Stranger to the World
Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke
Summary: Just a little story over Dustfinger. Something small.
Only at this place. Only here he was a bit closer to his home. A tiny piece of luck. He liked those medieval-festivities. In old cities, in castle courts, when the stands are put up, when various folk tries to sell their goods, or fairground workers displaying their skills. Among familiar tunes of flutes, barrel organs and lyras, men in knight´s armours, in medieval clothes, the smell of cooked food, the nearness of all thos animals. Something familiar.
Here was where he belonged. He did not draw attention here. Not like outside. Here the people looked at him with amazement, not with crooked, suspicious eyes, didn´t judge him as crazy, or like a criminal. Out there he was a strange fellow, aside of the world around him, like an uprooted tree never planted back into earth. Like a drop of water swimming against the current. Juggling was nice, but not perfect. Something missed.
And the fire...the torches were perpared. The wind would be fortunate...
Fire talked to him, with exotic tongues that were more familiar to him than his own mother´s tongue, flames licked across his skin and caressed him, warmth spread from his heart, he wished he could just fade away in it. The sparks flew into the clear sky of the night, under the starry ceiling a burning light was twirling, the fire dancer Dustfinger. Desire and sorrow tore his heart apart. With every passing second he felt closer to the fire, more and more related, stranger to the world. Something happy.
He desired, desired so much..only the fire could relieve it. Only the sea of flames and the flickering glowing of his torches in the tender wind.
He became faster and faster, danced the dance of fire, breathed fireorbs into the nightsky, as if he could tore a hole into the fabric of this world and finally go home.
His home were the scorching flames.
When he closed his eyes he felt almost like at home. Almost, it felt like home.
Almost, but never close. Something missing.
And from bright-burning fire there was glowing ember that was spread to the world by the wind.
Until the last spark was gone.
Author´s intention: I know it is sad. But Dustfinger is for me the most sorrowful character I´ve ever read. I wish him all the luck of the world, but I fear it won´t happen. (I haven´t read Inkblood yet).
This fic is (poorly) translated from "Weltenfremd". Angelforsaken requested it, and here it is. (Weltenfremd is also by me).
If you spot mistakes here, you are hereby challenged to point them out. If you can translate better, please tell me and improve this story. I tried to bring over most of the original meaning, but I lack the words to do it properly. When anyone is suited better to do so, please tell me.