on the floor.

“Kabru, this is the best gift ever!”

Mithrun was still in the middle of processing that there wasn’t a monster in their immediate presence as Laios grabbed Kabru around his middle and hefted him into the sky. Kabru’s face stretched into a wide smile and he closed his hands around Laios’s shoulders to anchor himself. For all of the complaints Kabru often shared with Mithrun about how idiotic, lousy, and utterly inept Laios was at anything other than monster-related issues, at the end of the day, it seemed Kabru still secretly liked him.

What had gotten Mithrun so worried? Of course Kabru would find out a way to woo Laios over in his own way without his help. It really was quite the weight off his chest.

Falin rose to her feet and approached the box. A large dog jumped out of it, a mix of black and brown, barking and jumping onto every person in the near vicinity.

So, this was Kabru’s gift.

It looked like trouble.

Kabru called the dog’s name and it eagerly jumped onto its hind legs, placing paws on Kabru’s shoulders to make it look like they were dancing. It seemed pleased about being the center of everyone’s attention, the tail wagging rapidly, the creature testing out the strength of its barks on the large, echoey hallways. As a noble, Mithrun had never grown up with animals— and he didn’t know of any nobles who would keep anything but a cat indoors. It would certainly be a big adjustment for him.

Laios approached as the dog moved onto coating someone in drool, pressing a hand against the small of Kabru’s back. They exchanged some conversation, and Kabru laughed, failing to hide a smug smile.

He looked so happy. How would Mithrun feel if someone looked at him the way Laios looked at Kabru? They both smiled so brightly they almost looked feverish. It was almost too intimate a moment to bear. Somehow, kissing felt like it would be a reprieve from the awkwardness.

This time, when Mithrun stood, Rin didn’t stop him. Nobody acknowledged his absence as he slipped back down the hallway toward his room. Thistle’s letter had him incredibly curious about what he had written. He usually wrote things like, Stop wasting your time on useless things like cooking and write me more letters, or, Why did it take you so long to write to me again? Have there been any developments with black magic?

He seemed lonely. And despite the lack of it in Thistle’s writing, Mithrun knew that he wasn’t doing well physically. All of Pattadol’s recent updates to him had mentioned plenty about that.

Well, speak of the devil. Or the fairy, in this case.

Mithrun heard the flutter of a fairy’s wings near his ear as he approached his room. It sat on his shoulder and he didn’t make a move to push it away as he opened his bedroom door and stepped inside.

“The castle’s been very busy today,” Pattadol said. “What’s happening?”

“They’re celebrating Yuletide,” Mithrun said.

He placed his gifts on the bed and turned toward his writing desk. He’d left Thistle’s letter here, buried beneath that morning’s discarded clothing. He pushed them onto the floor as he sat down.

He heard Pattadol’s fairy fluttering around behind him. Then, “Are these your presents?”

“Yes,” Mithrun said.

Pattadol’s fairy reappeared and sat on the edge of his desk. It swung its legs as Pattadol said, “I meant to thank you for your gift. How did you know I like roses?”

“Falin helped me pick it out,” he said. He thought back to their conversation that morning. “How has Thistle been?”

“I haven’t gotten any updates recently. Could we talk about something else?”

“I don’t have much to say.”

He unfolded Thistle’s letter and grabbed a pen from a drawer. Weaj Nigsjum was probably Dear Mithrun, which would mean that the vowels were in the same places but the rest of it had the makings of a simple letter substitution cipher. If he made a chart, he could easily create a lookup table to figure out which letters Thistle exchanged for others.

“Mithrun, did you get any fun gifts?”

“Mm.”

“If I sent you something in return, would you open it?”

Mithrun didn’t answer her as he began sketching out the chart to input the encrypted letters.

“Mithrun, are you listening?”

“Mm.”

“Mithrun!”

Mithrun paused his pen and turned his head toward the fairy now pulling at his ear. He felt a dull throb in his lobe from where she had tugged at it. She fluttered into the front of him with her arms crossed.

