Well. This one's been more of a while in coming. But it's here. It couldn't've been done without the help of Blue Yeti, whose beta'ing got rid of all the silly errors I'd made at my late night writing stints. Also, to Skye Firebane, Insane Ophelia, and Kitty Rainbow, my fellow Partners in Crime, without whom this story would never have happened. Thanks for all your help with it, guys.
1.
'Where are we?' Butler asks; Artemis is behind the wheel of the car, but that's strange because he's hardly ever driving. Artemis shakes his head—moves his finger to his lips and asks for quiet—but doesn't say anything because he seems to be listening: listening for something that only he can hear. Then it's gone, and he turns to look at Butler: his eyes are distorted by the passing streetlight reflecting on his clear sunglasses.
Butler would wonder why he wore sunglasses at night, but he doesn't ask.
—'somewhere,' he says. 'Somewhere dangerous.'
Butler nods. Doesn't say anything more.
The cloud passes over the moon—the world's in darkness, and there's only the lone bare bulb of the streetlight a few meters away. Artemis reaches into the holster on his shoulder and draws his gun. 'Be on the watch,' he says—it wasn't loud enough to echo, but Butler hears him and nods.
The door opens with a click, and Artemis steps away into the night.
Butler waits, holds his gun just tight enough to not drop it and just loose enough for flexibility; the safety catch has been off since the moment he stepped into the car. The door closes, but the warm air from the heater has already been diluted by the night's coldness. He shivers inside: the shadow from the car stretches into infinity, and his breathing is the only sound—
The echoing footsteps come to a stop: Artemis looks up at the third window on the right, tinted to keep out the sun.
He smiles, and makes his way to the front door. The magnifying lenses of his glasses whirr, but nobody can hear that.
2.
The first documented case of the Voiceless was in September, 1981, in Mexico. A young boy was found outside a village; all attempts to communicate with him failed. He appeared to understand what was being said to him, but was unable to express his thoughts or emotions. He died from unknown causes in the middle of the night of October 12th, 1981.
His autopsy showed nothing different from other children. His body worked perfectly.
3.
Black Donald was late for his appointment; he was a businessman, of course. Pinstripe black suit and a white shirt; the tie was purple and didn't really fit in, but that didn't matter because you didn't really look at him. He wasn't an important person—you'd think. He didn't do anything important… look him right over and that was that. You certainly never studied him. Certainly not.
Many people knew Black.
Many people had a photograph of Black somewhere in the house. At a wedding, or perhaps a funeral; an older man in a black suit with a gentle, almost kind smile. A wavering hand, perhaps. Perhaps not.
But then, perhaps so.
'Ah,' the secretary said, checked his papers. 'Mr. Donald, they're expecting you, come right in.'
He nodded and smiled and she shivered; but then he was gone, and she couldn't remember what he looked like or even why he was there. Later, she didn't remember him at all. But that didn't seem to matter: the office door closed with a slam.
Later, he whispers: 'They are near.'
'What?' Jack asks, turns from the book on his lap. Looks to the window: 'Are you sure?'
'Yes, Jack,' Black Donald says.
The book closes with a snap; 'All right.' Jack stands.
'It begins,' Black said. Laughed. Jack smiled and his fangs glinted white in the flickering candlelight, because the sun was gone, and his skin was pale and his hair was black, but he only waited.
'It begins…' Black echoed. Then listened. 'It's not safe here anymore. Let us leave.'
Jack nodded.
4.
Julius sat at his desk; the computer hummed, Holly Short leaned against the door and Foaly cantered into the room. His tin hat was still crumpled up beneath one of the desks and Foaly didn't plan on looking for it. It made him look strange; Julius had refrained from laughing, because that would've been nasty—and then he smirked evilly and Holly hid a grin behind her right hand but Foaly was frowning. Frowning.
'Well?' Julius let his feet sit on the stool beneath the desk. 'What do you have for us, Mr. Foaly?'
'Something's happened,' he said, 'a type of… magic.'
Holly raised an eyebrow.
'On the surface—' Foaly went on.
Julius sat up; his feet fell from the stool with a clank. 'That's impossible,' he said. 'We monitor all people on the surface.'
Foaly nodded. 'Yes, and this was none of them; it wasn't even normal fairy magic.'
Holly groaned: Julius blinked and rummaged in the empty cigar box. But he didn't find anything.
5.
