This is my first attempt at writing a story based off of the novel Inkheart, so bear with me here. Any comments and constructive criticism you readers have to offer are much appreciated. Happy Reading!

No matter how desperately he tried to convince himself that the past weeks had been worth it, that something significant had been accomplished, Dustfinger could not make himself believe it. Yes, some things had changed — Capricorn was dead, and the writer Fenoglio had unexpectedly disappeared while back in the mountain village — but what did that mean to him? Nothing. He had managed to avoid Capricorn fairly easily before he had finally tracked down Silvertongue and his daughter, and what did he care about an old man, even if he had, as he claimed, created Dustfinger out of ink and paper? No, the only thing that hurt about Fenoglio vanishing was that the author had managed to accomplish, even inadvertently, what Dustfinger had been striving for without success for ten long years.

Indeed, looking back, Dustfinger felt that, if anything, he was worse off than he had been before Capricorn's men had first taken Silvertongue and his family hostage. At least then he could have counted on some comfort from Resa, to whom he had foolishly given his heart and then had it abruptly thrust back at him. He was not even sure that Resa had really cared for him as much as he had thought. Now that she had her husband and daughter back, her family, there was no reason why her affections should reserve a place for Dustfinger.

And the book… his portal to home, had so far proven useless. Two readers, supposedly with the possession of Silvertongue's talent, had tried and failed to send him back. Each time, Dustfinger had gotten his hopes up when he heard of someone with a strange gift of breathing life into the pages of a book, and each time his heart had plummeted when he realized nothing that happened, that he was standing in the same place. No slanting sunlight through the verdant canopies of trees so high you could scarcely see their tops, no flitting blue fairies, no gentle scent of strange and lovely wildflowers or the humming of angry little fire-elves as they drove you from their precious nests.

No, only bright lights blotting out the natural darkness in a world that ran too fast and never stopped to let you catch your breath before dashing to keep pace with it again. Only a story that Dustfinger didn't belong in.

The fire-eater sighed heavily, leaning back against the rough bark of an old oak tree. He stretched his legs out in front of him and raised his head slightly as he stared up at the clear evening sky, spotted with stars and wonderfully endless. For a brief moment, Dustfinger imagined that he just had to look at that sky long enough, and soon the stars would multiply, and when he looked down again he would be shaded by trees much taller, and the beautifully haunted sounds of the Wayless Wood would fill his ears and show him that he was really back….

"Look!" Farid's voice, low and excited, cut sharply through Dustfinger's musings. He turned his head slightly to see the boy crouched next to their small campfire, his hands almost touching the flames. "It's not burning me! I think I'm getting it now—"

"—but it will if you put your fingers any closer." Dustfinger kept his tone blunt, but behind the mask he could not help feeling the slightest bit amused at Farid's enthusiasm. The boy simply would not give up, no matter how harsh Dustfinger was towards him. "Come away from there. It's getting late, anyway." His eyes scanned the surrounding forest for a few moments. "Where's Gwin?"

Farid shrugged. "Hunting, I think. He left a little while ago." Ignoring Dustfinger's warning, he inched his hands toward the fire again.

"Didn't I just tell you to stop?" Dustfinger asked sharply. "How many times do I have to remind you? Fire in this world is different than it is in mine. You can't tame it, and it will bite you if you're not careful."

"Well," Farid replied, completely untroubled by this warning, "I'll be able to perform with you when we get back there, then, since it's easier to manage." However, he did move his reach away from the crackling tongues of flame.

Dustfinger raised an eyebrow at him. "Why do you keep acting like my story is your home as well, instead of the one you came from?" But he knew the answer. Farid's home was wherever he, Dustfinger, was. And if it meant switching stories, the boy had no problem doing so. He obviously realized that the fire-eater knew this, as well, because he didn't answer. The question had been asked so many times that it no longer merited a response, for Farid never wavered in his reply, spoken or not.

They remained there in silence for some time, Dustfinger with his back against the tree and Farid staring avidly into the ever-changing fire. It had been this way ever since leaving Capricorn's village. Though they had the book, they could not do anything with it themselves — they needed a reader, someone like Silvertongue, or even the stammering Darius. And so they traveled from village to village, searching for rumors of someone with the rare gift and earning their way by performing in market squares. They rarely stayed in one place for long, and when evening came they retreated to the countryside. Dustfinger was far more at ease away from the brightly-lit towns and closer to the darkness of night. But at times, when the quest had reached a low point of utter futility, he cursed everything that had brought him into this word and held him fast. He hated his dependence on others, the feeling that his happiness was at the mercy of dishonest characters who took his money and then failed to do what he so urgently desired. What a fool he was… and yet one with no choice.

"Where are we going tomorrow?" Farid asked after a while. His head was up, looking at Dustfinger inquiringly.

The fire-eater closed his eyes. "Into town, as usual." He tried to keep his tone level as he added, "Or did you forget that Golden Eyes took most of our money?"

Farid snorted as he added another twig to the fire. "Golden Eyes — ha! His eyes were only thing about him that was gold — his tongue certainly wasn't."

"We'll have to keep looking, then."

"I still think you should have asked Silvertongue." Farid's voice was slightly surly. "Or his daughter. They might have agreed to read us back in."

Dustfinger's eyes flashed open again. "We've been over this before. He wouldn't dare try it again, not now that he's just regained his wife. He won't risk losing any of them." He pushed down the pang of resentment that rose up inside him. Silvertongue had lost his wife, and finally found her again, but Dustfinger was back where he had started — in the wrong world, with the wrong people, and separated from his family by ten interminable years.

Silence fell once more. Dustfinger could tell that Farid had heard the anger in his words, and taken it as a signal not to bring up the subject again in the near future. The minutes rolled by, and eventually the fire-eater looked over at his companion again. "You'd best get some sleep," he suggested quietly. "I'll take the first watch." It was a hard habit to break, setting a watch. In the old world, it had been a necessity. Here, it was perhaps less expedient, but Dustfinger could not forget that Basta and many of the other Blackjackets were still alive.

As Farid lay down and curled up under his coat, Dustfinger laid his head back against the tree trunk and resumed his watching of the stars. Somewhere, in another story, the stars were shining down on Ombra as well, and on the Wayless Wood, and the Castle of the Laughing Prince…