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Title: A Life Lived in Fragments
Author: Miss ‘Drea
Fandom: Inkheart (Spell, Death)
Pairing: Mo Folchart/Dustfinger
Summary: Dustfinger wants so desperately to go home. Mo doesn’t realize he’ll miss him until Dustfinger is already gone.


Her name was Dagen. At least, that was the name she gave him. She was an artist of words, or so her poster proclaimed. Dustfinger caught one of her readings, it was poetry, a low incessant beat to her intense words. As far as he watched, none of her words came to life. He almost moved on, until he saw a small blue fairy sitting by the door, watching her. A fairy from his world.

So he followed ‘Goldenword’ - her stage name - out to her van in the back of the club where she read. The fairy flew around her head and she laughed at his antics. Dustfinger stepped out of the shadows and the woman didn’t jump or start and the Fire-Eater wondered how long she knew he’d been there.

“Dah,” she answered, in her thickly accented voice. “For a number of years now.” She gestured to the poster on the van’s door. “Minya zavut Dagen.” Her flat grey eyes studied him for a long moment. “You are Dustfinger, fire juggler from Inkworld.”

Relief speared through him, cleaving his resolve in two. “Yes!” he gasped out desperately. “Yes!”

“You are wishing to go home, dah? Nyet?” She opened the side of her van’s door. “Please, get in.”

He immediately scrambled into the car. “Can you read me back?” he asked urgently. “I saw you read your poetry, have you such control that it doesn’t come to life?”

“Such things are taught in my homeland,” Dagen responded. “One cannot use the Books to return the hapless innocents to their homes. It is in the Writing of it, Gn. Dustfinger. Power is not in our voices alone.”

She started the van with a muted roar and the fire-eater jumped. “Can you Write as well as Read?” he questioned.

“Dah, Gn. Dustfinger, I can.” She pulled smoothly into traffic and with a smile she added, “at least, I can try.”

“It is more than anyone else has done.”

She looked minutely disturbed by his sentence but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer anything more.

Bedroom Music

Dustfinger could remember clearly the very first time he and Silvertongue ever came to blows. And the second, and the third.

The fourth time, they took a swing at each other, Dustfinger ducked away from the ill aimed blow and in efforts to stop him, he kissed the other man firmly.

Mo remained frozen, breathing harshly through his nose and Dustfinger though he was going to hit again, even as their lips remained pressed together. But Mo instead moaned harshly in the back of his throat and kissed back.

The next dozen times they met and fought, they kissed more, sinking to the floor or nearest object, warm hands under clothes.

Stolen moments on empty days, a fanciful romance painted out of desperation. When the moments grew longer and their kisses more ardent, Dustfinger stopped sneaking away in the mornings, waking with Mo’s sweet kisses.

“Why did you kiss me,” Mo had asked once, “that first time?”

Naked, warm and comfortable, Dustfinger had smiled into the pillow. “I thought it would shut you up,” he answered honestly. “Why did you kiss back?”

Mo had rolled over then, pulling the other man closer in the sunlight dappled morning. “I didn’t want you to ask about Inkheart,” he answered in the same vein.

They were lovers for a year.

They hadn’t seen each other in four.

One day, Dustfinger had showed up at Mo and Meggie’s small home and they were gone. The house was empty and nothing inside the barren house gave him any indication that Mo had meant to tell him where they were going next.

So that was the end of that, and Dustfinger knew he could never have replaced Silvertongue’s wife just as Mo could never have replaced Roxane. But then, Dustfinger hadn’t been trying to replace anybody.

Dustfinger might have even loved him.

Another Boon to Ask

“Dagen...I hate to ask more of you...” Dustfinger hedged as she scribbled something down on a bit of paper.

“Ask me anyway,” the Russian said, terribly amused. “What is it you wish of me?”

He wet his lips nervously. “There is a letter I wish to write. Only...I don’t know how.”

Dagen’s face was knowing. “To whom, little spark?”

“His name is Mo. He’s a Silvertongue...he...I owe him a good-bye.” Dustfinger said fidgeting under her knowing gaze. “If I dictate...will you write it?”

“I will,” she answered, her gaze sharp. “I will write it for you, little spark.”

A Farm House in the Countryside

Though her conversational speech was accented almost to the point of non-recognition, her reading voice was clear and without her normal inflection. The words danced across the air, weaving their spell around him. It described the place he’d told her about, the farmhouse where he and Roxane raised their two children. The world shifted sideways, and when he opened his eyes, he was knee deep in grass and Dagen was no where to be seen.

Fairies blew on the wind and the little blue one he’d seen once with her pulled on his hair in happiness before flying off into the trees.

He was home.

The Belgrade Media Center

The doorbell of Mo and Meggie’s one story house rang loudly in the morning. Meggie had just gotten on the bus an hour ago to go to school and Mo hadn’t been expecting company. When he opened the door, a tall, dark haired woman stood there, looking at him in frank appraisal. “Can...I help you?” Mo asked, confused.

Dosvidonya, Mortimer Folchart,” she said musically. “I am Dagen.”

“Do I know you?” he asked, uncertainly, racking his memory for anyone named Dagen.

“N’et, you do not, but I have a letter addressed to you,” she held out a plain white envelope. “We both have the same acquaintance.”

He hesitantly took the letter from her. “Who?”

“Gn. Dustfinger.”

Mo’s heart leapt in his chest. “Dust...?” he whispered, looking around her to see if the cowardly fire-eater was behind her.

“Dah,” she answered, the amusement growing in her strange grey eyes. “He is gone now.” She looked a little sad at the prospect and Mo’s heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“Dead?” he whispered, already grieved.

She shook her head. “N’et. Home.”

Mo blinked in shock. “You’re a Silvertongue,” he breathed. She inclined her head but didn’t respond verbally. “He wrote me a letter...” he opened it quickly, breathing harshly. “Oh God...” he murmured. Dagen slipped away, allowing him his peace - her job was done.

Silvertongue -

I’ve found someone to read me back. Don’t feel badly for leaving that day, I understood. I still understand. I could have loved you, Mo. Thank you for whatever it’s worth, you tried. And in your own way, you gave me what you could.

I’ll find your wife. We’ll bring her home, somehow. I’ll tell her stories about you and Meggie to fill the void. We shall never see each other again, but I shall always remember you. I will miss our mornings.

So I shall remain forever, your little spark,

The paper fluttered away on the wind as Mo fell to his knees and sobbed.

The Circle Opens

Over a great distance Dustfinger watched as young, beautiful Resa flickered suddenly during midmorning market, and vanished.

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