#eey some thistle backstory

[thorns-ofthe-thistle]

Envy of Thy Happy Lot . [Self para]

One shot 1000 words. — Thistle throughout the eras. (Pick at least four time periods and write a little flash fiction for each.)

[tw: death, plague (Spanish flu) (mentioned)]

1921

His mother was dead.

She must have died something in the early morning hours. Theo had checked on her before going to bed himself, tired and worried that if he didn’t get enough sleep than he would get sick too. Sick like everyone was sick. He sat next to her bed, tracing patterns on the back of her cold hand, wondering what would happen to him now. Should he get a job at the factories? He didn’t have any skills otherwise. Mama had taught him to read and write, but that was all. Maybe he should move to the country and try to get work on a farm.

No one would hire a Magick like him.

As the orange sun settled over London’s roofs, Theo’s mother was still dead. Still cold in her bed. And Theo still didn’t know what to do.

There was a knock on the door. It was a man that he had never seen before. He was tall and pale and had unnatural, black eyes, but he smiled and asked to come in. Did he know about his mother? Had he come to take him away?

The answer to these questions was yes. But he was not taking him away to an orphanage, where he would catch the plague that snuck into everyone’s houses. He was taking him away to a magical land full of fairies. No, not fairies, his father corrected (for this man, this creature, was his father).

He was going to the fae.

1951

The newsstand touted a familiar face. One that Prince Thistle of the Fenlands hadn’t seen since he was a boy. Since he was just little Teddy Barrie, a sniveling child. Thistle had thought they were dead. But his uncle smiled in black and white, unmistakable. He had never been a kind man and it seemed that now, he was also a liar. Not that Thistle was surprised, but it was interesting to him.

It was especially interesting considering why he was in the paper. It appeared he had a daughter. A pretty daughter who had just gotten married. Thistle’s cousin had just gotten married, and he should probably pay them a visit, should he not?

“Teddy?” the man at the door said. He had gray in his hair and a gut. He was missing a finger, Thistle could see from where he was holding the door open.

“Papa, who is it?”

“Uh—”

The woman who appeared at his elbow was beautiful, her skin the color of rich earth. Her hair was curly and pulled back from her face. Her eyes were sparkling. She looked friendly. She looked like his mother.

“Hello,” she smiled at him. “Do I know you?” Ah, so she was smart too.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Thistle said with a smile of his own. “I am Theodore Barrie. Your older cousin.”

“Papa, you never told me I had any cousins! Where have you been hiding, Theodore?”

She said his name just like his mother. She took his hand and pulled him over the threshold. “You must come in for tea.”

1983

There had been a birth. Thistle always made his way to the mortal realm for any birth of a family member. It had started with Florence’s son, Lewis, in the 60s. He had been a bright, beautiful thing. Thistle had doted on him. Brought him gifts: an engraved comb from the drows, a knife with emeralds in the hilt. He did not stay long enough to be remembered as anything more than a dream, but still he visited, year after year.

And now, there was a new one to visit. His little family, which he kept so fiercely guarded

A lovely, perfect little girl. Thistle brought her a blanket woven from the wool of the sheep that roamed the Riverlands and pressed flowers from Elfhame.

Elizabeth was her name, but Thistle called Lisbet. Or lilybell. She never remembered him, but he remembered her. Her laugh and the shape of her face, round and sweet. Even if there was nothing but memories, he kept them close to his heart. There was not a picture, nor a memento that he could keep for himself. His deepest secret guarded in the warm brown eyes, the same shade of his own.

She grew up beautiful, but with a sneer that would rival plenty of the fae in the High Courts. She did not grow up to look like his mother, but she had a sharp tongue that he could be proud of.

2018

Thistle sat in the retirement home with a woven blanket over his knees. He recognized it. It was one he had given Lewis when he had just been born. He pushed back on the balls of his feet, rocking the chair as he sat at Florence’s bedside. She looked so frail; her skin folded in the wrinkles of a life well lived. There was still a beautiful smile. Her dark, curly hair was stark white. Yet, her eyes were no longer bright. They were clouded with cataracts and confusion.

“Hello,” she greeted him with a soft, rasping voice as he took his seat. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, Flora. I am Theodore Barrie, your cousin.”

“Flora,” she repeated, humming and nodding. “Only one person used to call me that. My cousin, Theodore. Did you know him?”

Thistle could not lie. “Yes, I do.”

“Oh, goodie.” She smiled bright. “How is he? It has been so long since he has written.”

“He’s well,” Thistle told her, reaching out to take her frail, cold hand. The veins beneath her dark skin were deep purple. He traced patterns onto the back of her hand. “He is engaged.”

“Engaged? At our age?” She laughed and it sounded like the tinkling of a million lovely bells. Thistle smiled. “Good for him.”

“He misses you,” Thistle told her, his voice soft and quiet. “Are they treating you well here?”

“They do not visit me enough. My family. I miss the girls. I was sick and they never came.”

Thistle nodded. He knew this. He kept tabs on anyone who came to see her and her health as well. She had had pneumonia recently. For a week, he had sat by her bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest and tracing patterns on the back of her hand.

“I am here, Flora. I will take care of you.”

“Flora,” she hummed again softly, her eyes fluttering closed. “My cousin Theodore used to call me that.”