The Adventures of Thistle & Honey Ch 1-13
Chapter 1
The Ritual
The pale light of the moon slips through the bare branches, casting a soft glow across the garden, where Thistle sits at its center. It’s the end of winter but not quite spring, so nothing is blooming just yet. With her journal resting on her knee, her pen in hand, she vigorously writes her release. Every trauma, every ache, every negative thought and mistake. They pour out of her in a stream. Like a vomiting of emotion, her body feeling lighter with every stroke of the pen.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Tears smudge the ink blurring her vision.
breathe in
breathe out
Finally, she feels emptied, as if nothing else in her is left to hurt. It’s a strange sensation, but it was the intention all along… to let the pain go.
Tearing out her tear-stained pages, she quickly folds them. No point in going over them again and again with the hope of finding something different. It was what it was, and now she’s letting go. With her folded pages in hand, she closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Wiggling her toes, feeling the dirt beneath her, shifting around her feet. The chill of the evening breeze, blowing through her thick knit sweater.
Thump
Thump
Thump
The beat of her heart falls in tune with the pulse of the earth. Grounding her being, providing an anchor to support her in this moment of release.
“It’s time.” Whispers the wind.
Another deep breath. She closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
Opening her eyes, Thistle begins digging a small hole in the garden bed before her. A shovel won’t do; she wants to feel this process as much as possible. The cold softening ground gives way and the hole appears. Another deep breath.
breathe in
breathe out
Gently, with reverence, Thistle places the folded papers containing her pain, into the earth. There are no crystals, no herbs, or blood, just a tangible representation of her pain. She scoops her hands and pulls the loose dirt over the paper as a single tear runs down her cheek. It isn’t a tear of pain, but one of freedom, a tear she has always dreamed of shedding.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
“Well, that’s that then.” She whispers into the night.
Thistle stands and gathers her things, taking a moment to stretch tall and let the Full Moon illuminate her face. “This is it.” She says, with a certainty she has never felt before. “This is the start of something new.” Eyes closed, she takes one last deep breath, allowing herself to bask in the connection she shares with the earth and the moon.
breathe in
breathe out
The wind no longer whispers; it hums a lullaby, as Thistle walks back to her cottage. The garden sleeps, the earth holding her secrets. And Thistle, too, sleeps. Lighter, freer, new.
. . .
The soft rays of early morning sun stream through the window, cradling her face in golden light.
“Wake up, beautiful Thistle. The garden blooms,” the sun sings softly.
Thistle slowly stirs from her restful sleep, a yawn curling from her lips as she stretches into the day. She feels lighter, lighter than she has in ages, and a gentle smile spreads across her sleepy face.
Then, like a whisper in her bones, she feels it; the garden is calling. She hears the echo again,
“The garden blooms.”
Excitement sparks in her chest. Throwing off her blankets, she dresses quickly. A soft, cream colored fleece sweater and charcoal thermal leggings wrap her in warmth. Sandals finish the look of course; she is a rebel at heart.
Thistle steps toward the door, heart fluttering like the wings of something newly hatched, the call of new life hastening her steps. She throws open the door, and freezes.
The garden looks as barren as it did the night before. Confusion creases her brow as she walks the worn paths, her steps slower now, uncertain.
“Why did the sun sing of blooms?” she wonders aloud.
“There’s… nothing blooming here.”
A breeze gently brushes across her cheek and whispers,
“Turn around.”
She does so, slowly. And there, right where she had buried her pain, is a single, vibrant Belladonna plant. Its dark leaves shimmering with morning dew, and ripe, glossy berries hanging like jewels from its stems. A bloom of beauty born from sorrow. Dangerous, healing, alive.
“How…?” she whispers, when she notices a tiny, fuzzy bottom sticking out of a purple bloom.
Suddenly, a muffled voice calls out,
“A little assistance would be much appreciated.”
Thistle blinks. “Umm…?”
Gently, she pulls back one of the petals, allowing the bee to wiggle free.
The little creature flutters its wings and hovers in front of her face, wings a blur of motion.
“You hear whispers in the wind and songs from the sun, but a talking bee is what throws you?” It shakes its tiny head. “Of course I get the fairy with questionable logic skills.”
Thistle crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.
“To be fair, hearing the whispers and songs of nature isn’t considered logical by most minds either. You talking isn’t illogical, just a surprise.”
The bee tilts her head in agreement. “Fair point.”
“So,” Thistle asks, arms still crossed, “how did you and this plant come to be in my garden?”
She chuckles at her own pun.
The bee hovers with a blank expression.
“Oh yay. A fairy with punny humor,” she deadpans.
Thistle smirks. “Hey, fuzzbutt, you’re welcome to take your fill of the plant and be on your way. A judgmental, anal-retentive bee isn’t exactly my idea of good company either.”
The bee sighs deeply. “Apologies. Physical manifestation takes some adjusting, and I can get a little... grumpy.”
Thistle blinks. “Physical manifestation?”
“Yes,” the bee says with a resigned buzz. “You performed a ritual of release, and that called me into being.”
The air between them seems to still as thistle tries to form thought.
“I’m Honey,” she adds. “I’m here to aid you in adjusting to your new reality.”
Chapter 2
The Guide
Thistle doesn’t respond right away. She stands in the quiet morning light, trying to wrap her mind around the statement she just heard… from a bee.
“I summoned a bee guide…?” she thinks, dazed.
Finally, she says aloud, “Okay. I’ve performed rituals all my life, and never, never, have I summoned a physical being. Of any kind. Why now? Why this ritual? Why a bee? What do you mean, ‘new reality’? And Honey? Was that someone else’s cruel joke, or do you just lack creative originality?”
By the time she finishes, she’s breathing a little heavier, the floodgates of disbelief crashing open. She and the bee stare at each other in silence.
Honey blinks slowly. Then, she speaks.
“Firstly,” she says calmly, “Honey was the name given to me by my first fairy, and I carry it with love.”
Thistle’s mouth opens, then closes.
“Secondly,” Honey continues, “this time, this ritual, worked because you literally embodied release. You weren’t putting on a performance. You weren’t hoping for results. You were truly ready to let go… and you did.”
The garden seems to hush around them.
“That surrender made space. And when space is made, nature responds. New life breathes in. I came into being as part of that breath. I am here to help you navigate your new equilibrium. Your new self.”
She hovers a little higher, wings aglow in the soft light.
“While everyone has the ability to accomplish such a feat… not everyone is willing to embrace that kind of surrender.”
A pause.
“I am a gift.”
Thistle sighs, her shoulders dropping.
“Okay. I’m sorry for besmirching your name. I appreciate its meaning, and its connection. Thank you for answering the call and coming to my aid. I am eager for this transformation. It’s just… a bit overwhelming.”
Honey’s small face softens into a smile.
“Would you like to know why I arrived within the bloom of a Belladonna plant?”
Thistle raises an eyebrow.
“Is it because my desperate dream of death has finally become a reality, and this ‘new reality’ is actually the afterlife?”
Honey stares at her, unamused.
Thistle lifts her hands in mock surrender.
“Sorry. Dark sarcasm is part of my makeup.”
Honey doesn’t flinch. “Do you still feel that dream? The one that haunted you for so long. Since the ritual, do you still feel it?”
Thistle opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Her brow furrows. She turns inward, searching.
That dream… the one that clung to her since childhood, at first a phantom of fear, then a quiet, bitter companion… it’s gone. The place in her mind where it once lived is now hollow, wide, clean. A void, yes, but not an empty one. A space humming with new potential.
Her breath catches.
“It’s gone,” she whispers.
breathe in
breathe out
And then she breaks, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Not from grief, but from the sudden, impossible weightlessness.
The heaviness she had carried her entire life, gone.
Thistle falls to her knees, the cold earth pressing into her skin. Twigs and dirt embed themselves in her palms, but she doesn’t notice. Her breath trembles. Her heart thunders.
Honey follows, landing softly on a mushroom just in front of Thistle’s knee. Her voice is quieter now, gentler, a whisper of wind through leaves.
“This,” she says, “is why I arrived in Belladonna.”
Thistle lifts her tear-streaked face to look at Honey’s fuzzy one.
“I am a bee,” Honey continues. “The very symbol of life. Of motion. Of nourishment. Without my kind, yours would cease to exist.”
She pauses, a soft smile appearing on her face.
“Belladonna, on the other hand, is the beauty of death. Graceful. Dangerous. Still.”
Honey tilts her tiny head.
“Your ritual, your release, was a death. The death of what was. And I… I am the embodiment of what is becoming.”
The garden is still around them. Listening.
“Each flower, each life blooming on its own,” Honey says, “I do not create them. I do not command them. I merely nourish.”
Thistle closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Her tears slow. Her breath evens.
Peace, unfamiliar but welcome, unfurls within her chest.
A small smile touches her lips.
“All right,” she whispers, eyes opening. “What’s next?”
. . .
Thistle and Honey sit before the crackling fireplace together once inside her cottage, sipping tea in comfortable silence. The air still hums with the echo of everything that’s transpired, but for now, they simply exist. Quiet. Steady. Present.
“How long have you lived here?” Honey asks, breaking the calm.
“About three years,” Thistle replies, setting down her cup of tea. “I bought it after my mom passed. I had always dreamed of owning a cottage in the woods. This one belonged to an elderly gnome. He had no living family and decided to move into a gated community, so he didn’t ‘waste away out here all alone’. He placed an ad in the paper. I called to inquire and, here I am.”
“Your mother must have left you quite the inheritance to make that happen. This amount of land does not come cheap. Not to say you couldn’t get those funds on your own, of course.”
Thistle lets out a dry chuckle. “No offense taken, my mother left me plenty of things to inherit. Gold wasn’t one of them. I saved for years. I knew what my mother was leaving behind, and I wanted to get as far away from her umbrella as possible.”
Honey hums thoughtfully, not pushing further.
Thistle sighs and stands, shrugging off her cream-colored sweater to reveal a simple black tank top beneath. The fire crackles softly.
But the sound that cuts through the room is not the fire, it’s Honey’s sharp gasp.
Thistle turns, startled. “What? What is it?”
Honey’s expression is stricken. “Where… where are your wings?”
Thistle blinks, then returns to her seat, picking up her mug.
“Oh. That,” she says simply. “I was born without them.”
Honey stills. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet. Unshakable.
“That’s not possible.”
Thistle huffs a laugh. “Why? Because in all of your many incarnations, you’ve never met a wingless fairy? And if you haven’t seen it, it can’t exist?”
Honey’s stare is sharp, edged with something deeper than annoyance. “No,” she says flatly, “because fairies without wings… are just humans.”
She flutters her wings and silently crosses the room, hovering behind Thistle.
