Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart, Inkspell, or any of the characters mentioned from these books.
A Place Not Meant for a Fire-Eater
Cold, wispy fingers reached out, touching his skin, urging him to play with his friend, Fire, once more. They clutched uselessly at his arms and torso, for what grasp could transparent fingers hope to hold? They traced the scars on his face and whispered words that only Death could truly understand. Dustfinger shivered at their touch, for even if they could never truly take hold of him with their ghostly hands, the White Women left an icy mark wherever their fingers lingered.
Dustfinger backed away into a gray wall that surrounded the gray terrain he stood on. The wall was surely made of stone, and what he stood on, despite its color, must be grass. Trees, all shades of gray, stood forebodingly in the fog behind the approaching White Women. Somewhere behind those trees stood more of the wall that kept him as trapped as the Black Prince's bear once had been. The gray mask took hold of everything just as the feeling of being in a cage did. Even Dustfinger's once red hair was a dull color that blended in with everything in this new world.
But this world was not Death. It was just a threshold. For the White Women only ushered souls to the world of the Dead, they did not dwell there themselves. The tale that Dustfinger had heard so many times never said anything about the fire-eater dying. He had traded his skills of fire and ever-constant service to the White Women in exchange for a loved one's life returned to them.
And isn't that exactly what I got? Dustfinger asked himself cynically, eyeing his surroundings and wondering if Death itself was as dreary as this place. But the sudden anger that had flared like a flame in the poor fire-eater died away as quickly as it had come. He could not be angry with Farid for this place. He had chosen to save Farid and come here to serve the White Women himself. If he was to be angry with anyone, it should be himself for not calling loudly enough to Farid, or maybe he should be angry with Basta, since he was the one truly responsible for Farid's death. Being angry with Basta was easier, since Basta had left those scars on his face and caused him to give up his life. Both instances had been for loved ones.
But just as willingly he had taken those scars for Roxane, he had given his life for Farid. As much as he hated to admit it, he had become fond of the boy that was always following him. He knew he would rather know that his loved ones were all alive and well than live with the knowledge that he was not able save Farid from Basta's knife as Farid had done for him.
The White Women drifted towards him, cornering him against the wall and reaching towards him again, whispering and willing him to do what his eternal service commanded of him. Dustfinger glanced at them tentatively, wondering if every moment he was in this forsaken place he would be plagued by their cold, grasping fingers and chilling presence.
As a ghostly hand caressed his face, Dustfinger held out his arm and snapped his fingers, causing a flame to catch fire to his fingernail as he had so often done before. The White Women recoiled from him as if they themselves had been burnt. The flame danced for Dustfinger, warm with its rich reds and oranges. So this is why the White Women were afraid yet entranced by fire. It stood out so brightly in this world that they lived in, the only color to touch this place. Its warmth enveloped Dustfinger, unlike the constant cold blanket the fog had covered him with.
Dustfinger smiled. Maybe that is why Resa and Meggie seemed to be so in love with his world, even when they were afraid. Just like the White Women were afraid of, yet, loved the fire because it was so strange and new and beautiful to them, that was how his world must be to them. But Dustfinger shook the thought from his head. He could not so much as compare them to his ghostly captors then he could compare the Black Prince to Basta.
As the White Women looked on with wonder from a distance, Dustfinger spoke to the fire in its crackling language. The fire grew and danced as beautifully and gracefully as his wife once did. The flames reached up his arm, embracing him as a lover. Funny, the flames did him no damage here. Almost as if I was dead, thought Dustfinger, allowing the flames to dance upon his skin longer than ever before. The flames grew taller, dancing and reaching above the walls as if the fire itself wanted to escape such a desolate place devoid of color. It flicked its fiery tongue at the wall, but sadly the wall was just as impervious to fire as Dustfinger now was.
Dustfinger no longer spoke to the flames. In this world, it seemed that the fire knew what he was thinking. Or maybe it only responded to what he was feeling. All the sorrow and anger he felt was shown in the fire's vicious dance. The fire grew as if to engulf everything in its path, but no sooner had it grown to unimaginable height, it recoiled and withered. Dustfinger was exhausted and now all he felt was hopelessness. The flames wasted away, the dispair they felt from their master causing them to die. Soon all that was left was the flame that originally sprouted from Dustfinger's fingernail. He snuffed it out.
Dustfinger raised his head, finding that his ghostly audience had not been frightened away by his anguished performance. No, they would never leave, would they? A wave of some emotion near excitement washed over the White Women. Dustfinger could tell they were pleased. But as always, they were never satisfied for long, and once again they crept toward him to whisper and clutch at him to persuade him to enchant them with another performance. No, they would never leave, and they would never leave the fire-eater alone. They would always be there to coax him to play with fire for eternity as his deal avowed he would do.
The fire-eater miserably allowed the spirits to torment him until he could no longer endure it. Then he raised his fingers once more and snapped them.