Inkworld Fic: A Meeting With Nobody
Title: A Meeting With Nobody
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Inkworld
Pairings/Characters: hints of Bluejay/Dustfinger, mild Dustfinger/Roxane, Silvertongue, the Black Prince, Cloud-Dancer, misc. Motley Folk
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, het, hints of slash
Word Count: 2,501
Summary: Dustfinger meets an unremarkable bookbinder.
Author's Notes: Takes place the day after When Fire Meets Feathers. Second in the Fire and Feathers AU miniseries. Unbetaed, so feel free to point out any and all mistakes.
Bluejay.
He can’t get the name out of his head.
Bluejay, Bluejay, Bluejay.
Blue birds, blue feathers - they filled his dreams last night (but only after he managed to quiet down his mind enough to fall asleep at all). The jay feather, a gift from his mysterious savior, remained tucked behind his ear as he had slept. Considering what it did to his dreamscape, he wondered if perhaps that was a mistake.
Dustfinger carried the feather between his thumb and forefinger and stroked it when his thoughts and hands idled, which was often. But no matter how he manhandled the feather it didn’t seem to lose its shape or luster. It remained the same brilliant blue from the night when he first received it, and even now it was as soft as silk when it glided between his fingers.
Bluejay.
He was amazed it took him so long to find out about such a colorful character. As he walked through the streets of Ombra it seemed that every other word was the robber’s name: tales of his deeds filled the imaginations of youngsters, speculation about his appearance occupied the lips of gossipers, and songs of his valor rang true from every bard’s voice. But none could answer the simple question as to who he was. Oh, the descriptions were all the same - tall with black hair the color of moleskin - but with his face concealed by the infamous bird mask, it was anyone’s guess as to who the thief could be.
He tried to deny it, but now that he had actually met the man, he was as curious as anyone else. Who was the Bluejay?
Absorbed in his thoughts, Dustfinger didn’t pay attention to where he was going. His body collided with another’s; objects went flying - leather, paper, thread, and more - and Dustfinger acquainted his backside with the dirt road.
“Oh, pardon me!” Instantly the man (the rather tall, sturdy man) who he’d run in to was at his side, helping him to his feet. Annoyed with himself for being so clumsy but too dazed to protest, Dustfinger allowed himself to be pulled back up. As he brushed the dirt off his trousers the man kneeled over to gather his scattered objects, stuffing them quickly into a leather bag. As the last item (a small, peculiar-looking knife) was returned to its proper place, Dustfinger’s victim hastily stood, looking down at his feet somewhat awkwardly.
He wore all black, which Dustfinger knew represented a certain trade, but didn’t know which. While taller than Dustfinger, he seemed much smaller, hunching over and seemingly shrinking into himself in a timid fashion. His hair was the same pitch black as his clothes, but Dustfinger couldn’t see his eyes, which were kept lowered.
“I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, “I wasn’t paying attention.”
A tradesman apologizing to a travelling player? What kingdom was he from? Nevertheless, Dustfinger tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“Neither was I,” he admitted. “It’s fine.”
When Dustfinger spoke, the man jerkily looked up at him, and Dustfinger saw that his eyes were blue; they widened briefly but flickered down again just moments later. Perplexed, Dustfinger wondered if they had met before. Before he could ask, the ruffled man was brushing past him, muttering something under his breath.
Confused, he watched him go for a moment before shrugging. Even if they had encountered one another before, it clearly hadn’t been a memorable meeting. As he turned to continue along his way, it took him two seconds to realize something was missing. The jay feather! Where was it?
Dustinger frantically patted himself down and scanned the area where he had fallen, but to no avail; the feather was gone, undoubtedly kicked away or crushed by some other passersby. Oddly disappointed, Dustfinger resumed his stroll feeling considerably less cheerful than before. But one thing hadn’t changed: he still thought about the Bluejay, and now, his lost feather.
*~*
That night, Dustfinger decided to join the Motley Folk at their camp. He had spent most of the day unconsciously seeking out every story and song he could about the Bluejay. Once he realized what he had been doing (and after he stopped being embarrassed for himself), he concluded that he was being stupid - when you want information, go to the source. And nobody knew more tunes and tales than the travelling players themselves.
