Hello to you, the reader who has stumbled upon this story. This idea has been in my head forever, bit I've never been able to put into the right words - till now. I don't necessarily know where the story is going, but wherever it winds up I hope it's good!

Basically, I was distraught when Basta died in Inkspell, relieved when he came back in Inkdeath, even if he wasn't exactly human, then distraught again when Dusfinger disposed of him. So, I'm bending the end and giving Basta a second shot at life. Huzzah!

OK, let's get to business. I sincerely hope you like this story ^^

CHAPTER ONE –

"Well look! Who have we here? Do you remember yourself in all your darkness? Do you remember the knife, and the boys' thin, unprotected back? Do you remember the sound my heart made when it broke?"

The Night-Mare would have said "no", but his dull, confused mind could hardly make sense of anything these days. It was as dense and dark as a jungle under a moonless night, and thick black fog obscured memories and anything human that once dwelled in that tainted soul. He was trapped with the freezing maze of his own head.

The Night-mare knew neither light nor dark, past or future. He only knew he was hungry, and the man before him was getting in the way of his meal. He only understood the commands of his Master, and he vaguely make out the words that this fiery man spoke to him.

The man was frustratingly familiar, but his unfocused thoughts couldn't pin down the name. The Night-Mare hissed as he approached him, the flames that cloaked him tenderly flaring into searing crimson hotness.

"Away with you, Basta!" cried Dustfinger, his voice sharper than a blade-sized thorn. "Be gone for all eternity!"

Basta…

Reality crashed down upon him with horrible, terrifying clarity, a cascade of memories threatening to drown him. He recognised the man in front of him as Dustfinger, and cursed his name a hundred times, and then screamed in agony as his enemy's fire sunk its fierce jaws into his cold flesh. Basta, Basta, Basta was scrawled across his mind in flaming words, and he shrieked as he tried to shake off the weight of the truth and the memories.

Basta's coal-black form melted and dispersed like a cloud of startled crows, but a shred of sanity that Basta had suddenly found clung to reality. Whilst his body perished, a scrap fought against the fire and scurried to the deepest shadows, as far away from Dustfinger and his faithful flames.

He watched cautiously as Dustfinger fell to his knees, before quickly getting to his feet again and freeing his daughter from the giant bird cage. They ran away swiftly and without a second glance, Basta shrinking from the soldiers that came searching for him a little while later.

After they had finally gone, the small puddle of shadow lay gasping and drained in the corner, trying to piece together what was going on. Slowly but surely, he remembered who he was.

"My name is Basta," he murmured, his voice oddly distorted, and he quivered slightly as he knew he'd spoken even though he didn't have a visible mouth.

For several years of his life he had served under Capricorn, the Fire-Raiser. Then his perception of life was turned upside-down when Silvertongue read him out of the story, and he learnt his world was mere paper and ink. Then he was read back again some years later, and Mortola had shot Silvertongue as revenge for killing Capricorn, her son. He then served under the Adderhead for a short while, and he was once again tangled up in a story with Silvertongue, or the Bluejay as they called him now, and his little witch of a daughter. Basta had killed Farid, the boy Dustfinger loved like a son, a love worth more than all the silver that decorated the Castle of Night. Silvertongue had killed him for that. Basta shuddered as he recalled the pain of death, and then the oblivion that followed. He supposed this nothingness was the empty space he'd existed as a Night-Mare.

Basta suddenly felt something he forgot he could feel. He felt sad, disappointed, shocked, and disturbed. He had died, and when the life left his old body his soul had been so dark that the White Women had refused to claim him. It made him feel sick and guilty. He had lived his entire life as a man that was loathed by all others: he had killed, pillaged, terrorised and wasted his life trodden down by the likes of Capricorn and the Adderhead.

But then again, he always knew that when he died, he wouldn't earn a place with Death. His countless lucky charms and careful, paranoid superstitions hadn't helped protecting him from harm.

He hissed to himself, the Night-Mare not quite expelled from his broken form. This was not like him at all. It was not in his nature to be a remorseful, angsty man, or whatever he was now. He had more important things to worry about.

Questions filled his restored mind: What was he? Was he dead or alive? Where should he go? What he should he do?

He moaned as he racked his brains. After a few moments hesitant thought, he decided to scarper. There wasn't much use hanging around here any longer. Dustfinger might realise he hadn't quite finished the job and come back to stamp him out. He knew that his loyalty to the Adderhead was over, and that he was his own master. He could do what he liked now.

"I need to get back to Argenta," he said to himself. "Yes, that's familiar territory." But it would be a long journey, and he wondered if he would still be in one piece. After that, he didn't know what he was going to do, but anywhere was better than here.

Basta sighed, and mentally grit his teeth in concentration. He didn't really know what he was concentrating on, but the results were what he wanted. He gathered the shadows that lurked in the dank corners and added it to his own body. It was very difficult, as he was weak and Dustfinger's fire had left very little coldness left for him to steal. But eventually, the puddle of blackness had now tripled in size and depth, and he had regained a pair of dark red eyes, not as dull as before but brighter and more determined.

As the shadows of Basta arched up into the sky, he swore that if he ever met Dustfinger again, he would destroy him. Oh how he hated the man! And if he couldn't take away his life, he'd take away something precious to him. He'd done it once; he could do it again with ease. A little voice in the back of his head shied away from the grim thoughts, and whispered "I thought you regretted the wrongs of the past?", but Basta ignored it.

He spiralled up out of the Castle of the Lake, flying over the flat, obsidian surface, camouflaged against the night.

Well, that's the first chapter. I'm sorry if was more angst than actual story : ( But I promise the next chapters will be better! But if you did like it, please review, cause that would be nice! ^^