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In Thistle’s nightmares, the lion still appears. He knows it’s not real. Thistle’s dreams of the lion lack any of the strange, surreal coherency that dreams the actual lion would send him. That does not mean Thistle doesn’t wake up gasping for air with the weight of the Lion’s paw on his chest, his ribs creaking beneath the Lion’s jaw as it consumes him.
One night, as Thistle gasps for air- gasps for anything at all, really, heaving lungs screaming for air that is already there- he turns his gaze, and someone is watching as the Lion feasts on him. This is the first time that Mithrun appears in Thistle’s dreams.
It keeps happening after that. And when the Lion is done feasting in those dreams, and Thistle is left hollow and afraid, Mithrun appears at his side and coaxes him up into a sitting position.
“It gets worse the longer you lay there.” Mithrun tells Thistle. Somehow, Thistle believes him. If anyone knew about the weight of the Lion, it would be Mithrun. His hollow eyes tell Thistle everything he needs to know.
In these dreams, Thistle allows himself to be positioned so he is sitting. In these dreams, Mithrun rubs circles along Thistle’s back. It reminds Thistle, painfully, of how it felt to be a child.
When Thistle was young, at the height of Freinag’s reign, whenever he had a nightmare, Freinag would hold him close. He would rub circles on Thistle’s back and tell him everything would be okay. That was before Delgal was ever born. Before, Freinag had a son to fuss about. Back when Thistle was small and cute. Not the strange, awkward thing he had grown into over the years of Freinag’s reign. When the baby fat left Thistle’s cheeks, and his voice began to crack, Freinag stopped allowing Thistle into his chambers. Stopped holding Thistle and entertaining his childish whims.
Without Freinag, that just left Delgal. He wasn’t the same as Freinag. His hugs were soft and childish, and those stopped, too, over time. Thistle understood, of course. There were always awful rumors about King Freinag and the elf he kept in his court. Depending on the person telling the tale, Thistle was anything from a changeling to a seductress to Freinag’s secret concubine. Then Delgal took the crown, and the same rumors followed him.
Then, when it became clear that nothing was happening between Thistle and Delgal, people started thinking the king had discarded Thistle. From that stemmed even more oddness from the court. From drunken dignitaries trying to haphazardly invite Thistle to their bedchambers, to more… overt attempts at seduction.
All of this is to say that after Thistle lit more than a few people on fire, and even more faux pas by Delgal’s court, it was easier to avoid touching people altogether. The most intimate touch that Thistle ever got with Delgal at the very end of his coherent memories were a hand on his shoulder or a side glance.
In Thistle’s dreams, though, he is held. This dream version of Mithrun will run his hands through Thistle’s hair, pulling it back from where it fans across Thistle’s face. Otherwise, he allows Thistle to curl around him in all ways Thistle would never allow himself to hold anyone- except for maybe Falin.
Mithrun then ruins it by showing up in real life.
The Canaries are an odd bunch. They appear in Laios’ court every so often. Mostly to check up on Marcille. Their visits aren’t entirely frequent at first, petering out before they eventually begin to pick back up again.
Thistle does not see Mithrun during these visits. Why would he? The Canaries weren’t exactly there to check up on some pathetic ex-dungeon lord. Thistle was also fairly certain that Laios- King Laios?- had also pulled some political fuckery to keep Thistle in the Golden Kingdom. Just like he had with Marcille. There were no overt attempts on the parts of the Canaries actually to check up on Thistle, and part of him would always dread the idea of going to the Elven lands.
For as much as Thistle had been feared and disliked by humans in his own time, there would always be a part of him that was inexplicably fond of them. The elves he’d met were always so self-serious. Thistle knew he had no sense of humor. But the Elves? They had no sense of humor. Even Thistle could smile at the best, most well-crafted jokes. The placid faces of other elves terrified him. What would happen to Thistle if he went back to the Elves? To that place he had not been since he was almost an infant? Would he become like them- cold and humorless things, too wrapped up in themselves to notice the passage of time? Thistle had already lost a thousand years. He could not bear the thought of losing even more.
