0:/WRITING/stone stays put

Originally posted on AO3.

stone stays put

CHAPTER 1: ONE YEAR

“Thistle, my child,” Freinag calls.

Thistle’s ears perk up, and the violin bow he’s been diligently coating with rosin drops back into its case with a thump as he abandons it to hurry to the king’s side.

What could the king need of him? Thistle harbors his own selfish hopes, of course he does, but he keeps them unspoken while he gazes up at Freinag, his expression silently beseeching.

Those hopes are fulfilled when the king rests a broad hand on Thistle’s head. He strokes Thistle’s curls once before leaning back in his chair and patting his knee in an invitation to sit. Thistle hops up eagerly and tries not to elbow the king while he gets comfortable, and once he’s settled, Freinag resumes petting his hair.

Now that his face is hidden from view, the wide smile he’s been suppressing bursts out. Thistle’s cheeks ache from it, but he can’t push the emotion back again. It’s been a while—an entire week maybe—since he’s received personal attention from the king. Oh, but he isn’t demanding attention as anything he’s owed! Thistle knows he is lucky to get even this much and he treasures every kindness the king gifts him. King Freinag is a busy man who rightfully doesn’t prioritize his jester’s needy wishes over ruling the kingdom…but when the days begin piling up without a hug or a single kind touch, Thistle can’t help but worry that he’s done something to make the king grow tired of him. No matter what logic he uses to reassure himself, he’s left feeling cold and alone until the moment Freinag finally beckons him over, banishing his fears.

The fingers running through his hair are soothing and it's made even nicer because he knows they belong to King Freinag. Thistle would be happy with just this, but the king also likes using these moments to talk about whatever is on his mind. It’s an honor to be brought into the king’s confidence, and Thistle has mostly lost his nervousness when he’s asked for his opinion.

“Delgal stood for the first time yesterday. He’ll be running around before long and causing all sorts of trouble for his nursemaids,” Freinag says wryly. And then, he sighs. “Children grow up much too quickly. I can hardly believe a year has nearly passed since his birth…”

“Mhm,” Thistle nods. Distracted as he is, he’s not quite listening, but he knows he must give some response. Freinag’s hand stops moving as he loses himself in thought so Thistle pushes his head up into it. He doesn’t want the king to forget he’s here.

“Alright, alright,” Freinag laughs, ruffling Thistle’s curls before smoothing them down in a wide stroke. Thistle closes his eyes in contentment. They sit like that for a few minutes until Freinag’s voice rumbles in his chest once more and Thistle is roused into paying attention.

“I’ve just had a grand idea,” the king says, eagerness growing with each word. “Why don’t you look after Delgal this afternoon? I want my boys to get to know each other well. Did you know, Thistle? When I was young, I wished I had a sibling to play with, but it was fated that I remain my parents’ only child. I couldn’t bear it if my little Delgal felt the same loneliness, so I hope you can be a brother to him during these days. It would make my heart glad.”

Wide awake now, Thistle adjusts how he’s sitting until he’s looking up at the king, eyes wide with hope and disbelief.

“Truly, Your Majesty? Prince Delgal and I could be brothers?” he asks.

The king’s words were plain and shouldn’t need confirmation, but he rattled Thistle’s wits with them. It’s like the king has seen into a hidden corner of Thistle’s heart and unveiled the possessive dreams his jester keeps there. Thistle knows it oversteps every idea of propriety, and he would never dare presume, but he’s always wished he was a true son to the king, and after the birth, a true brother to the prince.

King Freinag wipes away his worries. “Of course, why not! It’s a wonderful idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Thistle hops down from Freinag’s lap. Feeling like his entire body is vibrating from excitement and at a complete loss for words, he jumps in place once, twice, and then springs into a cartwheel. King Freinag laughs and claps at the display.

“Your Majesty!” Thistle squeaks when he’s upright before pressing his mouth shut and bouncing on his toes again. He can’t contain the emotion exploding out of him. Brothers! King Freinag said he wants Thistle to be Delgal’s brother!

