There was, unsurprisingly, a great difference between deciding the best course of action was to make sure an elf could keep busy enough to not notice how empty he was and actually making sure he actually did the things. But even then, just because it was not going to be the easiest task in the world, that did not mean they were just going to give up. In fact, if anything it was the difficulty of the task that would make the eventual fruits that it beared all the sweeter. That said, they did need to get to the point where it was bearing fruit and not just arduous and painful enough to leave at least two involved wondering if pulling teeth would have been more of a pleasant experience. Yet they persisted, because they weren't just going to give up on Thistle. They were better than that.

It took a little bit of finessing, but eventually a routine managed to fall about them as naturally as if it were a mist. This was closer to how routines worked for them, as goodness knew they were too busy all the time always forever to consider actively trying to make a routine.

For Abigail Rook, she thought it might be helpful if Thistle could feel like he had a place there in the household.

"I know it doesn't look like it is to us, but Mr. Jackaby insists that everything has a correct place to put everything according to his system. I don't quite understand how his system actually works, but I don't think I'm supposed to be able to. I think it's just one of those things that he forgets isn't universal, but rather is a result of his, well, himselfness." Abigail was saying one afternoon, balancing a stack of books in her arms that had taken several steps towards haphazardously precariousness than she necessarily would have liked.

"Himselfness?" echoed the elf, his own little stack of books only consisting of three relatively inconsequential texts.

"Yes, he sees things, and evidently he sees something in the order of the books that make sense for him, but unfortunately it seems everything that makes sense to him doesn't make all that much sense for everyone else. That's why I'm glad you were here to help me. A second opinion can be very helpful, you know?" She flashed a grin, slightly lopsided due to the thick cross of scars across her cheek, clumsy enough to prove her sincerity.

"I'm not doing all that much," Thistle returned vaguely, his comment as relevant to just helping shelving books and, well, the entirety of his recent existence. Though the latter option was a little more sad than just standing around while books found places.

"Of course you are, even little things more than nothing. They build up to make a foundation for something bigger the more you keep at it. Now," she paused, shifting her stance a little to hold up the top book from her stack without risking dropping the others in the process, "Do you think this is more pink or purple?"

"That book is teal."

"It is teal, yeah," Abigail agreed, "But apparently it is also supposed to be pink. Or purple. Apparently this stack was supposed to be all manner of pinks and purples but-"

"But not a single one of those books are either pink or purple?" the elf finished for her.

"Exactly! I still don't quite know exactly what would make one more of a colour than any other, since only Mr. Jackaby can actually see what they are, so I was hoping that between us we might be able to work it out together. Do you think we could do that together?"

"... Okay."

Between the two of them, they could not have had more than fifteen books, though some of them were large and impractical enough to be the equivalent of several books in one. Even still, it managed to take the pair over an hour to find a place for each of them in the gently leaning bookshelf in the entrance hallway. They sat there, taking up almost too much space in the hallway, books spread about to be sorted as they tried all manner of methods to decide how to sort things. Abigail did what she thought was her best Jackaby impression, humming and nodding, holding things to different light sources, and even tried holding a necklace over it to see if it did anything particularly interesting if she let it dangle for a while. Eventually Thistle did actually try to help too, holding one in each hand to see if either felt more magical than the other - which was a difficult thing to judge as all books carried magic in one way or another, so he had to try and feel for differences not levels - and then when that did not do much, he just tried to copy the increasingly ridiculous antics Abigail was attempting.

It was not much, but Abigail was sure that she caught the ghost of a smile upon the elf's lips and so she felt that she had done something right.

For Jenny Cavanaugh, she felt comfort would do wonders for Thistle's wellbeing.

"You've such wonderfully long hair," the ghost had mused one afternoon, "It is a marvel you've been able to keep it so well, I know I could not have managed it myself."

Jenny had been careful to do all she could to make sure the little elf was comfortable, donning a nice pair of gloves she had thought was particularly stylish when she had been alive, when she did his hair. She'd caught him tugging at it uncomfortably one day and, following a dismissive comment from the fairy about the importance maintained hair was for elves, had made sure she was there to do his hair every morning until, she made him promise, he was feeling well enough to do it himself. Admittedly, she had not expected that he would let her, but trying out some new hairstyle for him had become part of her morning routine too.

"And I must say, I am rather glad you're more open to keeping some of my poor old clothes from rotting away. Far too many of them were either too small or simply just not something Abigail was comfortable with wearing. I've always thought ruffles were perfectly fetching, you look perfectly darling in that blouse after all, but each to their own I suppose."

"Do I?" Thistle repeated, pondering the spray of lace at the end of one sleeve of the shirt that the ghost had offered him not long after there had been a unanimous agreement that he could not be walking around wearing bells all the time.

