Disclaimer: This isn't mine. Artemis Fowl, his cohorts, and his enemies,
are the creation solely of one fantastically talented Eoin Colfer. I am
merely stealing them to add some romance cause I'm a big softy and I think
Artemis Fowl could use some.
Author's Note: This is set right after Butler's first battle with the troll, where he's dying.
Okay! Now that that's all out of the way:
"Butler felt a cold pain as the serrated ivory pierced his chest. He knew immediately that the wound was fatal. His breath came hard. That was a lung gone, and gouts of blood were matting the troll's fur. His blood. No one could lose that amount and live. Nevertheless, the pain was instantly replaced by a curious euphoria. Some form of natural anesthetic injected through channels in the beast's tusks. More dangerous than the deadliest poison. In minutes Butler would not only stop struggling, but go giggling to his grave. The manservant fought against the narcotics in his system, struggling furiously in the troll's grip. But it was no use. His fight was over almost before it had begun."
. . .
"Holly felt the blue tingle of magic scurrying to her various injuries. Thank the gods for acorns. But it was too little too late. The pain was way beyond her threshold. Just before unconsciousness claimed her, Holly's hand flopped from beneath the tapestry. It landed on Butler's arm, touching the bare skin. Amazingly, the human wasn't dead. A dogged pulse forced the blood through smashed limbs. Heal, thought Holly. And the magic scurried down her fingers."
Butler awoke, much to his own surprise. He knew he would die. He was enormous, yes, he had mastered skills that not many others had. Still and all, he was just as mortal as the next man, and judging by the angle of his head on his neck, his time had come. He had been born with one purpose in life, to serve Artemis Fowl the Second come hell or high water. He knew he had been loyal, that he had done his job well, that he had not disgraced the name of Butler. He was dying, though. It was the ultimate disloyalty. Gritting his teeth against the pain of injury and failure, he waited for death.
Okay, he wasn't dying. Why?
Curiously he looked down at the expanse of his own body, and watched blue sparks fizzle on his skin. Why?
Only then did he look over at his left arm and note the tiny hand that rested on it. Obviously, this was Captain Short's doing. Why would she save him from certain death? He watched her for a while, as the sparks worked their magic. Looking at her, lying peacefully on the ground in a bruised, crumpled heap, it was inconceivable that she could do anyone any harm. Yet only two days ago, in the mist of the night, under the glow of the full moon, she had tried to kill him. Her delicate, pointed features belied so cold-blooded a disposition, and Butler felt an almost paternal pang of sympathy as a distinctly troubled sigh escaped her pale lips. With no small amount of effort, he got to his feet, pulling the fairy with him. Holding her to his chest, her feet dangling three feet off the floor, he reflected that although she seemed like a child, the ethereal being in his arms was hundreds of years old, had more power running through her veins than he could even comprehend, and would most likely shoot Master Artemis as soon as she got a chance.
Author's Note: This is set right after Butler's first battle with the troll, where he's dying.
Okay! Now that that's all out of the way:
"Butler felt a cold pain as the serrated ivory pierced his chest. He knew immediately that the wound was fatal. His breath came hard. That was a lung gone, and gouts of blood were matting the troll's fur. His blood. No one could lose that amount and live. Nevertheless, the pain was instantly replaced by a curious euphoria. Some form of natural anesthetic injected through channels in the beast's tusks. More dangerous than the deadliest poison. In minutes Butler would not only stop struggling, but go giggling to his grave. The manservant fought against the narcotics in his system, struggling furiously in the troll's grip. But it was no use. His fight was over almost before it had begun."
. . .
"Holly felt the blue tingle of magic scurrying to her various injuries. Thank the gods for acorns. But it was too little too late. The pain was way beyond her threshold. Just before unconsciousness claimed her, Holly's hand flopped from beneath the tapestry. It landed on Butler's arm, touching the bare skin. Amazingly, the human wasn't dead. A dogged pulse forced the blood through smashed limbs. Heal, thought Holly. And the magic scurried down her fingers."
Butler awoke, much to his own surprise. He knew he would die. He was enormous, yes, he had mastered skills that not many others had. Still and all, he was just as mortal as the next man, and judging by the angle of his head on his neck, his time had come. He had been born with one purpose in life, to serve Artemis Fowl the Second come hell or high water. He knew he had been loyal, that he had done his job well, that he had not disgraced the name of Butler. He was dying, though. It was the ultimate disloyalty. Gritting his teeth against the pain of injury and failure, he waited for death.
Okay, he wasn't dying. Why?
Curiously he looked down at the expanse of his own body, and watched blue sparks fizzle on his skin. Why?
Only then did he look over at his left arm and note the tiny hand that rested on it. Obviously, this was Captain Short's doing. Why would she save him from certain death? He watched her for a while, as the sparks worked their magic. Looking at her, lying peacefully on the ground in a bruised, crumpled heap, it was inconceivable that she could do anyone any harm. Yet only two days ago, in the mist of the night, under the glow of the full moon, she had tried to kill him. Her delicate, pointed features belied so cold-blooded a disposition, and Butler felt an almost paternal pang of sympathy as a distinctly troubled sigh escaped her pale lips. With no small amount of effort, he got to his feet, pulling the fairy with him. Holding her to his chest, her feet dangling three feet off the floor, he reflected that although she seemed like a child, the ethereal being in his arms was hundreds of years old, had more power running through her veins than he could even comprehend, and would most likely shoot Master Artemis as soon as she got a chance.