Thistle stiffens. She can feel Honey’s presence at her back, hear the soft hum of her wings, but no words come. She begins to turn her head to ask what she’s looking for. But before she can speak, Honey zips away and returns to her thimble of tea.
“What?” Thistle snaps. “You can’t just drop something like that and go silent. Are you telling me I’m human?”
Honey breathes in, then out, slowly. “No,” she says at last. “What I’m telling you, is that it’s not physically possible for a fairy to be born without wings.”
Thistle’s brow furrows, as she says mostly to herself, “My mother was a fairy. I know nothing about my father.”
Honey takes another sip of her lavender tea, her expression unreadable.
“You are not human,” she says. “But you weren’t born without wings either.”
Thistle lets out a disbelieving scoff. “Riiight. They’re just… hiding, then?”
Honey sets her thimble down. Her voice is soft. Steady.
“No, child. I know this will be difficult to hear. They were ripped from your body. Likely, shortly after your birth, before the cartilage hardened.”
Sound disappears.
Thistle feels submerged, like she’s been dropped into a silent, endless sea. Her mind claws for a memory she knows she shouldn’t have… can’t possibly remember.
breathe in
Breathe in
BREATHE IN
“THISTLE!”
Honey’s voice slices through the stillness, cracking the spell.
Breathe in
Breathe out
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Thistle’s voice is a whisper. “There’s nothing there. I’ve seen my back in mirrors. There are no scars. No memory.”
“There wouldn’t be,” Honey replies gently. “Not one your conscious mind could access. But it’s there, in the echoes. Whispering lies. Telling you that you were born broken.” She softens, her gaze unwavering. “I see things your eyes cannot. You had wings. And now… you do not.”
Thistle stares into her tea, tears clinging to her lashes. “How do I grieve something I didn’t know I lost?”
“You acknowledge what was. Accept what is. And you move forward.” Honey yawns and nestles herself into a little divot in the napkin beside her thimble. “Besides,” she adds, settling like it’s the perfect time for a nap, “nothing says you can’t grow new ones.”
Thistle blinks.
She stares at Honey.
Silence.
“Wait… what?”
Chapter 3
Another Ritual
“How am I supposed to make my mind shut up long enough to ‘find peace’ or whatever?” Thistle grumbles, sitting cross-legged in the heart of the garden beside the belladonna that had mysteriously bloomed overnight.
Honey’s voice is soft, but steady.
“Meditation isn’t about force. It’s about permission. Letting whatever is present exist without trying to silence it or chase it away. The quiet you’re looking for isn’t something you make, it’s something you fall into, once the noise no longer needs your attention.”
Thistle exhales through her nose, her shoulders slumping slightly. “So, I just… sit here and let my thoughts ramble?”
“Exactly. Sit, breathe, notice. If your mind wants to think about what you’re having for dinner or replay that embarrassing thing from twelve years ago, let it. Eventually, the mind gets bored and quieter all on its own. Like a child who stops demanding your attention once you stop reacting.”
Thistle tilts her head, considering that. “And then? … I just keep doing that until… what, I ascend into a higher state of consciousness?”
Honey smirks, “Or maybe you just feel a little more like yourself than you did before. Don’t aim for the stars. Just aim to be. The rest will come.”
Thistle nods slowly, then closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
Breathe in
Breathe out
Honey buzzes contentedly beside her, the garden alive with quiet wind and budding magic. That buzz slowly becomes the only sound Thistle can hear. Her mind begins to settle, not on the thoughts gliding through it, but on the vibration of the wings.
breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Still, the thoughts persist.
I need to ask Honey what she meant when she said I could “grow new wings.” How is that even possible? I know my mother had her struggles, but would she really rip off my wings? I don’t understand. Why cause my deformity, and then blame me for it?
Ugh. I’m not supposed to be focusing on my thoughts! Get it together, Thistle. Okay, the buzzing… just listen to the buzzing…
She starts to hum in tune with the rhythm of Honey’s wings.
“Hmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
“What are you doing?” Honey asks softly, slightly amused.
Eyes still closed, Thistle replies, “Trying not to focus.”
Honey lands gently on her knee, and Thistle opens her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, “your buzzing was the frequency I was humming to. Why did you land?”
“If you’re trying, you’re not meditating.”
Thistle bristles. “Well, I’m sorry, getting things right isn’t exactly something I’m known for.”
“I wasn’t criticizing,” Honey says gently. “Just stating a fact. Meditation isn’t about effort. It’s about letting go. What were you trying not to think about?”
Thistle blurts out, too quickly:
“I was trying not to think about the fact that my mother might have been the one to rip off my wings. That for my entire life, others have called me defective. Broken. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t believe them. It makes me angry! And I hate feeling angry. Because anger leads to exhaustion, and exhaustion takes me back to that dream I was finally able to release. The one that felt like it would be easier to just, not exist…” She lets out a resigned sigh,” which just makes me feel like nothing’s changing at all.”
Honey listens in silence, her tiny face calm and solemn as Thistle’s voice cracks under the weight of her truth. The garden falls still. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
“Those are some heavy thoughts,” Honey says softly.
She flutters upward, then gently lands on Thistle’s hand. Thistle instinctively turns her palm upward, offering Honey a steadier place to rest. The bee settles there, wings folding with a whisper of sound.
“You’re not broken, Thistle,” Honey says gently. “You’re wounded. There’s a difference.”
Thistle stares down at her lap, avoiding the compassion in Honey’s gaze. Her voice is low. “Wounded still means something’s wrong with me.”
“No,” Honey says, her tone firm now. “Wounded means something happened. Something was done to you. Broken implies you're faulty. But you…” she pauses, flying up to hover just above Thistle’s heart, “you are not faulty. You are healing.”
Thistle's lips part, but no words come. Only the soft burn of tears pressing behind her eyes.
Honey continues, “And anger isn’t your enemy. It’s your fire. It's the heat that says, this hurt. It only becomes exhaustion when you bottle it up, when you try to silence it instead of listening to what it’s trying to tell you.”
Thistle lets out a shaky breath. “It tells me I wasn’t protected. That I was left to figure out my worth on my own.”
“Then let it say that” Honey whispers. “Let it speak until it's done. Because only when it’s finished talking, can your truth begin to speak back.”
Thistle wipes her cheek, quietly absorbing those words.
After a long pause, she says, “So if I’m not broken… how do I start healing?”
Honey smiles gently. “You’ve already begun. You sat still. You listened. You spoke your truth. And even now, through all of it… you’re still here.”
Thistle swallows the lump in her throat and nods.
breathe in
breathe out
The wind stirs again, soft and warm. And the garden listens.
Honey breaks the silence, “Ready to try again?”
Thistle takes a grounding deep breath. “Yeah, I can do this.”
Thistle begins again. She settles into stillness, breath deepening, mind softening. Time drifts, there’s no clock in the garden, only the hush of wind and the steady hum of life.
Thought doesn’t persist this time, it flows past as if watching a film. Each thought having its moment and then drifting away. Eventually her thoughts start to transform into possibility. She sees herself smiling and happy, face turned towards the sun. Walking down a path with some unknown destination. There is no fear, no worry, just the satisfaction of anticipation.
Eventually, she returns, slowly, gently, opening her eyes as if waking from a dream.
Honey’s voice is a whisper beside her. “How do you feel?”
Thistle takes a breath, scanning the quiet of her body, the quiet of her heart.
“Honestly… I feel… eager?”
Honey chuckles, a knowing smirk tugging at her tiny mouth. “Oh? And what exactly are you eager for?”
Thistle lets the smile bloom slowly across her face, eyes shining with something new. “Whatever comes next.”
Chapter 4
Changing TheDefault
Thistle stands at the kitchen sink, quietly washing the dishes from the day before. Staring out the window lost in thought, while Honey basks in the early morning light. Her little eyes closed, her fuzzy body glowing slightly in the golden hue. Soaking it in with an air of contentment.
“We should get out of the cottage today,” Honey says dreamily, not bothering to open her eyes.
Thistle continues scrubbing the mug in her hand. “We spent all day outside yesterday. Do we really need to spend another entire day meditating?” she asks.
Ignoring her question, Honey replies, “I meant really out. Into town maybe? Or down to the beach? I’m sure there’s a lake hidden somewhere in the Forest of Shadows, if the ocean’s not your thing.”
At that, Thistle pauses as she rests her hands on the edge of the sink.
“The Forest of Shadows? Even if I still felt like dying, that wouldn’t be the way I’d choose to go,” she says flatly. “That place is crawling with things that want to kill you.”
Honey hums in consideration. “Okay. Forest of Shadows is a no for today. Town then?” She opens her eyes at last and sits up, stretching her wings lazily.
Thistle chuckles as she resumes washing the last of the dishes, “Today? It’s a no, every day.”
“Hmm we’ll see.” Honey replies.
Thistle sighs, “I haven’t been to town in months. I’ve grown comfortable in my isolation. Being around others now… it’s hard. It feels like I’ve forgotten how. I’m awkward, and I feel like an outsider in every room I enter. It’s easier just to stay where I feel comfortable. Even if that means being alone.”
Honey flutters down and perches delicately on the faucet, meeting Thistle’s eyes. “Is it comfort you feel, or are you just scared to be seen?” she asks gently. “Your solitude gave you the space to find yourself. And me.” She adds that last part with a proud little grin. “You’ve gone through something deep, a shift, a transformation. And honoring that new version of yourself matters. But there are so many wonders out there waiting to meet you. So many beings and experiences that could become part of your story.”
She leans in just a bit closer.
“Don’t you want to see what the next page holds?”
“I don’t like being around others,” Thistle mutters. “Someone’s always angry or saying something stupid. It’s overwhelming, and exhausting. And I know it’s dumb, and screams insecure, but it feels like every eye on me is a critical one.”
“Is it?” Honey asked gently. “Or is that just your expectation?”
Thistle scoffs. “So what? You’re saying it’s my fault everyone sucks?”
“No,” Honey replies calmly. “But it is your fault that you expect them to.”
Thistle lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head. “Of course. My fault. It’s always my fault.”
Honey is quick to reply, “Are you always this dramatic? or am I just special? Is there someone else you’d prefer to blame? Your parents, maybe? An ex-lover or two?”
Thistle shoots her a sharp look but says nothing.
Honey continues, undeterred. “Your expectations are yours and yours alone. Sure, when you were a child, it was easy to be led into beliefs, about the world, about others, about yourself. But at some point, Thistle… you get to choose. You get to decide which of those beliefs you still want to carry. And which ones you’re ready to rewrite.”
“It’s been, what… a day?!” Thistle says exhaling. “Does this new life have to happen all at once? Can’t we just take a day to let everything that’s already happened… settle?”