"Of course," promised she, "Now, Jackaby is still banned from the kitchen after burning a hole in the countertop, but I'm also quite sure he'd starve if I did not remind him to eat and I think Abigail deserves something nice to start the day, so, what do you think I ought to make them for breakfast?"

Jenny had discovered rather quickly that him having no desire to eat meant it was not very easy to simply bully the elf into eating, but she had managed to find a way around it that was working at that moment. While he was not willing to eat for himself, if it was presented as social eating he would usually - not always - manage to stomach at least a few mouthfuls. If he he had realised this was what she was doing, he did not mention it and it continued to try, so it felt like a step in the right direction.

"Eggs?" Thistle suggested.

"Eggs are nice, and I think we should have some normal chicken eggs. Do you think they should have something else too?" she pressed gently.

"Maybe mushrooms?" he replied then added after a moment, "Just normal mushrooms, I don't think they should have walking mushrooms."

"We're in luck then, I don't think we have the walking sort," Jenny returned, "At least not in the kitchen anyhow. Goodness only knows what he has in that laboratory of his, and honestly I don't think he knows either, but we aren't going in there to get ingredients for breakfast." A beat. "Would you mind giving me a hand? It does make it easier having someone to lend a hand."

"...Okay."

With the elf's hair done up in an elegant chignon style, held in place with a little ribbon, the pair retreated into the kitchen. Of course she did not drop the rouse that they were just making breakfast for Abigail and Jackaby, even when she made sure that they accidentally made far too much for just two of them, and that it would be a shame to let it go to waste so Thistle simply had to have some. It was, after all, the easiest way to make sure he did actually eat even a little. She had no intention of asking him to make anything difficult, as she was sure he was not yet in any way to stop himself from cutting himself or after cutting himself.

Every morning Jenny was sure she noticed that Thistle could do a little more every time, she was sure, and that was enough as far as she was concerned.

For Charlie Cane, he felt it was important that Thistle did not feel quite so isolated there.

"When I first moved here, I remember it seemed so different from everything I was used to," the man mused, having managed to drag the elf out with him on a walk on the rare occasion that he had time to offer Thistle through maintaining his fancy government position, "I'd never been so far from my pack as I was the first time I set foot off the boat, but I do not think I would have had it any other way."

"But why here?" the elf asked, eyeing a broken shop window that they passed with enough disdain to his glance to prove everyone's work towards helping him had been worth it.

"The same reason as most, I would think," came the reply, "Because it seems right."

Though Charlie knew that, out of all of them, he had the least exposure around the elf, but he was determined to try and make him feel as comfortable as he could. He knew he would have hated to be cooped up in one place, though he was not sure if this was simply because the Om Caini roamed and so regardless of whether he was a hound or a human - he was both hound and human, regardless of what form he was at any given time, but he could only wear the physicality of one or the other at any given time - the desire to be able to move about when he could was always there. It was precisely this reason why he offered to take Thistle out for a walk every few days. Nothing strenuous, but definitely enough to keep him moving.

"And if you were wrong?" pressed the elf.

"I don't think I was," he replied, returning a wave to a shopkeeper that they passed, "If I tried to find some perfect place I would be searching forever. But I have found a place here, and maybe not everyone will understand that, what I am, what you, we are, but I do enjoy it here. I hope that you can find that you can enjoy it here too."

"And if I don't?" Thistle questioned, missing the kindness of those around them in favour of noticing the cracks in the pavement, the graffiti scribbled on the wall, the mud on a doorstop.

"Do you? Charlie replied, answering his question with one of his own.

"I don't do anything anymore."

"That's not true," the other replied gently, "You agreed to come out here with me didn't you? I wouldn't have dragged you out here if you didn't want to go."

"No, you dragged me out here because everyone seems convinced I'll simply stop bothering to breathe and drop dead if I'm not being dragged away in one way or another."

"Would you?"

"Probably!" the elf exclaimed, tossing a hand into the air exasperatedly, "Why does it matter so much if I did anyways? None of you know me, what is the point in everyone going out of the way to be kind to me? I'm sure it would be easier for everyone if I just wasted away to nothingness."

By this point in the walk the pair had reached a little park, the trees planted in an artificially orderly manner, uniform shadows chasing away some of the intensity of the afternoon sun. A lazy late season butterfly drifted by on a path that clearly made sense only to the little blue creature.

"We're helping you because we want to help you, not because we have to. You're right, it isn't easy but that doesn't matter, truly. I know they would be terribly sad if they knew you thought such sad things about yourself, they care about you, you know?"

"You shouldn't. I've done terrible things, you should all be afraid of me, not trying to help me." the elf protested.

