Abigail's enthusiasm following Thistle's gradual awakening was not shared by her employer. Admittedly, he was not entirely sure what he had been hoping for when the elf returned to the wakeful world, some fleeting flush of colour to his aura perhaps, some clue to the riddle that lay before him on his couch - a couch that had been given to him after assisting a sweet old couple carry in their replacement, though perhaps it was less a gift and more a convenient way to get rid of it without wasting it - but instead he received a frustrating amount of nothing. That said, the frustrating nothing that Jackaby was able to receive was nearabouts the same amount of, well, anything that Thistle could get so perhaps they were equals in their inconvenience.

After several long minutes crept by at about the same speed that several minutes were supposed to be creeping, Abigail realised the intensity of the Seer's gaze probably was not the most reassuring thing to see upon first awakening. A fact she knew from firsthand experience, having had her employer wake her from her slumber on more than one occasion, briefly alarming her at least half the time. So, she gently nudged the man out of the way a little to try and not frighten the elf. Not that he appeared to be particularly bothered, but she wasn't sure if there were any hidden subtleties to trying to interpret elven emotional responses. Because of course she didn't, she'd lived a previously very human-centric life until comparatively recent times.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" asked she, trying very hard to sound as comforting as she possibly could.

This received precisely no response at all. The only way she could tell that he was alive and not some very haunted victorian doll with the ghost of some tragic child inside was the gentle rising and falling of his chest with every breath. She hoped this was a safe way to judge things, she didn't like the idea of haunted dolls breathing at the best of times, and she couldn't imagine it would be any better if she also had to change a measure that she was using if she stumbled upon one.

"Can you hear me?" pressed she.

While it technically was not a response, he did blink a slow blink so he was at least a little functional. Or was, at least, for it was not very long before he started to slip back into a shaky sleep once again.

"Hey wait! Don't-" she exclaimed before turning her attention back to her employer, "Sir? What do we do?"

"I suppose we ought to get him somewhere a little more comfortable. And also slightly less likely for him to be sat on, just in case. From that, I suppose we'd best keep an eye on him and all that, if he seems worse we might have to see if Ms. O'Connor is around. I think she's forgiven me for-"

"For being extraordinarily annoying and obnoxious, sir?"

"Yes, that was what she said, wasn't it?" said he with a shrug, not particularly concerned about the fact he'd annoyed a friend of his, "But anyhow, she's very competent as a doctor so I can imagine she'd know what to do if necessary."

There was precisely one spare room in the house that continued to be empty enough to be considered spare, rather than preoccupied by preposterous peculiarities, and even that room was not what anybody would consider tidy. Seventeen almost identical picture frames occupied the corner of the room furthest from the door, its twin corner had several little succulents hanging from a neat wire frame which was, in turn, hanging from the ceiling, the whole contraption sat above a little box of soil to catch the water that came through the pots' drainage points. The bed itself was remarkably not being used to store anything on top - beneath was a different question, but we can forgive them for it - and had a charming abstract pink and dusty blue pattern decorating the bedspread, smelling pleasantly of chamomile, roses and lavender.

The bed seemed almost too large when the little elf was placed upon it, buried within the sheets, swimming within a sea of cotton and wool.

It was only then that Thistle gave anything even remotely close to a reaction, for just as Jackaby made his way out of the room after depositing him there, the elf turned his head just enough to be able follow him out with his gaze.

At that moment there were slightly more pressing things to concern himself with, as he left the room to meet the concerned form of the resident ghost, and true owner of the house, Jenny Cavanaugh, her silvery form flickering nervously. It took quite a lot to worry the sort of person that could throw a bathtub at the very same woman who had murdered her, so the concern she carried drew the man's attention.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, Jackaby?" asked the ghost.

"You need to be a little more specific, Ms. Cavanaugh," came the reply, "I wish that I was able to count the amount of things I've been getting myself into lately, but alas it seems even if I were to try, the number would have increased between the time I began and ended, making it a thoroughly fruitless effort."

"You know what I mean," Jenny said on a sigh, which was very impressive as ghosts typically did not need to breathe and so had very little to sigh with, "Abigail was very worried about the elf you found, and Mr. Tilde seemed awfully determined to find something when he came back into the library. Do you even fully know what any of this is?"

