M I S M A T C H E D

...Then he whispered, with the last of the air in his lungs, unheard and uselessly, "Holly."

One dancing hazel eye, confined in the strict, angular lines of his sombre face, gazed deep into the incalculable depths of magic and found that sometimes, the impossible really was.

Trapped in his own face, the lone eye, far outshining his own bland blue, was all that he had left of her. The rest of the fiery elf had turned her back on him and taken the shuttle down to Haven. And every time he looked in the mirror, that hazel eye haunted him with the last glimpse he'd had of its partner—a scornful glance in his direction, cut short by the hiss of the shuttle doors sealing tight. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps the eye was driving him mad, because he sometimes thought he saw her silhouette late at night, and sometimes when he thrashed in the grip of his nightmares, (he dreamed of her and what he'd done to her) he felt her hand on his face, soothing him.

But he knew that this was only his mind—or perhaps her eye—playing tricks on him, because she would never want to comfort him again after what he had done. Or rather, what he had failed to do. And she was right to not forgive him, because he had failed her when she needed him the most.

He had hesitated, miscalculated, and it had cost Trouble Kelp his life.

Minerva had gone insane, blaming the fairies for taking her "beloved Artemis" from her for three years during the Lost Colony escapade. She'd used all of her formidable intellect to hatch a plot that would destroy the magical race, and had, People and Mud Boy unsuspecting, launched it into action. She genetically engineered a disease that would target and annihilate anything with magic, unaware that her own Artemis had magic of his own and would be killed along with the fairies. It had very nearly succeeded, but Artemis had discovered the plan and warned the People. They, in turn, had sent a strike force of Haven's best officers to stop her. Artemis, being the one who knew her best, went along.

It had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Artemis had miscalculated. Consumed by madness, Minerva's mind didn't work the way he had come to expect, and her insanity led her in erratic, ingenious directions. She had discovered the strike team as soon as they set foot on her property by way of trained, cyborg rats, and set traps accordingly. (Rats could see through the shield.) The entire team had been captured, Artemis included. They had been chained in her basement, watching as she prepared to loose her creation. But she became sidetracked by Artemis's prescience and began attempting—disgustingly--to seduce him. As he continuously rejected her advances, she became more and more enraged. Finally, she shrieked that he would kiss her or she would kill one of the officers. Repulsed, the genius had hesitated for only a moment, and she had shot Trouble in the head. There was no chance of healing. Mere moments later, the backup team had arrived and stopped the deranged genius, but the damage had been done. The People were safe, but Holly would never forgive Artemis for failing to save the man she had thought she might love.

Artemis didn't blame her. He hurt her so badly so many times it was a wonder that it had taken her that long to hate him.

Instead, Artemis blamed himself; hated himself.

And with no thought of the potential consequences to his own wellbeing, he poured himself into the only thing he could think of that might possibly atone for what he had done to Holly Short.

Resurrection.

He looked into every branch of magic and into the most obscure of sciences, and found nothing. No one had gotten anywhere near success. Every lead was a dead end. He spent his private fortune searching for any solution, even one that was incomplete. (1) He strove with every fiber of his being to find an answer, no matter what it took.

His hunt had led him to this place of last resorts and final wishes, where the raw magic of the earth itself swirled and snarled. This place of bottom lines and untainted, unalterable truths. He asked his question of the primal magics that sustained life itself, and the magic said NO.

No.

It was impossible. There was no bringing back Trouble Kelp, and no redemption for Artemis Fowl.

For the second time in his life, Artemis Fowl failed to do what he had set out to accomplish.

Lost, broken and hopeless, he returned to Fowl Manor. His parents, brothers and the Butlers were gathered in the living room, unaware that he had come back. They were playing a game of Chutes and Ladders, and having a wonderful time. They were the picture of an ideal family. Undetected, Artemis stood in the doorway, cloaked in shadows, and knew that he was not really a part of the family. His long absence had changed him too much, and he had been so different to begin with. Looking back with the clear vision of hindsight, he realized that he had never fit at all. This, here in the living room, was what the Fowl family should have been all along.

Artemis had no place there.

Silent and sombre, he made his way to his study and wrote a brief note. He told his parents that he loved them, his brothers that he would miss getting to see them grow up, and the Butlers that he was endlessly grateful for their help and support. Then he wrote an explanation in Gnommish (so that only the Butlers could read it—and any fairy as well, he supposed.) as to why he had chosen to do what he was about to do. They deserved that much, at least. He signed it with his name, and he didn't cry.

He didn't deserve to be allowed to cry, after what he'd done to Holly.

Then he slipped out of his window into the crisp January snow. It was cold, bitingly so, and he wasn't dressed for the weather in his thin shirt and slacks, which were better suited to the near-boiling temperatures of the earth's magical core. But soon enough heat and cold wouldn't matter.

Fresh and pristine, the snow coated over the manor, leaving everything a stark, sparkling white. Even with all landmarks obscured in the blank ice, his feet found their way unerringly through the grounds. They took him to a small, deep pond, tucked away in a secluded corner of the gardens, rarely noticed. He didn't know how many times he had visited this place in the year since Trouble had died, knowing what the price of failure would be.

And as he had countless times before, he stood at the edge of the pond and looked down at his reflection.

The ice was thin, perhaps only a centimeter thick, and clear as glass. His eyes stared back up at him—one his own, one hers. Both shone with condemnation and guilt.

His fault.

The clearing the pond was centered in was perfectly circular, and perhaps more beautiful tonight than he had ever seen it. But it was a cold beauty—sharp edged and heartless. It drew him in and warned him away all at once. Pure and crystalline in the silver moonlight, the clearing was perfectly suited to what he intended to do tonight.

Tucked under the dock were two lead weights he'd ordered many months ago, when he first realized that there was no hope. Since then, he'd been fueled by desperation, trying to find any way to resurrect Trouble. But now the last lead had been followed, and he could finally rest.

The weights were shaped as acorns, to remind him of his guilt. He dropped one in each pocket, and ran over his mental checklist.

His necklace with the gold coin Holly had given him was tied around his neck, the note was written, and he hadn't done the Ritual in ages, so his magic couldn't save him.

This would be his final atonement and apology to Holly. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and froze before it could hit the ground. It shattered on the hard planking, and the moon glinted off the pieces.

All was as it should be.

An expression something akin to contentment covered his face, and he stepped off the dock.

The ice splintered around him as he plunged into the water, one fragment's razor sharp edge slicing a deep, narrow line across his chest. He didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the moon as the water closed over his head and fogged his vision. He could feel the cold spidering towards his heart with frigid fingers, and the lack of oxygen made his head swim. The last thing he saw before his vision went black was a too-familiar shape suddenly blocking the moon.

Even now, he thought, but without bitterness or resentment, her eye tricks me. She is not here.

Then he whispered, with the last of the air in his lungs, unheard and uselessly, "Holly."

His heart stopped, but his eyelids did not close over his mismatched eyes.

A/N: Yes, yes, it's morbid and it's not an update on any of my WIPs. I'm currently working on a dozen different stories as well as the ones already posted—I want to get them all finished before I start posing any more chapters. Sporadic oneshots are all that let me retain my sanity, so you'll be getting those periodically. Sorry. Oh, by the way, Artemis isn't mine, though I wish he was.

Artemis has not bankrupted his family—he has used the money he gained illegally over the years, that his parents don't know about.

As always, REVIEW!!!

~Slvrstar