The central campfire was crowded. Since market day was the yesterday, most decided to stay in for a well deserved break. A wine flask was passed around as someone plucked a lute, tuning it to perfection. Dustfinger took a seat on a log next to Cloud-Dancer, a talented tightrope walker, who clearly already had a taste of the wine.
Roxane joined the circle a few minutes later, taking the other empty seat next to Dustfinger. Shortly thereafter, the Black Prince himself arrived, followed by his black bear.
The Black Prince, self-proclaimed leader of the band of entertainers, was an impressive presence to behold. Strong, clever, and handsome, he protected his people fiercely and well, taking his “duties” very seriously. If Dustfinger didn’t know better, he would suspect that the Prince was the Bluejay. However, Dustfinger had known the Black Prince longer than anyone - since before he had even been known as the Black Prince, as a matter of fact - and there was no way that the masked man he’d met the night before was him. Besides, there was little that he and the Prince kept from each other. They had been too close for too long. It was nearly impossible for them to lie to each other.
The celebrations briefly died down as man and bear entered the circle. The Prince often began gatherings by giving important announcements, like market day changes or which roads contained bandits. The time around, however, he simply waved his hands and the party continued.
The lute player finally adjusted his instrument to his satisfaction and struck a chord that apparently Roxane recognized. Seconds later she was on her feet, dancing and singing around the campfire, inviting others to join her. Dustfinger was one of the few who didn’t sing along, instead sitting back to appreciate his woman’s moves and voice.
This song was better than the one he heard yesterday. He absorbed each note and lyric to its fullest, dedicating it to memory:
Bright hope arises from the dark
And makes the mighty tremble.
Princes can’t fail to see his mark,
Nor can they now dissemble.
With hair like moleskin, smooth and black,
And mask of blue jay feathers,
He vows wrongdoers to attack,
Strikes princes in all weathers.
He hunts their game
He robs their gold-
And him they would have slain.
But he’s away, he will not stay,
They seek the Jay in vain.
The song concluded with applause and wolf whistles, and soon someone was calling for another. This one Dustfinger recognized as The Ballad of the Bluejay. At the line about wives and wares, Roxane flirtatiously dropped into his lap. He laughed and kissed her while Cloud-Dancer nudged him in the ribs.
They went through two more songs (The Incredible Deeds of the Bravest Robbers and The Noble and Fearless Bluejay) before Roxane finally decided she needed a break.
“So what do you think of this Bluejay, Prince?” Dustfinger asked as the lute player struck up a bawdy drinking song, in which Cloud-Dancer happily joined in. Roxane had gone over to speak with a group of Motley women, leaving Dustfinger practically alone with the Prince.
The Prince looked up at the sky thoughtfully, stroking his bear’s head, which rested in his lap. “He’s a very brave man,” he said finally. “Perhaps a bit foolish. But brave.”
“So you believe all the tales?” Dustfinger pressed. “About him raiding the Adder’s caravans and hunting Capricorn’s men? He’s not just some fool running around in a mask?”
The Prince glanced at him sharply, and Dustfinger wonder if perhaps he said too much. “I do,” responded the Prince slowly. “Why do you ask?”
Dustfinger hesitated a moment before speaking. “I had an interesting encounter last night with someone who I believe is our favorite masked robber.”
The Black Prince smiled, but seeing Dustfinger’s unchanging, stony expression, dropped it. “Last night? Are you sure?”
“Unless you know somebody else with feathers for a face,” Dustfinger replied, keeping his voice casual. “It was the quite the experience. I wouldn’t mind if he took care of certain member’s of Capricorn’s gang for me.” He traced the triplet scars on his cheek with an ironic grin.
“You should be more careful, Dustfinger,” the Prince snapped harshly and suddenly. Dustfinger reeled like he’d been slapped, hand falling from his face. His friend’s reply had been much colder than he expected and the look on his face was grave. “The Jay is not someone to be trifled with. And we all know you’re no fighter.”