The king beckons him with his hand. After Thistle rushes over, Freinag cups his cheek and then pokes his nose. Thistle scrunches it up.

“You are entirely too precious, Thistle. Go play with the boy, have fun! Go on, now,” Freinag says, and with a final ruffle of Thistle’s hair, the king sends him off.

***

Back held straight and determinedly not skipping despite the excited flutters in his stomach, Thistle marches into the royal nursery. His destination: the prince’s fine walnut cradle with the carvings of the kingdom’s guardian deity on each side, the lion’s wings wrapping around and protecting the child placed within.

He sets his violin against the wall and then leans over the cradle’s raised side and peers down at the tiny, pink-cheeked baby swaddled in silks and surrounded by an army of soft toys.

It’s hard to think past the buzzing beehive his thoughts have become. Thistle looks at Delgal and tries to imagine the child as his brother.

He can’t. Even though he’s wanted this forever, he just can’t.

Is he nervous? He doesn’t know why he should be since the king has given him permission, but he is. Delgal, although an infant, is the prince of a beautiful kingdom. Thistle is—Thistle is just—

“Prince Delgal,” he says, and then he steps back and bows. “I shall be looking after you today. His Majesty has entrusted me with your safekeeping and entertainment while he attends to important matters,” he announces with gravity. Shy hesitation has him dress up King Freinag’s lighthearted request into an official order.

Delgal blinks and sucks his thumb.

“That’s a very bad habit. You won’t like being stuck with it. Trust me, my prince,” Thistle says.

Delgal, since he is only about a year old and has no grasp of language, keeps sucking.

Thistle sighs and gently removes the prince’s thumb from his mouth and places a teething toy there in its stead. Delgal allows it to happen without any fuss. He is a very good baby, Thistle thinks with no little pride, and he will be a marvelous king one day.

Months have passed since the last time Thistle saw the newborn prince up close. He’s caught glimpses of him from a distance, laying in the cradle or in a nursemaid’s arms, or sleeping beside the queen, but whenever Thistle ventured closer, he was shooed away with admonishments that the infant wasn’t a toy. King Freinag had laughed when Thistle asked him what they meant, because of course he knows the prince isn’t a toy, he was just curious! The king had explained that the nurses were probably worried Thistle would drop Delgal, who was large for a tall-man babe and growing bigger every day.

Thistle took great offense to that. Did they think he was a baby? Of course he would be extremely careful if he picked up the prince, and he’d never let him get hurt, not even by accident!

Looking at Delgal now though, Thistle is a little afraid to try. The prince has grown much. He resembles a miniature person rather than a newborn puppy, blind and red and squealing. It’s startling how focused his stare is.

The king had lamented that children grow too fast. Thistle hadn’t understood what that meant, but faced with this proof in the form of the prince, it strikes him as a frighteningly real phenomenon. Thistle has been about the same size for a few years now, and he doesn’t think there’s been any period of his life where he grew particularly quickly. It must be how tall-men are, Thistle decides, watching Delgal squirm. Whenever there’s a difference between himself and others, it always comes back to him being an elf. He doesn’t dislike what he is, not truly…rather, he wishes he had an instruction manual for how to be so he could stop making a fool of himself in his ignorance.

He rests his elbow on the cradle’s wall and props his chin up with one hand, pouting as he thinks these troubling thoughts. The other hand he dangles above Delgal who gurgles and clumsily tries to grab a stray finger. When he succeeds, capturing Thistle’s pinky in a deceptively firm grip, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his prize. His tiny brows create a tiny wrinkle between them and he waves his arm back and forth, moving Thistle’s finger along with it.

“You’re funny,” Thistle says, beginning to smile.

Delgal babbles back, “Fa, fa, fa, fa.”

“That’s very good. Do you like to sing?” Thistle asks. “Do you like music?”

It would be nice, playing something just for Delgal.

