He doesn't answer the call at first.
It's not his fault, really. The voice is so soft that he can barely make it out amongst the whispers of the White Women, with their lullabies of cold and soft, misty hands. It barely manages to reach him through the smog of the lullaby as he floats through the mist, slipping in and out of self-awareness and memory and darkness. Slipping into darkness, not from the White Women but from somewhere else, deep inside him where a bottomless pit lurks, teeming with bloody glass and peppermint leaves.
When he finally hears it, fading in and out like a broken radio (a device from somewhere else, far, far away), he barely stirs. The recognition doesn't settle in until the voice reaches towards him, pushing at his ears until he has to reach up to try and pull them away. It's too insistent, though, too needy, and it pushes its way into his head and whispers things that he had forgotten amongst the lullaby, beautiful, terrible things in a voice he wished he had forgotten forever.
Don't be mistaken, whispers the voice. I'm not too keen on this either, you know. But it seems that it's the only way of saving this story, so Silvertongue says.
Silvertongue…yes, the sorcerer. Words made of warmth and care and passion, the same as his witch of a daughter. He feels the darkness rise again, pulsing in an echo of hatred.
The same words that brought you to his world, the voice says coldly, and he nearly cows from the ice amongst the edges. That voice shouldn't be cold, he remembers, because its owner is made of fire. Fire and blaze and scars, striping his face and blood seeping onto his hands, lining his nails and screaming, screaming—
Come back, Basta, said Dustfinger, as cold as he could ever be, a tinge of mockery on his fire-singed tongue. Come back and finish this story with me.
And the fire burns through the smog and the White Women, reaching out and smothering him back to life.
"Tell me why I should even think of helping you, Dirtyfingers."
Dustfinger's expression doesn't change, and Basta can't help but feel the irritation rising within him again. The darkness, once bottomless in the smog, is now a carnivore, eating bits and pieces of him all over again, a meal regurgitated. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Basta can hear a laugh, soft and cold, the remnant of his old God as Basta stares at the clear face, devoid of three, thin scars.
But then the fire-eater breathes, and Basta feels the fire burning within, sparking and flickering flame, the words burning at his fingers until he feels alive again.
"Because you have no one else."
And Basta bares his teeth in a sneer because he knows what Dustfinger has said is true.
What's worse is that now, in this new life with fire in his belly and scars cleaned from the fire dancer's face, is that it hurts.
Their eyes meet, and Basta knows that the deal is done.
"Does he believe that you're on his side?"
Basta snorts, examining his nails with an air of nonchalance. They're sitting deep in the forest, near the lake swarming with water nymphs under its murky surface. Fire elves swarm above their heads around their nest, paying no attention to the two who cheated Death. "It's not difficult to fool the Milksop, Dirtyfingers. Even you should know that."
Dustfinger's lips twitch into a smile, albeit a coldly amused one. "Did you manage to be placed with Orpheus?"
"Of course." It's dark enough so that Basta's eyes aren't narrowed shut. Instead, they stare at the fire eater in the dark, black coals dancing in the light of the fire elves. "You can afford to have some faith in me."
Basta can't help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction when Dustfinger's expression falters slightly, uncertainty behind the scar-less face. The fire flickers in the pit of his belly. A pulse rings in his skull.
"I've learned too much to do that," Dustfinger finally says, leaning back and staring up at the fire-elves' nest. Basta notes that his eyes wander anywhere but towards his, the coals in the dark.
The fire leaps.
"How's Roxanne?" Basta asks later, as the sun begins to rise and the nymphs slip lower under the water.
Dustfinger doesn't react to the question, but instead turns to glance at Basta quietly.
"Better." He pauses. "Better than I ever remembered her being."
Basta smirks. "You don't sound so enthusiastic about that, Dirtyfingers. Does she not please you anymore?"
Dustfinger scowls at that, and Basta can't help but crave for the twist of the scars around his mouth, a sign that he was there. His mark on Dustfinger. "She never rejected me."
And Basta scowls back because the fire-eater is an imbecile.
He will never understand.
Something inside of Basta breaks when Dustfinger falls.
It was so easy, he thinks, staring as the Night-Mare snuffles at Dustfinger's body, almost heartbroken in its soul-searching. It was so easy to erase the scars that he'd finely cut on his rival in love's face and to kill the man he'd hated for so long. He has to stifle the urge to reach out and kick the mutt away from the body, stifle the urge to carve knives through its mold and darkness.
"Is that all?" From the corner of Basta's eye, he can see Orpheus frowning. "I wanted it to be longer."
The urge veers away into need, and Basta cannot keep his fingers from dancing to the knife on his belt. It would be so easy, he thinks, to take his life, to kill this smooth-tongued degenerate right here and now like his dog has killed the fire dancer. It is only the handle, smooth and cold under his touch, and the flames still flickering inside of him, that keep Basta from slicing Orpheus's magic tongue right out of his head.
