Inkblood
Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke. Not me.
III
Who was he? A novel figure, trying to prove that he was real? I´m not a illusion! he thought. I am real!
Was that why he stared at the ink? The black fluid in the bottle...
What if he wasn´t more than that?
He was just ink. Just black ink and paper. Not more. He was ..words on paper. He wasn´t real.
Silvertongue was a man of flesh and blood. His little daughter was real.
Dustfinger...he was ink. No blood, ink.
The nasty voice in the back of his head whispered to him. You´re a pathetic weakling. You are paper. Ink. You are just words. You are fake. You are not real. You don´t live. You don´t exist!
Dustfinger wondered. If he cut his finger, would there be blood? Would there be ink? What would happen?
What would happen to him, if something happened to the book? What if a site was torn out? A site with his name on? Would he disappear? Would he go back? Would he die?
He curled himself to a ball...
And what will happen if nothing happens? What will happen to me? Will I age? Will I ever die? Was that possible?
The persons in the stories from his world didn´t age. Some stories were told from generation to generation. The king from the story would always have the same age, no matter if his story was told now or a hundred years ago. A thousand years ago...
He shivered. The possibility of being trapped here forever, with not even death to save him...
that was unbearable.