“What is it?” he asked. There was no malice there, just his usual unaffected, flat intonation.

“Why do you always ask after him?” Pattadol asked.

“What?” Mithrun asked.

“Thistle. You only ever ask me how he’s doing.”

“I don’t really have much else to say.”

The fairy clasped her hands together underneath her chin and slowly exhaled. “Mithrun. I know that you’re not the best at socializing but I’m not the Canaries’ assistant anymore, and if your only reason to talk to me is because you want something from me, then I’m not going to give you updates on Thistle anymore.”

Mithrun set his pencil down and looked at her. “You don’t have to.”

She sighed. “Right. I knew you would…”

“Could we talk later?”

With a puff of its chest, Pattadol’s fairy grimaced but didn’t make another word as she fluttered through his half-open bedroom door and out into the hallway.

He sat for a second in stunned silence, head buzzing, before he looked down at his pen again. A half-complete legend sat in front of him, still waiting for him to fill out the boxes. He picked the pen up again and began to work.

…

…

He undid the cipher quickly. Translating the message took some time, though, and it ended up being three pages long by the time Mithrun was finished. As he worked, he heard voices in the hallway and the dog still barking from the foyer. He wondered where Pattadol’s fairy had gone.

He felt no satisfaction once the message was complete. If anything, he felt a quiet regret that it had come at the expense of his conversation with Pattadol. Did he feel better, now that he had gotten what he wanted? “Better” was a strong word for it but at least it was complete.

Mithrun sat at his desk for a long time reading and re-reading it in his uneven handwriting, nothing like the script it had been in originally:

Dear Mithrun,

I feel the worst I have ever felt since arriving in the West. Winter has been very harsh, and despite my best efforts to go on as usual, I’ve fallen incredibly ill with a fever.

I’m so frustrated. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. My body never obeys me, I can barely walk on my own, chewing and breathing are difficult unless I focus all of my attention on them. I can’t sleep at night, and the cold is biting.

It seems that everyone who had cared for you during your recovery has been assigned to me. Milsiril somehow found me and, despite my protests, she’s started taking care of me. I don’t have much choice considering I’m so sick I can barely speak, but once I’m better, I’m going to insist that she let me return to the prison.

There’s only one remaining desire left in me, and the pain of having it unsatisfied worsens every day. I’m afraid I’m going to die from it. I thought it would be helpful motivation for me, but I can’t get through my day without reminding myself why I keep breathing every minute. If I lose even this one small kernel I have left, will I manage to go on at all?

If there’s no chance that I will ever see home again, is living half a life worth living at all? If I only feel the regret and sorrow of my past without anything to balance it, I don’t know if I can keep going.

When I received yours and Falin’s gifts, I couldn’t believe it. As I was laying in bed feeling like my organs were going to spill out of my throat from all the coughing, I smelled home, and it hurt. I want to go back so badly. If there were a way to give part of myself up just for a chance to see Merini the way it’s supposed to be once more, I would do it in an instant.

I used to celebrate Yuletide with Delgal and our family every year. I don’t have any good memories of that time anymore. A thousand years have eroded anything I used to remember about those days. I want to forge new memories in its place, find people who can stand to be in the presence of someone like me, with all that I have done.

Yours and Falin’s gifts make me feel like that’s possible.

I considered not sending this letter, but I’m really desperate. There’s a reason you chose to write to me, and I’m relying on that reason now.

Don’t laugh or pity me. Tell me that you understand, or that you don’t care and don’t want me to return.

But whatever you do, please write back.

Thistle

How was he supposed to respond to this? He searched for any direction on how to approach it and thought back to Milsiril’s advice. What would his past self do? Say, “fuck off”?

This was just an alternate version of his struggles with Pattadol. It all came back to his lack of care with other people. He had let Pattadol down by not responding properly, and now there was a real chance he’d do the same with Thistle. In all his previous letters with Thistle, Mithrun had never felt a pressure like this before to respond and have his response be good. He could do small reports about his day, but this… this was embarking on new territory.