The rain had been heavy, but not any more; the air was icy cold and the ground was slick and shining. The sun had just set; it was cold, and he shivered and wondered if he should have worn a coat. The umbrella was red and transparent and did nothing more than scatter the light mist. But the water still clung to his boots and to his trousers and his jacket and he cursed.
Someone sniffled: 'You're here,' they said, voice thick and nasalised.
'Yes,' he said. 'I'm here.'
—the dog roared/barked.
'Glas chairm,' she said; stepped from the shadows, put her hand on the Barghest's neck. 'Well,' she said, 'you know what you have to do.'
He nodded. 'Yes,' he said.
'Good.' She turned and walked back to the shadows; the Barghest yelped and scampered after her.
Later, he was still standing there.
And then he laughed.
6.
The second documented case of Voiceless was of a girl of unknown age. She was dubbed 'Mononoko' by the media of Tokyo. She died under suspicious circumstances, still unidentified. She was also unable to communicate with any known language, sign language, or such.
A full autopsy proved that her speaking capabilities were normal.
7.
'Artemis, Artemis,' Juliet muttered. Pressed the timer on the microwave and let the door shut with a slam; 'what are we going to do with you?' she laughed. He sat on the barstool and sipped Cinzano Rosso (on the rocks) and maybe smiled at her; Juliet made dinner, made sure the VCR was recording that night's wrestling and sat down on the chair next to him. 'Well,' she said, 'are you going to tell me what's up?'
'A lot of things,' he said, 'though one does step to mind.'
The microwave hummed; Juliet laughed for the second time and tapped her hand on the bench top.
'Tell me,' she said—tapping a rhythm—, 'whatever's on your mind.'
He hummed: 'Do you remember the Dream Catcher Project?'
Her hand stopped tapping. 'Yes,' she said. 'It came to nothing.'
He nodded.
'This bothers you?' she asked.
He shook his head; her tapping echoed again.
'No,' he said, 'no. It bothers me that, after the equipment… failed. Two nights ago, it started processing again.'
'Oh.' She said. Continued tapping, this time uneven.
The microwave beeped: 'Ah! It's ready,' and she smiled.
When she turned back, he was gone.
8.
Black Donald stands in a corner; maybe he sits on the floor, reading a book as old as the dying stars. Maybe. But this time he'll stand in the corner; stands in the corner and watches, over the edge of the book. Can hear the sounds echo from the other room; he's listening, not watching. His hair is to his shoulders—his eyes are red and burning—and he smiles; his skin's not pale, slightly sunburned and a little tanned.
He can hear it, from the other room—
Jack leans against her body. Leans in and his fangs are glistening, but she's only watching his eyes: enthralled by his eyes. Always by his eyes. Never anything else because she's watching, because there's nothing else apart from his eyes and the slight sting on her shoulder—and then she's dying.
Clutching at his shoulders because she's dying, but can't break away from his grasp. Can't look away and definitely can't escape because she's dying; and later, he's laughing.
'You make too much noise,' Black said.
Jack lit a cigarette. 'Oh?'—inhaled a plume of smoke.
'And you should be more careful. People are going to notice all these men and women disappearing soon enough.' Black turned to his book.
Jack exhaled the smoke; laughed; coughed, and then smiled. 'Yes,' he said, 'but then, it doesn't really matter, does it?'
9.
Vinyáyá is the first to gasp: curses and then blushes, because the rest of them are looking at the others with shock but they know it's true; they've been waiting, for a long time. For ever, and that's a long time to wait; she leans back against her chair and can feel the migraine sprouting, and across the way, Julius is leaning against the wall, smoking an evil smelling cigar and the rest are quiet.
'Well…' someone says.
Silence reigns for a while.
Disbelief follows.
And then; they're going home and having decided what course of action to take they go to set it into place. But they're scared: very scared, because they've been waiting since the dawn of time.
And it's not a war that makes any sense. It's just a war, for the sake of having a war.
10.
He's standing at the crossroad: looks about, watching, waiting, perhaps wondering. Standing at the crossroads and when the light flickers to 'Walk!' he's walking. Walking across the road and the people are in their cars; engines might be roaring, but he's on the other side before he can think, and then the cars are driving and he wonders if he had any breakfast that morning.
Not that it matters.
—'Ah, Larry,' the man says. 'Sit down.'
His coat's long and black; his hair's short, shorter than you'd think. Blonde, blonder than you'd think. Coat reaches the floor. His eyes aren't blue, they're almost transparent; but then, you can't see into his head so you'd think that they're white. His coat clunks; clunks, and he smiles and pushes the menu away.
