0:/WRITING/in my body i felt no pain.

Originally posted on AO3.

in my body i felt no pain.

CHAPTER ONE

White Night

I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in,
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I've got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back. -Anna Akhmatova


***

THREE YEARS AFTER THE KINGDOM ROSE FROM THE SEA

“Yaad,” called a thin voice.

It was a familiar voice, and focused as he was on setting the dining tray while balancing dishes and cutlery in his other hand, Yaad did not think twice before answering to his name.

“Yes?”

And then he stopped. A spoon slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. His heart rose in his throat and cut off his breath with a wheeze. Yaad was old, incomparably old and tired and worn away, but when he turned to meet Thistle’s eyes he felt again like the stupid, scared boy he thought he’d outgrown centuries ago.

Thistle knew. How did he know?

“I’m—I’m no—,” Yaad choked out in horror. He set the clutter in his hands down on the side table, panicking. “I—”

Thistle was sitting upright in his bed. He stared straight at Yaad, eyes focused, head held up by his own power instead of limply propped against a mountain of pillows to give the illusion of liveliness. It was a beautiful day in early summer and that morning the caretakers had told Yaad that they’d opened the bedside window to let in some warm air. The sun sinking from its zenith lit Thistle from behind and cast his face into shadow. Yaad couldn’t make out Thistle’s expression, not entirely, but there was an unmistakable presence in his gaze which had been missing since the demon clawed him open.

Apprehension skittered like a spider down his back.

One moment of inattention and the whole lie crumbled away. Yaad felt dizzy with fear—not entirely for his sake, but for what Thistle might do to himself knowing that Delgal had never come home. Would never come home.

He took a shaky step forward. He had to fix this somehow. Set it right. Thistle had been improving so much lately, he was clinging to life with a tenacity no one had expected, he was awake more often than not and those horrifying fits of undirected rage that’d overtake him had lessened in frequency and intensity, he’d learned his new care schedule and taken over some of the easier tasks himself, he’d even expressed a preference the other day at mealtime, Yaad couldn’t let this careless blunder cause a regression, or worse, cause Thistle to hurt himself again—

“I already knew. I figured it out months ago.”

Yaad’s head spun.

“That…that I am not Delgal?” he asked. It felt like a second betrayal to say it, like he could’ve taken the truth back as long as he did not speak it out aloud.

“Yes,” Thistle said. He closed his eyes and sunk into the pillows. “I didn’t know for a long time. But I kept waking each morning. I began remembering more. I would watch you…I couldn’t believe Delgal was back. It was a miracle. I was so, so happy.”

His voice was clipped and flat, as if verbalizing his thoughts physically exhausted him. He paused for a moment. Thistle was looking at Yaad when he spoke again.

“I was happy. It felt wrong. Not the happiness. You did. Delgal was home, but—I didn’t understand. Something was off. It looked like Delgal. It had his voice and his face and the same old calluses on his fingers.

Thistle’s tone became singsongy: “It had his voice, but it didn’t say the words he would say. It had his face, but it didn’t use it the way he should.”

Yaad caught himself raising his hand over his mouth. He had an overwhelming urge to hide his expression. Truthfully, he’d begun considering this body his own. He no longer flinched when suddenly faced with his reflection, and all of the body’s borrowed aches and pains had grown familiar. It was jarring to be reminded that Delgal’s body was something he’d put on like a hand-me-down shirt, this flesh which felt more like his own than the boy he’d been trapped as for a thousand years. And despite all the care they’d taken to perpetuate the lie, Yaad had never tried acting like anyone except himself. He could only recall Delgal at his worst—a disheveled man half-mad with guilt and the burden of unwanted years—and nobody who remembered Delgal in his prime was alive, no one except Thistle who hadn’t reacted negatively to Yaad’s presence, who barely had the awareness to understand where or who he was. There’d be no point imitating Delgal beyond using the name like he was bribing a child into obedience with a favorite toy, or so he’d thought. Thistle had been watching him carefully from beneath his half-closed eyes.

“I shouldn’t have let it continue for so long,” Yaad said.

Thistle blinked slowly. Yaad couldn’t read what the elf was feeling or if he was feeling anything at all.

Thistle had known for months and said nothing.

“Why bring it up today?” Yaad asked.

Thistle hummed. “I think I just got tired of everyone pretending.”

Yaad’s chest hurt. Tired. Yes. They were all tired, weren’t they? Dark hollows still stained the space beneath Thistle’s eyes. He would lie unconscious in a restless slumber for the greater part of each day and evidence of his exhaustion remained no matter how long he slept.

Three years ago, the kingdom had risen from the ocean. It had begun with a deep rumble in the earth which Yaad had felt as a third heartbeat alongside his own and Thistle’s, and it escalated as a tremor rippling through the trees around and above them, roots and trunks groaning as they shifted with the motion. He’d clutched Thistle tight and huddled over him, afraid that a falling branch would strike the elf’s unmoving body. He had watched the ocean churn with more violence than the darkest storm could provoke as once-golden towers crested higher than the waves they were piercing during their upward climb, inertia made obsolete by the force of Thistle’s spell unraveling. The long buried castle’s slow reveal had awed Yaad at the same time as it had frightened him.

He hadn’t escaped! His prison had followed him straight through the waves!

And his jailer still lived. Yaad didn’t wish Thistle had died, but he hadn’t expected that either of them would live past their first week on the surface and he hadn’t considered what it would mean if he lived, let alone if Thistle continued drawing breath.

He’d stayed with him during the feast, a sense of shared mortality and responsibility compelling him to keep Thistle comfortable during his last moments. He had held Thistle in his arms and spent hours urging him to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup while the sounds of celebration drifted towards them through the trees. Thistle had lived through that night, and the next week, and the next month, and it had dawned on Yaad that this little white lie he’d created during a moment of pity for a dying soul had become more permanent than he’d intended.

How could he possibly explain it? He didn’t want to look Thistle in the eye and tell him that they’d all lied about the most cherished person in his life for what they decided was his own good, but he had no other excuse.

