A/n: Hello! Here's yet another angst fic, courtesy of yours truly. Here are a few special dedications:
My faithful beta(s),
1st, Lessa: This nice girl has faithfully beta'ed all the drivel I wrote since Cold Comfort, and has given me suggestions and corrections tirelessly, in spite of her other commitments. I am very appreciative towards her contributions. Thank you Lessa!
2nd: Tyranny, known here as D'Arvit Tyranny (since someone already took the name 'Tyranny'): This is another hardworking lady. I give her a piece of crap, and she gives me back, well, my piece of crap, but with many many pointers to make it less crappy. Pity her, she actually has to read my stuff a few times. Talk about torture…
Also, a dedication to my friend EmyLyii, whose birthday was last last week, I think. Sunday, if I'm not mistaken. I would have posted this sooner, Emy, but my internet connection gave way… looks on guiltily
Enjoy the ficcy!
Regrets? I've had a few
I awaken.
A voice cries: "Angeline!" I realize after a moment that the voice is mine.
My eyes have not yet regained the faculty of sight. I hear the sound of a bottle crashing to the ground and a guttural voice cursing in Russian. I also hear the sounds of another man restraining the enraged Russian, who, as far as I could tell, was shouting about Ferruci loafers.
I open my right eye.
My first thought is very typical of a man comatose for a good year or so.
Where am I?
If this is hell, someone really has been playing with the thermostat. Cold permeates every mote of my body. I decide that I am probably not yet in the not-so-loving arms of Lucifer, largely due to the presence of the two Russian men, who, though looking like the sort of people who would fit right in there, still seem very much alive.
So where am I?
A memory pokes its way curiously into my consciousness. A business trip… to Finland? Japan? Russia? Yes, to Russia.
Another memory sluggishly crawls towards my consciousness. Fire. Explosion. Cold water. Cola. Lots of cola. And there the memory ends. I automatically look to my watch to verify the date, but my watch is not there anymore. Neither is my right leg, I notice. And my depth perception seems awry, which means one of my eyes is gone. The left one, I think.
My mind takes stock of the situation. It races, and comes to a conclusion:
I am kidnapped.
Ah, the irony. Artemis Fowl Senior- kidnapped by a bunch of roughnecks. One of the most feared men in the underground, held hostage like a common thug. Not the ending you'd expect in a script.
Yes, irony. Irony is good. It distracts me from more pressing matters, and I am even able to produce a feeble grin.
The realities of the situation will not be denied by mere humor, though. I know how the Mafiya, if that is what the two Russian men are, operate. They probably have sent a note to my son to ask him to bring copious amounts of money if he wants to see me alive again. That is not what brings a chill to my spine, however.
I realize with a start that I am going to die.
The Mafiya never leave any witnesses. I can do nothing, except pray that Arty stays far away from this place. There is no hope for me, nothing to be done, no last ditch rescue to hope for. Even were someone to arrange a rescue party, I would certainly be terminated before they could even come within a hundred feet of me.
So be it, then.
They say no man wishes he had spent more time at the office at his deathbed.
I can vouch for that.
Regrets? I've had a few. I think of my family. I can't help but feel sadness at the memory of my inadequate allocation of time for my wife and son. With a pang of guilt, I realize that the last memory I have of my family was telling Artemis I could not be at the grand opening of his latest invention because I had other arrangements. Yes, other arrangements. They seemed so important at the time, and yet now I wish I had attended the function and erased the crestfallen look from his earnest, eager face.
I also think of my long-suffering wife, who always loved me and stood by me, but for whom I could not spare a moment. I love her, yes, but somehow circumstances never allowed me to spend a romantic candlelight dinner with her, to just have a moment alone, to demonstrate what love I had for her in my heart. I vowed to love and care for her all my life at our wedding, but I have not come good on my statement. I promised to cherish her through poverty, but apparently wealth was an even bigger barrier. And now, as my life is surely heading for its conclusion, I can't help but wonder: if she never saw me again, and the possibility is looming larger and larger with each passing moment, will she know how much I loved her? I doubt it.
The Fowl Empire insidiously took over my life and displaced everything I held dear. It became my life, my soul. Misplaced priorities have destroyed my life, and now I have no one to blame but myself.
Ah, how I wish it could have been different! But it is too late. It is always too late, is it not? Too late seems to be the battle cry of the dead and dying. Happy is the man who can lie on his deathbed and not utter those fateful words. Happy is the man who can die with no regret in his heart. Happiness… happiness is something which eludes my grasp.
Happiness. For all my riches, for all my notoriety, for all my power, was I ever happy? It does not seem so. Did wealth make me happy? Did power? Did infamy? The only faint happy memories I have are of things tangential to the thing I gave my life to, my work- my first date with Angeline, my wedding, the birth of my son.
Regrets. I certainly have plenty of that when it comes to the parenting of my firstborn. Perhaps it would have been different if I had thought of him less as my heir apparent and more as my son. Instead of guiding him to the right path, nurturing him to be a man, I, to a certain extent, corrupted him. I ushered him to the path of materialistic greed. I eroded his morals. Instead of being the hero every father longs to be, I was the villain. When I think back on these times, the only emotions I can muster are regret and a deep sadness. My soul aches as I reflect on the man Arty could have been, should have been, were I there to walk beside him every step of the way, were I there to guide him through the darkness, were I there to be a father to him.
Ah, how I wish it could have been different! Second chances, those are in the script, are they not? They say everyone deserves a second chance. But I know there are none forthcoming. Life rarely turns out that way. There never another chance, never any opportunity to say 'I love you' one last time, never any opportunity to apologize, never any opportunity to hug your loved ones before you went away, never any opportunity to right your wrongs. Life is cruel, but it wouldn't be if we hadn't taught it how.
Still, I can't help but think about second chances, improbable as they may seem. If I had a second chance, oh, the things I would do! I would be a caring husband, a loving father, a hero. I would kiss my dear, dear wife and hold her close and tell her how sorry I am. I would embrace my son and guide him to the right path. I would be a knight in shinning armor, a hero to my beloved Arty. I would change the world; I would change my world. I would- but I can't, can I? No, I never will be able to. You cannot change the past, only the future. And I highly doubt mine will be long.
I also realize that for all the time I put into the Fowl Empire, for all the priority I gave it, I spare it barely a thought right now. I sigh pensively, regret etching itself on my features. Regret seems to be the key word of the day, no? Regret won't kill you. It may make you squirm a little, but it won't kill you. No, that particular task is left to my two Russian abductors.
I also notice how you tend to appreciate life all the more when it is about to end. Another irony.
I savor each breath I take, each moment that trickles through my personal hourglass of life. I savor each stab of pain, each bite of the Arctic chill. I savor the remnants of my pitiful life.
On a whim, I whisper a poem:
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour on the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by and idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
A racking cough escapes my lips as I finish the poem, Life's Brief Candle, by William Shakespeare. I get a sharp kick from one of my abductors for my temerity. I smile mirthlessly in return. For what has a dead man to lose?
And as I close my eyes, I dwell on the motto which dictated my life, which robbed me of my soul.
Aurum Est Potestes?
And now, I reply to that fallacious statement.
Stercus Tauri.
And then consciousness escapes me yet again, as I slip into blissful oblivion, perhaps never to reawaken.
Stercus Tauri: Bullshit (Latin).
Lines from song lyrics and poems:
- Regrets? I've had a few
- My way, Frank Sinatra
- Will she know how much I loved her?
- If tomorrow never comes, Ronan Keating
- When I think back on these times
- There you'll be, Faith Hill
-The poem recitation: Life's brief candle, by William Shakespeare