Honey responds gently, “This ‘new life’ is already unfolding, whether you feel ready or not. But every step is still yours to choose. This transformation, you chose it. And now, you get to decide what to do with it.”
She pauses, her tone softening even more.
“Yes, we can stay home today. There’s nothing wrong with that. You can’t get this wrong, Thistle. Your emotions, especially the heavy ones, aren’t mistakes. They’re not punishments. They’re signals. They’re simply showing you where you are.”
Thistle takes a moment to ponder this new way of thinking. She thinks about the reaction she just had, defaulting to guilt and shame at the question of accountability. The story that has been, isn’t the story she wants to read anymore. “I don’t want to live my life as a victim. I don’t want to be beholden to things that have already happened. I don’t want to react to pain, I want to transmute it, into something better. I don’t want to live in insecurities made from guilt and shame. That doesn’t have to be my default anymore. I want to live. I’m allowed, to live.” She thinks to herself.
The wind slips through the open window above the sink, tickling the curtains. “Close your eyes.” it whispers.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Thump
Thump
Thump
Thistle opens her eyes, as a determined smile lights up her face. “Okay… let’s go get some breakfast at the café down the path.”
Honey grins, wings fluttering with pride. “Atta girl.” She zips toward the bedroom “Now hurry up! Put your hair in a bun and grab a scarf.”
Thistle raises a brow as she dries her hands. “A scarf?”
“I need somewhere to hide,” Honey calls over her shoulder. “I’m not riding on your shoulder like a common parrot. And I’m definitely not flying next to you just to have some Ogre swat at me in the name of ‘protection.’”
Thistle laughs, shaking her head with a smile. “Alright, alright. A bun and a scarf. Your royal highness shall be chauffeured in style.”
Honey lands on the doorknob with a smirk. “As it should be.”
Chapter 5
Into the Out
Honey is nestled safely in Thistle’s hair as they stroll toward the café.
“Are you sure you’re okay up there?” Thistle asks, glancing upward with a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Oh yes, I’m fine. It’s quite comfortable in here, actually. Just make sure you let me know if you need to scratch your head. I’d hate to cut my time short, simply because you smacked my bum.”
Thistle laughs, her footsteps light as they reach the café and step inside. It’s calm, the soft clink of mugs and low hum of conversation filling the warm air. The line is short, and soon Thistle finds herself at the counter.
“What’ll it be, luv?” asks a green-haired elf behind the register, her smile like a burst of sunshine.
“I’ll take a cup of the Morning Rise blend and a lemon-lavender muffin, please.” She says, paying for her breakfast.
“You got it, hun. Go ahead and grab a seat, I’ll bring it right out to ya.”
“Thanks.”
Thistle picks a quiet corner booth and slides into the seat nearest the window, sunlight casting gentle patterns across the table.
“Did you bring my thimble?” Honey’s voice buzzes from the curtain of hair just above her ear. “I’d rather not perch on the rim of your mug again. One slip and it’s a swim neither of us wants.”
With a smirk, Thistle reaches into her pocket and sets a tiny silver thimble on the table. “As your chauffeur and royal beekeeper, I made sure to include it.” She speaks low, cautious of curious ears that might overhear her.
Honey’s delicate feet tiptoe down a lock of hair, peeking out from behind Thistle’s ear.
“Royal beekeeper, huh? I like the sound of that,” she says. “Though don’t forget, my wisdom does not lessen your worth. We are the same, you and I.”
Thistle opens her mouth to ask what she means, but the tea arrives before the words can form.
“Here you go, luv. Need anything else?”
Thistle looks up, smiling gently. “No, thank you. This is perfect.”
As the elf drifts away, Thistle carefully scoops a thimbleful of steaming tea and places it on the table beside her own mug for her companion.
“Would you like me to add anything?”
Honey flutters down, wings catching the light, as she lands beside her thimble.
“No, that’s alright. I actually enjoy the earthy flavor of a naked tea,” she says, stretching her wings before hovering above the thimble, using them to cool her drink. Gently landing, she leans over the rim and takes a delicate sip.
“Oooh, that’s delightful! Excellent selection, Thistle.” The tea tastes of citrus and vanilla, with floral notes of honeysuckle. She sips again, then lifts her gaze with a twinkle. “Now… how about that muffin?”
Thistle chuckles, tearing off a small piece and setting it beside the thimble.
“Right away, your highness.”
As Honey braces her tiny legs and scrapes off a crumb with surprising precision, she glances up at Thistle.
“Mind your tone, dear. It’s only amusing until it isn’t.”
Thistle lets out a louder laugh at that. “Okay, okay, apologies… your highness,” she whispers into her teacup, grinning.
Honey narrows her eyes in mock derision, taking a regal sip of tea.
A quiet beat passes between them, filled only by the soft rustle of wings and the clink of cup to saucer.
Thistle leans forward slightly; voice lowered with genuine curiosity.
“By the way… what did you mean earlier, when you said, ‘we are the same’?”
Honey dabs at her crumb-dusted face with a napkin corner and replies lightly,
“Ah, that. Well, let’s wait until we are no longer in close quarters with others, shall we? We wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re talking to yourself.”
Thistle nods, glancing casually around the café. It’s a small place, just eight cozy tables, no seating at the counter. Patrons have come and gone since they arrived, but it hasn’t felt crowded. The walls are a soft yellow, the tables and chairs all wooden and hand crafted. It feels like sitting in a cafe in a story book as soft music plays from an unseen source. Suddenly she hears the loud scrape of a chair, and her eyes land on them, a pair of eyes piercing through time, causing it to lose all meaning, and hitting her like a bucket of cold water.
Her breath catches as she quickly shifts her gaze back to her tea.
“Oh crap,” she mutters, wishing she were small enough to hide beside Honey’s thimble. “This is why I didn’t want to come into the out.”
Honey lifts her head, muffin crumbs still clinging to her cheeks, antennae twitching.
“What? What happened?”
Thistle keeps her eyes on her teacup.
“Oh… nothing. Just someone who was the bane of my existence for most of my youth.”
Honey blinks, then slowly turns her head toward the rest of the café.
“Well. That certainly explains the sudden drop in air pressure,” she says cautiously.
“Are you ready to head home?” Thistle asks, urgency creeping into her tone. “I can make you a fresh cup of tea there.”
Before Honey can respond, the thunderous steps of the troll that tormented her younger years, come to a halt right beside her table. Thistle takes a slow, steadying breath, bracing for whatever cruelty he is bound hurl next.
“Little Thistle Vailumen!” he chortles, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What a treat, running into you here. I expected you to be in another realm after the way you scurried out of town three years ago. I’m sure the humans would have welcomed you with open arms.”
His words sting as they hit their mark. Thistle instinctively shrinks inward, avoiding his gaze.
“Yes, well… I’m just visiting Ahimsa to see friends,” she says quickly. “They had errands to run this morning, so I decided to try the local cafe.” Making sure not to reveal that she, in fact, lives here.
“Friends? You!?” The troll, Torak, chuckles before continuing his brutality, “Since when does anyone consider the wingless imp, friend material? You manage to spell someone into seeing past your deformity? That would be some trick!” Torak bellows a laugh, too loud and too pleased with himself. Thistle shrinks further, shoulders curling. Shadows from the past, rising up to shroud her identity.
As she’s about to fall into their painfilled comfort, she feels Honey crawl up her arm, settling again behind her ear.
“Breathe, Thistle,” comes the tiny whisper. “Remember, you get to choose.”
breathe in
breathe out
I wish I could pause time, so I had a solid moment to feel grounded. She thinks to herself through the tumultuous emotions.
breathe in
breathe out
Gently, Thistle finds a patch of solid ground within her mind and straightens her spine. Her shoulders ease back. She lifts her gaze, eyes locking onto Torak’s face.
“Well, Torak,” she says with surprising calm, “as lovely as this reunion has been, I’d really like to enjoy the rest of my tea, and I can’t do that with you here. So, if you would be so kind…” she gestures to the empty table he came from.
Oh hell… What am I doing?! Her breath quickens, pulse pounding like a war drum in her chest. In spite of her fear, she never takes her gaze from his face.
Torak snorts. “You finally grew fangs, I see. It’s about time. You’re still pathetic, but at least you’re more entertaining.” With a grunt, he turns and begins lumbering back to his seat. “Be seeing you, Thistle.”
She stares at her tea, stunned by the strange sensations churning in her center. Then something shifts.
“Wait a second!” she blurts, rising partially from her seat.
Torak turns back, a pompous smirk spreading across his bulbous face.
“You torment me for years! Tearing me to shreds piece by piece with your cruelty, and now you say, ‘it’s about time,’ as if you did me a favor!?” Her voice trembles with a decade’s worth of fire as she stands fully now, hands clenched.
She’s about to launch into a storm of words, but as she meets his eyes and recalls the years of all that cruelty, she can already see how anything she says now will fall on deaf ears. As she holds back tears of anger and hurt, she feels Honey flutter behind her ear.
Thistle closes her eyes.
breathe in
breathe out
“I’m not doing this.” Her voice is soft but sure. Only its slight wobble gives away her inner turmoil, as she opens her eyes.
Torak’s smirk falters. His brows draw down, confused.
“Torak,” she says evenly, “it was nice running into you. I actually appreciate the reminder, of who I am. I wish you well.”
Thistle turns toward the table, gathering her muffin and Honey’s crumbs, then reaches into her pocket for a few tiny coins to leave for the kind elf.
“You’re just going to walk away?” Torak scoffs. “This spine you think you’ve grown is cute. I remember when you—”
Thistle turns sharply. Her mouth opens for a sharp retort, but again, she stops. Honey flutters gently behind her ear, a soft nudge of support.
She takes a small calming breath, as her resolve hardens.
“Torak, that version of me,” she says, her voice like polished stone, “the one you beat down with your words and your taunting? She died… It was a beautiful death, I must say. But she doesn’t exist anymore. Even the echoes of her are fading in this moment. So, while you may be the same insecure troll you’ve always been… I’ve become more.”
Without waiting for a reply, Thistle moves around his hulking form and walks toward the door. Hands trembling, steps sure, she doesn’t glance back.
As the door closes behind her, she takes a deep breath striding away from the cafe. The tears she was keeping at bay, finally break through, cascading down her face as she breathes through every step towards home.
Once again, Thistle feels Honey flutter behind her ear, her soft voice, warm and proud.
“Atta girl.”
Chapter 6
Adrift at sea with a new friend
Thistle and Honey arrive back at the cottage, the warmth inside a stark contrast to the weight pressing on Thistle’s chest. Her energy is nearly gone. Slipping through the front door without a word, she toes off her shoes, sets their leftovers on the counter, and makes her way to the couch in front of the fire.
Honey gently flutters down from her perch on Thistle’s head, landing softly on her knee. Her tiny eyes shine with pride and compassion.