“I’m sorry, Thistle. I did it for you. You thought I was him, I told you I was him, and for so long you would only react if I were the one speaking to you. We thought it was the only thing keeping you alive. Do you recall during the first month on the surface how you would only eat if I were the one asking? I planned on telling you, of course I did, but only once you were better.”

Yaad reached for every justification he’d repeated to himself over the years and when they all slipped out it felt ugly and insufficient. He dropped into the chair at Thistle’s bedside, exhausted. “I wanted you to get better.”

“You want me. To get better.”

“Yes, we all do! Everyone from the kingdom old and new—well, every new citizen who is permitted to know you are alive. They’re all doing what they can to help you recover. King Laios—he is our king now, do you remember, we watched the coronation from the balcony—he’s very invested in your wellbeing, he set up this room for you and arranged all the servants who visit and he asks me daily if you—”

“Yaad,” Thistle said. He spoke softly but an old, forceful tone shaded his voice and Yaad fell back into learned obedience and shut himself up.

He shivered and wanted to scowl but that didn’t feel safe. Not here, not with Thistle right in front of him where he would witness any discontent. Yaad knew in his mind that he was safe, but his heart hadn’t learned it yet. He felt lighter outside of the dungeon, he was happier than he’d ever been before, and yet panicked reactions would randomly override his rationality: a spike in his heartbeat when someone stood behind him and spoke, sudden dread when an innocent bird cast its shadow over him as it flew from its nest, or this frustrating trained response when Thistle spoke to him in a certain way, it seemed.

Thistle wasn’t looking at him anymore, but Yaad could make out his face now that he was seated at his side. He watched Thistle’s sparse brows furrow as he struggled to find words. His hands fiddled with the bandages wrapped around his fingers and forearms.

“Why now? Where was all this concern before?”

“We were scared, Thistle. People who opposed you disappeared. They’d turn up dead.”

“So you are concerned only if it is convenient.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No! You don’t get to say that. I’ll tell you what’s not fair,” Thistle said through gritted teeth. “I was protecting everyone. It wasn’t easy, it was really hard, and everyone still hated me for it.”

“Thistle—”

“Delgal begged for me to be killed. Those were his last words, that’s what that elf told me. Did Delgal hate me so much? Is being so…repulsive and frightening just how I am, how I’ve always been, and he was enduring it until he couldn’t? And then I had to be killed? What am I still doing here?”

Thistle’s voice had risen to a shout by the end of his speech and he’d begun scratching at his bandages. Red lines bloomed underneath his frantic nails.

Yaad, already agitated, couldn’t endure any of this continuing. He lunged and took Thistle’s hands in his own. Thistle turned, eyes wide, but didn’t try to pull away. He never resists. He’d have flayed you alive if you’d tried this before, a grim thought whispered. Yaad shook it away and concentrated on how to calm Thistle down so that he could calm down.

“I’m sorry, Thistle. I’m sorry.”

Thistle kept shaking his head. His hair, already messy from resting on a pillow all day, was disheveled further by the force of this insistent rejection.

“Listen to me. Delgal did not hate you,” Yaad tried.

“You’re lying,” Thistle whined. It was remarkably childish and Yaad would’ve been thrilled by how expressive and talkative Thistle was being if the circumstances weren’t what they were.

“Listen, please! He blamed himself. He never blamed you!”

“You’re a liar, how would you know, you liar, you traitor, you filth, you helped those usurpers ruin everything! I had it—I had it all under control—I’d nearly cleaned up the mess they’d caused—I had Delgal’s trail, I’d nearly found him—”

Like a tree struck by lightning, split and charred, Thistle’s face had warped into something wretched by the intense flash of feeling forced into him. Yaad couldn’t meet those red-rimmed, burning eyes. He squeezed Thistle’s limp hands, heart racing, and interrupted him.

“Thistle! Delgal was already dead. You wouldn’t have found him. You know this. Remember? You told me that you know this.”

The silence which fell was punctuated with Thistle’s rasping breaths. He was leaning away from Yaad, their hands still connected but his entire body turned as if he wanted to flee but couldn’t figure out how to make himself take the next step.

“Delgal is dead,” Thistle said. His breathing was shallow and his voice faint.

“I can leave. You wouldn’t have to see me again,” Yaad offered.

That was all he had left to give. He half-wished Thistle would take it and banish Yaad from his presence. His life would become much simpler if they went their separate ways. There’d be no more interruptions during meetings with the still-endless stream of foreign dignitaries because Thistle had refused every attempt at being fed and now his caretakers were worried he’d starve again, could ‘Delgal’ please try coaxing him into taking a bite? Released of responsibility, Yaad would be able to go through his day—a whole day, from morning to night!—without being reminded that this person, newly dependent on him, had held him captive for an unimaginable stretch of time. Entirely forgetting the dungeon was an impossible dream—he could navigate the lion-carved halls of this haunting castle with his eyes closed. Yaad’s memories remained vivid. But maybe, without Thistle…

“Why would you leave?” Thistle asked instead and a dozen half-realized fantasies dispersed from Yaad’s mind. He was confused. Did Thistle want him to admit what he’d done again?

“Because I lied. Because I am using his body. You don’t want to see—”

“Everything has been taken from me except for this,” Thistle said dully. “Will you take Delgal away too?”

Yaad winced. It kept happening; within a few sentences Thistle would remember the truth and then regress. It felt hopeless. He felt trapped.

“I’m not Delgal,” Yaad wearily reminded him.

“No. You aren’t. I know,” Thistle said. One of his hands slipped from Yaad’s grasp and rose to brush against his face. Coarse, gauze-wrapped knuckles traced from his jaw to his temple. He smoothed Yaad’s hair back behind his ear.

“That’s still Delgal’s face. His hair. His body. All of it is his.”

Yaad’s eyes burned. He shouldn’t have been, but he was unexpectedly very hurt.

“It’s not yours,” Thistle hissed. He threw his hand down and rolled away to face the open window.

