Soulfire
Written for Spooktober 2021, Prompt: Bonfire. My last prompt for Spooktober! Follows Wildfire and Starfire. While those could be considered Gen or Pre-Slash, this one is definitively Dustfinger/Farid, so take that as you will. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!
The Wayless Wood is everything Farid imagined and so, so much more.
The trees are so much bigger here, impossibly tall, impossibly thick. He remembers the stories Dustfinger had told him of giants living in the treetops, of entire civilizations living among the branches and now he can see how those things are possible. He cannot wait to see it all in the light of day for even in the darkness of the night, he knows that this place is astounding.
He sits in the midst of a peaceful clearing, the stars shining brightly overhead, a full moon casting a mystical glow upon an already mystical place. There are beautiful flowers on the edges of the space that seem to emit an equally beautiful glow. He notices a horde of tiny, glowing faeries flitting to and from the plants, no doubt taking the magical pollen back to their nests near the springs.
Farid cannot believe that this is real, that he is finally here. Here, in the Inkworld, here, with Dustfinger, here, where he belongs. He half expects to wake up from this wonderful dream as alone as he had been when he had fallen asleep, sure that this reunion with Dustfinger will have been some cruel nightmare brought on by his hopeless wish upon a star.
He curls his fingers into the soft grass beneath him, trying to anchor himself as much as possible to this world.
Dustfinger, too, seems concerned that this is all too good to be true. The fire-dancer has barely moved out of his reach since their reunion. Even now, the two of them sit side by side, pressed together from their hips to their shoulders as Gwin, and a second marten, Jink, excitedly scamper over them both.
They have fallen into a comfortable silence after catching each other up on the events of the past few months spent apart. But now, Dustfinger's whispered words break it, "I want to show you something," he says.
Farid nods. If this is a dream, he has decided, he will revel in it for as long as he possibly can. If he must, he will face the harsh reality having at least allowed himself that small mercy.
Dustfinger gets to his feet, approaches the small campfire he had built before Farid's surprise arrival here. He whispers his magic words to the flames and suddenly there is a roaring bonfire in its place. With a wry smile at Farid, Dustfinger holds out a hand and a blaze leaps to him obediently. Already, Farid is impressed – the fire in the other world could never do that, bound as it was by its own rules in a world without magic – but his performance is only just beginning.
Within seconds, Farid realizes that the shows Dustfinger had put on in the town squares were nothing compared to this. That the shows Dustfinger had put on for him on those long nights in the woods were nothing compared to this. This is… incredible, enchanting. Much like the world around him, Dustfinger, too, is astounding.
The fire soars up, up, up into the dark sky, exploding like the fireworks he had seen over the cities in the other world during celebrations, before it rains down around them in harmless sparks. Dustfinger coaxes the fire back to him again and begins a complex dance around the clearing. He conjures a wide array of creatures to life from the flames – a pack of firewolves runs laps around the edges of the clearing, faster and faster until they're just a blur; a duo of firemartens that mirror the play-fighting Gwin and Jink are doing nearby; a great firehorse which Dustfinger smoothly mounts and rides around at a gallop for a moment; a flock of tiny firebirds that flutter around Farid like winged flares. They all fade away as quickly as they were created, leaving nothing but smoke trails in their wake.
The magic does not end there. Dustfinger does not have the tools he had needed in the other world, the batons and torches he had used to hold the fire at bay when he performed, but apparently, he does not require them here – the fire forms its own tools, allowing Dustfinger more freedom with his movements. When he swallows down a mouthful of flickering embers and breathes out a gigantic firedragon, he does so without the oils he had needed when fire-eating in SIlvertongue's annoyingly mundane world. Still, Farid knows his usual routine well enough to pick out bits and pieces of it here, only every movement now is fluid and graceful in a way it could never be when the fire refused to cooperate. Now, it looks effortless, like the fire is just another part of Dustfinger's body, moving with him as instinctually as he breathes.
After a particularly stunning series of tricks, Dustfinger comes to an abrupt stop. He reins in the towers of flame that had nearly rivaled the size of the trees around them and suddenly there is nothing in the clearing. No movement, no light, no sound.
For a moment, Farid thinks something has gone wrong.
And then Farid sees it.
A small, singular bit of flame springs to life in the palm of Dustfinger's hand, illuminating his face in an eerie, ethereal glow. Strangely, it seems to take a lot of effort for Dustfinger to keep it there – but why? It is the tiniest of fires, and Farid has just watched this man manipulate enough of it to engulf the entire forest with ease. Concentrating intently, Dustfinger directs the little spark. It moves precisely, carefully, toward Farid until it hovers just in front of him. It's then that he realizes just how bright it is, like staring into the sun. Whatever this is, he is sure, it is not normal fire, but something special.
"Do you trust me?" Dustfinger asks him, though Farid cannot think of a more absurd question.
"Of course," he answers, without hesitation.
The fire before him roils, and, after a few seconds, something like a hand forms from it. Despite the fact that he is standing on the other side of the bonfire – which abruptly blazes back to life, the flames roaring to a considerable height above them – Dustfinger says, "Take my hand."
So Farid does.
The fire surrounds him, warms him, licks at his clothes, his hair, his skin but doesn't burn, doesn't catch. Somehow, he can feel himself being pulled up to his feet, being drawn forward. He goes willingly, trusts Dustfinger's fire magic to ease him through the depths of the flames and out the other side, until he is standing just before the man. The fire wraps around them both, pulls them together. Farid can feel the comforting weight of Dustfinger's arms settle around him as the fire continues to circle them, spiraling up to the stars. Then, in an instant, it comes crashing down like a wave and it is gone. Now, only the flickering embers of the original campfire remain.
The show is over now.
But he is still in Dustfinger's arms.
The fire-dancer is breathless in the aftermath of his extraordinary performance, covered in a sheen of sweat, his flesh raised to goosebumps now that the warmth of the fire is gone and the chill of the night air has hit his skin. Still, the flames are dancing in his eyes.
If this is a dream, Farid thinks again, his own arms encircling Dustfinger, it is an impossibly cruel one, to give him exactly what he wants only to snatch it away from him again. But, if this is a dream…
He leans up and kisses Dustfinger soundly, relieved when the man does not break away from him, but only pulls him in closer, tightens his hold, like that alone will keep him here in this world forever, dream or no.
He can feel the fire beneath Dustfinger's skin, itching to get out, can feel the fire on his lips when the kiss deepens and in his touch as a hand curls around the back of Farid's head and into his hair and in the look Dustfinger gives him when they're finally forced to separate for air.
"Will you teach me?" Farid asks, breathless himself now.
"Of course," Dustfinger assures him, a fond smile on his scarred face. "I promised you, didn't I?"
Farid thinks of the night he made that promise, when Dustfinger had told him he wanted him to come home with him, to the Inkworld. It had been a night like tonight. Another clearing. Another forest. Another world. The two of them curled up together beside a campfire as was often the case, craving warmth or comfort or a reprieve from the bad dreams that came with being somewhere they didn't belong. Now, though, there is so much more.
Now, they curl up together beside the fire as it dances of its own volition. They trade impassioned kisses until sleep claims them and it is only when they wake in the morning that Farid is sure that this is not a dream, that he is finally home where he belongs.
The Wayless Wood is everything Farid imagined and so, so much more….