“I am so very proud of you, Thistle,” she says quietly.
Thistle doesn’t respond. She leans back, letting her head sink into the worn cushions as she closes her eyes. A deep sigh escaping her lips. The tears have dried, but the exhaustion settles in like a heavy fog.
After a long silence, her voice finally finds its way out, the weight of the exhaustion coming through, “I feel numb.”
Honey hovers briefly, before perching on the back of the couch in front of Thistle’s face. Her tone is steady, but gentle.
"That confrontation wasn’t easy. You felt the hurt. You faced the anger, and you had every right to. But" Honey pauses, her wings giving a small twitch, "...you changed the course."
She floats a little closer, her voice steady. "It’s like sprinting full speed in one direction, then turning completely around and running the other way. That kind of shift takes tremendous energy. But you did it. Even in the pain, you chose to move toward something better. That’s not a small thing, that’s real growth."
She smiles warmly. "And we’re only two days in."
Thistle tries to smile. She knows she should feel proud, grateful, even, for Honey’s words. But her emotions feel distant, like they’re stranded on a faraway island while she drifts alone in a rowboat out at sea.
Honey offers her a knowing smile. “Why don’t you go rest? Nothing is so urgent that a bit of sleep will cause it to fall apart. Let your body recover, let your heart breathe. I’ll tend to the belladonna in the garden while your emotions catch up.”
Thistle feels the weight of her existence settle into her body, heavy and unrelenting. Still, she nods and heads into her room.
As she crawls beneath the blankets and lays her head on the pillow, the softness a small comfort; Her eyes drift to the clock on the wall.
It’s not even midday, she thinks, as her eyes close and her mind begins to blur at the edges, sinking into the quiet void of rest.
. . .
“You get down from there this instant, you little fiend! I won’t give you any of this muffin if you don’t behave!”
Thistle stirs as the veil of sleep begins to lift, Honey’s voice weaving its way into her dreams. Confusion is the first emotion to rise. “Who are you talking to?” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
“No one! Just go back to sleep, Thistle. Everything is completely under control out here.”
Thistle stares at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Oh yes, that was entirely convincing.” She sighs, throwing off her blankets and leaving the warm cocoon of her bed. A strange, sharp trilling sound echoes from the other room, and her curiosity sharpens. She quickens her steps, rounding the corner into the main room of the cottage, only to find Honey mid-argument with… something.
“What is that?” Thistle asked, eyes wide. “And why is it sitting on my mantle?”
“This little brute was in your garden munching on the Belladonna!” Honey snaps, wings fluttering with agitation. “Thankfully I got there in time to save the plant, but my muffin bribe doesn’t seem to be enough to keep him from causing more trouble.”
Thistle blinks, trying to make sense of the scene. “Okaaay… but what is he? And won’t the Belladonna hurt him?”
At the concern in her voice, the creature gives a twitch of its tiny bat-like wings and flutters awkwardly to the back of the couch, where it lands with a soft thump, staring at Thistle with unblinking eyes.
“Well, he’s just adorable, whatever he is,” she murmurs, stepping toward the couch, hand outstretched to scratch his fuzzy little head.
“Yes, well,” Honey says sharply, zipping up to hover right in front of Thistle’s face, “as cute as he may be, he’s also potentially deadly. So maybe don’t go marching up to the fuzzy creature with fangs.”
“Deadly? But he’s so cute!” Thistle coos, peeking past Honey as the little creature lets out a soft, chirring trill.
Honey buzzes in exasperation. “So am I, but under the right circumstances, I can kill.”
Thistle sighs dramatically. “Fine. What do we do with him? And what even is he?”
“He,” Honey replies, spinning around to glare at the tiny menace, “is a Glimroot.”
Thistle’s brows knit together. “A Glimroot?”
“Yes. They’re creatures from the Forest of Shadows. You know, the one you’re terrified of?”
Thistle instinctively takes a step back at that.
“Don’t worry,” Honey adds quickly. “It’s just a Bramble. He won’t feel the urge to devour until he’s full grown. But I would still be cautious, his venom can be fatal if he feels threatened.”
Just then, the tiny Glimroot sneezes. The absurdly delicate sound melts Thistle’s fear just enough for her to take a slow, steady step forward.
She approaches the couch and extends a hand. The creature sniffs it with twitching nostrils, then lets out what sounds unmistakably like a purr.
“You are just the cutest little thing,” Thistle murmurs. “What’s your name, handsome?”
Without warning, he flaps his leathery wings and launches himself straight into her arms.
“OH!”
“Look out!”
Thistle and Honey exclaim at the same time.
Honey darts forward, stinger at the ready, as the Glimroot nestles into the crook of Thistle’s neck, rubbing his soft, velvety head under her chin. Thistle freezes.
“Wait!” she says sharply. Honey stops mid-air, wings buzzing.
The purring grows louder, thrumming like a lullaby through the room.
“Awwww,” Thistle says, eyes soft. “We’re keeping him.”
“We most certainly are not!” Honey snaps. “Do you have any idea how much these things eat!? And he’s a shadow creature; he’ll lose his glimmer if he stays away from the forest too long!”
“What if he just stays inside?”
Honey lands on the back of the couch, where the little Bramble once sat. “Would you enjoy being forced to stay indoors forever?”
Thistle opens her mouth for a snarky reply, but Honey rolls her eyes and adds, “I know you don’t enjoy being in public, but that’s not the same. Imagine never being able to step outside into your garden.”
Thistle frowns, reaching up to scratch under the creature’s chin. “Alright, I see your point. But he clearly needs a place to stay, for now.” She adjusts the bramble so she can cradle him gently in her arms. “He can stay with us until we figure out how to get him home.”
By the end of her declaration, she’s already cooing over his squishy little face. Honey sighs.
“Fine. But I refuse to clean up his droppings. I doubt he’s cottage-trained.”
Thistle doesn’t look up, still enchanted. “I don’t like what he’s turning you into,” Honey mutters.
Thistle chuckles. “After the morning I had, this cuddle is exactly what I need,” she says softly, the memory of earlier events shifting her mood. The Glimroot chirps, nudging her for attention.
“What should we call you, little guy?” she asks. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Bramble.’ That’s like calling you ‘child’ all the time, seems kind of rude.” He chuffs at that.
“Why don’t you just call him Nuisance?” Honey grumbles.
Thistle shoots her a mock glare. “He’s not a nuisance, are you?” The creature seems to adopt an even more charming expression in response.
“Awwwwww.”
Honey rolls her beady eyes. “That’s it! I’ve reached my limit. I’ll be outside tending to the plant he tried to destroy while you sit here worshiping the deadly fluffball.” And with that, she zips out the window.
Thistle smiles, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about her,” she whispers to the creature. “She’ll come around. But we do need to find a name for you…”
He wiggles and flaps his wings. Thistle shifts so he’s perched on her palms. With another chirp, he puffs out his tiny chest like he’s presenting himself.
“You’re a fierce little guy, aren’t you?”
He lifts his chin proudly, his purple eyes gleaming.
“Okay,” Thistle laughs. “Hmmm… what about Murk?”
The Glimroot drops his chin and glares at her.
“Okay, no Murk,” she grins. “Do you already have a name? Probably should’ve asked that first.”
He flaps his wings and hops back to the top of the couch. With a chirp, he stands as tall as his tiny body allows and puffs his chest out again.
“Something about being… big?” Thistle guesses.
He shakes his head.
“No? Okay. Strong, then?” He flexes his tiny arms in response and drops back onto his haunches.
Thistle begins pacing along the couch. “Alright, strong… how about Stout?”
He shakes his head.
“Brawny? Or Burly?”
His expression grows increasingly unimpressed.
“Okay, now I’m being insulting. What about… Tuff?”
He trills in delight.
“Tuff! Really? I did it!” Thistle beams. “Tuff the buff Bramble.”
He purrs at that.
“His name is Tuffin,” comes Honey’s voice from the kitchen window.
Thistle turns toward her. “You can talk to him?”
Honey flutters in and lands squarely on Tuffin’s head. “You think I was yelling at him for my health?”
Thistle scoffs. “You could’ve told me when I asked.”
“And you could’ve composed yourself instead of melting into a puddle over a deadly shadow creature.”
Thistle rolls her eyes and gazes adoringly at Tuffin. “Tuffin doesn’t feel sturdy enough to match his majestic vibe.”
“Oh stars,” Honey mutters, flying over to the counter to finish what’s left of their breakfast muffin.
“I have it!” Thistle exclaims, darting to her room and returning with a slender wand of selenite. With a dramatic sweep, she gestures from Tuffin’s left shoulder, over his head, to his right. “I dub thee Sir Tuffin, Prince of Shadows and Friend to Thistle. Rise, Sir Tuffin!”
Tuffin launches back into her arms, purring furiously as they snuggle.
“You two have officially ruined my appetite,” Honey says, wiping her face on a kitchen towel. “I’m going for a nap. Wake me when you’ve regained your critical thinking skills.”
She disappears into Thistle’s room, grumbling.
Thistle giggles, circling around to sit on the couch. “Are you hungry, or do you just want to sit with me in front of the fire?”
Tuffin burrows deeper into her arms, and they both let out a soft, contented sigh.
“I promise I’ll help you get home,” Thistle whispers. “But I’m really glad you’re here right now.”
Tuffin nuzzles her arm, looking at her with unexpected awareness, as if he senses the wound that was brutally reopened this morning. They lock eyes as tears well up behind hers.
At his tiny chirp, the dam breaks, the tears spilling over as her body begins to shake with soft sobs. Tuffin crawls under her chin, curling into her as Thistle curls up on the couch.
Her soft sobs, Tuffin’s gentle purring and the crackling of the fire are the only sounds in the room.
After a few moments, Thistles sobs cease and the hush is gently broken by the familiar hum of wings as Honey returns, landing softly on Thistle’s shoulder.
“I guess he’s alright after all.”
Chapter 7
Making plans & seeking answers
“What is it that has you so afraid of the Forest of Shadows?” Honey asks from her perch on a pillow in front of the fire.
After Thistle had rested a while longer, she made dinner, and now the three of them are lounging in the quiet hush before bed.
“Well, for starters,” Thistle says, cradling a warm mug of chamomile tea, “there’s the deadly beasts that await inside to devour your soul.” She takes a sip, then nods toward Tuffin, who is snoring softly beside Honey’s pillow. “Case in point.”
Honey’s wings twitch. “What stories are told of what lies in the dark depths of the forest? What has you so scared?”
“They say those who enter never return. Only their screams emerge… until they stop.”
Honey tilts her head. “How perfectly creepy campfire of them. So, no one has ever come back to tell the tale from personal experience?”
