Dustfinger
Disclaimer: Usual stuff. Don't own nothin'. Not even a lawyer. So don't persecute me. :0
A/N: Random RP start. Only uploading 'cause there's a severe lack of Inkheart stuffs on Not continuing, don't bother askin', 'kay? Dustfinger pwns! Huah! -headbang-
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It was an unusually wonderful day.
This wasn't to say most days weren't wonderful - today just happened to be even more magnificent than any other typical day.
It wasn't quite certain why that particular day was so fantastic. Perhaps it had something to do with the birds' newfound insistence on chirping with as much vigour as an extremely hungry person tackling a slice of freshly baked bread, or the sun's decision to shine down on the people below enough to warm them up, but not enough to give them sunburn. Maybe it had a relation to the fabulous breeze that gently rustled the leaves of the trees it whistled through, or the terrific smell of the flowers that had recently blossomed, not two weeks ago. Alternatively, the possibility of it being a combination of all these factors was definitely sound.
Whatever the reason, that day had been dubbed the best day they'd had in a long time by the newspapers.
Any sane person should have been out there taking advantage of the weather.
There was at least one person who wasn't, though.
He had situated himself under a tree, battered old backpack lying on the grass next to him. On his lap was a book. Its crimson, blood-coloured cover gave off a dull sort of glow; the illustration on the front – a dark, dark, inky black heart – clearly stood out.
He ran a finger across the embossed title. His nail traced the letters slowly, almost absently.
Inkheart.
The book was his most prized possession, even if he couldn't read all too well. He spent a fair amount of time each day just staring at the cover, the pages, brooding gloomily over the events of the past few months.
He couldn't help himself, he really couldn't. He knew he shouldn't dwell on what couldn't be changed, and yet there he was, going against his own philosophy.
It wasn't just he was left with the last copy of his story; it was the fact he was left virtually alone, as well. The one person he was certain could read him back he would probably never see again; and truth be told, he didn't want to.
Silvertongue had taken Resa away.
He had promised himself to forget her, to ignore her very existence – something he was quite skilled at – and yet he couldn't. She made up definitely more than a part of his miserable mood of late.
On top of all that, somebody else he didn't particularly want to come across was also roaming these hills. They hadn't bumped into each other for a while now, but still he stayed on guard, just in case.
At any rate, he had to admit he wasn't in as bad of a position as he made out. At least he had company. Above him fluttered two small, glowing blue dots, playing with each other through the branches of the tree. They had been his only companions for the past couple of hours, his other two travelling comrades having disappeared for a while. As he looked up, he had to smile.
After a few more minutes of observing his fairy friends, he stretched and carefully put the book back into his backpack, before reclining against the tree again, eyes closed. The breeze decided to blow a little more vigorously, causing a lock of his near-shoulder length ginger hair to waft backwards, into his face. He pushed it aside irritably, fingertip following the direction of one of three scars etched onto his face.
There sat Dustfinger, the one who didn't belong.
The End