'Tea please,' he asks the waitress—she nods, jots it down in her little notebook:
'And you, sir?'
'Just water,' he says.
—she's gone then.
'So,' the man says, 'what did you want from me, Larry?'
Larry leans against the chair. 'I need something.'
'A something?'
'For a job.'
'Oh. I see. What… type of something?'
'Long range.' Larry stops as the girl places the cup on the table; he nods his thanks and settles the bill with a few pound notes. She'll keep the rest for change—he hopes—and walks away.
The man's staring, smiling.
'Yes,' he says, 'yes. I think I have what you're looking for.'
Larry nods. 'Good. When can I pick it up?'
'Any time. And about how much you want to give me—' the man lets his arm rest on the table '—the usual. Unless of course, you wish to take out one of your…favours.'
Larry sipped the last little bit of tea from his cup; it was cold, the air was cold and London remained resolutely cold. It was always cold; the man's smile was cold, and his other hand was clenched into a fist beneath the table. Larry knows the gun in his right jacked pocket can be out and putting a round into the man's head before he can even blink, but then, you don't splatter someone's brains over the lovely nice leather chair in front of everyone.
In reverse, Larry knows that, whatever he says, the other man will have to oblige. 'Lilith will pay for it—'
The man grows pale: his fist relaxes and he lets out a sigh; groans, leans back against the chair and his eyes are wide before he closes them. 'All right,' he says. Possibly angered, but more likely frightened. 'You can pick it up tomorrow.'
Larry nods, and stands.
Nobody remembers him when he's gone.
11.
The third and most recent case of the Voiceless was a group of children in a London park. They were found by tourists and taken to a nearby hospital, where they remain under care. The—apparently—oldest died; a full autopsy proved that this, like the others, could speak, but seemed unable to communicate with anyone.
The remaining children are at an undisclosed location, somewhere in England.
12.
They were standing behind the miniscule contraption: two, faithful servants, as it were. Juliet was chewing purple bubble-gum and Butler was leaning against the wall. It wasn't as if he was very good at his job, any more; the aging process sped up by fairy magic wasn't a good thing, but Juliet was there, so everything turned out just all right. For the then, at least; Juliet blew a purple bubble.
'So,' Artemis leant against the console.
Juliet's bubble popped; it was raining outside.
—'this,' he motioned toward the white sphere, 'is the Dream Catcher Project. I'm sure you all remember the details?'
Two nods.
'Good. Then I won't go in to how it works. As you all know, it recently became active. I've rigged several alarms in case of an emergency—' Artemis motioned towards the large red light, slightly away from the glass dome and the computer console '—if so, this alarm will become active.'
Two nods, again.
Artemis smiled. 'I doubt anything will go wrong.'
Juliet popped another bubble.
The Dream Catcher lay on its velvet holder, a white sphere that shone from the inside; the outside glowed. The Dreams swirled, black and grey and blue.
Juliet didn't like it.
13.
Lilith leaned against the tree; the Barghest hovered at her feet; Larry was standing in the middle of the deserted road, perhaps a little scared. Perhaps a little worried—anxious—frightened—but he didn't have to be. Lilith wouldn't hurt him. At least, she wouldn't hurt him yet…—and then she laughed, and it was the laugh of a madwoman and when she walked forwards her black dress clutched her body in the breeze.
—Larry stepped back, a bit. 'Hello again, Lilith.'
She smiled—but then, he couldn't see her face, so he didn't know that she was smiling; the dress swirled around her, again, but Larry couldn't feel the breeze at all. She smiled again—black lips, black eyes, black hair; Larry still couldn't see.
'Yes,' she said, 'yes. I see.'
Larry raised an eyebrow; the Barghest let out a yelp—about to roar—
'Glas chairm,' she muttered.
The Barghest was quiet once more.
'Go,' she said, 'do your job. Don't come back until it's done.'
Larry nodded; then she was gone.
14.
He was used to the popping sound of a silencer. He was used to the dead bodies and the blood. He was used to the screaming and the crying. He was used to the cursing and the swearing.
Larry was not, though, used to the laughing.
15.
The body was found in the middle of a street by a passing jogger. The jogger was held and questioned, but later released after nothing was found incriminating him. The man had been shot through the head—the entry wound right above the left eyebrow, and the exit wound behind the man's right ear—and would have been dead within seconds; the body was strangely positioned, and a trail of blood led forensic investigators to believe that the body had been moved.