“Well,” Thistle concedes, “there is one story. About a witch who stepped out of the forest nearly three hundred years ago. They say she could no longer see, and the language she spoke was one no one understood.”
“And what happened to her? Could she still be alive?”
Thistle considers this, eyes flickering toward the wood burning in the hearth. “It’s possible. Witches can live incredibly long lives. I could ask Berty, the gnome who sold me this cottage, he has a strange knack for knowing things. But even if she is still alive, if we can’t understand her, how helpful could she really be?”
“Speaking isn’t the only way to communicate, Thistle.” Honey’s tone is gentle but sure. “And besides, it’s possible I could understand her. I understand Tuffin after all? Being what I am, comes with certain… advantages.”
Thistle continues to stare at the fire, pondering Honey’s suggestion. She really didn’t want to go into the Forest of Shadows. But as her eyes drift to the sleeping Glimmer, she remembers her promise; and knows simply dropping him off at the forest’s edge won’t be enough.
Finally, she sighs,
“It would definitely feel better to have some idea of what to expect. I’ll visit Berty in the morning and see if he has any information that might help us locate the witch, if she’s still alive.” She swallows the last sip of her tea and adds, “Besides, after dealing with Torak, it’ll be a balm to see his friendly face.”
Tuffin chuffs in his sleep, rolling onto his back, wings and limbs spread out without a care in the realm. Thistle feels a tug in her heart at his cuteness.
“You both will come with me. I’m not leaving you alone together.”
“Please,” Honey scoffs, “he may be annoying, but I have no interest in ending my time here because of it. He is safe from my stinger.”
She stands and ruffles her wings before flying over to the kitchen sink. Catching a droplet of water hanging from the faucet, she uses it to wash her face and front legs.
“Now,” she says, turning back to Thistle, “we best be off to bed. I have a feeling tomorrow will be… interesting.”
. . .
Thistle arrives at the retirement community where Berty lives, the early morning dew still clinging to the grass. Honey is safely tucked away in her hair, and Tuffin skitters quietly in her shadow where he is invisible to the naked eye.
The community is strictly for gnomes, though a few fairies have managed to settle in over the years. The front lawn is covered in lush green grass and a floral hedge surrounds the property.
As they step through the main doors and into the lobby, Honey gives a soft buzz.
“This place smells of earth and wisdom,” she murmurs, “with just a hint of decay.”
Thistle stifles a chuckle as they make their way down the winding halls toward Berty’s room.
The moment they cross the threshold, his voice rings out, as if he’s been expecting them all morning.
“Dearest Thistle! It’s so wonderful to see you. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”
The elderly gnome sits comfortably in a high-backed chair, its faded floral upholstery echoing the gentle magic of years well-lived. His thick white beard and bright red hat in contrast to the soft florals.
“You flatter me, Berty,” Thistle replies with a smile as she settles into the matching chair beside him. “Can’t a fairy visit her favorite gnome just because she missed him?”
“Ah, indeed she can. Alas, she hasn’t… and I suspect today isn’t the day she starts,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling.
Thistle winces a little at that, a sigh slipping from her lips.
“Oh Berty, I’m sorry. I get so wrapped up in my own crap, and the box in my mind labeled ‘Friends’ gets packed up and shoved on a shelf.” She offers a sheepish grin. “I promise to make a point to visit you every week from now on.”
Berty let’s out a deep chuckle, “I’d love to see you every week, my dear, but don’t let guilt drive you. I’m quite content in my solitude.” He pats her hand kindly, his kind face smiling. “It’s not a burden to have so much time to myself. I’m happy to rest in that little box until you’re ready to take it down again.”
He claps his hands together with sudden cheer.
“Now! Let’s talk about what you’re wanting, dear. No need to get bogged down in analysis.”
Thistle rolls her eyes, smiling as Berty shifts in his chair, attempting to sit a little taller.
“Alright, I guess we should just get to it then.” She shakes her head, then takes a deep breath, sitting a bit taller herself.
“I need to find the Witch that walked out of the woods.”
Berty doesn’t look the least bit surprised. Instead, a knowing gleam lights his eyes, and a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
“It’s about damn time.”
Chapter 8
Adrift once again
Thistle’s entire body freezes, then she bursts into laughter. Not the “I think you’re joking” kind of laugh, but the unhinged, gasping kind that rides the edge of hysteria.
Honey leaps into the air, hovering in front of Thistle but careful not to get too close in case she starts swinging. “I’ve never seen a fairy quite this hysterical,” she says, voice tight with concern. She rounds on the gnome. “I told you to be gentle!”
Berty keeps his eyes on Thistle. “Give her a minute.”
They both watch as the laughter continues, wild, wheezing. Thistle’s eyes are unfocused now, her laughter turning sharp, jagged, desperate.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasps between fits, “and I don’t know why!”
Honey zips to her side, helpless. “Do something!” she pleads, her eyes on Berty.
“Thistle, dear,” he says evenly, “take deep breaths.”
Honey whips toward him, ready to yell, but a chirp cuts through the room.
Tuffin awkwardly flaps his leathery wings and lands squarely on Thistle’s knees.
A low, steady purring begins. Like a spell grounding her and giving her a tiny foundation to land on.
Thistle’s breathing begins to slow. The gasping eases. Her laughter crumbles into soft tremors as tears quietly spill down her cheeks.
Honey settles into her usual place in Thistle’s hair, heart still racing. “She’s not well.”
Berty nods. “No. But that’s okay.”
That, that makes Thistle sit up. She seizes the moment of clarity like a lifeline. “Okay? Okay?! How is this okay?” Her voice climbs, shaking with raw exhaustion. “You’re telling me the woman who birthed me is not the one who raised me, okay, fine. Acceptable information. But adding on that I’m a queen?! Absolutely not acceptable!”
She shakes her head so violently that Honey is flung from her nest of hair. The tiny bee hovers mid-air, stunned.
Thistle stares at her, eyes wide and wild. “Did you know?” Her voice trembles with a fragile mix of hope and betrayal.
Honey zips up to Thistle’s face, making sure she sees her clearly. “I vow to you, on our friendship, I had no idea. When I arrive, I come with echoes from past incarnations, yes, but never specifics about the beings I’m called to guide. This… is just as shocking to me.”
She floats gently down, hovering just above Thistle’s open palm. Her voice softens. “I wish I could offer more than my words, Thistle. I know your heart is hurting. I wish I could give you the comfort of a hug.”
Thistle slowly turns her palm upward. Honey lands.
Then, without a word, Thistle lifts her hand to her face.
Honey stretches her tiny arms as wide as she can and presses into Thistle’s nose, trying her best to hold her.
They stay like that for a moment; Tuffin still purring on her lap, Honey doing her best to comfort, and Berty kindly remaining silent as Thistle pieces herself back together.
“Are you sure I’m not human?” Thistle asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because this sounds like a human tale.” Honey nuzzles her nose one last time before stepping back far enough for Thistle to see her and says with a smile, “I know for a fact, you are definitely not human.”
Her gaze shifts back to Berty, the panic in her eyes giving way to bone-deep weariness. “How is this my life?”
Berty rises from his chair and walks slowly to a small table tucked into the corner. From it, he retrieves a tiny worn wooden box. Returning to his seat, he exhales with the weight of old memories.
“This belonged to your mother, the one who birthed you,” he says gently. “She asked me to hold onto it, until you were ready.”
He extends the box toward Thistle.
She doesn’t move.
Whatever energy she had left has been drained by the emotional storm of this conversation. The room suddenly feels smaller. He nods in quiet understanding, adjusting the point of his hat.
“I owned a tavern not far from the castle,” he says gently. “Nothing fancy. Just a place for a warm meal and a good drink. I was there serving drinks the day she fled. Laurel, that’s her name, came bursting in through the front door. You’d just been born, and the Queen had ordered the castle searched to find you.”
He clears his throat.
“Your father was the King. But your mother, she was the woman he loved. The Queen knew. She just didn’t care, not really. As long as it kept him out of her way. But when she discovered the pregnancy, she flew into a fury. She sent guards to find you… and end your life.”
His voice hardens slightly.
“Your mother ran to my tavern, desperate. I had a cellar under the kitchen, hidden beneath a rug. When she came in, breathless and wild-eyed, and I heard the guards shouting through the square... I did what I had to. Otherwise, you both would’ve been dead by nightfall.”
The wooden box now rests on the arm of his chair. He doesn’t push it again. He simply lets the words settle into the space between them.
“You both stayed in that cellar for a month. Content, in that tiny dark place. It wasn’t just a hole in the ground. There was a washroom and a bed big enough for two. I had placed a soft rug on the floor, and I found a sturdy basket that your mother lined with scraps of fabric, and you slept there when you weren’t in her arms. We both knew it couldn’t last, but it was the best option we had. I told my staff to keep quiet. But in a kingdom like ours, where the rich stay rich and the poor stay hungry… money is a dangerous motivator.”
His gaze grows dark.
“My cook overheard that one of the waitresses had gone to the castle. Said she was going to collect the Queen’s reward.”
He exhales, slow and weary.
“There wasn’t much time. I knew if I stayed, I’d be dead within days. So we packed what we could carry… and ran for the forest.”
Berty deflates into his chair, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. When he looks up at Thistle, it’s with deep remorse.
“I begged her to come with me. See, the Forest of Shadows exists in all realms and none. In its heart, there's a portal of intention. It will take you wherever you desire to go… if your intention is clear. If not…” His voice trails off. His gaze goes distant. “Well… You can end up in some very unfortunate places.”
He pauses a beat, gathering himself. “My apologies. Where was I? Ah… yes.”
His eyes refocus.
“When we reached the portal, we could hear the guards at the edge of the forest. Your mother collapsed, clutching you to her chest, her whole body shaking. I knelt beside her. Told her we had to go.”
Berty’s voice trembles now, tears falling freely down his cheeks and matching the ones on Thistle’s.
“She looked at me… square in the eyes. Took a breath and said, ‘I can’t.’ I didn’t understand. Not until she placed you in my arms.”
He lets out a soft, shaky chuckle. “We were about the same size so holding you took a moment to adjust to. Then she pulled the pack off her shoulder and handed me this box.”
He gestures to it again, and this time, Thistle reaches for it. She takes it with trembling hands, reverently, as though the very weight of it might shatter her.
“She’d been preparing for that moment since the day she found out she was pregnant. They tried to keep the pregnancy a secret, but your mother knew,” Berty says quietly. “She knew the Queen would never stop looking for you once the truth came out. Melanthaha is not someone who would ever stop hunting. She is like a plague.”
He looks down at his lap, speaking now to memory as much as to her.
