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He had watched him then-and-there through the eyes of a dragon.
The unkempt, greasy beard. The short legs wrapped in ratty furs. The shabby axe that felled his monsters, sparingly and with curious discernment.
In front of the wretched dwarf, sitting on a log, was a bubbling pot of slop. Thistle shielded his nose with his cape before taking a deep breath, chin held high, stepping out of the shadows to confront him.
“You. What do you think you’re doing, filth?”
Senshi froze in place.
Not since leaving the orcs had anyone addressed him. It was an elf—a terrible elf, though a small one. A neonate. He may have used magic to conceal his footsteps, or he may have been too light-footed to hear. Senshi’s vocal cords thrummed with disuse, and he turned his head to meet the thorny glare.
“…I’m making a walking mushroom and cream soup. Would ye like to share a bowl?”
So, it was true, thought Thistle, though he already knew it. He was eating his monsters. A distant part of him wanted to laugh, but as he was, he was deeply perplexed.
“You’re making a…what? Have I misheard you, intruder…has the weight of that foul beard distorted your speech?”
“It is exactly what I said. And we can share, only if ye’d like.”
Thistle sighed. There was a rare curiosity, an emotion he hadn’t felt in eons, and he wanted to sate it before smashing the thief flat. Fodder for a funny tale to tell the King upon their reunion; he would read it from his diary in a sing-song voice.
“Very well, dwarf. But if it offends any one of my senses, I’ll end you where you stand.”
“I have full confidence in my monster cooking.”
Silence. The location of the axe lingered in Senshi’s mind.
Thistle waved his hand.
Somewhere, on the other side of the stone wall, a dryad rested its precious head on an ivy-strewn log. With the snap of vegetation, the log dislodged itself, floating through the air and pushing past the soft, mucky spot of the wall, dropping on the opposite side of the fire. The perfect log for sitting. He did, with the heavy golden book on his lap, flipping through the old pages with affected disinterest.
Senshi’s round eyes bulged in muted terror. He wanted to ask, as he would any child: where are your parents? Are ye not cold? Are ye not scared to be on your own? Instead, he stared at the boy through the wobbling cloud of steam with the flame staging strange shadows on his delicate face, pooling under his sunken eyes. It was dark. Thistle muttered and snapped his fingers and cast the perimeter around them in unnatural light.
“Scary,” Senshi managed to say.
Thistle smirked. “Lowly creatures like you fear what they cannot understand.”
Brat. Senshi rummaged in his knapsack for a spoon and an extra bowl—this one was clean enough—he poured a generous helping of soup into it and handed it to the boy, who sniffed daintily at it. The pale cream and floating morsels looked well enough. It smelled nice. Maybe, if he were honest, he would admit to himself the tantalizing smell was what brought him over; not the threat of the intruder, who in all respects was harmless.
Thistle tucked the elegant hanging locks of hair behind his ears and secured his tightly wound braid. He took a long, measured sip of the soup, as if testing for poison; not a role unfamiliar to him. It was delicious. Savory. Warm. He shuddered. He allowed himself a chunk of the mushroom, chewing on it thoughtfully.
The walking mushroom flesh tasted far more pungent than the tender truffles in cream sauce once served to Delgal, and almost metallic, as though blood once pumped through it. But it was not unpleasant. It was the vitalic taste of something that once moved, and it invigorated him.
All the dwarf did was butcher and rearrange my creation, thought Thistle, so perhaps I should feel proud of myself.
He must have been starving to eat with such enthusiasm, thought Senshi.
A tallman child of that size would be so hopeless and utterly lost, but it seemed elf children had an arsenal of tricks up their sleeves. He saw the finespun purple robes under the cloak—nobility, he would guess, raising his eyebrow at the odd, pointed footwear, and looked down at his own bare legs and worn leather sandals. How long has this boy been here? Surely not for long. He would try not to worry and try not to think about the poor thing fending off the monsters all by his lonesome.
“My name is Senshi of Izganda, by the way.”
Thistle covered his mouth while he chewed and rolled his eyes.
“I’m the Lord of the dungeon. Do with that information what you will.”
“Lord of the dungeon? I see. Was there such a thing?”
“You—not only have you been living for years in the dungeon…have you been living under a rock?”
“Ay, I was jesting. That’s mighty impressive, little elf.” If not a lie, it was surely an exaggeration. Perhaps it was a game he played, standing atop a pile of pebbles, declaring himself the ruler. He really is a child, he thought. Not a decade over 30, or so, though he was not familiar with the life spans of elves.
“You’d be wise to watch your tongue, insolent dwarf. Well, then, you must not have any thoughts about defeating me, or taking my powers for yourself, do you?” He finished the soup. Though it was improper etiquette, he scraped the sides of the bowl and sucked at the spoon with relish.
“I have no such ambition. I want to cook monsters, and I can find everything I want here.”
“Whatever.” It was an amusing thought, to have desires so simple they required no sacrifice.
“Are ye not getting enough meals? Ye resemble a mote of dust, set to blow away in the wind. Do take better care of yerself.”
“Huh, take care of myself? You idiot—do you even bathe? You reek. Look at that disgusting hair. Even if you don’t use magic, even if you are a dungeon-dwelling brute, can you not drag a comb through your beard?”
“…Ye have a point there,” grumbled Senshi, wanting to placate his guest, though the ruggedness of his beard suited him fine. “So, if I remember to groom myself, will ye remember to eat?”
“I am not making deals with a wastrel like you. I have a lot to worry about as it is, and your one grace was that your scavenging created no additional work for me. But…” he said, “but, I will say, this soup is…passable. Should I ever come across you again—”
Thistle stopped himself. He rose silently to his feet.
Dangerous. Got carried away. A sharp pinprick as he bit his thumb.
Delgal…The thought of kind, delicate Delgal and his well-groomed hair and starched, perfumed robes cleansed the cloying rot from his mind. King Delgal was lost, and he needed him. Yes, there was work to be done, as always. Really, it was laughable, the thought of sharing companionship with an outsider, of leaving where he was loved and needed, of wasting his breath on anything so pointless.
“Well, goodbye,” he said, and vanished in thin air, taking the light with him. He would allow the old dwarf to wander in his dungeon, like an unseen spider, fat-legged and furred, useful and out of his way.
The clattering of the bowl and the spoon on the ground endlessly echoed against the stone brick walls. Left behind now in darkness, even the luminescent cave moss fizzling out like spent candles, Senshi sat on the log in silence. He clutched his chest. There was a warm glow within him, a full, familiar feeling. It was so long since he had shared a meal with anyone, let alone shared the joy of monster food. He felt strangely comfortable, accepted—none of his old shames could ever compare to the daily transgressions of an elf.
He knew it was a dark and lonely world that the “lord of the dungeon” inhabited. And he was used to it, himself—here he was, lost in it—but that was no place to share with an innocent, starving child.
Maybe there was a chance he could reach him.
What were his favorite things to eat? If only he’d asked. He would make plenty of new dishes, and perhaps, he’d get it right, and like a stray, hungry cat, the boy would come to him again.