Who though, had moved it?
The full autopsy was scheduled for the following Friday morning; the morgue was cold, locked and nobody could get in and nothing could definitely get out.
By Thursday morning, there was no body.
16.
Artemis can't resist the urge to reach out and touch the Dream Catcher.
Can't resist the urge to hold his breath.
Can't resist the urge to watch it swirl.
Later, he can't resist.
17.
Ever since the third report of the Voiceless, they've arrived more and more in modern society; it is now quite common for children to appear from nowhere—perhaps shunned by their parents, afraid of what the rest of the world will think—and others that come from perfectly normal, happy family lives.
Several of the most noted of these are the pianist Peter Vandolin, who composed some of the most glorious tunes this century. His whereabouts are currently unknown.
Another of these is the artist Phillipa Wright…
18.
It comes to him in the night—whispers 'need you' whispers 'want you' whispers 'have you own you be mine…'—and that's when he can't resist it; it comes to him in the dreams, nightmares, rêveries; comes to him, and whispers to him. Echoes in the day, echoes in the darkness, echoes in the shadows when the clouds pass over. He can hear it in the rain—pattering in the streets.
He looses track of hours—days—minutes—seconds—suddenly gone; it doesn't matter, because everything's automatic android.
'be mine mine mine mine mine…' whisper echo whisper echo
He tries to sit up, claw out of the dream.
Can't see anything but green.
Not that there's anything to be seen.
Because that's just mean.
'you are mine are mine are—'
Artemis wakes in a cold sweat. And he knows that's something's growing near.
Closer.
19.
Black sits against the window frame; Jack's smoking again, in the corner. The rest of the room is dark in shadow, it's raining outside and the sun hasn't set, but Jack's already awake; the rest of them are awake—Black can feel their presence inside his head, heavy, like humidity—listening. Waiting.
Later: 'I said this wasn't a good idea.'
Jack pouted—laughed—'It'll be fine Black.'
He was greeted with a sigh. 'Yes, but your… pets—'
'—friends—' Jack let out a cloud of cigarette smoke, took a rasping breath and glared.
'—friends will cause trouble. Not that we can't deal with it, we just don't want that sort of trouble yet.'
Silence ruled: Jack took another drag on his cigarette. 'I'll deal with it.'
Black stood up. 'See that you do, or I'll do it for you.'
The cigarette flared, red embers and ash, and the smell was almost sickening: Jack looked up and glared, 'I said I'll deal with it.' He tossed the cigarette in the ashtray.
'So go deal with it,' Black slammed the bedroom door shut.
20.
Vinyáyá claimed a migraine as explanation for her silence. The woman was dressed in black and almost had to stoop to get in the doorway; she would've been called a mudperson if she didn't carry her power like she carried her dress. Demanded things that you didn't dare demand; stopped the magic with her hand, laughed and picked off one of the guards with a point of her finger—
Dead.
'Join me.' She said. 'Join me, and we will win.'
Lope snorted: 'We will never join—'—
Her finger raised, towards him.
Lope settled back into the chair muttered—'you.'—
'Join me.' She said, again.
'Never.' They said.
Then, she was gone. Only her laugh remained.
'Well,' Vinyáyá said; 'that settles that, then?'
21.
your time is up he dreams that you must come with us he is flying to you, on the island in the sky a place where the world is floating alone with the moon. Sails to the moon, in his dreams. Because his time is up mind is lost; at sea. Come with me! voice echoes; he's dreaming, but he can hear his voice echo and it isn't him speaking or maybe it is.
Come with me!
—silence prevails.
An island in the sky; people sail to an island in the sky; island of green, island of clouds—blue—people mass, people in the sky; people chant and people cry—a drunk man crying, beaten wife dying, silver man flying.
'All hail Syen!'Echoes. Fades away.
Doesn't come back.
'All hail Syen!' chanting chanting panting canting.
my time is up, he dreams that he is going with them flying to their island in the sky a place where the world is floating alone with the moon and sails to the island in his dreams but it's not his dreams because his time is up and it's time to move out to sea and goes with him and the voice echoes he's dreaming and it's his voice, even though he's asleep and his time is up.
'All—''Hail Syen.' He echoes. He's not real. Not real. Eyes are transparent body is gone white angel spirit smiling cackling laughing echoing dying not even alive smiling might be nothing but then he's gone. Echoes.
They're smiling.