“You know more than you’re telling me,” Dustfinger accused. For a moment, the Prince looked terribly guilty - but before Dustfinger could pursue his allegation any further, Roxane suddenly dropped gracefully in between them.
“And what are you two talking about?” Roxane asked teasingly. “You both look far too serious.”
“The Jay, of course. What else?” Dustfinger answered.
“Dustfinger thinks he saw him last night,” said the Prince. His eyes never left Dustfinger’s face. Dustfinger met his gaze unflinchingly.
Roxane laughed. “Oh really? Dustfinger in the company of robbers? Now that’s a tale worthy of its own ballad.”
Dustfinger broke his staring contest with the Prince to scowl at Roxane. “Hey!” he protested. “I’m not that bad. And I wasn’t ‘in their company.’ I just sort of… stumbled upon them.”
“Of course, of course,” Roxane reassured Dustfinger, but clearly she didn’t believe him.
Roxane continued speaking, but Dustfinger was distracted when the Black Prince got to his feet (much to the annoyance of his bear) and crossed the circle to meet someone who stood at the edge of the circle, apparently hesitant to join with the festivities uninvited. “Silvertongue,” exclaimed the Prince. “Glad that you could join us.”
“Always glad to be here,” the newcomer replied. The Prince led his guest back over to Dustfinger and Roxane. The stranger, tall and in all black, kept his eyes down.
“Dustfinger, I don’t believe you’ve met Silvertongue,” said the Prince.
Silvertongue made eye contact with Dustfinger for a scant second before looking away. “We’ve met,” he murmured softly. The Black Prince gave Silvertongue an odd sideways stare.
Dustfinger frowned in puzzlement for several moments before the memory returned to him. “The one I ran into this morning,” Dustfinger confirmed. Silvertongue nodded and the Prince relaxed.
“Silvertongue’s our resident storyteller, though he’s a bookbinder by trade,” explained the Prince as he steered Silvertongue into a seat. That’s where the black clothes come from, Dustfinger realized. Unable to read or write (like most of the Motley Folk), it served him no purpose to remember the meaning of that particular robe color. “Why don’t you spin us a tale, Silvertongue?” the Prince continued, forcing the storyteller onto the log.
At the Prince’s request, calls of agreement rose from along the circle. As soon as Silvertongue had arrived, many had stopped talking to look at him with eager eyes.
“The Boy and His Beanstalk,” someone suggested.
“The King’s New Robes,” Cloud-Dancer proposed.
“The Cinders Girl!” one of the women insisted.
As more and more titles were shouted out, Dustfinger found himself making a face. They all sounded like fairytales or silly fables, something he had absolutely no interest in. As he moved to stand, Roxane grabbed his sleeve.
“Where are you going?” she demanded. Dustfinger gave a half shrug.
“Children’s tales hold no interest to me,” he said simply, rising from the log. Dustfinger didn’t like fairytales. They ended too and the lines between right and wrong, good and bad were too clearly and simply drawn. Real life wasn’t nearly so straightforward - he knew from firsthand experience.
Roxane let him go, but he was stopped once again, this time by the Black Prince’s voice. “You haven’t heard a story until you’ve heard Silvertongue tell it,” the Prince said, oddly intense. Dustfinger raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe another time,” Dustfinger said evasively. The disappointment on the Prince’s was peculiar and Dustfinger wondered what exactly was wrong with his friend tonight. They hadn’t been so ambiguous towards one another in years.
Dustfinger reached the edge of camp before he realized that somebody was following him. He turned around rapidly when a twig snapped behind him, fists up in a defensive position. It was Silvertongue. The bookbinder held his hands up in surrender.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, guilt evident on his face.
“What do you want?” Dustfinger snapped more severely than he intended, lowering his fists. His conversations with the Prince had left him in a bad mood.
“Before you leave, I want to give you something,” Silvertongue replied, not put off by Dustfinger’s mood. He reached into the pouch at his belt. Dustfinger eyed him suspiciously.
It was the blue jay feather. Dustfinger was stunned. He was sure it had been lost for good. Silvertongue held it out to him and Dustfinger took it with careful fingers. Awed, he held it up in the faint firelight - it was still in pristine shape, retaining its azure brilliance and gentle arc.
