The Fire Eater: Dustfinger's Origin Story

🔥 Alive 🔥

Dustfinger gasped, opening his eyes. The weight of a blanket pressed down on him. His neck throbbed, each breath tight in his lungs. His ginger hair stuck to his face with sweat. He pushed his hands against the heavy blanket with trembling fingers. A shiver ran through his body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this feeble.

Another person moved into the room. He blinked again and slowly, the room came into focus. A girl with raven-black hair approached the bed, carrying a bowl of water and a rag. She sang the tune of an old lullaby, her voice sweet and soothing. Dustfinger winced and drew back, struggling to sit up. Pain flared through his throat as he tried to speak. He gasped at the sensation, panic seizing his chest. The girl pushed him back gently, pressing the wet cloth to his forehead. "Shhh, you need rest."

Dustfinger shook his head. Where was he? He had been dying— He stopped, bruises throbbing around his neck— and shuddered. He was dead. He was sure of it.

The girl hushed him, wiping his sweaty face with the cloth. "It's okay, you're safe."

No. He was never safe. This world was never safe, and no one could be trusted. He only knew one person he could truly rely on, and he wasn't here. Dustfinger's eyes fluttered, fever clouding his vision. He forced them open again, struggling to sit up. He had to get out. He had to leave.

The girl pushed Dustfinger back against the bed with surprising strength. "Calm down."

Dustfinger swallowed hard. "Let me go." Or at least he tried to say it. His voice was stripped. Each sound he made came out only as a low rasping breath. He pushed against her hold and tried to shove her away, knocking the bowl of water from her hand. The bowl clattered on the floor and water spilled across the rug.

Dustfinger moved the covers off him, rolling out of the bed. He stumbled as he tried to regain his footing, his head swimming. The girl watched him carefully, her dark eyes wary. He backed away, bumping into a stone fireplace. Reaching behind, he grabbed the poker from its stand and held it like a sword. He pointed it threateningly at the girl with shaking hands. The girl stepped towards him and he moved back, keeping the poker in her direction.

The door opened, and an old man with a pale face and graying hair entered the room. Dustfinger edged away from him, holding the poker defensively in front of him. His head was spinning. He'd dreamt of him before, the pale face an echo of a memory too distant to be real. He had to be dreaming. Or dead.

The man watched him. "You need to lie down," he said calmly. "Don't be afraid. We won't hurt you."

Dustfinger frowned, backing up against the wall.

"If you would be so kind as to put down the fire poker," the old man said, "we'll explain everything."

Dustfinger shook his head. He wasn't moving. But it seemed his head had other ideas. The blood rushed from his face, leaving his lips tingling. His hands grew numb. There was a crash as the poker fell from his grasp. He shivered, and goosebumps ran up and down his arms in prickling waves. Was the ground moving, or was he?

Hands grabbed him, but he could no longer see straight enough to tell who it was. Cold fingers touched his forehead. "He's burning up."

Immediately the wet cloth was back on his face. He wanted to run. He wanted to escape to the forests and hide among the whispering voices of trees. But not right now. He would wait until he could feel his legs again. Voices surrounded him in muffled tones. They were far, far away. He was so tired...

***

Food entered Dustfinger's parched lips. He swallowed eagerly, and warm liquid ran down his burning throat. He accepted as much as came to him. With each swallow, warmth filled his body, easing the ache of fever. He slept and ate and slept and ate, unconscious to the minutes and hours and days. The fever racked his body, burning inside him and filling his head with pain. His dreams were black and stained with phantom screams. The screams were of a girl's, lingering in agonizing stillness. Then they were his own.