No, Thistle doesn’t want any of that. He’s fine with steering clear of the Canaries if it means staying with Laios’ strange, dysfunctional court for a little while longer.
So when Mithrun appears outside of Thistle’s room, it is immediately noticeable. Thistle has gotten good at listening to footsteps. He knows the heavy thomps of Falin’s footsteps, inelegant and too-heavy against the stone hallways, and the awkward shuffling gait of Yaad, still struggling with the newfound length of Delgal’s limbs.
Thistle does not immediately recognize the delicate pitter-patter of elven slippers. He sets down his book when the footsteps reach just outside of his door, pausing for so long that Thistle briefly wonders if maybe he’s gone insane.
Then, there is a knock.
Thistle debates briefly, pretending to be asleep. He stares down at the book in his hands. Then, at the door. Then, back at the book. Finally, he calls out: “...Come in.”
Slowly, the door creaks open, and standing there is Mithrun.
There is another reason, humorless indifference to the human condition aside, that Thistle tends to avoid the Canaries. Amongst elves, Thistle is inordinately young. No matter how much Thistle tries to act like an adult around them, one of the Canaries will always try to pat his head or start talking to him in that awful, simpering tone that people had not used with Thistle since he was in Freinag’s court.
Despite the fact that Thistle has no particular wants, there is still propriety. Thistle has lived over a thousand years. He is- likely- the only dungeon lord who managed to keep a dungeon in operation for as long as he did. The fact that Thistle remembers very little of his time as a dungeon lord means very little when Thistle has still maintained his ability to perform magic or the knowledge he gained over the centuries. And they treat Thistle like he’s a mere child. Like he’s someone to be placated and carried tenderly. He hates it.
It is one thing when Falin holds Thistle tenderly. When she cares for him and treats Thistle softly. Though Thistle will never admit it, that is what he made her to be. Or at least what he believes he made her to be. The longer Thistle spends with other people in Laios’ court, the more it seems like maybe Falin was always this kind and gentle. Though Thistle does not particularly want for anything now, there is still the memory of that longing where it sat in his chest, an ugly, aching emptiness where that desire once lived. The desire for a family. For love. For kindness and tenderness. All of the things Thistle had never allowed himself to have or had been denied. Falin was made to treat Thistle kindly.
The Canaries, though? They are strange and clumsy. They act as if Thistle is a child, and they treat him like one.
Mithrun stands there for a moment, shuffling awkwardly in place. Thistle clears his throat, and Mithrun actually turns his gaze onto him. “...Hello.”
“...Hello?” Thistle replies uncertainly. “Can I help you?”
Mithrun purses his lips, staring down at his boots. He does not say anything.
Thistle feels a spike of irritation. “Well?” He asks impatiently. He should have pretended to be asleep, if only to avoid the way that Mithrun looks at him, a strange, sideways sort of look that refuses to admit his own curiosity.
“I… wanted to check on you.” Mithrun says slowly, savoring the word ‘wanted’ as it slips from his lips.
“Is that some sort of joke?” Thistle snaps, another flash of irritation striking him. It must be. The alternative is more of that horrible coddling that everyone seems so fond of, and Thistgle had hoped that even if he was not quite Mithrun’s equal, he was at least somewhat deserving of the smallest speck of dignity.
“...no?”
Thistle scowls. “Why?”
“What what?”
“Why do you…” Thistle scowls. “Why would you want to check on me?”
“Kabru.” Mithrun replies simply.
Thistle struggles for a moment to recall Kabru. He’s the tall-man, right? The pretty one, who hangs on Laois’ every word lke the insipid little leech Thistle knows he secretly is.
That’s not fair. Thistle has no real reason to hate Kabru like that. He had, however briefly, attempted to persuade Laois to kill Thistle. That would have been the smart move. Laois, however, in all of his foolish optimism, had refused to allow anyone to harm Thistle, even if it might have solved more than a few of his problems.
There is not a day that goes by where Thistle does not imagine what might have happened if Laois had allowed him to slip from this mortal coil into the quiet relief of a dignified death.
“And what about Kabru?” Thistle asks impatiently.