While they’d been speaking, the shadows cast from the setting sun had grown throughout the room until the entire space was covered, and the window which had previously framed the sun-lit castle grounds now stood as a thin portal surrounding a moonless, dark night.

Yaad was so very tired.

“Thistle,” he pleaded. Be reasonable, he didn’t say. What’s wrong with you, he also kept to himself. Yaad didn’t want to be here just as much as he felt compelled to stay.

“See you tomorrow,” Thistle mumbled. He was already falling into sleep and would be impossible to rouse in a few heartbeats. One small, clammy hand remained in Yaad’s grasp. He let it go and placed the hand gently beside its partner laying curled beneath Thistle’s chin.

The chair creaked as Yaad rested his full weight on it and threw his head back. He took a deep breath and forced down every emotion that’d risen during that conversation until he felt like he could think without bursting into tears. Calm, peaceful, empty. He rolled his head to the side and caught sight of the dining tray he’d abandoned on the side table earlier and sighed. The soup had grown cold and congealed into a remarkably unappetizing sludge. He’d meant to feed it to Thistle, but there’d be no convincing him to eat now. Yaad hoped he would have an appetite in the morning and resolved he’d stop by—it wasn’t his responsibility, but he knew Thistle was more likely to respond when it was ‘Delgal’ urging him to take another bite…

But Thistle had known it’d been Yaad urging him these past few months.

He shivered. Learning that Thistle had been aware of Yaad’s identity for that long put his memory of those moments into another light. The frame had not changed, nor had the scenery, but the sun’s movement formed new shadows in the landscape and revealed details previously nestled in the dark.

He didn’t want Thistle erased from his life no matter how many times frustration, sorrow, or fear provoked him into thinking otherwise. Yaad just wished being around him would hurt less. A childish wish nestled in an old man’s heart.

CHAPTER TWO

Lifetimes ago when Yaad had been young and his family still sat around the table and mimicked normalcy, Delgal had quietly taken him aside after dinner and given him a warning.

“I have something important to tell you,” he’d said, leading Yaad away before anyone could realize they’d gone. “I need you to listen well and remember what I say. Can you do that, Yaad?”

“Uh-huh?”

His grandfather had then crouched in front of him at eye level, big hands heavy on Yaad’s shoulders, and spoken: “You must be careful around Thistle. Don’t make him upset and don’t play or make noise when he’s around. Your father won’t wake up because Thistle hurt him, do you understand? He could do that to you too and no one could stop him.”

“Not even you? But you’re the king!” Yaad had objected.

The memory was hazy after that. He couldn’t remember what Delgal’s response had been or if the expression on his face had been sorrow or a plastered-on smile, but Yaad had never forgotten that harsh warning nor how Delgal had been shaking badly enough that it’d made Yaad’s body wobble too when Delgal pulled him into a suffocating hug. He remembered feeling confused and thinking that it wasn’t fun playing with Thistle anyways, and that he didn’t like it when Grandfather acted weird.

Today, Yaad believed Delgal had loved him enough to want his grandson kept safe, but he had a feeling that despite everything he'd been put through, Delgal had never stopped loving Thistle more.

***

The sun was a thin orange glow on the horizon when Yaad’s eyes opened. During his sleep a headache had rooted itself inside of him and it now pulsed at full force behind his temples. He felt acutely nauseous from exhaustion.

Bad sleep and not enough of it. Half-aware, he reached for the slumber he’d left behind. It slipped through his fingers and drifted far away. The attempt was pointless because the moment he’d awoken his thoughts had begun clamoring like the rap of horse hooves on cobblestone and frightened off any hope of returning to peaceful sleep. Carefully he avoided following those thoughts and counted the beating pulse of his headache instead. He lay on his back, dry eyes squinted shut, and waited until the pain in his skull subsided to a bearable degree before pushing himself out of bed.

Yaad prepared for the day using dawn’s dim light as his guide. He washed his face and fastened laces by touch. Each morning he used this time alone as a method of reacquainting himself with the waking world after long nights of traversing gold-hued dreams in a smaller body. It’d become a ritual he could complete with his eyes closed, but today his fingers were clumsy and he had to undo and redo his doublet’s laces several times before they were properly tied.

The mirror was afforded only a brief glance. Any tolerance he’d built towards the face he wore had been swept away by Thistle’s judgment last night. Yaad felt newly unsettled, and an avoidant compulsion was convincing him that if he refreshed his memory of Delgal’s face then it would sear itself onto his mind and he wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone without worrying if his emotions would warp the face into monstrousness, or if his words passing through the face’s mouth would become unintelligible and strange.

A spark of annoyance flared—what right did Thistle have, making him feel this way?—but it died out as quickly as it appeared and left Yaad alone and empty with only himself to blame.

He lingered at his desk, fingers tapping on the paper-covered surface, dressed and tired and unwilling to face the world.

Thistle was expecting him. Yaad had been turning the invitation around in his mind since Thistle threw the words over his shoulder the night before, half-hearted and half asleep, but Yaad’s schedule today was packed from morning until night without a single gap for an extra appointment.

He lunged for the excuse. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to make it…

No, he’d make the time. The meeting he had lined up with the stonemason’s guild first thing was nonessential and could be pushed until tomorrow. He made a note of it to pass to a page boy.

Yaad had an obligation towards Thistle, and he was curious too about what it would be like talking with him without any lies stifling the air.

*

The walls along the way to Thistle’s room were lined with the kingdom’s ubiquitous winged lion motif. Column after column carved into their deity’s noble shape passed by Yaad as he went through the halls and down the stairs, only stopping when he greeted the few other castle residents awake as early as he.

He wondered if Thistle found the lion carvings unsettling, or if they’d even caught his notice. No, he must be aware of them—Yaad had underestimated Thistle’s awareness once before and he’d vowed not to make that mistake again. Thistle staying silent on a matter didn’t mean he had no thoughts on it. The only thing his silence signaled was the inertia blanketing his soul.

It might be bothering Thistle greatly, seeing the lion’s visage. Should he do something about that? At least for the carvings outside Thistle’s room?

