"Apprentice", Inkheart, Dustfinger/Farid
Apprentice
Dustfinger/Farid (Inkheart)
Notes: magic handporn, also, wholly movie-verse as I have not read the books
In the author's house, in the attic, during the darkest of night, while the author snored and Meggie slept at last and Mo fell into a chair from exhaustion, a glow began between Farid's hands. It would not have been visible any nearer to sunrise or dusk, so faint and new and delicate. The hands that held it trembled with excitement and Dustfinger could imagine the proud smile.
"Gently," he said, and cupped Farid's hands with his own. The faint light grew between them, between four hands, between two bodies squatting in an attic, among blankets, to the bored disinterest of a half asleep marten.
"It is me, Dustfinger?" Farid asked, his face visible in the light now, "It is not all you?"
"It's you."
Farid smiled. "It is so small, still. No flame at all."
"That will come."
Farid smiled but was quiet, concentrating. There was a flare, a flicker, fading then growing. "It is a wonder," he said. "Like gold in my palms, and the light of the evening sun."
"Better," Dustfinger said, caressing the soft backs of Farid's hands, sun-kissed, sand-scoured, deft as youth, skilled as the aged. He could remember the first time feel of a newly made flame.
"It should start here," Dustfinger said, placing a hand unusually warm to Farid's stomach, bare for sleeping and tense with excitemeent. "And up," fingers skimming then palm flat along Farid's chest, shoulder, "and out," along arms, elbows, wrists, palms, where the light had faded entirely with Farid's concentration, and with a snap of his fingers Dustfinger produced a flame which he held to Farid's face to watch the boy watching him. He took one of Farid's hands, placed a kiss on Farid's palm, his wrist, leaned in, floor creaking beneath him, the smell of old books and blankets and parchment scratched with ink. Lips on neck, collarbone, chin, softer lips, and he extinguished the flame in his palm so that all was black and quiet but for their breathing.
"You taste like gold dust and lamp oil, and exotic, far away things I'd have to make up names for."
"All of that?"
Dustfinger lauged softly, took one of Farid's hands in each of his own, flattening their palms together, then pulling them apart slightly, just enough room for air and imagination. An orange then yellow then white glow filled the room, then small flames grew from their joined hands and Farid hissed at the heat of it, but when Dustfinger kissed him again he smiled.
"This is part of the magic?" Farid asked.
"This is the magic."
Dustfinger/Farid (Inkheart)
Notes: magic handporn, also, wholly movie-verse as I have not read the books
In the author's house, in the attic, during the darkest of night, while the author snored and Meggie slept at last and Mo fell into a chair from exhaustion, a glow began between Farid's hands. It would not have been visible any nearer to sunrise or dusk, so faint and new and delicate. The hands that held it trembled with excitement and Dustfinger could imagine the proud smile.
"Gently," he said, and cupped Farid's hands with his own. The faint light grew between them, between four hands, between two bodies squatting in an attic, among blankets, to the bored disinterest of a half asleep marten.
"It is me, Dustfinger?" Farid asked, his face visible in the light now, "It is not all you?"
"It's you."
Farid smiled. "It is so small, still. No flame at all."
"That will come."
Farid smiled but was quiet, concentrating. There was a flare, a flicker, fading then growing. "It is a wonder," he said. "Like gold in my palms, and the light of the evening sun."
"Better," Dustfinger said, caressing the soft backs of Farid's hands, sun-kissed, sand-scoured, deft as youth, skilled as the aged. He could remember the first time feel of a newly made flame.
"It should start here," Dustfinger said, placing a hand unusually warm to Farid's stomach, bare for sleeping and tense with excitemeent. "And up," fingers skimming then palm flat along Farid's chest, shoulder, "and out," along arms, elbows, wrists, palms, where the light had faded entirely with Farid's concentration, and with a snap of his fingers Dustfinger produced a flame which he held to Farid's face to watch the boy watching him. He took one of Farid's hands, placed a kiss on Farid's palm, his wrist, leaned in, floor creaking beneath him, the smell of old books and blankets and parchment scratched with ink. Lips on neck, collarbone, chin, softer lips, and he extinguished the flame in his palm so that all was black and quiet but for their breathing.
"You taste like gold dust and lamp oil, and exotic, far away things I'd have to make up names for."
"All of that?"
Dustfinger lauged softly, took one of Farid's hands in each of his own, flattening their palms together, then pulling them apart slightly, just enough room for air and imagination. An orange then yellow then white glow filled the room, then small flames grew from their joined hands and Farid hissed at the heat of it, but when Dustfinger kissed him again he smiled.
"This is part of the magic?" Farid asked.
"This is the magic."