“I think you dropped this, when I ran into you. I must have grabbed it by mistake,” Silvertongue explained. “By the time I realized what I had done, you were long gone. I thought I’d hold onto it, just in case.”
Dustfinger peeled his gaze away from the feather and onto the man. He kept a feather on the off chance he might run into its owner again? When the owner was of the Motley Folk?
What a strange fellow.
“Thank you,” Dustfinger said, gripping the feather firmly between his thumb and forefinger by its hollow shaft; he wouldn’t be losing it a second time.
“You’re welcome.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment Silvertongue’s gaze transformed into something entirely unreadable and strange. In the background, Silvertongue’s name was being shouted - those at the fire circle had still been arguing over what story would be told that night, but now it seemed they had decided. Silvertongue spun on his heels and in the blink of an eye was racing back to the campfire.
“What a strange fellow,” Dustfigner repeated aloud once he was gone.
By the time the Motley camp was distant flickering glow, Dustfinger had put all thoughts of Silvertongue and fairytales out of his head. After all, one strange, if not oddly kind, man wasn’t all that important. What the Black Prince was hiding from him - now that was important.
Dustfinger twirled the jay feather between his fingers.
Silvertongue wasn’t anybody important.
The Bluejay on the other hand…
He tucked the feather behind his ear and let sleep capture him. His dreams were filled with blue feathers that rained from the sky.
---
Post-Story Notes 1: The song and the song titles (except for The Ballad of the Bluejay) are all borrowed from Inkspell.
Post-Story Notes 2: The titles of the fairytales are all based off of real fairytales. The Boy and His Beanstalk is obviously Jack and the Beanstalk, The King’s New Robes is The Emperor’s New Clothes, and The Cinder’s Girl is Cinderella.
Post-Story Notes 3: I’m making the Silvertongue/Blujeay relationship very Clark Kent/Superman, if you know what I mean. Mo as the Bluejay will be much more foreword than his counterpart and Silvertongue will be almost painfully shy and quiet.
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Inkworld
Pairings/Characters: hints of Bluejay/Dustfinger, mild Dustfinger/Roxane, Silvertongue, the Black Prince, Cloud-Dancer, misc. Motley Folk
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, het, hints of slash
Word Count: 2,501
Summary: Dustfinger meets an unremarkable bookbinder.
Author's Notes: Takes place the day after When Fire Meets Feathers. Second in the Fire and Feathers AU miniseries. Unbetaed, so feel free to point out any and all mistakes.
Bluejay.
He can’t get the name out of his head.
Bluejay, Bluejay, Bluejay.
Blue birds, blue feathers - they filled his dreams last night (but only after he managed to quiet down his mind enough to fall asleep at all). The jay feather, a gift from his mysterious savior, remained tucked behind his ear as he had slept. Considering what it did to his dreamscape, he wondered if perhaps that was a mistake.
Dustfinger carried the feather between his thumb and forefinger and stroked it when his thoughts and hands idled, which was often. But no matter how he manhandled the feather it didn’t seem to lose its shape or luster. It remained the same brilliant blue from the night when he first received it, and even now it was as soft as silk when it glided between his fingers.
Bluejay.
He was amazed it took him so long to find out about such a colorful character. As he walked through the streets of Ombra it seemed that every other word was the robber’s name: tales of his deeds filled the imaginations of youngsters, speculation about his appearance occupied the lips of gossipers, and songs of his valor rang true from every bard’s voice. But none could answer the simple question as to who he was. Oh, the descriptions were all the same - tall with black hair the color of moleskin - but with his face concealed by the infamous bird mask, it was anyone’s guess as to who the thief could be.
He tried to deny it, but now that he had actually met the man, he was as curious as anyone else. Who was the Bluejay?
Absorbed in his thoughts, Dustfinger didn’t pay attention to where he was going. His body collided with another’s; objects went flying - leather, paper, thread, and more - and Dustfinger acquainted his backside with the dirt road.