Wait, where was he? The walls beside him were covered in paintings and not the expected carvings. Yaad turned, disoriented.

He’d walked past Thistle’s door in his distraction and ended up in the next hall over. He doubled back the way he’d come until the door loomed tall before him. It was the same door as before, dark and solid with a delicate botanical motif inlaid into the mahogany panels that he’d always found rather lovely. Today the sight of those curling wooden vines filled him with apprehension.

Torchlight flickered off the brass doorknob. He watched the reflection change as the flame danced and he did not move.

Open it. Reach out and open it!

He couldn’t.

Why was he so nervous? There wasn’t anything Thistle could do other than talk to him, so why was the idea of another conversation suddenly so dreadful?

Creaking, the door opened without his intervention. The woman leaving Thistle’s room knocked into Yaad and shook him out of his stupor.

“Oh!”

“Beg pardon—”

He steadied her with a polite hand on her elbow and brushed away the profuse apologies she was showering upon him.

“We weren’t expecting you today, my lord!”

It was Thistle’s head nurse, a diligent orc woman who the other caretakers relied on. Having collected herself, she started giving Yaad an update. “It’s been a quiet morning, no trouble, no fuss. We've just finished with breakfast. The poor dear managed to clean his entire plate even though he’s not feeling well.”

She hesitated before continuing. “He’s having one of those bad days, the blank ones. It’s been a while since he last got this way…he won’t be up for speaking today, my lord, not today and likely not tomorrow. I’m just glad we got some food in him.”

Nausea surged in his throat. He swallowed it back. His fault. He was the reason Thistle was doing poorly.

Yaad couldn’t see Thistle through the crack in the door. It suddenly felt imperative that he see Thistle again with his own eyes.

“I understand. Do you think he can tolerate visitors today?” he asked.

“If it’s you, my lord, he’ll be delighted,” the nurse exclaimed.

“I’m sure he will. Thank you, ma’am.” Yaad gave her a wan smile as she bowed.

He waited until she rounded the corner and disappeared from view and then he rushed into the room, pausing briefly to close the door behind him with deliberate care.

The clutter from last night had been cleared away, and breakfast’s dishes were neatly piled onto a cart which would be emptied by the servants later. Likely due to the gray clouds threatening rain this morning, the window overlooking the garden was bolted shut, creating a dimming effect over the entire room. The curtains drawn over Thistle’s bed would have cast more shadow on the mattress beneath if it weren’t for a lamp throwing its thin light onto it and its occupant.

Thistle was breathing. Unlike yesterday, he wasn’t doing much else; not even his eyes were open. He lay on his back with his head on a pillow, body and limbs arranged exactly how they’d been left by the nurse after breakfast. He looked like a discarded doll, inanimate and waiting for a missing spark to bring him back to life.

Yaad hated seeing him like this. It was—too familiar. Pushing through a flutter of nerves, he placed a hand on Thistle’s shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Good morning, Thistle. It’s Yaad.”

There was no response, but he’d expected that. Yaad had a theory that dredging up emotion and speaking exhausted Thistle’s energy more than any physical activity did. Brushing his own hair or buttoning a shirt were tiring, but expressing how he felt took twice as much from him.

Secretly he feared that Thistle wouldn’t bounce back from this instance of catatonia, that Yaad had ruined him once and for all, but Yaad squashed the worry and continued as if Thistle were about to open his eyes and begin filling the gaps in the conversation.

“I had a meeting with the stonemasons, but I came to see you instead, just like you asked. We were to discuss renovations to the main dining hall. I’m curious, however, if we could also remove some of the lion carvings decorating the castle,” Yaad said, thinking aloud. “Not all of them, but…everything else is changing so we may as well refresh the castle’s decor in honor of our new king’s reign. We could append it to the mason’s contract, provide an extra stipend…”

Thistle’s eyes opened a crack. His gaze was unfocused, but his ear had tilted towards Yaad.

“Oh! Would—would you like that?” Yaad leaned forward. “I don’t know if it is a difficult reminder for you. Seeing the lion everywhere, that is. After what that creature did.”

Thistle’s eyes closed.

Yaad tried—and failed—not to feel disappointed. He berated himself for bringing up the Winged Lion on an already difficult day. Of course Thistle wouldn’t want to talk about it! He should have kept to simpler topics like the hybrid wheat crop they were experimenting with or the gaggle of puppies which were born in the stables last week.

“Would you like a puppy, Thistle?” Yaad blurted out. He winced the moment he heard himself.

There was no answer again. It may have been for the best. Yaad couldn’t imagine Thistle tolerating an energetic puppy on even the best of days.

Had Thistle played with puppies during the childhood neither he nor Delgal had ever spoken of? Yaad couldn’t picture that, either.

“I hate it when you’re like this,” he found himself saying.

He really did hate it. Thistle was alive and this state was temporary, but when Yaad looked at him he was afraid that like his parents and his grandfather there was no soul left inside. Just a doll of flesh propped up at the table which he had to pretend was alive.

He remembered how Thistle’s hand had felt in his last night, yielding but rigid and nothing like the bodies at the table. Repeating the motion, he slipped his fingers under the hand lying limply on the covers. Someone had removed most of Thistle’s bandages except a few strips which were wound around the areas he had freshly injured. Having lost those few barriers between their skin, Yaad began to feel heat beneath the persistent cold of Thistle’s fingers, and as he gently rubbed Thistle’s palm he felt the scattered bumps and divots of old scars which had healed without magic. He wondered if the weight of Delgal’s hand gave Thistle any comfort.

“I’ll—I’ll be here. For as long as you need. I won’t go anywhere,” Yaad promised.