Voicelessly smiling.
He screams.
22.
When he wakes, he doesn't remember anything. Nothing at all. But inside he knows that he should remember something. He knows that there should be something and it's like a ghosting breeze on the edge of his body.
But he doesn't remember.
Later, it goes out of his mind.
23.
Jack laughed: 'Relax, Black,' he said, cigarette, almost a trademark, smoking in his right hand. He laughed again, a cloud of warm breath and cigarette smoke in the cold air. Black Donald was not smiling—perhaps annoyed, perhaps more so—and his lips were a thin line of anger; 'relax,' Jack said again, 'everything will be fine. We've seen to that.'
'Huh,' Black said, almost out of place on him, 'it wasn't me who almost managed to get one of your… friends knocked off, was it?'
Jack stopped laughing: the cigarette was ground on the ground beneath his shoe; he leaned against the wall, tilted his head back: 'It wasn't my fault,' he said, 'it was Lilith.'
Black was laughing: 'Lilith!' he said, 'Lilith doesn't know one end of a gun from the other.'
'Or one of her cohorts…' Jack went on, then stopped; 'at least,' he said, 'Damien survived.'
'He's a vampire,' Black muttered, 'of course he'd survive.' Leans back against the window.
Jack smiled. He pulled another cigarette from the box in his pocket; he lit it with a silver lighter; took a breath; let a breath; turned and looked out the window. Ireland was nice, that time of year; it was green, always green; it was night, always night; the moon shone; a wolf howled, and the clock ticked midnight. It was a shack almost in the middle of nowhere, but it was big enough.
The vampires toyed with their prey.
—one here one there one everywhere one whispering in an ear one telling a story never believed one crying one laughing one in ecstasy one touching one pulling one screaming one dead one living one dying one lying one hating one loving one just holding on one just trying to be one just trying to be someone else.
—someone's laughing.
He's standing in the middle of the room looking about him. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know who he is or why he's doing it. He knows he has to escape.
He knows he'll never escape—
So the vampires toy with their prey.
Someone might say.
Jack's laughing: 'Isn't it amazing?' he says.
Black Donald shakes his head; 'It's life,' he says, 'and there's nothing amazing about that.'
'True,' Jack replies.
Reaches for another cigarette, but inside, they're all going a little mad.
24.
Spring reached for her glasses; her hair was green and traced with blooming flowers. She was almost naked, but somehow her body was blurred and one could never make out the details of her chest or any other part of her; Summer was laughing, Autumn was moping, and Winter was reading poetry.
'It,' she said, 'is very strange, I think.'
Winter looked up from his book: 'I'll say,' he said. 'They won't succeed, you know.'
Summer continued her laughing: in times past, they would have said she laughed gaily, but now, now she just laughed. Laughed like a madwoman and she was probably a madwoman; she fell forward, her black hair falling over her shoulders but her eyes unobscured. 'I,' she said, 'think that it's very proper of a woman to get forward in the world.'
Winter snorted behind his hand; Autumn was brooding, dying leaves and bare trees…
'Shush,' Spring said, 'my dearest sister. We are the personification of revolution; if We sided with She or He, we would be left without any options.' But Summer was still laughing. Autumn looked up, and wondered when next it would be his time.
They passed, as they always did and will always continue to do.
25.
Dreams happen, just like nightmares. Sometimes, they are coherent; sometimes, they play like a television show or like a movie or the theatre. They play in acts and parts, and you're just the victimized participant in their strangeness. A combination of the days events, as it were, and events stretching into the past and the future. A place where all of your thoughts are brought to the forefront.
Other times they are incoherent, such as a movie played out of order, with the sound on backwards. These are perhaps the more common incarnations of the dream. Dreams like this can seem, while one is asleep, to make perfect sense; they can have paranoia; they might even be realer than reality.
Some people remember their dreams, others do not. A dream is defined… an excerpt from 'Dreams' by Jo. A. Peterson.
26.
It's the third day before he gets it.
He's standing in the middle of the room: the lights burning in the window, it's white and he can't see anything other than white when he looks about. It's almost a haze, and he suddenly understands: they're all standing there, smiling and watching and going about their daily business and he sits at his computer, late at night though it's still hazy and does his things. Like always.
When he gets it, it's different.
Artemis—Artemis—Artemis—: 'Father,' he says.
Artemis the older turns, smiles. 'Yes, Son?'
'You're not real.'