“Oh, pardon me!” Instantly the man (the rather tall, sturdy man) who he’d run in to was at his side, helping him to his feet. Annoyed with himself for being so clumsy but too dazed to protest, Dustfinger allowed himself to be pulled back up. As he brushed the dirt off his trousers the man kneeled over to gather his scattered objects, stuffing them quickly into a leather bag. As the last item (a small, peculiar-looking knife) was returned to its proper place, Dustfinger’s victim hastily stood, looking down at his feet somewhat awkwardly.
He wore all black, which Dustfinger knew represented a certain trade, but didn’t know which. While taller than Dustfinger, he seemed much smaller, hunching over and seemingly shrinking into himself in a timid fashion. His hair was the same pitch black as his clothes, but Dustfinger couldn’t see his eyes, which were kept lowered.
“I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, “I wasn’t paying attention.”
A tradesman apologizing to a travelling player? What kingdom was he from? Nevertheless, Dustfinger tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“Neither was I,” he admitted. “It’s fine.”
When Dustfinger spoke, the man jerkily looked up at him, and Dustfinger saw that his eyes were blue; they widened briefly but flickered down again just moments later. Perplexed, Dustfinger wondered if they had met before. Before he could ask, the ruffled man was brushing past him, muttering something under his breath.
Confused, he watched him go for a moment before shrugging. Even if they had encountered one another before, it clearly hadn’t been a memorable meeting. As he turned to continue along his way, it took him two seconds to realize something was missing. The jay feather! Where was it?
Dustinger frantically patted himself down and scanned the area where he had fallen, but to no avail; the feather was gone, undoubtedly kicked away or crushed by some other passersby. Oddly disappointed, Dustfinger resumed his stroll feeling considerably less cheerful than before. But one thing hadn’t changed: he still thought about the Bluejay, and now, his lost feather.
*~*
That night, Dustfinger decided to join the Motley Folk at their camp. He had spent most of the day unconsciously seeking out every story and song he could about the Bluejay. Once he realized what he had been doing (and after he stopped being embarrassed for himself), he concluded that he was being stupid - when you want information, go to the source. And nobody knew more tunes and tales than the travelling players themselves.
The central campfire was crowded. Since market day was the yesterday, most decided to stay in for a well deserved break. A wine flask was passed around as someone plucked a lute, tuning it to perfection. Dustfinger took a seat on a log next to Cloud-Dancer, a talented tightrope walker, who clearly already had a taste of the wine.
Roxane joined the circle a few minutes later, taking the other empty seat next to Dustfinger. Shortly thereafter, the Black Prince himself arrived, followed by his black bear.
The Black Prince, self-proclaimed leader of the band of entertainers, was an impressive presence to behold. Strong, clever, and handsome, he protected his people fiercely and well, taking his “duties” very seriously. If Dustfinger didn’t know better, he would suspect that the Prince was the Bluejay. However, Dustfinger had known the Black Prince longer than anyone - since before he had even been known as the Black Prince, as a matter of fact - and there was no way that the masked man he’d met the night before was him. Besides, there was little that he and the Prince kept from each other. They had been too close for too long. It was nearly impossible for them to lie to each other.
The celebrations briefly died down as man and bear entered the circle. The Prince often began gatherings by giving important announcements, like market day changes or which roads contained bandits. The time around, however, he simply waved his hands and the party continued.
The lute player finally adjusted his instrument to his satisfaction and struck a chord that apparently Roxane recognized. Seconds later she was on her feet, dancing and singing around the campfire, inviting others to join her. Dustfinger was one of the few who didn’t sing along, instead sitting back to appreciate his woman’s moves and voice.
This song was better than the one he heard yesterday. He absorbed each note and lyric to its fullest, dedicating it to memory:
Bright hope arises from the dark
And makes the mighty tremble.
Princes can’t fail to see his mark,
Nor can they now dissemble.
With hair like moleskin, smooth and black,
And mask of blue jay feathers,
He vows wrongdoers to attack,
Strikes princes in all weathers.
He hunts their game
He robs their gold-
And him they would have slain.
But he’s away, he will not stay,
They seek the Jay in vain.