“I’ll be right back,” he says and turns to fetch his violin. Delgal may be a better audience than Freinag, who can’t quite hide his winces when Thistle’s bow scrapes instead of soars over the strings. It’s embarrassing to make such mistakes, but he’s just started learning this instrument, and he knows he’ll get better soon! He just needs more practice.

This is a good opportunity to play away from the king’s sensitive ears, and he’ll be entertaining Delgal at the same time. Thistle is pleased by how it’s all working out.

He’s opened up the violin case and is applying rosin to the bow when he hears something scrape behind him.

He turns, and his heart skips a beat.

Delgal has somehow crawled halfway out of his cradle, hands reaching for the floor. Only one foot is still safely inside. The other is wrapped around the top wall and he’s using it to push himself out.

Before Thistle can fully understand what he’s seeing, Delgal slips forward, and then falls.

The next few seconds are a blur of sensation and sound. He feels his muscles twinge as he lunges towards the prince, arms outstretched, and he hears the twang of his violin breaking when it hits the floor. Then, weight presses down on him. The stone floor scratches his knuckles as his arms bow and his chest hurts from hitting the ground. He feels Delgal’s head cradled in his palm, the only barrier between Delgal’s soft body and hard stone.

When Thistle’s eyes refocus, he sees his violin, broken into several pieces before him. Catgut strings coil up from its split neck. Its hollow wooden body is cracked and damaged beyond repair.

Ordinarily, making such a mistake as breaking a valuable instrument would fill him with despair. Right now, Thistle doesn’t care about the violin at all.

He sucks in a breath. His eyes are so wide it almost hurts. The baby stares up at him, completely unharmed, his own eyes two perfect, gold circles.

“Ah,” Delgal says.

“Um—” responds Thistle.

And then he bursts into tears. All the fear he didn’t have time to feel earlier rushes in and mingles with the irrepressible relief he’s feeling now. He lays Delgal on his lap and roughly wipes his face with the back of his fist and gasps for breath through his sobs.

Something taps his cheek. Looking down, Thistle sees Delgal reaching up to him. His little face is set into worry.

“You are a troublemaker, my prince!” Thistle complains without ire, although his voice still wobbles.

He’s giddy with relief, he’s flying with it, he’s soaring. He stands and lifts Delgal high and provokes a burbling laugh from the young prince as he bounces him up and down until his arms are too tired to continue safely.

Thistle clutches this fragile little life to his chest and presses his face against the baby’s cheek. Wet tears transfer from his skin to Delgal’s. He’s still weeping slightly from the shock he was given earlier, but young Delgal is unconcerned—his attention is focused on grabbing one of Thistle’s forelocks. When he acquires a fistful he babbles to himself and tries to stuff the hair into his mouth.

Thistle laughs and lets him. His arms remain as they are, wrapped tightly around Delgal.

CHAPTER 2: TEN YEARS

It’s hard work being a jester, especially since japing and fooling have never come naturally to him, but Thistle thinks that he has performed for long enough that he’s become very good at it. He can entertain even the most stoic crowds! Now, if only certain members of his audience could understand that the performance is what is comical, and not the simple fact of his existence.

He’s walking back to his rooms, still dressed in full motley, and feeling exceedingly worn down after a long night of entertaining King Freinag and an unexpected guest.

Right before supper, a noble hailing from the northern border had arrived at the castle gates with an outsized retinue of servants and hanger-ons, acting as if the castle were a roadside inn ready to serve at his pleasure. Unfortunately, he was the scion of an old family who had protected the kingdom’s northern border for generations, and so he was too important to turn away. Thistle could only silently seethe as the man imposed on King Freinag’s hospitality. And to add insult to injury, the noble’s hat was ugly, too.

Thistle’s dislike turned personal when the king brought him out to perform and he had to hear the uncouth nobleman laughing at every little thing he did, even when his actions weren’t intended to be funny, even when he was simply walking. It was an insult to his work and it was demeaning. By the end of the night, the only thing fixing Thistle’s smile on his face were the different gruesome scenarios he was imagining where the noble’s head exploded, taking his ugly hat with it, and he could finally have some peace and quiet.