That would have to wait for later.
He focuses in on Silvertongue, whose face is twisted in such pain that Basta can hardly bear to look at it. It reflects the dead, twisted heart that beats again inside his chest, and it's that mirror image that causes Basta to close his fox eyes for a brief moment. Through the darkness, the fire licks at his insides, playful, loving, taunting him with the absence of the fire dancer.
This story isn't over yet.
It's so easy to find the book. A few words to threaten the little menace, a few moments of waiting, and then the boy arrives, pale with the White Book outstretched in his shaking hands. Basta takes it, but not without a last goodbye to Jacopo.
No one would be disappointed.
Dustfinger had taught him the words to write in the book, relayed from Silvertongue. The sorcerer himself was chained in the dungeons, listening to darkness mixed from Orpheus' tongue. But Basta could care less about that, because all he remembers now is the feeling of Dustfinger's blazing fingers on his cold skin, guiding them to form the clumsy letters on paper after paper until they are just right.
Basta opens the book.
White pages, clean and crisp. Death is trapped in these pages, Basta remembers, automatically reaching up to touch the rabbit's foot before remembering that it burned away in the flames of the mill.
And that Dustfinger is dead.
Something seethes in his belly.
He pulls out the pen and the ink, carefully hidden under his jacket. A small bottle of ink and a sharp, clean pen that gleams menacingly under the moon, both here for the purpose to kill the Adderhead.
And to save the sorcerer, a voice says quietly, but Basta laughs at it because what does he care of the sorcerer and his witch of a daughter? The only reason he's doing this is because—
He dips the pen into the ink, carefully scraping off some of the ink onto the side of the bottle before, carefully, placing the tip of the pen on the paper. Someone is shouting from inside the castle—most likely having just found Jacopo. Basta needs to finish this now.
Slowly, awkwardly, he begins to write.
Book.
Above his head, thundering boots continue their way across the castle floors. Basta closes his eyes for a moment to steady his breathing before continuing.
Spell.
A wave of darkness, clouding over him as the sound of swords and screams clash above. Basta nearly drops the pen before shakily placing the pen on a fresh line. As if on reflex, the place where Dustfinger's hands touched his flare, feeling his fingers moving over Basta's knuckles.
And then he sees the marten.
But it is not Gwin, or Jink that sits there, staring at him from the window basked in moonlight. No, it is a marten made of fire, gazing upon him with eyes a bright as the sun. It tilts its head, almost as if sending him a kind, mocking smile.
Somewhere, wherever the remnants of Basta's dead heart may be, something begins its way up.
Death.
They don't talk at first. It's too blurry, the way things are moving. Silvertongue and his daughter are safe, from what Basta can gather, and the two breathe in a new life, free from Death's contract. Dustfinger hasn't left the tents since they returned, too busy to even glance Basta's way.
When it's the third day, something finally moves.
"Thank you."
Basta casts a sneer towards the other man as they stand far in the forest as it nears daybreak. The nymphs continue to lurk under the surface of the pond, breathing bubbles to the surface. Several of them break through the layer of scum on the pond's surface, rising into the air and towards the trees.
"What's this, Dirtyfingers? Finally noticing someone other than your lover and Silvertongue? Or perhaps they're the same now and you've just never bothered to tell the woman."
Dustfinger shakes his head, taking a step closer. Basta is suddenly aware of how light it is out here, casting blue shadows onto the earth and on the fire-eater's face. "You did it."
"Of course I did." Basta blinks, and then stares out at the trees where the birds continue to sing. "Have some faith in me, now."
"It'll take a while for that."
Basta turns, and then can't help but start because Dustfinger is abnormally close. If this were any time but now, they would be backed up against a wall with knives and flame to each others' throats. But this isn't in an abandoned alleyway or village—this is the Forest, the sun rising over their heads. Yet, they're so close that Basta can count the number of ginger whiskers on the other's chin, mixing with the peach fuzz around his lips.
"What're you planning?" he finally manages to say, because something has stuck in his throat and he can't get it out without making a complete fool of himself. "If you're planning on pushing me into the pond, Dustfinger, then—"
Ah.
The fire sings in his belly, roaring into a phoenix and extinguishing the darkness from a lifetime long forgotten. Blood roars through his ears as his fingers clasp at the other's face, tracing the smooth skin and scratchy whiskers. For the first time since he came back, he doesn't miss the scars.
Right here, right now, Dustfinger is his, and that is all Basta needs.
So a while back, I reread the Inkheart series, and it was glorious. So of course, I wanted to write fanfiction for it. Silly brain. When will it ever learn that It can't end stories if it was held at gunpoint?
Hope you enjoyed!