Dustfinger walked away through the leaves, too dizzy and stunned even to move with his usual quiet stealth. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going, or even how fast he was moving, because all that was in his head was Basta.

Basta had saved his life. Basta had saved his life, and then not killed him. Basta had not killed him, and then had let him walk away.

Basta had kissed him.

Dustfinger's breathing grew louder, and slightly unsteady, as he increased his pace, walking swiftly away from the small cabin where Basta still remained, into the woods. He didn't think he was far from that clearing, where he'd found the men and Gwin, where Gwin had – where Basta had saved his life.

Dustfinger slowed, on the other side of a hill, and finally had to stop, leaning on a tree. His head was spinning, and he really shouldn't be hiking anywhere at all, he should be resting, until the concussion he was experiencing had eased. But Dustfinger had been on the receiving end of concussions before (when you kept company with people like Capricorn and Basta and were a pacifist, these things were bound to happen) and knew enough to be assured that he was in no mortal danger, not now.

Sliding down the tree to sit on the ground, his back to it, Dustfinger sighed softly, and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, deeply.

He still couldn't process what had just happened. Basta couldn't have just… Basta hated him.

But Dustfinger knew that wasn't all Basta felt for him, always had known, really. He had never expected the knife-wielder to act on anything, though. Much less the way he had just done so.

In fact, Dustfinger was fairly certain Basta hadn't expected it, either. He had, after all, just pronounced that he was about to kill Dustfinger, and already had a knife to his throat. It wasn't a plan of any kind – which just made the reality all the more frightening, because it was spontaneous and therefore more genuine.

This was not right, not right at all. Basta had finally had Dustfinger at his mercy; he ought to have killed him. It was only right that he kill him – to tell the truth, Dustfinger had been expecting it for some time now, ever since Capricorn's death. After all, if Basta truly hadn't pledged himself to Mortola, then he had nothing else in this world, nothing but his hatred of Dustfinger.

And if Gwin was really dead, then Dustfinger had nothing in this world. Simply nothing, no holds barred.

The thought incited despair in him again, just as it had back in the hut, before Basta had distracted him with fear and shock. Dustfinger was truly alone now. True, he held the book, Inkheart, which could grant him passage back home, if only he could find someone to read him there. True, he knew Silvertongue and his daughter, and the bookworm woman and the boy from the other story, and even Darius. True, they were there, and he could always go attempt to bring himself closer to his world by surrounding himself with people of it, as he had once done: Mortola and Basta, however, were the only others left, though Resa had lived there for some time.

But in reality, it was highly unlikely Dustfinger would ever find another Silvertongue – and even if he did, it was less likely he could be sent home. Silvertongue and all of his friends and family might welcome Dustfinger, but they might as well throw him out, and besides, it would be all the more torturous, staying with the one person who had brought him here, and refused to send him back. Mortola, it seemed, had a grudge against Dustfinger now, if she was sending men to kill him, most likely because of his part in Capricorn's downfall. Basta, too, was no option. Mostly because Dustfinger fully expected to die if he remained in Basta's presence too long, but in large part because of what had just occurred.

Gwin. Gwin had been Dustfinger's one refuge; the only creature in his life that had not changed forever as soon as he entered this world. Here, the woods and animals were different, the people were different, technology was different and the towns were different. Even the other people from his own world had changed here, as Dustfinger himself had – even the fire was dead, no longer speaking to him. But Gwin had remained the same. If the marten noticed the lack of fairies or the difference in Dustfinger's fire-play, he did not show it. He remained the same as ever, the loyal pet chittering in Dustfinger's ear, hunting down swallows.

Gwin was dead. And Dustfinger was finally, truly alone. Almost ten years, living in this world, and he had finally lost all connections to his old one. And even after almost ten years here, he was still just as much of an outsider as always, just as longing to be home.

Despair filled Dustfinger. He had nothing now, not really even the hope of returning home. Nothing.

Dustfinger had never considered suicide, and never would; but if Basta had suddenly appeared in front of him, wielding death, Dustfinger had a feeling that he might not run – at least, if he died, surely he would go to the same place? But he didn't even know that, even that was unlikely – they didn't even have White Women here.

Nothing left.

Dustfinger had no inkling of how long he sat against the tree, crying into his hands, but when he finally lifted his head, it was dark.

Despairing, he might be; alone, he might be. But hopeless – Dustfinger simply refused to lose hope. He thought of the forests, of Resa, of Brianna and Rosanna, of the fire, of the Black Prince. He would not lose hope of returning to them. He couldn't.