And suddenly Artemis is laughing because he understands; it's the puzzled look and his frightening glimpses of reality. Suddenly looking out into the world that he doesn't see. Suddenly hearing screaming voices in his dream/but that's when he's awake. Suddenly watching the world go red.
Watching the blood pour out.
Hearing the laughter and suddenly understanding; laughing again, and he wonders if it's actually him that's laughing and he decides that it doesn't make a difference. When he tries to pound on the walls of his own mind it's paining and he's screaming and laughing in pain. When he's trying.
To escape.
Maybe escape.
He can't understand it.
—'What?' his father asks. 'What do you mean?'
But Artemis is too busy laughing to say any more. 'You're not real!' he's giggling.
…maybe it's true.
27.
It's her first ritual in a while. She hasn't had much need for magic. Hadn't much need for anything except to try and survive. She goes about her business and it's strangely reminiscent of the last time she performed the ritual; the last time that all her problems had started and the world went a little down the sink. Twirled down the sink like water only it doesn't go the same way in the southern hemisphere.
Just a little, down the sink.
It rushes into her and she starts. It feels so familiar, like ice and fire pouring through her veins and in her head—and she knows it looks strange, the look on her face; she feels like there's green and red and blue magic; she dreams of her doppelganger, a ghost of blue magic. A ghost, sliding into her after walking around the graveyard twelve times, after seeing the one she's intended to.
—then she's back, gasping for her ice-cold air.
It's spinning and swirling and she's gasping, the new magic flowing in her veins and ice and fire and walks and breathes and she's back. And everything is just behind her, the memory of it is just going away. She laughs, victorious to the night.
When she's back she's laughing, because it doesn't make any sense.
Tonight, she'll cuddle in her bed and cry. Tomorrow, it'll be different. But she cries for now, not tomorrow. And maybe she'll regret it.
But this time, Holly doesn't.
28.
Hold tight, close to the ground.
Breathe, that's the only thing left.
Turn, roll, ready to fire.
Let out a scream, maybe you can shock them.
Turn again, reload the gun and while you're at it try to slash them with a knife.
Turn, run away, back just a little bit.
Don't feel the burning in your shoulder, it's not there.
Back away, just a little, and everything'll be fine.
Breathe, because you're not going to die.
Not this time around.
Scream again, lash out with your fist and deliver a blow to their face; be ready for their return attack, but then fire, and fire again in the head and it'll take them a while to get back up on their feet. Spit the blood and saliva out of your mouth; no, it's not a loose tooth. Watch them stand; watch them, see what they've become and that you've survived; laugh, and then cry a little later on.
Laugh.
Now it's your turn.
29.
It was the sort of situation you tried to get out of. Julius didn't see the point. He didn't normally see the point in anything; launching attacks on dangerous mud people, that had a point, launching attacks on rebelling goblins and other such nasties, that had a point, but attempting to, covertly, destroy the personification of Death and her team was just asking for trouble, he felt.
He would've laughed, if it hadn't been so serious.
'Is everything ready?' He asked Foaly.
He got a nod. 'The time-stops will be ready soon but…'
Julius turned to face him, 'but what?'
'There's something different—strangely different—about the place…'
Julius blinked, Foaly shook his head.
'Don't worry about it, we don't have much time. Activate it.'
Foaly nodded and hit the switch on his keyboard.
30.
Time-Stops, when they were first devised by the wizard Cronos Iani around the beginning of the first millennia, were not what they are today. A collection of spells was devised to place a participant inside an instant of time—between one second and the next—and then have the participant locked inside of that instant.
The first experiment was quite literally, a disaster; the volunteer, J. L. Regis was locked in a moment and repeated for over eighteen hours before he was rescued. He was placed in a mental institute, and though the organizers behind the experiment managed to hush it up, word still got out. Iani was unable to finish his theorizing on Time-Stops. He died from a blow to the head. It is unknown if he was murdered, it was an accident, or if he committed suicide.
His research was continued around 900 A. D., by A. Eadie. His research proved that an area of space could be frozen in time. This proved to be a success, and participants could leave the Time-Stop simply by stepping out of the specified area. The Time-Stop could also be removed by:
a) the wizard, though only if he was inside the Time-Stop
or b) when the magic was not strong enough to hold the Time-Stop, it eventually faded and the participants were returned to the current moment in time. This would lead to the fact that participants would enter the Time-Stop, and either:
a) immediately leave after apparently spending several hours inside, though a check with a clock or watch would note that no time had passed.
or b) the Time-Stop would fade after thirty-three minutes and twenty-nine seconds, and the participants would be returned to the moment it failed, again, a watch of clock would note no passing in time.
