The Adventures of Thistle & Honey 9

Adrift once again

The story is expanding into something I didn’t know I was capable of creating. It’s taking on a life of its own. I hope the story that is unfolding still carries the gentle healing that it started with. Thanks for sticking with me.

---

Thistle’s entire body freezes, then she bursts into laughter. Not the “I think you’re joking” kind of laugh, but the unhinged, gasping kind that rides the edge of hysteria.

Honey leaps into the air, hovering in front of Thistle but careful not to get too close in case she starts swinging. “I’ve never seen a fairy quite this hysterical,” she says, voice tight with concern. She rounds on the gnome. “I told you to be gentle!”

Berty keeps his eyes on Thistle. “Give her a minute.”

They both watch as the laughter continues, wild, wheezing. Thistle’s eyes are unfocused now, her laughter turning sharp, jagged, desperate.

“I can’t breathe,” she gasps between fits, “and I don’t know why!”

Honey zips to her side, helpless. “Do something!” she pleads, her eyes on Berty.

“Thistle, dear,” he says evenly, “take deep breaths.”

Honey whips toward him, ready to yell, but a chirp cuts through the room.

Tuffin awkwardly flaps his leathery wings and lands squarely on Thistle’s knees.

A low, steady purring begins. Like a spell grounding her and giving her a tiny foundation to land on.

Thistle’s breathing begins to slow. The gasping eases. Her laughter crumbles into soft tremors as tears quietly spill down her cheeks.

Honey settles into her usual place in Thistle’s hair, heart still racing. “She’s not well.”

Berty nods. “No. But that’s okay.”

That, that makes Thistle sit up. She seizes the moment of clarity like a lifeline. “Okay? Okay?! How is this okay?” Her voice climbs, shaking with raw exhaustion. “You’re telling me the woman who birthed me is not the one who raised me, okay, fine. Acceptable information. But adding on that I’m a queen?! Absolutely not acceptable!”

She shakes her head so violently that Honey is flung from her nest of hair. The tiny bee hovers mid-air, stunned.

Thistle stares at her, eyes wide and wild. “Did you know?” Her voice trembles with a fragile mix of hope and betrayal.

Honey zips up to Thistle’s face, making sure she sees her clearly. “I vow to you, on our friendship, I had no idea. When I arrive, I come with echoes from past incarnations, yes, but never specifics about the beings I’m called to guide. This… is just as shocking to me.”

She floats gently down, hovering just above Thistle’s open palm. Her voice softens. “I wish I could offer more than my words, Thistle. I know your heart is hurting. I wish I could give you the comfort of a hug.”

Thistle slowly turns her palm upward. Honey lands.

Then, without a word, Thistle lifts her hand to her face.

Honey stretches her tiny arms as wide as she can and presses into Thistle’s nose, trying her best to hold her.

They stay like that for a moment; Tuffin still purring on her lap, Honey doing her best to comfort, and Berty kindly remaining silent as Thistle pieces herself back together.

“Are you sure I’m not human?” Thistle asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because this sounds like a human tale.” Honey nuzzles her nose one last time before stepping back far enough for Thistle to see her and says with a smile, “I know for a fact, you are definitely not human.”

Her gaze shifts back to Berty, the panic in her eyes giving way to bone-deep weariness. “How is this my life?”

Berty rises from his chair and walks slowly to a small table tucked into the corner. From it, he retrieves a tiny worn wooden box. Returning to his seat, he exhales with the weight of old memories.

“This belonged to your mother, the one who birthed you,” he says gently. “She asked me to hold onto it, until you were ready.”

He extends the box toward Thistle.

She doesn’t move.

Whatever energy she had left has been drained by the emotional storm of this conversation. The room suddenly feels smaller. He nods in quiet understanding, adjusting the point of his hat.

“I owned a tavern not far from the castle,” he says gently. “Nothing fancy. Just a place for a warm meal and a good drink. I was there serving drinks the day she fled. Laurel, that’s her name, came bursting in through the front door. You’d just been born, and the Queen had ordered the castle searched to find you.”

