Faux
Chapter One: Remembering
The sun glared down through the clouds, blind and filmy, its heat not permeating the thick, snowy pall. Beneath the cloudbank, the sea was dark as dust: each wave rose and fell like the breathing of some iron giant, hard and unforgiving as metal. The ship, black staple in silk, cut like a poker through the grey. The air was as heavy and ruthlessly cold as blocks of ice pushing down on the earth.
He gazed off the ship, at the far-off blur that was Northern Russia. Beside him, a giant of a man also narrowed shrewd soldier's eyes at the haze. Still a while to go before their feet touched soil again – and even then it would be under a few feet of snow. Even from this distance, both men could see the snowline started as soon as dry land did. And dry it was – this wasn't fun, yay-Christmas, shaving-foam kind of snow, this was gritty and bluish as corpses, and stung the very air with the raw Arctic causticity. Especially around Murmansk, what with the Green Machine passing through on a regular basis.
He could see it all – even from here, a thousand miles away – see the way the sea rose and sank like flint spearheads, the way his own breath rose in front of him like some spiritual dragon of smoke and haze, the way the Major's suit was stretched over tense muscles, the pattern distorted. His soldier's sense knew what was happening, though his brain hadn't picked up on it. The man watching gave an involuntary shudder of fear and anticipation.
And then it all went black.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'It's alright, darling,' Angeline soothed her husband, her voice betraying none of the worry she felt, her hands, rubbing her husband's shoulders, did not shake with it. The knots she felt beneath the man's jacket disturbed her.
He had been recovering so well – the leg and all. Headaches, maybe, but they weren't a problem, what with all the world's drugs today. But recently it had been getting worse. The headaches came more frequently, sleeping pills did not a thing – and with the headaches came the nightmares, and the memories.
'I still see his face, Angeline,' Timmy said carefully, as though searching for a memory. 'I still see it – it's been years, and I still remember it. And then – blackness… and nothing comes. No images. Sounds. Smells.'
Angeline's body was taut, aching with the knowledge. Only she knew of her son's escapades with the fairies, that after her husband's two-year abduction he had been mindwiped and healed. Artemis the Second had trusted her – but her whole self yearned to tell Timmy the truth. Her integrity held out. But only just.
'I'm sure it's nothing,' she assured him, her voice almost breaking. 'The faces – the pictures.'
'He was a good man,' said Timmy. 'But then I don't know. I can't remember – and then I was in Helsinki, feeling – as though I had drowned and been rescued. Like my entire life before was a smokescreen and this was me, hidden beneath all those layers of gold lust and deceit. I know how I was' – he added, stopping Angeline's protest – 'though through all of it, I loved you.'
Angeline leant down and kissed her husband gently on the lips. 'As I you.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Artemis the younger, though not so young any more, glared in frustration at the computer monitor. Binary code flashed green on black, streams of zeroes and ones like some kind of broken animation in speed.
His code wasn't working. He was attempting something, some kind of similar escapade as one he might have indulged in with his friends the fairies. He almost smiled, almost. Holly – Foaly – characters from a book, it seemed, warped into fiction by the years. Because it had been years – Artemis was eighteen now, though legally and generally thought to be twenty-one, not that anyone would be able to tell: his intelligence and no small height meant most people were fooled.
The door slammed behind him – Angeline Fowl, graceful even in obvious distress, swanned in, her hands white and twisting. Artemis spun his chair round to face her, removing the customary deadpan expression he wore to hoodwink those who did not know him. His mother perched on the edge of a cream sofa by the desk.
'Arty – your father needs the truth. He needs these memories – they are part of him – can we not tell him? Please?'
Angeline Fowl did not often plead, but mother's instinct knew this would arouse her little Arty's conscience as effectively as placing a pretty girl before his eyes and getting her to do it.
'No. Mother, you know why. It could cause psychological damage. He could revert to his older self – the effect it would have on his psyche, well, I could only hazard a guess.' He sighed. 'I owe it to them. No more telling anyone that truth.'
His mother also sighed, almost an octave higher. Something fell down in Artemis's mind. Stupid conscience. He added to that last point.
'And even if we told him, I'm not sure it would be able to knock down his mind's walls. The mindwipe needs evidence from the subconscious. I suppose – if he went to Russia and relived the locations, it might get those neural pathways sparking again, but this is just an idea. I'm – busy, and going to Northern Russia will completely disrupt the experiments I'm performing at the moment. Besides – what about the twins?'
Angeline had a glint in her eyes. 'Arty? Could you not be a teenager for a week and help your father? Please?'
Again, stupid conscience. But Artemis felt himself giving in.
'Very well. Juliet can care for the twins for just one week, I think.'