“Laurel took you back from me one last time. Kissed your forehead and whispered a spell. You fell asleep in her arms. She looked at you as if you were every dream made real.” He says with a watery smile. “Then she hugged you tight and whispered another one. I don’t know what she said, but… your wings fell off. And your light dimmed.”
Thistle gasps softly.
“I panicked,” Berty admits. “I asked what she’d done. She looked at me, sharp and clear, and said, ‘I’m protecting her.’ There was no room for argument in her tone… No time either.”
He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“She told me to take you to the first orphanage I could find. Said to make sure you ended up with a decent family.”
Thistle gives a hollow, bitter chuff.
“I know.” He sighs heavily. “I swear to you Thistle, when Festra adopted you, I thought she was perfect. A beautiful home. A kind husband. They’d tried to have children for years. I truly thought you’d be safe.”
His face twists with pain.
“And you were, for the first hundred years. Until her husband left her. After that… she blamed you. And became the woman that you remember.”
Thistle sits frozen, the wooden box cradled in her lap, her mind a storm of noise and jagged edges. The truth doesn’t slot neatly into place; it collides with everything she thought she knew.
“It’s like I’m looking at a puzzle with pieces missing,” she whispers. “I can’t see the picture. I don’t understand.”
She looks up at Berty, her voice breaking.
“Why don’t I remember being alive for three hundred years? And what happened to my mother, to make her blind, and speak a language no one understands?”
“Those are questions you’ll have to ask her,” Berty says softly. “I didn’t understand why you told me your age was thirty-four, that first day you entered my cottage. But I figured it had something to do with what your mother did in the forest. So… I didn’t say anything.”
Thistle’s eyes narrow, hurt and confusion surging forward. “Why?” Her voice shakes. “Why not tell me then? Why wait until now? What makes me ready now?”
Berty’s eyes fall. He lets out a long breath before answering.
“You weren’t ready because you were still clinging to the life that was. You were drowning in the pain of what you knew. I didn’t want to add more weight. I knew… when the time came, you’d find me.”
He rises slowly and walks over to stand in front of her.
“I am sorry, for the pain I’ve caused you. I’m sorry for not doing more to make sure you were happy. And safe. I failed you… both you and your mother. And I’ll carry that into the afterlife. I was cruel to you today, not because of you, but because of my own fear. And my shame.” He pauses, his voice quiet but genuine, “I’m so sorry, Thistle.”
She studies him, the old gnome, the man she once thought of as just a quirky friend. But she sees it now. The weariness in his posture. The grief in his eyes. She recognizes it. She knows it well.
Thistle reaches for his small, weathered hand and gently takes it in hers and waits until he lifts his gaze.
“You saved my life, Berty. Whatever else happened after that… happened. I can’t say that I’m not hurt. It does feel like I got left behind. But I know that staying angry won’t help me. So, I’m going to leave now. I don’t know when I might be back. But I don’t hate you, Bertrum. I just… need to process all of this.”
Berty nods, his chin trembling slightly. “I’ll be here. If you ever decide to come back and let me have it.”
Thistle offers a small, tired smile. “Noted.”
He chuckles faintly, then swallows hard. “I know I have no right… but I’d ask one small favor.”
She pauses, her hand still holding his.
“When you see your mother… please, tell her I’m sorry, too.”
The last word lands like a prayer, wet with regret.
Thistle nods. “I can do that.”
She pats his hand one last time, then rises. Her fingers tighten briefly around the box as she walks toward the door.
Just as she reaches the frame, she stops and turns back.
“One last question,” she says, her voice quiet. “What happened to the Queen?”
Berty’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well… you said I was a queen.” Her eyes search his. “That makes me think the Queen that was... isn’t anymore.”
“Ahh,” Berty says with a dry chuckle. “No such luck. According to what news still filters through, the old wretch is still alive. Still ruling the kingdom of Talamh.”
“Talamh?” Thistle echoes, the name unfamiliar.
He nods. “Yes. A human wandered into our land thousands of years ago. He saved the kingdom from a devastating disease; with a kind of magic no one had ever seen. They made him King, and he named the realm after his homeland. Talamh. But that’s a tale for another time.”
He shifts slightly in his seat, the weight of what he’s about to say making the air feel thick around them.
“To clarify what I meant when I called you queen, your father died a few years after your mother fled. The Queen told him you’d both been killed. She hired a witch to craft an illusion so convincing he believed it with all his heart.”
Thistle’s stomach knots.
Berty’s voice softens. “He jumped from the tower.”
A long silence follows before he adds, “She’s ruled alone ever since. But she is not the rightful ruler, Thistle. You are.”
She stands in the doorway, dizzy from the avalanche of revelations. The floor beneath her feels like it’s dropped out…and yet, her feet remain rooted to the ground. Tuffin chirps from the shadows offering her comfort.
Letting out a shaky breath, she whispers, “I don’t know what to do with any of this.”
“That,” Berty says gently, “is perfectly understandable.”
She offers a small nod, then turns toward the hallway. “See you around, Berty.”
He smiles faintly, though his eyes are damp. “I truly hope so.”
Chapter 9
What?…
Thistle’s smile falls, confusion and hurt flooding her veins like ice. “Please don’t tell me you’ve known who I am this entire time,” she says, heartbeat quickening. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting on a pile of information about my life, just waiting for me to become what, worthy of it?! I only met you the day you sold me your cottage! How could you know anything personal about me that I didn’t share?”
Berty doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look apologetic as he drops the emotional anvil squarely in her lap. “I know it might seem cruel,” he says, “but you weren’t ready to know before.”
Honey stirs and rises from her warm perch in Thistle’s hair. She floats gently down, landing on the arm of Berty’s chair, her expression unreadable. “I’d be very careful with how you continue this little unveiling, whatever it is you have to share” Honey says, her voice low and laced with warning. “I might be just a bee at the moment… but I’m capable of far more than a sting.” Her tone is one Thistle has never heard before, not even when she was scolding Tuffin.
Just as the thought of him flickers across her mind, Tuffin steps out of her shadow, his violet eyes glowing faintly. The comforting purr he so often emits is gone, replaced by a surprisingly fierce growl as he plants himself between Thistle and Berty.
Berty, annoyingly, chuckles. “No need to fear this old Gnome. I’ll do my best to deliver these secrets gently. And I mean Thistle no harm.”
He turns to her, the twinkle in his eye dimming just slightly.
“You’ve started collecting quite the crew of support. I’m glad,” he adds with intensity, “You’ll need them.”
Thistle sighs and slumps back in her chair, fatigue washing over her like a wave.
“Enough with the cryptic crap, Bertrum. Just tell me whatever secrets I’m now so worthy of knowing so I can be on my way.”
She briefly considers walking out altogether, but she made a promise to Tuffin. And she knows herself well enough to know, that sleep won’t come until she hears what Berty has to say.
Another chuckle from him, quieter this time, but deep and broken as if he has a heart after all. “You’re so much like her, you know.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Who, Berty? I said enough with the cryptic crap.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Your mother.”
Thistle scoffs, her gaze dropping to her lap. She shakes her head, rage filling her veins.
“Just like my mother,” she mutters, then lifts her eyes and locks onto his with icy clarity.
“Oh yeah, I can see the similarities. I’m cruel for no reason. I think making children feel insignificant is a requirement, not a flaw. Consent is a speedbump, not a boundary. And of course, my life’s ambition is to die bitter and alone.” She says with venom in her voice. “Fuck you, Berty.”
Thistle begins to stand as Honey flies over and lands on her shoulder, offering her support. “I told you to be gentle you brute, not upset her and cause her to use human curses!” The bee admonishes.
“That was poorly done Thistle, I’m truly sorry. Please stay. If you give me five minutes, I will tell you everything I know. Then you can be on your way and do what you like with the information.” Berty says, finally looking properly chagrined.
Thistle sits back down and sighs, “You can have your five minutes, but I’m tired. The last three days have exhausted me in ways I don’t care to explain. Coming to see you was supposed to be a bright moment in my day. So much for that.” she makes sure to meet his gaze as she adds, “I may have the time to offer you, but I am extremely low on energy and I’m about out of patience.”
Honey flutters down and lands on Thistle’s leg, resting against her thumb. Thistle takes a soft deep breath as Berty begins to share his super-secret information.
“The woman that raised you was not the woman who bore you.” Thistle looks up and opens her mouth to ask… she’s not really sure what; but Berty holds up his withered hand, “Five minutes.” Thistle closes her mouth and takes another deep breath.
“Your mother is the Witch that walked out of the woods. You, were conceived in a castle, over three hundred years ago.” He states, as if it’s no big deal.
Thistle glares at Berty, “That’s not possible, I’ve only been alive for thirty-four years.” She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “This doesn’t make any sense.” she says and opens her eyes to once again glare at the old gnome she thought she knew. “I swear to the stars Berty, if you tell me I’m a princess, I will have no choice but to punch you.”
Berty’s smirk slowly returns his gruff voice holding a hint of satisfaction, “You are not a princess.”
Thistle’s shoulders relax a bit as she lets out a sigh. But before she can feel the relief, Berty says the words that change everything.
“You’re a Queen.”
Chapter 10
What now?…
“What do I do Honey?” Thistle asks from her spot on the sofa. It’s evening now and the only light illuminating the space is coming from the small fire in the hearth and the waning moon shining through the window.
Honey is nestled in a blanket resting on Thistle’s lap. “What do you want to do?” She asks.
Thistle sighs deeply, resting her head on the back of the couch. “I want to throw my brain into the sink with the dishes and scrub the last seventy-two hours from my mind.” She says, returning her gaze to Honey.
Honey tilts her tiny head and replies, “Really?”
Again, Thistle sighs, though not quite so deeply, “No, not really. I just… Ugh I don’t know what to do with all of the information racing through my mind. There are so many gaps in my understanding of things. I like clarity, and right now there is no clear picture. I just feel… lost.”
Honey offers a gentle smile, “Okay, so what if we just get all of this out? Why don’t you just… word vomit whatever you're feeling. Give it a name. Claim it. You can’t process, much less release, something you haven’t acknowledged and named.”
Thistle glances at Tuffin, who is once again sprawled on the floor in front of the fire. The small creature yawns in his sleep and the softness of the sound offers Thistle an anchor in the moment. “It hurts… It hurts in a way I didn’t know I could hurt. I am glad to know that Festra was not my mother, that she didn’t rip my wings off in a moment of rage and disgust. I’m sad that my actual mother, the woman who did want me, wasn’t a part of my life. We missed out on so much.” She wipes her eyes as tears start falling from them and sniffs, “I’m also fucking pissed. How dare they keep this from me. I’m three-hundred years old?! I understand trying to protect me, I really do. I’m alive, and I guess I’m grateful. But what about my heart? … They left me with no way to protect my heart…” Thistle lifts the blanket slightly, giving Honey time to hover so she doesn’t get wrapped up in it, as she lies down on the couch. “Mostly though, I’m just so damn tired.”