"Not really," Jackaby replied with alarming sincerity, "I will, at some point. Hopefully soon. Preferably soon. Until then, maybe see if you can get him to drink water? Water is very important and it would be a shame to worsen his condition before we get a definitive answer. Or after we have an answer too, but we aren't at that point yet so baby steps and all that."

With this said, and before the ghost had the chance to state her opinion on his decision, he strode off deeper into the house on habitually swift strides. Fortunately nobody was trying to follow him because he was frankly awful to try and keep pace with. So with another sigh, equally impressive really, Jenny drifted off to see if she could coax a barely responsive Thistle into taking a sip of water.

True to the ghost's word, it seemed the fairy was about in as much of a state as he could be in. Admittedly the library was never the most organised anyways, no matter how many times Jackaby might protest that it was arranged perfectly to accommodate himself and himself alone, so the fact the necromancer had covered the little table with similar topics open was not immediately a concern. It was less pleasant that the pale fairy was staring directly at him as he came in, tapping his fingertips together as he brought his gloved hands together. There was not a normal eye in the room with them, so it would suck so much for anyone to have gotten caught in the crossfire of their gaze. But fortunately they were accustomed to each other being a little bit creepy and so the Seer took the intensity being thrown at him as an invitation to claim the creaky yet sturdy chair by the table. He did so in a way that involved far too much leg about it, but he was very good at the things he does so we can forgive him for moving in a leggy, spidery angle-y sort of way sometimes.

One of the books that the fairy had so conveniently left out for him was a history of the human presence in the Annwyn - detailing the evolutionary differences between the human and the tall-man that stemmed from the differences in environment - another was a folkloric account of times long past, and the third had managed to mix both, finding factual accounts within the folk lore. Which was nice as it meant he could have several points of reference rather than having to rely upon a single account that could have very easily been influenced by the writer's biases and individual range of acquired knowledge.

Despite the different mediums, each of the books had been flipped to an account of the same subject - the necromancer had managed to find three books in his agitated state, but he was sure if he had a little more time he might have been able to increase the number, but for now he was content just staring directly at the Seer - in one way or another. It was, to summarise the contents of each in as coherent a way as one could, the story of the fall of the Golden Kingdom, dragged into the depths of the earth by the Lunatic Magician, the court mage who had been driven mad - one account was very determined to claim he was always mad, but the other two were a little more forgiving - from the use of dark magic. Each account agreed that there was a time the final king of the Golden Kingdom had clawed his way from the earth, calling for the death of the Mad Mage with the promise of his kingdom to whoever succeeded in this.

It was all very dramatic and an unsurprisingly common occurrence in older days, and it was the fact it was something he knew happened more than once that gave the tale more credence.

"You believe the elf was involved in this then?" asked Jackaby, looking up to the fairy that had drifted over to loom by the table as he was reading.

But, of course, Tilde had no intention of being any more helpful than he felt he needed to be, and so offered a noncommittal shrug. Very little meant all that much to the fairy, though it was not just his lifespan that left him apathetic, but the nature of his work made it very difficult to see any real point in connections with life and the living. But he did help a little, which was better than he used to do when he first got there.

Even if Jackaby had the intention of asking questions, he was not given the chance to even fully think through the question behind it. Abigail flung herself in through the door, catching her foot on a wayward stack of books and had to take more than what seemed to be an appropriate amount of flailing to keep herself upright. Fortunately she didn't feel all that embarrassed about it all as she knew precisely how embarrassing her present company could be and so was able to brush it aside as just one of those things that happens when people leave stacks of books in doorways.

"He's awake, sir," declared she, "Or at least more awake than he was. Jenny managed to get him to sit up and I think she managed to get him to drink something. She was trying to get him to drink when I went to get him so I think that counts."

Comparatively more awake was about the best that Jackaby had been expecting, so he was thoroughly delighted. A delight that got lost somewhere between his brain and the rest of him, as the best he gave was a pondersome hum of a reply before he took off again. Even within his own house it seemed he was incapable of just going somewhere, he was always just scooting and scurrying and and dashing about, which sounded like the most tiresome option available to him.

But it was as his assistant had said, the little elf was sitting up in the bed. The glassiness of his eyes had not left him be, but he didn't look quite as limp and lifeless as he had been, which was either a promising sign or a last hurrah before he just straight up keeled over and died. Which was definitely one of the less desired of the options that came to mind.