The proclamation left him feeling a little silly and a lot like he was overstepping again, putting what he thought Thistle needed over what was actually wanted. In the absence of any reaction it was easy to fall into the habit of deciding things for him. Having that power frightened Yaad, but what was worse was how he hadn’t noticed himself doing it until Thistle pushed back, expending every last dreg of his energy in the process.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hand in hand. Yaad’s palm was becoming uncomfortably warm and sticky from sweat and the bedside lamp grew dim as it burned through its fuel. There had been no movement from Thistle, not even a twitch. Yaad was about to let go and end the visit before he made anything worse, but then—the slightest pressure and the bite of a nail. Thistle’s thumb pressed into Yaad’s palm.

Yaad’s heart picked up. Okay. Okay. He’d stay a little longer.

“Would you like to hear something ridiculous that King Laios did?” Yaad asked, crossing his legs and settling in. “I still can’t believe it myself. He has so much left to learn! But he means well, he does…”

*

Long after he’d left Thistle’s room and resumed his day, an echo remained on Yaad’s palm. He closed and opened his hand, reasserting reality, but he still felt the pressure of Thistle’s hand in his. The phantom touch was faint and cold and nearly imperceptible, but it was, as it had been, alive.

He clenched his fist again, and then relaxed. Thistle’s hands were so small. Yaad had met many elves in the past few years ranging from Canaries to merchants to political refugees and none of them had hands that size—none except for the rare elven child, hiding behind their guardian and staring at Yaad with curious eyes.

Thistle had been the ultimate authority in the dungeon, and in this way the elf had exerted more influence over Yaad’s upbringing than his own family had been allowed. The mad sorcerer had seemed so powerful, so knowledgeable, and his erratic behavior couldn’t erase the scope of all that he’d accomplished as lord of the dungeon. Yaad had thought Thistle could do anything, so he’d assumed Thistle must be more mature than him, too.

He wasn’t sure anymore. How old had Thistle been when Yaad’s great-grandfather brought him to the castle? How old was he now? Yaad had no idea and he didn’t think even Thistle knew. The dungeon had a way about it which made a single day stretch into a thousand years, and a thousand years sometimes felt like a single day. He was beginning to think, however, that in some important aspects Thistle was still frightfully young.

He didn’t know what to do with that possibility or what it could mean for them. Uneasy, he set it aside to be dealt with later.

***

Yaad broke the news to Laios over dinner.

Between them was a modest spread of light and colorful vegetable stews, fragrant with newly imported Western spices, and baskets filled with hot, grain-encrusted bread for dipping. A bowl of fruit sat between each hot dish—apples, figs, and pomegranates produced by their own lands were stacked within, brighter and more beautiful than any jewel.

Despite his pride in their produce, Yaad couldn’t find his appetite. The news he had to share weighed heavy in his gut and left no room for food. He knew the king would be famished though, so he stirred his stew and slowly cut an apple and didn’t speak until Laios sighed in contentment over his empty plate and reached for a last sip of wine.

“There is a development you should be aware of, Your Majesty—”

“Yaad, I don’t want to be called a title when it’s just us,” Laios interrupted, a practiced complaint, and took a deep drink.

Like he was pulling out a splinter, Yaad rushed to finish, “—you should be aware that last night I spoke with Thistle. He knew that I was not Delgal and he confronted me about it.”

The wine which spat from Laios’s mouth reached clear across the table. Yaad, miraculously untouched, sighed and at last took a bite of his stew.

“Nothing went wrong, so please, don’t worry,” he said once Laios had calmed himself, no longer shining bright red from embarrassment. The king had shooed away the servants who’d tried to help and had cleaned the mess personally. They’d need to work on that, Yaad thought. A king mustn’t lower himself so.

“Thistle was okay with it? Um, with you being you?” Laios ventured, back in his seat.

“Ha! No. Not at all! But it was nothing compared to the fit he had when we tried trimming his hair. Remember that?” Yaad asked. Across the table, Laios shuddered. “One of the nurses quit afterward. I really can’t blame him. He was lucky he wasn’t burned worse.”

“Ah, him—I gave him a bonus when he left. You know, I’ve experienced how hot Thistle’s fire magic is. A nurse shouldn’t have been in any danger of being hurt like that,” Laios frowned. “I’ve tried to think of the bonus I gave him as compensation for all the trouble, but was it not just a bribe? Like, ‘here you go, now keep quiet’?”

“It can be both,” Yaad said evenly.

Laios blinked, looked away, and changed the topic. “There was no fire last night? No world-ending wrath? We won’t have to buy new furniture?”

“Nothing of the sort. I think he’s had a long time to decide how he feels about this. I was the one who was shocked,” Yaad said. He didn’t mention the spiral Thistle went into during their talk, didn’t want to dissect that personal hurt with his king and mentee. In a softer voice, he continued, “Thistle…he still wants to see me, even though he knows that I am myself.”

“That’s good, right?”

Yaad tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite get his face to cooperate. He gave up with a sigh. “I’d like to think so. He’s known that I’m not Delgal for months. We weren’t very careful with that, were we.”

The conversation paused. Laios had lowered his head and was fidgeting with a spare knife, lost in thought. Yaad cleared his throat.

“We haven’t been fair to Thistle,” Laios said, laying his hand flat on the table. His face was set in that solemn, intentional expression unique to him which had first made Yaad truly believe that this untried adventurer could become their king.

“No. We haven’t.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Yaad. I let things get out of hand by encouraging you to keep pretending,” Laios said.

“But I am your mentor and should have had wisdom enough to guide you in these matters. The blame is mine. Truly,” Yaad insisted.

They looked at each other—and then both burst into laughter.

“Let’s agree to share the blame. I know I won’t be able to convince you otherwise, nor you I,” Yaad said wryly.

“We’re well matched, aren’t we Yaad?” Laios smiled, eyes wrinkling. “And we’ll get through this together, us and Thistle and the others, if they wish to help. There’s no need to go it alone.”

Yaad lifted his cup in a toast. “Wise words, my king. Only it’ll depend on Thistle if he wants the help. He called your friends usurpers and myself a traitor. I think he only tolerates me since I am Delgal’s grandson. He’s—he’s not changed his mind from when he was a dungeon lord.”

“I know,” Laios said, “but even if he never thinks well of us, I’d still want to help him.”