He clears his throat.

“Your father was the King. But your mother, she was the woman he loved. The Queen knew. She just didn’t care, not really. As long as it kept him out of her way. But when she discovered the pregnancy, she flew into a fury. She sent guards to find you… and end your life.”

His voice hardens slightly.

“Your mother ran to my tavern, desperate. I had a cellar under the kitchen, hidden beneath a rug. When she came in, breathless and wild-eyed, and I heard the guards shouting through the square... I did what I had to. Otherwise, you both would’ve been dead by nightfall.”

The wooden box now rests on the arm of his chair. He doesn’t push it again. He simply lets the words settle into the space between them.

“You both stayed in that cellar for a month. Content, in that tiny dark place. It wasn’t just a hole in the ground. There was a washroom and a bed big enough for two. I had placed a soft rug on the floor, and I found a sturdy basket that your mother lined with scraps of fabric, and you slept there when you weren’t in her arms. We both knew it couldn’t last, but it was the best option we had. I told my staff to keep quiet. But in a kingdom like ours, where the rich stay rich and the poor stay hungry… money is a dangerous motivator.”

His gaze grows dark.

“My cook overheard that one of the waitresses had gone to the castle. Said she was going to collect the Queen’s reward.”

He exhales, slow and weary.

“There wasn’t much time. I knew if I stayed, I’d be dead within days. So we packed what we could carry… and ran for the forest.”

Berty deflates into his chair, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. When he looks up at Thistle, it’s with deep remorse.

“I begged her to come with me. See, the Forest of Shadows exists in all realms and none. In its heart, there's a portal of intention. It will take you wherever you desire to go… if your intention is clear. If not…” His voice trails off. His gaze goes distant. “Well… You can end up in some very unfortunate places.”

He pauses a beat, gathering himself. “My apologies. Where was I? Ah… yes.”

His eyes refocus.

“When we reached the portal, we could hear the guards at the edge of the forest. Your mother collapsed, clutching you to her chest, her whole body shaking. I knelt beside her. Told her we had to go.”

Berty’s voice trembles now, tears falling freely down his cheeks and matching the ones on Thistle’s.

“She looked at me… square in the eyes. Took a breath and said, ‘I can’t.’ I didn’t understand. Not until she placed you in my arms.”

He lets out a soft, shaky chuckle. “We were about the same size so holding you took a moment to adjust to. Then she pulled the pack off her shoulder and handed me this box.”

He gestures to it again, and this time, Thistle reaches for it. She takes it with trembling hands, reverently, as though the very weight of it might shatter her.

“She’d been preparing for that moment since the day she found out she was pregnant. They tried to keep the pregnancy a secret, but your mother knew,” Berty says quietly. “She knew the Queen would never stop looking for you once the truth came out. Melanthaha is not someone who would ever stop hunting. She is like a plague.”

He looks down at his lap, speaking now to memory as much as to her.

“Laurel took you back from me one last time. Kissed your forehead and whispered a spell. You fell asleep in her arms. She looked at you as if you were every dream made real.” He says with a watery smile. “Then she hugged you tight and whispered another one. I don’t know what she said, but… your wings fell off. And your light dimmed.”

Thistle gasps softly.

“I panicked,” Berty admits. “I asked what she’d done. She looked at me, sharp and clear, and said, ‘I’m protecting her.’ There was no room for argument in her tone… No time either.”

He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“She told me to take you to the first orphanage I could find. Said to make sure you ended up with a decent family.”

Thistle gives a hollow, bitter chuff.

“I know.” He sighs heavily. “I swear to you Thistle, when Festra adopted you, I thought she was perfect. A beautiful home. A kind husband. They’d tried to have children for years. I truly thought you’d be safe.”

His face twists with pain.

“And you were, for the first hundred years. Until her husband left her. After that… she blamed you. And became the woman that you remember.”

Thistle sits frozen, the wooden box cradled in her lap, her mind a storm of noise and jagged edges. The truth doesn’t slot neatly into place; it collides with everything she thought she knew.