Dustfinger hiked throughout the night, more at home in the dark forest than he was in any city, and by morning had found his way back to the clearing. A single body lay there, blood coagulating; face still screwed up in pain, throat cut – the others must have escaped alive, though not unscathed, if the blood on the pine needles was any indication.

Basta had done this to save Dustfinger's life.

Dustfinger's breath caught at this and he shook his head sharply to dispel the thought; wincing in pain as the action intensified his headache.

He looked around; there was no sign of Gwin at all, and for a moment, it occurred to him to wonder if Basta had lied. Perhaps the marten was still alive. Basta had lied before, and Gwin had survived danger before. Maybe, maybe Dustfinger wasn't alone…

But when he whistled, and called, the marten did not come.

Dustfinger squeezed his eyes tight shut, breathing through his nose. No. Of course Gwin was dead. He'd probably been dragged off already – eaten by some animal or even taken by Mortola's surviving men. It was foolish to hope differently. What Dustfinger should do right now was take the book and start traveling again, searching far away from here for another Silvertongue. Even a Stumbletongue like Darius would do; Dustfinger didn't care if he was lopsided or if he went blind or deaf or mute – as long as he was home.

That was what he should do.

But there was no Gwin, and Dustfinger's heart was aching with loss and fear. He was alone, entirely, and Basta had let him go, had kissed him, and if he needed any proof that nothing would ever be the same again, that was it.

That, and the little part of him, the one that had put his hand on Basta's shoulder and kissed back, wanted to return to that hut, return and – and do what? Dustfinger had no idea, but the voice was insistent, longing even.

But he knew, if he went back, he would be giving up. He would be admitting, to himself and to the world – this horrible, all-wrong world – that he could never return home, because if he was home, he would never have – whatever-what-had-happened – with Basta. Dustfinger knew this, knew it with a certainty that was stronger than that wanting voice, stronger than the sorrow of the knowledge of the loss of Gwin, stronger even than the fear that trembled through him and threatened to rip him to quivering shreds.

Dustfinger had lived to go home for almost ten years, now.

He could not give up on that, no matter what it might bring him. He'd lost Gwin – that hope was all he had, he needed it.

Dustfinger opened his eyes suddenly, realizing that he had closed them. His fingers, too, had gripped tight around the book in his distraction. Dustfinger opened it, flipping a page and tracing out his own name with hesitant, stuttering eyes, aided by a finger. It was describing him, years ago, in the Wayless Wood; like always, reading that, Dustfinger felt his throat close up, and determination surge through him.

It might not be likely, or even possible. And he might be entirely alone, but he had the book, and that was his ticket home. He just needed to find someone to read him back. This world was vast; there were already two Silvertongues that he knew of. There would be more, had to be.

Dustfinger looked around the clearing one more time, breathing in the blood and death, and let remnants of Basta's presence fill him, allowed the longing, the part of him that had always brought him reeling back to Basta, like a boomerang or metal to a magnet, to take over. He closed his eyes and trembled with fear and want and loss and just wished things had been different, could be different.

Then, he calmed himself, and opened his eyes, banishing that emotion; leaving it behind. Those thoughts belonged here, in this clearing, with the death of Gwin; Dustfinger forced them out of his head as he pressed forward, walking steadily if not stealthily away.

He had nothing left, he'd lost it all; so he was going home.

So I know this might not have been what you were expecting after Lust, but I felt that it kind of fit, even if it's not as exciting as its prequel. ;) I hope you enjoyed it anyway, because I think I have an idea of where I'll continue this from. My only problem is where/how to end the series; as much as I think Dasta is an obvious and awesome pairing, I just can't think of a happy ending for the two of them. I also wanted to be realistic, which is why I factored in Dustfinger's family. There will be more on that later, I promise, in my next Dustfinger bit.

Anyway... please review, and I encourage you to check out my community, Inkslash, where I've archived all the other slash fics for this series I could find. There's some pretty good stuff there. Maybe it could inspire you to write some yourself... specifically Dasta...

Also, check out the poll I've got on my userpage to vote for Gwin's fate (I've left it open-ended so far).

Anonymous reviews for Lust:

Maddy - Thank you. As you can see, I have. :)

Michelle - Thanks. :D That's exactly what I was doing. Eventually I just got so fed up I wrote it myself. I'm glad to hear that there' more Dasta fans out there.

Alison - Thank you. Here it is.

Justareader - Yeah, and for a while I wasn't sure I would continue. But I decided to, although if you like it better as ending back there, feel free to stop reading.