The song concluded with applause and wolf whistles, and soon someone was calling for another. This one Dustfinger recognized as The Ballad of the Bluejay. At the line about wives and wares, Roxane flirtatiously dropped into his lap. He laughed and kissed her while Cloud-Dancer nudged him in the ribs.
They went through two more songs (The Incredible Deeds of the Bravest Robbers and The Noble and Fearless Bluejay) before Roxane finally decided she needed a break.
“So what do you think of this Bluejay, Prince?” Dustfinger asked as the lute player struck up a bawdy drinking song, in which Cloud-Dancer happily joined in. Roxane had gone over to speak with a group of Motley women, leaving Dustfinger practically alone with the Prince.
The Prince looked up at the sky thoughtfully, stroking his bear’s head, which rested in his lap. “He’s a very brave man,” he said finally. “Perhaps a bit foolish. But brave.”
“So you believe all the tales?” Dustfinger pressed. “About him raiding the Adder’s caravans and hunting Capricorn’s men? He’s not just some fool running around in a mask?”
The Prince glanced at him sharply, and Dustfinger wonder if perhaps he said too much. “I do,” responded the Prince slowly. “Why do you ask?”
Dustfinger hesitated a moment before speaking. “I had an interesting encounter last night with someone who I believe is our favorite masked robber.”
The Black Prince smiled, but seeing Dustfinger’s unchanging, stony expression, dropped it. “Last night? Are you sure?”
“Unless you know somebody else with feathers for a face,” Dustfinger replied, keeping his voice casual. “It was the quite the experience. I wouldn’t mind if he took care of certain member’s of Capricorn’s gang for me.” He traced the triplet scars on his cheek with an ironic grin.
“You should be more careful, Dustfinger,” the Prince snapped harshly and suddenly. Dustfinger reeled like he’d been slapped, hand falling from his face. His friend’s reply had been much colder than he expected and the look on his face was grave. “The Jay is not someone to be trifled with. And we all know you’re no fighter.”
“You know more than you’re telling me,” Dustfinger accused. For a moment, the Prince looked terribly guilty - but before Dustfinger could pursue his allegation any further, Roxane suddenly dropped gracefully in between them.
“And what are you two talking about?” Roxane asked teasingly. “You both look far too serious.”
“The Jay, of course. What else?” Dustfinger answered.
“Dustfinger thinks he saw him last night,” said the Prince. His eyes never left Dustfinger’s face. Dustfinger met his gaze unflinchingly.
Roxane laughed. “Oh really? Dustfinger in the company of robbers? Now that’s a tale worthy of its own ballad.”
Dustfinger broke his staring contest with the Prince to scowl at Roxane. “Hey!” he protested. “I’m not that bad. And I wasn’t ‘in their company.’ I just sort of… stumbled upon them.”
“Of course, of course,” Roxane reassured Dustfinger, but clearly she didn’t believe him.
Roxane continued speaking, but Dustfinger was distracted when the Black Prince got to his feet (much to the annoyance of his bear) and crossed the circle to meet someone who stood at the edge of the circle, apparently hesitant to join with the festivities uninvited. “Silvertongue,” exclaimed the Prince. “Glad that you could join us.”
“Always glad to be here,” the newcomer replied. The Prince led his guest back over to Dustfinger and Roxane. The stranger, tall and in all black, kept his eyes down.
“Dustfinger, I don’t believe you’ve met Silvertongue,” said the Prince.
Silvertongue made eye contact with Dustfinger for a scant second before looking away. “We’ve met,” he murmured softly. The Black Prince gave Silvertongue an odd sideways stare.
Dustfinger frowned in puzzlement for several moments before the memory returned to him. “The one I ran into this morning,” Dustfinger confirmed. Silvertongue nodded and the Prince relaxed.
“Silvertongue’s our resident storyteller, though he’s a bookbinder by trade,” explained the Prince as he steered Silvertongue into a seat. That’s where the black clothes come from, Dustfinger realized. Unable to read or write (like most of the Motley Folk), it served him no purpose to remember the meaning of that particular robe color. “Why don’t you spin us a tale, Silvertongue?” the Prince continued, forcing the storyteller onto the log.
