I've been writing this fic on and off since August last year and never felt happy enough with it to share it, especially this English version. After editing it once again this morning I decided today would be the day!

I find the complicated dynamic between Dustfinger, Farid, Roxane and Brianna so fascinating and wanted to explore it a little more - hence this fic!

Reprieve

Dustfinger had noticed the dried blood on Farid's face in the cellar. Of course he had.

By the time they met up again in Orpheus' extravagant hall Farid had scrubbed it away, but the red and swollen marks – on his cheek bone, near his temple – were harder to hide. Marks left by blows.

Oss dragged him to the cellar. Brianna's voice echoed in Dustfinger's head once more. I… I think Orpheus is going to kill him.

The marks were all the more noticeable in the moonlight that filtered down through the branches of the forest and as Dustfinger led the way between the massive trees he couldn't help but glance over at them. Each time he wished he had set fire to Orpheus' fancy dress shirt as well.

And then there were the looks – Farid's dark eyes seemed more focused on him than on the ground in front of them, as if he was afraid Dustfinger would dissolve into thin air. More than once Dustfinger had to save Jasper from meeting a shard-filled death when Farid stumbled over a root or some brushwood.

He had to admit it worried him what Farid and Brianna had been through while he had been on the other side. One short meeting with Orpheus had given him all he needed to know about the author with a megalomania that outclassed Fenoglio's, and the thought that both of them – albeit in different ways – had been forced to work for him…

The way Gwin clung to the boy's shoulder and Jink weaved around his legs proved the martens were experiencing similar emotions, even if Dustfinger did not let any of his show.

One thing was for certain: they were not going to the robbers' camp. Not tonight.

When the hill with the stone wall and the little farm finally came into view between the trees however, Farid stopped sharply.

"Why are we here?"

Dustfinger let a small smile grace his lips. "Well, a woman I'm rather fond of happens to live here. As does the daughter I barely had time to see before I set off to find you."

Farid didn't let himself be amused, his gaze stiffly set on the main building of the farm. "Roxane hates me," he said. "She doesn't want me here. Not after–"

After Dustfinger gave his life for him.

The unfinished sentence hung heavily between them, just as heavy as the endless sleep Death had shrouded him in. But Dustfinger no longer felt any fear of the end. So much had changed since Silvertongue woke him again.

"That may be," he answered lightly. "But in all the years I've known Roxane, she has never turned anyone away who needed somewhere to sleep. I don't think she will start now."

Farid didn't seem convinced, but he still followed when Dustfinger stepped over the stone wall. The martens were no longer in sight, likely on the hunt for something less ill-tempered than Roxane's goose, but Dustfinger had a feeling they weren't far away.

The two of them barely made it to the door before it was flung open. And there she was, her hair like a dark sea over her shoulders and her eyes filled with warmth when they met his.

"You're back," she said and ran her fingers over his cheek, as if she too wanted to make sure he was real. He took her hand and squeezed it in response: I am real. I am here.

Her gaze wandered over his shoulder and sharpened in an instant. Farid looked back at her, the fire he met most people with diminished to weary embers, before he lowered his head. "I can sleep in the stables," he mumbled towards his bare feet.

"In the stables?" Jasper repeated fearfully from his shoulder. "There are no horses there, right? Horses and their hooves are a glass man's worst enemy, only beaten by giants!"

No one paid the glass man much attention – no, Dustfinger only had eyes for Roxane, who studied Farid with an inscrutable expression.

Finally she let go of Dustfinger's hand and cleared her throat. "Nonsense," she said sternly. "There's a bench in the kitchen, and Jehan has a spare quilt."

With that she turned and disappeared into the house.

:::

Dustfinger only left the kitchen for a minute to set Jasper up for the night in a basket of Roxane's yarn, but when he returned Farid was out like a light.

For a moment Dustfinger was back in the other world, the crackling but magic-less fire like a warm hand against the cold, star-speckled night, and the boy, there on the other side of the flames, curled up with his knees against his chest. Openly trusting of a man he had only known for a few weeks.