When King Freinag dismissed Thistle early, it was a relief instead of a disappointment. He couldn’t leave the noble’s presence fast enough.

He’s put distance between himself and the great hall, but his nerves remain frayed, the rush of adrenaline from the humiliation hasn’t receded yet, and his hands still tremble. He hopes that the tremors didn’t affect his performance and that the king didn’t think he was doing a bad job.

Lost in these frustrated thoughts, Thistle doesn’t notice that someone is already in his room until he’s halfway through the door.

Is that— yes, he knows who that mop of hair belongs to! He turns his head, the decorative bells on his costume lightly ringing, and is about to call out a greeting when he witnesses the exact moment that Delgal rips a leg off of Thistle’s doll.

Stuffing falls to the floor. Delgal drops the leg and rotates the doll in his hands. His expression is one of detached consideration. When he begins tugging at the doll’s head, Thistle is jolted out of his shock.

“What are you doing? Stop that!” he cries out. He runs through the doorway and yanks the doll out of Delgal’s grip. Delgal, taken by surprise, stumbles and lets go without a fight.

“I was just playing,” Delgal says with the not-quite whine of a child who thinks they’re being treated unfairly.

He uses that tone often when things don’t go his way and Thistle has always considered it both endearing and frustrating. Delgal aims it at him when he’s lecturing the prince for ruining his appetite with sweets or for not cleaning his shoes after playing in the muddy yard by the kennels, see all the dirt you’ve tracked in?

But what Thistle is feeling in the present can’t be described as simple frustration. His breath hitches as he cradles the tortured doll, much lighter in his hands than it was before. He takes in the damage. Its head has come loose and is only halfway attached to the body. It’s lost all of its limbs. One leg is lying on the floor behind Delgal. He doesn’t know where the other one is.

“You ruined it,” he says. His voice comes out thin and flat and he sounds far away from himself.

Delgal tilts his head. “You’d already messed it up, though? You pulled out its hair and tore its arms off, so I thought it was fine if I had some fun too.”

That’s—that’s not—how could he think he has the right? And it’s true, Thistle was mean to his doll, but hearing Delgal say it aloud makes him feel horribly exposed. Delgal must have seen him hurting it one day. Why didn’t he say anything? How boorish he must think Thistle is, wasting a perfectly good toy.

Thistle has only ever done the hurting in secret. Whenever he’s alone and locked into rigidness from the effort of holding back a scream or not chewing his fingers bloody, the only thing which can relieve the pressure is taking it all out on this doll. He doesn’t mistreat his other toys, never! Even the idea makes him shiver. Those are gifts from the king and are treated with extra special care. But Thistle bought this doll with his own allowance. He remembers loving it for a short while, but one day he picked it up and realized he hated the set of its stitched smile. He plucked that out first.

Delgal doesn’t understand. Thistle doesn’t want him to understand. He wishes he could erase this entire day as easily as his shoes scuff out stick drawings in the dirt. He feels horribly exposed and ashamed.

“You can’t, Delgal, I can do it, I can h-hurt it, but it’s not the same when it's you!” Thistle tries to explain. Instead of listening, Delgal huffs and crosses his arms.

“Hurt—it’s a doll! It’s not real, Thistle, don’t make it sound like I kicked a pet.”

“I know it’s not real! It’s still different!”

How can he explain the nausea that’s been brought on by knowing someone else has exerted violence on that doll? It’s different when he does it. It’s different. He feels better after he’s rough with it, but someone else hurt the doll today when he wasn’t there. Delgal has hurt it. Thistle is sick with the knowledge. In his distress, he squeezes the doll so tightly that another tuft of stuffing falls out. He doesn’t notice, focused as he is on Delgal.

“Come on now,” Delgal says, stubborn. “If I thought you cared this much I wouldn’t have done it, but now you’re being ridiculous. It’s just a doll!”