"Maybe that is all the more reason to try a little harder then, for their sake, if you've done terrible things then maybe this is the opportunity to reinvent yourself. A fresh start to be better than you were." Charlie paused, flashing a grin of slightly more houndlike teeth than the average human had to flash, "Perhaps this was the perfect chance to start anew. I've been dead enough times to appreciate that sort of chance too." He decided not to elaborate on this point even slightly.

For the remainder of the walk, the topic left the realm of the serious, as it was supposed to be for lightening moods and not for pondering death. Instead, the Om Caini prince guided the Mad Mage through New Fiddleham, letting the hum and rhythms of the city swirl around them as they passed. To be within the beating heart of a city created a sort of understanding and appreciation for it that simply could not have been found elsewhere. The occasional greeting or friendly nod, the chatter around as people simply lived their lives. It was almost too soon when they did return to the peculiar house at Augur Lane.

And perhaps it was enough for Charlie that he left Thistle with something to consider.

For Mr. Tilde, he felt Thistle ought to have the chance to not be expected to do anything at all.

Tilde had found a nook, comfortable on a window seat, to curl himself up in while keeping an eye on Thistle. As the elf really was not doing all that much anyways, the necromancer instead occupied himself with knitting in his little nook. The click and clack of his knitting needles made it apparent that he was rather nimble with this even when the thickness of the gloved he did not remove for the task would have been cumbersome enough to make it a little more difficult for him. It was all too clear that he would have been knitting regardless of whether he was supposed to be babysitting a thousand year old elf that had gotten eaten or not.

"Your hair looks dreadful, are you not ashamed of yourself?" Thistle questioned when the needle clacking had just gotten to a crescendo. He did not have enough in him to give this quite the bite he'd have once given it.

"No."

"Maybe you should be." came the reply.

"You've a lot of opinions for one who can't do his own hair," Tilde replied, not caring enough to put all that much behind his insult, "And no, I shan't be ashamed over the state of my hair. I had decided it shall remain free from the day they cut it, and I've not gone back on my word for longer than you've been alive, and I have no intention of going against it now."

"Somebody cut your hair? Why?"

"Because it was easier than taking the time to reflect upon themselves," the fairy replied, the only sign of his agitation coming from his knitting missing a beat, "And because they were afraid of what they could never hope to comprehend. But you do, don't you?"

"Do what?"

"You understand," a beat, "The magics older than the tongues that speak them, the allure they have once you heed the call." He paused, finally glancing up to face the elf, an unpleasant smile curled across his lips, "You needn't look so worried, nobody here would report you for using so-called dark magic. Why, if I so chose I could kill you right now, stick my knitting needle so far through your skull that I could stir what is left of your brains and they could not do a single thing against me left they jeopardise the safety of those who come here for sanctuary. But I shan't, so don't worry, it would be awful to stain the wool before I'm even done."

"How-" a slightly more emotive Thistle replied, "How did you know?"

Now, Tilde had lived a very particular life before he found himself within Jackaby's house. He'd lead an unbeatable and ever-growing army of the dead for the King of Chaos, he had delighted in the sufferings of others, and he had known how to frighten a confession out even the most hardy mountain giant. If there was anyone in the house less likely to judge Thistle for going a little mad, it was the necromancer.

"I recall hearing of the fall of the Golden Country, I had far too much going on to pay it much mind, but that was you, wasn't it?" Tilde replied, "Why?"

"I just wanted to help everybody. All I wanted was to make him happy. I didn't do anything wrong." came the elf's reply, worrying the side of his thumb until the taste of blood informed him that he had torn skin.

"Of course you did, it always starts that way."

With this said, the fairy resumed his knitting. He rarely bothered himself with the living and so probably would not have been all that good at easing the nerve he had obviously struck in the other even if he had tried. So he just didn't try at all. Instead, he contented himself with his loops and click clacking. He had a little bit hoped he'd be left alone after informing the other that he knew who he was, but it didn't work. Instead, it just meant Thistle was there staring directly at him, which was worse than before.

"Do you know how to knit?" Tilde asked after several long moments, raising the square he was working on for the other to see, "I learnt back when I was still recovering and was not sure if I would be able to use my hands at all anymore, and the habit rather stuck after that. Nowadays the Seer and I tend to make squares together to make blankets to donate to hospitals and orphanages and the like." The very idea of his life leading him to making gifts for orphans and the sick amused him more than it seemed.

"Here," he continued when there was no reply, "It is not dissimilar from the process of maintaining the flow of the self and one's magics, or mana if that is still the term your sort prefers, so perhaps you might be a little better off than whatever this is."