Dustfinger had held back then, had let the fears smother the fondness slowly but surely growing in his chest. Now he only hesitated for a heartbeat before he reached for the brown-checkered quilt, neatly folded at the foot of the bench, and draped it over the sleeping boy. A ripple of unease crossed Farid's features as Dustfinger's hand brushed against the bruise on his cheekbone, but disappeared just as quickly when it ran through his hair.

"He truly is your son, isn't he?"

In the flickering light of the lantern hung on the ceiling Roxane looked more tired than in the hallway. Dispirited in a way Dustfinger hadn't seen her for a long time.

On second thought, he hadn't had the chance to truly see her before death came for him. Ten years – ten long, hard years – had a tendency to wear even on the best of people.

The chair creaked as he pulled it out. Sat down. "Not in the way you think."

"And what do I think?" The words more a challenge than a question.

That he left her. Left Brianna and Rosanna. Willingly.

"I did everything to get back to you," he said instead. "Everything."

"So you say, and I believe you."

"But?"

"But you must understand how this looks."

Oh, he understood all right. Farid was more than ten years old of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't have been conceived during one of the many other times he had been gone before Silvertongue read him out of Inkheart. The months when he had left Roxane, Brianna and Rosanna for the roads, the markets and the fire.

Fear didn't carve a permanent mark in his chest now as it had then… but where did this doubt come from? This hesitation to tell her everything that had happened while he was gone? Was it the worry of it all sounding like an excuse? Of the story sounding too unbelievable to be true?

Or the fact that her and Brianna's anger felt justified? All too similar to the anger he had felt towards himself for so long?

He looked away, let his fingers wander over the kitchen table's uneven wooden surface. "If you had known for sure he wasn't my son, would you have looked out for each other?"

A quiet moment. Then the scrape of a chair against the floor when Roxane slumped down next to him.

"I didn't just mourn you," she said, and her hand found his. Cool in contrast to his newly found warmth. "I was also angry. Because I got you back, only to have a boy I didn't know – a boy that somehow meant something to you – take you from me again."

When he met her gaze she didn't waver. Let him see the turmoil of mixed feelings inside her. Proud, but unafraid to be weak in front of him. Not anymore.

"I took it out on him," she said. "I shouldn't have."

No, she shouldn't have. But Dustfinger knew all too well how far grief and loss could make a person go. Who would he be if he blamed her for it?

He squeezed her hand and she let her shoulders fall.

"But we weren't talking about that." The reprimand was soft yet firm.

A sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and Dustfinger was immediately on guard. He relaxed again when he realised it was only Farid shifting in his sleep.

"You deserved to know the whole truth, Roxane," he said. Stifling the doubts. "And when all of this is over I promise to give it to you. But it is…"

"... a long story," Roxane filled in. "I've understood that." She took a deep breath, as if she were pushing down all the questions she wanted to ask. "What can you tell me now?"

Dustfinger ran a thumb over the back of her hand. "That I missed you. Missed Brianna and… and Rosanna. Every day." The words were quiet, but filled the room nonetheless. "That when I was at my lowest point a boy showed up, stubbornly determined to be my apprentice, and somewhere along the way… he became more than that."

A moment of stillness. Then Roxane brought their interlaced fingers to her lips and kissed his. Softly. Gently. More understanding in the simple gesture than words could ever express.

Dustfinger released a long breath.

"You need to leave at dawn, don't you?" Roxane asked.

"Yes. The Black Prince is waiting for us." Probably Silvertongue as well. And therefore also Resa, their daughter and all the others in the robbers' camp who had joined the fight against the Adderhead.

For so long Dustfinger had been so concerned with his own survival that others' lives and happiness had paid the price. Now he had put his own life at risk more than once, and would surely need to so again in the coming days.

Ironic how one path could be so riddled with guilt compared to the other.

Roxane rose to her feet, a small smile on her lips. Small, but there. "Then I suppose we need to make the most of the time we have."

One last glance at the sleeping boy on the bench, and Dustfinger followed Roxane out of the kitchen. As they passed Brianna's room quick but quiet steps were heard from inside, followed by a rustle of blankets, and Dustfinger couldn't help but smile.

Once everything with the Adderhead was over, he probably needed to give Brianna a lesson or two in eavesdropping.

A little bonus chapter with Farid and Brianna will be posted Wednesday next week :)