Maybe it was because he was also an ex-dungeon lord. Maybe it was because he was only one of two people to ever write to Thistle. Whatever the reason, Mithrun had been chosen for something so deeply personal it made something itch deep inside him. The small worry he had felt before sparked into something brighter. What had once been an uncertain mood was now sharp and indisputable.

I’m worried about you.

Okay, that was one step. But what else?

I want… to do something about it.

Okay. So, he could write something as a response.

Mithrun’s head throbbed with a dull ache. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as if he’d just teleported to the roof of the castle and was still catching his breath— but he hadn’t moved from his chair.

He didn’t know how long he sat there considering his options.

When a knock came at his door, Mithrun had thrown his head back and been staring up at the ceiling long enough for his neck and head to throb as he pulled himself upright. He crossed the room and drew the door open.

Falin grinned as she lifted a pair of scissors and said, “Kabru asked me to cut your hair!”

“Come in,” he said, then pulled the door back and gestured her toward the room.

Falin entered and set her things on his desk. They were simple tools: A towel, two different kinds of shears, a ribbon, and a mug of water.

Mithrun sat back down.

“How long do you want it?”

“Above the shoulders is fine.”

Mithrun brushed a hand through his hair. He felt a light shock at the way the hair fell down past his collarbones. This whole time, had he been walking around with it in a mess? I might have looked okay in his past life, but since he never paid much attention to it now, it probably wasn’t getting cared for the way it should have.

Falin pulled a towel around Mithrun’s shoulders and started combing through his hair with a wet comb. Any time she hit a snag, she picked it apart carefully.

Was writing the dungeon master’s spellbook from scratch really necessary? Mithrun knew there was something like 950 years’s difference between Thistle’s experience in the dungeon and Mithrun’s, but did the queen really care so much as to make that the condition of Thistle’s release? He had no doubts that Thistle possessed very rare and esoteric knowledge, but had dungeons really changed so much as to make his knowledge so unique that only he could do this?

It wasn’t Mithrun’s place as a citizen to the queen to consider ways of breaking a criminal out of its prison system, and yet, the thought idly scratched at the back of his mind. The queen wasn’t so stubborn as to refuse a good offer when she saw one, but it would take a little more thought for Mithrun to think up what would be enticing to her.

He exhaled deeply, a full breath drawing from deep in his lungs and coming out as one steady stream of air, almost like the puff of a red dragon's fire breath.

The comb’s teeth brushed the nape of his neck, making him involuntarily shudder.

"Did something happen?" Falin asked.

"I read Thistle's letter," he said.

"Is he doing okay?"

“He’s afraid. And I want to do something to help him.”

“Have you written back to him yet?”

“No.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate it if you said something to him.”

“Yes,” Mithrun said. “I might upset him. It's hard when you don't have any desire for compassion toward other people.”

“You’re clearly worried, so if you stick to that feeling, I’m sure things will be okay.”

“Mmm,” Mithrun hummed thoughtfully.

“Are you able to visit prisoners?”

“Yes. I’m given special permissions; I could even if it were high security.”

“Has it crossed your mind to?”

“No, not really.”

But he supposed he could. If he really wanted.

He didn’t— not yet.

“There we go!”

With a brisk brush of Mithrun’s shoulders, Falin cleared the cut hair from them and pushed a mirror in front of him. He stared at himself in the reflection. His hair fell perfectly around his jawline, concealing, for the most part, the jagged edges of his ears. That stubborn curl hid behind his left ear.

“Do you like it?” Falin asked.

He couldn’t say he cared either way whether he had long hair or was even bald, but in his opinion, short hair was definitely better. It was easier to move around in and maintain. When he caught Falin’s gaze in the mirror, Mithrun flashed her a smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” She said. “I hope everything works out with Thistle. I’ll keep writing, too.” A little gasp escaped her breath. “Oh! Maybe I could send him candies!”

“I’m sure he would enjoy that,” Mithrun said.