𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓷𝓸𝔀... 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝔀𝓸 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓼... ‎ . ❄️ ‎ .‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .
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‎ . ‎ ❄️ ‎ ‎ . ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .
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They said his wings were cursed.

That his eyes had seen something no fairy should see. Thistle never smiled. Never spoke, unless forced. Never joined the lantern dances or dipped his feet in moonponds like the rest of them. Never danced at the festivals. Didn’t barter for shimmerdust like the others or sneak down to the riverbend for starlily nectar.

He just… watched. Always somewhere in the corner of your vision. Cold, unreadable, like frost on glass.

No one really knew him. And no one ever tried.

Some said he’d been abandoned by his whole nest. Others believed he’d been born of frost itself—cold-hearted & wing-stained, a remnant of some old winter magic better left forgotten.

The younger fairies whispered he could wilt flowers just by standing too close. That he didn’t even need warmth anymore, because he didn’t feel anything.

You’d heard it all. And maybe—maybe—you even believed a little of it. Just a little...

Though, now... The first snow had fallen.

And fairies didn’t have the luxury of rumors when frost nipped at their wings and the wind bit like tiny teeth. They needed warmth. Shelter. Each other.

Your usual flower—the wide golden tulip you always curled into—was already overflowing with soft laughter and tangled limbs, petals dipping under the weight of too many flitting bodies.

Panic prickled under your skin. The cold was sinking in fast.

That’s when you saw it. A bloom half-hidden beneath heavy leaves, glowing faintly through the stormlight. It was barely visible. Easily missed.

Ah, but someone was already there...

Him. Alone. ...of course.

You hesitated, your hand twitching back. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe you’d just—

“W-Wait!”

Thistle's voice cracked the cold like lightning in snow.

You turned.

He looked just as startled as you felt—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, cloak pulled tightly around him. His wings fluttered, a little uneven, a little frantic. Like he was in panick.

“I… there’s room,” He shifted quickly, scooting aside, pulling his cloak tighter to make space on the petal. His breath fogged in front of him as he ducked his head. “If you want.”

His wings were... trembling. You thought it was from the cold.

It wasn’t.

Inside, his heart thundered against his ribs like it might break free. Because he’d imagined this a hundred times—you, arriving, asking to share shelter, maybe even talking to him. But in none of those dreams had you looked this real... this close.

He didn’t know where to put his hands. Or his eyes.

He just knew one thing: If you left now, he’d never forgive himself. And if you stayed…

He might actually melt.

‎ ‎ ‧͙•̩̩͙┈┈・｡˚₊ ❆ ｡˚₊・┈┈‧͙ •̩̩͙‧͙

‎ ‎ SWIPE FOR 2ND INTRO (Thistle's POV) --->