The Fire Eater: Dustfinger's Origin Story

🔥 Roxane 🔥

"What did they want?" Roxane stood in the doorway to the infirmary kitchens, watching Dustfinger warily with her dark eyes.

Dustfinger shook his head, running a hand absent-mindedly through his ginger hair. The soldier bearing the Adderhead's silver crest had gone, yet his presence seemed to linger in the shadow of the hall. "They're looking for someone."

"Who?"

He shrugged. "Some girl." At the fear that shone in Roxanne's eyes, he added. "Red hair."

She relaxed a little, leaning against the doorframe. Glancing away, her arms crossed defensive over her chest, she seemed to radiate the same restless energy Dustfinger had felt when he first awoke here; a need to escape, to be free. Yet she held still, her body rigid but for an anxious finger drumming against her arm. Dustfinger released a breath, then whispered a single flame to his fingertips, letting the flickering heat dance between his palm. Roxane's eyes widened. Her tense expression melted into wonder, and she took a step toward him. "You're a fire-eater." She whispered the words as if speaking them might frighten the little flame into a whisp of smoke.

Dustfinger smiled, watching the golden light reflect in her awe-struck eyes. He coaxed the flame from one finger to the next, then let it settle in his palm, heat brushing against his skin, and drew the light upward and out until it blossomed into the head of a rose. He held it to her. "For you."

She reached a curious hand towards the burning rose, then drew it back before getting too close. Dustfinger held it for her to see for a few minutes, then closed his fist and let it dissolve into a puff of ash and smoke. As the wafts of smoke dissapated, Roxane watched him with a new curiosity. "Where did you learn to play with fire like that? I've seen fire-eaters before, but this—" she shook her head. "This is like nothing I've seen."

Dustfinger only gave her a wry grin and blew the remains of ash from his palm. There were a number of fire-eaters among the strolling players of the motley folk. But Dustfinger hadn't learned his tricks from them. "We all have our secrets," he rasped.

Intrigued, Roxane stepped closer to him, studying his face. "And what secrets do you have, fire-eater?" Her fingers traced the raw mark on his neck, and he flinched. She met his eyes, and her gaze was devastatingly gentle. "I know why you're hiding," she whispered. A shiver ran across Dustfinger's skin as the words brushed over him. Roxane gave him a smile so subtle, he might have easily missed it. "I'll keep your secret safe, fire-eater." Dustfinger held still, his voice silenced as his heart hammered in his chest. He blinked fast, and Roxane took a step back. When she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically solemn. "I'm no friend of the Adderhead. I know what he did to you."

Unbidden, Dustfinger's mind conjured the memory of the Adderhead's cold gaze as he stood on the high wall, watching Dustfinger while the noose swung from the wooden platfrom. Dustfinger shook himself from the memory, then glanced away, shadows falling over his face. He wished he had the right words to speak to her, but even if his throat had been healed, he wouldn't know what to say. Already, she knew too much.

At last, Roxane nodded and moved to the door. "I'm glad to have met you, Dustfinger."

🔥

Later that night, as Dustfinger slept in the privacy of the West wing, a sharp scream jolted him awake. He sat up in bed, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The scream came again, and he moved to the door. Nurses ran in the hallway, following the sound. He bumped into Roxane in the doorway. "What's going on?" He asked her.

She turned to him, gripping his arm. "It's Cloud-Dancer. He’s delirious. We can’t get him to calm down."

Dusfinger frowned. "Who?"

"My friend from the motley folk," she said. "I came here with him after he fell ill. We thought he was getting better, until this."

Dustfinger peered into the crowded room. A young man lay on a mattress. His dark hair was rumpled and his face sweaty. He shouted and thrashed, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Nurses hovered around him, trying to restrain him.

Dustfinger dared to come a little closer. "Fever?"

Roxane nodded. "He tried to practice his tightrope act in the rain. I told the idiot he’d slip and break a leg. He didn’t fall, but the cold got to him a day later. The rascal doesn't know what’s best for him. I’m always trying to keep him out of trouble."

Dustfinger smirked, watching the young performer of the motley folk. "Sounds like someone I know." He bet under better circumstances, they could become fast friends. He frowned, watching him flail as the nurses crowded around him. "You shouldn’t crowd him," he said, "you'll only scare him."

Dustfinger pulled the nurse nearest him away from the bedside and nodded to Roxane. "He needs a familiar face."

Roxane hurried forward and took the nurse's place by her friend's side. "Cloud-Dancer," she said, her voice clear and gentle. "I'm here, it’s alright. You’re in good hands."

The young man's clouded eyes shifted to her and his breathing began to slow. "Roxane..." he murmured.

Dustfinger tightened his lips and suppressed a twinge of jealousy. Why was he envious of a sick man?

Roxane brushed the hair from her friend's sweaty brow and took a damp cloth from a nurse, gently wiping his face. "It's alright."

As the young man calmed and closed his eyes, Roxane began to sing. The nurses returned to their duties, taking care of the sick patient's needs. They moved around Dustfinger, but he lingered, listening to Roxane's sweet voice. Noticing him, Roxane turned and gave him a smile. Something warm and vibrant stirred within Dustfinger's chest like a colored flame. He wanted to know this girl, and even more remarkably, he wanted her to know him—the real him. Perhaps it would be okay to share a few of his secrets.