The belief of the general populus and the Council though, was not behind A. Eadie and his studies. It took several years of discussions between the two, and several Council members attempting to try the Time-Stop before the spells included were placed in circulation.
Eventually, by the year 1400, the spells were simplified to just one general spell performed by a group of Warlocks. An explanation of the spell can be found under the chapter heading 'The Basic Time-Stop'.
Recent discoveries have made it possible for technological advances to store the organic-form of the spell inside lithium batteries. This was greatly beneficial for the Recon department of the Lower Elements Police…—an excerpt from 'The Mechanics of Time-Stops', by F. Centre.
31.
'The Council is willing to go against the book?' Holly asks, shocked.
Julius nods. Then shakes his head. 'Not really,' he says, 'there are provisions for situations like this,' he says, 'and the Council takes advantage of that fact.'
She shakes her head. 'It's…'
Julius laughs. 'Don't let it bother you,' he says, 'everything'll be fine.' And then he walks away.
'I hope so,' Holly mutters. She pulls her helmet on and gets ready to enter the Time-Stop.
32.
Fowl Manor is everything Holly remembers it to be; Vinyáyá takes the lead and opens the door and then she's standing inside, in the shadows. The rest of them follow, guns out, panned out coming in from all angles just waiting for someone to pop out the shadows because they'd prefer to be firing and being fired at then the fact that there could be someone waiting.
The tension kills you more than the fighting, they say.
Holly would've laughed, if the rest of them hadn't been silent and Vinyáyá hadn't been there. If she'd been alone in the world, she'd've laughed. But she didn't; Lope was bringing the rest of the forces in and the other members of the Council who were willing to fight and finish this—conflict? war?—were coming in from the other sides.
But Vinyáyá went in first, through the front.
33.
'Well,' Lilith muttered, rubbed the Barghest's coat and Larry was leaning against a tree; in the rest of the shadows, because the shadows were everywhere and everyone stood in the shadows, was something. Larry shivered to think what those somethings were but then he was working for Lilith and that gave him immunity; really, it was Black Donald who scared him the most.
The Bean Nighe, the werewolves, the rest of the things that Larry hated to think about were in the darkness. They had the Bean Nighe, Black Donald had the Bean Sidhe and he really didn't want to think about it. There were so many creatures of the night/day and he stayed away from them; he was just normal. If anyone like him could be normal.
Larry's eyes flickered red.
'Well well,' Lilith whispered again, 'you're more feisty than I imagined, little people.'
She let out a laugh that echoed as the howl of a wolf and the scream of a dying man. The Barghest leaned back it's head, waiting for his Mistress to utter the words that would send him into battle to tear the arms off a man and to devour another man. But she didn't say them.
The Barghest wined.
'So,' Larry said, 'what do we do now?'
Lilith was laughing. 'Now?' she asked. Didn't wait for an answer. 'Now, we wait.'
34.
It's dark.
Shadows.
She can hear something moving.
She turns.
She listens.
It's dark.
Shadows.
A flickering light-bulb.
But then it's gone.
'Stick together,' Vinyáyá says, 'and infa-red lenses on.'
It's still dark.
Even with the lens, there's nothing to see.
35.
'Syen,' someone whispers.
Holly blinks; she doesn't remember falling asleep and then she's reaching for the gun that isn't there. She blinks again, because the light's blinding and before it adjusts properly she can see—
'Syen,' someone else says. 'Save us Syen.'
—patches of red and flickering lightning around the edges of the red and flat boring colour; outside there's flowers and windows where the light comes in and she's resting against a marble pillar. She doesn't see anyone else, until she looks around and blinks and suddenly they're there, in the corner, and Vinyáyá is reaching for her gun.
'Syen,' someone else whispers and says and then screams.
'Syen!'
—she looks up.
'What?' a familiar voice asks.
'Save us Syen…' They whisper.
She looks up and sees him on the throne like chair; it's Fowl Manor as it might've been and Artemis Fowl the Second is perched on his throne like a king, but he's naked and older and his flesh is the colour of light. She can smell roses and flowers and fresh grass and there's a snake at the base of the throne. He's naked and thin, not bony but not muscular; thin and not fat; a light dusting of hair here and there but it mixes with the light and's then gone.