Thistle shakes his head furiously. The bells on his jester cap rattle with a glittering chime that he’s so used to hearing that the sound doesn’t register to his ears anymore.

Suddenly, Delgal covers his mouth with one hand. His shoulders are shaking and he’s making a strange choking noise.

He can’t be…did he make Delgal cry?

For one horrible, unending moment, Thistle is overwhelmed by such heavy regret that he thinks he might throw up. Then the haze of his panic lifts as he realizes that Delgal isn’t crying.

He’s laughing. Stifled, abrupt laughter that’s making his whole body tense as he tries to suppress it.

“What’s so funny…?” Thistle asks.

Delgal almost can’t speak, he’s laughing so hard. “Y-your—ha—bells, your fool’s b-bells—ha ha ha, ” he manages before another wave of giggling crests over him.

Thistle really may throw up now.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says.

Delgal doesn’t stop. He’s bent in two from the force of his mirth and he wheezes with his arm wrapped around his middle.

“Delgal,” Thistle says. “Please stop laughing. Please don’t laugh at me.”

There’s a tremor working its way through his body. He can’t control it. It shakes the bells on his cap, the bells on his sleeves, and the bells sewn onto his skirt, making them ring louder and louder. Slapping his hands on the bells to stifle them is useless—his trembling fingers just rattle the cold brass more.

Delgal is still laughing.

He can’t stand this. Why must his every move be turned into a mockery?

Thistle tears off his jingling cap and stomps it flat and quiet.

His arm moves. Hand grips, metal cuts into a palm. Pull and throw. The snap of a thread. Pull and throw. Repeat until they’re all gone. The bells hit the tile one after the other with small, hollow taps. They roll across the floor and under the chairs and into the corners with a melodious tink, tink, tink…

Delgal has stopped laughing.

That’s good. Thistle thinks Delgal is saying something, but his hearing is strangely muffled and Delgal’s voice sounds both close and far away. Words smear into a single long utterance. That’s okay. He can listen better once he’s done getting rid of the bells.

“—stle. Thistle! Thistle, stop! You’re hurting yourself!”

Thistle doesn’t understand. “I’m almost done…there’s only a few left, and then you’ll stop…”

“But I’m not laughing anymore, see? I promise I won’t laugh anymore, okay? Thistle? It was wrong of me. S-stop that—”

Thistle tries to pull off the last two bells on his skirt, but Delgal is getting in the way. Wherever Thistle reaches, Delgal’s hands are already there to block him, and there’s a sharp pain in Thistle’s palms that is slowly growing stronger, like the return of physical sensation as you rise from a dream. He can’t close his hands without flinching. The wounds make their shape known through the outline of this pain.

“Delgal?” he whimpers, his previous task abandoned.

His hands really hurt. Tears well up from the shock of it. His knees have begun to tremble—he crumples, a slow collapse onto the floor, legs splaying underneath. Delgal drops down with him, his knees hitting the tile with an audible thump. Thistle winces at the sound. He hopes Delgal didn’t bruise himself.

“Show me your hands, Thistle…oh, t-this is—” Delgal looks up at him, stops, and then continues in a high, wavering voice. “—this is fine. It’s fine! You’ll be fine.”

Disoriented from the increasing pain, Thistle nods with a sharp jerk of his chin downward.

It’s okay, he tries to reassure Delgal, but the words don’t come out. His hands are curled palm-side up in Delgal’s. A thin stream of blood traces a path through the creases on his palm. The doll isn’t in his arms anymore. When did he drop it? And how did he get on the floor?

Delgal seems to know what to do, so Thistle won’t worry about it. And, it’s fine if he doesn’t find the doll. He doesn’t want to see it anymore. A brief dizziness swoops upon him and he sways where he’s sitting, almost tipping backwards before Delgal yelps and roughly pulls him straight.

It’s silent when he moves now that he’s rid of the bells.