Honey settles near Thistle’s shoulder, her tiny wings folding gently as she speaks in a whisper-soft tone, “Then rest, little storm. You’ve been holding up the sky all your own, for far too long.”
Thistles eyes close, tears still falling, “I’m just… so damn tired,” she repeats, softer this time. “Tired of not knowing. Tired of aching for things I never had. Tired of pretending I’m not breaking.” A quiet sob escapes her, quickly followed by more.
Honey doesn’t respond, she just stands guard as Thistle weathers this moment.
The fire crackles, and in the hush between its pops and sparks, a new kind of silence begins to settle. Slowly, Thistles sobs cease as she floats in the liminal space between wakefulness and slumber. Just before sleep takes her, she feels the weight of Tuffins little body settle in behind her knees, as he softly begins to purr.
. . .
Honey
“Tuffin, will you keep watch over our Thistle for a bit? There is something I must attend to in the garden.”
“Of course.” He replies in a childlike voice. “I will protect her with my life.”
Honey offers him a soft smile, “A fierce protector indeed. I will be right outside should you need me.”
Tuffin yawns as he snuggles deeper into the comfort he’s found with Thistle, “Okay Honey.”
Honey stays there for a moment, appreciating the peaceful image before her. Once she’s sure they are both resting soundly, she takes a deep breath and flutters out the window.
The moon is high in the sky over the garden, partially shadowed as it shifts on its journey from full to new. The Belladonna plant stands tall in the gardens center, reaching for the moons light.
Honey lands in an open bloom and sits, staring into the night. It’s quiet, not unsettling, but there is a stillness that feels ripe with anticipation, pulsing in the silence. Sighing deeply, Honey looks up at the moon and says, “I need a stronger form. This one isn’t sturdy enough for the task at hand. Thistle needs me, and I don’t want to be added to the list of those who inspire feelings of abandonment in her. Especially if I lose her because of an accidental sting… or a swat.” A frog bellows from somewhere in the garden and honey chuckles, “Or an accidental eating.”
“I just… I want to see Thistle through this unfolding. No other charge I have guided has had the kind of upheaval she is experiencing. I know that fear is an illusion, telling me I’m not looking at the truth of my being. It’s simply a result of my physical manifestation in this reality… But, I don’t want to leave her without a solid foundation to stand on. We haven’t had enough time to create such a thing. With the way things are unraveling, I could sting someone out of pure frustration and Thistle would be left stranded in a sea of uncertainty.” A single tear falls down her fuzzy face, solidifying her fears.
Out of the silence, a soft breeze whispers through the trees above. Bringing with it a hint of the other flora beginning to bloom,
Your vulnerability is not a weakness, and you are not alone.
Honeys face takes on a knowing grin, “Is that what the demon fluff ball is? My back up?”
The wind gust by again, no whispers but Honey can almost hear laughter. “Alright, no more fear. I did not come here to be, I came here to guide. And so, I shall.” She stands within the purple bloom and shakes out her wings as she looks up at the moon one last time. “Thank you. I’ll honor the gift; both the charge and the wings that carry me to her.”
With that, she launches back into the air and returns to the glowing warmth of Thistle’s cottage.
Chapter 11
Choices and surprises
“This is not acceptable behavior Tuffin!” Honey shouts. Followed by a brief silence. “Fine. Sir Tuffin. Knighted or not, if you feel the need to relieve yourself of excrement, you may do so outside in the garden. Possibly even in a nourishing apology to the Belladonna plant I found you chewing on. But not in the cottage and certainly NOT IN THE KITCHEN!”
Thistle sighs before opening her eyes. Not quite prepared to break up an argument between her guide and her furry friend. “Must you two insist on waking me with your chirps and squawks?”
“I for one do not squawk, my dear. And if you were paying attention to our discord, you would know that your adorable Sir Tuffin has shat on your kitchen floor.” She glares at Tuffin, who is quietly batting at a mop in the corner of the room.
Thistle rolls her eyes at Honeys dramatics, “He’s a youngling. He’s still learning how to use his wings, and you can’t open the door for him. Where else was he supposed to go?” She sits up on the couch and glances at the mess on the floor, “At least he didn’t go on the rug, that would definitely be a bit more frustrating.” Thistle stretches her hands above her head and yawns as Honey rubs her wings together in agitation.
“If he knows better than to soil the rug, he should know how to call for help.” Tuffin chirps at that, making Honey roll her eyes. “You may have let her have an extra moment of sleep, but now she has to clean up your pile of offence! How helpful was that really?”
Thistle chuckles as she stands and makes her way to the kitchen to clean up the mess, “It’s alright Honey, really. I don’t mind cleaning this up and I do appreciate the extra sleep. Tuffin was just trying to help.”
“Yes, well… Typically when someone is being helpful, they aren’t causing another mess as well.” Honey takes the deepest breath her tiny body will allow and continues in a softer tone. “You already have a heavy load on your shoulders; we should be making things easier for you where we can.”
Thistle finishes cleaning the floor and returns to the couch to join Honey who is resting on its arm. “It means so much to me that you care so much. I don’t think my mind is capable of wrapping around everything that has happened… Well, my entire life.” Thistle pauses as Tuffin curls his soft body at her feet. His warmth grounding her in the moment. “Doing mundane tasks is probably the most normal thing I could do right now.” She looks up at the small box sitting on her mantle. Feeling the weight of it, even though she’s not holding it in her hands. “Everything has changed for me in a matter of hours.” She sighs, “If I open that box, they change even more. I don’t know if it’s worth it Honey. Knowing what’s in the box. I know there is a kingdom out there that could use some saving, but why does it have to be me? How do I save an entire kingdom, while I’m drowning in my own life?”
Thistle feels the alertness she had after waking wane as the burden of emotional exhaustion tries to take hold. Leaning back fully into the soft cushions of the couch, she turns her head to face Honey, who is now perched on the back of it. “Thistle, no one is demanding you save a kingdom. There’s no book with steps to follow, no map to guide you. The box may not hold those answers… but it may hold truths about you. And sometimes, in finding your own truth, you save far more than yourself.”
Thistle closes her eyes and breathes deeply
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Her mind flows with pictures of the life she knew, now fractured with the sharp shards recently forced into it. She feels unfinished. Shattered. Broken in the ways she grew up believing she was. She could wait, put it off until she felt more solid. But the box would still sit on her mantle, pressing on the back of her mind, anchoring her in her ache.
With one last deep breath, she stands from the couch, “Alright then… let’s open the box.”
. . .
Thistle stands before the hearth, the box clutched in her hands. Her fingers trace the rough grain, feeling every divot as if they might whisper secrets.
“Perhaps it requires a key.” Honey says from her perch on the mantle.
“Maybe, but I feel like Berty would have mentioned that when he gave it to me.”
Honey tilts her head, incredulous. “Yes, because lying by omission is so unlike him…”
Thistle bites her lip, nodding slowly. “Valid point, as usual. But I think he truly regrets it. He knows this is important… I don’t think he’d block me from finding the answers I want.”
She lifts the box to eye level, studying the clasp. It doesn’t have a space for a key of any kind, and as she slides her thumb across it something pricks her finger, “Ouch!” With that the clasp clicks open.
Honey leaps from the mantle and lands on Thistle’s shoulder. “You did it! What did you do?”
“Nothing! It bit me and opened.”
“Oh my, that is powerful magic. It’s blood magic.”
They both hold their breath as Thistle gently opens the box. Her heartbeat speeds up, the sound of Honey’s wings buzz in her ear. As she lets out a quivering breath she opens the box fully, only to find…
“It’s empty…” Honey says confused, as she lands in the box. “There are no symbols carved into the wood, No note… Nothing.”
“I’m going to kill that gnome.”
“I don’t know about murder, but a good throttling would be satisfying.”
Thistles shoulders drop as she sighs deeply. “It was silly of me to expect anything real.” She lets out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “I thought it might hold something real. A letter… some lost power… something meaningful. Magical, even.”
“Magical?”
Thistle screams and jumps in the air at the voice coming from behind her. In her surprise she drops the box, almost trapping Honey inside. A woman stands on the other side of the couch, soft brown curls framing a calm, kind face. Her eyes and nose… they are Thistle’s own, only older. She wears a long, simple dress in a shade of blue Thistle has never seen. Her heart is beating wildly as she takes the woman in and tries to find her voice.
Before words can be found to confront this stranger, Honey zips over to the woman and hovers right in her face, “You have ten seconds to explain who you are and how you got here.”
The woman smiles, an act which Honey finds rude and irritating. “I am Laural,” she says. Her gaze lifts to meet Thistle’s tear-filled eyes. “I am your mother.”
Chapter 12
NO
Thistle stands as still as a statue. A ringing building in her ears, swallowing the room’s sound as she plunges into a hurricane of emotions. Her senses feel cut off. Externally, she appears to be staring at Laural; but she’s just trapped in her mind.
Slowly, her emotions start finding things to focus on. How her entire life feels like a lie. That she missed out on a mother who loved and wanted her. She would have been happier on the run with a loving mother, rather than breaking with the woman who raised her. It was her. It had always been her fault.
“Thistle, it’s not because of you. None of this is your fault.” Laural says softly.
“No. No.” Thistle shakes her head, staring at the ground before looking up again. “No!” She rushes around the couch and stops right in front of her mother. “No, you don’t get to listen to my thoughts. You don’t get to decide when it’s time for us to meet. You don’t get to decide for me anymore!” Her heart is racing; tears are streaming down her face. “You could have left me a note with a way to contact you. You had no idea whether or not I would want to see you, much less was ready to see you… You violated my trust before you even tried earning it.”
Laural attempts to wipe a tear from Thistle’s cheek, but Thistle swats her hand and steps back. She stares at the woman in front of her. A million questions zipping through her mind, not able to pin one down.
She closes her eyes, remembering to breathe, as Honey lands in a whisper on her shoulder.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
“Whatever happens next, is up to you.” Honey says in a kind but firm voice.
Thistle opens her eyes, feeling the intensity of her emotions rushing through her veins. “You need to leave. Tell me how to contact you, and when I decide I am ready for this conversation, I will reach out. Until then, you go back to living as if I don’t exist.” Thistle knew that last sentence wasn’t fair, but her emotions were running the show.
Laural’s face is solemn, as she wipes a tear from her own cheek. “You’re right Thistle. I shouldn’t have come. When I enchanted that box, I was the mother of a baby. I just wanted to have you in my arms.” She lowers and shakes her head before sighing and looking right into Thistle’s eyes. “You deserve your time, and your boundaries. I am sorry that my coming here caused you pain.” The soft and kind smile she arrived with, is once again resting on her face; but the joy it once carried is gone. “When you are ready to allow me the honor of knowing you, just offer the box a drop of your blood and I will be here.”
