| Children Fiction posted March 23, 2025 |
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Elias and the Elf
E in the Alphabet Soup
by Begin Again
"Elias, vhy are you looking down in ze mouth?"
"It's not your concern, Hans. Just leave me alone."
"Don't tell me your missing zat imaginary friend uff yours again. I told you, it vas a dream. Elfes don't exist."
"You might be right, Hans, but he seemed real to me."
"It might be vise uff you to get on mith making zose boots ze Prince's birthday."
"Look at my hands. I've been working day and night. They'll be done."
As Hans continued on his way, Edgar climbed off the cement step and moved back inside his shop. He hadn't thought about Thistle in a very long time; after all, he needed to get past believing in elves at his age.
Summer days in the city were always warm and full of noise, but inside the little cobbled corner of Ember Alley, the only sound was the steady tap-tap of a hammer in the shoemaker's shop.
Elias had been working for days without rest. His fingers were sore, his eyes rimmed with tiredness, but he was determined to finish the gift — a pair of hand-stitched, gold-threaded boots made for Prince Henry.
The boy had fallen sick that spring, and Elias, once a street child himself, knew what it meant to be small and forgotten. These boots were more than shoes — they were magic. Made from the softest hide, kissed by moonlight, and finished with a charm he hadn't used since he was a child.
Back then, he believed in things like elves, and once — just once — he'd had a best friend named Thistle, who was no taller than a teacup and lived in a knot in the garden wall. No one else had seen Thistle, of course.
He'd vanished the day Elias listened to Hans and stopped talking to "imaginary friends." He'd started growing up, but today, Thistle was on his mind, like an itch he couldn't quite reach.
That night, Elias finally tied the last golden lace, smiling through his exhaustion. He packed the boots in a velvet box and locked his shop.
But as he walked down the alley toward the palace courier's post, two men stepped from the shadows.
They shoved him — hard. The box fell. One boot rolled out from the box. Elias fell, and his head struck the cobblestone.
By the time the pain faded and his vision cleared, the gift —and his money pouch — were gone.
His tools were scattered everywhere. A few townspeople helped him back to his bed above the shop, shaking their heads.
Prince Henry's gift was lost. There wasn't time to remake them. His reputation — his future — everything was crumbling.
Too tired to cry, Elias stared at the cracked ceiling and whispered, "Thistle — I wish you were real."
He drifted into sleep.
*****
Ending 1
As Elias slept, a warm breeze tickled the curtains. From the open window, tiny voices whispered. Leaves rustled in the corner. A drawer slid open by itself, and then, lots and lots of sparkles filled the room.
One by one, dozens of elves, no taller than salt shakers, emerged from the shadows. Each wore thimble hats or capes made from dried flower petals. Their leader, Thistle, sporting a long gray beard that touched the floor and boots laced with silk thread, stood near the workbench.
"He still remembers," Thistle whispered. "Now, he needs to believe. Let's get to work."
Some mended Elias's torn boots. Others polished the shelves, swept the floor, and re-stitched the signs. Thistle and three others followed the thief's trail, tracking muddy boot prints, and a broken golden thread to a crate behind the market.
They found the enchanted boots — dirty but unharmed. The thieves had tried on the boots, but the glowing boots frightened them. so they dumped them and ran away.
Now, the boots were clean, polished, and tucked back into their velvet box by sunrise.
Elias awoke, blinking at the neatness of the shop. Everything sparkled. The boots gleamed on his workbench.
And sitting beside them, in a tiny teacup, was a note written in flour dust: "We never forget those who believe. — Thistle."
Elias placed a hand on his heart. For the first time in years, he laughed.
And when he turned to the window, he thought — just for a moment — he saw a tiny figure tip his thimble hat and vanish into the morning light.
The End.
*****
Ending 2 —
Elias jerked and bolted upright in bed. Today was Prince Henry's birthday. He jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and hurried to his shop.
It was very early, and the sun hadn't even started peeking over the trees, but Elias didn't care. Today, he would give the Prince a pair of very special boots. He hurried to the worktable, and then, like a bolt of lightning, his world came tumbling down.
Slumping onto his chair, he laid his head against the bench and moaned. His thoughts flashed back to last night — the men, the attack, the boots, and then blackness when he hit his head.
The boots were gone. His gift to the Prince wasn't his to give anymore.
Tap — tap — tap!
Elias lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. Someone was standing on the workbench. Someone small and quite familiar.
"Thistle?" he whispered.
The little figure turned. He had the same scruffy hair, dog-eared hat and the same twinkle in the eyes.
Elias blinked. "Are you — are you real?"
Thistle tilted his head. "I don't know, Elias. Am I?" He grinned. "Do you believe I'm real?"
Elias hesitated. "I — I used to. But Hans said — he said I made you up. Just a silly kid's game."
Thistle raised one shaggy brow. "So. you let someone else decide who your friends are?" He crossed his arms. "That's not how true friendship is supposed to be."
Elias lowered his head. "You're right. I'm sorry. But I've got the shop and Hans said I had to grow up."
Thistle's smile softened. "Hans said, did he? I always thought being grown up meant being kind and helpful to others. I never heard anyone say you were to turn your back on a friend."
"You're right, Thistle. I shouldn't have listened to him."
"Well, friend — tell me what I hear about the boots being gone?"
Elias looked up. "Wait — you know about the boots?"
"Of course, I've seen them," Thistle said, tugging his belt.
Elias stared at the little elf. "You were here in the shop — before?"
Thistle nodded. "You may have stopped believing, Elias —but I never stopped being your friend. I saw all the hard work you were doing." Thistle tapped the little hammer against the table, thinking of how to tell Elias what he knew. Finally, he blurted it out. "I know who has the boots."
Elias got very excited. "You know where they are? Let's call the police."
"Stop and think, Elias. Can you prove they are the boots you made? Or that you didn't sell them to someone else?"
"No, but they were a surprise gift for the Prince. I have to get them back. Where are they?"
"They're in a small woodworking shop on 5th Avenue. Sitting right in the window."
Elias's mouth fell open. His eyes widened. "That shop belongs to — Hans."
Thistle nodded. "Hmm. He's not much of a friend, now he is? Not only stealing your work — but knowing how important it was."
Elias clenched his fists. "I trusted him."
"I know," Thistle said quietly. "But you're not alone now."
Outside, the first golden rays of morning touched the cobblestones. "Let's go get them," Elias said.
Thistle beamed at his friend. "I can do better than that." He snapped his fingers. A soft shimmer sparkled through the air, and with a quiet pop, the velvet box reappeared on the workbench — polished, perfect, and whole. Inside sat the boots as beautiful as ever.
Elias gasped. "You brought them back?"
"I told you I'd seen them," Thistle said with a wink. "They didn't belong in that window anyway."
Elias gently closed the lid and cradled the box in his arms. His hands trembled — not from fear, but from something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Joy and belief, better yet, genuine, honest friendship.
Thistle turned toward the door. "Now, you better get those boots to the castle before breakfast. A birthday boy is waiting."
Elias paused at the threshold, then turned back, smiling wide. "You're coming, aren't you?"
Thistle grinned. "You think I'd miss the look on a prince's face when he puts on enchanted shoes?"
With Thistle tucked in Elias's shirt pocket, they stepped into the golden morning light, their shadows stretching long down Ember Alley.
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