Apart from the occasional instruction or correction, Tilde was technically still able to knit in peace without running the risk of having everyone else in the house sigh at him. There was some truth to the belief that keeping one's hands busy would be the easiest way to keep one's mind occupied, as some of the perpetual listless nothingness that clung like spiderwebs to poor Thistle seemed to have been shaken off to a degree while he knitted. There was a comfortable silence in the room as the pair worked, which was especially nice considering the others did not tend to be the most comfortable with being in a room alone with Tilde.

And perhaps that meant Tilde and Thistle could get along, which meant more than the elf would realise.

For R. F. Jackaby, he felt it was important that Thistle was treated just like all the others.

"I felt it was only appropriate if you were to assist me with this as I am planting your name sake, and for the sake of your name too. Does that mean you have thistles similar to the sort we have on our side? I've yet to have a chance to compare the sort of plants of similar structures before, but I am sure that would be rather fascinating."

Thistle was not entirely sure what was more, well, more. The feeling of dirt beneath his fingernails as he dug holes in an empty patch of soul, or the fact he knew full well that the man rambling at him knew what he had done and still did not mind rambling at him. In fact, he would have preferred the other minded a little bit as his brain was still feeling a little too sluggish and so could not keep up with all the questions.

"Make sure the seeds are deep enough, but not so deep that the risk being suffocated," Jackaby stated when he noticed the elf was just poking the dirt at random, "Just because the thistle is an awfully resilient plant, that does not mean it does not need a little care to help it grow."

There was less subtly to this than a shovel to the face, but it was nicer than the unceremonious introduction of a shovel to any part of the body.

"What was it that you said before?" asked the elf, "About the thistle when I first got here."

"Ah, yes. The uses. The nuances of the thistle varies from culture to culture but they're said to be for protection, which is quite functional as their prickles have been said to keep armies at bay as horses were smarter than people are and refused to step foot fields of them, devotion, the prickles can cling to something just effectively as they can get rid of them depending on the situation. The Scottish have the thistle as their national flower as it was said to have protected them from an invading army, and so is seen as a symbol of the continued longevity of the nation."

Far too much of this seemed appropriate for himself, and not necessarily in the most flattering of ways. It won a strange sound that even he did not realise was a laugh until a moment after, having not laughed a proper laugh in a very long time.

"When you first arrived, I do not believe you would have been capable of laughter." the Seer remarked, dropping a seed into the hole he was using for demonstration before patting it into the earth, "It has not been long, certainly but I believe you are not quite the same you that you were when you awoke. But I do not think you are the same you that you had been before even then."

"Is that a good thing?" Thistle asked.

"It is not for me to decide, it is for you to work out," he paused, raising a hand to stop the other from replying, before depositing a seed in the other's hand, "You don't need to decide anything now, and indeed you've no need to tell me of any conclusions you might make unless you want to. I am not going to ask you what it was that brought you here, how much is true from what they say about you, which I have taken with several grains of salt as historians seem incapable of keeping their biases out of things they are not equipped to know anything about, but if you do wish to speak I am open to listen."

Thistle pondered the thistle seed in his hand for several heartbeats, glancing briefly over to where Jackaby was using a teacup to pour water onto the area he'd planted seeds into. Then he let the seeds fall into the few holes he'd managed, made sure they were nice and snug and as capable of growing as they possibly could be. He hoped the little plants would be able to grow and thrive better than he did.

"You've a rosy glow now," the Seer mused, looking over his shoulder to regard the elf, "That is good to see, there was nothing before, but there's something now."

He did not quite understand what this means, but it brought a shaky smile to his face for a moment.

By the time the pair returned inside again, muddy enough to win several weary yet fond sighes from the resident ghost, they had managed to plant a little thistle plot to arch beneath one of the lower floor windows. Or at least it was mostly a lower floor window as it had gotten a little too close to the middle floor and so one of its corners peeked through to the room above it. Thistle had not realised they were planting outside of the room he'd been given until a little later, and the thought of it won an amused hum.

And for Jackaby, that was a total success for the stage they had managed to take Thistle along to.

Oh, and Douglas did also try to help but there was only so much that a duck was capable of doing, even if the duck used to be a person before deciding he much preferred being a duck. But he did make for a good audience whenever Thistle happened to creep upstairs to the third floor pond to play a tune on his flute, or on the lute that he found in the impossible attic, or even the accordion that had arrived not long after the elf's own arrival. So that was nice, and the archivist waterfowl understood when Thistle needed his privacy as he played.

Of course it was not perfect, and of course it was not going to be an easy, immediate fix but day by day it became just that little bit easier for Thistle to get swept up in the antics of those around him, to find some semblance of enjoyment in their efforts to help him. So maybe they really were on the right track.