A/N—I don't own the Inkheart series. All rights belong to Cornelia Funke and Chicken House publishers. All I own in my burning, maniacal desire for Elinor and Darius to hook up. That and this little plot idea, which will be explained in detail below.
In Inkdeath, it seemed to me that Elinor and Darius were falling in love even more than in Inkspell. And the cues seemed pretty strong there. So I decided to write this piece. It goes through some of the larger Elinor and Darius parts in Inkdeath, with both of their POVs. What if the actions meant something more?
Please read and review! I seriously love reviews, and am more likely to keep writing if I receive them. So Elinor and Darius shippers, unite and press the lovely little blue button at the bottom of this piece!
How she hated the words coming out of her mouth, and yet there was no keeping them back: bitter and venomous, spat out by her unhappy heart.
-Inkdeath, page 197
It wasn't the sound of her voice that made him jump. He had known she was there, lurking in the library, filling herself with sad words and melancholy ideas. No, it wasn't the sound of her voice. It was the tone. The moment he walked in, it hit him like the baseball bat his brother had once smacked him with, and like the burning slaps that, later, Basta had delivered with such pleasure.
"Am I paying you to sit in my armchair reading? That's what you do when I'm not here, admit it!"
The words washed over Darius, made all the more painful by the fact that the voice which uttered them was one he loved so much. He looked at the ground, refusing to meet her eyes, afraid to show the hurt he felt, and terrified to see in Elinor's eyes the hatred that her voice conveyed. He stammered out some phrase of contradiction, but he wasn't aware of what exactly he said. All he could hear was her sharp voice, full of pain and anger.
Elinor didn't even bother to look. She merely plowed on, in that manner of hers which Darius couldn't find repugnant; no matter how many times he told her she ought to be more considerate of the words of others. She persisted in the argument that Darius had misplaced the Dickens book.
Fighting back any retorts, and struggling to keep from begging her to be less harsh, Darius walked over to the shelf. He didn't have to search: he knew exactly where Dickens belonged, and he knew exactly where he had put the book. His fingers found it while his eyes were still directed at the wooden floor, and he pulled it out, feeling the hard binding beneath his fingertips. He placed the book in her hands, resisting the urge to linger there, standing by her. With a jerky movement, he yanked himself away and gathered up the books that, put down hurriedly and in some anger, had fallen, and began to put them away.
She wasn't finished.
"It's dirty!"
Darius bit his lip, but ignored her. He knew from experience that acknowledging the speaker would only incense them more. Bitter memories of his father's last years made his eyes water.
Still she pressed on, word after word attacking him like the fangs of an enraged snake. Never had he been so happy to slip the last book into its allotted place. He made sure, though, not to hurry as he left.
Elinor felt her knees go weak. What had she done?
She tried to remember everything that she had said, but, like one possessed, her memory failed her, and she was left with no recollection of the events, only the consequences.
The book Darius had given her was firm and unyielding in her hand: like the man who had placed it in her hands, it was something solid and unchangeable. She had never realized before just how reliable Darius was. And she wanted so badly at that moment to hurl the book at the wall, and leave it there. It wasn't the book that needed care: it was the librarian that she had so cruelly abused.
Up the stairs; past the rooms—Mortimer and Resa's, hers, Meggie's (stupid, stupid girl), Mortimer's office, and finally, Darius'—where the door hung wide open, as it always had.
But the inside was different. Darius was neat, always clean, much like Elinor, though Darius was much better at living and cleaning, whereas Elinor tended to merely clean. A suitcase was on the bed, open and half-filled with articles of clothing and small personal possessions. It reminded her of the day he had moved in, when she had come upstairs, leaving Meggie with her parents, and talked to the shy, quiet man who had suffered so much. Darius had told her things then that had mad e her insides twist: tales of crypts and sleepless nights, hunger filled days, and repeated blows. And she had gotten the impression that the horrific things he had spoken of were but a little of what Capricorn's men had put him though. Not to mention the life he had lived before.
He was talking to her, asking her something, and she answered automatically. She wasn't really listening. All she saw was the photograph that he picked up—the one of his parents. Elinor had looked many times at that picture, trying to find out something about Darius' family. But all the picture had revealed was that Darius (who was not in the photograph) looked almost exactly like his mother, save for his eyes, which, complete with glasses, made him look at least somewhat like his father. That was all that the picture ever told her, and Darius had never told her more.
And then she was telling him to unpack. She was almost begging him. She could hear the anguish, the desolation, in her voice as she cried,
"You can't go as well and leave me all alone!"
Darius twitched, as if he wanted to spin around, to whirl about to face her, but he didn't. When he spoke, Elinor heard tears lurking just behind the quiet tones of his voice—oh! How she loved his voice. Soft and gentle, it held—had always held—more wonder for her than the melodious voices of Mortimer and Orpheus.
And she realized at that moment that no matter what she had gone through, it was Darius who had truly suffered by Meggie's actions. While she, Elinor, had merely plunged herself into melancholy, Darius had been burdened with the life that Elinor had chosen not to live any longer. How many bills had he paid? How many times had he reached for the phone to call the doctor, to beg for help? How many times had he cried himself to sleep at the kitchen table? (She knew he had at least once—she had, one night, when looking for a book, seen him asleep at the table, his grey eyes red and tear stains tracing pencil lines down his pale face.)
Before she had time to stop herself, her anguished heart spat out one more phrase of despair, and before she knew it, she had spewed out the idea of suicide.
Darius' eyes widened, and for a moment (her heart leapt), something like pain flickered there. But then he turned away, leaving her standing in the doorways, he knees weak, her heart breaking, wanting more than anything to cry out, I didn't mean it! I love you too much to leave!
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
"I'll try it."