At the Prince’s request, calls of agreement rose from along the circle. As soon as Silvertongue had arrived, many had stopped talking to look at him with eager eyes.
“The Boy and His Beanstalk,” someone suggested.
“The King’s New Robes,” Cloud-Dancer proposed.
“The Cinders Girl!” one of the women insisted.
As more and more titles were shouted out, Dustfinger found himself making a face. They all sounded like fairytales or silly fables, something he had absolutely no interest in. As he moved to stand, Roxane grabbed his sleeve.
“Where are you going?” she demanded. Dustfinger gave a half shrug.
“Children’s tales hold no interest to me,” he said simply, rising from the log. Dustfinger didn’t like fairytales. They ended too and the lines between right and wrong, good and bad were too clearly and simply drawn. Real life wasn’t nearly so straightforward - he knew from firsthand experience.
Roxane let him go, but he was stopped once again, this time by the Black Prince’s voice. “You haven’t heard a story until you’ve heard Silvertongue tell it,” the Prince said, oddly intense. Dustfinger raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe another time,” Dustfinger said evasively. The disappointment on the Prince’s was peculiar and Dustfinger wondered what exactly was wrong with his friend tonight. They hadn’t been so ambiguous towards one another in years.
Dustfinger reached the edge of camp before he realized that somebody was following him. He turned around rapidly when a twig snapped behind him, fists up in a defensive position. It was Silvertongue. The bookbinder held his hands up in surrender.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, guilt evident on his face.
“What do you want?” Dustfinger snapped more severely than he intended, lowering his fists. His conversations with the Prince had left him in a bad mood.
“Before you leave, I want to give you something,” Silvertongue replied, not put off by Dustfinger’s mood. He reached into the pouch at his belt. Dustfinger eyed him suspiciously.
It was the blue jay feather. Dustfinger was stunned. He was sure it had been lost for good. Silvertongue held it out to him and Dustfinger took it with careful fingers. Awed, he held it up in the faint firelight - it was still in pristine shape, retaining its azure brilliance and gentle arc.
“I think you dropped this, when I ran into you. I must have grabbed it by mistake,” Silvertongue explained. “By the time I realized what I had done, you were long gone. I thought I’d hold onto it, just in case.”
Dustfinger peeled his gaze away from the feather and onto the man. He kept a feather on the off chance he might run into its owner again? When the owner was of the Motley Folk?
What a strange fellow.
“Thank you,” Dustfinger said, gripping the feather firmly between his thumb and forefinger by its hollow shaft; he wouldn’t be losing it a second time.
“You’re welcome.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment Silvertongue’s gaze transformed into something entirely unreadable and strange. In the background, Silvertongue’s name was being shouted - those at the fire circle had still been arguing over what story would be told that night, but now it seemed they had decided. Silvertongue spun on his heels and in the blink of an eye was racing back to the campfire.
“What a strange fellow,” Dustfigner repeated aloud once he was gone.
By the time the Motley camp was distant flickering glow, Dustfinger had put all thoughts of Silvertongue and fairytales out of his head. After all, one strange, if not oddly kind, man wasn’t all that important. What the Black Prince was hiding from him - now that was important.
Dustfinger twirled the jay feather between his fingers.
Silvertongue wasn’t anybody important.
The Bluejay on the other hand…
He tucked the feather behind his ear and let sleep capture him. His dreams were filled with blue feathers that rained from the sky.
---
Post-Story Notes 1: The song and the song titles (except for The Ballad of the Bluejay) are all borrowed from Inkspell.
Post-Story Notes 2: The titles of the fairytales are all based off of real fairytales. The Boy and His Beanstalk is obviously Jack and the Beanstalk, The King’s New Robes is The Emperor’s New Clothes, and The Cinder’s Girl is Cinderella.
Post-Story Notes 3: I’m making the Silvertongue/Blujeay relationship very Clark Kent/Superman, if you know what I mean. Mo as the Bluejay will be much more foreword than his counterpart and Silvertongue will be almost painfully shy and quiet.