CHAPTER 3: ONE HUNDRED YEARS

“None of you ever listen. You never listen to me. You just don’t think, Delgal, do you? Is the space between your ears empty? Have you drunk away all your wits?” Thistle rages. He’s pacing in front of Delgal, hands tangled in his hair, yanking and pulling and ruining his braids. The path he’s looping keeps him firmly between Delgal and the door.

“You’re the one who doesn’t listen, you-” Delgal tries interjecting, offended and privately shaken by the mention of his drinking.

Thistle doesn’t let him. He crushes Delgal’s words beneath a hoarse, wordless scream that stretches on until Delgal gives up trying to speak through it. The silence after it cuts off rings in his ears. Thistle’s face is twisted like a demon’s, wrinkled furrows tearing through the youthful canvas of his brow and mouth. His pupils are stretched grotesquely, two drops of ink spreading in water.

“Thistle-”

Thistle just continues ranting. “I routed your enemies, I granted every one of your wishes—you’re wasting your life away, Delgal! What more do you need? Are you proud of yourself? Are you-”

Suffocating—stifling—he can’t breathe past the fury searing his throat—

“I hate this life and I hate you!” Delgal bellows.

This argument has been long in the waiting. For years they’ve avoided it by managing each other carefully, but it’s spun out of control now.

He’s expecting Thistle to fire back with the vicious mercilessness which defines his interactions with other people, and lately, with Delgal himself. He braces himself—any venom Thistle throws at him will be returned with Delgal’s own volley of harsh words. He doesn’t know what he’ll say until he says it and he doesn’t care. All he wants is to expel the awful feelings bursting out of him, hot and choking and furious. He won’t push them back down before giving them voice.

That single sentence is all he gets.

Thistle sways back a step like he’s been struck. His hands drop from his head, trails of loose hair following his fingers, one braid completely unraveled. There’s a small, choked hiccup, and then—tears gather in his eyes. For a moment the tears are suspended, reflecting the low light from the fire, until the first drops trail down his cheeks.

Delgal’s anger washes out of him in an instant. In its absence he fumbles for any reaction besides stunned silence and comes up empty-handed and as cold as a guttered furnace. What is Thistle doing? Why is he crying? Delgal can’t make any sense of it. He feels like he’s been picked up and shaken, his head left spinning and directionless.

He’s frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. For too long he stands locked into place, voiceless and lacking thought. Thistle was crying silently at first, but with each second that passes without a reaction, his sobs become more guttural and desperate.

“Please don’t hate me,” Thistle says in a choked voice. His expression is miserable, eyes wide and pleading, arms held close to his chest in a self-embrace. He looks small, huddled up like that. Nauseating guilt rushes into Delgal at the sight and it nearly shocks him out of his stupor.

Thistle sniffs and raises a hand to rub at his red, streaming eyes. He doesn’t try leaving nor does he move closer—he stands alone and cries.

Can this truly be the same person as that wrathful creature from before?

Watching him horrifies Delgal, but it’s fascinating, too. He can’t remember the last time he saw Thistle brought to tears. His brother was never the crying type—Delgal can count on one hand the number of times he’s witnessed such a display.

The last time…when was it? So many years have passed him by in a blur of color and sound. It might have been…it must have been before his father’s funeral procession. Before, because Thistle had been a dry-eyed, solid presence at Delgal’s side during the funeral and every day after that. According to tradition, Delgal’s new wife would have stood at his other side, but when he thinks back to that day, he only remembers Thistle’s pale hair glowing starkly among the black-clothed bodies surrounding them, his brother a tiny buffer against the waves of mourners trying to sweep Delgal away. He remembers he’d kept his hand on Thistle’s shoulder through the entire funeral; a bystander would have thought he was supporting his father’s beloved grieving jester, but the truth was that point of contact had been the only thing keeping Delgal from draping himself over his father’s coffin and sobbing like a child—not unlike what Thistle is doing now.

Delgal’s guilt churns inside him stronger than ever, but a separate feeling has emerged alongside it while he’s been mutely watching Thistle cry. It’s a swooping in his gut and a lightheadedness that make him feel invincible, that make him want to keep Thistle desperate and small.

