[Thinlómien]

Thin-Gloomy swore. He shouldn't have walked straight to the field. He should have guessed that no field is as innocent as it looks like.

There were thistles. Thistles that tore clothes, scraped skin and made the passage almost impossible. They are like elves, Thin-Gloomy thought. The more he thought about his comparison the more he liked it. Elves and thistles. They both were sneaky. They both hid below grass. They both were nasty. They both tended to made a dwarf tingle. And they both had prickles.

But like elves, thistles never beat a dwarf! Thin-Gloomy decided. He looked around. The thistle bush was twenty feet all around him. Once again he hoped he was a normal, big, healthy dwarf, who could wield an axe and cut down the thistles with a few great swings. But he wasn't. He was only a skinny and malformed dwarf whose back was crooked and who would never have the strength to wield a battle axe properly.

A dwarf does not give in, Thin-Gloomy decided. Bitterness was no reason to let the thistles torture him for ever. He drew his big knife from its sheath. He gave it a glance. Heroes in tales name their weapons when they fight their first fight with the weapon. What should I name you, sir Knife? Thistle-cleaver, maybe? A poor name for the blade of a poor dwarf, he thought wryly. But he had already begun to like the name.

Thin-Gloomy lifted the Thistle-Cleaver and started to cut the thistles. It was not as easy as one could imagine. The thistles were thumb-thick and strong. A well-aimed blow might cut one, but could fail to cut one as well. Hacking at the thistles was a more certain way to destroy them, but it took time.

Slowly and firmly Thin-Gloomy hacked his way out of the bush. He had come out of there, but not as triumphantly as he had hoped. He was thirsty and tired, his clothes looked even worse than before, his skin was covered in itching scratches and his blade was blunt. He was shuddering again.

He sat down to have a pause and a well-earned rest. He took a mouthful of water. He hoped he could find water somewhere, but there was no water nearby, not even a little brook. He wished there was. Though he hated water as an element, he hated being thirsty too. And he hated the itch. He craved to pour all the water in the waterskin on himself to stop it.

Thin-Gloomy was just about to bow down and press his ear against the ground to listen if there was water beneath the ground, when a sweet scent caught his nose. He turned to see the origin of the faint smell. He did know many plants, but this one he knew. Both scent and the looks. Green, tapering leaves that sprung from the ground. He remembered the summer when huge horseflies had infested the outer Iron Hills. And he remembered aloe vera, brought by the merchants.

He picked all the leaves he found. He crushed a few of them between two small stones and put the rest of them to his bag. He spread the salve from the crushed leaves on his skin. After a while it didn't itch so much any more. He was feeling better now.

He looked down at himself. He was aware that he looked even more horrible than before. There is no one to look down at me here in the wilderness, Thin-Gloomy told himself, but couldn't help hoping that the robbers hadn't taken his sewing kit.