"So," Jackaby began with the exact sort of tact that one would expect of a man who had been thrown out of a window by a king before would have, "Lunatic Magician then? Or would you prefer Mad Mage? They weren't too clear over which was more correct compared to the other, unless they're both equally applicable." He hoped he'd made the correct assumption based on the vague information the fairy had offered.

"I don't care." the elf, not denying these claims, replied in a voice that was rivalling the necromancer in its flatness.

"But if I were to address you?"

"Will you address me?" came the reply. The elf turned just a little to better see the man, the movement bringing a whimsical jingle of a bell from somewhere on his outfit.

"I will," returned Jackaby, "If you tell me how I can."

The silence that followed this dragged on just long enough to leave Jackaby wondering if the fellow had offered up as much as he was capable of. Actually, he had no way of knowing what was too much for him as he was still a thoroughly and unnaturally blank slate, but he could make safe enough assumptions based on his observable wellbeing.

"...Thistle..." the elf, Thistle, obviously, replied eventually.

"Protection, devotion, protection, repelling of thieves," mused Jackaby, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully, "Do you think any of that rings true for you?"

"Maybe." shrugged the elf, decidedly uninvested.

"Are you comfortable in here?" Jackaby asked. It was less out of concern and more to test a theory that was coming to mind.

"Sure."

"Would you prefer it if you were somewhere else?"

"I don't care."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Do you want anything?" Jackaby pressed with a little more emphasis than he gave his other questions.

"No."

This won a hum from Jackaby, bringing his fingertips, pressed together to the point of paling, to his lips, brows furrowed slightly. He regarded Thistle for several clusters of heartbeats longer, observing his general lack of really anything else beyond just sitting there. With a nod to himself, he looked over to where Abigail and Jenny were being not very subtle at all about their lurking in the doorway to watch him. At least they didn't make a fool of themselves by trying to hide when he looked at them.

"It seems it is not that he simply does not care or want anything, but I believe he cannot at all. Something, something that had landed him here I would imagine, has stripped him of the same capacities, sensations of wants and needs and so forth, that we can."

"Are you sure?" fretted Abigail, unsure of whether she even wanted to imagine what that'd be like.

Jackaby turned back to Thistle, considered his next course of action for all of a moment before deciding to commit to showing the others what he meant in action.

"Thistle, do you mind if I put a hand on your shoulder?" asked he, very matter of factly.

"I don't care."

Jackaby set a hand loosely upon the elf's arm.

"Do you mind if I touched your hair?" continued he, aware of the connection between common elven magic associations with their hair.

"I don't care."

Jackaby let a wayward curl of the elf's hair sit upon his finger.

"Do you mind if I punched you in the face?" asked he with no more gravitas than the other questions had.

"I don't care."

Both Abigail and Jenny let out an exclamation of alarm as the Seer moved to punch the elf directly in the face. He did not, of course, actually hit him and caught himself at the last second, letting his hand drop harmlessly down to his side again.

"Don't worry, I know how to pull my punches, I was not actually going to harm him," assured he, "But do you see what I mean? He did not even flinch, his very instinct for self preservation seems to have been removed. Artificially, naturally."

"Is there anything we can do to help him?"

Jackaby took a moment to think about this properly, shifting his crouch just a little to combat the twinge in his leg. Even little things like that would be beyond the elf, who had precisely no desire to even rectify an inconvenience like that, which was immensely concerning.

"Something that was lost like this, some places call it the soul, the id, the little things that define the self, cannot simply just be picked back up again and stuck in again. But, that does not mean it was lost for good," Jackaby paused, "Take it like a physical injury, there is a benefit to resting to recuperate, but if you do not keep an injury moving it can weaken and end up worse than it had once been as it would weaken over time and the muscles would risk deteriorating. I think, presuming we are in agreement that he is to stay here, and we are, are we not?" Another pause. "Then the best thing we can do for him is to keep him moving. Best case scenario would be that he would then be able to develop new desires, a new sense of self that he is currently lacking. Worst case would be us having to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't just rot away. But I think we can be at least a little optimistic, he should be able to recover in his own time as long as we can keep him moving, doing things and the like. Perhaps it might not be the same as what was lost, but I think the good thing about being alive is that we will always have the capacity to grow and change as long as we put the effort into it, and even if we have to nudge him back onto that path, he should be able to find his way along it again eventually. Maybe. Hopefully. It is worth a try at least."