Oh. He knows what it is. For the first time in these decades of captivity, Delgal has gained power over Thistle.

It’s thrilling. He hates himself for it.

How dare he call himself a man.

Delgal rushes forward and draws Thistle up into an embrace. His arms wrap around his brother’s torso. A surprised gasp breaks through the sobs.

Thistle feels the same in Delgal’s arms as his young son once had.

Eodio. Thistle tore his soul out. Killed him. Delgal has been forced to stare at Eodio’s empty body during every meal at the table since—no, he can’t think of that right now, he can’t let himself.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” Delgal begs. Thistle makes an audible effort at collecting himself and fails.

“I’m sorry-y-y!” Thistle wails, freshly upset. His speech is barely comprehensible. “I can’t—c-can’t—don’t hate me, Delgal, I can’t—”

“Thistle, no, I don’t hate you, I could never,” Delgal says. His hands flutter anxiously over Thistle’s back. “I didn’t mean it. Don’t…don’t…”

Don’t what? Don’t feel bad that everyone in the kingdom is tired of living in captivity? Don’t feel responsible for their minds fracturing as each identical day smears into the next? Don’t believe that Delgal hates him? Because a part of Delgal does resent Thistle, at least as much as he blames himself for pushing Thistle into using the dark magic which has twisted him so cruelly.

Thistle clutches Delgal’s shirt in his fists and buries his head in his chest, soaking the fabric with tears. Delgal returns the embrace, holding him just as tightly.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…” he’s pleading like a prayer and Thistle tries, he really does. Delgal can hear the stuttered attempts at calming his breath, the deep gasps of air, but whatever curse was in Delgal’s words has a firm grip on Thistle’s heart.

“If you h-hate me…if you…it’s okay if you do. I—I can,” a hitched inhale, “I can live with it. As long as you’re safe, i-it’s fine if you hate me. I’ll s-still protect y-y-you!” he barely finishes before another tearful fit subsumes his voice.

Swallowing a groan, Delgal sees what’s happened. All of his desperate apologies, every flimsy reassurance—they’ve all failed to penetrate Thistle’s despair. The reactive, rigid way of thinking that he’s seen Thistle struggle with his whole life has convinced him that Delgal truly loathes him.

Sometimes when Thistle gets this way it’s easier to let him believe whatever he wants. Letting this stand, though? Delgal refuses.

But he can’t seem to find a single word to soothe Thistle.

Over Thistle’s head, Delgal sees the doors. They’re unblocked now. He could leave and put this all behind him and Thistle can think whatever he wants about Delgal since it obviously hasn’t changed a thing about how the elf will treat him. Thistle still won’t let him free.

Delgal lips pull back from clenched teeth in a grimace. Thistle was wrong when he said Delgal lacked a brain. No, he must be lacking his heart, miserable coward that he is, if reassuring his distraught brother is making him wish he could flee.

Up drifts Thistle’s muffled voice again. “I’m sorry, Delgal…I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry…!”

Delgal drops his chin into the little crook between Thistle’s shoulder and neck. Closing his eyes, he reaches past the thorny avoidance walling off his words, and picks up the first thing he touches. He scrapes himself on the way back out.

“How can you not know what you’ve done?” he can’t help saying. He stops there, grief threatening to choke him. Thistle whines and presses his face harder against Delgal. His ribs are beginning to ache from the pressure inside and out.

Eodio. Oh, Eodio. A father shouldn’t outlive his child.

Every kind word and every reassurance Delgal has planned to say are torn out of his grasp like the sudden, rustling flutter of a flock of birds leaping into flight. He’s left with only his grief, his anger, and with Thistle, held between his arms.

Saying anything more is beyond him, but he doesn’t break the embrace, and Thistle doesn’t let go either. If only feelings could be understood through touch, Delgal thinks. And then he very deliberately stops thinking altogether and knows only the texture of his brother’s hair on his forehead, the shape of a warm back under his hand, the feeling of a living heartbeat against his.