“Yes. You’re right. I feel the same.”

***

Things became easier for a time. The tightness in Yaad’s chest slowly relaxed and he found he could breathe again.

Thistle was lucid on Yaad’s next visit to his bedside—he didn’t have many words he would say and he used them sparingly, but hearing those grumpy, short responses lifted a heavy worry from Yaad’s heart. Thistle would be okay.

They didn’t talk about anything serious when they were together; Yaad knew he was purposefully avoiding troubled waters, ostensibly for Thistle’s health but really just for himself. Why Thistle didn’t bring up Delgal or Yaad’s continued presence or a dozen other unanswered questions he didn’t know, and he wouldn’t ask. The ripples in the water had finally disappeared and he feared his hand would shake if he dipped it in again.

Several visits later, as Yaad was preparing to leave, Thistle broached the subject himself.

“What do you want,” he said, the question turned into a statement by his flat voice. He was sitting up in bed, brushing his hair with slow, halting movements that made the comb seem like it weighed a thousand pounds. Yaad didn’t think it was the comb, a light but strong craftwork which he’d brought today as a gift, that burdened Thistle so.

“I don’t want anything?” Yaad said.

Thistle stopped brushing and looked at him. The bags under his eyes were almost bruised as purple as his irises.

Silence always pushed Yaad into saying more. “I want us to be happy, Thistle. That’s really it.”

There was another long, measured look before Thistle turned away, resting his weight on the pillows behind him, hair half-brushed with the ends visibly tangled.

“Do you like it?” Yaad asked, pointing at the comb still in Thistle’s hand. Thistle lifted it, almost confused, like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“It’s fine.”

“But not good?” Yaad pressed.

Scarred fingers traced along the comb’s thin, plentiful teeth.

“No. Too many teeth. It doesn’t—” Thistle tugged at his hair, “—go through. It gets stuck.”

“Oh.”

That was—not good. Disappointing. He should’ve looked into options before buying the comb, but he’d liked the shape of it and the little blue birds painted on the handle and hadn’t thought further than that. Now it seemed obvious it wouldn’t have worked well. Thistle’s thick, curly locks were a world away from Yaad’s own thin strands—

From Delgal’s. Not his.

But in his old body, his hair had been very thin and straight too.

“I’ll get you a better comb. One suited for your hair,” Yaad said, leaning forward and taking the comb. Thistle’s fingers let it go easily, but once they were empty they twitched around nothing, and when Yaad went to put the comb in his pocket, Thistle’s eyes followed closely.

“I can use it,” the elf said with great effort, pausing between every other word. “On my bangs.”

Thistle wanted it, Yaad realized.

He’d made a choice for Thistle again on the basis of his own emotions instead of the elf’s. It was a poorly thought-out gift and Thistle had plenty of other brushes and combs, but he wanted this one, this comb which Yaad had given him.

“It would work well on your bangs! The hair is finer there,” Yaad said, desperately trying to sound casual. He placed the comb back in Thistle’s hand and gently folded Thistle’s fingers over it so it was securely held. “Why don’t you try it out?”

The look Thistle gave him said he knew what Yaad was playing at, but he still lifted the comb and ran it through his bangs. The hair parted easily beneath the teeth and was lain straight and neat.

Whenever Yaad visited after that day, he’d see the comb on Thistle’s bedside table, separated from his other brushes but closer to him. The painted birds on its handle faded and chipped away as the days passed, a sure sign that Thistle was holding the comb often enough for wear and tear to show.

Yaad’s heart ached when he noticed.

It was a good pain, though, a warm one. He held this sign of Thistle’s favor close in the absence of any words.

CHAPTER THREE

During the years he’d pretended to be Delgal, Yaad had desperately tried limiting the time he spent in Thistle’s presence. Now, he looked forward to visiting the elf, and he was bursting with curiosity about what each new day would bring.

They’d begun breaking their fast together, either in Thistle’s rooms or, if it was a good day and he felt well enough to walk the short distance, in the gardens under the branches of a gnarled, old olive tree which had seen more years than the two of them combined.

In the shadow of these shared meals, Yaad felt the presence of days long past, when ‘Delgal’ had sat at Thistle’s side and bribed him into eating his porridge. The food tasted better now without the burden of obligation deadening his tongue, and he felt like he’d traveled a great distance since then, especially in regards to his relationship with Thistle.

They still spoke little together, but the silence was comfortable instead of stifling. It was difficult recognizing himself in his old memories. Thistle, as well, was much changed. He no longer wore the guise of a doll, a madman, or a phantom in Yaad’s mind—those images had fallen away and revealed a person, deeply hurt but still holding onto life.

The year had settled into deep summer and the air was hot even in the early morning hours before noon. Dry grass crunched beneath his boots as he walked with Thistle to their usual breakfast spot. Thistle went on ahead, eyes on the ground and his unbound hair waving in the warm breeze, but Yaad paused for a moment and looked around at the brittle bunches of wilted flowers and the yellow-topped pines scorched by the sun, and sent up a prayer for rain.

And then he marveled at the idea of lacking rain, at how novel it was. In the dungeon, they’d never had to worry about drought; Thistle had designed the bubble they lived in to receive not too little rain and not too much. A few months after their freedom, clouds had blanketed the kingdom and it had rained heavily for a week straight until the levees overflowed and the cropland was turned into a deep swamp, murky and unusable. Yaad had been shocked that the rain hadn’t stopped once the land was sufficiently watered, and he’d felt that boyish ignorance again, as if he knew nothing of the world despite all the years he had lived.

He glanced sidelong at Thistle, who was sitting on the edge of the woven blanket they’d lain on the sun-baked grass, tearing his bread into tiny pieces, only half of which made their way into his mouth.

“How old are you, Thistle?” Yaad asked, following the tug of a whim.

Thistle, focused on his solemn duty of ruining his food, barely considered the question. “One thousand…and…something. Same as you.”

“No, I meant—how old were you when you became lord of the dungeon?”

Thistle stared blankly. “Delgal was…thirty? Thirty-one? Eodio was around ten. You weren’t born yet.”