“It’s like I’m looking at a puzzle with pieces missing,” she whispers. “I can’t see the picture. I don’t understand.”

She looks up at Berty, her voice breaking.

“Why don’t I remember being alive for three hundred years? And what happened to my mother, to make her blind, and speak a language no one understands?”

“Those are questions you’ll have to ask her,” Berty says softly. “I didn’t understand why you told me your age was thirty-four, that first day you entered my cottage. But I figured it had something to do with what your mother did in the forest. So… I didn’t say anything.”

Thistle’s eyes narrow, hurt and confusion surging forward. “Why?” Her voice shakes. “Why not tell me then? Why wait until now? What makes me ready now?”

Berty’s eyes fall. He lets out a long breath before answering.

“You weren’t ready because you were still clinging to the life that was. You were drowning in the pain of what you knew. I didn’t want to add more weight. I knew… when the time came, you’d find me.”

He rises slowly and walks over to stand in front of her.

“I am sorry, for the pain I’ve caused you. I’m sorry for not doing more to make sure you were happy. And safe. I failed you… both you and your mother. And I’ll carry that into the afterlife. I was cruel to you today, not because of you, but because of my own fear. And my shame.” He pauses, his voice quiet but genuine, “I’m so sorry, Thistle.”

She studies him, the old gnome, the man she once thought of as just a quirky friend. But she sees it now. The weariness in his posture. The grief in his eyes. She recognizes it. She knows it well.

Thistle reaches for his small, weathered hand and gently takes it in hers and waits until he lifts his gaze.

“You saved my life, Berty. Whatever else happened after that… happened. I can’t say that I’m not hurt. It does feel like I got left behind. But I know that staying angry won’t help me. So, I’m going to leave now. I don’t know when I might be back. But I don’t hate you, Bertrum. I just… need to process all of this.”

Berty nods, his chin trembling slightly. “I’ll be here. If you ever decide to come back and let me have it.”

Thistle offers a small, tired smile. “Noted.”

He chuckles faintly, then swallows hard. “I know I have no right… but I’d ask one small favor.”

She pauses, her hand still holding his.

“When you see your mother… please, tell her I’m sorry, too.”

The last word lands like a prayer, wet with regret.

Thistle nods. “I can do that.”

She pats his hand one last time, then rises. Her fingers tighten briefly around the box as she walks toward the door.

Just as she reaches the frame, she stops and turns back.

“One last question,” she says, her voice quiet. “What happened to the Queen?”

Berty’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well… you said I was a queen.” Her eyes search his. “That makes me think the Queen that was... isn’t anymore.”

“Ahh,” Berty says with a dry chuckle. “No such luck. According to what news still filters through, the old wretch is still alive. Still ruling the kingdom of Talamh.”

“Talamh?” Thistle echoes, the name unfamiliar.

He nods. “Yes. A human wandered into our land thousands of years ago. He saved the kingdom from a devastating disease; with a kind of magic no one had ever seen. They made him King, and he named the realm after his homeland. Talamh. But that’s a tale for another time.”

He shifts slightly in his seat, the weight of what he’s about to say making the air feel thick around them.

“To clarify what I meant when I called you queen, your father died a few years after your mother fled. The Queen told him you’d both been killed. She hired a witch to craft an illusion so convincing he believed it with all his heart.”

Thistle’s stomach knots.

Berty’s voice softens. “He jumped from the tower.”

A long silence follows before he adds, “She’s ruled alone ever since. But she is not the rightful ruler, Thistle. You are.”

She stands in the doorway, dizzy from the avalanche of revelations. The floor beneath her feels like it’s dropped out…and yet, her feet remain rooted to the ground. Tuffin chirps from the shadows offering her comfort.

Letting out a shaky breath, she whispers, “I don’t know what to do with any of this.”

“That,” Berty says gently, “is perfectly understandable.”

She offers a small nod, then turns toward the hallway. “See you around, Berty.”

He smiles faintly, though his eyes are damp. “I truly hope so.”

---