“He told me that you might understand.”
“Gods above, why are you so slow?” Thistle snapped, finally. “Would it kill you to be more direct? What do you want?”
“I see you in my dreams.” Mithrun replies, unbothered by Thistle’s outburst.
Thistle is silent at that, not quite sure what he’s meant to say to any of that. Is there a way he’s meant to reply? He is reminded, sharply, of one of Delgal’s courtiers- ‘I see you in my dreams,’ he’d whispered, hot breath ghosting over the shell of Thistle’s ears as his hands hovered somewhere Thistle very much did not want them to be before Thistle cast a fireball spell and the idiot went up in smoke.
Thistle should not set Mithrun on fire. It does not stop the twitch of his fingers as he quietly attempts to recall the incantation for a simple fireball spell.
Gods above, things would be much easier if Thistle were still allowed to set people on fire.
“I don’t want to fuck you.” Thistle says bluntly. That strikes him as odd. After so many months of not wanting anything- after being near catatonic for as long as he has been- the simple desire to not fuck someone- or be fucked by someone- rises to the front so quickly and so sharply that Thistle knows that desire cannot be anything but his own.
Mithrun’s face does something odd. There is a twitch. At first, Thistle thought maybe it was some kind of seizure or muscle spasm. Then, he realizes that Mithrun is laughing.
“What?” Thistle asks, a quiet sort of dread settling in. He is suddenly, sharply, agonizingly aware of how alone he is with Mithrun.
“I don’t want to fuck you, either.” Mithrun gasps, finally.
“Oh.” Thistle pauses. “Then why are you here?”
“I literally see you in my dreams.” Mithrun clarifies once the laughter has died down. “I wanted to know if you see me, too.”
It is then that Thistle finally understands what Mithrun has been getting at. The part of him that had always loved magic- with such a sharp, painful adoration that outshone everything and everyone around him except for maybe Delgal- sparks to life as he recalls those nightmares.
“...You also dream of the lion?”
“Every night.” Mithrun replies somberly. “And I dream of you.”
“...I confess, I had quite hoped that those were just dreams.” Thistle replies, staring down at his knobby, brown fingers.
They are both silent for a moment. They both know precisely what their nightmares contain. The way that Thistle shrieks and writhes as the Lion sinks its enormous maw into the space just below his heart. How it feels to have everything ripped from you.
How it feels to be understood- if even briefly- in a dream.
“...What are you reading?” Mithrun settles on the end of Thistle’s bed, the mattress dipping- just barely- beneath his bony elven ass.
There is a part of Thistle that he does not recognize as his own that wants. That, too, strikes him as odd. Thistle doesn’t quite understand wanting at any given moment. Doesn’t understand what that foreign, decrepit feeling is actually for until it occurs to him that he is already thinking up all of the creative ways he could tell Mithrun to fuck off.
Right. That makes sense. He wants Mithrun to leave.
Consciously- that is what he is doing, isn’t it?- Thistle finds himself swallowing back his incantations and his hostility. For as much as he wants to be left alone, he can not shake the memory of the lion, its maw sunk into his chest as it takes and takes, and-
Mithrun was there. When it was over. He is here now, and Thistle finds it hard to muster enough will to push him away.
“Some romance novel that the half-elf-”
“-Marcille?”
“That’s the one- she gave me a romance novel. It’s awful.”
A smile dances at the corners of Mithrun’s mouth. “Tell me about it.”
So Thistle does. Before he knows what’s happened, the sun is coming up. He has spent the whole night talking with Mithrun about some b-tier romance novel. When Mithrun finally stands and declares “I should go,” Thistle cannot stop himself from asking:
“You’ll come back, right?”
And Mithrun stares, dark eyes boring into Thistle’s very soul. “Of course I will.”
“Good.”
The door closes behind Mithrun. Thistle lets his eyes slowly drift shut. He is not afraid of sleep. To be afraid is to want. But the thought of Mithrun makes everything seem a bit easier as Thistle drifts off to sleep, unbidden and unaware of his own exhaustion.
In his dreams, Thistle sees Mithrun. There is no lion.