Scattered Stars

II

Thistle felt a huge rock slam into her.

My parents are dead. Parents are dead. Are dead. Dead. Dead.

But how? It had been only two days since Thistle had been having a conversation with Gargoyle’s parents. They were alive then. How were they dead now?

Gargoyle was lying on the ground, cold and limp in front of her when Thistle realised what was going on. 

The rain and wind were going insane; a million voices were shouting—including the Queen’s: “Okay, everyone, inside the Mother Tree! Now!” and Sprig’s: “Thistle. Thistle, are you okay? Thistle?” 

Without warning, Thistle’s eyes went out of focus. Something warm and wet ran down her face, and she heard someone sob. Sprig’s voice went from worried to sympathetic: “Thistle… it’s going to be okay…” then arms wrapped around her.

Her eyes didn’t seem to be working right. All she saw were blurs and colours and lights.

Then someone was picking her up. Thistle smelled pine needles, fur coats, forest creeks. Mama Peregrine.

“It’s going to be okay, Thistle,” the Queen’s warm voice told her. 

Thistle’s eyes worked long enough for her to see Gargoyle lying on the ground, surrounded by medics, getting further and further away. 

“Gargoyle…” Thistle choked on her words.

“He’s going to be alright, Thistle,” the Queen whispered. 

Thistle shook her head. “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no, no, no!” She struggled against the arms holding her, but they just held her tighter. 

“I can’t leave him!” she sobbed, her eyes going blurry.

Mama Peregrine started going faster, then set her down on a warm, soft surface—“Yes you can,” the Queen told her. “He’ll be okay, he just needs to be at the healers’ right now.”

Thistle was in a wooden room—it was quiet and cozy, with the shouting voices of medics and nosy people muffled by a closed door. Mama Peregrine was sitting on a mushroom stool next to her bed.

Suddenly too sleepy to argue, Thistle whimpered, “Okay,” and then her eyes closed themselves and she fell into a deep, silent sleep.

 When Thistle awoke, Sprig was in the room. The elf-girl was nervously stroking her long braids, staring into space as she sat on the stool next to Thistle’s bed. Her lips moved but no sound came out, and Thistle knew she was so engaged in her thoughts they were coming out in quiet words.

“Sprig,” Thistle said quietly.

Sprig fell out of her seat.

Embarrassed, she crept back onto the mushroom, a humiliated grin on her face. Thistle was trying (and failing) to conceal her laughter.

“Hi, Thistle,” Sprig said gently, once she had gotten back onto her seat. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” the wyvern replied. She sat up. “How’s Gargoyle?” 

“He’s good,” Sprig answered. “The medic said that he passed out from shock, which makes sense—also part of it was the fact that he had been flying for two hours from the Alabaster Kingdom. So,” Sprig took a deep breath, “he was at his palace and he was just about to go to your hang out thing but then guess who showed up—the cinder-wyverns. And they—they killed everybody in the palace but Gargoyle managed to escape…” Here Sprig stopped. “So that’s why he didn’t come. To your hang out. He had to get help, and the Oak Kingdom is the closest.”