“That’s…that’s nice, but how old were you?” Yaad repeated. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He hoped that although he’d flinched inside, he hadn’t reacted visibly to his father’s name. He didn’t want to talk about him today. Or ever.

“I was getting there. It’s been so long that I forgot,” Thistle said.

But you haven’t forgotten how old Delgal was, Yaad thought. Or my father.

Thistle dropped the bread onto his plate and counted on his fingers, silently sounding out the decades. He frowned at his ring finger, folded down. “I could’ve been seventy. Or sixty. Or, over seventy? Around there.”

“That’s quite a range,” Yaad said, eyebrows raising in shock.

Thistle shrugged. “I don’t know what year I was born. Everyone who kept me would decide how old I was, but it was different each time. Tall-men can never tell with elves. With me.”

‘Kept me’? The phrasing stuck with him for a moment, heavy and strange, before it was brushed aside by other thoughts.

“I’ve been reading about elves,” Yaad started and Thistle shot him a sharp look. “It was so I’d understand you better.”

“What do you think you understand, Yaad?” Thistle said quietly. Despite the heat, that voice sent a chill down Yaad’s spine.

“I read that the age of majority for an elf is eighty years,” Yaad said, at last approaching why he’d brought up the prickly topic.

“Is it.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I did know,” Thistle said with a shade of defensiveness, “but I don’t see how it matters.”

“I think it matters quite a lot, Thistle.”

Thistle’s face scrunched up in frustration. It was the strongest emotion he’d displayed in days—as dubious an honor as it was, Yaad thought he might still be the best at drawing reactions out of him.

“Don’t start on that. Don’t think you can treat me like a helpless child. I’m not," Thistle insisted. He was beginning to stutter and his words were coming slower as he grew more agitated. "Even after—I was capable. I, I was responsible.”

“But you shouldn’t have been! It wasn’t right to put so much on you if you were still a—”

“You don’t know anything,” Thistle said, thick with hurt. He put his hands over his ears and dug his fingers into his hair. “Delgal trusted me to take care of him. That’s…that’s all that matters.”

“Thistle—”

Thistle’s lips pressed into a thin, angry line and he glared until Yaad shifted uncertainly and turned back to his plate, dropping the conversation.

Yaad had learned well how to pick his battles. When Thistle shut him out like that, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears and that no kind treatment would convince the elf to let him back in.

He bit down on a piece of well-buttered bread, taking in the coarse texture of toasted grains, and he wondered about elves, about responsibility, about those one thousand years and the lost decades before.

*

After that day, it was like something had cracked open inside Thistle and all the words he’d been hoarding for himself started pouring out. Scattered throughout the time they spent together, Thistle began sharing details of his life before the dungeon that Yaad had never known and never asked about. The reminiscences ranged from mundane to hilarious to unimaginably horrible and Thistle delivered them all in the same dead voice.

“I read to Delgal here when he was a baby. He didn’t understand words yet. He just liked the sound,” Thistle said one night.

They were sharing a couch by the fire in a small sitting room, the one with each wall covered in tapestries depicting a great host of men and dogs ranging after a single bright red fox. Yaad had been reading a history book printed within the last decade, catching up on the years he’d lost, while Thistle sat slumped against the armrest, still enough that Yaad had thought he’d fallen asleep until he’d spoken.

Looking up from his book, Yaad waited for more to be said, but Thistle just stared into the flames, mouth tight, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. The flesh appeared inflamed in the firelight.

“Please, don’t.” Yaad reached over and covered Thistle’s hand with his own, blocking it from further injury. Stillness fell and there was only the sound of the crackling fire as Thistle looked down at his lap, his small hand no longer visible beneath Delgal’s larger one. Around them, men and beasts ran in circles, and Yaad felt like he could almost hear the hoofsteps and howling of their endless hunt. If his own body had been allowed to grow to adulthood, would his hand have been that size too?

In the next breath, Thistle pushed Yaad’s hand off with the back of his own. He didn’t resume his picking, though. Yaad considered that a victory.

Another evening, having heard that King Laios had invited a juggler to perform for the court’s entertainment, Yaad had asked Thistle if he was interested in attending. Thistle had shrugged and said he didn’t care. That was enough of a positive answer that he’d helped Thistle dress in a plain tunic and tights and they now stood together in the back of the hall watching a man with red-painted cheeks keep five colorful juggling pins afloat.

The juggler’s assistant threw another pin into his circle and there was a moment where his hand faltered and he nearly dropped them all, but he made a quick recovery, smiling wide, and the crowd of courtiers clapped and cheered their approval as six pins whirled in the air.

“I could never juggle,” Thistle said. He was watching the act intently and his eyes followed the juggler’s hands as they moved.

“Not at all?” Yaad asked, looking down at the curly white head by his elbow. It was just as difficult imagining Thistle juggling as it was picturing him playing with a puppy.

“I was terrible at the fooling part of being a fool,” Thistle said, almost smiling. “King Freinag was gracious about my failings, but one day he very much wanted to see me juggle. He gave me a few pins and asked me to try. I got them in the air, but I think I must have misjudged where my hands were, because the next thing I knew I’d thrown one right into His Majesty’s face. It made such a loud thud.”

“Oh dear…” Yaad winced, and hoped he wasn’t about to hear something about his great-grandfather disciplining his child jester.

He’d been learning a lot about his family from Thistle’s stories. Some of the tales had warmed his heart, such as the time when King Freinag had gifted Thistle his first doll, or how he’d called the elf his son. Other tales just made him feel sick and confused. Yaad suspected that the old king had thought of his jester like an amusing pet, and that he hadn’t known what to do when Thistle acted out or had needs like any other human child. The truly disturbing aspect of the latter stories lay in how Thistle downplayed Freinag’s behavior in their telling and put all the blame on his younger self.

The more Yaad learned, the more his family felt like strangers to him, imperfect and unpredictable.