Thistle’s shoulders sag, as if every one of her bones has been hollowed out. Her chest seizes, then finally loosens; like a valve has been opened and air is rushing in too fast. The rest of her body sags, not bothering to try and lift her head.
“Just go.”
She doesn’t need to look to know when Laural is gone. The room exhales with her, leaving a silence that is now too heavy to be peace.
. . .
“Are you okay, Thistle? I know that must have felt…”
“Honey… I love and appreciate you being here, truly. But I just need a moment to myself. Could you take Tuffin out to the garden? Please. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings… I just… I need a moment.”
“Of course, Thistle. I’ll tend the flowers and make sure Tuffin stretches his wings. Come on, Tuff.”
Tuffin chirps and rubs his head against Thistle’s ankle as he waddles out the door and into the garden.
Once they are outside, Thistle ambles toward her room, dejected and heavy with defeat. She crawls onto her bed, bracing for tears; but what escapes is a raw scream. Tears pool in her eyes but they aren’t the release this moment requires. Her scream rips through her throat, long and guttural, leaving it scorched.
When the silence falls, it’s thick and absolute. Her throat is raw as a loss of sensation washes over her entire being. Thoughts fade, emotions wane, pain ceases. All that remains is an internal silence and the drip of a facet coming from the bathroom. Thistle stays seated on the edge of her bed, listening to the drip, focusing on the rhythm of the water hitting the sink.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
“That’s a waste of water. I should fix it.” Her voice is flat, unfamiliar, as if spoken from somewhere far away. Her body rises and walks to the bathroom, though she feels no weight in her steps, no tether to the motion.
As she begins tinkering with the faucet, she can hear the buzz of Honey’s wings at the screened in window of the bathroom. “You can come back inside.” She says in that same detached voice.
Honey freezes at the sound of it, and rushes to get Tuffin. He is already pacing in front of the door as if he senses Thistle’s distress. “It’s all right, Tuffin. Let’s go in together.”
Tuffin pushes the door open and hurries toward Thistle, who now sits on the bathroom floor with her head buried in the cabinet beneath the sink.
Honey lands on the counter feeling uncomfortable with the shift the energy on the cottage has taken. “Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks gently.
Thistle doesn’t move from her position under the sink, “Could you see if Tuffin can carry a wrench? Bottom drawer, left of the kitchen sink.”
Honey swallows her unease as she and Tuffin comply. After acquiring the tool, they head back to the bathroom and offer Thistle the wrench. She takes it and tightens a section of pipe before slowly removing her head from the cabinet and smiling up at Honey, “I did it! The faucet was dripping noisily so I fixed that first. It was a pretty easy fix honestly. Then I heard this soft ‘thud, thud, thud’ and when I opened the cupboard there was a small puddle forming on the bottom.” She sets the wrench down on the counter and wipes her hands on her top to dry them. “I think it should be just fine now.”
Honey doesn’t know how to reply. Thistle is obviously going through an emotional break of some kind, and she doesn’t know what to say or do that would be helpful and not make things worse. She forces a smile, though her chest aches. Thistle’s cheer feels brittle, unmoored. “I didn’t know you were such a handy fairy,” she says, her words caught between encouragement and worry. “Would you like to rest a while? Tuffin and I could use another nap.”
Thistle shakes her head, oblivious to the concern in Honey’s tone. “No, I think I’m going to see what other things I can find around here that need fixing up. For some reason I feel really energized. Best put it to good use.” With that, she leaves the bathroom, stride brisk with borrowed purpose.
Tuffin chirps sadly and looks up at Honey for guidance.
“I know.” Honey Whispers, “This is an ache she can’t hold right now. So… we’ll help her hold what she can. If that means fixing the cottage, then we’ll make sure she does it safely.”
Tuffin bobs his fuzzy head and trots after Thistle.
Honey lingers in the hallway. Her wings droop as tears sting her eyes, but she steadies herself with a long breath. Closing her eyes, she grounds her trembling heart before flying to join them. She doesn’t know how to mend this wound, but she’ll give Thistle every ounce of strength she has.
Chapter 13
The break that made room for healing
Thistle worked the garden, tilling the earth in preparation of the seeds she intends on planting. The ground has softened enough that digging around was easy. The soil gave easily beneath her hands, dark and rich, as if it too had been waiting. Nearby, the belladonna thrived in the chilly air as its leaves stretched wide and unbothered by the cold. A light sheen of sweat glistens on Thistle’s skin.
Time had unraveled since her mother’s visit. The cottage now gleamed from top to bottom, every small task that had lingered on her list had gotten finished one after another. Her mind hasn’t been able to hold onto any specific thought. Every moment has been, Think. Do. Think. Do. She has slept some, but only when her body forced surrender. There was no rest, not really. She just kept doing and keeping her body so busy that the ache of it kept the thoughts trying to take root at bay.
Honey sat in the soft bloom of the belladonna, as Tuffin nuzzled around in the dirt near Thistle. The garden was quiet. Even the trees held their breath as the pressure surrounding Thistle continued to increase. The clouds had been gathering all morning, and as the afternoon approached, so did the storm. Honey thought it fitting that both the sky and Thistle were due to break.
It had been two weeks since Laural had appeared. In spite of her desire to help Thistle work through the encounter, Honey had taken Thistle’s lead and just focused on each task at hand.
The sky rumbled in the distance as the sky began to darken quickly. “Thistle, perhaps we should head back inside before the rain hits.” Honey asked cautiously. It wasn’t the healthiest thing, to walk on eggshells around people; but when it’s someone you love and they are hurting, it is an offering of support in a way.
Thistle sat back on her heals and wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her black wool sweater. She looked up at the sky and replied, “It’s only water.” and went back to digging into the dirt as if it held the answers to life.
Honey sighed gently and flew over and landed on Thistle’s shoulder. “I’d offer to assist, but I’m afraid I’d be more hinderance than help.” Thistle didn’t react or respond to Honey’s words. Which made Honey feel sad and helpless. “What can I do Thistle?” She whispers, half hoping for a response and fearing one.
Thistle sighs deeply, once again sitting back on her heals. Before she can even contemplate a reply, a downfall of rain hits causing Honey to quickly zip back to the open window of the cottage. She lands on the counter intending to call out to Thistle, when she realizes the look on Thistle’s face.
Her face is upturned, and she has mud sliding from her hands back into the earth. She opens her mouth the take a breath and finds herself choking on the emotions she had been ignoring. A scream, much like the one she experienced the day her mother showed up, ripped out of her chest. The force of it caused her to fall forwards on her hands and knees. The scream transformed into sobs that wracked her body. Her fingers gripping into the ground as she tries not to be drowned by her emotions.
The deluge that matched her own seemed to wrap around her, offering her the comfort of support. Reminding her that even the sky must weep from time to time.
. . .
Crimson flames tinged with gold devour the logs in the hearth, while Thistle makes a pot of tea in the kitchen. Honey is resting on Tuffin’s head, as he slumbers next to the fire snoring softly. The kettle screeches, announcing that the tea is ready and Thistle pours herself a cup, and uses a spoon to make Honey a thimble full. Walking over to the small kitchen table, she sets her cup and the small thimble down before turning to Honey and silently inviting her to join.
Honey smiles brightly, excited to be asked to share in a cup of tea. Landing on the smoothed wooden tabletop next to the tiny thimble of tea, she folds her wings in tight against her back. They both sit there in silence, enjoying the warmth of the drink and the comfort of each other’s company. After a while Honey decides to ask the question that has been gnawing at her. Her fingers knot together, wings trembling faintly. “How are you feeling?” she says as gently as she can, her nerves heightened as she awaits Thistle’s response.
“I’m… okay.” She looks at her tiny guide who has become her dearest friend, a kind smile on her face. “I feel lighter, free in a way I never have.” She takes a gentle sip of her tea. “I have been carrying the weight of the life I knew. Then a life I didn’t know was tossed on top and… I broke. It was like living with stones stitched into my skin. Now they’ve fallen away, and I can finally breathe. I’m grateful, honestly. I have been carrying too much for too long. I have a chance to create the life I want for myself now. I am allowed that… I think.”
Honey beamed at that, “You absolutely are allowed that!”
Thistle smiles into her cup. “Thank you, Honey.” She says, lifting her gaze to focus on her friend. “Thank you for giving me the space to process everything. I know it must have been difficult, not to offer me your comfort and wisdom. But you gave me more than words. You gave me the freedom to process in whatever way I needed.” She stretches out her arm, resting her hand on the table between them palm up. Honey flutters her wings and gently lands in Thistle’s palm. “I’m sure the strong emotions will pop up again, but I know my strength now. I know the storm I have weathered. If I can withstand all of that, I can face whatever comes next. I couldn’t have found this peace without you.”
Honey leaps from Thistle’s palm with tears blurring her vision and nuzzles her face in the space between Thistle’s eyes. “I love you, Thistle.”
“I love you too, Honey.”
They stay like that for a moment. Each of them absorbing the love being offered. Honey returns to her thimble and takes another sip of her tea. The flowery fragrance and the sweetness of the honey seem to be brighter somehow. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of those earl grey biscuits with the lemon honey drizzle, would you? I know the day of mindless baking was last week, but you made a lot of food, and you don’t eat much.”
Thistle laughs heartily at that, “Glad to see you haven’t lost your fire. I was worried there for a moment.” With a smirk she rises from her seat to retrieve the delicate muffin from her stash of baked goods. “It’s a good thing I made so much food. We’re going to need it.” She breaks off a piece of the muffin and sets it next to the thimble.
Honey dives in face first, not ignoring Thistle’s remark, but… priorities. With her cheeks full and face covered in crumbs she mumbles out, “Why?”
Thistle breaks off a piece of the muffin for herself and swallows it before she replies. “We are going on an adventure. The past can stay where it is, it’s time to discover who I really am.” After a slow sip of her tea she continues, her words steadier now, clipped with intent. “There is an entire kingdom suffering under the weight of oppression. I may not be able to save everyone, but I can do something.” She clears her cup from the table as Honey continues devouring the muffin. “I’ll pack us a bag, you wake Tuffin—because I am not traveling with him smelling like singed fur and drool. Once he’s washed, I’ll call on my mother and we will get going.”
Honey wipes the crumbs from her face. “But where are we going exactly? Walking into a kingdom that wanted you dead is probably not the smartest of ideas, Thistle.”
Thistle pauses at the entrance to the hallway and turns around to face Honey. The fire behind her pops sharply, sparks leaping as though it had heard her vow. “I know. We’re going to see where Laural has been this whole time. Whether she wants to show us or not.”