DECOMPOSITIONANDDECAY.an inkspell roxanne&dustfinger fic. by aethere.
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"No. You said you would never leave."
"I have to. I can't stay here any longer."
Roxanne shook her head and turned away from him. She sat crouched over on her stool like she'd suddenly aged fifty years, long enough to have had children and watch them have children too - long enough to perhaps also watch her children die, and their children as well, yet live on with the knowledge that she would always lose whatever she had.
Essentially? The knowledge that nothing, and no one, was immortal.
"Fire is my blood, Roxanne," murmured Dustfinger. She could see he was trying to explain, but when he drew his bucket from the well of reason, little came up except mud. She could also see he knew how hard it was to breathe, let alone speak, when he would never forgive himself even the smallest mistake during something as important as this. At least the fire-eater would dare take his next breath, even if it only made her ashamed how closely she held hers - afraid, perhaps, that if she let her lungs fill, the fire in her chest would cease to distract her. Then she would have to accept that what Dustfinger said was true, with or without his next attempt at reasoning.
"Like my father, and his father, and his father's father, who brought back his son from the White Women's palace and cast off his own life in return."
He seemed so content to be leaving. A tone of reluctance was there, yes, but Roxanne knew that if Dustfinger lacked anything, it would have been roots. He didn't need them.
The minstrel woman nodded numbly. Perhaps he might see some measure of approval (or at the least tolerance) if his eyes bored into her back any longer.
Then again, perhaps not.
Roxanne didn't hear him approach her on feet that touched the ground while seeming not to walk on it. She barely felt it when his fingers curled around her shoulder. They were bony and cold, light and hollow, and almost transparent like the rest of his pale flesh, but she felt them enough to wonder how he could claim such cool flesh could hide such deep fire within. Roxanne tilted her head upward. Dustfinger met her with his other hand and cupped her chin. His lips brushed hers as quickly as they could, leaving behind the unmistakeably bitter taste of soot and ashes. Stunned for a moment, that single frame of time escaped her all too hastily. Roxanne was rocked - but not fooled.
It took her just the right amount of time to reply; then she shook her shoulder from his grasp and attempted - failed - to gather enough strength to proper hiss, "As are stories, you wretched bastard, and lies, and ignorance, and...and the ability to die just like the bloody damn rest of us."
The fire-eater opened his mouth to protest. Roxanne didn't let him.
"No," she replied, shaking her head. "You'll leave me like all the others. At least you can die, whether or not you've fire in your veins."
Dustfinger frowned, but nodded despite it. He didn't like having it pointed out, but he could die. He just didn't want to.
It took him faster than Roxanne had had to regain control of himself, curling one agile set of fingers around her shorter, but no less slender, digits.
"But there's a difference between me and all the others," he replied passively. The tone changed to accusatory as he said, "You forget, do you?"
"There's nothing to forget," Roxanne brooded. She said it loudly just to overcome how hard she felt her heart beating.
"Yes, you may be right."
Another nod accompanied his words.
"...but you do forget, regardless."
She shuddered as his chapped lips brushed the rim of her ear, feeling his warm breath tickle her cheek.
"I'm the only one who made a promise."
"What promise?" she asked, voice rimmed with visble scorn - she said it although she already knew the answer.
"You know which - to come back."
Roxanne's heart stilled.
Suddenly, the world seemed a bit brighter...but not enough to ensure that it would keep on turning, once he was gone.