Thistle huffed out a laugh, though. “I was certain I’d cracked my king’s skull and killed him, so I started crying where I stood. He was fine, only bruised, but I remember being too upset to tell. His Majesty ended up comforting me all while his face puffed up and turned different colors. It was funny in hindsight. I felt guilty, though, and never juggled again.”

Yaad didn’t think any of that was funny at all.

The crowd in front of them roared—the juggler had switched from pins to torches and now a wreath of fire whipped around his head. His palms slapped against the torch handles rhythmically, one two, one two, one two. Sweat rolled down his face from the heat and exertion and smeared his makeup.

“I’m going to bed.” Thistle pushed off the column he was leaning on. Yaad turned and watched him walk away. He swayed with each unsure step, one hand trailing against the stone wall, and when a servant met him at the door, he leaned on their arm for balance.

Yaad watched the performance for a minute longer before he slipped away from the crowd too.

A week later, during supper, Thistle opened up again.

“The man who kept me before His Majesty would punish me by not letting me eat. Sometimes I’d starve for days. I was so hungry once that I fought a dog for a bone it’d found. There was still some marrow left inside. It tasted sweet.” The spoon he was holding fell from trembling fingers into his soup. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “I would lie awake at night and pray for my hunger to be taken from me so I wouldn’t have to feel it biting at my stomach. Now, I have no desire to eat, but it still hurts if I don’t.”

Yaad, who had never known true hunger, felt his own appetite disappear, replaced by cold horror. He responded carefully, sidestepping most of what Thistle had revealed. “That sounds like a half-answered prayer.”

“Well. The only one who heard me was a demon,” Thistle said.

With that, he pushed his bowl away and pushed his chair back and stood, looming over Yaad for long enough that nervousness crept into him, and his neck, craned to meet Thistle’s eyes, began to ache.

Longing was painted on Thistle’s face and written on every line of his body. He’d lifted his hand and it hovered between them and for a moment Yaad thought Thistle was about to touch him, but then the hand dropped and the longing dissolved into blankness, like it’d never existed. Like he’d just imagined it.

Thistle took a step back and lowered himself into his chair. He woodenly brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

Yaad knew who Thistle wanted comfort from, but neither of them could pretend he was that man anymore. He wasn’t sure how to approach Thistle as himself and he’d convinced himself he’d be rejected or just make the situation worse. He only knew how to help Thistle as Delgal, not Yaad, the stupid boy who was barely tolerated for lack of other options.

He’d comforted Thistle before while he was catatonic in bed, or in the midst of high emotions, holding his hand in his own. That was the extent of their contact. It was nothing like these quiet moments where the sympathy he felt for Thistle strained against his chest, and where every move he made would be a deliberate choice.

And the screams of men dying on Thistle’s orders still rang loud in his nightmares.

Days passed and turned into weeks and all the while Yaad struggled with himself. What should he do with this knowledge? What sympathy would Thistle accept, and what did Yaad even want to give? He found no answers, and on and on, the scroll of Thistle’s past unfurled without any regard to his readiness.

“I looked after Delgal when he was a baby. I wiped his face after he ate, I chased chickens with him in the yard, and I helped him study history and dwarven geometry. I stood by his side after our father died. He shielded me from the rest of the court when they whispered that I was ensorcelling him. I held him when he wept. He was full of fear after he was crowned king, and he needed my support. I shared his joy when his son was born. Eodio was smaller than Delgal had been, but he had the same little tuft of ash blond hair on his head, like a dandelion.

“I was afraid of King Freinag’s advisors, the ones who brought me to the castle. I thought, since they knew what I was, that they might hurt me how I was hurt before. The king never knew, I don’t think, how men had used me. He didn’t know much about suffering, but that was why I loved him. Delgal was afraid of his wife dying in the birthing bed. His mother had passed that way, along with her unborn child. He stopped sleeping with his wife. She didn’t talk to me often, but I remember her asking me if she had displeased Delgal. Your father hit me once, but I hit him too, so I deserved it.

“I was so angry with everyone. I loved you all more than I loved myself.”

Decades of sordid and beautiful family history tumbled into Yaad’s hands, burning like hot coals.

Enough, Yaad wanted to scream. No more!

But a dreadful curiosity choked back his words and he allowed himself to find out more and more.

Over the years, drop by drop, Yaad had gotten inklings that Thistle’s place in the family hadn’t been as harmonious or as easy as Delgal had wanted it to seem. He and Thistle were raised like brothers, Delgal had said. To Yaad, the word ‘like’ sat ugly inside that sentence, a pit where indignity after unfairness could be thrown into and forgotten. It never felt like Thistle begrudged them for any ill-treatment, though, and his attachment to the Melini line remained one of the only ways to provoke his interest.

Yaad knew that last fact well, as uncomfortable as it made him.

For one, he no longer believed that Thistle hated Eodio. The way Thistle spoke about him, it was undeniable that he still cared deeply for Yaad’s father, although somewhere along the line his care had warped into frustration, then anger, then violence.

He doubted Thistle was asking for forgiveness by introducing him to memories of a father he never knew. Even so, as Yaad grappled with a new, unwanted empathy in his heart, he couldn’t bring himself to extend Thistle any more grace than that.

Thistle had taken his father from him. Yaad only remembered Eodio as a corpse. Love having existed made what Thistle did feel even worse.

Overwhelmed and torn by conflicting emotions, he never knew how to react in the aftermath of Thistle’s stories about a family he’d known better than Yaad. Often, Thistle would say his piece and then his mind would drift to a place where Yaad couldn’t follow, his eyes distant, his flesh nonreactive to touch. Given the confusion he showed one time when he heard Yaad’s whispered I’m sorry, it might be he didn’t expect any response, or that he wasn’t wholly aware he was speaking at all. Yaad couldn’t say.

Once, Yaad had asked him bluntly, “Why are you telling me this?”

“You said you wanted to understand,” Thistle had responded.

Helplessness pricked at him, but there was nothing he could do except listen, so he set aside his discomfort and gathered each memory Thistle shared, dropping them into himself like offerings thrown down a well.