Disclaimer: Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. No, no. I'm... Henry the Eighth, I am! Henry the Eight, I am, I am-- hangs head Sorry...
Author's Note: My inner muse had entirely too much fun with the last line of this fic, so I've included an alternate ending.
Prompt #8: Weeks
She ran to him, hugged him, kissed him. Then slapped him.
"Eight weeks," she said, her voice low. "I thought you'd gotten yourself killed this time."
And with that she turned and marched back to the house. He sighed as he watched her go. Eight weeks...
You're a fool, Dustfinger.
Hanging his head, he made his way to the house, and stopped in the doorway, almost as if he were waiting for an invitation to come in. A stranger in my own home...
He watched as she tended to the pot hanging over the fire, searching for words to break the silence.
He wanted to tell her how much he had missed her, but the words sounded hollow. If he'd missed her so much, why had he stayed away?
He wanted to say he was sorry, but he hated apologies. What good was being sorry?
He wanted to promise her he'd never leave again, but that was a lie. Why make a promise he knew he couldn't keep?
"I brought you something..."
Alternate Ending:
"You know," he said, "that kind of turned me on. I think you should hit me more often."