His cup is refilled; he drinks; he's sitting so she can't see his nudity; he shifts on the throne. 'Ah,' he says. 'Welcome to my… humble abode.'
She spits.
He laughs. 'Yes… yes, Holly Short. The test case, they say.'
She spits again. 'You found a way to get past the mind-wipe.'
The cup hovers at his lips; drenches them red and then he swallows. His eyes glimmer, golden and different from the last time she saw them. He's different. She doesn't remember him like this and she knows that something… isn't right. She shakes her head and the feeling is gone. He's what she remembers he was.
'Yes,' he says, 'and no—'
He sits up, she can see him, all of him, but averts her eyes.
'—because I,' he sips his wine again, 'am not Artemis Fowl.'
She laughs.
The laugh of a mad person.
'That's funny,' she whispers.
36.
Lilith sits in the middle of the dark room.
'You cannot win,' she says.
Black laughs at her.
'You cannot win,' he mocks.
In the distance, their armies fight.
In reality, their battle is more important.
Lilith laughs.
In reality, neither will win.
37.
'No,' he says. 'I am Syen. I am the Guardian.'
Holly stops. 'The Guardian of what?'
He laughs and takes another sip of his wine and in distant halls the sound of conflict echoes; Holly glances around but she doesn't see anyone she remembers. There's bodies here and there but they don't move. She thinks they're dead but they're not moving and that doesn't mean that they're dead.
She turns back to him.
'The Voiceless, as your people call them.'
She took a breath.
He laughed. 'I can see your mind,' he says, 'don't try and hide it from me with your… magic,' he laughed again, madder than hers; sipped his wine and a child hovering above him with white hair and pale skin and black eyes that made her shiver to look at refilled it.
'Now,' he said, 'lets get down to business.'
38.
Artemis struggles.
39.
Syen's face was pained; and then it was gone. 'They will not win—' he gestured to the sounds of battle '—because for one to win would mean the end of the world.' The glass of wine is suddenly gone and he strides over to her.
'We—' he gestures to the endless crowd of children standing behind him that are suddenly there which weren't there before '—are the Weapon. We are Power. We are everything, and that is why we must be protected.'
He gestured to himself. 'That is why I, am the protector. I am the Guardian. I am Syen.'
She nodded, backed off and tried to crawl but he only stepped nearer. 'I am Syen,' he whispered.
He laughed. 'I am Syen!' he screamed.
The ground vibrated.
His eyes shone.
'I am Syen,' he whispered.
Then there was nothing but darkness.
—it's time to return, Holly hears, not said or anything like that, before there's nothing at all.
40.
They found remnants of Fowl Manor scattered hundreds of kilometres away; it was an amazing explosion—cause unknown—that wiped out the Manor that had stood for hundreds of years and left it with only a crater as memory. They didn't find the bodies of Artemis Fowl the Second, Juliet Butler or Domovoi Butler. The funeral was held on August 18th, at an undisclosed location.
Artemis' Mother and Father have since retired to an undisclosed house in the south of England.
Nobody goes to Fowl Manor any more. But when they do, all they can hear is the echoing laughter and all they can feel is the ghosting eyes on their backs.
41.
Daisy dances in the corner.
'Dance,' she cries.
The world dances.
'Sing,' she cries, laughing and she's a child with daisies in her hair to her name and a white dress that's stained with grass; she spins and twirls and sits on the edge of the bush. Syen is a little way off, with the rest of them that should've been found, but Daisy knows that it's time for her to do what she should have done millennia before. She laughs and dances, the dance of power and the song of power.
'Come,' she says.
The Voiceless are gathered around her and she puts her hand on Their foreheads: 'Go,' she says, 'and be what you were.'
There's light.
She laughs and spins and twirls again and Syen stands behind her.
'Was it needed?' he asks.
She nods, and he sighs. He sits down next to her.
'What will you do with the others?' he asks, retains the form of the one he possessed, because it's familiar and warm.
She frowned, 'I don't know… perhaps they'll just return to what they were.'
The surface of the pool shimmered; the world floated in it. She smiled. 'Perhaps,' she said, 'they'll also be normal.'
The trees sing her song of power.
The flowers dance around her.
They're withered and forgotten and she's old, but at the same time young.
Syen sighs again. 'I guess I'll go away now,' he says. And she smiles, pitifully, at him. Nods. 'They'll never be normal. Nobody will,' he says, fading.
She sighs.
'I know,' she whispers. 'Not even me.'